OPERATION: RAGIN’ MOUSE

Lesser Duke Gytha Salus, the Lord Vanguard of the 3rd Elven Suppression unit, watched the battlefield unfold from his vantage point, his sharp eyes narrowing as he observed the destruction wrought by the Beastkin convoy. These were no ordinary raiders or brigands. Their firepower was overwhelming, their machines devastating, and they had maneuvered with a precision he had not anticipated.

He gripped the hilt of his ornate sword tighter as he cursed under his breath. He had expected a quick, bloody skirmish—an easy victory to add to his already storied career—but the scene before him was far from what he had imagined. His soldiers, though well-trained, were struggling to deal with the sheer power and coordination of the Beastkin.

"Damn these beasts!" he muttered, his face darkening.

Just as he considered the next move, a flash of movement caught his attention. In the distance, he saw a wagon barreling toward the Beastkin lines. Slaves—his slaves—racing for freedom. His teeth clenched in frustration.

"Commander Drothmyr!" Salus called out, turning to his Cavalry Commander. The man was quick to arrive, his armor gleaming in the fading light of the day.

"Yes, Lord Vanguard?" Drothmyr responded, bowing slightly, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt. He had seen more than enough in these past moments to question the Lord Vanguard’s strategy.

"Prepare your men. We will not be embarrassed by these Beastkin any further. I want you to ride them down—crush these upstarts! But remember," Salus sneered, a glint of greed flashing in his eyes, "take as many captives as you can. Those Beastkin are worth a fortune to the King. Five gold coins per head. Let’s make this costly for them... and profitable for us."

Drothmyr nodded, though he could barely contain his unease. His sharp instincts told him this was no ordinary fight, and these Beastkin were far from mere “upstarts.” But orders were orders.

"As you command, Lord Vanguard," Drothmyr replied, turning to his men.

Before he could leave, Salus grabbed his arm. "And remember, Drothmyr, this is for glory. For the King... and for me. Fail me, and you’ll join the prisoners."

Drothmyr bowed stiffly and retreated to his command. Once out of the Lord Vanguard's earshot, he summoned a runner and quickly penned a message.

"Take this to Lord Commander Victus at once," Drothmyr ordered, sealing the scroll with his personal crest. "Tell him we need reinforcements. These Beastkin brigands are no ordinary threat."

The runner bolted off toward the rear of their encampment, disappearing into the mass of troops.

Drothmyr mounted his warhorse, a towering beast of muscle and speed, and rallied his cavalry. His men were seasoned—battle-hardened knights and riders—but even they had noticed the strange devastation wrought by the Beastkin. As they readied for the charge, Drothmyr gave the order to move out, sending the cavalry hurtling across the field like a thunderstorm.

The ground trembled beneath the hooves of hundreds of horses as the cavalry swept through the disorganized ranks of the Austorian infantry. Some of the foot soldiers, startled by the sudden charge, were knocked aside or trampled as Drothmyr’s riders pushed toward the Beastkin lines, their lances gleaming in the sun.

Victory seemed certain. The cavalry would smash through these upstart Beastkin and claim their spoils. But just as the charge reached 500 meters from the convoy, something unexpected happened—a red flare shot into the sky, burning brightly.

Drothmyr’s heart skipped a beat. The Red Flare—a signal he knew all too well. The Red Tower. His orders had been clear: the Red Tower must never fall. The flare’s meaning was unmistakable—something had gone terribly wrong at the Tower, and his men were needed there, now.

Without hesitation, Drothmyr wheeled his horse around. "Cavalry, fall back!" His voice boomed over the thundering hooves. "We ride for the Red Tower!"

As quickly as they had appeared, the Austorian cavalry turned and retreated, racing back toward the distant horizon. The Beastkin convoy, once bracing for the full force of the charge, watched in disbelief as their would-be attackers vanished from the battlefield.

From his vantage point, Lesser Duke Gytha Salus screamed in frustration, his face turning red with rage. "What the hell are you doing, Drothmyr?!" he roared, slamming his fist against the arm of his chair. The cavalry had been their best chance to break the Beastkin line, and now they were galloping away.

"Come back here, you coward! I’ll have your head for this!" Salus bellowed, though his words were swallowed by the cacophony of the battlefield.

With the cavalry gone, Salus had no choice but to recall his remaining forces. The infantry and remaining troops, numbering over 2,500, were ordered to regroup and prepare for a final assault on the Beastkin.

"Ready yourselves!" Salus barked at his officers. "We will crush these vermin ourselves. I want their heads on pikes before sundown!"

Lt. Rader Tarfire watched from Alpha 1, the situation becoming dire as the Austorian forces advanced. He knew they were up against something different this time—not just the chaotic slaver armies, but an organized, brutal force with powerful magic. The battlemages and archers were already peppering the convoy with arrows and spells, but he knew the real threat lay ahead.

"Alpha 1 Actual, we’ve got incoming from all sides," reported Sergeant Ordoz from Alpha 3. "They’re hitting us hard, sir!"

Tarfire's mind raced. This was not sustainable. They needed to level the playing field, and fast. That meant fire support. Heavy fire support.

"Echo 3-2, where’s the FO?" Tarfire barked into the mic, demanding an immediate response.

A moment later, Specialist Jal Greenfur, their Forward Observer, responded, his voice steady despite the chaos erupting around them. "Alpha 1, I’m ready for the call."

"Get those coordinates to me quickly, FO," Tarfire commanded. "They wanted a fight, now let’s see if they can dance to our tune."

Greenfur, perched inside the FENNIK, began his task quickly. Using the Enhanced Artillery Sensor Suite (EASS), he scanned the battlefield, locking onto the largest cluster of Austorian forces approaching from the village. His eyes darted between the screen and the terrain, calculating distances and enemy positions.

"Coordinates locked," Greenfur called into the mic, uploading the data to the JCVAIL network. "All data sent to Alpha 1."

Tarfire switched channels, connecting directly to the Fire Direction Center (FDC) back in the Desertum Maris. His voice was firm, but the tension was unmistakable.

"Redleg 1, Redleg 1, this is Alpha 1 Actual. Requesting immediate fire support! We are currently engaging Austorian forces in the Elven village of Mya. I have uploaded the coordinates in the JCVAILs at target reference point Alpha 1-6. How copy, over?"

There was a momentary pause, then the radio crackled back to life.

"Alpha 1, this is Redleg 1. Coordinates received. Standby for confirmation."

Back at the FDC, 2nd Lieutenant Rjigan Fastpaw reviewed the uploaded data. His fingers tapped the console as he calculated the range and munitions needed. The conventional artillery wouldn’t reach this far—the village was outside of their 155mm howitzers' effective range. But they had something better: the HIMARS with Guided Multiple Launch Rocket System (GMLRS) missiles.

"Firing all tubes!" Fastpaw called out, his command rippling through the FDC as the massive rocket tubes of the HIMARS roared into the dusk sky. In seconds, the four HIMARS rocket systems launched all their ordinance. Each of the long-range rockets heading towards their unknowing prey.

"Last round out!" The FDC signaled, the final rocket leaving its tube and streaking toward the target.

"Shot!" came the call from the FDC, and Tarfire responded immediately, "Shot out."

On the battlefield, the Austorian Army pressed forward. The battlemages launched volleys of firebolts and frost spells, the ground around the Beastkin convoy erupting in flame and ice. Arrows soared through the air, crackling with magic as they collided with the armored trucks. The Beastkin trucks, bristling with weapons, returned fire, .50 caliber GAU-21 miniguns tearing through the lightly armored Austorian forces. While the dismounts from Echo 3-1 opened up from their hasty fighting positions with small arms.

"Watch out, incoming!" yelled one of the gunners as a volley of arrows and magic hit Alpha 6’s side. The truck’s armor held, but the barrage forced the convoy into a defensive posture.

Then came the Heavy Infantry—hulking figures clad in thick, enchanted armor. They moved like walking fortresses, shields raised, and their glowing arcane barriers deflecting the .50 caliber rounds that had ripped through the battlemages.

"Sir, they’re walking right through our fire!" Corporal Honeypaw from Alpha 4 yelled over the radio. "We can’t stop them!"

The Heavy Infantry, failed mages who had traded offensive magic for impervious defenses, advanced slowly, their creaking armor a terrifying sound in the chaos. Behind them, the remaining battlemages regrouped, protected by these living walls, preparing more spells to unleash on the Beastkin.

Lt. Tarfire gritted his teeth. This was it. They had to hold the line.

Suddenly, the radio crackled with life again, "Splash!" called the FDC—the rockets were about to hit.

Greenfur, monitoring the feed from his position, nearly jumped. The tension was so thick it was suffocating. The Beastkin forces braced as the GMLRS rockets arced over the horizon, leaving trails of smoke in the sky before descending on the battlefield.

Tarfire screamed over the convoy frequency. “INCOMING!!”

Everyone ducked in their trucks, while the dismounted infantry pushed their heads into the dirt to avoid the Hell that was coming.

Impact.

Within seconds, the once-flat road near the entrance of Mya exploded into a violent mess of dirt, shrapnel, and fire. The GMLRS hit like a hammer of the gods, creating massive craters where the Austorian 3rd Elven Suppression Unit had stood moments before. Battlemages, infantry, and heavy soldiers alike were blasted into the air, their armor and shields no match for the raw power of the HIMARS rockets.

The rockets tore through the enemy ranks, sending shockwaves through the ground that rattled even the reinforced Beastkin trucks.

"Direct hit!" Greenfur shouted, watching the destruction unfold on his sensors.

Staff Sergeant Wellknife, lifted his head from the ground. He grabbed his mic, his voice cutting through the radio chatter. “Rounds look complete Alpha1, No enemy movement here.”

Rader Tarfire switched back to the FDC channel. "Splash out! Fire mission complete. Over."

The field before the Beastkin convoy had been reduced to smoking craters, the once formidable Austorian force obliterated by the precision strike. Only a few pockets of enemy resistance remained, scattered and disoriented by the devastating barrage.

Lt. Tarfire exhaled, the weight of the situation finally lifting, if only for a moment.

"All units, move into position!" Tarfire ordered. "3-1 pick up the dismounts and prepare to clear the village! The rest of the Austorians are yours!"

The Beastkin soldiers, their spirits lifted by the devastation of the enemy ranks, reformed quickly. With the immediate Austorian threat neutralized, the convoy moved to attack the vulnerable slavers still in the village.

They knew their work wasn’t done—the village would have to be cleared house-by-house. The Heavy Infantry were gone, but slavers and rogue mages still hid among the Elven buildings.

Tarfire’s voice, now steady and determined, came over the comms, "We’re not out of this yet, but we’ve got the upper hand. Time to finish this."