[WP] "What happened on the worst day of your life?"

...

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew everything was just absolutely fucked.

Not just regular "Oh, this sure is getting pretty bad" or "I think I smell something burning."

No, this was worse. In the back of my mind there was no avoiding it. I had all the pieces of the puzzle, I'd solved it and decided to flip the table and scatter the metaphorical work on top of it to the floor because I needed to take cover from the fucking crossbow bolts.

It was just that kind of day.

A "Goblins pouring out of the forest like a broken-tap, screaming for blood, few surviving Church-hired assassins probably still lurking in the tree-top with longbows, walls and wooden portions of the Outpost are on fire" kind of day.

Everything was absolutely 100% Fubar already, and it was just taking its sweet time to finish the job with a victory lap. There I was in the middle of it all, Captain of the losing team putting out literal and non-literal fires by method of violence or bucket, raw knuckled fists or gunshots, as the enemy at the gates was also at the windows.

And the stairwell...

And the Watchtower...

And dead on the floor- I just tripped over a Goblin corpse.

But that's just the trick I guess. All this shit, and I have to admit, I've been remarkably calm about the whole ordeal. This is a new-leaf I'm turning over. A big step for me, considering I used to complain all the time. Maybe it's just shock of being confronted with a quickly approaching death, but I'm really not entirely convinced I haven't just grown an extra pair of stones.

Stoicism- definitely I've tried my best to hammer into my bones. I've taken to it like an apprentice blacksmith might to making horseshoes- practicing the same damn motions over and over. Repeat after me: "If I can't possibly change it, I shouldn't feel particularly bothered to complain about it."

Hey, did I tell you I blew up a Goblin Chief's head from like, 200-something paces?

The rifling on my barrel is completely fucked too- I've been casting shit-tier magic through the thing like it's nobody's business, yet somehow I managed to nail that sucker on the first attempt. Easily the Highlight-shot of the month, no doubt in my mind. Best to ride the high right there until the low comes out of nowhere and abruptly kills me. Which, again- no doubts, it probably will.

Currently, my bet is on an arrow.

Optimism holding, and considering how many of those bastards are whipping in through the windows, it's a fair guess the chances are weighted- but if I were a gambling sort, I might give it up to a bloody close-combat gone wrong. The pile of "whatever happened to be available" I ordered the soldiers to make in the stairwell has seen better days. A bunch of stone axes and more Goblins than a man can shake a stick at. No barricade is going to last very long, and while I'd really like to imagine reinforcements showing up and pulling my ass out of this fire- I know they're probably not going to.

I doubt those potential reinforcements even know this shit is happening.

There are armies somewhere to the North. Supposedly, they're now fighting some ungodly and colossal battle, mostly likely the kind that will take a few days to settle out. If I remembered the basic plans put together by the Royal forces, it's certainly not going to be a decisive sort of win with one big clash and a nice ending with a bloody bow on top, but more of a long kiting and never ending skirmish along the main roads.

I mean, they're fighting a giant army of ghouls, so it's not like the enemy has critical thinking skills to speak of, and The Royal Heir- Queen, Aurum, Whatever people were calling little miss Golden-eyes nowadays: She's not about to lose any more people to Western Monsters or stupid over-sights. They'll kill those bastards with a spoon if it means her forces stay on this side of the living. The Queen's not the type to fuck things up.

Apparently, that's my job.

Really, that's the best part of all this madness. It's entirely of my own creation. I fought fire, with a bigger fire. Fighting Assassins with Goblins. Mostly, this because I'm a god-damn idiot- but in part this was because there truly wasn't a better way.

That's what I'm telling myself.

"Captain! Another wave! The Stairwell Barricade won't hold!" Somewhere across the room there's a soldier named Ronalde shouting at me, trying his best to drop an arrow around the bend in-between the volleys of return fire. For a Second Rank not yet quite up to earning his place in a real division, he's been holding up better than most. "ARG-!"

Of course, I think that right as he takes a Goblin bolt to the shoulder and goes down screaming- luckily dragged away by the next men in line, replaced this time two burly looking fellows hoisting the dinner table as one final defensive shield.

It's a nice table. Even now, I have a fondness for the thing. A solid sort of ten person each side kind of table. We've had some good times with that wooden bastard as a centerpiece. Ale, bread, stale bread, jerky that might have been shoe leather.

There's no more food, maybe I should mention that.

We most definitely weren't equipped for a bloody siege, even if we could have gotten more of the food out of the basement larders.

Now, obviously they can certainly plug the stairs with that stupidly large table. They're big, unnaturally strong fantasy-hero-soldier-folk and they seem quite intent on doing just that. Muscles bulging, helms set on tight, rough cover of our own volley of what Goblin arrows we can pick up and inaccurately lob back down at the Green dancing bastards trying to claw their way up to us. The only problem with this plan is that's just about the last piece of furniture left on the second floor, and we can't exactly shoot the Goblins through three inches of solid oak.

"HEAVE!" There's the shout, and there's the slam. In the far-off distance, I'm pretty sure I hear an uppity little Goblin scream in terror. A couple hundred pounds, tossed down stairs from a height of at least fifteen feet... Yeah, that's probably one less Goblin.

"Craaa-AAAAAAG" Watching another one come up through the window to my right just in time to get brained by a shovel, and I can say that's probably two less Goblins.

Shame there's like a freaking thousand of them out there now.

"CAPTAIN!" Another soldier's shout earns my momentary attention, head-turn unintentionally avoiding a rather sickly looking spear that might as well kiss my left cheek as it careens past and wedges itself in the wooden rafters.

"What is it?" I shout back, before kicking a more ambitious green-skinned bastard off its shoddy-made siege-ladder, to fall screaming into the distance. "It better be pretty fucking important!" I shout for emphasis, weapon leveling from the hip to blast another Goblin's head clean off as it peaked another window's ledge- grappling hook still in hand.

"SIR! THEY'VE SCALED THE WATCH-TOWER!" The Soldier shouted, ducking as his shield took a stray arrow- deflecting it off in some random vector with a panicked look as he continued. "WE'RE BEING FORCED BACK! THE TOWER IS LOST!" His explanation is just in time with four bumbling Soldiers in armor stumbling down after him through the stairwell doorway, shields ricocheting all manner of projectiles into the ceiling behind them. "WHAT DO WE DO SIR?"

"Do?" I asked, turning to blast another reaching green hand, ignoring the next volley as they whizzed past my head yet again. "You really need instructions?" My shout might as well have been a whisper over the screams and shouts and noises of battle- but they shouted back, most turning towards the Watch-Tower passageway, screeches of enemies rushing down the darkness of those steps.

"YES SIR!" The soldier looked at me, eyes wide, panic only growing. "YOUR ORDERS SIR- WHAT DO WE DO?" I stared at him with disbelief, not even looking at the rifle in my hands blew mana and smoke out the barrel to turn another screaming creature coming through the window into a fine pink mist.

"ORDERS?" I shouted in utter disbelief. "Just kill the fucking Goblins!"

I think he heard me before a bolt took him in the eye, and he dropped like a sack of extra-dead potatoes.

On the bright-side, now I'm certain.

This has got to be the absolute worst day of my life.