My legs pump hard against the sand, sun beaming overhead reducing the world to a haze of heat. Ducking low the sand behind me explodes violently, throwing it high into the air. Arcane energy, pillars of fire, bolts of lightning seek out my position in the dune.

A bolt strikes directly to my left creating a tree of glass reaching towards the sky, bright and colorful. My feet pump, body low, running to the outpost my breath hitched, pulse racing.

A blinding white light bursts into brilliance. I slam my chest into the ground, using the dune next to me as cover. Sweltering flames cascade amongst the dunes, great gouts of fire and molten glass land against my covered back. With a grunt of pain, the stench of burning flesh pierces my nostrils.

Gathering my satchel, my delivery, I run. I run as arrows descend seeking my throat, I run as the symphony of rifles bark abrupt tones, ending the lives of some of my pursuers. I can see my allies fortifications, great barrels of sand and steel bayonets pointing towards scenes of death.

My first taste of combat. The great dance of death roiling around me. Lives snuffed out and glory suffuses the crimson blood. It all feels like one of the Wordsmith’s poems. The carnage, the elegance, so simple… so genuine.

My feet lead me to the foot of the fortifications, the enemy backing off after firing a mana bolt or two into the ranks. Men go flying, an arm detached ascending in a scintillating trail towards the relentless sun.

“Postman delivery!”

The commander of the forces, a tall man in his late forties covered head to toe in plate mail rushes toward me.

“Give here Postman!” his voice is full of panic.

Reaching into the satchel, I find a slab of stone, heavy. A message from the Wordsmith himself, carved from the very mountain He resides in. I give it to the man and he in shock stands mouth agape.

He clears his throat, his eyes tear up, his face the very picture of relief. He reads the cryptic phrase.

“Such Beasts, as they glutton only blood. We will bring a Feast to greet them.”

Tears pouring freely from his eyes as soldiers watch in disbelief. The Wordsmith is with us. He has seen our victory, we are but his tools. My emotions bubble to extremes, disgust and reverence in equal measure.

The commander takes a chisel and in four perfect strikes, removes the word Feast.

*KAROOOOOM* *KAROOOOOOM*

The enemy warhorn rings out, but not a soul moves. Locked as they are in the ecstasy of the promise of such a word.

With utter reverence the plate mailed commander whispers “Feast”

A burst of thunder in a cloudless sky. Blood is pulled from the sandy earth in long silky streams. Pooling high in the air. The enemy shouts just beyond my comprehension, too transfixed by the will of the Wordsmith, Humanities True God.

The sands return to their virgin white, unwatered with the blood of man and beast. The floating orb of blood ebbs and flows then...shatters.

Thousands of birds, blood red, rush towards the beasts. They rip and tear at their faces, plucking eyes and ripping into throats. Those false beasts of humanity die in droves screaming as the birds climb into their mouths only to tear apart their insides.

One of Beastman mages walk forth. Her lips move rapidly desperate to weave a spell to end the chaos. It takes some time, but with a mighty heave the air stills and bloody birds are no more. Plenty of the beasts yet remain to die upon our bayonets.

“KILL THEM ALL!” Shouts the commander, high off such a sight.

Twenty pieces of artillery fire simultaneously, the heaving ordinance spinning towards the reeling enemy. Firey death erupts within the enemy ranks. Enemy mages steps forward desperately casting protection spells, but nothing truly protects from heaps of metal.

Taking positions, the soldiers rifles ringe out. Most bounce off steel shields and woven spell work, but some still strike exposed skin.

The enemy mages return fire, throwing raw arcanum at the fortifications. Ducking down, soldiers armed with the demon blood tempered shields rise, absorbing what magic they can. The very air itself hums with the raw potential of magic.

*KAROOOOOM*

A thousand enemy throats ring out, a cry of defiance in the face of death. Soldiers desperately reload, powder pouring and minie balls rammed down barrels. A thunderous cacophony of noise rings out as each man stands and fires. The enemy front ranks topple and fall, others rushing to replace them.

Dashing down friendly lines, I look for a opportunity to escape. I need to go back to base in order to deliver more orders to the front. Readying my carbine, I peak over the shoulder of a soldier firing.

Beastman, close enough to smell the stench of their maliciousness, run with spear and sword ready to avenge their brothers.

My carbine rises, sight lined up, a slight lead. A flash of smoke and the charging barbian falls. A hit to his leg, a place usually not covered by protective spells. A waste of mana it seems.

A blur crosses my vision, silver. The man beside me falls with a gurgle. In the mass of humanity I am unable to see the cause of his death.

“...cleave my foes oh winds of wicked!”

The soldiers in front of me scream, dozens of torsos flying high into the air. The slaughter only stops when the spells momentum breaks itself against the flesh of the man in front of me.

Blood falls gently against my face like an early spring rain. A feminine form, draped in steel, stands before me blade extended, dripping the ichor of my comrades. Two horns of the ox rise barely through the holes in her bucket like helmet. No gapes in her armor to exploit.

“Rush o’spirits, hasten thy impale!”

A cloud of dirt bursts forth from her heals, body flying towards me. If I couldn't understand their tongue, I would've died before even beginning to react.

Scrambling to the side, my out stretched carbine shatters as it redirects her thrust. Hands now free, I take advantage of her overextended posture.

Right hand to her sword hand, keep it outstretched. Left hand to the front of her face, kick into the back of her legs and throw downward.

Remove helmet, strip of leather under the chin, twist and pull. Flawless porcelain glistening with sweat. Curtains of long black hair, stuck to her face. Eyes of the most hate driven red, fat tears welling beneath them. Her thin lips spread in a snarl.

“Wisp O’F….”

I jam my fingers into her mouth, silencing the foul magic, vomit spewing from her throat. She can't use magic without chanting, not yet a true knight.

Her plate fist blurs, my vision teeters on the edge of darkness. I lean in close, face close to hers utilizing my larger weight.

Reaching my left hand across my belt I pull free my pistol. The gnawing on my fingers intensifying, brilliant scarlet spheres widening in fear.

I jab the pistol to her head and in front of my face and squeeze the trigger.

My ears ring, but the beast has stopped struggling. Pulling my bloody fingers free from the agape mouth I stand. My right eye is swollen shut, blood dripping down my face and hand. A warm rivulet of blood descends from my ear tracing my jaw.

I reach down tearing off the shirt of one of the fallen soldiers and wrapping my fingers with it. I also grab his rifle slinging it against my back. Slowly, the ringing subsides.

The battle is still underway, ignorant to the fight I just had. The enemy grunts are among us, Spear and bayonets darting back and forth. So many isolated battles of life and death, meaningless in the face of the grander battle.

Turning around I run away, back toward the main headquarters. There should be more orders waiting for me there. I'm not a soldier, this isn't my fight.

Climbing the outposts surroundings stockades, I fall heavily into the soft sand. Rolling to my feet, I run cradling my injured hand.

-----------------------

Oak stands at the camp. Large claw marks ripped through out his overcoat revealing the hidden chainmail. Exhausted, his skin glistening with sweat and blood, he notices my arrival. A slight upward tug on his lips.

“Let me see your hand kid.”

I reach out unraveling the cloth, my fingers swollen and shredded.

“Just clean it out and you'll be fine, nothing's broken.”

Oak turns around grabbing a canteen.

“Gotta go kid. Drink this, it'll take the edge off.”

Something alcoholic, hard and fiery. It does take the edge off.

“Hey Oak, is there any more deliveries?”

“None, Robert and Joseph are still missing though. I'm going to find them before sun down.”

If those two die, someone has to take their deliveries. A death sentence.

“I'll go with.”