General Wren released Prince Ceril with a disgusted grunt, turning his attention back towards the battle his forces were suddenly embroiled in. At least now he finally had the full picture of what it was they faced. Trees be damned. What a shitshow.

One of the nobles stammered from behind Wren, though whether it was the taller or shorter of the two the general was too distracted to say. “Royal Coins?! How did that thing get Royal Coins?!”

“It doesn’t matter,” admonished his counterpart, “We’ve got dozens of them! Just spend the Coin you’ve been authorized and get on with this!”

“We can’t,” Wren responded, his teeth gritted. “We’re mid combat.”

“You mean…it’s just us against them?”

“Yes.”

“No Royal Coins for our side?”

“No.”

“...Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

The unmistakable sound of three pairs of Oaken Elf feet running desperately back for the canopy was music to Wren’s ears. Finally. Now that the distractions were gone, he had a siege to conduct.

First things first. “Wizards!” Wren cupped his hands around his mouth, bellowing clear over the din of battle. “Get that battering ram shielded!”

Spurred on by his command, a dozen Oaken Elves raised their hands high into the air, glyphs of electric azure shimmering above those stupid giant hats of theirs. Ugh, those hats. Didn’t Wren tell them not to wear those? That they made them a–

As if on cue, an arrow the size of a small tree burst through the chest of one of the mages, his spell sputtering to nothingness as the sheer force of the projectile lifted him clear off of his feet to leave him wobbling in the air like some macabre skewer.

…Target.

Shit.

Four more wizards fell to shocking accurate fire from those giant bows before they could finish their incantations, leaving the battering ram only partially shielded from the rain of arrows the fortress’s defenders were showering it with. Wren’s soldiers were hesitating; no one elf seemed prepared to be the first to step into the line of fire.

Only one thing to do. “With me! With me!”

Wren crashed into the side of the battering ram, sliced and bleeding from any number glancing blows by the time he was finally able to duck under the protection of the siege instrument’s roof. He shoved his shoulder into one of the ram’s grips, his body screaming in protest and his jaw so tightly set that his mouth was beginning to bleed as he threw every ounce of strength he could muster into willing the massive weapon towards the enemy’s gate.

He struggled and strained, his boots churning the ground beneath his feet into mud as he grappled with the unmoving juggernaut. Not only could he not move it by himself, but when one of the giant bolts splintered against the battering ram’s shield Wren found himself wrenched a full foot backwards. It was no use. He’d have to–

And then there was a man beside him. And then two more at the other side of the ram. And then another three. More and more Oaken Elf soldiers stumbled through the hell of battle to take their places at Wren’s side, and before he knew it the siege weapon was fully crewed.

Wren spat out a mouthful of blood, his grin dyed crimson as he called out to his brothers and sisters in arms. “Let’s give that door a knock, see if anybody’s home!”

The elves roared back in wordless confirmation and surged forward, the colossal battering ram groaning under the power of a dozen soldiers. Wren urged them on louder and louder, his throat worked completely raw by the time they were full on sprinting towards a head-on collision with the gate.

“Release!”

The soldiers pulled away from their grips at the last moment, cheering in manic triumph as the battering ram smashed into the gate with a horrible, wonderful crash. Wren threw himself back into position as soon as the weapon’s recoil had died down, his voice cracked with strain as he exhorted the other elves to join him. “One more time! One more time and we’ll–”

But then the shields protecting the battering ram crackled away, and a pair of perfectly timed bolts splintered the roof of the carriage.

Wren stumbled to one knee as the other soldiers fled for cover, a full half of them already cut down by arrow fire. Why? Why did the spell fail? Why was the suppressive fire of his own archers so ineffective? He wobbled to his feet, blind to the arrows darting past him as he picked a single elf out to watch amidst the tumult.

She picked her target, good. She lined her shot, perfect. And then…Wren followed the arc of the arrow. Complete whiff. That should have been a hit. It was almost as if his entire army was…

“Status.”

As soon as his Status Screen popped up, a flashing bar informed him of the noteworthy effects he was currently suffering from.

—————————————————

Opportunism - Curse Your Inevitable Betrayal!: Triggered! (Prince Ceril has broken his word to Shin, i.e. he has told the other elves about what happened at the waystation) All allied characters will suffer from Disadvantage for the remainder of combat.

—————————————————

Okay. Now he had a full picture of what it was they faced.

What. A. Shitshow.

————————————————————————————————————

Shin could only marvel at the magic that was Friendship. Kobolds were pretty great, if he said so himself, and you know what? Hobgoblins were pretty swell, too. But bring them together, make them one big happy family? That’s when things really start to get wild.

Perfect example: the hobgoblin Gunners had already been a perfectly respectable class. They carried around personal ballistae and fired them at stuff; what could be better than that? Enter their upgraded class, the Field Specialist. On their own, they were a standard light ranged unit with all of their old functionality. But pair one up with another Class, and they form a context-dependent two-person Class with abilities beyond what either was originally capable of.

So take a Specialist and a Bruiser, and Gero was suddenly launching three-foot long arrows across the battlefield with startling accuracy despite not even having Ranged Proficiency. One of the newly popped kobold Specialists had teamed up with a hobgoblin Priestess, granting her access to spells Shin knew Tasan Okaa didn’t usually offer. Even Hilde and her fellow Guardians, melee specialists who should have had nearly no use during a siege until the gate was breached, were deflecting arrows with their damned swords thanks to the advice and direction of their Specialist partners.

One was also huddled intensely with Mimasu, the scribe scribbling into his book faster than Shin had ever seen him write before. Maybe that wasn’t so useful right now. But Shin had to admit, whatever they were writing down was probably amazing.

The point was, maybe this wasn't the Grand Alliance Shin had originally planned? But it was pretty damn Grand all the same

Bex staggered into Shin’s side, out of breath and beaming with excitement. “Shin! They, they’re leaving!”

It was true; a furious cheer had already started to go up among the wall’s defenders as the main host of the Oaken Elf army began retreating back to their camp. They’d brought over two hundred soldiers to tear down the fortress, and now they were leaving with less than half of that. Insane.

Though now that he was on the subject. “Momo!” Shin called, his voice cutting through the frenzied celebrations of his comrades. “What are our casualties?”

The Priestess finished her instructions to two of her newly popped underlings, the other clerics dashing off as she joined Shin and Bex. “There are lots of injuries, but only twenty seem to have been beyond our abilities. Seventeen newly popped, two of Hilde’s original group…” She trailed off, taking a breath before she could continue on. “And Choro.”

Waggle. Shin had known him literally his entire life. They’d once tried to eat a sparrow at the same time and accidentally mashed their faces together in what Shin was now realizing probably counted as his first kiss. There was one less survivor of Boss Yip-Yap’s Big Plan casting a defiant middle finger at the uncaring world now.

Bex’s eyebrows scrunched up. “Wait, Choro? But…he was one of you guys, though.”

Shin gently patted the girl on the shoulder. “He still is, Bex. He still is.”

He was sure Hilde had similar feelings about her own two fallen brothers. And that wasn’t to discount the seventeen kobolds and hobgoblins who had been born at the opening of the battle that would also cause their deaths. Shin wished he’d known them, the brothers and sisters who’d died for their families before they could even share their names.

But the battle was won, regardless of the price that had been paid, and there was more yet to do. There was simply no use for heavy hearts before the last fight was finished.

Hilde clearly felt the same way, marching up to the confab at such a brisk clip that the cleric attempting to heal her arrow wounds was having a hard time keeping up. “Who can we send out!” the hobgoblin asked urgently, the fire of freshly tasted victory burning in her eyes. “We need to get someone through to the village before they surround the fortress and settle in for the long siege!”

Her reasoning was sound. Now that the fortress was fully garrisoned, a veteran commander like Wren wouldn’t immediately attempt a frontal assault again. He’d fall back on the old methods, the tried and true methods: cut them off, and starve them out. Turn the fortress into a prison. After that, he could bide his time and lick his wounds until the perfect moment to strike presented itself. And Shin doubted very much that Wren would allow himself to be caught so utterly off guard a second time.

Pity for him that he wouldn’t be getting a second time. “We’re going to wait until nightfall. And then we’re all going to go out.”

“What?” Hilde furrowed her brow. “Even if we could attack their camp, they’ll have us blockaded by then. How are we supposed to break through their line?”

“We won’t have to. They’re going to have other problems to handle.” He tapped a finger to the side of his nose. “Hadn’t you wondered what happened to this fortress before you got here?”

Hilde waited for the Schemer to elaborate, and when none was forthcoming she shot Momo an incredulous look. But the cleric was much more used to Shin’s enigmatic pronouncements than she was, and so she simply threw up her hands. “Well alright then? When do we attack?”

“When we get the signal.”

“Okay, seriously? Screw you, Furball.”

————————————————————————————————————

Wren smashed his fist into the tray of flembas bread, the chalky biscuits coming apart as they slapped onto the ground. “What did you just say?”

The shorter officer sniffed. “Well if you’re going to be rude I don’t see what I should–”

“WHAT,”–The general took a menacing step forward, all three nobles shrinking back–”Did you just say?!”

“He said we won’t be throwing good money after bad!” The taller officer shouted, his mouth set with some unbearable mix of pomposity and cowardice. “We’re revoking your Royal Coin request, so you’ll just have to make due!”

“I am a General, and–”

“And Royal Coins are a nobility matter, NOT a military matter!” The taller noble stomped his foot, his flabby ears wobbling. “So there! It’s done! You’ve nothing to blame but your own failure!”

“If he’d told me half of the information he had on our enemies before we committed ourselves, this never would have happened!” Ceril shrank under Wren’s searing gaze. “How many of your people are dead because of your carelessness, Prince?”

The shorter elf pursed his lips, shooting Prince Ceril an ugly look. Now that it seemed increasingly unlikely that the wayward royal would be returning home a conquering hero, the two nobles had clearly decided they no longer needed to tolerate him. “Yes. Well. Prince Ceril’s many faults notwithstanding, this simply isn’t a discussion. There’s nothing left but for you to set your troops to their duty, and sell your lives dearly while we return to Quercus to confer with His Majesty King Glandem!”

Wren could very easily picture his hands wrapped around this man’s throat. Very easily. He could strangle all three of these men to death, leave them in this open air tent, and there was not a single man or woman in his army who would have looked askance.

But no. General Wren was a man of duty. He wasn’t about to cut ties and go rogue. But that didn’t mean he had to take this lying down, either.

The general drew himself up to his full, imposing height. “I’m sending a message to the court. They will send reinforcements, and we will retake this zone.”

The taller elf heaved a quavering sigh, stepping out to block the exit from the canopy. “My dear General, you will not eep~!”

The elf squeaked in alarm as Wren barreled straight past him, plopping down to the ground as the general strode unerringly towards the bird handler’s tent. There. Duty could grudge him a little bit of something for himself.

A voice called out to Wren as he neared the end of the semi-permanent tents. “I’m sorry about what happened.”

Wren slowed down a touch, a bit surprised to find the Lady Bittercup poking her head out of her quarters. “I am, too.”

“I’d just give you the Coin, if I could.” She tossed her pale, nearly silver hair over her cloaked shoulder, rose-tinted eyes apologetic as the Royal Coin she summoned immediately fizzled away. “Nose Hair and Grabby have already vetoed any spending, though. Sorry.”

Wren sighed inwardly. “It’s alright. Out of all of us, you’re certainly the least to blame.”

“Hm, that’s true.” Bittercup gave the general a little smile. “Still. There are so few good men in the world. I can’t help regretting seeing one get dogpiled like this.”

“...Was that a pun?”

“Of course it was.”

A moment ago, Wren couldn’t have imagined there was anything that could have stopped his march towards the communications tent. But now he found himself wondering what he actually knew about Lady Bittercup. She was a member of the Royal Court, but he was a little murky on whether or not she was actually nobility. And the only individuals who could access Royal Coins were the side’s sovereign and whomever was directly handed them, so unless she was a deviously disguised King Glandem she’d had some exposure to Players.

Also Nose Hair (Or was he Grabby?) had called her a whore when he’d been flustered out of remembering to praise and exalt her. And when he’d asked the King’s steward for access to someone with Royal Coins, the man had first thought his request was salacious somehow. How strange.

Well, she had never been anything but polite to Wren. And considering his current options, that put her in rarified air. “I’m going to send a message to Quercus,” Wren started, bowing his head slightly. “Would you like to join me?”

Bittercup shrugged amiably. “Okay, why not?” She emerged from her tent, draped in a body-length cloak. “Lead the way.”

The soldier in charge of the carrier parrots smartly saluted when Wren and Bittercup entered, though the general was more interested in the cages lining the wall of his tent than his observance of proper decorum. “Why are all of those empty?”

“Oh, um–” The soldier started going down the line. “The first one was sent to inform Quercus that a new race had been discovered?”

Wren nodded; he’d ordered that one. “Okay, and the rest?”

“The second was sent to inform them that the fortress would soon be retaken, the third was an addendum that the kobolds were traitors, and the fourth reiterated the message that victory was at hand.”

Wren briefly soothed himself with his fantasy of wringing the nobles’ necks once more. “And let me guess, the fifth was to say that we had in fact lost the battle?”

“Well,”–The soldier fidgeted uncomfortably–”In point of fact, it said that you had lost the battle.”

“Ah.” Bittercup nodded sagely. “Personal pronouns. Very important.”

“So we just have this one bird?” Wren gestured towards the purple and yellow parrot quietly preening itself, the avian messenger utterly unperturbed by the general’s rising anger. “We can only send one more message?!”

“Um, yes.” The soldier nodded. “You’ve nailed it, General Wren.”

“Trees be damned.” Wren snapped open the cage, the parrot happily waddling onto his arm. “This is going to have to be the best message I have ever sent.”

Bittercup raised her eyebrows. “Oh, well now I really am glad I left the tent. How often does one get to witness the best message ever sent?”

Wren snorted in response, amused in spite of himself as he pressed forward into a clearing at the very edge of the camp. He brought his arm around, the parrot clacking its beak as the general gave his message. “General Wren reporting. A new power threatens us from the north. Send reinforcements or Quercus Itself may not be safe. Until then, will defend position with my life.”

Then he pushed out his arm and the parrot took wing, soaring out into the growing dusk. That would have to do.

Bittercup frowned sadly, reaching out to touch Wren lightly on the shoulder. “I feel like I should say I’m sorry again.”

After a moment, Wren shrugged, craning his head around to offer the woman a helpless smile. “Well, who am I to–”

fwip

Wren immediately stiffened, turning his head back around just in time to watch the parrot plummet from the sky. He and Bittercup shared a wide eyed look, and then they both rushed into the woods that hugged the northern exit to the zone.

It didn’t take long to find them. Wren stared in mounting distress at the six dead parrots littering the forest floor, each killed with a single perfect arrow. What was going on in this zone?

Bittercup opened her mouth, only for her words to melt into a yelp when Wren shoved her out of the way, his sword leaping from its sheath even as the arrow that had been aimed for her chest thudded into his shoulder instead. The figure that had emerged from within the woods lowered its bow, fading back into the darkness even as two more emerged to take its place, axes held ready at their sides.

And as they did, the camp began to burn.