“Eric, it’s good to see you!” Said none other than a relieved-looking Lord Drevyn, lips curved in a grateful smile, before he blanched and stepped back, a trace of awe slipping through his mask of geniality.

Eric took advantage of the moment to get a closer look at the elven lord dressed in a full suit of silvered mail radiating enchantments underneath a beribboned uniform that showed off his sleek, muscular form to full effect, a white gloved hand not quite hiding the tremble as his fist clenched the hilt of his gold-plated saber.

Commander Drevyn

Class: Infantry Commander (warrior/mage Hybrid) Level 32

Physical Characteristics

Strength – 55

Vitality – 50

Finesse – 59

Quickness – 57

Appearance – (Very handsome! If you were any less hetero, you would totally hit on him!)

Additional Characteristics:

Outside your purview!

“How remarkable,” Drevyn whispered, his voice revealing a trace of genuine awe as he took in the battalion of troops standing at the ready behind Eric, a neat V shape with Eric at the vanguard, bayoneted shafts held ramrod straight, eye sockets filled with eldritch flame gazing straight ahead.

The perfect soldiers, Eric thought with a certain amount of pride, for all that the elven lord before him looked, if anything, even more discomfited as the seconds stretched painfully on, before he cleared his throat. “That you actually managed to take out a Sixth Tier Shaman and a full regiment of musketeers single-handedly is a feat worthy of bardic verse. That you also managed to seize two entire territories in less than two hour’s time is utterly beyond the pale.”

Drevyn shook his head with a soft, rueful chuckle. “But there was no way any of us could have possibly suspected multiple stats beyond the 200 mark, more fitting of an elite warrior on an elevated world readying himself to break through to Bronze after decades of effort, than a boy newly awakened on the most primitive of planets, only a handful of months ago.”

He flashed an almost fatherly smile. “Beyond remarkable. Elonia is indeed fortunate to have a man of your caliber fighting on her behalf.”

Eric forced a smile, ignoring the cold chill the man’s words sent tingling down his spine. “Strictly free agent here. I claim no formal allegiance or alliance to anyone. I just happened to be in the neighborhood. And with all these ripe recruits just begging for a commander worthy of their potential… how could I resist?”

Commander Drevyn smirked. “How indeed? Nonetheless, you have the eternal gratitude of both my daughter and myself, to say nothing of the entire Sylvan Alliance, for you just happening to be in the neighborhood at such an opportune time.” He quirked a smile. “Going for the romance novel hero look, are we? I’d call you a fool, but clearly your victories speak for themselves.”

Eric gazed down at his own naked torso, amazed that his jeans were still mostly intact, even if they did have more than a few slashes and holes in them, not quite remembering when, exactly, he had achieved such well-defined abs. “Don’t blame me, I woke up this way. My mithril’s locked away, and my current physical resistance is high enough that the orc’s cast iron hauberks would do nothing but get in my way. If I need those links to save my life… I’m dead anyway. Better to avoid the blows while not wearing armor designed for a creature several times my mass.”

The commander’s eyes twinkled. “Fair enough, Eric. But fair warning. Our race favors the arts, with many storytellers, bards, and imagers amongst our number. Should you actually manage to save the day wearing nothing but a pair of bluejeans and a mithril blade at your hip...”

“Yup. Even if I had to soul-link my new sheath and cover it in runes to make sure my blade doesn’t just rip right through, what you see is what you get. Of course, there’s also my kick-ass sling,” Eric said, twirling the aforementioned item, complete with its seventeen pound prize, earning a chuckle.

“Indeed. Don’t be surprised if your likeness and any number of exaggerated accounts make the rounds in the coming weeks and months.”

Eric laughed. “Fair enough. But as long as I’m in the area, I thought I’d ask if I could borrow the seventy soldiers stationed here.”

This earned a bemused smile. “You mean the undead revenants you stationed here? By all means, Eric. Help yourself.”

Eric’s gaze turned to one of concern. “Lord Drevyn, in all seriousness, I’d hate to leave you completely without resources...”

The man’s gaze hardened. “Don’t you dare worry about me, boy. I have a squad I’d trust my life with, and mounts that can run faster than any rouncy ever to race across Earth’s plains. My men and I will be fine. Should reds in force head this way after your every precaution… fear not. I will head toward the border and meet with my daughter. Should the worst occur, we will retreat and regroup, with whatever allies might come our way.”

Eric winced but nodded, understanding the unspoken message. Should Elonia’s forces shatter under the weight of their enemies’ final assault, Lord Drevyn would position himself to gather what survivors he could, even if it meant fleeing the board entirely, and withdrawing whatever claims to Earth they might otherwise make.

“Elonia...”

The man gave a quick shake of his head. “Best we say nothing. Rest assured, measures are in place.”

Eric swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, an unwelcome surge of anxiety flooding his chest, realizing just how late the hour was getting.

How close his enemies must now be to his sister’s final bulwark. And should they manage to break through…

Eric clenched his fists, doing all he could to steady the hot surge of wrath now flooding his system.

He took a deep breath, meeting the gaze of the strangely pale-faced Lord Drevyn once more.

“There’s something else you should know. The deck has been rigged against the other factions worse than I think even Mother realizes.”

The commander’s bemused half-smile instantly transformed to the hard, cold countenance of a commander about to make his last stand when Eric finished his report.

“Lever action black powder rifles. Spearmen at a minimum level of twenty. An ambush involving arcane blaster rifles and 50th level mercenaries. By all the gods, this breaks no less than seventeen covenants!” Drevyn’s eyes blazed with a sudden heat it chilled even Eric to see.

“Pretty much. And since the Bloodtear Syndicate owns the entire Terran Council in all but name, it doesn’t matter in the least. Those fuckers will do whatever the hell they want, because the right Overseers on the right planets have been bribed to look the other way, clearly. God knows how many billions of credits the Goblins invested into this operation, long before Earth ever came up for grabs. If I had to guess, I’d say really high level Bronze or Silver tier Goblin Seers have been greasing palms for decades, setting all this up. But I’m a native who’s only known the score for less than half a year, so I’m just taking wild shots in the dark here.”

Eric turned to his men, bleak half-smile in place once more.

“But the 500 or so breach-loading rifles with sword-steel bayonets you see before you make it damn clear that some really foul shit is going down.”

"You're right. There most definitely is. So, what will you do now, Eric?”

Eric could tell by the weight in the man’s gaze how serious a game changer his news was, almost positive that Dominion Interface messages were already flying between Lord Drevyn and his mother. Because with two thousand or so rifle-using Classers now in play, any elf that stuck out their head from behind cover was as good as dead. Eric could only wonder if the pair were actually considering terms of surrender. But considering the threats of genocide being tossed so casually by his enemies, he wouldn’t be at all surprised if the goblins refused to accept. So really, there was only one path forward.

Eric smirked. “Exactly what you think I will. I’m about to put the fear of god into those bastards, and my armies will be up another two thousand troops before the sun sets. You’d better fucking count on it.”

The commander roared with approving laughter. “What a cocky little hellion you are. You do that, Eric! Show those bastards what it means to take on the Winter Queen’s get!” His twinkling eyes turned serious once more. “But for the goddess’s sake, have a care. You will face not one but three Tier Six shamans, each over level fifty. To say nothing of a mountain giant squad, and more than triple the riflemen you have with you… mighty as your troops appear even to my eyes.”

“I know.” Eric grinned. “Those poor fuckers don’t have a chance.”

Drevyn snorted, and Eric’s eyes lit up at the ruby prize glowing so intently to his unified perception that the man solemnly placed in his hand. The elf’s countenance turned grave. “Don’t pretend that what you’re doing for the sake of your sister, for the sake of our clan, isn’t suicide,” Drevyn said, firmly closing Eric’s hand around a magic treasure his interface immediately popped up as being a healing jewel that could restore up to a thousand health points… in the blink of an eye.

“Lord Drevyn...”

“Say nothing!” The man snapped, a fierce look to eyes that immediately mellowed back into a bemused grin. “Some things are best left unsaid for any number of reasons. Because without question, healing potions are treasures that have saved countless men from life-threatening wounds when the battle is done, but unlike the games you and your sister used to so love to play, they won’t do jack in the heat of combat. Treasures like the one you now hold, however...” He winked and stepped back.

Eric flushed, bowing his head in gratitude. “Thank you, Lord Drevyn.”

The elven lord smirked, shaking is head. “It is I who thank you, Eric Silver, lastborn son of the Winter Queen, for daring to declare Vendetta on multiple enemies who had seemed content enough to ignore you. And thank you as well for being a gloriously mad hellion who saw fit to charge headlong into a battle where no accolades or noble titles await you, and by your own choice at that, for reasons that I now know better than to ever ask you.”

Eric’s cheeks flushed at the man’s knowing smile. But all Drevyn did was step back, and bow his head. “Goddess speed, Your Grace. May you arrive to your sister’s aid in just the nick of time, like any good storybook hero would.”

Eric snorted. “Clearly you haven’t watched Battle of Thrones or read half the so-called epic fantasies out there. Those authors live and breathe irony and bitter regret. And if the hero isn’t hating his life on his golden throne and wishing he were back herding sheep by the saga’s end, then the author clearly wasn’t writing according to their own script. Just one of the reasons why I love progression fantasy a hell of a lot more than that over-hyped shit.”

He then kissed his own bicep. “Pure 200+ progression right here, baby,” before laughing at Lord Drevyn’s flummoxed expression. “But yeah, tempting fate like a fool will get your ass handed to you in either genre, so best I move out,” he said, slipping the ruby into his pants pocket, flashing a relieved smile when he sensed an immediate connection through the thin fabric, somehow painfully certain that he’d be needing every sip of vitality from any source that he could get in the very near future.

Then with a final wave for the commander chuckling at his back, Eric took his leave.

“Tiger company, move out!” And with the sound of what were now 550 armored fists to chests before raising their bayoneted weapons in unison, the regiment kept perfect pace with Eric’s loping stride.

Even when it turned to a fast jog.

Then a ground eating sprint.

Then racing so fast across the plains that no stallion or cheetah or mobile infantry vehicle ever made on Earth could hope to keep up, Eric roaring his challenge to the world as the wind whipped back his golden locks of hair, feeling as if he were holding tight to the bow of a ship cutting through choppy waves and howling winds before crashing into the shoals of countless enemy soldiers, laughing with sheerest exultation, eagerly awaiting the storm of blood and battle to come.