Grimoires and Gunsmoke

“T-this! This is madness!” Count Harmswid, one of the very few Human nobles of the Seraphic Empire, bellowed as his hand slammed into the table, sending scrolls flying onto the floor of his luxurious tent. “You’d be leaving me defenseless! I already have a manpower shortage, and now you’d deprive me of not just Wyverns but all of my mana users!?”

Standing across from him, seemingly unphased and unbothered by the outburst, was Tharivol, the Duchesses Dark Elf spymaster. Tharivol remained stoic as Count Harmonswid's face turned a shade of deep red; the veins on his neck bulged with every word. As the tirade continued, spittle started to fly from the human’s mouth, landing on the polished surface of the table and even on Tharivol's dark cloak. Yet, the spymaster's demeanor did not change; there was no sign of disgust, no flinch, no reaction whatsoever.

“Do you truly expect me to comply with such an insane request!? You and that damned charlatan have both lost your minds!” The Count sneered before spitting on the floor. “I cannot, and I shall not!”

Count Harmswid's rage seemed to swell within him, growing more intense with each passing moment. "I'll drag both you and that insufferable wench before the Court of Houses!" he thundered, his voice echoing off the high walls of the chamber. "You think you can force a noble of my standing to forfeit his property and forces unjustly? The court will see you stripped of your titles, your lands confiscated, and the Duchess fined! Perhaps you would even find yourself exiled, you insufferable curr!"

The air in the room grew heavy, charged with the count's threats and the tension of the confrontation. Yet, through it all, Tharivol remained as impassive as ever, his expression never wavering from its cold neutrality.

Once, the count's rant had finally run its course, leaving him panting and glaring across the table. "Do you truly intend not to comply with the Duchess's order?" Tharivol's voice was so calm and devoid of emotion that it seemed as if he was simply discussing the weather.

"NO!" The count's response was a furious shout, his hands slamming down onto the table with such force that it splintered beneath them. "I will not bend the knee to such outrageous demands!"

Unphased by the outburst, Tharivol eyes scanned the room, looking at all the Count's personal guards in attendance. Two mages and six mana-capable knights stood uncomfortably against the wall of the tent, just behind the count. "Is there nothing that will convince you otherwise?" The Dark Elf asked, bringing his eyes back to the Count. “Coin? Concessions? Favors?”

The count's face twisted with hatred at the mere suggestion of compromise. "I'd sooner turn my blade towards the Duchess herself than comply with anything that whore demands!" he spat venomously, the words dripping with disdain and loathing.

Tharivol simply nodded as if the count's refusal and insults were nothing more than he had expected. "Very well," he said, his voice still calm and unbothered, before looking behind him to two of his own guards who accompanied him.

These individuals wore unassuming attire, their features obscured behind black mosaic masks that shifted and morphed in subtle ways. Anyone looking at the masks would find their gaze unfocused, slipping across them as if they were merely part of the background. Beneath their dark cloaks was sleek armor made of a substance unfamiliar to the count, a strange blend that was neither quite metal nor leather.

"Take the Count's head and slay any who resist," Tharivol commanded his guards and turned back to the Count.

But before his eyes could leave the two shadow-like figures, their forms surged forward like a wisping darkness, their movements far too fast for any being's eye to comfortably track. Each unsheathed, jagged, wicked-looking blades, as long as one's forearms. There were subtle differences between each weapon, but they all had one thing in common. And that was the fact that they seemed to be forged from a strange blood-red metal that made people’s blood run cold.

The Count and his guard's eyes widened as they flinched back and grabbed at their weapons. However, before they could properly react, these ghosts were faster. Not a single sword left their sheathe, and not a word was chanted before blood was drawn.

As Harmswid opened his mouth to scream, a terrifying silence took hold instead. The world spun into a vortex of chaos, colors blurring and shapes warping as if reality itself was unraveling around him. Orders died on his lips, replaced by a mute plea for his men to save him.

Then, he crashed to the ground, dizzy and disoriented. All sense of time and place dissolved while his mind struggled to comprehend the nightmare unfolding before him. He was trapped in a maelstrom of motion where his guards – his paragons of strength – were being ruthlessly dismembered.

The dark figures moved with a terrifying and unnatural speed. They were blurs of motion armed with those wicked, crimson-tinged blades felling season knights that were once symbols of power and protection as if they were pigs lambs brought to feasts. Their armor offered no resistance as it was pierced effortlessly, and their cries were cut short, transforming into wet gurgles and sickening thuds as they collapsed.

Blood splattered the interior of the tent, a gruesome crimson rain painting what had once been a place of noble authority into a scene of carnage. His loyal protectors, those who were supposed to be his shield, were now nothing but lifeless corpses strewn across the ground.

Through his terror, the Count saw Tharivol out of the corner of his eye. The dark elf stood unmoved, a cold spectator observing a symphony of violence orchestrated by his will. With one more attempted gasp, Harmswid’s world plunged into darkness.

With an air of nonchalant finality, Tharivol strolled forward. He bent down, not a hint of bother on his face, and retrieved the severed head of Count Harmswid. The dark elf held the head aloft, examining it with a clinical detachment as if it were merely a curious specimen and not the remnants of a once powerful man.

"Hopefully, this will deter others from such foolishness,” Tharivol remarked with a chilling yet humored voice. “I’m sure there will be a few more unwise enough to disobey our mistress, but let they and Count Harmswid serve as… palpable enough deterrent to insubordination.”

The Dark Elf spun on his heel and strode confidently towards the tent flap while his masked guards moved like shadows in his wake. What had transpired was as swift as it was horrifying, from start to finish. The once opulent pavilion, a symbol of the Count's authority, had become a macabre slaughterhouse in mere seconds, and the air hung thick with the metallic tang of blood.

Tharivol moved with the grace of a predator. He grasped a fistful of the Count's hair, casually swinging the severed head as he left the carnage behind. Stepping out of the tent, a scene of utter chaos greeted him.

A cataclysmic roar had ripped through the air, an earth-shattering crash rattled the bones of every being within earshot. Tents flailed wildly, torn from their moorings and scattered like scraps of paper by the force of the blast. Men were thrown off their feet, rolling across the dirt in a desperate bid for stable ground.

And the source of such devastation was the immense silhouette of a black dragon. A very old and very powerful black dragon of monstrous proportions. Its landing had been a display of raw power; the earth itself sundered from its weight, cracking and buckling as the beast settled into place, and smoke curled from its nostril as its massive wings slowly unfurled.

To Tharivol's left, a figure stood resolute against the swirling chaos. Clad in heavy plate armor, augmented by the bones and scales of vanquished wyverns. One of the Duchess's most powerful and he was a testament to the mistress’s influence and strength. The great warrior's hide cloak buffeted violently in the maelstrom, yet he remained steadfast, utterly unmoving. His massive sword was driven deep into the earth, his hands folded gently over the hilt, as he stared maliciously towards the soldiers and mages toppling head over heel.

Striding past the warrior, Tharivol moved effortlessly underneath the dragon's colossal wingspan until reached the other side, where a panicked crowd was already gathering. He held up the Count's head for all to see and amplified his cold voice with magic, causing it to reverberate across the encampment.

"YOUR TREACHEROUS LORD IS NO MORE!" Tharivol bellowed, "HE CHOSE DEFIANCE! HE CHOSE DEATH! AND THUS THE FATE OF ALL WHO CHOOSE SELF-INTEREST OVER THE IMPERIAL WAR EFFORT!”

The gathered soldiers gasped, their faces twisting into a mixture of shock, disbelief, and abject terror. This was a display of power unlike anything they had ever witnessed - the swift brutality, the utter disregard for a noble life, and now, the raw might embodied by the massive dragon that cast its imposing shadow over them all.

A wave of shock and outrage swept throughout the Count's retinue. They stood frozen for moments, hands clenching around sheathed weapons, before the reality of the situation sunk in. Their lord was dead, his head held aloft like a grotesque trophy a damned dark elf who stood before them. Yet, their fury was tempered by the sight of the colossal monstrosity looming above the foul man.

Not even the stoic knight captain, his battle-scarred face creased in anguish, dared break the uneasy silence that had descended upon them. His eyes flicked between the severed head and what he considered the largest and oldest dragon he’d ever seen in his damnable life. It was bad enough one of the Duchess’s hero showed up, but with this monster here, all thoughts of vengeance were crushed beneath the weight of gaping maw staring at him.

Tharivol lowered the head, allowing it swinging morbidly in his grip as he marched straight to the knight captain. Halting mere inches from the man, the Dark Elf looked down at him through his nose despite the fact that he was a head shorter than the gruff knight. But how tall one was mattered very little at the current moment. For the poor captain fought to maintain any semblance of calm as his entire body trembled, not from mere cold, but from a primal, instinctual terror.

"Gather your mana users. Assemble the wyverns, good captain." Tharivol commanded, his voice still magically amplified. "You will report to the Duchess in Aldenshore, and with haste. I trust," here Tharivol's gaze flicked meaningfully towards the dragon, "that you understand the urgency of this order?"

His tone carried not a hint of a question, but the chilling finality of an ultimatum. The Duchess' word was now law and the dragon was both enforcer and a grim reminder of the consequences of disobedience. Should the captain hesitate, should he choose to dally, the monstrous creature would likely make a far bloodier example than even the Count's brutal end.

The knight captain could only bow his head and utter a hoarse, "Aye, my lord." Compliance, however grudging, was the only path to survival. Defiance meant not just death for himself but the annihilation of his men. No amount of courage or pride could bridge the chasm of power that lay between them.

An expression like a viper's grin spread across Tharivol’s face. A macabre amusement flitted into his eyes as he raised Count Harmswid's head once more, slapping the lifeless cheek in a grotesque mockery of applause. "Very good!" he declared, his amplified voice carrying an undercurrent of cruel delight.

"You shall rest this day and prepare. But," his tone turned as sharp as a dagger, "do not keep us waiting. To delay the Duchess... well, that would be oh so very unwise."

With a final flourish, Tharivol spun on his heel and marched away, but just before the Dark Elf disappeared below the hulking mass of the Dragon, The Knight Captain attempted to rise to his feet. "Wait, my lord!" The man stammered out as his hand reached out.

However, the sudden movement had caught the dragon's attention. With a rumble that reverberated through the encampment, its massive head dipped low. Twin nostrils flared, expelling twin plumes of superheated plasma, as its eyes narrowed, burning with fury.

The knight captain let out a yelp, a terrified sound he hadn't made since childhood. His body recoiled as if struck, and his legs had given way beneath him as he fell on his rear.

Tharivol paused, turning back with feigned concern. His voice dripped with theatrical sympathy, "Oh dear, is there some problem, good captain?" He let the question hang in the air before bursting into a peal of chilling laughter.

With a dramatic gesture, he addressed the knight captain once more. "Well then, Captain, go on! What is it that troubles you so?" There was an odd playfulness in the dark elf's tone that sent chills down every man in the Count’s army’s spine.

Panic surged through the knight captain. Caught between the titanic dragon and the mocking presence of the dark elf, fear threatened to swallow him whole. Each raspy breath seemed to drag against his throat, the super-heated air of the dragon's breath filling his nostrils. It was an intoxicating mix of molten metal and sulfur, a scent that seemed to speak of fiery annihilation.

He scrambled back even further as the dragon's head moved closer. Desperation lent his words a frenzied edge. "W-what of the food stores, my lord? Our gathered supplies? And the men – the rest of the soldiers? Shall they march to Aldenshore with us, or... or remain?" The words tumbled out, laced with the fear of asking the wrong question, of drawing further ire.

Tharivol approached the man before halting a comfortable distance away. The knight captain flinched, averting his gaze from the dragon, and fixing it on the ground and started whispering prayers and reciting passages from the holy text of his god. Tharivol tilted his head, a curious, almost amused glint in his dark eyes.

For a tense moment, he simply observed the knight captain, letting the silence stretch between them before heaving a heavy sigh. “Do you speak of the mundane?" His tone was flippant, laced with a hint of disdain. "Take them, leave them – it is of no concern to me.” He answered, waving his hand dismissively. “Now that you have your answer… do not bother me with such trivial matters again. I have much more pressing concerns and so little time."

As Tharivol walked away, the knight captain scrambled to his feet. “Y-You heard ‘em! Git yer asses movin’ less ya want to be Dragon feed!” The man ordered with fear evident in his voice as the Dark Elf disappeared beneath the dragon. “And send word to the Wyvern camps of our new orders!”

Silence reigned at the order as everyone stood stock still, but everyone was kicked into overdrive with one last snort from the monster. Soldiers, mages, and workers of every type scramble about with panicked efficiency. Carts were hastily loaded, men and women ran to and fro with bundles of supplies, and the injured were loaded onto wagons with utmost care. Within minutes, the once serene camp was transformed into a whirlwind of purposeful chaos.

And as the madness unfolded, in a distant tree line, Coleman and his ODA team watched silently, peering through the optics of their weapons and purpose-built surveillance tools.

“Fuck… is that our target’s head?” Schwarz suddenly spoke up hushedly as he peered through the high-powered optic of his precision rifle. “I think that’s his head…”

Coleman released an exasperated sigh as he watched with a camouflaged high-powered surveillance device as the strange dark-skinned man walked away with the noble's head in hand. “Yep… Yep, that’s his head…” He nearly growled in annoyance. “Damnit…”

"Wait, isn't this a good thing? We don't gotta kill him," Bennett piped up, a note of confusion in his voice.

Elijah cut him off, the usual lighthearted tone gone from his voice. "No, dipshit, we wanted to bag 'em for questioning," he gestured at the chaotic camp with the barrel of his rifle, "and we can’t question a corpse."

“All units, this is Baron actual.” Coleman quietly spoke into his headphones as he informed the litany of multinational special operations forces that were positioned or prowling around in preparation for the assault on this camp. “Change of plans, our targets KIA from internal fighting.”

“Baron actual, this is Warlock actual.” An Australian Special Air Services Regiment (SASR) team came over the net. “That’s a BIG fackin’ cunt, mate... I’m not so sure about this one.”

No one could fault the assessment. That monstrosity of a dragon was well over 100 meters from snout to tail, and hefty enough to tank most of their firepower. "Baron actual, copy that Warlock. Standby, we’re trying to figure something out."

“This is Bravo actual. Yeah, I have agree with Warlock. This suddenly got a lot more dangerous. I don’t think the operation’s worth it with this thing hanging around." A new voice came over the net belonging to the Polish Commandos, the Jednostka Wojskowa Komandosów (JWK), and gave his opinion on the matter.

The chatter from other teams confirmed the general sentiment. They came in relatively light hoping to do a lightning raid and bug out. Engaging this creature felt like a suicide mission. Sure they could hit with every Javelin or Anti-Tank weapon they had, but no one was convinced they’d be able to land a killing blow and unless someone got lucky and domed the fucker.

“I can’t believe we’re blue balled by a big fackin’ lizard.” The Aussies voice echoed throughout everyone headphones. “What do ya think? Should we pull out?”

Coleman rubbed a weary hand across his eyes. The Aussie had put it crudely, but the sentiment was spot on. The mission was a bust. The tactical dilemma they faced had become far more complicated with the appearance of these newcomers and their dragon.

“Warlock, hold one.” Coleman responded before leanning back against a fallen tree.

A frustrated and heavy breath left the ODA team leader’s mouth as he popped off his helmet, exposing his hair to the hot summer air. As he contemplated his optins while his hand rubbed across his admittedly greasy hair. It had been quite some time since he had a proper shower and, the dirt was starting to build up.

As he thought of way to continue the mission, every scenario he spun out in his mind unraveled before it could take shape. Assault the camp now? With that dragon in the mix, it was madness. Their firepower was decent, but not against a beast of that size and unknown resilience. The thing would torch them before they knew what was going on.

Sneak in, grab what intel they could? Nah… that was stupider than whatever some private fresh out of bootcamp would think up. The goal was not to be decisively engaged.

The Poles and Aussies had a point. Maybe the best course of action was to just to bugger off and keep and element here to observe and mark the location for when the ground pounders came in. But that almost felt like it was a waste… Here they had a prime opportunity to turn a village into a clandestine staging point and letting go of that idea felt… wrong.

Just as another sigh left Colemans mouth, an earth-shattering roar split the air. The team leader whipped his head up, expecting the worst case scenario. The dragon had erupted into flury of motion, as the whirlwind of claws, wings, and raw power tookeof, blowing debris across the camp and scattering tents like leaves in a storm.

But it didn't attack.

The gargantuan creature circled for a moment, leaving a sinister shadow against the clear blue sky, before banking and soaring eastwards.

Coleman blinked, momentarily disoriented by the sudden shift in the situation. A hundred thoughts raced through his head. Where was it going? It didn’t notice us? Would it return? But Within seconds, the beast had vanished into the distance.

Then, a flicker of opportunity flashed across his eyes. “This Baron actual, let’s wait a bit and see what happens...” Coleman suggested with a predatory grin spreading across his face.