The sun rose over the eastern sea, as Storm Veritas and his massive army watched the sun sparkle on the gently rolling ocean. The salty sea breeze overwhelmed the normal autumn odors of must and death, as once brilliant orange leaves continued their fade into mud-coated scarlets and browns hues scattered all about them. With the armies carefully sequestered in their encampments about him, the lightning-wielding enigma unbuttoned his riding coat before sitting on a flat rock about the morning fire. Beside him, his generals picked at their rations of salted meats that had been forcibly stretched further than he had expected. In truth, Storm had envisioned thousands dead by now, and the remaining soldiers feasting on the abundant horsemeat that routinely littered the battlefield.

“So Shin… he just, what, f*cking vaporized?” The wizard’s eyes looked into the fire for an answer he knew wouldn’t come back, but a smile curled at the edge of his mouth as he looked at Brackett anyway. The legion had dodged a titanic bullet.

The old, gristled warrior picked at a piece of jerky with a knife, tearing it from his teeth before speaking in his low, even tone. “Hard to say, m’Lord, but Am’aleh works in mysterious ways. We marched to meet with him, and the whole goddamned lot of them had moved on. Perhaps a personal thing, perhaps indifference. Either way, we checked their surrounds with hawks, and no retort for ten miles in any direction.”

“Count our blessings and march! Mine giants thirst for Radasanth!” Garron raised a large bone surrounded by thick, charred meat as he spoke, eying the Jagged Mountains to the north. Wherever the bone came from, and whatever living thing had previously owned the flesh Garron feasted on Storm wanted no part of knowing. Plausible deniability was a deal with the devil that came with the territory of marching with giants.

Anything to make you happy, you big idiot. I hope that meat came from a wounded horse and not a diseased soldier, but to say you make me nervous would be a f*cking understatement.

“Aye, fair enough, big fella. We can’t wait to give Osiris and his thousands a chance to change their minds. We push north, through the Jagged Mountains, and then blow a hole through the eastern walls of Radasanth. How many more days rations we have left?” Storm pushed a cheek-full of tobacco leaves into his jaw, skipping the morning meal in a quiet show of discipline.

“No more than a week, sir. We planned to march outright, and hit a few farms for their tribute as we cut through the home stretch.” Brackett was matter of fact with his acceptance of the inevitable corruption; he knew that Veritas would never let farmers that had been robbed live to tip-off the Radasanthian guard of the coming horrors, but viewed such a crime as eggs broken for the cosmic omelet.

Sneering, the mage spit a mouthful of thin, brown liquid into the fire, standing to button his formal topcoat once more.

“Perfect. Breakfast will be their last meal for a few days. Let the men eat well. By afternoon we mount and move, ride for the mountains. We’re only a good two, maybe three days. There are hundreds of eagles for our archers to pick there, and plenty of cover for us to seek purchase for the final stretch.” Turning his back from the commanders, he heard an affirmative grunt from Garron, followed immediately by the carnal tearing of another mouthful of Gods-knew-what.

~~~~~~~~

His tent packed and men forming, the wizard found himself popped up about the thick muscled back of his trusty steed, Attila. His eyes thin slits, Storm scanned the remaining grasslands and orchards that dotted the countryside west of the cliffs.

We hug the coast, sneak through the mountains, and then Radasanth is mine. Those fat f*cking morons will never be able to scramble in time to protect an uprising like this. Hell of a time to topple that do-nothing democracy and install some real leadership.

The plateau on the eastern edge of Corone had been gentle to the Veritas army; the weather cool but reasonable and grasses growing fast enough to keep their mounts well fed. The armies were eager to move out, having been holed up entirely too long to puff their chests at a clever ploy from Shinsou’s army. While he expected some sort of rust getting the great envoy activated once more, the wizard was surprised by the arrival of his advanced scouts, returning back from another twilight ride. Two young men rode straight for Storm, carrying the Blue and Gold Bolt banner indicative of his armies. Both looking under eighteen, their eyes settled somewhere about Attila’s hooves as the older child spoke. The blonde boy’s voice quivered with fear.

“Lord, it appears a threat remains in our path to the north. A large, diverse army, filled with thousands, positioned and entirely dangerous looking.”

The hell did he do that!?

“When the blue hell did Shinsou get a chance to ride ENTIRELY AROUND US and position once more between us and Radasanth? Ranks must have broken – where was the rupture? Whose heads need to…” Eyes wide with rage, the experienced adventurer noticed confusion when he saw it on the young, toe-headed scout’s face.

“Oh hell, what is it?” Storm continued to glare at the teenager on the small horse, awaiting his infinite wisdom.

“Lord, it isn’t Commander Vaan Osiris. We’ve never seen this force before.”

Rage pulsed through the general, his fingertips flickering with blue-white energy as he furiously considered how he could be so consistently snakebitten. With all the means to take over Radasanth (and commensurately, Corone), Storm’s seemingly perfect plan continued to falter under the weight of the fates. Unfazed, he marched his troops northward. The time for diplomacy had come and gone. Whatever stood in his way this day would submit, run, or die. The force of nature would not be denied.