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Fob Bastion: Location unknown Day 3

It was when I dreamed in Dwarven that I knew we weren't In Kansas anymore, hazy words in a thick acccented tongue. weird chants filled my mind then like a fire cracker in a closet. My dreams were broken by the sound of a '249 as it blarred to life with short staccato bursts of 5.56. Martinez who I was on watch with must have seen one of the little green bastards, we had taken to calling them Goblins. After one of the Airforce guys who played DnD had started to refer to them as such, after spotting a band of the little guys on a ISR drone feed. ISR is one of the military's cute 3 letter acronyms, it means (Intelligence, surveillance and reconnaissance).

The staccato fire of the Squad Automatic Weapon filled the HESCO bunker with short roars of gun fire, and strobing flashes that shot away any natural night vision I might have had. I reached up and pulled down my PVS-31 dual-can night vision. The world turned to a green hued, but clearer vision. I stood up from the plywood wall I had been napping against, I slid in next to Martinez so I could see what he had was shooting at. Another night raid, it had been three days of constant siege warfare by what command had started to call Goblins and Orcs. I know, crazy right? just embrace the fantasy, because this. This is where it all started, in some temperate mountain canyon surrounded by Orcs, Goblins and god knows what else.

Green, ugly, and primitive bastards who still used swords and spears like some bronze age or dark age fighting force. Bows made up the extent of their handheld ranged fire. While ogres or giants threw boulders past our walls like some organic form of IDF, IDF is another another cute acronym it means indirect fire. You'll get use to all these acronyms one day, IDF was easy to learn though. You get it after the twentieth arty sim is thrown at you by a Drill Sargent. But back to the story, our snipers put a stop to the aggressive rock throwing, an M82A1 anti-material rifle has this effect. It makes people think twice about doing something, even if you had never seen or known a firearm. The goblins probably thought one of our snipers cast a funny and excessively violent spell on the ogre that had gotten shot that night. A Raufoss round to the head, one of the spotters told me in great detail. How the round struck the Ogre between the eyes, the explosive and incendiary part of the round produced a bright flash. the tungsten penetrator produced a fountain of gore and the bright flash ignited the brains that leaked from the creature's dense skull. Goblins that had been assisting the ogres scattered, arms waving and shouting. The spotter said they just proved more entertaining targets. He spoke with a big grin, and his eyes looked right through me like he was remembering a happy memory. One of those memories that normal people would assume was throwing ball with your kid, or going fishing with your friends. But for him it was guiding his partner's shots on target against those who would threaten his brothers.

But back to the greenies, they had started to dig in during first night we woke up here, yea woke up here. I know it sounds crazy, because the goblins, orcs, ogres, and freaking giants weren't crazy enough. Unlike Martinez who had 2 years on me as a ranger, I had a few months, and an abbreviated RASP course, and then a flight in a C-17 to FOB Bastion on the south edge of Iran. Then the nukes, and then a few days later this. So he was taking this whole goblin assault thing a lot better then me, he must have compartmentalized it down to something like. 'Green equals enemy, enemy is dumb and charges machine guns. So I'm gonna pad my score.' Or something along those lines. I could tell by the manic chuckle that came from the short Latino man that he had sorted this whole thing out in his head some how.

Sure some mountain valley with green grass, pines, oaks is a lot nicer then some crappy desert. But for the love of all things holy why did it have to be filled with goblins? Also why did we have to got some hanger that replaced our spare part hanger that is filled with some Area 51 eggheads that have a machine called the Foundry. It's basically a preputial taco machine…. Egg roll… whatever thing. It made stuff from essentially nothing, there were four of them. Along with some 40 odd technicians and scientists. Sure this 'Foundry' was the only thing that kept us alive. It produced ammo, not quickly of course because that would be a shame and pretty broken. So god… life… physics, or something had to NERF that particular perk we had going for us.

“Net call, net call, net call. All units, we have a full scale night assault. Intel shows goblins advancing with heavy infantry in support, over." The net call came from the TOC 'Tactical Operations Center'. The voice was the raspy and throaty, smoke stained voice of the Ranger Captain. He wasn't the most senior officer on the base, that went to the one star who over saw the base. But when it came to active operations he played a big part, since he was the Ranger Company Commander. We Rangers just referred him as 'The Old Man' or 'The Captain'. any other captain would referred to as captain such and such, then their unit. But for the Rangers, and misplaced coders like myself with a scroll there was only one 'The Captain"'.

Martinez was still blazing away in short controlled bursts with his 249, and I saw tracers punch into the ranks of goblins as they pushed our side of the line. The left hand bunker of the main entrance, we held one of the two large HESCO bunkers that guarded the front gate. While Martinez feed goblins adult sized servings of lead. I was just lost in awe as I watched the out going fire. The tide of green monsters that soaked up the enormous amount of out going fire that FOB Bastion could produce, and kept on going. Thousands of tracers streaked from bunkers and towers, then disappeared into the horde. If every fifth round was a tracer round then it was a mind boggling amount of bullets that were flying around out there.

“Come on you little Bendaohs! Get some!" Martinez's shouted, his Latin American accent always thick when he spoke anything in Spanish. The Mexican American was pouring fire into the little green bastards, then he looked over at me. He gave me a look that communicated 'why aren't you shooting? You stupid ass Private First Class.'

With that look I remembered the M4 Block II slung across my chest, and I lifted the rifle up bracing it on the edge of the HESCOS and fired into the horde. The human… no sorry goblin/orc wave just ate the incoming fire without even a waver. No stunned look of surprise that might have been accompanied from a high tech firearm's particular brand of violence. They just kept coming, the little green bastards screamed their war cry which in some ways seemed more like a taunt after not braking or fleeing.

My bolt locked back and just like in training I dropped the mag, and pulled a fresh magazine from my rig and slammed it home before pressing the bolt release. A loud 'shhick!', and the bolt slid home and locked a new round in the chamber. I shouldered my rifle again and went back to double tapping Gobs, I noticed Martinez look over at me with a look of contempt. He was still handing out adult sized volumes of fire on the little green bastards. Not that his had any more or less effect than mine.

So I assumed my reload probably wasn't as smooth or fast as the more senior Ranger would have thought acceptable of someone who was allowed to wear 'The Scroll'. But I was paying rent on that scroll, in goblin blood. Sure I didn't deserve it, I knew that. I was just some coder, some nerd that was jostled and crammed through training to be part of some black mission that never got a chance start. So I was now left in limbo, an oddball. I had been worcing in military Intelligence then I was packed on a plane and sent to Fort Moore to begin combat arms training, and RASP (Ranger Assessment and Selection Process). Oh goody more acronyms.

You know… in training they never mentioned goblins, and the Drill Sergeants never spoke about ogres or orcs. But I guess these are the odd things that life throws at you that everyone talks about, the unknowns. I'm starting to hate these, unknowns… The rangers hate the unknowns too. At this point Mr. Bone's wild ride is getting a little too wild. I really, really want off his ride if you cant tell. But hey, you're reading this which means you haven't even gotten to the present yet. So buddy you are in for a wild ride let me tell you. So stick around and keep reading this wonderful log of events that us 'Otherworlders' experienced in this DnD like world. But back to the night battle right?

I flinched as an arrow zipped between me and Martinez, and it favored my side of the space between us. Nearly smacked right into my fast helmet, and with a sick feeling I started to think that maybe the third night was my unlucky night. That one of those black arrows, fletched with raven feathers was gonna find the sweet spot and nail me in a space my plates didn't cover. Or the throat, I really, really didn't wanna die choking on my blood with Martinez just looking down at me with an expression of relief. Probably disgust that someone who wore 'The Scroll' got fucked up by a simple arrow.

With the roar of modern technology, the combustion engine and the rumble of treads. An M2A3 Bradley rolled up between The two HESCO bunkers that flanked the main entrance, and rocked to a stop. It's turret emitted a loud electric whine as it traversed the battlefield, advanced sensors and thermals took in the battlefield. Then stopped right on the incoming wave of green skin, and leather armor. The screaming and baying horde continued on, if the goblins and orcs had been Insurgents or even a bunch of Iranians they would have scattered. Dove into low spots of the terrain we call defilades, but instead the Orcs and Goblins kept their forward momentum undeterred by the armored beast that had moved into position.

“Chariot 1, In position!"

“Engaging"

The radio call was simple, short, and then with a sound like fabric tearing and then followed by unending explosions, the 25mm bushmaster autocannon on the IFV opened up. The front rank of the massed charge disappeared. Goblins and orcs who had been willing to run through 5.56 and 7.62 to stab us stood dumb founded, and halted in their tracks. Then after a few agonizing long seconds as if all at once, the understanding hit them and they ran. The screams of the dying replaced their formerly jubilant war cries. the enemy had now kindly presented their backs to the armored vehicle and the infantry men. Which me and Martinez had no moral issues filling with lead. See, some self-entitled politician might read this in the future and think “Gosh! Those Rangers shot poor innocent goblins in the back."

So let me dissuade you of such ill founded pity. The first goblin to get in close quarters with a Marine rifleman disemboweled the kid and then tried to rip his throat out with its sharp and jagged misaligned teeth. While the kid's battle buddy tried to hit it with a E-Tool before finally shooting it in the face with a sidearm. The kid died from the toxins on the blade and blood loss. While some poor 68 whiskey tried to save his life, the combat medic later shot the corpse of the goblin in anger with a full mag of his sidearm. The kid was only 17, on his first tour, so needless to say we hate goblins and orcs… well a lot. So shooting them in the back felt, well nice and then too see them blown into chunks by HE shells. That, that was fucking baller, and me and Martinez couldn't help but be in awe of the utter destruction an IFV could render upon a battlefield.

“Yo Keys, how many did you get?" Martinez asked and I simply half shrugged as I dropped another spent mag. I heard it's hollow rattling 'thunk' when it hit the plywood floor of the bunker as I reloaded, followed by the metallic jingle of brass casings as they shifted and bumped against each other. an action that continued like a newton's cradle across the floor until it faded. The sounds of gunfire began to die down as the massed formation's few survivors fled into poorly dug trenches and siege fortifications

“Don't know, lost count after 5" I said, me having just picked a random number under ten since it's hard enough to keep track of that thing In a normal firefight, and the hordes made it even harder to keep track.

Martinez shrugged and said “at least 100 and change for me"

I chuckled and pointed at the saw with its smoking barrel and faint glow. The weapon system had almost turned forbidden popsicle, and I smiled. “Well what else do you expect with a SAW?".

Martinez laughed and nodded. “You make a good point Keys." he said and clapped me on the back with a strong assault glove clad hand, which nearly sent me over. I was forced to braced myself on the lip HESCO wall, an arrow was imbedded in the dirt filled wall near my hand and I remembered the close call I had and exhaled a breath. Some great words of wisdom or something was gonna escape my mouth as I looked at the glossy raven feathers on the arrow.

But our post combat conversation was interrupted by the arrival of two Marines, one hoisted their own m240 and the other a 20inch POG musket, an M16A4 with an ACOG. Unlike my block II which had a holosight and peq15 setup for medium range and short range night raids. The Rangers favorite Hobby.

_______

The emerald forest Day 4

One might think that dragon's lair would be something filled with bones, and a sleeping dragon rippling with muscle and murder in demonic red eyes. While this idea was happily spread by the Bramorian Dragon Slayer Corps and the king's servants. All done in an effort to alienate the creatures so that men wouldn't feel pity as they seek the wholesale slaughter of a race. The Mad King, or as he was officially know… Belisarius III. Was hell bent on canceling some prophecy he had dreamed of that spoke of a world ruled by dragons.

Drusik 'The Brown' knew this was false. Drusik The Brown, the last of The Circle. A wizard so old that none knew of him but fables. Even those who killed The Circle thought he too had perished long ago with the rest of the great wizards.

Drusik walked through ancient palace halls, his mind wondered to ancient times when those polished white marble halls had been filled with elves. Royal tapestries had hung on the walls, and great paintings depicted kings and queens were hung in golden frames. But now all was covered in vines, and moss. Marble crumbled and decayed, while birds sung wispy and lilting songs above the holes in the ceiling.

The tall man wrapped in brown traveler's clothes, using a large staff with an emerald sphere nestled in the top of the staff. held by wood carved to appear as dragon talons. He walked purposefully through a massive archway that would have been an engineering marvel in its time. Even now it rivaled what the Bramorian imperial palace could dream of building.

Through the arch way, the ruins opened into an ancient courtyard, and in the center was an emerald dragoness who sat hunched over a pool of water. A pond with lotus flowers lining the edge. The emerald dragoness's neck strained out to look into the center of the pond beyond the lotus flowers. The dragoness' golden eyes searched the waters, and then with tilt of her head she inspected the perfectly still glass like surface with single eye.

“Emeria! what in the gods above has you so desperately summoning me to send dryads to practically drag me from my house?" Drusik asked as he crossed the large courtyard, annoyance tinged his ancient voice. Yet when he came to stand across the pond from the green scaled dragoness he received no answer from her. He waited another few long minutes before he let out a snort of annoyance and he pulled a long stimmed pipe and started packing it with fragrant leaf.

Snapping his fingers he summoned a flame on his index finger, and used it to light the pipe. The old wizard took a few long drags on the long stem of the pipe. The wizard then exhaled soft blue rings of smoke which floated up lazily and the old man hummed softly to himself. He sat on a rock and started to talk as he looked around the courtyard, his mind able to remember the times this courtyard was full of elves. The times he had been summoned by the king as a young wizard, to solve problems or to act as council. Then the fall of the ancient elven empire, with all its hubris and then desperation as fire engulfed their lands.

“I remember the king who used to grace this palace, he was a strong and noble elf. An elf who wanted nothing but for his empire to flourish past his life and into Eternity." The wizard's old voice spoke like that of an old man remembering his youth. The old wizard's rambling thoughts were cut off by a feminine voice.

“And he died in a wasteful war that marked the downfall of his kingdom." The dragoness said, her head now raised and golden eyes looking directly at him. Golden eyes with feline-like irises watched him intently. silted pupils narrowed as she watched him, and Drusik took a long draw on his pipe thoughtfully, before exhaling a cloud of richly scented smoke. But as he went to speak the dragoness headed him off again with her own words.

“Old friend I didn't ask you here, too talk pleasantries and old stories like a pair of old croons." Emeria's voice was pointed and she glared at the old human wizard. Who snorted dismissively at the words and waved a hand like he was wafting away cloud of smoke. though none from his pipe lingered long enough to irritate the nose or eyes.

“Sure… You 'asked' we'll call it that." He grumbled and exhaled another smoke ring from the bowl of his pipe.

The dragoness sighed and rolled her eyes in exasperation, before she dipped a claw in the water and stirred the pond. A faint icy blue glow trailed her claw tip before it spread away in slow ripples across the pond's surface. until the whole surface was a pale light blue glow.

“A new power has entered the balance, it threatens The Darkness of this world. The Darkness moves now to destroy it while it still yet grows. You must not let this happen." she spoke and the pond transformed to a brighter blue glow. Then a moment later Drusik was seeing what he knew was an event happening at that moment. But what the old wizard saw was like nothing he had ever witnessed.

He saw the world like a bird circling high above, below a battlefield could be seen. Bright lights arced from alien fortifications while stout metal golems growled and trundled around the strange fortress. Humans that wore strange uniforms shouted in standard and used odd magical sticks that made loud barking roars. Other larger sticks let out unending roars of rage, it was all so alien and almost like a joke. If he hadn't known Emeria as long as he had, he would have laughed at this exotic joke.

“Warriors, Noble, from a different world are here. They fight dark forces in the Iron mountians, the Iron warriors watch but old grudges, and Dwarven isolationism will have them killed in a week." Emeria said, her voice filled with worry, as she surely could glean what that would spell and the immense loss of life that would come from it.

Drusik stroked his beard thoughtfully after a few long moments he sighed, and then tipped the pipe upside down. The burnt leaf fell from the upturned acorn shaped bowl and the thin long stemmed pipe disappeared into the folds of his brown traveler's cloak.

“Dwarves are stubborn"

“Their king knows you."

Drusik stood and dusted off the back of his robes and then nodded with a thoughtful hum, and then a shake of his head.

“We shall see" he said cryptically before he left.

The dragoness returned her gaze to the pond, and the fight. The eagle eyed view seemed to focus in a young man and group of soldiers making a midnight raid into goblin lines.

“The Key" she whispered softly.

—

Day 4 FOB Bastion: Location unknown

“Rangers you are going Reap'n tonight." the Command Sargent Major's voice rang out through the TOC. I looked up in surprise as the realization that we would be going outside the wire hit me like a hammer.

“1st platoon is QRF. The Marines are on rotation with the Poles." The CSM said as he stood next to a projector. It was mid morning and we had all had our rest from the fight last night. The older man took a sip from his canteen cup, probably coffee I couldn't help but think of the black gold.

The Captain, affectionately called 'The Old Man' walked up next to the Sargent Major. “This raid could change the battle space, we don't know how much, but we have identified a HVT with drone surveillance last night. The situation is fluid as we learn more about the opposition forces."

The Captain's horse voice still reached to those of us in the back, no one spoke when the Old Man talked, the man command respect from any Ranger and most non Rangers. But, like all things in this world there was the exception.

Deep State was one of those, The slimy little government weasel of a man. Cleared his throat from beside the captain, and the finely suited man spoke up in his slimly government sales men voice.

“Captain are you sure it's wise to be killing tribal leaders of a group of natives we haven't gotten to communicate with? This is after all their land, and they are the rightful owners of it. I'm sure if you made more efforts to reach out and talk to them." the man spoke in a finely manicured voice, a voice which spent years at the foot of government. The type of person who showed up talking about rules of engagement, and hearts and minds. The same person who never showed up to funerals that those restrictions caused. Telling command that they were hazards for the 'Job'.

The Old man turned to the man and glared at Deepstate, but letting the sleaze ball go on. One of the senior NCOs spoke up.

“One of those Goblins killed a marine without us acting hostile" the Sargent first class had pointed out. The man was in 3rd platoon.

“Sargent I'll have you know that I have labeled 'Goblin' and 'Orc' racial slurs, these tribes judging by their technology are probably some minority group kept down by another group. We don't want to be viewed as the oppressors sergeant, so I don't want to hear anymore disregard for the emotions of these native locals. The United States is a force for freedom, equality, and equity.

The Sargent even from the back where I sat could be seen slowly lowering his hand a look of consternation on his face. Deep State was about to talk again, fully taking advantage of the briefing that he had hijacked from the Ranger Captain. Fully intent on side lining tactical information for a chance to try to make 'Peace'. To keep up his agenda and to assert the authority he might have had when we were in Iran.

But the man's jaw shut like a trap, with a 'clack!' as he was suddenly staring down the Old Mans knife hand inches from his nose. A firey look in the old Ranger's eyes. The Old Man's rage kept barely in check, and you got this odd feeling that the Old Man's knife hand had many kills. That at that moment he could jack hammer it into Deepstate's throat and it would just be a small mark added onto hundreds of others. A drop in the proverbial bucket, and as the old Captain growled out his words every ranger watched in silence and with wide eyes.

“This, is a military operation. The General has signed off on this strike. Their is no government at this moment that we know of, so you have no higher authority to pull authority from. We tolerate you, we let you sit in on briefings as a curtesy, but this is the last time you will be doing so." The Ranger Captain growled out the words, while Deepstate seemed to shrink under the ass chewing he was getting. One that any ranger would call mild, but for the civilian it must have been like staring down the barrel of a cannon primed to fire. The match held just above the powder, and The Old Man was that cannon. Restraint held the man back from ending the Government weasel, and the civilian raised his hands and backed away stuttering out barely audible excuses. Meanwhile being watched by a room filled with smiling Rangers who all enjoyed the fun of watching Deep State who had been strutting around like the king rooster was now being torn down publicly.

Deep State realizing he couldn't salvage this situation exited under the withering gaze of the Old Man, the Sargent Major, and the snickering laughs of every ranger. Needless to say this event would be made into lore throughout the base. Plus it's already made permanent in this journal… epic… tale? I don't know what to call this, but I just keep this log because the Old Man told me it was a good idea. So I do my best to keep 'The Log' as the others like to call it. Sitting down with fellow Rangers, and the Marines and Poles. Sometimes the Airforce crews too but not much, since they are an… odd bunch.

The Rangers cheered after Deep State left and then the Sargent Major called everyone to order and the room quieted down. The project switched from a rough map of the region around the base, and too a drone feed. The drone feed, which the Rangers loved to call 'Kill TV' cycled its white hot thermal imaging to night vision, and the feed zoomed in on a Goblin who wore more dangly bits then all the others. Teeth and bones hanging from a leather rope necklace. But what really sealed the deal was the Goblin making overly emphatic gestures. While others moved to obey his orders and no other nearby to look like they were passing orders through it. The goblin wore an odd crow feathered head dress like crown and the imagine zoomed in and paused.

The Old man spoke, “This is the target, and it is my Intent for him and any obviously strategic assists to be naturalized in a timely manner. Then all Reaper elements will fade into the surrounding forests and up the slopes, to return the next day when the goblins seem to be less active. Sargent Major Green will go over the specifics, but let it be known that this strike should disrupt enemy operations."

The old man left shortly after and the Sargent Major stepped up front and began to describe the anticipated Operation in detail with squad leads and officers as they moved to the front.

“Keys" A deep voice called my voice and I saw Sargent Wilson standing near the entrance to the briefing room motioning For me to come over. I quickly moved over stowing my Rite in the rain note pad in my chest pocket.

“Keys you'll be with the weapons squad, You'll stick with Specialist Rossi as his assistant gunner" Wilson motioned to a short man who smiled.

“Dont worry Sargen-ta' I'll keep him safe" the Italian said In a Mario like voice which earned him an eye roll from the ranger Sargent, who seemed to already be familiar with the Italian American's antics.

“Rossi will go over your kit and make sure you are set PFC".

“Yes Sarg'nt!" Was all I said, and Wilson looked me up and down with a sigh and then went off to organize other soldiers. I relaxed from the reflexive at ease postion I was in. I had started at some point which I can't exactly pinpoint just reflexively started to call everyone under E7 'Sarg'nt'.

When Sargent Wilson left, Rossi just snorted at me and laughed. “Bro you gotta stop that, you aren't in basic anymore. Their gonna have you digging slit trench latrines for not having a personality."

Rossi wrapped an arm around my shoulder and lead me out of the TOCs briefing room, and into the bright mid day.

“Now let's go get your kit, and go through it. This is a raid so you don't need to ruck a weeks worth of stuff in with you, plus I want to show you how to get everything quiet since you'll be lugging my extra ammo."

I soon found myself among the rest of the squad prepping all their equipment, Rangers tossed high speed tape to each other and chatted it up. Some smeared camo

paint on the ends of barrels and over any reflective surfaces. Cans of paint were tossed about as some soldiers started adding green to their rifles to brake up the Flat dark earth and blacks of the rifles.

Rossi held his hand out expectantly and I stared at it blankly for a moment before I unclipped my rifle from my single point sling and he looked it over. Sargent Cliff from 1st had gotten ahold of the rifle shortly after I had arrived in Iran, the man had stripped off the Elcan I had been issued. Added on a PEQ-15, and a short foregrip. Then he added on a Eotech holosight. The Sargent of little words had then declared it good enough and given it back to me.

Rossi moved onto my rig, that was quickly taken apart by Rossi, magazines adjusted around. The bulk I had built on the front of the plate carrier pulled off to make it easier to go prone. Anything that could flop around was speed taped into place. Pointers were given, and I was left to finish half of the setup myself under the watchful eye of Rossi, who after many corrections finally gave me the okay, my kit was as silent as required but by no means was it excellent. That was a skill I would be forced to worc on and was expected to develop on my own, as every Rangers equipment was personalized and setup to their body structure and combat role.

Sure we all had required equipment by SOPs and standards, but after that plenty of our gear was put on the plate Carriers and belts where it would best fit the user. Rangers were expected to know their role, and build their gear around performing that role as best they could. Being a ranger gave you more independence and at the same time more responsibility then a standard 11B rifleman.

A lot of what I was refining on my gear as I adjusted the position of mag pouches, the additional boxes of ammo for Rossi' SAW. Med kit, pistol pouches, radio, Grenades, and anything else that seemed useful was done by watching the other soldiers. They say that imitation is the best form of flattery, or fake it till you make it also seemed much closer to the feeling I had. But hey Keys gone watch and learn, cause Keys don't want a Goblin arrow in his back or a poison knife in the ribs.

But as much as detail is nice I don't want to weigh this log down with orders of battle and all that complex planning. I'm just trying to tell the story of a bunch of guys lost in a strange world, our only saving grace is that the Foundry can make dip, and coffee pouches. Of course when it's not focused on producing barely enough ammo and ordinance to keep the green bastards from over-running us and putting us in a cooking pot. The orcs in lord of the rings had that famous quote for memes “Meat's back on the menu boys!".

So if our movie and game logic from our world followed the logic in this world, well. Let's just say we all could use our imaginations and not a single one of us would go into that pot without dishing out adult sized doses of violence and discontent.

That's what tonight was gonna be, see we had been playing defense, and watching these guys. Biding our time and learning, they worced like clockworc, they also didn't really have any forces behind our base where there weren't any entrances. Instead opting to launch raids at the peak of midnight going into 3AM. The witching hour as some like to call it. Now command identified this after the first two nights, they had pocketed the Intel away for future planning when a target of perceived significant value was found.

Now their are a lot of different types of soldiers on the base, but Rangers, Rangers are special. They have two roles, raids on high value targets. Which can be both People, Intel, or Strategic Assets. So basically, Ranger Smash!

The other is airfield seizer operations, it's kind of like Ranger Smash, but with more Ranger Steal attached too it.

But that's their two purposes, so when Intel found this fancy Gob, that looked like a leader Gob. Well the captain wasn't going to pass up the chance to take the leash off us. Let us go for what some like to call, a walk, a very enthusiastic walk, at night, behind enemy line… So that's why at 9 o'clock, with the sun just set and the moon just risen, the Ranger Reaper force was massed at the back of base. A group of engineers had made a plywood ramp up to the HESCO wall and pulled aside The rolls of razor wire, and tossed some cargo netting over the far edge.

See these Gobs thought they owned the night, they assumed that humans were daylight Fighters. If the current level of technology they showed was considered peak or near peer technology they were probably correct in that understanding. As squads of Rangers scaled down cargo netting below. The Rangers fanned out toward the Gob trenches. Rough earth worcs reinforced by wood, not as refined as WW1 trenches. Much closer to the types used back in Medieval European once the three platoons were fully formed, hand signals and short radio commands followed by two confirmation clicks over the radio. Then the go word. “Goddess" came from the old man who was leading from the front. The gruff old voice almost growled the word out like a big cat before it would attack.

Reaper elements moved forth, in small wedge formations which fanned out to make a larger wedge formation. When viewed from above, the weapons squad I had been placed in was holding the right hand anchor point. We quickly found a shallow shell hole and set up the SAW. The rest of the line of advance continued until they were just 50 yards from the goblin trenches. One of the sentries poked his head up, beady eyes scanned the darkness, It face turned to slow horror, even fear maybe on its twisted visage.

From its point of view it probably just saw a horde of green eyed demons, Not but spear throwing distance away. Then it's head just vaporized, and the only sound to be heard was a soft “shhhthunk" Of a suppressed marksman rifle cycling, the subsonic 7.62 NATO round making no sound in flight. Until it struck Gob skull, and the front squads pushed forward in unison the soft coughs of suppressed fire came from the trench line as an initial foothold was taken.

I got to talk to some of the guys later who were in that initial advance they said most of the goblins were asleep or half awake. One ranger had walked straight into one knocking it over, and the goblin had started to curse him in its strange language that was like a mix of German, French, and Arabic. Some sort of Grey speech.

But the soldier just pulled out his tomahawk, the more classic of the Ranger arsenal. A weapon that was as lethal as it was ceremonial. To pay homage to the original Rangers in the French and Indian war. Back when America was just a bunch of colonies owned by the British. The Gob that bumped into that Ranger got to find out, there's more than just fantasy monsters that go bump in the night.

Within twenty Minutes after scaling the base wall and hitting the ground we were in, and worcing through the trenches. An axis of advance right into the heart of the enemy. Veteran Rangers, men who had fought through 10 plus years of icing Insurgents paved a brutal trail. Savage killing done in almost total silence under the green hue of night vision. Our Weapon Squad was at that time of the operation bounding to its second over watch and support position. To anchor the right flank when the first IR flares popped over the base as the goblin assault of the front gate once again ensued. The staccato fire of 240s punched the night followed by the thump/whistle of outgoing mortar rounds. Marines and polish mechanized infantry holding the line, and through the shadows cast by the flares I could see the swift moving wraths of Rangers. Small bounding teams rushing toward a large earthworcs bunker.

“Reaper 3-1 to Reaper Actual approaching HVT." came the call over the net and then the short growled command.

“Execute" Came the radio response from the Old Man, shortly after the Command, squad one a group of veteran assaulters rushed up to a wooden door. A master breacher slapped a panel on the door and pulled a fuse. The nearby soldiers could be seen bracing, and then a loud thump and everything became obscured by dust. Gunfire some suppressed and others not so suppressed could be heard, and a few heart beats later. Only fifteen seconds that had felt more like three or four minutes. Then the call came over comms, and I heard.

“Target neutralized" The gruff voice of a squad's Sargent Cliff, and then while the squad was doing a quick assessment of intel in the dug out the arrows started falling. Long mournful howls shrieked through the night, looking up the moon light cast eerie shadows from the hundreds of black arrows arced up and then descended downward with a mournful whistle. While I had still been gazing dumbly up at the arrows falling into the ranger formation. Rossi had traced the arrows back to the group of Goblins that had fired it. A couple hundred skirmishers armed with feather laden spears and compact bows had been attracted to the sound of gunfire in their rear.

Like moths to flame, orcs and goblins had slowly started to realize that prey not behind HESCO walls was a foot. The creatures started to sound their tribal war horns a loud “ARrrrooooArrrooooo" Filled the air followed by the dark speech cries of goblins already locked in combat with the Rangers. The cries had helped to focus in the new warriors, onto our position.

Rossi with staccato bursts of his M240 scattered the amassed archers, The Gobs had tried get organized and focus their fire but the goblin who had been waving his arms like a mad Gob and pointing. Was the first to die, all the goblin skirmishers watched their leader get cut to ribbons before they scattered. Falling prey to point fire, everything had gone good up to that point. But like they say, no plan survives first contact. Rangers know this, so they build contingency after contingency.

So plan B was unceremoniously pulled out and dusted off with the loud commanding voice of the Command Sergeant Major.

“Net call, net call, all units are to RTB through the infiltration point. cargo netting is exfil." The CSM's voice called out over the radio and then could be heard over the din of battle. As he acted as the right hand man of the commander, yelling and shoving small firearms of Rangers and directing them away from the growing orc and gob forces. The enemy had now fully realized that we were their back line, and had done some level of damage. The shriek of war horns and yells of warlords began to rally soldiers and forced Them toward us. The assault force was at that time passing us through the trenches when we caught site of hundreds of orcs crossing the no man's land between the base and trenches. Rossi shifted fire mechanically, and started to lay into to the new host of Orc warriors. Tracers shot forth and stabbed into The front ranks, each Orc soaked up at least 5 rounds each before they fell to be trampled by their brothers. The Goblins at best could take 2 rounds, their smaller slender frames lacked the musculature and raw fortitude of an Orc.

But that didn't stop them from adding their own death to the mix, the sound of hundreds of bows letting arrows fly could be heard. It was a series of loud “Twangs", which in their vast numbers became a solid continuous sound until the full volley of arrows was loosed. Dark angry clouds of arrows that whistled and howled with a ghostly tone as they came falling down in and around trenches. I instinctively hunched down, and felt the impact of an arrow as it shattered on my fast helmet. Followed by a scream of pain from Rossi, an arrow had punched into his arm, and was logged halfway through his forearm. Before I could move from my stunned state the small Italian man snapped the excess arrow that protruded top and bottom of his arm. He cursed with each snap of the arrow haft, which left an inch of wood sticking out the top and bottom of his forearm. With angry curses, and a litany of promises of revenge and death he lifted up his 240 which had been left resting on the edge of the trench. The barrel smoked and had just the faintest of heat glows on it in the low light. I had a spare barrel on me, but we had packed light the max ammo we could carry and be quick and silent.

But none of the Rangers seemed overly worried, like orcs and goblins weren't the worst, and that they could easily handle this threat. But the first boulder hammering into the trench not but 10 feet from us ruined any of that confidence for my part. Like death itself manifested in 12 feet of sacred muscle and flesh, a group of giants came out of the shadows of the surrounding forest. They hurled massive boulders at the retreating Rangers, and the instant report of anti-tank weapons came from Camp Bastion's walls. Mortar fire paused and the internal retasking had begun. But at 500 meters from the base most antitank went wide except one lucky AT4 round. The red tracer lodged in the tail of the recoilless shell flew straight into the belly of one of the smaller 9 foot Giants.

There was a brief pause as the beast doubled Over like a man with the worst intestinal distress before the heat shell went off. The shape charge blew a cone of superheated liquid copper out the back of the giant. Followed by foul smelling burnt and scoured entails and the horrid scream of the dying monster.

Sergeant Wilson's southern voice came barking over the squad net. “Weapons Squad fall back! Right to the HESCOs on the double!" I also heard his voice without the radio as he was speaking while sprinting past us. The Tennessean was in a dash to catch up with the assault element which had just passed us. Leaving us as the forward most unit and that wasn't ideal. The only silver lining was that the giants were now barreling toward the base hurling boulders, dead orcs and ogres. The boulders, they hit with devastating effects, they ripped the top off a HESCO bunker that had a few marines in it. Then another bunker was pelted with dead ogres which clogged the view and wounded more marines.

The lucky shot had forced all attention on the base and only those units already engaged with us kept on Pursuing us, buy the time we had reached the wall, half of 1st and 2nd platoon was over the wall, hauling up the wounded, and a dead soldier. Arrow lodged in his neck, sticking out like some grim joke when on a modern soldier. 50 meters from the wall Rossi spun and dropped and began to lay down hate with his SAW. I knelt by him as the loyal Assistant Gunner and fired into the dwindling ranks of orcs. The rest of the weapons squad came pounding past us and up the cargo netted HESCOs.

Wilson's assault gloved hand grabbed my shoulder and his southern twang voice yelled out. “Get over that wall, private first class!"

I nodded and turned, finding that it was just us weapons squad not in the base now. The rest of the company was over the wall, and inside. I ran toward the wall and slung my rifle over my shoulder, freeing both hands and started to climb up the wall. Arrows hammered into the wall left and right of me and one hit my back plate and shattered. I winced in pain and cursed as wood splinters jabbed into the back of my neck.

Right as I reached the top a soldier grabbed and pulled me over and ducked low, his ACH absorbing arrow impacts instead of his face. On his shoulder was the castle symbol Of combat engineers. Not a second later the man was Reaching over the side and pulled Rossi into view. One arm covered in blood, fresh Crimson blood oozing around the arrow shaft.

General alarms were going off and the base was in chaos, later I would learn the actions that had distracted the giants had also led to full scale assault on the wall east of the gate. Near the motor pool, the Giants had ripped aside HESCO walls and opened a breach which had filled the motor pool with screaming goblins and orcs. When Wilson once again was with us his Deep southern voice was ordering us to the motor pool.

We were halfway to the motor Pool, when we encountered what had become the Fallback line of the mechanics and tank crew men. The giants had been taken out it appeared, since I couldn't hear the deep baritone war cries they had been yelling during their attack. But now it was tight fighting in the HESCO and prefab buildings almost like walled in urban warfare. The base was separated into different areas by internal HESCO walls. The motor pool was to the left of the north gate when viewed from the inside of the base. It's where almost all the armor and vehicles were housed. The airstrip ran the center of the base and essentially bisected the base. Most of the troops were housed near its runway, with the mess hall, armory, and command post on the opposite side of the runway. A main road lead from the gate to the back of the northern hangers, it was along this road 100 meters short of the entry point to the motor pool that some mechanics had setup a Humvee barricade. Two Humvees parked nose to nose with rear bumpers against the HESCO walls. Both had M2 browning machine guns on them. The two gunners had locked down the entryway and prevented any further incursions into the rest of the base. But the motor pool was also where the major force multipliers we had were held. Along with fuel and munitions for all other ground vehicles.

across from the motor pool were the polish mechanized who had set up their own Fighting position. which kept the orcs and goblins from coming at the backs of the Marines defending the gate. Me and Rossi dropped in behind the hood and wheel of a Humvee, Rossi flipped his bipod out and setup on the hood, and I peeked around the front bumper To eye the orcs and goblins peaking around the HESCOs ahead of us.

“God dammit what the fuck is the meaning of this!?!" A loud booming voice carried easily over the sound of combat, it carried with the natural authority of a rugged old senior NCO. I ducked back into cover and turned to see the local Marine Master Gunnery Sergeant walking up. Not bothering to take cover or minimize his exposure to any arrows lazily lobbed in our direction.

In his hand he had an old worn M45 MEU, affectionately Referred to as a 'MewMew'. A modernized 1911 for marine expeditionary units. Two Marine rifle squads trailed in his wake and the men looked ready for battle and eager to play with the orcs and goblins.

The the two squads sergeants flanked the old senior NCO, The Master Guns was an older dark skinned man that looked and sounded like the wildly popular halo Gunnery Sergeant Johnson.

“Marines, Re-secure the Base" was the simple command the Gunnery Sergeant ordered. The name tag on his uniform was 'Henderson'

The Marines echoed their age old, short phrase that meant in so few words. That a marine had heard his orders, and was going to follow them through till the end.

“Oorah!" came from a few of the marines before the squads pushed forward, violence of action driving forward. They closed the hundred yards swiftly, the two rifle squads flowed past the improvised Humvee barricade. Then with a few short rifle cracks the marines had secured the entrance and began to hurl M67 Fragmentation grenades into the opening.

Distant crumps of explosives could be heard around the HESCOs, dull thumps followed by the sound of shrapnel as it whizzed over the barrier. Then the Marines pushed the entrance, the stack of Marines flowed into the open air motor pool and disappeared from sight. The crack of M16s started after the first Marine turned the corner. It only grew in intensity with each marine to round the HESCOs and into the motor pool. The screams of orcs as they died and as I assumed at the same time charged the marine rifleman squads.

—

Jessica woke with an headache that throbbed across her entire skull, like someone had drive a railroad spike through the top of her head in an effort to tickle the inside of the lower back of her skull. The relatively tall midwestern woman tried to bring her hands to her head to remover the fast helmet she wore. But found her arms wouldn't move. Her vision slowly cleared as she blinked her eyes, and found her self in a torch lit, muddy pit. Only then did she also become aware of the chatter and cackle of Goblins, the small five-ish foot creatures had been rummaging through her medic bag. Quick clot, IV bags, bandages, Needles, syringes, and autoinjectors lay strewn in the filthy mud. Sanitary equipment meant to save the lives of fellow soldiers was just heaped in mud and probably worse. She doubted orcs and goblins were known for their sanitary practices let alone proper segregation of living and bathroom spaces. Not from the way they looked, and as she shifted her position, she slid in the mire and fell on her side with a pained grunt. Her helmet struck one of the few rocks in the bottom of the trench, and she let out a pained groan.

When she shook the new set of stars from her eyes, she mentally diagnosed herself with a minor concussion. her vision cleared once more, the swimming haze cleared. Then with a sudden dread she noticed dozens of yellow eyes Fixed on her. Eyes the twinkled with malevolent hatred, discontent, and hunger. Some comments were chuckled in their yapping and yammering language. One of the slightly large specimens approached her and pulled a wicked dagger with a slight curve to the blade, the point had an upward tilt that led to a tip almost ninety degrees perpendicular to the blade's edge.

Jessica tried scoot away from the Goblin, she kicked her feet in the dank mud, inch by inch she slid away but never escaping. Just delaying, until finally she bumped into the trench wall. She shoulders and upper back sunk into the muddy wall, and it squelched wetly oozing mud down over her shoulders. The goblins as whole began to approach, and the ring leader with the wicked blade was a few steps ahead. The goblins seemed to grow ecstatic when the look of utter dread, and hopelessness crossed her face.

The woman had been an MMA fighter, then an Army National Guardsman, then Big Army, then passed RASP, becoming one of the first females to pass Ranger selection. She did it all with utter will power and determination. But concussed, wounded, and bound she was just any other prisoners to these goblins. Their large eyes with goat like irises filled with the most impure intentions. The humans from the other world weren't aware of goblin tendencies. How they functioned on a base level, and as the ring leader got close he lunged Forward. The blade flashed and it cut up the leg of her pants and exposed her leg up to the middle thigh. The creature cackled as it started to tear and cut at her clothes. Soon the others began to mob her. Jessica kicked and shouted, and when a knife was driven into her shoulder to be used as a handle to control her and restrain her for the coming horror show.

She screamed.

Altak heard the scream of a human female, the Lizard man's head turned from the patrol of goblins he had been stalking. He hoped a couple dozen goblin ears would be enough to buy food and another 2 weeks of lodging at the adventurer's guild house. He was but a lowly Copper ranked adventurer, and an outcast. Standing at only six foot five he was but a runt by most Lizardmen. He was more compact and wirey then bulky and thick. The frill on the top of his head stood up and he turned his head to the rear trenches of this goblin and orc force.

They were holding siege to some strange human castle made of massive square cubes stacked together. Like some massive squat fortress, and they used strange magical weapons. Almost like Bramorian energy crossbows. But far far more devastating, but the scream came again and his eye flicked back to the patrol that hadn't noticed him and only seemed to laugh loudly at the screams.

Altak tilted his head back and scented the air, his forced tongue darted out in quick flicking motions. his nostrils flared and he smelled blood, human blood… And lots of it. His green eyes searched the darkness and he identified a clear route, and slunk away into the long shadows cast by the flames of war beyond the trench line. The angry sound of these other worldly humans as they waged war drowned out his passage through the gnarled mountain woods. He hunched as low as his bulk could and edged up to the trench line, Another scream filled the night and the Lizard man's adventure's honor urged him forward. With a slow methodical motion he silently unsheathed his sword and then took a deep breath. The leather lamellar armor he wore creaked as his chest expanded and then slowly contracted with a shaky exhale. He bent low and surged forward in a crouched run and leapt into the trench.

Like a ton of scaled bricks he slammed down on a goblin near the woman, and then Altak pivoted his body. He extended out his arms in a wide swing, the blade of his sword cut wide and took several of the floppy eared vermin down. The crest on his head flared with anger and in the torch light his gray and green scales showed bright while his head frill showen a hue or oranges and reds.

He heard the typical startled inhale of a human girl, especially when a human girl met a lizard man. Which made him wince internally but he shrugged it off and opted to focus on the fight. He flicked his sword down and knocked a dagger thrust wide before he thrust his sword through the goblins torso. The chest bone cracked and blood welled out around the blade, and Altak kicked the creatures off his blade with disgust. Then slew two more with quick strokes of his blade, only to see one goblin as it fled. Its arms waved as it yammered and cried out desperately in its devil tongue. He raised his right arm and lined up the vambrace with the built in cross bow with the fleeing Goblin's back. With a loud “twang" a short heavy bolt flew from the compact contraption. A crossbow bolt flew true and lodged in the creature's back with a heavy wet slap that was paired with a sick crunch.

Altak stood in the center of the carnage, blood and gore dripped from his blade in steady thick globs which made small glossy puddles in the fowl mud. With a flick of his wrist he removed the majority of the offending matter. Then sheathed his blade and turned to the strangely dressed human, her pants ruined which left her rather exposed. The wretched little creatures had been stopped before the event could go any further which he was grateful for. He walked over to her and knelt next to her and reached out with a hand for the knife buried in her shoulder. Only for the human woman to flinch back, and he pulled his hand back.

“I'm not going to hurt you, I'm an adventurer, we help people." He said in his deep almost growl like voice his mouth and tongue not fully adept at speaking common.

The woman's eyes went wide, and a spark of some kind of recognition passed through her hazel eyes. Only for her to still yet again flinch away when he tried to grab the handle. Which made him growl in frustration at the woman, which earned him a kick in the chest. Which caused him to back up a pace with a grunt.

“Don't remove it! Just untie me" she shouted at him a fire now in her eyes, unknown to Altak she wished to treat her own wounds with some of the sterile and still sealed packing bandages with a hemostatic agent bonded to the gaze. The Lizard snorted through his nostrils and pulled a short huntsman's blade from his belt and grabbed the woman by her tattered plate carrier and lifted her up some and reached behind her. With a firm yank of the blade across the rope, and the bindings cut free.

Now released, the human shot Passed him and went to a ruined back, with strange packages and materials scattered everywhere. She pulled a red tube from one of the pockets. Popped its cap off with her thumb and slammed it against her arm. After a brief Moment she pulled it away, and tossed it aside. Then retrieved a green package with 'quikclot' written in human standard across the package.

He was In the process of walking closer to her when she grabbed the hilt and yanked the blade free. With the sick sound of metal of bone and a wet sucking sound, the blade now free was unceremoniously tossed away. She ripped the package open as blood flowed from her shoulder. She pulled a cloth bundle from it and started to unwind it, and stuff it into the hole. She winced and snarled as she packed more and more on it, while she struggled to keep pressure on it until almost all of it was in the hole.

Altak couldn't help but stare as he watched the whole Process, adventures were used to poultice and cloth bandages torn from clothes. But this strange human was going about some complex healing arts. She from his point of view some sort of village healer, or medicine woman for these strange humans. He was watching her when he noticed her slowly tip the side and pass out.

The Lizard man cursed and looked down at her half naked, bruised, and cut form. Well muscled like a knight or warrior and he swallowed and looked away after staring for a moment his cheek scales warmed. Head crest flared erect as it betrayed his emotions, to the world. Though luckily no one was around to see it, or he'd have heard no end of the teasing. One of the perks of a solo adventurer. No one could make fun of your foolish mistakes, and with a grumbling sigh he unhooked his traveler's cloak and dropped it over the woman before he picked her up bridal style and made a powerful jump with cargo out of the trench and into the nearby woods to circle away from the area. Others would find their dead comrades, and with the battle in full swing until daylight he had to keep the human safe.

unbeknownst to the towering lizardman a metallic bird circled above, its multi-thousand dollar night and day optical sensors tracked him. The drones' lazy orbit adjusted To try to always keep Altak in its sights. While an Air Force drone operator ran the information she was observing up the chain of command.

Altak held his course and worced away from the southern trenches toward the valley's southern side. The lizardman moved fast, his height gave him long strides, and predatory eyes cut through the darkness with ease. The witching hour as he would later learn it called that from the strange humans had passed. The moon Now on its final few hours of descent cast long shadows among the alpine trees. moon light cast through the pines like silver spears cast between dark black wooden shafts. He weaved through the pines and with a dreadful sound he knew the escape was about to grow much much more difficult.

“AWWWwwwoooo!!!" the howl came up from the goblin camps behind him and then it was echoed by other maws throughout the valley. He started to run as fast as he could, toward the valley sides his only hope was to get to some cover, some place he could defend on his own.

Barks and yips grew closer and then another “Awwwwoooo!" Cut the night like it was right on top of him. The only thing that alerted him to the first werewolf was the sound of claws on rock ahead of him. With warriors instinct he leapt to the side. Only for a black furred, visage that rippled with muscle to pass through the air he once occupied. The massive dire wolf-like werewolf skidded to a halt forty paces behind him. It bared it's fangs at him in a savage snarl, and then with a howl of hunger it charged forward. Eyes like fire burned into him, and Altak released the human girl and leapt to his feet.

He stood between the wolf and the unconscious human, with a flash of silver moonlight Altak drew his sword. The edge cut into flesh halfway through the swing from the scabbard. A pained canid yelp filled the air, and Altak twisted his body with the blow and flung the feral werewolf aside to slam into a pine. Altak looked toward the south and saw a clearing not but fifty feet away. He scooped the human woman up and threw her over his shoulder. He began another dead sprint more snarls and howls grew closer to his left and right. he could hear paws as they churned pine needles and soil, while claws raked over the exposed stones of the mountain alpine forest floor.

In a matter of moments he broke out into the clearing, his feet pounded against the rocky soil as he tried to make distance from the woods. Then for Altak up became down, and down became up as a werewolf slammed into him. His feet knocked out from under him, and he used his sword arm to brace for the impact. The human girl tumbled free in a heap nearby, another wolf darted in for the kill, its eyes fixed on the human girl.

Altak let out a battle cry in his native tongue and surged forward, he launched like a coiled snake and brought his sword up just in time to guard his own throat. The wolf's jaws locked around his blade. He had postioned himself between the woman and the werewolf, the human was safe again for now. Then another problem emerged, in the form of a second wolf. The beast headed straight at him from his off hands side, and Altak snarled like a predator and let out a hiss. He drew the huntsman's blade he had used to cut the girl free.

It would be like trying to fight a giant with a stick, but the bronze class adventurer stood fast. Then ducked as the wolf lept for his throat, with a savage fury he jackhammered the blade over and over into the wolf's exposed throat that held his blade in its jaws. Blood and gore quickly coated Altaks hand, and knife. The wolf that held his blade released the blade in an effort to retreat and save itself from Altaks savage blows. But a savage final thrust speared the blade into the spine of the wolf. Altak twisted the blade, and with a sickening crack the wolf went limp.

Altak yanked the blade free and used a last minute swing of his freed sword to cut deep down the flank of a lunging wolf. He panted with deep billowing breaths. Each breath let out a cloud of vapor, and he looked around as he was now surrounded by wolves. They slowly prowled out from the forest that surrounded the small patch of rocky grass.

Then a strange howling and chopping sound could be heard over the sound of the wind of in the pines. It grew louder then the sounds of war that Altak could tell were now a couple leagues away. The sound grew louder and louder, but Altak couldn't turn his head to look for the sound. The largest of the wolves sensed its moment to strike and like a bolt of black furred lightening it pelted toward him. Then leapt toward him and once again he brought up his sword and the jaws clamped down on his blade.

But this wolf was almost double the size of the first wolf that had done this, and it drove Altak onto his back next to the unconscious woman and then heaved on his sword. The strange sound like a rope being spun above one's head and paired with a Banshee's wail grew to a fever pitch.

His grip failed and the sword was yanked free and the wolf tossed the blade away, reared it's head back and with snap second too act and out of desperation he put his arm in line with his throat and the wolf's jaws bit down on his arm. Altak roared in pain as fire filled his arm, and he tried to knee and kick the wolf above him, but the wolf must of weighed almost twice as much as him. The great beast began to shake him like a squirrel and dragged his back all across the sharp stones that poked through the thin soil, and then bright lights filled his world along with a wail of doom.

Then the wolves around him began to die, bright red bolts slammed through them and two egg shaped flying machines nothing like the crude machines dwarves could build. Burst from above the forest and zipped past the clearing. The machines made a tight arc and then circled the field in a lazy circle. Strange humans sat on benches attached to the bodies of the weird machines. Wolves broke and fled into the woods chased by what must have been angry red bolts of energy. The wizards cast with loud cracks of energy.

Altak started to savagely punch the wolf that was locked on his arm, his forearm felt like the wolf was gonna crush the bone. He felt a crack in the jaw, but the wolf didn't let go. “Fucking die!" He roared out in rage and pain. The wolf kept shaking him like a dog with a squirrel, and then a soft pop and pain arced up from his shoulder as his arm was dislocated. The wolf heard the sound and it's eyes shown with savage feral joy as it reared back to finish him off. While two of the strange machines slammed down onto the rocky terrain, and 3 men from each sprinted toward him shouting in standard.

“Fuck it up Walker!" came the exotic accent of a man that wore a uniform different from the others. Like it was painted with green, brown, and black brush strokes.

At the command the man to the right of the exotic man pointed his square bulky metal stick at the wolf and cast three more spells. small brass tube's jettisoned From the side of the strange magical weapon. While Altak was covered in wolf gore, the wolf's head exploded violently and gore coated Altak's face. The men ran forward and one took the human girl wrapped in his cloak. Then the others had their weapons pointed at him, and Altaks viper like eyes flicked between all the men. Each one had his face covered by tubes with glowing green cores, and one spit foul smelling liquid on the ground.

“Oye? want me to ice him too Cap'N?" the man said as he pointed the iron rod at his head. The man who had ordered the wolf's death looked Altak up and down, and he grabbed the odd twin tube's and lifted them up.

“No Watson, bag Him." The last thing Altak saw was the emblem on the man's shoulder who was referred to as 'Cap'n' in the oddly accented standard. it was a sword with wings sprouting from both sides and the other men had a weird scroll-like symbol that said “Rangers" but they were dressed differently and spoke differently.

Before Altak could speak, what he would later be informed was a butt stock. Struck him in where most humans referred to as the temple. Then darkness overtook him and dreams were filled with human screams, wolves, and goblins.

—

The fight in the Motor pool was wild, crazy, and other worldly. In the center of open area a goblin shaman was casting greenish colored fire balls. Tanner a specialist from second platoon took one to the ESAPI Plate, and he was slammed into a parked Humvee that had been in the middle of an engine repair. The Specialist was cursing as he shucked his gear and tried to get his rifle back up in action. The wad of dip he had in his mouth was halfway down his chin as he was spitting and cursing.

All the other Rangers and Marines took cover as the wild green fireballs zipped past and the short magic user cackled loudly in its insane chittery goblin speak. Soldiers ducked behind Humvees and heavy duty trucks. Then a cry came over the yells of contact and status. “Frag out!"

I peeked out around the rear Humvee and saw an M67 lodge itself in the sandy ground that had come with us. The mad little Gob picked up the round fragmentation anti personnel weapon and pointed at the offender and yelled mockingly. He danced around and cast more fireballs, until the four point five second fuse ran its course. Then the little shaman disappeared in an explosion, while goblin bit flew past those of us hunkered in cover. Then with roar of attack we broke cover, and made our advance toward the breach in the walls. Orcs and goblins shell shocked from the grenade were cut down.

Where the shaman stood was only a set of wooden shoes, With the feet still in them as the only evidence that the evil little bastard even existed. Most of the goblins that had gotten into the motor pool had been caught mid looting when the marines had breached and the rest of us Rangers followed. Well I should say the Rangers and me, I'm still in the 'learning how to Ranger' category. I accounted for a few of the dead, my most interesting one was a pair of goblins looting a tool box. I rounded the corner only to have a torque wrench thrown at me and I side stepped it enough to not catch it with my face.

My efforts were rewarded with a hail of screwdrivers and a box cutter. The box cutter was the braking point for me, sure it was closed. But fuck the little bastards, their Goblin mothers should have told them not to bring a wrench to a gun fight. I side stepped a spanner and snapped my rifle up in the best impression of a dip chewing Ranger and drilled one of the goblins who had been standing on a massive rolling tool box. Then the other proceeded to charge me with a flat tip screwdriver. One of the small precision variants, I just put one in his head for his efforts. Needless to say I did the goblin kind of a favor with that one.

Tanner whistled behind me and I turned to see him now wearing a charred plate Carrier and part of ceramic plate showed in the upper center. The top of the “ESAPI" writing scorched and partially visible.

“Goblin slayer I see" tanner said, and I turned and rubbed the back of my neck sheepishly

“Nah I'm not as quiet and badass as the guy from that Anime" I said with a goofy smile, and Tanner gave me a flat look and just said.

“Weeb" the word spoken like a dismissive slur, like this nerd knowledge was the soul reason I wouldn't be a true ranger. Paired with all that time spent in the Ivory Towers of higher education. Specifically in computers and penetration testing. The eventual knowledge of my past had led to me earning the call sign Keyboard, which had then been turned to Keys for short. Most of the time it was spoken like a slur, or with the unenthusiastic drawl of an NCO who only looked at me like a pest who was stuck to their boot.

But I also knew it was a meritocracy in the rangers. I had met the minimum to be here, and now I was paying rent on 'The Scroll' as they called it. It was the only reason I was here, and I was learning. That was the reason I was no longer 'Keyboard warrior'. I was Keys, and held that call sign subtle change as an indication of my slow advancement into the lower court of Rangering.

But despite my comment he held out a fist for me to bump and I didn't leave him hanging as I passed by.

“You alright there Toasty?" I asked as I could see some burns that had started to blister along the man's neck and the underside of his jaw.

Tanner snorted at the joke and smiled, “nah I lost the last of my dip when they hit me with that fireball thingy."

As he spoke I realized that tanner was one of the guys who kept his dip in the admin pouch on the upper front of his plate carrier. The part that didn't exist on his current rig anymore. As if saying it reminded him of the need to seek vengeance, I heard the safety switch flip on his mk18. I fell in behind the now smiling specialist as he turned and started to push down our sector toward the far end. The man was a killing machine, as if the loss of the final can of Copenhagen wintergreen was the last straw.

Goblin after goblin that crossed out from behind any of the parked Vics in the motor pool died in two shot bursts of gun fire, along with one orc who thought he could rotate around the corner and draw a bow faster then Tanner could shoot. We were on the far back left hand side and the breach was on the far right hand side, and was almost fully secured by marines if the radio chatter over the squad net was to be trusted. The orc was just knocking an arrow when Tanner gave him the better part of a magazine.

F

The grouping he made was tight and punched through the orcs leather armor like paper. I cleared the final corner behind him and found nothing but dead goblins and some dead maintenance crews stabbed to death. Which brought the whole fantasy thing to not being a fantasy anymore, and as I flipped up my NVGs I realized that the sun was starting to rise on another day.

The final calls of all clear were coming from different corners, and all I could think about was how much. This fantasy wasn't a fantasy for those dead mechanics, how real it was for them when fantasy monsters swarmed them with rusty daggers and stabbed them to death. Embrace the fantasy was all I could think at that moment. I small part of my mind invested in living had coldly calculated that embracing and adapting to this situation was the only way to live. That part of your mind old as life itself, the part buried deep in you. The instinct to survive was screaming for all to go back to normal, but it also knew at this moment that would never happen and so the eons old instinctual gears began to grind.