#bellafide

[treker402]

The war begins. 

Bonus:

[flakjackal-blog]

North by Northw- Wingdemons!

[giobrio]

"Those Who Fall, Will Be Dinner" Been playing lots of Tooth & Tail, super hype Real-Time strategy fortress game. Gun toting squirrels, skunks lobbing mustard gas, foxes with sniper rifles, the dichotomy of classes expressed in a dark and humorous narrative! Its basically Zootopia Civil War.

[captainextremis]

Tumblr’s fucked up the res on this thing so check the image in full screen if u want the good stuff.

Anyway, a little RTS game came out recently called “Tooth and Tail.” Basically, it boils down to an excuse to make a game about war and cannibalism in a Russian Revolution setting. Is gud gaem.

So naturally, I’m starting a fanfic of it. Kill me.

The Road to Hell, Part 1

Under thundering skies, the rain poured down on the cold stone of the pathways cutting in between the chapels and apartments of Levacaloo. The water washed down the stone spires, as cold and uncaring as those who feasted and left the rest to starve. But soon, that mindset would be no more. Bellafide would make sure of it.

Although he hated getting his coat wet or otherwise dirty, he hated the clergy more, and couldn’t wait to see their terrified faces as he stormed into their sacred chapels when they had gorged themselves, and were too fat to run away. His scowl became more set into his brow. And then we feast on them.

“Heyyy, uh...boss…?”

Arroyo shot a glance to his right. A ferret marched alongside him, toting his mobile artillery launcher on his back. He pursed his lips and continued, “...You okay…? You look more...angry...than usual.”

Arroyo brought his gaze forward. “No, no, Ardin. Not angry. Just...determined,” he replied. No one else would talk to him; there was nothing to discuss. The Longcoats had entrenched themselves in The Bonepits using the piles of bones left behind by the many feasts as barriers, hidden traps, and even their own warrens. Arroyo knew that after this, there was no returning from the path he set himself and his army down. But he felt no regret, or even uncertainty. He was doing this for Junior. He might not have been able to give his son a proper funeral, but he could certainly give him a proper sendoff.

The army strode up more of the dozens of stone stairways until they found a flatter stretch of land, covered in bullet hives. Above, Arroyo could see the silhouettes of the falcons circling overhead. He stopped and retreated a few steps, just to be sure he and his men weren’t in their range of vision. Arroyo, the Freight Union, the Distillery Brothers, and his own Wing Demons.

He looked around. His troops were crouching down on the steps, some huddled together, some looking up into the sky. A few of the squirrels were taking extra shots from their bottles of orn. Arroyo huffed and motioned for everyone to get as close as possible. “Whatcha need, boss? Whatcha want us to do?” one of the Brothers asked.

“All of you boys,” he said, pointing to the squirrels, “stay back. The Freight Union will fire on the bullet hives the Civilized. You stay behind them and harass the Wing Demons.”

“Thought that was our job, sir,” said one of the falcons, landing on the ground a few feet to Arroyo’s right.

“It is,” he replied, “We need to get into the feasting halls as fast as lightning while taking as few casualties as possible. Once that happens…” Arroyo trailed off.

Another ferret grinned. “Once that happens, we eat,” he cried.

This remark was met with wild cheering, and Arroyo knew that if the Wing Demons didn’t hear it first, his army would get too impatient and charge without him. So with that in mind, Arroyo stood himself up and with steely will, marched forward. His troops followed him happily, and a few of the more inebriated squirrels started firing their revolvers at the opposing falcons while they were still dozens of feet away. And once they had the Civilized’s attention, they kept it.

“It’s the traitor! Don’t let them through! All fighters, fire at will!” One of the falcons issued their orders, and soon, the rain stopped falling on the ground, because it was all being blocked by hundreds of falcons, flying right at the Longcoat army that stood in defiance of them and all they stood for.

Many of the Wing Demons dipped low and the machine guns started firing as they began conducting hit and run tactics. It was successful, at the start, as they killed off a majority of the squirrels who were too drunk to know what was happening, as well as killing a few more ferrets. However, once Arroyo’s Wing Demons came in, the Civilized soldiers were too busy dealing with them to focus fire on the ground forces.

Arroyo looked up at the dogfight, and the few bodies that were falling every so often. He had to slap a few wrists to keep his soldiers from dragging the carcass away immediately and getting distracted of course, but otherwise, he marched forward with the Freight Union and the remaining Distillery Brothers at his side. He outpaced his army and the first line of machine guns began firing at him, but the ferrets all started launching dozens of volleys at the encampments, and one by one, the bullet hives crumbled.

The Longcoats marched forward, through ever thicker machine gun fire. Those who hadn’t died from being riddled with bullets were, at the very least, bleeding profusely from seven or more puncture wounds; not even Arroyo was exempt from this rule.

He clutched at his arm, shot in three places just below the shoulder. He and his soldiers had pushed through most of the lines of machine guns, but he could see, coming over the hill, that their battle wasn’t done yet. The Morning Light Croakers hopped fervently over the hills, croaking a litany of prayers and curses on Arroyo’s name. He looked down at his shoulder and grunted, “I’ve been hit harder,” before running ahead.

“Forward…!”

Bellafide’s rallying cry called his troops of squirrel pistoliers and ferret artillery back to his side, instilling the resolve that only the leader of the Longcoats could give. In a wave of shouting, they surged forward through the unrelenting hail of bullets, a glint of hunger in each and every one of their eyes. The Longcoats met the Civilized forces and while the initial clash allowed some of the toads to blow themselves up safely, most after that were no more than bloody paste on the ground before the fuse could even hit powder.

Archimedes stood on the steps of one of the ancient buildings that surrounded the Monastic Gardens, gazing out solemnly at the darkened sky, lit periodically by the dull orange of muzzle flashes and black-powder explosions in the distance. He sighed deeply.

He had warned them, all of them. The lower clergy had simply waved him off and continued feasting. Archimedes snorted, wiped his brow, and marched down the steps with the few pigeons, skunks, and toads he could muster. “Follow,” he commanded in his aging, raspy voice.

“Great Missionary,” a toad by his side croaked as he hopped in stride with Archimedes, “you haven’t told us your plan to drive the traitors out.”

Archimedes sighed as he kept marching. “Ah, my child...my plan was not to drive the Longcoats away in the first place,” he explained. “We are simply going to try and kill as many of them as possible, so that we may still feast in the desert.”

“Wffr mmgkin uffghtn rtruht?” a skunk mumbled.

“Take your mask off, my son, no one can understand what’s coming out of your mouth.”

The AFB soldier promptly lifted his mask up and restated his question. “We’re making a fighting retreat?”

Archimedes turned his head and deadpanned. “Not a retreat. A debilitating skirmish.” They marched forward along the stone paths until they came to an area on the main roads that still needed some defenses. Archimedes immediately set about planting Tremormines at the foremost chokepoints, two narrow pathways between the piles of bones.

He returned to his followers, still standing at attention and alert. All that was left to do was wait, and the Longcoats made sure they didn’t wait long. They heard the numerous boots hitting the pavement before they even saw any blue peek the sightlines, but once they so much as saw the bushy tail of one of the Distillery Brothers, Archimedes cried out, “Strike!”

Dozens of skunks began launching gas directly on top of them, and Archimedes instructed his troops to move forward and fire back. They did so, lobbing gas volleys over and over. As to be expected from the traitors, they pushed forward and into Archimedes’ territory, and were hit with both the explosions of four Tremormines, two on each chokepoint, and multiple suicide runs from the Morning Light Croakers. Their sacrifices yielded large chunks of meat that the pigeons and skunks would try to drag away as quickly as they could while still firing their weapons; some of them died that way.

Archimedes had little, if any, time to strategize. He had to focus on killing as many of the Longcoats as possible. In theory, it would be simple, considering Arroyo had so many troops on his bankroll. However, that was also the problem, as hundreds more ferrets and squirrels came streaming into the narrow entrance to the Civilized section of the Bonepits, supported by hit-and-runs by dozens of falcons left over from the initial attack. They swooped in from the darkened skies, firing their guns as brazenly as possible, bullets riddling the ground just as much as their targets.

The toads continued throwing themselves at the Longcoats’ front lines, detonating and sending dozens of conscripted soldiers to black-powder graves while The AFB troops shot gas bombs into the chokepoints. The Longcoats marched through, and some ended up choking to death.

This didn’t stop the tide, however. The Longcoats simply kept coming, and it became obvious to Archimedes that he would have to retreat sooner, rather than later. “Hold!” he called as he marched out. He directed the toads to stand in position at the forefront, allowing them to run a shorter distance before detonating themselves, and built several backup warrens to allow The AFB and the Volunteers to resupply as needed. Under the constant hail of gunfire, it was a difficult task, but it was done. Archimedes stood outside the last warren he could make as the Operators swiftly built it up from the ground. “Excellent,” he muttered to himself, “This will buy me time…”

“Great Missionary!” Archimedes brought his head up and nearly jumped out of his skin. A pigeon fluttered down and perched on the warren, which was being reinforced at this point. “The Longcoats just...just keep pouring in! What are your orders?”

He was silent for a moment, but spoke with whatever wisdom he could muster in a pitched battle. “Child, you must hold as long as you can. Pass these words along to the rest of the Civilized forces,” he articulated.

As he turned around to plan a fast escape route, the pigeon asked again, “What about you, Great Missionary? What will you be doing?”

“Ah…” He paused, then quickly explained, “I will venture out to see if there are any other Civilized who yet live, and I will return to reinforce our numbers.” The pigeon nodded intensely and then flew back to the front lines with a retreating call of “Come back quickly, sir!”

Archimedes watched her go and sighed in relief. Then, he ran. He ran in the opposite direction as fast as he could. After all, a few hundred soldiers could be replaced easily; loyalty was relatively cheap these days, going for three meals a day and a roof over one’s head. His own life, however, was the only thing keeping the Civilized together. Him, and Sage Marro. He tore through The Bonepits, the thunder of distant gunfire still ringing out across the city. Archimedes was only thankful that the Longcoats hadn’t pushed further in, as getting into the countryside would be easy, even without the use of the Warrens. He just had to run a bit further…

He rounded a corner, and saw only a pole swing out to meet him. Archimedes felt it hit him in the face before it actually landed, and he was sent backward, and sprawled out on the ground. There was no time to even come to grips with the pain, as Bellafide himself, who had been waiting for the Great Missionary to show his crooked face, proceeded to roar with a fury long-repressed, and swung his own flag again in an overhead strike, determined to break Archimedes’ skull open. Archimedes countered as fast as he could, holding up his own flag to block the blow.

Arroyo was so dead set on choking the life out of Archimedes that he didn’t expect the old coot to kick him in the stomach, sending him stumbling back when the wind got knocked out of him. It allowed Archimedes to struggle to his feet, coughing and trying to numb the throbbing pain in his temples by sheer force of will as he jogged away as fast as he could.

Naturally, when Arroyo saw that, he wasn’t having any of it. “You’ll pay for what you did to my son, you hypocrite!” he yelled after Archimedes. He charged forward, still screaming, but his hatred blinded him to the fact that Archimedes might not be done. Despite the beatdown, Archimedes turned around and used that momentum to swing his banner in a wide arc. It smashed into Bellafide, sending him careening to his left and smashing into a pile of bones. They came down like an avalanche.

Arroyo was far from dead, or even out cold, but his vision was blurry, the world was spinning, and he could feel his nose bleeding. All he knew for certain was that Archimedes, from where he was standing was smiling. It wasn’t the smile of a kind minister either; it was the condescending smile that the Civilized wore whenever a new course was chosen for the Harvest. “I have seen what you have become,” he said, “and it is delicious. I can’t wait to savor it one day.”

Before Arroyo could stammer out a counter, Archimedes had run off. He couldn’t say he was surprised; the Civilized might have a garrison under their jurisdiction, but the clergy would never fight for themselves. He eventually regained the strength to stand up, brush his coat off, and look back into the horizon, filled with smoke and dimming fires rising up over the piles of bones. He grinned mirthlessly.

They had a garrison, at least.

As he stared back at the chaos unfolding behind him, he felt nothing inside but a burning determination to end the war before it could even gain momentum. He pivoted and marched out of Levacaloo, leaving the Longcoats to feast on what remained of his army. He knew, however, they wouldn’t set foot in the Gardens yet. The rest of the clergy would keep them full long enough for him to regrow his follower count.

[treker402]

I love drawing QM is embarrassing 

[treker402]

I have a good time drawing 3 of them. <3 <3

[captainextremis]

okay, this is the last chapter of T&T I’m posting on Tumblr. Again, u want more? it’s on AO3. Thanks for showing so much interest, though! It’s given me something to do, at least.

Red Sky at Morning

Arroyo stood in silent vigil. His office was mostly dark, save for the setting sun, very dimly lighting up the room through the northern window. The hardwood floors were always kept waxed, and his desk was always kept tidy, as free of papers as possible. The only thing that was a mess, was a small area in the corner. It was unremarkable, save for the fact that it had a smaller table placed in the corner. Two stacks of paper sat on it, collecting dust; and several dozen toys encircled it. They ranged from stuffed toys to carved wooden trains.

There was a picture hanging on the western wall, on the right of the arrangement of toys and the table. Arroyo remembered when Junior asked him if he could have his own office, too, in the corner. He remembered laughing. He thought it an odd request at the time, but Junior had his wish. Arroyo taught him how to output simple papers, mainly counting assets and revenue so he could do the hard work. “Start them young,” was his policy, after all. A year before Harvest, Arroyo had requested a painting of Junior. It set him back a few thousand bones, but he was so well-behaved. In this painting, he looked proud, yet innocent. He wore a coat Arroyo had worn during his younger years, and it matched his blue eyes. In this timeless state, his son was still alive. His son was immortal.

He sighed, trying to keep himself from shedding any more tears. He was able to do so much easier when he heard someone knock on his office door. Arroyo looked over at it, still somewhat detached from reality, but walked over and swung the door open. His cook, the prestigious Uncle Butter was standing behind it, still cleaning a stein with a rag. “Oh, sorry Bellafide...Were you busy…?”

“Yes, I…” Arroyo sighed deeply and massaged his forehead. “I’m done now. What do you need, my friend?”

“Those scouts you sent out to secure The Docks earlier?” Butter said. “They haven’t come back yet. I think we should look into it, if not send out a few soldiers after them.”

Arroyo grimaced and groaned. “It must be The KSR,” he muttered dejectedly. “They really enjoy sticking their noses in everyone’s business.” He walked out of the office and down the hall, but eventually let Uncle Butter walk ahead. “You go tell the Freight Unioneers I’ll need seventy of their number, twenty Engineers, and at least ninety of the Distillery Brothers need to stop drinking enough to walk in a straight line for two hours. I’ve got to plan our attack, if we need one.”

“Will do, Arroyo,” Butter said as he walked down the stairs and went back to the tavern proper, still raucous and full of life. Bellafide stayed and watched him go, then went back to his office and lit one of the lamps. He took out several maps from a drawer in a cabinet behind his desk and rifled through them for a few minutes before he found a detailed layout of The Docks. They bordered the south sea, which allowed orn and ale to be shipped out and around to the east and west to get to other cities. Expensive, yes, but it was faster than sending shipments through The Ends. At the end of the day, it was worth the investment.

Either way, the plan practically unfolded itself: The Longcoats entered from the north using the Warrens, and if a significant KSR presence was found, they would split up and surround them in a pincer move. They couldn’t retreat into the sea, and if they ran north, the Longcoats would follow them until either The KSR forces gave up and stopped running to fight, or until they reached The Ends. Arroyo looked over his plan, nodded, and then walked over to the far wall and picked up the crest of the Longcoats. “War won’t win itself,” he said to himself.

The travel through the Warrens was swift, as it always was, and the Longcoats came out amassed in a line, far enough away from The Docks to see the whole of it. It was quiet; no lights could be seen in the tannery sheds or the boathouses. Arroyo stood at the front of his forces. He told half the troops to split and circle around to the other side of the dackyard, and wiping his nose with a handkerchief, he led the rest forward. “Be as quiet as possible,” he warned them.

“You-*hic!*-you got it boss!” one of the Distillery Brothers called.

Arroyo rolled his eyes and they kept processing forward, into the dockyard proper. The moon illuminated everything in a sickly pale glow, casting unnatural, sharp shadows on walls. Many of them looked like grasping hands, reaching out to grab and eat the Longcoats alive.

Arroyo marched onward, however. He remained undeterred . They did not know there were pigeons perched on the tops of some boathouses, and once they caught sight of the advancing enemy, they cried out, “Longcoats, Longcoats! Raise the alarm...!”

Arroyo looked up, along with the rest of his troops. The ferrets clutched the triggers for their artillery tighter, and the squirrels loaded their pistols (the ones too drunk to do so were given a hand by their brothers). Arroyo himself clutched his banner, and he could begin to feel his knuckles going white after a minute.

There was a piercing blaring sound in the air a moment later, and out of the boathouses, shacks and storehouses, came hundreds of pigeons, falcons, and lizards, all clad in yellow. “...More Civilized…?” Bellafide asked himself. “How…?”

The machine guns started firing off and riddling the Longcoat troops with bullets, killing dozens. Bellafide ducked down, and he could hear his men hitting the ground behind him. “Keep moving,” Arroyo instructed as he stood back up. “Don’t give them an inch!”

The squirrels charged in first, liquid courage running through their bodies. They kept shooting their revolvers, the sounds lost amidst a sea of gunfire and shouting. Many of them fell where they stood, and the ferrets weren’t much better off despite being in the back lines. Arroyo had to make his move now. He stomped on the ground three times as hard as he could, and kept his head low until he felt the dirt under him moving. He backed up.

A second later, a mole poked his muddy head out from the ground. “Is time to make big move?” he asked.

“And as quickly as possible,” Arroyo added. The Engineer nodded and hoisted himself up, out of the ground, followed by nineteen more moles who saluted Bellafide as they entered as fast as possible.

Arroyo himself nodded to them and raised his flag, rallying what troops he could to him amidst the chaos of war. “Everyone, to me!” he called. “We have our winning ticket!”

The Longcoats turned to face Arroyo and made their way to his side as quickly as possible. The bullets of the Wing Demons and the Nomad’s javelins remained merciless, and cut down more soldiers as they ran to Arroyo’s side, but luckily he still had significant numbers...though not significant enough to fight in open warfare. He looked at his forces, thought for a moment, then yelled, “Get into one of the boat houses and advance at all costs!”

His soldiers took his orders to heart and barreled through the doors to a nearby shed, which was met with gunfire from the rafters that mowed down the squirrels that had led the charge. Arroyo ran ahead of his troops to let them fight through. He had to get to the other side of The Docks to move the troops over there.

So he ran, his stamina from his time as a boxer coming in to aid him. Of course, he never actually ran while in the ring, but he could at least keep his pace up as he ran up a flight of stairs and out onto the roof of the boathouse.

In the streets, the Longcoats were still fighting bitterly to advance; the ferrets remained in the back lines, launching artillery shells through the streets. They soared, and many of them landed on their targets, turning the Nomads into mangled, bloody messes. At the same time, the Wing Demons were flying directly into the back lines and firing their machine guns, either killing or severely wounding both the artillery and the infantry as they tried to push forward through what lizards still lived.

Arroyo could only look down on them for a moment before he too was brought back to reality by machine gun fire whizzing past him, brought down by more of the falcons. He grunted as he ducked down, then sprinted like mad across the rooftops. “I only wish I knew how Civilized forces even got here,” he said to himself. He jumped across a gap between buildings and kept his pace up, but saw a few bullets whiz by and then heard the machine gun fire kick in full-force.

He could hear the falcon behind him yell, “Die, you fat, treasonous bastard!” Arroyo stole a quick glance behind him and saw the Wing Demon approaching quickly, the gun trained directly on him. Directly in front of him was a warehouse with a wide window.

He jumped the gap between the two buildings and covered his face as best he could. Arroyo heard the glass shatter into pieces, but he kept his eyes shut tight. In time, he felt his body hit the ground, and he tumbled forward a couple more feet.

Arroyo could barely feel anything on his body other than the glass digging into his arms and chest. He forced himself to stand up and saw that he was now in a large warehouse with empty rafters and sparsely populated with crates. “That’s muscle...not fat,” he said to himself.

Unfortunately, the falcon had decided to follow Arroyo in, heralded by the sound of more shattering glass and the rush of wind as he took a sharp one-eighty degree turn in the rafters to charge back at him. Though he had been cut in a few places from the flying glass, he was in no way weaker, and Arroyo had been winded already. The Wing Demon came streaking down from on high, the machine gun blazing to life again, and Arroyo ran. He ducked in between crates, using them to shield himself from the gunfire. All he was focused on was getting out of the enclosed space, and part of him must have thought he was going to die here. No such chance came.

The door on the ground floor flew open and off its hinges, and in came several squirrels and ferrets. They saw the falcon harassing Arroyo and immediately went about launching everything they had at him; bullets, artillery, everything. The falcon dodged and weaved between them for awhile, but eventually, a couple bullets clipped his wing, and he spiraled out of control, crashing headfirst into a wall. The resulting *crack!* echoed around the room, and the falcon crumpled into a useless ball of feathers.

One of the Distillery Brothers ran up to Bellafide and reached out to help him up, which Bellafide quickly accepted. “You okay, sir…?” he asked.

Arroyo huffed. “I’ve come back from worse,” he said. “It’s just some glass anyway. You had best get back to seizing as much territory as possible!”

The squirrel saluted him and replied, “Yes, sir!” before he followed the rest of the squadron while Arroyo ran in the other direction, out of the warehouse. Back outside, even the stars of night were eclipsed by the mortar explosions going off, as well as the fire-halos of landmines in the distance. Arroyo looked left and right, then took off down the pavement, running to the east side. He at least knew the troops on the west side were pushing in, so he had nothing to fear about them.

Several yards over, he could see soldiers, fighting to the bitter end on stairs, rooftops, and piers to push forward. His Longcoats were holding...but they weren’t gaining anything either. In the heat of battle, he ran forward, waving the crest of the Longcoats. “To me…!”

When the forces on the east heard his call, they looked over to him, and all at once, fought harder than ever before to get to him. Even the most inebriated of squirrels knew when to push himself to his limits, and many of them paid for it. The bullets came flying back at the Civilized tenfold, and pigeons and falcons alike began to drop as the east-division Longcoats pushed their way to Arroyo.

And when they finally met, Arroyo felt his blood boiling with a newfound sense of conviction; so he called out, “Everyone...follow me…!” And follow they did. Arroyo ran forward as the Wing Demons, Volunteers, and Nomads began circling in. In the beginning, the pigeons kept their combat-oriented friends in the fight, but slowly, surely, the squirrels and ferrets began focusing them down, and in turn, the Civilized began to retreat.

The Longcoats shot them down and took over their ground, inch by grueling inch, until they had pushed them back into the central area of The Docks, where all the boat houses and the entrance to the main piers were. As it so happened, Arroyo marched up the avenue just as he saw a lizard tail slip into a warehouse door. He motioned for his army to halt for a moment. He surveyed the area, and noticed the warehouse itself was separate from the surrounding buildings, as well as being alone on a three-way intersection. Arroyo considered his options, nodded, then directed his squirrels to move out to the right. In the meanwhile, the ferrets opened fire on the warehouse, hammering the walls with artillery shells.

This, of course, made the residents inside peeved, to say the least, and they sent out a wave of lizards. They lasted about as long as a pile of now in the summer, as the squirrels on the right shot them all down, or otherwise finished them off if the ferrets didn’t. Arroyo crossed his arms. He knew the Civilized wouldn’t come out any time soon if they knew the Longcoats were outside. “Keep the artillery shelling going,” he instructed. The Freight Union obliged, and kept their dents in the walls fresh with iron and hot lead.

The Civilized inside sent out more lizards, which were wiped out as they marched out of the doors in single file, and Arroyo decided it was time for a counter attack. He raised his banner and marched forward, signaling to the Distillery Brothers it was time to move. With a hearty (and for most, half-drunken), warcry, they marched to the doors, and through sheer force of number and added shelling, completely broke them open. What waited inside was a firing squad.

Dozens of falcons up in the rafters and the remaining Nomads below were arrayed in tight formation, all facing the entrance, and once the Longcoats broke the door, they opened fire.

Bellafide immediately ducked down as he heard the roar of machine guns coming to life, and saw, all around him, holes opening up in the bodies of his soldiers. They fell in rapid succession, a strange mix of fear and numbness in their eyes. He retreated with what few squirrels had miraculously been spared, and set up a front line just outside the entrance, and kept the Distillery Brothers firing inside. Soon, the lizards began pushing out as more squirrels fell. With dwindling numbers, Arroyo began muttering to himself, trying to keep his head down. “I think it would be safer…” He instinctively ducked when he heard another artillery shell explode. “...Safer to circle around and meet up with the western division.”

But then, a dull thud sounded out, across the street. For a moment, the fighting froze. The thud sounded again. The Longcoats and the Civilized remained still, listening for what might be happening, and how it could benefit them. The thud sounded out one last time, and immediately after, a huge squadron of Longcoat moles burrowed out of the ground around the warehouse, yelling their battle cries. Just like that, the fighting resumed, though the Longcoats were first to start slinging bullets once they recognized the moles were on their side.

Soon, the intention of the Engineers was clear: after striking the walls of the warehouse, a deep groaning could be heard; even part of the roof broke off, due in part to the moles bashing on the supports and walls with their hammers.

And that, combined with the constant shelling of the Freight Union, brought the whole structure crashing down in an avalanche of steel and mortar.

Arroyo couldn’t help but smile as he watched the warehouse buckle, crushing almost every Civilized soldier inside. This left them weakened and easy to be destroyed. He decided to switch up his initial plan and force the Civilized toward the piers; they wouldn’t be able to scatter in every direction that way. And as if that crushing blow to Civilized forces wasn’t enough, he could see his own soldiers running down the streets from the west, any opposing presence in front of them being butchered. He looked down to see a mole standing in front of him, looking at the wreckage with his hammer over his shoulder. The Engineer looked back up and grinned.

“Is good,” he commented.

Arroyo nodded at the mole, then brought his gaze forward again. “Push…!” he commanded, and his soldiers answered with conviction. They marched down the streets, a steady tide of artillery and bullets forcing the Civilized backward, first down the streets, then across the piers, then into the sea. When the Civilized forces realized what was happening, many of them fled. It was easy, since most of them could already fly, but the Nomads were not so lucky. Either they died on their feet or they jumped off the docks and tried to swim away, which made killing them as easy as spear-fishing with a harpoon.

The Longcoats settled down to rest and feast before they returned to the Old South, but Bellafide stood on the edge of the pier; there was still blood in the water, and it stung his nose. In the lull, he couldn’t help but start talking to himself. “I wonder if these old docks will ever see honest workers again,” he murmured. “I wonder if everything will be peaceful...Because I know nothing will ever be normal after this.” He sighed deeply and remained staring out over the deep sea, the moon glinting off the water’s surface.

Someone cleared their throat, and Arroyo turned around. Standing a few feet away was one of the Unioneers, holding a bottle of whiskey. “Heyyy, you okay, boss...?”

Arroyo sighed. “Yes, I just...I’m just thinking about what might happen after this war.”

The ferret shrugged and replied, “Eh...war’s war and you gotta push forward while you can. Worry about rebuilding when that time comes, maybe.”

Arroyo was silent for a moment, but he looked down at the street and nodded slowly. “Maybe you’re right,” he said at length. “Besides, I still need to see Archimedes flayed alive before I rest.”

The ferret chuckled and uncorked his bottle. “Glad to know you’re still brimming with enough rage to lead an army,” he said. “C’mon, boss, you better eat before all the meat’s gone.” He turned and left, taking another drink from his flask as Bellafide followed back to the camps.

As the smoke of the fires rose, they were watched. Carefully, collectedly, as if being searched for signs and portents. A lone figure was crouched on a hill, a pair of binoculars in his hands. He wore a mantle and cloak that completely concealed his face, and his gloves supported two mechanisms; one that concealed a blade above his right wrist, the left hiding a syringe of poison on a spring-action launcher.

Yet, the only thing that could be seen under his hood were a pair of cat-like, yellow eyes. He sat, watching the victory feast, his mind putting more and more pieces of a metaphysical puzzle together. He muttered something under his breath before putting the binoculars away and running in the other direction.

“Gottfürsechen Wilden. Icht besten rechpurt bac zu General Radegunde.”

[aurorameshla]

UrbaneOlive 2 replay analysis

UrbaneOlive vs Bigchungus and UrbaneOlive vs chkn fngr subs Tooth and Tail casual games, with casting and some light analysis From my twitch stream at htt...

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