Sadera, 1030, 7 days since contact

Cruelty was par for the course within Falmart, and like a beating heart, this cruelty was most potent within its epicenter - Sadera: racial discrimination, class divisions, and slavery consumed the very pores of the city, blanketing it in a sheet of misery felt by all but the most noble of residents.

Resignation would play a major factor in its ceaselessness, and Tyuule was one of many victims.

"I thought you Warrior Bunnies enjoyed a good lay, but you tire out on me? If you can't keep up with my needs, why do I even keep you?" Prince Zorzal asked behind gritted teeth.

He not-so-gently cupped the Bunny Warrior's face with a large hand, rubbing away at the dried tears and bruised skin that blemished her fair skin.

"I'm sorry, master..." Tyuule pleaded as she limply moved her head along his grasp, but her voice was a mere whisper.

"Queen of the Warrior Bunnies and your libido is worse than that of a human's. You're pitiful." Zorzal, ever the egomaniac, combed away at his golden locks and made his way out of her cell, chuckling in a low and devious manner as he did so.

"Well, former queen." The sadist made no effort to hide his glee at her despair, snorting in laughter as the prison bars closed behind him. "Next time, try and be a little more entertaining, won't you?"

Tyuule said nothing, trying to maintain what little modesty she had left as she used the length of her white hair to cover her breasts.

She listened in, Zorzal's heavy footsteps waning as he made his way out of the dungeon and up into the main castle, then as soon as she was sure of his absence, she chuckled; a dry, deadpan sort of laugh that reeked of waning sanity.

With a heavy breath, Tyuule called out to the shadows, her face void and voice hoarse. "I know you're there, Bouro."

The shadows that danced about among the torches and the dimness of her cell felt all the more alive in that moment, engulfing the room in a wave of claustrophobia that the woman had never been able to adjust to.

In that moment, the room felt positively crowded. A low cackle reverberated across the cell, and in one its dark corners, a shape began to manifest: it was plump - almost a cross between man and beast, and as it made itself known, a sickly green snout erupted from the shadows, then came the rest of it.

"Oh, your highness - always one to catch me before the reveal." Bouro - a gross conglomeration of pig, man and goblin - emerged from the crevices of the cell. What could possibly pass for a grin spread across the abomination's face, his snarl betraying the sly and disgusting aura that he encompassed: if looks matched their personalities, then Bouro did so in spades.

He was certainly no friend; infact, Tyuule barely trusted the thing enough to consider it an acquaintance, but he was the only access she had to the outside world. Besides his brief slips of information beyond the confines of her prison, he made no effort to hide his perverseness, quickly latching onto her leg and coating it in his mucous-like saliva.

This was their arrangement: he provided news about the goings on of Falmart and she used her body, which only further sent her into a spiral of bitter self-hatred.

Though, she made it known to him her discontent, openly scowling at the the pig-thing as he rubbed at her thigh. "Zorzal has been rougher with me than usual, so that must mean something bad is happening. You know something."

"I do." Tyuule had set her boundaries, kicking Bouro off of her leg before he had snaked his way towards her nether regions. He didn't seemed too unbothered, slinking back into the darkness. "The Empire seems to have awoken a sleeping giant: first their failure to take lands beyond our world, and now people from that other world thrusting into our own. The puppet nations had already lost most of their forces."

"In less than a week?" Even in her jaded state, the former queen couldn't help but voice her surprise. It sounded too good to be true, but if Bouro was telling the truth, then there was a possibility that she could see the Empire's downfall. The thought certainly warmed her, somewhat.

"Yes! These people from the other world seem to wield highly sophisticated technology, but not only that - they seem to have spies running along the routes to Italica; they might even be here as we speak."

"Oh." That was all the woman could muster, but for once in such a long a time, she felt some semblance of positivity running through her. Tyuule leaned against the wall, her face gazing at the ceiling in a fit of crazed glee.

Maybe she wouldn't have to wait too much longer; maybe revenge wasn't too far fetched of a prospect, after all.

"Your highness: if you'd like, I can pull some strings - persuade the outsiders in to collaborating with you."

"No." She had recovered somewhat from her dopamine-induced high, a haggard breath escaping from her lungs. "No, let's not do that, yet. I wanna see this play out from afar."

"As you wish..." All at once, Bouro dematerialized into the void, leaving the suffocating atmosphere of the prison just slightly less suffocating.

It wasn't enough to see the Empire fall: a slow, painful death was a form of karmic justice that they had a long time coming. Oh, the thought of Zorzal and his lackeys falling into a deeper pit of their self-destruction was so appealing to think about.

Over the skies of the Elbe Kingdom, 1030

The aerial view of the lands below was a sight to see: the beauty of surrounding area was juxtaposed by a sea of viscera that piled about the blackened fields of Alnus: mutilated remains of war elephants, ogres and other giant creatures of war were left to rot, while the tiny specs of men were hastily stacked into gory bales, alongside craters of churned dirt and burnt grass.

King Duran knew immediately that these were his men, and the men of other kingdoms, before him. There was no signs of life, and even flying some fifty meters above the slaughter, with hefty wind to boot, the distinct stench of copper and rot flooded his nose.

The ruler was no stranger to death. Infact, as a follower of Rory - goddess of battle - he relished in it; but this was on an unprecedented scale: he estimated at least thirty thousand dead.

"What could have done this?" he mused, shifting his mount downward and drifting toward the ground.

Of course, the stench only grew stronger as he closed the distance, contaminating the very air in a coating of metallic stench and flies - the rapid buzzing of their little wings persistent throughout.

"Stay here," Duran told his wyvern, patting its side assuredly and setting down on the bloodied grass.

His breathing was heavy, and he had to resist the urge to vomit, but as a warrior, he trudged on, a weary eye scanning the array of corpses for any signs of life, or a perhaps an indication of what may have happened.

There were no signs of decay yet, although many of the corpses were heavily disfigured: burn marks, missing limbs, and destroyed heads were only a fraction of what Duran saw.

"Help...me..." A voice called out from among the dead. It was so weak - so quiet, but aside from the flies, it was the loudest thing in the area.

Duran turned his gaze towards the source of the voice, his single eye fixated on a particular pile of bodies. There laid a man, his lower half submerged beneath his dead comrades. His breathing was haggard and his eyes were glazed over, but as they locked eyes, the king could catch a glimpse of the horrors the soldier had sustained in his brief venture.

With a heavy set of armor and purple trimming, the soldier was cleary one of his own - and he was a young one at that - he could hardly be above twenty.

"My King..." the young man rasped. "Water..."

"Here you go, son," Duran spoke softly as he approached, gently pouring a stream of canteen water down the soldier's mouth. He clearly savored it, his lips pursing and breathing stabilizing somewhat. "Now, what happened?"

"I don't know...I couldn't see around me - it was all smoke and bloody mist. My ears are ringing, it was so loud..." Suddenly, the boy grew silent, his eyelids slowly closing as his head rested itself back onto the pillows of flesh. "They were men," was the last thing he uttered before succumbing.

In all his years of conflict, hearing the young man's dying breath as it left him perturbed Duran: there was something all the more visceral about being the only witness to death, and standing alone among a mass grave of his brethren - there was no feeling like it.

Was this what it felt like to be on the receiving end? Was it some form of divine punishment among the gods to leave him the only survivor? What of his friend, Ligu?

The answer was obvious, but the ruler-warrior wasn't ready to confront it.

He probably wouldn't even be able to recognize him, anyway: in all likelihood, Ligu was reduced to nothing more than a fine paste, melded together interchangeably with all of the other bits of guts and sinew.

In most conflicts, the ruling class were spared from the onslaught of battle: their troops - either as a form of loyalty or some untold sanctity - would defend them from the worst of the enemy, and with an "ally" such as the Empire, they were practically untouchable. Well, they had thought so.

"They were cannon fodder," King Duran surmised. Loyalty was a powerful tool, and something that the king valued above all else: if Emperor Molt wasn't there to assist his puppet nations and their people, then was it all just an elaborate excuse to get rid of them - to absorb them into the greater Empire?

With these thoughts racing through his head, Duran hurried his pace, eyes scanning scrutinously for anything of note: at that point, he just needed closure.

"Ligu?" Duran called out. It was a fruitless endeavor, but perhaps, he figured, there was the slightest possibility of his friend being alive. He was, after all, the only man that had stood beside him - even before their allegiance with the Empire; for him to die like any other foot soldier would be a great pity.

"Ligu?" As he expected, there was no answer. Knowing his colleague, he wouldn't have retreated from battle, so he had to be there, but where? He couldn't have been far. Or what remained of him, that is.

Duran then froze in his tracks, his single eye focusing on a glistening piece of armor sitting ominously above the rim of a crater: it was a bronze helmet with cold trimmings and a sigil etched into its front, and it belonged to Duke Ligu.

Status was important among the nobles and elites of Sadera, and Ligu was far too prideful to willingly do away with his ensemble; to have it so carelessly thrown to the churned earth left an obvious answer.

The King slowly picked up the tattered piece into his hands, thumbs gently rubbing away at its dented and bloodied exterior. That had done it: all of the pent up anguish that he did so well to conceal had spilled out from his mouth and on to the ground beside him, to the point that even with a now emptied stomach, the urge to retch still subsisted.

"Sorry, old friend." It was assumed, then, that the other leaders had met their fates, and consequently, a power vacuum would erupt within their respective kingdoms: the ramifications in such a geopolitical situation were as vast as they were unpredictable, but that was a concern for a later time; until then, Duran had responsibilities back home.

Italica, 1100

Flight was supposed to be a feat reserved for dragon riders, certain humanoids, and gods, yet Colt Formal, beyond any of his expectations, found himself doing exactly that - though with the assistance of the technological marvel they called a "helicopter".

It was far too noisy for any of its occupants to converse without radio, and with the events that transpired just a few days ago, the ability to alleviate any perceived tension between him and his escorts would have been well appreciated, but until then, he only had the benefit of eyesight; scanning both Donovan's and Daniel's faces in an effort to get some sort of read on them, they were as stone-faced as he expected, either soldier simply glancing at the terrain as they whizzed by.

Italica was quickly coming into shape, its walls and surrounding grain fields giving the man a new perspective on his humble ruling: despite it's limited area, the city was ideal for defense and its people were a prosperous bunch; a far cry from many urban centers encompassing the Empire.

The helicopter hovered above the courtyard grounds and descended, but unlike last time - during the dead of night - the occupants of the castle were fully awake to gaze at the spectacle in broad daylight.

Most of the maids were, unsurprisingly, in awe at the mechanical wonder; how something so apparently heavy could stay airborne - they could not fathom, but that awe turned into child-like glee as they recognized one of the faces hanging on its side.

"Master!" a small snake-haired girl yelled as the contraption finally landed, her undivided attention focused on Formal - and not on the two heavily armed soldiers that flanked him.

The other girls, however happy as they were to see him, kept a watchful eye of the men - men who less than a week ago - had raided their home and captured the very man that they held dear.

In the prolonged silence, the air seemed palpable. There were no direct hostilities, but even still, veterans like Daniel or Donovan well enough understood when somebody wanted them dead.

Their mission, though, predicated on earning the hearts and minds of the locals, and in a business as dangerous as theirs, sometimes putting one's life on the line was a requirement - even if it went against their better judgement.

With his rifle limply slung by his chest, Daniel stepped forward, adjusting his glasses and meekly raising a hand in greeting. "My name is Daniel Cunningham - the man to my right is Donovan Matrisciano - and we are here to serve as protect Colt Formal from any harm that should come to him."

"Protect?" Delilah seemed genuinely offended, her brows furled and frown evident. "You guys were the reason he was harmed to begin with!"

"Delilah..." Kaine cautioned.

"I'm sorry, Miss Kaine, but this doesn't make any sense to me: they come to our home, steal Master and Mistress away, then they bring him back with a change of heart and now offer to protect him?"

"It's fairly simple, Delilah," Colt Formal finally spoke. "Between the Empire and Italica, I made the choice of prioritizing my people: just like you and the other girls, the only thing these Americans want is vengeance. As long as we do not obstruct that, we will be fine."

The bunny girl bowed her head and stepped back in compliance, an ounce of shame etched on her face at the uncharacteristic outburst. If all the Americans wanted was an opportunity to get back at the Empire, then maybe...

"You plan on eradicating the government in Sadera, right?"

"That's right," both Daniel and Jefferies answered.

"My former queen - Tyuule - betrayed my people when she exchanged them for her life; very few of us survived the massacre. I'm sure she's living lavishly while the remainder of us bunny warriors are struggling with our lives, so could you do me a favor and remind her that we're still angry?"

"I can agree with that," Mamina, another bunny warrior, added.

Both the Delta and ISA operatives looked at each other in contemplation, and with a hint of amusement: places like the Middle East, Central Asia, and Africa were strife with conflict between different factions and offshoots of tribes - all warring against one another for one reason or another; they supposed Falmart wasn't all too different from Earth.

"We'll see what we can do."

"All right, gentlemen, let's get back to the matters at hand: preparing Italica for the coming battle." With that, Formal bounded towards the war room, followed by Jefferies, Daniel, and a slightly confused Donovan.

"Jesus Christ, this Latin bullshit is making feel dumber than I already am."

"I'll fill you in on the way," Daniel explained.

The Americans and Colt Formal had disappeared from their peripherals and into the castle, and with a knowing nod Delilah had set to work listening in on their conversation, with the assistance of a cat woman - Persia - and Mamina.

It wasn't exactly a labor-intensive task; each of the girls possessed some sort of superhuman ability well beyond the reach of normal man, but acoustics played a pivotal role in their efficiency: walls, surface material, and of course the audio levels were factors to take into account.

"We can rotate around the castle and take turns eavesdropping," Mamina suggested.

"Yeah, that way they can't get too suspicious of us," Delilah agreed. "We just work as usual and let our ears take care of the rest."

"Awe, so it's mostly business as usual?" Persia frowned. "And here I thought this would give me an excuse to slack off..."

Coda Village, 1100

There was a begrudging agreement between the village chief and the new arrivals that they'd be allowed passage and sanctuary in exchange for security.

The apparent leader of the group - who went by the name of Colonel Brant Harris - seemed like a genuine fellow, and with endorsement from both Cato and Lelei, who was he to deny them? Not that he could, anyway.

The soldiers had secured a perimeter around Coda while the rest of them set to work fortifying the exterior, extending hollow frames and filling them with sand, setting up tents within the less trafficked areas of Coda, and emplacing lengths of wire all along the outskirts.

It was all a very mundane process, but regardless, it drew a crowed, with many locals gathering around to watch the strangers as they worked tirelessly to reinforce their home.

While their efforts would do well to defend against your common raider group, the red dragon was an entirely different beast - quite literally: all across Falmart, extending even beyond the reaches of Sadera's influence, many warriors have tried - and failed - to slay it; it's armor was just too durable, withstanding blade and spell alike in its toughness, and its fiery breath burned to such a degree that it would incinerate anybody caught within its inferno to ash within minutes.

"How are these men supposed to fend off the red dragon?" the chief pondered incredulously.

"The soldiers have machines capable of detecting and combating against air targets: it uses large exploding shells fired at an incredible rate to ground them," Almus stated.

"Where is it, then?"

"It should be here soon enough." While the chief's concerns were valid, the agent had more pressing matters: horses were a common sight in Falmart - both domestic and wild; it was the most common form of transportation, and although slow by modern standards, was a hell of a lot better than walking.

With a vouch from Lelei, Almus had managed to acquire himself a mule from the town's stables: an older lady by the name of Murial. The beauty of mules comes from their hardiness: in the jungles of Burma, during World War 2 for example, Allied soldiers - special forces especially - relied on the animals to carry a much larger load than they otherwise would've been able to, and that tradition still carries on today in the more rough terrains that litter Earth.

The Schwarz Forest and accompanying Tybe Mountains was where the dragon's lair resided, and it was a good one hundred kilometers away. "It should take about five days to get there if we remain on schedule," Almus noted, fastening the saddle on Murial and double checking the pouches dangling off her sides.

Lelei nodded, her days of traveling familiarizing her with the length of time travel often took. Although, she was more accustomed to a horse-drawn carriage rather than a simple mule and saddle. "I think your estimations might be a bit off: shouldn't it take three days instead?"

"Well, if we slept on the mule and let it keep going - sure, but we don't have that luxury, nor am I going to risk things going awry if we went sleepless. We can camp out - about twice during our trip: we have food and supplies to sustain us 'til then."

The man was taken aback for a moment as he scanned his companion's expression, her face uncharacteristically uncertain. "You've been camping before, right?"

She shook her head. "When me and Master Cato traveled, we were always close to civilization, and even if we weren't, there was certain to be a traveling merchant willing to trade with us. We never had to."

Almus chuckled, his green eyes warmly attentive as he tousled her hair. "Well, luckily for you, I'm a pro. Nothing to worry about, alright? I'll show the ropes."

Lelei halfheartedly swatted away his hand, and even if it was very subtle, he couldn't help but notice a tiny smile creeping into her face. "I'm putting my faith in you."

The chief watched the whole ordeal, he himself smiling from beneath his mustache.

As soon as Almus turned to face him, though, his smile waned somewhat: it was a look that expressed clear apprehension - caught in a limbo of disapproval and acceptance. He was afraid, not only for his people, and what dangers the red dragon might pose - but of the implications that the otherworlders' presence presented.

There were so many scenarios that could play out - so much uncertainty, that this man - Almus - was the metaphorical lifeline that kept his fears in check, and to have one of the town's talented mages journey with him, too?

"You're supposed to be the mediator here."

Almus nodded solemnly, and Lelei, though empathetic, opted to remain silent. "We have translators on base: they not might be able to communicate as effectively, but it should suffice until we get back."

"That's one thing, friend, but what about you? Do you really plan on venturing into the dragon's lair? Do you realize how suicidal that is?"

He nodded again. "It's just a bit of reconnaissance, nothing more. If something happens while we're gone, you can expect the soldiers here to do the the job."

The elder made no use in voicing his concerns any further; he knew that the man was dead-set on his mission, and where ever that commitment drew from - whether a sense of genuine benevolence or honorable duty to some unknown leader - it made no difference.

He could only hope with all his might that these foreigners weren't in over their heads.