Capital Suarez, the kingdom of Gallimard.August 15th, 678 ADIn the rolling plains of Gallimard, a land that had been known for its rich greenery and fertile earth, rumors of prosperity had long attracted settlers and vagabonds. Stories spoke of riches beyond that of nobles, with farmland unmatched in yield. The truth was far from the idyllic tales, however. Refugees walked across these same plains, their belongings packed onto rickety wagons, fleeing the devastation of their homeland. The elven exodus painted a grim picture: Gallimard's capital was under siege, its fate to be no different than that of Cielo. Rumors of the domination of human over non-human territories created fear among them, and some had no choice but to run, while others vowed to protect their homeland.
Surrounding the besieged city of Gallimard were 50,000 men led by General Lazarus. Wyverns patrolled the skies, their silhouettes ominous against the sun. At the centre of the controversy was the city itself, with 30-foot high walls of unmatched height across the whole southern continent. Behind these 10,000 defenders made fine use of these fortifications, holding off the invaders for as long as they could. Outnumbered, Lazarus' forces faced a stalemate of blood and slaughter, for the walls were to prove an unscalable barrier.
Inside the tent with the map laid out across his table, away from city walls, Lazarus sat down, weighing in his heart the strain of the extended siege. The officers and he were strategizing nearby while the elves, each bound to the ground with heavy chains, served their meals and drinks without a sound. They served as bitter reminders of war's gruesome truths. Lazarus stabbed at the map with his finger, frustrated.
"Damn it! These Gallimard bastards knew we were coming. Their traps around the city are making this impossible," he growled, glancing at an officer standing to his right.
The officer hesitated before speaking. "Sir, perhaps—"
"No suggestions," Lazarus interrupted, raising a finger. His voice hardened. "Order the wyvern squadron to bomb the gate. We can't waste any more time."
"But, sir, if we proceed with the bombing, their wyverns will—"
"Do it!" Lazarus growled, silencing any protest. The officer saluted smartly and left the tent.
In the rear camp, the wyvern riders lounged near their mounts. The squadron leader, a seasoned captain, lay on the grass, staring at the sky. Hearing the officer's hurried footsteps, she rose to attention.
"Orders, sir?" she asked, her voice steady.
"The general commands your squadron to bombard the gate using high-mana explosives."
The captain's eyes narrowed briefly before she turned to her riders. "We have a job! Prepare the bombs!"
The camp roared with life. Wyverns screamed as stewards lashed sacks of enchanted crystals to their legs, each a volatile mix capable of causing tremendous destruction. The captain went over the final preparations before she climbed aboard her wyvern. A signal and the squadron was off, the formation tight as they climbed into the air. The officer returned to the command tent to report.
"General, the wyverns are on their way to the gate."
Lazarus smiled with a dark laugh. "Well, finally, this stalemate ends."
From the earth, the view of 50 wyverns coming at the city filled the besieging soldiers with hope. Cheers broke out as the riders crested over the gate and positioned themselves above it. Inside the city, Gallimard's defenders responded in alarm.
"WYVERNS!" a soldier shouted from the walls. The cry spread like wildfire. Archers rushed to position, loosing volleys at the oncoming threat. Some wyverns fell, their riders plummeting to the ground, but the majority pressed on. The lead wyvern reached its target, releasing its payload.
The explosion that followed was deafening. A great fireball consumed the gate, splintering wood and shattering stone. The shock wave echoed across the plains. Gallimard's defenders on top of the walls froze in stunned silence. The morale of the invaders soared as soldiers ran toward the breach, hoping to take advantage of the hole in the wall.
Despair spread throughout the city. From posts they had occupied in street after street, archers tossed their bows to the street. Defeat rang throughout the streets as word broke through: the impregnable gate was open now; the last stronghold had broken.
"Retreat!" The cry rang out across the city. Gallimard's remaining defenders fell back, their resolve crumbling in the face of the overwhelming assault. Among them, a captain who had once mocked the invaders' efforts now stared at the destroyed gate in disbelief. Admitting his earlier misjudgment, he whispered to himself, "It's over."
Outside, General Lazarus watched his soldiers pour through the northern gate, victory etched into their every step. Reports from the field confirmed the city's collapse, and the news was met with raucous cheers from the camp. Lazarus allowed himself a rare smile as he sat back in his chair, surveying the smoldering ruins of the capital.
"It is now beneath our empire!" he declared, his voice rising above the jubilant cries. The soldiers celebrated, their mugs raised high as they toasted their conquest. Lazarus, however, remained seated, his gaze fixed on the city. A satisfied grin spread across his face. Another invasion. Another victory.
_________________________________Golden gate bridge, United States.August 16th, 687 AD.The raging storm churned the river violently, with waves crashing against the hulls of massive gunboats and frigates to maintain formation. One after another, the vessels pushed through the ethereal gate, spreading confusion among their crews. The storm, apparently born of the gate's power, began to dissipate. The violent waters stilled, and the river slowly disappeared into nothingness, leaving the fleet drifting in a strange realm.
As the mist grew thinner, an elder stood at the bow of the lead frigate. Her hood fell back, revealing her weathered face, glistening with droplets of rain. She raised her arms to the heavens, feeling the energy of this strange new land coursing through her. Turning to the gathered mages, she declared triumphantly, her voice cutting through the eerie silence: "Welcome to America!"
The declaration hung in the air as the crew scrambled to comprehend their surroundings. The storm's aftermath cloaked the fleet in a dense fog, and the captain of the frigate peered out anxiously, desperate to discern their location. As the mist thinned further, the outlines of a colossal red bridge emerged ahead, spanning the horizon like a sentinel of this strange realm.
The elder's eyes were glued on it, her amazement echoed by the hushed whispers of the crew. The bridge was an enormous size and red in color, leaving everyone speechless. Beneath its towering arches, the fleet sailed slowly, the enormity of the structure dwarfing the ships below.
"These Americans must be unimaginably wealthy to build something so vast," she muttered, holding an orb she unwrapped from her robes. She handed it silently to a hooded mage.
The mage hesitated momentarily, then clasped the orb and began to chant it, her voice resonant with arcane power. Orb flared to life pulsing brilliant light before emitting a wave of energy that dissipated the lingering fog. Then, with visibility improving fast, sailors scrambled with the binoculars scanning around for signs of land.
The captain stood besides the elder, his face displaying interest and caution. "Elder, are these cities with towers that seem to touch the heavens?"
The elder, frowning, surveyed the landscape. The fog had obscured much of the view, and while the distant shore came into focus, the towering skyscrapers she had envisioned remained hidden. Before she could respond, the captain pointed to their left.
"A beach! We'll land there, Elder!"
The elder nodded, her vision riveted on a tiny village near the shore. "Look there," she said, her voice shaking with excitement. "A village! Perhaps these are the first of the Americans."
There was cheering from the deck now that the crew sighted the settlement. The men's hearts were flooded with hope and curiosity as they surmised the riches and knowledge this new world might yield.
But the brow of the captain furrowed as he turned to the elder. "Elder, where are the great towers you spoke of? Where are the cities of legend?"
Before she could respond, her glance sprang toward the sky to face a mask of incredulity. After casting her eyes upward, she brought the captain and his entire crew to witness a mechanical miracle—to their utter amazement—a rotor-driven creature shot over them, the body metal shining in a dazed light, as a rotating blade sliced through space above and hurtled toward the gigantic bridge.
"What is that?" she whispered, her voice not very audible.
The crew did not move. The galleon was held enthralled, watching with locked eyes at the mechanical leviathan. They had gone into a world much bigger than they could fathom, a land of impossible machines and unimaginable power.