"High Mage Totha, what do you think of the war?"
"High Mage Tatho, I project that those heathens will be blown to bits?"
"You're right? They won't stand a chance?" The two spoke in this odd manner, their last word always arching upwards in a questioning tone. The sight was somewhat comical to the mages levitating above runes, though none had dared to laugh. That was because these two twins were the left and right hands of the presiding oligarchy and had near unquestionable authority.
They were never deployed, not even in the direst of straights. Their appearance alone showed that the Western Renthic mages were quite serious, hoping to end the war once and for all. The twin women clutched their tomes, fluctuating waves spreading over the entire armed force as they marched ever onwards.
Past green pastures and yellowing fields, brown trees with towering heights, stepping over every brook and stream as their feet pummeled the ground and traced lines in the air. The Glimsweld, the armored templars clutching necklaces, jogged in a bid to remain in front of the refined Swill that coursed with mana stores larger than their own. Their only solace was the scant nobility among the horde, as well as their natural mana at least being capable of some spells.
Hours streamed by without rest as the breath of olde magycks engulfed their forms, bathing in the natural glows that the earth shot up towards them as they replenished their stocks. The Swill remained full of mana as they were not extracted from, though some mages were eyeing their surrounding compatriots while licking their lips, hungry eyes directed at the veritable mana lumps. A soft turning of a tome's pages became a wave of sound as the noises resonated, almost as if a page of the very world was being flipped.
With this triumphant, arrogant, and contemptuous vibe they sullied first, the dunes of the Divide hanging in the horizon, mana assisted gazes spotting the first few specks of sand.
--
Thousands of meters away, the forces of the Eastern Renthic scientists displayed a similar marching front, though they differed in the three factions that the forces were composed of. Multicolored beams of light drew traces in the air as their synthetic coated fibrous armors moved, and the squelch of rubber boots resounded as uniform patterns were carved into the sand, and lab coats fluttered about wildly as wind blew up against them.
First were the scouts, who had thinner lab coats and tightened plasticine chassis that lined their sometimes ungainly, sometimes lithe statures. They had three different weapons, small handles that extended out into beam daggers linked by a chain, a laser pistol holstered at their side, and lastly, an extendable grip of a gun that could expand into an illusory pistol. The more illusory pistol was more like a disguised grenade, as it could consume the cannisters inserted into the slots inside the handle like batteries and charge up before delivering a variable pulse.
Second were the heavily armored statures, each of their heads obscured by gas masks adorned with medieval tassels, who slung along the third force, the accidents. Most of them were not unique in their capabilities like Aimee or Domingo, but instead were disposable flesh bags that had a few abilities that would make them rapidly deteriorate. The lucky ones abandoned their sense of self, as the more sentient they were, the more aware they would be of the pain that burgeoned in innumerable sectors as they would feel each and every single cluster of their cells slowly collapse.
Heading the soldiers were two skating figures, their shoes encased in hover boots as they traced the air, all while gripping onto beaming laser spears. They were Voc and Umim, the two head researchers that were assigned to bring home victory due to their prolific efforts. They have been on the battlefield before, evidenced by the lattices that spanned their bodies.
In fact, the duo were the reasons why the Renthic scientists weren't abruptly crushed by their spell slinging adversaries. They were two of the first experiments, though they only spotted agile bodies and durability as opposed to the more bizarre feats the 'accidents' could achieve. But sometimes, keeping it simple was the best, as they fought tooth and nail with undying allegiance to their scientists and the scars to prove it.
They drew ever closer to the boundaries of the Divide as their drab white and red uniforms drew lines in the sand. The only unique colors came from the various hairstyles, the differing skin colors, and the few personal expressive adornments that the many lines of engraved streaming lights offered.
There was no jesting or talking permeating the troops, as they either aimed stoic looks of determination, cries of anguish, or slavering babbles while globules of spit wormed down their bodies. The jostling of chains rang back and forth, becoming its own sound wave that resonated in turn.
The hours whiled by as the two armies could not help but be drawn to each other, both of their trajectories beelining for the Fracois Frontline. The mercenaries on the Divide took to many different taverns as they saw the new postings either on a board or were told about them by several barkeeps. The screeching heat of the sun bore down on the sand and the structures as their molecules sizzled, the more unfortunate buildings bursting into flames.
Several ragtag bunches of both well-equipped and barely regimented squadrons took to the trails, drawing tired lines as they slung banners in either brown or red, announcing their allegiance to each other. Some of the craftier profiteers actually held flags of both colors as they inched along, their goofy smiles seeming as if they were the result of the smell of grog that radiated from their sweating bodices.
And in the distance, bordered beneath two cliffs on either side, small spires of rock stood like trees, some even sporting branches and crystalline fruit. This place was the Fracois Frontline, named after the first betrayer Fracois who lead the scientists off into the east, escaping the incensed mages that sought to wipe them out. The name stuck on both sides, one accompanied by wrinkled noses and snorts of disdain, and another accompanies by longing gazes and hopeful smiles.
The two expressions would soon intertwine and create a contorted smear, as the flowing lifeblood would paint the sand...
--
Bie's eyes fluttered open as the cool air of the passage started to give way to spurts of heat as they made their way upwards from the bowels of the earth. Ulun smoke two cigarettes, sometimes bringing his eyes to the focused Uris with a reddened gaze before he brought his line of sight back down to his plated hands, grasping a single hook. The other lay at his feet, held down by his grieves.
Domingo had already pulled out the bone katana in all its glory, after Bie asked to analyze it. The three were quite surprised to see a demihuman perform 'magyck', Uris looking at the baby blue guide as if he were a kindred soul.
The blade's name was 'The Septum's Desire', and ranked at the D realm, offering so much as two digits in a total of potential points. Bie didn't covet it as much as he expected, pretty much guessing that it would last maybe twenty or so swings before it gave way. Instead, he clutched Ekulech, his bearded hand axe that still looked a bit crude, though it was a lot more graceful than its previous iteration.
Bie was drawn out of his thoughts as the rays of day had enveloped them all, and they shot directly out of the earth into the Fracois Frontline.