Snowtalon: Sacred World, Part III
Zooming past were several Darkveil Associate Volants. The Volants were the standard low altitude fighter jet that the Tralonians used with variable speed settings. With such an extensive arsenal packed inside a tiny package that could move so fast, these Volants were more than a match for their enemies. Flying with them were Darkveil Rangers. Rangers used jump-jets and precise weaponry to get the drop on their foes. While the previous ruler of Tralonia possessed green-armoured Rangers, Darkveil Associates used black and purple, as all did the other units.
Lord Tharne Darkveil himself stood from the twenty-fifth storey of the Obelisk of Despair, an ominous monument built in his name, and an obvious pledge to his grotesque tyranny that he put over Tralonia itself. From Kizameth, he could see the dark magic storms circle in the distance, like harbingers of doom did jagged bolts of lightning crack, drifting ever closer. A smirk formed on the shadow dragon's face, turning to the figures behind him.
His two lieutenants, Slayvel - a DEMON assassin who had crossed Snowtalon the past - and Erilion the Immaculate, an impeccably powerful and obsessive incubus who recently came into Tharne's employ. Slayvel was a blood-thirsty brute with an unstably tempered katana, while Erilion, in rather severe contrast, was proper, clean and quite pretentious in the manner he behaved. He possessed dark grey armor and a large gladiatorial mask over his marble, pitch-black eyes. Slayvel wore battle armor and a strange, Qliphothic-looking helmet with a large stony mandible underneath, a tattered and worn cape flowing behind it.
Tharne took a casual slurp from the chalice he held in his hand. "Status, gentlemen?"
"They have landed in the undercity. We believe this is their 'Tyrian' team that they have down there." Slayvel answered, with his voice ever-so gravelly.
"We have no word of...his, movements, however." Erilion answered, the smugness sticking out like a sore thumb in his voice.
"'His'?" Tharne turned, a brow perking contemptuously.
"Skarius Snowtalon is leading the operati--" Erilion was immediately interrupted with Tharne approaching him in the blink of an eye and catching him by the scruff, lifting him up into the air. Tharne was even more robust than Snowtalon, standing at ten feet. His light purple eyes were interspersed with darker shades, indicating his eyes were bloodshot.
"You two were to kill him at any cost when you took the Crown of Shades! WHERE IS HE?!" The scaled brute bellowed. Erilion mentally noted not to piss him off again, if only he wouldn't have to smell the Tralonian's putrid breath.
"We do not know! He could be here at any mo--ulrrgh!" Tharne tightened his grip on Erilion and rumbled, baring his notoriously unclean and blunt teeth. The incubus choked somewhat, still in the hold.
Darkveil simply dropped Erilion, the latter of which dropping to his feet and gasping for breath. While he was hardy, the punt he received afterwards to the chest sent the incubus off his feet. Slayvel just stared at Erilion from nearby, a satisfied grin curling on to his face behind the helmet.
"Go. Subdue Snowtalon's lackeys, this 'Praetor Garrison', and these 'Tyrians'. I will be at the top of the Obelisk once the crown settles."
Nearby on his desk, a large pitch-black crown sat nearby, malevolent energy resonating from it. During his time with M.A.C.E, Snowtalon revealed the crown fit perfectly on his head, covering even part of his horns. Undoubtedly, it would do the same for Tharne due to them being of the same race. Darkveil gazed lazily out of the window as the brutish Slayvel passed by the still-dazed Erilion, bumping into him with one of his shoulderpads as he took one of the three elevators leading throughout the entire Obelisk. The incubus followed suite and sheepishly made his way after him.
"Right. Approaching the landing zone where we'll meet up with the other Tyrians," Snow began while in the front seat of his AVALANCHE tank, handling the wheel. The AVALANCHE tank was a gift from UNTIL which has served as Snow's personal vehicle for the last two years. Its ability to fly, its supreme firepower and armouring gave him the edge in heated engagements. "Head to the back, boys and girls."
In the back were Illusionista, Sasha and Mesira, along with two new companions naught previously seen. Michael "Armory" Renik, a nineteen-year-old contractor and kid genius who was Snowtalon's protege, and Varulfr, an Irish werewolf who also served with Tyrian but has decided to insert with Snow and crew.
When the AVALANCHE flew clear of the enormous vessel that was Invictus, Snow focuses his gaze on the sights before him. From here he could see the once-utopia that Kizameth was, almost like how he saw it when he left but as if something was wrong. The skyrail system could be seen from here, as well as many black and purple dots on the horizon.
Armory approached the cockpit and activated his helmet magnifier, amplifying his vision. "Uhm, Snow?"
In somewhat of a trance, Snow eventually snapped out and turned his eyes to Michael. "There something wrong?"
"I think we've got hostiles on the horizon..." In full armour, Mike raised his finger and pointed out of the tinted cockpit, and towards the fleet of Tralonian Volants heading right towards him.
"Oh, shit! Everybody brace yourselves!" Snow flipped several buttons above him, fixing his altitude in position while in flight. "Man the autocannon, Renik! Everybody, brace yourselves!"
Varulfr's keen, canine eyes zeroed in on one of the approaching Volants. "'ang on! I have an idea!" He spoke with a thick Irish accent. He flipped open one of the emergency hatches right above him."
"Oh, I hope he knows what he's doing..." Nista shook her head, realizing.
"Focus! Honey, I need you up the front here. I could use your psychic attacks on the Volant pilots up here!" Several slugs hit the surface of the tank's plating, causing several dents. They did not penetrate, yet, anyway. Illusionista made her way to the second seat and prepared herself, and closed her eyes. Whirls of pink energy started to appear, circling around Nista's head and indicating the young Colombian woman was infiltrating the minds of the Tralonian pilots. Thanks to their humanoid nature, their brainwaves were very similar to human ones.
Meanwhile, Varulfr clings to the top of the tank with his teeth gritted and his claws having been sunk into the surface of it. The Volants started fired around him, attempting to hit the wolfman who was currently climbing on top of the tank. One of the Darkveil-affiliated Tralonians zoomed past him, his fur matted back and flapping with the considerable wind. One of the Volants slowed down long enough to allow Varulfr his moment.
The werewolf pounced, drifting in the air before landing on top of the fighter. It looked similar to the head of a trident, with three prongs and the large back containing the pilot himself. He extended his already long claws and stuck them into the surface of the fighter plating, clearly with inferior material to the AVALANCHE tank. He climbed forward and smashed through the tinted black glass of the cockpit, surprising the Tralonian pilot. His mouth came open for a brief second before he met his end, courtesy of the canine claws that pierced his scales and drew slick purple blood.
With the deceased pilot completely at his command, Var lurches him to the left and towards another Volant, which rips open with another volley of autogun fire. Just as the slugs create ragged purple holes in the lifeless corpse of the pilot, he let the fighter fly over the second Volant before slipped his claws out of his neck, backflipping off it and landing face first on the second fighter. Though for the moment, Varulfr could not see it, the Tralonian's face was wide awake with terror. Viciously, the beast clawed at the cockpit.
Back to the AVALANCHE tank, Armory let loose an enormous volley of autocannon firing which cut down the swarm of Volants easily. The internment center was on the horizon, now in range. One of the Volant fighters exploded, violently, being hit by the main cannon of the tank. Four of his teammates follow him to the grave, while the formation behind them are suddenly attacked by a formation of telekinetic bright pink swords, slicing through the armour of their vehicles with little effort. Illusionista's psychic abilities kept them at bay.
Behind her helmet Mesira gazed out of the cockpit to see the majestic city closing in on her sights. The black clouds were beginning to circle around them and a jagged bolt of purple lightning cracked right outside of the tank, Snow lurching it to the side to narrowly miss it. Varulfr zipped about on one of the Volants, several of them having dropped out of the sky at this point. When the final Volant nearby fell, he leaped for the tank and landed on the hull, slipping through the hatch and landing on the floor. Only a single formation remained, which flew past the tank and quickly changed course, aiming back towards the tank roughly fifty feet away.
"Mesira! Show those bastards what you got!" Snow bellowed from the cockpit, having taken a few non-fatal hits from the autogun fire.
A small, satisfied smirk appeared behind the Rodi's helmet. "I will do more than show them. I will use them." With a certain flair unseen in people of her type, she approached the back of the tank which released the rampart, exposing her to the wind. The Volant formation opened fire, slugs reflecting off the armoured plating. A missile was fired towards her, but as her hand became alight with magic energies, the missile stopped in mid-flight. Along its surface it grew blue cracks and linings. Mesira was priming it with energy.
"Know the power Alouz the Wrecker grants me!" She states towards the hostile fighters. The missile changed direction and flew towards the hapless Darkveil pilots, some of which attempted to feebly steer clear of the explosion. Of course, it was useless, as the massive blue explosion engulfed the entire formation, reducing its scaled pilots to ash and disintegrating their vehicles.
Up-nodding at the scene, Mesira is clearly pleased with the development. That is, the magical explosion which has just claimed the lives of ten different Darkveil Associates. Only her victory was short, for she was almost shook out of the hovertank when another explosion happened, only this one was right next to her! Varulfr was blown back into the right side of the tank when a massive lightning bolt cracked through the left, tearing away almost half the tank and nearly taking Armory with it, who clung to the autocannon before he brought himself to the side of the tank which didn't have a massive bite taken out of it like some sort of giant had just ate half of it.
Before she almost fell over the edge, Gauntlet thought quick and extended one of his prosthetic arms, catching her and reeling her in. The rampart flung up, and the tank lumbered to the right as billowing black smoke and fired took over, tattered parts of metal and grating flying off into the coming storm.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck! Losing altitude, I repeat, losing altitude!" Snow shouted over the comms, with Drake Campbell responding.
"Colonel, any casualties?!"
"None so far, but we've taken a serious hit and we're plummeting to the ground! We're in for a rough landing!" With a tinge of desperation in his voice, Snow turns back to the others. "Armory, Varulfr, Mesira! Out you go!" The tank was getting dangerously close to the ground. Armory activated his jetboots and Mesira took to the skies with magical flight, flying out of the smouldering crater that was the tank. Illusionista turned to Snow, her eyes full of worry. Sasha clung to one of the rails on the ceiling.
As they descended into the street, Varulfr jumped out as well, tumbling on to the roof of a building resembling an office. Mesira and Armory rendezvous with him as the tank shot past, still aflame. "Quickly, brace for impact. Nista, you know what to do!"
One of the tank's remaining, massive hover ports clashed with yet another building and continued its inflamed descent. Snow nodded to Illusionista, who quickly raised her hands and brought them alight with psychic shields enshrouding Gauntlet, Snowtalon and her own body. The tank finally made contact with the ground, smashing into it hard and skidding across the nearby road, sending chunks of metal, gravel and concrete flying around, shattering the road like a fist through a glass pane.
Warrior-Servicemen, armed with their rifles, took position outside the chaotic scene while sniper rifle-equipped Rangers took to the roofs of the smaller buildings. Two very large Warmongers - heavier Tralonian troops armed with tougher armour and powerful weaponry that could tackle the toughest of warriors - flanked the Servicemen and the tank itself. The formation of Servicemen suddenly parted like a black and purple sea, to reveal a six-foot-six Tralonian Exarch - a key political officer who were attaches to their military forces, they wore long coats over light power armour that protected them quite effectively. He carried a longsword crackling with pink energy and a gigantic handcannon with red lights on it - a phasecannon. A powerful laser weapon which sliced through lower armours like a knife through butter.
Of course, these Tralonians were Darkveil Associates. And when the rampart collapsed, all hell broke loose.
IV