Chapter Text
>Somewhere at the edges of the Mud Kingdom_
Muskeg didn’t much like water.
“Just a little farther, now!” He heard Grouse’s deep voice bellow out.
Water was cold and wet. It covered you all over and made you feel heavy. It chilled you and made you feel empty. Running water, just like this, was particularly bad. Always moving, always rushing, always cold.
Mud, though, that was great. Mud was thick and full. So full of stuff! It felt great to wallow in, never making a dragon feel empty and cold like simple water always did.
Muskeg wished he was napping in a mud pool right about now. All his siblings probably did. Any reasonable MudWing, even unsibs, would. Unfortunately, that wasn’t something that they could be doing right now.
Well, they probably could, but it wouldn’t be a very good idea.
Officially, they were supposed to be tramping around near the beach, making sure no SeaWings were trying to come out of the water to attack them again. But they hadn’t done that in like… forever. Grouse, their bigwings, didn’t really care for doing those boring laps all the time anymore. None of them did.
So instead, they were going out to go find some food. Muskeg was absolutely starving. It felt like he hadn’t eaten in a whole day! It had gotten really hard to find decent prey around the area of the swamps they were in, probably something to do with all the other soldier dragons that were there these days. The area they were hunting in was close enough to their usual worn patrol paths that they could get away with it; and it wasn’t as though their superiors would really check hard enough to know they had gone off-route, anyway. They never did.
The small troop of MudWings lethargically waded to the other side of the river, and slowly climbed onto the dry soil. They could have just flown over- they could just be flying around in general. But flying was tiring. Tiring was hungrier-ing. They also ran the risk of being spotted by ‘friendly’ SkyWings or higher-ranking troops farther back if they took to the air, who would suddenly be a lot less friendly if they saw a bunch of MudWings going off patrol. Likewise, if any unsib troops were stalking around the area and saw them flying in the sky, but his troop didn’t see them on the ground; they could go back and snitch his troop out. That would be bad.
Oh, there was also the chance that SeaWings, their actual enemies now, might see them from the water. For all that would accomplish them.
“Hey, you guys smell that?” Muskeg heard Drizzle, their light-brown sister, call out once she got ashore.
“Huh?” Several other dragons responded, all dripping water.
“I think I smell scavengers! There must be some around here!”
“Well, of course there are.” Limpkin, a tall dark-green remarked. “This area is infested by them. There’s a big scavenger den around here, don’t you remember? Of course their smell would be all over the place.”
“You think we might be able to find any of them?” Fungus, a small greenish piped up.
“Moons, I hope so.” Muskeg replied. “I’m hungry. Feels like we haven’t eaten anything in forever.”
“Scavengers are kinda rare, these days…” Drizzle said. “They’re worth a lot, at least compared to other prey. It could take a while to find any, even over here.”
Hmph, that’s annoying .
Muskeg huffed, “Maybe if we find a bunch, we can bring some back; win some favor with the superiors. Maybe even some SkyWing commander. We could get a promotion above running these stupid patrol routes all the time. Do something interesting for once.”
Everyone, even Fungus, was a little hopeful at that prospect.
Grouse, though, was a little less enthusiastic. “Hrrr… don’t start making plans. Keep your head. Remember: scavengers are aggressive, especially near their dens, like we are. They also don’t just roll over and die, no matter what the SandWings say. If there’s a pack of them, they’ll probably attack us.”
Grebe, A big dark-brown similar in size to Muskeg, snorted in response. “Come on, Grouse, you can’t be worried about scavengers, of all things? What’s a bunch of angry marmot things going to do to an entire troop of MudWings? Poke us with sticks? Pelt us with heavy things?”
Muskeg agreed, but didn’t say anything. He sometimes found Grouse’s tendency to caution annoying, and it had often proven unnecessary. But it was more or less his job as bigwings to do so, even if it serves little practical purpose. Muskeg supposed that was at least better than a bigwings who never cautioned, and instead always drove their troop to precarious situations. There were certainly plenty of those around.
The small sibling troop put their snouts to the ground, and smelled for any particularly strong concentrations of scavenger smells.
“I’m not picking up any trails.” Drizzle said after a moment. “It… kinda smells like they’re everywhere… or maybe their trails all intercross? I can’t find any directions.”
Limpkin huffed. “Let’s just wander further into these dry forests. If we get close to a group of them, we’ll smell them. Then we can sneak up on them.”
Nobody argued, or offered any better ideas. Grouse nodded his approval, and off they went. Spreading out a little and slowly stalking between the trees of the decidedly not-swampy woodland.
***
>Amidst the forests of the Lesser East Peninsula_
Corporal Desmond Walters kicked a pebble with his foot, watching the light gray mineral bounce into a tree.
“Holy shit. The precision.” Private First Class Davis deadpanned from just behind him.
The assistant squad leader huffed a chuckle, adjusting the strap on his M1 rifle. “You hot, Davis?” He grinned back at him.
“Damn right it’s hot. Are you not?” The city boy BAR wrangler grumbled immediately. “How many more of these trees we gotta walk past? It’s past noon, and I don’t know about the rest of you assholes, but this gun is heavy as shit.”
“Oh, noes. Is the poor baby tired of carrying the machine gun?” Private Andrew Gibbons, laden with magazines as the BAR Ammo Bearer, gave him a scathing look.
“Man, fuck you, Gibbs.”
“Can it, boots.” Sergeant Jonathan Dyche cut in sternly. “Need I remind you for the umpteenth time this is an actual patrol? Also man up, Davis. We’ve only been out here for a few hours.”
“Yes, sir.”
Walters grinned, but said little further. While it would be nicer to pass the time with some useless talk and banter, Dyche was right. They were indeed on an actual mission this time, as much, or little, as that really meant in this case.
A patrol task, for what that was worth. Apparently some diplomatic shenanigans had been pulled with the higher ups, and now his squad was one of the guinea pigs for joint activities with the local paramilitary-thing. One such activity was running their routine territory patrols with them.
It seemed a little much to attach an entire rifle squad to an existing scout unit for what was supposed to be just another patrol run, but this was (literally) unknown territory, and nobody was particularly keen to take any chances by breaking up squad-level structures at this point. Also because Uncle Sam would probably have an aneurysm through even worldly rift at the prospect of grunts not doing something at all times.
So, here they were. 12 American dudes of assorted background, along with a scout patrol unit of 6 locals. Making 18 men in total. Quite the crowd- hopefully they’ll be able to throw enough lead downrange to make up for their relative deficiency of stealth.
18 men, plus one dog. Desmond amended himself. Eyeing the rather peculiar large mottled brown canine that the local Guard Scouts apparently regularly brought along with them on their patrols. If he had to wager what breed it was, he might say something close to a greyhound. With a lean body, long legs and a thin tail. It was a little bigger and bulkier, Desmond thought, than a true greyhound.
Obviously these folks’ breeds don’t quite match up with what we’re used to. He didn’t doubt for a second that the dog was fast, and had an extremely acute sense of smell. As would make sense for a tracking dog assigned to a patrol unit.
Desmond had to admit; he was a little impressed with the surprisingly utile MO these folks worked by. When Dyche had let him know they were gonna get stuck doing menial operations with the local armed forces, he was expecting something more… medieval. Not that a platoon-sized unit of general-purpose infantry or pikesmen or whatever would really make sense in this context, to be fair.
What these folks were, if anything, were specialized forces. Highly configured and adapted to their specific mission profile, to the exclusion of most anything else. Small six-man ‘squads’ with a tracking dog for patrolling forested areas where peasants worked, making sure everything was alright, screening the area for certain ‘fauna’ and making sure they stayed away if possible.
The young Corporal was distracted watching the big hound-like dog cheerfully trot up to another squadmate to sniff at his hand, and didn’t notice one of the local scouts approaching him.
“Oya, you get forest like t’is where you from Tyekt’ikn, la ?” He said.
Desmond turned and regarded the man. Rough as his pronunciation was, he still had a surprisingly good grasp on communicating in English, given the relatively short time he would have had to study it.
Lazik’krn, his name was. Desmond heard it translated to ‘ferret’ in English. It seemed a little… insulting to refer to a fellow man as an ill-tempered polecat-thing as his actual name, so they had come to just call him Lazik or Laz.
Guardsman Laz was one of the few in his profession that had managed to pick up much English, hence why the respective unit and squad had agreed to work together. Even with him as translator, communication obviously wasn’t great, as nobody else in either group could understand the other. Such was part of working with foreign operatives.
“Kinda like this, I guess. I’m from an old town called Marshall, in a place called Texas. We got some woods around that town kinda like this. Not as hot and humid as it is around here, though.”
The forests around Marshall, his hometown, had a lot more pine and oak trees than whatever these woods were, though they were a similar density. They got particularly beautiful in fall, when the deciduous trees would begin to change colors.
One of Desmond’s favorite times of the year was when his dad would take him and his brothers hiking up the Old Stagecoach Road, admiring the trees. Struck bright shades of red, orange, and yellow by the season chill.
Don’t think about home.
“Ye? It ‘cause we live nea’ t’e jungle an’ t’e swamp, la! Such humid!” Laz said brightly. “You not from nea’ jungle, Tyekt’ikn, la?”
Corporal Walters chuckled. “Naw, not really.” Texas has many things. ‘Rainforest’ was not one of them.
The party of men marched along. Davis and Gibbons, miraculously, managed to keep their mouths shut for more than six minutes.
The local scouts showed their experience in the routine, relegating themselves to communicating almost entirely nonverbally and easily keeping low profiles as they made their ways through the woods.
They moved not as one large unit, but rather split up in pairs and followed along seemingly random courses that intersected and separated and bisected and just went all over the place. It was incredibly confusing to keep track of, but they insisted there was a strict pattern to them, which they held to closely. Dyche took their word for it and had the American squad split into teams to follow their lead.
For what felt like quite a while they all moved along in this manner, covering ground and finding nothing of particular interest beyond the ever-repeated trees and occasional fallen log or stone interspersed randomly. The canopies provided much welcome reprieve from the heavy sunlight, but it was still sweltering. Especially laden with all their gear as they were.
Eventually Lazik came up to him again. “Oya, we is gettin’ close to waypoint, la. ”
In response, Desmond pulled out a hastily sketched map of the area they were wandering around in, and realized he probably ought to have been keeping better track of their position as they trekked along. He wasn’t sure where they were on it, nor did he see any particular landmarks indicated by the existing map on their way.
Laz pointed a finger to a particular spot close to the center of the peninsula, which seemed to have an icon denoting a small structure marked on it. “Got t’e whole map up ‘ere!” He reached up and adjusted the juniper green hood that was part of his lot’s strange uniform with a grin. “Been doin’ t’is too long, la. ”
Walters, along with the rest of the squad, had been briefed beforehand that there were a few “watchtowers” spread throughout the forested region that serve as rallying points for local operators and landmarks for local civilian workers. They hadn’t, however, been given any physical descriptors as to what these buildings would look like. Only that they were there.
In a couple of minutes, they would get those physical descriptors.
Pushing through a bush, Desmond laid eyes on what was… decidedly smaller than what he was expecting. A stout structure of stonework, it was hardly a ‘tower;’ being not much taller than a fairly large shed in height. It had a thick base of cobblestone, a short pyramidal roof of brick-like slabs; held up by pillars of yet more rock. Well worn by countless days of weathering, and covered almost utterly in creeping ivy vines. A meager, unhappy edifice; yet standing defiantly against the elements as the only man-made building in the area.
The soldier within Walters reasoned the belfry-shaped thing could make for a good machine gun nest, although he doubted it would stand up to 37mm anti-tank or 60mm mortar fire for long.
The mottled greyhound happily cantered past their team up to the tower, sniffing around for things undetectable by the humans. The respective American and local squads converged around the tired lookout.
Lazik’krn spoke up again: “T’is ‘ere one o’ our old bell towa’, la . Someone see Nrgvynrch all flyin’, ring t’e bell. Ready for fight.”
Desmond had been briefed on some of the functions of these ‘towers,’ as they had been apparently the subject of some discussion and debate between his folk and the locals. Questioning the utility provided by a bunch of buildings such as this spread throughout the forest, given the infrastructure it would have cost to set them up.
Apparently, they served multiple purposes; so they had been told. A rallying point like they were using it for now, and a landmark for more civilian folk out and about. If airborne (or otherwise) hostiles were spotted, some scouts would hurry over and slam the bell as Laz said, which Desmond couldn’t see at the moment, to both get the attention of other scouts and civilians to either take cover or get ready for a fight and hopefully distract the hostiles. Other towers within hearing range would also start clanging, furthering the disorientation and making a chain that went all the way back to the town. Alerting literally everyone to the situation in mere minutes.
It seemed a pretty good system, if it all went to plan.
Lazik went up to discuss something with his apparent squad leader. Seemingly coming to a quick consensus, he then went up to Sergeant Dyche. Relating something in broken English.
Eventually, Dyche nodded and turned to address his squad: “Congratulations, Davis! You girls get to take a breather. We’re stopping here to reassess and get our bearings, and dodge the sun a little. Then we’re continuing our lovely hike.”
Everyone, not just Private Davis, groaned gratefully at that. Marching through a hot forest in full combat load for hours was not fun for anyone involved.
While the boys competed for spots in the small structure’s shade, Corporal Walters noticed the local officer raise his hand and create an impressively loud whistle with multiple notes using his hand.
Laz once again appeared behind Desmond. “Oya, t’at e’ whistle signal, la.” The shorter man, who Desmond actually thought was older than him by a few years, pulled out a small carven wooden whistle from his uniform.
“Use t’ese signal ot’er peoples. E’eryone get one, la, but ones can make whistle wi’t hand a’way brag ‘bout it.” He said with a small huff.
Desmond snorted at what he was pretty sure was a joke. Eventually, another whistle sound came from the distance; similar to the notes from the local squad leader, but with a few extra. It sounded fairly far away.
Laz spoke up again. “T’at mean t’ere some farm guy o’er t’ere la. Bunch o’ ‘em. Also e’eryt’ing all good wit’ t’em, la. K’kcyvlik rik ynnli q’tkxiv j. ”
Sometimes, Walters wondered how some of the boys in the language learning efforts picked up the local language as fast as they did.
Guess some folks are just wired for that. There are also a lot more locals that can speak English, even ones like Laz, here- than there are us that can talk to them.
“Y’all got a whole set of whistle signals like that?” He said.
“Ye. For all kinda’ sit’ation. Bo’t scout and normie peoples learn ‘em la. Us scout learn more. Take fore’er, la.”
The young Texan was sure of that. He was never particularly good at whistling, and just those two signals sounded rather complicated. Learning and mastering an (presumably) entire system suitable for communicating needed messages would no doubt take time. He could see some higher-up folks getting impressed by this feature of the primitive paramilitary.
Eugh. Better make sure my squadmates keep their mouths shut about it, actually . He thought with a wince. None of them wanted to give a certain Staff Sergeant or Major any ideas.
For a good handful of minutes, both squads, American and local, took a well-appreciated break from the sunlight glaring through the relatively sparse tree canopies by taking cover in the shadows cast by the watchtower.
The six local scouts hung out in the short belfry-thing, losing some of their gear, which they had kept largely concealed under the rather cloak-like uniforms they wore. Desmond imagined they were probably hotter than his squadmates were, although the heavier attire offered better camouflage in their current environment.
Three of the guardsmen, including Laz, had peculiar-looking recurve bows that were about less than half the size of the massive 10ft longbows the guards stationed in and around their castle-bunker-thing in the town.
Desmond didn’t know a whole lot in terms of practical knowledge about bow hunting. His Dad’s Model 107 had been the only true hunting weapon he’d used until he joined up. Although he would wager those bows could hit pretty damn hard with iron heads. They looked a lot more serious than some of the bows he'd seen back at home.
Two of the Guardsmen had not bows, but rather peculiar oversized quiver-looking things that reminded him a little bit of a caddie bag. Rather than carrying various golf clubs; they instead contained several- roughly 100 inch long, he’d guess- javelins with mean looking heads indeed.
The last man of their unit was the commanding officer, as evident by his posture and bright blue cuff on his right sleeve. Desmond had noticed that blue color was common amongst ‘official’ stuff in the town regarding its leadership. He didn’t pull out any ranged weapons like the other folk did.
Their tracking dog didn’t do much in particular. He trotted up to some of the American infantrymen sitting on the ground in the building’s shade, sitting himself and panting.
As for his squad, everyone found some spot or another to cool down a little and drop some of their gear. The BAR team; PFC Harvy Davis the gunner, Privates Pete Brown the assistant gunner and Andrew Gibbons the ammo bearer, had all propped their weapons against the stone foundation and were seemingly arguing about something. Riflemen Terry, Lukens, Gray, all Privates- along with Rifle Grenadier Benford, PFC, were discussing something with Sgt. Dyche. The rest of the Riflemen, O'Reilly, Kent, and Manuel, were sitting against the foundation with their helmets pulled over their eyes.
Around them, the wind- a gentle passive breeze blowing from the south- switched directions and appeared to blow from the west. Coming from the marsh area they weren't supposed to go, he believed.
Walters had to say; this was going pretty well. Certainly, it was hot and boring, but that was to be expected. The boys were getting along better than usual, which made this a lot easier. The locals, too; even though they seemed even more unfamiliar with working with foreign operators than they were.
Sgt. Dyche called Walters over, and they discussed details about their traversed route on a map and the remaining territory they still had to cover with Lazik’krn.
Dyche was fixing up to call it and tell his squad to get off their butts and get a move on, when the local’s tracking hound- who had been calmly walking around sniffing the dirt for things- abruptly switched to tense position; hackles raised and snarling furiously.
The local scouts immediately jumped to the ready, drawing their weapons and scanning the area frantically. The Americans, much more slowly, followed suit.
Laz came up to Walters and Dyche again. “T’ere only one t’ing get him piss off like t’at, la.” He said, referring to the dog, with a grimness uncharacteristic of his usual tone.
“He smell Nrgvynrch , Tyekt’ikn. T’ere eit’er some ‘round ‘ere, or t’ere was some ‘round e’re, la.”
“I think he means their dog detected either current or recent dragon scent in the area, Sarge.” Walters translated for Dyche.
“That mean we’re getting serious?” He said. “What do we have to do first?”
“Find farm guy an’ we gotta find Nrgvynrch sign, la.” Laz replied. “Eit’er new trail, or…” He trailed off.
“Secure the civilian workers and locate dragon signs or actual dragons present in the area.” Walters conveyed.
And, if we do find live dragons, drive them off. He thought.
Dyche hurriedly filled the rest of the squad in on the situation while the local officer did the same.
“Finally, shit’s happening.” Davis muttered.
“Move out!” Dyche shouted. He turned and gestured to the local officer to lead the way.
He produced a strange clicking noise with his tongue, and the mottled greyhound-like dog went running with an angry bark. Nose to the ground, trying to find a scent to track.
The humans all hustled double-time after him, the locals were evidently careful to step lightly and keep their silhouettes down, the Americans tried to follow suit.
***
>Somewhere in the forests of the Tail Peninsula_
The scavenger trails were proving a pain in the tail to track.
Even Drizzle, who possibly had the best nose out of them, couldn't pick out a direction. What scent trails they did find were short, criss crossed randomly, or led in circles.
It was so frustrating. Why couldn’t this just be easy and straightforward like normal? Then again, nothing was supposed to make sense with scavengers. That was kind of their point.
I guess that’s why they call it a ‘wild scavenger chase.’
After what felt like hours of searching, the mud dragons managed to find something more substantial than a sparse trail that went nowhere.
Muskeg once again brought his head close to the ground and inhaled through his nostrils. There was a rather strong scavenger smell coming from somewhere up ahead. As though there was a talonful of scavengers all together, in one place. Not really moving anywhere in particular.
The troop of siblings, spread out as they were, slowly made their way closer and closer to the apparent origin point of the smell. Muskeg could both see in his periphery and hear his sibs pushing through trees and bushes as they tried to creep along.
Eventually, the wind shifted direction and blew from behind them, and the scavenger smell diminished until it was almost undetectable.
Muskeg hissed angrily, while the rest of the sibs conglomerated together into one group just ahead. He moved forward to join them.
“We lost the scent.” Drizzle moaned sadly once Muskeg got close.
“The wind moved against us. The scavengers should still be there, right?” Limpkin said.
“The wind’s blowing from us towards them. Can they smell us coming, now?”
“I think they’re too dumb for that, Fungus.”
“Shut up.” Grouse growled. “We keep moving up. Fungus, you go further ahead and stalk them.”
“What? By myself? Why me?”
“Because you’re smallest. Less likely to see you.” Grouse rolled his eyes.
“I’m with Fungus.” Limpkin retorted. “Why bother sending the runt forward when we can just rush the scavengers all together? What’re they gonna do?”
“Hey!”
“Same here.” Grebe said.
Grouse only rolled his eyes again. “ We’re sending Fungus ahead, so we can see how many scavengers there are and if they have claws .” He hissed.
The older sibs looked like they still wanted to argue, but nonetheless kept their snouts shut under Grouse’s glare.
They pushed Fungus forward, and he reluctantly crept through a bush, and towards where they used to smell the scavenger cluster coming from. Quickly disappearing from their direct line of sight.
Muskeg rolled his eyes as he heard what he was sure was Fungus rustling through bushes and stepping over sticks and stuff on the ground. Even small as he was for a MudWing, he still made an annoying amount of noise trying to get through the foliage.
Hopefully he’ll figure out how to quiet down before those scavengers figure out where he is…
The troop, minus Fungus, quietly sat around for a time. Listening to the wind rustle through the trees, watching the midday sun shine through the leaves. It was quieter than the swamps here. Much quieter than the army encampment. Lacking the constant buzz of insects and growling clamor of dragons pushing over each other.
Where are those dumb scavengers hiding? They can’t be too far; it's not like the things move very fast.
Eventually, after what felt like forever, The sibs finally heard the rustling and crackling of Fungus trying to sneakily make his way back to them.
“There’s- hhhheh- a small pack of scav- hhhheh- scavengers in a little clearing- hhhheh- up ahead.” The small greenish said once he made it to them.
“Why are you wheezing?” Muskeg said flatly.
“Mind your own mudpile, Muskeg!” He retorted.
“Did they have things?” Grouse hissed.
“...No, not really, I think?” Fungus said tentatively. “At least, I didn’t see any claw-looking things or treasure or anything scavengers are supposed to carry. They were all doing… stuff… in and around these weird trees. I didn’t get a super close look.”
“See! They don’t even have their stupid claws! Can we please just go get them now?” Grebe complained.
“...Fine.” Grouse growled.
With that long-awaited confirmation the troop quickly began to move out. Following along a similar path Fungus apparently took, trying their best to keep low profiles. (With even less success than the much smaller sib did.)
Under tree and leafy marquee, through brush and thistly bramble the MudWings crept, keeping to an uncharacteristically stealthy hunt than was normal for their tribe.
With bulk and strength like theirs, (and all dragons, but them especially) it was simply easier to just rampage through, terrorizing their prey into blundering into their clutches rather than going to all this effort to stalk and ambush them. Perhaps it would seem Grouse’s cautious attitude had subconsciously worn off onto them, but such should be the case; given he was the bigwings.
Muskeg ducked under a low-hanging branch, when he finally caught the scent of the scavengers once again.
He wrestled the instinct to quicken his pace, feeling another hungry pang. Creeping low, he craned his neck up to peer over a hedge to see a little farther ahead.
He froze when he finally laid eyes on the prey they’d been hunting this whole time. Scavengers.
As Fungus had claimed, there was a whole pack of them, in and around these small talonful of trees that looked decidedly different from the rest of the ones that made up the wood. Rather than hanging around in the trees like monkeys should, most of the lanky things were all over the ground. While some were clumsily clambering around the lower branches of the trees, reaching with their pathetic paws up to pull brightly colored things out of the canopies and toss them down at the scavengers on the ground.
Stupid freaks. He scoffed. They’re just bumbling around doing useless scavenger things. Not even watching for dragons, not even ready to try and fight.
It was no wonder there were so few of these things left on Pyrrhia.
Muskeg stalked forward a step, but winced instinctively when his talon met the ground with a sharp crack! sound.
He looked down. He’d stepped on a stick. Of course he did. There’s always a stick to be stepped on at the perfect moment.
Whatever. If these scavengers are too deaf to hear Fungus blundering around, they definitely didn’t hear that.
He looked up again at where the scavengers were. Just his luck; one of them had whipped its head around, and was staring with its beady forward-facing eyes directly at him, completely frozen. Muskeg stared back for a moment, also immobile.
Does it see me? The MudWing wondered.
As if to answer him, the scavenger suddenly dropped the weird thing it was holding, reached its paw up to its face, and made the most absolutely annoying intense high-pitched screeching noise he’d ever had the displeasure of hearing.
The rest of the scavenger pack immediately dropped whatever it was they were holding, jumped out of the trees, and fled as fast as their two legs could take them.
Muskeg snarled frustratedly and surged from his position, charging after the cowardly creatures as best he could through the trees. His siblings, realizing what happened, abandoned their own approaches and loudly followed suit, roaring hunting cries as they did. The six sibs spread slightly out in case the scavenger pack tried to split up or change direction, crashing through trees and over bushes as they pursued their much smaller prey through the light forest.
***
>Amidst the Forests of the Lesser East Peninsula_
Corporal Walters noticed, not for the first time, that the locals were very evidently better at this than they were.
As it stood to reason, since they literally grew up here and made a career doing this. The Americans didn’t exactly cover ‘tracking and counteracting dinosaur-sized fire-breathing super lizards in wooded environments’ in basic.
The locals, despite their shorter stature, moved quicker and more easily through the brush, around the tree, over root and small ditch. Footfalls much lighter and surer than their American counterparts.
That of course wasn't to say that the American boys couldn’t keep up; they fairly easily kept pace with the locals as they double-timed it through those woods; even if their gait wasn’t as quiet. This environment wasn’t all that dissimilar to ones they themselves had grown up in.
Most of them, anyway.
“Damn this, damn this running . Always running . Fucking hate running. ” PFC Davis huffed.
“We’re in the Army, shithead! What’d you expect!?” Gibbons shot back.
“Shut it.” Walters ordered, cutting them off.
The young Corporal adjusted his grip on his rifle yet another time. There was a chance- a good one, even- that they weren’t actually about to see combat. The tracking dog had only apparently picked up the scent of a dragon, which means there was one nearby, and it could very well have already passed through.
If there had been a confirmed dragon sighting, they would have slammed the crap out of the bell in that watchtower, and would be moving a lot more frantically right now.
At least, that was what he had inferred from what the local scouts told him already.
Scouts that were just ahead of his squad, keeping low and moving along with practiced pace. Various weapons were drawn and gripped firmly. Except for their officer, Walters still didn’t see him brandishing any visible weapon. Their mottled brown greyhound-like dog ran ahead of them, sniffing around, growling and chuffing agitatedly.
Desmond was just getting into a rhythm; when a piercing, frantic whistle of only one note came from somewhere ahead, the same direction the response whistle came from earlier. He didn’t think he needed to be filled in by Laz on what that one meant.
Surprisingly, it seemed the dog didn’t, either. He charged ahead of his masters with a howl, barking angrily as he made off.
With a shout, the local squad immediately broke into an all-out sprint; abandoning any previous vestiges of keeping a low profile. The Americans promptly followed suit.
The local squad leader made another whistle signal, this one shockingly loud- with a piercing, rapidly oscillating tune.
Walters made a point to run up to Lazrik. “Laz!” He shouted, “Is this what I think it is!?”
The local scout looked frantic, and mad. “Oya , Tyekt’ikn, la! Nrgvynrch fuck hunt farm guy!” He spat, running alongside the American.
“T’at signal; boss-alarm! T’ey know we ‘ere! T’ey know we comin’!” Laz shouted in between breaths.
Without wasting a moment, Walters slowed his pace slightly and hollered to Dyche: “Code red, Sarge! We got civvies and dragon hostiles! They know we’re here!”
The implications of this were obvious.
That panic whistle means civilians have spotted, and are probably being assailed, by dragon creatures like the ones they shot down over the town. Most likely the “Swamp Dragons” they had been briefed on. He remembered those ones were supposed to hunt in packs, and were huge.
The response whistle the local officer is giving is meant to let the peasants know their location, so they can run towards them. That also meant there was a pack of 3-ton armored lizards crashing after them.
And that meant he and his boys were running straight to them.
Suddenly, an enormous sound- a chilling cross between a big cat’s roar and gator’s snarl- with the force of a small foghorn reverberated through the trees, from ahead of them.
Desmond drew a blank on what they should do. This was so unlike anything they had been trained for, and it was the first time any of them had actually been in a combat situation.
“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit-” Davis panted.
“Walters!” Dyche shouted. “Get the BAR ready! Gray, Lukens, Kent, get on and flank west! Rest of you, with me!”
“Yes, sir!”
The squad listened without hardly a moments’ hesitation. The three Riflemen broke off to the left, ducking under a tree branch as they made their way up a small bluff to their nine o’clock.
The BAR team fell in with Corporal Walters, ready to set up a firing position at his discretion.
The Rifle Grenadier and the rest of the Riflemen took up the forward position along with Dyche, with Walters and the BAR team running behind.
The men ran into view of a small clearing in the woods, only about 40 yards long. A small creek ran along the eastern edge at a 50 degree angle relative to their position, the bluff the other Riflemen ran up to perform a flank was on the western side.
The local squad leader started issuing his own commands. Although he didn’t shout orders, rather raising his right arm and making several series of hand gestures and motions to the operators behind him.
The javelin-throwers and compact archers closed into a V-formation behind him, arrows loosely knocked and javelins ready. Laz slowed down and formed up with Desmond’s team, also readying his weapon. The leader then made a sort of jerking motion with both arms, a pair of serrated bayonet-sized knives suddenly appearing from each arm- as though concealed under each sleeve of his coat.
Another massive sound, this time like a tree snapping, came from ahead.
Eyeing a large fallen log at the edge of the clearing, Walters ordered the BAR team to set up the rifle upon it, as it seemed a suitable spot. Hopefully the automatic weapon would provide enough firepower to scare off the impending dragon creatures.
“Get that weapon ready!” Desmond shouted.
Davis slid to a stop and almost slammed the BAR down, Gibbons and Brown coming down on either side of him, readying their own M1 Rifles and spare ammo mags for the auto rifle. Walters crouched next to the three, his own weapon at the ready.
It did not take long to set the BAR up, as it was not a true LMG. Davis extended the bipod and set it upon the log, trained the weapon forwards and racked the charging bolt. A ready magazine already in the receiver.
“Ready, Corporal!” He shouted.
Laz fell in beside Desmond, having separated from his squad. “Oye Tyekt’ikn, we far back. T’at bolta betta’ hurt, la.” He hissed, nocking an arrow.
“Hey, Gibbs! More rounds I shoot off, the less shit you have to carry back to base!”
Far ahead of them, Desmond could see treetops shaking and thrashing as though something huge was crashing through them. Several somethings, as the shaking came from multiple spots. He could hear what we really hoped wasn’t ridiculously heavy footfalls. Another snarling roar came.
The Texan exhaled shakily. Fingers on his rifle white with his grip. This was nothing like shooting for game. This was more terrifying than a Drill Sergeant in basic training after some idiot trainee touched his round brown.
Another sound like a tree snapping. Desmond thought he heard a scream.
This was impending death approaching.
“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” Desmond whispered. “I will fear no evil: for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff comfort me.”
Keep us, Lord. You’ve kept us this far; shield us from this horror. Please.
He charged the op rod on his rifle.
Suddenly, numerous figures suddenly burst into the clearing from the opposite side. Locals. There were about a dozen of them, not wearing the cloaks of the paramilitary scouts, rather more random drab simple tunic-and-mantle-esq attire of kinds he’d seen commonly donned by pedestrians back in the town. Men and women, and a few teenagers. They looked to be some of the most panicked people Walter’s had ever seen.
And they were in between the machine rifle and the incoming hostiles.
“Move it, dipshits!” Davis hissed.
The local scouts rushed to try and put themselves in between the civvies and the hostiles.
Corporal Walters grit his teeth. All they could do was shout at them to move, but they wouldn’t understand them. Even if they spoke the same language, they probably still wouldn’t get why they suddenly needed to change course.
If they used the BAR, they would risk hitting friendlies. If they didn’t, it was down to the handful of Riflemen outside of cover to neutralize what felt like an oncoming carnivorous freight train.
This was bad. This was real bad.
The trees just behind the clearing started to shake. Desmond thought he could see a huge shadow appear.
Sergeant Dyche met the small stampede of panicked civilians head on, and yelled straight in their faces to duck in the creek, pulling out his combat knife- a weapon they would be more familiar with- and pointing towards the ditch for effect.
The locals, despite not being able to understand his speech, seemed to find the screaming 6’4 American pretty persuasive. It probably helped that he, and a few Privates he’d brought up with him, started shoving them towards the small trench.
The dragons were almost upon them.
The local scouts looked on at what they were doing with horror. People lying prone in dikes were even easier targets for dragons than those with full mobility on flat ground. They abandoned their ready positions in the middle of the clearing to try and assist the civilians in spite of the foreigners, in doing so removing themselves from the machine rifle’s line of fire.
The trees were still shaking.
Walters didn’t waste a second. “LET ‘EM HAVE IT!” He hollered at the BAR team.
All other sounds vanished as the BAR roared to life, spitting .30 caliber suppressive fire at the hostile approach. Davis probably shouted some profanities at them as well, but they were drowned out by the chattering cacophony of .30-06.
Davis burned through an entire 20-round magazine in fast-fire mode before any of them could so much as realize it.
“FUCKING SON OF BITCH ‘MACHINE GUN’ MY ASS!” The idiot gunner spat as his fun was cut off, ejecting the spent mag and shoving another Gibbons had already had at ready into it.
The lull in fire was quickly filled by pretty much the rest of the rifle squad laying in fire with their M1 Garands. 7.62mm ball and tracer rounds from Brown and Walters, as well as Dyche’s team from their prone position in the ditch, sprayed the treeline with a torrent of indiscriminate suppressive fire, ripping up foliage and knocking down a few small trees themselves.
From the corner of his eye, Walters could see muzzle flashes coming from 10 o’clock high. The three-man flanking team, adding their own semi-auto weapons to the fray.
The entire American rifle squad hit the incoming pack of dragons with a barrage of suppressive fire, not even waiting to make visual contact. The power behind the battle rifles easily able to punch through the sparse foliage.
***
>Somewhere in the forests of the Tail Peninsula_
They were going to get these stupid scavengers.
The pathetic treasure-thieves had managed to make distance from the sibling troop, weaving between trees with their weird lanky bodies while the MudWings had to crash through them.
But now they were gaining on the pests. They were not going to let them get away, not after tracking and chasing them for so long.
Muskeg plowed through another bush with an angry huff. He could hear the scavengers just ahead of him. He could hear their annoying squeak noises. He could hear another high-pitched screeching coming from farther ahead.
The MudWing prepared to put on a burst of speed, he was going to charge forth and pounce on one of the stragglers. He could see a clearing coming up past a few more skinny trees. His siblings, all beside him, could keep chasing the rest of the pack.
It was then that the forest itself decided that it hated them. Because it suddenly started exploding.
With no warning, painfully loud, impossibly rapid thunderclap-like sounds shook the entire woods. Strange, fiercely sharp cracking noises like wildly intense stick-snapping accompanied by horrible buzzes like gigantic insects whipped through the air around him.
Everywhere, leaves and branches and tree trunks and everything started getting blasted apart by unknown forces. Bits of wood and bark and shredded leaves splintered apart and flew everywhere as small trees keeled over and branches were ripped off their trunks.
Muskeg felt as though claws were being driven into his ears. The clamoring din of crackling thunder was deafening, quickly reducing the entire perception of his acute dragon hearing to little more than a dim ringing.
The pounding sounds rattle across his wings and spine and skull and hurting ears, disorienting him. He stumbled on his talons and nearly lost his footing- forgetting for a moment which way up was.
Suddenly, a small tree trunk right in between him and where the scavengers ran- right in front of him- burst with a small splintering eruption and he felt something tiny and hot slam into his left shoulder. Piercing through his scales and jarring his entire body.
Muskeg jerked and tumbled to the ground with a pained roar. It felt as though he’d been stabbed by a SandWing tail. (If a small one.)
On the dry dirt, his wild eyes caught a streak of ruby-red light blaze over him to his right, smashing into a tree just beside him with a cracking thud he could feel. A bright glare of the same color fell from the spot of impact, drifting almost leisurely down until it landed on his wing. Leaving singing, burning pain on the part of the membrane it contacted.
The MudWing hissed and tried to shake his wing out, when another tree right beside him erupted in splinters. The wooden fragments mostly bounced off his scales, but some got stuck in his other wing membrane. One of the splinters smacked off his snout right in front of his eye.
Muskeg huddled under his singed wing, mind addled with a wild terror and panic quite unfamiliar to it. He could feel the thundering and the crackling and the buzzing and small bursts of wind on his wings.
They were being attacked by everything, from everywhere, all at once.
WHAT IS GOING ON!? ARE WE BEING ATTACKED BY GHOSTS!? FOREST MONSTERS!? WHAT IS HAPPENING!?
Another hot thing bit through his wing, and it felt like something glanced off one of his horns, breaking it. It jarred his head and sent dizzying shockwaves bouncing around in his skull.
Muskeg dropped his wing and peered around with unfocused eyes. Maybe we should retreat? That’s an option…
He saw a huge Grouse-colored shape rear up and probably roar something he couldn’t really hear. He saw the Grouse-looking shape pick up and throw a smaller Fungus-looking shape in the opposite direction they had been chasing the scavengers, and the Fungus-looking shape took off running.
Yep. Retreat, then.
Muskeg staggered to his talons and turned around. Limping on his injured foreleg. He felt something bite into his tail and roared, but grit his teeth and determined to press on.
He tried to build up a running start so he could jump into the air, but his wings were wracked with pain by big splinters, holes, and the singe. His sense of balance felt all messed up, too; he could barely walk in a straight line. There was no way he’d be able to fly like this.
He could see his siblings moving with as much haste as they could manage in his periphery. They were also sticking to the ground, and also had limping gaits.
Running, then.
This was the worst hunting trip in Pyrrhia.
***
>Amidst the forests of the Lesser East Peninsula_
“CEASE FIRE! CEASE FIRE IN THE HOLE! CEASE FIRE!” Corporal Walters hollered his own voice hoarse.
Davis finally laid off the BAR. Dyche’s team had already stopped shooting. The flank team promptly followed suit. His M1 Garand felt hot under his left hand.
Desmond breathed shakily. Is that it? Did we scare them off? We better have; if a whole rifle squad doesn’t do it, what would? A .50? Mortars? Artillery support?
When they opened fire, the thrashing treetops had suddenly ground to a halt while they sprayed the treeline with suppressive fire. They started up again after about a minute, but this time going the opposite direction.
Walters ejected the empty en-bloc clip with a ping! he couldn’t hear over his own tinnitus.
He wasn’t ashamed to admit he was shaken up. That was possibly the most terrifying thing he’d experienced. (He was green, and the only hostile fauna had experience with was some Texan wildlife. A bobcat and boar at worst.)
Somehow, that they never actually laid eyes on the massive creatures tearing through the forest at them, having only heard the huge things, made it more terrifying. Leaving exactly what such powerful creatures that could do that looked like up to their imagination. But that was probably the normal human response, right?
“FUCK YEAH, BITCHES!” Davis roared, “FREEDOM: ONE, FOREST MONSTERS: ZERO! FUCK ALL OF YOU!” He picked up his BAR by the stock and carry handle and heaved the heavy gun victoriously over his head, holding it aloft.
Laz jumped up as well: “OYA Q’RXCT ICT NRGVYNRCHLI Y’KNI! ZIKN YICT’SIRK N’AKT!” He screamed what was sure to be profanities, clapping Davis on the shoulder and sprinting off to meet his squad.
Walters and the BAR team picked up their stuff and spent magazines and followed him, intending to meet the rest of their squad. The flank team emerged from the western treeline,
The local’s tracking hound came running from the eastern side, over the small creek. It had apparently fled there once the shooting started.
“Davis!” Sargeant Dyche shouted once they got close. “The hell you do to that poor gun’s barrel!?”
“Spread liberty and democratic values, sir!” Davis hollered back.
Dyche rolled his eyes “Tell that to the quartermaster when he comes to rip you a new one.”
“You all right, Sarge?” Walters cut in, addressing his whole team. “Sorry for, well, almost shooting y’all.”
“What’d it sound like?” Davis grinned.
“We’re fine. If you assholes’ aim was any better, you would have taken my damn helmet off. Talk to the locals, they’re the ones you probably traumatized. Corporal, ask Laz if we need to pursue those hostiles.”
“Oya?” The local in question perked up at the mention of his nickname. “P’sue? Mean like chase? T’e Nrgvynrchli go back swamp, la! Not come back. We no follow!”
“You don’t pursue hostiles after they rout?” Dyche said somewhat incredulously.
“You see how fast those things were moving, Sarge? You wanna run after that?” Someone said.
Dyche shook his head. “How likely are those things going to double back on us?”
“T’ose? Prob’ly ne’a.” Lazrik snorted.
The local scout officer shouted something authoritative-sounding, seemingly addressed at both the civvies and his unit. The civilians in question were still slowly climbing out of the ditch Dyche’s team had dragged them into to get them out of the way of the BAR.
Walters quickly made over to help them out, as any gentleman should. He was halted from actually offering his hand to any of them, however, when a young-looking local woman with a battered dark-green mantle who’d already gotten free of the indenture approached and threw her arms around him.
“ T’syei-t’syei, t’syei-t’syei, t’syei-t’syei… ” She choked out, gripping the stunned Corporal. Another woman, who looked old enough to be Desmond’s mother, put her hand on her shoulder. Saying something softly and pulling her away. She gave him a respectful nod.
Walters absentmindedly tipped his helmet back at her, still rather taken aback. He watched them reconverge with the rest of the civilians, about a dozen of them. The younger woman seemed to be crying.
Could be in shock. The American Corporal wondered.
“S’ee say t’anks, Tyekt’ikn. ” He heard Laz say solemnly from behind him.
“Yeah, I gathered.” Walters replied. “It’s Desmond, by the way.”
“Oya?”
“My name. Desmond.”
The shortstack scout chuckled. “A’ight, t’anks Dezz.”
Walters turned and regarded the local for a moment. “...Sure thing, Laz.” He replied eventually.
“Alright, boys!” Sergeant Dyche shouted. “Hope you enjoyed our lovely sightseeing hike! We got a bunch of fragmented scales and shit to drag back to base for the eggheads, and civvies to bring home! Get your shit and let's move! Terry, Kent, quit playing with the dog! Let’s go!”