7 tons of reinforced steel sat idly by, snuggled between the waving brushes of an open field, and one such magnificent willow tree — aged, yet no less lively now than centuries past. To the south lay Picorro river, winding and slithering through Laestrohm countryside without so much as a care in the world. Children of all ages frequented this hotspot day after day, wading through the shallows waist deep, fishing for the occasional straggler tadpole, and more often than not, coming up with handfuls more than expected.

To the north lay a dirt path leading to and from Laestrohm. Hundreds of miles further, just barely within United Imperium borders and of strategic value, the bustling town of Faelmond stood firm. It was here that the 131st Heimer Republic Legion would commence their assault, break through enemy lines, and shove the advancing 47th Imperium Infantry Battalion back.

Or so was the plan, at least.

The 7 tons of reinforced steel shifted ever so slightly, its barrel just barely poking out from within the brushes. To the unwary traveler, a patch of odd brown veering to and fro would be of little concern; to the more astute, however, they would perhaps begin to notice the subtle lining of metal tracks, or the faint silhouette of a machine gun, or the shadow of a man peeking from within his hatch.

This man reeked of cigar and peppermints, and more often than not, could be seen stumbling about town, drunk as a lowly sea-scourge. But today, and particularly today, he hadn't so much as a slight drop of a whiskey, or a single swig of beer. In fact, he was as sober as they come — and for good reason too.

To be drinking on duty would be quite unwise, not to mention, of course, court martial-able.

And so, the man did not.

Instead, he went about his day peering through the sights of a stained periscope; or exchanging tales of daring exploits and close encounters; or — only when in the best of moods — reminiscing of the past.

Of when things weren't quite as grim.

Or as dark.

Or as gruesome.

There were 4 under his direct command: Llyris, a dedicated driver addicted to chocolate and other such sweets; Veric, an ammunition loader, and master of every card game under the sun; Kayden, a machine gunner who, every Sunday noon, kept to himself and his church-ly obligations; and of course, Rhanes, the main gunner himself — a man of questionable motives and morals, and who had a love for nature.

They were close, each and every one of them. Having served 3 tours together, and having lived through each without so much as a scratch, the crew came to be more than just colleagues. Some would perhaps go so far as to call them the best of friends.

Chatter erupted from a nearby radio, echoing throughout the cramped interior. The man the good people of Laestrohm simply referred to as Sergeant Vergahn answered.

"Panzer V, come in. Over."

"Go for Panzer V, what's shakin' GQ? Over."

"Panzer III and VI reports wyvern-riders within your perimeter. Confirm? Over."

"Aye, sorry boss; I wish. Ain't nothin' out here but wheat for miles — wheat and cow shit, aye. Laestrohm ain't much fun either, I tell ya. Must be 'em jackasses messin' with ya boss man. Over."

"Affirmative. Over."

Oh, yes, slow day today.

Very, slow day.

In two days, the assault would commence. The 131st Heimer Republic Legion — accompanied by various, much smaller divisions — would attempt to siege the town of Faelmond. If such an attack succeeded, then perhaps the tides of war would shift in their favor, and perhaps even force the Imperiums into a perilous situation. And then, maybe — just maybe — all the fighting and killing and murdering could just. . . Stop.

Could just be done with.

Could just go away.

Vergahn raised a silver blade to match his gaze; he stared at the reflection within, and it stared right back. Even his very own face — the face of a man once spirited and vigorous and all things lively — sought to delude him. It was the look of a soldier, clinging to what little hope remained — clinging to the idea that someday, the war could finally come to an end.

And yet, such a wild notion deserved only ridicules and jeers. The clash between Heimer Republic and United Imperium came to be an entire millennia ago. What could he do in two days that a whole empire could not in 1000 years of conflict? What could one lowly soldier possibly do to dictate the writings of history? What could be done — if anything — to restore peace and balance?

Oh, the answer's quite simple, really.

The death and destruction of both belligerents: United Imperium and Heimer Republic alike.

Surely then, when nothing's left to fight for — and when nothing's left to stand against — even the most patriotic of soldiers would lay down their arms in an instance.

A dangerous thing, hope is.

A very dangerous thing, indeed.

***

Despite the afternoon sun glaring down upon Laestrohm countryside, the day was unusually breezy — cold even, one could say. But even if such a thing were to be true, the 5 man crew of the 7 ton behemoth would say otherwise. To them, the day has been how it's always been for the past 12 months: stinking to high heavens of old sweat; cramped, stuffed, jam packed beyond belief; and an absolute, utter nightmare.

Of course, most of the time was spent dodging shells and mowing down lines of infantry with bullets the size of whole bananas, which ultimately left little avenue for complaints. And when not thrust into the gaping maw of peril itself, oftentimes they found the company of one another enough to distract them from the sorry-state of their lives as is.

Llyris wiped the sweat from his brows, sniffled, then turned his attention towards the man sitting directly beside him all day, every day. The machine gunner returned his gaze.

"What? You startin' to like me or somethin'? Quit starin' weird you oaf."

"You ever been to Faelmond, K?"

"Err, nothin' there to see but posh milksops 'n miserable old fools. Not much of a town, if you're askin' me — heck, not much of anythin', actually. My pa been there a couple times. The old man didn't care for it one bit."

"But the lasses. . . Ooh, hot damn."

"Now, don't you go lettin' the good lord catch you with that there dirty mouth of yours. He'll smack 'em lips right clean off and soap 'em real good."

"Your lord get off on that?"

"Keep up that talk 'n I'll lay you flat out, boy."

"Who you calling boy, boy?"

"Oi!" a deep voice boomed throughout the cramped interior, startling both men. Silence fell upon in an instance. "Quit yer' yappin' you two! Can't ye' see I'm tryin' to get some shut eye?! Do me-self a favour and zip 'em blabberin' potholes, ye hear?!"

Llyris and Kayden stared at one another, mouthed several profanities, then returned to their posts, quiet as any Stoneport nights. And when all was silent once more, and when all bickering ceased to be, the ammunition loader — old as he was — sank into the inviting embrace of his seat, drifting off once more.

"Old man's cranky today," Llyris piped in, whispering. A sly grin cropped up from ear to ear. "Fucker must've missed his morning coffee."

"Or his beauty sleep," Rhanes added, flicking through the pages of his personal journal, and on more than one occasion, jotting a word or two down.

"What'd you think he did before he joined the army?"

"With these Stoneport types, can you ever tell?"

"A cutthroat, maybe?"

"Might explain the eye patch."

"And the accent."

"And the scars."

"The fucking smell too, holy shit."

Vergahn unhitched the pistol clutching tightly unto his belt, shoved a magazine through the bottom, and cocked it a-ready. A single bullet shot out from within, clattered noisily about, then came to settle just inches from where Llyris and Kayden sat. The two stared at their commanding officer, a look of utter confusion and absolute bewilderment spilling across both their grubby faces.

"Sarge?"

"Aye, eyes up — god damn it all, Veric wake the fuck up. Somethin's stumblin' about the woods."

***

And he was right, something awfully large stumbled about the distant woods, moving whole boulders and bending entire trees. The sergeant peaked from within his hatch, a pistol in one hand, a pair of binoculars in the other. He surveyed the tree line, every nook and cranny; every tint of black and shade of green; every inch of exposed land towards the horizon and beyond.

Vergahn's eyes shot wide open.

"Battle positions, aye!"

Out shot enormous claws, gnarly and crooked, tearing through ancient trees as if they were but paper; out shot bloody jaws, titanic and ravenous, snapping at the remains of a Heimer Republic Sentryman; out shot scales of black, serrated and jagged, gleaming in the afternoon sun. From within the forest stepped a towering wyvern, black from the toe to the horns to the claws and fangs, and atop its back, a rider too clad in the darkest of darks. The man had with him a ceramic mask carved into the likeness of a demon, and it, admittedly, had done well to obscure the face — and perhaps strike a hint of fear in the soldiers opposing.

Both man and wyvern fixated their eyes upon the 7-ton tank sitting idly, its barrel trained towards their position. And yet, they moved not so much as a single inch.

They were not the least bit deterred.

Vergahn flicked the radio in hand live. Static dialed in. "GQ, come in. Over."

"Copy. Over."

"This is Panzer V, I'm lookin' at a Class-B Imperium wyvern 300 yards outside of Laestrohm south, south-west border. Requestin' QRF on sector C-6 — we need immediate backup. Over."

"Affirmative. QRF 17-2 has been alerted, ETA 10 minutes. Hold steady Panzer V. Over."

"God damn you, we ain't got 10 minutes! Did you hear a fuckin’ word I just said?!"

"Hold steady Panzer V. Over."

Static, static, and more static. Sergeant Vergahn stared off into the distance, disbelief sweeping through every vein. 10 minutes until Quick Response Force answered — unbelievable. By then, who knows what could've happened? Who knows how many lives would be lost? He tallied the odds. Rigorously.

Generally speaking, three Heimer Republic panzers could match an Imperium wyvern of equal strength and size — albeit suffering casualties. One tank, on the other hand, would be of little consequence to the beast, and should it fall, what would be of Laestrohm? What would be of the town Vergahn came to know and love? What would be of the people? Of the 12,000 innocents going about their day with not a care in the world? What would be of the children?

By the time Quick Response managed their way through city gates, perhaps nothing of the quaint, small town would be still left standing.

And that's not going to happen.

Not on his watch.

"Sarge!" Llyris shouted from within. "What's the order, sarge!"

"Suh!" Kayden piped in as well, a cigar hanging loosely from both lips. "Let's get the hell outta here! The good lord has my hand but that there's the devil's work, suh!"

"No can do, K! We leave now and Laestrohm'll be nothin' but ash and stone shit by the time QRF comes. We'll blow this scum-suckin' shit all the way back to Imperium doorsteps and show these bastards what's what. Veric, HE round; Rhanes, hit that son of a bitch!"

Lock. "Clear, Oi!"

And loaded. "On the way!"

Blam!

The round sailed forth, trailing a line of black smoke. It zipped through the air, arched, dove for the wyvern, and met its mark, exploding. The dirt beneath scattered, leaping to and fro; a cloud of dust erupted upon the horizon, accompanied by one of gunpowder and ash.

The machine gunner peeked from his periscope, surveying the barren landscape. "Did we get 'em?!"

Vergahn too peered through his binoculars, scanning for remnants of the beast. One could imagine the disappointment when he found more than just bits of wyvern flesh and dragon scales left loitering about. "Negative, aye — she's a real beast! Veric, HE; Rhanes elevate, same target."

"Clear!"

"On the way!"

Blam!

A second round sailed forth, landing just a few feet from the first. It struck the wyvern wing-tip first, then came to disrupt a hundred pounds of dirt from their rest — nothing more. The second shot had not missed — no not at all. It met its mark dead on. But if so, why was the beast still standing, and very much so alive? Why had it not so much as a scratch? Vergahn squinted, trying to make heads from tails.

Perhaps this was a new breed of Imperium wyverns — a new weapon, one could say. She was like nothing Vergahn ever laid eyes upon, nothing like the untamed wyverns of Escardia or the free drakes of the Highlands. She was a prototype, maybe.

And a damn good one too.

The sergeant flicked his radio alive; his crew responded. "Aight, boys, listen up! We're not gettin' through those scales with HE alone; we're needin' somethin' bigger, somethin' stronger. Somethin' that packs a little more punch."

"AP, sarge?" Veric responded.

"Aye, let's give 'em hell!"

"Clear!"

"On the way!"

Blam!

Yet another round came for the wyvern, this one, designed to tear through even the purest of Imperium steel with ease. And if such a thing were to be true, then dragon scales would be of little concern — theoretically speaking.

The shell arched, dove, and whistled for the drake. Just when it seemed such a volatile shot would make quick work of the towering beast, it leaped with surprising agility, spread both wings, and came to elude Gentleman Death’s call once more. The round scraped one side of its horns, grazed a fang or two, and disappeared into the distant forest, exploding soon thereafter.

The wyvern gave a roar, pounded at the dirt, and took off running, flaring eyes fixated upon the Heimer Republic panzer. Its rider sat atop its back, carrying with him a rifle locked and loaded.

"Llyris, left stick, back up! Veric, AP; Rhanes, traverse left — put it up the kisser!"

"Roger, roger!"

"Clear, boys!"

"On the way!"

The tank rumbled to life, lurched, then reversed, and all the whilst, firing a fourth round towards the gaining monstrosity. The shell zipped forth once more, and once more, it met nothing but the warm embrace of dirt and perhaps the dead trunk of an oak tree.

Vergahn swallowed hard; he had a feeling his men did just the same. At this rate, the wyvern would catch up to them in about 5 or 6 shots, and if such a thing were to happen, well. . . That wouldn't end quite too well, now would it?

But what if it was to stop moving, even if just for a split second? What if the Imperium drake was to stand completely still, for long enough to land a single shot? That would suffice, would it not? That'd be the end of it.

But how, exactly?

How would he make it stop moving?

Just for a second?

And just like that, an idea sparked.

***

Much to the United Imperium's surprise, the 7-ton Heimer Republic behemoth ceased its retreat all together, then lurched steadily forth. Its barrel swiveled to and fro, settled, then launched yet another shell towards the raging monstrosity. The rider tugged at both reigns; his beast followed suit. It leapt to the side, braced for the proximity impact of a highly explosive round, but found not so much as shrapnel and debris.

Instead, a choking cloud of gaseous concoction came to, scorching every inch of exposed skin and burning the eyes. The rider made the mistake of inhaling — just once — and found his lungs screaming out in agony. Still, he pressed on. Another tug of the reins forced his wyvern into action; with a mighty bound of the heels, a beat of the wings, and a shove of the arms, it leaped from the cloud of yellow and back unto the wheat fields.

Only to find yet another shell already on its way, and this one, was but inches from its mark.

Boom!

The AP shell cracked straight through wyvern shell, tore apart threads of charcoal flesh, and separated bone from body. The round exploded, scattering yet another mountain of dust and dirt, and this time, there was but the company of utter silence to ease the men's nerves.

There was no pounding of claws.

Or beating of wings.

Or snapping of jaws.

There was but silence.

Sergeant Vergahn sucked in a raspy breath, unsure what exactly was to come. He was certain the round connected; with such little time to react, surely the beast and its rider would be but specks of dust and pieces of minced meat by now. And yet, an uneasy feeling crept up and stalked about his every thought.

"Oi, sarge! Did we get 'em?

"Negative Veric, I ain't got a visual. Until I see this motherfucker's body ya just keep loadin’ them AP's, understood?"

"Hear ye' loud and clear, sarge!"

The cloud of dust shifted; a figure from within lumbered forth. The wyvern rose upon both legs and beat its wings once, clearing the Laestrohm countryside of debris and dust all at once. Vergahn peered through his binoculars, examining the beast from head to toe, tooth to nail, and stumbled upon a most unfortunate discovery. The round had met its mark, indeed, but not quite where it was intended. Instead of a gaping hole through the side of its skull, the shot split open a mere section of the drake’s wing and blew its bottom jaw completely off.

And clearly, it was quite upset.

"Rhanes!"

"On the way!"

A third and final AP round sailed forth.