Last update:  27 September 2013


Sometime in August 2013

"Quickly!" barks The Commander.  "Down on this ledge!"

The rank-and-file complies, drops one-by-one from the plateau, down onto the ledge that nature herself carved into the mountainside over an eon. 

"Hurry now, move, MOVE!"  And they follow the Commander as he moves further along the ledge.

 In hot pursuit comes the enemy, dropping down the same way, only two seconds behind.

"Stand!  This is where we wipe them.  Get ready."  They all turn to face the oncoming enemy.  It's a perfect trap -- a thin ledge on the side of a sheer mountain face.  The attackers can only go forward into the defenders, back the way they came under withering fire or down off the ledge to certain death.

The Commander waits for the enemy to come in close enough.  "Now!"  The melee fighters charge.  The spellcasters cast.

And the Ranger fires.  He gives it everything he has, rapid-fires into the enemy mass, each arrow's momentum carries it through multiple bodies; he holds nothing back, unleashes the full destructive power he possesses in that one, brief moment.

And those arrows bounce off the red field that protectively surrounds the enemy force.  Feedback.  His arrows return along their path and the multiple bodies they pierce are those belonging to his friends.  He notices not, so far gone is he with lust for blood, so great his zeal to destroy the invaders.  Not until...

"Who used projectile weapons?!" demands the Commander.

...does he stop and recognize the full measure of his folly.


He awakes with a gasp.  Fresh sap covers him, excreted during the trauma of the nightmare.  He sits up, holds his head, pants for breath.  His breathing slowly returns to normal.  He sits there, rocking back and forth slightly, arms around himself, head down.

This night is a sleepless one, like so many before it.  Like so many to come.