The first archer to draw his bow all of the way back exploded, showering crimson blood and pink brain matter all over the contingent of archers around him as he sank headless into the murk. It was an act of violence so sudden and brutal that it stunned them to inaction, and they watched jaws agape at the rapidly darkening piece of swamp their friend had once occupied. They couldn’t imagine what sort of weapon could accomplish something so terrible, and in their ignorance convinced themselves that any object of such power, must surely only be capable of a single attack. The second explosion resounding out across the swamp robbed them of that hope, and the third, and the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, like the very god of destruction they revered was himself taking part in their raid.
After reloading his revolver Ozzy spent the mana to summon Frank, the cohort of archers was all but decimated and his opening volley was serving as a secondary distraction for Emil, letting him continue his grim work with only manageable interference. As Frank plopped down on the deck he growled, somehow aware of the violence well before he’d been summoned.
“Help Emil.”
The rat didn’t hesitate and scurried off of the boat moving much faster than any rat had the right to and running atop the surface of the water. Ozzy was glad for it too, he didn’t have the time to plan something out for the rat, summoning Frank was in and of itself a gamble. Despite having saved both he and Emil from the root sucker Ozzy didn’t know what kind of capabilities the little rat had when it came to actual combat, he just hoped whatever Frank could do that it’d be enough to see them through.
Having taken the time to reload as he’d summoned Frank Ozzy was back and ready to lay down some serious hurt, but as he got back to a standing position he found his cover situation or rather the lack of it, to be serious problem. It seemed the raiders had very quickly realized he, was the source of all that troublesome death from afar business and they had responded with their own ranged weaponry. Arrow after arrow thudded against the platform and wagon walls.
Despite a strong start they’d barely sent a tenth of the raiding parties number around the bend and there were still somewhere in the range of ten to twenty archers peppering his position with arrows. Were they smarter they might have split their fire between the two defenders, but what little they had seen of Ozzy’s firepower left them beyond eager to get him off the board.
“War Shell!” Clear as day Emil’s voice cut through the war cries and screaming like a blade through water. An instant later and Ozzy’s platform was encased in a translucent red dome.
“Sweet mercy.” Never before in his life had Ozzy been so happy to hear the word shell. Arrows began to bounce off of the shell, snapping and splintering as their very stoppable force met Emil’s very immovable object.
Standing up Ozzy laid back into the ranks of archers, they were far enough away that he couldn’t simply fan his hammer and expect results and so the going was much slower than would have been convenient. The War shell had held up against an onslaught of root sucker strikes however. A couple of arrows were practically nothing, and slowly but surely he whittled the archers down. Ozzy fired on anyone that had a bow, and soon enough there were none left, all of the archers having either fallen or fled after realizing the futility of their situation.
It was at this point that the shell began to break down, an acceptable outcome at this point in the fight. It was also the point at which the more melee oriented fighters began reaching the wagon.
Seven men, all savage and furious clambered up the side of the platform, they looked like half drowned rats. Their clothes were stained not only by the mud and bile of the swamp but by the blood and gore of the comrades they had waded through.
The first man to charge Ozzy raised a massive cleaver, he hadn’t even completely cleared the railing but he was already sailing towards him, blood rage unmistakable practically feverish in his eyes. A blast from Ozzy’s shotgun turned the mans chest into pink mist. The second man up didn’t even make it over the railing before this world’s angriest ball of lead tossed him back ten feet and one lung lighter into the swamp.
Ozzy’s coach gun had the wonderful ability to run either rifle rounds, or shotgun shells, and while the shells weren’t as cost effective as his revolver was they more than made up the fact for it in the close quarters game. The last thing he needed to be worried about when someone was running at him with a club was making sure to aim center mass, but it didn’t matter where he hit anyone with a magical clump of buckshot. They were going down and they were going down hard.
The third raider to attempt boarding seeing his friends glorious failures attempted something different. Rather than exposing himself to Ozzy’s line of fire he hurled one of his fallen companions weapons over the platform right at Ozzy. It was the large studded club of the second man and it flew clumsily end over end but the raiders aim was true, and the large weapon struck him squarely in the chest.
Despite what was probably a fifteen pound club smashing into him his body reacted instantly and without his input, the movement came almost as naturally as breathing. He leaned to the side relaxed the muscles in his chest, and rolled with the impact, basically redirecting the club off of himself and into the side of the wagon where it splintered the corner of a support beam. He had no time to ponder his sudden martial prowess however. The third and fourth raiders were already over the railing wicked looking blades held ready as they charged.
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Without enough mana to justify summoning his revolver or time to reload the coach gun Ozzy used it to block the heavy overhand strike the first raider threw at him. It was jarring but the blade skipped down the length of the barrel forcing the raider off balance as he held onto the heavy blade. With his stance open and blade momentarily out of the equation Ozzy stepped forward into the man’s personal space and torquing his hips he used his entire body to drive the butt of the gun into the man’s neck.
With a croak and gurgle the raider fell backwards, his large knife clattering to the floor as both of his hands wrapped protectively around his throat. The second raider came in with a vengeance and much faster than the first. Not to mention he had the advantage on time and was already much closer behind the first raider than Ozzy had expected. Ozzy was wide open as the raider swung his cleaver down in a devastating overhand blow right into Ozzy's shoulder.
Instantly Ozzy lost control over his left arm, there was no feeling, no muscular response, or pain past the devastating wound in his shoulder. The wound itself however was somewhere between, lighting yourself on fire, and getting mauled by a tiger. It was altogether worsened however by the raider who just couldn’t quite manage to yank his blade out of what was probably his ribcage and remnants of his collarbone. In what probably looked like the most gruesome shakedown of this swamps history the raider jerked him around by the bloody handle of the knife.
Despite having disarmed his attacker, he couldn’t make the most of what despite his grievous wounds, would have been an excellent offensive opportunity. He’d dropped the coach gun and was desperately trying to summon his revolver but each jerk and spike of pain robbed him of the concentration he needed to call the weapon into his hand.
Realizing he wasn’t going to get his knife back the raider changed tactics. He stopped shaking Ozzy like a rag doll for the brief moment it took him to land a spartan kick right in the center of his chest, throwing him against one of the wagons support beams and off of the cleaver. Once again in control of his weapon the raider took a moment to admire his handiwork, lifting the blade up into the light of the flare to get a better look at the blood and viscera that clung to it.
“I offer thee as a tribute to the great mass.” The raider grinned at him like a snake. “Pass in pain hunt-”
BOOM
The raider never got to finish his sentence. What had been a man just moments before took a single stumbling step and collapsed, a pool of blood flowing freely from a gaping wound in his forehead.
Leaning against the now bloody beam Ozzy took stock. Both raiders that had made it onto the platform were down. One of them much more so than the other, the one he’d checked in the throat was still squirming about with his hands around his throat and Ozzy put a bullet in him, unwilling to risk the chance that the man might recover and stab him in the back.
Norman had been dragged off by a pair of fishermen and was hopefully being rendered aid. Then as he was busy taking stock of everything a final raider came for his piece of the pie. His hand never even reached the railing.
If spent force was a person they’d have resigned and given Ozzy their job. There was nothing in the world he wanted more than to lean back against his little beam and take the world’s fattest nap but there were things to do, and people to kill.
As he stood he was met with a fresh wave of pain that stretched all the way down to his diaphragm. Thankfully he was no longer bleeding, which he mostly attributed to Furry Fortitude. It didn’t matter what Emil thought about absorbing shards, so far furry fortitude had proven itself to be worth every penny and potential future risk.
There were still plenty of raiders left in the swamp, though they were rapidly getting torn apart by Emil and a rather unfortunate looking rat sheathed in green energy. Frank was a whirlwind of green and gore. His favorite means of attack seemed to be charging up some of his green energy before launching himself up out of the water like a missile at a cluster of enemies. He would hit one of them and sometimes two, the majority of the time just going straight through the raiders like they were made of paper. It was like the world’s furriest heat seeking cannonball had been let loose on the raiders and the ones that weren’t left with gaping wounds had already turned tail.
Emils side of the swamp was going a little worse than Franks. Unlike Frank and Ozzy his abilities were more about buffing a fortified position than prolonged combat. While he did throw the occasional bolt of flame he was largely relegated to using his sword. Despite his deficiencies in standard battlefield combat however he was no slouch with his weapon and against the untrained mass of quantity over quality raiders he was basically untouchable.
With Frank routing the raiders on his side and Emil holding steady Ozzy found himself at a loss for what to do. Frank didn’t need the help and Emil was just too close and fast moving to risk sending lead at his opponents. In that moment of uncertainty he felt the rush of combat ebb within him, forcing him to look at the battle with his innocent earthly eyes.
Blood, the swamp reeked of it. He gagged, tasting its’ coppery tang with every shaky breath he took. It was just too much and he made a break for the platforms railing as bile forced its way up his throat. He might’ve made it too, were it not for the unmistakable crunch of bone beneath his boot.
In the midst of carnage and combat Ozzy dumped his stomach contents out onto the platform. It barely registered to him as he caught his breath and stumbled the rest of the way to the railing. It was like looking out onto one of seas of hell. Over fifty men and women floated lifelessly about, their bodies bumping soullessly into each other.
Bloody, shaky hands, trailed their ways through Ozzy’s hair and over his face. He’d done that to them, he couldn’t begin to comprehend how many of them he’d—. Unable to finish the thought he threw back up into the swamp, his vomit mixing slowly into the bloody cocktail. It had only been two days since he’d come here, he thought, two days, that was all it took for him to devolve into a serial murderer.
Leaning over the railing he pressed his face into his hands, ignoring the discomfort as the bones in his face ground against the hard wood. He could have reasoned with them, given them some their catch and loot. Sure they’d found a lot, but how could a couple thousand roqs worth of treasure compare to the horror he was witnessing not thirty feet from him. It was a life altering sight, and he had the distinct impression that this nightmare, was all too normal here.
