Amidst the chaos that the Shinki Itten harbor had become, Wren found himself experiencing a strange moment of calm. It was as if the world around him had slowed to a halt, the cries of the injured and the shouts of the Banken and the groaning wood of the critically damaged dock fading from his ears. There was only Wren, his thoughts, and the knowledge of what was still to come.

Those ships were also Red Players. Had to be. They’d utterly destroy the rest of the harbor. Lives and livelihoods wiped out. Had to be stopped. No other way.

Wren hadn’t felt this way since he last waded into the thick of battle, and he hadn’t imagined he would ever feel this way again. Old habits die hard, it seemed. Good thing, too, because while the Banken weren’t sitting on their hands they had failed to grasp all of the key necessities of the moment. Around half of the guards were rushing in to escort civilians to safety and rescue the wounded, that was good. And maybe a third had joined with the dock workers in a frantic effort to keep the flames from the crashed boat from spreading, also good.

But the rest were entirely focused on the dancing Red Player, who continued to cackle and wriggle and yell even as more and more arrows struck him. Distraction. Obvious distraction. Successful though. Wouldn’t do.

This had to be dealt with.

Wren’s voice slipped effortlessly into his familiar battlefield bark. “Aryn!”

The young man and the dozen other former Oaken Elf soldiers immediately snapped to attention. “General!”

“Company status!”

“Five spearmen, six archers and one mage, General!”

Good, Wren had thought that the lanky elvish girl was one of the few mages to have survived their last battle. He never could recognize them without those giant hats they’d always insisted on wearing. “Are spells ready to be deployed?”

“Yes General sir!” the mage called back, snapping a smart salute. “Levels One through Four, all slots available, sir!”

Right. Next step. “Captain Hilde!”

“Eh?!” The hobgoblin called back, distracted by her desperate attempts to direct her troops to put out fires both figurative and literal. “Kinda busy here!”

Wren stepped forward, sweeping out an arm to point towards what was rapidly approaching on the horizon. “Look there.”

Hilde followed the elf’s indication, letting out a hiss of frustration when she noticed the incoming ships for the first time. “Oh for the fuck’s, do these people not have anything better to do?!”

Probably not. No time to consider the matter, though. “You and your guards should focus on evacuating the docks. I need six bows and quivers, as many of those Field Specialists as you can find,” –he pointed towards a small fishing barge, one of the few ships left undamaged by the crash– “And enough people to crew that ship.”

Hilde’s eyes flashed as she digested Wren’s requests. “You’re going to try and stop the Players? But how–” She hissed again, shaking her head. “No time to talk. Teo!” The kobold Banken from earlier fell in besides Hilde. “You heard all of that?” The guard nodded, and the Captain continued on. “Get the General everything he needs and meet him at that ship.” She lifted her voice up into a roar, every decibel the equal of Wren’s battlefield shout. “ALL BANKEN, EVACUATE ALL CIVILIANS! WE’RE ABANDONING THE DOCKS!”

A unison bark of acknowledgement chorused out from the guards swarming the harbor, all efforts shifting to the immediate safety of the citizens still stuck in harm’s way. The dancing Player didn’t seem to immediately notice, continuing to gyrate and writhe with an almost impressive lack of rhythm. His thrusts and shimmies began to slow, however, when it dawned on him that there was a noticeable lack of arrows flying his way.

“What the…hey! Hey!” The Red Player leaned over the bow of his immolating ship, his shrill voice reaching a pitch most frequently used to furiously demand an audience with a manager. “Look at me, you pieces of shit! And where are my oranges, huh?! Where are my FUCKING–?!”

The Red Player’s face was left stiffened in an expression of outrage as his entire body was encased in ice. “Update to previous report!” the mage breathlessly called out to Wren as they rushed down towards the awaiting ship. “All spell slots but one available!”

“Acceptable!”

A skeleton crew of hobgoblins had already manned the ship by the time Wren and his troops reached it, clearly scared but readying the ship as efficiently as possible all the same. Four immaculately uniformed kobolds dipped in quick bows as the General started up the gangplank, one of them already moving forward to deliver bows to the elvish archers. “This is all we could manage on such short notice,” one of the Specialists apologized, a frown splitting her face. “With more time, we could find–”

Wren shook his head. “There is no time; we’re going now.” He took note of the sailors cutting loose the docking lines of the ship, calling over to the grizzled hob standing behind the wheel. “Take us out into the bay! We’re going to catch those bastards right as they enter the mouth, understand?”

The hob nodded, roaring out to the other sailors. “On them oars, boys!!”

“Aye!” The sailors yelled back in affirmation, to their spots on either side of the galley as the last bit of rope attaching them to the dock was released.

“Shove off!

One side of oars pushed out, forcing the boat away from its berth and out into the waters of the bay.

“Ready all, row!”

The sailors surged forward as one, grunting in exertion as their churning oars propelled the galley out into open water. Wren stepped forward as they picked up speed, keeping his voice low to address the grizzled captain. “When we’ve reached position, take shelter with your men. You’ve already done more than your part.”

The hobgoblin spat, his brow flecked with sweat. “Aye, General.”

Wren beckoned for the Specialists to step forward, turning his head towards the one who seemed to be the most senior. “I’ve experienced what you can achieve when linked with a ranged unit first hand. Can you do that with my archers?”

The Specialist nodded. “Yes, General. Absolutely.”

“What about if you linked with a mage, then?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure, General,” the kobold admitted. “If they’re anything like other caster Classes, though, their effective spell level will be boosted.”

Wren considered that. Would a boost be enough? Couldn’t tell. Not enough information. Too risky. “What if more than one Specialist joins in?”

“That’s–” The Specialist hesitated, continuing on at the sight of Wren’s unflinching expression. “It would increase the effects, yes. But it will put extra stress on the caster; long term it isn’t–”

“We don’t have the luxury of worrying about ‘long-term’ right now, soldier. Are the risks fatal?”

The Specialist shook her head. “No, General.”

“What if all four of you join in?”

“I…don’t know.” She grimaced, clearly unhappy with such an imprecise response. “I don’t think so. But I can’t say for certain. It might depend on which spells are cast, or how many spells are–”

“We’re only going to have an opening for one spell anyway. If this business is going to take more than that, we were doomed from the start.” Wren turned around, his troops straightening up as his eyes fell upon the mage. “It’s Floss, right?”

The young woman saluted. “Yes, General, sir!”

“Did you catch all of that?”

“Yes, General, sir!”

“Any objections?”

“No, General, sir!”

“Alright then.” Wren turned back towards the mouth of the bay, squinting his eyes at the Red Player ships that loomed closer and closer on the horizon. “You know which spell I want, I assume?” Floss nodded, so Wren continued on. “What’s the range on that?”

“Forty yards!”

Bah, Wren had hoped he was remembering incorrectly. That was too close. Too risky. No other choice, though. “You heard that, captain?”

“Aye!” The grizzled hobgoblin lifted up his voice for his own men. “Power forward, men, and wait for my mark! We’re pullin’ straight into the leviathan’s teeth!” The sailors yelled back as they pushed themselves even harder as the galley raced towards the mouth of the bay. “Easy now, boys!” The sailors pulled their oars out of the water, the boat continuing to glide forward under its own momentum as they awaited the next order. “Now boys! Hold water!”

The sailors turned their oars sideways and jammed them down in the water, straining in effort as they forced the galley to groan to a halt. When the boat finally stopped they pulled back their oars, stiffly starting down into the cargo hold to take shelter. “The rest’s on you, General,” remarked the grizzled captain, following his men. “Save my city, and my crew, and my boat. In that order.”

“Understood.”

With a final nod, the hobgoblin disappeared below deck. Wren faced his troops and the Specialists, frowning as his hand fumbled for the sword that still wasn’t at his side. Blah. “Specialists, I want you to form a group with Floss. Once the spell is cast, switch to individual links with archers. There will be hostile activity on those ships, and we’ll need you to pick them off.”

“What about us?” Aryn questioned, indicating the other spearmen. “How do we help?”

Wren bent down, picking up one of the heavy oars. “We’re the last line of defense. Create cover for the archers, and if any of these bastards manage to board us? Make them regret it.”

“Yes sir!”

That was that, then. Wren turned back to face the mouth of the bay, his mouth a tight line as he stared at the ever-approaching ships. He couldn’t resist wondering, what drove these Red Players? There must have been some greater purpose behind their mayhem, but what? What could possibly–

Wren flinched as a cannon shot burst out from one of the middle ships, slamming into the vessel beside it. What in the trees damned hell were these monsters doing? The oncoming ships were close enough now that Wren could hear yelling from their decks, but not so close that he could make out what was being said. The ears of the kobold Specialist were wriggling, though; didn’t they have Enhanced Senses? “What’s going on?”

The Specialist frowned, her ears perking up even further. “I have no idea what’s going on. But the one that fired the shot is insisting it was just a prank.”

Wren blinked. “What?”

“Yes.” The kobold focused a bit harder. “The one who was shot is implying the prankster has a certain developmental disorder, and in return the prankster is asserting back that his fellow Red Player never learned how to take a joke, and should…” She tilted her head. “‘Touch grass’? I don’t get it.”

Wren got it. There was no greater purpose here. These people were just the worst. “On my count, Floss.”

The mage nodded, her eyes clenched shut as she raised her hands. “Ready.”

“Four…” A ball of crystal-blue energy formed between the elf’s palms, the Specialists quietly whispering advice and adjustments into her ears.

“Three…” The prows of the ships passed the outcrops that marked the mouth of the bay, the argument between the two squabbling Red Players still raging on.

“Two…” Floss’s eyes shot open as the arcane energy in her hands collapsed into a fractal, doubling and then tripling in size as she lifted it above her head.

Wren gritted his teeth, every tendon in his body tensed as he waited until the ships were in precisely the spot he wanted them. “One! Now, Floss!”

The elf screamed in a mixture of effort and pain as she slammed her hand together, crushing the fractal in her grasp to send the shards of magic scattering out into the air. “ICE WALL!”

Her legs gave out from under her as the arcane shards shot forward, collapsing into Wren’s arms and heaving for breath. She weakly lifted her head, face utterly drained of color as she watched her spell hurtle pell-mell into the mouth of the bay. A sudden whiff of ozone and a sharp crack heralded the castle-wall thick barrier of magical ice that coalesced between the outcrops, cutting off the bay from the greater waters of the ocean and trapping the ships in its frozen grip.

“Mage Floss reporting…” The young woman managed with supreme effort, “Successful cast. No spell slots left available. Gotta…close eyes now.”

Wren nodded, gently helping the elf down into a seated position. “Good work, soldier. You’ve done your part, now it’s our turn.” Floss weakly flashed a thumbs up before leaning back, falling limp as Wren straightened to squint up at the Red Player ships. “Archers at the ready.”

The elves nodded, nocking their arrows as the Specialists took their places beside them. Now a mere stones’ throw from the trapped ships, Wren no longer needed the aid of Enhanced Senses to know what was happening on the enemy decks.

“The fuck is this?!” A voice demanded from one of the middle ships. “Angris, are you still being a fucking dick? Because it was funny before, but this is–”

“Oh yeah sure dude,” came the scathing retort from the other ship, “I’m totally the one who cast this fucking iceberg spell, with all those arcane spell slots that Berzerkers get. Use your fucking brain!”

“Well if you didn’t do it, who…oh shit. What the fuck is…?” A figure appeared at the prow of a ship, a spyglass pressed to his face and the tell-tale crimson eye burning above his head. “Isn’t that just a fishing boat? The fuck are they–”

“Fire at will!”

The Red Player managed a final yelp as the arrow smashed through his spyglass and into his face, the elves’s Specialist-boosted aim turning them into sniper-accurate artillery units. More and more incensed Players appeared on ship decks, their irritated expressions transforming into panic as they found themselves pincushioned by withering arrow fire.

The rain of arrows was viciously effective, but it wasn’t a finishing blow. Three Red Players shot directly up into the air, using some sort of Flight spell as they weaved back and forth in a desperate attempt to evade fire. Another ran out across the prow of his ship and burst forward in a superhuman leap, axe in hand and utterly fearless of the arrows that whipped past him.

He landed on the fishing galley with a cackle of maniacal glee, his weapon raised high above his head. “Hope you bots are ready, I’m gonna ooph!”

The Red Player toppled bonelessly over the side of the galley as Wren’s oar smashed into his side, splashing down into the water to flounder like a stunned fish. He coughed and thrashed, screaming for either his allies to help him up or for the elves to bring themselves within range of his axe, until two more oars caved the top of his head in and he sank twitching down into the bay.

Panting with strain, Wren straightened up to watch the last of the flying Red Players careen down into the waters below, bristling with dozens of arrows. The archers drew their bows again, a hush falling over the waters as the elves waited for any sign of movement. But none came. The true sign that the battle was over didn’t come until the four ships vanished, leaving behind a generic pile of wreckage as their owners Respawned at their Binding Points.

Aryn raced forward, only to halt when Wren raised a hand. The General swiveled an eye towards the senior Specialist. “Any sign of more ships?”

“Hm.” She snapped out a spyglass of her own, peering out across the waters. “No immediate sign. If more Red Players are sailing this way, they’re several hours away at least.”

Wren nodded as his troops broke out into cheers, arm-in-arm with the Specialists as the sailors burst out of the cargo hold to join them. The General didn’t interrupt the moment, Gods knew it had been a long time since his elves got to savor a win. Just as he knew that it wouldn’t be long before they would have to turn the galley around and row back to Shinki Itten, to take stock of what had been lost in the initial attack. To consider the attacks that were surely in their future.

Things would get worse before they got better.