From the edge of town they saw the fires. The wind was blowing, and the smoke trail lofted through the air like the tendrils of a phantom, turning the sky in the distance an eerie grey. As the guards watched from the high stone walls of Brighton, their blood ran cold and their grip on their crossbows tightened; they were coming. They exchanged glances, the no more than two hundred men who stood around the newly-resurrected Brighton wall, and as their minds flushed with terror the portcullis gates fell. Not that it would buy them any protection. Within the course of ten minutes, the township’s entire population was taken from their homes to the stone church in the middle of the city. The colonial militia was rallied and was in the process of putting on their armor as the roar of guns tore through the sleepy Wilderness town. They were close. The men struggled to pull on the armor; a few chose to forego it and ran into the town square with their swords and shields in hand, completely unprepared for what was soon to come. In the distance, marching could be heard; their minds went numb. The town’s few actual soldiers, about thirty men in all, mounted horses and stood at the front of the square, swords and bows in hand. Moments later, the battle began. A deafening roar once again resounded around the inside of the walls and the guards opened fire at the oncoming Red Legion battalion, about nine-hundred in all. They wore red armor trimmed in bronze, with red helmets that caught the sunlight, causing them to gleam. Each enemy soldier carried a revolving rifle with an eight-round loadout. Their commander stood at the back, wielding a sword above his head as he romped around on a horse, commanding his men. Three cannons wheeled in behind them; they were the source of the explosions. “Open fire!” the crossbows fired their first volley, but the soldiers ahead of them seemed not to be affected and continued to march forward, some with arrows sticking from their armor. When they came in range, all three hundred raised their rifles and the guards ducked as a hail of bullets struck, sending shards of stone flying through the air. The men never stopped to reload; every time one would do so, another stepped into his place and released eight rounds rapid-fire. The twenty remaining guards who were not gunned down cowered behind the battlement. One or two would rise with enough time to fire one arrow before they were snuffed out by a dozen bullets. In the entire fight, three Red Legion soldiers fell, but they were about as negligible as raindrops in an ocean. As the cannons boomed once more, the battlements were blown to pieces. The soldiers inside stiffened up as a cloud of grey stone dust floated through the air like a stormcloud. Another cannon blast boomed, and the wall on the left side came tumbling down, taking two cavalry soldiers with it. The Red Legion never quickened their pace; they never ran or charged, and as they entered Brighton through the hole in their wall, their boots stomping in robotic unison, the militia charged. The soldiers’ helmeted faces showed no emotion as they gunned each defender down, one by one. One of the cavalry soldiers ran by at breakneck speed and bashed a Red Legion soldier in the head with a mace. The soldier fell, but a dozen bullets sent the man and his horse flying, where they collapsed to the ground in a bloody heap. Chaos broke out as some militia ran for cover and were gunned down mercilessly and others charged ahead, dying much more valiantly by maybe taking one soldier with them. The militia fought bravely, you couldn’t criticize them for their courage as they ran half-armored and under-experienced into a hail of lead, but it mattered not; few men survived. The remaining thirty or so militiamen gathered around the front doors of the hall, their shields and swords raised in a phalanx-type design, hoping to buy those inside some more time. Suddenly, the bell tower rang out, and a massive blast of fire engulfed the afternoon sky. At the top of the tower, an ogre wizard stood, a tall, muscular man with pale blue skin and elf-like ears. He wore long black robes and in his right hand was a magical staff which burned red hot from the fire spell. As the soldiers approached, hailing fury down on the remaining militia, the wizard fired another blast, sending twenty Red Legion men off of their feet and to a fiery grave. The soldiers stopped their advance through the town’s narrow dirt streets, and seemed like they were about to turn tail and retreat when another roar of gunfire came from the southwest. At least a dozen cannonballs soared through the air, destroying houses and reducing the wall to rubble. An explosive shell hit the base of the church tower and down the wizard went. From the other direction, two-thousand more Red Legion men marched, mowing down any living thing in sight. As the bodies of the militia were pushed away from the gunshot oak doors of the church, a man wearing black armor trimmed in red rode up on a white horse. He was an inch or two shorter than the other men, and as he dismounted the horse his cape flew around him like the shadow of Death. The doors fell away almost effortlessly, and the soldiers stormed the inside of the church. Those inside embraced their loved ones and covered their children, but no bullets were fired. The man in the black armor, obviously a general of some sort, walked down the aisle towards the altar, which had been hit by a cannonball in a fight. He walked slowly and deliberately, his metal greaves colliding with the floor mechanically and echoing around the room. He turned on his heel when he reached the front of the room and removed his helmet. He was an Italian-looking man, with dark skin and black hair flecked with streaks of grey. His eyes were cold and blue and seemed to suck the life out of whatever they gazed upon like cold iron. His nose resembled the beak of a hawk. He raised his right hand, and spoke with a low, gravelly voice which resonated with anger the words of a spell, which to those listening sounded like gibberish. As he spoke, the townsfolk’s eyes turned towards his, and they seemed to become transfixed. Their muscles relaxed; three babies were dropped as the parents’ hands fell to their sides. When the spell was concluded, the irises of the townsfolk were gone, replaced by total darkness. “Good.” General Polaris said, gazing across the congregation to make sure that everyone was hypnotized. He gestured to the men at his left and right. “Kill the children. They are useless.” The men nodded and detached their bayonets from their guns, leaving the rifles in a neat row by the altar. The adults stood transfixed as their children died, their minds empty and their eyes gazing straight forward into the middle distance like soldiers. “My lord,” one of the soldiers said in an emotionless voice “what of the teenagers?” He held up the limp arm of a mesmerized fourteen-year-old girl. Polaris paused in thought. “Well I suppose there’s no use in wasting them.” he said “bring the boys above age thirteen back with the others for training. As for the girls, if they are attractive enough to be used as concubines, bring them back as well. I heard Wesserius is hungry for some more fresh meat, so to speak.” “And the others?” the soldier asked, looking at the rather pig-nosed girl whose hand he held up. “Kill them.” Without question or warning the bayonet came down. The Wilderness town of Brighton contained two thousand, four hundred and seventy-six men and women, as well as seven hundred children. When the Red Legion left, half of the 2,900-man brigade of the 400,000 strong Northern Army going North with nine-hundred-sixty new recruits, they left no living man, woman, or child within the colony’s gates. As Polaris rode out of the city, the soldiers set fire to what few buildings still stood untouched by flame in the town, leaving another smoking pillar as a monument of the Red Legion’s power behind. As Polaris rode back to camp, he gazed over his shoulder at the mountains in the distance; in three short weeks, his army and Wesserius’ would attack and the invasion of Tithe would begin. And oh how the glory of war would shine on that day. --- The world of Tithe is under attack. In the uncharted wilderness, an army grows so strong and advanced that no other in history would ever dare to face it. They are known as the Red Legion, an army over a million strong in total, armed with rifles and cannons far more advanced than any other technology seen thus far in a world ruled by swords and magic. For a while, they stayed north, attacking small villages and using hypnotic spells to make them forget who they were and obey the Legion, but now they have taken Brighton and Pyreton, the two largest colonies north of the border of the Kingdoms. War is imminent, and those who dwell in the lands of Talbor and Nepharie haven’t any idea of what is about to come crashing through their short lives. Some will hide, some will stand and fight against oppression. Who knows? Maybe the gods will look down favorably upon them and grant them victories. After all, the men and women of the kingdoms of Tithe have never been known to back down from a fight, and this one will be no exception; you will not be alone. The question is; what will you do? Under the Red Sun: an open-world Fantasy roleplay coming to RPG soon!

Here's one of your cohorts.

And here's the other.

Anybody here who's NOT a cohort?

No.

Also no

Just because you've already seen the OP doesn't mean you're a cohort, scrubs. But I'm happy to have you on board.

Just because you've already seen the OP doesn't mean you're a cohort, scrubs. But I'm happy to have you on board.

B̢I̶T̷C͢H̕ I͜͞ ̷̡CO̸NT̨́R͘Í҉҉BU҉̵̢T̛É̛D̷ ̕Ć̡͘Ò̴̧NT̸Ę̵N̡͢T.̴

Buncha scrublets wat wat

Necro'd