OPERATION: RAGIN’ MOUSE

The broken-down slaver wagon sat in stark contrast to the chaos that had unfolded earlier in the day. The exhausted Elves, who had desperately fled the city at the onset of the fighting, now huddled near their lifeless horse, its body a tragic casualty of the battle. The HIMARS explosions had spooked the animal, driving it to death from exhaustion and fright.

The Beastkin convoy, returning to regroup after their engagement, had expected the Elves to have long since departed. But to their surprise, they found the wagon still there, battered and motionless. Some of the Elves bore minor wounds, while most simply looked dazed, their faces etched with confusion as they wondered what their fate would be.

As the convoy's trucks pulled up alongside the stranded wagon, the newly arrived Elven transport wagons followed closely behind. The freed Elves, realizing their escape was no longer a frantic flight but a successful rescue, began waving and shouting in a chorus of joy. The air buzzed with emotion as they spotted familiar faces in the convoy—friends and family who had been liberated from the city.

Alpha 6, one of the convoy’s heavy trucks, rolled to a halt. The rescued Elves from the fleeing slaver wagon were gently helped out of the truck, many stumbling with relief as they were reunited with loved ones. Elves from the transport wagons rushed forward, and the two groups collided in a wave of emotion.

Cries of joy echoed through the makeshift camp, but the weight of grief was also palpable. Some fell to their knees, embracing long-lost relatives, while others wept openly for those who had not survived. Every emotion, from heartbreak to elation, was on full display as the rescued and the liberated came together.

Lt. Tarfire moved toward the nearly destroyed Slaver wagon, his eyes on the older male Elf who was handling the freed captives. Something about the way he carried himself, the precise movements and calm authority, triggered a thought in Tarfire's mind. He observed for a moment longer before approaching.

"Thank you for your help," Tarfire said, speaking in Elvish. Brodi, the older Elf, nodded politely, but Tarfire noticed the flicker of recognition in his eyes. This wasn't just an ordinary civilian.

Tarfire leaned in slightly, testing his theory. He uttered a greeting in “Royal Elvish,” one known only by those who had once served the King. Brodi’s eyes widened before he quickly caught himself. He responded with the formal acknowledgment, only to stop halfway through, realizing what he'd revealed.

“How do you know that?” Brodi demanded, his voice low, tinged with a mix of surprise and suspicion.

Tarfire smiled. “I learned from a Royal Guard—Elm Riverspell. He took me in when I was young, taught me everything, including the old ways.”

Brodi’s jaw dropped, the name igniting memories. “Elm Riverspell? My master... the personal guard to the King?” He spoke in Royal Elvish now, bowing his head slightly. “Forgive me for not recognizing you as a student of his.”

Tarfire waved it off, offering a handshake, one reserved for the King's Royal Guards. “No need. I was just a refugee at the time. But now, I think the question is, what will you do next?”

Brodi straightened, the old habits of a Royal Guard returning. “I’ll take the Elves to Loyta-Nal with the wagons we’ve found. But some of the younger Elves are talking about joining the Beastkin. They’ve heard the Queen is with your people.”

Tarfire nodded, his eyes scanning the Elves as they discussed their options, a visible shift in their demeanor as they realized their newfound freedom. He took a deep breath, turning his gaze toward SSG Wellknife, who was overseeing the collection of the captured Austorian soldiers. Wellknife moved fluidly between the Elves and the POW guards, speaking fluent Elvish, calming tensions, and ensuring order was maintained between both groups.

The captured Austorians sat in a huddled circle, disarmed, blindfolded, and bound, surrounded by watchful Beastkin soldiers. The contrast between the liberated Elves and their captors couldn’t have been starker. The Beastkin guards maintained a disciplined formation around the prisoners, their rifles slung across their chests, eyes constantly scanning for any signs of trouble.

“Make sure they stay secure,” Wellknife instructed his men. “Rotate the guards as they need it. These prisoners aren’t to be mistreated, but don’t let your guard down. Stay sharp—we don’t know what’s coming next.” His tone was steady, but there was a hint of underlying caution. The prisoners might be blindfolded and bound, but they were still Austorian soldiers, and Wellknife knew better than to underestimate an enemy, no matter how helpless they appeared.

The Austorian soldiers, though subdued, weren’t silent. In low, whispered conversations, there was still a flicker of defiance among them. One soldier, speaking barely above a murmur, voiced his discontent to the man beside him.

“They won’t let us just walk away. Once they’re done with us, they’ll—”

“Shut it,” hissed one of the Beastkin dismounts, his grip tightening on his rifle. His ears twitched, catching the tail end of the prisoner’s words. It was enough to stir unease among the guards, and the tension between captor and captive thickened.

SSG Wellknife noticed the shift in the mood and moved closer to Tarfire, lowering his voice. “Sir, we need to make a decision about the prisoners,” he said, his eyes briefly scanning the huddled Austorians. “We’ve got them secured for now, but we can’t drag them around with us. We don’t have the space, and the Elves are going to need every bit of room we have left. What’s the plan here?”

Tarfire’s expression tightened as he considered their options. His mind raced through the possible outcomes, weighing their current logistical limitations. The mission was still fluid, and keeping the prisoners could slow them down—something they couldn’t afford with tiltrotors coming in and a potential counterattack looming.

“We can’t keep them, Wellknife. We’re under orders to treat them humanely, something Thompson called the ‘Geneva Convention,’” Tarfire began, his voice carrying a tone of careful thought. “We’ll let them go after the tiltrotors are gone and before we move out. We can’t take them with us and transporting them back isn’t an option.”

Wellknife nodded, but there was a subtle hesitation in his gaze. “You’re thinking we let them back into the city, then?”

Tarfire nodded. “Yes. We’ll give them three days’ worth of rations, three days of water, and let them go. After that, it’s up to them. They can run back into the city, wait for reinforcements, or do whatever they want. But we’re not taking them with us.”

There was a beat of silence between them, the reality of the decision settling in. Letting the prisoners go wasn’t without its risks, but there were few other options available.

“Well, Sir,” Wellknife said with a wry smile, “it’s more mercy than they’d give us.” He motioned toward the prisoners. “I’ll get my men ready for the release when the time comes. We’ll make sure they’re provisioned and out of our hair before we break camp.”

Tarfire nodded, trusting Wellknife’s judgment. “Once the tiltrotors are refueled and gone, we’ll move on. No point lingering here any longer than necessary, who knows when their reinforcements will arrive.”

The two men exchanged a knowing glance, the weight of command and the burden of difficult choices hanging between them. Wellknife moved back toward the prisoners, giving his guards a signal to stand by while he relayed the plan.

The Austorian soldiers, still bound and blindfolded, remained unaware of their fate. Their murmurs grew softer as the reality of their situation began to sink in, though a few still held onto a shred of defiance. As Wellknife moved through the ranks of the guards, his voice steady and calm, he ensured his men were prepared for the task ahead.

As he finished issuing orders, Shara Stoneclaw made her way from the vehicles, her focus on the JCVAILS in each vehicle as she was double-checking them for the convoy. The soft whirr of the equipment buzzed in her ears, a routine sound that allowed her to focus on her task. She passed by the group of rescued Elves, casting an occasional glance in their direction, ensuring the communication systems were running smoothly.

But something made her slow her pace.

A nagging sensation pulled her attention back toward the Elves. Her sharp eyes scanned the group, and what she saw made her stop in her tracks. Her stomach turned as the pattern became unmistakable—only women and small boys. Not a single adult male among them.

Her stomach churned as she put the pieces together, the realization settling in like a heavy stone. She remembered why the slavers took women and children—how they had no use for the men. Her memories weren’t from firsthand experience at the "Houses," but she had been close enough to understand the horrors. The illness that had spared her only gave her the grim knowledge of what had happened to others.

The weight of it all hit her hard, her thoughts flashing back to the Beastkin captives she had once seen, the friends and family who hadn’t been as fortunate as her. Shara’s breath caught in her throat, her stoic facade faltering.

One of the older Elven women, noticing Shara’s troubled expression, approached her quietly. The Elf name Maria, likely in her middle years but still youthful in appearance due to her race’s longevity, placed a hand on Shara’s shoulder, her touch gentle yet grounding. Without needing an explanation, the Elf spoke softly, her voice laced with understanding.

“You know, don’t you? What they do... what they take and why,” the woman said, her eyes filled with empathy. “But you’ve helped free us. You’ve given us a chance. And in doing that, you’ve given yourself something too.”

Shara’s strong composure finally broke, and tears welled in her eyes. The pain she had carried for so long began to surface, and before she could stop herself, she was crying, the anguish she had buried for years pouring out into sobs. Maria, who Shara realized had been the mayor of the city, held her tightly. Though she was around 200 years old, Maria barely looked a day over 25—another reminder of how the world had failed its most vulnerable.

Maria offered comfort without needing words, simply holding Shara as the years of repressed emotion came flooding out. Slowly, the tension in Shara’s body began to ease, and the tears subsided. The burden wasn’t gone, but a part of it had lifted, allowing her to feel lighter, more present.

Meanwhile, the other members of Alpha 2 had started searching for her, realizing she hadn’t returned to the truck. As Shara and the Elf pulled away from each other, they shared a look of mutual understanding. Shara thanked her in a whisper, feeling a sense of renewal, something she hadn’t experienced in a long time.

As she walked back toward Alpha 2, Kael spotted her, his brow furrowed with concern. He approached her cautiously, his voice low. “Hey, you alright?”

Shara gave him a small, genuine smile, glancing back at the Elf who had helped her find a measure of peace. “Yeah,” she said, her voice steady in a way she hadn’t felt in years. “I think I’m whole again.”

Kael raised an eyebrow, taken aback by the sudden change in her tone, but he knew better than to pry. Instead, he nodded. “Good,” was all he said, leaving it at that. The two of them walked back toward the truck together in silence, the quiet understanding between them more powerful than any words.

As they approached the convoy, the bustle of activity returned to Shara’s awareness. Soldiers were moving about, tending to their duties, setting up the FARP, and managing the newly freed Elves. Despite the chaos, there was a rhythm to the movements—an order in the midst of what had been a disorderly day. Shara caught sight of SSG Wellknife overseeing the various tasks, his sharp eyes scanning the camp with the precision of a seasoned leader.

It was then that Wellknife noticed something unusual. A young Elven woman was moving purposefully through the camp, her questions directed at the soldiers in clear, fluent Human Common. Her soft Elvish accent gave away her origins, but her command of the language immediately set her apart from the other freed captives. Wellknife’s curiosity piqued, and he turned his full attention to her.

“Hey Sarg’n,” one of the soldiers called, pointing toward the woman. “She’s asking if she help out.”

Wellknife turned toward the Elf, surprised by her poise. He approached her with a curious look, addressing her in Human Common. “What can you do?”

The Elven woman, Keziah Wildrune, gave a respectful nod. “I’m a healer,” she said, her voice clear and steady. “I’ve been helping my people for years. Please, let me assist your healers.”

Wellknife eyed her for a moment, then switched to Elvish to test her fluency. “Go on, help where you can. Corporal Brightclaw could use an extra set of hands.”

Keziah smiled, clearly understanding both languages. “Thank you,” she replied in Elvish, nodding gratefully before hurrying toward Thessa Brightclaw, who was visibly swamped with medical duties.

Corporal Thessa Brightclaw had been working nonstop since the convoy had returned. With only one medic in the entire convoy, the weight of the medical needs had fallen squarely on her shoulders. She was performing triage, sorting through the wounded as fast as she could, but it was clear she was overwhelmed. Despite the weariness setting into her bones, she pushed forward.

As she was checking on a child who had been slightly burned by a fire spell, a soft voice interrupted her concentration. Thessa turned to see Keziah standing nearby, her expression calm but determined.

“Are you a healer?” Keziah asked in Human Common, clearly accustomed to working across cultures.

Thessa blinked in surprise at her fluency but nodded quickly. “Yes, I am. You?”

The Elf smiled gently. “I am. I’ve been a healer for many years. I can help.”

Relief washed over Thessa. “Perfect timing.” She quickly gestured to the chaotic scene of injured soldiers and freed Elves. “We’re short on everything—supplies, hands, you name it. We’re doing triage right now, prioritizing the most serious cases. Ever done triage?”

Keziah looked puzzled for a moment, her brow furrowing. “I know how to heal, but not by that name.”

Thessa gave a quick explanation. “It’s sorting patients based on the severity of their injuries. Those who can wait, those who need immediate help, and those who can’t be saved. It saves time and lives when resources are tight.”

Understanding dawned in Keziah’s eyes. “That makes sense. I can do that.”

“Good.” Thessa gave her a firm nod. “Work your way through the less severe injuries. Let me know if you find anyone in critical condition. We’re low on supplies, so anything you can do to stretch them helps.”

Keziah nodded and immediately set to work. As she moved from one patient to the next, Thessa noticed Elf’s expertise. Keziah’s knowledge of local plants and healing magic was invaluable. She used herbal poultices to treat wounds, easing the pain for those who didn’t require more intensive care, thereby saving Thessa's precious medical supplies for the more severe cases.

Thessa kept glancing over, impressed by how quickly Keziah adapted to the triage system. Despite the chaos around them, they worked efficiently together, their skills complementing one another. After a while, Keziah even started teaching the less injured Elves basic care techniques, further reducing the strain on Thessa.

As they continued working, Thessa could see that Keziah was a rare talent. After a moment of thought, she excused herself and approached Lt. Tarfire, who was overseeing the setup of the FARP.

“Sir,” she called, catching his attention. “I know this mission isn’t going as planned, but we’ve got a unique opportunity here.”

Tarfire raised an eyebrow. “What’s on your mind, Corporal?”

Thessa brushed a hand through her hair, her weariness catching up with her. “There’s an Elf, Keziah Wildrune, who’s a healer—one of the best I’ve seen, honestly. We’re short on medics, as you know. I think we should recruit her into the medical corps. She’s already been helping me triage the wounded, and we could use someone like her long-term.”

Tarfire glanced toward Keziah, who was applying a poultice to a young Elf’s wound, her movements calm and steady despite the chaos. He frowned thoughtfully, weighing the situation.

“Let her know it’ll be up to the aptitude test, but if she’s willing, I don’t see why not,” Tarfire said, his voice pragmatic. “We need every hand we can get out here. Just make sure she understands what she’s signing up for. This isn’t exactly a well-oiled machine, and things are only going to get harder from here.”

Thessa grinned, saluted, and hurried back to where Keziah was finishing with a patient. She took a breath before speaking. “Keziah, you’re a natural at this. How would you feel about joining our medical corps?”

Keziah blinked, clearly surprised. “You’d take me in?”

“We would. Lt. Tarfire is willing, but you’ll have to pass an aptitude test when we get back to base,” Thessa explained. “You’ve already proven yourself out here. If you want in, we’d be lucky to have you.”

Keziah looked around, her eyes catching on the faces of the freed Elves and the wounded soldiers. “I would like that,” she said, her voice full of conviction. “I’ve never thought about serving in an army before, but I think it’s the right thing to do.”

Thessa smiled, feeling a rush of pride. “Good. Welcome aboard.”

Later, as the convoy continued its preparations, SSG Wellknife and Lt. Tarfire took a moment to assess the situation. They stood near the command truck, overlooking the makeshift FARP being set up, soldiers working tirelessly to ensure the tiltrotors could land and refuel without incident. But the weight of the mission—how it had veered so far off course—hung between them.

“Wellknife,” Tarfire began, rubbing the back of his neck, “this mission was supposed to be a simple refuel and move out. A quick stop. Instead, we’ve been ambushed, liberated a city, and now we’re scrambling to get wounded out of here.”

“Well, sir,” Wellknife said, giving him a sideways glance, “if there’s one thing Murphy’s Law has taught me, it’s that anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. And we’ve been hit with everything today.”

Tarfire let out a dry laugh. “Murphy’s Law? Hell, this is Murphy’s nightmare.”

“Well, sir,” Wellknife continued, “we’re a new army. What did we expect? We’ve got one medic, sir—one—handling an entire convoy’s worth of wounded. And that’s on a good day. The reality is we’re flying by the seat of our pants. Most of these soldiers are green. No one’s thought to put proper procedures in place because we haven’t had time to develop them.”

Tarfire nodded, his expression hardening. “You’re right. We weren’t supposed to see this much action. The area was supposed to be under constant surveillance. Now, look at us. And you know what’s worse?”

“What’s that, sir?”

“We still have to set up this FARP, refuel the helos, and get the hell out of here before something else goes wrong.”

“Well, at least the Elves are safe. That’s a win,” Wellknife said, glancing over at the newly liberated group, many of them huddling together near the wagons, some smiling, some crying in relief.

Tarfire exhaled slowly. “Yeah. Small miracles. But we’ve got to be ready for whatever comes next. This isn’t over.”

“Well, sir,” Wellknife smirked, “at least we’ve got Keziah Wildrune. That’s two medics now. And for what it’s worth, I think she’ll be an asset.”

Tarfire smiled. “Yeah, if we get out of here alive, maybe we’ll have time to actually plan the next mission.”

“Well, you know what they say, sir—adapt and overcome.”

Tarfire nodded. “Let’s just hope we have enough left to adapt with.”

With the Elves reunited and the weight of the day’s chaos still settling in, Lt. Tarfire shifted his focus to the next pressing task. The FARP (Forward Arming and Refueling Point) was nearly established for the incoming tiltrotors. The rhythmic clatter of soldiers preparing the FARP filled the air as the convoy settled into a brief moment of focus. Trucks were positioned, and large containers filled with refined magic crystals were carefully offloaded to prepare for rearming the incoming tiltrotors. The energy crystals, glowing faintly with an otherworldly light, pulsed rhythmically, the heart of the Beastkin’s air power.

Lt. Tarfire moved between the trucks, overseeing the process as his team worked to ready the area. He could feel the weight of the day’s events pressing down on him, but for now, they had a plan—get the tiltrotors rearmed and get out before the inviable reinforcements arrive.

Tarfire knew they were on borrowed time. The longer they stayed, the higher the chance the Austorians would come crashing down on them. He could almost feel it in his bones—the plea for reinforcements had already gone out, he was sure of it. Every instinct told him they were running out of time, but he couldn’t afford to let his men see the tension tightening in his chest

Around him, the Beastkin soldiers worked with silent determination, their movements sharp and disciplined. Despite the recent battle, there was a calm sense of purpose as they made the final preparations. The air hummed softly with the magic-infused crystals being handled with care, their glow casting a faint shimmer across the equipment.

But just as the momentary calm settled over the camp, the radio crackled to life, piercing through the routine with a sudden urgency.

“Alpha 1 Actual, this is Archer 2-8-2!” The voice was strained, barely holding back panic. “We are declaring an emergency!”