Peter Lochte

  Marleen Heinmarr 44 days ago.

  The shopkeeper threw his apron to the ground in a huff and tramped his foot like a child throwing a tantrum. “You cannot be serious!” He shouted and threw a hand back towards his shop and wife behind him. “My family and I have lived here and ran our business for generations. You cannot expect us to drop everything and leave. Are you mad?”

  Peter’s jaw set as the man continued to rant and rave about his history, dramatically throwing his arms about and projecting his voice louder than he needed to. Around them in the city square, hesitant onlookers turned to see what was happening as soldiers tried to usher them toward the motor wagons.

  The evacuation of Marleen had started smoothly. Of course, there was confusion. Many hadn’t heard the news of what was coming, while others simply didn’t believe it. That morning’s briefing had warned there would be resistance from those too stubborn to leave. An evacuation to this scale had never been done before, so of course, those with long-term roots refused to go.

  Klein, Peter’s colleague and friend, leaned over. “Lochte, we need to do something. He’s drawing eyes this way,” He whispered, never taking his eyes off the raving merchant.

  Peter swallowed the lump in his throat and tightened his grip on his rifle’s shoulder strap. “What are we to do?” He hissed back.

  Klein sighed. “Get them on the wagon, Captain’s orders. Nobody is to be left behind.”

  “You go talk to him,” Peter said nervously. “I-I don’t think–”

  “Baren stuff you in a grave,” Klein cursed and rolled his eyes. “For a coward like yourself it shocks me that you enlisted.” He pushed Peter away, stepped towards the ranting man, and unslung his rifle but kept it low at his waist and pointed to the side. Compared to the shopkeeper, Klein wasn’t a big guy; he was older than Peter by about two or three years but was shorter than him by about half a head. Something about dwarfen blood in his ancestry, or so he says. Yet, despite his size, he was broad-shouldered and muscled.

  As the short man stopped just before the shopkeeper, the ranting man halted his shouting and gred at Klein. Noticing the rifle gripped in his hands, he hesitated, and for a second, fear appeared in his eyes before quickly burning into a rage once again.

  “So you’re going to threaten us?” The merchant snarled. “Force us from our homes?”

  “Captain’s orders,” Klein said curtly. “All residents of Marleen are to evacuate from here and any other neighboring towns or vilges within sixty gilos from the bor–” The merchant suddenly rushed forward and jammed a sausage-sized finger into the shorter man’s chest.

  “I don’t give a damn about your orders you soldiers talk of a fight, but where is it? There hasn’t been conflict in thousands of years. Do you honestly believe this is–” Without a hint or hesitation, it happened in a fsh. Peter’s eyes didn’t even register what happened.

  One moment, the merchant was yelling in Klein’s face, and the next thing he knew, the butt of his rifle was rammed into the man’s blubbery gut, and he was on the ground wheezing and groaning. The woman by the shop’s door screamed as Klein knelt before the man on the ground.

  “Klein, by the roots?” Peter started as he stepped forward, but his colleague held his hand back towards him to stop. He leaned over to the man and began to whisper. After a moment, the merchant caught his breath and nodded slowly, his expression pathetic as his entire facade from before shattered into pieces on the cobbled road.

  Something wasn’t right with Peter. Not only because his comrade just assaulted a civilian, even if the man was being unruly, that was just uncalled for. But it was the looming sense of dread he was starting to feel. A kind of deja vu. He felt, he felt like he’d seen this already.

  Klein grabbed the shopkeeper by the shoulder and hoisted the man off the ground. He dusted the groaning man’s shoulder as he clutched his gut and said, “Gather whatever you can carry. Preferably food and water. The motor-wagons will be leaving in thirty minutes.”

  “Don’t bother grabbing portraits and excess clothes,” Peter said, exactly what Klein said next. "Prioritize what you’ll need to survive.” His grip on the rifle tightened as it all started coming back to him now. “No, " he muttered under his breath. “No!” He said again, anguished in his tone. “Why? Why am I seeing this again?”

  It had to be a dream, and it had to be—a punishment from the gods. Or perhaps he died and was thrown back here to recount his failings. “Faren of w, please have mercy,” Peter whimpered as he watched the merchant and his family stumble inside hastily. “Why am I here?”

  At that moment, Klein turned back to face Peter and shouldered his rifle again, his left hand wiping against the fabric of his uniform. The short, burly man frowned and looked him up and down. “What’s gotten into you, Lochte? You were talking big game the other day, now you’re freezing up in front of some merchant?”

  Peter flinched. “I-I… I, I just don’t like con-confrontation. I-I expected him to just listen to us,” He said pathetically, repeating the exact words he had before. It was true. He could never hold his own against someone else; in a physical fight, he could defend himself if need be. But the preamble, the arguments, the confrontation. It terrified him.

  “And so you joined the army?” Klein asked, bewildered. “Boy, you don’t make any sense.” He shook his head. “C’mon, we need to check the other homes and get these folk out, and heaven’s above, you better steel yourself.” He waved Peter along to follow, except he didn’t, for he knew what was coming next.

  A figure stood out amongst the crowd across the bustling town square, where soldiers and citizens moved left and right. They were a tall, broad-shouldered Gocchi man—humanoid with gray-blue skin and the build to rival a mature orkanni. He had long red hair and a thick upper mustache nearly covering his mouth. Peter didn’t need to look over the man’s officer’s uniform to know who he was. Besides, he’d witnessed this event before.

  Lieutenant Qidan Azure had seen what had happened, and his face darkened with fury. “Corporal Klein!” His booming voice echoed across the town square. Klein froze, then snapped to attention and saluted.

  Lt. Azure, however, snatched the corporal by his colr and yanked the shorter man a good three gotts off the ground so that they stared each other eye to eye. “What in the gods names did I just see?”

  Klein’s legs kicked, and his eyes widened with shock before settling on Azure’s. “I-I was doing my job, sir…”

  Peter’s stomach began to sink. It was coming. It was about to happen. Klein and Azure’s voices began to fade along with the rest of the noise around him. The nervous calls from the townspeople, the scared cries of children confused, and the commands of soldiers. All of it began to fade and be repced with one awful noise. The rumbling of engines.

  It started as a low thrum, hardly noticeable. Except Peter knew what to listen for now. Again, he’d seen this. Twice now. Once before, a second in Oren. Word hadn’t even reached them yet that the war had already begun. Everyone in Mareen thought they had time; the trench lines had only just started to be dug. But what was coming would prove trenches meaningless.

  Should he warn them? Scream for everyone to take cover? No. Don’t be stupid. This was a dream. A nightmare. Except, it felt so real, so–

  A kxon arm bred, and shouts of men followed. “Air raid! Air raid!”

  Confusion ran amongst the crowd as citizens looked to the sky, and in seconds, like a wildfire, panic spread. Peter’s stomach sank as panicked shouts began to echo around him. He looked towards the sky in the east, where he saw them. Descending from the cloud yer, dozens of gargantuan airships baring the Veilnds' standards drifted towards the small vilge. They were nothing like Peter had seen before in his youth. These weren't the kind of ships used in Alterham to transport citizens around; they were like dreadnoughts. The massive ships of the line on the sea, but flying.

  A loud bellow roared from one of the leading dreadnoughts, and despite knowing this was all a vision, Peter couldn’t move. His body trembled with fear, the same fear he had felt that morning. His subconscious screamed to get moving, seek shelter, or simply escape. Yet he was petrified, for he knew what was coming.

  Following his brother was a mistake. If he had known a year ago, this is where his life would’ve gone, and he’d have stayed home. Perhaps he would’ve begged his brother Jan to stay and help their family with their flock. Except he didn’t know, and now, separated, Peter is forced to rewatch the carnage of that fateful day.

  Large boxes unfurled from the bellies of the flying dreadnoughts as another mournful horn echoed forth from the lead ship. Peter trembled and closed his eyes, his hands clenching into fists, and prayed for death.

  Peter did not die that morning. Despite everyone else around him, he survived—like always.

  Kassel, Eastern Heinmarr 32 days ago.

  Peter should’ve died that night. Every account he had checked stated that he should’ve stood before the Great Judge Baren and her brother Faren in the Halls of Law. Except he wasn’t. Once again, death had avoided him but not those around him. When Peter awoke on… what day was it again? The 28th? No, the 29th?

  It didn’t matter. He knew it was early morning, and all he could smell was smoke, ash, blood, and charred flesh. By the gods, he wanted to vomit, and so he did. He had rolled onto his side, his head screaming with pain, his chest aching and stomach lurching. He puked whatever contents he had onto the ash-covered stone.

  He whimpered and sputtered as his head fred and his vision fuzzed. A concussion. He must’ve had a concussion. Bsted all, he would be surprised if he didn’t. That girl, Luna, he remembered. She did this. She… he blinked a few times, his vision clearing, and he looked around.

  Peter saw he must’ve been in an alley, the one he tried to pull that panicked girl into. The one in which she magically bsted him into. It was now riddled with rubble and other debris. The neighboring building to his left had crumbled inwards before spilling onto the main road. Which, speaking of, was flooded with dozens… no, hundreds of corpses.

  “N-No,” Peter croaked, his throat and lips dry. “By the heavens, no…” He pushed himself to his knees, gasping with pain when he tried to stand and stopped himself. He chose to crawl instead out onto the main road, where he indeed saw the horror. Corpses upon corpses y scattered and piled upon each other, most burned and charred, others riddled with bolt wounds. Buildings lie in ruin, burned, and colpsed, leaving everything covered in a thick ash yer, which Peter soon realized he was also caked in.

  Ash would’ve resulted from not just burning buildings but people caught in the fiend's light. At this realization, he let off a strangled cry and kicked himself back into the alley as he frantically smacked at his arms and legs, sending clouds of dust and debris into the air. He choked a sob as he huddled against a dumpster, shielding his eyes from the brutality before him.

  “Not again… not again…” He sniffled.

  Everyone was dead, all of them. So many people. So many children. He tried to save one. He tried, yet she refused and… Saved him. Perhaps she did not mean to, but she did. The alley he’s in had protected him from the brunt of the fighting and sughter. But that girl, that poor, poor girl. Luna only wanted her mother and her family, and now they’re all dead…

  Like Mareen, Sarid, and all those other towns he had been through. Death came for all but not him. Why? Why was he the one always surviving? Peter clutched his legs close to his chest and buried his face into his knees; he trembled and stifled another sob as he sat there. Yet his wallowing in self-pity wouldn’t st long, as in the distance, a soul-shattering howl echoed in his direction. A sound he had become all too familiar with and terrified. Despite his resentment of always being the one left alive, Peter had no interest in dying and hearing that awful noise caused his stomach to drop into an inky pit of despair and fear.

  He tried to get up and move, but his muscles gave out. He flopped onto the ashy, debris-strewn ground and gasped. He was shaking uncontrolbly. His hands could hardly find purchase, and his feet scraped against the ground. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t go through with this again. Except, he didn’t want to die.

  Then move! A part of him demanded. For Jan’s sake, you need to move, Peter.

  Jan… That name. He didn’t recognize it amidst his panic for the briefest of moments. That person's name is the sole reason he’s out here in the first pce. How was he going to find his brother if he was dead?

  Peter stilled and sucked in a deep breath and a moment of resolve. His nerves calmed, not wholly, but enough to cease his constant trembling and allow himself to cmber to his feet. His head throbbed, and his vision swirled, but he kept himself upright with one free hand out and resting against the nearby wall. He leaned against it as he waited for his vision to focus, and sucking in another gulp of fowl-smelling air, he grimaced and pushed forward.

  The howling machine was distant but growing ever closer. He knew if he left now, he would be long gone by the time it arrived. However, he had another issue: where was he supposed to go? How long had he been unconscious? A few hours a day? Had the enemy crossed the river and pushed west? How far was he deep behind enemy lines?

  It wouldn’t take long for Peter to get an answer to his st few questions. As he mulled these questions over, the sound of rippling air followed by a horrific shriek that ended with a resounding explosion only a few dozen gotts away and behind the building he rested against sent him diving to the ground for cover.

  His hands covered his head as he rolled into a ball, just as he was trained, as another shriek tore over his head, followed by another, and another, and another. A storm of artillery exploded all around him as his allies bombarded the town of Kassel. The already smoldering ruins are now reduced to a burning rubble around him.

  Peter screamed in horror as he curled up tighter as another bolt of destructive magrite bsted the cobblestone street he had just stood moments before. Clouds of debris scattered over him, coating him in the ash that he had just dusted off. The world around him seemed to end for what felt like an eternity, and then silence came.

  The resolve he had just garnered had vanished. Trembling, he hesitantly lowered his arms and uncurled his body. Pieces of rubble cttered onto the ground, and dust clouds made the air almost unbreathable. The smell of ozone left over from the explosions was pungent in the air, and Peter gagged heavily and opened his eyes in shock at the realization he was still alive.

  His answer was clear now. The frontline had remained the same. Safety would still be on the other side of the river. If Peter wanted to find his brother, he first needed to get to safety. To do that, he needed to get moving. Except, why would the army shell this town? What made this graveyard a target?

  That was an answer he didn’t want to know. The thought of not being alone here shook him to his core. Yet, at the same time. Knowing that there may be an enemy would keep him on his toes, alert and careful.

  Getting to his feet shakily, he decided to make his way north, or what he thought was north. A compass would’ve been handy, and he was met with thick clouds when checking the sky. All he knew was that he needed to get out of Kassel and away from those haunted howls and another potential barrage from his allies.

  It was horrific. Peter had assumed that Main Street would’ve been the worst of the carnage. He was terribly wrong. The outskirts of the small town were a disaster. The trench lines were filled with the scorched remains of soldiers and what looked like dozens of civilians who tried to flee. Like two waves that had crashed together, the soldiers had fought against the Veinrites while dealing with the terrified people behind them.

  Peter covered his mouth and turned away. He felt like puking, yet there was nothing his body could eject. The edges of the town had few buildings that the onsught had spared, though he hated the idea of looting. He needed what he could get. After doing a once over on the trenches, he found that many of the Lambert rifles the fallen soldiers carried were ruined, melted, and scorched by the fighting machine's magic. The bolts they carried also had cooked off, rendering them useless. Starved and defenseless, he walked towards a house at the edge of town.

  Despite the carnage, the building was in good condition. It was a two-story home with a rge front porch and grey paneling. Behind it was a stable with a wide-spanning fenced-off yard for whatever animal the owners held. Though Peter heard no such creature as he approached, most likely, the groks would’ve been released to flee, or if they were striders, confiscated by the army.

  The boards on the steps leading up to the front door creaked heavily with each step, and Peter winced each time. He slowed and listened, making sure nobody had heard. Not that it mattered. Surely, if a Veinrite war machine was nearby, he would’ve heard it like the distant howls. He had heard the monster again just a few moments ago, though the call was more distant than before, signaling it had changed directions, probably due to the artillery barrage.

  There could be other desperate people. He thought to himself. Or maybe the owners are still here? In that case, wouldn’t it be best to introduce himself? He was a soldier; after all, a member of the Hein’s Guard would be inclined to assist him if needed. At least, that’s what he was told in training.

  Nothing he was trained for turned out to be needed when the world went to hell…

  Nonetheless, Peter cleared his dry throat and stepped towards the front door. Nervously, he reached out and knocked. “Hello?” He croaked out. “Hello, is anyone there?” He raised his voice, but not too loudly.

  No response. He peered towards the window nearest to the door; curtains blocked his view. Hesitantly, he reached for the handle on the door and gripped it. Turning it, he heard a faint click, and it came loose. The door swung open smoothly, barely creaking, unlike the steps outside. The front room was dimly lit, and the light that streamed through revealed clouds of dust dancing in the air like ethereal whisps. A quaint living area with rocking chairs near a firepce that still held warm embers.

  Peter’s eyes narrowed as he stepped into the living room, and it was at this moment that he caught a whiff of something—food. His stomach audibly growled, and he winced once again. It smelled of salted juni, roasted. The tantalizing aroma possessed him, and he began to follow it towards the kitchen. His leg clipped against an end table near the entryway, knocking over a mp, which cttered to the floor, shattering.

  He cursed loudly and clutched the leg he had battered and frowned at the mess. It was such an expensive-looking mp. Or, had been one. If the owners still lived here, he was screwed. Then again, he would’ve been the moment he walked in without permission.

  “Nothing you can do now,” He muttered under his breath and coughed heavily, his dry throat now feeling raw. He needed water. Food and water were all he needed to focus on now. Peter turned back towards the kitchen and froze when he came face to face with the muzzle of a rifle aimed squarely at his chest.

  “I’ll ask you kindly,” the man with the rifle said, silhouetted against the light from the kitchen window behind him. His face was shrouded in shadow and hardly visible. His voice was low, aged, and ced with venom. “To expin what the hell you are doing. Any sudden movements and this bolt will go right through you, no hesitation.” As if to emphasize those words, Peter heard the safety flicking off.

  “F-Food, water,” Peter said dryly; even speaking was beginning to hurt. “Ha-haven’t eaten in a while.”

  The man hesitated for a moment. “That voice,” he said, his tone softening. "What’s your name, kid?”

  Peter’s eyes widened. “Pe-Peter,” he said, his heart fluttering as the man lowered the gun, switched the safety on, and stepped forward. The light from the door revealed an equally haggard Herbert Hautchkins. His overalls and shirt were tattered and stained with mud and blood, and his face was caked in dirt. The man looked like he had been through hell, just as he had.

  “By the Seven, it is you, son,” Herbert said, his eyes shining. “I-I thought you were with the Ashflows when we got split up. What happened?” Before Peter could answer, Herbert waved him over into the kitchen. “Never mind that I have some food and water to spare. I was down in the basement when the bolts came flying.” He went over to shut the front door.

  Unable to respond, Peter nodded and went into the kitchen, where he found the pce looked stripped clean already. It was most likely Herbert’s work, save for tins of food on the counter and a sole pte of half-eaten shredded Juni and sauce. Nearby, he saw a washbasin on the floor filled with water, and wasting no time questioning, he felt his body go into autopilot, and he stumbled towards it.

  Taking the nearby dle, he scooped the water and began to drink. Thankfully, it wasn’t filthy, and his dry mouth and throat began to sing as he drank four full dles when Herbert came back into the room. Peter heard him pce the rifle on the table and sit as he pced the dle back and turned to the man who was watching him with a broad smile.

  “Good isn’t it?” He asked. “There’s a well just out by the barn, person who owned this pce had one of those fancy archeo-pumps. Flip a switch and the thing does all the hard work.” He chuckled and waved him over. “Take a seat, folk here must’ve raised juni, cause all these tins here.” He gestured to the cans. “Nothing but it.”

  Peter got up and walked over to the table. He sat beside Herbert and frowned as he gnced around. Didn’t this man have a family? He wondered. He had only known the older man during his time traveling with the Ashflows, and the two had gone scouting a few times together in the wagon train. He didn’t know much about Herbert, but he swore the guy had a couple of kids.

  “Herbert,” Peter asked as the man grabbed a can and began to open it with a gnarly knife he unsheathed from his left thigh.

  “Yeah?” he asked, then hesitated. “Don’t tell me you’re allergic to Juni, cause it’s all I have.”

  Peter shook his head. “No, I just… I was wondering if you knew if there are any others aside from you and me?”

  Herbert froze, and the knife partially stabbed into the lid. Peter stiffened as he realized he had just asked a very, very stupid question and bit his tongue. Herbert’s expression cracked slightly as he stared at the knife in the can before sniffing loudly and shaking his head. Immediately, his expression changed back to the cheerful look it had been prior.

  “Nope. Just you and me… But I’m sure the others are out there.” He carved open the lid. “I’m sure everyone else made it out just fine; the Ashflows are some hard folk and my… My wife…” he froze up again, then shook his head. “We’ll find them.” He smiled widely. “Stay here, I’ll go heat up the meat for you.”

  Herbert stood and entered the living room, where the firepce was, leaving Peter to watch him, grief-stricken.

  “Father, dearest Father, save us from our suffering. I am sorry to have wronged you, please, please, oh Father, have mercy. The year of the red moon is coming, bathe your light upon us and free us from this prison of life.”

  Name: Private Dennis Bastion

  Cause of death: Blood loss from a bolt wound to the gut.

  Time of death: Unknown

  Time of death speech: 3rd of Aqui

  Notes: The subject’s remains were recovered on the outskirts of Dresden during the assault on Fortress Ale after Operation Dawnstar. Witness reports say the subject was a private in Berry Company who, a Veinrite sharpshooter, unfortunately, struck down. It wasn’t until the subject was recovered and brought to the morgue that Priestess Celena witnessed the events of the death speech. As to the meaning of the boy’s words, we do not know yet; however, I fear that these words will not be the st that we hear.