Cannon Fodder

The return to Revilon is quiet—too quiet. The party regroups with the resistance. Frul, Greg’s older brother and leader of the resistance, greets them with optimism: the harengon outposts surrounding the city have been abandoned. “This could be a sign they’ve given up,” he says. But not everyone agrees. Taylor, his right hand, frowns. “Or it’s bait. They want us to feel safe. That’s when they strike.” The party listens. War drums are silent—but the rhythm of unease grows louder.

As the day stretches on, the party splits to recover and gather intel. Mycha visits a crowded tavern where Frul and his men discuss strategy. He interrupts, warning them that any attack may require “cannon fodder.” The words cut deeper than he intends. Frul stiffens. “Don’t say that in front of my men,” he snaps once the others are gone. “You’re not wrong—but we have to make them believe they’re more than that.” Mycha nods, but the tension lingers.

That night, a commotion echoes through Revilon’s stone alleys. From the safehouse, the party rushes to the town square, where a crowd has gathered. Jazz stands tall in the center—cocky, clean, accompanied by a quiet, pale warlock whose expression is unreadable. Frul and Taylor are already there, voices raised. Jazz smirks: “Surrender Revilon now. Spare yourselves. Or we burn everything tomorrow.” The crowd murmurs. Doubts stir. Some shout: “Maybe we should take the deal!” “We’re not cannon fodder!” Mycha feels the sting of his own words returning. He steps forward. Without warning, he strikes Jazz with the flat of his blade—a sharp crack, blood from Jazz’s nose and mouth. Jazz licks it away. Laughs. “Then tomorrow,” he says, “I’ll kill you first.” The warlock places a hand on Jazz’s shoulder. With a shimmer, the two vanish.

There’s no sleep that night. The party joins the resistance at the northern wall, eyes locked on the river—the likeliest point of attack. The city holds its breath. Plans are drawn. Potions counted. Blades sharpened. And when dawn breaks, it’s painted in ash.

At 11am, they see it. A harengon warship sails down the river. Giants—three of them—walk alongside the cliffs, tearing up trees and stone, flinging them like toys. The giants hurl battalions of harengon into the city. The sky darkens with bodies and magic. The battle begins. In the chaos, Jazz charges through the wreckage, climbing over fallen giants and debris. He reaches Mycha, unconscious and bleeding. Kilijan intercepts—blades clashing. But Jazz slips past, just long enough. He grabs Mycha by the hair. And with a cruel grin— beheads him. Gasps erupt. The battlefield stills for a heartbeat. Jazz teleports to the warship. He tosses Mycha’s head to the warlock, who teleports away. Before vanishing, Jazz locks eyes with the party—his face soaked in blood and madness. “He was the first. You all are next.” Above, the sky cracks open. Meteor Swarm. The city burns. Fodder