[h3]The Theocracy of Aorolach[/h3]_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

[i][b]Patrol near Camp Frostbite[/b][/i]
[i]Arctic Northlands, Malthecien-Ashtarian border[/i]
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[b]Elthian watched in dismay[/b] as the lock-on for the sniper vanished from his HUD. He cursed, and told the Invoker who nodded grimly. "Must have activated some sort of cloaking tech," He said, scanning the snowy horizon. "Bastard wouldn't have moved far, he knows we're still here. Probably thinks we called in artillery support or something." Invoker Theuron paused, considering. "He probably isn't completely out of range, the low-atmosphere config for our flyboys uses thermobaric munitions. Might even be able to track him...fat chance though, with our luck anyway."

Elthian nodded, his fear like a pit in his stomach. Even he knew he was tense. Elthian tried to take a deep breath. He turned to his squadmate Dimetor next to him, forcing a smile. "Tricky son of a bitch, isn't he Dim-" The comment died on his tongue as Elthian noticed the flashing light on Dimetor's belt. Instinct took hold, and Elthian dove away screaming.

[b]"GRENADE!"[/b]

He felt the heat and force of the blast even through his power armor, and Elthian felt himself be flung away across the snow. For the third time in under ten minutes Elthian found himself lying on his back, staring at the sky. His ears rung despite the sound-muffler systems in his helmet, and he felt sore all over. Groaning, he rolled over. A click on his comms warned him of an incoming transmission.

"Acolyte Elthian please be advised, we are coming in at top speed."

Elthian didn't have time to register the contents of the message before the Crusader fighter [i]roared[/i] past at mach six speeds, and he promptly blacked out from the ensuing shockwave.

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The Crusader pilot was notified of a hostile lock-on fifteen seconds before he arrived at his target. He quickly dropped his payload, four two-ton thermobaric bombs, and launched electronically charged chaff to confuse the missile lock-ons. With ten seconds left to the target, he unloaded on the enemy gunship; both heavy repeating plasma cannons firing over three hundred rounds before he completed his flyby. The pilot anxiously checked his instruments for a confirmed kill.

Meanwhile, the thermobaric bombs landed on the targeted hill at mach six speeds, each bomb containing the equivalent to six tons of TNT along with the significant kinetic forces of their delivery, as well as a blast radius of nearly four-hundred-fifty meters. The hill, and much of the surrounding area, was utterly annihilated. 

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[i][b]Anurian System[/b][/i]
[i]Anurian moon, two-hundred and fifty thousand miles from Anuria[/i]
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[b]Archon Remon stared in awe[/b] at the images of Anuria on his screen. This would be his seventh time seeing the planet, but he never could quite get over its beauty, even when marred by a century of constant war. He dared to allow a little hope enter his heart that this eternal war would end, with this new offensive...

He shook his head. Best not get too optimistic.

Remon listened as the Theurgists reported their systems. At the end of the reports he nodded, and turned to the Primate. "All systems nominal sir. Fleet lines are open and ready to move on your mark."

The Primate stared at his console for a while longer before responding. "According to the First, we are the vanguard of the next major offensive." He paused to let that sink in. Remon's mind whirled and he suddenly felt ill. Vanguard? This alone was the largest Malthecien fleet sent to the Anurian system in the past five decades. Was the First planning on committing the entire navy?

The Primate continued. "Our orders are to reinforce our headquarters in the arctic as well as land forces to establish claims on the city of Kol'Kora and the Sand Straits. We are then tasked to secure orbital control of Anuria." The Primate said monotonously. He looked up and gazed around the bridge. 

"What's with the slack jaws people? Let's get to it!" He motioned to Remon. "Mark. Fleet move in formation to sector forty-three - above the arctic."