A cart moving through Sol City is nothing too terribly interesting on its own, especially not heading towards the Golden Harbor, no matter the time of day or night. A wagon missing its top being pulled by a flaming mechanical horse at top speed however, thats a different story. Especially right before Winter's Crown. No manner of stealth or hush-money was going to quiet down the populace as they whispered about the spectacle and where it had been heading. The sundered Platinum Corp logo alone had turned heads and most folks knew that the fool who had messed with that organization was going to have hell to pay.

Deep within the seedier, older and more decrepit part of the shipyard sat a warehouse of an old shipwright that had long since gone out of business. The old kook was known to allow for his warehouse to be a host of all kinds of things, so long as he was paid and left to his own devices. It was into this warehouse that Cirice pulled her misbegotten haul, the ruined wagon fitting in well among the old wood of half-finished, or perhaps half- demolished, ships. With a sigh Cirice steps down from her perch and looks around the building to see what she’s working with. Zarius had set her up with some of his contacts here in the city, a band of smugglers he frequently did business with and their peculiar landlord. A handful of men gave her nods, expecting her and her ill gotten gains for the job. But as she looked around her eyes were pulled away from the men and to a strange sight. Above the loading dock and roaming around the warehouse were strange figures making their rounds, not quite as strange as the metal humanoids she’d seen at the Platinum Corp warehouse, but odd nonetheless. A coterie of caravel corpses carved into curious creatures curates the collected crates of contraband. The creatures ranged from the mundane wooden tigers to the fantastical, a delicately carved wooden sphinx guarding over a particularly large thing covered in a tarp. Before Cirice could really investigate further one of the smugglers caught her attention.

“Best not mess with the beasties, Miss. Dunno what Zarius told you about them but ol Clem makes em out of wood and magic, they won’t mess with you so long as you don’t touch nothing you didn’t bring in.”

“Oh, okay. That’s kind of awesome.” Cirice replied, and then remembered another crazy beast she’d nearly forgotten about in her flight here. She hurries back up to the wagon and looks at the metallic canine bot. “BFF bot? It’s me Cirice, do you want to come out and play?”

Carefully taking out the little robot dog and setting him on the ground she inspects him. The red eyes are less creepy and menacing somehow, perhaps due to its size and the rhythmically moving tail that is quite unnatural. Cirice can't help but find it absolutely adorable. She has no idea what she'll do with him, but perhaps some child from an impoverished family would love a small dog they didn't have to feed. It shouldn't be a problem here, but since it talks and moves around she should keep an eye on it she figures. Moving to the wagon and starting to unload the rest of the contents she finds crates of Blixt^tm and shudders, remembering the last time she'd had a bottle of the stuff.  Its a small haul, but it will likely give a lot of people joy for the holiday.

The little, artificial canine is far heavier than a dog of its size, but not unbearably so. At the mention of play, it turns its beady lenses to Cirice, and its tail begins to swing back and forth like a pendulum. It's a pale imitation of a dog's joy, but... not altogether disconcerting.

"Young moon elf, affirmative: initiating play protocols."

Now on the ground, it lowers its head and splays its front-paws in a playful bow, noisily clanking as it does. Its tail, still wagging about, is high in the air.

"Query: what would you like to play?"

---

Outside, the weather is worsening with every moment that passes. The snow can be seen piling up, outside the lucerne. By morning, travel will be a tenuous prospect...

But, unfortunately, convenience is not the greatest concern; and the visible is not the greatest threat.

Just outside one of the upper windows, there are footprints in the snow - spindly, taloned and doubtlessly unnatural. And, after only a few moments, more begin to appear, trailing toward the rooftop's edge and marking the path of an unseen voyeur^[1,2]. When they reach the side that faces the street, there is a sound like the dragging of a chain, and twin footprints are roughly planted on the curb below^[3]. From there, they march across the road, to an inconspicuous alley between a tavern and a fishing shop (both, closed and silent). It is this unassuming alley that harbours and hides a small army of the same golems that'd guarded the warehouse before. And among them, standing with the posture of a fencepost and the scowl of an offended lion, is their mistress: Veliky.

Only when it has entered the alley does the invisible figure reveal itself, allowing its shimmering veil to fall, looking to the tiny woman with unspoken obeisance.

"Mistress Veliky, report: the warehouse appears to be the base of a smuggling operation, likely affiliated with the Red Rogues. There is no external security, but the interior is heavily guarded by wooden constructs of unknown origin. The projected threat level is Silver."

However much the cold might sting her eyes, the stone-faced quarterling is unblinking as she processes the scout's report. Like a banker counting coins, she processes every detail before finally speaking.

"Very good, Rook. Stand by."

With an acknowledging chirp, the golem joins its kin in formation. They're preparing for something, and it isn't difficult to tell what.

Veliky, herself, crosses her arms, both for warmth and in consideration. As she does, a certain nervous-looking gnome minces up, a trepidatious look on her face.

"Constructs. I'll bet ours are better. Right, Yoci?"

It seems that, at some point, there was a reversal in dynamic. Now, Yoci is in some degree of seething distress, and is not even slightly comforted by her employer's humour.

"M-M-Miss V-Veliky, I d-d-don't kn-know about th-this... It w-was one thing when it w-w-was just o-our stuff, b-b-b-but there are a lot of g-g-gifts i-in th-there..."

Whatever scrap of positive emotion existed in the quarterling now fades, replaced with exasperation as her scowl worsens further.

"'Gifts?' You mean contraband."

Her employer's cold contempt, delivered so concisely, sends a shiver through Yoci's body. Shuffling her feet uncomfortably, in the snow, she clutches herself for a warmth that she obviously won't find in this conversation.

"Um... Y-Yeah, b-b-but-"

"There is no 'but.'" she dismissively interjects, "Every year, these masquerading criminals bleed the economy. Stealing from the rich, giving to the poor..." Her otherwise-cherubic face wrinkles in unspeakable contempt. "It's a joke. Who the hell do they think they are to choose who deserves to get robbed, who deserves to reap unearned benefits?"

"B-B-But...!" Yoci hesitates. She's often so quiet; standing up to anyone, let alone her employer, is something she'd never dream of. But her love for this holiday is as deep-rooted as Veliky's hatred for it; she can't just sit quietly by. "Th-Those families... Those p-p-poor families... w-w-w-without the Red Rogues, they wouldn't have any g-gifts. All those ch-children... The Red Rogues are heroes!"

"No, Yoci!" A sharp turn and an uncompromising glare tell all: Veliky won't be shaken. "They're just people. And people..."

She walks closer. She's shorter than The Gnome, but her aura is no less crushing. Yoci backs away, only to find herself against the icy alleyway wall, with Veliky's eyes unfalteringly upon her.

"People are greedy and selfish. A holiday doesn't change that; it's just another excuse for self-serving scumbags to make off with more than they deserve. Don't be stupid, they're *evil*. And, tonight, we're putting a stop to it."

And she turns away, leaving Yoci to stand on wobbling knees. The Gnome's defiance is spent; she can't muster another word to dissuade Veliky. And, even if she could, she knows it wouldn't work.

Veliky begins to walk toward the opening of the alley. With a signal of her hand, she tells the golems all that they need to know: the attack is beginning. They begin their filed march, without a shred of hesitation. As they do, Veliky offers one last look to Yoci.

"Go back to the warehouse. This won't take long."

Yoci fidgets in her place. A half-dozen times, she goes to say something, but only a whimper escapes her mouth. Then, gaze downcast, she nods and scurries down the alley, the other way. It isn't long before she disappears around the corner.

Veliky just lets in a congested sniff and exhales. No more drama; it's business time. She clenches her right fist and raises it to her lips.

"Prizvat, recall Envy-04."

---

Inside the warehouse, the calm is suddenly broken by a blue glow. The flaming horse-construct - which had otherwise been passive, is suddenly surrounded by mind-bending polygons of translucent mana! Yet, still, the horse remains completely unfazed, even as panels of scintillating magic wash over it. Then, the phenomenon vanishes as abruptly as is appeared - and so, too, does the horse^[4].

In the return of the silence, the smugglers are left to look around in bafflement. They've had merchandise stolen before, but never of its own volition. What just happened? Is it over? There's a feeling in the air - a feeling that says 'not even remotely.' The feeling's only worsened as the little BFF, who seemed unperturbed until now, speaks an ominous warning:

"Alert: hostiles detected."

And, barely a second later...

CRASH!!! No fewer than three windows shatter simultaneously! Through each flies some nondescript pellet that falls into the middle of the room before exploding into flashes of light^[5]! The smugglers that'd seemed so rough and tough are completely blinded, completely discombobulated as constructs - the same that Cirice had seen at the Platinum Corp warehouse - pour into the room. All this, in the span of no fewer than three seconds; in the time it takes to introduce oneself, the warehouse has descended into madness.

---

1. Rook-12
2. Invisibility (Rook-12)
3. Cat's Grace (Rook-12)
4. Summon Mount
5. (Exploding Pebbles) Miniature Nova Bombs

Bringing Minions
Bishop-10 (Three is a Crowd II)
Knight-02 (Three is a Crowd II)
Rook-12 (Three is a Crowd II)

Bringing Pets
BF-02 (The Goodest Boy)
Vampire-04 (Vampire Bat)

Cirice was contemplating what a little metal dog could want to play when the horse construct disappears in a dazzling array of colors. She blinks in awe, enamored of the magical display. Surely whoever owned this horse is some sort of mage of great power. She felt bad for taking the construct in the first place and now that its returned to its master she feels slightly better. It saves her the time and efforts of returning the horse after Winter’s Crown. That's almost a little sad, she’d considered decorating it with flowers and sending an apology note but this works too. Perhaps when all is said and done she can send a note to the warehouse itself. Along with the money to replace the wagon she destroyed. She sighs, not nearly as freaked out as the smugglers, and then BFF announces the hostiles.

Windows smash, glass flies everywhere and Cirice instinctively gasps and covers her eyes, her instinct and fear saving her from the discombobulating flashes of light as she looks up just in time to see the constructs come in. The mage must be unhappy and unwilling to donate to the cause.

“BFF your friends are here! Oh no, we need to hide!” She scoops him up and fades into the shadows¹, taking refuge behind some boxes.

As the smugglers stand around dazed and confused the wooden creatures in the warehouse shudder to life. A massive, majestic lion hops down from its perch on a tall shelf and pounces at the nearest invading construct. Claws out and snarling mouth agape it bites down hard on the head of the intruder.

“Oh no, oh no, someone is going to get hurt in all this!” Cirice had since decided the metal men and animals were probably not people and probably didn’t get hurt but the smugglers she put in danger most certainly are. She can’t just hide after leading an army right to them. She’ll have to fight! But… She’s not the best in combat. She’ll have to be clever if she wants everyone to make it out alive.

She sees a construct bearing down on a dazed man and him scream out in pain and she summons a little ball of violet-tinged water into her hand and lobs it at them². The orb bounces against the construct, hitting it in the face and leaving a coat of frost on its lenses then bounces to the man, healing the wounds he’d just sustained. It bounces between them a couple more times, the construct looking more frosty and the man looking more healthy at each bounce. By the time the bubble dissipates the man is back to normal and he delivers a heavy kick to the construct’s side.

---

1 Cloak of Shadows 
2 Bouncing Bubble

The construct's frosted flank buckles under the force. Within its hull, untold mechanisms rattle and snap; it emits a decrescendoing beep before the red fades from its lenses and it teeters over...

Crash! The sound of its demise is like that of a knight falling down the stairs. Upon impact, it falls to pieces in a manner that would be extremely grisly if it were of flesh and blood. Strange components spill forth, including a brass cog whose momentum rolls it along the ground, between the feet of battling men and machines, between a wooden lion and the bot it's ripping to scraps, and narrowly evading the falling body of an incapacitated smuggler before its roll is cut short as it comes under the taloned foot of an especially daunting machine^[1]. In design, it's like the cloaked swordsman - an elite model - but it guards itself with a kite shield and wields a whip that surges with lightning^[2].

Three smugglers charge the machine, ready to tackle. But it waves its whip like a ribbon-dancer and, with a single Crack, sends all three of them sprawling and spasming onto the ground.

A fourth smuggler, carrying a club, thinks himself clever; he runs up from behind the bot, believing that the chaos of the battle will mask his footfalls! And it does. Standing directly behind it, he prepares to club the machine on the back of its steel skull - but he finds his weapon intercepted by something unseen! It materializes^[3] before him, a second and similar construct that deflects his undisciplined attack before striking him in the forehead with the pommel of its sword! This weapon sword the same lightning^[2] as the whip - lightning that surges through the smuggler's brain. He is unconscious before his heart next beats.

It becomes clear enough that this duo can't be straightforwardly contested. Those smugglers that witnessed the display back off. But, in doing so, they allow a monster of their own to approach: a sphinx of carved wood with sharpened splinter-claws. It is a beauty of craftsmanship, and a testament to lethality.

There's an ugly groan of oak as the beast raises a claw to slash at the metal men. The sword-machine, in the blink of an eye, stabs its blade into the oaken paw, but the creature feels no pain; lightning crackles and courses, but its wooden frame refuses to conduct! It does nothing to stop the attack; one sweep sends that tin man flying away, and its sword with it.

With many a creak and pop, the monster turns its empty eyes to the lone whip-construct. It swings its massive paw downward; barely, the metal man steps out of its reach. A second swipe can't be evaded; the machine is forced to block the strike with its shield^[4], but the attack carries such force that the shield is knocked brutally aside! The third is unavoidable; it leaves four ugly rips in the thing's tin chest and has the bot spinning and reeling. The fourth and final attack in its flurry of claws would've been the end, but the construct just manages to raise its shield^[4]; it's sent flying backward, talons skidding and sparking against the floor, but it holds onto false life.

The tin man has some valuable distance, but little to do with it. A strange, luminescent liquid of muted grey leaks from the gouges in its chest, and it can only hold its shield in defense as the carved sphinx encroaches...

SMACK! The sound of a crossbow - a heavy one - being fired. Flying as fast as sound^[5] itself, there isn't an instant between this sound and the arrival of the bolt, piercing the sphinx's shoulder and sending splinters flying. But the sphinx, knowing no pain, isn't perturbed. It look up to see the bolt's source: another construct^[6], perched just outside one of the shattered windows. By the time it's spotted, it's already loaded another bolt. Before the sphinx can even react, another bolt is fired, this one piercing directly into its forehead! It should be a lethal blow, but what's lethal to an unliving being? The sphinx barely flinches, and certainly doesn't hesitate before making a mighty leap up to the catwalk, prowling toward the vexing sniper...

Meanwhile, there's another disturbance at the loading doors. It's easier to miss, as it creates no sound, but it's just as strange: on the doors themselves, a set up magical, blue lines is being drawn in the shape of a large rectangle - or a large door. And then, befittingly, that shape opens^[7] as if it had hinges. And standing outside is the tiny, yet intimidating figure of Veliky, sitting atop the saddle of that same flaming horse-construct that'd been inside the warehouse mere moments ago. She looks upon the warehouse, the battle, the people, with contempt as the horse canters inside with a lifeless gait.

But; in that little, hidden spot that Cirice has secured; it's just her and the little dog in her arms; they have yet to be seen, even after her spell was cast. As she holds the BFF, something unusual happens: its cold, metal body begins to heat up. It isn't to the point of pain, but to the degree that it almost feels like holding a real dog... It looks up at her with its big eyes.

"Young moon elf, report: you appear stressed. Warmth has been shown to aid in alleviating stress. Query: is there anything else I can do to help?"

---

1. Knight-02
2. Sigil's Blessing [Lightning Rune]
3. Invisbility (Rook-12)
4. Kite Shield [1 Strike Prevention remaining] (Knight-02)
5. Dashing [Heavy Crossbow] (Bishop-10)
6. Bishop-10
7. Create Door

“Shhhhhhhhhhhhh BFF bot, you’ve got to keep quiet or they’ll find us.” Cirice whispers softly to the little dog construct. As it warms against her she nearly drops it out of surprise, playing hot potato with it for a moment as she struggles to keep her grip and hugs it tighter to her chest. “Oh you are so freaking cute! But we can’t play right now buddy, we’ve gotta stop your friends from hurting people.” She looks around at the carnage. “They’re getting pretty hurt too, this is bad.”

The smugglers are starting to realize they’re truly outmatched. Several of them have fallen back into defensive positions, firing crossbow bolts at the invaders. They haven’t got magic of their own to contest with the constructs, so they've adapted more mundane means, protecting the most valuable of the warehouse’s contents while the carved wooden guardians do battle with their metalloid counterparts.

The sphinx, the most finely detailed and lovingly crafted of the wooden warriors leaps into the air, wings spread to try to pounce and rid itself of the sniper in its cover. Smashing through the frame of the already shattered window it bears down on the Blixtbot with deadly intent. The sniper shoots it point-blank directly into its oaken maw only for the sharp splintering teeth to close down like a vise onto the crossbow and violently rip the arms from the tin man. That same strange, luminescent liquid spills out from the gaping wounds where the arms had once been. It looms over the little bot, bringing a massive paw down onto its head and silencing the annoyance once and for all.

Inside Cirice is flailing, unsure of what to do but knowing this can’t last forever. The lightning bots are hurt but not completely out of the fight. She sets the little dog down. “Stay here BFF, I’ll be back. Don’t let anyone take you, okay?” With that she runs through the shadows¹ and skids over towards where the fallen bots lay, placing a hand on each of them, runes on her arms flaring to violet light. “Please don’t fight anymore, you’ll just get more hurt. Leave and don’t cause any further harm.” She instructs the booths, lacing her words with magic to try and get them to comply^{2 & 3}.

---

1 Cloak of Shadows
2 Be Jolly
3 Smooth talking

After three consecutive attempts, one of the fallen bots slowly sits up, its metal spine strained and groaning. There's a lethargy in its arms, almost as if they're broken (subtle movements in its fingers indicate that this is not the case). It looks to Cirice for only a moment before it hangs its head in a lazy slouch.

"Alert: unknown cerebrahazard detected; Friend Subprotocols malfunctioning. Young moon elf, negative: damage and destruction of Blixtbot™ units is acceptable in the execution of Priority Silver directives." Its voice, true to its nature, isn't unlike BFF's, though notably lower in pitch. It makes an attempt to stand, but its talons slip and it lands heavily on its metal rump. "Imperative: this area is currently at a threat level of Silver. For your own safety, you must vacate the area."

The crash of a falling crate - a racket at most times, but merely audible among the thick of echoing battle - nevertheless draws eyes to the boxes that Cirice had been hiding behind. It quickly scampers into cover, but the tiny figure of BFF was visible for a second. One would be inclined to pray, that it was not seen, but the undivided gaze of the half-conscious bot it a grim omen to the contrary.

"Young moon elf, recommendation: there is a BFF unit nearby. BFF-series Blixtbots™ are programmed with leading-edge safety protocols. It can escort you to a safe location. Additional recommendation: you should vacate immediately, as subjugation tactics will soon be in effect."

And just as it groans those words, something happens that's eye-catchingly bizarre. One of the smugglers, weary from the now-dragging battle, leans on a wall to catch his breath; beside him, suddenly appearing atop a standing barrel, is that little, blonde woman^[1,2]. This is an utter anomaly, as that same woman - rather, another instance of that woman - is still riding on a horse across the room.

The little woman, standing on the barrel, says something to the smuggler (it can't be heard over the battle). Startled, the smuggler swings a club at her, only for her forcibly press her palm against his chest. He stops, steps back... and all emotion fades from his face. He turns and walks back into the fight, weapon raised, and clubs one of the wooden constructs on the back of its head^[3]!

Similar things take place in no fewer than three other parts of the room. Before long, many of the smugglers have inexplicably turned against their companions! As if the panic of an organized attack weren't already deteriorating the smugglers' prospects, confusion and maltrust spread throughout the room. The morale which had been shaky is now cracking and crumbling.

In a desperate coup, two smugglers charge the woman on the horse, only for two more copies to spontaneously manifest, touch them, and send them against their own allies. The mounted woman - of whom it's now unclear if she's even the real copy at all - doesn't even pay them any regard. And one of them, with a gait as rigid and mechanical as the constructs themselves, is marching directly toward Cirice and the bots that she saved.

---

1. Replicant
2. Invisibility
3. (Curse of the Hag) Dominate

“Right well, really sorry metal friend. I didn’t mean for this to happen. Please apologize for me.” Cirice gently pats the bot on its head, the runes on her arms flaring to life and healing washing over the constructs she’s touching¹. “There you go. Please don’t hurt anyone else.” With that she looks at the diminutive figure on the metal horse, curious but afraid of whatever is happening taking over her too. She fades into the shadows2 and goes to grab BFF.

"BFF baby we gotta go!" She scoops him up into her arms, the warmth actually helping ground her and keep her somewhat calm. She slinks through the shadows and hops up to the bulk of the smugglers.

“This is fuckin mental. The hell did you bring here?!?” One of the smugglers shout-whispers at Cirice.

“I-I just went where I was told… I didn’t know they would follow me… I’m sorry I can fix this, I promise. Just so long as no one is dead!” Cirice gives an apologetic, concerned look and turns towards the warehouse floor, the runes on her arms glowing brightly as she raises a barrier of light³ between their position and the rest of the warehouse. Hopefully this will prevent further carnage.

"Well good now we're fish in a fucken barrel!"

"Shhhhhhhh I got this, just trust me." She begs the irate man.

“L-listen!” She calls out, trying to disguise her voice but only really dropping it a few octaves, “I don’t know who you are but… We don’t want any more trouble! Can you please just take your things and go?” She pours her dwindling magic and hope into her words, begging for things to calm down and feeling guilty⁴. A few of the wooden constructs growl and snarl against the wall of light, aching to get at the invaders while the dominated smugglers bang against it from the other side. “Please?”

---

1 Major Healing
2 Cloak of Shadows
3 Wall of Light
4 Smooth Talking

As the scintillating barrier divides the room, the battle comes to a strange and tenuous pause. Through the yellow brilliance, smugglers' weary eyes glare from one side whilst unfeeling lenses of crimson leer from the other. The indoctrinated men and women stare thoughtlessly, as if their very personality were some fluid that's been drained for drying. Some tap at the wall, only to confirm its solidity.

The bodies of nearly a dozen metal constructs litter the floor. Some of them, yet-living but rendered neutral by Cirice's hexes, site and skive purposelessly, devoid of whim. And between them, with arithmetic strides, tread the steel hooves of the false horse that carries the spritish warlady aloft.

Where they should burn her flesh, the flames spewed from the mount's neck mysteriously lower in her presence, as if aware of her. The manner with which she rides, two legs dangling off one of the horse's sides, is of a casual air that can only be attained through intimate familiarity with battle. But the contempt in her stare, sweeping across the lot of the criminal scum before her, could only harbour a true, bitter vengeance. Even were it not for her place as commandress of this battle, even were it not for the destruction she's already caused, the tyrannical regality in her posture would impress her role unto all that see her. She is judge, jury, and executioner - the vice of all, contained in such a meagre form. It'd seem impossible, absurd; and yet here it is, speaking aloud with the clarity of a stage actor and the authority of a king.

"No." Frigid - not merely in absence of heat, but in reverence of cold. "Your operation is over. This warehouse will be seized, and your punishments will be up to the judge. Your only choice now is how much this is going to hurt. Drop your weapons, call off your dolls and surrender."

It isn't difficult to tell the difference between a job and vendetta. When someone has the former, they're generally quick and to-the-point, only wanting to finish and reap the rewards. This is obviously the latter, where the unique bite of every syllable is savoured. And for just a few products... needless to say, it seems excessive.

She watches the group unerringly, searching as that off-key voice rings out again.

"Please just take your things and go. And if you must punish anyone, just punish me as this was all my doing and these men are innocent!"

Through narrowed slits, the tyrantess scans for the voice's source. But, between the grizzled criminals and chiselled puppets, there is too much clutter to tell.

A grim look crosses her face.

"You really don't get it, do you?"

The equine's joints grind and hiss as it paces beside the translucent, shimmering wall.

"This isn't about my property. It's a matter of justice. I knew you people were going to try something; so I waited for you."

Outside the barrier, another automaton strides, dragging its claws along the hardwood planks: a canine, like the little BFF-pup, but as large as a true hound^[1]. "Would've been nice to stop the robbery, maybe stage an interrogation-" It turns its crimson glare to little BFF, through the barrier. It looms over the pup. "-but following you worked, too."

Snow drifts and dances through the shattered windows, slowly killing any remnant of heat in the room. Soon, the warehouse will be no warmer than the white streets outside.

"Year after year, you people gut the economy. Yet people cheer for you, since you use the poor as an excuse." Her form is silhouetted against the grey sky. "That ends tonight. I'm putting an end to the Red Rogues. And that doesn't mean one person, or one person's things; it means all of you: every last warehouse, every last crook."

Her posture shifts into an almost-relaxed recline.

"Now - do as I say and surrender. I'm not going to ask nicely again."

The declaration hangs in the air like a thick smog, smothering the thoughts and senses. Within the barrier, those living shift their feet in nervousness. The situation is grim; with victory a far-flung fantasy, heeding the commandress' demands seems like the only sane choice. And many of them seem ready to do just that, until...

"Wow, you're really bitter and cynical. You should really try thinking of others and their happiness over lofty concepts like economics. It really goes against the spirit of the season." Of all the sounds to break the silence, sass is one of the least expected, and one of the least welcome. It is a baleful omen; as it fills the room, the woman's eyes narrow to vengeful slits while the smugglers' widen in fear for the consequences.

But then that voice takes a more sorrowful tone, one that speaks to sympathy - pity. "I'm sorry no one gave you winters crown presents. But that isn't okay to me mean to others because of it."

And for a moment, the little woman says nothing at all. The silence holds a mosaic of unspoken thoughts: anticipation, confusion, anger, even a breath of amusement.

There's a twitch in the woman's eye, the first falter in her stone-cold visage. But what emotion it signifies is unclear.

"The hard way, then." she plainly, calmly declares. "Sooner or later, that shield's going to wear off. May as well drop it now. Won't make things any easier, but it'll make them a lot quicke-"

A bestial ROAR interjects and brings all attention to one of the shattered windows where the wooden sphinx is perched, luminescent fluid coating its fangs and claws! It leaps to the warehouse floor, shattering the hull of a derelict ship beneath its bulk! Immediately, its bloodlust reignites, and its bloodshed resumes as it swings its claws through heaps of metal constructs!

The commandress' horse is quick to step away from the carnage, nearly unbalancing its livid rider.

"Dammit! Scrap that thing!"

Immediately, her militia (constructs, indoctrinated smugglers and all) turns their full attention to destroying, or at least hampering the monstrosity whose rampage seems unstoppable! And as the commandress gives the monster as wide a berth as possible, the attention afforded to Cirice and her group is at an all-time low...

---

1. BF-02

“SCATTER!” Cirice yells at the top of her lungs, the wall of light pushing forward towards Veliky. The band of smugglers scrambles, running in all directions but mostly away from the fray. Cirice however runs forward with her wall. As the wall heads towards Veliky she drops it right before the quarrterling can get out of the way and then there’s Cirice, hugging her and pulling her from the horse. Before her snuggled prey has a chance to wriggle out of her grip the runes along Cirice’s arms glow brightly, magic washing over the little businesswoman and filling her with calm, happy thoughts¹.

“Hey, we don’t need to fight, we can be friends instead! I’ll get you something from Winter’s Crown!” Cirice promises, her voice laced with magic². “I’m sorry you’re so grumpy. But please don’t hurt anyone else.” More magic washes over Veliky, erasing her memory of what the elf looked like and of the curse she spun upon her but not of the promise made³. She spins them in a circle then sets the little woman down carefully with a smile. “Stay safe, okay?” She fades into the shadows around them with a small wave⁴.

The little woman is wordless. Without the cold glower, she's just like a bewildered cherub. Her eyes are huge, widened to the point that one would think she's seen a ghost - but not in fear.

She says nothing before Cirice leaves, though it isn't clear if she would've spoken had she stayed.

---

1 Be Jolly
2 Smooth Talking
3 Fade from Memory
4 Cloak of Shadows

A repetitive, distressed beeping resounds off the wooden walls and through the whipping wind, emanating from a metal construct that's locked between the jaws of the oaken sphinx. With a violent jerk, it's slammed against the ground and its beeping ceases. Then, pinning the construct's head under one paw and its legs beneath the other, the sphinx tears a massive chunk of tin out of its torso. Metal crunches and is punctured by great, stake-like canines.

But then, a whip CRACKS against the sphinx's wing, leaving a scar in the bark. With lifeless eyes bathed in the bale-blue moonlight, the sphinx turns its head to leer at the automaton that presumed to strike it.

As if displaying its first notion of fear, the whip/shield construct turns heel and dashes between the wreckages of reclaimed hulls. And, like a cheetah on the plains, the sphinx is quick to pursue; heedless of the metal husks it crushes underfoot, heedless of the masts and figureheads that smash against its shoulders and head, heedless of the destruction it causes.

As it passes beside a ruined sloop, something leaps from above, landing on the sphinx's back^[1] and plunging its sword into the centreline where a spine should be. For a moment, it almost seems ready to collapse. But then its wings flare, vaguely carved feathers bending unnaturally; and it rears back to buck the construct off! Its paws settle on the planks just as that construct lands, already in a disciplined stance^[1] and prepared to fight. And this will avail it, as the sphinx is just as ready.

Immediately and with frightful swiftness, the sphinx turns and swipes at the sword-machine! But, with the practiced elegance of a true swordsman, its blade is already poised intercept. And intercept, it does: by striking the edge of the blade, the sphinx severs two of its own claws, which fly through the air and leave only jagged splinters. Of course, the doll doesn't mourn the loss of a few parts.

Another CRACK against its wing tells of the whip-machine's return, and it retaliates with an immediate, blind swipe, but the machine has already stepped away. The sword plunges into its side and it turns to snap its jaws, but that construct evades with supreme grace. The sphinx takes many wounds, but they hinder it so little. In fact, its swipes are only growing more and more furious, until its retribution has devolved into a maddened flurry of wooden claws! There's little opening for survival, let alone attack. By the time its frenzy subsides, the tin men have already retreated, leaving the sphinx to scan the warehouse for new prey...

It's eerily quiet. Most of the smugglers escape; those that didn't now lie unconscious. And those mechanical intruders are nowhere to be seen, as if in hiding. And, in fact, their crimson eyes do glow from the darkness; waiting in ambush...

But it doesn't see those. As it searches, something else catches its eye: a tiny machine, like a bat^[2], fluttering frantically on fabric wings. It's brazenly close. The sphinx seems almost transfixed...

The great, wooden monstrosity paws at the little toy bat, but it flutters out of the path. That little tease is all it takes. The hunt is on.

The bat beats its wings with all the strength and urgency that its meagre frame can muster, only just clearing the larch corner of a brigantine before the sphinx comes crashing and skidding through, in hot pursuit. The bat soars low in the pass of a vessel-valley; the sphinx leaps from ship to ship with a grace that's matched by its ferocity. With every bound it grows closer, and the little toy bat's efforts seem increasingly futile.

That is until it comes to a narrow, arching gap below one of the larger ships. Just as the sphinx pounces; the bat flies under, emerging on the other side on half a second before the sphinx comes careening through. What it finds on the other side, however, is unexpected; there it comes face-to-face with the two metal men that'd hounded it before, both poised for combat.

The little bat long-gone, and the sphinx has all but forgotten about it in the revelation of rediscovered quarries. Leering down with the carved irises of its soulless eyes, it brings itself forward.

Scrape, scrape, scrap...

But it can't! Even as it tries to drag itself forward, gouging claw marks in the floor, it can't manage to move. With an arboreal croak, it turns its head to see its woe: in its reckless pursuit, it became stuck in the hull of the ship!

As its neck grinds to face the tin men again, the whip-machine steps forward and slams its shield into the sphinx's face, with such force that its entire wooden head spins on the corkscrew that adjoins it to the body! Splinters fly in all directions, pelting the floor and walls. The sword-machine follows with a wide slash that severs that corkscrew and sends its head flying upward! Then, in a final coup de grâce, that same construct leaps into the air and, with a lightning-quick barrage of huge slashes, cuts the head into pieces! And as those pieces fall and join the scattered detritus, it lands in the pale light that shines through the broken window, unscathed^[1].

The room goes calm, and the only sound that lingers is the whistle of the wind.

---

It didn't take long to secure the warehouse. No dangers remained to hinder the bots as they swept the room, marked the crates containing Platinum Corp's property and rounded up the unconscious bodies of over a dozen smugglers. Some of the bots were destroyed irreparably, but the result is the same: the assault was a terrifying victory for Veliky and her legion of metal.

Cleanup is another matter. The state of the warehouse is abysmal: shards of glass, sawdust, splinters and plates from the destroyed constructs on either side, and the remnants of further-damaged ships litter nearly every square foot of the floor. It's a catastrophe to the eyes; even now, the bots are picking through the clutter, overseen and overlorded by the small team of Velikies.

Near every Veliky clone is indistinguishably authoritative, identically demanding; such that telling the original from a fake is utterly impossible. Their commands overlap into a military chorus that organizes all effort into an industry of glorified janitorial duty.

Needless to say, they aren't happy.

One paces with an unspoken frustration that nonetheless saturates the air around her. Her eyes are full of icy spite, and her face has twisted into a bitter scowl that seems as immutable as stone. Even being near her, one can sense the toxicity in the air. Still, as she watches the constructs dutifully clanking about, one of them - the canine^[3] - approaches with intent.

And then it speaks. A strange sight to one not so beyond caring as Veliky.

"Mistress Veliky, report: approximately 77% of the hostiles are accounted for, and the authorities have been notifie-."

"Acknowledged." If the tapping of her foot didn't hint enough toward her impatience, her blatant interruption is a clear giveaway. "Gather what's left of Gambit. Bring them to the street."

A chirp speaks the hound's obedience, but Veliky doesn't wait for it. She's already on the march, directly toward one of her myriad clones. Even as she reaches it, it continues to irreverently lean against the cold, oak wall; indeed, Veliky might be the only one who isn't daunted by Veliky.

Veliky stops with purposeful posture and focused eyes. "Who saw where they went?"

The clone chews on the question, looking up with a listlessness that scarcely hides a similar bitter. "Well, the Vampire was busy cat-sitting, so we didn't have an aerial. Stalker didn't see anything at the back, so they must've taken the streets. Definitely scattered - they'd be crazy not to."

Veliky lilts her head impatiently. This information isn't new to her, and somebody's getting punched if this clone doesn't spit something she wants to hear.

Fortunately for it, the clone does continue. "Ask the replicant out front. It's been out there for a while, might've found something."

The last syllable hasn't even formed on the clone's tongue before Veliky turns around and begins her march anew, this time for the hole she'd carved in the loading door. "Good. Dismissed."

Unexpectedly, she hears her own voice as she's departing. "Good luck."

She pauses and turns around. "The hell do you mean, 'good luck?'"

But it's already vanished.

...

No time for questions that she can answer herself. She turns her attention back to the door, which leads outside and into the silent night. She'd be lying if she claimed to not be put off by the clone's ominous blessing, but she's a good liar.

---

The flurry has died down. Its aftermath is a blanket of white, all across the city. It's as if the night, itself, has fallen into a slumber. It's all so still, like a kingdom at its end...

A tiny figure stands as a silhouette in the white, staring down the street. It'd be easy to see as a child, and its strayish face only enforces this conception. No footprints lead to its place in the snow, and little flakes linger in its flaxen hair. To imagine a more lonely sight is as challenging as it is taxing.

A second figure - one which would be identical were it not for the focus in her eyes, the maturity in her composure and the intention in its strides. She comes to a stop, some dozen steps away. She affords no greeting, just a a query with the air of a command. "Where did they go?"

...

The silence hangs.

"Hey!" Veliky demands the attention; even the puffs of mist she breathes are powerful - and furious. "Listen to me when I'm talking!"

...

It raises a hand and points down the way, in the same direction it's been staring all along. It's an answer, at least... but it sparks new questions that Veliky didn't think she'd be asking herself tonight.

"What's your problem?! What'd they do to you?"

...

For the first time, its posture shifts - slouching ever so slightly. Its voice... it's the same voice, but it's easy to tell the difference. Veliky's ordinary tone is so unfalteringly powerful that this one - meek - sounds almost alien. "When that thing came down, there was this girl. A moon elf. She... She picked me up and just... held me."

Now it's Veliky that lets the silence linger, and it's the copy that continues unwelcomed. "Before she left, she promised you something. She said she'd get you a gift, for Winter's Crown. And she asked you not to hurt anyone else."

Veliky's face is hard to read. Now is no different. Perhaps she'd've said something, but her attention is drawn backward as a cacophony of hisses signals the approach of her requested units. There they now stand: the Knight and the Rook, and the canine BF beside them.

"Mistress Veliky, report:" the canine begins, staring her in the eyes. It's a heatless stare, but one she's grown accustomed to. "Unit Bishop-10 was destroyed in the conflict, but the remainder of Gambit Squad await your orders."

As she listens, she looks over the two bots. They're both damaged - the Knight for severely than the Rook - but it's nothing they can't fix on short notice. They'll do.

"Good. Get ready for departure; we're hunting those bastards down."

She almost turns away. She isn't expecting any response but the usual, obedient chirp; but she's cut off when the BF speaks up again. "Discrepancy: the subjugation of the warehouse has fulfilled the mission's parameters. Further action is unnecessary. Additional discrepancy: we lack the necessary strength to initiate a manhunt of the required scale."

The glare she directs at BF could freeze the blood of a lesser being. "The 'mission's parameters,' BF, are whatever the hell I say they are."

"Query:" The suddenness of its rebuttal sends pangs of fury through her mind. "why are you intent on pursuing the-"

She steps forward; thin snow grinds underfoot.

"Because this doesn't end just by claiming one hideout! We're fighting an idea, and the only way to kill an idea is to send a message!" The ire in her voice carries through the night. "We're going to put every one of them behind bars. We're going to end this damned... myth!"

"We don't need to." That voice comes from behind her. It's her own, however weaker.

She turns around to see the clone now facing her. The focus, the intent, the hate she holds is so absent from its eyes. For far too long, they just stare - one holding its ground against the other's flame.

Veliky steps closer, so much so that their noses nearly touch, and searches the copy's eyes for an eternal moment. They aren't empty like when she uses her sedation, but they lack the unnatural flicker that comes from charms. There's something there, something just at the tip of her tongue, in the periphery of her mind. It's something...

She steps back. Her own demeanour has faltered; the look on her face is one of disturbance, the same that one might display upon discovering a corpse.

The BF steps forward, alarmed by her reaction. "Mistress Veliky, query: are you alright?"

It's some time before she answers. But, by the time she does, the disturbance has faded back into the cold. She turns to face the units, with the serious expression that she always favours.

"Bring reinforcements. We're doing this tonight."

For every scrap of concern they demonstrate, there's always a quick reminder of how emotionless the constructs really are. There's no longer even a shred of hesitation before they chirp and scatter, setting to see her will done.

She lets in a deep breath, and exhales a steady stream of misty release. The obedience is satisfying, calming. For a while, she just stands there, in the snow, with only her imitation to accompany her. It's an odd silence, full of many an unspoken thought.

The clone's are downcast, to the snow. Even as a replicant, and even under the effects of a curse, Veliky's near-inscrutable.

Even as they stand in place, the distance between them seems to grow farther and farther...

...

The copy raises its head. "Do you think she meant i-"

Its voice is smothered as Veliky grabs its face in one gloved hand. And then, in a flash of light^[4], the replicant is reduced to the arcane smithereens from which was formed, gently floating down and melding into the snow.

There's no clue of remorse in Veliky's face.

"Dismissed."

---

1. Cat's Grace (Rook-12)
2. Vampire-04
3. BF-02
4. Angelic Light