Sunday, October 18, 2015
With that single word, the glamour that kept us hidden shimmers out of existence - but it's too late, our arms are leveled and we're firing as fast as we can pull the trigger.
I would serve under Mortuis in any army. He directed the location, the tactics and the weaponry - shotguns, mostly the pump variety, with a few double-barreled shotguns in case pumps aren't fast enough. Jack ordered thousands of rounds of ammo - shells loaded with steel shot, as lethal to the Drow as their own Bal-Char. More so; even a graze begins to decay as if touched by acid.
This isn't a battle, not really. The Drow don't have a chance.
This is a massacre.
I can't find it in my heart to feel bad about it. We didn't seek them out, they came to us. Now they pay the price.
The air is full of the deadly steel shot and men die as it rips past their armor as through wet cardboard; it tears into their flesh and begins devouring them from the inside out. Nick and Raina stand side by side, firing almost as one, but it's Jack that surprises me. His face is a mask, his eyes cold and bleak and empty; he lines up each shot with care and is lining up the next before his man falls. There's no humanity in his face, no pity - no emotion of any kind. He's like a killing machine, no less than one of Lily's Claymores.
We keep pouring it on. "No survivors" is the order of the day.