In the latter half of the night, the players became the backbone of the Minicia Kingdom. At the cost of losing two-thirds of their number, they successfully delayed the noble private armies' takeover of Treasure Island and inflicted some casualties.
By dawn, the Royal Guard, who should have appeared to fight the nobles' private armies, finally emerged from the barracks in the city as though waking from a deep dream, and faced off against the private troops in the streets...
Yes, faced off. They did not fight. The Royal Guard continued to exercise unnecessary restraint, much to the remaining players' displeasure.
So they gathered in private, and their leaders held a small meeting.
The faint light of dawn barely dispelled the inky darkness, draping Treasure Island's ruined streets and buildings in a hazy gray shroud.
Gunpowder smoke still lingered. The smell of blood mingled with the damp sea breeze, creating a sickeningly sweet odor.
Dorok leaned behind a half-collapsed barricade, breathing heavily.
His finely crafted chainmail was covered in sword marks and dried blood. One horn of his helmet had been hacked off, and a dark red scab covered a wound on his forehead.
Only seven or eight players remained beside him, all equally battered and wounded.
They were all that remained of last night's fanatical band of over twenty.
At the cost of two-thirds of their comrades logging off to sleep, they had successfully planted chaos and fear in the hearts of the well-equipped noble troops, delayed their seizure of key facilities, and even made them suspicious enough of one another to spark several small internal clashes.
Yet the reinforcements they had expected-the Minicia Kingdom's regular Royal Guard-had only now arrived, long after daylight.
And all they did was face off.
From their hiding place, they could just