East of Kylia City, on the Rosian River, the chilly autumn winds howled around the two triremes of the Rishkan "fleet," sending waves crashing on the bows and spreading fallen leaves everywhere. Captain Baton, a fat loaf eager for glory, adjusted his helmet, the plumes swaying slightly in the gentle breeze. Before him, the riverbank of Kylia City rose from the horizon like a slumbering beast.
Under the incompetence of Baton, the Rishka Navy had completely disregarded the combat effectiveness the Kylians showed years ago and rushed ahead of the other Coalition forces in order to "plunder" Kylia City first.
"They think they can defy us CityStates, these Kylians," Baton muttered, spitting a stream of curses towards the turquoise water. "A few ramshackle fishing boats and stubborn pride. We'll starve them out. They'll be begging for Rishkan's mercy before the next harvest."
His plan was simple: a classic blockade. The Rishkan fleet, a "formidable" force of two triremes, would encircle Kylia City's Port, choking off its trade and forcing the Kylians into submission. Victory seemed assured. Even though the Kylians were famous for their combat effectiveness against bokoblins, they were seen as little more than a nuisance.
Baton puffed out his chest, a gesture that strained the seams of his elaborate, yet ill-fitting, breastplate. "Signal the men! Prepare to form the blockade! We'll show these Kylians what happens when you challenge the might of Rishka!"
The signal flags were raised, their crisp snaps lost in the wind's mournful song. On the deck of the lead trireme, the Rishkan Terror, rowers strained at their oars, their faces grim.
High above, General Komada squinted against the rising sun. Four squads of Kylian Airmen were rapidly closing the distance to the Rishkan fleet. Below them, one of the Airmen muttered, "Two ships. Pathetic. At least the Rosians could call their Navy a fleet."
Another chuckled, "Those ships were used by the Kylian Navy as target practice. These…are our practice targets."
Komada's voice rose over all of them. "Remember your training, Airmen. Do not underestimate the enemy, no matter how insignificant they appear. I don't want to see any man rolling his ankle on some random pothole like those in the Blue Army."
The airmen acknowledged his orders with a chorus of curt affirmatives. As they drew closer, the two triremes became more distinct. They appeared slow and cumbersome, like lumbering turtles against the backdrop of the vast ocean.
"Begin your attack runs," Komada commanded. "Remember to stay out of the enemy's bowmen's range."
The Airmen peeled off from their formation, each half targeting one of the triremes. Diving towards the decks, they released their payloads – small, incendiary grenades designed to ignite the wooden hulls and disrupt the enemy's operations.
From the perspective of the Rishkans, the Kylians were dropping what appeared to be "eggs". They couldn't possibly understand the danger these "eggs" posed to their lives.
On the Rishkan Terror, panic erupted as the first grenade struck. The rowers screamed in terror as flames erupted from the deck, consuming sails and rigging. Another bomb landed near the captain's cabin, sending splinters of wood flying and nearly unseating Baton from his precarious perch.
"What in the name of Ky…Hylia!" Baton roared, momentarily speechless. He looked up, his eyes widening in disbelief as he saw the strange, winged Lavovy circling overhead. "Lavovy? They're attacking us with…fire!"
The other trireme, the Rishkan Fury, fared no better. The Kylian Airmen's precision strikes quickly turned the proud vessel into a blazing inferno. Flaming oil and screaming sailors filled the air. The Rishkan sailors, untrained for aerial attacks, scrambled for cover, their faces contorted with fear, but there was nowhere to hide.
The airmen, seeing their initial payloads were highly effective, banked around for a second pass. This time, instead of incendiaries, they carried small, weighted nets woven from a surprisingly strong, local fiber. Aiming carefully, the airmen dropped the nets onto the burning ships. The nets tangled around oars, masts, and, most importantly, the struggling sailors, pinning them amidst the raging inferno.
One airman, seeing the chaos, even took a few moments to dive down and, with a well-aimed stone, knock the plume from Captain Baton's helmet. Laughter crackled over the comms as the plume, a symbol of his vanity and ambition, landed squarely in a pool of burning pitch.
Within minutes, the Rishkan "fleet" was more than just a smoldering wreck. The intense heat had reached the ships' magazines, where supplemental stores of pitch and oil were kept. With a series of muffled, then deafening, explosions, the hulls of both triremes ruptured, sending burning debris and body parts flying into the air. The oily water churned and bubbled, consumed by the inferno. Not a single Rishkan sailor survived. The Rishkan "fleet" had ceased to exist.
The Kylian Airmen, their mission accomplished with ruthless efficiency, regrouped and began their return journey to Kylia City. They left behind only a scene of utter devastation, a burning testament to Rishkan hubris and Kylian Naval might. A thick plume of black smoke rose from the turquoise waters, the blockade had utterly failed.