For The Republic, Part 1

A nimbus of fire rockets across the sky. Erupting with bright orange light, smoke shooting off the gaping hole on its starboard hull, the airship careens towards the ground, crashing into another ship, exploding in an instant, and taking all of its crew with it. The radio crackled to life.
"Mobius One, two bogies down, good shot!"
"AFFIRMATIVE" blared the Formis. If he had a mouth, he would have smiled. Arcing downwards, he surveyed the skies above the great city. The enemy had them outnumbered, but he and his squadron had the advantage in speed, and maneuverability. Straightening his craft, nine other planes grouped up behind him, forming an arrowhead that could pierce anything. Mobius One picked up his radio again.
"SKY EYE. MOBIUS SQUADRON IN POSITION."
"Roger that Mobius One, you are cleared for full engagement. Good luck down there." The man, 'Sky Eye', put down his radio. He looked off the side of his ship, far above even the rallied squadron. They separated into groups of three, with their leader, the best pilot in the Republic, flying off by himself. He turned to the deck of his ship, all eyes on him. He gave a nod, and a shout, "Clear!", ending with a salute. One by one, dark shapes began to descend off the sides of the vessel, rocketing towards the ground like a hail of iron. Nearly a hundred shapes began the descent, as onlookers gazed upwards in awe. The crews of the airships defending the city pointed outwards towards them, as heated bolts from massive ballistae whizzed past the shapes. The men braced for impact as they neared, having already seen ships be shot down before. Instead of a collision, the shapes unfurled, with two wings outstretched, gliding forward and pulling up with the momentum of their descent. Atop the wyverns were men and women, already the best of the best before the war, but now veterans of the bloodiest conflict the world had seen in nearly two hundred years. The Dragon Guard began to sweep across the vessels and the city alike, swords and spears clashing, flame and arrow flying, and the pale green light from mythril weapons arcing across the sky. 
Above them all, still on the vessel that overlooked the city, their leader takes a deep breath, steeling herself for the fight to come. Looking behind her, and giving her sole passenger a nod of encouragement, and faith, she too began her descent. Kallen Leone, atop a dark green wyvern, scales painted in the purple colors of the Republic, twisted and weaved across a sky now set ablaze. Sword swinging at any that dared cross her path, she plummeted towards the city that had been her home for over a decade, before it was taken from her. As the cities defenses scrambled to retaliate to the chaos her soldiers had begun to cause, she raced to the southern face of the city, and on the horizon, she could see them. Illuminated by golden flame, held high towards the sky like a beacon of hope, banners flowing in the wind, the purple flown freely for all to see, for all to marvel upon. Salvation was at hand for the people of Westbrooke.
"Come on you apes! Do you want to live forever?!" a man shouted. He focused his thoughts, raising his hand, and with it a huge fist soared above him, wrought from iron and steel, humming with electricity and power. A massive shout from the solders behind him was the only answer he received, and the only one he needed. Cyric of Retherdale, clad in a great suit of Powered-Armor, the best the Rebellion had to offer, lowered that same hand to the ground, as a woman of dark hair climbed onto his arm, resting herself on the shoulder of the hulking suit. Surrounded by dozens of men clad in these bulky mechanical warsuits, Ivara felt out of place, though each of the men around her looked onwards with admiration.
"Cyric, you ready?" she said, looking down at the man that now carried her. He looked up, and with a wink and a smile, flexed the arms of the suit that encased him, then slammed its fists together. "Let's do this."
The soldiers mimicked him, and the charge began. Arrows and bolts flied across the fields of the Westbrooke Plains as the power armored warriors surged forward like a herd of angry bulls. The grassy ground turned to mud and debris as their metal footsteps clamped into the dirt, shots bouncing off the steel enclosures around them. Entering the outskirts of the city, a mass of buildings and cobbled roads that did not have the protection of the great walls of Westbrooke, the power-armored division pushed onwards. Their leader looked across the road that led to the iron gates of the city, and saw it. A whirling wheel of crystals, situated at the end of an arm belonging to a figure whose stature matched his own, save for the grotesque pustules and flesh-ridden growths that seemed to pour out between the metal plates. As the crystalline weapon began to spin, revving up for a volley, the man rushed across the road, batting a wave of arrows away from him with a quick slap, before leaping into the air, metal fist crashing into what remained of the enemy armor-pilots head. Fist crackling with electricity and mythril-fueled energy, he slammed down into it like a dynamo, until naught but crumpled steel and bloody flesh remained. He pushed onwards.
Cyric could see the flames in the sky above, and saw the wyvern-riders atop the walls, weapons clashing with those of the sentries that guarded the capital. The volleys of shots began to lessen, and their chance had come. He rallied his men once more; they had lost a few, but those that remained were ready. His suit moved its two huge fists together, pointing them outwards towards the closed gate and the wall of the city. A magnetic lock between them clasped together, and from his palms came four huge rods, which began to spin, filling the streets with a cold glow. Around him, the glow erupted again, and again, until it was nearly impossible to keep his eyes open, lest he be blinded by the light. With a roar, he unleashed a great series of bolts, pale-green and blue energy arcing across the street and into the walls of the city, battering against stone like a hurricane. One by one, his men followed, until little more than dust remained. The way had been cleared. Uncoupling his fists, he used one to grab a nearby banner, the symbol of the rebellion emblazoned on its surface. 
Just then, a bolt, fired from a man atop the wall, body bloodied and crippled, shot through the debris. Sheering through the dust that had filled the air, Cyric had no time to react, the armor too slow to dodge, and the shot too well-placed to be avoided. He kept his eyes open, ready to face death. But it did not come. Instead, the bolt stopped in the air, Ivaras hand clasped around it, only an inch away from his head. Cyric gave a sigh of relief, as Ivara stood up on the pauldron of his armor, spinning her body and launching the bolt back at its sender, her shot flying just as true as his. Giving Cyric a pat on what little part of his shoulder was exposed, the man now lifted his other arm, the banner flying high above them all, as hundreds upon thousands of soldiers began to move forward into the city.