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Completed [LP] Enlist in the Royal Dragoons! Codex plays Sabres of Infinity
- Thread starter Lithium Flower
- Start date
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
Elson is right, if we win against Hussars, our glorious deeds will stand forever!
The Captain nods his head, a broad grin on his face.
"I can see it now: we shall charge them as a regiment, like proper cavalry! It will be just like that last great exercise at Fernandescourt!" Elson favours you with a sly grin. "Of course, I won't fall off my horse this time, eh dear fellow?"
You nod; the Captain has come far from the unsteady boy you once knew in your training. As you open your mouth to voice the thought, you are quite rudely interrupted. Your words, and indeed your very thoughts, are drowned out by the rattle of a thousand drums and the breathy whistle of just as many fifes as the serried ranks of the King's Army finally begin to take the field.
You lean out the castle window for a better view as the regiments of the King's Army, of your army, advance to their positions along the ridge. Battalions of orange-coated soldiers advance in a great, graceful arc four thousand paces wide, extending from the shadowy bulk of the Eastern tower to the distant haze of the forest on the horizon. Their ranks sparkle with the flashes of morning sun on naked bayonets and polished musket barrels. The mortared stones under your feet rattle and tremble under the mighty force of boots trampling the battered earth to the direction of drumbeats as loud as thunder and as cacophonous as hail.
The sound of the advancing Tierran army is joined by a blast of trumpets and the rapid beat of hooves. You behold a great mass of horsemen, their armour silver in the sun: The Wolf's Head Curassiers, the White Rose Lancers and two or three other line cavalry regiments, led by the two dozen armoured knights of Wulfram's bodyguard. They ride beneath a cloud of colourful banners: the three silver wolves courant on blue of your army's commander, the fortresses and ship of Havenport, the arch and river of Castermaine, and (greatest of them all) the quartered gryphons and towers of the royal house of Rendower.
The cavalry, and Wulfram's staff, take position on the far end of the line. The sound of fife and drum fade away as the massive formations of line infantry settle into their appointed positions in the battle line. Closer to you, but hidden by the bulk of the castle's other tower, you hear the full-throated shouts of gun crews as they wrestle the great iron barrels of their cannon to bear on the enemy.
You remember the figures from the briefing: seventeen thousand and three hundred men in twenty-four regiments, accompanied by forty-eight pieces of artillery. But numbers pale in comparison to the great army that stands alongside you. It is the greatest army that the Unified Kingdom of Tierra has ever fielded, facing the most formidable enemy host ever seen in its hundred and fifty year history.
Today, history is to be made.
-
You watch the field in what is almost a dreamlike state as the human tide of the Antari host edges closer and closer to the waiting cannon, muskets and sabres of the King's army. Minutes, perhaps even hours pass as the sun climbs high in the sky and men in their thousands march and sweat and make what might be their final peace with the Saints all around you.
A concussive blast shatters your fugue state. Your last shreds of reverie fly away as you see the black trail of a heavy iron ball arc through the air away from your lines. The cannonball ploughs into the front ranks of the Antari infantry, leaving a trail of bloodied earth, body parts and screams in its wake.
The great battle has begun.
-
More cannons fire. Given such a huge target, you doubt that the men servicing the iron field guns are much slowed in their reloading by a need for aim. Soon, every single one of your army's artillery pieces spits out cast iron defiance at the great host before them. The blast of cannon, near or distant, becomes all your ears know of the world. You can smell nothing save the acrid stench of burning powder. Entire regiments are swallowed up and hidden by the billows of powder smoke which issue from the constantly firing guns.
Still, the Antari continue their implacable advance. Despite all their thunder and fury, your army's cannons seem to do nothing more than throw pebbles into the encroaching tide of enemy soldiery. Though every iron ball hits its mark and leaves ripples of blood and death behind them, the dead and wounded are simply swallowed up by the mass of the living, and the tide grows ever closer.
Though torn to ragged shreds by your cannon, the forward edges of the Antari foot continue to advance, lest they be trampled by the great mass of men behind them. As they step ever closer, the ground beneath your boots begin to shake with their tread. Their cries of war or defiance or mere nervousness reach your ears, as incoherent and wordless as they are.
Still hundreds of paces away, the enemy foot lacks the discipline of their Tierran counterparts. Distant pops and soft wisps of smoke mark those among the enemy ruled too much by their nerves, having fired their weapons long before their foes were in range.
The sound of Antari shouts and tread are deafening now, drowning out even the sound of your own cannon. The forward elements of the enemy infantry are no more than three hundred paces from the Tierran line when a thunderous wave of fire, smoke and fury flenses them into shreds of bone, blood and flesh like a storm of flying blades. "What manner of sorcery is this?" you mutter to yourself in shock. You do not know the name of what you have just witnessed, nor have you ever seen it in action before. However, after seeing the gory effects of the volley, even from a distance, you doubt you would ever want to see them again.
-
For a moment, the Antari advance falters as screams of rage turn into screams of pain and fear. Confusion seems to reign supreme, and for a moment, a hope that the Antari might actually be wavering buds in your heart.
From the Antari line, a man wearing a uniform dyed far too bright to be peasant homespun steps forward. In one hand, he carries a long blade of good steel; in the other, a blood-red standard marked with the silver double-eagle of Antar. He is not alone. All along the line, similar men step forward, waving their banners and exhorting their less enthusiastic fellows to resume the advance. The Antari horde begins to march forward again.
Victory, it seems, will not be so simple.
-
The cadence of the Antari advance picks up speed from a walk to a full run. It is clear now that the enemy have no intention at all of forming ranks and giving fire like a properly drilled army.
"Battalion! Make ready!"
The command echoes down the vast line of orange-coated soldiery, relayed by red-faced sergeants. On command, the first rank of each battalion, some four or five hundred men total, crouch, their long bayonet-tipped infantry muskets pointed upwards. The second rank kneels behind them; the third snatches up their weapons, ready for the next command.
"Battalion! Present! Arms!"
The sight of a company of a hundred men bringing their muskets to bear on the enemy in a single motion is an impressive show. To see a battalion of four hundred perform the same task is something of a wonder. To see twenty seven battalions and more than ten thousand men bring their weapons up to their shoulders and point them forwards is nothing short of unforgettable, but it pales before what you know is very soon to follow.
"Battalion! Fire!"
Your world explodes in a cataclysm of smoke, fire and rolling thunder as the main body of Tierran infantry fire their muskets. Less than a hundred paces in front of them, the forward edges of the Antari advance melt away like ice under an open flame. The closely packed enemy tide stumbles upon itself, tripping and reeling over the windrows of their own dead now underfoot and before them. Some of the Antari standard-bearers step forward again to resume the advance, but not many.
No sooner have the Antari begun their steps forward does the steady crack of musket fire begin again: the battalion commanders have ordered their men to "fire in their own time." All along the ten thousand man-strong line, each individual soldier is reloading and firing at the approaching enemy as quickly as they can. A trained infantryman could manage three such shots in a minute, though there have been rumours of men who could do six.
Individually, a single man firing independently could do little harm to the Antari foot, but as one among an army, the steady storm of fire eats away at the ragged vanguard of the Antari foot, devouring the front ranks as others step forward to take their place. The miasma of battle begins to envelop you: the stench of powder and death. The smoke is everywhere, hanging over the entire field like an ash-grey funeral shroud until it blots out the sun and the battle both, leaving your position in a thick and choking darkness.
-
For the better part of an hour, the universe's edges retreat to the walls of Castle Blogia. Hemmed in by powder smoke and bounded by the rattle of musketry, screams and the occasional clatter of steel on steel.
"Damn me," you hear one of the other Dragoons say. "I thought we was to be fighting today."
He is not the only one. Some of the others around him grumble in agreement. How do you respond?
1) "Perhaps the battle is to pass us by."
2) "Fear not gentlemen, we shall have our fill of blood by the day's end."
3) "Keep an eye out, the Antari may attack us yet."
The Captain nods his head, a broad grin on his face.
"I can see it now: we shall charge them as a regiment, like proper cavalry! It will be just like that last great exercise at Fernandescourt!" Elson favours you with a sly grin. "Of course, I won't fall off my horse this time, eh dear fellow?"
You nod; the Captain has come far from the unsteady boy you once knew in your training. As you open your mouth to voice the thought, you are quite rudely interrupted. Your words, and indeed your very thoughts, are drowned out by the rattle of a thousand drums and the breathy whistle of just as many fifes as the serried ranks of the King's Army finally begin to take the field.
You lean out the castle window for a better view as the regiments of the King's Army, of your army, advance to their positions along the ridge. Battalions of orange-coated soldiers advance in a great, graceful arc four thousand paces wide, extending from the shadowy bulk of the Eastern tower to the distant haze of the forest on the horizon. Their ranks sparkle with the flashes of morning sun on naked bayonets and polished musket barrels. The mortared stones under your feet rattle and tremble under the mighty force of boots trampling the battered earth to the direction of drumbeats as loud as thunder and as cacophonous as hail.
The sound of the advancing Tierran army is joined by a blast of trumpets and the rapid beat of hooves. You behold a great mass of horsemen, their armour silver in the sun: The Wolf's Head Curassiers, the White Rose Lancers and two or three other line cavalry regiments, led by the two dozen armoured knights of Wulfram's bodyguard. They ride beneath a cloud of colourful banners: the three silver wolves courant on blue of your army's commander, the fortresses and ship of Havenport, the arch and river of Castermaine, and (greatest of them all) the quartered gryphons and towers of the royal house of Rendower.
The cavalry, and Wulfram's staff, take position on the far end of the line. The sound of fife and drum fade away as the massive formations of line infantry settle into their appointed positions in the battle line. Closer to you, but hidden by the bulk of the castle's other tower, you hear the full-throated shouts of gun crews as they wrestle the great iron barrels of their cannon to bear on the enemy.
You remember the figures from the briefing: seventeen thousand and three hundred men in twenty-four regiments, accompanied by forty-eight pieces of artillery. But numbers pale in comparison to the great army that stands alongside you. It is the greatest army that the Unified Kingdom of Tierra has ever fielded, facing the most formidable enemy host ever seen in its hundred and fifty year history.
Today, history is to be made.
-
You watch the field in what is almost a dreamlike state as the human tide of the Antari host edges closer and closer to the waiting cannon, muskets and sabres of the King's army. Minutes, perhaps even hours pass as the sun climbs high in the sky and men in their thousands march and sweat and make what might be their final peace with the Saints all around you.
A concussive blast shatters your fugue state. Your last shreds of reverie fly away as you see the black trail of a heavy iron ball arc through the air away from your lines. The cannonball ploughs into the front ranks of the Antari infantry, leaving a trail of bloodied earth, body parts and screams in its wake.
The great battle has begun.
-
More cannons fire. Given such a huge target, you doubt that the men servicing the iron field guns are much slowed in their reloading by a need for aim. Soon, every single one of your army's artillery pieces spits out cast iron defiance at the great host before them. The blast of cannon, near or distant, becomes all your ears know of the world. You can smell nothing save the acrid stench of burning powder. Entire regiments are swallowed up and hidden by the billows of powder smoke which issue from the constantly firing guns.
Still, the Antari continue their implacable advance. Despite all their thunder and fury, your army's cannons seem to do nothing more than throw pebbles into the encroaching tide of enemy soldiery. Though every iron ball hits its mark and leaves ripples of blood and death behind them, the dead and wounded are simply swallowed up by the mass of the living, and the tide grows ever closer.
Though torn to ragged shreds by your cannon, the forward edges of the Antari foot continue to advance, lest they be trampled by the great mass of men behind them. As they step ever closer, the ground beneath your boots begin to shake with their tread. Their cries of war or defiance or mere nervousness reach your ears, as incoherent and wordless as they are.
Still hundreds of paces away, the enemy foot lacks the discipline of their Tierran counterparts. Distant pops and soft wisps of smoke mark those among the enemy ruled too much by their nerves, having fired their weapons long before their foes were in range.
The sound of Antari shouts and tread are deafening now, drowning out even the sound of your own cannon. The forward elements of the enemy infantry are no more than three hundred paces from the Tierran line when a thunderous wave of fire, smoke and fury flenses them into shreds of bone, blood and flesh like a storm of flying blades. "What manner of sorcery is this?" you mutter to yourself in shock. You do not know the name of what you have just witnessed, nor have you ever seen it in action before. However, after seeing the gory effects of the volley, even from a distance, you doubt you would ever want to see them again.
-
For a moment, the Antari advance falters as screams of rage turn into screams of pain and fear. Confusion seems to reign supreme, and for a moment, a hope that the Antari might actually be wavering buds in your heart.
From the Antari line, a man wearing a uniform dyed far too bright to be peasant homespun steps forward. In one hand, he carries a long blade of good steel; in the other, a blood-red standard marked with the silver double-eagle of Antar. He is not alone. All along the line, similar men step forward, waving their banners and exhorting their less enthusiastic fellows to resume the advance. The Antari horde begins to march forward again.
Victory, it seems, will not be so simple.
-
The cadence of the Antari advance picks up speed from a walk to a full run. It is clear now that the enemy have no intention at all of forming ranks and giving fire like a properly drilled army.
"Battalion! Make ready!"
The command echoes down the vast line of orange-coated soldiery, relayed by red-faced sergeants. On command, the first rank of each battalion, some four or five hundred men total, crouch, their long bayonet-tipped infantry muskets pointed upwards. The second rank kneels behind them; the third snatches up their weapons, ready for the next command.
"Battalion! Present! Arms!"
The sight of a company of a hundred men bringing their muskets to bear on the enemy in a single motion is an impressive show. To see a battalion of four hundred perform the same task is something of a wonder. To see twenty seven battalions and more than ten thousand men bring their weapons up to their shoulders and point them forwards is nothing short of unforgettable, but it pales before what you know is very soon to follow.
"Battalion! Fire!"
Your world explodes in a cataclysm of smoke, fire and rolling thunder as the main body of Tierran infantry fire their muskets. Less than a hundred paces in front of them, the forward edges of the Antari advance melt away like ice under an open flame. The closely packed enemy tide stumbles upon itself, tripping and reeling over the windrows of their own dead now underfoot and before them. Some of the Antari standard-bearers step forward again to resume the advance, but not many.
No sooner have the Antari begun their steps forward does the steady crack of musket fire begin again: the battalion commanders have ordered their men to "fire in their own time." All along the ten thousand man-strong line, each individual soldier is reloading and firing at the approaching enemy as quickly as they can. A trained infantryman could manage three such shots in a minute, though there have been rumours of men who could do six.
Individually, a single man firing independently could do little harm to the Antari foot, but as one among an army, the steady storm of fire eats away at the ragged vanguard of the Antari foot, devouring the front ranks as others step forward to take their place. The miasma of battle begins to envelop you: the stench of powder and death. The smoke is everywhere, hanging over the entire field like an ash-grey funeral shroud until it blots out the sun and the battle both, leaving your position in a thick and choking darkness.
-
For the better part of an hour, the universe's edges retreat to the walls of Castle Blogia. Hemmed in by powder smoke and bounded by the rattle of musketry, screams and the occasional clatter of steel on steel.
"Damn me," you hear one of the other Dragoons say. "I thought we was to be fighting today."
He is not the only one. Some of the others around him grumble in agreement. How do you respond?
1) "Perhaps the battle is to pass us by."
2) "Fear not gentlemen, we shall have our fill of blood by the day's end."
3) "Keep an eye out, the Antari may attack us yet."
As of the Summer of the 607th year of the Old Imperial Era
Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 19
Rank: Lieutenant
Wealth: 550
Income: 10
Soldiering: 74%
Charisma: 40%
Intellect: 0%
Reputation: 49%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 90% Cynicism: 10%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You have no decorations as of yet.
Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 19
Rank: Lieutenant
Wealth: 550
Income: 10
Soldiering: 74%
Charisma: 40%
Intellect: 0%
Reputation: 49%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 90% Cynicism: 10%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You have no decorations as of yet.
Sixth Troop, Third Squadron, Royal Dragoons
Senior NCO: Staff- Sergeant Hernandes
Discipline: 30%
Morale: 29%
Loyalty: 32%
Senior NCO: Staff- Sergeant Hernandes
Discipline: 30%
Morale: 29%
Loyalty: 32%
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
And yes, now you actually address the men.
Well if we could get the glory of being in the battle without having to fight, it would be great, but I'm not optimistic.
3
3
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
"Fear not gentlemen, we shall have our fill of blood by the day's end."
The enlisted man grins, showing a mouth full of jagged teeth.
"I 'ope so sir. Unfair to make the foot do all the killing work."
A ragged chuckle fills the air, the tension much relieved.
-
Finally, an hour after midday, the sounds of battle fade away. The powder fog begins to thin under the gentle urging of an early afternoon breeze. You peer into the distance, trying to make out the situation on the field.
A hole forms in the smoke, just large enough to give you the sight of the Antari foot soldiers fleeing before the fixed bayonets of the Tierran infantry!
"Is it over?" Elson looks out, leaning out the window to your left, his tone disappointed.
Cazarosta appears at your right. "Hardly, our infantry have merely repulsed their first attempt."
As the smoke clears further, the wider image resolves itself: the Antari foot are in full disarray, their standard-bearers dead or fleeing with the general mass of their comrades. Behind them, the battered but intact ranks of Tierran infantry advance down the ridge, their fixed bayonets gleaming in the returning sun.
You are not the only one watching; your men see it too. Despite Cazarosta's cynicism and their previous complaint, they seem quite happy to cheer their impending victory.
-
Suddenly, a scattering of blows strike the Antari rear. The trailing elements of the retreating foe halt as ragged holes are blasted into their tightly packed mob.
"Our artillery does not seem quite content with letting the Antari leave the field." Cazarosta observes.
Elson shakes his head, his expression full of confusion. "Our guns haven't the range to strike so far."
You reach for your field glass and put the lens to your eye just in time to see puffs of smoke sprout from field fortifications far to the rear of the Antari army. A moment later, another volley of cannonballs slam into the backside of the enemy foot.
"The Antari are firing into their own men!" you exclaim.
Captain Elson slams his fist against the stone wall, his countenance furious. "Damn their barbarism! To turn one's own guns against one's own bloody army! What madness has possessed the Antari to do such a thing?"
"Not madness, pragmatism," Cazarosta replies, his voice chilly. "Look." He points at the ragged mass of the Antari infantry, now attacked from both sides, as they turn to face the fixed bayonets of the Tierran line once more. "They are now more fearful of retreat than they are of advance, so they take the path of least resistance."
Both men glare at each other, their difference in opinion clearly irreconcilable. They turn to you to solve their dispute. What do you think of this?
1) Elson is right! I am saddened that the Antari would stoop so low as to fire upon their own men.
2) Cazarosta is right! This measure may have been extreme, but it stopped the Antari retreat.
3) I don't agree with either of them.
The enlisted man grins, showing a mouth full of jagged teeth.
"I 'ope so sir. Unfair to make the foot do all the killing work."
A ragged chuckle fills the air, the tension much relieved.
-
Finally, an hour after midday, the sounds of battle fade away. The powder fog begins to thin under the gentle urging of an early afternoon breeze. You peer into the distance, trying to make out the situation on the field.
A hole forms in the smoke, just large enough to give you the sight of the Antari foot soldiers fleeing before the fixed bayonets of the Tierran infantry!
"Is it over?" Elson looks out, leaning out the window to your left, his tone disappointed.
Cazarosta appears at your right. "Hardly, our infantry have merely repulsed their first attempt."
As the smoke clears further, the wider image resolves itself: the Antari foot are in full disarray, their standard-bearers dead or fleeing with the general mass of their comrades. Behind them, the battered but intact ranks of Tierran infantry advance down the ridge, their fixed bayonets gleaming in the returning sun.
You are not the only one watching; your men see it too. Despite Cazarosta's cynicism and their previous complaint, they seem quite happy to cheer their impending victory.
-
Suddenly, a scattering of blows strike the Antari rear. The trailing elements of the retreating foe halt as ragged holes are blasted into their tightly packed mob.
"Our artillery does not seem quite content with letting the Antari leave the field." Cazarosta observes.
Elson shakes his head, his expression full of confusion. "Our guns haven't the range to strike so far."
You reach for your field glass and put the lens to your eye just in time to see puffs of smoke sprout from field fortifications far to the rear of the Antari army. A moment later, another volley of cannonballs slam into the backside of the enemy foot.
"The Antari are firing into their own men!" you exclaim.
Captain Elson slams his fist against the stone wall, his countenance furious. "Damn their barbarism! To turn one's own guns against one's own bloody army! What madness has possessed the Antari to do such a thing?"
"Not madness, pragmatism," Cazarosta replies, his voice chilly. "Look." He points at the ragged mass of the Antari infantry, now attacked from both sides, as they turn to face the fixed bayonets of the Tierran line once more. "They are now more fearful of retreat than they are of advance, so they take the path of least resistance."
Both men glare at each other, their difference in opinion clearly irreconcilable. They turn to you to solve their dispute. What do you think of this?
1) Elson is right! I am saddened that the Antari would stoop so low as to fire upon their own men.
2) Cazarosta is right! This measure may have been extreme, but it stopped the Antari retreat.
3) I don't agree with either of them.
As of the Summer of the 607th year of the Old Imperial Era
Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 19
Rank: Lieutenant
Wealth: 550
Income: 10
Soldiering: 74%
Charisma: 40%
Intellect: 0%
Reputation: 49%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 90% Cynicism: 10%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You have no decorations as of yet.
Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 19
Rank: Lieutenant
Wealth: 550
Income: 10
Soldiering: 74%
Charisma: 40%
Intellect: 0%
Reputation: 49%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 90% Cynicism: 10%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You have no decorations as of yet.
Sixth Troop, Third Squadron, Royal Dragoons
Senior NCO: Staff- Sergeant Hernandes
Discipline: 30%
Morale: 29%
Loyalty: 32%
Senior NCO: Staff- Sergeant Hernandes
Discipline: 30%
Morale: 29%
Loyalty: 32%
This
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
To be fair, you don't have to snowball into being more of a bleeding heart young retard. Disillusionment is a thing that happens, particularly in war.
Actually saw this a lot in PnP, with players who are good enough to come up with decent character concepts and play them well, but not quite good enough to actually travel through a character arc. Their actions were incredibly predictable because "it is what my character would do" but the character seldom changed or developed, even after tripping over a good catalyst for such, eroding their believability over time.
Actually saw this a lot in PnP, with players who are good enough to come up with decent character concepts and play them well, but not quite good enough to actually travel through a character arc. Their actions were incredibly predictable because "it is what my character would do" but the character seldom changed or developed, even after tripping over a good catalyst for such, eroding their believability over time.
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
Well, evidently not. We are just really, really, really not book-smart. In fact, we are really, extraordinarily book-dumb. Still, that doesn't make us literally retarded.
Lithium Flower
Arcane
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
- Messages
- 1,832
You open your mouth to voice your opinion.
"Oy! Sirs! Wassat?"
You, Cazarosta and Elson all turn to where the enlisted man is pointing. You spot a shimmer of movement along the far end of the Antari line, moving quickly and quickly growing larger. Almost in unison, the three of you bring your field telescopes to your eyes.
Your heart freezes when you see them: Church Hussars, thousands of them, gleaming in bane-plate, angel wings glittering in the summer sun; charging out from the woods on the opposite end of the field and riding at full gallop at the flank of the Tierran army, a great banner emblazoned with the sword-carrying bear of House Khorobirit fluttering at their head.
"By all the Saints!" your captain exclaims, his spyglass clutched tightly in his trembling white hands.
Even Cazarosta's formidable composure seems rattled. "Did Wulfram not assure us that those woods were impassable?"
"Apparently, Prince Khorobirit disagrees with that assessment." Elson's terrified tone is much at odds with his flippant words.
You mutter under your breath, as you struggle not to let fear overtake you.
"What was that?" Cazarosta asks.
You repeat yourself, more clearly this time:
1) "What shall be our next move?"
2) "Can we still win this battle?"
3) "How can we survive this?"
"Oy! Sirs! Wassat?"
You, Cazarosta and Elson all turn to where the enlisted man is pointing. You spot a shimmer of movement along the far end of the Antari line, moving quickly and quickly growing larger. Almost in unison, the three of you bring your field telescopes to your eyes.
Your heart freezes when you see them: Church Hussars, thousands of them, gleaming in bane-plate, angel wings glittering in the summer sun; charging out from the woods on the opposite end of the field and riding at full gallop at the flank of the Tierran army, a great banner emblazoned with the sword-carrying bear of House Khorobirit fluttering at their head.
"By all the Saints!" your captain exclaims, his spyglass clutched tightly in his trembling white hands.
Even Cazarosta's formidable composure seems rattled. "Did Wulfram not assure us that those woods were impassable?"
"Apparently, Prince Khorobirit disagrees with that assessment." Elson's terrified tone is much at odds with his flippant words.
You mutter under your breath, as you struggle not to let fear overtake you.
"What was that?" Cazarosta asks.
You repeat yourself, more clearly this time:
1) "What shall be our next move?"
2) "Can we still win this battle?"
3) "How can we survive this?"
As of the Summer of the 607th year of the Old Imperial Era
Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 19
Rank: Lieutenant
Wealth: 550
Income: 10
Soldiering: 74%
Charisma: 40%
Intellect: 0%
Reputation: 49%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 90% Cynicism: 10%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You have no decorations as of yet.
Alaric d'al Ortiga
Age: 19
Rank: Lieutenant
Wealth: 550
Income: 10
Soldiering: 74%
Charisma: 40%
Intellect: 0%
Reputation: 49%
Health: 65%
Idealism: 90% Cynicism: 10%
Ruthlessness: 31% Mercy: 69%
You have no decorations as of yet.
Sixth Troop, Third Squadron, Royal Dragoons
Senior NCO: Staff- Sergeant Hernandes
Discipline: 30%
Morale: 29%
Loyalty: 32%
Senior NCO: Staff- Sergeant Hernandes
Discipline: 30%
Morale: 29%
Loyalty: 32%
1
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