Bunduqdari
Sergeant Knight
Has anyone read the above story yet? A couple of feed-backs will do 
TEATRC tribute & universe expansion
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Sergeant Knight
Warhammer651
Recruit
Pretty good, only one typo that i saw
Also: I am noticing a distinct lack of IS lore. Is this because no-one likes them or is it just that no one got around to it? If it's the later, I have some ideas for an imperial contingent to make its way to vienna
You are probably just missing a word.
Also: I am noticing a distinct lack of IS lore. Is this because no-one likes them or is it just that no one got around to it? If it's the later, I have some ideas for an imperial contingent to make its way to vienna
Venitius
Count
Sounds reasonable.
Weelll.. bit of both really. The IS has been mocked time to time.. I personally find the Vienna situation to be far more interesting than the Kaiserlichers. I don't think the Kaiserlichers make it to Vienna, nor are actually sent to help Swadia if they do until the next campaigning season, long after Swadia is gone. The only Kaiserlichers present at the siege itself would probably be mercenaries, volunteers and immigrants.
Warhammer651 said:
Weelll.. bit of both really. The IS has been mocked time to time.. I personally find the Vienna situation to be far more interesting than the Kaiserlichers. I don't think the Kaiserlichers make it to Vienna, nor are actually sent to help Swadia if they do until the next campaigning season, long after Swadia is gone. The only Kaiserlichers present at the siege itself would probably be mercenaries, volunteers and immigrants.
Twenty Eight Rifles
Far away, the burning city lay. Far away, and but a few hour before, the city stood proud, resolute, unmoving, now fill with battle.
He could imagine easily what was hidden to him behind those mighty walls. Brutal hand to hand, gun and crossbow ambush, heroic last stands, mindless slaughter. His hands pawed his spyglass, scratched case and glass only giving images. The fires were spreading, the defenders were being pushed back, and still Lion Throne men rush through the gap, thought the hole had been made in a past age. A past age when Vienna was unconquerable, a rock of solidarity and defiance against the Filaharnist threat.
He had lead his company down from Zollern, and through the foothills and forests near Yaragar, to observe the siege and see what damage his twenty-eight rifles could do against the hated Filaharnists. Right over the ridges, and through the tree line, just in time to see with their own eyes the impact of that great beast, and the destruction of Vienna's great walls.
Now he sat on his rock, the bloody battle of the city reduced to the distance boom of cannon, and silent images through his spyglass. As the signs of fighting spread close to a dense and tight district of the city, which suggested itself to be hellhole of a death trap from the infrastructure... He could imagine it now, the damned fillies packed in tight corridors, barricaded alleys, snipers and sharpshooters everywhere picking the enemy off one by one. Places where a single man could hold off an army; and indeed, where those men could hold the lion throne at bay.
He lowered his glass; it was nearly suicidal, he knew, but the Swadia would need every man and every man's last cartridge to stop the Lion throne. He would lead his men to the city, and fight through the streets to keep the Filaharnists at bay. Even as he started to get up, a massive explosion rocked the city, and a massive plume of dust and debris rose from that district. Now came the shock wave, no more then a gust of wind at this distance, and roar of the massive cannon that had wrecked this destruction. His horse, whom had been grazing behind him, started and took a half step back. "Tis a fine enough mess for Swadia, eh, Eric?" He realized the foolishness of his plan, and did not move. Eric nickered a little, pulling ear flat back against his head at the massive, but far off, explosion. The horse quickly shook it of, and went back to the grass. He frowned at the whole situation, and muttered under his breath. "Filaharn vult, to be sure." He sighed, glancing down at the Ellisian long war sword that was his inheritance, remember how his father urged him, that no matter his path as an adventurer, "Always hate the Lion Throne, and always work to see Ellis reborn." His father had fled to the Tsardom to escape the bloody fillys, and now was hiding on a farm deep in the Tsardom, denying his bloodlines. With curse, and a grumble, he stood easily in his light leather cuirass and walked back to his company, hidden behind the treeline.
Stacks of long rifles and small campfires dotted the area, the company clustered in groups of four. Kaiserlichers, Swadians, Vaegirs, all held aside from their rifles some small sword, a pistol for fighting while mounted. Others disdained the pistol for a caviler, and some Kaiserlichers took the armor that defined their country, those armored jacks and strange helmets. His own rifle and pistol were still on Eric; and he glanced around the company, yelling for his second in command, Domazhir. The quick Vaegir man soon appeared. "Come on, Domazhir, I want you to look at this." The Vaegir nodded and followed. "We all know Vienna's lost, but there might still be a flank or something that we can attack. Just something to kill some filly bastards and get some coin." He took out his spy glass again, and handed it to his second in command.
"Could we interrupt the firing of that bloody cannon? Perhaps some part of it is within range of our rifles..." Domazhir offered. "I don't think so. I couldn't even see it, and they're bound to have it well guarded." His second in command went silent, and Belem busied himself with Eric, and he had already given up on the problem. Strange horse, Eric, but a good mount none the less. Quite self-sufficient, fast and good in combat, semi-intelligent; as horses go anyways. Nicked the horse of some idiot in Vienna, and the stallion was good enough not to put up a fuss. His only real problem was he was terrified of pikes, which was totally reasonable for a horse...
"Belem, that part of the left flank is less then one hundred meters from the trees." Belem came back from his horse. "Really? Any Troops?" Domazhir shook his head, "Not allot, it's a unessential supply dump. We could punch through real quick, grab a few pieces of loot, and make off quick enough, i figure." Belem frowned. "Wait, really? Lemmie see..."
Far away, the burning city lay. Far away, and but a few hour before, the city stood proud, resolute, unmoving, now fill with battle.
He could imagine easily what was hidden to him behind those mighty walls. Brutal hand to hand, gun and crossbow ambush, heroic last stands, mindless slaughter. His hands pawed his spyglass, scratched case and glass only giving images. The fires were spreading, the defenders were being pushed back, and still Lion Throne men rush through the gap, thought the hole had been made in a past age. A past age when Vienna was unconquerable, a rock of solidarity and defiance against the Filaharnist threat.
He had lead his company down from Zollern, and through the foothills and forests near Yaragar, to observe the siege and see what damage his twenty-eight rifles could do against the hated Filaharnists. Right over the ridges, and through the tree line, just in time to see with their own eyes the impact of that great beast, and the destruction of Vienna's great walls.
Now he sat on his rock, the bloody battle of the city reduced to the distance boom of cannon, and silent images through his spyglass. As the signs of fighting spread close to a dense and tight district of the city, which suggested itself to be hellhole of a death trap from the infrastructure... He could imagine it now, the damned fillies packed in tight corridors, barricaded alleys, snipers and sharpshooters everywhere picking the enemy off one by one. Places where a single man could hold off an army; and indeed, where those men could hold the lion throne at bay.
He lowered his glass; it was nearly suicidal, he knew, but the Swadia would need every man and every man's last cartridge to stop the Lion throne. He would lead his men to the city, and fight through the streets to keep the Filaharnists at bay. Even as he started to get up, a massive explosion rocked the city, and a massive plume of dust and debris rose from that district. Now came the shock wave, no more then a gust of wind at this distance, and roar of the massive cannon that had wrecked this destruction. His horse, whom had been grazing behind him, started and took a half step back. "Tis a fine enough mess for Swadia, eh, Eric?" He realized the foolishness of his plan, and did not move. Eric nickered a little, pulling ear flat back against his head at the massive, but far off, explosion. The horse quickly shook it of, and went back to the grass. He frowned at the whole situation, and muttered under his breath. "Filaharn vult, to be sure." He sighed, glancing down at the Ellisian long war sword that was his inheritance, remember how his father urged him, that no matter his path as an adventurer, "Always hate the Lion Throne, and always work to see Ellis reborn." His father had fled to the Tsardom to escape the bloody fillys, and now was hiding on a farm deep in the Tsardom, denying his bloodlines. With curse, and a grumble, he stood easily in his light leather cuirass and walked back to his company, hidden behind the treeline.
Stacks of long rifles and small campfires dotted the area, the company clustered in groups of four. Kaiserlichers, Swadians, Vaegirs, all held aside from their rifles some small sword, a pistol for fighting while mounted. Others disdained the pistol for a caviler, and some Kaiserlichers took the armor that defined their country, those armored jacks and strange helmets. His own rifle and pistol were still on Eric; and he glanced around the company, yelling for his second in command, Domazhir. The quick Vaegir man soon appeared. "Come on, Domazhir, I want you to look at this." The Vaegir nodded and followed. "We all know Vienna's lost, but there might still be a flank or something that we can attack. Just something to kill some filly bastards and get some coin." He took out his spy glass again, and handed it to his second in command.
"Could we interrupt the firing of that bloody cannon? Perhaps some part of it is within range of our rifles..." Domazhir offered. "I don't think so. I couldn't even see it, and they're bound to have it well guarded." His second in command went silent, and Belem busied himself with Eric, and he had already given up on the problem. Strange horse, Eric, but a good mount none the less. Quite self-sufficient, fast and good in combat, semi-intelligent; as horses go anyways. Nicked the horse of some idiot in Vienna, and the stallion was good enough not to put up a fuss. His only real problem was he was terrified of pikes, which was totally reasonable for a horse...
"Belem, that part of the left flank is less then one hundred meters from the trees." Belem came back from his horse. "Really? Any Troops?" Domazhir shook his head, "Not allot, it's a unessential supply dump. We could punch through real quick, grab a few pieces of loot, and make off quick enough, i figure." Belem frowned. "Wait, really? Lemmie see..."
angrytigerp
Regular
This is based on my own IS TEatRC game, where the Swadians have kept a peace (and sometimes an alliance) with us for a while, and based on the back story of the two nations being the divided remnants of the Ellisians. This is supposed to take place before any major meeting between the Imperial State and other empires/states/nations, with the gunpowder-army strategy still a mystery to the world.
To the Hand of Emperor Sigismund Augustus
Journal of Gustav Octavius, General of the Holy Swadian Empire
Our brothers in arms of the Imperial State, hereafter referred to as the Kaiserlicher (after their own language and idiom), are a most intriguing military force, unlike any with which I have served or, indeed, against which I have fought. They worship, dare I say it so blasphemously, at the foot of technology; their military is a machine built on the gun, and the implications of a force so armed are... terrifying, to say the least. One evening, I asked my host, General Adolph Von Baeseler, about his military's tactics and strategies. After a noticeable hesitation, he gave up a bit of knowledge, which I have included in the addendum to this document. When pressed, however, he fell silent, presumably because I was probing into State secrets; I take special care to write “State” as such, as the Kaiserlicher nation is one that is wholly nationalistic, not even allowing religious worship in the way of their utter pride for their homeland. Despite Your Grace's likely interest in this matter, I do not push the issue of religion when speaking with my hosts; I quite enjoy having them in a hospitable mood.
I was fortunate enough, if that is the right word, to witness my hosts' combat prowess when they engaged a formation of Ellisian deserters. The enemy was nothing to ignore; their hundred-some footmen and horsemen outnumbered my host's primarily-infantry numbers two-to-one, and I will be the first to admit that I feared for our safety. I was none-too-pleased when I remarked that there was nothing to be ashamed of with regards to a tactical retreat, when faced with numbers twice one's own; I will say, though, the bruise Von Baeseler left on my ego was not insignificant, as he literally laughed away my concerns. “With these numbers,” he said dryly, “the Ellisians should be running from us”. Realizing I would not sway him, I acquiesced and told my bodyguard to be ready to ride at the first sign of weakness on the Kaiserlicher troops' part.
Folly, in retrospect, to make such a declaration; my men likely think me a coward, especially with the way in which Von Baeseler's men crushed the opposition. Of course, at the time, we didn't know what we do now. The battle began much like any other would, except Von Baeseler pointed out the nearest hill and directed his men atop it. My allies consisted almost completely of the elite Kaiserlicher Guard, veteran soldiers whose service was long and successful, and they were consequently armed with well-honed double-barreled rifled guns. Their accuracy was unlike anything I have ever seen; through their crafting skills, the Kaiserlicher gunsmiths were able to manufacture weapons of uncanny precision, as I would find out.
I watched as the Ellisian Footmen pushed forward, screaming a war cry; they rapidly pushed past the point where an archer contingent would have engaged, and I shifted nervously on my horse. Were the Kaiserlicher gunmen not going to fire on the enemy? Was their a method to their madness? The enemy infantry had slowed from a full jog to a labored hike up the incline upon which we were situated, but nonetheless they were far too close for comfort. I was just about to tell the horsemen with whom I trusted my life to follow me off the battlefield, when I heard Von Baeseler's voice ring out. “Front rank... take aim!” Half of the Kaiserlicher Guard presented their arms, sighting targets; I was told that, unlike any other army, the Imperial State taught its soldiers to aim at individual targets, as their weapons were accurate enough to engage whatever targets the shooters chose. And so it came to pass that, at perhaps 60 paces, Von Baeseler cried “FIRE!” The crack of the many guns fused into one loud cacophony of sound, and the enemy line crumpled; at least half of the opposing soldiers fell, the survivors' screams overpowering the gunfire.
The wounds these weapons rend are not insignificant.
The standing enemies wavered, looking around for their commanding officer; but the few horses that had been in the charge were riderless, thrown from their saddles by the hail of metal. Von Baeseler gave them no chance to recover, though, giving an order for the Kaiserlicher Guard to “Fire at will!” The gunfire was much less concentrated, the disciplined soldiers firing one at a time in a ripple down the line, each waiting to see that their target was not taken down by the previous shooter; the Kaiserlicher military is nothing if not efficient. As quickly as it began, the 'battle' was over; the captain of the Kaiserlicher Dragoons gave a charge order and they ran down the routed enemies that remained, shooting from horseback with their pistols rather than sully their pristine cavalry sabres. Von Baeseler rode over, the battle over so far as he was concerned; his hand swept the battlefield, the moans of the dying men only serving to make the butcher's yard that much more horrifying. “So, Gustav,” he said familiarly to me, and I nodded in acknowledgment. He caught my eye, and the look in his was nothing short of frightening; he enjoyed this slaughter. “Now, you know, what the Imperial State is capable of. May our two empires be strong, together, and we will wipe these scourge from Calradia.”
May God forbid we ever war with them, Your Grace.
At your service,
General Gustav Octavius
To the Hand of Emperor Sigismund Augustus
Journal of Gustav Octavius, General of the Holy Swadian Empire
Our brothers in arms of the Imperial State, hereafter referred to as the Kaiserlicher (after their own language and idiom), are a most intriguing military force, unlike any with which I have served or, indeed, against which I have fought. They worship, dare I say it so blasphemously, at the foot of technology; their military is a machine built on the gun, and the implications of a force so armed are... terrifying, to say the least. One evening, I asked my host, General Adolph Von Baeseler, about his military's tactics and strategies. After a noticeable hesitation, he gave up a bit of knowledge, which I have included in the addendum to this document. When pressed, however, he fell silent, presumably because I was probing into State secrets; I take special care to write “State” as such, as the Kaiserlicher nation is one that is wholly nationalistic, not even allowing religious worship in the way of their utter pride for their homeland. Despite Your Grace's likely interest in this matter, I do not push the issue of religion when speaking with my hosts; I quite enjoy having them in a hospitable mood.
I was fortunate enough, if that is the right word, to witness my hosts' combat prowess when they engaged a formation of Ellisian deserters. The enemy was nothing to ignore; their hundred-some footmen and horsemen outnumbered my host's primarily-infantry numbers two-to-one, and I will be the first to admit that I feared for our safety. I was none-too-pleased when I remarked that there was nothing to be ashamed of with regards to a tactical retreat, when faced with numbers twice one's own; I will say, though, the bruise Von Baeseler left on my ego was not insignificant, as he literally laughed away my concerns. “With these numbers,” he said dryly, “the Ellisians should be running from us”. Realizing I would not sway him, I acquiesced and told my bodyguard to be ready to ride at the first sign of weakness on the Kaiserlicher troops' part.
Folly, in retrospect, to make such a declaration; my men likely think me a coward, especially with the way in which Von Baeseler's men crushed the opposition. Of course, at the time, we didn't know what we do now. The battle began much like any other would, except Von Baeseler pointed out the nearest hill and directed his men atop it. My allies consisted almost completely of the elite Kaiserlicher Guard, veteran soldiers whose service was long and successful, and they were consequently armed with well-honed double-barreled rifled guns. Their accuracy was unlike anything I have ever seen; through their crafting skills, the Kaiserlicher gunsmiths were able to manufacture weapons of uncanny precision, as I would find out.
I watched as the Ellisian Footmen pushed forward, screaming a war cry; they rapidly pushed past the point where an archer contingent would have engaged, and I shifted nervously on my horse. Were the Kaiserlicher gunmen not going to fire on the enemy? Was their a method to their madness? The enemy infantry had slowed from a full jog to a labored hike up the incline upon which we were situated, but nonetheless they were far too close for comfort. I was just about to tell the horsemen with whom I trusted my life to follow me off the battlefield, when I heard Von Baeseler's voice ring out. “Front rank... take aim!” Half of the Kaiserlicher Guard presented their arms, sighting targets; I was told that, unlike any other army, the Imperial State taught its soldiers to aim at individual targets, as their weapons were accurate enough to engage whatever targets the shooters chose. And so it came to pass that, at perhaps 60 paces, Von Baeseler cried “FIRE!” The crack of the many guns fused into one loud cacophony of sound, and the enemy line crumpled; at least half of the opposing soldiers fell, the survivors' screams overpowering the gunfire.
The wounds these weapons rend are not insignificant.
The standing enemies wavered, looking around for their commanding officer; but the few horses that had been in the charge were riderless, thrown from their saddles by the hail of metal. Von Baeseler gave them no chance to recover, though, giving an order for the Kaiserlicher Guard to “Fire at will!” The gunfire was much less concentrated, the disciplined soldiers firing one at a time in a ripple down the line, each waiting to see that their target was not taken down by the previous shooter; the Kaiserlicher military is nothing if not efficient. As quickly as it began, the 'battle' was over; the captain of the Kaiserlicher Dragoons gave a charge order and they ran down the routed enemies that remained, shooting from horseback with their pistols rather than sully their pristine cavalry sabres. Von Baeseler rode over, the battle over so far as he was concerned; his hand swept the battlefield, the moans of the dying men only serving to make the butcher's yard that much more horrifying. “So, Gustav,” he said familiarly to me, and I nodded in acknowledgment. He caught my eye, and the look in his was nothing short of frightening; he enjoyed this slaughter. “Now, you know, what the Imperial State is capable of. May our two empires be strong, together, and we will wipe these scourge from Calradia.”
May God forbid we ever war with them, Your Grace.
At your service,
General Gustav Octavius
Bunduqdari
Sergeant Knight
Thanks, fixed.Warhammer651 said:
Great to see Eric back, the nifty mare-raperA_Mustang said:
Good story too.Nice story, I like it. Only thing is, the IS doesn't really forbid religion like you said here. They just don't busy themselves with it that much.angrytigerp said:
And might not agree with some of the premises of the Calradian Church.
@Suitinev: I think it's time for a lore index update
angrytigerp
Regular
Bunduqdari said:Thanks, fixed.Warhammer651 said:
Great to see Eric back, the nifty mare-raperA_Mustang said:
Nice story, I like it. Only thing is, the IS doesn't really forbid religion like you said here. They just don't busy themselves with it that much.angrytigerp said:
And might not agree with some of the premises of the Calradian Church.
@Suitinev: I think it's time for a lore index update
Eh, I worded it funny. What I was trying to get across was that NOTHING was more important for them than nationalism, not even religion (and given that it is written by a Swadian, they would of course have taken special care to note that "Not even religion keeps them from being patriotic!")
Venitius
Count
@authors in the last page: Nice stuff all.
@Bunduqdari: Very busy at the moment. Next Saturday (as in the 21st, not the upcoming Saturday) is probably the earliest I can get to it. I really should finish that IS thing as well. It's a slightly strange idea I came up with involving monopolies and money. Besides, updating, 'tis a tedious job.
@Bunduqdari: Very busy at the moment. Next Saturday (as in the 21st, not the upcoming Saturday) is probably the earliest I can get to it. I really should finish that IS thing as well. It's a slightly strange idea I came up with involving monopolies and money. Besides, updating, 'tis a tedious job.
Bunduqdari
Sergeant Knight
I know it's tedious pal, I was just reminding you. I couldn't care less when you update it, as long as it's somewhere between now and 'one day'.
Ere the story continues.
Into the fight
Belem lay under the bushes, about eighty meters from the Lion Throne encampment. A few Piedmont gunners could be seen maintaining a haphazard watch, but the area was far from well protected. A low line of stakes, a few men distracted by the battle that waged so near... Nothing his twenty eight men couldn't take.
This close to the city, the booms of the cannon could be heard loud, as well as the constant splatter of musket and gun. The occasional scream of some man dieing could be heard, but in front of them; this unprotected flank had the Lion Thone's field hospital, which served the few wounded that managed to drag themselves back from the fight.
Belem turned back to his second in command, Domazhir, smiling. "The filly fools left their flank unprotected. Twill be an easy task to get some quick loot and get out of here... get the men." The stout Vaegir nodded, and silently slipped back in his tribal warrior clothes. Belem counted the sentries, nodded to himself, and then slipped back as well.
His men gathered around him, a small circle of myriad men that trusted Belem with their lives, to lead them into battle against far greater odds. Some fidgeted nervously while others smiled in anticipation of what was to come. Them, twenty-eight ragtag men, were about to attack an army with nigh a thousand to one odds. "Ok lads, listen up. It is a simple hit and run attack. We'll give them a volley of rifles, mounted, then charge... yes, Adalhard?" Belem turned a young Kaiserlicher, the youth clad in the Cuirassier cuirass of his homeland, whom was grinning like the brave fool he was. "Firing from horseback is harder." Belem rolled his eyes and continued. "Yes, it is, but we need a rapid charge. We shoot standing guards with the first rifle volley. Hop the stakes when you reach them. Once we get inside, we have maybe two or three minutes to get out before the fillys can counterattack. In that time, you guys need to grab what you can carry while riding fast... a large bag of something like salt or grain. After that, get out of there. You might have time to reload you're pistols once, if at all. If you're hit, it's you're fireteams responsibility to get you out." The company was arranged into four-man fireteams. The men around him looked more sure as they digested their information on the attack. Belem continued. "Once you get out, ride right to the point were we set up camp earlier. That's our rally. Got it?" The men around him nodded grimly. "Alright, lets go. In the saddle lads."
A few minutes later Belem sat atop Eric, him and the company hidden by the thick bush. He carefully pulled out his rifle, steel shield hanging by it's straps, and glanced around to the company which followed suite. He leaned forward and whispered to Eric. "Alright, boy, lets kill some bastards." Belem carefully rested his forearm on Eric's neck, and then sighted down his rifle. Eric, for his part, kept his neck firm and steady, but pulled his ears flat in apprehension of the weapon's discharge. Men around him adopted various stances, some good, some unusual, some resting their rifles on branches to get steady.
Eighty yards ahead of him, a Gunther-Piedmont man, clad in leather, sat talking to his friend amiably. Belem slowed and steadied his breath, focusing down the weapons' barrel towards the crude notches. Calm, calm was he. The Gunther man made a sweep of his hand towards the city, and began to laugh uproariously, his friend joining in. Steady... slowly... gently, he pulled the trigger. The rifle cracked in his hands, and those of his company followed suit.
He didn't wait for the smoke to clear to shove his firearm into it's sheath, and charged forward while drawing his pistol. The rest of his company followed suit, and the distance to the camp closed rapidly. The Gunther-Piedmont man was dead, and his friend looked curiously at the man's corpse, not quite yet understanding until he looked up and saw the charging horsemen. He gave out a low bark of surprise and darted for his gun. Belem straightened in the saddle, and aimed with his pistol. All around Belem, charging cavalry and the occasional crack of a pistol discharge. As the Gunner straightened up his aim, Belem fired. The man gave an agonized scream and fell over, clutching his gut.
The stakes, and Eric jumped high, easily getting over the obstacle. Belem sheathed his pistol and drew his Ellisian long war sword, and lifted it high, blade glinting in the sun. A bloodstained doctor ran out of the tent into Belem's way, and the keen edge of the old sword cut deep into his neck. Behind him, Domazhir waved his short war axe manically from the saddle, and jumped nimbly off his light steppe pony. With a grin on his face and murder in his heart Domazhir entered the tent which the dieing doctor just exited.
His company was in the enemy now, what few enemy troops there were grabbing their weapons only to be cut down by blade or shot from the saddle. An Ellisian footman darted out of a tent armed with his shield and sword; Belem showed no mercy to his countryman, cutting down on the man's shoulder as Eric rammed into him. A bullet whistled by his head and he glanced up to see another Gunther gunner starting to fumble to reload. Belem screamed a warcry and charged, and the Gunther man dropped his gun and drew his short sword, swinging for Eric's neck. The steed, however, was better in a fight then that, and maneuvered away in time. Belem's own cut went over, as the soldier was on Eric's left flank. Eric stopped, and the gunner struck with an overhead, which Belem absorbed with his shield. At the same time, Belem cut down, and although the blow was defected by the helm, the blade continued to cut a long gash in the man's chest. Barely drawing his sword back, Belem thrust into the man's gut with a roar, and tore sideways. The Gunther-Piedmont gunner screamed horribly as his entrails were spilled into the open sun.
Looking up from the dieing man, Belem could see his men wasted no time. Eight or so men where slinging large packs on their horses, the dieing clerk crying as he clutched his bleeding side. Domazhir exited his tent, well coated in blood. Further down, he saw brave Adalhard trading blows with a brigadier. Eric jumped forward, and he saw a Cavalryman of the Radiant Cross, fully armored and with lance, turn the corner of the tent lines and charge at him. Belem charged, lifting his father's sword, coated in blood, as the horseman leveled his lance. Both men galloped down an alley of tents towards each other.
Belem lifted his shield to absorb the blow, but Eric leapt to the flank an instant before contact. The lance was easily deflected away, and Eric rammed into the lion throne warhorse, Belem bringing his sword down onto the rider. The warhorse crumpled under Eric's unexpected impact, sending the rider sprawling. An Ellisian footman appeared in front of Eric however, thrusting with his pike. Eric reared and backed up to evade the blow. The Cavalry man stood up, broadsword in hand, whipping it high to cut Belem from the saddle, whom absorbed it on his shield. Belem couldn't tell what was going on in front, but from the human cries that were hear, it wasn't pretty. Again he brought the Ellisian Long War sword down on his opponent's head, but the barbuit easily defected the blow. Belem struggled with swordplay for a few critical moments against the cavalryman, until the crunch of hooves upon bones could be heard from the front. The cavalryman looked down in shock at the Ellisian soldier being trampled to death by this daemon horse, and Belem took the opportunity to thrust into the man's eye-slit. The man cried and fell back, clutching his face, and Belem kicked Eric forward.
It had been so long, a few minutes at least, since they had attacked. He whipped Eric back to see Adalhard kicking his steed into a run, large pack slung over his horse. Belem cried as loud as he could. "Time's short! Lets GO! Ride men, RIDE!" Domazhir finished axing a kara-khitan archer, and started the sprint to his pony. Around him, what men of his hadn't already left turned their steeds and rode out. Eric leapt the stake wall, and Belem glanced around him as his cavalry escaped the closing jaws of the Lion throne. Men were bloodied, blades stained with the lifeblood of men, but all rode well. Domazhir was one of the last over, and arrows flew behind. Before stood the forest, and into it's safe, dark embrace, Belem rode. Into the safe embrace of the wood, fleeing the burning light of the radiant cross.
Into the fight
Belem lay under the bushes, about eighty meters from the Lion Throne encampment. A few Piedmont gunners could be seen maintaining a haphazard watch, but the area was far from well protected. A low line of stakes, a few men distracted by the battle that waged so near... Nothing his twenty eight men couldn't take.
This close to the city, the booms of the cannon could be heard loud, as well as the constant splatter of musket and gun. The occasional scream of some man dieing could be heard, but in front of them; this unprotected flank had the Lion Thone's field hospital, which served the few wounded that managed to drag themselves back from the fight.
Belem turned back to his second in command, Domazhir, smiling. "The filly fools left their flank unprotected. Twill be an easy task to get some quick loot and get out of here... get the men." The stout Vaegir nodded, and silently slipped back in his tribal warrior clothes. Belem counted the sentries, nodded to himself, and then slipped back as well.
His men gathered around him, a small circle of myriad men that trusted Belem with their lives, to lead them into battle against far greater odds. Some fidgeted nervously while others smiled in anticipation of what was to come. Them, twenty-eight ragtag men, were about to attack an army with nigh a thousand to one odds. "Ok lads, listen up. It is a simple hit and run attack. We'll give them a volley of rifles, mounted, then charge... yes, Adalhard?" Belem turned a young Kaiserlicher, the youth clad in the Cuirassier cuirass of his homeland, whom was grinning like the brave fool he was. "Firing from horseback is harder." Belem rolled his eyes and continued. "Yes, it is, but we need a rapid charge. We shoot standing guards with the first rifle volley. Hop the stakes when you reach them. Once we get inside, we have maybe two or three minutes to get out before the fillys can counterattack. In that time, you guys need to grab what you can carry while riding fast... a large bag of something like salt or grain. After that, get out of there. You might have time to reload you're pistols once, if at all. If you're hit, it's you're fireteams responsibility to get you out." The company was arranged into four-man fireteams. The men around him looked more sure as they digested their information on the attack. Belem continued. "Once you get out, ride right to the point were we set up camp earlier. That's our rally. Got it?" The men around him nodded grimly. "Alright, lets go. In the saddle lads."
A few minutes later Belem sat atop Eric, him and the company hidden by the thick bush. He carefully pulled out his rifle, steel shield hanging by it's straps, and glanced around to the company which followed suite. He leaned forward and whispered to Eric. "Alright, boy, lets kill some bastards." Belem carefully rested his forearm on Eric's neck, and then sighted down his rifle. Eric, for his part, kept his neck firm and steady, but pulled his ears flat in apprehension of the weapon's discharge. Men around him adopted various stances, some good, some unusual, some resting their rifles on branches to get steady.
Eighty yards ahead of him, a Gunther-Piedmont man, clad in leather, sat talking to his friend amiably. Belem slowed and steadied his breath, focusing down the weapons' barrel towards the crude notches. Calm, calm was he. The Gunther man made a sweep of his hand towards the city, and began to laugh uproariously, his friend joining in. Steady... slowly... gently, he pulled the trigger. The rifle cracked in his hands, and those of his company followed suit.
He didn't wait for the smoke to clear to shove his firearm into it's sheath, and charged forward while drawing his pistol. The rest of his company followed suit, and the distance to the camp closed rapidly. The Gunther-Piedmont man was dead, and his friend looked curiously at the man's corpse, not quite yet understanding until he looked up and saw the charging horsemen. He gave out a low bark of surprise and darted for his gun. Belem straightened in the saddle, and aimed with his pistol. All around Belem, charging cavalry and the occasional crack of a pistol discharge. As the Gunner straightened up his aim, Belem fired. The man gave an agonized scream and fell over, clutching his gut.
The stakes, and Eric jumped high, easily getting over the obstacle. Belem sheathed his pistol and drew his Ellisian long war sword, and lifted it high, blade glinting in the sun. A bloodstained doctor ran out of the tent into Belem's way, and the keen edge of the old sword cut deep into his neck. Behind him, Domazhir waved his short war axe manically from the saddle, and jumped nimbly off his light steppe pony. With a grin on his face and murder in his heart Domazhir entered the tent which the dieing doctor just exited.
His company was in the enemy now, what few enemy troops there were grabbing their weapons only to be cut down by blade or shot from the saddle. An Ellisian footman darted out of a tent armed with his shield and sword; Belem showed no mercy to his countryman, cutting down on the man's shoulder as Eric rammed into him. A bullet whistled by his head and he glanced up to see another Gunther gunner starting to fumble to reload. Belem screamed a warcry and charged, and the Gunther man dropped his gun and drew his short sword, swinging for Eric's neck. The steed, however, was better in a fight then that, and maneuvered away in time. Belem's own cut went over, as the soldier was on Eric's left flank. Eric stopped, and the gunner struck with an overhead, which Belem absorbed with his shield. At the same time, Belem cut down, and although the blow was defected by the helm, the blade continued to cut a long gash in the man's chest. Barely drawing his sword back, Belem thrust into the man's gut with a roar, and tore sideways. The Gunther-Piedmont gunner screamed horribly as his entrails were spilled into the open sun.
Looking up from the dieing man, Belem could see his men wasted no time. Eight or so men where slinging large packs on their horses, the dieing clerk crying as he clutched his bleeding side. Domazhir exited his tent, well coated in blood. Further down, he saw brave Adalhard trading blows with a brigadier. Eric jumped forward, and he saw a Cavalryman of the Radiant Cross, fully armored and with lance, turn the corner of the tent lines and charge at him. Belem charged, lifting his father's sword, coated in blood, as the horseman leveled his lance. Both men galloped down an alley of tents towards each other.
Belem lifted his shield to absorb the blow, but Eric leapt to the flank an instant before contact. The lance was easily deflected away, and Eric rammed into the lion throne warhorse, Belem bringing his sword down onto the rider. The warhorse crumpled under Eric's unexpected impact, sending the rider sprawling. An Ellisian footman appeared in front of Eric however, thrusting with his pike. Eric reared and backed up to evade the blow. The Cavalry man stood up, broadsword in hand, whipping it high to cut Belem from the saddle, whom absorbed it on his shield. Belem couldn't tell what was going on in front, but from the human cries that were hear, it wasn't pretty. Again he brought the Ellisian Long War sword down on his opponent's head, but the barbuit easily defected the blow. Belem struggled with swordplay for a few critical moments against the cavalryman, until the crunch of hooves upon bones could be heard from the front. The cavalryman looked down in shock at the Ellisian soldier being trampled to death by this daemon horse, and Belem took the opportunity to thrust into the man's eye-slit. The man cried and fell back, clutching his face, and Belem kicked Eric forward.
It had been so long, a few minutes at least, since they had attacked. He whipped Eric back to see Adalhard kicking his steed into a run, large pack slung over his horse. Belem cried as loud as he could. "Time's short! Lets GO! Ride men, RIDE!" Domazhir finished axing a kara-khitan archer, and started the sprint to his pony. Around him, what men of his hadn't already left turned their steeds and rode out. Eric leapt the stake wall, and Belem glanced around him as his cavalry escaped the closing jaws of the Lion throne. Men were bloodied, blades stained with the lifeblood of men, but all rode well. Domazhir was one of the last over, and arrows flew behind. Before stood the forest, and into it's safe, dark embrace, Belem rode. Into the safe embrace of the wood, fleeing the burning light of the radiant cross.
Bunduqdari
Sergeant Knight
Awesome raid. I see you don't make it secret that Eric is a bloody hero all by himself ^_^.
I wonder what the loot was. Prolly some nice pieces of armor and weapons and a bag full of Kentu.. eeh
I mean Chicken Wings of The Radiant Cross.
I wonder what the loot was. Prolly some nice pieces of armor and weapons and a bag full of Kentu.. eeh
I mean Chicken Wings of The Radiant Cross.
angrytigerp
Regular
Bunduqdari said:
"We finally scored some of that awesome, high-quality armor those wacky Lion Throners use!"
"... This is beef. Day-old Beef."
"... Dammit, wrong tent."
Was inspired to write a little something on my favourite minor character , do reprimand me if i get all the time lines and shtuf all wrong XD
Vilhjalmr the ginger
A sunny day 30 odd years ago , some 10 miles outside Wercheg, a young Nordic boy, perhaps in his early teens, with a crop of violent red hair tends to a filed while his father chops logs for the coming winter. Everything seems perfect and the two characters happy. But the heavily armed man appears, armed in a Huscarls helmet with an axe at his back and a sword at his belt. He is mounted on a white horse and, upon seeing the father, dismounts and approaches him. The two can be seen speaking in hushed voices; as if afraid the very trees are listening. The father nods, and with a solemn expression on his face enters his house, made in the traditional design, complete with the axe and shield above the hearth. The father exits the house after some time armed in a similar way to the messenger. He ruffle’s his sons fiery red hair and asks him to look after the hut for a while, and not to venture to far, grabs the family horse, off the traditional Nordic variety, unsuited for battle butt able to carry the heavy packs filled with rations, as well as the maill armoured warriors of the king.
Vilhjamr wakes up, it’s the same dream he has had since that day, 30 odd years ago in sunny Wercheg , the last time he saw his father before he was killed, without even hefting his axe, by a Laurian Arquebusier.
, do reprimand me if i get all the time lines and shtuf all wrong XDVilhjalmr the ginger
A sunny day 30 odd years ago , some 10 miles outside Wercheg, a young Nordic boy, perhaps in his early teens, with a crop of violent red hair tends to a filed while his father chops logs for the coming winter. Everything seems perfect and the two characters happy. But the heavily armed man appears, armed in a Huscarls helmet with an axe at his back and a sword at his belt. He is mounted on a white horse and, upon seeing the father, dismounts and approaches him. The two can be seen speaking in hushed voices; as if afraid the very trees are listening. The father nods, and with a solemn expression on his face enters his house, made in the traditional design, complete with the axe and shield above the hearth. The father exits the house after some time armed in a similar way to the messenger. He ruffle’s his sons fiery red hair and asks him to look after the hut for a while, and not to venture to far, grabs the family horse, off the traditional Nordic variety, unsuited for battle butt able to carry the heavy packs filled with rations, as well as the maill armoured warriors of the king.
Vilhjamr wakes up, it’s the same dream he has had since that day, 30 odd years ago in sunny Wercheg , the last time he saw his father before he was killed, without even hefting his axe, by a Laurian Arquebusier.
