Remaint
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Two foreign riders clopped about in a steady manner, one riding lazily, his dark, fully plated body strangely not resounding even a single clank; one rode excitedly, bouncing here and there, in more ways than one, eager to take in the many sights about her. Though moving, there was little movement to the former rider. Cold and metallic, it was as though Qarusis is an entirely unmoving statue, pushed forward by gaia, as opposed to himself and his steed. Light dress fluttering in the wind, dead horse dancing, Ethna appeared quite the happy girl, looking here and there.
A port with several military ships, its green-blue waters gentle as a nereid’s touch, soon swept into view of the two foreigners.
A bright smile accompanied the pale girl as she remarked.
“Hey, I’ve seen one of those, it’s called a Gale-ass!”
Glacial eyes ever frozen, the armoured being deadpanned.
“That’s Galleass, you twit.”
“How would you know!”
“Firstly, it’s carved into the damned hull. Secondly, I’m Southern Shuischeirite.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Within the pavilion of commanders, a pale wight’s eyebrow perked as a few of the well-armoured, presumably all highly ranked, individuals bowed in great sincerity upon the introduction of what can only be assumed as either a demigod, an over-glorified fighting maiden, or some wannabe Joan of Ark. Seeing as the first possibility is exceptionally rare, and that the armoured officers used ‘holy’ in addression, plausibility rests with the latter case. The sight seemed rather silly to the undead foreigner, especially in the case of the very probable Hochmeister Konrad.
Here was a herculean man who rivaled wretched wendigos in height, who likely slain hundreds or thousands of churchly-deemed ‘heretics’ by sheer influence alone, who no doubt commands one of the largest, if not the largest, factions of this sort-of confederacy, displaying submissiveness to a mere girl placed upon some exhibitive pedestal. A matter of silliness, or perhaps useless tradition, rather.
For the lone elf within the pavilion, curiousity had not once ceased to accompany her throughout her rather short years of existence, and so now does curiousity cling to the young elf. Once again she had found herself in company of those no doubt tremendously influential, yet as with many times prior, she knew very few of their names. In fact, she was sure she knew merely one, the titan-statured Grandmaster of the Knights of the Black Cross, Hochmeister Konrad. His height alone, being greater than daunting Qarusis not only by simple inches, but maybe even a head’s measure, inspired a sense of awe to the little elf. Having originated from an underworld of sorts, Folliwen hadn’t encountered many humans...of the non-infected, non-unliving...overall normal status...of this massive visage, and to see one now made the petite elf wonder what kind of diet did the man have to attain such a height.
Furthermore, to see this human colossus bow with such deep respect towards the relatively young, though magnificently healthy, girl, stirred abit of a nervous feeling from within the elven musketeer. Folliwen had already assumed the young girl to be some sort of highly achieved prodigy to even step foot in this tent of commanders, but to see a Grandmaster of Crusaders bow in her presence...the girl must be something truly brilliant and prodigious indeed. The elf awkwardly shifted about her posture as she wondered if there was some formality her group was supposed to abide by.
"...the Empire appreciates your hastiness, but there is strength in patience as well."
To this response, the Margrave of Trynelith subtly shrugged, the Halberdier of Shuischeier half-lidded his eyes, and the Musketeer of Harrowshreik slightly tilted her head.
As of the present moment, the Aemids have not surrounded Adrianos. As of the present moment, this Coalition is free to exit this city as they please, unhindered by artillery. As of the present moment, there is but a limited timespan allowing free movement outwards for an offensive. Every second lost to idleness will eventually cost the empire an unaccountable value. Such a value may exist in the form of a lost opportunity to reduce the amount of time the Aemids can make their offensive, such a value may be a missed chance to reduce the number of siege engines imminently coming, and such a value may come in the form of one more trebuchet’s rock throw toward this dear Imperial city. Consul Leodorius should very well consider that a simple battle will not come to Adrianos, but that of an incalculably more complex siege.
Many, were the arguments of the Tryne Margrave, but so willing to to follow his own designs when the time comes, he chose not to argue within the pavilion of meeting.
You’re on the defensive, senile Imperial, you already have all the bloody time to sit upon your rotting arse. The enemy isn’t attacking now, are you really permitting them free ground coverage?
Inwardly, Woyadei scoffed. Here was yet another high-titled official who knew not when to grasp upon opportunity in war. The wight found it enticing, in hoping the old Imperial would come to realise his errors, just too late. To witness the schadenfreude of such people was a delight the wight rather favours to partake in, infrequent as such events may come.
I’m no tactician, but I think there’s such a thing as, too, patient. There are probably reasons as to why Elven archers do say, “Wait too long aiming your bow, and your arms will quiver...”
Compared to her peers, Folliwen had not fought within wars for very long, but she at least knew that the nemesis of patience, was hesitance.
Little more, had the trio pondered Leodorius’ words, when the timely arrivals of four more officers came to be. One was garbed in radiant whiteness, whose very presence seemed to stir a bad air about the titanic Knight and local holy figure. Two, were mirror images of one another.
A careful Tryne eye, reserved for predatory beasts and ethereal wraiths, watched the two figures cloaked in black as they announced their identities. Supposedly one was the Doge of Vitalea, Marcello Valiero, but for all the yearly observations the Margrave gleaned from his visits to the cluster of city-states the Doge held influence over, even a Master Slayer such as himself could not be assured that the first-spoken of these cloaked men was actually the Doge himself. The second cloaked figure could effortlessly be labeled a clone of the former in his actions, down to his very tone of voice. The leadership of Vitalea was obscured, shadowy, so unseen as to make even the idea of obscuromancy bright and revealing in comparison, and the Margrave of Trynelith resolved to make an ally of the Doge and his associates.
Focused, but unexisting were a pair of eyes leering upon the white-masked arrivals. They, were quite intriguing to the wight. For what was the need, the reason, the peril for requirement of such sight-restricting garments? Just how cut-throat were the organisation this duo hosted? Just how infamous were its leaders? What were they hiding?
For a surreal while, Folliwen felt shivers run about her spine, hands, as she unconsciously closed her arms to her chest. She didn’t like the sight of dark, identically cloaked beings within the Archipelago of Fog, and she did not like the sight of them here. Such shadowed and masked entities were always harbingers of trouble, turmoil, and terror. Their unchanging, faux expressions of face, their abyssal, carnations of darkness for attire were reminiscent of mysterious disappearances, enigmatic debts and hazardous commands. Reminiscent of abducted organs, amputated limbs, lost bodies, hidden slavery...Oscuria Cause...
Eyes widened, almost jumping, the blonde elf turned to what grabbed her. A rain of ease, then mild embarrassment washed over her as she realised the pale hand upon her forearm was that of the familiar wight’s. A cold, but somehow understanding gaze from Woyadei stilled the elf’s inner conflict, just in time for the two to nonchalantly accept an offering of wine.
Stares into the golden goblets, circular glances about, a hesitance in drinking, were shared by the undead foreigner and Tryne Commander. It was a simple precaution, drilled into mindless habit now, for the two fighting veterans to only imbibe in leisurely drink when it is certain there was present no toxins, no erasers of consciousness, none of any other abnormalities within the offered beverages. The two only began tasting their wines after full moments came to pass as the allies finish theirs. In noting the similar actions of the wight, the Margrave of Trynelith had to wonder as to why Woyadei adopted such a habit. The short lad was, afterall, a corpse, and dead fellows aren’t known to suffer food poisoning, paralysis, or even fall drunk. Rosker found the wight’s actions to be peculiar, but he didn’t remark upon them, preferring instead to lull over the, expectedly, excellent quality of Imperial alcohol.
Mm. Much better than the trod back within Trynelith. On par with that of Nyphoran imports. Must be sure to include a gain of greater croplands within the negotiations; damned non-existent angels know just how long the Trynes were stuck with useless acidic bogs and giant insectoid infested swamplands to grow dying plants within.
The Margrave so enjoyed his liquor, and perhaps the same might be said for the halberdier.
-Glub-
This...this taste...this is…! Ah, to hell with deluding myself. I don’t taste anything. Bloody dead tongue. What would I expect anyway? The only places which cater to the dead are the winery-finery’s of Karaser, and the bootlegs of Harrowshreik. Why would a living world of sorts even...-
*cough* - *gag*
Woyadei’s meandering train of thoughts ground to a halt as a series of soft, silly noises spawned about from the feminine elf next to him, whose goblet hand was lain across her mouth in some vain attempt to stifle her coughs in a ladylike manner. The wight nearly smirked just then, so amused by Folliwen’s situation was he. In the time he’d come to know her, he had not seen her swallow a single drop of alcohol. Though the blonde girl was an elf, a species deceptive of age, he wouldn’t put it past that Folliwen had indeed just sampled her first proper cup of wine.
Amusement and flavour took attention, but merely a small amount; the rest was fully paid upon the scenario laid out by Leodorius. Grave news of Aemid victories were unfurled, but neither Rosker nor Woyadei were particularly stressed, so accustomed were they of the possibilities offered by war. Further facts were lain to light, that the Steppe Empire intends for a multi-pronged attack, and firm strategies clicked into place for the Tryne Margrave and foreign soldier. The former was rather pleased when the Nyphorans volunteered themselves to act as a frontline bastion, quite suggesting a position to which the Riders of Trynelith may happily occupy.
“ Your confidence and suggestion will be put to use, General Sappho. To your proposed and proverbial anvil, my Trynes will act as its hammer. I intend to lead my forces between the two Aemid armies, ideally hidden, and push forth a method to rid our mutual enemies of military lifeline, starting from Southerly Ustafa’s rear Aemids.
And in order to ensure as much havoc can be wrought, I suggest that the Servants of the Land lend my Trynes a supply of flammable rags, as incendiary capabilities will no doubt be useful in burning apart the wooden mechanisms of siege utility, and the ignitable material that covers the Aemid caravans. Tryne manufactured crossbows are proof against weather, and should handle flames without excessive trouble."
The Margrave swept aside his cape, and brought his device to bare. Large was its frame, thick were its limbs. The weapon was unstrung, but its heavy components emanated a strong sense of robustness, only amplified by the presence of rough, grayed monster hide. To where a flaming quarrel may go, there was no chance the wood beneath may set alight.
"The Riders of Trynelith are rapid in pace, and though there runs the risk of my attack occurring too early, that may be converted into fortune as well. If Ustafa’s greater Aemids are preoccupied chasing about the durable and quick cavalry of the Trynes, then much time will be bought for the rest of this Alliance to dispatch themselves of Northerly Achaemid.”
Mhm. Yep. One fine ass. Another. Shapely hips.
The foreign wight’s attention to military detail was unfailing as Leodorius, Sappho and Rosker spoke, but so was his tendency to indulge in pleasing his nonexistent eyes with the forms of humanoid females. The alliance leaders spoke, and Woyadei listened; the Imperial servant girls walked about, and the unmoving corpse watched. This particular undead may put it as, “Strong contrast serves to strengthen concentration. Nothing like the mundane sway of feminine hips to accompany the analysis of warring tactics.”
Long-recovered from her bout of unpleasant thoughts, Folliwen listened in bright eyed attentiveness. She was rather relieved that frontline duty wouldn’t be pursued by her current commander, as given her obvious lack of armour, any close proximities to danger would assuredly lead to thoroughly terrible times. In addition, being a chasseur, her training embodies the methods of hit-and-run, or ambush tactics. She would be entirely out of place in formation battles, and her experience within the undead-inhabited Archipelago of Fog reflects this. With so many beings of unfeeling persistency present within the misty, watery domain, there was no need for soft, warm-blooded elves like her to fight head-to-head in the wars of musket and artillery. Folliwen was a chasseur then, and she will be a chasseur...or cassador, now.
The little elf hopes that will be the case, anyways, for with the amount of head-to-foot armoured Tryne marksmen, there may yet be a requirement for her to take the place of, not a chasseur, but a fusilier.
As the discussion of tactics continued, the three remain standing. It was one custom that the Tryne, Shuischeirite and Harrow had in common, to stand in meetings. Perhaps such a custom stemmed from the idea that, as all three were accustomed cavalry troopers, they in respect of their steeds, choose to stand on their legs whenever possible. Perhaps they simply gained the habit as yet another precaution against the unpredictability of military politics.
One Month Past
The sound of a musket ball tore through the air, and with a sharp, sudden silence, announced that the musketeer’s shot had found its mark. The figure struck, though heavily obscured by fog, dropped, and a lithe, blonde elf pursed her lips.
...Something wasn’t right.
It...should have been right, but it simply didn’t feel right. The pointy eared girl frowned. She was at the outskirts of Ostigone, wasn’t she? It had been a few days since was issued an order from her company, the Hands of Harrowshreik, to patrol the borders of this accursed city. Supposedly, a terrible epidemic, a beastly affliction, had infested the massive city of Ostigone, rendering much of its former-human civilians, and soldiers, mad, malicious, dangerous. Folliwen was dutifully completing her task, and she had exterminated one more victim of the plague.
...But it just felt so wrong.
The blonde elf strolled forward, worried expression locked upon her features. She unsheathed her bayonet. 17 inches of unfailingly resilient steel, it was a strong sight to behold. Yet at this moment, it was covered in a great deal of blood, hardly dried. It reminded Folliwen of the grimness of her task, and a small grimace formed as she mounted the tool upon her long musket. Her footsteps, once quick-paced and energetic, felt lead-like with dread.
< Message edited by Remaint -- 3/2/2016 14:43:59 >
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