Dismas laughs. "Ain't no need for humility, Marshal! Let them saints and monks practice their damn piety. Pride may be the root of all sin, but hey, ain't we all sinners already?"
"Trust me, gov'nor, if you knew what I did in that war, you wouldn't think so."
"Nah. I's still would. Fuck them Erisian invaders. They deserved all the hell ya gave 'em."
You shrug noncommittally. "Maybe."
"Ask any other one of our folk, and they's say the same thing. Hell, you can find whole bands of us…" He trails off as his eyes lock onto something behind you. "Ya got a visitor, Marshal."
You turn around, your eyes falling upon the sight of Lada. She has ditched any sort of formality in her clothing of someone of her expected rank. Across her chest, she's wearing a vest of steel plates for her own protection while being this close to the front
Lada smirks. "No. I really don't. But does anyone truly belong in war?"
"I do," you say.
Dismas nods in agreement. "We's all fighters in some way or another, me lady."
Lada says, "Oh, don't worry. I'm not an idiot. I, myself, am not here to fight."
"Then what the hell are you here for?"
She shrugs. "Not much. Some of the medical staff wanted someone to check on the workers. Just in case, ya know?"
"And they's chose you?" Dismas asks.
"Nah. I volunteered. Figured I could stretch my legs a bit."
"Be careful," you say. "We're damn close to their front, even if the battle hasn't started yet."
"If the battle hasn't started yet, then why are you here, Marshal?" Lada asks you.
"Well, I guess we can carry out our inspections together," she says.
Dismas glances toward the enemy camp. "Best do this fast, ay? Don't like the look of our enemies. Don't trust 'em, neither."
You nod. "Aye. Let's get movin'."
Across the river, the rebels stir.
Next
------
The greed of the rebel commander is echoed by many a man under his command. It is this greed that causes him to send out the group of two hundred bowmen. The group approaches with stealth, staying low to the ground and utilizing the natural dip in elevation to remain unseen.
And now the men kneel against the ground, muttering and complaining about the freezing cold of the wet soil beneath them as they string their bows.
But one man in particular is struck with impatience. The peasant strings his hunting bow and nocks an arrow.
A life of poverty has brought him to this war, seeking a way out of his dreadful situation. Fame brings wealth. And what better way to gain fame than to kill the Marshal?
He wasn't difficult to spot, even from the peasant's limited visibility as he lays shoulder first on the ground. The figure matches the description of the Marshal and his armor.
And so the peasant stands, breaking his cover. He draws his arrow, lining up a shot.
The contingent commander hisses, "Down, you fucking moron!" He rushes forward and strikes the archer's arm, throwing off his aim.
And accidentally releasing the arrow.
Next
You're standing next to Dismas and Lada as you spectate a work crew from a little ways back.
Suddenly, a panicked voice calls out your title. The three of you turn toward the sound, watching as a soldier standing at the bank points to the enemy camp. He frantically shouts, "Marshal! Marshal! I see someone!"
A dull thud. Warm blood splatters across your face. A look of shock is plastered across Dismas.
An arrow shaft is protruding from his chest.
"Down!"
Next
You immediately drop to the dirt, bringing both Lada and Dismas with you. Prone upon the ground, you watch as a large group of rebels rises up from seemingly nowhere. A volley of arrows flies into the sky only seconds later.
You trace it through the air, watching as it comes bearing down.
Cries of surprise and pain rise up from all across the worksite as unarmored, unsuspecting soldiers are dropped by the incoming assault. From beside you, you hear a loud thud as an arrow strikes Lada in her vest.
She stumbles back in surprise. You can't tell if she's bleeding.
You glance over at Dismas, a look of panic on his face as blood pours from his chest. His jerkin is almost entirely stained a fierce crimson within seconds. Shaking hands clasp to the shaft, soaking through with blood. A wail leaves his lips. "Oh God…"
All around you, men shout in panic and pain. A second volley bears down upon you. And then another. A man takes an arrow to the leg and falls. Another rushes over to drag him back before taking one through the neck.
A body falls down next to your position. And then another. Pandemonium has broken out.
And a leader is needed. You free your helmet from your belt and place it over your head.
You glance back from the bleeding Dismas to the panicked Lada.
You immediately drop to the dirt, bringing both Lada and Dismas with you. Prone upon the ground, you watch as a large group of rebels rises up from seemingly nowhere. A volley of arrows flies into the sky only seconds later.
You trace it through the air, watching as it comes bearing down.
Cries of surprise and pain rise up from all across the worksite as unarmored, unsuspecting soldiers are dropped by the incoming assault. From beside you, you hear a loud thud as an arrow strikes Lada in her vest.
She stumbles back in surprise. You can't tell if she's bleeding.
You glance over at Dismas, a look of panic on his face as blood pours from his chest. His jerkin is almost entirely stained a fierce crimson within seconds. Shaking hands clasp to the shaft, soaking through with blood. A wail leaves his lips. "Oh God…"
All around you, men shout in panic and pain. A second volley bears down upon you. And then another. A man takes an arrow to the leg and falls. Another rushes over to drag him back before taking one through the neck.
A body falls down next to your position. And then another. Pandemonium has broken out.
And a leader is needed. You free your helmet from your belt and place it over your head.
You glance back from the bleeding Dismas to the panicked Lada.
You glance from one to the other. A pragmatic thought enters your mind.
These are but two. I must save more.
Wordlessly, you place your helmet atop your head. And then you run. Dismas extends a hand toward you; a final, desperate plea. You keep moving.
But you do not run to camp. Instead, you run sideways across the battlefield.
All around you, it is a sea of chaos. The men at work, totaling over a thousand, all flee the same hundred-yard stretch back to camp. All around you, men fall to the soil, dead or dying. Those too panicked to move or protect themselves will be slain.
You move to save them.
You wave your hands over your head, screaming, "Fall back! Leave your tools! Run!"
The workmen around you seem to get the message. Your sudden presence and authoritative tone tears many away from their panic. You rush up to individuals who are panicking and violently shake their shoulders.
You scream, shout, and shake your men back to reality.
After only seconds of work, more men stream for the exit. You jog closely behind them, shouting for them to keep moving. Arrows bear down upon you. You take two to the chest, snapping and warping as they strike your plate.
Breath torn from your lungs, you stumble forward, catching yourself with your hands. You hoist yourself back to your feet and turn around, watching as many hundreds of desperate men attempt to force themselves through the narrow entrance passages of your camp.
The rebels, seeing such a vulnerable target, focus their arrows upon this. You rush toward this group, calling for them to push forward, to push through. But your words are lost on desperate ears.
A dozen men go down screaming. You reach the rear of the pack with a few others, physically pushing to attempt to force the stampede forward.
Another volley falls. More cries and more panic. You continue pushing.
After a precious fifteen seconds, the group forces its way through, nearly trampling the pavilions on either side. You finally enter the safety of the camp as the men clear.
Each step you take is upon someone's corpse.
Next