I think I'll drop out too I'm afraid. Sorry.
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Don't Tread On Me
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This seems up my alley, though the second post worries me somewhat.
Whit crouched behind a burned-out skeleton of a civilian airspeeder, the air filled to bursting with blaster fire. Around him the majority of Alpha platoon's third squad, nine clones spread around their side of a square, most of them returning fire across the quadrangle to their opposing sep number. Whit and the company had been on the outskirts of the base when the klaxons began blaring their shrill tones, and he'd received orders in surprisingly good time. It was a relief that the brass had their affairs in order, that at least directions could be given despite what Whit could only assume was a crippling explosive sabotage. He'd been given simple enough orders, at least: open up a new front and establish a strongpoint north of the hostile landing zone, clearing the way for heavy reinforcement inbound from the myriad other bases on the capital.
Unfortunately, simple orders did not necessarily mean easy orders, and as such he found himself in the shadow of a bunkhouse currently occupied by first and second squad, trying to push across a square with what was, in his mind, far too little cover for comfort. The enemy forces were putting up a good defensive fight, but while Whit caught his breath he wondered what their apparently slap-dash offensive effort was. He had been expecting to fight a rearguard action against a massed breakout force, hopefully slowing a mechanized spearhead sufficiently to counterattack when reinforcements arrived, orders be damned. What he had got was a slow trickle of ill-supported armor doing little more than driving forward and presenting a perfect target for AT troopers to dispose of. Maybe the enemy commander was incompetent, and didn't know the problems with armored warfare in city-fighting, but somehow he doubted that. What could the enemy gain from wasting tanks like that? All it did was litter the battlefield with good cover for defense and counterattack, and break up the city to force the enemies into close-quarters kill-boxes.
He paused in his musings to return fire, his breath recovered after his mad dash to the car that was currently saving his life. The droids hadn't had time to dig in properly, and with the barrage of fire those that had made it into the opposing bunkhouse were unable to set up and return fire. They would no doubt be preparing to repel intruders, but those measures would be hopefully easier to deal with than a dash across a square under a hail of enemy fire. Droids never were too good in melee anyways. He spotted yet another hovertank push its way past the debris blocking their current arena, and watched it explode into a magnesium-white fireball as fourth squad on fired a salvo of rockets from his left flank. He fired two score of shots at a heavy blaster crew trying to set up, reducing three of the bots to scrap and hopefully knocking the gun out of commission, before ducking back down to return to his thoughts.
He motioned to the NCO to advance, and pinged the other three squads to increase the volume of fire. It was right as the charging cry of 'For the Republic!' filled the air when the realization hit him. Jedi were cut down like any other troops in the open, but with enough cover they could close and wipe out whole squads. He hadn't fought dark jedi in the better part of two years, but in sufficient numbers, and with their enemies being caught unaware after an inefficient tank offensive, they could very well break out with ease. He opened comms to the four Lieutenants in command of his platoons. They were arrayed in a close line, each within supporting distance of the other, all advancing at a measured pace towards the airfield. The LTs reported minimal casualties, thankfully, and mirrored Whit's good progress, mixed with trepidation at the ease of the venture. He spoke after their reports.
"Lieutenants. Ensure your forces are kept spread out within easy range of supporting each other. Ensure at least half of your troops are in easily-defended positions that provide good support lanes for advancing troops. It'll slow our southward advance down, but I think Saber troops are on their way. Make sure advancing squads are able to disengage with defensive grenades. If one squad is running low, pull them into covering positions. Over."
The silence over the comms was clear indication of the disappointment at their slowed advance, but each officer in turn responded with acknowledgement. He noticed the platoon around him begin shifting their deployment, third squad slowing their advance, staying out of CQ while the other squads moved to better directly support them, the suppressing fire on what remained of the defending seps lessening somewhat. Whit poked his helmeted head around the corner for a brief moment, then carefully withdrew to a more fortified situation, eager to be away from the now-apparent danger. His conditioning rebelled at the perceived cowardice, but his training knew better. The chain of command could not be broken, no matter what he might think. Taking a seat against a pockmarked wall, he opened up a holo display and continued to survey the unfolding action.
Unfortunately, simple orders did not necessarily mean easy orders, and as such he found himself in the shadow of a bunkhouse currently occupied by first and second squad, trying to push across a square with what was, in his mind, far too little cover for comfort. The enemy forces were putting up a good defensive fight, but while Whit caught his breath he wondered what their apparently slap-dash offensive effort was. He had been expecting to fight a rearguard action against a massed breakout force, hopefully slowing a mechanized spearhead sufficiently to counterattack when reinforcements arrived, orders be damned. What he had got was a slow trickle of ill-supported armor doing little more than driving forward and presenting a perfect target for AT troopers to dispose of. Maybe the enemy commander was incompetent, and didn't know the problems with armored warfare in city-fighting, but somehow he doubted that. What could the enemy gain from wasting tanks like that? All it did was litter the battlefield with good cover for defense and counterattack, and break up the city to force the enemies into close-quarters kill-boxes.
He paused in his musings to return fire, his breath recovered after his mad dash to the car that was currently saving his life. The droids hadn't had time to dig in properly, and with the barrage of fire those that had made it into the opposing bunkhouse were unable to set up and return fire. They would no doubt be preparing to repel intruders, but those measures would be hopefully easier to deal with than a dash across a square under a hail of enemy fire. Droids never were too good in melee anyways. He spotted yet another hovertank push its way past the debris blocking their current arena, and watched it explode into a magnesium-white fireball as fourth squad on fired a salvo of rockets from his left flank. He fired two score of shots at a heavy blaster crew trying to set up, reducing three of the bots to scrap and hopefully knocking the gun out of commission, before ducking back down to return to his thoughts.
He motioned to the NCO to advance, and pinged the other three squads to increase the volume of fire. It was right as the charging cry of 'For the Republic!' filled the air when the realization hit him. Jedi were cut down like any other troops in the open, but with enough cover they could close and wipe out whole squads. He hadn't fought dark jedi in the better part of two years, but in sufficient numbers, and with their enemies being caught unaware after an inefficient tank offensive, they could very well break out with ease. He opened comms to the four Lieutenants in command of his platoons. They were arrayed in a close line, each within supporting distance of the other, all advancing at a measured pace towards the airfield. The LTs reported minimal casualties, thankfully, and mirrored Whit's good progress, mixed with trepidation at the ease of the venture. He spoke after their reports.
"Lieutenants. Ensure your forces are kept spread out within easy range of supporting each other. Ensure at least half of your troops are in easily-defended positions that provide good support lanes for advancing troops. It'll slow our southward advance down, but I think Saber troops are on their way. Make sure advancing squads are able to disengage with defensive grenades. If one squad is running low, pull them into covering positions. Over."
The silence over the comms was clear indication of the disappointment at their slowed advance, but each officer in turn responded with acknowledgement. He noticed the platoon around him begin shifting their deployment, third squad slowing their advance, staying out of CQ while the other squads moved to better directly support them, the suppressing fire on what remained of the defending seps lessening somewhat. Whit poked his helmeted head around the corner for a brief moment, then carefully withdrew to a more fortified situation, eager to be away from the now-apparent danger. His conditioning rebelled at the perceived cowardice, but his training knew better. The chain of command could not be broken, no matter what he might think. Taking a seat against a pockmarked wall, he opened up a holo display and continued to survey the unfolding action.
I'm sorry to say I may be slow in posting for the next few days: I have to work an obscene amount for a week or so, but I'll do my best to get posting soon.
EDIT: Never-fucking-mind, I guess I was in more of a writing mood than I thought
EDIT: Never-fucking-mind, I guess I was in more of a writing mood than I thought
Will do. Though, I am pretty much on board for this change, I think it will do me just fine. If nothing else it gives Claes room to grow her command.
Roger. Sorry I missed that. The mistake came from me basing the winds on a battalion, and basing it heavily on the armies of the Mongols during their first middle eastern invasion. I'll change things up immediately, though for ease I expect I shall keep the ranks at their now even more over inflated levels.
In defense of my historical accuracy, if not my reading comprehension, the White Company, another major influence, frequently fielded 5000-6000 troops, and it was only one of many such companies in the relatively low-population high medieval Italy.
For my own ease, could I get the number pushed to 1800? I just need it to be divisible by 6, is all.
In defense of my historical accuracy, if not my reading comprehension, the White Company, another major influence, frequently fielded 5000-6000 troops, and it was only one of many such companies in the relatively low-population high medieval Italy.
For my own ease, could I get the number pushed to 1800? I just need it to be divisible by 6, is all.
Secondary Industry
Claes made herself busy after her subordinate left. She kicked her shoes off, for a start, stretching her sore feet out as she yawned to full extension, an unfeminine groan escaping her lips into the privacy of the chamber. She searched her mess of a desk for something to do; even in the few days she had been resident in the rooms she had managed to spray likely more than one tree around the well-upholstered office, thankful for the luxury of paper off the campaign trail. She found a note from Major Agallon, a long, precisely ordered list on creamy white stock, with his characteristically neat and florid script. His careful, precise nature was what made him such an excellent logistics officer, and she felt truly sorry for him. Logistics, as Claes well knew from her brief tenure as the logistician, was the job of telling superiors and subordinates precisely why they cannot have what they want. A thankless job, certainly, but perhaps the most necessary in the army: Claes could not remember who stated an army marches on its stomach, but a truer statement had never been made. She felt doubly sorry for him attached to a cavalry army, the nightmares multiplying upon themselves when the thousands of horses needed to be accounted for. The man had nearly collapsed from the strain the night before their boat journey, from overwork and the angry demands of his peers. She could only hope the storehouses and clarks of the God-King’s employ could live up to his exacting standards, and he could enjoy his brief reprieve from campaign travails. The note pulled her from her brief ponderings, her listless mind reminding her of her fatigue, and she examined it carefully, immediately bored to tears by the dry analysis of mount condition and the availability of palatable food. She committed the important notes to memory before throwing the painfully dull piece of paper aside, it fluttering into the poorly-defined ‘read’ pile.
She found herself humming slightly, an old marching song she recalled with a smile, the lyrics coarse enough to appeal to the enlistee and entertaining, though obviously aimed at males. Almost all were, unfortunately, which had, for a time, led to her and her fellow female officers starring in the more bawdy numbers. A measure of discipline stopped those from being sung around officers, at the very least, though Claes would bet good silver that there was one being sung right now in some infected ale-house.
The general was picking through a disciplinary report from Major Hellon, entirely irrelevant to the grander scheme of things, simply highlighting a pair of floggings for conduct unbefitting the army, to be carried out at dawn. It was inevitable that no matter how high or low morale, some soldier would get carried away with some night-hawk or waitress and get whipped for his trouble. Mercenaries were not the best sort, she knew, and accepted their occasional misbehavior as an inevitability. She instead was proud that there were only two reports of misconduct (meaning likely a dozen more unnoticed or forgiven) in an army of nearly two thousand fresh off a boat ride of perdition. Just as she threw the paper to join the others in her growing pile a knock on the door, three times in particular rhythm. She called out to the door in an impatient voice.
“You know you don’t have to knock, Laurence.”
The door opened, and a man of average height and build walked in, a small box tucked under his arm and a fashionable if somewhat spartan outfit clothing him. His long blonde hair fell to his shoulders, and his handsome face bore a smile. Colonel Laurence Ostilla, 1st Battle Commander, as expected.
“Of course, General. Just being polite is all.”. His rich tenor filled the room.
“Take a seat. I presume you’ve spoken to Colonel Gordon? He’s getting the southern command, I need you for something more subtle.”
The blonde man sat, placing the ornate checkered box atop a sheaf of unimportant missives with a resounding clunk.
“I am sure you know what you’re doing, General.”
“I don’t need sarcasm, Laurence, it has been a long day.”
“Is meeting with deities taxing? I’ve only done it the once, and I spent most of my time kneeling.”
“He’s not as pompous as I would have thought. He does not strike me as an immortal deity, more a precocious lordling eager to make a name for himself.”
“Though, intelligent enough I hear? I should hope so, given his history.”
“I’m sure he will not disappoint, though I fear any further speculation may be counting unhatched chickens”
Laurence unclasped the box and unfolded it into two even halves, removing small leather pouches of assorted pieces, passing the darker pouch to his superior officer.
“Must we, Laurence? As I said, it has been a long day. I am not certain I have the mental fortitude for an hour of thinking.”
“Then you’ll just have to beat me quickly: I remember a certain bored General on a boat stating that” he assumed a mocking, high-pitched voice while he quoted her “’refusal to play will, from now onwards, be counted as surrender.’. Something about it being the true spirit of the cavalry officer or some seasick nonsense.”
“Nothing I said on that damned boat should be held as my honest opinion. That damned doctor’s medicine played havoc with my mind”
“You still won, though.”
“Of course I still won.”.
Laurence finished setting up the board, their mirrored pieces glaring at each other over the checkers. They had picked up Lorent from an Adulisian trader, and taken to it like ducks to water. Their previous intellectual battlefield was a game of stone-placing territory control, which suited cavalry officers rather poorly. This Lorent was a game of swift, decisive action, and they played like masters.
Laurence moved a piece, a brazen opening auguring a brazen strategy he had been perfecting on the boat ride. Claes could not help but respond in kind, and the game began. It was not a silent game, and they chatted the entire time on matters big and small, Claes briefing her opponent on his mission between conversations on the merits of fording actions and their shared, intense desire for a damascated sword. Their conversation was amicable, each enjoying the other’s company. While Gordon or Niman were confidants, trustworthy men in the army, Laurence was her friend. They’d been rivals and allies, and for as long as Claes could remember the two had worked together to achieve their goals, slowly becoming reliant on enjoyable companionship free of machinations.
Their game was less friendly. Claes cut viciously towards the center with what she thought was a brilliant move with her Boar, and four moves later found herself fighting tooth and nail on a rearguard action after a well-placed sacrifice by her subordinate destroyed her interdependent defense. Their moves were fast, few taking longer than a minute, and their actions swift and decisive, the clack of marble on wood punctuating their conversation as a brisk staccato. Half an hour later, Claes toppled her opponent’s Lion with a flourish, sinking back into her chair after sitting on its edge for the final moves. It had been a close-run thing, but Claes had caught Laurence in a noose of his own design, and did not delay in hanging him by it.
Their analysis of the game was cut short by footsteps coming up the hall, and the tone shifted immediately, from one of jovial friendship to one of business. Laurence packed the game away with blinding speed, and the two officers straightened their attire and replaced their shoes. Laurence stepped to one side of the room and stood ramrod-straight, as Claes rose to return the salute of her personnel officer with one of dismissal, and accepted the handshake of the criminal. The Major turned out of the room, joining his men on guard.
Sitting back in her chair with some dignity, she regarded the still-standing woman with eyes harder than the emeralds they shared their color. All business. Claes let her left hand hover over a short sword leaning against her desk, and she noticed that the Colonel’s right was gravitating towards a solid-looking steel candlestick.
“I’ve heard a great deal about you, Ms. Tavellan, and I would love to get acquainted but I will not mince words so late at night: The Grey Winds need good soldiers for a capturing a city, and you come most highly recommended. We are willing to offer you immediate enlistment at the rank of Lieutenant, in command of your very own platoon of specialized infiltration and close-combat anti-fortification infantry. You will be paid double and a half, as is normal for forlorn hope units. You will be free of penal battalions, and though your assignments will be of similar danger, at least for your first operation, you will have the full support of the army and will be treated as any other soldier under my command. With time and the desire, promotion opportunities will arise. They Winds do not discriminate based on race, and though I cannot tell my men what to think they will have to grin and bear an elven woman commander or face court-marshal.” Claes paused for a second, her eyes never leaving her prospective recruit for the briefest moment.
“I am not in the business of wasting resources, Ms. Tavellan, and you appear to be a resource most valuable. What do you say? Will you enlist under my command and earn money, freedom and glory?”
Claes made herself busy after her subordinate left. She kicked her shoes off, for a start, stretching her sore feet out as she yawned to full extension, an unfeminine groan escaping her lips into the privacy of the chamber. She searched her mess of a desk for something to do; even in the few days she had been resident in the rooms she had managed to spray likely more than one tree around the well-upholstered office, thankful for the luxury of paper off the campaign trail. She found a note from Major Agallon, a long, precisely ordered list on creamy white stock, with his characteristically neat and florid script. His careful, precise nature was what made him such an excellent logistics officer, and she felt truly sorry for him. Logistics, as Claes well knew from her brief tenure as the logistician, was the job of telling superiors and subordinates precisely why they cannot have what they want. A thankless job, certainly, but perhaps the most necessary in the army: Claes could not remember who stated an army marches on its stomach, but a truer statement had never been made. She felt doubly sorry for him attached to a cavalry army, the nightmares multiplying upon themselves when the thousands of horses needed to be accounted for. The man had nearly collapsed from the strain the night before their boat journey, from overwork and the angry demands of his peers. She could only hope the storehouses and clarks of the God-King’s employ could live up to his exacting standards, and he could enjoy his brief reprieve from campaign travails. The note pulled her from her brief ponderings, her listless mind reminding her of her fatigue, and she examined it carefully, immediately bored to tears by the dry analysis of mount condition and the availability of palatable food. She committed the important notes to memory before throwing the painfully dull piece of paper aside, it fluttering into the poorly-defined ‘read’ pile.
She found herself humming slightly, an old marching song she recalled with a smile, the lyrics coarse enough to appeal to the enlistee and entertaining, though obviously aimed at males. Almost all were, unfortunately, which had, for a time, led to her and her fellow female officers starring in the more bawdy numbers. A measure of discipline stopped those from being sung around officers, at the very least, though Claes would bet good silver that there was one being sung right now in some infected ale-house.
The general was picking through a disciplinary report from Major Hellon, entirely irrelevant to the grander scheme of things, simply highlighting a pair of floggings for conduct unbefitting the army, to be carried out at dawn. It was inevitable that no matter how high or low morale, some soldier would get carried away with some night-hawk or waitress and get whipped for his trouble. Mercenaries were not the best sort, she knew, and accepted their occasional misbehavior as an inevitability. She instead was proud that there were only two reports of misconduct (meaning likely a dozen more unnoticed or forgiven) in an army of nearly two thousand fresh off a boat ride of perdition. Just as she threw the paper to join the others in her growing pile a knock on the door, three times in particular rhythm. She called out to the door in an impatient voice.
“You know you don’t have to knock, Laurence.”
The door opened, and a man of average height and build walked in, a small box tucked under his arm and a fashionable if somewhat spartan outfit clothing him. His long blonde hair fell to his shoulders, and his handsome face bore a smile. Colonel Laurence Ostilla, 1st Battle Commander, as expected.
“Of course, General. Just being polite is all.”. His rich tenor filled the room.
“Take a seat. I presume you’ve spoken to Colonel Gordon? He’s getting the southern command, I need you for something more subtle.”
The blonde man sat, placing the ornate checkered box atop a sheaf of unimportant missives with a resounding clunk.
“I am sure you know what you’re doing, General.”
“I don’t need sarcasm, Laurence, it has been a long day.”
“Is meeting with deities taxing? I’ve only done it the once, and I spent most of my time kneeling.”
“He’s not as pompous as I would have thought. He does not strike me as an immortal deity, more a precocious lordling eager to make a name for himself.”
“Though, intelligent enough I hear? I should hope so, given his history.”
“I’m sure he will not disappoint, though I fear any further speculation may be counting unhatched chickens”
Laurence unclasped the box and unfolded it into two even halves, removing small leather pouches of assorted pieces, passing the darker pouch to his superior officer.
“Must we, Laurence? As I said, it has been a long day. I am not certain I have the mental fortitude for an hour of thinking.”
“Then you’ll just have to beat me quickly: I remember a certain bored General on a boat stating that” he assumed a mocking, high-pitched voice while he quoted her “’refusal to play will, from now onwards, be counted as surrender.’. Something about it being the true spirit of the cavalry officer or some seasick nonsense.”
“Nothing I said on that damned boat should be held as my honest opinion. That damned doctor’s medicine played havoc with my mind”
“You still won, though.”
“Of course I still won.”.
Laurence finished setting up the board, their mirrored pieces glaring at each other over the checkers. They had picked up Lorent from an Adulisian trader, and taken to it like ducks to water. Their previous intellectual battlefield was a game of stone-placing territory control, which suited cavalry officers rather poorly. This Lorent was a game of swift, decisive action, and they played like masters.
Laurence moved a piece, a brazen opening auguring a brazen strategy he had been perfecting on the boat ride. Claes could not help but respond in kind, and the game began. It was not a silent game, and they chatted the entire time on matters big and small, Claes briefing her opponent on his mission between conversations on the merits of fording actions and their shared, intense desire for a damascated sword. Their conversation was amicable, each enjoying the other’s company. While Gordon or Niman were confidants, trustworthy men in the army, Laurence was her friend. They’d been rivals and allies, and for as long as Claes could remember the two had worked together to achieve their goals, slowly becoming reliant on enjoyable companionship free of machinations.
Their game was less friendly. Claes cut viciously towards the center with what she thought was a brilliant move with her Boar, and four moves later found herself fighting tooth and nail on a rearguard action after a well-placed sacrifice by her subordinate destroyed her interdependent defense. Their moves were fast, few taking longer than a minute, and their actions swift and decisive, the clack of marble on wood punctuating their conversation as a brisk staccato. Half an hour later, Claes toppled her opponent’s Lion with a flourish, sinking back into her chair after sitting on its edge for the final moves. It had been a close-run thing, but Claes had caught Laurence in a noose of his own design, and did not delay in hanging him by it.
Their analysis of the game was cut short by footsteps coming up the hall, and the tone shifted immediately, from one of jovial friendship to one of business. Laurence packed the game away with blinding speed, and the two officers straightened their attire and replaced their shoes. Laurence stepped to one side of the room and stood ramrod-straight, as Claes rose to return the salute of her personnel officer with one of dismissal, and accepted the handshake of the criminal. The Major turned out of the room, joining his men on guard.
Sitting back in her chair with some dignity, she regarded the still-standing woman with eyes harder than the emeralds they shared their color. All business. Claes let her left hand hover over a short sword leaning against her desk, and she noticed that the Colonel’s right was gravitating towards a solid-looking steel candlestick.
“I’ve heard a great deal about you, Ms. Tavellan, and I would love to get acquainted but I will not mince words so late at night: The Grey Winds need good soldiers for a capturing a city, and you come most highly recommended. We are willing to offer you immediate enlistment at the rank of Lieutenant, in command of your very own platoon of specialized infiltration and close-combat anti-fortification infantry. You will be paid double and a half, as is normal for forlorn hope units. You will be free of penal battalions, and though your assignments will be of similar danger, at least for your first operation, you will have the full support of the army and will be treated as any other soldier under my command. With time and the desire, promotion opportunities will arise. They Winds do not discriminate based on race, and though I cannot tell my men what to think they will have to grin and bear an elven woman commander or face court-marshal.” Claes paused for a second, her eyes never leaving her prospective recruit for the briefest moment.
“I am not in the business of wasting resources, Ms. Tavellan, and you appear to be a resource most valuable. What do you say? Will you enlist under my command and earn money, freedom and glory?”
Could I get a more detailed explanation of the exact tactical situation of the airfield is? Which direction is the airfield facing, what is the surrounding topography, where are hostile troops deploying etc.? I may very well have missed something [reading long posts at 3am will do that to me] but I have a very poor feel of the low-level situation, specifically in regards to the positioning, numbers and makeup of hostile forces. Knowing the orientation of things [north south east west] would be very helpful as well. In addition, just how damaged are the communications, what is the status of reinforcements, and have orders been given on a company level?
Another post coming tomorrow, currently subject to Lexicon's review.
Mexihype
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