I want some "Myra goes berserk", TBH
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Don't Tread On Me
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Lex, Claes put Myra under the command of Captain Elias, who answers to Major Sim, who is one of the two lancer commanders that will accompany the General to the city and make up the siege force. Laurence brought Major Bayaz, one of the archer commanders with him, to be as fast and surprising as possible.
Laurence attacked a temporary training camp near Tolos and will continue to cut off the city and attack targets of opportunity. Presumably Myra is either taking the watchtowers or waiting for Claes to arrive, who will pick you and the Night Hunters up and ride for the city.
Laurence attacked a temporary training camp near Tolos and will continue to cut off the city and attack targets of opportunity. Presumably Myra is either taking the watchtowers or waiting for Claes to arrive, who will pick you and the Night Hunters up and ride for the city.
I can help world building if you need.
Also, I have changed my mind on what sort of character I want to make, can I play a general under the Dark Avatar?
Also, I have changed my mind on what sort of character I want to make, can I play a general under the Dark Avatar?
Fucking BAM. First real combat post made, and I'm rather proud of it. Also, I finally matched Lex's impressive length, or at least thereabouts. I left it pretty open, but I don't think I could manage nearly doubling the length of the post dealing with more of Laurence's charge towards Tolos.
First Contact
Laurence brushed dirt and broken twigs off his jerkin, still galled at the removal of his rank insignia. He understood why it had been taken off, of course. It went with the great purge of their regimental identification. Pennants were changed to be stereotypically bandit-esque, formation flags were made flat colors rather than the flamboyant designs they held previously, and a hundred other small changes. They’d been given new decorations, garish ornaments that a bandit raider would no doubt think looked intimidating, strips of red cloth or bones dug up from the mortuary just before they crossed the sea. One man had a pair of skulls tied to the neck of his current mount. The decoration was odd mostly because it was only afforded to one horse of the five or even six some men had been given. Before any engagement soldiers had to swap the silly baubles to the mount they would be riding into combat upon.
Finished tidying his uniform up, Laurence absentmindedly re-counted the arrows in his quiver as he surveyed the area around him. He could be anywhere in the League, from the way his environs looked: dense, scrubby forest; terrible for the horses, and full of all sorts of disquieting animals and insects. It was not somewhere a cavalry officer liked to be, and part of Laurence’s brain was constantly filled with the fear that he and the scores of men surrounding him would be set upon by an ambush of infantry, and no doubt cut to ribbons. The men didn’t seem to share his trepidation, most of them looking overjoyed to be about to go back where they belong: not on boats or in taverns, but in battle on horseback.
It had been only a few hours after their landing and disposing their section of costal watchtowers that the outriders had reported a camp in a valley, serving three or four hundred soldiers at the most. An excellent target of opportunity to be sure, almost certainly a training exercise or some such, and placed perfectly for an ambush they surely would never expect. The camp was pitched in the center of the wide, shallow valley, a few minutes ride from a ford of the small river at the nadir. The area around the camp was flat and grassy, and partially surrounded by a semicircular edge of the forest that Laurence and his battle were currently occupying.
Bayaz had raced ahead at Laurence’s orders, leaving the rather routine engagement to his superior officer. Laurence, after surveying the area for himself, split his forces in half, one section at each corner of the semicircle. Captain Calib, the only female officer in the Winds besides the General and the newest-promoted captain had command of the other half, and was awaiting Laurence’s signal to begin. With a brief sigh of preparation, he sauntered to the front of the unit, still half a hundred yards from the tree line and unable to see their target, and made ready to begin.
There were to be no speeches, not this early before the battle. Laurence wouldn’t have been able to make one even if he thought it would help. He was filled with the same noxious cocktail of simmering rage, pumping adrenaline and pant-shitting fear that came before any action, and such emotions did not make for a rousing speech, at least not from him. He simply spurred his horse forward, and behind him two captains and their lieutenants made last-second preparations before following him. He crashed through the brush at as close to a gallop as the terrified steed beneath him could manage, nearly being brained by a low-hanging branch he had only seen for a second. He broke through the trees, and saw the camp, just down a slight incline four hundred yards away or thereabouts. The maximum accurate range for the veterans of the Winds while at a full gallop was somewhere between five and six hundred meters with good conditions. Conditions were perfect today, the sun blazing above and no wind to speak of, and as Laurence readied his first shot he heard the twang of a hundred bows behind him and watched his loosed shaft join the first dark cloud of missiles race towards the camp, the occasional arrow dipped in pitch and set alight providing bright stars in the black mass. As he readied his second shot, he watched the first group impact on the tiny figures he was galloping towards and wreak havoc.
The Winds had, of course, many nuanced ways of coordinating non-visually over long distances. An arrow with a fuse could be fired, a skilled bowman able to make it only ignite at the zenith, the place most visible to other units and least visible to unprepared enemies. Whistles and birdcalls could be used when subtlety was required, and horns when it was not. In this case, however, none were necessary. Laurence’s half was to be the first to act, and the trample of seven score horses and the shouts of their riders would do just fine as a signal. Laurence turned his head slightly after firing his second shot, and saw Calib’s host break from the trees, also firing as they raced for the river instead of the camp.
This charge continued for what felt like hours, shafts flying in less order, creating a trickle of black rather than the arrow tsunami of the first volleys. Laurence watched tents catch aflame and soldiers run in all directions, most towards the river and away from the apparent threat with the rest of the unfortunate mass stumbling away from the devastated camp any way they could, some being trampled by the scared camp horses fleeing in terror. A few soldiers came out in good order, accompanied by enemy arrows that caused almost no casualties, a few dozen mounted in close formation with shields held competently. Veterans no doubt, eager to try and meet the Winds in grips and cause any casualties they could. They drew the attention of most of Laurence’s group, and were scythed down without incident, riders and horses alike spilling dead on the turf.
Laurence raised his blue banner and pointed to the right, and behind him several larger banners mirrored the gesture, and like clockwork the winds turned, and with a pair of waves to the right began to circle the remnants of the camp at around a hundred and fifty meters, perfect distance for their bows. Calib made a similar gesture, turning around the camp and slamming close range volleys into those soldiers fleeing to the ford, leaving none alive.
At this point, the matter was decided, despite the no doubt large number of enemy soldiers still in the flaming ruins of the camp. Laurence and Calib completed three rotations around the camp, the arrows lessening as targets became fewer and fewer. After the third rotation and the almost complete cessation of loosed missiles, Laurence raised the black flag from his quiver of banners, and pointed towards the camp, placing his curving willow bow in its holster as he drew his sabre, its silver curved length dancing in his hand as he twirled it out of habit. Laurence turned towards the camp and kicked his winded mount into a gallop once again, charging towards the charred establishment at full pace. The men behind him turned as one, and the yelling that had subsided after their break from the treeline returned, the fear and anticipation of close combat. This would be where most of the casualties came, but it was a necessary action to ensure silence and confusion within the enemy leadership.
Laurence entered the periphery of the camp and turned his horse to the side, tucking his winded mount behind a tent and stopping her furious charge with gentle gestures. It was always good to look like one participated in the charge, but Laurence had a responsibility to survive, and he could not risk his death in a melee that was already well decided. He dismounted and took a seat upon an overturned barrel, trying to ignore the foul stench and horrifying sight of the dozens of dead men lying all around him. Glancing around to ensure no living enemies remained, he leaned his sword upon the barrel within his easy reach, and grabbed a flask of wine that sat upon a stool near him.
He finished his drink, planning his next move, and before he was half done the sounds of combat ended, replaced with the sounds of plunder and celebration. Laurence threw the flask aside and, deftly stepping over the corpses of men likely a decade younger than him, sought out Calib. The camp was no doubt recent recruits, mustering or training in preparation to serve as garrisons or reinforcements for the expected offensive southward. It was a good sign, certainly, but it did make the guilt at victory cut through the adrenaline and fear for the first time in a long time. He had just ordered the death of hundreds of farmer’s sons and young husbands. It the curse of the officer: the burden of greater responsibility, and the inability to distract himself with the after-battle plunder.
He found Calib at the far side of the camp nearest the river, peering through a spyglass across the waters. He made a note of making his collection of arrows particularly loud, and she removed the glass from her eyes and turned to face him, saluting formally and immediately. She was not the same breed as Claes, that was certain. As tall as him, masculine and well-muscled, she looked as a female soldier should be all accounts look. Her skin was worn and dirty, her brown hair cut short, her visage scratched and serious looking. A bruise was clearly forming above her eye, and he wondered if she had had a run in with a tree branch like the one he had managed to avoid. Before he could fight to keep the chuckle within him, she spoke, all business.
“Six riders made it across the river, sir, but I’ve just seen the last of them felled. No news will be reaching Tolos, of that we can be sure.”
Her voice was deeper than most, but still clearly feminine. Laurence returned her salute and smiled at the good news. The lack of enemy fugitives would let Laurence give his men the time they would expect to plunder and celebrate, and let the horses rest. He was glad to not have to chase riders down in a mad rush.
“Excellent work, Captain, truly. You’ve done the Winds a credit, and I will make sure the General hears your accomplishments in their entire.”
“Thank you, sir. Will we be moving out immediately?”. He could tell she did not want to, trepidation creeping into her voice.
“No, Captain. We’ll re-mount in two hours. Let the men drink, and plunder, but ensure they remain able to ride at full speed. I’ll have Mordin collect arrows and fetch the baggage. That will be all.”
Another pair of salutes, and their business was completed. Calib walked off, her gait marred by a very slight limp. Laurence did the same, and after entering one of the few intact tents, fell into a chair and kicked his feet up, the recessing fear and excitement leaving nothing but fatigue.
Laurence brushed dirt and broken twigs off his jerkin, still galled at the removal of his rank insignia. He understood why it had been taken off, of course. It went with the great purge of their regimental identification. Pennants were changed to be stereotypically bandit-esque, formation flags were made flat colors rather than the flamboyant designs they held previously, and a hundred other small changes. They’d been given new decorations, garish ornaments that a bandit raider would no doubt think looked intimidating, strips of red cloth or bones dug up from the mortuary just before they crossed the sea. One man had a pair of skulls tied to the neck of his current mount. The decoration was odd mostly because it was only afforded to one horse of the five or even six some men had been given. Before any engagement soldiers had to swap the silly baubles to the mount they would be riding into combat upon.
Finished tidying his uniform up, Laurence absentmindedly re-counted the arrows in his quiver as he surveyed the area around him. He could be anywhere in the League, from the way his environs looked: dense, scrubby forest; terrible for the horses, and full of all sorts of disquieting animals and insects. It was not somewhere a cavalry officer liked to be, and part of Laurence’s brain was constantly filled with the fear that he and the scores of men surrounding him would be set upon by an ambush of infantry, and no doubt cut to ribbons. The men didn’t seem to share his trepidation, most of them looking overjoyed to be about to go back where they belong: not on boats or in taverns, but in battle on horseback.
It had been only a few hours after their landing and disposing their section of costal watchtowers that the outriders had reported a camp in a valley, serving three or four hundred soldiers at the most. An excellent target of opportunity to be sure, almost certainly a training exercise or some such, and placed perfectly for an ambush they surely would never expect. The camp was pitched in the center of the wide, shallow valley, a few minutes ride from a ford of the small river at the nadir. The area around the camp was flat and grassy, and partially surrounded by a semicircular edge of the forest that Laurence and his battle were currently occupying.
Bayaz had raced ahead at Laurence’s orders, leaving the rather routine engagement to his superior officer. Laurence, after surveying the area for himself, split his forces in half, one section at each corner of the semicircle. Captain Calib, the only female officer in the Winds besides the General and the newest-promoted captain had command of the other half, and was awaiting Laurence’s signal to begin. With a brief sigh of preparation, he sauntered to the front of the unit, still half a hundred yards from the tree line and unable to see their target, and made ready to begin.
There were to be no speeches, not this early before the battle. Laurence wouldn’t have been able to make one even if he thought it would help. He was filled with the same noxious cocktail of simmering rage, pumping adrenaline and pant-shitting fear that came before any action, and such emotions did not make for a rousing speech, at least not from him. He simply spurred his horse forward, and behind him two captains and their lieutenants made last-second preparations before following him. He crashed through the brush at as close to a gallop as the terrified steed beneath him could manage, nearly being brained by a low-hanging branch he had only seen for a second. He broke through the trees, and saw the camp, just down a slight incline four hundred yards away or thereabouts. The maximum accurate range for the veterans of the Winds while at a full gallop was somewhere between five and six hundred meters with good conditions. Conditions were perfect today, the sun blazing above and no wind to speak of, and as Laurence readied his first shot he heard the twang of a hundred bows behind him and watched his loosed shaft join the first dark cloud of missiles race towards the camp, the occasional arrow dipped in pitch and set alight providing bright stars in the black mass. As he readied his second shot, he watched the first group impact on the tiny figures he was galloping towards and wreak havoc.
The Winds had, of course, many nuanced ways of coordinating non-visually over long distances. An arrow with a fuse could be fired, a skilled bowman able to make it only ignite at the zenith, the place most visible to other units and least visible to unprepared enemies. Whistles and birdcalls could be used when subtlety was required, and horns when it was not. In this case, however, none were necessary. Laurence’s half was to be the first to act, and the trample of seven score horses and the shouts of their riders would do just fine as a signal. Laurence turned his head slightly after firing his second shot, and saw Calib’s host break from the trees, also firing as they raced for the river instead of the camp.
This charge continued for what felt like hours, shafts flying in less order, creating a trickle of black rather than the arrow tsunami of the first volleys. Laurence watched tents catch aflame and soldiers run in all directions, most towards the river and away from the apparent threat with the rest of the unfortunate mass stumbling away from the devastated camp any way they could, some being trampled by the scared camp horses fleeing in terror. A few soldiers came out in good order, accompanied by enemy arrows that caused almost no casualties, a few dozen mounted in close formation with shields held competently. Veterans no doubt, eager to try and meet the Winds in grips and cause any casualties they could. They drew the attention of most of Laurence’s group, and were scythed down without incident, riders and horses alike spilling dead on the turf.
Laurence raised his blue banner and pointed to the right, and behind him several larger banners mirrored the gesture, and like clockwork the winds turned, and with a pair of waves to the right began to circle the remnants of the camp at around a hundred and fifty meters, perfect distance for their bows. Calib made a similar gesture, turning around the camp and slamming close range volleys into those soldiers fleeing to the ford, leaving none alive.
At this point, the matter was decided, despite the no doubt large number of enemy soldiers still in the flaming ruins of the camp. Laurence and Calib completed three rotations around the camp, the arrows lessening as targets became fewer and fewer. After the third rotation and the almost complete cessation of loosed missiles, Laurence raised the black flag from his quiver of banners, and pointed towards the camp, placing his curving willow bow in its holster as he drew his sabre, its silver curved length dancing in his hand as he twirled it out of habit. Laurence turned towards the camp and kicked his winded mount into a gallop once again, charging towards the charred establishment at full pace. The men behind him turned as one, and the yelling that had subsided after their break from the treeline returned, the fear and anticipation of close combat. This would be where most of the casualties came, but it was a necessary action to ensure silence and confusion within the enemy leadership.
Laurence entered the periphery of the camp and turned his horse to the side, tucking his winded mount behind a tent and stopping her furious charge with gentle gestures. It was always good to look like one participated in the charge, but Laurence had a responsibility to survive, and he could not risk his death in a melee that was already well decided. He dismounted and took a seat upon an overturned barrel, trying to ignore the foul stench and horrifying sight of the dozens of dead men lying all around him. Glancing around to ensure no living enemies remained, he leaned his sword upon the barrel within his easy reach, and grabbed a flask of wine that sat upon a stool near him.
He finished his drink, planning his next move, and before he was half done the sounds of combat ended, replaced with the sounds of plunder and celebration. Laurence threw the flask aside and, deftly stepping over the corpses of men likely a decade younger than him, sought out Calib. The camp was no doubt recent recruits, mustering or training in preparation to serve as garrisons or reinforcements for the expected offensive southward. It was a good sign, certainly, but it did make the guilt at victory cut through the adrenaline and fear for the first time in a long time. He had just ordered the death of hundreds of farmer’s sons and young husbands. It the curse of the officer: the burden of greater responsibility, and the inability to distract himself with the after-battle plunder.
He found Calib at the far side of the camp nearest the river, peering through a spyglass across the waters. He made a note of making his collection of arrows particularly loud, and she removed the glass from her eyes and turned to face him, saluting formally and immediately. She was not the same breed as Claes, that was certain. As tall as him, masculine and well-muscled, she looked as a female soldier should be all accounts look. Her skin was worn and dirty, her brown hair cut short, her visage scratched and serious looking. A bruise was clearly forming above her eye, and he wondered if she had had a run in with a tree branch like the one he had managed to avoid. Before he could fight to keep the chuckle within him, she spoke, all business.
“Six riders made it across the river, sir, but I’ve just seen the last of them felled. No news will be reaching Tolos, of that we can be sure.”
Her voice was deeper than most, but still clearly feminine. Laurence returned her salute and smiled at the good news. The lack of enemy fugitives would let Laurence give his men the time they would expect to plunder and celebrate, and let the horses rest. He was glad to not have to chase riders down in a mad rush.
“Excellent work, Captain, truly. You’ve done the Winds a credit, and I will make sure the General hears your accomplishments in their entire.”
“Thank you, sir. Will we be moving out immediately?”. He could tell she did not want to, trepidation creeping into her voice.
“No, Captain. We’ll re-mount in two hours. Let the men drink, and plunder, but ensure they remain able to ride at full speed. I’ll have Mordin collect arrows and fetch the baggage. That will be all.”
Another pair of salutes, and their business was completed. Calib walked off, her gait marred by a very slight limp. Laurence did the same, and after entering one of the few intact tents, fell into a chair and kicked his feet up, the recessing fear and excitement leaving nothing but fatigue.
That description of the policy is rather vague. Is there severe oppression? What is the economic policy like? Is the society heavily stratified? Is there institutionalized prejudice? Is there any autonomy among subordinate rulers? How centralized is the government? Is the state highly militaristic?
Also, I assume we're all going to be playing enemies of the "Dark Avatar", correct?
Also, I assume we're all going to be playing enemies of the "Dark Avatar", correct?
What is the governmental policy of the "Dark Avatar"? Just so I can play someone who contrasts. Also, what are the main reasons people are unsatisfied with his/her rule?
That sounds good to me, though won't modern technology make bending relatively redundant, at least in terms of combat capability?
Speaking of, can I play a non-bender? Maybe a military officer or something?
Speaking of, can I play a non-bender? Maybe a military officer or something?
I managed to clear my stuff up, but now I need to watch Na'Vi in the International. Expect a post if they win. If they don't, well, I'll make a post after I sulk and eat a tub of ice cream.
EDIT: RIP Na'Vi, hello sadness and cookie dough
EDIT: RIP Na'Vi, hello sadness and cookie dough
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