Village square
The centurion bowed his head and ran through what he had remembered from the briefing they had been given back on the ship. No three thousand dragoons were ever mentioned... The imperial chewed mechanically as he thought.

"For the love of the nine, get that woman off you." He said exasperated before getting to his real point. "Peasants can be relied upon to exagerate...I doubt that there are three thousand of em out there, but there's probably some. That battle over there will be like kicking a hornets nest. Anyone who is going to fight will be armed and looking." He pulled the map back out and went over it one more time to get his bearings. His finger traced their intended route over the thin line of the country lane.

They were in the unnamed village at the moment, but after securing this place was the Newwell road that ran east-west. They had to take the crossroad at Rodane's tavern. The north-south road was the Anticlere pike and one of the best roads in the country. They needed a well built road to move the heavy guns and wagons to the city. After that they had to cross the old stone bridge and secure the crossroads at the town of Reyville...It would be a long day.

"If there are dragoons, and I pray there aren't...they'd probably be guarding the pike. No doubt we'll run into them before Reyville. Right." Ottus glanced back up at deMetz and suddenly felt guilty for his treatment of the man. He probably is having a bad enough time already without you being an ass. "Thanks. Get yourself a bite to eat. After we clear up this place, we'll be moving again, and Lords know when our next rest will be. Thunder and lightning, what?

"Alright, I need a group to dump these things down the well!" He shouted the command while pointing to the surprisingly large stack of weapons. "And make sure that tavern is clear! Ten lashes is the punishment for drinking on duty! Ten! Now get some food and drink water. Water! We're moving out in five..."

Lorenzo was backing away from the angry farmer, his own calm dimeanor faltering, finally just giving up any sense of manners and turning away to trot back to the pile of weapons at the head of the disipating crowd. There's the bloody translator. Lorenzo looked back to see the pvssyring farmer was still following him and quickened his pace. He cantered to a stop alongside Talos' Own's resident Anticlerian, who oddly had a fainted woman on his back. He was about to say something to him about the persistent local who he'd inadvertently pissed off, when Centurion Ottus barked some orders to get the weapons thrown in the village well.

He thought about grabbing some of the weapons as the circle of guards surrounding them would surely stop the old Breton from following him but then a different idea came to him. Turning to Artois he said, "I'll take that burden off your back if you take the one off mine." He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the farmer who'd been chasing him around, flashing a slightly embarrassed and crooked smile.

Artois

"Yes sir." Attempting a salute from beneath the burden of the woman, Artois was about to turn around and walk away to find something more comfortable than mud for the woman in the inn; however, Lorenzo, one of the few healers in Talos' Own, appeared from nowhere with what seemed a fairly angry farmer behind him. The offered exchange of dumping the woman on his back and talking to some farmer instead seemed more than fair, so Artois simply shrugged.

"I'm one, you're two." Murmuring this, Artois unloaded the woman onto Lorenzo, leaving it to him to get a more comfortable grasp of the woman that didn't seem interested in regaining consciousness anytime soon, then walked out in front of the farmer, gesturing him to calm down. Dealing with locals upset by other legionnaires was a breeze compared to giving them an Empire-pro speech and then enduring their reaction.

"Calm down, dear sir, there's no need to yell. The Legion is..." Sighing, Artois smiled sadly. The farmer wouldn't buy that crap, but perhaps the musketeer could convince him to calm down using his own name, not the Legion's. "Well, we all know it's not actually here to help you, but the Emperor sent us and we go where we're told to. All armies work that way. If you would calm down and explain your problem I'd appreciate it. The other legionnaires don't speak Bretic, so it's a waste of time getting them to understand you. But I assure you we're under orders not to cause more trouble than is necessary for the locals."

Lorenzo lowered his patient slowly to the ground, feeling her forehead with the back of his hand; she was cool and clammy. He muttered a quick detect life incantation which would only last for a few seconds, long enough for him to assess his charge's health without draining his magicka reserves. He'd have to be careful about using any more than he had to here, with a battle on the horizon his company would be relying on him for it fairly soon.

He quickly gave the woman a twice over as the spell already began to fade. She appeared to be in fairly good health for a peasant, though a small cluster of glowing pink dots over her abdominal area faded more slowly than the rest. "That'll likely be a tapeworm or some other bug, my love," the memory of his mother's words echoed in his head. "Yes, that'll account for the faintliness. Hmmm, malnutrition can be a real [censored]."

"Not to mention the stress of having your town sacked by a foreign army," he whispered to himself. He glanced at the small well in the center of the village, probably the culprit. In backwater settlements like this, who knew what all they were using it for? Certainly more than just drinking water.

Lorenzo unslung his pack and rummaged in it for two of the small herbal packets as well as his tin cup and water flask. One packet contained a fine powder ground from dried bitter herbs, some of which he poured into his cup along with water from his flask. The other packet contained a dried but fairly pungent root, still whole, which he waved under the unconscious woman's nose. Her face crinkled and she inhaled sharply, coming abruptly back to consciousness. Before she could realize who he was, he put the cup to her lips and tilted, forcing her to drink the bitter liquid. She coughed and sputtered but managed to down most of it.

After finishing the drink, the woman looked up at him, at first thinking that he was one of their own because of his obviously Breton features. Her eyes widened as they trailed down to his black imperial uniform and her mouth opened, issuing a low, keening wale. Lorenzo rolled his eyes as she turned over, pulling free of his grip to wretch on the ground. "Sorry, lady," he said sarcastically, knowing she wouldn't understand him. "No amount of vomiting is going to save your parasite now; that herb works fast." He returned his things to his pack and stood as the woman scurried away. “Though I daresay, your diarrhea will get worse before it gets better while it’s purging that thing,” He called after her.

He made it a point to walk in the opposite direction from the woman, exploring the village for other ways in which he could bring the “scourge of imperial medicine” to the unwanting people of Anticlere.

ooc: Just want to say that 1st legion has the best regimental march tune. Pardon my language by the way. Trying to sound soldierly.

Gritz

Cassius turned to DeConvant, then to Gritz and started laughing. "Have fun baby sitting, Gritz! Bah haha!". Rifle butted him in the ribs, and tomato hit ground as the veteran nodded off to the young boy.

"Alright then, guess we'd best start scouting up north then." the vet smirked, placing his gun up over his shoulder again. The warm feelings were faked however, he still couldn't eliminate that knot in his stomach, and gut feelings were something a soldier who wished to live long followed. "I'm good to go, rocket." he said without much excitement, the youth's enthusiasm was admirable, but Gritz just didn't think the young man understood the gravity of the situation. Something was off.

"Walk as you talk mi'boy. Your eyesight is good enough without that extra pair of eyes I hope?" he pointed to the youngster's glasses, the things were broken and looked to be more of a liability then crutch. Kaisie Lorunus was a large man, burly, tanned, and broad yet he was soft spoken, and contemplative. He could kill with the best of them, a career of that made sure it was a given, but his pursuits were always in maintaining life, and intellectual gain. As the Annalist of the Light Company, he required a keen sense of detail, precise penmanship, and great care in handling and traveling with the Annals.

This kid however, he was wiry and something about the way he carried himself and talked had led Gritz to believe he wasn't just all talk. Maybe the little bastard really was as blood thirsty as he let on.

Artois

The menace of the angry farmer done away with, Artois could finaly sigh in relief. The day was only starting, but he was feeling about as hungry as a wolf. Trodding about a forest that's bloody haunted and then having to speak until you're hoarse does that to one... Bloody hell. If this war is like that all the time... I've no quarrel with shooting and almost dying for nothing but a possible pat on the back if someone's in good mood, but this is awful. Not at all how I imagined returning home. Grumbling under his nose, he headed towards the inn, intending to reach it and get some food even if the heavens opened up and Mara demanded he translate for the Legion. After all, Centurion's orders. All he wanted now was to join the handful of soldiers in the inn, most likely doing nothing.

Soon enough, Artois could sigh in relief once more as the doors creaked behind him, closing shut. Only a handful of soldiers, as he suspected. No faces he would've cared about. He was slow to make friends, and although he didn't harbour dislike for most of the members of Talos' Own, neither did he consider many of them his friends. Even though he spent nearly thirteen years in the army, he was still a Breton at heart and could say little good about the Cyrodiils, whether they be Colovians or Nibenese. Their language was strange, half their speeches - boring or just compelte [censored]. Even though the Legion was composed mostly of them, Artois found himself more comfortable keeping a bit of a distance between himself and the Cyrodiils. It was for this reason that he chose to occupy an empty table, satisfying himself with nibbling on his bread in solitude.

Wouldn't mind a game though... Looking around the inn, he failed to find any recognizable faces. Gambling being his favourite pastime, he found himself a bit disappointed by this lack of people familiar enough for some dice. Wonder where's that kid. Maybe I could teach him... Beats getting into debt with someone who could actually try to take the gold. Bet he wouldn't mind a normal conversation, too, blowing the bagpipe ain't exactly the most awe-inspiring career around these parts...

OOC: Thought it would be prudent to make a slight modification to Lorenzo's uniform to denote his healer status since there's such an obvious language barrier in this town. Medics used to be marked for easy identification anyway, before opposing armies got the not-so-nice idea to start targeting us to weaken the enemy. Hope this is along the lines of what you had in mind, Gerald. I'll make it a two parter and work on the second half a little later, so it's not so much of a block.

IC:

As Lorenzo strolled down the packed dirt road of the village, he heard a muffled sobbing coming from one of the modest houses. An old man was standing outside the front door watching him warily. Lorenzo paused and returned the look at the old man before a woman, probably close to the same age, burst through the door and fell into his arms, bawling uncontrollably. The man's expression toward Lorenzo became an open scowl as he cradled his wife, patting her back softly. The scene would have been comical if it wasn't so obviously grave.

He was about to continue on when the man's eyes flicked to Lorenzo's armband, where rested a bright red diamond over a white background. In times of peace it was the universal symbol of a servant of the Nine, but during times of war it symbolized their mercy; borne on the arm of the Imperial Legion's Healers. His eyes widened and he started pointing and shouting at Lorenzo in incomprehensible Bretic. Not again, he thought, turning to quickly walk away. The old man leapt off the porch and rushed at Lorenzo with speed and agility he probably shouldn't have possessed. He was taken aback as the man gripped his arm like a vise, pointing at the armband and then back at his meager dwelling, all the while pvssyring excitedly. Lorenzo got the hint.

He allowed himself to be pulled into the house past the sniffling woman, who looked confused at her husband's behavior. Lorenzo kept a wary eye out as he was lead into the back room of the two room dwelling. He wasn't expecting an ambush per say, but he had no delusions of who he was to these people. It was likely that they only wanted his help, whatever it was they thought he could do, as a last resort.

Several people, two men and a young woman, were huddled around a large bed occupied by a small girl. Only her plump face showed over the pile of blankets covering her tiny frame, her matted hair clung to a damp and flushed forehead. Her breathing was labored and at interval, she coughed weakly. The other occupants of the room turned to observe the new arrival, the men gasping and the young woman biting back a clipped squeal. One of the men started shouting angrily at the elder, who still had a firm grip on Lorenzo's arm, and waving his arms frantically. The Old man shouted back shaking Lorenzo's arm and pointing at his armband, at which point the younger man grudgingly backed down and the elder lead Lorenzo to the bedside.

He was a little worried to turn his back on the others in the room but sighed and focused his attention on the sick child.

Fara felt relieved when DeConvant accepted her suggestion. Though he visibly resented what he had taken as an order. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer that one. It was only a suggestion. Bah I can live with him being pissed.

While waiting for the pair to show up she decided she should make some preparations. With a battle going nearby, there was a fair chance that some enemy scouts were already poking their noses in the woods. She pulled off her helmet, smearing it with resin from a nearby tree to stick leaves an the like on it. An operation completely out of The Book's instructions, but Fara had never felt much respect for regulations aimed almost solely at set piece battles and camp discipline. Scouting with a polished helmet is moronic. But I'd rather have some steel rather than my brainpan to catch the odd blade or bullet.

Once pleased with the result, she placed the helmet back on her head and moved along the road to rendezvous point. Sitting comfortably on a stump to wait the other scouts and letting her ears keep watch of her surrounding.

Keith sat at one of the tables, slightly away from the main group of soldiers. He normally would have joined them in the festivities (despite how they were likely to be punished for drinking) but he didn't feel like it at the moment.

Keith considered taking a drink of alcohol, but decided against it. It likely wasn't worth getting ten lashes. He sat there for a few minutes, thinking the recent events over, like the march into the town and his run-in with the native Anticlere people. Well, at least the empire was trying to be nice to the Bretons. That was better than nothing, right?

Damn...I really am not having a good day. He had lost his steel helmet earlier that morning too. He would likely be grilled on losing it when the captain actually notices Keith doesn't have one. Luckily, it didn't seem like the captain would waste his time checking every soldier over thoroughly. Just perfect...

Eventually he got bored of just thinking to himself and decided to leave (though he had yet to drink anything), but as he stood, the translator strolled into the tavern, took a brief look around, and sat at an empty table. This brought an idea to Keith's head.

"Artois!" Keith called to him. He knew the translator's name, but not much else about him. He also knew there were rumors that Artois was a traitor to the empire and couldn't be trusted, but Keith didn't put any stock in the hear-say of other soldiers. He took a seat across from Artois and smiled. "Hey. I'm Keith. I heard your little speech earlier, and I was wondering....would you teach me Bretic? I know a little bit of the language myself, but hardly enough to communicate really effectively with these people."

Artois

Sitting at his table and nibbling quietly at his bread, Artois was a bit startled when someone yelled out to him. Bloody hell. We haven't been heading for this war longer than a month and it's already getting to my head... I'd bet I could keep it from dancing on my nerves if they weren't yelling for me every damn minute. 'Translate this, get peasant off my back that'... However, at least he didn't let it show this time, his only reaction being raising his eyebrows when the man, some sort of Keith apparently, helped himself to the seat in front of him and asked to be taught Bretic, as if Artois was some sort of a language-wizard. The first thought to cross his mind at this request wasn't, however, at all related to it. Instead, rather predictably, the musketeer asked himself if this Keith was someone he wanted to gamble with.

Hell, he looks optimistic and pretty gullible. Maybe I could get away without paying him if I lost... Wonder if he's the pure sort of chap. Probably not. No one here is. At least he shouldn't turn me in if he refuses, or I can tell him I won't teach him... Feh, worth a try. Following some brief consideration, Artois took out his dices and set them down on the table. "Care for a game? Don't know about you, but I haven't played in ages." Rummaging through his pockets, he set down his fairly humble three septims on the table. What he said wasn't entirely true - Artois had gambled fairly recently, during the last payday to be more precise. That explained why the musketeer was so poor, even though none of Talos' Own could probably boast having enormous riches.

"As for communication..." After a moment of silence, Artois shrugged. His voice was sounded rather lazy, with perhaps a touch of irritation about it as, truth be told, he wasn't all that happy to be distracted from his bread. What he went through to have a meal today was enough. "You can't expect to learn a language in a day, not with the amount of free time we have anyway. I can teach you some basic stuff like 'surrender or I'll shove a sword at your face you bastard', but the best way to learn would be to just observe. Seems likely we'll get bogged down in villages from time to time, tons of those around High Rock. And I'll be translating half the time, apparently no one can understand anything else asides from the bloody Anticlerian dialect."

"You gonna roll the dice or should I?"

Centurion Ottus squinted through the piercing morning sun. It's intensity was difficult to stand, as was the humidity. There has to be a storm coming on, and for the love of Talos let it come. A heavy and repeated thump of the distant cannons marked a new phase of that battle. It looked like the Anticleres were putting up a hell of a fight. The ninth wasn't a perfect legion, but it was still damned good. A knot began to form in Ottus' stomache.

He turned his head away from the well as one of his men began to toss the weapons down into it's dark maw. Certainly not a perminant fix, but It'll do for now. By now many of the Bretons had retreated away from the streets and taken refuge in their housed, boarded up and locked tight. Musketry crackled and roared on the breeze. He frowned and rubbed his recently shaved face. He didn't like sitting out a fight. He was thinking over his orders.

Thieves will be hanged. Strung up at the scene of the crime, what! Can't have these bretons thinking we're thieves, no sir! Must treat the children harshly my lads, teach them discipline, what! Floggings to those drunk, and floggings to those drinking. You know what my dear mother, gods rest her soul told me? She told me, on her deathbed, she did. Parvo, me son...Yes mama, I says. Parvo, me boy there's only one cure for the drunkard, and its the lash! Take the skin off their backs any they'll learn discipline. Then *sniff* my dear mother sighed her last sigh and passed on. And those were her very words! 'pon my soul they were.

Ottus chuckled at the thought of their eccentric commander. He was an odd man, but a good commander. Then the sounds of music drifted out of the tavern. He wasn't angry. not by a long shot. He was jealous. But His job was to keep the legion in fighting order, not to befrend his men. He wiped a hand over his sweat-reddened face. He didn't want to go in there and break up the fun, but now...of all times was not one for the men to be drinking and singing. That could come after a battle, but not now.

Not while they were the tip of the spear. Some goddamned Breton peasant could waltz into the tavern with an undercharged blunderbuss and take out a quarter of the company. Goddamned green amateurs... It was then that he heard the familiar rasp of steel on steel. It was faint, but then it came again, and a dozen more times.

Then a horse snorted, A breton screamed his challenge, and the small village suddenly became important.

"TO ARMS! CAVALRY!"

-----------------

The Bretons shouted a mixture of fear and joy as they spurred into the village. The sound of shooting had drawn them here, and the handfull of black coated men they had seen enticed them to come. The men's horses eyes rolled white as the thin line of two dozen militia compressed in between the corn stalks to ride down the thin path into town. They were sweating in their unbuttoned grey coats. White armbands marked their allegiance, and flashing sabers their determination. The men were excited, because they had assumed that they caught a handfull of stragglers or a small foraging party. Patriotism made them both daring and reckless.

One man shouted the battle cry of their unit as he thundered in, sword lowered like a spear. It was soon taken up by whole mass.

"Care for a game? Don't know about you, but I haven't played in ages." It wasn't exactly what Keith had wanted to hear, but...to hell with it. Some gambling might do him some good, after all. And so, Keith sat, positioning himself across from the Breton, and making sure he was in a decent enough position as to make sure Artois wouldn't cheat.

Can't trust a military man, afterall.

"As for communication...You can't expect to learn a language in a day, not with the amount of free time we have anyway. I can teach you some basic stuff like 'surrender or I'll shove a sword at your face you bastard', but the best way to learn would be to just observe. Seems likely we'll get bogged down in villages from time to time, tons of those around High Rock. And I'll be translating half the time, apparently no one can understand anything else asides from the bloody Anticlerian dialect." Keith took it all in. Learning a language, especially one as complicated as Bretic, would take alot of effort, even with a fluent teacher.

"Well, I'd prefer to know it so that I can avoid a fight. Say, if I was captured or something, I'd last longer if I could actually communicate with them." Keith chuckled. "Throwing around Bretic insults during battle, or just to threaten someone is rather unnecessary. After all, you can just point a musket at them, or keep a sword prodding their back and they'll likely not object to anything." He smiled again. For whatever reason, Artois didn't exactly seem like all that bad of a person.

Guess those rumors about him being a traitor probably aren't true. Bah, I never believed them anyways.

Setting three septims on the table, Keith could see Artois smile. Keith was in the game.

"You gonna roll the dice or should I?" Artois asked.

"I'll roll, if you don't object too much." Reaching out, he clasped the small dice with his right hand. Something was odd, though. The room had grown quiet suddenly...

"Steel on steel..." Keith dropped the dice, and stood up suddenly, listening...His chair wobbled slightly on its hind legs before finally succumbing to the pull of the earth. He wasn't sure what it was...but the sound of battle seemed closer suddenly...

"TO ARMS! CAVALRY!" Keith grabbed his musket as soon as he heard the shout, rushing to the window. He couldn't see anything, but the town had suddenly become deserted, and Keith could hear battle sounds distinctly.

"Damn, a fight! Here?" Keith rushed out the tavern into the open. It was stupid, as he should be taking cover and waiting for the enemy, but something moved him...he wanted to make sure of something...

He rushed away from the tavern, but remembered his training just in time, ducking behind a wall just a shot whizzed by, taking a piece out of the wood corner.

"Curses!" Keith was afraid of the upcoming battle, but he had to keep his head. "Right as everyone was relaxing..."

DeConvant shot an angry glare at Cassius. "I aint no kid, I could probably slit you from ear to ear in a flash and wouldn't think nothing at all 'bout committing such a deed either...you bastard". His eyes glared behind cracked glasses as his gnarled face flustered a deep red. It was evident he was furious. "Hell, I aint' even going to give you the time of day".

He walked away as he and this new soldier of whom he had seen little of started talking. He had asked about his eyesight, and the expression of fury had now dissipated from his face. Instead was now a look of sadness and loss. Although he was angry witht he man of whom had insulted him...he saw that this new man, this "Gritz"...had the look of a veteran about him. He would look past his bad choice of friends and confide with him his flaws as a being.

"No sir...cant see worth a darn truth be told. Lost my good eyesight back when I was young, so I rely on these speck-tee-ckils more then anything nowdays". He pushed the spectacles up the bridge of his nose, as they had begun slipping...whilst forcing an expression of contempt to try and hide the dissapointment in himself. "Faras gone and run ahead...stupid Elf thinks she'll last better without us. Dead weight she thinks we are! I say that harlet doesn't know anything. Talks to the rats like the feral unlearned point-ear that she is!"

He snarled before the voice of battle rang across the battlefield. TO ARMS was all he needed to hear...as the Breton smirked a look of excitement before drawing his musket and immediately skidding into the nearest cover, of which happened to be under a small stone fence surrounding a common brickwork house.

Adrenaline filled his veins and his eyes blared with the expectance of a kill. His aimed at the figures coming out of the cornfield, scowling as he did so. "Thats right, you damn son of a [censored]...Iv'e got you now. Im going to send your teeth out the back of your head you hick bastard". His words dripped with venom, and although talking to himself, he said it loud enough so that gritz could hear. Indeed, he wanted the veteran to see that he was an eager participant in battle.

"Watch this one sir, Im going to splatter his head all across the cornfield"

Fara was still waiting when there was a flurry of activity coming from the north ? which prompted her to jump from her seat and into the corn, slipping between two rows without moving them. Her pack didn't hinder her much as this was far easier than sneaking on a wary animal in Valenwood's jungle.

Peering between the stalks she could see a bunch of mounted men piling onto the road, drawing their blades as they went. Their grey coats identified them as anticlerans of one stripe or another. So long for the nice scouting trip. They are soldiers north of there. Let's hope there's nothing more than these bastards.

Using the cover of the corn, Fara moved as close to the road as she could without getting seen, risking a look as she reached the fence between the field and the road. And sweared again under her breath as another pack followed on foot. Her quick look didn't let her make a proper headcount, but it looked like twenty to thirty. Better and better, let's hope there won't be an extra serving of the bastards, we're already going to feel a bit bloated with those...

Thinking quickly, she pulled out her already loaded musket. She made a quick check of the bassinet ? yes the priming was fine. Time to get things started and mess with their heads...

Sh didn't bother with the slowmatch, but placed the barrel's end on the fence for bracing, pointing at the cavalrymen's backs, aiming for the yeller who had drawn his blade first. She murmured a short incantation, feeling the power of the magic gathering in her hand, focusing on the fingertip she kept over the bassinet. A fiery spark jumped to the powder, and the gun roared , slamming back in her shoulder.

Even at this rather short range the musket's poor accuracy and the motion of the starting charge united to drive the bullet into the man next to her target. Hitting him square between the shoulders, the heavy lead projectile going all the way through him in a messy display of power.

Fara yelped as the burning powder had singed her fingertips, but didn't waste time watching the result of her shot. As the expanding smoke cloud made her position blatant to the infantrymen behind her, she threw herself back, wriggling to land flat on her belly in the corn. And started crawling away from the road, dropping her pack for more discretion, while giving a silent prier. 'Yffre, keep an eye on your daughter in a far away land. Make these khajit-humped bastards empty their guns high in anger.'

Nathan couldn't help but smile at the "festivities" as the men began singing and talking, and generally becoming happier then they had been on the march. not that Nathan could blame them, because that forest was damn creepy, and the heat was unbearable. He made his way casually to the back of the bar, placing his musket on the bar itself, as he hoped the counter, his bag rattling slightly, and he had to straighten it out before bending down behind the counter.

he took his snapsack off his shoulders as he sat on the floor, pulling out a small leather pouch, as well as a stone pipe, and began pulling the strings off the pouch, and as he pulled the leather back a invigorating, yet soothing smell reached his nostrils, bringing a smile to his face. The aroma was bitter, yet.... very refreshing at the same time, and he took a small amount of this black plant like substance, and rested it on his knee. He then opened a second leather pouch, revealing regular pipe weed which he took a deep whif of before taking a larger pinch between his fingers and placing it his pipe.

he replaced the two pouches, and added the first blackened weed to his pipe, pushing it into the regular pipe weed with his small finger. He stood up, leaving his bag on the floor, and looked around, spotting a small, nearly melted candle at the end of the bar, which he promptly used to light the pipe weed, inhaling the first puff deeply, holding it in for quite a large amount of time before letting the acrid smoke stream from his mouth and into the air of the tavern.

He sat back down, pulling the small bottle from his pack, popping the top quietly and taking a rather large gulp, before replacing it quickly in his bag. He took another puff, feeling his mind start to grow "fuzzy", and his body had the sensation that it was almost floating and he felt happier then he had felt in days, as he inhaled the soothing smoke, and began cleaning out the cupboards. He found very little in the way of food, only adding two apples and single fist sized hunk of salted pork.

He stuffed these quickly into his bag, except for the meat, which he began taking a hunk out with his teeth, enjoying the flavor as he washed it down with a drink from his canteen. He had just swallowed the refreshing liquid, when he heard the shouts from outside, and he choked slightly on the water. He spluttered, and looked up in alarm, hastily clipping the canteen back to his snapsack, and taking a long final drag from the pipe before placing the rest between his lower lip. It wasn't the same as smoking it, and wasn't as good tasting as his chewing tobacco but it did the job in a pinch.

He grabbed his musket from the nearby table, and ran to the door, which was already open, but instead of running outside, he smashed the window open with the butt of his musket, and pulled his match cord up to his face, blowing on it to ensure it was still lit, as he set it into place. He was trying not to panic as he took a small thing of gunpowder and filled the pan, forgetting to close the tray over top of it out of sheer nervousness.

he opened the leather pouch on his belt, and took out a small musket ball, dropping it down the barrel of the gun.

"[censored]." he muttered, trying to block out the sound of the coming battle as he dumped the musket ball out, pouring gun powder down the barrel first, then replacing the shot. He rammed the shot into place with his scouring stick, simply resting it against the wall instead of replacing it and looked up out of the window, waiting for an order from Ottus instead of firing randomly. His mind whirled and buzzed as teh drug continued its effects, even as it was in his mouth, and he felt like he was a hundred miles in the sky, floating like a cloud.

He gave himself a quick shake, and came back down to the earth, though his arms and head felt oddly light.

Artois

"Aw, [censored]." Artois groaned, grabbing his musket. Here we go again... His hands shivering slightly out of excitement and feat, he filled the pan with gunpowder, closing it and blowing off any loose drops off. He wasn't a new recruit, this sequence he had repeated time and time again, but each time it unnerved him, to ram the musketball and the powder down the barrel, then reverse the ramrod again and put it back into its place. The cord was already smouldering... Everything was good and in place, now only the command to fire was necessary. Firing without command will only go to show we're a bunch of bloody peasants... Legion discipline's what puts us above that, right. I'd preffer if army discipline kept them from charging when we're not loaded. Knocking a nearby window out with the butt of his musket, Artois felt remarkably powerless. At least they hadn't caught him in the middle of drinking or smoking.

They did interrupt a game though... Bloody kinsmen they may be, but it's worth shooting them for that. Biting his lip, Artois aimed for the general mass of cavalrymen. There didn't seem to be too many of them, although the noise of a couple shots whizzing through the air suggested at least some of them were dragoons. Bloody carbines... If the rest of our bastards manage to reload their guns and take up position in time for a shot, half the carbine-huggers'll be dead before they can shoot a second time. For some of the men in Talos' Own, this was not only their first scrap in the Anticlerian War, but their very first scrap. His first scrap seemed distant, he could barely remember it now. Or perhaps he didn't want to... Something in the civil war, when Corvus II wasn't an Emperor of any sort except in his dreams.

OI! Mara damn it, Artois! I could've missed the command like this. Frowning, he snapped himself out of the nostalgic memories of his first skirmish, focusing on the present. I'm not some bloody recruit to doze off at the start of a battle... Focus on firing, damn it. Although shaking his head seemed like a good cure to his memories kicking in, Artois advised himself against it, trying to focus his whole attention on the end of his musket's barrel and what it was aiming at. Whether he'd hit a horse or a man, his shot would be succesful, faced with the wall of horseman flooding into the village. Something inside him, however, wasn't waiting for the inevitable command to give fire. A niggling sense of doubt - was this right?

Of course it isn't, what hell of a question is that?! Gritting his teeth tighter, he made one last adjustion to his aim. We're bloody invaders trying to make a republic love some bastard they've never seen, it's not a question of whether this is right or wrong. More of a question of when we return. He'll be replaced in ten minutes after we leave... Unless Corvus thinks we can make them fall in love with him or that if we butcher their whole army it'll hinder Anticlerian revolts. What IS that man thinking anyway... They love the city more than a Colovian loves his highlands. Someone's oughta kick some bloody sense into the man if he actually expects it'll be easy to keep Anticlere under his thumb.

"Talos' Own, Independent fire, GIVE FIRE!" Ottus Shouted the command a mere moment before he dropped his barrel to the center of a horses chest and squeezed his trigger. The pan sizzled for a half second before the main charge caught. The butt of the musket slammed into his shoulder, and fire and smoke belched into the air, obscuring his target. Without looking at his target he turned and sprinted away, shouldering in a door of a local house. The old door splintered from it's hinges, and fell inward carrying him with it, to land in a crumpled heap on the wood floor.

The horseman thundered into town, swirling around the buildings like a tide around submurged rocks. More muskets cracked and banged, and the militia cavalry shouted in growing alarm as they hacked their blades down at the few men in the street.

Open the pan, blow the old powder out, prime the pan with the powder flask, shut the pan. Drop the Musket, open a wooden flask, pour the powder down the barrel, drop a ball down the barrel, draw the scouring stick, ram the charge home, tap twice, return the scouring stick, glance at the enemy.

Through the haze Ottus could see the militia men beginning to panic. They had expected a handful of musketeers, not a reinforced company. Two gray coated bodies and several black ones were already sprawled in the alcohol infused mud. A horse was screaming it's high pitched wail as it trashed and kicked on the ground, blood darkening it's white coat. without removing his eyes from the swirling wall of horseflesh he blew on his match to reignite the ember, pushed it back in the serpentine, and aimed out the window.

Shouts of alarm and cries of fear had replaced anger, The remaining bretons were raking their spurs back and trying their best to leave the village alive.

Out in the cornfield there were two dozen dismounted cavalrymen spread in a jumbled and uneven skirmish line. They were only militia cavalry, not regular army. As such their weapons were not the regular carbines of the line cavalry. They carried old, outdated arquebus' and fowler muskets. Discipline was not what it was, but they had some basic training. An impetuous excitement drove them into the high corn towards the town.

"Gods forgive me for my life..." a whimpering cry came from one of the wounded Legionnaires in the road. He was trying desperately to unbutton his tunic with a shattered forearm. Long, shallow slashes had opened his forehead and arm. "Oh my gods....Oh help me!" Some of the militia were already reaching the outlying chicken coops to bang off shots. They were shouting and pointing at the mounted men who were shouting and pointing back towards the legionaries.

"Oh Mara! Mara help me!"

Artois

Licking his lips when the command to give fire finally came, Artois pulled the trigger. The matchcord went down and several muskets fired as one, coating some of the houses in the mist of gunpowder. He could only grit his teeth even tighter when the musket hammered into his shoulder. Bloody recoil. Had this been a real battle, the Anticlerians would now be at an advantage, hiding in the white mist with their similarly coloured uniforms; however, unfortunately for the cavalry this wasn't a battle, a mere skirmish only, and one that seemed to be going better for the legionnaires of Talos' Own. Those blokes don't seem too certain... Must be militamen. Poor chaps, but then they're not to blame... We are. Opening the pan and blowing the old powder out, he frowned, however his expression was hidden from the rest of the world outside the inn by a blanket of smoke.

Wailing of horses and yelling of the Anticlerian cavalry filled the village, interrupted now and then by muskets cackling. The order for independent fire had been given and the firing got disjointed; it was next to impossible to coordinate fire into proper volleys in such an environment anyway, waiting for Ottus to give order for every shot would've been outright stupid. Ignoring what the others in the inn were doing, Artois pushed another shot down the barrel, placed the scouring stick back onto his musket and looked up at the window. It was small to begin with and now smoke made it difficult to see anything outside; he'd be taking blind shots. To hell with that! Friendly fire won't help my case any... Even if it's impossible to see through this [censored], since when were accusations supposed to make sense in the Legion? Grabbing his forkette he rushed out of the tavern, stopping at nothing. If he'd stop to look around, he would be shot most likely; he'd have to look for cover while on the move.

"Mara preserve me!" A shot flew right past him, nearly tearing through his left shoulder. Sending all clean uniforms to hell, Artois dropped to the ground, crawling his way to a the small rock fence surrounding the inn with hopes that the chaos that was ensuing in the village would aid him. He was lucky and managed to make his way to cover safely, placing his musket on the fence and pulling the trigger. Another boom, another hit to his shoulder and another puff of smoke rose after his gun spat out the musketball towards the enemy. A horse wailed, someone swore in Bretic and a loud thump followed, however Artois wasn't looking; it didn't matter who he hit, he only knew that with each shot he was bringing harm not only to his race but to his homeland. Even though the battle wiped clear nearly all thoughts from his head asides from the voice of a centurion long gone, repeating the drill commands of loading a musket, in the corner of his mind he felt guilty. No doubt this guilt would sweep down on him like the hammer of a Nord should he survive the skirmish.

Somewhere further up the road a legionnaire cried out, calling for Mara's help. However, Artois was in no position nor mood to help him; he was more worried for his own safety and could only mutter for Mara to have mercy upon the poor soul and for his death to be swift. Like all his prayers it was muttered in Bretic, as he never cared to learn praying in Cyrodiilic; no use in it, anyway, as he never went to church. His prayers were for the gods only, and in the chaos of battle no one would hear him anyway. That he would've ever been concerned about such mundane matters as the language in which he prayed seemed distant and completely childish now, as if it were someone else's experience. Artois was left with the present and the only coherent thought he managed after rushing out of the inn was the voice of an old centurion, over and over again.

Open the pan, blow the powder out, pour new powder, close the pan, blow off loose powder, drop, powder, shot, scraping stick, reverse it, push down the barrel, pull out the scraping stick, reverse, return, open the pan, blow the matchcord, pull the trigger.

Fara - in the cornfield north of the village
While Fara was crawling her way through the corn, moving to the side as quickly as she could, the situation in the village degenerated in a noisy chaos ? muskets cracking, mens screaming, cursing and begging for the god's mercy, horses neighing in agony. She did her best to ignore the din, focusing instead on the rustling of leaves as the footmen made their way through the cornfield. Thanks the gods for their small favors, these guys are stealthy as a bunch of foraging boars...

Her ears ? and the first shots they fired ? told her they were deploying in a line, which menaced to spread wide enough to reach her. She dropped her musket, letting it lay in a furrow, gaining enough speed to outflank the mens and avoid their line. One of them shouting something to the others, she could make out the word 'musket' but nothing else. Though from joking tone he had probably found her musket and told it to his buddies to prove Imperial cowardice. Damn those breton bastards, the centurion will ream me a new one if he finds out I've left my musket fall in enemy hands. But now it's my kind of fight. Let's see who's the best at playing hide and seek...

With this thought she crouched low, unsheathing her sword and patiently waited until the militiamen had passed her position. Quelling a burst of laughter as the verses from a song came to her mind "Me and my fair girl we don't pray/we roll together in the hay".

Once the last of the men was gone she quietly followed him as silently as she could, barely disturbing a leaf on her way. With the battle's noise as a cover her prey didn't hear a thing, letting her come close behind him. She waited a little, letting them fire a volley toward the village to time her attack. She silently raised to her feet, using a nasty trick learned from a veteran : her left hand went over the man's mouth, dragging him toward her while she drove her knees into his. Sending the man backward, all his weight resting on the tip of her sword, driving the blade into his kidneys. She rocked the blade sideways, feeling something wet and warm drip on her fingers as her victim trashed and tried to scream.

She pulled the blade out and rushed away from the village, not wasting time to check if her assault had been noticed or not, letting the man scream in pain and panic as his life poured on the ground. Running away as fast as she could before the others could reload, moving to the side to keep out of whatever fire the Imperials were pouring back toward the Anticlerans.

Lorenzo was already on the dirt road heading back toward the center of town when the call to arms came. He froze in shock mid-stride and then snapped back to awareness at the thunderous sound of the cavalry charge. Oh gods, He broke into a run, unslinging his weapon as he bolted for the center of town. He could already hear the beleaguered cries of the wounded.

Musket balls zinged past him to bury themselves into houses as he ducked and ran at a half crouch toward a wooden horse cart for cover, the report of the guns which fired them following a belated half-second after. Little eruptions in the dirt surrounding him told Lorenzo that his cover was far less than sufficient and he swore as one or two shots came too close for comfort.

Somewhere up ahead, he heard the Centurion shout the order for independent fire.
Good, let’s lay waste to these S.O.B.’s, he thought, lighting up their own people without warning.
Positioning himself behind the center of a wheel, Lorenzo leveled his own musket over the edge of the wagon. His aim swiveled around at the fog of battle before him, looking for his first target. Healer though he may be, he wouldn’t be able to help anyone if he didn’t defend himself first.

Anticlerian militia started to appear through the haze, several of them falling to shots fired by Talos’ Own. Lorenzo pointed his muzzle at the line of attackers and aimed low, opening the pan on his already loaded weapon. As he squeezed his index finger, the musket slammed noisily into his shoulder and a cloud of smoke ballooned out in front of him. He wasn’t very well trained in guerilla warfare but knew better than to wait and see if he hit something as he’d just given away his position. He ducked behind the cart and scurried across the road through the smokescreen he’d just made for himself, coming to rest with his back against a house.

More shots bounced off the ground next to him or nicked the corner of the building he hid behind, tearing splinters away with a dry thwack. These were mingled with panicked shouts in both cyrodiilic and bretic; some were curses, some were prayers and some were the inane whimperings of those who could no longer fight.

At a pause in the enemy’s assault, Lorenzo peeked with one eye around the corner, trying to see through the mists of gunfire. Can’t see a blessed thing, he thought, blast it all to Oblivion. Throwing caution to the wind he scurried out from his hiding spot and ran in a zigzag pattern, making sure not to stray too far from the cover of buildings, finally coming to the edge of the town square. It was the center of chaos and the cacophony of battle was deafening. Grabbing the doublet of a wounded comrade, he dragged him behind a stone barrier and plopped down next to the soldier, who was praying vigorously to the Mother Goddess as he bled profusely from a ruined arm and multiple cuts on his face.

“I’m afraid Mara must have been a little busy, mate, you’ll have to suffice with me instead!” Lorenzo shouted through a renewed hail of gunfire.

http://img232.imageshack.us/i/unnamedvillage.jpg/ just so everyone is on the same page.

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Ottus looked out the doorframe of the small stone house that stood between him and death. The cornfield at the town's northern limits was wreathed in gunsmoke as was the tavern and the chicken coops on the western end. Thank Talos for small blessings. If today wasn't so humid that whole cornfield would be ablaze. Now that the initial shock of a sudden attack had worn off, he was beginning to think about how to get out of this mess. A quick glance behind showed a small back door.

It wasn't more than a heart beat before the Centurion had kicked the door from it's hinges and was in the back yard, facing the dark and ominous forest. Hiding behind the house were two of his veterans, Optio Daenlin and Musketeer Caepio.

"Western, side of town! Move!" He shouted the command as he pushed and shoved them in the right direction. They ran in a low crouch behind the cover of the houses, passing deConvant and St.DuBois as well as the screaming form of Julius Aurillio, a man who had served with Ottus in the Six Years War, what the emperor was now calling the Great Civil War. Deep down under the Adrenaline and excitement, seeing such an old friend in pain was heart wrenching. "Mind the left! They're hooking around our left!"

Daenlin, a short bosmer and possibly the best shot in the 1st legion stopped at the corner of the house directly across from the tavern just in time to see militiamen standing outside the pub's western wall. One of the bretons stepped sideways into the street and shoved the muzzle of his blunderbuss into an open window before pulling the trigger. The wide mouthed weapon sounded like a small cannon going off as smoke, flame and birdshot pellets hammered into the darkened room.

"Talos wept!" The bosmer said before he pulled the trigger. The ball caught the man in the side of his head, and his skull was punched inwards, to slam against the window frame before collapsing like a marionette with it's strings cut. The body splashed into the mud of the street, now headless and covered in gore. With out another though, Gallerius Caepio grabbed the warm musket from the bosmer's hands and replaced it with his own. The elf leaned out again and sent another shot cracking through the smoke of the first, and into the group of men huddled for cover next to the tavern.

Once she felt there was enough rows of corn between her and the anticleran milice, Fara moved to the west, resuming her low crouch, carefully avoiding any betraying noise. On the eastern side of the field she could angry shouts, with an undertone of fear which rang like music to her ears. I hope they will enjoy the show ... I'll do my damnedest to make them wet their pants.

Once close to the road, Fara moved again toward the fight, keep a slow and steady pace to make sure no noise would alert the mens in front of her. From what she could overhear, those on the eastern end of the field were sure she was still near them, watching their backs and beating the cornstalks to try to find her. Too bad for them I'm no longer there...

Soon she entered the gunsmoke left by the men's volleys, orienting as much by ear and touch than by sight. She almost bumped into one of the men, but he was too busy reloading his gun to notice her. She was already readying her sword when she noticed the man was equipped with a fowling gun. Changing her plan, she waited until he was done with reloading, then stood up right behind him and gave a strong push. While the man was sprawling flat on his belly she grabbed his gun, quickly pointing it to the side and firing to rake the anticleran line. The almost blind shot didn't cause much damage but plenty of surprise and disorder as many of them men turned to face the unexpected attack.

Once again she didn't wait but rushed back to the cover of the cornfield, plowing through to open the range. Which proved a wise decision as what seemed half the anticleran footmen fired at her, the mix of shot and bullets tearing through the corn. Fara stumbled as something hit her helmet, the steel ringing like a bell and the hammer-like blow sending her to the ground, half stunned. As she struggled to keep conscious she felt something thick and warm oozing under the helmet. An attempt to shake the stars from her vision brought a slight improvement, at the cost of a dizzying headache. Damn, that one came damn close... I'm not good for much more than playing dead...

With some effort she wriggled a bit, laying on her side and turning to face the village, letting the blood spill on her face. Hiding her sword with her left arm. Let's hope the blood will be enough to fool them. And if not that they'll save their shots and use steel.

Artois

Hell was raging left and right, militiamen heading for the western wall of the inn in an attempt to outflank Talos' Own. Before he knew it, Artois was jumped at by a couple of militiamen, swords in their hands. His musket coughed out a musketball, taking one of the Bretons in the eye - from such a close distance aiming wasn't a problem. However, there was no way he could possibly reload in time to fire at the second man, so without much consideration he dropped his musket, drawing out the shortsword instead. Truth be told, he felt more comfortable with a sword against a sword - a duel was always prefferable to trading fire and coating the lines in smoke until you'd be stumbling around as if it was the middle of the night. He always had a bit of a thing for nice swords, too, although his gambling prevented him from getting a nicer one than the standard issue shortsword. Even if it wasn't very common to carry one's own sidearm, he could've cramped it in somehow, others did. He just didn't like swords more than gambling.

"Anticlere!" The militiaman yelled, lunging at Artois. The hit, however, was poorly aimed and executed, allowing the musketeer to avoid it without comming to harm. Then, it was his turn to strike, and Artois wasn't intending to let the militiaman walk away with no harm. A low slice, which forced the militiaman to step back, followed by a quick jump forward. Fairly clumsy with a blade, the poor man realized what's happening a bit too late, when Artois was already squeezing his throat with one hand and piercing his stomach with the other. Blood flowed onto his hands, making him recoil in shock after realizing what had happened. Killing a man eye to eye wasn't the same as shooting at some shade in the musket-caused mist and watching it disappear. It struck him head on like never before in this skirmish, he killed a brother Anticlerian and the man's blood was on his hands only. Despite the years spent in the Legion fighting for the Emperor, Artois obviously still had feelings for Anticlere; it didn't strike him ever before that he was killing men fighting for their motherland, in no war he'd been to. Before he was just doing his job. Now the Emperor sent them out to be his murderers, killing people he possibly knew and grew up with.

As he was trying to get a hold of himself and grab his musket, Artois heard the yells of an officer pierce the chaos of battle. Officers had this strange kind of voice, he noticed, better adjusted to yelling than most others. Amongst the disjointed shouts of the militiamen it was rather easy to make out a somewhat confident one, likely that of a regular soldier who, unlike most of the militiamen, had seen battle dozens of times before and knew exactly what was he doing. What he yelled strongly suggested that as well.

"It's a whole goddamned sleeve of shot! Sound the recall, back to Rodane! Keep up the fire goddamnit and don't turn your backs!"

It took a moment for Artois to fully realize what he had heard. Finally, something snapped inside him and the candle lit up. "They're pulling back! By Mara, THEY'RE PULLING BACK! THE ENEMY'S RETREATING!" Grabbing his musket off the ground, he scrambled to reload it to get off one more shot at the retreating militia, even if it'd be a half-hearted shot. He didn't care if he'd hit, all that mattered was that the Anticlerians were retreating and he wouldn't have to kill more of them... At least hopefully not for the rest of today. From the sound of it all it seemed Anticlere was expecting for the Empire to drop by and she wasn't going down without a fight. For now, though, all that mattered was that the combat would end soon. If the militiamen managed to retreat with order then Ottus would hopefully tell them not to pursue.

Mara forgive my sins today... I do what I must. Shooting a poorly aimed shot at the general direction of the militiamen, Artois slumped against the stone fence, pressing his shortsword against the chest in case some [censored] decided they wanted the glory of catching one of Talos' Own via stealth.

Julius, the barely coherent soldier currently in Lorenzo's care, was in bad shape and starting to lose consciousness as his steady stream of franticly mumbled prayers faltered. Lorenzo grabbed hold of the injured man again and dragged him along as best he could, following behind the Centurion and two other men as ordered. He stopped behind the rest of them and took a moment to quickly examine his charge.

His right forearm was bent in the middle and crimson blood oozed steadily over shards of white bone poking through an ugly gash six inches long. He was cradling this to his chest with a mangled and bleeding left hand which was missing at least one entire finger, the little one, while the one next to it only appeared to be broken at the middle joint. The injury which bothered Lorenzo the most, however, was the one on his head where a flap of scalp was hanging over the right ear. Lorenzo could clearly see muscle and sinew as Julius' head lolled to the side, his eyes were glazed over and dilated, clear signs of a concussion at least or perhaps worse; a cracked skull.

Lorenzo ducked instinctively, whirling around to gape as Daenlin shouted, "Talos wept!" and fired two shots from two guns fed to him in quick succession. Turning back to his patient he muttered, "Well me lad, with dead-eyes like Optio Daenlin in the Legion, I'm sure glad mum decided to immigrate to Cyrodiil before I was born!" Lorenzo was surprised again when Julius barked a quiet laugh followed by a low moan. "Oh, there we go! Still with us, aye? Thought maybe Arkay had decided to answer the prayer instead of the Holy Mother. Hang on just a little longer, okay brother?" When Lorenzo heard Artois' exclamation that the enemy was in retreat, his face brightened into a wide grin, "Sounds like the party's winding down. Now, let's see what I can do to keep that old grim bastard at bay."

He swung his pack around in front of him and dug into it for one of the rolled linen bandages. Finding what he needed, he unfolded the cloth which was wrapped around a small vial; "Foxglove and bergamot extracts with a sprig of lavender for flavor," His mother's voice recited, "Stops the bleeding and protects from infection, and so easy to make that a child could do it." As he dripped a few tears of the potion onto each of Julius' wounds and wrapped linen around them, Lorenzo said aloud to his patient, "Sorry mate, but this will have to do until we can get you back to battalion; I've almost no skill at knitting bones back together. Lucky you; looks like your part in all this is coming to an end, mate."

"Tired?" Julius murmured, "Just? want? to sleep?"

"Ho no, can't be doing that now, brother. Looks like Arkay may be whispering in your ear after all, but you'll be greeting your family back home on your feet if I have anything to say about it." Lorenzo pressed his finger to Julius forehead and sent a small shock of fatigue restoring magicka coursing through it. His patient's eyes fluttered open suddenly and fixated on him with a dizzy and somewhat annoyed stare, which Lorenzo smirked at, "You can thank me later."

Gritz
The rush of Anticlere villagers had caused quite the mess in an already messy situation. He pushed, shoved, and fought his way against the direction in which they ran in. He naturally crouched and slammed his body against the wall DeConvant chose for cover, white smoke and gun shots boomed throughout the town causing confusion. Confusion which they were trained to deal with, but still weren't used to. The boy slammed in front of him, taking aim at an immediate Breton foe around the corner.



"Ease on your aim lad, take out the horse, the boys'll mop him up if he survives it....take aim at the bigger target!" he shouted out over the gunfire.

Damn, no way we'll be getting into formation...


His hands went to work, easing the butt gently into his shoulder. He crouched onto one knee in order to maintain accuracy, held his breath and counted his heart beat with his forearm.

Shots peppered the stone fence and brick around them, chips cutting through bits of his clothing. Some of these Bretons weren't taking aim, apparently firing with reckless abandon...or at least seemingly reckless abandon.

Whatever words they may have spoken in their unintelligible dialect, he was too scared, too mean, and too pissed to care.

"Talos guide my fire..."

Lightning and thunder struck...leaving a shroom of white smoke, slowly dissipating. He saw the sihlouhette of a horse drop in the general direction of his aim, but would have no idea if it was his fire. He pulled back into the cover of the wall, and emptied out his pan. Muskets began peppering his corner again, his hands instinctively reached into his cartridge box, removing one of the bastards and let it find its place between his teeth.

Powder went into pan, down barrel...

Wait for the second volley Gritz...

He flipped around the corner to take aim at his second victim...his eyes widened.

They aren't shooting in volleys.

Intervention Event:

The three muskets already trained on his corner had intimidated him into taking cover again. He spun away from the open as the shots were fired.

Two shots failed.

The force of being struck in the back was like being hit by a barbarian's club while wearing his sap sack, his body slammed into the ground next DeConvant, his teeth taking off a good piece of the tongue of his side.