DeConvants musket was primed and ready for fire, as it had indeed become almost second nature to the Breton. The amount of powder to put in, the sensitivity one must use when pushing the ball down the muzzle with the rod...he had honed it down to almost an art, and now...caught in the heat of the battle, he was in a world of his own.

Up from cover, spinning around. A volley of musket fire whizzed past his head...he could feel the heavy balls cleave through the humid morning wind like cold steel daggers. he squinted tightly. Aiming down the sights at a rival. He appeared to be in the process of fiddling with his gun. A malfunction, had the gods been so kind as to give him a free target? DeConvant looked up and thanked the sky, not thinking for a moment of his atheism.

And now, for the kill

By the time the enemy had fixed his weapon, it was already too late. His foolish mistake of standing in the open played against him, and Percy's musket burst into action with a mighty crack and a gush of powder-smelling smoke. The sound of the fire rung in his ears, the ball of shot flew through the air and nailed the man just above his left eye.

The resulting shock sent the man flying backwards, a quarter of his head flying into the air, eyeball and some of his top teeth included. Blood and brain matter fell to the ground in a sickening thwuck sound that DeConvant reveled in hearing. The sound of the battle was fierce and brutal, but he had adapted his ears to listen in on the sounds of his own kill.

He admired his handiwork for a split second and was down back under the wall before the dismembered body had hit the ground. He then set about reloading his weapon again, his eyes glaring with anticipation of the next kill. He blew out the old powder and set about priming the musket with the speed of a giddy child. Ill hit the next one even better...

He was just about to get up and fire again when a body landed with a thwuck right next to him, the shock caused the Breton to yelp and fall back from his crouching position onto his knee's. His musket flew out of his hands and landed on the ground, sliding out from cover and out onto the open ground.

He didn't even need to study the corpse for too long. The situation was dire, and the Breton scrambled back behind the stone fence before clasping his hands to his mouth.

"MEDIC!!"

Ottus peeked his head around the corner to glance at the Milita who were edging backwards, back into the corn. His face prompted a flurry of shots to cut the air, sounding for all the world like angered bees as they passed. Birdshot splashed against the stone wall. Caepio with a recently reloaded musket hopped around the corner and cracked off a shot that snapped the top half of an unripened corn cob to jump in the air before falling to the ground.

And then, seemingly just as soon as the violence began, it faded. Ottus took another quick glance around the corner, and saw the hard truth. The enemy has left. Damnit all, and that was only militia... Ottus squinted through the milky haze and frowned. He walked into the street hesitantly at first, then he relaxed a bit. A horse screamed it's terrible wail as it kicked and thrashed in the dirt road. It's hooves thudding dully on the corpse of its previous rider. It was a terrible piercing sound. He had grown used to the cries of the wounded, but for some reason the screams of the horses always cut him to the core.

"Daenlin, Caepio, Velaine...Get on the other side of that corn field and keep an eye out. I don't think they expected so many of us, but that's not to say they wont try again." The centurion said before unscrewing a small flask and tipping it to his lips. The liquor burned his throat and seemed to deaden the fear. "ASSEMBLE ON THE ROAD! Surgeons and bandsmen to the wounded. Make sure you have your kit together. We're going after those bastards as soon as the wounded are sorted out."

As he surveyed the scene the adrenaline flowed out of him like a dam suddenly breaking. His knees began to shake uncontrollably. He stepped off and began to pace around as fast as he could, so his men wouldn't see the nervous tic. It was always like this...No matter how seasoned a veteran was. That same gut wrenching fear of death was there every time. Praxus took another swig from his flask and hid behind the alcohol and authority.

Jarkko Koskinen, the 12 year old drummer boy ran out of the tavern, his pale white skin sheeted in blood. Standing as tall as a wood elf, his innocence was shockingly apparent. But as a bandsman, it was his job to help the surgeons and medical assistants as soon as the bullets began to fly. The music he played was only for camp, the march into battle, and the march out. He began to kneel in the alcohol and blood infused muck of the road outside the tavern, and checked on the few bodies in the street from the legion. Those who had been caught in the open by cavalry were always the same. Terrible flaying saber wounds, but few deaths. It took huge strength and precision to hack a man to death from horseback. Most of those attacked would live out the rest of their lives with terrible scars across their hair and face.

Praxus Ottus took another swig of the harsh liquor as his black coated men came out of the houses and began to form up on the street.

"Doc, Just get them all patched up enough to not die while they wait for Battalion to arrive. Walking wounded come with us." Ottus paused before issuing the next order. "Leave the whitecoats alone. we can't waste supplies on them. deMetz...Tell the first villager you see to take care of the bretic wounded."

All this, and it isn't even after noon.

As the command for shots rang out, Nathan went to open the pan, swearing at his stupidity for leaving it open, but looked up quickly, noting a young looking Breton astride a horse coming through the corn, hitting the road at a slow trot, as though he looked unsure. However, Nathan knew he must take him out, less he kill a man that Nathan knew, and haunt him for the rest of his days. He raised the gun to his shoulder, taking aim at the slow moving target, slightly ahead of the lad to compensate for the distance and his movement.

"Arkay give me strength to send another soul to you, for I am your messenger today. Talos guide my shot to be true and deadly." he muttered, as he placed his finger on the trigger, squeezing it, and feeling the recoil slam into his shoulder, and unable to see if his shout had made contact as a puff of white smoke enveloped him.

Knowing his position given away, he ducked down, placing his back against the wall, unsure if his head was completely hidden or not. He could hear shots being fired all around him, as he opened the pan, blowing out the blacked soot like gunpowder, as he prepared for another shot. He remembered to close the pan this time, but as he began ramming the shot down, the small town became relatively quiet again, save for the last straggling shots, or the screams of dying men and horses.

He spat, feeling his head grow a little lighter again, as the drug continued its effect, and dropped to his stomach, turning around on the floor, and inching towards the edge of the window, peeking out. From what he could see, the Bretons had disappeared, and the young one who had been his target didn't seem to be on the ground nearby, though Nathan doubted he survived the onslaught of Imperial guns. He removed the match cord from its hold, getting up and keeping his musket upright so as to not waste the shot inside.

then suddenly, his hand began shaking uncontrollably, and he placed his musket on the floor gently, reaching for the small bottle in his bag, popping the cork off and taking a large and hearty swig before replacing it and trying to steady his mind. He straightened his bag, placed his musket on his shoulder and ran out into the streets, looking for anyways to help. He saw a fellow Legionnaire lying against a wall of a house, holding his gut as red seeped between his fingers and he was shaking hard.

Nathan ran over to him, placing his musket down, and regarding the man, pulling his hand away, which he noticed was rather cold considering how much blood was on it. The wound was bad, and every time the heart beat, blood gushed out even more, spilling the man's precious life blood onto the dirty street. Nathan looked around, trying to find an unoccupied medic but he was unsuccessful, so he turned to the man, who could only be a few years older than himself, and tried to soothe him.

He knew the man's time was going to be up soon, so he stood up, looking around frantically. "Medic!" he shouted, kneeling back down, putting some pressure on the wound, which was the only thing he knew to do, though he noticed the man had already fainted, and his breathing was short and rocky. He figured the shot had pierced the bottom of the man's lung, though he couldn't be sure, and though he didn't want to think about it, he was probably going to be the doomed man's last sight.

The thought caused his hands to begin shaking again.


OOC: Thankfully this is moving not too terribly fast, but there will be few to no posts at all during the day during this week. I'm volunteering at Winnipegs Folklarama this year, and its an all night thing basically, plus I work during the days

Fara was still laying motionless on the ground when she heard the sounds of battle diminish, giving way to a rustle of leaves. The bastards are moving back. Retreat rather than rout though. Pity, I might not live through whole mess... She still felt oddly lightheaded and wasn't sure she could stand up yet, but was more confident she would make it to the end of the battle.

Her eyes narrowed as she saw a movement in the corn. Inciting her to stay motionless, forcing her eyes open into as good an imitation as she could of a dead's vacant stare. I'm lucky they're walking backward. She felt surge of fear racing through her as on of the bunch backed straight to her. A towering brute who might have some Nord ancestry judging from his nearly seven feet and two hundred pounds. Oh my, what am I supposed to do with hat brute... To which her mind answered with the voice of wisdom. Or rather of a former friend, master at tavern brawls. "Ya hit them sneaky, ya hit them mean, ya hit them 'till they're on the floor. And them some 'cause ya sure don't want them up."

She was still immobile when the man's foot landed square on her - from the random chance of someone walking backward rather than deliberate move. But she couldn't hold a grunt of pain as she felt the weight. Screw discretion, maybe I'll die, but Big Boy goes along for the ride...

With adrenaline running high in her blood Fara struck like a viper, as the man stumbled cutting deeply into the inner tight and driving the blade into his groin. The man's weight helping the blade to go deep. With an incoherent scream of rage and pain hedropped on her, pinning her down and reaching for her throat, oblivious to his deadly wound. Fara struggled to breath, her blade still stuck into the wound. Without much conscious thought she reached for the man's face, her fingers finding the eyes, viciously trying to claw them out. Almost wishing she was a khajit to properly rip his face to shreds.

After what felt like a lifetime and a half the pressure on her throat eased as the massive blood loss finally overcame the man's stubborn resistance. The lungful of dusty air felt like a divine brew as it passed like fire through her bruised throat, and she carelessly screamed in the joy of being alive "Got you bastard.". Loud enough to be heard by the retreating anticlerans. Me and my loud mouth...

Unable to move she instead gave her best attempt at becoming one with the ground, laying as flat as she could. Feeling a surge of fear as what felt like a full volley was fired her way. She heard the shots pass in a cloud of shredded corn, one low enough to strike her meatshield like a sledge.

Now firmly convinced of discretion's virtues Fara kept silent, waiting until she could only hear the battle's distant thunder before moving. Groaning as she strained every muscle to move the corpse away. She sat for a while, catching her breath and getting a better look at the brute. And felt a sudden pang of joy as she spotted her musket slung on the man's back. A normal soldier wouldn't have loaded himself with it's burden in a retreat, but for the big brute it had been a light load and a neat trophy...

Still half-dazed, Fara picked both of her weapons, sheathing the sword without thinking to clean it and slowly made her way to the road then the village. Leaning heavily on her musket and looking like a total mess, her face and clothes liberally caked in dirt and drying blood.

"ASSEMBLE ON THE ROAD!"

Walter awoke face-down in the street next to the village school. He coughed on the blood that filled his mouth as it tried to trickle down into his lungs. Every muscle of his body ached and he could feel a dull sting on the left side of his head. Opening his eyes, Walter rolled onto his back and sat upright. His hands and arms were drenched in blood up to the elbow, as was his left shoulder and that half of his chest. His left hand twitched spasmodically, his bloodied shortsword clenched in its deathgrip. Pain flared up hot and bright on the side of his head as his hand went there to inspect the wound.

The rotters shot off my ear; the thought came from somewhere far away.

Something small and metal screamed past Walter's face, snapping him out of his stunned detachment. He grabbed his helmet and scrambled to his feet, stumbling slightly on one of a number of grey-coated bodies nearby. Another ball tore past him, barely knicking his shoulder and taking a piece of black cloth with it. In three bounds he reached the school and dove behind the corner. He propped himself against the mossy wall of the ancient building and surveyed his situation. Legionnaires were sprinting from every direction and converging on the town square, guns in hand and packs on their backs. His gun sat only a few feet away where he had abandoned it once the enemy came too close to reload, and what looked like his pack was sitting next to the well on the other side of the square. Erratic gunshots still resounded from all around.

Walter struggled to his feet and sheathed his blade. Lifting his musket, he sprinted across the bloody morass of a town-square to retrieve his snapsack. Wrenching the flap open, he plunged his hand inside and came out with a large red bandanna. He rolled it into a bandage and tied it around his head, over the hole where he used to have an ear. Pulling his helmet on, he closed up the pack and swung it up over his shoulder, pulling his arms through the straps. On the road, the men were forming up swiftly, with almost mechanical precision. Walter took his place in the second rank and hastily reloaded his gun using sticky, bloody hands.

As Walter stood in formation with hot blood pulsing in his remaining ear, he couldn't help but wonder the names of the men whose blood was on his hands.

OOC: I know this post is terrible, but i didnt get a chance to post at the start of the battle.

Artois

"deMetz...Tell the first villager you see to take care of the bretic wounded."

"Yes sir..." Murmuring that silently, Artois sighed, walking over to one of the shacks. His shoulder ached from the recoil of his musket, his brain - from the strain of his suddenly returned thoughts that were seemingly attempting to break through his skull. And although blood was tickling down his left hand from a few bruises, he got out of this one fine, at least far better than most others. Had he decided to keep to the tavern during the whole battle he wouldn't have even the few bruises currently on his arm, but he didn't want to do anything that could've meant reaffirming suspicions about his traitorious behaviour. Hopefully for now running out to fire at his kinsmen would be enough for at least some of the officers stop treating him like crap. It was a permanent feature of officer-soldier relationships, but somehow Artois felt as if he was getting the short end of the stick.

Knocking on the door, Artois waited for a couple of moments for it to open. A small gap was made, barely enough for an eye to look through; when the person inside caught sight of the musketeer's uniform, the doors were about to shut back up; however, Artois managed to grab them before the gap was gone, at the expense of quite a bit of pain. Whoever was inside didn't have enough strength to hold the doors shut after the legionnaire gave them a few good pulls and the same old musketeer with a Daggerfallian uniform was revealed to Artois' eyes. He seemed fairly terrified, muttering something about it not being his fault and pleading not to hurt him as he stumbled backwards, expecting punishment for his belief that the Anticlerians would kill all of Talos' Own in this village.

"Calm down sir, I'm not here to hurt you! All's well. I am under orders to warn the villagers that the Legion will not be tending to the Anticlerian wounded so you are to. Good day." Having no patience to listen some more bumbling, Artois slammed the doors shut and turned around, heading towards the assembling lines. By the time he took his place next to Walter in the second line, his gaze was wandering around the whole village, stopping for a short moment at every corpse. Mara forgive me...

Lorenzo heaved his patient up to stand at the sound of the call, pulling Julius left arm over his shoulder with one hand and supporting his weight with the other around his waste. They passed Nathan Scipii just as he called out for a medic, and Lorenzo glanced at the afflicted musketeer that he was tending to. At seeing the color of the blood which spurted, almost gently, out between the man’s fingers as well as his pallor, Lorenzo knew there would be nothing he could do. He made eye contact with Nathan, set his jaw firmly and shook his head. He swallowed back his gorge as he continued on with Julius to the formation assembling in the center of town, even with as much death and pain as he’d witnessed and been party to, it still shook him to his core to see a comrade fall.


There was a pause,



Lorenzo nodded at his orders, setting his patient down next to the formation and giving him one last check before standing, tapping fist to chest lightly. He tossed the remainder of the rolled linen and tincture to the boy, Jarkko, and pulled a fresh one from his pack as he trotted off to more cries for aid. Turning his head as he jogged, he called back, “Use that on any walking wounded you find, kid, there should be plenty there for several small injuries. If the bandage bleeds through come get me or better yet, find Gritz. And somebody make sure Aurillio doesn't fall asleep or he may not wake back up!”

Now I wonder where that bloke has got to, he better not have gone and died on me, He thought as he moved, keeping an eye out for injured soldiers.

When Fara reached the village, things were being sorted out, the soldiers seemingly beginning to assemble for a march. A sight who produced a mournful groan as she didn't exactly feel eager to move. Getting down from an adrenaline high, the shock on her head and the bruises from two hundred and fifty pounds of milician and equipment falling on top of her together meant her dearest wish was to find someplace comfortable to lay down for a few days...

She paused near the watering through, noting with satisfaction that it was carved in stone and had survived with only a few scratches. She took off her helmet, feeling an impressive dent where the bullet had struck and used it as a bucket, spreading the water on head. Washing away some of the dirt and blood. Feeling better, she probed her skull for her wound and found a shallow gash near her right temple and a shard of metal stuck in her hair. Looking into her helmet she found a matching notch where a flaw in he metal had broken apart. She winced as the pain from the cut returned with a vengeance after her probing, fresh blood dripping from the pen wound. Damn, I'll need to find someone to clean that. And find my pack in that damn field too.

Looking around she spotted St Dubois, the company's surgeon and moved to him, feeing a bit embarrassed a disturbing him for such a minor wound. As she came closer she wondered why he made an odd face looking at her, but understood as a quick downward glance revealed the extent of the damage to her uniform. Wow I made a royal mess of myself, it looks almost as if I went litteral with a bloodbath. That's going to be a hell of a laundry bill. The Centurions's going to be pissed.

She gave him a smile of excuse "Don't worry doc, most of that is from someone else." She pointed at her temple "But up there it's mine. Can you spare a minute to check that, it hurts and bleeds quite a lot. I don't think the bone's cracked but I can't tell for sure.". Straining to keep a lighthearthed facade.

Centurion Praxus Ottus was straining to not take another swig from his flask. In truth this mornings battle was not overly bad, but the same of being caught with their pants down was disheartening. Looking down to the mass at his feet, he could see an old man in his late fifties who was trying to place a hankercief over the blossoming red flower that was darkening his gray coat. The hankerchief was thin, the kind to be used to pat sweat from ones forehead, or merely to keep as a reminder of a loved one. Now it was being pushed into the acorn sized hole in his gut. Ottus bent down low, before grabbing the rope strap that went around his chest. The stoneware canteen came up with it, tugging briefly at the man's arm before coming free.

He sniffed it to make sure it was water before drinking. The liquid was warm and earthy. It had been filled in a stream, probably the one they would be marching to momentarily. Sweat dripped down his forehead, to splash on his shirt collar. The thunder sound of gunfire rolled on at it's fever pitch over the crackling musketry. Ottus sipped at his new canteen. The small drummer boy wove his way in and out of the double ranks that had formed on the square. Equipped with bandages given to him by St.DuBois he was looking for anyone else who had been hurt.

"Walter! What happened to you?" The nordic boy said His voice, high pitched, showed his young age. "Lorenzo said I should help you." He reached up to take off the man's helmet. He had to get up on his tip toes to even touch the metal brim. But, neither height nor anything else would stop him. He had the determination of a child on a mission.

"Let me help you. I can bandage it myself!"

Nathan watched as the medic, he thought his name was Lorenzo or something, but he wasn't sure yet. The man stopped by briefly, took a look at the man Nathan was kneeling next to, and shook his head with grim look. Nathan sighed, steadying his hand, and he bent down to the man, trying to find a pulse, but either he was unskilled at such things.... Or the man was no longer with them. He tried to listen for a breath, but the man had been breathing so shallowly and there was still a considerable amount of noise around the town so it was impossible.

He laid a hand on the man's chest, but his shaking hand wouldn't allow him to feel if the man's chest rose and fell with breath. He was deathly pale now, and finally a sight met Nathan's eyes which confirmed his demise. He no longer felt blood pulsing on his hand as he applied pressure to it, meaning his heart was no longer pumping blood through his body.

Nathan removed his hand, and placed it on the man forehead, and muttered a quick prayer to Arkay, kissing the necklace around his neck which represented his diety, and stood up. He checked the man for any sign of having family back home, but when he couldn't find anything, he simply unhitched the shot pouch, adding the small iron balls to his own pouch, an used the mans water to clean his hands, before laying him flat on the ground, in a more peaceful position before getting up.

He couldn't believe he had been the last thing the man had seen, and the thought seemed to force his hand to the little bottle in his pack. He halted as he knew Ottus was around, so he simply took out his tobacco and put in another wad of the brown plant, before walking briskly to the center of the city, getting in line with the rest of the men, keeping his musket high on his shoulder, waiting for the Centurion to lead them onwards.

Gritz

"MEDIC!"

He was back from the blackness...groaning slightly like a man too old to lift himself from bed, he rolled to his side.

"...Easy lad..my ears are still ringing...now, what?" a bit of blood trickled from his mouth, the side of his tongue had a good piece punctured, his head was dazed from hitting the ground the way it did, and his back was sore. Slowly, he reached to his back to feel for his snapsack...removing it. His instincts as a surgeon taking over those of survival, he needed to get to the wounded. The sound of gunfire was nowhere near as prevalent as before, now was the time to take care of his boys.

Black coats were assembling, the thunderous booms of cannons in the distance roared as the louder pops of muskets faded away. In his dazed state he did his best to stay focused. He checked his back to see if there was any hole through his clothing or wound. Nothing.

Now was not the time for Gritz to reflect on his luck, but the time to act lest others suffer needlessly.

He eased himself up on his knee and grunted, looked to DeConvant and grinned. He spotted the boys gun laid carelessly on the ground with an open pan. "Easy with your rifle, the Optio taught you better then that..." he forced out. Talking with his tongue like this was painful. He stood and entered a brisk walk, up ahead were a few of the gathered wounded. Nothing too serious, at least for most of them.

"Gritz..." the soft voice was filled with undertones of pain, eased up against the tavern wall outside was a man who suffered a nasty cleave into his shoulder, but one that did not penetrate deep enough to negate the using of his arm. Gritz looked to him, and had begun scanning him to see the severity of injury, his mind was working like some dwemer machine now, barely requiring much thought on his part. He caught the face, Claudius, another Imperial from Anvil. He'd been in the 1st for a bit under a year now, but was considered relatively green. No matter how long a man had served in the legion, he needed to earn his place in the 1st, in the 1st.

"Claudius..." he kneeled down "you think you can manage on your own?" said as he opened his snapsack, noticing a small hole inside. He felt around for his surgeon's kit as his hands fingered his potato...a large hole through it...he removed it.

You Breton bastards.

He fingered around a bit more before finding his kit, removing it. Out fell his wooden clogs, with a cracked musket lodged inside.

You ruthless Breton bastards.

He opened the kit, small vials of Imperial alchemic syptic was inside. Claudius nodded a no, "Just give me the damned powder and a few bandages and I'll manage for now...Maximus needs you more then I do, he has a nasty cut on his inner thigh...losing lots of blood." the tough bastard exclaimed with a look of sheer annoyance. Gritz couldn't help but smile. He tossed a quick cut of bandage and applied the syptic himself. He turned and looked side to side, most of the minor wounds were being passed before finding Maximus, he ran over quickly leaving his snapsack with Claudius.

"Easy son...just breath...you might have gotten lucky enough not to have to march."

Lorenzo’s eyebrows shot up in surprise as one of the bosmer scouts (Fara, I think it was?) approached him as he walked along. She was covered head to toe in blood and mud, but Lorenzo relaxed visibly when she said most of it wasn’t her own, “Lass, you look like Trinimac reborn,” he chuckled amiably.

He gingerly manipulated her head around with his fingers to get a better look at her injury, noting that a tiny shard of metal was poking out of a small gash near her temple. “You’re a lucky one arencha? Guess those brain-buckets are good for more than just catching hangover mess after all.”

He smiled as he unwrapped a length of linen, cut the piece off with his field knife and uncorked another bottle of potion, dripping some of the liquid on the dressing. “Hold this please,” he said, handing Fara the bandage, and then gently took hold of her scalp again with one hand. “This may sting a little,” he said and, before she could react, plucked the steel shard from her head, causing a small eruption of blood. “This may sting also,” he muttered quickly, taking back the dressed bandage and whipping it quickly over the wound to get out any other dirt or debris, before folding it in half and pressing it firmly against the cut.

“Hold that there for a few seconds while I secure it,” Lorenzo said cutting another length of linen and wrapping it all the way around Fara’s head.

“Now look at my finger,” a small grain of light bloomed on the tip of his index finger which he held in front of Fara’s face. “Follow it with your eyes,” He said, moving it up, down, side-to-side and diagonally. “Good, looks like you don’t have a concussion.”

He stroked his chin, thinking what else he could do, “Ah,” he said, casually pointing his finger in the air, and rummaged in his pack again; bringing out a small packet of powdered herbs and handing it to Fara, “Take that with some plain water if your head hurts.”

“I’m going to finish searching the town for the rest of our men. Feel free to help if you like,” Lorenzo pointed to the formation behind him, “Otherwise, the centurion is mustering everyone up over there.”

Fara was glad the healer could taker care charge of her, and even smiled at his joke
"you look like Triminac reborn

Yeah, and I feel the same : chewed, disgested and crapped out. One of the bastards even sprawled his two hundred and some pounds straight on top of me. Sort of ruins the day."

She gave a resigned shrug as he mentioned luck "Mine seems to be working extra hours to keep me in one piece. Probably to make for how it's nowhere to seen the rest of the time."

she stood still when he bandaged her wound, wincing a bit as she felt the antiseptic soaked in the dressing bite at her wound. Then eagerly took the herb package he offered "Thanks, I think I'll need it. It feels like the Akavir's regimental drums have a parade under my skull. Makes my worst hangover feels like nothing."

She looked around, spotting the centurion "Oops I don't think I'll have the time to help you. I was supposed to scout where those bastards came from, and I'd better tell the centurion why I wasn't screaming bloody murder when they came."

Fara resigned herself to risk the centurion's anger and headed for him. At least nobody's going to say I didn't fight, and I'd rather give my version first before that mean snake DeConvant rat me for some made-up crap. She stopped in front of Ottus and saluted

"Soldier Fara reporting about the scouting you've ordered Sir. We didn't leave soon enough to see them coming. I was on the road, about three quarters of the way to the field's end waiting for DeConvant to bring Lorunus. With the corn in the line of sight I didn't sport them before they were already charging. I moved out of their way and into the cornfield, then things got a bit confused in there with their infantry coming. I ask your permission to go looking for my pack. I had to drop it to sneak on them."

I have to congratulate everyone thus far for being mature about the use of guns in an RP. I was worried about how people might use them, but it seems to be going even better than i expected. If anyone has any suggestions as to changes, character story arcs or vignettes they'd like to see please shoot me a PM. Otherwise I'll continue doling out kegs of brandy or bullet wounds as fate sees fit.

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"Yes, Musketeer Fara," Centurion Ottus put an emphasis on the word musketeer as a reminder of her rank and title. "I wouldn't be too worried about not scouting ahead. By the grace of the nine they jumped us when they did. Otherwise yours, deConvant's and Lorunus' bones would be bleaching in the sun. Hurry up and grab your pack, meet us on the road. We've already wasted enough time as it is."

Praxus stood on his tip toes to try and see over the double line of men who stood ready and sweating on the small square. The Surgeon, his assistant and the drummer boy seemed to still be busy. He hated to leave them, but they had already spent more than the necessary time on this one stupid village. He could see movement in the woods south of town, a sure sign that the 1st legions pikemen were making their slow and ponderous way forward. The gunfire to the east continued to boom and roll. Though Ottus was confident in the empire, the duration of the fire was disconcerting. The Whitecoats were putting up a much stronger resistance than had been expected. The whole object of the plan had been to land at early morning, and reach the capitol in a day or two's hard marching.

It had all relied on speed and surprise. Both of those factors seemed to have escaped cyrodiil's grasp.

"Right then, Talos' Own. Attention." He gave the command in a calm, normal speaking voice that was loud enough for everyone to hear. Then without looking north, he pointed a dirty hand up the road that lead in between the corn. "We're going to march up this road. After we clear the corn, we're going to deploy in a skirmish line. http://www.10thpa.com/DrillCo4.htm After that we'll push up the road and aim to take the crossroads at Rodane's Tavern. The Newwell road is the main east-west road connecting the main landing beaches with the military camp at Newwell. We're going to cut that road and wait until our pikemen can move up with the Fourteenth Akavir to hold it. The Ninth Gemina should be punching through that Whitecoat line to the east..." Ottus pointed a hand towards the sound of the raging battle off in the distance. "...to meet us here. Then we'll all advance up the Anticlere pike to the north and hit the capitol within two or three days."

He scanned the faces of his men, trying to judge their morale and spirit.

"We're going to be fighting the best army on the High Rock Penninsula. We CAN NOT let what happened this morning happen again. Those militia caught us with our pants around our ankles. Seven men died and a score more were wounded because YOU wanted to relax in a tavern, drink and sing like we were on a goddamned country stroll. For some of you this is your first campaign. Take this as a hard lesson to not ignore your duties. Company about face!" The whole line would have to turn to see the collection of black coated dead and wounded who lay sprawled in the street, Their bodies dragged there by the drummer boy so they could be boxed up and sent back to their families, wives and sweethearts.

"This WILL NOT happen again as long as I am Centurion. Do not underestimate your enemy..." Ottus' voice was tinged in anger, but it was not an anger at his men. They had all acquitted themselves well in the small scrap. He was angry at himself for allowing his men to file into the tavern, and allowing that patrol to waltz right into town. Each one of those men who lay, bloody and dirty on the ground was there because of his carelessness. His upperlip pulled back like a snarling animal and his teeth clenched. Those men died because of you...

"Talos' own will face to it's right, right FACE. By files right, March!" These two commands would put the line of men onto the dirt road and marching towards the enemy. As the long thin line marched on, Ottus' dour mood suddenly began to lighten. The closeness of the buildings, the stench of blood and the ever present rotten egg smell of gunpowder were all left behind. The corn bent in towards the road, but after a few minutes they emerged again to the brilliant picturesque Bretic landscape. Ahead of them was a checkerboard maze of farmers fields, timber fences, country lanes and the occasional windmill. It was a beautiful sight, a model of rural tranquility. Were it not for the sounds of battle rolling in from the east, it would have seemed like paradise. The centurion even ventured a smile.

"Files, open to your open order. Company, as skirmishers, by the right and left flank, take intervals MARCH!” Ottus squinted into the summer haze as he gave the commands. He could already see the faint green dots of the 14th Akavir moving in a long line towards the Newwell road. Occasionally faint white clouds of powder would jet out, but the reports of the weapons were muffled by the larger din of the far off battle.

Cicadas hummed and buzzed their calls, the breeze picked up slightly, a hawk drifted lazily through the sky. Off in the distance, dark blue clouds were forming over the faint smoke rimmed walls of Anticlere city. Looks like a storm is coming after all...

"Talos' own, forward March!"

Percy scrambled to his feet as Lorunus arose from the ground. He seemed to be in pretty good shape, something that relieved the Breton. Not however, because he truly cared for Lorunus as a person, but because one man within the company still alive meant that would be another 3 odd kills for the enemy. Shame to waste the oppurtunity for the slaughtering of them unlearned devils his mind hissed.

He scarpered over to his gun and picked it's now mud-stained form off the ground, crudely wiping off some dirt before carefully tipping out the ball and recycling the powder as best as he could. Now unloaded, he strapped the gun to his pack. Without word he then went about his duty, approaching the rest of the troop-of whom were in the middle of a strict talking to by Ottus himself. There was a deal of anger and pain in his words, But DeConvant admired that in a man. He liked to see angry people...and he liked to see the irrational things angry people could do. The rage and anguish they kept bottled within taken out with disastrous consuquences. It gave him a perverse thrill to see a man pushed over the edge.

The company was assembling at the beginning of the road that he was going to scout out before the attack hit. looks like we be marchin' through corn afterall . The Breton walked past the corpses of both friend and foe alike, studying the extent of their injuries. He even walked past his own kill, kneeling down with a sickly smile.

"Not so patriotic now are we? I got you you damn bastard. Greetins' from Cyrodiil. Lets see your missus try tend to a bloody an' beaten corpse" . His words were stingy and sharp, and he spat into the open cranium of the man before standing back up and moving into formation with the rest of the group.

His face had small flecks of gravel embedded in it from when he had hit the road face down, and his fingernails were blackened and dirty with all manner of grit. His breeches were muddied and torn, and his black doublet was begiining to fray at the edges and give way to wear and tear. His helmet was battered and askew...only his already cracked spectacles showed no signs of immediate damage. Despite his raggedy apperance,the Breton tried to look as uniform as possible and continued to march onwards.....

Feeling a surge of relief when the centurion didn't take a strip of her hide, Fara quickly saluted and headed toward the cornfield. On her way she paused next to a dead horse, quickly cutting strips of meat from the carcass, picking the best cuts. A peek into the saddlebags told here they had already been visited, but they still held useful things. Namely a large linen handerkchief she used to pack the meat, and a small pot of healing balm. Of which a sample ended on her singed fingers.

Once done she resumed her move, grimacing as she noticed DeConvant's eager way of watching the corpses, as well as his desecration of one of them. Frigging sick bastard. He plays the big, mean baddie in front of old women and corpses, and if we weren't around I'd bet he would drop his pants to play with himself watching the dead. But I wonder how he would have fared facing close to seven feet of angry anticleran. She spat on the ground to get ride of the bad taste she almost felt seeing him.

While the company started moving, Fara moved to the cornfield, relived to find find her pack where she had left it. She picked it up and added the pot of balm and a few ear of corn that had fallen to the ground, then returned it to her back. The musket returned to his slung position on her shoulder and the handkerchief went tied to her belt.

No ready she joined the company's rank, nibbling with delight at a strip of horsemeat. It was raw, came from a though cavalry animal and hadn't had time to mature, but it felt wonderful compared to the decade-old salted pork and hardtack making up their rations aboard the ship. Seeing Dealin, the only other bosmer in the company look over her snack, Fara altered her pace to join him, offering him on of the strips of meat. She answered the unvoiced question, low enough to keep it out of prying ears "Horsemeat. But if some idiot think I went traditional on my kills I don't care."

Once out of the narrow road she took her position on the company's flank, keeping her ears and eyes open for any sign of the ennemy, hoping she wouldn't be caught unprepared.

OOC: Original post returned as requested. Sorry again, I'll try to do better in the future.

IC:

When they began the march out of town, Lorenzo brought up the rear so as to catch any of the walking wounded who might start to straggle behind. He was tired and hungry; it had been a long day and it was barely half over, his magicka was nearly spent. He took a small bag out of his pocket and began to snack on bits of dried blackberry, mushroom and flax seed clustered with hyacinth honey, feeling a little bit of his energy return. It was a very small fix and it was all he had left until the company met up with a supply caravan.

"You know good and well why you're so beat already!" his mother's voice scolded.





He rolled his eyes at the memory. "Aye," he muttered to himself, "But she was a child, how could I do anything but my absolute best?"





"And men may have died today, may still die today, because of your weakness!"





He paused as something caught the corner of his eye, and turned to look back at the little hamlet one last time. An old man stood in the middle of the dirt road, watching as Talos' Own Legion trudged away. In his arms was a little girl named Sarah, smiling and waving her tiny hand vigorously.





Lorenzo grinned as he turned his back on the nameless village, "It was worth it."

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Daenlin smiled as he took the offered slab of meat. It was a broad and happy smile. As they walked in the long skirmish line, the Optio shifted his musket to pull a small wrapped package from his pocket. He waggled the small item in the air, blood driped through the waxed paper.

"My family has always been traditional." His jet black eyes danced from the field in front to Fara. "I've kept the Green Pact as best as I could, even in cyrodiil. Lapses here and there of course, but it does put the fear of the nine into the men. I can't hold with the meat mandate though. I'd like to, but there's just not enough time and freedom in the legion to do it. I've settled for pieces of my enemy rather than the full corpse." He chuckled as he put the item back into his pocket and took a bite of the raw flesh. His bosmeri was clean but accented. He had been born in Skingrad to two bosmer parents from the old country. While the tongue was learned from birth, he only used it at home.

"How's your head? You're a lucky b*tch to have taken a glancing shot, I've seen balls punch right through those stupid helmets. Lords know why we need them." He said switching back into cyrodiilic.

On the other side of the skirmish line, making his way through a beautiful field of wild lilacs Gallerius Caepio watched the Akavirs skirmishing. They were a mile off to the left of the men of Talos' own and pushing up towards the Newwell road. The rebel militia seemed to mostly be dug in around the drainage ditches that ran along either side of the country path. Smoke hung heavy and dirty white around the defensive line. Farther up ahead, a large flag flew over the village of Fontdale. It was difficult to make out the inscription on the large green banner, but there were Bretic words scrawled across the flag. People seemed to infest the town, and cavalry messengers rode back and forth in between the distant windmill and the town. The brown water of Lake Crossmore glittered in the sun. Around the edges men could be seen standing still, unmoving. They were staring at the Imperial attack. With almost a half mile in between them, it was far out of musket range. there would be some time before the black line closed and opened fire, and in that time the Anticlerans were just watching.

Up on the roof of the windmill, two small dots of color could be seen, jittering and swirling around. They were far off, but it seemed they were either mechanically or man operated colored paddles. The red and white dots moved stopped and moved again. Caepio squinted as he walked, curious and confused as to the purpose of the paddles.

"What do you suppose that is? Look way off there on the windmill. You see those two dots? The white and red ones that are twitching around...what is that?" He asked the question to noone in particular, not expecting a reply but wanting confirmation that he wasn't the only one seeing the strange sight.

Fara replied in bosmeri "Here in Cyrodill I don't care much for the Pact ? it's between Yffre, the bosmers and Valenwood. But the Legion food is so bad I sometimes feel ready to kill for a decent meal. But here we're supposed to be the good liberators and play it nice, so I'd rather avoid taking a bite of the enemy. It won't do any good to the regiment's repute if we start butchering the dead...Even more so considering how the Cyrodils react to it. They find it disgusting and many wet themselves at the idea of being eaten.
Pretty weird for peoples who have made legal room for necromancy. There's a rumor floating around that the enemy dead from the 'civil' war have been auctioned ? them being rebels and unworthy of burial, and Corvus's chest being quite empty. They're supposed to be rowing trade galleys now. With a few necromancer to replace the rowers, it saves a lot of cargo space."

She switched back to cyrodilic for a less controversial topic "I made most of my luck on that one. If I had not been crouched to sneak in the corn I would have taken it in the chest. My head's still feeling a bit like a drum ordering a charge but it beats being dead." She knocked on her helmet "And thanks to the helmet too. Sure in the field it don't cover much, but when you're peeking from a window or over a corner it's comforting. Makes a good bucket in a pinch and looks good during parades, and probably brings some commissioner the chance for honest bribes. Plenty of reasons to give it to the troops."

Fara heard the centurion's command an looked for herself, thinking about what purpose they could serve. "If that was flags or mirrors I would say signals for sure. With that odd contraption, I'm not sure but that's still the most likely. Probably sending messages to the rear, they wouldn't bother with horse messengers if they were for the troops."

Artois

I always thought changing formation like that was a 'breakdown in discipline'... I guess it doesn't matter in skirmishing lines where we're so ragged you can't know what's where in the smoke, and in the end it is the bloody Optio she's talking with, so I guess it doesn't matter. But if we were to consider it was, then I'd note it doesn't seem there's anyone else doing it, so Bosmeri cause a breakdown in discipline because they want to talk their tree-language. Makes the tree-huggers, in addition to being tree-huggers, automatically not as disciplined as non-tree-huggers if you put a couple of them in the same line..? I mean I'd bet there's people who can talk Bretic here but you don't see me rushing off to find them. So it'd make sense if Bretons are thus more disciplined than Bosmeri by default...

Scratching his chin, Artois looked ahead, still deep in thought but mindful of his surroundings. The ground wasn't exactly very flat, one could trip over something if not careful; and although he would've rather received a face full of High Rock than of any other province out there, he preffered not to get to taste any of them. He'd had his fair share of tasting bricks in Anticlere when he got drunk while gambling... Alcohol proved easier to get rid off than gambling, though, and the belief that it ruined his life, refusing to admit it was in fact gambling, was what led to his hostility towards drunks. Bloody filth wallowers. The Centurion's one of them, isn't he? At least he seems to put duty above addiction... Unlike some other folks I've known and nearly got shot with.

Mindful to keep the required distance between himself and other soldiers, Artois continued to sink deeper into his thoughts, seeing little need to strike a conversation with anyone. Most of the time they were on the march he'd spent the time thinking; it let him establish some order within his head and at least somewhat fix the havoc caused by stopping at villages. During this war in particular this habbit may be useful, as half the time in this first village he had spent thinking about things he'd rather push into the back of his mind.

A breeze picked up, swirling the purple flowers gently so they looked like a ocean's wave. Musketeer Lucius Istacidius leaned down to pluck at a flower and place it into one of his buttonholes. Musketry crackled and rolled as the first of the Akavir main line hit the Anticlere defenses on the Newwell road. To the men of the first legion it could be seen clearly a mile off to their left. The matchlocks snapped and banged angrily while the porcupined mass of humanity in the pike block lumbered forward to strike a Militia block. The long poles twitched, swung, danced and fell as the fighting began in earnest. Lucius looked over at his skirmishing partner, a very sullen looking Artois deMetz. He wanted to say something to the breton, but wasn't sure what that'd be.

"So why you in the legion? Being a Breton and all..." He blurted out the question, but hastily began to retreat. "I mean like a high rock native. I understand the ones who grew up in cyrodiil..." He paused again, wishing he hadn't spoken, but wanting to satisfy his curiosity. A cannon hammered from inside the town of fontdale, sending it's roundshot to bounce up into the Akavir block. Pikes were snapped and tossed aside like toothpicks.

On the other side of the skirmish line Centurion Ottus craned his head around, searching. Where the hell is our cavalry and artillery? He steeled himself and tried to calm the nausea that was turning his bowls to water. The Anticlere line up ahead was nearing, and the battle would be joined soon. Praxux could see a white coated officer running back and forth behind the line of militia who sat ready in the drainage ditch on the southern side of the Newwell road. The enemy soldiers seemed nervous, constantly checking and rechecking their equipment. Some were even using plates and bowls to try and dig themselves deeper into the ditch.

Oh gods, watch over me...

Artois

Being snapped out of his thoughts by his skirmishing comrade sooner than he would've liked, Artois would've blurted out something more or less angry; however, the Breton couldn't help but see the way Lucius immediately started withdrawing as amusing, that being what 'saved' the Imperial. Probably a question more than one of my comrades would want to ask, simply he's the first one to voice it. It WAS pretty bloody inevitable I guess. Seeing as there was no way to avoid the question - even though Lucius seemed as sorry as Artois himself that it had been asked - the Breton could only sigh, shrug and begin the explanation of his frankly rather failed life before the army. There was a reason why he liked it in Talos' Own and that was because there he was always in a very small frame, little to no space for screw ups. And somehow consequences seemed more severe when you got whipped for mistakes.

"Debts, mostly. You gamble, you drink, you screw your life up and lose too much money. After my brother's charity river ran dry I could either sit there and be eaten by people I owed money, whether I was a soldier or not, or run off somewhere far enough they wouldn't bother following me but not far enough to replace understandable language with babble. Cyrodiilic I could learn, Nordic? Not so much." Shrugging again, Artois looked to the left, where battle was raging. He didn't really know who did he hope would win - gainst the militia, it seemed likely the Akaviris would prevail, but did he want them to? Bloody hell, I don't know. They may very well be shooting Jean there, if he's not with the real soldiers... I wonder where those are.

"Better be bloody thankful you've got me." This might've seemed like pure egoism, but if Lucius looked at the Breton, the smirk on Artois' face would suggest otherwise. "No telling what you'd get into without a translator."

As they came nearer to the anticleran troops, Fara started fretting. She hated that sort of fighting. Standing out in the open and trading volley with an opponent who had the common sense of using cover ? no matter how poor.

She voiced these observations to Daelin "At least we have two advantages ? we're heading north, the sun will be on our backs and in the anticleran's face. Not it hat it matters much with the musket's lack of accuracy. And the sea breeze will send the smoke their way too. Which means we'll be able to see what's going on on our flanks and backs.
We'd better keep a sharp eye on anything that might hide some cavalry. In skirmish formation without pikes around, there's no way we can stop a good cavalry unit. And if it flanks us when we're engaged against the militia, they will roll us like a rag."

She quickly glanced around "With nothing but militia opposing us, it begs the question 'were are the damn professionals'. And I'd like to have a better answer than 'certainly up to no good for our side'."

Percy wearily marched onward. The sun of the morning beating down on the back his his neck and the coarse and gritty pavement grinding under his boots. He could see see Anticlerans ahead, and he knew that battle was again inevitable. He licked his lips in anticipation, feeling the salty taste of the the sweat that had accrued on his upper lip and the thin and scraggly strands of moustache hair...a product of severe lack of shaving.

He had been dragging on at the rear of the group now but this sudden burst of excitement had given him high hopes for the inevitable. He quickened pace, jovially jogging up the group to near the front where he slowed and resumed his steady pace within skirmish formation.

He wanted to be the first into battle, the first to see the blood and fear. The thick smell of smoke and iron filled his lungs and his heart raced with the steady beat of a war drum, his eyes danced back and forth like continuous musket-fire and the sound of metal meeting flesh resounded in his ears.

He spat onto his musket and rubbed it with the sleeve of his shirt. "Gon' get to use you soon" He whispered to it softly. "Blast me some Anticleres and send em home in a rickety ol' coffin I will."

Walter

Lilacs. Oh how I wish i could smell these lilacs.

Walter strode lightly through the flowers, barely feeling the weight of his pack and his gun over the adrenaline that flooded his bloodstream. The air stunk of burnt powder and burnt flesh, overpowering the sweet scent of the lilacs that Talos' Own now trod into a muddy morass. Just a few feet ahead, a spot of scarlet came into view, and Walter thought for a fleeting moment that a rose might have taken hold and grown here amongst strangers. One more step, and his hope was shattered. The scarlet stain upon the flowers was the beginning of a trail of blood, fresh blood, that lead directly onward through the sea of purple. Keeping pace with the rest of the skirmish line, Walter deviated from his path by a few degrees to follow the trail.

Soon, the terminus of the bloody path came into view. An old man lay sprawled on his back amongst the flowers, blood pooling around him and turning the ground to a great pool of crimson mud. In his hands he held a stub of an old pencil and a scrap of crumpled, bloody paper, and he appeared to be scribbling something. As the old man spotted Walter, he let out a faint, startled yelp and weakly attempted to crawl away, dropping his writing implements. Pulling himself along backwards with his hands, he made it less than two feet before his head rolled back and he sagged silently into the flowers.

"Sir, we've got a casualty here!" Walter called to the Centurion as he stepped forward and knelt beside the crumpled body. Checking the old man's pulse under his chin, Walter knew the old-timer was dead. A gaping hole just beneath the old man's waist on the right side told the story of how he died. He must have taken a ball to the pelvis during the fighting around the village, and he had used the last of his strength to write... something...

Walter checked the dead man's pockets, finding a small pouch of tobacco, which he added to his own with only a slight hesitation, a few gold septims, and an ancient clay pipe, which had been broken in the excitement. He gently closed the old man's eyes and placed a septim on each lid, leaving the rest of the money in the corpse's pocket. Examining the bloody scrap of paper the peasant had left behind, Walter was unsurprised to find that it was not written in Cyriil.

Standing up once more, Walter called out again to the Centurion, "He was writing something, Sir. I can't read it, it's not in Cyriil. You better come take a look at this!"