Lorenzo surveyed the vista before him as they trudged along, taking a breath of fresh air that was only a little tainted with the acrid stench of battle. You were right, mum. The old country was indeed beautiful. He shuddered to think what would happen to it all as the war dragged on. Suddenly wishing to take his mind off the view, he looked around at the other men in the company. They were all spread out in a horizontal line, walking steadily toward the battle ahead. One in particular caught his attention and he moseyed over to walk next to him.

"How ya doin' Scipii?" Lorenzo asked awkwardly, he suddenly felt very uncomfortable and decided not to wait for a response before continuing. "Er, um, well?" He took a deep breath and felt himself calm a little. He wasn't good at sentimental stuff but felt he had an obligation, so he tried again, chuckling nervously, "Ha, ha, Let me try that again, ahem," He cleared his throat.

"When I was a boy, about twelve maybe, me mum was working as sort of nurse o' the manor. One of me stepdad's guards was mauled, badly by a minotaur, now when was the last time ya seen one o' those bastards?" He paused, gathering his thoughts and clearing his throat again. "Anyway, she was treating the guy in one of the manor's upper rooms and I made the mistake of wandering by as she was walking out. 'C'mere, boy!' she said when she saw me. I remember the apron she was wearing was covered in the man's blood and I really didn't want to 'c'mere'." He was silent for another moment, checking his gun to make sure it was ready to fire incase they suddenly found themselves in battle.

"Well needless to say, me mum had put the fear o' the gods in me long ago and I knew that the consequences for dawdling would be far worse than whatever she already had in store, or so I thought," he cast Nathan a sidelong glance to see if he was listening before continuing. "So, she leads me into the room where the man's layin' on a table, he's lookin' a sight too: He's pale, covered in sweat and blood, and his breathin's' ragged, quick and shallow. I froze at the sight of him, and then, mum left the room. Just left me there with the dyin' man. I freaked out for a minute, just starin' at the poor guy with me stupid twelve-year-old self. He looked right back at me too, and suddenly I knew what mum wanted me to do." Lorenzo coughed this time when he paused, hocked up some phlegm and spat on the ground.

"So I walks up to the table," He continued, wiping spittle off his mouth with the back of his sleeve, "And I sit down at the chair next to the man, and I'm scared as hell but I'm trying not to let it show. The man's breathing slows, and he seems to calm down while he's lookin' at me and then he looks away, closes his eyes and goes to sleep." Lorenzo looked ahead to the scene before them for a moment, "He died right there, within the hour, while I was with him and I learned two things that day. First: that me mum was bat [censored] crazy for puttin' her own bloody kid through that!" He laughed aloud at that, letting his mirth fade to a smile and then to a sober expression again, "And second: being there with someone at the end, even if they don't know ya, is okay. Because dyin' alone is the worst thing that can happen to a person." Lorenzo laid a hand on Nathan's shoulder, patting him gently on the back with a brief and knowing smile, which faltered quickly as they marched along.

He turned his head in curiosity when someone called out that there was a casualty, but the call had been directed at the Centurion, not him, so he just looked in that direction as he continued walking next to Nathan Scipii.

Lucius nodded his head slowly and knowingly after Artois deMetz finished. That made more sense. The Imperial would have scoffed if the breton had responded with 'patriotism' or 'adventure'. But escaping debts made perfect sense. He walked a few paces in silence thinking about his reasons. Looking up he squinted into the distance to stare nervously as the inevitable fight up ahead drew nearer. Behind the thin line of men came the metal on metal sound of armor, and thewooden wind chime sound of pikes thudding together. looking over his shoulder he could see the red faced and sweating men of the pike block just emerging from the cornfield behind. By the looks of it they had jogged through town and the crops to try and catch up with the companies of shot. It was a welcome sight to say the least.

"That makes sense." He said after a smile. "Plenty of men joined up to escape debts. Me, I did it for the food. I tell you three meals a day and clothes on your back is a nice thing to have...I used to work in a poor house in Bravil when I was a little one. You know what the monks had us doing? Picking apart old rope." Lucius smiled sadly, thinking about the terrible work. "If a rope was too old to use, It's be sold to the poor house. What we did is pick that apart rope so the monks could sell it to shipwrights. They'd use the fibers coated in tar to caulk a ships hull."

"Well, I for one am glad to have a translator. This'd bee a bloody nightmare without it..."



Daenlin spun around to walk backwards so he could watch the pikemen struggle through the now completely trampled crops. He could see the physical strain on the faces of pikemen, between the hear of the day, the wool uniforms and the metal armor baking in the sun they were all dripping with sweat.

"I hate goddamned cavalry..." Daenlin spat his derision. "At least our infantry have come up, but I must admit our lack of cavalry and artillery is unnerving. Now if the gods are with us, their professionals are off over there fighting the twins. If they're not, they're up ahead lying in wait. Either way they're not here." He said, worry plainly heard in his voice.



"Company halt! Take a knee and get some water." He shouted the command as he jogged back to Hercule. The thin Colovian was looking down at a bloody mess of a bretic man laying sprawled down amongst the Lilacs. It was a sad scene, as he had clearly died in pain. His face was frozen in a mask of fear and hardship. Praxus' eyes went from the dead man to scrap of paper in Hercule's hand. "Probably writing a letter to his family." He said flatly. His mind wanted to wander and find the unanswered questions but his will put an end to it. No sense dwelling on enemy dead. "Leave it here, use it as wadding, or give it to deMetz to translate. It'll be the same damned letter everyone writes as their last." Ottus sighed, thinking about his letter home that he kept in his briast pocket.

"I love you, I'm sorry, good-bye"

The breeze was blowing gently now over the field of wildflowers. Summer insects buzzed and sang, oblivious to the brutal fight taking place. Birds circled slowly overhead. Yet below the companies of shot were closing, and the pikemen were steeling themselves for violence.

Artois

Frowning, Artois kneeled down. He didn't feel thirsty, but from experience knew it was better to drink now than to wait. There was no telling how long could a battle last, and it'd be better to focus on something else than a dry throat if posible. "Food's a nice addition, true. Me, I'd be lost in the world if they let me off the leash... I'd rather be shot down somewhere instead of retire, so long as it's quick." That was true; when it came to managing a day-to-day life, with its need to balance your spendings and earnings, look ahead and save for a harsher winter, the Breton was a complete failure. Jean's good at these things. I'm a soldier, another mindless bloke trodding through forests and swamps to get shot down somewhere. Empire holds on the shoulders of people like me. Smiling sadly at this thought of self-mockery, he looked ahead.

The wind picking up somewhat, Artois saw the banners over the village flutter in the wind. Finally, he could make out what was written on the flag in blocky letters he usually saw in more official Bretic writtings - 'Liberty and Representation'. Bloody true, I'd bet. Although I wonder how's life in Anticlere this day for real... We've heard how bad it is from officials, but you'd have to be a total idiot to fall for Imperial propaganda; of course villagers say it's good. But they're not citizens, that's where the real deal is apparently... It seems to satisfy them, though. Enough to start pleading me to leave the Legion... Bleh, I'm sure I have something better to think about. Shaking his head slightly, he focused on the upcomming battle. Pikes were hurrying into position behind them; the musketeer felt a surge of relief over that. He didn't envy them though, the pikemen had to, after all, stand there and receive fire with no way to return it, having to rely on the musketeers entirely before the lines would close.

Not too far off, Walter and Ottus were talking about some letter. Paying little attention to the mess, Artois was simply thankful they got a stop out of it; a moment of respite before battle was joined. However, when the Centurion mentioned showing it to deMetz for translation it piqued his curiosity somewhat, especially considering it was the last letter of one of his kinsmen. Secretly he was hoping that the letter would name the addressee, so that when - if - they marched into Anticlere he could hopefully take the letter to the one it was meant for. If the man was from one of the villages, all the better if it lay on their path to Anticlere, if not then his hopes would probably turn out to be futile.

Standing up, he looked towards Walter and Ottus with curiosity. Although he didn't voice his interest, it was pretty obvious he would've far preffered it if Walter handed him the letter.

The display of curiosity did its work; silently, Walter walked over to him and handed the note, in fact a glorified scrap of bloodied paper. The question of who was that old man quickly shot into Artois' head, as villagers usually didn't know how to write. A village elder, perhaps? Or some travelling merchant... Or maybe he's from the city. With a mental shrug, he started reading, trying to read through the blood and his own lack of familiarity with the written word. For one thing he could thank the letter he'd translated earlier - it was good practice.


OOC: Character controled Walter with tayroc's consent, of course.

Fara felt a surge of relief - with the pikes around, they would not be helpless if the anticleran cavalry showed itself. "They had to take the long walk around the woods we've crossed. The pikes already had troubles following us, but the horses and the artillery would never manage. Maybe they've simply a longer way to travel than expected. It's not as if they were fast. That shouldn't be too much trouble, there's no field fortifcation worth spending a gunshot. But the cavalry would be nice to make sure whatever we rout won't come back."

When the captain ordered a pause she didn't waste a second to stop, taking some sips from her waterskin. The healer's mixture in it made for an awful taste, but it nonetheless felt wonderful after the walk they had just done. She also took the opportunity to eat some of the freshly cut horsemeat. It wouldn't fare well in the heat, there was no point in saving it.

While enjoying the rest and snack, she observed the anticleran militia's lines, searching for officers. Even if hitting a man-sized target beyond fifty yards was more an excercice in luck than in marksmanship, they were still worth aiming at. Troops with little training tends to gather around their officers, that means more chance to hit someone else if you miss the target.

The call for break was given, and DeConvant approached the newly found corpse. A dead old man amongst a sea of beautiful flora and sunshine, his crimson fluid staining the ground, his face white as bone. It was almost poetic to him. He walked up to the body, kneeling down at looking at him.

"Old man bit a fierce one alright...looks like such a shot would splinter bone right easy". He looked distastefully at the coins on each mans eye. "Shame to waste coin though".

He slyly snuck his hands into the mans pockets, following the example of the one called Walter. "Hey, if you dont want this, guess Ill go and take it then". He took the previously ignored coins...a pithy amount, but coins nontheless, and put them in his own pocket.

He stood back up and took off his helmet, wiping the back of his forearm against his brow and slicking back his greasy and sweaty hair. He turned turned to DeMetz, the companies local translator. Truth be told he had never formally greeted any of his fellow troops and DeMetz was no exception...The young Breton couldn't care less for his talent to speak and read Bretic. In fact, he thought it was quite arrogant. It was as if the translator saw himself above the common musketeer, and DeConvant didnt like it.

He might be better learned then me...but he bleeds all the same

He walked up to him. Walter had just given him a letter, of which had been found on the corpse. "Listen mister" he addressed DeMetz. "You would be better off just leavin' that scrap. Probably just a whole lot of talk about missin' his family an' all. I already checked his pockets for anything of use...got some coin out of it".

He smiled.

"I say we go ahead and finish rest. get into battle."

As Walter handed the note to Artois, he caught something out of the corner of his eye that drew his attention. Turning around, he watched, unbelieving, as deConvant knelt down and sneakily plucked the gold coins from the dead man's pocket. Rage flared up inside him hot and blinding as the bastard pocketed the gold with a sly smirk. Tunnel-vision set in, and Walter's hands tightened around his musket, imagining the bastard's throat. Walter felt a hot, wet rip and intense pain on the side of his head beneth the bandage as high blood-pressure burst the stitches the boy had put in the remains of his left ear

One day i am going to make that filthy pig-[censored] eat his own thieving hands.

With a tremendous effort of will, Walter slowed his own heart-rate, took a deep breath, and tried to calm down. If he wanted it to be so, that thief could be dead in less than five seconds, but a fight between fellows at a time such as this, with battle and the enemy so near, was a terribly bad idea. His hands shaking with fury, Walter rolled and lit himself another cigarette and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. The paper tasted salty from the blood on his hands, and the sweet tobacco smoke filled his lungs, calming him. With a final shake of his muscles to relieve the tension, he stepped back into formation to await the next set of orders, no longer caring about the contents of the dead man's last testament.

Artois

Looking up from the letter, Artois rose an eyebrow. He didn't like deConvant; he didn't like any of these 'Cyrodiilic Bretons'; for Mara's sake, they didn't even speak their own language. In his oppinion they had no motherland, either. Artois didn't fancy himself a well learned gentleman or anything of that sort; he'd killed his fair share of men and had little regrets for msot of them, he ran away from life instead of facing it; he was a footsoldier of the Empire, whether he liked it or not, one of the many who had little choice but to stand in pretty lines and shoot. Even to him, though, deConvant seemed disguisting; his treatment of Artois' kinsmen didn't help one tiny bit. Initially thinking of simply ignoring him when the man walked up, the Anticlerian's attitude changed swiftly when deConvant saw it fit to give out advice as if his oppinion was worth a crap.

"I'm disinclined to acquiesce your request." His face lit up with faked concern over deConvant not being able to understand what he said. "Means 'no', my young friend." You like playing tough before corpses; I'd like to see how well you held up to a real man. Too bad bloody discipline's here to save your sorry worthless ass... Artois was at war with Anticlere just like the rest of Talos' Own, true, but he had no patience in this campaign for 'tough guys' like deConvant. Maybe he didn't hold the position to do anything about it, but if he had anything to say about it deConvant would be returning home with wounds not only from the white Anticlerians. A flogging would be more than worth breaking a couple bones in that moron.

Absent-mindedly muttering "This is my motherland. Where's yours?", Artois focused on the letter, skimming over it. Most of it seemed a rather well-prepared letter; the final part, however, was hastily scribbled, the last words of the poor man. Although Artois simply frowned after reading the letter, it concerned him far more than it showed; the man seemed perfectly willing to sacrifice himself for the Republic. How could the Emperor claim to be carrying out justice with this invasion was already beyond him, and it was just the first day of the real war. The Anticlerians, or at least some of them, saw this war as 'paying the debt' to their forebears that died for their freedom; Artois had no idea about the overall mood in the Anticlerian army, but so far the only written proof he had suggested they were willing to fight to the last man for their freedom. The Legion went to the war, on the other hand, because Corvus told them to.

The Emperor is starting to sound incredibly stupid... Kneeling before the corpse in hopes of finding an envelope for this letter, Artois felt like laughing at the contents of the letter he previously read in front of the Anticlerian village, speaking how the Legions were here to help restore order. Even more so than when he first read it, that announcement seemed like complete nonsense.

His search came to a succesful conclusion - both Walter and deConvant had missed the envelope, a drop of blood on it. Thankfully, there was an adress written on it:

'Return address:
Auguste Girard
3 Reserve Bttn.
Army of the Center

Mailing address:
Adrienne Girard
Whitecroft Moor,
Anticlere'

Folding the letter and stuffing it into the envelope, Artois closed it shut and slipped it into his pack. With aid from Mara, he could deliver this letter to this Adrienne; perhaps this would bring her at least some happiness, although he himself wasn't sure how would the woman react to him - would he be accused as the murderer of her husband? Would she be thankful? His own mother had died when he was still a baby and he never got to see Jean's wedding; these things were beyond him.

ooc: Ok, no more English class folks. I now have more time for RP.

Gritz

Well, at least we're not naked anymore. His canteen was lifted to his lips as he rested on his knee. He had bandaged up some of the more serious wounded, the others would have to survive off of the styptic powder until they were able to set up some form of camp or had sufficient downtime. The bearded veteran pulled his head back as he gulped down a good 1/3 of the total contents, his first drink all day. In his age, he didn't have the same stamina as the youths around him. His feet were calloused and tough from marching, but his knees howled in pain.

Ain't much use in crying about it.

He didn't bother stopping to look at the dead man, his was a concern saved for the living. He twisted the nozzle to his canteen and eased up. In downtime like this, now was probably the best time to gripe about his concern.

"Sir," he said as he approached, his lungs having some bit of breath taken out, "about the orders from earlier--I'm fine with doing a small patrol if we're setting up camp or defending an installation, but why would a three man reconnaissance patrol be sent out when its the cavalries job? I don't like the feeling of not having any artillery or cavalry to help us out in a campaign like this...especially with such a high tempo for battle." he came to his Centurion with honest worry, he wasn't [censored]ing, and he sure as hell wasn't whining. If they didn't have any cavalry or artillery assistance and they met up with a professional White Coat outfit, they'd be in some deep [censored]. He was hoping something big was planned...and a knot formed in his stomach thinking that it was just some arm chair officer's logistical mistake.

DeConvant was obviously flustered at Artois' somewhat blunt retort. First he had come at him with some big words that he couldn't properly understand...then he had just treated him like an idiot. He bit his bottom lip before looking down at the ground before bringing it back up agan and looking around the landscape. He wanted it to look like Artois' words had done nothing, but in truth...they had only reminded him of his less then priveleged background.

"Sorry to hear that" he said, refraining from snarling and spitting. "Cant take the advice of a commoner can you? Rather be sitting in some flashed up quarters with the Centurin poring over all manner of fancy leather books and sippin' fine wine. You may be smart, but that dont count for nothin' when you have a damn whitecoat holding blade to your throat".

He left the translators company and unstrapped his pack. Unbuckling the leather strap, he proceeded to search through the various compartments before finally finding what he was looking for. Meat, jerky to be precise. He unwrapped the greasy cloth and promptly started munching on the leathery food.

It was tough and salty, but it restored some much needed energy. Percy re-wrapped what was left and put it back in his pack, opting to leave the snapsack off and give his shoulders and back a rest before the group set off again.

"The cavalry should be on it's way up, along with the artillery. We get 2 guns and a 4 squadrons per legion...I'm sure they're back there, trying to get up here. No need to worry." Centurion Ottus said calmly. He was a bit distracted and annoyed. A large dappled grey pike block was slowly moving from behind it's cover of Fontdale through the peach orchard and up to a place next to Rodane's tavern. "Until they get here, we are the cavalry and wee are the guns. Not much of a choice otherwise. We have to hurry up and hook around the flank of those whitecoats fighting the twins."

Thunder and lightning, What?!

"We don't have the luxury of waiting." Praxus said. He tried his best to diminish Gritz's concerns, but they were valid. Ottus felt very naked in the field of wildflowers without their support. It was then that a cavalry officer came galloping up, sending clods of dirt splashing behind his horse. It was Knight Errant Parvo, Commander of the first legion. His thin, twitching frame looked off as it was, atop a huge warhorse.

"My dear fellows, I don't suppose I could trouble you to press on your attack, what. It seems to me that we're dawdling and shirking when we should be in there. It would pain me deeply to thing that my children sat around picking flowers while there was a scrap. So! What say you unfurl the colors and strike up the band, what. Push on in the old grand style, the old style! Now go my misbegotten little angels, go on and don't stop till you reach that windmill!" Parvo pointed at the stone windmill in the distance with his three fingered hand.

Almost immediately The two great banners of the first legion, The national and regimental colors were pulled from their leather sheathes. The wind caught the Red silk of the national color first, laying open it's Black imperial dragon on the broad red banner. The regimental color was next, displaying a red imperial diamond on it'd black silk. Ottus felt the familiar catch in his throat as the flags were born aloft at the very center of the pike block. There were the first groans of bagpipes being breathed into life, and some tentative rolls from the drummer boys.

"Right then, My company of shot, advance! Keep your intervals and fire as you see fit! We've got to drive their musketeers back from the Newwell road!" The centurion shouted the command. On both their left and right, other sleeves of shot had moved into a rough line, so that now Talos' Own covered the area from the right of the Akavirs in fontdale to west of the tavern. Ottus checked his pan to make sure it was primed, and stepped off at a slow walk, his musket leveled in front of him.

Behind the http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IFZM1IZCcJA, Pikeman hefted their long weapons, and the whole legion stepped off, into the jaws of death.

Fara observed with mixed feelings the knight's arrival. He presence meant the rest of the Legion was coming, but it also meant they were goin to resume their advance. She struggled to keep a blank face as he went on his speech. What's with the high-ranking cyrodills and how clear, plain speech seems to be beyond them ? There's no need for all those curlicules and false sympathy to tell that he's there and he expect us to resume the attack...

With a resigned grunt she stood up, feeling the familiar burden of teh pack on her back. She made sure her mucket was ready to fire, spending a few seconds for a repeat of the fire spell she had used in the cornfield, but this time only ignited the slowatch rather than the priming powder. To her finger's relief. There should be a way to improve that. Either setting a small flame on the serpentine, or maybe shield my fingers when the powder ignites..That damn match is a royal pain. At least it doesn't rain...

Her weapon now ready she joined the regiment's march forward, careful to keep the proper pace. Whn she came within a hundred paces from the anticleran line she knelt down, bracing an elbow on her knee rather than using the forkette. The cursed thing was a real pain to use on the move, and at that range it wouldn't add enough to the musket's accuracy - or lack thereof - to be worth the hassle. She fired at what she had already determined to be an officer. The embroidered coat and fancy feathered hat couldn't belong to a common militiamen, even from a town as rich as Anticlere.

The smoke cloud from her shot prevented her from seeing hte result, but she didn't care. She immediately reloaded her weapon, running through the familiar stepsich had been so thoroughly drilledi nto her she could almost do them in her sleep. Then resumed her mach forward. As the smoke cleared a bit, she could se with a pang of disappointment that her target was still standing. Down't worry sweetie, you'll get my greetings soon enough...

OOC: @ Ghostpaw, is it okay that I assumed Lorenzo was near me at the end of the post? If not I'll change it



Nathan spat once more, and glanced sideways as the medic, Lorenzo he beleieved, walked up next to him, offering him an awkwards greeting. Nathan nodded, and looked forwards again, musket bouncing on his shoulder, primed and ready for a shot at first moments notice, though the matchcord was held in his hand, safely away form the pan.

He listened vaguely as the man started again on a greeting, and Nathan smiled but remained silent as the man began a story out of nowhere, and he truly had no idea what he was talking about at first, though he listened anyways, figuring it would take his mind off the mass of white coats in front of him. He smiled weakly as the man told him about having the [censored] scared out of him by the experience, but as he drew to the end, Nathan came to realize what it had to be about, and his mind wandered back to the dying man's eyes. So sad and cold, nothing but want to be back home with people who loved him.

Lorenzo came to the end of his story, and gave Nathan a pat on the back, and the young man smiled and returned the pat with a slap on the shoulder, a small smile on his face, and a slight nod of appreciation to the man. He said nothing however, as he began thinking of the upcoming battle, and how it might soon be him lying on the ground, dying, away from the ones he loved. He didn't want to think that he might never see his beloved Marielle again, and his stomach dropped as he thought of the child she bore.

He felt weak all of a sudden, and a feeling of sickness came over him, caused by the fear of the upcoming conflict, and all of the thoughts that rushed through his head, reeling him. He was grateful for the halt, and his shaking hands went straight for the bottle of brown liquid in his snapsack, as he downed nearly half of it in one go, feeling the burn all down his throat, warming him and numbing him.

He kneeled in silence for a few seconds, muttering prayers to Arkay, hoping his diety would not choose to end his life cycle this day, and to Talos to guide him and give him strength. His head snapped up as the galloping of hooves was heard very close, and he looked up to see a inportant looking man, though he did not know his name.

He couldn't hear exactly what he was saying, but he herad the Centurion good enough when he called out for a march, leading them into the fray. The banners were unfurled, and they seemed to give him a small ray of hope, and as the music started, he began his march with the rest.

he gave a look over at Lorenzo, patting him on the shoulder. "Grace of the Nine be with you friend." he said, smiling at what he though could be a new friend. Perhaps the last friend he ever saw.

A splintering volley rolled across the field as the Civilian militia opened fire. Pike shafts were splintered and helmets were dented, sending shards of wood ans screams up to the sky. A haze of dirty smoke descended on the field infront of the Peach orchard and the tavern. Praxus Ottus heard the familiar sound of swarming bees that musketballs made as they passed by. He looked around and saw that his skirmish line was unhurt.

Like many new recruits the militia had fired high.

"Aim low and fire! we must drive them out of that drainage ditch!" Ottus shouted as he walked upright behind the thin line of musketeers. More shots hammered out of the windows and doorway of the small thatched roof inn that sheltered weary travelers on their trip from the sea ports to the south, to the capitol in the north.

Daenlin watched and waited until he saw Fara begin to reload, then he jogged up and past the bosmeri woman to take his place ahead of her. He blew his match back to life and opened the pan. After glancing back to see that the girl was loaded he leveled the musket on a young boy who's face was red with tears as he aimed his weapon. There was a hiss in the pan and the weapon hammered back into his shoulder and obscuring his view.

"Aim for the officers!" The optio shouted in an oddly high pitched voice. More shots rippled and crackled along the line as the other sleeves of shot open fire.

Just like that, the break was over. Musketfire shot into the group with pure raw power, forcing DeConvant to his knees. His snapsack lay on the ground still when he had taken it off, but there was no time to strap it back on. He had kept his shot and powder on him anyway.

He rolled over onto his stomach, taking a solid mouthful of dirt as he did so. Spitting it out in distaste, the Breton then set about priming his musket for fire. Come on... he was whispering to himself. Load it faster, quickly..so you can send that bullet right into an officers h-

His thoughts were interuppted as a ball landed right into the stock of his rifle. It practically shattered, forcing chunky wooden splinters into his face. For a moment, the rage of battle quietened to complete silence. The surroundings became pure white and all DeConvant could feel was solid , plain old pain in its purest form.

He let out a gasp, dropping his musket and rolling onto his back, trying to pull the nasty hunks of wood from his lower face. Despite this, he felt no sadness. fear, certainly...but he was trying to focus his fear into pure adrenalin. Come on you damn fool his thoughts rang out. "Get up and get back into it"

Fara listened to the anticleran's first volley, noting with relief the bullets sails overhead like a swarm of deadly bees. Sounds like they can't shoot worth a crap, at least at this range. But we'd better rout them before coming too close or even blind men will start landing hits...

As soon as Daelin had fired, Fara rushed forth and resumed her firing stance, twenty pace forward from her first shot. The light wind had cleared the smoke a bit an she could see through it the colorful feather of the officer's hat. My first shot missed you, let's try to do it better this time. Fara took her time, aiming roughly one meter below the hat. Slightly moving her gun as the officer walked along his charge, until he stopped, seemingly to roder a volley. Ignoring the militia's return fire she hel her breath, keeping a steady aim and gently squeezed her trigger. The priming powder hissed to life and the gun barked, obscuring her vision with the usual cloudof acrid smoke.

While reloading her musket Fara strained he eyes trying to see through the smoke, but didn't see the hat's colorful spot. But wether the officer was out of action, merely deprived of his hat or only hidden in the smoke she couldn't tell for sure. I suppose I'll be able to hear the result with their next volley...

Artois

Yess. The only thought that the Anticlerian could squeeze out was that. The thrill of the battle overtook him as usual, leaving an empty space filling up quickly with the need to survive, to grab onto life and not let it go... This time, however, he could feel something else there, nibbling at his blunted self - the feeling he was shooting at his own, people he knew, who helped him through his life, at least until his father died when everything fell apart for him. Maybe he was shooting at the husband of that nice woman that always gave him an apple when she was passing through with her purchased food... Or maybe the father of his best friend. Or maybe his best friend himself... Who could tell? This didn't seem to be a faceless crowd - instead, to his horror, it was filling up with the faces of the people he knew.

Trying to ignore that, he opened the pan, lowering his match and grunting silently when the recoil hit him. Even after all those years he hated it; he was used to it, yes, but still hated it. Someone's ought to find a way to lessen it... A voice squeaked somewhere in the corner of his brain, seemingly as far away as the militia lines, only behind the skirmish line. Artois could barely recognize it was his own thoughts; had he not been used to everything seeming distant and strange in battle the Breton could've determined he was mad. Instead of focusing on the thoughts about what invention could make recoil more bearable, however, the musketeer simply ripped his forkette out of the ground, running ahead past Lucius.

By Mara, I hope he fires better than I do today. True, he didn't look to see whether his target, a familiar extravagant hat the likes of which he'd seen now and then during his childhood, was still there; however, he hoped he didn't hit. In fact he prayed he didn't, hoping to keep his hands clean this time. A cause he knew was lost, for eventually the lines would close and it was either him or the Anticlerians. Hell, most of them are from the villages most likely... I won't know them. The same distant voice squeaked, before his old centurion's voice took over again, repeating the reloading drill with an unwavering, battle-hardened voice.

Lorenzo attempted a wan, halfhearted smile when he heard the words "Grace of the Nine be with you friend," but it faltered even before the call to engage the enemy and the blaring of the regimental bagpipes went up. Grace of the Nine indeed, he thought dryly, looking up to watch for lightning bolts that might be aimed at him for blasphemy, their "Grace" is probably what got me here in the first place.

He had only just checked that his magelock was primed, placing the little magical stone back in the serpentine and locking it in place, when the enemy fired their first volley. He flinched involuntarily at the report, nearly falling over when a soldier near him was hit, a loud metallic ping! resounding from his helmet as it flew away from his collapsing body. Lorenzo scrambled over to the crumpled form on hands and knees, opening his pack before reaching the musketeer, a middle-aged looking dunmer. The soldier's crimson eyes rolled back and his mouth gaped open as Lorenzo placed a hand under his flaccid neck, his ghost white hair quickly turning a similar shade of red as warm, sticky blood flowed out of a puncture wound on his head and coated Lorenzo's outstretched arm. Lorenzo quickly felt along the injury noting with a grimace the crepitating pieces of the dunmer's skull, this one was likely dead before he hit the ground, he thought bitterly. He placed a hand over the elf's vacant eyes, well fought friend, rest now, and laid the mer's body gently on the bloodstained ground.

Lorenzo stood and scurried back to the line, hefting his gun to his shoulder and barely taking the time to aim before squeezing the trigger in anger. His musket kicked him hard in the shoulder as it belched a plume of smoke from its muzzle, knocking him to the ground. The enemy responded with another volley almost instantly and Lorenzo covered his head and curled into a ball as the assault ripped violently through another soldier next to him, driving the man to the ground where he proceeded to convulse in pain. At the pause, Lorenzo unwound and crawled on his belly over to his fallen comrade. He started to examine the thrashing musketeer but stopped and stared briefly in disbelief. "Are those??" he asked aloud to no one in particular. Lorenzo shook his head and sighed, as he started picking nails and tiny lead beads, birdshot, tch! out of the man's arm. These Anticlerians are either desperate or sick to use this kind of ammunition against men. Enemies or no, this just isn't right.

The man's arm was ruined, shards of metal filled bloody cuts all along it. Lorenzo recited the incantation for a minor telekinesis spell to extract them but the magic fizzled out before he'd even finished reciting the words. He growled irritated at himself for using up his magicka and tried to remove as much of the shrapnel as he could by hand, before hastily wrapping potion soaked linen around what was left of the appendage. He then felt along the soldier's flank, taking note of several broken ribs, however all the cuts along the side were only superficial injuries which he dabbed more styptic potion on.

The man's breathing had slowed but was still ragged and labored, Lorenzo's suspicion that one of his lungs might be punctured was confirmed when the soldier coughed up red tinted spittle. All hell was breaking loose around him, the ground on which he knelt was being torn to pieces by skipping musket balls. Lorenzo swore loudly in frustration, pounding the ground with his fists, and frantically called out, "HELP!"

"Keep up the fire! Advance!" Praxus Ottus jogged in a bent over crouch behind the skirmish line until he found a hole in the line. jamming his forkette in the ground, he leveled his musket and pulled the trigger, a shot hammered in towards the hazy white of the militia line. Before he began to reload, he glanced up to see several Bretic peasants turn around and run for the safety of the Peach orchard, and beyond. The thin bretic line was on the verge of collapse. Musket shots splintered and rippled over the field, and the bagpipes squealed their defiant song. Over to the right, Rodane's tavern was wreathed in smoke as the defenders fought valiantly to push the irresistible black tide back.

"Daenlin! I want that Tavern! GO!" Ottus shouted the orders, pointing as he did. The bosmeri Optio shouted an unintelligible response before rising. His jet black eyes darted this way and that until they fixed on his closest men. They were huddled in pairs, loading and firing as they had been trained to do. the volleys were like clockwork as they tore across the field. Several black coated men lay writhing on a bed of crushed wildflowers. Their shouts and cries were drowned out by the battering orgy of noise and violence.

"Fara, Gritz, deConvent, Scipii! With me to the tavern!" Daenlin shouted the command. He shouted the names of the closest ones to him, in hopes that they could hear the command.

"No! Lorenzo needs help, Gritz, stay with the wounded. Take Artois!" Ottus shouted back. "The rest of you, with me! Prepare to charge!" Praxus tested his sword, half drawing it from it's short scabbard to make sure that the blade wouldn't stick. Many went in with the musket swung like a great club, but Ottus preferred the shortsword for the killing work. The shallow drainage ditch would indeed be close. Hundreds of militia men were packed shoulder to shoulder in dirty knee deep water to hide in the chest high ditch.

"Charge!"

OOC: on Sunday, I leave for Vancouver, via car, with lots of golf and hiking and camping in there, so for roughly three days I wont have internetz plus little activity when Im there.


IC: Nathan couldn't believe how suddenly the once peaceful (for a battlefield) area had erupted into the cracks of muskets firing, the sounds of men screaming and helmets rining like bells in the air. The sounds were overwhelming to him, and he struggled to keep his cool, and ran fowards slightly, dropping to a knee and hearing a musketball fly inches from his ear. This did nothing to help his nerves, as his hands shook more violently, fumbling as he placed the matchcord into its place.

He raised the weapon, and seeing a virtual wall of half entrenched enemies, he didn't choose one in particular, and muttered a prayer to the gods again. "Talos, make me a man of war today, and keep me safe. Arkay, watch over me, and I ask you do not end my life this early, so I may send others."

The musket recoiled into his shoulder, causing him to grimace as usual, and he disappeared into a cloud of smoke, which prompted him to drop to his stomach, and roll a full three turns to his left to avoid any counter fire at his location. Dirt sprayed up into his face, and though he couldn't be sure, he guessed he had been three inches from a musket ball to the eye. Kissing the necklace around his neck quickly, thanking Arkay, he began reloading his musket for another shot.

As he began to calm, things didn't seem quite as chaotic, and he could hear commanders yelling orders, as well as men screaming in pain as they suffered form no doubt serious wounds. He placed the matchcord on the ground, and poured a small bit of powder into the pan, closing it, before pouring more gunpowder down the barrel, his shaking hand fumbling around for a musket ball in the pouch, before placing it down to. He took the ramrod from the bottom of the barrel, flipped as instructed and drove the charge home, replacing the rod on the barrel.

As he began to get up, he heard the unmistakable voice of Ottus calling, followed by the voice of the Optio, Daelin, and he jumped when his voice was mentioned.

Tavern. the simple thought went through his mind, as he got up in a low crouch and ran as fast as possible to the Bosmer officer, altering his speed slightly to throw off any would-be killers, before dropping as low as possible while still on his feet, only a few feet from Daelin.

"To the tavern then!" he called, letting him know he was there. Up ahead, he could see the building through a haze of white smoke, and knew taking it wouldn't be an easy feat, but he steeled himself for the task, kissing not only the Arkay necklace, but also the heart shaped one, praying that he would be returned safely to his beloved, with the news of a successful campaign. Looking back at the Optio, he waited for the rest of them to join.

ooc: Apologize for the wait. Gritz is back.

"Talos
God of battles, be with us now:
Guard our sons from the lead of shame,
Watch our sons when the cannons flame,
Let them not to a tyrant bow."

His magelock was set up atop his forkette, with the calm responsiveness that could only be born from years of training and constant drilling he systematically took the life of another man. The trigger was squeezed, not pulled. His breath was non-existant and his shot in a moment without heartbeat. The bearded man emptied his pan, walked through the smoke angrily at seeing his brothers ahead of him shot down. Scared for his own life, but promising himself that the Gods would watch over him. He was old school and traditional, the Imperials were those favored by the Divines. He went to work back to priming his weapon for fire.

"God of battles, to Thee we pray
Be with each loyal son who fights
In the cause of justice and human rights;
Grant us strength and lead the way."

His weapon was finished reloading as musket fire whistled passed him, his own offering its own storm and thunder. No quarter would be given or could be given, the quicker these men died, the quicker the wounded could be tended to. To save the lives of his brothers, he would end the lives of these others.

"God of battles, our lives we give
To the battle line on a foreign soil,
To conquer hatred and lust and spoil;
Grant that they and their cause shall live."



Gritz had heard this, nodded to no one in particular and began running off into the direction of his Optio.



Gritz cussed under his breath..."C'mon!" he paused in a moment of confusion, his own instincts and the Centurion's orders won out, he turned around and began sprinting as muskets flied in the area he was just in. The god's watched Kaisie Lorunus, there was just no other reasonable explanation for his survival through all these years short of having the devil's luck.

Intervention Event: Gritz ran towards the Wounded as a few shots coming from his ally's side crashed into the Anticlere line before him, the militia were faltering. Running to the peach field behind them in pairs and solo...the line was beginning to break, and surely would if pushed hard. "Centurion! Right flank! Push on their right flank ( OOC: Flanks are sides right?)!" he shouted to the loudest of his ability. Hands went to work on rifle as he began the process of loading, Cassius slapped his back and sent a laugh. The Redguard loved the fear and adrenaline of battle, "Shaking like orphans in Bruma...haha". The man fired his rifle, Gritz did the same. "Fire on their right! The right flank!".

[sorry for the delay, I've been slowed down by being out with my family]

Fara heard Daelin's order ? and didn't like it much. First we have to go through the bastards, then to clear a two-storied tavern pack with bloody anticlerans. The captain 'wants' it and that means going inside, if it had been 'take it out' we could have set it on fire and be done with it. Thrice-damned crap... But despite her thoughts she replied "I heard you. But first we'll have to get through fancy hat and his buddies."

With the words she took position for her third shot, now only sixty yards from the anticleran line. Close enough for the drifting smoke to drift apart and let her see the now familiar hat, still firmly set on the head of a very lively officer. Not even a scratch. Either I missed completely or the guys in the ditch in front of him bought it instead. Lucky son-of-cat. This time she planted the forkette in front of her and carefully aimed for the man. Taking her time as the militias in front of he was mostly reloading their guns. Before they could finish Fara expertly squeezed her trigger in a gentle caress, holding her breath for a steady shot.

As the gun barked and before the cloud of smoke could obscure her vision she was rewarded with a much expected sight : the fancily feathered hat sailing to the ground as the officer wearing it suddenly dropped down with a scream. Got you bastard !

Before she could reload she heard the captain's ordering the charge. Hoping the unsteady militia in front of her would be shaken enough by losing their officer she jumped to her feet, barely taking time to grab the forkette to slip it through her belt, before unsheathing her sword. Yelling at the top of her lung the wail of a warcry passed down from her tribal ancestors. A blood-curling sound reminiscent of a hyena's manical laughter or a bird of prey's screech as it pins down a rodent. It lacked her homeland's thick foliage cover and the war drum's pounding counterpoint, but the heavy smoke and the field gun's thunder strokes made a decent replacement.

Still yelling she started running toward the road as fast as she could. Zig-zagging at random to throw off the militia's aim. Hoping her luck and their faltering morale would be enough to reach the road.

Artois

"Take Artois!"

"Oh bloody hell!" Artois yelled, stopping before he'd entered the puff of smoke that followed his shot and wishing he hadn't heard the command. The tavern was on their right, while he was somewhere along the left-most part of the skirmish line. [censored]... Pulling his forkette out of the ground, he turned around, diving behing their line to cover himself from musketballs somewhat, leaned over as much as he comfortably could to present a smaller target and ran, stuffing the forkette behind his back as he did. Merely running wasn't enough - he still had to make sure his sword wasn't stuck, a rather complicated task while running with a musket. He'd done worse things during the last thirteen or so years, though, so a brief slowdown later he could grasp his musket with both hands and run like hell towards where he and apparently some others were wanted.

Musket smoke clouding the battlefield, he hoped the militia wouldn't see him, damning to Oblivion their black uniform. Right now he would've preffered a grey or white one, as the Anticlerians had... Limited protection, but better than nothing. Of course it wouldn't do him any good up close, charging... He hated that practice always, some called it 'manly' but Artois called it 'crazy'. He didn't like fighting eye to eye; Tamriel had moved on from such times, at least for the musketeers in the many armies trodding around consuming government money. The times of the Imperial Legion as a force armed with swords and all that was long over and this musketeer didn't exactly fancy reviving old traditions - they were dead for a reason. He preffered for them to stay dead and for him to stay alive - a charge probably doubled the chance he'd die, although he pulled through every time so far. Sometimes barely, but pulled through.

Of course, claiming some gods-forsaken tavern sounds muuch better. 'Gritz is needed with the wounded'... Bloody medics. At least Gritz's worth a damn, a certain other can't even get rid of a peasant. 'Yes Artois, piss the villagers off further with yet more idiotic announcements so they lump rocks at you while the medics wander around attracting yet more trouble'... Gritting his teeth tighter, he would've bitten his lip as per his habit, but slipping and biting some of it off didn't sound very nice. So Artois kept running, trying to follow the shade which he could see up ahead that probably belonged to Fara, guessing from the size, the yell before running off and the fact the few other Bosmeri of Talos' Own didn't exactly have a reason to run off like that, unless it was Daelin or some Breton learned to shriek like a wild animal.

The air was filled with an oppressive, heavy and penetrating roar. There were at least seven thousand men fighting for an otherwise unimportant village and crossroads. Pikes and swords hacked into flesh and thumped off armor. Muskets cracked and popped like corn kernels over a fire. Shouts and cries in a myriad of languages shouted in anger pain and fear.

The tavern stood like a blockhouse at the center of the militia line that was already beginning to crumble. The men who had once held the ditch had lasted longer than expected. They had taken fire and given it in return, but it was they who broke first. The men with hunting guns and blunderbuss' were melting away into the peach orchard, tearing off powder flasks and snapsacks, and throwing their weapons away in their terrified flight. The militia pikemen were still fighting the imperial block, but without support, they wouldn't last long.

Ottus screamed out of terror and anger as he ran. He had intended to toss his matchlock aside and revert to his sword if the Breton line held, but with every step he took that seemed less and less likely. A cold icy hand gripped at his throat and the familiar fear set in but was released almost as quickly. The dappled grey and white line was firing their last shots before turning to run. Before him, he could see several young men, no more than 15 or 16 scrambling up the opposite side of the drainage ditch. They splashed a combination of mud and pooled blood onto the hard packed dirt road as they ran. Ottus stopped short of the ditch to kneel and fire one more shot at the fleeing group.

He made sure not to aim at anyone, instead throwing his shot into empty ground. No man deserves to be shot in the back...

"To me! Around the back of the tavern!" Optio Daenlin shouted the command as he ran towards the left side of the stone building, doubled over trying to make himself smaller than he already was. More shots cracked out from the second floor, aimed down at the running group. Suddenly there was a scream of pain, and the elf collapsed into the flowers cursing and shouting in Bosmeri.

With the militia turning heels, Fara kept her pace, using her speed to jump over the ditch to the road. She cursed her musket as the bulky and heavy weapon almost sent her kissing the road. Only her natural agility kept her on foot. While she was crossing toward the tavern, she angled her run to follow Daelin, eager to reach the tavern's wall and leave the line of fire of whoever was forted inside. Damn, can't the idiots figure out they're cut from their buddies and surrender like anyone sensible would ?

She barely winced as a volley was fired from the second floor in her general direction, too busy keeping her balance while carrying the bulky musket in one hand and her sword in the other. But swore venomously as Daelin fell. At least the diminutive optio's foul curses told her he was still alive. She dropped her weapons to grab his coat, lifting him fro the ground and half-carried, half dragged him to the tavern's wall, barely slowing in the process. A feat made possible only by adrenaline and the bosmer's light weight.. Daelin's about the only ranker I care for. If these heroic morons have killed him, screw the orders, I'll torch that damn tavern...

Now reasonably safe from the anticleran fire she made a quick survey of the optio, looking for the wound. Hoping her limited skill at first aid would be enough to keep him alive. She yelled as loud as she could "I need a medic, the optio's injured."

At the same time a corner of her mind raced frantically to find some way to clear the tavern. I hope Artois can convince them to surrender. I they don't it'll be a real pain to flush them out. As her gaze drifted over the discarded equipment a nasty smile came to her lips, a plan forming in her mind. Might work, but I can't do a thing before Daelin's taken care of.

Artois

From what he could see and hear, Artois determined the militia were throwing in the towel - the battle was won, though his survival was not yet ensured, courtesy of his kinsmen over at the tavern. The Optio fell ahead on his way to the tavern; Fara immediately jumped to his aid. He himself couldn't say he felt too much for Daelin, he was just another officer in the crowd. What mattered more was if Artois lived - survival took precedence over care for comrades, which wasn't a very strong emotion in him anyway. Going to die with the same bastards over and over again seems to help one's relationship with said bastards a bit... But one tries not to get too attached, especially when they're Cyrodiils. Maybe I should ask if he's okay... Wait, stupid question, of course he's not. He's been bloody shot a couple moments ago. Dropping into the field of flowers he could feel his usual thoughts returning. Now that the main battle was done with, hopefully, the thrill was going down somewhat; the need to push the remaining enemy in the tavern to death or hopefully surrender was more important now. One more step and we're out...

Lying in the flowers still for a moment, thinking of playing dead and just hoping the whole thing passes away, Artois began considering likely courses of action. They could, of course, charge in like a bunch of idiots and try to shoot the holed in militiamen, but getting them to walk out of their hole would probably be better and less suicidal. Perhaps he could put his dialect to use for once; after all he spoke fluid Bretic with an Anticlerian dialect, so why not bloody use it. He could've yelled 'surrender or die' and get jeered at for being a traitor of his motherland and all that stuff he's already been given... On the other hand, he could try a different play. Yes, to play could bring far more use than simply trying to negotiate them into surrendering. Crawling over to the wall where he'd be safer than in the field considering that he was going to get yelling, he squeezed himself into a spot where he'd be least visible from the tavern, a bit off from Fara and Daelin who were waiting for one of the medics.

"Sons of the Republic! They day is lost but not the war!" Yelling in as clear an Anticlerian dialect as he could muster and in a voice that he hoped would sound most like an officer, he frowned. This better bloody work... And some bloody idiot better not get the idea of shooting me for 'conspiring with the enemy'. "Lay down your arms, defenders of liberty, but only for the moment; surrender to the Cyrodiilic pigs so that you may live, escape and fight another day! FOR ANTICLERE! LIBERTY AND REPRESENTATION!" Hoping this impersonation of an officer will have fooled the militia inside into thinking these were actual orders, he grit his teeth, firing his musket off into the air, gargling as loud as he could and then dropping on the ground, hoping the Anticlerians would think their officer to have been shot and him to be just another shot musketeer of Talos' Own, if they even saw him that is.