» Wed Oct 06, 2010 4:08 am ( http://www.gamesas.com/bgsforums/index.php?showtopic=1041918)
The Lost Army - By Asfadael Durmin (Historian)
3E 204 14 Rain's Hand - Black Marsh
Darsheen ran down the path to the village. Spring had come to the Blackspine mountains, on the western border of black marsh, and the dense forests were glistening with moisture, as melt water flowed into the valleys from the thawing in the high passes. Mud splashed the legs and tail of the Argonian girl as she ran, a look of panic on her face despite the dewy beauty of the path. She rounded the bend and came to the village, nestled as it was on a small rise above a meander in the stream that ran through the valley. This close to the colder mountains, the Hist trees were not particularly common, but, like most villages in Black Marsh, hers was centered on a large and gnarled specimen, whose twisted roots she dodged as she ran towards the chieftains hall. Two Ironscale guards stood at the door, their ceremonial spears with glinting barbs at their sides as they stood in the mud. One winked at the chieftain's daughter as she entered the half-built, half-grown building, sheltered from the sky by the leaves of the tree whose roots it was built into. He noticed the intense expression on the girl's face and was taken aback, but knew not to inquire further - he would know soon enough what was the matter. He looked into the distance and patiently licked his eyeballs.
Her father was planning a hunt with some of the men of the village, when Darsheen ran in, her muddy feet dirtying the fresh reeds on the floor.
"Father! Father!"
The Chieftain hissed at this new disturbance, and turned around in frustration, flicking his forked tongue, but his expression changed as he saw the fear in the little girl's eyes.
"Father, Lord," she panted "Men are coming!"
"I hate these woods!" spat legionary Quintus, the spittle making a soft sound as it landed in the thick bracken that the soldiers squatted in. His two companions grunted in agreement as they stared at the blackened mess pot over the tiny fire between them. Scattered all around them, amongst the trees and damp bracken, their comrades adopted similar positions, moisture dripping from their heavy, moss-stained plate armour, and the leather straps and packs tied to it. The paraphernalia of an army was present everywhere: armourer's hammers hanging from one pack, arrows in an oilskin quiver and an unstrung bow from another, pots and a dead rabbit from a third. An air of fatigue and repressed anger hung over the group of men. They were in the midst of a hard march, and this quick break had none of the bustling atmosphere of an evening camp in more hospitable climes.
"I'm not sure which I hate more," grumbled Quintus, "the flies or the vines. Kyraneth herself would spit blood if she had to traipse through this Gods forsaken forest."
The other legionaries were silent. They agreed, but each wanted their own space, and besides, the petulant mutterings seemed out of place amongst these eerily quiet trees. Quintus fell silent, but continued to grumble under his breath, his muted curses sounding like the rustling of leaves in this strangely windless place.
"Oh Talos, no," muttered another legionary after a time, "It just got worse."
The others looked around to see a robed priest approaching. They'd picked up this zealot at Leyawiin with the garrison there, and this Blackwood-born monk had taken it upon himself to 'keep up morale'. After 5 days' march through the tangled woods and fetid swamps of Blackwood, his cheery assertions were wearing pretty thin, and the exertion was getting even to him, if the greyness around his eyes and the twigs in his hair were anything to go by.
"Did I hear a little blasphemy back there, Quintus eh?" he said, his cheery voice ringing off the trees. He'd even the time to learn everyone's names, which irritated every poor bastard that had the misfortune of talking to him.
"You are a fetcher. Shut your hyper-religious gob before I do it for you.2
"Quintus I am appalled," he said with mock sincerity. "You know why we are here. The Lizardmen raids on our ports just cannot go on. Twenty people died in that raid on Leyawiin. We are going to sneak into Argonia over these mountains and give those scaly swits what for!"
As refreshing as it was to hear the priest curse, none of the soldiers were in the mood. This was just another posting for them, and after a series of probably short and brutal battles, they'd be marched back to another province to do the same thing all over again.
"Quiet," growled one particularly grizzled veteran, and silence fell once more.
Chieftain Licks-His-Teeth had already sent out scouts to the high meadows and the pass to confirm what his daughter had said, and had gathered the entire village to his hall. All but the women with young children, and the village shaman, who was consulting his rituals in his tree-hut, were present.
"I was in the high meadows, on the rocky outcrop to the north looking over the valley. I was basking when I saw a glint on the border side". The young argonian, unused to such scrutiny, stammered and fiddled with her tail.
"I looked closer and saw that it was a horse, covered in shiny metal plates. Some men in armour were tending to it, and others were nearby, cooking over a small fire. I noticed a haze of smoke over the whole area, and behind them on the far road, a cloud of dust from what must be a supply train. It looked like an entire army!"
"How far were they?"
"They were near the bottom of the border side of the pass. I don't know how long it will take them to get through, as the forest is very thick there, and they were armoured."
"You have done well to bring this news. Now go to your Egg-Mother."
Darsheen nodded and looked up into her father's face and smiled. The chieftain was fond of his daughter, but praise from him was a rare thing indeed. She scurried off and a frenzied hum started as the villagers contemplated this startling news.
The scouts had returned, and had confirmed Darsheen's news that a host of men were coming - a legion of experienced soldiers, a mere 3 days march to the village. Messengers had been dispatched to neighbouring villages and deeper into Blackmarsh. The village was a cacophony of activity: the lizard-men's cold-blooded logic knew that they would not be able to even dent the legions numbers or progress. Even with their guerrilla tactics and superior knowledge of the local terrain, 20 warriors were no match to over 1000. They would be best served to hide up in the high meadows and cliffside caves, and then attack the supply caravans once the legion had gone past. So although the decision would not be officially made until the Shaman had been consulted, the villagers were already packing or hiding their belongings, as well as preparing their beasts of burden with food supplies.
Licks-His-Teeth went alone into the Shaman's tree-hut. An Ironscale stood wait outside, and the other village elders were discussing practicalities and organizing the exodus, but only those summoned were allowed in the Shaman's home. The chieftain stooped, waiting in the hut entrance, his crests rattling against the wooden charms and bundles of herbs that hung from the ceiling. Being in the Shaman's house always made him slightly uneasy - they had been egg-mates and friends throughout childhood, and remained so, both occupying vital positions within the village. The chieftain greatly valued the advice of the Shaman, who was wise beyond what his relatively ageless exterior showed. But here, in this house and surrounded by the spirituality and magic, the chieftain realised how far apart they had grown. Although he was a wise and powerful leader, his friend had qualities that Licks-His-Teeth could sense but never understood.
"My friend, come in!" called the Shaman.
"Shaman, Golden-scale, you know why I come."
They embraced and stood back. They made a striking contrast. The chieftain was tall and muscular, powerful sinew moving beneath his iridescent red and green scales. He wore a jewelled bronze yoke across his broad shoulders, and his head was resplendent with a tall green crest and polished horns, which continued down the back of his neck. From his belt hung a shirt of wide strips of dark, metal studded leather, as well as a vicious scimitar with a bone handle. In contrast, the diminutive shaman wore skirts of soft light leather, covered in pouches and feathers. The striking difference was that Golden-Scales was an albino, his scales were a muted cream with golden patterning, and his eyes were a pale pink. He shared the chieftains upright posture - although not his strength - and tattooed across his chest was the brown outline of a Hist tree. Both radiated equal auras of power.
"An Imperial legion comes our way, and will destroy our village before marching on to cause further havoc, and you want my blessing to your decision."
"Indeed. Over a thousand campaigning veterans come, likely headed by a battlemage. Though my heart is filled with anger at these men's arrogance, we have no choice but to hide in the mountains."
"You show wisdom in your choices Chieftain, but fleeing is unnecessary. I certainly will not."
Licks-His-Teeth was taken aback, but before he could speak the Shaman raised his hand.
"You know that we do not often venture to those woods. Not only are they too close to the border, the ease at which even our best hunters can get lost is a local legend?"
"An army cannot get lost!"
"I have consulted the entrails and the roots and one thing is clear - something stalks the branches of the Mother Tree in those woods, and tonight this hunter will begin his hunt anew. That army will never leave that pass".
The chieftain stared in disbelief - not once in his 40 years had he ever heard something so bizarre come from a shaman.
After a short silence he spoke: "Very well. I trust your wisdom friend, but I will not risk all these people. We lose nothing by fleeing, but if we stay, we could be doomed, so the exodus will continue. You, however, may stay if it pleases you. In a week's time I will send scouts back"
"Your decision is well considered and wise. You have the blessings of the Mother Tree."
The two Argonians embraced again.
"Good luck, my friend."
"And good luck to you. May the trees watch over you."
Licks-His-Teeth moved to leave.
"And someone needs to look after the Hist while you're gone!"
The march continued in the morning. Although unusually, none of the scouts had come back yet, Battlemage Hastus had ordered to break up camp in the morning. This close to the border and hostile territories, all the soldiers were tense. A light fog had settled by morning and would have reduced visibility to about 50 metres, if the thickness of the trees hadn't already reduced it to about 15 anyway. Thick bracken clogged the floor, and dead wood growth crowded between gnarled trees. Due to the terrain, the soldiers were marching in a loose disorganized formation, snaking through the woods in a line about three or four men thick. A stifling silence had descended upon the woods. Even the underfoot crunch of bracken and snapping of twigs was muted, as if the very forest didn't want to draw attention to itself.
Quintus could not feel more wretched. His feet were basically one huge blister, and the skin on his forehead and shins was being rubbed raw by his helmet and greaves. He had slept badly the night before, having had a series of disconcerting nightmares: he had been running through the trees, on his own, being chased by some hidden beast, always behind him. In his dream, darkness had gathered and he'd woken up, only to find himself in the woods alone, and the dream would begin anew, each chase more distressing than the last. These dreams had left him, upon finally being awoken into the real world, with an indistinct and profound sense of claustrophobic loneliness and building panic. Weirdly enough the other soldiers looked equally tense, and Quintus had an irrational suspicion that he was not the only one to have had that dream.
Quintus trudged through the woods, being able to see about seven men in front and behind him before the woods swallowed them. He couldn't even hear the men in front or behind him, as the fog and trees muffled any sound.
To compound his misery that accursed priest had ended up next to him, dammit! What luck! The irritating man kept beseeching Zenithar for strength and Mara for stamina, not only for himself but for the soldiers too. Being unable to preach to a whole group of men, he seemed to have decided that Quintus was uniquely deserving of his platitudes. Rather than reassuring, the constant flow of theology was not only getting on Quintus' nerves, but making him more and more distressed. The monk's voice was by far the most audible thing in these woods, ringing off the trees and the gloom. This was amplifying Quintus's feeling of panic - something was in this forest, and this incessant pvssyring was attracting its attention, it was going to find them and they wouldn't be able to escape it. That man had to stop talking! Now!
Quintus suddenly stopped and turned to face the priest, pinning him to a tree.
"SHUT UP!" he roared. "Please, please stop talking, something is out there and it can hear you, please stop talking, please?" Quintus's voice trailed off to nothing, and the priest noticing the pleading fear in his eyes, nodded. They turned back to the march?
"Where did everyone go!" Quintus yelled. He looked back to the priest to see his own terror mirrored on the priest's face.
"WHERE ARE YOUUU!" Quintus screamed. His voice echoed from the trees surrounding the two men with an army of mocking phantoms, but no people appeared, and no sound other than those echoes where heard.
Eventually even those died down and silence surrounded the two men. For an age they stood there, and then sensing the beast's presence, Quintus ran.
It had taken merely a day for the villagers to get themselves and their possessions to the high meadows and their cliffside caves, but Darsheen had run up with the scouts and front runners. She was only 12 but already had the running abilities of one much older, and besides it was only 3 hours' run - not much for an Argonian, famed for their atheletic prowess. By the time she arrived she could just see the last glints of the legion entering the thick woods of the pass. Half and hour later and they had been swallowed by the trees.
Darsheen was not gifted with great stealth, and spent her time with the sentinels on the cliffs, watching the valley whilst other villagers hunted around the high meadows or picked roots and herbs. After 3 days of watching the pass, still no soldiers had emerged, and even after a week had passed nothing appeared.
The chieftain was assembling a group of scouts to accompany him down to the village. When Darsheen asked, he allowed her to accompany the band of ten warriors, providing that she "ran if there was the slightest hint of a fight."
Darsheen found the run to the village refreshing and exhilarating, after a tense week of waiting around on the cliffs.
It was downhill and the bright sunlight dazzled off the dew on each leaf and flower. Licks-His-Teeth was impressed at his daughters speed and stamina - she would be an able wife, and maybe, one day a chieftain.
When they arrived at the village, they found the Shaman sitting serenely under the Hist tree. The chief set some scouts to start a fire - the smoke would be a signal to the villagers that all was well - and smiled as the Shaman beckoned his daughter and started telling her wisdom of the forest. Yes he thought to himself, a chieftain.
If there are any lore-scholars out there, maybe you could help me with the dates - has the imperial legion ever been at war with Argonia? It is set about 200 years prior to Oblivion - is there a better date?
Thank you very much for reading!
