"Mono/Dialogue"
'Inner thoughts'
Narration
[Message/communication apparatus]
Date: Winter 1919 NWC or 646 AU.
Location: Somewhere in Helicar
POV: Narration
The snow battered among men who traveled far from home under banners of duty and bid for a better world. How such a will came to be depends upon many factors that could range from the smallest exchange between comrades with little at stake, and those of lords and dies who reigned from their high towers to marvel at the realm of men with interest or disdain.
The imperial banner fpping defiantly in the wind against the cascade of snow and a show of utmost force and pride as the end of their journey is yet to be in sight. Yet men are brittle, and banners isoted from the warmth of encampment provide a deafening backdrop of an unseen reckoning.
Men numbering no less than one thousand had taken the short end of the stick as they marched further westward to deliver the message of the many difficulties presented upon the Empire they served. War did not abate; it had escated to a level that beggared belief, as bitter anger shadows and shifts outside of view.
Baggage trains are rare, with most of their belonging carried by donkeys and mules. The Imperial war machine had been taking a severe toll from constant, unknown strikes. These men had just subdued yet another fortified settlement, but the cost was heavy, and the siege was brutal as they struggled to find food.
Trace of the ambush had grown cold, and the greater army needed to split to forage when they could. Ground Army typically lives off the nd; even Imperial ingenuity won’t be able to conjure a whole wagon of supplies out of thin air. This whole mess affects their morale. Men who should be walking home in triumph and glory are instead sacking a meager settlement of little value.
Morale was further compromised as the bulk of the peasantry fled through underground caverns and tunnels. All they found was a hideously stubborn old man who felled twelve before his head was popped open with a burst of arquebuses to the face. There were few women, and too many of them died too soon before most could ske their thirst.
Here they are now: eyes wide, figures twitching, smell of blood imprinted in their mind, and expecting the whisper of death growing far too common. They were fooled: War did not just end there, and rightly upon Imperial Edict. Sets of rules and understanding had been nothing but suggestions by the sane people in a world going mad. Thus, men began to whisper anything but that bloody siege, banishing the screaming and dying for a better time and condition.
“We are relocated further north, towards a new camp where East wasn’t even subdued. Some say we are formalizing the conquest once the Emperor found Arganea’s promise of no further use.” A grizzled veteran mused aloud to the drummer behind him, he had been surviving long enough to hold the saber of his office.
“Mighty fine news then. We got nothing out here while the Eastern Army gains loot and honor by conquering Western Arganea, and the Free Cities Subjugation armies gain nds. It is about time we put our skills to better use and better hands for our children and family.” The drummer keeps the rhythm of their marching steps, the sound wrestles with cascading snow beneath their marching feet.
“I need to say that st comely ss had mighty fine cunt, shame she has too many undesirable traits for His Imperial Majesty’s divine vision.” One who spoke of such relish and delight was once a bright young man who might be unable to do any harm, but one siege battle and the sights of blood and flesh torn apart had allowed him to sample the spoils of war.
His words were affirmed by small chuckles or murmurs, but most stayed silent as the toll of cold and equipment bearing down on them. The magically capable members of theirs keep their arcane might coiled as needed, especially the fire mage required to keep warmth in the middle of the formation and provide further support as needed.
“I daresay we are focusing too much on their surface comeliness. It’s no old times where those pointy ears and walking beasts could hold a candle to Empire’s ingenuity. We would have gotten better use of them as a source of bor, killing them did nothing else than make the ground plump at a time we won’t see.”
Occasional intelligent comments had been said beforehand, like one this person had spouted. Although the undertones remain horrific, one cannot deny that evil comes in many stripes, with those stripes hiding the truest color that has been suppnted.
“Ye prattles on as some fancy city folks, what are ye? A bastard son?” The veteran carrying a banner interjects with a mildly annoyed tone. His gaze cuts through critically, even from the corner of his eyes.
As they spend their time speaking, whatever could banish the boredom and unease, such conversations carry towards the more prestigious cuirassiers trotting in parallel to their formation. Although some disdain the soldiers on foot, many focus on keeping themselves under control or on their surroundings. Better training, upbringing, and even opportunity… and yet some people will still speak out of turn.
“What in Thrice-Blessed Heaven had occurred…?” A retively middling-ranked noble whispered to his trusted retainer, his eyes that same weariness full of fright, but holding onto pride. His armor is more ornate and bears the sigil of his house; his bde is a masterwork for both cutting and parrying.
“Pardon me, milord?” A rider to his left, a trusted adjutant and friend, turns his gaze briefly onto him. Not much and not for long, as they will soon enter through a narrow valley opening.
“Bsted shortcut… no matter, and where was I? Ah, yes, pigeon letters from our further east, these beast blood communed with devils for a scrap of fighting chance against the complete might of our empire. They dare to break taboo for allowing infernal power to spill upon the realm of order.”
His words could be construed as treason, but he is safe enough on the dder of hierarchy that describes this rapidly evolving nation’s social structure. He cast an occasional gnce with a tightened jaw as pikemen and arquebusiers kept on talking.
“Was that wise, milord? Men are skittish as is; we mustn’t introduce discord upon ourselves.” His banner bearer interjects with admirable brevity, his own vision pointed forward at the silvered-steel standard of this force.
“He spoke with a legitimate concern, milord. It will do much harm to discuss such a matter in pin sight. His lordship shall surely summon you for a stern talking to.” His gaze follows that of their banner bearer, just in time as the overall commander was being whispered something.
“Men speak as they wish, Randon. One cannot keep a mouth shut when fear grips the heart. I came from a position of hypocrisy, aye, but I will not have me and my men suffer for naught but clueless ambition. We are sent out to die in the snow by those cowards.”
“Milord, I suggest you cease from further treasonous venom. These are dark days ahead of us.”
“… I suppose there’s a sliver of truth from you. Fine by myself, we shall cease to” His voice was cut off as the horse started getting agitated. Before he can comprehend what had transpired, the ground starts shaking, a tremor that halts the column in its halt.
Their training kicks in immediately, pikes face each side of the narrow valley, the thick forest lets little to be seen, while the snow further obscures their vision. Arquebusiers take their position in between the pikes, their arquebus pointed upward onto the hill and ready to put a hole in any foe who dares to tackle the Empire’s pike-and-shot.
“Cuirassiers on me! Don’t get cornered! Hyaah!” He kicked his spur as his men followed suit; the solid formation to repel an ambush had been established, but the shaking only intensified. Mages intersperse themselves in between lines; the temperature that had been manageable turns into a biting sting of cold.
The earth rumbles as men’s hearts grow taut and rigid bodies make stout shields against the intensifying shaking. Officers barked words of courage to steel themselves for what might be unveiled from the snowy mist up front. Pikes meant to skewer flesh and blood are their only means for immediate anchor.
Such a quick reaction was caused by the trained and experienced army drummer guiding with their thumping and tunes. Formations could solidify or contract as one could easily curl and uncurl a palm, a testament to the Empire’s unrelenting drive to produce the best qualities of soldiers needed.
Supplies and baggage were funneled between the porcupine of sharpened spears and doom through the muzzle of arquebuses. Those not in immediate combat help the non-combatant in distributing bullets and specially made gunpowder that could resist the cold but requires an arcane ability to ignite. Rapid and efficient, this is the army that will soon bring Helicar to heel, an army borne from the mind of a genius or the wise.
War had always brought the best and worst of men, but fear will always exist. Uncertainty of what they shall face is a prime breeding ground for doubt, and this very doubt made even the bravest second-guess themselves. This shared grim expression of unity is thus tested.
“Hold the line! Regardless of what horror breaches through the veil in front of you, none shall abandon his brother and his brother next to him! You’re the Empire’s most glorious servants! Long live the Emperor!” The officer shouted with his bde held aloft, and the drums rang to maintain the orderly cohesion.
“Long live the Emperor!” The arquebuses were the first to reply, their confidence borne from months or years of training. They can shoot four times in a minute, a staggering level of firepower. These are the same men who broke Arganean and many other mounted warriors; their withering barrage reduced pageantry to mush on a dirty, muddy field.
“Long live the Emperor!” Pikes were the next to follow; these are the backbone where arquebuses shattered knights’ glories and their inherent superiority. These men are the thankless ones who held the line as many dispy great feats of arms, many forgot that war ended not with thunderous charge but by the marching steps of men ready to die for a greater cause.
“Long live the Emperor!” Cuirassiers are the hammer, for these are men who ride and gallop to glory or death. Expected and trained with the best of means and equipment, these are the next generation of warrior css, solely meant to be effective rather than pleasing to see. Their positioning is precarious, but their better training and drill made them effective on horseback or otherwise.
There’s nothing here but for that same tumbling from the world beyond the fog. No cries, no whistling of arrows, just the steady lumbering of steps or perhaps someone else. Arquebuses raised high, scanning for the source of that shaking... then they all witnessed it. Witness them.
Large burning boulders glide from the topmost valley, heading to plow straight through armies of men. The officers are the first to bark.
“Mages to the front! Protect the formation-!” He was struck by several arrows, one of which lodged deeply in his shoulder. Around him, the formations were under a rain of arrows arching from the unseen peak towards trapped men below.
“Ambush!” Reflexive cries rang out along the rectangur formation.
“Keep your pikes upright! Let them snags-ahhh!” An encouraging veteran was cut short when a crossbow bolt pierced his open mouth.
“Steady! Hold up your formation!” More encouragement based upon terror overridden and instinct overwritten. Be it as the one who shouted such be, none could stop how those around him, dead-bodies-to-be, continuous streams to scream in pain and whimper left the lips, one young pikeman held his pike up, he is fading, but that’s all he can do. Another is more resourceful by using the dead comrade in front of him as a meat shield, literally.
The pike's density is an umbrel where arrows and crossbow bolts are snagged and nullified. Many had forgotten the wisdom of keeping a tightly pike forest of pike as technology went to the hall of fame and waned as time went on; this is one such idea. 18-foot-long pikes don’t sound like much against hails of arrows, but gather enough ranks and columns, and this porcupine could be so much more.
Still, many of said arrows slipped past, embedding themselves in exposed flesh where no mail or steel could stop their painful disruption. Joints were pierced, necks were drilled open, and feet were embedded with sharp steel, which made men howl in pain and terror.
Those in at the center fared much worse, with the unarmored and unprotected burden animals dying in droves besides the non-combatants. Their scream makes a horrific backdrop for men forced to stand their ground. It will be prudent to break formation, but their stillness was borne from their assurance of the mages near them.
These mages conjure their shields, fireballs, wind bdes, and other esoteric viotions of physics under a constant hail of arrows, shields meant to deflect the incoming boulder and save the formation from disintegrating. Fireball breaking or slowing the boulder, wind bdes chipping or veering away, and more.
“Hold! Do not falter! These louts are cowards! Hold your ground, men of empire! His Imperial majesty demands it!” An officer raised his voice further, encouraging the men to let out one unified shout, confidence reinforced, worth more than several armies of men whose hearts were long gone.
This much would be a sufficient response; the formation holds, and then the ambusher will be forced to pin them down else a breakthrough can be achieved. Except these are not just lumps of mud with hay set on fire. Boulders made contact with the mages’ arcane answer, and these boulders exploded without a set rule that could be understood.
One exploded upon contact and burst completely, while others exploded into chunks of fming balls and sharpened debris when a mage managed to veer it away. This is the start of pandemonium as shards of rocks punch holes and rending flesh, or crushing bones and tenderizing flesh. The view of mages failing to truly stop the incoming boulder seeps into the hearts of men; they, too, are unable to leave the confines of this rigid porcupine as arrows test them and their mettle.
Another set of explosions rocked the formations. The boulder didn’t explode immediately, but plowed through men trying to avoid its crushing weight. The formation falter, men’s sense of self-preservation could be overridden by the marching steps of nature.
The rains of projectiles never cease; it only escates as greater gaps in the pikemen’s lines are one more vulnerable weak spot. Arquebusiers who relied on the pikes’ orderly box for protection were left open; their lighter gear made them poorly suited against simple, sharpened steel.
“B-Brace-ack!”
“Hold your ground! Stay in formation! Hold!”
“Keep the pikes upright! Keep our lines intact!” Commands added another tapestry of chaos and desperation while arrows and boulders cascade from some unseen position. Then... they heard another shaking. Not one of rumbling earth but the din of footsteps of men and beasts against the backdrop of suffering.
From the snow mist, silhouettes form and solidify. Arganean men and women cd in a patchwork of equipment charged down the hill with their arms raised. Arquebusiers light their guns, and rge billows of smoke heralded the thundering of death, but there are too many against far too few, or perhaps that’s what the Arganean wants.
The rains of arrows had ceased, but the boulders aren’t, and in fact continue to flow where no Arganean ambushers are in sight. Men were forced to compress their formation to avoid contact with these exploding boulders; not all exploded in truth, but the presentation made a mockery of facts. Those with their backs turned to face the other side of the valley can do nothing but pray that the arrows won’t strike their side, which gets increasingly unlikely with each choked gasp and pained scream.
The situation was made worse when Arganean, armed with Imperial-made arquebuses, fired back and held the high ground as close as possible, maximizing their potential for lethal barrages. If they get killed, those next to them will simply pick up the gun and continue applying pressure. Most of the ambushers bear confiscated or stolen, or looted Halciadonish equipment and steel.
Time slows down as the collision of conventional combat is inevitable. These Argeneans had lost much to the Imperial, and there were even a few familiar faces from the now fttened fortress town. Mad charge soon slowed into a more disciplined line of shields and spears.
“Brace! They are here!” An officer raised his saber, face set in grim determination, but the formation was no longer cohesive as formations buckled under pressure. The formation of Arganean infantries stops a few feet away from the 18-foot-long pike... and they began throwing weapons.
From the humblest of rocks to the most unhinged sword, projectiles were thrown at maximum lethality, being literally stone-throw away. Disorienting the pikemen by inflicted casualties and terror, that’s the moment the Argeneans had been waiting for.
Imperial Cuirassiers skirted around their defense lines, trying to relieve the pressure now becoming an all too real annihition. Seeing that their enemies had arrived, they are no longer just sitting ducks, although a few had lost their horses. Their armor protects them, allowing for swift regaining of command.
“One banner with me! The other circle around the other side of their fnks! Mind your footing and those boulders and arrows!” With that competent command, the cuirassiers broke like a tide, pistol and saber singing as they fell men and women.
Yet it came far too te to break the ambushers, the boulders smming onto them and exploding further worsen everything. The elites were bogged down, spears and hammers were used effectively as they were getting whittled down.
“Breakthrough! Cuirassiers on me! Breakthrough!” A sensible but cruel command left a mounted commander’s lips. His words introduce relief and dread as the infantry are now forced to contend without their agile complement.
“Come back here! Damn blue bloods dogs!”
“Hold the line! Hold the line! Gods! Hold the line!”
“They’re leaving us to die!”
“Enemy is upon us! Brace!” Some sembnce of training remains, and the front-most pikes pnt the butt of their pike to rest beneath one foot as an anchor. One hand keeping it pointed diagonally upward, while the other pulling their estoc, rapier, shortsword, and other shorter side-arms. The second to fifth leveled their pikes perpendicur to their shoulder as the front rank bent forward; these are the real killing machine.
Yet their stationary position meant the boulders crashed onto them more viciously, scoring casualties in the dozens at the most vulnerable point. Their discipline, once a commendable thing, is now a death trap for a confused and terrified mind. The body had been long so conditioned to follow commands was made to freeze unless commanded otherwise.
“Forward!!! For the King and the Crown!” Arganean shielded infantries moved first, their shield shoved diagonally downward before raising them up, blunting the porcupine of pikes as it was pointed where they weren’t needed. This is such a simple solution that is unviable when field combat is concerned, but here? Pikemen were reminded why their formation had been abandoned at several moments in history.
“FOR THE KING! FOR THE CROWN! DEATH TO THE IMPERIAL DOGS!” Those who have no shield slip through the gap, with no pike stabbing them repeatedly; they further enforce confusion and disruption. Front lines Imperial Pikemen were soon forced to abandon their pikes and fought in a highly disadvantageous melee combat, their dirk and short sword were their only choice. Resting their lives on the backline that could steel their pikes, but it was no longer a marching step of death.
Spears and pikes, swords to swords, and men to men, all fell beneath the relentless grinding of pike warfare. Although they are slowly being pushed back, this method of warfare is horrific all the same. Imperial formation allows the backline pikes to have a better opportunity as the frontline tries their best to hold.
With more pikes lowered, the ranged combatants that had been absent so far then descend from above to position themselves closer with a clear line of sight. Colors drained from the Imperial Officers’ faces, contempting the alternative to run and desert the fight, but such a thing is too tall a tale because of the Empire’s draconian ruthlessness; there will be nowhere to run in this bsted, cold world.
“Pick your targets, ds! Ensure these bastards taste our wrath!” These ambushers have a direct line of fire against the other side of the pikemen formation. These men cannot break their position because of the possibility of attack from the other side of this valley. Their ambushers gleefully exploited this weakness with volleys of javelins and arrows, with comparatively generous popping of gunpowder weapons.
Small duels took pce, usually sting no longer than three strokes and a few blocks or parries. Sword sweep cutting through linen and into the bones, savage blow of mace and hammer rendering steel pte null, or good old-fashioned brawls where one drowned the other with mud and snow. Arquebusiers are having a hard time reloading under so much stress; a few had trembled so terribly their gunpowder and lead slips from their grasp into the snow below.
Corpses from both sides piled up without prejudice or difference, one so keen to cim, they all bleed red blood in the end, and will be worms’ feast so the nd can be reborn anew. Sparks of ignited gunpowder were drowned by the greater butchery of steel onto flesh, and that spreads as pike box falter from sheer and relentless pressure.
The ambushers won’t get out of this unscathed, but they only gain momentum, and from this momentum, adrenaline flows like a flood. Willpower of the ambushed is being mercilessly dismantled, officers’ shouts and commands slowly disintegrate as drums and standards were silenced and taken down one by one.
Those in a state of pure shock can do nothing but watch the world turning red as if spectating from another body entirely. Most were cut down immediately, whatever their st thoughts were, gone with fading and cooling corpses strewn between Arganean and Imperial.
“Milord! We need to turn around-ack!” A pikeman was forcefully evicted from the mortal realm when a ball of lead punched his morion armor from the side, a rge hole gushing blood and chunks of meat, smearing his vicinity. The officers are torn on what to do before relenting.
“Three banners turn formation and annihite these bast-” His voice died in his throat when a fresh cascade and volley of crossbow bolts smmed the now thinner pike walls with utter impunity. He was soon killed with a steel bolt lodged deep into his skull. That simple mistake had enticed the rest of the surprise to come screaming down the valley.
More Argeneans with equipment much poorer than the first one; they are all armed with slings, bows, and crude, sharpened stakes meant for throwing. These folks bear expression of furious, maddened sadness. Many are not older than thirteen, and a sizable number of them possess hair so grey that one would wonder how they could move so nimbly.
Imperial Cuirassiers, those still choosing to stand their ground and fight with common foot soldiers, wheel their horses around towards this softer target and newcomers. Earth kicked up snow with bloodied fkes, but instead of scattering from their thundering hooves, these men and women dropped down onto one knee... and raised cruder pikes in concert with the humbling hammering of stones thrown from slings.
Pikes that are nothing more than mangled, sharpened stakes and barks, but these are enough as the cavalry crashed into each other. Front-most riders either got themselves and their horses impaled or had their charge stopped dead in their tracks, only to suffer collision from subsequent lines after them.
Cuirassiers inflict casualties on their foes as their own charging motion could not truly be stopped, either from sheer inertia of collision where men got crushed underneath, or the smattering burst of pistols at point-bnk range. Yet all were for futile against men and women who had lost too much that the biting of winter and promise of death are mere background noises, unhorsed but still living cuirassiers were swarmed by angry strikes and mobbed to death.
Mounds of horseflesh and gored pieces of body burst into bloody paint upon the makeshift pikemen. Being on horseback made them easy targets for projectiles; anything that can be thrown will be thrown because melee combat and an ambush are the pinnacle of mortals’ minds to be as deadly as possible.
This constant pressure can only worsen as the chain of command and discipline colpses under its own weight. It is a courageous and foolhardy thing to crow upon greater honor and whatnot when one isn’t graced with the misfortune of staring death in the eyes.
“Save yourselves! Run for your lives!” One of the pikemen stationed on the backline ran from his station, untangling himself from his armor and letting go of the pike. This desertion is witnessed by those with the privilege to listen and not fight to the death upfront.
One of the officers snapped his handgun towards the fleeing pikeman, pulling the trigger that killed him there and then. His expression is that of fury and horror, and then he addresses his men with a voice hoarse but loud from constant orders and speeches.
“Hold your ground, accursed curs! Don’t disgrace yourself in the eyes of His Imperial Majesty and- agh!” His hardline stance was rewarded with a dying man driving his broken dagger down his throat after he was pulled onto the muddy field. Horror is all that both of them share as the knife was raised and plunged again and again in a haphazard manner.
The officer screamed in pain for help that would never come. The sight of their betters succumbing to death was the sign they all needed. One by one, pikes and swords were abandoned; the small chink in their armor had been made a whole cascading flood of routed men.
“Curse it all! Get the coins and run! There’s no glory in death!” Those more opportunistic rummaged through dead mules and packhorses for valuable items, and some even desecrated the dead for their wealth. An officer lost his golden tooth and rings, a bannerman’s neckce was taken, and even swords and the like were taken as long as they would be light enough for them to bring.
“THEY’RE BREAKING! ADVANCE! FOR THE KING AND THE CROWN!” Rebels began shouting, chanting, and screaming as they pushed further against the buckling line of spears. Their sheer number is unknown, but the fog of war and momentum of rout made the Imperials’ doubt grow.
Lines are colpsing faster than officers can control, bannermen fleeing while trying to bring their banners. Banners are prized war trophies, and a few could be seen dropping theirs, and eternal shame would be their reckoning, but that is just how mortals are. Rebel fighters retrieved the mud-stained banner and held it aloft while cackling.
It tastes of deliverance and vengeance, of rightness and righteousness from a damnable foe. Those who couldn’t hold their grief desecrate the banner further, either by rending or dumping it on the ground to be trampled by men. Several fighters were seen taking Imperial horses and arquebuses; the boon of this battle will fuel further rebellion.
Amidst the chaotic din of combat and full rout, a few darkened figures watched with interest.
“Medusa, this is Owl One-Seven and One-Eight. The freedom fighters are organizing as scenario 3B predicted. How to copy over?” Lying prone while reporting the situation, his mouth continued chewing on Crusaderan’s gum, lucky him.
[Owl One-Seven, this is Medusa, keep surveilnce as scenario 3B had outlined. Maintain distance, and confirm your progress on the secondary objective. Over.] Olga’s answer was accompanied by the low but busy backdrop sounds of shuffling boots and whispers.
“Secondary objective accomplished, we are on standby for further tasking. Tunnels had been secured, and Owl One to Four are keeping an eye on points of interest, and six and five should have finished by now. Over.” He made eye contact with his companion, who only recognized his gaze. His friend focuses on recording the chaos and learning about the peculiarities of the enemy’s equipment.
[Fantastic. We are running on a tight schedule, and Operation Haymaker is upon us. Proceed to assist Owl One-One to Four. Over and out.]
“Roger that... man, she’s one mean taskmaster, I’ll tell you that.” With a chuckle, he let go of the communication headset while overlooking the chaos ahead. “Makes me wonder what sort of madness we will be seeing in the future... what do you think?”
“I think you should shut up before nding us both in trouble.” His colleague made an effort to note down an extra expnation about the rebels’ exploding boulders, a surprising and potentially dangerous finding.
“Come now, she won’t be shooting people left and right without a good reason.” One-Seven sidles up behind him, his binocurs spot men dueling to the death before one side wins, only to get hit by a rock in the face, toppling, and trampled underneath.
“You had just made a good one just now, shut up.” Coolly responding, he turns his camera to commit the brutality unfolding into memory. “You’re outranked.”
“Exactly, outranked. We are mercenaries now, moron. Chain of command applies, ranks don’t, and there’s no document or a peep about us. We're dead, that’s it. So stop wasting your time and help me before we are dead for real.” Despite the brusque attitude, One-Seven just shrugs and refocuses. “Yeah, yeah... but seriously...” One-Seven gazes at the rebels chanting their victory, a smile on his face. “I pity them.”
Location: Special Purpose Zone, Nova Eureka.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice.” A Regalian officer started and then offering a mug of hot chocote to Nerina. The Fleshmancer accepted with a smile. “It is of no problem, my good sir. I simply wish to help when I am able. Mr...”
“Otto.” The man smiled, although she detected some... mischief? She elects to ignore it. “Yes, Mr. Otto. How may I be of help?”
“I only wish to... understand this enigmatic foe of ours.” Her expression briefly darkened, but she kept it all under wraps with a gentle smile. “Why of course, I will be happy to help with what I have, and where should I start?”
“From what my people had gathered... this Empire... had been through a tumultuous time.” She nodded, taking a sip of her sweet chocote in winter. A part of her feels guilty remembering what Raegova is going through at the moment, but she perseveres.
“The Kingdom of Acadion was considered to be influential, but not to the level of Arganea.” Bitter smile bled through her visage, how the bance of power was toppled in less than five years. “It is a Kingdom that has been inhabited by humans for the st two millennia, ever since the unified calendar system spread from the Greater Continents.”
Otto nodded while noting and recording what she said. Nerina glimpses a different lettering system he is using; there doesn’t seem to be any hope of deciphering it anytime soon. He turns to her again. “I see, then is it correct to assume other world have their calendar system like ours?”
“Yes, that is correct. The Ancient Empire of Caelumina owned a calendar stretching back to 10.000 years, according to their cim.” He nods his head. “Thank you, that shall be sufficient as a tangent for now, and let’s return to the topic at hand, what do you know of Acadras?”
“Acadras is one of the wealthiest cities in Helicar. It is famed for its temperate summer and warmer winter, unlike others further south. Once housing the more modest Kingdom of Acadion, now this is the center of the continent, a beating heart of progress leaping above and beyond naysayers’ sneers and japes.” Nerina embarked on a lengthy expnation of how this nation came to be.
It traced the lineage back to the first settler of mankind. Apparently, the races own their name from the Otherworlders who reshape the world as they try to make good; of course, not all of them turn out as such, and many were misled. The beleaguered people of this world had been subjected to constant instability. Otto corroborated the same on his people’s side of the world, encouraging Nerina to continue.
Once Helicar had been stabilized, exodus from other continents and colonization efforts were partly reinforced by the need to push the monsters further away. She spoke of Fallfiore as one would preach on a great battle against a forgotten enemy. Once the st foe, of which she couldn’t truly determine whether it was a demonic incursion of some forgotten narrative, Helicar could be properly colonized... and thus fell into a state of war once the common enemy is gone.
Through this unrest and suffering, a group of disposed and disparate humans formed a concve based on the Fortress of Acadras. They championed on unity of mankind against the greater rival, budding encves, and warred incessantly under the banner of supremacism at one time, the banner of freedom at another, and even the banner of theological virtue at one point.
Acadion was immensely assured of its position as a pioneer in Helicar, and its understanding of not just mundane but also the magical. Until this very day, they remained famed as an enlightened state in many fields, but ever since the ascension of the prodigal King Dzargo VII Acadion, the kingdom was revolutionized at a speed beggaring belief. Larger construction and greater constructs sprouted like mushrooms; the sheer staggering growth made Acadras a beacon for excellence forevermore.
Many expect as much from a man of his caliber, a talent that will be unseen for centuries to come, and thus studied and recorded. He is a great king in the making, mighty with his sword as he was with his pen. The Young King had been pushing for greater cooperation, a future that had been at one point discarded as fantasy could be brought to life.
“He built academies in one hand, and overhauled the ws to compound his rule. He enacted sweeping reform that put him at odds against overwhelmingly influential noble houses and families, which hold the Kingdom in a delicate status quo.”
“The distant dream of unified command underneath a strong Royal family had been inching closer with each success... is that what you are saying?” His guess was on mark, Nerina’s suspicion had been id to rest, and only created puzzlement... ‘Who is he?’ The man is nowhere near handsome; he looks pin... too pin. Regardless, she is needed for her cooperation.
“... Correct. Successes that had grown far too significant to ignore and threatened the delicate bancing act for the status quo done by the peace-loving and kind-hearted King Merlon III Acadion, a kind and gentle but politically... cking... man. He had little stomach for conflict, let alone war, and thus prefers to spend his time surrounded by beauty and artworks.”
“Can you describe it?”
“His reign is that of peaceful mediocrity with little to gain and much to lose if one were to look deep into his character. This status quo would have held if the firstborn son hadn’t met an unfortunate end during a hunting trip. This empty spot was then filled by the energetic, straightforward but cunning, and unrepentant dreamer that is Dzargo Acadion.” The Fleshmancer entered another lengthy crash-course on this subject.
Abundantly skilled, Dzargo rose into a figure who earned admiration from many people. Nobles and commoners alike seem content as they sing the song of his accomplishment. Commoners had been treated increasingly with disdain ever since the many Republic revolts that had been quashed, and thus, they are oppressed by being left in the dust as a bunch of illiterate livestock, only good to follow orders.
While the Nobles vary in attitude, with some mocking him as an upstart, Dzargo does earn strong backing and allies. Unfortunately, not everything was smooth sailing onto the far sunset sea. Constantly winning and being right will not exactly net him admiration, and he received the complete opposite, especially from the more traditional and backward nobilities.
One memorable reform was when Dzargo pushed for a commoner’s school was ughed off and politely insulted as a waste of time. Commoners are good as they are; teaching monkeys how to read and write is an insult to these traditionalists. Their stance did nothing but allow their insecurity to surface; the Young Ruler had been emphasizing skill alongside social pedigree, although the former is more prevalent as time passes.
That’s how he did the next best thing: He began by paying learned men and schors handsomely as they traveled across his domain. Resentful Nobles tried to make these tutors’ lives difficult, but these tutors were shielded by the Royal family with their intricate and elite army. Rebelling also took time, and they were forced to stew in resentment with each passing day.
It has been doubtful if a single family wishes to fight the reformed Acadionish Royal Army, famed for their combat skill and discipline. This army used to be on rather equal footing because most were levies taken from Royal nds and estates under the corvée system and given minimal training. However, such an Army was transformed and trained by Dzargo to be one of the best on the continent.
“His younger brother was the mastermind for this reform, but people see only this dashing man and the King as one responsible for life getting better. His increasing fame stoked further backsh, and fractures with his detractors began plotting rebellion and enlisting neighboring countries for aid in exchange for traitorous concessions.”
“Setting aside the interweaving plots you had shared with me... Halciadon has a remarkably effective force, it seems. Concentrating power like an absolute monarch would... hmm... Then you mentioned his brother to be another mastermind?” Nerina chose her words resolutely before replying.
“Yes, the Crown Regent Darelio Halciadon. He refused to change his name like his brother and is now the one in effective control of Arganea. Princess Ionie had been... close with him.” Otto raised an eyebrow regarding Nerina’s fondness and deference to the traitorous Queen.
“Can you describe the general mood of that coup d’etat? Forgive me to say this, but... your answer could be construed misleadingly.” His conversation partner smiles. “Indeed, but I refuse to keep too many things under wraps. By the end of the day, I am but a long living Fleshmancer, and a heretic to some.” She doesn’t justify herself, only stating what she is at her core.
“My gratitude for your cooperation. Now, let’s continue, and please enjoy your chocote. There’s a saying from my homend that ‘Food squandered is one foot inside one’s grave.’ Quite bleak, eh?”
“Quite, and the pleasure is all mine.” Her reply was smooth as the chocote mug was returned to her lips. ‘Helicar has no chance of winning against neighboring continents, let alone Regalia. It will be most useful if we could foster positive retions. The political fallout will be severe... but I believe everything shall be worth the sacrifice.’ With another, softer clink, she pced the mug back. “Where Was I? Oh yes, forgive me.”
This move had been facilitated because Dzargo’s diplomatic ventures made him… acquainted. More profoundly is Dzargo's retionship with a rival nation had been misinterpreted as him being charmed. A hypocrisy spoken with a velvety tongue.
Arganea was always seen with suspicion by these lot, always eying their more militarized Western Arganea with great unease and no small amount of falsified reports about military buildup. No matter how hard Dzargo tried to dissuade them that Arganea poses no harm, they won’t listen in their own way.
What broke the Nobles ’ patience were two decrees: Calls for the abolishment of First Night Rights and the disbandment of the Nobles’ private army in exchange for lower taxation. His reasonable proposals were met with outrage and open rebellion, a true test of his skill and character.
Dzargo’s professional army is on the back foot against the odds of ten-to-one of feudal levies. It was these smaller reforms, such as roads and economic incentives, that granted him the time he would sorely need. The King broke his army into smaller segments to put a stop to the chaotic period of the early civil war.
Civil War of concrete battle lines or movements of tens of thousands onto pitch battle aren’t the now. Instead, it was built over smaller skirmishes across his territory upon the breakout of hostility. The professional army, predating the more ubiquitous chain of command using banners, could move from one small battle to the next with high efficiency, which left the more levy-oriented and slow mustering reeling.
This move wasn’t unbeatable, but his showcase of restraint further made the people gravitate towards his benevolent rule. Some had risen in revolt against their liege lords and dies, preferring to cling to a greater rule with an even greater promise than to continue wallowing in the mud in eternal torment.
Magical academies had been divided into two, with the Old Guards taking the rebels’ side because they felt threatened seeing Acadion’s steady drift away from magical expertise. Schism between schools of magic further causes chaos, which benefits only the reformists under Dzargo.
As these two fights on, the fence sitters gather and watch, keeping their nd safe alongside means to embed themselves on the victor’s side. The King’s brilliance aside, he was slowly being forced to fight a battle where thousands are at stake, not mere dozens or hundreds.
His early victories show one gring fw: his army is too good and is too few to completely stem the bleeding. Dzargo’s allies are preoccupied with their own problem, like Archduke Molnh, who earned his name of ‘Weasel Lord’. Molnh held back from directly helping, content with seeing the wars pying out because he has the means to withstand criticism and punishment.
Dzargo knows this, and he uses it to his utmost advantage. At one point in time, he smashed one of the rebels’ field armies against Molnh’s men with perfectly acceptable pusible deniability, before repeating it at the final battle. His audacious move contrasted with the Rebel who curried the ‘Weasel Lord’s blessing for favor and support.
It is unknown how Molnh responded to that audacious move, but he is a part of the Inner Council. He is one of the pilrs of this nascent empire and is nothing less than the best support as allies one could have, and a damningly dangerous personage to befriend.
Regardless, this game of whack-a-mole continues until Darelio counseled his brother about war fatigue. The Royal treasury had been forced to weather the debilitating cost of this war. A professional army is held together with the promise of steady pay and continued privilege offered by their patron’s contract.
King of Acadion needs to decide whether his strong arm shrivels into nothing more than a burden. His first move was to clean up the cluttered battle lines from rebel encves and detachments in his stronghold. The nonstop harassment campaign is not without its cost, namely the need to pilge for supplies, growing prevalent as war frustrations mount.
Instead of feigning superiority, he did the opposite by spreading rumors that his new army grew increasingly uncontrolble. That’s the impetus, but a convincing gamble would be sending Darelio away to negotiate with the surrounding nations. This moment of ‘weakness’ unfolded with a good chunk of the fence-sitter taking the rebels' side.
“His defeat seems inevitable when he was forced out of Acadras, most of the common popuce following his exodus. That’s the day he received the name of ‘Craven Monarch’, but he soldiers on. His people’s trust was undoubtedly shaken, but he persevered, and such perseverance was made stronger with each sympathetic commoner preaching and chanting his name.”
“An admirable and daring young man then... made his test atrocities all the more puzzling. Logically, he has all the necessary bread and butter for proper filling without dumping a heap of dirt on his ptter.”
“Regrettably. Dzargo was a man I had hoped would be a shining light to deliver us from darkness... as, fate is whimsical and the gods are cruel. We mortals toil for deliverance, but often find nothing but an endless, muted sea of our own reckoning.” Otto seemingly wanted to press for a specific detail, but he kept his tongue shut, allowing Nerina to pick up where she left off.
Next would be the spreading of news that Dzargo had fallen ill, effectively leaving his army without actual command. That’s the crux, and the rebellious nobles mustered a rge but hastily equipped army numbering 50.000 or perhaps 70.000.
The Young King was hounded on and on, culminating in three defeats, but he suffered some 3.800 casualties in those defeats, while the rebels lost 10.000, a staggering difference. However, he is losing. Yet that was all a ruse that he needed; the Young King had baited the now angry, irrational, and prideful army into a death trap. He positioned his army against the back of a river; his cavalry had purportedly deserted him and run away, while he was stuck with nowhere to run.
The Nobles brought their whole family retinue to witness the culling of an upstart King, assured that he would either surrender or die as a fool. As the 12.000 men under his banner stood their ground, the nobles advanced with close to five times that number.
It was a massacre... for the rebelling lords.
The rebels lined their forces in a line abreast, and fnks could be bent into envelopment. Heavy cavalry; knights in gleaming pte armor, numbering some 1.000 and followed by lesser but no less armored horsemen numbering 7.000, began their reckless charge, dreaming of glory. The infantry and archers fgged by the soggy and muddy field, but that’s when they saw it.
Thunder abze the frontline, felling hundreds in one fell swoop. Horses and riders were killed instantly, while the unfortunate were unhorsed and trampled beneath the weight and steel. The charge devolved into chaos as horses tumbled and more riders were thrown off. Before anyone could fathom what was happening, a second thundering cry broke the horses driven to madness.
Across the muddy field, the first matchlocks had been invented. An array of only six hundred strong, yet that was enough. The potential of gunpowder was observed not just in its destructive power, but that in its psychological impact. Horses might be trained to wade through fire; however, horses will always be a beast prone to stress.
Deafening cascades and barrages of matchlock arquebuses tested them, and they failed. As the charge blunted and broke into chaos, the supposedly sick Dzargo shows up in front of the army in armor of gold and silver enamel. He raised his sword and marched with his men through a marshy field, where speed is useless and polearms reign supreme.
Rebel leaders and nobles were thrown into disarray; many lords and dies had their sons join the charge to gain glory, only to be forced to confront doom. Conflicting and desperate orders were sent towards the fgging footmen and archers; many were threatened with punishment should they fail to save the cavalry detachment.
As they bicker in disunity, screams could be heard outside the commanding tent. It is only a front-facing pavilion, so the lords were excited to find they were attacked from behind. Darelio and Molnh had wheeled the ‘deserting cavalry’ around and arrived to reinforce respectively. Darelio’s 1.000 lighter cavalry–precursor for cuirassier–smashed the lightly protected rebel camp from the fnks while Molnh’s 4.000 strong footmen, archers, and cavalry pushed their rear.
Nobles were sent to panic, but the battle was lost as their ck of grit and retinue were simply outmatched by the Prince’s disciplined force and Molnh’s pragmatic dispy of support. Many tried to escape, but Darelio is merciless, leaving those who won’t surrender no quarter. The peasantry core of the foot soldiers could see their mostly hated lords dying or surrendering while they were trapped between two armies.
Many choose to simply run away and surrender, even when their officers attempt to execute dissidents and deserters backfired horribly. These peasants were thus allowed to leave, with Dzargo’s implicit approval and pardons, as these men leave the battlefield in droves. Highborns were captured or executed, while the common men were generally allowed to leave should they manage to.
Thus, his legendary status was achieved once he annihited the rebels, defeating a rebellion through three defeats and one victory. The defeats were all nothing less than horrid pyrrhic victories for the nobles, as he had been bleeding through them at a rate of three for one.
However, Dzargo had been influenced by what many dubbed as the ‘Soothsayers’, a group or an individual, in truth, matters little, who shadowed his Imperial Majesty’s steps. Their counsel often precedes that of his family, and from this guidance and support, Dzargo is no longer a king; he is Emperor Haumelchor Halciadon now.
His vow for unification had been welcomed, but some do probe his sudden, extreme approach. Not a few of his supporters show displeasure at his draconian approach, but the people love him. To them, he is someone who can do no wrong, and this war will eventually be cause for celebration after the st Free Cities in their southwest capitute.
His many great achievements soon changed with increasing emphasis on human superiority. It was at complete odds with what he had been trying to build. However, many people had already fallen victim to this hero worship, and his words can move more than just mountains and rivers.
As it was said before, cracks show.
“It doesn’t appear to be all that dissimir from our side of the world.” There’s a hint of dark emotion inside Otto’s voice, enough to make Nerina unconsciously straighten up her bearing. “Truly?” She probed with sympathy and interest. “Indeed, perhaps it is only fair for me to share what is on the other side.”
Otto doesn’t pause his recording as he began. “Regalian was once such a person. Backward and desperate and isoted, eyed by many as unusual people and monsters. Why? Our primary sin was survival at all costs; we had fought wars for years, bleeding millions and more under banners of just cause. We had committed many acts unworthy of song, but deservedly recorded for times to come.” She listened closely; her chocote mug clinked softly on its pte.
“For thousands of years, we thought ourselves alone, one big family, and people who committed bloodshed over and over. Then the monsters, real monsters, arrived and brought death and destruction incalcuble. Dwarfing the graveyards and rivers of corpses we had made.” His grim voice bled into relief.
“Then she raised her banner... Our Grand Autarch. She had embarked on a great war to unify our homend, not for mere dominion but for order. She succeeded, and withdrew to herself... Letting men rule while she reigns, exercising power only when needed, and shouldering all of our sins that necessitate our survival.” Nerina feels something eerily familiar with Dzargo’s rise to power, but this Lady surely had succeeded much better in societal reform; discrimination towards Helicarians is on such a low level compared to what sort of hellscape Helicar had become.
“Lady Baroness Nerina of Suzol. We have much to discuss, and Arganea’s liberation is at hand.” That’s the exact moment Nerina feels armed. His cadence and tone change from affable, if intimidating, interrogator, to that of a man who could and would do what’s necessary.
Throughout her days here, not one Regalian spoke in such detail about their leader. Not even an indication of gender... now here comes a man who spoke so openly and casually, the way he spoke this Grand Autarch proves he is very high up the dder.
Her throat went dry, and she watched as his eyes narrowed in either amusement or something darker. “... Who are you?” Such a direct question would have been unthinkable, a complete failure in political probing... but she has no other recourse. She’s uneasy and intrigued in equal measure.
“Ah, yes, I suppose a proper introduction is in order.” Intertwining his hands, he spoke with a much different cadence. He sounds warm, like an uncle or extended family member known for being a figure worthy of respect. “My name is Otto Kennedy. Commander Regent of the Regalian Autarchy.”
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POV: Cylene
After seeing the woman left for the ‘gated community’ of fellow Argean, I merely watched on through the drone’s footage. It is the test invention that Rossa brought out and spread for usage, the Internet. Military and civilian technology had been progressing slowly, but technology is more or less unstoppable when we know where to go next.
Semiconductor tech is our most bleeding-edge technology there is, allowing me to have a clear connection to hear what they conversed with from thousands of kilometers away. The broadband connection is sustained by a half a dozen satellites because ying down underwater cable was still too costly, and I fear it will be cut by a local underwater beast, and I don’t have a single damn clue on how to pn one.
It’s Rossa all over again. I still have not seen her, but I can instinctively pinpoint where she is. My longtime companion is tidying up the home front while I embark on tours and inspections. It was honestly really fucking bad at how much damage this nd had sustained. Ministry of Urban Repnning and Rehabilitation estimates that it will take one decade to clean up the mess, and an inordinate amount of time for rehabilitating gssed soils.
Yet I cannot focus on that problem as Nerina spoke about what happened to the Halciadonish Emperor. I can’t help it when I stare at my palms, wondering why I can be so cool after executing thousands and consigning many more to fate for worse than death.
Her words were a mirror of what role I had assumed. I never thought that my sporadic gaming session would be transted as me retreating inwardly from public life. It was true that I had enough money to fuck around with my life, but it paled to how it transted into the real world. My people continue to worship me; I don’t know how to deal with that.
It will be hypocritical if I cim not wanting to be in control, but I have too much control, and I don’t know what to do about it. There will be times I will stumble because I've gone irrational... and who could I rely on? I feel bad for Otto or Rossa, but I am unable to trust them in the same vein. I know how easily I could slip.
Feels like strangers stuck in a stranger’s body, taking the face and all the baggage except for the mind. The question is, should I embrace it? If I can grant my people a peace of mind and order... I don’t see anything wrong with being dehumanized as something divine. It will be beneficial to them, but that also implies I will be eternally responsible for all the madness that could happen... The problem is, this nation is much fragile than I anticipated.
“Give me deliverance...” Such words left my lips, my fingers abandoned the paper and pen I was in the middle of working on. My manner of speaking is weird as always, but I cannot for the life of me really let it slip yet. Every time I intended to, my subconscious mind refused to obey.
I am scared of them, and they’re scared of me. They see me as a divine figure who can do no wrong, and if I did do wrong, they instead search into the shadows to look for the cause. I am so tired... Meredith steps forward, perhaps getting more adept at noticing the look of exhaustion or anger in my generally pcid expression. “Something the matter, Your Grace?” She forgot how to call me properly again... Well, I forced it upon her, so I’ll let her off the hook.
“Not something you should be concerned with. By the by, be a dear and make more sandwiches.” I look at my empty pte of food. Meredith seems concerned that I have been eating nothing but sandwiches these days, but fine dining made me queasy and thus I do it only at lunch, after lengthy compromise with my entire maid corps who begged me on their knees, and supper, which is very te because I cannot for the life of me work up the appetite after working from sunrise to sunset.
My private doctor admonished me about nutrient bance, and I pointed out that sandwiches do just that. So... are you going to make me sandwiches or not? “Well?” After urging for an answer, my Head Maid reluctantly curtsied. It’s good that she actually tries to dissuade me better than before.
I really need a whole cadre of non-sycophants; there’s only so much I can do by relying on either Otto or Rossa. Welp, that will be for ter. I turn back onto the next document in need of processing and... Huh...
“Humanoids of interest near Gadine Forest were deemed... non-hostile? Hmm...” That’s certainly interesting. I am not a fan of killing, shame, irony, and unbelievable, I know, and there’s always a pce to do something much more efficient. I turn my gaze to one of my Spesdecs, hidden from view, who acknowledged my command and left to rey my will.
As those humanoids of interests are cared for, for now, my interest shifted to a particur report from that mage and his apprentice after they were shown... encouragement for cooperation. I read the telegram that was left unvarnished and unaltered. [Potential Dimensional Artifact of Interest: Crown of Arganea.]
“Now would be a good time for sandwiches…” After saying so to no one in particur, I prepare myself for yet another session of staying up te at night. What will I not do to have Rossa here?
[END OF CHAPTER]
Author’s Note:
Yo there, this is me, myself, and I, the author who is just so fucking tired, lmao.
Sorry for the te update, my brain and body had entered into a hectic disagreement.
The plot is finally moving up faster than I always wanted it. Unfortunately, my penchant for details and moving back some plots really made things hard for me, but oh well, such is my life. I am trying not to just write ROFL blitzkrieg and curbstomping battle with everything that had been set up. Regalia is positioned in a really stupidly fucked position; it is calm on the surface, but you must always suspect a dictatorial regime to hide much. There will be more technological improvements at a retively high speed. Why? I don’t fucking know, lmao. I lied.
Update is whenever I am not thrown into confusion or a mental breakdown.
Ciao
