"Mono/Dialogue"
'Inner thoughts'
Narration
[Message/communication apparatus]
Date: 25th January 1920 NWC or 647 AU.
Location: ???
POV: Narrator
“Your Majesty, it will be unwise for you to enter the fray personally. While I have confidence that our men are well trained and ready, it is still far beyond sufficient for the chaotic field of battle.”
“That is precisely why I must begin. It is not too te for me to show the pride of Arganean Crown, not as some sniveling coward. It will be precarious, and I know you wish for naught but me to remain safe, but a king with nothing but foreign mercenaries and aid will be seen far worse by his people.”
“The people had once seen you as a nuisance; will it not be unfair for you to try and be spat upon? What senselessness had pgued our people that they chose chains over bloody freedom? Do they wish to live in the shadows?”
“Exactly, people are not frightened and dumb as a collective. They sh out like animals, but animals cannot even think. People are dumb, Autarch Neumann had taught me as much, and yet he neglects to understand his and ours are two different problems.”
“I will remain against it… I promised them, promised your father, to keep you safe.”
“Then that shall suffice. I count on you to protect me. Weak as I may be, even a King must be present as his men suffer through the war. A king who has nothing and couldn’t even try to fight his war is no true king.”
“You sound awfully like him before he turned to madness…”
“Heh… perhaps even a nky spare like me will grow a spine under the right circumstances and opportunity. I may be borrowing their wings, but that’s just how politics are… so why don’t we spice things up? King who fights his own battle would be such a sight, don’t you think?”
“… My King, the First, Second, and Third Company awaits your command. We will follow you into hell itself.”
“You have my utmost thanks, General. I shall trust you to guide my hands and clear the steps I shall take; the banner I carry shall be the heaviest I have ever wielded. It is no sword, I will be powerless, I will be small and easy to target… but I trust you. I trust my people. I trust in my conviction that all our suffering is not for nothing… Ionie… I am home.”
Location: Fallfiore
“Hold the barricades! We must not let them through!” An Arganean Loyalist shouted while reloading his arquebus behind a makeshift firing port (literally just a hole smashed open by projectile or magic) in the wall. All around him, other loyalists are tending to their wounds or scavenging for usable projectiles; a rock is fine too, as long as they don’t need to close in on the traitors.
Just behind this impromptu wall of wagons and earthen works, hundreds of traitors keep up the pressure. A couple of crude bronze cannons are still cannons, and they would have hit hard if not for the clever use of earth or water magic fiment to soften the blows. The mages are not having a great time, but the alternative is death.
Neither side possesses any air assets; the traitors should have had the advantages, but their handlers had gone quiet as a grave. Their candles snuffed out without a soul realizing the greater game unfolding beneath the surface, as is every war where the primary focus is on the success and gmorous front.
On the west, lines of bronze cannons were filled with magical and conventional high explosive, the former done by mages who could condense their mana into a spherical container. Even a coconut could be turned into a firebomb, but it must be immediately unched due to its inherent instability.
Magic is slowly being phased out in favor of practical gunpowder equipment, but it retains an advantage in theoretical limits. A cartridge of gunpowder has a finite measurement to be precise and cost-efficient; this precision, while great for grander scale, is inherently much inferior to magical potential.
Narina Fol Suzol, for instance, could condense her energy to such a degree that her Fleshmancy is on a level of its own. She could synchronize mind and matter so that a complete necromantic and alchemic novice like Luanaya could reliably control her draconic flesh. As in the famed Necromancer, whose interest in bacteria had, by accident, found a perfect way to separate cancer cells from healthier cells.
Then take the Crown, which is one of the reasons for this war to even happen; its raw power is many times what an individual could harness. A nd bridge was formed far to the west of the battle here; thousands of men crossed the strait with visible ease, and were protected by an incandescent shield to an extent.
Yet for all its potential, being limitless is not all good.
“!? Watch out-! AHHH!” An explosion rocked one of the cannon empcements, but it was caused by themselves. A faulty weave of magic, general instability of its container, and the sheer hazard it could cause are the primary reasons for its general obsolescence.
“Put out the fire! Healer! We need a healer here!” A pale-faced soldier threw the gunpowder crate away from the encroaching fme and managed to do so just in time.
“Bring up the mantlets! Quick! Gods, they’re losing so much blood!” An officer of this improvised command chain barked the order, his magical shield pushed under the immense strain of concentrated fire from the fort above.
“Gunners on me, shield them!” Reinforcement arriving gradually takes up positions behind upturned wagons and crates, firing uphill reduces their range and effectiveness, but it forces the defender to take cover. No one wants to die.
Magic works on that logical vacuum; anything is possible as long as one can understand it. That being said, magic is also capricious in nature; anything done hastily would be liable to backfire horribly.
History books won’t care about some vilges getting razed, only the person doing said razing. Tales will never be sung about a couple of farming families starving to death as they tried to salvage their trampled crops, but most songs are sung about how many skulls a warrior had taken. War was painted as glorious due to necessity, and there’s a fair bit of others’ misery that made someone happy.
Despite the hostility in the air, neither side is willing to really fight recklessly. This is yet another part of the song that was glossed over for the history book. What’s more, these are not mortal enemies against mortal enemies. These are men and women who were born upon Arganean’s banner, when the time was sane, and the world made sense.
Unlike against Imperials, these men and women had shared hardship a night ago; some could even be seen staring at the person who shared their meagre ale. Such is war, it doesn’t care who or what, only that once lines are drawn, men will even kill their own.
While the grunts are hesitant, those behind them might not be so. “Keep firing! Aim the cannons at that section of the wall! We almost breached them open!” These are the first of many lit matches that destroyed the isnd’s cohesion. Many have legitimate grievances: Dead family members, low rationing priority, the suffering and hunger st winter, and perhaps they are already going mad with no hope in sight.
Others’ motives aren’t so: there are opportunists and turncoats plus thieves, but there are also those who seek nothing but seeing Raegova fail.
“Push them on! The western wall is weak, come on, ds! Those who can bring me Lestar’s head will have double- no, triple the rations! Push on hard! We will win this war, and the empire shall grant us amnesty!” Crows a man as he raised his pistol at the defenders, hitting nothing, but his intent is made clear.
“The sappers cannot get close! Those beast-blood lovers are killing them too fast!” An aide tried to reason with the commander, but she didn’t hear it. If anything. “Then tell those damn sappers that we are damned if they cannot muster up the courage. If by any chance we lose this, we won’t be going anywhere but the gallows. Reminds them that their family is starving the longer they dawdle, get to it.”
He can’t muster up any courage for rebuttal; this is the reality of their situation. Surrender will mean fates far worse than death, and the Kingdom’s w had not yet been amended like an Imperial one: Traitors and their descendants up to two or more generations can be liable for collective punishment. This harsh measure is not illogical when considering Narina’s real age, but this fairness fell too hard on those with normal or shorter lifespans.
Even when true equality was applied, many things became considerations.
“U-Understood, my dy. I shall remind the sappers that their contribution will reflect our struggle.” He leaves after saluting, heart heavy, his tongue tasting ash on the suicide order, but he knows what must be done.
“See to it, and order the third section to prepare for surging past the breach if opportunity presents itself.” She turns her gaze back at the makeshift map on the table, her eyes glossing past several settlements around them.
Then, on said settlements are where scums and criminals reign. These are filth, those who escaped and joined the great retreat further eastward. They have nothing to offer but their own selfishness to survive; tragically, some were decent folks whose lives were ruined by the war. They could trade one banner for the next as easily as changing their clothes, anything to suit their needs and maximize gains.
At one of the vilges still deemed loyal to Raegova, atrocity is being done under the Imperial banner. “Get your share, ds! We are cleansing these damn beast blood from our nd! Long live the emperor!” One said filth voiced arrogantly with a sneer, there’s not an ounce of shame that yesterday different words and allegiance were said.
“Please! Not my grandchildren! Please, I have nothing left! Ah! M-My arm!” An old farmer cried out, his outstretched hand was cut by a bde as he tried to reach out to his grandchildren being carried away from him.
“Silence, you old fool!” A man whacked him in the head, the old man losing consciousness, and the bleeding sap saps his energy. He can do nothing as his vision darkens, and the screams and ughter mix into one ugly cocktail. His house and granary, already stretched to their limit for the war effort, are being plundered without a second thought.
What had happened was but one mirror of the ugly, greater conflict and atrocities in the mainnd. The Emperor spoke of one thing, and the people interpreted it as best they could to his wishes or interests.
Yet war is not so simple, and those who were expelled had finally returned, for better or worse.
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POV: Captain Nurle Exa
The rotors' muffled beatings are the only thing we hear as everyone is way too busy to engage in small talk. We would have been if not for trouble brewing in supposedly friendly territory. A good chunk of our pnning needs to be improvised, and we are not even deployed yet.
Some were disappointed and enraged when the news broke out, but just some. Others are too weary to make their displeasure known; I am one of them. We merely gear up and embark on these VTOL that the Regalian keep talking about. The thing is much slower than our fighters, but more comfortable and spacious.
Looking out the window, the EIRI’s PMC is a lot more rexed. Treating it as nothing to be worried about, I envy them. Gods, how long have I been twiddling with my gears? It feels so surreal, I had been at fight times and again, but there’s just something so foreign right now. My company no longer bears sharpened steel or crude gunpowder for arms, but a bona fide industrial killing machine.
I look to my left and see the MG gunner for my command ptoon, young as I do, his hands gripping the barrel tight. His nervousness is something I can understand. The ptoon medic is even worse; he has been taking into account how many bandages, gauze, morphine, and painkillers he had packed into this backpack.
To my right, the squad’s priest is chanting a soft litany for protection and ward against evil in the name of the Crown. His words were poised, but some of my men had stopped listening altogether. Men and women who used to pray with fervor merely sat, hands drumming their thighs or closing their eyes. A part of me wishes to believe they, too, are praying, because we are going to damn our souls once those doors are opened.
Our Arganean instructors might be disappointed seeing us so spooked, but that’s what it is. I cannot even deny the fear, the hatred, and the sheer dissonance at our first deployment.
Gods, I am supposed to be leading, but I feel so afraid.
It is much different than what I had learned from Sir Gallenor. I had seen the stress of leading, wondering if your command will get your men out of harm’s way or cause it. Rummaging through my satchel, I found a small trinket from home. A pendant belonging to my brother who fought and died at the frontline.
I was fortunate that someone could get it back to me. Many were not granted the boon, a memento long lost in the chaotic retreat years ago. A part of me wonders if he will be proud of what I am doing, or disappointed for going against his words. He wants me to never raise my arms in battle, but hope cannot wash away my own hatred.
“We are nding in fifteen mikes!” My reminiscing was cut short by the pilot’s voice. Taking that as my cue, I stood up with a hand clutching the railing. “Check up on your equipment and supplies! We might be out there for a while, and we must move fast! Do you hear me!?”
“Yes, Ma’am! We hear you, Ma’am!”
“Good, steady as it goes, folks. We are finally home, and what beautiful mayhem it is.”
“Would have preferred shooting Imperials instead of our own, though.” Listless chuckles from my men are pretty much the mood here. Instead of fighting the good fight against our true enemies, we are forced to corral order from our own countrymen.
What a mess it is, my first deployment against those I was supposed to protect.
“Ma’am?” My eyes flicked up front to my ptoon’s sniper. “What is it, soldier?” He clenched the barrel of his rifle tight, seemingly conflicted whether he wished to continue or hold his tongue. “You may speak freely, Sergeant Fernix.” He rexes his grip before speaking. “Can you do it?”
“…” His question is much too vague for anyone else, but I know what he means by it. Leading means showing an example. If I go full tilt with bravado, they will notice it. If I show signs of being cowardly, I will put them and myself in jeopardy because of their distrust. If I try to promise them a lie that I won’t fail in my duty, then I will keep on lying until I corner myself.
The Regalian taught us how to be soldiers, and they taught the officers how to lead effectively. However, their idea was born out of their culture, already at ease with sustainable acts of killing, spoken with dry humor or complete antipathy. Men die, women die, even children die… and there’s just another body waiting to be ground to paste.
I don’t like it one bit, but being a soldier drilled in a new understanding of war. It is what it is. “I don’t know if I can execute a traitor personally, but I am confident that if I follow the outlined orders, it will come naturally. Right now, that order is to ensure General Raegova’s men could be rerouted to where they are needed.”
I can feel that my men are listening well. Truth be told, they are skeptical of having a 19-year-old as their Captain, but such is the Regalian’s assessment of my merit and the dire need for a field officer. “My job is to make sure you lot wouldn’t die needlessly. I must maintain our cohesion no matter the cost… but I know that talking is cheap. So I will only say that the ‘me’ during training is the only real reference you have. The battle back there might count, and my pce was minor as it can be.”
Even as I uttered so, I can feel the intense disconnect between what I feel and what I must do settling in. It is terrifying as much as it is intoxicating. To be just a cog in His Majesty’s grand vision. “As much as we loathe it, the 4th and 5th are re-tasked with the thankless if not hated mission. While the first, second, and third get their glory with the blood of our enemy, our accodes will be painted by the blood of traitors.” I stand tall in the cramped cabin, and I swear that even the Regalian pilots are listening. No matter. “I don’t need you to trust me personally, but to trust His Majesty and Field Marshal’s vision. Because if we fail even here, I doubt we will get far the moment we recim our home… and see for ourselves how much has changed.”
Looking ahead to the cockpit, I see it now. Home.
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POV: Narrator
“How many crates do we have left?” His voice had grown weary of repeating the same question over and over; the quartermaster’s grim expression was all the answer he would have needed. The good man still managed to find his words, though. “Not much, Count Lestar. We are losing men and materiel; we cannot keep pace.”
“This is all my shortcomings, I suppose.” He doesn’t answer the self-recrimination, but maybe this is indeed the end. He walked up to the battlement, peering through one of the arrow slits to the camp below. They are outnumbered 40-to-1, and he doesn’t need to ask to see the reality on the field. Many began losing their trust in Raegova.
‘The good d has been doing his best, but many choose to point out his faults.’
Looking to his side, there are way too many exhausted warriors and loyalists. They have little arms, their armors smudged and dented, and no food. Food is always the problem. The crux of this holdout’s many maise, turning even decent people into feral animals. It is not selfishness; it is desperation.
“My lord… we can’t keep up… those bastards are…” He shook his head. “Most foes of ours outside are fighting to put food on the table, the monsters are relishing chaos while good men die for a forlorn cause.” He turns his gaze to the outlying vilges where even a telltale scream confirms the bleak smoke swirling to the sky.
“My fate might be set in stone, but perhaps I can save them somehow.”
“My lord, please… You mustn’t… There’s no guarantee they will honor their words.”
“It is a foolish hope, but those who had rallied onto his banner had all been fools.” Intense hatred and passion would blind many, allowing them to live in a crumbling fantasy.
He was about to signal our surrender when he heard it. A strange, droning sound that keeps on and on without pause. Others seem to hear it as well. The siege slowly grinds to an eerie halt as the sounds get louder. “What is the god’s name?”
He cannot continue when the world outside blooms into cascading fireballs. Lestar was knocked off his feet by the intense fsh of light and shockwave, his ears ringing harder than bells tolling. The old man gets his bearings and stands. He watches with horror as dozens, if not hundreds, of men are burnt or broken.
One moment, they are ready to finally force a combat, and the next, these men are reduced to such a pitiful state. He can hear one of his men barf, emptying his stomach from whatever meagre food he had eaten. Even his wounded men whimpered fearfully, torn limbs and deep bruises momentarily silenced.
Then the screaming starts. Screaming of his foes. Screaming of men who want to have food. Screaming of men who take advantage of misery. Screaming of men.
Screams that were drowned out cruelly by the spectacle of swords dancing above the sky. He could scarcely see it, but his dear mother’s boon allowed him to spot them. They fly across the sky with speed that beggared belief, with ease that made even their finest wyverns or gryphons mere slugs trying to race a rabbit.
The sheen of those flying swords spoke of a metallic construct, and the scale made him feel immense fear. “Are those demons? What I would not do to have Baroness Narina answer this predicament.” He wondered aloud, the name of that woman slipping easily with reverence.
“Milord! Look to the north!” He turned his gaze as the sky finally lit up; the horizon that was once shrouded in darkness now pyed host to a group of buzzing insects. He watches as those insects’ wings beat in puzzling manners, and then more fire blooms.
A barrage of thin objects slices through the air, smming onto the traitors’ ranks with the furious roar of a vengeful god. Dust and earth kicked up charred bck or stained with blood, and chaos reigns. He could hear telltale whispers of arquebuses popping in the distance, but those are far quicker, meaner, and deadlier.
The traitors aim their arquebuses, bows, and crossbows at the intruders, doing little damage. A mage tried to form a fireball, but his head burst into a pile of gore, and the one next to him shrieked in horror and abandoned their post. Those flying insects soon touched the ground, and their bodies were swung open as men in strange, earth colored clothing disgorged themselves.
His breath was caught as those people wield arquebuses that are far too removed from what he knows. One of the more familiar variations could pour down more shots than his best hand could reasonably reload. Another with a shorter arquebus, or perhaps a repeating crossbow, shreds through multiple armored men with ease.
Then one of the Unknown Soldiers disembarked with an all too familiar banner: The Silver Dragons and the Crown. “Dear Gods…”
“… The Prince- no… His Majesty is not dead… His Majesty, King Zorphal Xel Arganea is not dead!” He doesn’t know who shouted that, but the morale was immediately uplifted.
“His Majesty has returned! Long Live the Crown!”
“Long Live the Crown!”
“Long Live the Crown!”
“Long Live the Crown!”
“Long Live the Crown!”
As he chants in jubition at the great power conferred upon them, none among them understands that this small detachment will rewrite their understanding of war further. Understanding that is already painted with a bzing inferno for revenge.
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“Secure the fnks! Sergeant, take your fireteam and secure that building; head to the top floor! The rest of you on me!” Exa leads her men from the front, the staccato burst of her SMG a lethal backdrop as she empties her mind of any sentimentality. She dives onto a cover alongside her men, her foes' volleys hitting nothing but empty air.
She sat back up and pulled her trigger, followed by her men, whose face several different masks. One is queasy; the sight of effortlessly felling a man threatened to overwhelm his nerve. Another is all too happy to; his shots were erratic and eyes wide with manic, vengeful glee, but she sees his hand trembling all the same. Others are either silent, praying, or simply doing as she had ordered them.
A combat engineer raised his shotgun, killing a small clumps of men. Those who didn’t die immediately scream as they lose blood. One is whimpering in agony before he was released from this mortal coil. The damage a shotgun could do at a reasonably longer range is hideous for the eyes, further terrorizing.
In the other part of this besieged town, an Arganean Sniper climbs onto the tallest tree he can find. His cat-like reflexes and sharp ears catalog each bark of guns, shouts of orders, and the simple whimpering of the dying. He perches himself above and peers down sight. “Heaven’s deliver his mercy.” He spoke before pulling the trigger. A man stumbled over into a ditch mid-running, his heart gone.
“We are but many of one, one poised to be worthy of truthful judgment.” Another was killed, he racked his bolt swiftly, and his tremble is less, but the tightening of his grip shows he is just like any other. “Oh Goddess above, I ask thy deliverance.” His bullet holds, felling a man whose eyes were gone into manic fear and fury.
“For we all shall die, and be judged as one of many.” His litany continues as the Rebels are breaking. The braver men or women rally those around them, believing that their mass will eventually overwhelm these newcomers.
A rebel officer gathers a group of forty light horsemen, mostly hobirs astride common roundseys, and raises his gleaming bde as he leads a charge through the fog. A small part of his mind clung to the standard practice of massed infantry line to stop a cavalry charge, and he chose to adhere to its logic.
In actuality, this is madness, but fear could cloud judgment and inject a heavy toll of adrenaline into the veins. Their glorious charge momentarily uplifted the fleeing men, for one single moment, they believed that their speed and the obstacles in the way would finally force a reversal.
Many are hopeful. Many watch as hope dies.
Right in the path of these cavalrymen, an Arganean machine gunner id his bipod on the ground and rested on his stomach. He waits until the cavalry is finally in his sight. Once he saw that fming bde through the haze, he squeezed the trigger.
Rains of lead turn men and beasts into pincushions. The ensuing crash is catastrophic; those who weren’t killed immediately were crushed under the weight of tumbling horses. Those whose luck was worse have the privilege to scream and suffer as their legs were fttened. Those who were trampled could find soce in their brief suffering.
Those who watch tremble and run in the opposite direction. Their resolves broken to utter pieces, some wept openly, in shock at the level of death levied on those he might now personally. The deranged few threw themselves with desperation and fanatical heartbreak, their cause finished.
The siege had been turned from a crudely ordered one into a mass charnel house. Men or beasts are being killed with such callous indifference and speed that they rewrote the already rewritten lexicon of war. Silver dragon banner continues to flutter, one bloody step at a time.
“Captain!” Exa turns her gaze to her radioman. “What is it?!”
“The Defenders had sallied out! Delta Ptoon reported that Count Lestar is among them!”
‘Uncle is among them!?’ She feels both relieved and joyful; she hasn’t lost everyone, it seems. Yet she pushes it down. “Then focus on the enemy! Only support them when they have no visible threats; their order remains unchanged!”
“Affirmative! Delta Ptoon, you are to remain on task! I repeat, focus on clearing out the remaining hostiles! Only provide support when your AO is clear!”
“Copy that, Command Ptoon, continuing on tasking, over and out!”
[END OF CHAPTER]
Author’s Note:
Yo there, this is me, myself, and I, the author who is finally back from break. I can say that I already feels much better, and hopes it stays that way.
We are continuing where we left off, and it will be kinda fragmented to form the full narrative. I expect this to continue until 8 or 9, but we will see.
Update as usual or something
Ciao
