Post by Retrograde on Jan 11, 2018 11:07:19 GMT
Cheson, Kingdom of Routaille, 1991 YoA
Rain beat down on the fields outside the town of Cheson, turning the soil in a thick slurry of mud and grime. Arno had hoped to put more distance between the Revolutionary Army and the Grand Duc of Estille's forces, but it seemed that the weather had other plans. The villagers were accommodating enough, in that they didn't actively chase the troops away but by the same token they were unwilling to actually let the rebels camp inside the village.
As the young nobleman desperately tried to find somewhere that would let him keep dry, it occurred to him that the situation was best described as thoroughly miserable. He had been raised on war, of course, both by the Cassians and the Galathions, but they had always made war seem much more glorious than what he had experienced so far. They had filled his head with stories of heroism and great deeds, but so far he had mostly seen slaughter, sadness and mud. So much mud. He wondered if the heroes of the past had gotten mud in their trousers before.
He could tell morale was low. The rebel army had suffered more losses than won victories and even on the best of days they were still hopelessly outsupplied and outtrained by the Royalists. Every so often he would catch the troops looking at him for support, and Arno had to do his best to look like he believed the cause still had a chance. He wondered if they could tell that he was beginning to have his doubts and if they blamed him if they did. It had already been a year, how much longer could it possibly go on with the rebels in the state they were in?
His self-pity was interrupted as he suddenly and violently felt the need to cough. He brought up his hand to cover his mouth, and when he pulled it away he saw it was covered in gunk. He grimaced.
"Come on, Artis!" he bellowed to nowhere in particular. "You've given me rain, I don't need a cold too!"
He stopped, looking up and realizing that the men were no staring at him. He sighed to himself, using the rain to wash his hand of whatever it was that was starting to pool in his lungs. His eyes searched for something to kick. He desperately needed to kick something.
A sharp rap on his shoulder caused Arno to spin around, and he found himself staring Marielle Tenderheart in the eyes. She stood there, her thick black locks clinging wetly to her face, her face contorted into a mischievous grin that he had come to know her for. Though she was just shy of her 17th birthday, she already looked more than woman enough. The men had taken to seeing her as a sort of heroic figure, and as such tended to spare more rations her way, much as they did for him. It did much for her curves. Even stranger yet, she managed to make the ragged jerkin, trousers and leather boots she was wearing look almost seductive. Arno was never quite sure what to make of her. They had been campaigning together for months now, but very rarely did they speak.
"Sorry to bother ya, yer grace, butcha seem to be having a bit of a crisis." There was a playful tone in her voice, one that set Arno on edge. Couldn't she see how bad things were?
He scowled at her, and straightened his posture. "In case you have not noticed, Ms. Tenderheart, we are all having a crisis. We were supposed to be ten miles north of here by now and instead we are stuck waiting while Estille continues to gain ground on us." He spoke with all the refined imperious snobbery of a Galathion mixed with the sneering contempt of a Cassian, traits he had learned from his grandmother and mother respectively.
Marielle cocked her head to the side but her smile remained, which only served to agitate the young nobleman further. "Ya seem like ya could use some good news. Abelard says his scouts saw the Big Duke getting in a skirmish with another army. Turns out we ain't the only rebels in the area."
Arno stared at her for a moment, dumbstruck. Silently, he sent thanks up to Artis, while assuring the God he was still quite cross about the cold. "Can you take me to Abelard?"
Abelard was the current strategic leader of the whole rebel effort, or at least the faction that Arno was attached to. The man had apparently fought in countless battles across Trevast as a mercenary and lead armies to unlikely victories, although his track record was now marred by the current situation in Routaille. He had taken a liking to Marielle, and was treating her as something of a protege. The Cassian in Arno frownedd at the idea of women in war, but Abelard was the strategist, not him.
"Sure thing, yer grace," She said with a level of casualness Arno found unsettling. He had been bred to expect a certain amount of deference from his lessers, but war was forcing him to change his expectations, even if he didn't like it.
The woman turned on her heels and began walking, and Arno moved in behind her, eyes occasionally wandering to her rear. He thought about the fact that the Galathions kept paramours, some of which were lowborn. Then he thought about his mother having a conniption, and all lusty thoughts departed him. The momentary pleasure wouldn't be worth the trouble.
Marielle lead him to a makeshift tent of sorts made from a haphazard combination of quilts, coats, tentpoles and more than a little hope. Inside the tent stood Abelard, bent low over a map - though even if he wasn't reading, the structure was low enough that the fairly tall man would have to stoop anyway. He was worn, his hair long ago having retreated from the top of his head and turned grey, and his ruddy face was coated in stubble in the same shade. His nose had clearly been broken a few times, and his left eye was unfocused and hazy, a slightly lighter shade of green compared to the right. He looked up at Arno, and sniffed.
"Your grace," he said in a gravelly bass. "Been looking for you. Have good news."
Arno nodded at him. "Ms. Tenderheart already told me. Do you think that the attack has bought us much time? Perhaps we could use the distraction to try and get more distance, if we packed up and moved now." Arno tried to hide the eagerness in his voice, but it only caused his voice to crack, which ruined the gravitas he tried to project.
Abelard shook his head, looking down at the map. "Afraid not, your grace. Mud's too thick, need it to dry some."
Arno felt himself grow exasperated. "Then we are to waste the advantage we were given?! I thought you were supposed to be a strategist!"
Abelard furrowed his brow. "Don't raise your voice. It isn't ideal but we even if we do start moving we won't cover much ground at all."
Arno sneered. "You know, I would hope that the man running the army I am with would be able to tell that 'not much'-" he used air-quotes "is more than no ground at all!"
Abelard leaned in, looming over Arno. "Now listen here, you mouthy little bugger. When you joined up with our army you promised you would follow my lead-"
Arno gestured wildly. "That was before I knew you were apparently suicidal! We are losing this war, Abelard and we need every single advantage we can get. Stop being stupid,!"
A cold fury entered into Abelard's eyes, and it was clear he was weighing the option of punching the young nobleman, something that Arno welcomed. He was eager to work out some of the frustration he had been feeling for the past year.
Then, quick as a rabbit, Marielle got between them. "Oho, hello, this is going poorly. How about we all separate and not scream at each other, ya?"
Both men stared at each other, teeth clenched and fists balled. There was a tense silence in the makeshift tent as both Arno and Abelard refused to move. Then, after a good ten seconds, Arno relented.
"Fine," he said huffily, moving to leave. He stormed out of the tent, muttering curses about peasants and madmen and rescinding his thanks to Artis.
Rain beat down on the fields outside the town of Cheson, turning the soil in a thick slurry of mud and grime. Arno had hoped to put more distance between the Revolutionary Army and the Grand Duc of Estille's forces, but it seemed that the weather had other plans. The villagers were accommodating enough, in that they didn't actively chase the troops away but by the same token they were unwilling to actually let the rebels camp inside the village.
As the young nobleman desperately tried to find somewhere that would let him keep dry, it occurred to him that the situation was best described as thoroughly miserable. He had been raised on war, of course, both by the Cassians and the Galathions, but they had always made war seem much more glorious than what he had experienced so far. They had filled his head with stories of heroism and great deeds, but so far he had mostly seen slaughter, sadness and mud. So much mud. He wondered if the heroes of the past had gotten mud in their trousers before.
He could tell morale was low. The rebel army had suffered more losses than won victories and even on the best of days they were still hopelessly outsupplied and outtrained by the Royalists. Every so often he would catch the troops looking at him for support, and Arno had to do his best to look like he believed the cause still had a chance. He wondered if they could tell that he was beginning to have his doubts and if they blamed him if they did. It had already been a year, how much longer could it possibly go on with the rebels in the state they were in?
His self-pity was interrupted as he suddenly and violently felt the need to cough. He brought up his hand to cover his mouth, and when he pulled it away he saw it was covered in gunk. He grimaced.
"Come on, Artis!" he bellowed to nowhere in particular. "You've given me rain, I don't need a cold too!"
He stopped, looking up and realizing that the men were no staring at him. He sighed to himself, using the rain to wash his hand of whatever it was that was starting to pool in his lungs. His eyes searched for something to kick. He desperately needed to kick something.
A sharp rap on his shoulder caused Arno to spin around, and he found himself staring Marielle Tenderheart in the eyes. She stood there, her thick black locks clinging wetly to her face, her face contorted into a mischievous grin that he had come to know her for. Though she was just shy of her 17th birthday, she already looked more than woman enough. The men had taken to seeing her as a sort of heroic figure, and as such tended to spare more rations her way, much as they did for him. It did much for her curves. Even stranger yet, she managed to make the ragged jerkin, trousers and leather boots she was wearing look almost seductive. Arno was never quite sure what to make of her. They had been campaigning together for months now, but very rarely did they speak.
"Sorry to bother ya, yer grace, butcha seem to be having a bit of a crisis." There was a playful tone in her voice, one that set Arno on edge. Couldn't she see how bad things were?
He scowled at her, and straightened his posture. "In case you have not noticed, Ms. Tenderheart, we are all having a crisis. We were supposed to be ten miles north of here by now and instead we are stuck waiting while Estille continues to gain ground on us." He spoke with all the refined imperious snobbery of a Galathion mixed with the sneering contempt of a Cassian, traits he had learned from his grandmother and mother respectively.
Marielle cocked her head to the side but her smile remained, which only served to agitate the young nobleman further. "Ya seem like ya could use some good news. Abelard says his scouts saw the Big Duke getting in a skirmish with another army. Turns out we ain't the only rebels in the area."
Arno stared at her for a moment, dumbstruck. Silently, he sent thanks up to Artis, while assuring the God he was still quite cross about the cold. "Can you take me to Abelard?"
Abelard was the current strategic leader of the whole rebel effort, or at least the faction that Arno was attached to. The man had apparently fought in countless battles across Trevast as a mercenary and lead armies to unlikely victories, although his track record was now marred by the current situation in Routaille. He had taken a liking to Marielle, and was treating her as something of a protege. The Cassian in Arno frownedd at the idea of women in war, but Abelard was the strategist, not him.
"Sure thing, yer grace," She said with a level of casualness Arno found unsettling. He had been bred to expect a certain amount of deference from his lessers, but war was forcing him to change his expectations, even if he didn't like it.
The woman turned on her heels and began walking, and Arno moved in behind her, eyes occasionally wandering to her rear. He thought about the fact that the Galathions kept paramours, some of which were lowborn. Then he thought about his mother having a conniption, and all lusty thoughts departed him. The momentary pleasure wouldn't be worth the trouble.
Marielle lead him to a makeshift tent of sorts made from a haphazard combination of quilts, coats, tentpoles and more than a little hope. Inside the tent stood Abelard, bent low over a map - though even if he wasn't reading, the structure was low enough that the fairly tall man would have to stoop anyway. He was worn, his hair long ago having retreated from the top of his head and turned grey, and his ruddy face was coated in stubble in the same shade. His nose had clearly been broken a few times, and his left eye was unfocused and hazy, a slightly lighter shade of green compared to the right. He looked up at Arno, and sniffed.
"Your grace," he said in a gravelly bass. "Been looking for you. Have good news."
Arno nodded at him. "Ms. Tenderheart already told me. Do you think that the attack has bought us much time? Perhaps we could use the distraction to try and get more distance, if we packed up and moved now." Arno tried to hide the eagerness in his voice, but it only caused his voice to crack, which ruined the gravitas he tried to project.
Abelard shook his head, looking down at the map. "Afraid not, your grace. Mud's too thick, need it to dry some."
Arno felt himself grow exasperated. "Then we are to waste the advantage we were given?! I thought you were supposed to be a strategist!"
Abelard furrowed his brow. "Don't raise your voice. It isn't ideal but we even if we do start moving we won't cover much ground at all."
Arno sneered. "You know, I would hope that the man running the army I am with would be able to tell that 'not much'-" he used air-quotes "is more than no ground at all!"
Abelard leaned in, looming over Arno. "Now listen here, you mouthy little bugger. When you joined up with our army you promised you would follow my lead-"
Arno gestured wildly. "That was before I knew you were apparently suicidal! We are losing this war, Abelard and we need every single advantage we can get. Stop being stupid,!"
A cold fury entered into Abelard's eyes, and it was clear he was weighing the option of punching the young nobleman, something that Arno welcomed. He was eager to work out some of the frustration he had been feeling for the past year.
Then, quick as a rabbit, Marielle got between them. "Oho, hello, this is going poorly. How about we all separate and not scream at each other, ya?"
Both men stared at each other, teeth clenched and fists balled. There was a tense silence in the makeshift tent as both Arno and Abelard refused to move. Then, after a good ten seconds, Arno relented.
"Fine," he said huffily, moving to leave. He stormed out of the tent, muttering curses about peasants and madmen and rescinding his thanks to Artis.