https://forum.theeastpacific.com/invision-404
Sigismund shuffled his feet anxiously. The chatter of various field cants across the communication lines made him nervous. The fact that he knew that he wasn’t allowed to know what was being discussed made things all the worse. He tightened his grip on the pole of his banner, fighting against a gust of wind to keep it upright. Positioned on the crest of a large hill, he could see right across the plain towards the walls of Ormark. The last city, although it more closely resembled a fortress, of Iskios. Atleast that’s what they said, the last bastion of resistance. Once it fell, the war would be over. The thought seemed comforting. He remembered seeing pictures of Ormark and the large plains surrounding it from several years ago, a mass of rolling green washing against the stone and iron walls of the city. Now the mass of rolling green was closer to a dull, muddy grey scarred with a vast network of trenches that crept from the marked and pitted walls.
Theodor moved his hand to wipe the accumulated sludge from the eye windows of his gas mask, the bombardment had thrown up great clouds of dust that periodically washed over the Elafosian lines and for the past few hours heavy rain had turn the dust to a paste. He couldn’t tell whether it was day or night, he knew they’d been deployed at dawn but the the filth of war obscured the sky and it seemed like he’d been standing in rank for hours. He heard a coughing from his left and reactively turned and began helping one of his subordinates with their mask. While it hadn’t been mention to him, Theodor was sure that the smog had taken on a sickly yellow tinge. He disliked the masks, a metal plate was affixed to the front of them, cut into a crude skull like visage, a hose trailed from its mouth and snaked around to a contained system carried in their packs. A harsh voice speaking into his secure line made him start, taking a second to decipher what exactly he’d been told. He replied in a slightly muddled version of the same cant and took a step forward, looking down the line. He could see hundreds, but knew thousands more were waiting, wearing the same uniform of dull greys. The only thing that set him apart as an officer was a patch on his shoulder and a stencil of an eagle on his helmet in a bright white, which he’d often mused was for the benefit of the enemy’s snipers. And of course, the ceremonial sabre, he stared at the ornate hand guard for a few seconds before reluctantly drawing it. He could feel his men grimace as he did so, knowing what it meant. He took a step forward and silently signalled the advance.
“The thunder’s stopping.” Solon attempted to adjust his binoculars with one hand while pressing a respirator to his face with the other.
“Sir, I believe that was artil-”
“I know!” He cursed and dropped the binoculars through the hatch and into the tank, “Rain messes with the electronics, there was nothing wrong with the old fashioned ones if you ask me.” He tugged his goggles back down over his face. “Nocteians didn’t say anything about gas either. Didn’t think to check if we’d even have masks.” The anger in his voice was muffled by the clunky respirator. There was a final rumble as dozens of shells were launched into the sky several miles away, for a few moments there was silence before the trenches of Ormark lit up. A secondary explosion shook the earth as a munitions store was caught, even without binoculars the aging tank commander could see the ripple of fire in the distance.
“I believe that’s our cue, Sir.”
“Keep walking!”
“I can’t, I can’t anymore,” Castor lurched to his left before dropping over the edge of the trench and into several inches of mud.
“GET UP!” Aelric leapt down with him, clawing at his overcoat in an attempt to pull him upright. “You’ll fuckin’ drown!”
“I just…” Castor mumbled through his gask mask, his body limp.
“We’re almost there, you can see it! Clear walk, fifty metres!” Aelric lied. It might have been fifty metres, could have been five, he had no idea. His squad had moved in alongside a Nocteian platoon, they’d just met up in the trench maze when something exploded. Friendly fire or hostile, he didn’t know, perhaps they’d overtaken the guns, he’d never liked the idea of a rolling barrage. The only person he could see when he opened his eyes was some injured Nocteian, he knew he was a Nocteian, they always seemed to wear the same gasmasks and that grey coat under their flack jackets. After a few seconds of stumbling about, Aelric had grabbed him and started running. The pulverised remains of his former comrades and the trenches were still raining from the sky as he dragged the Nocteian back towards, what he hoped, were friendly lines. Tired of running into dead ends, they’d crawled over the top, hoping to actually see where they needed to be going but between the claustrophobic tunnel vision granted by their masks, the thick smoke that everything seemed to be bathed in and the walls of torrential rain that drifted past them they were sadly disappointed.
For the first time Aelric saw Castor’s wound, what looked like a gaping hole in his left side. He’d done well to come this far. Aelric watched as Castor hung there in his grasp, save for the occasional twitch, essentially dead. He took a deep breath, the recycled air stale, before heaving him up over his shoulder. Castor seemed to spasm but Aelric ignored it. He was sure he recognised this section of trench, one hundred percent sure. He turned on the spot, his boots churning into the mud under the additional weight of the Nocteian. Apart from the mud the trench was almost pristine, if you could describe a trench that way. He remembered his Squad Leader remarking that “Ormark must have tidied for us” as they picked their way across the duckboards. He was right, Aelric lost himself in though for a moment, it was a wonder that over a week of shelling hadn’t blown it to hell. A nearby weapons discharge brought him crashing back to life. He fumbled for a moment, the strandard issue Illyrician rifle that he’d carelessly thrown over his shoulder had become tangled inbetween bag straps and various pouches but with the tearing of webbing he pulled it free. A grim figure appeared from around the sharp corner of the trench about ten metres away, shoving a corpse over the edge of the duckboard with his boot as he did so.
The figure froze, in one hand he held a sword, coated in a mixture of blood and dirt, and the other a pistol which was by now aimed firmly at Aelric. There was a painful moment of silence before the newcomer bellowed “Friend?”
Aelric stuttered, he didn’t find the glaring skeletal mask nearly as comforting as he felt he should have. “Depends if you are…”
The figure took a step forward and lowered his pistol slightly. “Illyrician?”
Aelric’s voice broke into a half terrified, half relieved laugh, “Nocteian?”
Often mused to be not only the best ruler but the most beautiful woman the nation Gallecia had ever seen, Cordelia Arverni’s face was a picture of despair.
“The situation is dire? There is no fucking situation! We shan’t submit.” Queen Tirech’s sing-song accent did nothing to soften the news that Cordelia had refused to accept for several weeks.
Resisting the temptation to chastise the Queen of Merhenia for her foul language, Cordelia simply sighed. She’d never experienced war before, and likely wouldn’t again.
“Ormark is holding out, Askia and Skatos are still looking for Elafos to wipe their arses and feed them supper. We have a plentiful amount of time to prepare in!” The elderly Queen wasn’t known for her way with words.
“Don’t be so foolish, Eithne.” Cordelia snapped. “Ormark can’t, won’t, hold the Coalition’s forces for long. They don’t even have a leader, without Ragnar’s correspondence we’re left completely in the dark as to what they’re even planning.”
“So, mi’lady, what would one suggest?” Eithne chided.
“We could approach a foreign nation?”
“Yes, and become vassals, slaves! What a brilliant idea tha–”
“And what do we face if we sit here and do nothing?!” Cordelia yelled, making several of the silent officials also arrayed around the table jump in surprise. “Sit and mock me all you will, but so far I am the only one that has suggested a course of action that isn’t suicide.”
“We can fight.” there was a palpable malice in Eithne’s voice now directed at Cordelia.
“If that warmongering fool Ragnar couldn’t resist them, what do you think the probability of our survival is?” Queen Arveni replied calmly. “I shall discuss this further with my diplomats and I suggest you do likewise.”