Open Chronicles March Upcountry

[Canus Spurius Nerva]

Patrols were usual, as were training maneuvers, but for this particular first things had changed. The Republic needed more territory and desired the lands to the South and East of Eaglehead. The peninsula still needed to be fully secured, but with two other Legions policing and fortifying the region, the Senate had felt confident to send their third Legion to begin the expansion campaign. For Aquilia and Nubydia, it meant the Republic would prosper. For the men and women of Legio II, it meant weeks, possibly months of marching, fortifying, and potentially fighting.

Canus scratched his cheek under his helmet as he rode, the dust of thousands of marching feet made life dirty and itchy at the best of times. The only reprieve was when it rained, but that have everyone a completely different set of problems with damp and mud. Personally, he'd take dust over the muck any day, chafing and all.

They were about halfway through the march for the day and scouts had been dispatched to find a suitable campsite for the night. With luck, it would be a decently defendable location compared to the low, rocky hill they'd found the previous night. With the hope of an easier evening and better sleep in the future, Canus took a swig from his waterskin and settled in for the long march.

Lazlo Harkon

 

[Lazlo Harkon]

What the dust could not choke would surely prosper; so thrive the scorpion amid the brush and dunes, and so thrive the Legion upon campaign. That the mounted Lasius Harconnus was an attache was neither lost on the Acranii nor on the Legionnaires, who went to lengths to remind the mage of this fact when they could. With a bit of annoyance, Lasius wiped his cloak clean with a cantrip for the umpteenth time. While his armor was staying pristine thanks to its protective inlays, his cloak of deep blue was no luckier.

Bags beneath his eyes betrayed his tiredness in contrast to the steel in his gaze. That he was miserable and thoroughly annoyed could only be gleaned from the occasional swat at his cloak to magically clean the detritus off. Each slap against the fabric was a little harder than the last, as if some bumbling cauldron was slowly boiling closer and closer to the cusp.

The emblem of the Arcanii Mysterium shone in brilliant burnished gold upon his cloak and armor, the closed eye within an open hand impassive ant introspective. The eagle and scarab of Cipra sat opposite it, the mighty eagle itself atop the standard of Legio II. It bobbed and bounced too and fro with regularity; a welcome distraction from this tedious ride. The wonders and Joy's of setting up camp certainly put spring in his step (figuratively; Lasius might actually be grumbling if the Arcanii didn't afford him a horde to ride) and all the hours of Scribe Boxing he would have ahead of him.

Because, of course... out of the Entire Arcanii retinue, it was Solely Lasius that remembered his Scribe Box.

Would that at least half the Arcanii could remember their boots, perhaps the Legionnaires might be a little more friendly. The stereotype of the cushy mage demanding accommodations entirely unfit for a campaign trail was an enduring one. One that, to Lasius credit, he did not fulfil. No, thank you, he thought, I remembered to bring my own boot polish and rags.

He chanced a look behind himself, casting an eye across Cohort IV; the rowdies sons of whores in the Republic, and by AmonAnaph were they actually starting to sing? With a roll of the eyes, Lasius turned back around and sighed... before lending his voice, low and quiet though it was, to the chorus.

"Hup, Step, Right and Left;
Mother cry and brother die;
A League and Five I go to Death
Sing my lady, love me dear,
The Republic takes me there!"

 

[Canus Spurius Nerva]

The singing came sporadically, fighting through dust and the sound of an army on the march. Canus chuckled to himself, glad the men were in good spirits. After what felt like an eternity of marching, but was probably only an hour, he spotted a rider approaching fast. The Tribune recognized the scout as she drew closer, caked in dust and sweat.


"Sir!"


"Make your report, legionary," he replied, happy for news of their potential camp.


"We found a flat topped hill for tonight's camp with a small stream in it's shadow," she stated before wiping some of the dust from her face only to leave streaks of sweat soaked dirt.


"Perfect, any contact or habitations?"


"None so far. We found horse tracks here and there, but nothing organized and no large groups. Lucius figures they're just wild horses or small bands of riders, maybe hunters."


"Then it sounds like we've found camp for the night," the Legions commander, Legatus Velus, had entrusted the camp selection and construction to Canus. The young Tribune figured it was to test his organization abilities and stepped up to the task. "Guide the fourth cohort to the site and begin construction. I'd like to have the groundwork in place for camp construction before the rest of the army arrives."


As the scout acknowledged the order and waited to be dismissed, Canus thought a moment longer on another idea.


"And… take the mages, as well. Maybe they have some spells or something to speed things along."


With that, he dismissed the scout and watched her ride for the centurion of cohort IV. With luck, things would go smoothly.


Lazlo Harkon

 

[Lazlo Harkon]

Another bat upon the cloak, this time with a hint of a snear. Damnable marching order. The Arcanii Praefectus didn't have to bother with this, damning it all. Why did the Arcanii have to remain with their useless Cohorts during a march? Least they could do was offer a waterskin now and again. Instead, Lasius had a parched throat and a sore ass.

A rider approached from the head of the column; one of the First Cohort pathfinders whose name eluded him. He motioned to the Centurion, a gruff man named Cassius Janus Accoscades (or Janus to his friends and comrades, of which Lasius was not counted) then up to the scout; "We have company," Lasius managed, suddenly aware at how dry his throat really was.

As the rider spun and pulled apace next to Lasius, the Arcanii reached down and tried to grab his own waterskin. The damned thing was absolutely pitiful, as the Arcanii didn't actually walk alongside the Legionnaires: thus, they could make do with less water. He pulled it up, unstopped it, and tried to nurse a few drops from it as the woman and centurion spoke.

"Orders, Centurion;" the woman said without much fanfare, "You are to move up to the flat-top and begin camp preparations. I'll be showing you the way, it's a league and half before the stream."

Lasius sighed, eyes squinting. The damn skin was empty... had one of those Legionnaires swapped theirs with his? He could have sworn he had another draught just for the last stretch.

"You, Arcanii," the scout said, earning a tired side eye, "Summon your companions. Tribunes orders."

"The Tribune may respectfully," Lasius began, lowering the skin as he turned, really wishing to say Kiss my ass, "Request additional support from the Arcanii Praefectus. We are outside his authority."

"That may be so," Janus called, grinning at Lasius, "but you're assigned to us. Ain't that right little ant?"

Oooh, how Lasius despised that nickname. Almost as much as he loathed this man's many attempts at barbs. Lasius continued speaking to the First Cohort scout, "I will however be attending to my Cohort. My presence alone will be sufficient."

Great. Not only did he have camp duties now, out of nowhere, but then the rest of the night would be playing scribe for the entire camp. He showed no outward signs of his frustrations but grimly resolved to move along, irritable as he was.

The Cohort began to overtake the Legion, splitting off to advance at-pace and break ground for the camp. He shot a glance over at the Tribune; so that was the man who thought the whole Arcanii were at his back and call? He couldn't make out any features from here but did know the man. He'd let this slide, no sense bringing up this little commotion with the Praefectus.

The hastened march was far quieter than earlier, when the leisurely pace kept everyone energized and eager. No, all minds were now bent towards one foot before the other. Even Lasius horse was getting tired; poor dear. Well, time to make his keep. With a motion and a flourish, Lasius reached above. Energy pooled in his palm like water, and with an effort he released it upwards.

All at once, across the Cohort came a refreshing cool mist. Strength flooded their limbs, their lips felt less chapped, and that ache in the feet seemed so distant now. With the added vigor, the Cohort picked up the pace. Even Lasius horse felt the effects. The Arcanii junior, to his credit, shouldered the strain of imbuing a little extra vigor well. He strained for a moment before settling into a rhythm: Focus four seconds, relax one. Focus.... relax. Focus...

The distance closed soon enough. The moment the stream was within sight, Lasius dropped the spell with a sigh. Heavy eyes closed for a second... next thing he knew, he was jerked upright by the Centurion, "Stay in the saddle Arcanii. You almost fell there," he said with a note of concern. The mage in question nodded, shrugging off the fatigue from maintaining the spell. A little herbal syrups would perk him right up again.

They made their goal well before the Legion caught up. The ground was being cleared and earthworks were being marked. Lasius had, first things first, took a healthy drink from the stream before anything else. The cool, fresh water did wonders for the mage. He really was running himself ragged...

He turned to watch as, up on the hill, the Cohort were making great headway. With a grunt he rose and began to walk; even if a cool drink was on everyone's mind, they didn't seem all that peeved that he had made the beeline for it. Seems they atleast appreciated the walking rest they'd been given.

"Arcanii," called a Legionnaire, mattoc in hand with the rest of his contubernium, "Think you can lend us a hand with this?"

They were looking for suitable timbers to fell for the camp tonight. Most of the trees here were small and unfit, and Lasius had an idea the Legionnaires just wanted a hand getting the wood back to camp.

"Certainly," he answered with an even tone. He approached casually despite his slowly steeling himself for another exertion. This one would be pitifully easy compared to what he usually did, yet he had a lot of time ahead of him to get worn out over. With a sharp breath, he moved a hand over the Legionnaires. With an imbuement of strength, the Legionnaires were strengthened and made more capable, able to handle the task before them. It would be a long process... yet, giving ten men the strength of ten men should help speed the process up considerably. Mattocks worked like scythes through wheat and trees fell as so much chaff.

 

[Canus Spurius Nerva]

The rest of the Legion, to their credit, made good time catching up. While they lacked the magical aid given to the fourth cohort, the thought of hot food, warm tents, and a cool stream nearby gave most a second wind. For Canus, it was important to get set up before dark. While they were near enough to Cipran borders, they were well into barbarian lands and too far from any real aid.


He slid off his horse as the rest of the Legion marched past, pleased at the groundwork laid out for the camp. Nearby, one newly arriving cohort dropped their kit and pulled shovels before setting off to dig trenches. Another full cohort began setting up tents while another spread out to guard the camp. It was organized chaos, but very quickly the camp started taking form. The Tribune dusted himself off a bit before getting the attention of the scout commander, Lucius.


"I need you to send two patrols out to scout around the camp," he said as the other man drew near. "See if anything is nearby and gather what supplies you find, but try not to cause a fuss."


"Of course, sir, but why the light hand?" the scout commander asked, his face puzzled.


"We don't know, really, who we're dealing with this far out. Best we not make waves with any local villages out here," Canus stated as he thought. "If you find anywhere selling food in bulk, either a farm or a merchant, you've authority to negotiate a good price. Just report back and I'll send men out to pick up the goods with the money required."


"Yes, sir."


Resupply now, hopefully, organized, he then set off to ensure the Legate's tent was organized and to find Cohort IV's centurion.


Lazlo Harkon

 

[Lazlo Harkon]

The Legionnaires, empowered with excess strength, easily carried logs over their shoulders as if they were nothing. This left, with a bit of a frown, Lasius to carry the mattocks. His will was straining at maintaining the empowerment and the exertion of having to carry their damn gear as well. Certainly, he could have refused and walked off, but as he saw it that would have been dereliction of duty to the Republic.

Unacceptable.

Well, the timbers had arrived... that was something. As the logs were dumped off, Lasius released the magical spell in tandem with his dropping of the mattocks. He wiped his brow of sweat and staggered somewhat. The world spun; what was wrong? Everything tilted, and there was a hard jerk. Suddenly, six worried faces were over top of him, "Hold him steady, get his feet under him", "You alright, Arcanii? Sir?", "Get a dog! Someone, call for a dog!"

Lasius struggled to keep his balance, thankfully the Legionnaires had been attentive. Were they trying to talk to him? It was difficult to make out... It was a blur as, without any delay, a tall Anaphite, easily towering over the muscled Legionnaires, came to a rather sharp stop before the cluster of humans. Darkness took Lasius, and he released his hold into the abyss. It only lasted a moment, it felt, for next he opened his eyes to Janus and a few others in the Nubydian Mendicant tent. With a grunt, he tried to heave his way up; "Ease, Arcanii," Janus commanded with a harsh tone and soft grip, "You're depleted. You're resting, soldier."

Lasius did as instructed, though he wished to protest that he was, technically, not a legionnaire, and not one of Janus men.

"I don't care, Tribune," Janus growled, "if that Praefectus drives my Arcanii this hard again, they're gonna be adding his skull to our Triumph. No-" he made a harsh hand-motion, "This pessimistic sack of shit doesn't complain and he carries his own weight. He's one of mine, I don't care what the Senate says."

There was a quiet. Borderline insubordination, over someone not even in the legion. A support person, like one of the Mortuary Priests that tended to the wounded. A final word was growled out by Janus as he looked back to the rest of the tent, "I'll be having a word with my Cohort... I'm requesting latrine duty set aside for 7th and 9th contubernium, and leave to post 4th as a guard detail for now."

Lasius faded into sleep. Well, as far as well-deserved rest, this was likely going to be the first full-night's sleep in a week, easy. Well earned, after today's efforts.

 

[Canus Spurius Nerva]

The Legate's tent was coming along nicely, though he'd yet to oversee it. The commander was touring the perimeter of the camp where the palisade wall and accompanying outer trench were being constructed. Another task complete, Canus made his way to find Cohort IV.


He found the cohort and was pointed to the medical tents for their Centurion. The men mentioned their attached mage falling ill and the cohort's centurion escorting him to the doctors. With that in mind, he headed off to the doctor.


He arrived just in time to catch the tail end of an insubordinate argument between the Centurion he was looking for and one of the sub-Tribunes of the Legion. For Canus, it was mildly annoying. For him, his rank set him as second in command of Legio II. Other Tribunes within the legion were below him in rank and held more administrative roles, rarely participating in combat, but officers nonetheless. The sub Tribune in question huffed off from the confrontation as Canus approached. Assessing the situation quickly, he caught the eye of the Centurion in question who approached with only a barely perceptible hint of chagrin.


"Sir," the man stated simply with a trace of resignation.


"Two things, Centurion," Canus started, his tone flat and official. "First, never speak that way to a Tribune again or I'll have you flogged."


"Yes, sir, but-" the Centurion replied.


"Second," the Tribune interrupted, his tone never wavering. "He had it coming, but next time you have an issue with another officer or another Tribune, come find me and I'll handle them. Your concern for your men, attached or directly under your command, is commendable, but you can't keep an eye on them if I have to flog you or discharge you, understand?"


"Of course, sir."


"Wonderful. Take your cohort and help get palisades into place, then report for evening meal. I've authorized the mess to issue extra rations to your men for the extra work you've put in. Dismissed, Centurion."


With that, the man left, albeit with a now more perceptible look of pride. Situation handled and the camp was well on its way to becoming fully secured. All that was left was to wait for the scout report and dinner mess. With luck, everything would be uneventful.


Lazlo Harkon

 

[Tömö]

An eagle wheeled high above the legion, watching with golden eyes.

Several miles east, another pair of golden eyes watched too.

“My Qhan, what do you see?”

The eyes blinked. Tömö turned and regarded his companion flatly.

“Ciprani. Marching on sacred land, through the kurgans of our ancestors. Rouse the tribes, we go.”

In the midst of the grassy steppe, centaurs trotted toward a gathering throng, Tömö at their center. Every centaur held a bow. And had tied four quivers upon his back.

There were hundreds of them, swelling to thousands as new groups rode in, dust in their wake.

The centaurs of the steppes made ready for battle.

 

[J'Darak Moghahk]

"Right and wrong matters little when survival matters most."
​

With anger clouded vision, with only the thought of flesh consumed with the bite of axe, the decision was made. In they stormed, muscle and bone, grey flesh and iron ready for the killing, ready to relish in the vengeance they deemed so important that they would forgo any sensibilities to attain.

The heat, the flames, the acrid stench of magic that choked the senses, dulled the mind. So quickly did the sensibilities of what they had done strike back, so quickly did things go from bad to worse. All that was left and had ever mattered swatted from existence with just the flick of bone covered fingers, sickly cackling of a hollow victory, even as they choked from split throats. A decision with a terrible, evil outcome that would never leave a living mind.

_____​

The drums of war had never been louder to Moghahk, or perhaps it was his heart in his chest. With beady golden eyes and a heavy 'brow creased in a hard to swallow memory, he cast his gaze across the marching sea of his brethren, Orcish kind of the Steppes, dressed in their hardy furs and solid leather. Various kinds of worn, rugged weapons glinted in the waning daylight with their steps, swaying and shifting to match the dance of his crimson War-Banner, torn thin hide stretched and dyed; soaked in the blood of goat, horse and perhaps soon, man. Many more had joined in his march, swelling the ranks of those who wished to defend their homes, even with what little the land offered, home was home and many shared the beliefs he did, they would die defending what they deemed rightfully theirs.

He would have never admitted it aloud, but seeing the banner of his Clan, Draal Gulhag once again risen swelled his chest with pride, it made him believe his ancestors would watch, see that he was not the same man he had been when the banner fell. Their march was purposeful and without much rest, across the flat, rolling expanse of the Steppes, the sound of the warg-mounted drums played by goblin-kind followed the entire snaking mass of barbaric warriors and with each nomadic settlement they passed, warned well in advanced of their arrival the thundering melancholy call of the Rallying Horn would sound, pulling men and women both from their tent homes with axe, spear and sword in hand.

Neither the Council of Elders nor the fools that made up the Circle of Shamans had listened to his warnings, trusted ears and eyes fed Moghahk many a word and the most recent troubled him deeply, men clad in armour with shields capable of building walls from nothing from the west, different from those of Allir that he was accustomed to, that he had tasted and drank from the skulls of. He saw it upon himself to defend the lands he called Home and thus the Fanged-Banner was raised, with the remaining Taagi Baara Black Orcs of Clan Draal Gulhag rallied to his side, numbering only in a hundred but worth more than ten men each, he set out to face the challenge that he had been given.Thankfully he was not the only one with a blood thirst and an itch for battle, as many had joined his call and even more would join the throngs of his warband. The biggest challenge was keeping them all in line, ragged and undisciplined; it was not the fighting force he would have chosen, given the circumstances.

A few of the larger clans had joined with their War-Chiefs, swelling and bolstering his ranks with seasoned warriors and dedicated soldiers, even some gifted their Shamans and gifted spirit-seers, much to his unfathomable hatred of anything born from Magic. He knew it could be the difference between defeat and victory. His scouts rode many days ahead, unarmed womenfolk and men that to a wary enemy may appear just as inhabitants to the harsh terrain they marched through, or so that was his hope.

"Uzul my brother, fetch the Flesh-Rend Chieftain." J'Darak ordered, his rather pronounced underbite of jagged teeth giving each word a guttural bark of Orcish. Uzul, another Black Orc of his clan thudded a balled fist to his left pectoral and made to shunt his way through the overcrowded bustle of warriors, stopped only by the grip of Moghahk on his bicep. With his squinted gaze, he regarded the ragtag bunch and rumbled a thick snarl, throaty and filled with saliva that oozed in ropes from his teeth, "and organize this disgrace into something we can use, axe with axe, spear with spear. Split clans if you have to, if any argue tell them they can challenge me themselves. I'll split their skulls with Gja'Tok and feed them to the wargs personally."

 

[Infernal]

"You have summoned me, J'Daraak?" Lumbering forward, the chieftain of the Flesh Rend orcs was a large purple monstrosity, muscles rippling underneath a layer of fat so thick, it is rumored to be able to halt blades and stop arrows from harming him. When he spoke, one could see the dried blood flaking off his chin, as his kin took to drinking blood of any they could get as their favored beverage.

"Mmm, I can already smell the tasty flesh of humans. It reminds me of a joke my father liked to make of them. What is fat like a cow, squeals like a pig and tastes like a chicken? Humans!" He laughed merrily, the vicious looking Axe known as Spine Splitter clanging against his armor while strapped to his back.

 

[Lazlo Harkon]

He awoke with a headache- the kind that reminds you that you're alive but makes you wish you weren't. Lasius grit his teeth and opened his eyes. Another figure in the Mendicant tent turned to regard him; an imperious Anaphite, towering over him with knives and instruments in hand.

"Ah, good," his deep and rumbling voice announced, "you're awake. I was beginning to worry you had taken a concussion."

Lasius pushed himself up; he was lain upon a cot up off the floor and the thick waft of incense hung in the air like an ethereal mist. The figure bent over their deck along a tent wall lifted a large bowl, offering it to the Arcanii.

"Your Tribune wished you to have a good meal upon waking. Your centurion wishes your presence once you fit to walk," he listed off with a tone of boredom, "If you forgo drinking liquids in the field, you will find yourself back in my tent again. I'd prefer to focus my time on serious concerns, if you don't mind."

Lasius nodded as he accepted the bowl. Stew, probably some fish and greens, with a bit of hard tack and jerky. He swung his feet off the cot and took a drink from the bowl, relishing the slightly warm broth. His eyes shut again as the salty smell rolled like sea spray across his face, some feeling of ease coming with an unseen hunger being satiated. The faintest hint of a smile graced his lips, and when he opened his eyes again he was surprised to see the Anaphite looking at him.

"That good?" He asked, before giving a low chortle, choked off quickly after its birth, "You humans are usually more expressive than this when it comes to food."

"I prefer an even temper" Lasius answered, finally rising, "is best maintained with every joy in moderation. No strong emotions, no strong outrage."

The Anaphite regarded him quietly, those alien eyes boring into him with some stern appraisal. The gaze broke when the flaps opened, in stepping a tired looking Legionary. He paused, looking between the two of them for a moment, before hiking a thumb over his shoulder, "Uh... Arcanii, when you're ready? My boy's and I'll show you to your tent."

Lasius looked between the two others; whatever appraisal was underway had been fulfilled for the Anaphite had turned around, his tall ears gently swiveling at sounds not even he could hear. His hands worked across his tools, cleaning and maintaining.

"Thank you, Legionairy, I will be along in a moment."

As Lasius turned to leave, the black-furred Jackalfolk by the desk gave a low comment, one just high enough to need to he thought over to be undetstood... "We will be watching, Arcanii... don't die too soon."

Those words danced through his mind as he followed behind two talkative Legionaries, tossing around some gossip from the camp. Lasius almost didn't realize they were being spoken too, looking up just in time to catch the bare context needed;

"...- some horse riders, right? Think you could like... wizard up some caltrops or spikes?" He asked, turning to look at Lasius with his friend.

"Ah-" Lasius began, thinking for a beat, "Mm. Yes, I... yes. That is well within my power. Manipulating the earth is fairly easy," he began to make the somatic motions without actually casting anything, "draw up spikes of earth about ten yards in front of our cohort. Yes..."

He looked them both in their eyes, glancing between them with a neutral face. They seemed satisfied, relaxing somewhat and slowing down, drawing Lasius into their conversation actively.

"Well, say we get surrounded..." one of them started, "think you could help us keep our shields up?" Lasius nodded, slowly as if to say 'of course, you idiot', and earned the other Legionary a swat on the arm, "Told you. Nothing an Arcanii can't do."

"What's your name," asked the second man, turning slightly as they walked, "Septus is the know-it-all, I'm Graccus," he informed Lasius, offering a hand. Lasius clasped it with little certainty, giving it a shake.

"Ah... Lasius. Lasius Harconnus," he replied, uncertainty in every syllable; what was this? "Just Lasius works."

"Lasius," Septus said with a grin, "What about turning some of our water rations into wine? Eh?"

Graccus rolled his eyes as Lasius grimaced, "Ah, no... such transmutations are temporary, and I've no skill as such. Even if I could," he said, am unexpected disappointment entering his voice that he had not foreseen, "... I doubt the stupor would persist beyond an hour."

The two Legionaries of Cohort IV, Contubernium IV, simply chuckled and shrugged, Graccus giving Septus the smack across the arm this time. The three walked a short distance before reaching the administrative quarter; "Well, sir, it's been a pleasure. Ah, and thanks for the hand with the lumber, this afternoon," Graccus said with a smile, "We're gonna get a few more hours of sleep, dawn's not long off."

The Arcanii smiled meekly, a meager thing that didn't say much. For such a muted response one must take it as displeasure... but, the footmen didn't seem to mind. They shook, wished him well, and made off. With them gone, Lasius looked up; dawn was to be soon, already the stars were beginning to grow faint. He certainly had been out...

He turned and made for his tent, raised with his sudden downturn of health by the rest of the Arcanii. A kindness, certainly, probably requested by the tribunes after the fuss that Janus kicked about. He made for his tent with little rush; inside, a solar lamp slowly released the sunlight it captured over the day and his foot locker had been set at the foot of his cot.

He sat at his desk, finally setting his dinner down. A motion and a can cantrip later, a stone spoon kept from the ground to his hand. It was a small trick, the kind students in the Arcanii Mysterium traded like gems in barter. Spells like this weren't exactly legal tutelage, but knowing them wouldn't catch him in trouble. Not since graduating, at least. He tucked into his (closer to breakfast) meal with gusto, growing hungrier as he ate. When he finished, he simply abandoned the spoon and bowl and took to his cot. Tomorrow would, hopefully, be a much less eventful day.

Lasius wasn't sure he wanted anything more than to be annoyed at the dust anymore. Too much excitement, this expedition had been. Hopefully his next assignment was something quiet.

 

[J'Darak Moghahk]

Hiding one's distaste for another was a difficult task, luckily one Moghahk seemingly had very few issues with doing; his already scrunched face giving off a perpetual scowl that seemed like he hated everything he laid eyes upon. So when the fat, grotesque bag of meat that called itself an 'Orc' lumbered up to him, he gave only a short snort from his nostrils and a grind of his teeth towards the 'joke'. Despite his displeasure of working with something even he saw as barbaric, he knew Gorgrax's clan was a necessity in the upcoming conflict and once the battle was done, then he could wash his hands of his kind.

The firm guiding hand that was slapped to the Cheiftains shoulder no doubt caused his bulk to wobble from the impact, as J'Darak lead him out of the river of Orcish warriors to the side. Lifting the crude, vicious black-iron great-axe towards the front of the column -which was already shifting and forming into what looked like a reasonable formation, thanks to his Captains- he spoke through over sized teeth and a throat full of gravel.

"My brethren already form our ranks, from a rabble to a warband we will forge our way towards a victory," he rumbled, the curve of his axe moving to place itself on the reddish-purple band of Orcs a little further up the column, "but our victory can only be achieved if we work together. I want your people at the front, with my Banner and kin, our clans will be the first to feel the bite of blade against flesh and crush the skulls of those who seek to take what is ours." He informed the Chieftain, usually J'Darak would have simply demanded but he could not afford a souring of relations this early on.

The Black Orcs of Clan Draal Gulhag were few in number, but imposing in appearance as they walked alongside the group, their grey flesh mottled with scars and painted in sweeping lines of red, lightly armoured and heavily armed, each carried some form of great-weapon, vicious axes, crude war-cleavers and studded, spiked great-clubs. All silent save for the steady thud of marching feet and ever increasing intensity of the drummers. Another bellow of the War-Horn from up ahead signaled that progress had been made, more numbers would join their ranks.

"As I promised, you will also be the first to take the spoils of battle, but after our success, not before." Moghahk warned, saliva rolling from the gaps in his jagged teeth and as he dropped the haft of his axe to his shoulder, he slammed a fist to his left pectoral. "Fight with me Gorgrax and your people will have a feast like never before, this I assure you."

 

[Infernal]

A deep grin showed in Gorgrax's face as he heard the plans for his brethren. There was a cunning behind it, as if he understood the true purpose for them being sent to the front. "Of course. I would be honored. May your Axe never dull, J'Darak."

Making his way back to the rest of his Clan, he met up with one of the shamans. "Lok'Bor was correct. Prepare your trinkets then, and make certain you are ready for when we make our attack."

The robed orc nodded and shuffled off, leaving the warrior to his thoughts. For now they were seen as outcasts and monsters, but soon, they would be regarded as rulers of all orcs.

 

[Canus Spurius Nerva]

The camp set up and the evening watch begun, Canus managed to retire to his own tent for the night. For once, sleep came easily, something that had always eluded him since he was a boy. Even the jackal-headed Anaphites his father had hired were never quite able to help his insomnia completely. Yet, more often of late his sleep had become more regular after he had taken his post within the Legion. Whether due to constant exhaustion at the end of the day or a sense of self achievement and satisfaction, be couldn't say, but he enjoyed the results all the same.


Morning broke bright and clear to wake him from his slumber. He could already hear the muffled orders and shouts in the distance. Breakfast was still being served as the camp broke down. The usual staple of wheatcakes and honey, quietly one of Canus' favorites, washed down with fresh spring water gave him a lovely start to the day. A quick word with the Legate and the Primus Pilus for the day's orders as he finished his meal got him moving along smoothly.


As he moved along his tasks Canus noted the palisade wall being dismantled and discarded. Normally they would take such things along for the next camp, but the Legate desired speed and mobility over what could be a lead anchor on their forces. Personally, Canus disliked getting rid something useful, but he had to admit the Legate had a point. Out here they would need to travel fairly light and lugging a few hundred posts wouldn't help in the slightest.


His morning tasks complete and the camp dismantled, he joined the column as the Legion began the long march onwards. Their primary goal was to essentially gauge how dangerous the region was and if it could be pacified. So far they'd seen nothing that would warrant severe danger, though he knew from reports that orc tribes were rampant and the steppe centaurs resided in the Taagi Baari. With luck, they'd steer clear.


Canus took his place in the rear guard. The Legate usually took the front to spread command abroad. The strongest and most veteran cohorts guarded the rear while the others took the vanguard. Between the two stood the small baggage train flanked by Nubydian chariots and the legions cavalry auxiliaries. All around rode scouts while a small number ranged ahead, checking in regularly. With luck, they'd find another suitable campsite to fortify.

Lazlo Harkon
Infernal
J'Darak Moghahk
@Tömö

 

[Lazlo Harkon]

Morning.

Lasius rose slowly, eyes half-lidded as the commotion of another day of marching began. With a sigh, he swung his legs off the cot and stood; He was still dressed in the undergarments he wore yesterday; that would need to be changed. He gave a snap, the gemstone-rimmed footlocker springing open at his command. It's simple magic programming responded to his desire for fresh linens ably, the shelf within containing his changes of clothes presented dutifully. Without looking he swiped a handful of tunic and drawers from its neatly folded spot and made out of his tent.

A pair of Legionaries were busy by the pallisades and uprooting the fortifications; Lasius never understood that part. Why not leave it, or better yet just burn it if you weren't going to come back? Wasn't his job though, and for that he was glad. A sharp turn through some tents, and past the west face entrance lie the stream. A few early-chores soldiers were taking their time, washing downstream and filling skins upstream, something the Arcanii would emulate shortly. He didn't spy any of his attached Cohort (not that he knew them all at a glance) and threw his soiled clothes into the water.

A stifled yawn at the very sudden rising was hidden behind his hand as he strode into the cold water. A few motions and a blast of wind, the sort he was supposed to use to intercept siege weapons with on a larger scale, sent a spray flying up at him at high speeds. Now, that woke him up. Energized and ready, he began to rinse the sweat and dust off with some gusto. By the time he had finished, his old clothes had finished soaking and were ready for a little washing.

As he rose and turned to grab them, he spotted a few of the Legion's Auxiliary approaching; Nubydian Charioteers. The Gnolls gave their confederates a barked greeting, heading a little ways further down the stream. More than a few Legionaries ignored them, though Lasius offered them a salute. A few returned the sign, though not without a pause. The morning, otherwise, went without issue. He filled his Waterskin, dried his clothes over a fire as he ate breakfast, and once it was almost time to move, activated the packing cantrip within the tent itself.

As he dressed himself in his uniform of darkened armor and blue cloak, papers were neatly stored by invisible hands and properly organized according to a routine programmed in the crystal gemstones along the tent itself. A minor exertion for Lasius, the kind that helped him stretch his magical potential before a day on the march (or worse, a battle; heaven forbid). He stepped out, tripping the final pack up of the tent and in short order it had collapsed into a neat bundle of secured fabric, lockers, and tentpoles. He made for the Fourth Cohort, letting the responsible Legionaries handle stowing his possessions in the baggage train. A perk, he supposed: better than muling his entire quarters around by a longshot.

He mounted his horse, honeycake neatly stowed in a cloth bag, across from Centurion Janus; "Centurion," Lasius greeted cordially as if to excuse his moment of weakness earlier in the day.

"Lasius," he said casually, "Glad you're fit to ride," Lasius had barely the time to react as a waterskin was hurled to him from the Centurion; a full-sized one, at that! "Talked with the Quartermaster. Given it contains to your 'frail constitution', he authorized it," the Centurion explained. It wasn't the whole truth, even Lasius could guess that, but Cohort IV were too stubborn and ruthless in battle to get cracked down on completely. Janus had a peculiar way to just managing to toe the line without getting more than a scolding. Anyone else try what he pulled on the routine? Flogging or discharge, almost certainly. It was a blessing the Legate knew how useful the 'Whoresons of the Second' could be.

With the sound of a trumpet, the Legion began to move. Lasius was, once again, tested in patience by the dust which was thankfully diminishing due the scrublands bordering the Nubydian Dunes turning to steppes. The open space offered easy sight of the closest scouts, small figures as they were. Idly thoughts came easily to the Arcanii, distracting himself from bored drinking with speculation on if the entire fourth were bastards and proletariat, or if that was just the reputation for their crass attitude. He certainly fit right in himself, if only for lineage...

And in the morning light, the terrors beyond those yonder hills lie in wait, Lasius and his fellows no wiser yet to what this day would bring.

 

[J'Darak Moghahk]

The ceaseless, unbroken march of the Taagi Baara Orcs was fueled by necessity, by anger and fear. What had started as several throngs of disorganized rabble had formed into a somewhat presentable column of thousands of men and women, tribes side by side with rivals, all willing to die for the land they saw as home. A force only a fraction smaller than their Legion counter parts, a force with so much more to lose.

J'Darak however knew no fear, felt no animosity in his heart as he lead his men forward, war was an inevitability and death was simply a new journey, a new path to conquer. Whilst he lacked the dedicated command experience of some generals and commanders, he was not stubborn nor prideful enough to lead alone and after many nights of conferring with his men, the other War-Chiefs present and even some of the Steppe nomads who only knew conflict between tribes; a decision had been made. They would strike the enemy whilst they moved, deeper into Steppe territory. Shock and awe would be their strength.

_______

Hours later the first signs of the enemy had been reports of scouts, three men on horseback woefully out of their element, taken by surprise by his forward Warg riders. They knew the steppes, knew the terrain. Now it was a race against time, missing scouts would be the first sign of something being wrong and Moghahk could not afford the enemy the chance to form up.

The three men -one of which who was missing an arm thanks to the Flesh Rend clan's antics, something he would most definitely take care of later- were bound and presented before him on their knees. Each appeared well trained, with only the smallest amount of fear in their eyes and that was something he intended to capitalize on.

Moghahk took the jaw of the furthest along the line, lifting his gaze from the ground. The man gave only the smallest wince as the vice like grip threatened to break his teeth and the rough, calloused fingers pulled at his stubbled jaw.

"You, talk and avoid death. How many, where are they?" He demanded, rolling a thick growl forth, "tell me what you know." As predicted, no one spoke and the man spat in protest, ripping his face from Moghahk's grip. Snorting, the Black Orc's lips perked into a jagged, tooth filled grin and he moved to the furthest along, the one who had lost an arm. "You will talk, or you will die. I will crush your skull, grind your bones," he warned, before grasping the man's head between his spade-like hands, thumbs hooking into his eyes and with a slow, steady squeeze, the sound of wailing, agonizing screams soon erupted.

It did not take long before the remaining two men were practically shaking, after witnessing and hearing the skull of their companion collapse into nothing but a mangled mush of gore. J'Darak moved to the next man, claiming his head in his slickened hands. Despite this however, his jaw was set firm and he said nothing.

"Hold him, make him see," Moghahk ordered, to which Uzul -his right hand man- forced the other to watch, keeping his eyes locked firm as Moghahk started the slow, vice like squeeze. With very little effort the same scenario played out, screaming, begging and then the loud, popping crunch of bone. Moghahk closed his fingers and ripped the broken skull and spine from the man's body, discarding it to the side.

Needless to say, the man spoke once he felt the bloodied, grey Orcish hands start to squeeze, spilling the information Moghahk had wanted, desired and after all was said and done, he was thrown to the Wargs. They feasted despite the three horses they had been fed and as they brutally ripped flesh from bone, Moghahk made sure his orders were delivered across the column.

They would fall back and wait for the enemy to enter the more densely packed, rocky area of the Steppes. There they would split into two, a simple ambush from either side, with pressure to the front from the Black Orcs of Draal Gulhag and the Flesh Rend clan. Moghahk could only hope the information he had gathered was right and that the enemy would not expect their scouts back for another few hours. Ample time to spring the trap and turn the rocky crags into rivers of red.
___

Lazlo Harkon Infernal Canus Spurius Nerva

 

[Infernal]

To fight was an honor, to die, even more so, but Gorgrax had no desire to die this day. He was the mightiest, the most cunning, and most difficult to kill among his clans men. Many had come to a violent end at his hand, and many more were soon to follow, if the day went as planned. With the shamans in position, they were ready to spring the trap upon the hapless humans.

"Begin." He said quietly, signalling the shamans they had hidden within the rocks to start their spells. Before long, there was a thick, rolling fog that began to make its way through the formations, where the humans would believe it as a strange, but harmless, pink fog.

In all the history of the orcs, it has been known to give a mighty shout, to declare one's presence to both intimidate and to recognize your fellow warrior. Even the Flesh Rend tribe has practiced in this sacred tradition, except for today. On this day, Gorgrax informed his warriors they would not be shouting, nor would they be whooping or hollering. Their presence was to be kept hidden, until they heard the clash of weapons from the others, thus taking advantage of the element of surprise in full.

The fog, borne from desecrated ram horns held by the dark shamans, had grown thick, thick enough to make recognition of oneself difficult. Visibility was about two feet in front of one's face, difficult, but not for those with a plan like Gorgrax did. He intended to seek out all the chieftains of the other tribes, who will be weakened by the fog, just like the humans, and kill them. Without leadership it was likely the battle was not going to go their way, but that would also leave a lot of orcs without direction, a situation Gorgrax intended on taking advantage of. One he would save for last, though, that wretched little insect, Moghahk, who knew nothing of grander plans than simply protecting this insignificant patch of dirt. He would feel Spine Cleaver take his head, and the Flesh Rend tribe will be one step closer to utter domination.

War horns sounded, the clash of steel echoed with the booming roar of War cries. That was their signal, and so Gorgrax lead the charge into the column, Axe at the ready as he felled the first human he came in sight of.

It was making him so very...hungry.

 

[Canus Spurius Nerva]

The march had gone about as expected; tedious and monotonous, though at least the dust was gone for the most part. As simple as the day had been going, however, Canus had a steadily nagging feeling digging at the hindpart of his brain. The scouts checked in relatively regularly, yet one team hadn't checked in on time nor sent word. He was debating on sending a man up to the Legate to seek advice or if the team had checked in with the front of the column when what could only be described as the absolute worst case scenario unfolded. To make matters even more problematic, it came in shades of pink.


The cloud of fog was thick, nasty, and immediately Canus realized it was unnatural. Fog didn't suddenly roll in from clear skies and out of thin air. Swearing under his breath, he crammed his helmet onto his head and turned in the saddle. The rear guard was made up of the more veteran legionaries which, hopefully, might make a difference in the coming minutes. Without knowing ahead of time, there was no realistic way to form proper battle lines, especially as the fog hit the front of the column, but perhaps they could do something to change the tide.


"Battle formations!" he shouted, still mentally cursing himself for his mistake as he drew his blade. "Second and fifth, left flank! Seventh and ninth, right flank! First on me! Double time!"


The sudden rattle of men in motion hit him just as the fog overtook the rear of the column. As the mist enveloped he and his men, two realizations hit him as his limbs grew weaker and his vision hazy. First, he was right that the fog was completely unnatural. Second, he recognized the sudden warcries of orcs among the crashing and clashing of steel on steel ahead.


J'Darak Moghahk
Lazlo Harkon
Infernal

 

[Lazlo Harkon]

Lasius took a drink of his waterskin. The travel was proving to be drill but far from challenging. Thanks to the gift from Janus, the Arcanii felt ready and capable. Undoubtedly the other Arcanii were more tired than they were used to due to having to carry their own weight last night. Lasius though, he... actually felt good. For the first time in years, he felt alright.

"Centurion Janus," Lasius asked, turning to face the man, "Do you have a moment?"

The Centurion in question had his eyes shut, though he snapped to attention fluidly; had he been sleeping in the saddle? "Of course, Lasius, talk to me."

Lasius looked to the horizon, swaying with his horse as it plodded along, "Do you know what happened to your last Arcanii?"

The Centurion was quiet for a moment, thinking, before he answered with confidence that "He fell off his horse in the middle of a battle. Damn fool thought he could ride around the whole time."

Lasius squirreled that away in the back of his mind, nodding, "I see... I appreciate the information. I myself have not seen a battle yet."

"Worried?" Janus asked, looking at him with a frank expression, "Don't be. There's only Orcs and Centaurs out here. You never see them in force... maybe a couple thousand?"

He turned his head, clearing his nose away from Lasius and into the path of a Legionair of the 4th cohort (and eliciting a swift swear at his direction, to which he smiled) "Yeah... Orcs are strong, built like a steel shithouse, but they've only got an extra inch of muscle and fat. Just gotta stab them a little deeper. Four inches, Arcanii..." Janus said, smiling grimly as he faced Lasius again, "Four inches and that pig ain't getting up in the morning."

Lasius nodded, turning away. Open space lay before them, reaching on to the ends of the earth. Lasius searched, not certain what he was looking for. Perhaps to look busy? Maybe to busy his mind? However... he did spy something, out there. He couldn't make it out though, but... a dust storm?

"Janus?" Lasius called, turning back to the Centurion.

"Hm? If you're worried, kid, just stay near me. Nothing's going to happen to you-" he began, thinking the Arcanii was just fretting, but followed his looks into the distance. "Oh... sunnova-"

A pink wash of dust or fog, rolling across the plains. Lasius could feel a sickening heat radiating from it through his mind's eye, his eyes widening. He had never encountered something like this before...

"Fourth!" Janus barked, "Earn your keep you whoresons! Get those Gladii out you cocksuckers!"

The fog touched the head of the marching column. Horses panicked. Men began to yell, orders mixing with panic... Lasius, from atop his horse, quickly reached a hand upwards to the sky. Thinking quickly, he dragged an atmospheric current down into him, buffeting the 4th Cohort and himself with a powerful, chilling northern wind. The fog spun and roiled along with the surge of dust as the wind impacted the ground, lashing with something that the Arcanii couldn't describe against the buffer of wind. Debris flew wildly yet the fog was kept away.

Lasius focused everything on this spell, he could feel something battering upon the windstorm. The fog wanted in. It was not just unnatural and sudden. It was wrong, evil even.

The 4th cohort drew their shields and swords, forming their shield wall... just as Legionairs, bloody, some missing limbs, began to run into the wall. Those that could be allowed managed to move to the back, panic in their eyes. Others were left to fall where they stumbled. The 4th, to their credit, hardened brutes as they were, didn't even flinch.

Then, from that vile fog, strode a sea of monsters. They surged like the fog, ghoulish features and bulging eyes, fat bellies and arms like support beams, weapons crude and looted or savage and keen: as one, without word, they came.

The impact on the shield wall was a cacophony, some demonic concussion setting the tempo of slaughter. Then, came the voices, singing to that melody only the brave could hear;

"Eat my ass, Pig!", "SPQC! SPQC!", "Hold the line! Feed them your steel!" "Out of my face shitlick!"

The 4th Cohort, bellicose and crude, answered fear with disdain and death with a phlegmatic loogie. They laboured within the dusty vortex of protective air, each step forcing them closer and closer to the fog. Then came a shrill whistle; in the middle of the formation, Janus pulled a whistle from his lips as Lasius focused his breathing, redirecting the wind down into a protective surge.

"Second rank! Cut them down!" He called and, like clockwork, the ranks rotated with a war cry. Shieldbiters to a number, each member of the 4th cohort was eager to fight, and the first casualties of the battle began to mount. Four inches of sword right in the gut, the groin, the armpit, the neck. The stomp of Cipran boots trampled fallen Orcs as the line pushed back, forcing the assailing Orcs back out of the clear air and once more into their miasmatic crimson.

The Orcs were stronger, but against the 4th, it would not be easy to say which was the more vicious.