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"Better a good run than a bad stand"
The day was cold.
Kjaran spat on the ground and leaned on his shovel. The ground was still hard and only begrudgingly yielded to the metal spades. They’d dug a shallow grave, enough to cover the score of corpses from their band. They lay side by side in the long trench, faces to the sky.
The same couldn’t be said for the century of Blight Orcs. Some had been piled up in a pyre while others lay where they’d fallen. They’d been hacked down or shot, with the wounded sprawled where their throats had been slit. The centurion’s head was mounted on a freshly cut stake, his face twisted in a grotesque rictus of pain.
It was a victory, but a heavy one. A more rational enemy would have broken but the orcs had stood their ground to the last. The last dozen had broke ranks only to charge and lock blades with their ambushers. A human warband wouldn’t have had the courage to press home against such overwhelming numbers. Even still, their heavy armour had put them in good stead against the lighter armoured skirmishers. Their own auxiliaries had died just as well.
Kjaran shook his head and resumed shovelling. Those without them stepped forward to throw a symbolic handful of dirt onto the mass grave, murmuring their own farewells. Nothing more, just a return to the earth and worms. A soldier stooped, her hands tugging at a pair of boots still on a corpse. The dead would need them no longer. “You’re on your way to the feasting halls now” he murmured, dumping dirt over a corpse. The dead warrior looked young enough to be his child. The dirt hit the open wound that had all but eviscerated him.
“Let’s hurry it up!” came the call. The two marked as trailblazers were already jogging off. The advanced section of six soldiers was forming up to follow on after. Kjaran redoubled his efforts, letting the dirt splash over the dead. Others threw stones atop the dirt, a futile gesture to keep scavengers away. “We should have raised a cairn” Truan Barry said. Kjaran took a wheezing breath and straightened up for a moment. “And let them know who did it?” he asked, “T’would be better they don’t even know we were here”.
A true masterstroke would have been to hide the orc bodies too and let Molthal think the forest had just swallowed them up. Kjaran was damned if he was going to be digging graves for scum. Let the carrion have them. “The cunts didn’t even have to be here” he said, his voice turning savage. He threw a last load of earth on the grave. A groan of relief to be finished. He was getting too old to be out beyond enemy lines and bushwhacking orc columns.
Barry helped him stow the short handled shovel on his pack. Kjaran tightened the straps and checked his sheathe and arrow bag was secure. He was sweating from the exertion despite the chill in the air. And he wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of another forced march. He closed his eyes for a moment and visualised the roast meat, ale, and roaring fires they’d find at the fort.
“I don’t know how people live out here” Barry said, shaking his head. Kjaran flashed a smile that was all teeth, “It’s heaven compared to the Blightlands. And fuck letting Menalus get more of a foothold here”.
He started off marching, joining the rest of the silent column as they filed into the woods. The rearguard lingered a few moments more before leaving the clearing to the dead.
OOC: https://chroniclesrp.net/threads/the-great-northern-war.1212/
The day was cold.
Kjaran spat on the ground and leaned on his shovel. The ground was still hard and only begrudgingly yielded to the metal spades. They’d dug a shallow grave, enough to cover the score of corpses from their band. They lay side by side in the long trench, faces to the sky.
The same couldn’t be said for the century of Blight Orcs. Some had been piled up in a pyre while others lay where they’d fallen. They’d been hacked down or shot, with the wounded sprawled where their throats had been slit. The centurion’s head was mounted on a freshly cut stake, his face twisted in a grotesque rictus of pain.
It was a victory, but a heavy one. A more rational enemy would have broken but the orcs had stood their ground to the last. The last dozen had broke ranks only to charge and lock blades with their ambushers. A human warband wouldn’t have had the courage to press home against such overwhelming numbers. Even still, their heavy armour had put them in good stead against the lighter armoured skirmishers. Their own auxiliaries had died just as well.
Kjaran shook his head and resumed shovelling. Those without them stepped forward to throw a symbolic handful of dirt onto the mass grave, murmuring their own farewells. Nothing more, just a return to the earth and worms. A soldier stooped, her hands tugging at a pair of boots still on a corpse. The dead would need them no longer. “You’re on your way to the feasting halls now” he murmured, dumping dirt over a corpse. The dead warrior looked young enough to be his child. The dirt hit the open wound that had all but eviscerated him.
“Let’s hurry it up!” came the call. The two marked as trailblazers were already jogging off. The advanced section of six soldiers was forming up to follow on after. Kjaran redoubled his efforts, letting the dirt splash over the dead. Others threw stones atop the dirt, a futile gesture to keep scavengers away. “We should have raised a cairn” Truan Barry said. Kjaran took a wheezing breath and straightened up for a moment. “And let them know who did it?” he asked, “T’would be better they don’t even know we were here”.
A true masterstroke would have been to hide the orc bodies too and let Molthal think the forest had just swallowed them up. Kjaran was damned if he was going to be digging graves for scum. Let the carrion have them. “The cunts didn’t even have to be here” he said, his voice turning savage. He threw a last load of earth on the grave. A groan of relief to be finished. He was getting too old to be out beyond enemy lines and bushwhacking orc columns.
Barry helped him stow the short handled shovel on his pack. Kjaran tightened the straps and checked his sheathe and arrow bag was secure. He was sweating from the exertion despite the chill in the air. And he wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of another forced march. He closed his eyes for a moment and visualised the roast meat, ale, and roaring fires they’d find at the fort.
“I don’t know how people live out here” Barry said, shaking his head. Kjaran flashed a smile that was all teeth, “It’s heaven compared to the Blightlands. And fuck letting Menalus get more of a foothold here”.
He started off marching, joining the rest of the silent column as they filed into the woods. The rearguard lingered a few moments more before leaving the clearing to the dead.
OOC: https://chroniclesrp.net/threads/the-great-northern-war.1212/