Jenrak
26-09-2006, 20:58
The Lord of the Temsplace and the Saviour of an Empire
Crisp, hot, still humid as the atmosphere pummelled them with the hottest July yet, the trenched soldiers of the southern kingdom pushed down against the rushing metal wall that were the Temsplace, their empire rushing through the ends as the final vestige of the soldiers pushing, artillery blasting in the distance as the carried Vizi-Turrets pushed up against the dunes, the sands billowing up as the fans chortled and fanned about the grains. In a thin sandstorm of mist and dust, the yellow glaze simpered as a green tinge came around, the air arid as the rocket fire smashed through the air, flames erupting amongst the back with destruction spawned upon the southern flanks. From the trenches, the soldiers fired off rounds as it sleeted through the air, a swarm of lead pushing up against the stone look-alike steel armour. From here, their shoulders shown a blue patch as their arms stretched up across, parallel to their sight, the flicker of light from the end of their rifles tearing through the air an army of bullets, the fast whip of the noise heard by the gargantuan invaders. The Temsplace continued, pushing forwards, intent on fighting the campaign as they brought their walls towards the end.
From the other side, artillery tore apart the open holes of the enemy bunkers, the stone shredded apart as the concrete objects illuminating in a blaze of light. It dazzled the already bright battlefield, yet still continued, the soldiers in blue pushing up against the Temsplace, their fire heavy as they tried to bring their wounded upon the end of the lines. From the back of the lines, a blue armoured Temsplace, larger than his men, standing upon a large hill, watched from his command tent as he looked at the simulations flashing before him, the dots of his men flooding around as a blue mess was seen, an infestation that was to be slowly closed. “Bring the Repeaters to focus on breaking the infantry shield. Pave a way through the trenches if you must, we must get the Sirens on the other end.” This blue Temsplace said, as his insignia was obvious upon his chest – a slanted ‘S’ shaped finger painted in red paint, crude yet effective. The banner of Authaulus – the Lord of the Temsplace was back, and his campaigns to expand continued. His dream of a united Jenrak was growing, yet he had one obstacle to face.
Years had gone by in his campaigns, pushing against the enemies, trying to annex the southern lands of Khuruk, yet his attempts were focused mainly on the control and complete subjugation of Rithos and Rithman-naar. He paid little attention to the vast, massive empire that laid in rich grounds south of him, a mistake which proved very costly on his part. Here laid Khuruk, a dangerous rival of Jenrak that outshone the Tsellia even today, its obelisk of strength glistening as Authaulus watched them slowly. For many years they built their system alone, far, far from the outside influence, something that he knew Jenrak did themselves, though unlike his people, the Khuruks were much more powerful in terms of politics. They did not hesitate to do what was necessary to pull power from anything that proved to be a threat – and Authaulus and his people were becoming a threat.
It was upon this river that the campaign first began to take change, a different direction in terms of the war going, as the powerful, skilled and brutal Jenrakians fought off against the naturally disciplined Khuru, a technological group that were highly advanced in terms of medicine and science – their enemies were more than prepared to fight Jenrak’s many chemical bombardments, as they have already proven many times over. The initial campaign was predictable of all Jenrakian initial campaigns – swift, brutal, literally moving cities of soldiers as mobile factories, workers and entire towns shifted across endless dunes, portable wells and a metropolis of fighters built to force enemies into their own turf – guerrilla warfare in the harsh arid climate. But it seemed that tides were changing, as Authaulus looked at the break in his line, a smash of artillery aimed at his trenches, the billowing smoke rising up into the air as the Temsplace activated their goggles.
Authaulus sat there, his commanders looking beside him, watching as if it were some kind of game, some kind of ridiculous form of amusement – and while his men were carved and shot and his shrapnel blasted against both sides, Authaulus was impressed at the progress of the enemy. Never had he fought a foe that was so skilful in tactical manoeuvres such as this – the Khuru knew what they were doing, but their tactics were so odd, so distinct and unusual that Authaulus had not seen for a while. He still watched.
“Who commands the Khuru infantry?” Authualus asked his commanders – golden Temsplaces who shrugged as they looked from the safety of their cumbersome armour.
“We do not know.”
“I am very intrigued on this. The performance by their commander is astounding. Why do they move so flawlessly? I wish every soldier worked like that.”
“The Khuru have a very extensive history with discipline, Lord Authaulus.”
“And we do not?”
“The difference between us is that we are faithful – they are heretics, yet their heresy is so channelled that it becomes a discipline.”
“Interesting leap of logic, Vikrith. But who commands?”
“I hear it is the Khuru commander Izhakrahn. He is said to be a legend in the field of battle, and he is very well honoured by his people.”
“How much is his honour worth?”
“Very much to the people of Khuru.”
“Then we shall not let this opportunity past. Bring in the first two cities, crush them. This battle must be a loss for the Khuru, to show them their flawed commanders.”
“Are you sure, my Lord? Many of our own men have fallen fighting against this man in a battle of wits.”
“I do not and will not tolerate a loss in this battle. We cannot afford to lose.”
“But it will require days to move the cities of Mechinus 1 and Mechinus 2 here.”
Authaulus cursed loudly. It was evident that perhaps that he might be facing a challenge, hoping to see a glimpse of this so called strategist, but alas nothing but waving banners were flown as the soldiers fired diligently, their arms raised in almost perfect co-ordination as they fired, the Temsplace crushing lines before a bevy of tanks blasted against them, the holy warriors going toe-to-toe against enormous tanks and regiments of infantry. Still, they began to dwindle, and it was in that moment that the enemy withdrew.
The signs were apparent – they had given up, and the battle was won, as Authaulus commanded his sirens to push into the ends, the land mines blasting up in a flame and tortuous flicker before the Temsplaces urged back the line, the wall of fire forming a thick wall as artillery blasted groups of Temsplace apart, catching the holy warriors unaware, their rushed attacks pushed down, the geysers of smoke fired up as in the screen of gray and black a series of sirens moved their way towards the enemy artillery.
From this end, the artillery fire died down, and rail guns and machine guns shattered against their lines, the Temsplace unable to assist the advancing sirens against the imminent death. Authaulus looked in shock, as he snapped his fingers and stood up, lifting his green flag, flashing it before the Temsplace field Lords nodded in the blight, pushing his men back. As the Jenrakians rushed back, enemy artillery and sniper fire ravaged their lines, the Temsplace shield providing a strong defence as they crawled towards the safety of the mobile city that laid on the edge of the battlefield.
It was the first time in the campaign that a major battle was lost against Khuru, and it was the first time that Authaulus had personally been bested in the field. Who was this Izhakrahn? How did he fight off one of the most powerful religious states in the world? Authaulus wondered as his lines were cut apart, his trenches wasted in blood as the blackish red water flowed like veins of a delta through towards the city, the stench thick and the touch of death apparent.
“Who is this man?” Authaulus asked to his commanders, his shameful defeat rising into anger. “I will crush Khuruk, and I will burn him alive with his capital as he watches his people burn. I want his head. Bring the fourth and fifth cities to the coastline, and launch a naval bombardment against them in the morning. I will take this city and city 1 to the eastern end and flank him from behind. Take city 2 and cut this battlefield apart. I will not allow this defeat to be a stain upon us.”
“We will need more forces committed.”
“Tell Lady Rashkta to bring the Skriekrioskramuun.” Authaulus ordered to his commanders. “I want their military wall broken. We will break their hard shell to reach the softer parts within.”
From the brisk sandy trenches of the Khuru, the soldiers pushed up against their walls, the brick edges slightly edged and the slightly tinted walls a soft shade of blackness as they looked around at each other. Their rifles cocked, their maroon blood stained upon their prestigious blue uniforms, they prepared themselves as they rushed through the darkening days amidst the black smoke and the grey ashes, the rifles blasting out light and lead as it illuminated the skies and the grounds. From the other end, a series of quick bursts launched a relentless assault against the Khuru, their blood spilling as the soft soil was drenched in a swift tidal wave of blood. “Push on!” One of them yelled, his fingers carrying small flag like beacons upon his fingers, his rifle still firing even after his heart was pierced by a strobe of lead. Blood spurted out as it stained his crisp suit-like uniform, his falling body gunned as a rocket blast shattered across the battlefield. Fireballs and lead were sprayed all over the dune-like grounds, forcing the Khuru to blast against a wave of forces, but they continued their blatant assault, their defence that quickly morphed into a staunch, hard defence that would have little room for error. They continued to push on.
From the command center of the Khuru leaders, the commander looked from his table, his hair-empty head hidden beneath a black mask, his crisp golden suit shining with glittering adornments as he looked at his commanders. “How is the counterattack going, my friends?” He asked his fellow commanders, as they looked at him with their hands readied in the stance of clapping. They were ready to parade him, to bask in his glory, but he kept himself humble and with humility. “We need to focus on the launched counterattack, but we can’t deploy any form of task force to capture them.” His command gave thoughts of interest throughout the relay.
“Retreat, you mean?” One of them chimed up, wondering on what was gong through his friend’s mind. “If we retreat they can bring more men and much more powerful weapons. We cannot underestimate this northern kingdom. They have expanded through the lethal kingdoms of the southern peninsula and the northern mountains, spreading like a plague for their fabled curse of a religion. Why should we fall against this uprising torrent of terror and tyranny?”
“You make a pertinent point my friend, but remember that we cannot commit any more forces after the western campaigns are dried out from the navy. We need more supplies, and sadly that cannot come without some form of recuperation. The repeaters are much more dangerous against us than we thought, and we have been cloistered too long within the long walls. We must deploy and then retreat to make sure that we can regroup and raise a much more formidable defence against them.”
“I find that tactic to possibly be a nuisance against us, since it seems from both scenario that if we simply decide to retreat then we will be forced to fight a more powerful force, yet we do not have the manpower to launch a sufficient attack against the enemy. Now, let’s consider the possible objectives that we must reach. The peninsula is the most dangerous way to reach, the most dangerous passage. Turrets and enemy soldiers line alongside the enemy’s formidable navy, the lancers putting up a great fight against our tanks – is that not a veritable threat towards our goodwill?”
“I believe so, but let’s consider another tactic, which we make have overlooked – perhaps we can also deploy a much larger force to encumber them from the western fold, and try to force them to fight a two front war upon their own battlefield.”
“And how does that help us, my dear friend? We are outnumbered, out gunned, out – “
“Outmatched? We are not. Discipline is a great factor in warfare now, and we must use patient guerrilla warfare to combat this growing threat against us.”
“You are trying to convince me to try and deploy forces on a mission that is completely worthless both militaristically and strategically?”
“Not strategically – it is vital to our success against a unified system that will repel the Temsplace forever.”
“The Temsplace will continue their holy war against us, and if they continue, then we will be outmatched very quickly.”
“You already stated that fact, my friend.’
“I know, but I need you to remember what the emphasis is on such a mission like this.”
“Very well. Though I stand by my decision – a land assault with naval backup will most help us in the defence of the capital, so let’s continue the war, though we must quickly continue the reclamation of the country’s borders.”
“Just because you are able to defeat a single army and a single force today does not make you invincible, my friend.”
“I know of the word humility, asshole.”
‘Watch your tongue. You might be a very competent general, or commander, whatever your title entails to you, but you are quite an incompetent linguist.”
“What pretty words you hide your tongue beneath, serpent.”
“Ah, so you’ve increased the level of your linguistic tenacity.”
“Let’s continue with the second objective, I will argue against you later.”
Blood spilt the ground as the sky cried red tears, the clouds shifting up in a shade of magenta, the sands billowing as the small city cried amongst the dead. Makeshift graves and broken weapons were used as a small shield against the beating weather, as Authaulus sat in his command center, his head covered by a massive stone-like steel helmet, his fingers gripping the soft black velvet edge of his rocket launcher. Steam was frothing from its grey surface, a stench of death and flames emanating from its nostrils. He sighed, as he took a sip of tear, crying out against the dead, the brothers whom he had fought against, whom he had fought aside, both for the crown of gold and blades and hooks and the travesty that was the nobility that existed within his homeland.
He cried still, his eyes behind the shadow still bursting out tears as he tried to keep them away from the eyes of his generals. Today was a failure of a day, a loss of a day, a day that when he finally tasted the soft simper of salty defeat, a day that he knew that he was losing his touch. But what if he wasn’t? What if this new foe was much more formidable than he was? What if he was unable to counter his attacks? Would they send somebody new to deal against them? Would they send somebody new and fresh to deal against this dangerous threat from the south? That was what stretched in the thin canvas of the darkness of the back of Authaulus’ mind, as he cried not in sorrow, but in thought and curiosity as he wondered the scenario of the outcome of the war. What would happen?
It was a soft silence, broken only by a soft clank upon the steel catwalk near his table, as he watched a small white figure approach him, a small knife in his hands as his torso was dressed in a plastic like armour. He wore a robe of knives, the clanging heard as he tried to defend them out by quick and deliberate movement, yet he found that it was not so easy to accomplish. Authaulus looked at this man, this emissary, and nodded appreciatively towards him, wiping the tears off his armour as his chortled ‘S’ insignia was muddied in his salty tears. “What comes of the news?” Authaulus asked this mysterious man, as the white dressed, steel jawed man nodded his head.
“The campaign in the west has begun. We’ve begun the assault along the coastline, trying to move upon through the edge towards the desert into Sarakoran. It will take weeks to reach Sarakoran with all the defences placed, though it should not take too long.”
“Then begin it immediately.”
Crisp, hot, still humid as the atmosphere pummelled them with the hottest July yet, the trenched soldiers of the southern kingdom pushed down against the rushing metal wall that were the Temsplace, their empire rushing through the ends as the final vestige of the soldiers pushing, artillery blasting in the distance as the carried Vizi-Turrets pushed up against the dunes, the sands billowing up as the fans chortled and fanned about the grains. In a thin sandstorm of mist and dust, the yellow glaze simpered as a green tinge came around, the air arid as the rocket fire smashed through the air, flames erupting amongst the back with destruction spawned upon the southern flanks. From the trenches, the soldiers fired off rounds as it sleeted through the air, a swarm of lead pushing up against the stone look-alike steel armour. From here, their shoulders shown a blue patch as their arms stretched up across, parallel to their sight, the flicker of light from the end of their rifles tearing through the air an army of bullets, the fast whip of the noise heard by the gargantuan invaders. The Temsplace continued, pushing forwards, intent on fighting the campaign as they brought their walls towards the end.
From the other side, artillery tore apart the open holes of the enemy bunkers, the stone shredded apart as the concrete objects illuminating in a blaze of light. It dazzled the already bright battlefield, yet still continued, the soldiers in blue pushing up against the Temsplace, their fire heavy as they tried to bring their wounded upon the end of the lines. From the back of the lines, a blue armoured Temsplace, larger than his men, standing upon a large hill, watched from his command tent as he looked at the simulations flashing before him, the dots of his men flooding around as a blue mess was seen, an infestation that was to be slowly closed. “Bring the Repeaters to focus on breaking the infantry shield. Pave a way through the trenches if you must, we must get the Sirens on the other end.” This blue Temsplace said, as his insignia was obvious upon his chest – a slanted ‘S’ shaped finger painted in red paint, crude yet effective. The banner of Authaulus – the Lord of the Temsplace was back, and his campaigns to expand continued. His dream of a united Jenrak was growing, yet he had one obstacle to face.
Years had gone by in his campaigns, pushing against the enemies, trying to annex the southern lands of Khuruk, yet his attempts were focused mainly on the control and complete subjugation of Rithos and Rithman-naar. He paid little attention to the vast, massive empire that laid in rich grounds south of him, a mistake which proved very costly on his part. Here laid Khuruk, a dangerous rival of Jenrak that outshone the Tsellia even today, its obelisk of strength glistening as Authaulus watched them slowly. For many years they built their system alone, far, far from the outside influence, something that he knew Jenrak did themselves, though unlike his people, the Khuruks were much more powerful in terms of politics. They did not hesitate to do what was necessary to pull power from anything that proved to be a threat – and Authaulus and his people were becoming a threat.
It was upon this river that the campaign first began to take change, a different direction in terms of the war going, as the powerful, skilled and brutal Jenrakians fought off against the naturally disciplined Khuru, a technological group that were highly advanced in terms of medicine and science – their enemies were more than prepared to fight Jenrak’s many chemical bombardments, as they have already proven many times over. The initial campaign was predictable of all Jenrakian initial campaigns – swift, brutal, literally moving cities of soldiers as mobile factories, workers and entire towns shifted across endless dunes, portable wells and a metropolis of fighters built to force enemies into their own turf – guerrilla warfare in the harsh arid climate. But it seemed that tides were changing, as Authaulus looked at the break in his line, a smash of artillery aimed at his trenches, the billowing smoke rising up into the air as the Temsplace activated their goggles.
Authaulus sat there, his commanders looking beside him, watching as if it were some kind of game, some kind of ridiculous form of amusement – and while his men were carved and shot and his shrapnel blasted against both sides, Authaulus was impressed at the progress of the enemy. Never had he fought a foe that was so skilful in tactical manoeuvres such as this – the Khuru knew what they were doing, but their tactics were so odd, so distinct and unusual that Authaulus had not seen for a while. He still watched.
“Who commands the Khuru infantry?” Authualus asked his commanders – golden Temsplaces who shrugged as they looked from the safety of their cumbersome armour.
“We do not know.”
“I am very intrigued on this. The performance by their commander is astounding. Why do they move so flawlessly? I wish every soldier worked like that.”
“The Khuru have a very extensive history with discipline, Lord Authaulus.”
“And we do not?”
“The difference between us is that we are faithful – they are heretics, yet their heresy is so channelled that it becomes a discipline.”
“Interesting leap of logic, Vikrith. But who commands?”
“I hear it is the Khuru commander Izhakrahn. He is said to be a legend in the field of battle, and he is very well honoured by his people.”
“How much is his honour worth?”
“Very much to the people of Khuru.”
“Then we shall not let this opportunity past. Bring in the first two cities, crush them. This battle must be a loss for the Khuru, to show them their flawed commanders.”
“Are you sure, my Lord? Many of our own men have fallen fighting against this man in a battle of wits.”
“I do not and will not tolerate a loss in this battle. We cannot afford to lose.”
“But it will require days to move the cities of Mechinus 1 and Mechinus 2 here.”
Authaulus cursed loudly. It was evident that perhaps that he might be facing a challenge, hoping to see a glimpse of this so called strategist, but alas nothing but waving banners were flown as the soldiers fired diligently, their arms raised in almost perfect co-ordination as they fired, the Temsplace crushing lines before a bevy of tanks blasted against them, the holy warriors going toe-to-toe against enormous tanks and regiments of infantry. Still, they began to dwindle, and it was in that moment that the enemy withdrew.
The signs were apparent – they had given up, and the battle was won, as Authaulus commanded his sirens to push into the ends, the land mines blasting up in a flame and tortuous flicker before the Temsplaces urged back the line, the wall of fire forming a thick wall as artillery blasted groups of Temsplace apart, catching the holy warriors unaware, their rushed attacks pushed down, the geysers of smoke fired up as in the screen of gray and black a series of sirens moved their way towards the enemy artillery.
From this end, the artillery fire died down, and rail guns and machine guns shattered against their lines, the Temsplace unable to assist the advancing sirens against the imminent death. Authaulus looked in shock, as he snapped his fingers and stood up, lifting his green flag, flashing it before the Temsplace field Lords nodded in the blight, pushing his men back. As the Jenrakians rushed back, enemy artillery and sniper fire ravaged their lines, the Temsplace shield providing a strong defence as they crawled towards the safety of the mobile city that laid on the edge of the battlefield.
It was the first time in the campaign that a major battle was lost against Khuru, and it was the first time that Authaulus had personally been bested in the field. Who was this Izhakrahn? How did he fight off one of the most powerful religious states in the world? Authaulus wondered as his lines were cut apart, his trenches wasted in blood as the blackish red water flowed like veins of a delta through towards the city, the stench thick and the touch of death apparent.
“Who is this man?” Authaulus asked to his commanders, his shameful defeat rising into anger. “I will crush Khuruk, and I will burn him alive with his capital as he watches his people burn. I want his head. Bring the fourth and fifth cities to the coastline, and launch a naval bombardment against them in the morning. I will take this city and city 1 to the eastern end and flank him from behind. Take city 2 and cut this battlefield apart. I will not allow this defeat to be a stain upon us.”
“We will need more forces committed.”
“Tell Lady Rashkta to bring the Skriekrioskramuun.” Authaulus ordered to his commanders. “I want their military wall broken. We will break their hard shell to reach the softer parts within.”
From the brisk sandy trenches of the Khuru, the soldiers pushed up against their walls, the brick edges slightly edged and the slightly tinted walls a soft shade of blackness as they looked around at each other. Their rifles cocked, their maroon blood stained upon their prestigious blue uniforms, they prepared themselves as they rushed through the darkening days amidst the black smoke and the grey ashes, the rifles blasting out light and lead as it illuminated the skies and the grounds. From the other end, a series of quick bursts launched a relentless assault against the Khuru, their blood spilling as the soft soil was drenched in a swift tidal wave of blood. “Push on!” One of them yelled, his fingers carrying small flag like beacons upon his fingers, his rifle still firing even after his heart was pierced by a strobe of lead. Blood spurted out as it stained his crisp suit-like uniform, his falling body gunned as a rocket blast shattered across the battlefield. Fireballs and lead were sprayed all over the dune-like grounds, forcing the Khuru to blast against a wave of forces, but they continued their blatant assault, their defence that quickly morphed into a staunch, hard defence that would have little room for error. They continued to push on.
From the command center of the Khuru leaders, the commander looked from his table, his hair-empty head hidden beneath a black mask, his crisp golden suit shining with glittering adornments as he looked at his commanders. “How is the counterattack going, my friends?” He asked his fellow commanders, as they looked at him with their hands readied in the stance of clapping. They were ready to parade him, to bask in his glory, but he kept himself humble and with humility. “We need to focus on the launched counterattack, but we can’t deploy any form of task force to capture them.” His command gave thoughts of interest throughout the relay.
“Retreat, you mean?” One of them chimed up, wondering on what was gong through his friend’s mind. “If we retreat they can bring more men and much more powerful weapons. We cannot underestimate this northern kingdom. They have expanded through the lethal kingdoms of the southern peninsula and the northern mountains, spreading like a plague for their fabled curse of a religion. Why should we fall against this uprising torrent of terror and tyranny?”
“You make a pertinent point my friend, but remember that we cannot commit any more forces after the western campaigns are dried out from the navy. We need more supplies, and sadly that cannot come without some form of recuperation. The repeaters are much more dangerous against us than we thought, and we have been cloistered too long within the long walls. We must deploy and then retreat to make sure that we can regroup and raise a much more formidable defence against them.”
“I find that tactic to possibly be a nuisance against us, since it seems from both scenario that if we simply decide to retreat then we will be forced to fight a more powerful force, yet we do not have the manpower to launch a sufficient attack against the enemy. Now, let’s consider the possible objectives that we must reach. The peninsula is the most dangerous way to reach, the most dangerous passage. Turrets and enemy soldiers line alongside the enemy’s formidable navy, the lancers putting up a great fight against our tanks – is that not a veritable threat towards our goodwill?”
“I believe so, but let’s consider another tactic, which we make have overlooked – perhaps we can also deploy a much larger force to encumber them from the western fold, and try to force them to fight a two front war upon their own battlefield.”
“And how does that help us, my dear friend? We are outnumbered, out gunned, out – “
“Outmatched? We are not. Discipline is a great factor in warfare now, and we must use patient guerrilla warfare to combat this growing threat against us.”
“You are trying to convince me to try and deploy forces on a mission that is completely worthless both militaristically and strategically?”
“Not strategically – it is vital to our success against a unified system that will repel the Temsplace forever.”
“The Temsplace will continue their holy war against us, and if they continue, then we will be outmatched very quickly.”
“You already stated that fact, my friend.’
“I know, but I need you to remember what the emphasis is on such a mission like this.”
“Very well. Though I stand by my decision – a land assault with naval backup will most help us in the defence of the capital, so let’s continue the war, though we must quickly continue the reclamation of the country’s borders.”
“Just because you are able to defeat a single army and a single force today does not make you invincible, my friend.”
“I know of the word humility, asshole.”
‘Watch your tongue. You might be a very competent general, or commander, whatever your title entails to you, but you are quite an incompetent linguist.”
“What pretty words you hide your tongue beneath, serpent.”
“Ah, so you’ve increased the level of your linguistic tenacity.”
“Let’s continue with the second objective, I will argue against you later.”
Blood spilt the ground as the sky cried red tears, the clouds shifting up in a shade of magenta, the sands billowing as the small city cried amongst the dead. Makeshift graves and broken weapons were used as a small shield against the beating weather, as Authaulus sat in his command center, his head covered by a massive stone-like steel helmet, his fingers gripping the soft black velvet edge of his rocket launcher. Steam was frothing from its grey surface, a stench of death and flames emanating from its nostrils. He sighed, as he took a sip of tear, crying out against the dead, the brothers whom he had fought against, whom he had fought aside, both for the crown of gold and blades and hooks and the travesty that was the nobility that existed within his homeland.
He cried still, his eyes behind the shadow still bursting out tears as he tried to keep them away from the eyes of his generals. Today was a failure of a day, a loss of a day, a day that when he finally tasted the soft simper of salty defeat, a day that he knew that he was losing his touch. But what if he wasn’t? What if this new foe was much more formidable than he was? What if he was unable to counter his attacks? Would they send somebody new to deal against them? Would they send somebody new and fresh to deal against this dangerous threat from the south? That was what stretched in the thin canvas of the darkness of the back of Authaulus’ mind, as he cried not in sorrow, but in thought and curiosity as he wondered the scenario of the outcome of the war. What would happen?
It was a soft silence, broken only by a soft clank upon the steel catwalk near his table, as he watched a small white figure approach him, a small knife in his hands as his torso was dressed in a plastic like armour. He wore a robe of knives, the clanging heard as he tried to defend them out by quick and deliberate movement, yet he found that it was not so easy to accomplish. Authaulus looked at this man, this emissary, and nodded appreciatively towards him, wiping the tears off his armour as his chortled ‘S’ insignia was muddied in his salty tears. “What comes of the news?” Authaulus asked this mysterious man, as the white dressed, steel jawed man nodded his head.
“The campaign in the west has begun. We’ve begun the assault along the coastline, trying to move upon through the edge towards the desert into Sarakoran. It will take weeks to reach Sarakoran with all the defences placed, though it should not take too long.”
“Then begin it immediately.”