smallnscrappy
Oddly enough
WHOAAAAA!!! Let's get this party startedddd! While the other party is on hold.
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Fantasy Race to the Sea (closed)
- Thread starter smallnscrappy
- Start date
smallnscrappy
Oddly enough
The war began with a single death. Like a wound in the world’s flesh it festered and spread, a disease that consumed and devoured, burning up the landscape, the livestock and the people in its path, all in the name of an Heir of little repute. The War to End all wars was in the minds of those waging it behind closed doors and over gilded maps, a lofty aspiration to preserve nation, boundary, and sovereignty. To those whose blood was spilled, war was the same as it had ever been, tedious...and a necessary evil to many ends.
Malcolm Leicester stared down at the red mud rising up around his boots. The sky, the clouds, the very air was red with an energy of death. It was unlike anything he or anyone else had ever seen before. Magic mechanised for war, an engine of arcane, spiritual, elemental, holy or unholy powers hell bent on the wholesale destruction of the enemy. However Malcolm was not looking for his own reflection or even for the deeper red shades of his men’s blood. Something else loomed behind him in the mire, a shadow or an image that was deeper and darker than his own.
The perpetual rat-tat of gun fire and the shrieking hiss of magic did little to drown out the distant thunder of artillery, the earth shattering crashes of the Germanian projectiles erupting from the trenches directly across the field. All else was quiet, no one dared speak a word, utter a prayer, speak a spell, hell no one so much as let a breath of cigarette smoke escape. Instead his men stared at him beneath the rims of their helmets and let trails of blue drift between their lips, tobacco burning untasted into ash. The fear in the trenches was tangible, whatever the shadow was in the mud...it drew closer every day.
Malcolm lit a cigarette with a flame kindled in his palm. When he looked up, the shadow vanished but he heard it whisper ‘Safe...safe and sound…’
He exhaled a cloud of smoke and shouldered his rifle “Well, the devils wait for no man boys. Let’s show the fuckin’ Teuton’s what we’re made off.” he forced a smirk “Fuck ‘em! Today we burn the rats out of their hole.”
He hoped to high heaven that this was not another mad dash across the barbed wire. Another headlong dash into the gates of hell.
With a lackluster chorus of agreement the uniformed group of men, elves, dwarves, and even a half orc, all citizens of the Crown, rose and tossed their cigarettes aside before they armed themselves. They cast sidelong glances to the overtired warlock waiting in the wings of the trench and then positioned themselves at the base of the rickety ladders leading up to the ‘Kill Zone’. The Krauts were sitting in a trench on top of a hill behind barricades of barbed wire, machine guns and far worse…
Malcolm’s superiors needed his rag tag group of haggard survivors to get to the next trench. Hurry up and wait. How many men would he lose scrambling to the next shit hole?
The Western Front: Frankia
Malcolm Leicester stared down at the red mud rising up around his boots. The sky, the clouds, the very air was red with an energy of death. It was unlike anything he or anyone else had ever seen before. Magic mechanised for war, an engine of arcane, spiritual, elemental, holy or unholy powers hell bent on the wholesale destruction of the enemy. However Malcolm was not looking for his own reflection or even for the deeper red shades of his men’s blood. Something else loomed behind him in the mire, a shadow or an image that was deeper and darker than his own.
The perpetual rat-tat of gun fire and the shrieking hiss of magic did little to drown out the distant thunder of artillery, the earth shattering crashes of the Germanian projectiles erupting from the trenches directly across the field. All else was quiet, no one dared speak a word, utter a prayer, speak a spell, hell no one so much as let a breath of cigarette smoke escape. Instead his men stared at him beneath the rims of their helmets and let trails of blue drift between their lips, tobacco burning untasted into ash. The fear in the trenches was tangible, whatever the shadow was in the mud...it drew closer every day.
Malcolm lit a cigarette with a flame kindled in his palm. When he looked up, the shadow vanished but he heard it whisper ‘Safe...safe and sound…’
He exhaled a cloud of smoke and shouldered his rifle “Well, the devils wait for no man boys. Let’s show the fuckin’ Teuton’s what we’re made off.” he forced a smirk “Fuck ‘em! Today we burn the rats out of their hole.”
He hoped to high heaven that this was not another mad dash across the barbed wire. Another headlong dash into the gates of hell.
With a lackluster chorus of agreement the uniformed group of men, elves, dwarves, and even a half orc, all citizens of the Crown, rose and tossed their cigarettes aside before they armed themselves. They cast sidelong glances to the overtired warlock waiting in the wings of the trench and then positioned themselves at the base of the rickety ladders leading up to the ‘Kill Zone’. The Krauts were sitting in a trench on top of a hill behind barricades of barbed wire, machine guns and far worse…
Malcolm’s superiors needed his rag tag group of haggard survivors to get to the next trench. Hurry up and wait. How many men would he lose scrambling to the next shit hole?
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