Start the two songs together for maximum ambience.
[A tale told in the Dragon's Den, after many rounds of Songaskian drinks. By the fire sits Sakara, clad in an old bronze armor and - albeit scarless - speaking with the experience of a dozen wars.]
To half the world, it was a morning like any other. To me, it was the first time I was commanding more than a single platoon. For Regalians, including the then-arch-chancellor, it was a day they'd lament for a long, long while. It was the twenty-seventh of November, the 602nd year after hatching. I spent the night sleeping in a barn, in a village which was known as Steinberg, on the Rim Isles within the Regalian Archipelago.
We had swept into the town in a flurry of chaos which hid much order within. There was an uncanny logic, a systematic nature in the slaughter of local militias, in the pillaging of valuables and the stockpiling of these above the hill where Draconian leadership nested. The Masayan soldiers spoke no words, there were no shouting apart from the occasional orders. We were a well-oiled war machine that's been perfected through centuries of warfare. In fact, I would have been the youngest in the Fararya had it not been for a six-years junior fellow whose cleanliness of blood was a stronger argument for leadership than any of our experience.
We arrived a week earlier than the rest. The first wave, so to say, after the initial sabotage arranged for through the vast amount of slaves unleashed to infiltrate the Rim Isles during the years prior.
"You would expect a descendant of Kash would know to wake up in time." It was more a jest from my general than an actual insult. We discussed the day's agenda; our scouts had witnessed the landing of a counter-offensive with twice the manpower we held, and a quarter of the enemy breaking off to march towards us carrying banners of green stripes and a gray bird of prey.
Despite the many years of espionage, our encounter with the local garrison and the militia, we still did not know what to expect. Even when the enemy appeared on the horizon and we glared at them through our spyglasses - they were small-framed, short, all men, eager to substitute their fragile and pale skins with suits of steel so robust their movements were forced into a permanent limp.
While the sight of these stout infantrymen gave an air of relief to our forming platoons, my commander ordered many necessary measures in preparation for the battle. We may have towered over them in skill, size and organisation, they were still twice our numbers. My kinsmen positioned a set of requisitioned pirate hand-cannons on select rooftops while we dipped our fingers red and painted the symbols of Balou and Askia on our faces, horns and scales.
Seeing our ranks, the enemy formed up similar. A set of siege cannons appeared, pulled by horses with caissons close behind. Yet the expected bombardment never happened; the enemy grew restless at the sight of the burned town, they were eager to enter combat and their commander was much co-operant to order an all-in assault. We fired our first shots before they could even unlimber their cannons, scattering many of them and breaking their formations. We sent our Alfannanin into battle and they charged clean to clash with the enemy, though meeting more resistance than expected.
The moment their troops were about to break, a green banner appeared and their commander displayed himself in a ceremonial fashion, flanked by an unusual pair of companions who I at the time assumed were his aides. I commanded a slow retreat to between the buildings while our slaves were slaughtered, seeking to lure our foes into the closed streets where the flanks of our formations were safe and where our spears posed an impenetrable wall.
As much as we sought to retain pressure on the enemy, so did they seek to maintain their momentum. It was at this point our shields met those of the enemy and we were engulfed in a tug-of-war where the occasional soldier fell from one side or the other. The cannons we requisitioned remained of huge advantage, occasionally firing into the enemy crowd. One shot in particular managed to pierce through a town building, leaving it to collapse upon the very commander of our enemies. I saw him rise from the rubble unscratched, supported by an elven companion, while his other aide was pulled away, his joints broken and bent into unimaginable pain - the plight of flesh unprotected by scales.
The eyes of this commander. Those very green eyes displayed something unusual. Something I had never seen before, while fighting the clockwork slaves. It contained the flames of impervious resolve, flames that were fanned by the fall of every soldier by his side. I glared at him from behind my shield, my shoulder bleeding from a thrust well-placed, my war paint smeared by blood and sweat. This petty, lean creature raised a saber and yelled a war-cry that while I did not understand must have meant such a lot to his men that they each doubled their breaths, their heartbeats and swings.
That was the moment I realised we weren't fighting slaves anymore. We weren't conquering anymore. It was a pair of foes, evenly matched. The lion and the Elephau staring at each other. The Cobravv and vulture slithering and circling, to evade talons and fangs. The realisation soon dawned on my general as well, who ordered us to withdraw and retreat.
The losses were enormous on both sides. We lost most of our slave fighters, two commanders and one of their banners. Among the dead was the young blackscale, which meant I would gain command of his platoon as well as an additional one created from the remains of another three. Later that night we learned the day was a stalemate for our enemy, unable to mount any major pressure while our second-wave forces arrived.
I received parchment from the Farim-Soura leading the invasion, and was summoned to a mansion on a hill. It was a splendid home, although with broken windows and much of its treasures already carted to our ships. My platoons camped in the valley below while we discussed the next day to come. Discussed they did, for I had very little say in the shadow of our elders, who had devised a master-plan to surround and destroy the softskin army comes next dawn.
Was I eager to interrupt? Not really. More so eager to participate in the battle to come. That battle, however, is a tale for another day. It's a tale of how I got my first salvo with death, the tale of how we managed to defeat and destroy the imperials and also the battle where I first found love.
But enough lament for the day and dwelling in the past. Let's drink our last round before the bar's closed.
[And with that last line, the tale was over. Patient patrons sitting through the mercenary's words were rewarded with a round of spiced ale, right before they would disperse and the Den would close up for the night.]
Based on the original world progression, from the Songaskian perspective!
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