"Leaders are meant to keep their promises."
"I did not."
The event in this story derive from the 'No Apathy Among the People' Progression, specifically the lore story 'A Field Daubed Red'.
"One hundred and ten thousand overall- Surely enough to wipe tha' Elves from tha' Moors." Stated the General, Garth Viduggla. The Northerner seemed to be quite joyful at the news upon arriving in the Elven Moors, commenting so to his uncle Ardige Viduggla, who in turn responded with a simple nod as he headed off with a young man- Francis. Garth soon looked out from the top of the hill he found himself upon, gazing to the camps his men had situated themselves in. He smiled upon the side, before making his strides for it.
".. Idiotic."
Not just a few days from his final battle in the Elven Moors before his final battle, the General sat in the comfort of his home, shaking his head as he looked back to his failure. The Viduggla's army was outnumbered three to one in it, resulting many of the them being slaughtered. He came back to Regalia with less than a third of his men.
"Promised them one hundred and ten thousand men overall- Eighty thousand supporting us. Not one of those eighty thousand came. What man- What leader.."
"..Does tha'?"
He gazed in front of him, to the table spread out before him. A meal was prepared before him, with a glass of ale associated with it. He recalled himself back to the time in the camps, where numerous amounts of men were shuffling about, dipping in and out of the tents designated for food and drink. Little did he know that it'd be the last meal for most of them. His hand reached for the neck of the bottle beside his plate, finishing off the remains of liquor within.
".. A bloody-"
The Viduggla shot up from his seat, throwing the bottle- It smashed against the hardened wall of the estate, the pieces of the glass raining onto the wooden floor below.
"-failure, tha's who!"
"We must win this battle- With it, we'll have a straight cut for tha' coast- To Black and Ravenstads men." Garth stood at the planning table, a map layed down upon it. It detailed the map of the Elven lands they were in, with the General's finger sliding along to then point at the coastline. "I believe tha' we have enough to make our way through with minimum casualties- Granted tha' they haven't clustered together already."
His blinded hope was wrong. The Elves had in fact clustered, something the Viduggla had prayed to the Spirit wouldn't happen.
"I prayed- Got nothing from it. Pah, spirit. If you were real- Where were you then. I was blamed for not havin' your favor, just for having men of tha' North. Makes my mouth f***ing sour at tha' thought, 'Spirit'."
Shaking his head as he spoke out loud to himself, Garth began to pick up the pieces of the shattered glass. He soon released a sharp wince, pulling back his hand- A light stream of blood appeared, for he had cut himself on the palm when grabbing at a glass shard. The Viduggla stared at the wound, before making his way out of his family's estate, striding for the railing of the walkway outside of it. He then stared out to the waters of the Regalia, barren of anything interesting. He then gazed back to his hand, still freshly bleeding from the glass shard.
Garth soon thought back to the men of war, shaking his head as a small smile formed on his face. "Thousands of men run through by blades, torn to pieces, and here I am- Their General, with what? Nothing but a bloodied palm cut by glass." The Northern man spat the words out, before he began to softly laugh at his own remark, tears forming in his eyes.
It didn't last for long. For only moments later, the tears of laughter turned into those of sadness, as it all washed over him. He retreated backwards, falling onto a bench in which he placed his head in his hands and wept.
A short while later, Garth looked up from his hands, his cheek and forehead stained in the blood from his hand as he gazed out to the waters once more.
".. F***ing Bashtur."
