It was hot that year, especially this far south of the Archipelago. With the Pessimism in full swing, the idea of escape and relaxation was enticing. For some, the idea of a tropical getaway on an island was paradise. Freedom from the woes and stress of Regalia, Calemberg, or Havenreach, a lovely quiet beach somewhere, the open palm trees behind you with the gentle breeze swaying the flora back and forth, a pleasant thought that most nobility begged for.
The storybook idea of a gallivanting knight charging an open field, sword bared out for the skagger horde in front of him in service of the Crown's destined rule of Aloria, slaughtering the barbarian and saving a Wirtemcaller Prince or Princess is a dream very few young boys don't have. To travel the country, your armor, your steed, and the banner of your order was the highest calling one could have.
For this squire, that beach, and that calling was his hell on earth.
Despite the sun having sat hours ago, nighttime in the jungle of Hadar's Archipelago was just as debilitating as the day. The humidity was so thick it could cut it with a knife, and the buzzing of mosquitoes would haunt his dreams for decades to come, decades assuming he would live past this night. Live past this war, live long enough to see home again, and share a dinner with Baric and Marcel again.
He dredged through knee-deep mud in the exhausting heat. A squire, a boy of barely 18, heaved his body and another through the deep mud of the jungle. Dragging his mentor by the collar of his armored plate, he pulled backward as the screams of men and the clashing of steel on steel, steel upon flesh, held robust meters away.
"Squire! Squire- My steed, where is my horse?!" The crumbled knight called out, spitting out his lively vigor as he mumbled out desperately.
The squire kept on, heaving the much larger man backward. "It... It had its head taken off, Sera Hans. You rallied the Marines near the Riverbend when the ambush happened; its hoofs got stuck and..." he paused, releasing a labored exhale as he glanced down at the Rank-Knight.
He didn't dare remind him any further of the event that took his prized tournament steed from him, nor of the Kuat Allar, which tore into his belly directly after killing his horse. Sera Hans' wounds were terrible, fatal for a society that had yet to authorize magical healing, not that a Viridian Knight would dare to allow such on him anyway. The squire did not dare say anything of the such; he still had hope if only they could reach the beach.
This place, this jungle, used to be a home for the Allar, but it suffered one of the many purges the Regalian Empire inflicted upon them to destabilize the Essa Empire in Hadar. With the population gone, the Admiralty quickly established a garrison to make room for further settlement. A rudimentary fort sprung up, with fleet marines and sailors to hold until proper reserves levied from Osteiermark could arrive, along with one Viridian Knight and one unlucky squire in tow to act as garrison prefect.
The Essa Slizzar commanders had been competent for once; they planned this assault perfectly. Just a few moments before 1 am, the beach garrison, with a combined strike of alchemical weapons from the jungle, was lit ablaze with sulfur. Some marines burned, some choked on toxic fumes, others lashed out as if in a manic. Sera Hans of the Viridian Order, ever the gallant, attempted a counterattack, rallying the marines under the banner of Hohenfels and leading them into the jungle. The same jungle where the enemy awaited, striking out in a pincer assault from the brush, the canopy, and from the squire's point of view under every blade of grass.
He kept trudging despite the fruitlessness of his labor; Sera Hans' armor was getting weighed down in the mud, and the echoing screams of dying Regalians grew ever closer. With a creak and a crash, the boy fell to the ground. Something nearby had broken, and the squire quickly covered his nose and mouth with a filthy rag before doing the same to his mentor. He prayed,
"Please, not an alchemical attack, not another one. Ness... Mother of mercy, please!"
The answer revealed itself as the slow squelch of a foot trapped in the mud of the jungle sounded from his rear. The squire's head slowly turned, expecting the scales of an Essan soldier to step from the jungle's darkness to claim his and his mentor's dog tags. To his surprise, but not thanks, it was a marine. He was maimed, in worse shape than his mentor, his foot trapped in the mud as he desperately attempted to uncork his canteen with only one arm. The fighting was growing closer, and he was still far from the beach, far from any potential salvation.
The rag fell into the mud as he grabbed the plate collar of his knight once more and began to pull. He will escape this jungle; he will go home. Just another few feet…
287 After Cataclysm, in the Hadar Archipelago, it was hot that summer.
The storybook idea of a gallivanting knight charging an open field, sword bared out for the skagger horde in front of him in service of the Crown's destined rule of Aloria, slaughtering the barbarian and saving a Wirtemcaller Prince or Princess is a dream very few young boys don't have. To travel the country, your armor, your steed, and the banner of your order was the highest calling one could have.
For this squire, that beach, and that calling was his hell on earth.
Despite the sun having sat hours ago, nighttime in the jungle of Hadar's Archipelago was just as debilitating as the day. The humidity was so thick it could cut it with a knife, and the buzzing of mosquitoes would haunt his dreams for decades to come, decades assuming he would live past this night. Live past this war, live long enough to see home again, and share a dinner with Baric and Marcel again.
He dredged through knee-deep mud in the exhausting heat. A squire, a boy of barely 18, heaved his body and another through the deep mud of the jungle. Dragging his mentor by the collar of his armored plate, he pulled backward as the screams of men and the clashing of steel on steel, steel upon flesh, held robust meters away.
"Squire! Squire- My steed, where is my horse?!" The crumbled knight called out, spitting out his lively vigor as he mumbled out desperately.
The squire kept on, heaving the much larger man backward. "It... It had its head taken off, Sera Hans. You rallied the Marines near the Riverbend when the ambush happened; its hoofs got stuck and..." he paused, releasing a labored exhale as he glanced down at the Rank-Knight.
He didn't dare remind him any further of the event that took his prized tournament steed from him, nor of the Kuat Allar, which tore into his belly directly after killing his horse. Sera Hans' wounds were terrible, fatal for a society that had yet to authorize magical healing, not that a Viridian Knight would dare to allow such on him anyway. The squire did not dare say anything of the such; he still had hope if only they could reach the beach.
This place, this jungle, used to be a home for the Allar, but it suffered one of the many purges the Regalian Empire inflicted upon them to destabilize the Essa Empire in Hadar. With the population gone, the Admiralty quickly established a garrison to make room for further settlement. A rudimentary fort sprung up, with fleet marines and sailors to hold until proper reserves levied from Osteiermark could arrive, along with one Viridian Knight and one unlucky squire in tow to act as garrison prefect.
The Essa Slizzar commanders had been competent for once; they planned this assault perfectly. Just a few moments before 1 am, the beach garrison, with a combined strike of alchemical weapons from the jungle, was lit ablaze with sulfur. Some marines burned, some choked on toxic fumes, others lashed out as if in a manic. Sera Hans of the Viridian Order, ever the gallant, attempted a counterattack, rallying the marines under the banner of Hohenfels and leading them into the jungle. The same jungle where the enemy awaited, striking out in a pincer assault from the brush, the canopy, and from the squire's point of view under every blade of grass.
He kept trudging despite the fruitlessness of his labor; Sera Hans' armor was getting weighed down in the mud, and the echoing screams of dying Regalians grew ever closer. With a creak and a crash, the boy fell to the ground. Something nearby had broken, and the squire quickly covered his nose and mouth with a filthy rag before doing the same to his mentor. He prayed,
"Please, not an alchemical attack, not another one. Ness... Mother of mercy, please!"
The answer revealed itself as the slow squelch of a foot trapped in the mud of the jungle sounded from his rear. The squire's head slowly turned, expecting the scales of an Essan soldier to step from the jungle's darkness to claim his and his mentor's dog tags. To his surprise, but not thanks, it was a marine. He was maimed, in worse shape than his mentor, his foot trapped in the mud as he desperately attempted to uncork his canteen with only one arm. The fighting was growing closer, and he was still far from the beach, far from any potential salvation.
The rag fell into the mud as he grabbed the plate collar of his knight once more and began to pull. He will escape this jungle; he will go home. Just another few feet…
287 After Cataclysm, in the Hadar Archipelago, it was hot that summer.
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