Over by Krugmas

[FireCrimson 109]

Spoiler

 

 

 

The trenches were cold today.  The men stared blankly across the lines, their helmets obstructing their view of where the Orenians lay in wait.  When the war started, they said it would be over by Krugmas.  Now, Dwarves, Humans, Orcs and Elves lay together in one giant cesspool of blood in the land between the siege fort and Johannesburg.  ‘No Man’s Land’.  Holes littered the front, cavities in the ground caused by artillery fire.  Various limbs lined their sides.  Empty eyes stared at the sky and ground, their owners’ unable to ever gaze again.

 

The Marshal of Courland, the brilliant Jacque de Staunton, gazed at his men.  Already artillery fire sounded, signalling the next great charge for inches of land.  He gazed upon his men with a heavy heart.  Few would survive to see their wives, their children.  He did not have long to look, however; the Imperial forces began a barrage of their own.

 

Cannonfire, magic, and bolts from crossbows fell into the trench.  Men struggled to move without seeing the end of their days.  An Orenian lad, the pride of his family, took a bolt to the lung.  His eyes lost their color as he gave his final spasms.  He had recently defected from Oren, his heart proud to be serving a cause he found worthy.  His aspirations for greatness bled out with him as the blood exited.  And the battle went on.

 

In the trenches, a common affliction was trench foot.  Those ill were moved into the tents above the ground, their moans echoing throughout as battles waged, millimeters taken.  Their groans were soon to be ended however; a blast of fire hit one of tents, sending many up into flames.  Their groans changed to screams and shouts as their bodies charred black.

 

Jacque de Staunton looked on in horror.  A man of action and martial brilliance, he knew he could hold them here no longer.  With a leap over the trench, he blew the whistle.  The order was given.

“CHARGE!”

Hundreds of men poured into no man’s land.  Courlanders, Dwarves, Elves or Orcs.  The bolts did not discriminate, and found their mark on many a fighter.  Golems made their slow march, hurling rocks at the enemy positions, taking bolts and artillery fire alike with little damage.  Orenians screamed as its rocks tore through their ligaments, their blood rushing forth like a waterfall.  As the rebel forces got closer, bodies mixed with each other.  Telling apart loyalist from rebel became an impossible challenge, their blood so deeply soaked into their uniforms they were forever stained red.

 

Swords clashed.  Men fell in heaps on both sides, the dirt watered in blood.  They say that the blood there created a new species of flower, known as bloodrose.  Rebel forces penetrated the Orenian lines, and soon, they began to rout.  The rebel forces would shout out their battle cries of “MADNESS HAS HAD IT’S DAY!” and “TAXES DUE MONDAYS!”  The rebels pushed forward, but not without losses.  The Orenians kept order during their flight, and bolts flew deep into rebel masses.  Cries for medics filled the air, from both sides.  Gurgling on his own blood, a young Courlander reached out to a medic for help.  He was ignored.  The medics had to many people to help that may yet survive to help those who were certain to die.  Even putting them out of their misery could mean another dead.  The Courlander died, blood pouring out his mouth.

 

Back at the siege fort, the cannoneers stood fast against the enemy barrage.  Heroically, the Prophet of Uruguan ordered the cannons fire; their balls tearing apart as many of the fleeing Orenians as their own soldiers.  One cannoneer from Savoy curled up against a cannon, his arm torn off by artillery.  His whimpering was ignored as the men continued their grim work.  The Orenians had little defense against the force of these balls.  One lay surprisingly alive, a hole in his chest and back from where a ball passed through.  His ragged breathing, his tears at his wish for another life, was ignored by God and Man.

 

The Orenians managed to make it to Johannesburg.  The gates shutting behind them, the men quickly dispersed in a quiet and somber mood, looking to find lost comrades or inform their families of their safe survival.  Their force was hurt drastically, however; as many men had come back, many more lay in the land’s out the wall.  Shrieking, crying.  Sobs of joy, laughter of relief.  All these permeated the area.  But soon they would need to head back out again.  For death does not choose sides, and the Emperor demands much to assist him in his collection.

The victorious rebels were soon dismayed; they could not build a new fort here, this close to the Orenian capital.  Inches were fought for, inches were gained.  Millimeters were usable.  The men somberly marched back, their joy smothered in the stark reality of this war.  The cannonfire had stopped, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t heard.  Many a soldier fell to their knees, their eyes clouded with the fight before.  Their tears streamed as rivers.  Back at the fort, a small celebration was had, but the hearts of the men were not celebrating, for death had claimed more of their friends and comrades.

 

And the war went on.

 

[Mj. 697]

Ryddarch and Rowyn var Emrys lead a flanking charge, penetrating an Orenian outpost. Mere minutes later, they stood up, covered in the red liquid of war. Rowyn shook his head "When will they stop letting us massacre them..."

[seannie 7443]

"Huh." says Wilhelm as he returning from the day's combat, content in his obliviousness as he cleans up, eats his rations with his comrades, and goes to sleep, preparing for the next day of battle.

[Vindicant 642]

Karyssmov lights a candle for the dead on both sides.

[Kvasir 1121]

A child shakes his head as he now sits safe and away from the line.

[mirofel9 84]

The blacksmith would beat out black-ferrum rods into spearheads to the rhythm of distant explosions. 

[Daisy 9735]

Moved to The Great Library. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.

 

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