The March on Irinham (open)

[Otto]

This thread occurs immediately prior to this, and the discussion thread can be found here. Feel free to elaborate on any part of the setting not described below; I didn't want to make a monster of a first post so just settled for outlining the layout of Irinham and it's surroundings.

---

Irinham is a small village of around 200 residents, nestled against the comb mountains in the south-east corner of Bradbury. On the northern side of a pass through the peaks, a road diverts east into an oak and hazel forest which circles up and around the entire village. Follow the road, and the first farms will come into sight on the north side of the road - fenced-off fields of barley, wheat and hops, with a few animal pens thrown in - while the forest thins out to the south as it presses up against the mountains. The eastern edge of the farmland rests up against the boundary of the village itself.

Since the start of the civil war, the inhabitants of Irinham have worked to erect a palisade with wood drawn from the surrounding forest. As such, a bare area of tree stumps extends several meters beyond the exterior of the walls. The road enters through the southern half of the west wall, blocked by large (if crude), wooden gates, and is overlooked by a sentry tower just north the entrance. The road, now called Main Street, continues east through to the village square, passing three houses on the north and south side each. A well has been dug in the middle of the square and is surrounded by a circle of flower beds. A long town hall is situated on the east side of the square, doubling as the village bank, while the smithy abuts the square's western face on the south side of Main Street, and an inn and stables hug the north-west corner.

North Road heads - you may have guessed - north from the square, out to some apple orchards beyond the palisade. As it does so, it passes the brewery to the west, and a row of three houses to the east. Just beyond the brewery a decorative hedge trails off west against the rear of the building, sandwiching another small street (Back Lane) between it and the palisade. East of North Road, the palisade stands unfinished, with the forest extending a short arm through a gap in the northern boundary.

Irin Road exits the square to the south, curving east almost immediately and passing the town hall's south wing. This road goes straight to another gate at the village's rear, towards a pear orchard and apiary beyond the walls. Behind the town hall is an unnamed path going north; this passes five houses to the east and three more on the west - the latter of these back on to the houses which front on to North Road. This small path then trails off in to the bit of forest which passes through the break in the north wall.

The hedge and Back Lane turn and follow the brewery's western wall, passing a large house in the north-west corner of the village, south of which is an decrepit armoury and training yard. Back Lane intersects Main Street where it passes between the second and third houses in from the main entrance and continues south. Another house is tucked away in the south-west corner of the village facing the lane, which then makes a ninety degree angle change to run east along the southern palisade wall, passing a neat row of seven more dwellings on it's north side which in turn back on to a single row of fig trees. This part of the village is closest to the Comb Mountains and is elevated several metres above the rest of Irinham. Back Lane then makes another sharp turn as it arrives at the south-east corner of the village to head north and connect with Irin Road just in front of the east gate.

---

There was a faint predawn tint of grey to the sky; in about half an hour the first true light would silhouette the distant curve of the Comb Mountains and another half hour would see in the rising disc of the sun. Here, at a forked road just fresh out of the mountains, the night's cold was rolling in from the slopes along with a slow drifting, low lying mist. Otto stamped his feet and rubbed the sides of his arms in an attempt to bring some warmth back in to his limbs but stopped when his sergeant gave him a warning look, and silence returned once more to be spoiled but a little by the sound of chattering teeth.

Otto had been moved to the vanguard of the company in order to provide a heavily armoured front: by his sides were other large figures in thick mail or brigandines replete with full helms and thick shields. For the last couple of hours now these soldiers had stood in wait so as to give the second company enough time for them to move into position just north of Irinham through the forest where they would intercept any movement away from the village. The tactic had been formed after scouts had performed brief reconnaissance on the periphery of the settlement, though there was little idea what lay within; Ixian Knight supporters was all his company had all been told. To be honest, Otto was feeling increasingly uncomfortable about the mission. He had seen a little action during his brief service but that had always been against other soldiers - face to face with people who were actively trying to kill him. This would be the first time he'd be marching against civilians in order to confiscate their much-needed supplies, and these thoughts had begun to cast a guilty pall over his recollections of the past few meals as his suspicions about their provenance grew. All of his training at the Citadel had taught him to seek the satisfaction of a fight between equals or, failing that, to learn at the hands of those better than he (less frequently was he able to teach others something about combat, but that did happen as well). The prospect of harming civilians for their livelihood felt... vile. Hopefully it would not come to that.

A horse was approaching from the west, it's hooves muffled a bit by the fog. The sergeant fell back and could be seen saluting to the mounted figure; after exchanging a few words he returned to the front and gave a nod to the assembled soldiers. Not a word was spoken as Otto and his fellows started their march eastward along the road beneath a clear, steel-grey sky. A few minutes later the first signs of sunlight could be seen: bright scarlet highlights on the mountain peaks to the south. Meanwhile the exertion was beginning to bring back some of the feeling in Otto's fingers who in his left hand his round shield, in the right, his hammer, and slung upon his back, his spear. They entire host moved slowly and cautiously, trying to keep the noise of a hundred armoured warriors to a minimum; the fog was assisting them in this task to some degree.

The first sign of the village they saw was an old mill creaking away in the breeze. The curve of the road was currently keeping them out of sight of the village though it would not be long now before the watch tower came in to sight, after which they would pick up the pace to the west gate. Otto could just make out some fencing on the north side of the road beyond the mill - it looked like they had reached the western farmland. The company was perhaps twenty metres away from the mill when it's door opened and a sleepy-eyed young man stuck his head out into the lessening gloom. His bearded face registered shock for a second and then he was off, running east down the road towards the village.

Otto fell back on to instinct and gave chase. Even in full armour he didn't fancy the lad's chance in a protracted race of endurance, and if Otto was lucky, he could tackle the lad before they got into sight of the watch tower. A light tap with his hammer would stun him enough to drag the boy back to the mill and restrain him at least until Otto's company had finished their mission -

There was a sound like ker-chak and a shrill, terrifying whistle that Otto knew all too well. Something upset the air besides his face, leaving an angry trail through the mist before the bolt struck the man through the bottom of his skull. He stumbled but, amazingly, ran on until three more black darts landed in his back and upset his balance. With a cry the man fell in to the dirt of the road... Otto thought the lad had been killed at first, then noticed he was still struggling forward through the dust with a feeble sort of gagging noise. Otto - rising from a crouch which he barely remembered entering after the first projectile had flown by - approached warily alongside the other soldiers. One had drawn a short blade, he who had made taken the first shot, and was smiling softly with satisfaction. Otto looked at the blade: it had certainly seen better days, having a dull and notched edge. He knew there were much cleaner ways to kill a man.

The marksman moved in for the kill but found himself barred by Otto's extended arm. The fellow looked at the Orc, then at the hammer in his grasp, and took a step back. Otto knelt down to the stricken man, who was still gasping in shallow, rasping breaths, and firmly turned his head to the side; he now faced south towards the mountains as they basked in the rising sun's first light. Otto raised the hammer and dropped it in one smooth motion; there was a meaty crack and the breathing stopped. He stood up.

The soldiers resumed their march on Irinham in a stead approach on the west gate, and Otto's hopes for a peaceful excursion burned away with the fog beneath the morning sun.

[Steppenwolf Orlouge]

“Mr. Orlouge! Mr. Orlouge!” The childish voice was accompanied by tiny hands attempting to move my massive body back and forth, “It’s already day time! We’ve got lots of work to do!” I yawned as I stretched my large arms out, my fingertips touching one wall and my toes touching the opposite. I opened my eyes and turned around, looking at the small boy before me, his cheeky grin and freckles making him an all too cute sight for this morning. He smelled of dirt, which combined with the fact that he had brown speckles across his features, told me that he had already been working.

“Alright,” I said with a laugh, throwing my wool cover off of what parts of my body it did envelop and sitting up. I chose to sleep in my casual clothes when I bunked at other people’s houses. It was just some sort of weird disorder I had wherein if I didn’t have my own permanent room, I would not change into night clothes. I ruffled my pink ball of hair a little, making sure it was secure and in place, and stood up, my hand now ruffling the hair of the child before me.

“Alright Thomas,” I said, walking through the door (a process that involved me tucking my head close to my mid-section to accomplish), “Just tell me what needs to me done this morning, and I’ll see what I can do. By the way, where’s your dad?”

I could hear the boy’s feet behind me as he talked. “Daddy fell asleep at the mill again last night. He’s been working himself so hard to get the village back on his feet. The least we can do is try to alleviate some of that work from him.” We passed the room where Thomas’ mother slept; a nice woman who was the first to suggest that the family take me in on my rebuilding journey.

I was normally an inventor by trade, but because of both my half-orc heritage as well as my skill in using my hands, I was an apt candidate for going around and helping rebuild the villages that this recent war had ravaged. Of course, somewhere something deep inside of me knew that my baby brother, Sei (the one who had started said war), should have been the one restoring lives. However, Sei was a busy man, and I was more able to build a house than he was, which was why I was here.

As we walked out of the house, the sun greeted me with warm rays upon my face. I covered my eyes to avoid the brightness of it all. “What time is it exactly, Thomas?”

“Around six in the morning,” the playful voice peeped up behind me.

“There’s a six in the morning?” I asked, to which the child laughed. For an inventor like myself, most of the nights were spent toiling away on some new idea, and half of the day was wasted away through sleep. Needless to say, since I had arrived, my sleep schedule had been put back on more of a normal track.

I looked around the neighboring houses and admired my handiwork. The people across the beaten down dirt road had a fresh coat of white paint upon their house, my own beacon of hard work from the day before. I slowly found my way walking down the street, my mind already telling me that I should go back to bed. “Well then, speaking of that mill that Timothy slept in, whats say we repair it today?”

The interior of the mill was in shambles due to a fight the Ixian Knights held with the empire. Supports were waning, water was leaking through the roof, and the walls needed new boards badly. The mill, I had been told, was one of three that kept the village running on supplies during times of strife. It was where they stored their grains and surplus for the winter, and Timothy (Tom’s dad) had been working night and day to restore the crop to its former glory. There had been rumors that Irinham had been giving some of their food rations to the Ixian Knights, though I thought such rumors were unfounded.

“Come on,” I said with a smile to Thomas, turning my head to do so, “Let’s go see your dad.”

Little did I know the hell my mere presence would cause this poor town….

[Otto]

The sound of hooves thumping on the dirt track sounded behind Otto once again. He looked back and saw the same mounted figure - a lieutenant - weaving his way down the line. He seemed to be picking out his platoon from the rest of the company, and the Orc listened with half an ear as more hooves signaled the arrival of the captain. It was difficult to hear with his helm on, but their proximity and the attempts at silence by the rest of the soldiers let him pick up the gist of the orders given to the lieutenant.

"Take your platoon to the farmstead and secure the area. If they put up resistance, burn the mill and their homes, but give them a warning first and try to leave any provisions onsite untouched."

"Yes, sir."

Looking over his shoulder, Otto watched a quarter of their strength split from the rest of the company and took the small dirt path by the mill up to Irinham's western farmland. Apparently it was only occupied by about twenty of the villagers, young and old included. He wiped away some of the blood on his hammer as he tried to recall what else they had been told about it: that area was the only source of grain and livestock for the village, the rest of the arable land having been devoted to the orchards which typified Bradbury's rural regions. He promptly pushed the thought from his mind. There was no point agonising over what may or may not transpire there.

Quite soon after that they rounded a bend and had a straight run to the village's front gate. The palisade ahead was a rough affair of pointed oak and hazel posts rising between eight and nine feet into the air. The gate was formed from similarly oriented posts of matching height, though obviously not staked into the ground, and with its bars and hinges wisely situated on the internal side of the wall. Directly to their left from the gate was another hastily-constructed defense: the watch tower. Night and fog had allowed the company to approach within less than a mile of Irinham and evade the sentry's, or sentries' sight, but once they had entered the final exposed stretch of road that advantage came to an end. Seconds later a mild breeze carried the faintest hint of a metallic clamour from the east. The alarm had been sounded.

The company had their own reply; a trumpet, blaring from the front lines. Otto lowered the visor on his sallet and joined his fellows in a well-paced jog to a spot about two hundred yards out from the gate. There they stopped and parted ranks to make way for a single rider who galloped forward down the road, a white flag hoisted high and swaying back and forth.

This was Irinham's one chance to surrender peacefully.

What the brass had planned next was known only to them, but during his short tour in the military Otto had learned to join the dots. If the villagers had put up scaffolds or earth banks on the inner side of the palisade then it would provide any marksmen that they had with good cover and field of view. Otto had been assisting with outfitting personnel for the mission and knew for a fact that First Company had at least one score of pavises and a handful of mantlets that a couple of squads of trained crossbowmen could instantly deploy while the rest of the company could find ample protection in the forest on either side of the road. If it came down to a siege, all they would have to do here would be to tie up the defenders at the gate while Second Company moved in from the forest. On the other hand, if the wall was only there to slow down any attacking force long enough to allow the people of Irinham to escape, then the soldiers could approach the palisade at will and make quick work of the gate. The outcome in either case seemed inevitable; anyone who tried to flee to the north would run straight into Second Company, and Irinham would burn.

The rider had halted in front of the gates and was speaking with someone in the tower. They were having to shout to hear one another due to the distance between them... so Otto raised his visor, and listened.

[Red Dawn]

Dale “Red Dawn” Russell looked at the blade as it fell, concentrated hard, and watched it stutter in mid-air just inches away from the ground. It waited there, almost patiently, before he lost concentration and the tip tapped against the ground. As it dropped to its side, the android shook his head. It was hard to believe, but something in his mind was different than what he understood. He could almost see a wave around things; at first he thought it was energy. However, when a cigarette slipped from his lips and dropped to the ground, much faster than he could grasp, he was given his answer. Dale didn’t want it to touch the ground, wanted to catch it, and the mere thought made it hover listlessly. Plucking it from its pillow of air, he attempted to drop it again.

After the cigarette had burned to a butt, very little smoked by the man, he began dropping other things. Progressively heavier, he watched as they followed the same path. Each item would stop before touching the ground, the heavier they were and the higher he dropped it from the less time it would remain suspended. It was a revelation nonetheless. Dale shook his head again and lit another cigarette, this time pushing the ashes upwards and away from the ground. “Hey, computer,” he muttered as he exhaled a plume of smoke. “What’s causing this?”

---- Phenomena unknown. Gravitation field generated by activation of thought. ----

“Huh.” Dale’s musings were cut short at the sound of a sharp horn blast. He looked up from his rocky seat and tried to force his eyes to cut through the fog. Overhead the hues of crimson and auburn of the rising sun were beaming down on the thick cover, but muted and paled. Through the mat of fog a sharp horn blew once. It was impossible to know who had caused the shrill blast or why, but overlapping was the low clamor of metal being rung. Stretching as he rose, he lit another cigarette and replaced the massive knife in the sheath across the back of his waist. As his moniker implied, the red dawn was rising which meant blood and battle was soon to follow – if he was one to believe in such portends.

“Noise and LIGHT discipline!” The voice was close enough to have seen the flare of the lighter and the soft ember at the end of the cigarette. It was a harsh tone, venomously spat towards Dale. He could hear the clattering of metal and footsteps as he hid the cig behind his back like a child caught stealing mid-act. Closer and closer it came, a mere shadow approaching through the mist. He continued to watch it as it grew and the shape became more defined. The sharp whisperer finally became a blurry humanoid outline as it approached. Dale let him get closer, watched the silhouette of the head move back and forth, and took another drag of the tobacco. The sudden flare of light brought the man’s attention and path back to the unruly Dale.

“I said…” An almost six foot figure emerged from the fog, finally close enough to make out as well as see who he was talking to. His chainmail was brushed steel, barely reflective, as was the breastplate across his chest. In hand he held a longsword and shield. Some emblem was engraved on the metallic surface of the shield, but Dale did not recognize it – being completely new to the world of Althanas. With shield raised and sword pointedly aimed at the stranger’s chest, the man posed his question in the same harsh whisper. “Who are you?”

“Good question.” The android took another drag of his cigarette as he thought on how to answer. To say he was an artificially created human, with both biological and mechanical parts, who had crash landed on Althanas after escaping the destruction of the world he had come from… seemed ill-advised. Not only did it not make sense in his mind, it would undoubtedly bring about many more questions that he simply did not feel like answering. The mysterious, unknown stranger was a much easier archetype to employ as a disguise. Instead he just went with what had happened since his arrival with a little omission thrown in for good measure. “I’m Dale Russell, a wandering sword – or crossbow – for hire. Been running from some Ranger’s on my trail, and I assume you’re not one of those based on that emblem being different than theirs.”

The sword wielding warrior lowered his guard enough to lift the visor of his helmet and look at the android. He curiously eyed the brimmed hat, long duster with leather pauldrons crudely sewn onto the shoulders, and the two crossbows at his side. Dale knew, compared to the man in front of him, he looked nothing like a soldier for hire but it was the first thing that had come to mind. If nothing else, he could certainly play the part of a soldier of fortune. “A merc, eh? Don’t know what you’re doing out here, so close to Irinham too, but if you’re runnin’ from the Rangers you’re an enemy of my enemy.”

“No friend of the Rangers, that’s always good.” Dale puffed another plume of smoke and smirked. He placed a hand on the butt of a crossbow in a non-aggressive stance. The black eyes of the android met the brown eyes of the human and the two stolidly stared for a second.

“Put out that light, we’re approaching a city that supported the Ixian Knights. We don’t want to be seen, and we need to remain concealed. You really a sword for hire, we could use some extra range to help in Corone Armed Forces. Follow me, we’ll be at Irinham soon.” Dale ground the cigarette into the dirt reluctantly and followed the man back to what seemed to be a small company of men moving through the thin forest. He was unsure as to who the Ixian Knights were, the Corone Armed Forces, or exactly what – other than a city he assumed – Irinham was. But, someone was willing to hire him to do what he knew how to do, so he tagged along to see what would happen.

[Steppenwolf Orlouge]

I held the child close in my massive arms as he sobbed, each sniffle bobbing the youth’s head. My body burned with rage as I looked down at the body, my fists trembling at the sight of the fresh corpse. As Thomas and I got closer to the mill where the boy’s father lay motionless, his head smashed into near nothingness. I closed my eyes, trying to calm myself with breathing techniques but found that no amount of soothing could stop the boiling in my blood. Perhaps it was the orc side of me, but I wanted vengeance; if not for me, than for the poor child who had to see his father’s features caved in like a ripe watermelon.

“Wh-wh-wh-why would someone do this, St-St-St-St-Steppenwolf?!” Thomas managed to choke the question out, my massive hand stroking the boy’s dirty blonde hair. It was rough, probably had not been washed in several days. It would be washed today; most people cleaned up to the nines when it came to attending a family member’s funeral the next day. Given the situation, I wouldn’t blame them for choosing a closed casket.

Before I could answer Tom, my attention became drawn to the sounds of scream. My eyes turned back towards the village, my orbs growing wide at the site of the bright orange in the distance. I could see pillars of grayish-black rising up from the direction of Irinham. The murder of Tom’s father wasn’t just a coincidence. It was a strategic attack. Somebody was planning on razing Irinham.

I looked back down to Tom, my voice spilling out quickly, though I tried not to muddle my words in the haste. “Thomas, listen to me. I need you to get to the mill. Hide somewhere, I don’t care where. You go in there and you hide until I come back to get you. Do not look outside, and don’t think about your dad. This is really important. Do you understand?”

There was a shift in the boy’s posture. He was confused by my sudden change of character. He nodded, taking his dirty sleeve and wiping the mucus from his face. I released my hold on the child and he began to run towards his father’s mill, taking my advice and not looking back.

“This is unforgivable,” I cracked my knuckles and began to run the opposite way, towards Irinham, “Whoever you are, I will show you the same mercy you gave Tim. He –will- be avenged today.” The wind whipped through my large afro of hair as I began to unbutton my shirt. The flaps of the clothing began to flap as I reached into my pockets, withdrawing my dual tonfa.

There would be blood this morning. Most of it would not be mine.

[Otto]

A round and worried face peered over the guardrails of the watch tower. Its owner, a boy but a few shy of twenty summers, had pulled short straw for guard duty, and the darkened crescents beneath his eyes were testament to a long night's vigil. He tried desperately to blink the gumminess away, the better to focus on the approaching rider; through the fog he could make out a distant host, and a white flag held aloft in the lone horseman's hands. As a farm-born lad, blessedly unfamiliar with the ways of war, he was not entirely clear on what it all meant - but he knew trouble when he saw it. His hand grasped the unstrung shaft of a hunting bow as the rider came within earshot.

The soldier below trotted to a halt, his bay cantering around uneasily before it settled down. Though sunlight had yet to reach more than the tips of the rolling peaks, the white flag almost shone through the lessening murk below. Its bearer waved it back and forth a few more times for effect, before he called out to the sentry.

"By command of the Empire, you are to open your gates and submit to our authority", he shouted. His voice echoed up, bouncing off of the walls and surrounding forest. We will not harm you if you comply!".

The guard, however, was increasingly unsure about the situation. He cast a desperate look behind him to the small town, hoping to see some assistance on its way. "Why? What do you want?", he replied.

"We are here to reclaim control of this village, to acquire provisions for the Coronian Armed Forces, and remove the presence of any Ranger or Ixian Knight sympathisers. Open the gates!".

"You - You'll need to wait", the boy trembled. "The mayor should be here soon-"

"Your mayor has no say in this!", the messenger shouted back. "This is your final chance to comply, or we will take Irinham by force!".

The youth had visibly paled with panic by this point. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but could form no words. He was torn, the decision in hands of the man below... until a third voice, older and fiercer, joined the standoff. Its owner appeared over the top of the palisade by the gates, and he sported more than a few wrinkles and a touch of grey in his massive beard.

"You bastards!", he screamed at the soldier. "The blood's still wet in Gisela, and you've come here to take more? Well, we demand a fair trade!".

* * *

The captain had been joined by a second mounted lieutenant, both of whom watched horse and rider gallop back from the gates. More figures were appearing atop the palisade, most of them adding their own contributions to the barrage of bolts and arrows directed at the fleeing messenger. Halfway back, the man toppled over to one side; with both his feet trapped in their stirrups, the corpse hung out almost horizontally from the saddle. The sight must have appeared comical to some of the more jaded warriors, because Otto heard a number of his fellows snickering.

"Firing on a flag of parley?". The captain sighed disappointedly. "Completely unacceptable. Lieutenant - signal the advance".

The junior officer saluted, and pulled out a trumpet. After a series of blasts, most of the remaining company shuffled unhurriedly off the road; although the hail of assorted missiles was inching closer, the villagers would be hard-pressed to touch them at their current range. About one score remained on the road - these men deployed pavises and mantles, and slowly worked their way closer to the gates. Otto was not among their number, however, and followed his comrades into the forest. An unbroken belt of grass lined both sides of the path, trying desperately to hold its ground against the overbearing canopy of oak. Once within the domain of the trees, the graminoids gave way to ferns and the odd shrub. The ground turned from a green carpet to shallow, fog-soaked mud, the air from clean and grassy to dank and musty. The transition from relatively light and open to dark and cluttered also resulted in an ongoing chorus of curses, principally aimed at the exposed roots and low-hanging branches. This cacophony was only added to be the zip, zing and clatter of errant missiles through (and upon) the trees.

From the road came one last, long claxon from the trumpet. Somewhere out there, past the village and the trees, Second Company would heed the call.

Otto's own company halted within the relative safety of the treeline, waiting on further orders. He slouched against the twisted bark of a fat old hazel, and rubbed his eyes. Somewhere on the other side of the trunk were murmuring voices - plans being made, orders being given and received. Despite the action, though, it was rather quiet here in the shaded grove, now. The birds had sensed the soldiers' invasion of their territory, and had fallen silent. This left the susurrus of hushed voices and sighing boughs, against which the occasional staccato punch of an arrow was consumed like a pebble dropped into hot wax.

Less than a minute later, a sergeant crashed his way through the sparse underbrush. "Bastum!", he shouted out, and was met by silence. He shouted again - louder this time - and caught the eyes of a couple of grunts, one of whom jabbed a thumb in the orc's direction. The sergeant closed the gap between them and, once more, screamed wholeheartedly in Otto's face.

"Oi! Pig-face!".

"Hm?", mumbled Otto, then his eyes snapped into focus.

"Hm what, soldier?", the sergeant demanded.

"Hm, sir! Sorry, sir!".

"We'll address your lapse in protocol at a later stage, Bastum", replied the red-faced man. "And if I catch you daydreaming again, I'll have you hogtied and thrown on the road to give them upstanding citizens out there something to aim at. Got it?".

"Sir!".

"Good", the sergeant replied, nodding. "Captain's got men looking for a tree, but we need tools. We're going to fashion a battering ram. Head back to that farmstead we passed by earlier - I'm sure you remember it - and see how our boys there are doing. Search around, and if you find any saws or such, bring them back, along with a status report".

With a salute, Otto was dismissed, and began to make his way back west through the forest.

[Red Dawn]

“What are we doing here?” Dale whispered his question to the soldier that had discovered him – Sergeant Erranth. The man’s wary stance declared his uneasiness at the androids presence. He was still unsure about the sell-sword and was tolerating but not trusting of his presence. Dale could live with that. It was anything but an easy sell, but once the bait was taken he just had to play the part. “What’s to the northwest, Irinham?”

“We are the Corone Armed Forces, soldiers of the Empire.” The soldier huffed; reciting the same spiel he had told the android already. His tone was hushed yet threaded with mistrust and annoyance. He and the second company came to a halt as they pushed halfway through an orchard of pears. The entire company raised their fists along the line of soldiers, signaling an immediate halt. Dale copied the signal, familiar with it, yet did so half-heartedly. “Irinham is a city that’s been overrun by supporters of our enemies, Ixian Knights and Rangers, and we’re going to liberate it. We need the supplies from the town to deliver to the capital and support the war effort.”

Dale nodded as he let the information quickly encode. His brain functioned different than a human brain. The thick tube of liquid at its core was filled with billions of DNA molecules, each one storing information for later retrieval. Surrounding that and acting as a skull was the intricate system of capacitors and relays that encoded proteins to transform and change the molecules holding data. Multi-linear thinking was the most advanced form of thought process, allowing the android to process different ‘thoughts’ at once instead of one at a time. The storage facility that was his mechanical brain was a marvel of science and a testament to a world long gone.

“So,” Dale whispered as he plucked a ripe pear from its perch. He bit into the soft flesh and thin skin, juice flowing from his chin. He continued with a mouth full. “Whatcher saying is that we’re fighting kids with sticks, parents that know how to farm, and maybe a couple actual soldiers? All in the name of an Empire at risk of losing a war?”

Erranth growled at the mercenary. “Stop eating that fruit. We’re not losing; we’re simply not gaining ground either. If you want to be part of this keep up and keep quiet, otherwise—“ A harsh shushing was shot towards the two from a man who was obviously in charge. Dale looked at the well armored individual with a smile and nodded to him. His authoritative, beady stare lingered for a moment, but soon was turned back towards the barely visible palisade. Dale looked back to the sergeant. The man finished his sentence with a finger across his neck and his sword pointedly inches from the androids face.

“Got it.” The already angered soldier pushed the tip of the blade millimeters from the sell-swords neck. If he was going to thrust it through, which Dale thought he wanted to, he stopped himself. A single, long blast of a horn echoed through the orchard. All of second company stood slowly and carefully. They slunk closer to the southern edge of Irinham, keeping the thin tree trunks as cover when possible. Each raised a shield as they approached. Russell decided it would be best to keep his anxiety-ridden sergeant between him and what he assumed would be soon to be released arrows.

The mask of fog was slowly lifting with the light of the rising sun. Its rays were doing little to warm the soon-to-be battlefield. From the mouths of the soldiers gathered fleeting plumes of warm breath took the place of retreating fog. Another fist was raised and relayed down the two-deep formation. Dale copied the order again, and again took another bite of his pear. If the supplies were to be used for the Empire and he was part of the Empire’s forces it was only natural he should get his portion. His musings lingered as he pulled the hatchet from his belt and crouched low.