Kiligan713
09-28-10, 12:34 PM
(If you can think of way to jump in, send me a PM, else this will be a solo. =P)
The men of Bravo company, 3rd platoon, 4th battalion, 1st division, Kings Musketeers, sat in a semi-circle, knees touching, faces awash with the warm glow of the roaring fire in front of them. They numbered 35, each man broken into five squads of seven men, headed by a Corporal of the Lance, collectively lead by a Line Sergeant, who was at that present moment, missing from the group. Each had a small pan balanced between their legs, food stuffs from the platoons daily rations stacked within. A cup, held firmly in each mans right hand, was filled near to brim with shimmering, clear, clean water. A fork and knife, dulled gray and worn smooth from countless years use, balanced the cup in their left hand. It was dinner time, the sun having set exactly one hour ago, but not a single man touched his food, and not a single man would, until every man in the platoon was counted, checked, re-counted and re-checked again to make sure that they had their daily ration. Some men stared intently at their pans, eagerly awaiting the horn blast to commence eating. Others stared into the fire, eyes glazed from the bright light and warmth, minds elsewhere, distracted away from the needs and wants of the now. Still others stared into the vast emptiness of space, their thoughts their own, while still others conversed quietly with their neighbors, hushed voices barely carrying over the roar and crackle of the fire.
Footfalls crushing against dried grass and loose gravel announced the arrival of the companies Line Sergeant and an instant later a single horn blow, shrill and clear in the silent night air, shook the platoon to life. All at once the sounds of utensils clanking against each other, against the bottoms of pans, against still half full glasses, filled the air, easily drowning out the fires and still soft conversations. Moments passed where the only sounds were these before, gradually, voices began filling the air; laughter, shouting, singing and other merry making. The Line Sergeant of Bravo company took his place beside the companies standard bearer and graciously accepted his pan, cup and utensils. He paused for only the briefest of moments, offering up a silent prayer to his family, gods and life, before digging in with the same ferociousness that his men, and the rest of 3rd platoon, had displayed only moments before.
He was silent for a time, steadily working at reducing the pile of food on his pan, taking slow, mouth filling drinks of water from his cup, before twisting his head ever so slightly to address his standard bearer. "Moving out in the morning," was all he said before shoving a fork full of dried meat, cracker and crushed bread into his mouth. The standard bearer grunted, but said nothing as he too shoveled another fork full into his mouth. He needn't say anything, he knew what it meant. He quickly finished his pan, downed the rest of his water and clanged the two together loudly. Bravo company silenced immediately, eyes turning attentively toward the standard bearer.
"Finish up lads, we're moving on the morrow. Clean your gear and pack for the march. Cloaks and your arms for bedding tonight." The company acknowledged as one and nearly finished their food, to the man, at the same time. There was a brief moment of controlled chaos as the men shuffled to their feet and moved toward their respective bedding, but minutes later the area around the fire was still and quiet. The rest of the camp had taken on the same silence, as if the orders had been passed down at precisely the same time. Which, know the precision that the platoon preferred to operate, was probably the case.
The dark blotches that were the men of Bravo company were already half-way toward sleep when the Line Sergeant finished off his plate and rose from his seated position beside the fire. "Everything is as it should be," the standard bearer said behind him. "Have you picked and set the first watch?" The Line Sergeant asked as he crouched to shovel a handful of dried dirt and gravel into the pan, rubbing away the last remnants of uneaten food from its surface. "Yes Sergeant," the standard bearer replied quickly. "Good, get some sleep, we'll need it where we're going in the morning." "Aye," was the only response the Line Sergeant heard before he gathered his gear and walked off into the darkness.
He walked for a few hundred paces before turning ninety degrees to his right and marching straight ahead. This time he counted his steps and turned half left after seventy five, half right after another twenty and sharp left after another seventy. He stopped short after twelve and reached out, fingertips finding the slender black rod planted into the ground ahead of him. Even with the glow of the surrounding fires it was difficult to make out the slender rod, painted thick with some sort of light sucking paint, and this was why he had marked out so specific a path to reach it. Every soldier in the camp knew what it represented, and every night men would bend head, take knee or prostrate themselves in its direction to offer up prayers to the gods, asking for luck or guidance for the coming day.
Amar Da'an Hashria, Line Sergeant of Bravo company, 3rd platoon, 4th battalion, 1st division, Kings Musketeers however, preferred to actually touch it before offering up his prayers. It wasn't illegal in any way, it was just thought of as bad luck to actually touch the rod when praying. Amar and a select few others thought differently. He bowed his head after a moment, closing his eyes as he began his prayer. Mouth moving silently to the words echoing within his head, Amar offered up luck for his men, for the men of the platoon and for the rest of division, knowing full well that they would need a healthy dose in the coming days. If what was spoken at the evening roll call was spoken true, many, many men would not live to see the following sunset. Amar squeezed his eyes tighter for one brief instant, his mouth quivering, fumbling over the unspoken words as memories he had long thought buried rose to the surface. He quickly quelled the memories however, unwilling to face them now, not at this critical juncture. His composure returned and his lips once again mouthed the words true and after a few more moments of prayer he straightened and returned his hand to his side.
"Man is harder than iron, stronger than stone and more fragile than a rose, may the gods have mercy on our souls." The camp was silent as he returned to his bedding and moments after resting his head on the dry, hard packed ground, he was asleep. "...have mercy on my soul."
((Authors Note: The following takes place before Amar's entry into the Althanas proper, as such, his musket is in working order. Within the next two or three posts however, it will be rendered inoperable when he makes his transition.))
The men of Bravo company, 3rd platoon, 4th battalion, 1st division, Kings Musketeers, sat in a semi-circle, knees touching, faces awash with the warm glow of the roaring fire in front of them. They numbered 35, each man broken into five squads of seven men, headed by a Corporal of the Lance, collectively lead by a Line Sergeant, who was at that present moment, missing from the group. Each had a small pan balanced between their legs, food stuffs from the platoons daily rations stacked within. A cup, held firmly in each mans right hand, was filled near to brim with shimmering, clear, clean water. A fork and knife, dulled gray and worn smooth from countless years use, balanced the cup in their left hand. It was dinner time, the sun having set exactly one hour ago, but not a single man touched his food, and not a single man would, until every man in the platoon was counted, checked, re-counted and re-checked again to make sure that they had their daily ration. Some men stared intently at their pans, eagerly awaiting the horn blast to commence eating. Others stared into the fire, eyes glazed from the bright light and warmth, minds elsewhere, distracted away from the needs and wants of the now. Still others stared into the vast emptiness of space, their thoughts their own, while still others conversed quietly with their neighbors, hushed voices barely carrying over the roar and crackle of the fire.
Footfalls crushing against dried grass and loose gravel announced the arrival of the companies Line Sergeant and an instant later a single horn blow, shrill and clear in the silent night air, shook the platoon to life. All at once the sounds of utensils clanking against each other, against the bottoms of pans, against still half full glasses, filled the air, easily drowning out the fires and still soft conversations. Moments passed where the only sounds were these before, gradually, voices began filling the air; laughter, shouting, singing and other merry making. The Line Sergeant of Bravo company took his place beside the companies standard bearer and graciously accepted his pan, cup and utensils. He paused for only the briefest of moments, offering up a silent prayer to his family, gods and life, before digging in with the same ferociousness that his men, and the rest of 3rd platoon, had displayed only moments before.
He was silent for a time, steadily working at reducing the pile of food on his pan, taking slow, mouth filling drinks of water from his cup, before twisting his head ever so slightly to address his standard bearer. "Moving out in the morning," was all he said before shoving a fork full of dried meat, cracker and crushed bread into his mouth. The standard bearer grunted, but said nothing as he too shoveled another fork full into his mouth. He needn't say anything, he knew what it meant. He quickly finished his pan, downed the rest of his water and clanged the two together loudly. Bravo company silenced immediately, eyes turning attentively toward the standard bearer.
"Finish up lads, we're moving on the morrow. Clean your gear and pack for the march. Cloaks and your arms for bedding tonight." The company acknowledged as one and nearly finished their food, to the man, at the same time. There was a brief moment of controlled chaos as the men shuffled to their feet and moved toward their respective bedding, but minutes later the area around the fire was still and quiet. The rest of the camp had taken on the same silence, as if the orders had been passed down at precisely the same time. Which, know the precision that the platoon preferred to operate, was probably the case.
The dark blotches that were the men of Bravo company were already half-way toward sleep when the Line Sergeant finished off his plate and rose from his seated position beside the fire. "Everything is as it should be," the standard bearer said behind him. "Have you picked and set the first watch?" The Line Sergeant asked as he crouched to shovel a handful of dried dirt and gravel into the pan, rubbing away the last remnants of uneaten food from its surface. "Yes Sergeant," the standard bearer replied quickly. "Good, get some sleep, we'll need it where we're going in the morning." "Aye," was the only response the Line Sergeant heard before he gathered his gear and walked off into the darkness.
He walked for a few hundred paces before turning ninety degrees to his right and marching straight ahead. This time he counted his steps and turned half left after seventy five, half right after another twenty and sharp left after another seventy. He stopped short after twelve and reached out, fingertips finding the slender black rod planted into the ground ahead of him. Even with the glow of the surrounding fires it was difficult to make out the slender rod, painted thick with some sort of light sucking paint, and this was why he had marked out so specific a path to reach it. Every soldier in the camp knew what it represented, and every night men would bend head, take knee or prostrate themselves in its direction to offer up prayers to the gods, asking for luck or guidance for the coming day.
Amar Da'an Hashria, Line Sergeant of Bravo company, 3rd platoon, 4th battalion, 1st division, Kings Musketeers however, preferred to actually touch it before offering up his prayers. It wasn't illegal in any way, it was just thought of as bad luck to actually touch the rod when praying. Amar and a select few others thought differently. He bowed his head after a moment, closing his eyes as he began his prayer. Mouth moving silently to the words echoing within his head, Amar offered up luck for his men, for the men of the platoon and for the rest of division, knowing full well that they would need a healthy dose in the coming days. If what was spoken at the evening roll call was spoken true, many, many men would not live to see the following sunset. Amar squeezed his eyes tighter for one brief instant, his mouth quivering, fumbling over the unspoken words as memories he had long thought buried rose to the surface. He quickly quelled the memories however, unwilling to face them now, not at this critical juncture. His composure returned and his lips once again mouthed the words true and after a few more moments of prayer he straightened and returned his hand to his side.
"Man is harder than iron, stronger than stone and more fragile than a rose, may the gods have mercy on our souls." The camp was silent as he returned to his bedding and moments after resting his head on the dry, hard packed ground, he was asleep. "...have mercy on my soul."
((Authors Note: The following takes place before Amar's entry into the Althanas proper, as such, his musket is in working order. Within the next two or three posts however, it will be rendered inoperable when he makes his transition.))