The International
07-23-11, 04:11 PM
Strategos
:::::
Set in the Corone Civil War. Sequel to V: The Jagged Masquerade.
:::::
It echoed…
I smother lights out
‘Till it is bright out,
On just another deadly night.
Are you willing to sacrifice your life?
That song was all too familiar to Bartholomew Atkins of High Point, Corone. Who would have thought a little holiday chant to scare the children would be the driving force behind an entire army? Yet here he stood with his fellow townsmen on a field outside the town of Idleworth – a town very much like his own save for one very big difference. Idleworth was in the hands of Corone’s Empire. High Point was free.
The sky was a muted grey today as if the Thayne mocked the mere mortals from above with a mirror to the Anti-Firmament. The soft ground muffled the steps of Bart and his compatriots as they scrambled to get into formation. The musty scent of sweat stuffed his nose as he bumped shoulder pads of boiled leather with other soldiers. He made it to his position – the front line, where he saw what lay ahead of them. A beautiful field of grass whipped in the almost absent wind like a single emerald flag. Idleworth stood as nothing more than a small cluster of brick and mortar that peeked above the horizon with fear. Little did she know; these soldiers came to liberate her from the Empire, from the Rangers, from everything. As usual what stood between them were several walls of stainless steel provided by the island nation’s young Empire. Bart saw all of this through a mask that transformed him.
During the planting season Bartholomew was nothing more than a simple potato farmer from High Point, a town of no more than eleven thousand on a little plateau in Corone’s Jagged Mountains. He could barely read, he had five children, and a wife that made him laugh more than any jester ever could. But here as he stood in a uniform of boiled black leather, as he held a fifteen foot long pike made of well seasoned ash and Akashiman forged steel, and as he wore that mask… that bronze drama mask that exuded a sinister crazed smile, he was a monster willing to kill any that stood in his way. He and eight thousand of his companions donned these sadistic façades to form The Masquerade.
“Mon-ster… Mon-ster… Mon-ster… Mon-ster.” That chant began to carry through the army, and Bart remembered the words of one of the army’s creators, the young man simply known as V. This begins the Ephodos phase, when you begin your march towards your enemy slowly increasing in pace.
And so Bart’s left leg stomped forward to the ‘Mon’, and his right leg stomped forward to the ‘Ster’ as if each leg had a mind of its own. It seemed as though his heart was in league with his legs for it too seemed to pulsate with the chant. His hands began to sweat inside his leather gloves, and for some unknown reason the muscles on his face began to curve up until he was smiling that same sadistic smile that was on his mask. The living wall of opposition was not oblivious to this. How could they be? Although the Empire’s knights feigned fearlessness behind their full suits of armor, their mounts did not lie. They budged about until one knight finally began to trot forward. Another followed. Then another. Then some more. Finally they united in a charge, and thus began the second stage of battle.
The second stage of battle, Krousis, is when the opposing forces meet each other along a mutual front. Those who occupy the front lines must by physically and psychologically fit to sustain much of the clash, and the outcome of the battle can almost always be traced back to how well this phase is handled.
The call for halt came, and the chant ended. Bart stopped as if frozen by the Berevar winds. Another command came, and he entered his battle stance: left side to the enemy, right side away, right hand holding the pike over, left hand holding the pike under. And then another command specifically meant for the charge of cavalry. He looked up at the shimmering oversized spearhead of his pike, and then looked at the other side, the butt, which was nothing more than a wooden stake, but it was enough for the purpose of this tactic. With a grunt he stabbed the soft ground with the butt of the pike and got on his knees. A fellow soldier stood behind him in battle stance offering his pike to the opposition as well. A quick glance down the line and it was obvious that the Masquerade met the Empire with a wall of its own, and this one had the lion’s share of spikes.
The knights’ shimmering thunder approached and met the Masquerade with deadly consequences. Bart lay his eyes on the knight destined to clash with him. Through the limited sight of his mask he could see the amber steed moving earth beneath it as its flanks of ruby and gold fluttered about its sides. The quatrain of bass like thuds became louder and louder, and the knight atop the mount finally lowered his lance. Bart almost crossed his eyes looking at the lance as it was aimed so precisely. The knight came closer and closer, ever increasing in speed until they met… and the knight hung himself on the bladed noose that was Bart’s pike. All along the front line horsemen’s feet flew up to where their heads once were. A crimson cloud of emerged from fountains of life’s blood. The vast majority of that cloud came from the knights. Screams of agony and choking last breaths echoed along the countryside for only a moment. Bart’s heart slammed at his ribcage as he rid his pike of a knight’s body. He looked to his left. No knights. He looked to his right. A Masquerade soldier was carried off. He knew that multicolored mask anywhere. It was one of his close friends, but it was just a broken leg.
Back to Ephodos. “Mon-ster. Mon-ster. Mon-ster. Mon-ster.”
I truly am one, Bart thought to himself as they marched forward to tear down Idleworth’s second wall. This was a wall of tempered ash topped with tarnished steel spikes. Pikes… Like ours? Bart thought. In addition to that the men that wielded them were uncoordinated and hesitant, donning a motley mix-match of helmets and personal armor. With a shout barely audible to Bart’s ears they moved forward like molasses. This was a tactic befitting the Empire, and Bart and his fellow Masks were warned this day would come. The Empire had drafted some of the townsmen of Idleworth and did their best to mirror the image of the Masquerade in a psychological move. They were posing a question to them. Would you dare fight your own people? Bart had an answer. So long as he had that mask on… Yes!
Doratismos, the third phase of battle, is when it comes time to engage in the enemies before you on an individual basis. Make use of repeated and rapid pike strikes in order disrupt the enemy’s formation.
The Empire had done them a favor this time around. These helmets and metal bonnets hid the eyes and faces that were surely petrified in fear. Their hesitation showed that as they neared the Maskquerade’s front line. The first clash against this uncoordinated cluster was clearly one sided. Bart managed to get five kills in with only a few fell swoops as Idleworth’s pikes were at least three feet shorter than the Masquerade’s. Bart parried a thrust, and slid the blade of his pike down the shaft until it met the enemy’s arm and nearly severed it. They joined their brothers in a chorus of screams. He took down two men in a horizontal swing that he was quite proud of. Ruby waterfalls preceded a sausage dish of intestines.
A new order rang in Bart’s ears. Soil! He rose his pike as an ode to the sky then dropped it down as if to dig into his land at home. His pike hit nothing but soil, but all around him heads and arms were nearly severed and the coppery smell of blood mixed with the musk of sweat. Wheat! He swung his pike from left to right catching several pieces of flesh in its path. Plow! His favorite, a direct and plain thrust forward to make a skewer. It all worked without fail like an Aleraran clockwork. Finally light began to shine through the cracks of this makeshift wall thus it was time for the next phase.
Othismos, the fourth and hopefully final phase of battle, is when you see holes in the enemy’s lines. Find them and push through them as a unit. This way the still fresh soldiers in the center and rear guard will be able to engage directly with the enemy as you pour through and attack from the inside.
The command came from behind a cadence of clashing arms and a strong shoulder dug into the small of Bart’s back. He had no choice but to run forward despite an enemy pike pointing forward to meet him. He used the shaft of his own pike to push the spearhead aside, and with the velocity of countless men behind him he ran headfirst into the opposing soldier before him. The enemy flew back and knocked others over in a domino effect, and Bart proceeded to truly plow the fields sewing the cold steel of his pike and reaping the blood of his enemies. He didn’t stop moving forward. He couldn’t. His boots were now covered in a foul mixture of mud and blood thus he could no longer hear himself marching, but it didn’t matter anymore. They had broken through the line of draftees and the trend of retreat began.
The poor draftees of Idleworth were but a curtain, and as that curtain drew it revealed the Empire’s last stand – a brand new wall of short swords and buckler shields that numbered in the thousands. While the sun had been blotted out by the low lying clouds, each agile soldier in this regiment seemed to carry piece of the sun on his circular shield. With the Masquerade almost completely out of formation, they charged. The swordsmen maneuvered in between the pikes and engaged in extreme close quarters. Many of the Masks attempted a futile defense with the butts of their poles. Bart’s friends fell quickly around him, and his heart began to beat hard again. The Empire’s sword and buckler fighters met the Masquerade with surgical precision – slashes were between leather plating, stabs met necks and collars. One charged for him. The chorus of screams came from the Masquerade now. He lunged backwards doing his best to keep his distance but to no avail. The warrior was closing in on him! In a grunt of desperation he swung at the Imperial pawn, but he easily ducked under the attack and lunged forward.
The short sword found its way into Bart’s stomach just below the leather breastplate. Bart fell back wide eyed as a stinging sensation spread about his lungs. Soon they refused to breathe, and he began to jerk and choke for the air that was clearly present. After a few moments of panic a tingling sensation overcame his entire body, and finally…
… he slept.
:::::
Set in the Corone Civil War. Sequel to V: The Jagged Masquerade.
:::::
It echoed…
I smother lights out
‘Till it is bright out,
On just another deadly night.
Are you willing to sacrifice your life?
That song was all too familiar to Bartholomew Atkins of High Point, Corone. Who would have thought a little holiday chant to scare the children would be the driving force behind an entire army? Yet here he stood with his fellow townsmen on a field outside the town of Idleworth – a town very much like his own save for one very big difference. Idleworth was in the hands of Corone’s Empire. High Point was free.
The sky was a muted grey today as if the Thayne mocked the mere mortals from above with a mirror to the Anti-Firmament. The soft ground muffled the steps of Bart and his compatriots as they scrambled to get into formation. The musty scent of sweat stuffed his nose as he bumped shoulder pads of boiled leather with other soldiers. He made it to his position – the front line, where he saw what lay ahead of them. A beautiful field of grass whipped in the almost absent wind like a single emerald flag. Idleworth stood as nothing more than a small cluster of brick and mortar that peeked above the horizon with fear. Little did she know; these soldiers came to liberate her from the Empire, from the Rangers, from everything. As usual what stood between them were several walls of stainless steel provided by the island nation’s young Empire. Bart saw all of this through a mask that transformed him.
During the planting season Bartholomew was nothing more than a simple potato farmer from High Point, a town of no more than eleven thousand on a little plateau in Corone’s Jagged Mountains. He could barely read, he had five children, and a wife that made him laugh more than any jester ever could. But here as he stood in a uniform of boiled black leather, as he held a fifteen foot long pike made of well seasoned ash and Akashiman forged steel, and as he wore that mask… that bronze drama mask that exuded a sinister crazed smile, he was a monster willing to kill any that stood in his way. He and eight thousand of his companions donned these sadistic façades to form The Masquerade.
“Mon-ster… Mon-ster… Mon-ster… Mon-ster.” That chant began to carry through the army, and Bart remembered the words of one of the army’s creators, the young man simply known as V. This begins the Ephodos phase, when you begin your march towards your enemy slowly increasing in pace.
And so Bart’s left leg stomped forward to the ‘Mon’, and his right leg stomped forward to the ‘Ster’ as if each leg had a mind of its own. It seemed as though his heart was in league with his legs for it too seemed to pulsate with the chant. His hands began to sweat inside his leather gloves, and for some unknown reason the muscles on his face began to curve up until he was smiling that same sadistic smile that was on his mask. The living wall of opposition was not oblivious to this. How could they be? Although the Empire’s knights feigned fearlessness behind their full suits of armor, their mounts did not lie. They budged about until one knight finally began to trot forward. Another followed. Then another. Then some more. Finally they united in a charge, and thus began the second stage of battle.
The second stage of battle, Krousis, is when the opposing forces meet each other along a mutual front. Those who occupy the front lines must by physically and psychologically fit to sustain much of the clash, and the outcome of the battle can almost always be traced back to how well this phase is handled.
The call for halt came, and the chant ended. Bart stopped as if frozen by the Berevar winds. Another command came, and he entered his battle stance: left side to the enemy, right side away, right hand holding the pike over, left hand holding the pike under. And then another command specifically meant for the charge of cavalry. He looked up at the shimmering oversized spearhead of his pike, and then looked at the other side, the butt, which was nothing more than a wooden stake, but it was enough for the purpose of this tactic. With a grunt he stabbed the soft ground with the butt of the pike and got on his knees. A fellow soldier stood behind him in battle stance offering his pike to the opposition as well. A quick glance down the line and it was obvious that the Masquerade met the Empire with a wall of its own, and this one had the lion’s share of spikes.
The knights’ shimmering thunder approached and met the Masquerade with deadly consequences. Bart lay his eyes on the knight destined to clash with him. Through the limited sight of his mask he could see the amber steed moving earth beneath it as its flanks of ruby and gold fluttered about its sides. The quatrain of bass like thuds became louder and louder, and the knight atop the mount finally lowered his lance. Bart almost crossed his eyes looking at the lance as it was aimed so precisely. The knight came closer and closer, ever increasing in speed until they met… and the knight hung himself on the bladed noose that was Bart’s pike. All along the front line horsemen’s feet flew up to where their heads once were. A crimson cloud of emerged from fountains of life’s blood. The vast majority of that cloud came from the knights. Screams of agony and choking last breaths echoed along the countryside for only a moment. Bart’s heart slammed at his ribcage as he rid his pike of a knight’s body. He looked to his left. No knights. He looked to his right. A Masquerade soldier was carried off. He knew that multicolored mask anywhere. It was one of his close friends, but it was just a broken leg.
Back to Ephodos. “Mon-ster. Mon-ster. Mon-ster. Mon-ster.”
I truly am one, Bart thought to himself as they marched forward to tear down Idleworth’s second wall. This was a wall of tempered ash topped with tarnished steel spikes. Pikes… Like ours? Bart thought. In addition to that the men that wielded them were uncoordinated and hesitant, donning a motley mix-match of helmets and personal armor. With a shout barely audible to Bart’s ears they moved forward like molasses. This was a tactic befitting the Empire, and Bart and his fellow Masks were warned this day would come. The Empire had drafted some of the townsmen of Idleworth and did their best to mirror the image of the Masquerade in a psychological move. They were posing a question to them. Would you dare fight your own people? Bart had an answer. So long as he had that mask on… Yes!
Doratismos, the third phase of battle, is when it comes time to engage in the enemies before you on an individual basis. Make use of repeated and rapid pike strikes in order disrupt the enemy’s formation.
The Empire had done them a favor this time around. These helmets and metal bonnets hid the eyes and faces that were surely petrified in fear. Their hesitation showed that as they neared the Maskquerade’s front line. The first clash against this uncoordinated cluster was clearly one sided. Bart managed to get five kills in with only a few fell swoops as Idleworth’s pikes were at least three feet shorter than the Masquerade’s. Bart parried a thrust, and slid the blade of his pike down the shaft until it met the enemy’s arm and nearly severed it. They joined their brothers in a chorus of screams. He took down two men in a horizontal swing that he was quite proud of. Ruby waterfalls preceded a sausage dish of intestines.
A new order rang in Bart’s ears. Soil! He rose his pike as an ode to the sky then dropped it down as if to dig into his land at home. His pike hit nothing but soil, but all around him heads and arms were nearly severed and the coppery smell of blood mixed with the musk of sweat. Wheat! He swung his pike from left to right catching several pieces of flesh in its path. Plow! His favorite, a direct and plain thrust forward to make a skewer. It all worked without fail like an Aleraran clockwork. Finally light began to shine through the cracks of this makeshift wall thus it was time for the next phase.
Othismos, the fourth and hopefully final phase of battle, is when you see holes in the enemy’s lines. Find them and push through them as a unit. This way the still fresh soldiers in the center and rear guard will be able to engage directly with the enemy as you pour through and attack from the inside.
The command came from behind a cadence of clashing arms and a strong shoulder dug into the small of Bart’s back. He had no choice but to run forward despite an enemy pike pointing forward to meet him. He used the shaft of his own pike to push the spearhead aside, and with the velocity of countless men behind him he ran headfirst into the opposing soldier before him. The enemy flew back and knocked others over in a domino effect, and Bart proceeded to truly plow the fields sewing the cold steel of his pike and reaping the blood of his enemies. He didn’t stop moving forward. He couldn’t. His boots were now covered in a foul mixture of mud and blood thus he could no longer hear himself marching, but it didn’t matter anymore. They had broken through the line of draftees and the trend of retreat began.
The poor draftees of Idleworth were but a curtain, and as that curtain drew it revealed the Empire’s last stand – a brand new wall of short swords and buckler shields that numbered in the thousands. While the sun had been blotted out by the low lying clouds, each agile soldier in this regiment seemed to carry piece of the sun on his circular shield. With the Masquerade almost completely out of formation, they charged. The swordsmen maneuvered in between the pikes and engaged in extreme close quarters. Many of the Masks attempted a futile defense with the butts of their poles. Bart’s friends fell quickly around him, and his heart began to beat hard again. The Empire’s sword and buckler fighters met the Masquerade with surgical precision – slashes were between leather plating, stabs met necks and collars. One charged for him. The chorus of screams came from the Masquerade now. He lunged backwards doing his best to keep his distance but to no avail. The warrior was closing in on him! In a grunt of desperation he swung at the Imperial pawn, but he easily ducked under the attack and lunged forward.
The short sword found its way into Bart’s stomach just below the leather breastplate. Bart fell back wide eyed as a stinging sensation spread about his lungs. Soon they refused to breathe, and he began to jerk and choke for the air that was clearly present. After a few moments of panic a tingling sensation overcame his entire body, and finally…
… he slept.