Post by kerrah on Apr 20, 2015 22:19:39 GMT
Our birth is our greatest gift... and our gravest curse.
Sometimes, I hear people scoff and tell me I am a simple killer. Nothing could be further from the truth. The truth is, were I born in the gutters of the Holy City I would never have been this good at the art of getting men killed. I've dedicated most of my life to martial pursuits. To swordsmanship, riding, the lance, archery, and even firearms more recently, sure, but also to tactics, command, logistics, strategy, the history of war, and various other topics. Some brute with strong and swift hands who just happened to find time and opportunity to learn all the relevant weapons would still lack the academic side of war.
A killer I may be, but I am anything but simple.
It honestly took me years to realise I had a gift for these matters, blinded as I was by the jest played on me by patron of my family. The weeks following my coming of age, I would hear the servants and courtiers and petitioners alike whisper in my wake, and call me Sparkless. In the environs I was in, back then, I was treated like an invalid afterwards, and my parents stopped paying attention to my triumphs with our master-at-arms and my swift learning in the library. Those successes had felt to them like a promise of a great Spark, but made for an inadequate replacement for one.
But my life story is not the point I wish to bring up here. I do not wish to be defined by those times, but I am forever chained to them. At the most base level, I suppose it shows in the fact that despite my best tries, my way of speech remains too noble to truly blend in with my troops, or most people of the Republic in general. In the early years after my departure from the Dominion, I had to fend off murder attempts by vindictive Republicans seeking revenge for family members lost in wars, or too zealous with the ways their nation to accept any outsiders therein.
More to the point, once I started to rise in rank in the army, I knew I could not keep my exact origin secret for very long. The Republic has its spies, just as the Dominion does, and it was widely known that the heir to House Sistorian was unaccounted for. I chose to report myself to my superiors, lest anyone have reason to think I was keeping secrets if the truth were discovered another way...
I keep drifting to recounting my past, don't I? I suppose I am right, then: our pasts are like a anchors we drag behind us. Mine is heavier than many others, I recon. Not that I'm not grateful for the good years, and the education that only someone from my birth could receive, but these days, I do wish I could have just... molted Renal Sistorian away. Just... ripped off my skin and stepped out anew, as Garrek, with the whole wide world in front of me, and no shadows of the past behind my back.
But that is not the case. I am Garrek, but I am also Renal. I have the education and raw born talent of the Sistorian sparkless heir, but I also have his scars, his enemies... and his duties.
“We've underestimated them. They are going to trap all of our road to Falor.”
I furrow my brow as I dismount. My wig is ascew. A small scouting regiment on the other side of the ford has been blown to bits, its remnants limping back. “That's no good; we need to make it to Falor by the eclipse. We can't afford to stop and move at a cautious pace.”
“I believe that is the point, sir”, Jellard snarks at me. “The enemy wants us to rush through and arrive in a broken condition.”
I nod briefly, closing my eyes and running the situation through my mind. Someone fetches my horse, which I hand over without a thought.
A smile rises to my lips. I gesture to the side, where we have about three dozen prisoners of war from the opposition. “Use them. Take them in groups of four and march them down the road, fanned out to cover the width of it evenly. Tell them if they're still alive come dusk, they can go home.”
Jellard salutes me appropriately, but he frowns. “There are only thirty or so of them. Some are going to run, and thus be shot in the back. We'll run out eventually.”
I turn around and accept a towel from one of my assistants, and use it to clean the blood off my face. As I straighten my wig, I say: “I'll order the foragers to bring more captives. The countryside's full of proud citizens of the Dominion: I'm sure they'll be glad to face their Gods' magic head-on.”
The leftenant bows as I turn and walk over to a mare, mounting it casually. It's time to return to the main column and talk to my colleagues. That should be a barrel of laughs.
“You what?” One of the higher commanders of the Republic grand army asks, flabbergasted. “I thought you of all people would not want to... to slaughter Dominion civilians for our tactical gain, Commandant.”
“You thought wrong, sir”, I say, idly thumbing my hat. “We're not going to empty whole villages and farming communities; we only need about a hundred prisoners a day to trigger all the traps. We don't have the time or inquisitor manpower to comb and disarm the whole length of the path to Falor. Am I correct, High Inquisitor?”
High Inquisitor Gori nods in a reserved manner. Every time he looks at me, I swear he knows of the most blasphemous shit I've taken that week. The man makes me shiver. He admits that these means have to be taken for the greater good. The rest of the high command agrees to defer to his wisdom, since he is the chief magical expert on this mission.
I bow to the high command. Before they have time to dismiss me, though, I continue: “If I may, generals and assorted sirs. I have a recommendation. I ask you to give me command over the cavalry in our main column-”
“You?” Asks Major General Haunheim, almost spitting in anger. “You who rode the scouting force right into their traps at the start of the battle?”
The accusation makes me wince. I see some unsympathetic faces among the others as well. Clearing my throat, I make myself stand up straighter. “This gives me more reason to be cautious in my further command. I know this territory, and if possible I'll hand-pick men who do as well to lead the regiments. What I am suggesting is I ride out ahead, keeping well enough to the side of the road to avoid the Dominion's traps, and rush to try to get these binders creating the obstacles. If we can slay them, that's fewer foes to deal with in Falor. If I can have any horsebound inquisitors, that would of course be useful...”
A debate follows between the high command, with the various commanders suggesting their own men to replace me. I stand still, patient. I list the names of the towns between here and Falor in my mind. I still remember some of them faintly, from when I rode this way in reverse years ago.
Finally, the council comes to an agreement. “We will grant you a scouting force, some mounted inquisitors included, to ride ahead and assess the situation. If the binders laying these traps are poorly protected enough for you to attack, you are to do so.”
I bow again, one hand tipping up to hold my wig against my head. “I stand in awe by the wisdom of the high command.”
They dismiss me and I turn to leave. I need to nail this, if I am to make a splash around here...
“Commandant”, a voice says behind me, and I find my hand falling to my sword hilt reflexively. I need to stop doing that every time something unexpected happens. Turning around, I find General Otakar stroking his beard as he watches me.
“General. Am I re-summoned?” I ask, peering into the high command's tent. Otakar shakes his head and gestures for me to follow. He takes us toward the horse lines in easily steps, and I await for him to speak. He finally does after a few minutes of deliberation.
“The high command has chosen to give you a choice, though it was decided this should be given to you in relative privacy. We would wish that you announce your birth name to the Dominion.” Otakar speaks in a slow, self-assured tone, utterly casual though his eyes sparkle with meaningfulness.
I balk at this. This I did not see coming. “Truly? I consider myself a new man. I wouldn't want to...” I trail off, realising I sound faintly whiny. “May I ask why the high command makes this request?”
Otakar greets an artillery officer, and chukles once we're out of earshot. “I play cards with Colonel Henders every weekend. He's terrible at it, but keeps it up in the vain hopes of earning some kind of fondness from me.”
I frown at the change in topic, but suddenly the general flashes a smile at me. “At Falor, we will face all the might of the Dominion splayed out before us. They will see us as invaders, and rightfully so, though we do not come to conquer.”
“We will free them from their tyrants, yes”, I say and nod. “But what does that have to do with-”
“The citizens of Falor will need to know that their own men are among those who march against them”, the general says. “The name of House Sistorian carries respect, does it not?” He gives me a pointed look and fastens one of his white gloves on his hand. His wig is brown, the curls falling on the sides of his wizened face, clashing with his grey beard quite a lot.
I slowly open my mouth to speak: “I understand. I would gladly announce my birth name to the enemy through whatever means you deem necessary, as long as the fact that I am now Garrek is made clear.” It feels like pulling out a tooth.
General Otakar smiles wolfishly. “There will be a meeting with the enemy commanders, I believe. A meaningless gesture, as if this battle was not preordained. I believe General Garrek will make an appearance.”
There's a loud splashing sound as I stop dead on my tracks in a puddle of mud. “Am I promoted?” I ask, remembering Major General Haunheim's ire at me. He would be my inferior, if this is true.
“Yes”, General Otakar says. “You will lead the Foreign Regiments, and the mercenaries we are hiring tomorrow, in the battle of Falor. Afterward, we shall see if your rank sticks...” Chuckling to himself, he heads off, leaving me standing in mud. I don't care particularly.
It's on.
Sometimes, I hear people scoff and tell me I am a simple killer. Nothing could be further from the truth. The truth is, were I born in the gutters of the Holy City I would never have been this good at the art of getting men killed. I've dedicated most of my life to martial pursuits. To swordsmanship, riding, the lance, archery, and even firearms more recently, sure, but also to tactics, command, logistics, strategy, the history of war, and various other topics. Some brute with strong and swift hands who just happened to find time and opportunity to learn all the relevant weapons would still lack the academic side of war.
A killer I may be, but I am anything but simple.
It honestly took me years to realise I had a gift for these matters, blinded as I was by the jest played on me by patron of my family. The weeks following my coming of age, I would hear the servants and courtiers and petitioners alike whisper in my wake, and call me Sparkless. In the environs I was in, back then, I was treated like an invalid afterwards, and my parents stopped paying attention to my triumphs with our master-at-arms and my swift learning in the library. Those successes had felt to them like a promise of a great Spark, but made for an inadequate replacement for one.
But my life story is not the point I wish to bring up here. I do not wish to be defined by those times, but I am forever chained to them. At the most base level, I suppose it shows in the fact that despite my best tries, my way of speech remains too noble to truly blend in with my troops, or most people of the Republic in general. In the early years after my departure from the Dominion, I had to fend off murder attempts by vindictive Republicans seeking revenge for family members lost in wars, or too zealous with the ways their nation to accept any outsiders therein.
More to the point, once I started to rise in rank in the army, I knew I could not keep my exact origin secret for very long. The Republic has its spies, just as the Dominion does, and it was widely known that the heir to House Sistorian was unaccounted for. I chose to report myself to my superiors, lest anyone have reason to think I was keeping secrets if the truth were discovered another way...
I keep drifting to recounting my past, don't I? I suppose I am right, then: our pasts are like a anchors we drag behind us. Mine is heavier than many others, I recon. Not that I'm not grateful for the good years, and the education that only someone from my birth could receive, but these days, I do wish I could have just... molted Renal Sistorian away. Just... ripped off my skin and stepped out anew, as Garrek, with the whole wide world in front of me, and no shadows of the past behind my back.
But that is not the case. I am Garrek, but I am also Renal. I have the education and raw born talent of the Sistorian sparkless heir, but I also have his scars, his enemies... and his duties.
“We've underestimated them. They are going to trap all of our road to Falor.”
I furrow my brow as I dismount. My wig is ascew. A small scouting regiment on the other side of the ford has been blown to bits, its remnants limping back. “That's no good; we need to make it to Falor by the eclipse. We can't afford to stop and move at a cautious pace.”
“I believe that is the point, sir”, Jellard snarks at me. “The enemy wants us to rush through and arrive in a broken condition.”
I nod briefly, closing my eyes and running the situation through my mind. Someone fetches my horse, which I hand over without a thought.
A smile rises to my lips. I gesture to the side, where we have about three dozen prisoners of war from the opposition. “Use them. Take them in groups of four and march them down the road, fanned out to cover the width of it evenly. Tell them if they're still alive come dusk, they can go home.”
Jellard salutes me appropriately, but he frowns. “There are only thirty or so of them. Some are going to run, and thus be shot in the back. We'll run out eventually.”
I turn around and accept a towel from one of my assistants, and use it to clean the blood off my face. As I straighten my wig, I say: “I'll order the foragers to bring more captives. The countryside's full of proud citizens of the Dominion: I'm sure they'll be glad to face their Gods' magic head-on.”
The leftenant bows as I turn and walk over to a mare, mounting it casually. It's time to return to the main column and talk to my colleagues. That should be a barrel of laughs.
“You what?” One of the higher commanders of the Republic grand army asks, flabbergasted. “I thought you of all people would not want to... to slaughter Dominion civilians for our tactical gain, Commandant.”
“You thought wrong, sir”, I say, idly thumbing my hat. “We're not going to empty whole villages and farming communities; we only need about a hundred prisoners a day to trigger all the traps. We don't have the time or inquisitor manpower to comb and disarm the whole length of the path to Falor. Am I correct, High Inquisitor?”
High Inquisitor Gori nods in a reserved manner. Every time he looks at me, I swear he knows of the most blasphemous shit I've taken that week. The man makes me shiver. He admits that these means have to be taken for the greater good. The rest of the high command agrees to defer to his wisdom, since he is the chief magical expert on this mission.
I bow to the high command. Before they have time to dismiss me, though, I continue: “If I may, generals and assorted sirs. I have a recommendation. I ask you to give me command over the cavalry in our main column-”
“You?” Asks Major General Haunheim, almost spitting in anger. “You who rode the scouting force right into their traps at the start of the battle?”
The accusation makes me wince. I see some unsympathetic faces among the others as well. Clearing my throat, I make myself stand up straighter. “This gives me more reason to be cautious in my further command. I know this territory, and if possible I'll hand-pick men who do as well to lead the regiments. What I am suggesting is I ride out ahead, keeping well enough to the side of the road to avoid the Dominion's traps, and rush to try to get these binders creating the obstacles. If we can slay them, that's fewer foes to deal with in Falor. If I can have any horsebound inquisitors, that would of course be useful...”
A debate follows between the high command, with the various commanders suggesting their own men to replace me. I stand still, patient. I list the names of the towns between here and Falor in my mind. I still remember some of them faintly, from when I rode this way in reverse years ago.
Finally, the council comes to an agreement. “We will grant you a scouting force, some mounted inquisitors included, to ride ahead and assess the situation. If the binders laying these traps are poorly protected enough for you to attack, you are to do so.”
I bow again, one hand tipping up to hold my wig against my head. “I stand in awe by the wisdom of the high command.”
They dismiss me and I turn to leave. I need to nail this, if I am to make a splash around here...
“Commandant”, a voice says behind me, and I find my hand falling to my sword hilt reflexively. I need to stop doing that every time something unexpected happens. Turning around, I find General Otakar stroking his beard as he watches me.
“General. Am I re-summoned?” I ask, peering into the high command's tent. Otakar shakes his head and gestures for me to follow. He takes us toward the horse lines in easily steps, and I await for him to speak. He finally does after a few minutes of deliberation.
“The high command has chosen to give you a choice, though it was decided this should be given to you in relative privacy. We would wish that you announce your birth name to the Dominion.” Otakar speaks in a slow, self-assured tone, utterly casual though his eyes sparkle with meaningfulness.
I balk at this. This I did not see coming. “Truly? I consider myself a new man. I wouldn't want to...” I trail off, realising I sound faintly whiny. “May I ask why the high command makes this request?”
Otakar greets an artillery officer, and chukles once we're out of earshot. “I play cards with Colonel Henders every weekend. He's terrible at it, but keeps it up in the vain hopes of earning some kind of fondness from me.”
I frown at the change in topic, but suddenly the general flashes a smile at me. “At Falor, we will face all the might of the Dominion splayed out before us. They will see us as invaders, and rightfully so, though we do not come to conquer.”
“We will free them from their tyrants, yes”, I say and nod. “But what does that have to do with-”
“The citizens of Falor will need to know that their own men are among those who march against them”, the general says. “The name of House Sistorian carries respect, does it not?” He gives me a pointed look and fastens one of his white gloves on his hand. His wig is brown, the curls falling on the sides of his wizened face, clashing with his grey beard quite a lot.
I slowly open my mouth to speak: “I understand. I would gladly announce my birth name to the enemy through whatever means you deem necessary, as long as the fact that I am now Garrek is made clear.” It feels like pulling out a tooth.
General Otakar smiles wolfishly. “There will be a meeting with the enemy commanders, I believe. A meaningless gesture, as if this battle was not preordained. I believe General Garrek will make an appearance.”
There's a loud splashing sound as I stop dead on my tracks in a puddle of mud. “Am I promoted?” I ask, remembering Major General Haunheim's ire at me. He would be my inferior, if this is true.
“Yes”, General Otakar says. “You will lead the Foreign Regiments, and the mercenaries we are hiring tomorrow, in the battle of Falor. Afterward, we shall see if your rank sticks...” Chuckling to himself, he heads off, leaving me standing in mud. I don't care particularly.
It's on.
I would love if everyone wrote at least something to establish their character. It doesn't have to be long.
