Dogs of War - Ivesk

Grey

Grey

Dialectical Hermeticist
A new morning dawns over Holm's End, and you're getting dressed before you valet even opens the door to inform you breakfast is ready - most Major eat in their rooms, but you've always taken breakfast with the men unless otherwise necessary.


"The patrols are changing over now, sir," Relias says, half in the door. "And there are some communiques in your office." He drops his voice. "I think we're getting a visit from the Olive Branchers, sir." He salutes and slips away to his other duties, leaving you dress in peace.
 
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The aging man nodded to the valet as he left, turning his attention back to getting the uniform on... mostly. The last words spoken by the servant merited some thought. A visit from Foreign Affairs is either good or bad news... rarely something in between. Hopefully this time it's the former... they've had enough problems lately as it is. But then, who hasn't... it is war, after all. As it was twenty years ago.


With a heavy sigh, he turned to leave his room. 'Can't let yourself start the day with this', he chastised himself. It seems like it's getting harder with each sunrise, not thinking of how much time has passed. Especially when he sees the new blood, barely months out of training, some so very eager to face the hordes in battle upon the walls of Holm's End... just like he was.


He shook his head. Here he goes again. It's not like he lost that much of the eagerness. Even now, he feels his heart beat with new-found strength every time an assault begins. Not so different from the rookies.


He raises his pace a bit. Best arrive at the table while the food is still warm. And at least that nagging part of his mind won't have time to ruin his mood with all the people talking.


As for the communiques, well, no sane man would begin work on empty stomach.
 
The dining hall is steaming and crowded, full of low chatter and jostling bodies. The slight smells of sweat from the night patrol having supper are drowned out by the scents of bacon, onion, potato, and cheese. There'd be eggs for you, too, but years ago you decided if all the men couldn't have them neither would you.


The troops have made space for you on a bench, and once again it's a relief this isn't a bigger garrison - any more direct subordinates and there'd be a mutiny about not using the command table.


A steaming mug of hot strawberry cordial sits beside your plate - no wonder the men are in such good spirits, if a new shipment has come in.
 
The Major took the free space at the table, giving a quick nod in greeting to nobody in particular. His neck would probably break if he were to greet everyone in turn. "Quite the good morning, isn't it?" he inquired off-handedly, peering into the mug. Certainly a welcome addition - and explains a lot about the mood in the hall. Might take his mind off the Branchers visit and his age for a while, too.


"Anything happen during the patrol?" he asks, in a rather casual tone. Ruining breakfast with formalities is the last thing anyone needs, and he made it clear long ago. It's just simple curiosity. Sure, he could just check the report, but he always preferred honest and simple opinions to the cut-and-dry fashion of the documents.


Besides. Small talk is important.
 
Hm, you have to admit your memory is starting to fail you a little when it comes to the newer recruits. Lustra? Leanna? Something with an L. In any case, she's sat opposite you and answers.


"Quiet enough, Sir. Kelvin thought he saw something moving around in the northern trench, but it was just a dog. Wyman's keeping it in a cell in case the Kromsians did something awful to it."
 
"Never enough caution as usual, hm?" muses the veteran, taking a sip of the beverage. At times like these, it's no wonder some people think of H'kaeri as paranoid. But if they really saw what the Kromsians try... then again, all the explanations in the world don't seem to have any effect. They didn't realize how great of a threat Kroms posed before, and they still don't. With exceptions, of course.


After that brief conversation, Ivesk focuses on his food - unless of course one of the men speaks to him. He tries to keep his mind off the supposed visit, too, but it's not quite easy. He may not have a bad feeling about it (yet), but he does have a feeling. And that's distracting enough.
 
One of the troops - Jarvis? - seems a bit shaken up by that, but the penny drops; he was part of an escort a few months back, hauling a dead Vampire to a Quill garrison for study. Only it hadn't been dead enough.


Breakfast passes without further incident. The troops divide- the night patrol off to bed, the day patrol arming up, and the rest of the staff going about their duty.


Your office is as you left it, save for the pile of letters sitting on the left of your desk.
 
The Major sighed heavily, sitting down. By now, starting the day with a pile of papers to sort through was the standard - sometimes there was slightly less of it, sometimes more, but the presence of paperwork was a constant. After all these years, he got used to it, of course... but the sight still made him wish he didn't have to put up with it every so often.


Reminding himself that complaining never sped anything up, he began to go through the paperwork, one letter after another. He was mostly curious about anything pertaining to the Branchers' visit, but... well, he'd get to it eventually. Assuming they bothered to send a notice for it.
 
The usual written reports from patrols. A package of tobacco from an old brother in arms; a note informing you of the death of another - along with an apology that you were not granted leave to attend the wake. A terse note from Sergeant Atrix requesting more materials to build trebuchet - again. A detailed report, full of annotations, footnotes, and diagrams, from Ketcher down in the lab titled 'The Anatomy of a Stalker'. That might be a very worthwhile read.


And there is the letter from the Branchers - 'Writing to inform you of standard inspection' blah blah 'arrival within the week' etc, etc 'general assessment of morale and capacity' and so on.


Good; so far so ordinary.
 
The man shrugged slightly after reading the report - though he felt relieved, really. For a brief moment, he was worried Foreign Affairs actually wanted something important in Holm's End. Important things are seldom nice things.


With that worry off his head, he flips through the remaining documents, and then - assuming there is nothing vital to take precedence - the report from Ketcher. He'll have to read it thoroughly later - should be interesting. For now, it's mostly just skimming through; mainly to pass some time, but also to get his mind off the death of one of his old comrades. He'll have to raise a glass to them, whenever he manages to find the time for it. Which may not be anytime soon.
 
The report is worrying. Ketcher suspects but cannot confirm that the Kromsians take captured troops, flay them and graft on new skin, neuter them, bolt cheap iron blades to their hands and arms, and place a little monster in their skulls before sending them to wander back to their garrisons. Apparently the one on his slab briefly tried to beg for help before it was filled with arrows.


Relias suddenly knocks on the door, pushing it sharply in at the same time.


"Sir, there's a Quill ranger team in the northern trenches with a pack of Kromsians following them. They're hauling some kind of containment box."
 
Ivesk frowned almost the entire time he read the report. The damned monsters seem intent to out-do themselves time and again, constantly coming up with something more disgusting and terrifying than the last thing they sent at them.


As the valet finishes speaking, the veteran instantly stands up and nods. "Right. Send the order to assemble to whoever's free. Whatever the box contains, we need to get to it, and fast."


And it almost looked like a calm day would be in store. Oh well.
 
The whole garrison explodes into action, troops passing you in the corridors as they bustle to chokepoints and stores. The walls are quickly ranked with bowmen and the gates all defended. From your vantage on the wall, you can see the top of the box protruding from the trench, and one of the Kromsians lurking among the cavalry traps - tall, broad, bony armour-plates, looks strong as two men.


The men are concerned.


"This is impossible, sir. Vampires don't come out in this light." Says a soldier to your right, gripping his bow tight.
 
"Either this one does, or it's not a vampire." The man remains calm, though he's as confused by the monster as the soldier. Another disgusting example of modification? Well, if they came up with something like this... not good.


"Any info on their status? Do they need help getting the box in?" He has no idea what's in the container, but whatever it is, it's probably important. Otherwise the Kromsians wouldn't pursue them this close... unless they were already planning an attack. Hm.
 
"The big one is staying out of our range, but there's something in trench with them and they've got wounded."


As the soldier finishes speaking, there's a loud, high crack and an entirely human shriek of pain.
 
This was all he needed to hear.


"Time to give them some assistance beyond covering fire. Keep an eye on the large one." proclaimed the veteran, heading down from the walls. It's risky, moving out with the Kromsians nearby, especially with a smaller force - but they can't cross the traps and trenches fast enough to seize the opportunity and attempt a breach. Still, the gates opening even a little will draw their attention, and who knows what's in the trenches. Whatever's in that box better be important...


Well, it probably is, if the Quill is interested. And either way, can't let them get slaughtered. Could use the exercise, too.
 
Some of the men form up to follow you; the best and fastest soldiers in the Garrison.


The gates are opened on your order, into the safety of the exit trench. You can't see where you need to be from here, but you know these trenches like the back of your hand, and there's a chap with flags on the walls communicating directions in semaphore you all know.


North Trench, five living, unknown wounded, three enemies.


 
The old man gripped his weapon tighter, hurrying along the maze of trenches. Thankfully, given the composition of the team, he didn't need to make sure all of them are following. They knew the way nearly as well.


Naturally, they were all ready for a sudden attack. Kromsians rarely played fair... or rather, never did. It wasn't too likely they bothered to set up a trap specifically for a single squad - chances are the box is too important - but you never knew with them.


And... three enemies. Hm. Nothing regarding the sort of enemy they'd face. Hopefully it's nothing like the hulking beast around the cavalry traps. The utter bafflement as to how exactly it's even here, in broad daylight, is still eating away at the back of the Major's mind. Hopefully it's only a one-off experiment... but that's probably hoping for too much.
 
Looks like the odds got worse. As you arrive, two soldiers remain alive, fending off the enemy.


And what an enemy - two of the Stalkers from Ketcher's report, and another Vampire. This one tall, willowy, armed with claws.


It's always eerie, to see them up close, encased in their fleshy armour. Is that the fate of captives, to be fashioned into vile, living suits? Its face is blank; an ovoid of bare flesh, and plates of bone reinforce vulnerable points on the body - though lighter than the brute above.


The men are ready to act on your command...
 
At times, you feel like the universe is doing the exact opposite of what you wished for just to laugh at you. This is how Ivesk felt at that moment, though only briefly - before the instincts and training took over and his whole attention was focused on defeating the enemy... with as few losses as possible.


It's a pretty standard situation, really. If anything, the lighting works to their advantage. Still...


[dice]1200[/dice]
 
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You shout orders, and the troops respond. Best Purifiers step forward in a wall of blades six men across, cutting off the advance, even as the archers draw and pepper the enemy with arrows. One of the Stalkers drops like a stone, and the other creatures retreat as a volley from the walls coincides and lodges one in the Vampires leg.


It doesn't seem to notice, but it's the little victories that keep morale up.


Your unit moves up and surrounds the box. Too late to save one of the survivors - he bled out, the light leaving his eyes as you arrived - but the other, while wounded, is still alive.


"Major," she says, with a weak salute.


You've won a moment's reprieve, but now you're in the field of fire and that big bastard must know it.
 
The veteran returned the salute, then surveyed the situation with a grim expression. Well, one out of five is still infinitely better than none.


Motioning to one of the men - whoever happens to be able to do some rough patching up, enough to prevent the survivor from bleeding out - he looked over the box. It better be worth all this...


"Sadly, no time to rest. Doubt they appreciate being pushed back." Normally, given the time of day, he'd consider holding the line... but against actual vampires, or at least something that looked like them? Not a very sound tactic. As such, they can only stay as long as it takes to make sure the last ranger doesn't die on the way back. After that... time for tactical withdrawal.
 
"Yes, you're right - aah, fuck, agh." She's cut off by the medic applying pressure and alcohol. "We've got to get this out of their reach until another detachment can come collect it from you. I'm Magister-Sergeant QuinnNNNAFH WILL YOU BE MORE CAREFUL WITH THOSE BLOODY STICHES."


There's a crack from above, and you glance up in time to see the slender Vampire leaping down into your midst wielding the claw-tipped arm of the Stalker. Closer now, you realise the contours of its armour are meant to be female.


She spins acrobatically and lashes out with the arm in the same moment she arrives, the shadow of an arrow given life, and leaves a trail of shallow cuts on over half your troops.
 
Well, here it is. Even sooner than expected. As usual, fighting Vampires would boil down to training... and luck. Not much space for thinking things over, and yet so much need to keep everyone's status in mind.


Good thing he was good at it.


"All together, for Holm's End!" shouted the man, gripping his weapon tighter and stepping forward. Even now, after all the years, facing a Vampire down with a melee weapon - even one like the Purifier - caused a sudden rush of adrenaline and mixed emotions.


The only one that mattered, though, was fear - and keeping it in check as you do your best to both avoid the beasts' attacks, and to land a solid hit.


He was good at those things, too.


[dice]1203[/dice]
 
"FOR HOLM'S END!"


The blades flash and sing as every strikes at the beast from a different angle. It can't possibly avoid all-


The tip of your Purifier traces a bloody line along its leg as it throws the arm and backflips out of the trench with impossible grace, spattering everyone with its blood as it goes. At least, between you, the damn thing must be wounded.


And then it is gone. Out of sight, over the wall of the trench.


It got what it came for, though. Quinn is dead, the bladed fingers of the dismembered arm lodged in her skull.


"Sir!" One of the troops points, as the one-armed stalker sails overhead toward the fort. Did... did the big one throw it?


It can't possibly survive the impact.
 
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