The whitish-red sky was clouded and the winds were furious as a young soldier would rest tirelessly in a small tent cot, alone. Staring up at the leather roof, sighing, the signs of too many hard-fought fights. He got up and dressed in extra attire then saddled on a bright leather Cuirass, with a closely-knit netting over it, a common item for his job. At the entry side of the tent, a war scythe, ordained in red leather handling and teeth of a beast sticking out the sides on the upper area, near the rusty silver of the blade itself. It was raining lightly today, letting the odor of blood rise. There were bodies of guards and soldiers, wearing the same choice of clothing as him, lying in between the space of the tents. Walking over them became normal, because the rate of death became much larger than carrying the bodies to a pile, plus large bodies of corpses would be a risk over something else that threatened this once quiet town. He made it over to a battered tent, it was larger than other ones in the area, housing a hospital and war room as one center, he then walked in.
He would be met by an older man sitting over a desk, writing letters and making notes on a map using black ink and a feather. “Sagra, how was your rest from the fight? You seem more battered than your hair on your head.” He laughed, it was true, Sagra’s hair could only be noted as wild and pulled back, the slightly smooth hair held back by a leather bandana. After a brief moment of silence from the joke, he spoke to the Sargeant.
“Sargeant Jackdaw, is it true that these people killing your men in droves are just Inner Region soldiers looking for the Ringed Mine?” Jackdaw would sigh and scratch his bald head. “Yes, after we fought against them along with the other local towns, Inner Region commanding groups lied to their troops about the location of the Ringed Mine, stating that it dwelled hidden deep in our own home, the Lower Region. The true intentions of these strikes are just conquest of revenge, sore losers you might say.” He indicated Sagra pull a chair from the side of the tent and sit in front of him. “So when do you think this will stop?” Sagra became increasingly more distressed at the idea of this chaos not stopping.
“We cannot do anything, other than hope this last attempt to drive them away or surrender and go under occupation, either will lead to having our heads on a wood pike. So, this is your job, along with 12 of the last fighting men we have. You all will be sent to rush through the few remaining Inner Region camps. Scouting reports have told me that there is a main road that parallels the locations of the camps, your final destination is Arapaho Bewick’s castle, a newly built stone fortress of his. They plan to keep him in there to prevent sending reinforcements by letter and as ransom.” Sagra would stand up after the impromptu briefing and look at Jackdaw
“Will that be the final mission if we were to live?” Sagra had a knack for asking a lot of questions, whether in good intentions or not. “No, but I hope you understand how important this means to the few remaining people here in Phainopepla. Just finish this and I will tell you what will happen next.”
Reaching the north end of Phainopepla, Sagra would be greeted by twelve other men at the moment. All in similar uniforms, but higher-ranked soldiers would have a cape of animal fur and a red beret that matched their cuirass. Their faces ranged from extremely giddy to painfully gritty.
“Ah, Blackfoot Sagra has finally graced us with his presence!” Cried the oldest looking and higher-ranked soldiers, bearing a large and boisterous mustache, great sword to the side. “Hello, Cape-May..” Then after Sagra greeted, Cape-May hollered more at him, “Captain Cape-May… The second, to you, Blackfoot! Are you ready to kill some Inner region inbreds?”
“I don't get your tone right now, how can you be so excited about this? You might die, and with these odds, the chances are high.” Cape-May would smile, showing off his crooked yellow teeth, “they told me that at the battle of the 6 rivers, and the war ended there, you know, so why bother now, eh?”
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Whether at the current stakes at hand or the Captain’s scary amount of happiness to kill, Sagra would worry more. He and the other captain, named Rufous, were both the leaders, everyone else is newly recruited Blackfoots, the lowest ranks in the Lower Region army. Cape-May and Rufous would mount onto their steeds, the local war animal, giant black beetles. Painted over and equipped with spikes in the front to ram the enemy in battle.
“Rufous and I will lead into the fight on the first camp by charging through using the beetles and all 10 of you will rush through behind and split into two groups of five. There will be 100 men per camp, but the beetles will take out, an average of half of them. Stick close and cover your comrades, rumour has it, they have war bears.” Then, they began to move on, getting in group form, the journey started. One glance up at the sky, looking at the white ring that stayed around the earth, white and ominous, this could be a long trip.
The rain got worse and the dirt path got slippery, the downpour agitating the beetles. Sangra and the group would quickly stop to calm down the steeds and place leather covers over them, so it would be able to see the path ahead. Then whistles would be heard, not of human mouths. An arrow struck many men in the head in legs, two Blackfoots behind Sarga would fall on the group, gasping for air as a cry for help. Cape-May’s steed would see the worst at that moment, hit in the eye and sides, going berserk promptly before flipping behind, crushing 3 more Blackfoot and Cape-May’s right leg. Sagra would hide behind cover, using the dead beetle for it.
“How did they know which way we were coming from?” He would yell at Cape-May. Shortly after, Rufous was pierced in the forehead by a small volley of arrows, falling flat onto the red clay and dirt road. Cape-May only kept his eerie smile as he pulled himself up, bone sticking up from the side of his crushed leg. They were the only remaining soldiers, the last few other Blackfoots would have been killed by arrows, and the Inner Region soldier that wielded a large lance and approached the duo from behind.
“Blackfoot, cover me and deal with him!” Cape-May was barely able to stand but had his hands on a few throwing knives, ready to lob. The lancer grinned, no armor but showing off mud and grass-covered chest, built like a steel forge. “Tell us the mine’s location and I can tell off the archers to retreat, taking my leave.” Sarga, who had almost been shot in the neck, was saved by the netting over his armor, but opening a bigger hole. Sarga would get in a defensive positive, wielding his war scythe.
The lancer threw a long and heavy jab at him, Sarga would swat away his attempt and lunge at the larger man. This lunge was pushed by the lancer’s hand, shoving Sarga to the ground, then followed by a downward strike. Sarga rolled to the side of the lancer, got up, and pierced him from behind, pulling out, followed by the lancer thumping and bleeding out, loudly gasping. “You Lower Region dogs could never win a fair fight..”
Cape-May would be approached by two men in grass-covered clothing, used as camo if laying down in the tall, regionally distinct blue-tinted grass. Cape-May would throw two knives at one of the men, missing one but the other piercing his neck. Gargling on blood, then falling. The final soldier drew a shortsword and charged at Cape-May. Only countered by a well-placed throw to the lower chest, still breathing but on the ground, the soldier crawled to stab Cape-May in his injured leg. Cape-May sneered and drew his greatsword, wobbling in his legs from his weight. Holding it by the blade, able to hold it through his leather gloves, would swing down on the soldier’s head, breaking into it, then popped from impact.
Bloodied, covered in mud, both men would look to their left, down a hill where the shots came from, to see an archer beginning to run, two of them. These archers did not expect a bright ring of light, the size of a serving plate, to slice through their necks, lobbing their heads. Sarga and Cape-May’s eyes widened and they got in fighting form, the disc of light would make a roundabout to behind them on the path. Turning around, both men would see a figure in bright grey armor, the disc in hand.