A clash of steel. [Story]

[Octiovus]

[OOC] This is a tale loosely based on the battle of yesterday, of course I've taken a bit of 'poetic license' to it, but I hope you enjoy it nevertheless! [/OOC]

Tiberius flexed his hand inside the heavy iron gauntlet, eyeing his less than salubrious surroundings with disdain. He was cramped with the rest of the Covian army in a series of shoddy and bedraggled huts on the outskirts of Minoc awaiting the signal to leap out and attack a Loyalist caravan carrying supplies they would use against the Rebel forces. Tiberius was surprisingly calm, over the years he had become used to the pre-battle feeling and it did not give him the sense of energy that it once did. This was possibly because he had grown somewhat disillusioned with the cause of this conflict; he of course did not care for the Loyalists, but he was mostly concerned with keeping himself and his fellow soldiers alive. His thoughts were suddenly disturbed however as the scrawny looking recruit beside him spoke in a somewhat wavering voice.

"E-exciting isn't it, sir?"

The recruit grinned nervously, looking to Tiberius for reassurance. Tiberius was feeling playfully cruel, and had to resist the sudden urge to reel off one of commander Shadwell's statistics about how one in four recruits are killed in the first battle. Instead he settled for simply clamping the gauntlet upon the recruit's shoulder, a little harder than he intend, nodding slowly.

"Aye lad... Stick close to me, listen to orders, fight hard and ye'll live."

The recruit maintained his sheepish grin, a grin which Tiberius thought must have been making his face muscles ache, before mustering up the courage to spit out another sentence.

"You've been in a few battles sir! Don't you ever get scared sir?"

A sudden dilemma as to whether to give the truth, or a more rose-tinted view of things sprung into Tiberius' mind. Just as he opened his mouth to respond, the door too flung open, revealing Grenadier Captain Arkay. With a flick of his hand and a hushed voice, he ordered the cramped straggle of Covians outside into the light drizzle of Minocian rain.

The tense air of enforced silence continued as Tiberius made his way out of the hut, pausing for a brief moment to take in the spectacle of troops pouring out of the huts which were almost bursting apart from the sudden flurry of movement. He observed as one of the hut doors fell completely off its hinges, creating a dull thud as it splashed mud on the advancing troops. The troops rallyed to the hut in the centre of the area before a very open semblance of a formation was hurriedly organized prior to the order that they had all been waiting for.

Tiberius barely heard the order to charge; all he could hear was the noise of thousands of armour pieces worn by the brave rebel alliance clanking their way forward. He himself marched onwards at a leisurely pace with no real impending sense of urgency, occasionally cuffing one of the lower ranks around the back of the head in an effort to throw them into the fray faster.

As he reached the edge of the built up side bordering the sunken road that the convoy would be travelling, Tiberius could see the battle was already in full swing. Many initial blows had been exchanged, and the wounded were already piling up. Smoke from mage fire and Grenadier barrages was thick in the air, giving the whole scene a sickly sweet smell. He wandered the edge of the road for a few snatched seconds before marking his man; a blue coated article from the Royal Marksman. He had a bone or two to pick with those blaggards, and this poor soul was going to bare the full extent of his resentment.

The marksman was far too busy picking out targets to snipe at in the mayhem that was this battle to notice the Covian guardsman on the bank ready himself, and suddenly lunge forward. He did however soon thereafter realise the seriousness of the matter as the full platemail clad man bowled him over, sending his bow flying up into the air. A sickening crunch followed as the bow hit the ground, though it wasn't caused by the bow at all, but rather the marksman who was now struggling for his life under the crushing weight of Tiberius. Fortunately for the marksman however, Tiberius had lost his own main armament in the flight.

"I hate bloody Marksmen.."

Tiberius scowled at his victim, aiming a commanding blow to the man's jaw, now completely unaware of the mammoth battle occurring all around him. The man squirmed and Tiberius grinned under his helm, yet his grin was short lived as his lack of attention to his surroundings was to quickly become what could be a fatal mistake. He felt a heavy iron coated foot press down on his own back, compressing his lungs in ways which were heartily unpleasant, causing Tiberius to gasp for air before desperately attempting to scramble into a position where he could see his assailant clearly. From what he could gather in the short few seconds he gazed upon the man, it appeared to be a besieger from the Yewish Garrison, one which was probably currently grinning much like Tiberius was but a few seconds ago. Also like Tiberius, he had made the mistake of ignoring his environment, one which he would regret much more than Tiberius once he'd registered the blows that the colossal and heavy built dark skinned Nu'jelm dweller that was Grief Dryfh Gry had just laid upon him.

Catching his breath, Tiberius watched mesmerised as the Besieger gasped and staggered back, leaking light red blood from his armour as he finally gave up the struggle and keeled over backwards, falling awkwardly to the ground with the sound of an anvil being hit by a blacksmiths hammer. Tiberius stared at the lifeless corpse for what seemed like an age prior to to turning his attentions back to the man beneath him who was vainly attempting to break free.

"Right.." Tiberius said quietly in agreement with a course of action he had decided in his head.

"Night night, King fondlin' bastard."

That statement was followed by the launching of the thick iron plate of the helmet charged with defending his forehead being propelled forward into the unprotected skull of the marksman, producing an all too predictable sound and feel. This was sufficient Tiberius thought to himself, to keep the man out of the battle, and with that thought he pressed his hands down on the cobblestone road, pushing himself off the ground with a strained grunt.

Meanwhile..

The Baron wiped the lens of the telescope, mumbling bitterly as he liberally shook it for effect, turning to Shadwell with a frown.

"Be damned if I can make head or tails of that, commander!"

The Covian field headquarters was stationed some miles away from the currently raging battle, and for the last five minutes Baron Octiovus Von Richter had been attempting to get some sense of what was going on through the highly polished brass telescope. He put his eye to it once more, observing the field. He could just about make out different coloured blobs running around in a haze of smoke.

"Bah!" He cried before finally losing his temper with the device, hurling it across the open field from his position behind the desk, also sending his ink well flying, the contents of which sprayed over Commander Shadwell who was at his side. There was a silent groan from the Baron's entourage as they predicted one of his black moods. Attempting to defuse the situation, Commander Shadwell spoke up.

"It probably isn't that interesting my Lord!"

The Baron said nothing, but just shot him a sour glance before banging his fist on the table on frustration.

"I say! Piffle and balderdash. Twenty minutes of this battle and naught in the way of news!? What kind of damned army are you running, commander!?"

He rounded angrily on Shadwell, turning sharply in his chair, so sharply in fact that his wine glass also decided to depart from the table, it too probably sensed his detoriating mood.

"Uh well.." Shadwell began, grinning uneasily at the Baron..

"As you can see in this cha-.."

Shadwell's sentence was cut short as the Baron launched the rest of the items on the table towards Shadwell and the rapidly unravelling scroll which was bound to contain a chart of some sort. This act made the Baron feel somewhat calmer, regaining enough composure to admit the fact he'll just have to wait until this battle is over to read the reports of the men there to get a true picture of how it had gone. By Avatar, how he despised waiting...