#Sergeant slaughter's Marauders

[krimsonkobra]

[warsamongthestars]

Okay, time to confront the thing.

There are No Character Relationships in the Bad Batch of the Bad Batch Show... Besides Omega.

Now this comes from 2 things on my end.

The Clone Wars Show ( Which led into the Bad Batch, thus, is the original show and the TBBshow is the sequel)

Fanfiction (Because nothing shows love more than fans interacting and creating. )

Now you might be wondering, why would I think that? Clearly the characters interact with each other, with talking and typing quirks and witty one-liners--all very expected.

They emote and they have fanciful animations, very much in the spirit of animation everywhere.

Easy.

One question question: Why didn't they have the character of Crosshair's Back?

Not, why didn't they go back. But, Why didn't they Have his back?

According to the Clone Wars, Clone Troopers are very important to other Clone Troopers. You never (purposely with intent) leave someone behind. They emphasize this throughout the Clone Wars.

So let's start with Episode 1 of the Bad Batch.

SERGEANT HUNTER sees CROSSHAIR attack A JEDI CHILD. Sergeant Hunter is established in this moment that he cares about children. He covers the child's escape.

AS A CLONE SQUADRON, established by TCWshow, they are very close with their Squadmates.

So, why didn't Sergeant Hunter confront Crosshair when it was safest to do so?

Such as, on the ship THE HAVOC MARAUDER, during its trip in Hyperspace. The planet of KAMINO is established to be on the edge of the galaxy (By the Very Films Themselves), there would be enough time for any uncomfortable conversation.

TECH, the local omni-technician and the SMART GUY TROPE of the troopers, claims several times that the "REGS" (Regular Clone Troopers) may have had programming that caused them to turn against the Jedi. The group has already noticed that Crosshair has had off behavior.

Where was Tech's confrontation of Crosshair, with the possiblity that there was Programming involved? Or since TCWs Tech was establsihed to not like confrontation, why didn't TBB Tech talk to Hunter about Crosshair's behavior? Or create mitigation himself, if assuming it was "Obvious".

The TBBshow has establish that its Wrecker is not nearly as observant as TCWshow Wrecker, thus we cannot consider Wrecker under the TBBshow...

... But TCWshow Wrecker would've surely lifted Crosshair up by the naps of the Neck, as TCWshow Wrecker proved time and time again that if someone is doing something bad--he steps in and physically moves them.

ECHO would've surely confronted not only Crosshair, but the entire Bad Batch, and in fact, even other Clone Troopers for their behavior. TCWshow Echo was a go-getter when it came to regulations, and there are strict regulations for slaughtering your Commanders and attempting to murder children.

The Lack of Confrontation shows that the Characters did not Notice the Obviously Bad Thing--They did not notice to a point where even if you were that dense, you would be ALARMED, because PEOPLE ARE DEA NOW and CHILDREN ARE BEING ATTACKED.

Since the show did not take steps as to why our characters would be so distracted, such as an attachment to the Order of Things--which the TCWshow Bad Batch proved they are absolutely Not--or a general disregard for any Jedi --which Echo is Not, having sacrificed his life to attempt to ensure the safety of Anakin Skywalker, Obiwan Kenobi, Ahsoka Tano, and a Captive Piell--

Then we must blame the fact that the Writers and Directors, thus the storytellers, said "They did not pay attention because we did not want them to. We wanted Crosshair to be the Bad Guy. Its like this because we said so."

The closest we get to the confrontation, is immediately interrupted by a scene change to the super special awesome totally original character Donut STeel--I mean Omega.

Omega is a cute character. She's a good character... but it comes at the cost of every other character--thus I cannot accept her as a Good Written Character. I have to assume 2000s Fanfic Logic--and call her a Mary Sue, because her good writing comes at the cost of everyone's writing and any reasonable set up.

Your Brother attempting to Kill Children and Kill People Randomly, should never be ignored for a random kid several thousand lightyears away. Omega is imaginary in comparison to the immediacy that is Crosshair, who is right next to you.

( As one scene proves, the Bad Batch have been active with each other since the begining of the Clone Wars--so 3-4 years back. )

( Therefore, even if they didn't grow up with each other, they have a RELATIONSHIP. And it has to be a working, functional relationship, or THEY WOULD BE DEAD BY THIS POINT. Because they lived together on a tiny ship, in each other's space, and they were in a War. )

( If they didn't have a functional communicative relationship, either the enemy would've killed them--or they would've fucking murdered each other. )

( The most basic children's show knows what a sleepover is like, or what its like having to share a room with your siblings. Sitcoms knows what its like to share a room with another person. If you want the military perspective--just look as MASH, or ask any Vet. )

And that's just Episode 1.

What about afterwards?

Oh someone asks about Crosshair, and the only answer is "Its complicated". Nothing else. No "He shot at us so we left him", No "He was acting off and we weren't safe", None of the "Everyone is acting weird and Crosshair was acting weird and it forced us to leave him", not even a "He was trying to kill a Kid and we Have a Kid Now".

And after that? Hunter went "Oh we gotta find a planet to hid out", and no further conversation about the BATCHMATE, who you WERE SUPPOSED TO HAVE YEARS OF RELATIONSHIP WITH.

A character whom all your plans hedge on, because he was an intimate part of it. A character whom was reliable, for the above stated reasons of War, Death and Living in Small Spaces with Quirky People.

Not from Tech, who figured about the so called Obvious Programming, and did Nothing.

Not from Echo, who had his whole world ripped away Again. Who had living brothers (as far as he knew), but never once mentioned them. Who had dead brothers, he definitely knows one in particular, and says nothing about "having to move on for now because of the mission / job at hand"...

Wrecker has one "I miss him" and it goes no where. No conversation resulted from it, no actions were changed, not even an opinion was given.

We don't get mourning faces, or emotional outlet.

Like a Someone Falling off a Cliff in a TV Show, if you didn't portray it infront of the Audience, it didn't happen. It is only real when you show us, the Audience, its Real.

So I have to assume that... when Crosshair was left behind, the Bad Batch just, fully left him there. No consideration, none of the interwoven characters from the TCWshow Bad Batch... just, He's Dead to Us Now and We've Moved On Post-Haste.

Confrontation of a Character when their Behavior is randomly off, and performing unacceptable actions to Audience or even empirical evidence, shows that the Characters did not have this Character's Back--or the truth is, the Writers' didn't bother with it.

Refusal to return to a Character, whom by empirical evidence you had Years of Relationship with, shows an unnatural lack of concern.

Let's take it another step.

Echo leaves the Bad Batch.

Was there build up to the leaving? No. I cannot cite an episode where he says "I'm going to leave to do this thing." and someone said "But wait we need you--".

Was there any conversation about attachment between Echo an the Bad Batch? No. It was a pat on the back and a good luck. Was there any conversation afterwards about Echo? Fond memories? Memorable missions?

Wasn't Echo an asset to Hunter in missions?

Didn't Wrecker have some sort of attachment to Echo? Wrecker is a very emotional character, surely he would've had a reaction. He had the most reaction to Crosshair's absence than any of them.

( Omega had feelings about it. But she's a super special awesome original character, Donut Steel, and if I wanted a Donut Steel and a Donut Steel reaction, I would look up Fanfiction. There are plenty of donut steels in fanfiction. Nobody should have to pay for Donut Steels when fanfiction gives them for Free. )

The one confrontation about it, was between Tech... and the Donut Steel. And thus cannot be counted for OC interference.

No steps were taken for this big decision to remove a major character from a group of characters, and no solid sustainable reaction beyond an OC was given.

Echo reappeared three episodes later... like it didn't happen. No impact what's so ever was received or given to the various characters, whom he gave up the 501st (and 5 real world years of TCWshow) for.

And because no steps were given the first time for his character removal, his character impact is now forfeit. His relationships mean little. His attitude to anything is meaningless, because he will simply "vanish" by next episode. His character has become incorporeal... existing only in the imagination from which he originated from.

The characters show that Echo is now not a character, but a tool to be given and removed. Little more than a stage hand. Because when you watch a play, clearly it must be for stage hands.

( You have to take steps to make imaginary things impactful in writing. Because it is just fiction at the end of the day, and fiction isn't real. When you rob the impact, you have robbed everything. )

Yes, we all love Echo... but the Show doesn't, or it would've taken the maintenance and steps required to ensure his impact on the show remains impactful.

Now that we've jumped through time and space.

Let's go the S1 Finale Arc.

Give me one reason why Crosshair could be talked down. Name something that happened prior to the TBBshow that could be named, in order to get Crosshair back to the Bad Batch.

Was there comfortable blankets? Good food? A safe ship? A memory of being bullied by regs and defended by brothers? Did Hunter bite, rip and tear at a trainer for kicking Crosshair? Did Wrecker deck a Kaminonian because they were looking at his squad wrong? Did they run into a bout of geonosis worms that Tech was simultaneous fascinated and horrified by and thus knew the stages of mind control upon the brain? Didn't Echo and Crosshair have snark to snark battles, and maybe an understanding that what Crosshair doesn't actually like about Regs is their Regular Attitude, and the long history of neglect and bullying?

... Now that you have an answer for any of the above questions, or have made one yourself...

Did the Show portray it?

Because if there was a Character Relationship at all, even in the midst of Betrayed Feelings, there would've been History between the Characters.

History would've easily convinced Crosshair back, or set a reaction for Hunter or Wrecker or Tech or Echo to take that wasn't just bitching in the middle of the fucking Ocean.

( When you live in small spaces and survive against enviroments in war, you can't afford to lose your nuts in a sinking ocean base surrounded by adversaries and hungry monsters. )

But History, and Character Relationships, imply there was Character writing at all.

And these? Are just Reactions, with Typing Quirks and a Job attached.

Because if there was anything Solid, anything at all, any Conversation on the matter, any discussion of History, and long missions and long hours, and shared experiences...

... Crosshair could've easily been talked back. He could've been talked back, by Episode 1.

Hunter, being the Rogue, could've easily infiltrated a ship and stolen him. Tech, being the Hacker and Pilot, could've been Mission Control. Wrecker, being the strongman and demolitions, could've brlown the ship up or caused a distraction. Echo, being the stradegist could've planned and directed and even hacked the cameras to watch.

Or if they needed supplies... why not just rob Cid? They're a special secret forces team, they could rob Cid, the nearby stores, most of Ord Mantell, picked a fight with mercenaries and gutted their ships.

Because Character relationships Make History, and History has your Back--because it is Your Back. Its your Back Story. It is You.

Character who share your Backstory, who have comfortably lived in your Space, and faced battles with you and for you, and vice reversa, would be Characters you have a Relationship With.

But.

There are no Character Relationships in the Bad Batch, in the Bad Batch Show.

Because there are no Back Stories. And because there are no Backstories, there are no Characters. These are just props for the current writer's Donut Steel.

And if there was, we'd have a much different show.

( Its the worst aspects of Ahsoka Tano's introduction to Star Wars, without any of the build up or steps it took to make her the beloved character she became in the end. )

[jessiebanethedragon]

Scuttle (13/13)

this is the final chapter! thanks to all those who stuck with this story. hope the ending is ok! xoxo

Some months later…

The airstrip is packed, and yet the wind still manages to find its way into the smallest of spaces, sending shivers deep into the skin of anyone present. 

“Experimental unit Clone Force 99. They’re defective clones with, uh… Desirable mutations.” Commander Cody explains to a very hesitant Captain Rex

“99, eh? Nice touch.” He says as the ramp descends.

“They call themselves, The Bad Batch.” Cody states with pride as Wrecker appears in the doorway, slaughtering down shouting something about the cavalry arriving. You stifle a giggle at their dramatics. Pulling your custom helmet, courtesy of Tech, over your head. While the boys had their grey and red plastic armour, yours had been painted with a little extra blue, forming wings that cascaded down the plate covering your back. The helmet however, featured foot prints of the bird ini question, each with a very small crosshair encircling them.  

And yes, you had added a delicately placed fairywren painting to crosshairs inner plating beside his ribcage. 

“Sergeant. Good to see you again.” Cody greets you all, as you stand beside your Cyare, eyeing him carefully.  He doesn't work well with others, especially when others involve regular clones. You jab your elbow into Crosshairs side playfully, reminding him to look a little less like he wants to explode right then and there. 

“I see that Wren fits right in.” The commander adds, giving you a smile and a nod, you finally pull off your helmet, much to the shock of Rex, Jesse and Kix. 

“That's definitely not a clone.” Kix says to Jesse. 

“Long time no see commander.” You say returning his smile, you move for a hug but Cody extends his hand to you. 

“Last time I tried to hug you, your Ram’ser almost killed me.” He reminds you with a side glance to Crosshair who looks even more annoyed with every passing second. 

“He’s harmless.” You wave him off and hug him anyways. Crosshair tries not to visibly stiffen, he’s wildly protective and even more so possessive. But it’s understandable considering you’re the only thing he’s ever known to bring him happiness. 

“Sorry we’re late, Commander. We were putting down an insurrection on Yalbec Prime when your comm came in. Had a few unforeseen… complications.” Hunter cuts in, knowing that this whole debacle needs to get a move on. 

“You ever fought a male Yalbec?” Wrecker asks loudly, enjoying the show you’re all putting on for the regs. 

“Um, Can’t say i have…” Jesse responds carefully, still looking at your with confusion, of course he;d heard of the Fairywren, but meeting a hero in person hits a little different than the stories. 

“You’re lucky! Only way to kill ‘em is with one of these.” Wrecker adds pulling out the biggest vibroblade Jessie has ever seen. 

“That’s right. Wrecker here cut off the queen’s stinger while she was still alive.” Hunter adds, still a little pissed off at his vod for the incident in question. “That’s why all those Yalbec males tried to eat us.” You chuckle at the memory, Crosshair had been understandably angry after all you were able to do was sit and laugh your ass off as they frantically ran around surrounded by Yalbec males. 

 “Ah, technically they were trying to mate with us. And, for your information, the stinger of a Yalbec Queen is a delicacy on some planets.” Tech jumps in causing you to laugh even more, and causing Crosshair to softly tap the side of your hip as if to say ‘cut it out.’ (But with a loving tone of course) 

“They call him Tech.” Cody explains to the other three clones who look petrified at the disaster of a family in front of them. 

“Yeah, he can fill your head with useless info for hours. Crosshair, on the other hand, is not much of a conversationalist, but when you have to hit a precise target from ten klicks, Crosshair’s your man.” Hunter boasts, causing a ghost of a smile form on his lips. 

“Actually sarge,” You cut in. “I believe he’s my man, ten klicks away or otherwise.” Crosshair does smile at that, sending you a look filled with sassy adoration and winding an arm around your middle. Hunter rolls his eyes. Crosshair may be possessive but you’re on a whole other level. He’s all you’ve got, and you’re all he’s got, it’s a recipe for the clingy disaster that is your relationship. 

“Don’t get me started on those two.” He grumbles to Cody, throwing a thumb over his shoulder at the two of you. “So Commander, what kind of suicide mission do you have for us this time?” He asks, heading back to the ship with Cody in tow. 

“After you.” Crosshair slurs at the blonde captain who bristles at the statement, but follows Cody onto the Havoc Marauder with Jessie and Kix. 

“Play nice.” you scold looking up at him with heart eyes, not that you ever look at him without heart eyes. 

“Make me Cyare.” He smirks at you, before pulling you into a bruising kiss, not hesitating to make it far too passionate to be shared in public. That's another thing about Crosshair, he kisses you when he sees fit, no matter the setting or situation. After he finally officially had you in his arms he vowed never to miss a moment to kiss you.  

“Ugh, jus’ get on the ship already, let's go!” Wrecker booms from behind you, so you cup his face and pull away, letting his lip chase yours as they part all too soon. 

“Come on Ram’ser, we’ve got seppie ass to kick.” You tell him, all butt skipping back to the ship. The love of your life right behind you every step of the way.

[sion-theundeadjuggernaut]

Shag me

Leave a “Shag Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a dirty drabble about our characters. Leave a “Nurse Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character healing yours. Leave a “Fight Me” in my ask, and I will write a drabble out my character fighting with/or against yours.

Not gonna write three for you. So I’ll write one instead, horny slut. 

Battle raging upon the holiest of mountains in all of Runterra was no rare occurrence by all standards. Religious ideologies, beings enamored by power, seeking to gain or destroy it, treasure hunters, raiders and marauders. The mountain had known conflict long before Demaica or the empire even existed. It would know battle long after they perished. 

The sun burned with a wrathful vigor in the noon sky, no clouds to avail all those who were struck by her searing rays while the cold winds gnawed at the bones of all. For any man not born of the mountain, this was hell incarnate. The earth was cold as ice, the air was thin and each breath drawn burned the lungs. The environment alone forged its denizens into warriors of perfect vigor and resistance to the elements that all else had to struggle with. The golden weapons of the Ra’Horak clashed with Noxian dark steel as shields splintered, flesh seared and armor shattered. The stench of death laid heavy in the air as gleaming spears burst through shields and thick armor plates alike. The Noxian soldiers were well trained, well equipped and experienced soldiers, feared throughout the world for their versatility and their skill at arms. The name Noxus carried far and wide from Ionia to Targon, from Freljord to Bilgewater. Ever nation knew of the red banner and its infamous legions. But these great soldiers faced odds that even the Trifarian legion would choke to overcome for their foes did not train to fight nations or soldiers. They fought the great beyond, the abyss. The fought the extinction of all life, for they had been indoctrinated from birth that they must protect the sun with every fiber of their being, as once it was extinguished there would be no more light to follow. Nothing but darkness was the price of their failure. What were soft men in armor against the gnashing of teeth, the chittering of a thousand watchful eyes all acting as one? They were nothing but leaves in the wind against the foe these warriors faced and thus were treated as such. Flaming spears, forged in solstice heat, blessed from beyond the stars, perforated shields and armor as if they were but snow on the white rock of the mountain.

This was no battle; this was a slaughter of cattle. Dark armor contrasted against the white rock of the holy mountain, now drenched in a layer of crimson as bodies cooled and twitching ceased. Sion saw no victory in this fight, he needed not to. He had already won. Those who still stood were merely chaff to him, wheat to be cut down by the furious golden order which thirsted for blood after the transgression.

“My Lord!” One of the sergeants cried sprinting up to the undead behemoth as the other contingents who were not yet fighting turned his gaze to the two leaders, unease and fear clearly evident in their eyes. They were far from home, no legion to save them, no basilisk blitz to strike the backlines, nothing but themselves and a furious battalion of warriors. “We are outmatched, their weapons, they cut through us like butter. We must retreat, now! If we want to ..” The cracking of his skull was heard even through the shouting and crying of the battle and all those who witnessed it froze in fear. There would be no retreat, terror gripped them as they realized their lives were forfeit. “Charge and win, or retreat and die.” The ultimatum was clear and his tone was dead serious. He cared not that this was a blow to their morale, they were a worthy sacrifice for the cause. The remaining sergeants did what they could to rally the soldiers as they clashed with the ranks of the Ra’Horak, black against gold, soldiers against warriors. The sour stench of spilled entrails filled the air as death reaped plentiful. With a violent burst the heavens themselves heaved and cracked open as a pillar of searing light blazed over the Noxian forces leaving nothing but charred soil, burnt metal and ash behind. Those not evaporated by the blast were seared past the point of saving, the skin blistering in an instant as eyes and tongues boiled within the skull. The heat and light alone blinded all but Sion who understood that the Radiant Lioness herself had taken helm. It was time to leave.

But she had her sights upon him and even as her followers dealt with the intruders, she charged past them all, knowing that this battle was nothing more than lives paid in exchange for time. She would not give him what he sought to buy as she followed him down the mountain. Sion was fast on long straight paths, but here in this rocky terrain, she had the advantage. Despite her heavy plate, shield and sword the amazon was nimble and fast. Powerful legs carried her down the mountain fueled by a warrior’s rage all its own.

“Face me Sion.” She snarled before jumping into his path, sword and shield hoisted high, ready to absorb the blow that was about to come from the undead behemoth. “There will be no victory for you today. Return what you have stolen and I might be swayed to the mercy of a quick death undead abomination.” His ax crashed against her shield with a violent clash, the ground beneath her feet gave way a few inches driving cracks into the solid rock formation but she remained unmoved, shield high. There was a fierce gleam in her eyes that spoke of resolve but also fury, a solemn promise that she would not yield what he had taken. Sion on the other hand was determined to bring his treasure before the grand general, another token of service. Her head was not on the planned trophies he would return with, but if she pushed him he would be quite open to reconsider.

“Noxus will have his prize.” The necrotic behemoth roared at her face, his powerful roar sending her auburn mane dancing and with his war cry he leapt forward, his giant axe smashing into the soil where she had stood only moments ago. She knew which strikes to block and which to evade, she had faced things more powerful before, with an even greater drive but still, this beast was not to be underestimated.

In the distance the rhythmic sound of greaves striking the mountain side was faintly noticeable amidst the fighting. But before long the golden host of Ra’Horak warriors appeared, their bronze skin and golden armor painted red with Noxian blood, another reason why Sion had to return. He himself had no problem with sending men to their death for the fun of it. But the raven general always expected value for lives lost. The Ra’Horak raised their shields, burning spears readied by the second line of defense as they completed the phalanx formation, a short but powerful war chant made it evident to all that the Ra’Horak were ready to engage the beast.

“Stand down.” Came the order from fair lips that sent confusion through the ranks of the Solari elite. A young commander decided to step next to the chosen vessel a silent plea to allow them the honor to bring this creature down in her name, but Leona silenced his advance with a gentle glance and a small nod back towards the Phalanx. “He’s mine.” She finally proclaimed. “On my honor, do not intervene.” Another curt war chant sounded in acknowledgement to her demand as they took a few steps back to give her distance to work with. Sion meanwhile fought back the smallest of grins at this unexpected duel, what poetic justice it would be to dethrone this god of theirs and deliver her to them a bloody pulp. The glory of this kill, in front of her men it was too sweet to pass up.

“To challenge the king slayer so boldly, I accept your challenge pagan harlot.” With outstretched arms the behemoth invited her to strike so that this duel of theirs could commence. “Sion, you slew a king, not a god.” She sneered back shield and sword brandishing in burning sunlight. With a warrior’s grace she swung the sword a few times before crouching down somewhat, ready to charge the mountain of muscle. “But you are no god, Solari.” His low rumbling voice sneered back cold, burning eyes narrowing with malicious intent as he would feast on the carnage to come. He enjoyed that she so bought into the banter and challenge, him against her. The matron of the mountain against the spirit of Noxus. “I am the most divine thing you will ever face, monster.” She snarled back a celestial firestorm brewing in her eyes fueled by aggravation and intent. “And by the sun’s light will you be undone!” with that she charged forward, Sion ready to meet her. He grasped the shaft of his vicious axe with both hands, raising it high to strike down heavy against the raised shield.

It was Leona however who was on the warpath and instead of holding the shield firm like the pale warrior had assumed she threw it with all her fury. Like a spear the celestial construct hurled through the air with vicious spikes digging into Sion’s skull, celestial fire making the beast tumble backward roaring with fury and pain. Pain not at the damage, but what the celestial magic did with his. He was a being of essence more so than flesh. Chained to his undead form yes, but not truly reliant on it. Taking a knee Leona slid through the warmongers legs her burning blade igniting with holy fire, heated by zeal. She slashed at the beast’s leg before whirling around in a flurry of fire and gold to burry the burning weapon into his soul engine. Sion roared, Leona snarled and then the explosion silenced all a heavenly magic clashed with its ancient nemesis. The Ra’Horak were blasted out of formation and down the steep slopes. They would not find death this day, but scattered as they were none of them could lay eyes on their commander or the undead beast crashing through the very rock they stood upon. A hail of mountain splinters, debris and rocks clogged the very hole the two champions crashed through only seconds after their violent descent.

Pain made Leona shoot up from the ground. Sword in hand she looked around to find only darkness glaring back at her like a giant maw of the abyss. Once her eyes adjusted to the dark environment, she noticed a faint silver glow permeated the room. With a pained growl she rose to her feet, sword used as a crutch for now. Golden eyes narrowed as she glared around to figure out where she was. The sudden hand on her shoulder made her whirl around with a war cry, blade in hand ready to face Sion once more. But as she turned, she noticed his eyes fixed on something completely different. His axe clashed with her sword and the hand on her shoulder moved up to silence her before his eyes darted back and forth through the dark cavern again.

“We are not alone.” He growled cold and in the blink of an eye Leona felt the presence long before she heard their chittering. That out worldly dread that they caused wherever they ventured. She eased forward into the dark, to retrieve the shield she had buried in Sion’s face, the wounds still evident on the behemoth, it gleamed in the darkness like a lighthouse on a stormy night. Once fully geared she ignited the burning sword to light the room and what greeted her was a swarm of teeth, infernal screeching and claws as long as swords. They chittered in primal rage as the sunlight burned their beady little eyes. Like those that sent them, they desired nothing more than dark, dead silence.

“Fight like your nation depends on it warmonger.” Leona sneered coldly, “For if they succeed there will be nothing left of you to resurrect a second time.” He returned only a growl of acknowledgment. He had never laid eyes upon things likes these before, never heard people speak of such monsters, they seemed to not even belong here. But when he tried to place them he could find no nation to sort them to, they felt completely and utterly alien. Sion reeled his head back and with a thundering cry of fury he roared the name of his empire so that these beasts would feel the bite of his axe and be reminded of the empires wrath if they were to live.

Hours later Leona slumped down, battered and bruised wounds and scars decorating her body aplenty. He had been mostly unharmed, he was not of living essence, he had not been their primary focus and unlike her he was able to heal from the souls of these beasts. They had fought through the entire cavernous system, until finally reaching this holy shrine of the moon. A heretical site to her no doubt, but right now she care little about heretics. He sat beside her and watched the Solari heave in pain. Her armor was in tatters, most of it at the hands of Sion, who ripped her body suite where he could to fashion crude bandages. She was a warrior, she deserved a warriors death not to die in a dark cave with no one to notice. Her death should come on the field of battle, where her last breath would be one of defiance and strength.

“I would not have expected a monster to have compassion.” She snarled back at him, clearly displeased at the situation. To receive aid from this enemy kicked her pride into the gutter and she loathed the idea of thanking an abomination such as him for his service, but Leona was also a warrior of honor and as such she would honor what he had done for her.

“You would have made a fine Noxian.” He replied, unfazed by her cold tone. He was hardly thrown off by the ordinary. She laughed in response, tilting her head to the side to regard him for a moment before she replied. “Targon breeds warriors, Noxus breeds followers. You would have made a good Rakkor, not the other way around.” Sion scoffed shaking his head, but he could not deny that her words held truth. There was no place for heroics in the legion. Soldiers followed orders that was what they were trained to do. He, not so much. He was a different breed of Noxian, and older breed.

“Does it bother you.” Leona started as he finished bandaging her wounds. “To be this thing, to be nothing more than a human battering ram pointed at the enemy, the means to an end.” Silence. “To never again experience what it means to be human. To eat, drink, enjoy the warmth of another. How do you live without all those things, is your belief in Noxus truly sufficient to keep you moving forward day by day, or is it the slaughter?” Silence.

It was only after a very long stare off between them which ended with Sion looking away that the giant behemoth finally replied eyes fixing on her again once he started speaking. “What makes you think I am unable to?” He retorted, his voice nothing more than a low growl with a tinge of amusement in his words. “You are cursed with undeath.” She replied a raised eyebrow, confusion somewhat readable in her features. “You lack blood when I cut you.”

A low dark snarl akin to laughter reverberated in his throat at the absurdity of this train of conversation had taken. In response he raised his arm, fingers clenching to a fist as he flexed his large biceps for her to clearly feast her eyes upon. “I have no blood, yet my muscles crush my enemies. I have no blood yet I can speak to you, I have no blood but I can march to battle. Why would you think that my lack of blood inhibits this.” He patted on his lap an amused grin now playing over the edges of his face. “If it does not inhibit the rest.” She was stunned, that was a mental image she did not need but a mental image that lashed her mind in penance for thinking about it in the first place.

“Your wounds will heal Solari.” He growled as he got up, seizing the axe to hoist it onto his shoulders. “Wait!” She snarled getting off of her back to stand. “Return what you have taken Sion.” she challenged with the same fury as before. But the undead behemoth glanced at her rathe amused as he turned to face her once again. “This battle is done Solari. You are wounded, your men won’t come to save you, there is no contest. Now rest and recover, we will meet again.” But Leona would not hear it, seizing her blade she dashed in front of him raising the sword to meet the undead juggernaut. “The outcome will be no different.” He snarled in response before a dark smile dashed over his visage, his axe crashing into the ground, embedded in the rock as he came closer, than he should to the point where she had to tilt her head backwards to stare up at him as he loomed over her.

“Perhaps a different form of melee then.” He suggested, a sly undertone lacing his booming words. “Noxian warrior against Targonian warrior, he who breaks first loses.” Leona was repulsed at the idea taking a step back to glare up and down at the giant warrior eyes narrowing in slight aggravation. “So, what say you Solari?”

Sion finally left the cave system at the break of nightfall, his prize safely secured he made off in the cover of night. Leona would find her own way home, once she could stand again. Sion had introduced the demi god to true Noxian might and resilience. A penetrating lesson that would be felt for many evenings to come.

[oneshul]

Shabbat Zachor: Amalekites, Egyptians, and a Promise

The Sinai Desert was still pitchy-black when Lt. Djer’s adjutant, Corporal Tem, shook his commander’s shoulder to awaken him. The lieutenant immediately arose—his training at the Royal Egyptian Army Military Academy (Heliopolis) stood him in good stead. He sat on the edge of his cot, blinking and collecting his thoughts.

           Today, we pull patrol-duty in our Northwestern Sector, he thought, I must set a good example for my troops.

           “It will be blasting-hot today in the wilderness, Sir,” whispered the corporal.

           The lieutenant smiled ruefully. “It’s always hot in this furnace, Corporal,” he said, tersely. “Have the sergeant-major rouse the troops—quietly. We are on full combat alert, as befits us fortunate soldiers who guard the Blessed Boundaries of Holy Mother Egypt from any invaders or ravagers.”

           The corporal nodded, saluted, and disappeared into the dark.

           The lieutenant did his morning toilet, dressed in his cotton undergarment, and began buckling on his bronze body armor. Djer’s armor fitted a bit more snugly than usual. He had gained a few pounds on his last leave to his home village. His parents raised sweet dates, plums and figs on a little farm close to the Nile River. Pa’s sweet melons were legendary for their size, heft, and color, and he regularly won first-prize in the farmers’ market. Patting his belly, Djer left the tent to inhale the pure, sweet desert air, tinged by a salty breeze from the Sea of Reeds to the north.

           “We await your orders, Sir,” came a voice from the shadows, which he recognized as that of Sergeant-Major Joser, his aide-de-camp in commanding 18th Regiment, Royal Egyptian Cavalry (“Jaws of Anubis”). “Will you be desirous of mounted chariots, Sir? It would not take but a half-hour to ready them for patrol and possible combat.”

           Djer had thought about this the previous evening, and decided. “It will not do for the sake of maintaining mounted silence to take the chariots,” he replied, “on the chance that we encounter a desert tribe of Bedouin, and require a surprise attack. No, Sgt-Major; this day, our troopers will ride their mounts.”

           “Very good, Sir,” said Sgt.-Major Joser, “I will have the troops ready their horses. All will prepare the saddles meant for warfare, not parade.”

           “Do so,” commanded Lt. Djer.

           Less than a hour later, the copper bugles sounded, and the 18th Regiment was under way.

           “Which direction, Lieutenant?” asked the Sergeant-Major.

           “Let us head towards the Sea of Reeds,” answered the lieutenant, “just to find any stragglers from that escaped mob of Israelite slaves. We are under orders to—deal with them.”

           “Deal with them by what means, Lieutenant?” asked the Sergeant-Major. He was a grizzled veteran of many encounters with Egypt’s many enemies. An eye-patch gave evidence of the Old War with the Nubians.

           “By any means necessary—including killing,” returned the lieutenant. I hate to think of murdering innocent women and children, even if they are Israelite, he thought. Still, we are under the orders of Capt. Sobek, who is in constant touch with the High Command at Royal Egyptian Army Headquarters. I have no choice.

The soldiers rode along in silence, whispering only when necessary. A blood-red sun was rising in the east. There was no sound, except the creaking of saddlery and the clank of lances against bronze armor.

           “Sir,” said the Sergeant -Major, “We must halt, to allow Siptah, the Jebusite Scout, to study the trail and tell us what to expect.”

           The lieutenant nodded. Siptah, agile and alert despite his advanced years—he was at least forty—practically vaulted over the head of his horse, and, lying on the ground, began sniffing eagerly, like a desert dog. Djer looked on in disgust—how could a human being, made in Osiris’s image, degrade himself into sniffing at the offal of passing animals? Still, he had to grant Siptah some credit—the scout was nearly always correct in his trail-judgment, and—besides an uncomfortable, earthy smell the scout had—Why can’t he wash more often? Djer would ask, holding his breath while he spoke with him—he was a pleasant enough fellow, and a great warrior, besides.

           “What news, Scout?” he asked.

           The elderly Jebusite grinned and rose, not bothering to dust the desert-sand off of his arms and legs. Arms akimbo, he stood before the lieutenant, not bothering to salute.

           “If it please the Lieutenant, Your Worship—” began Siptah.

           “Just Lieutenant will do, Siptah,” said Djer, fanning the air before his face. How can the poltroon live with himself? he thought, breathing through his mouth, “Give your report, please.”

           “Israelites passed by—oh, perhaps one-two hours ago,” said Siptah.

           “Good; we will shadow them, and make certain they are moving well out of Imperial Territory,” answered Lieutenant Djer.

           Siptah raised one gnarly hand. “I have more to report, Lieutenant,” he said, and his grinning face grew grim, “There is also a war-party of Amalekites following the Israelites, perhaps just one-half hour behind.”

           A voice from behind Djer called out gleefully, “What luck! Let the Amalekites finish what we ought to have done to those evil Israelites!”

           Without turning, the lieutenant called out, “At ease, Corporal Henut! I called for silence in ranks!”

           “Begging your pardon, Lieutenant,” returned Henut, “but I have more than a bone to pick with those abominable Israelites—they laid waste to my homeland, including my father’s little idol-shop! That Invisible God of theirs, jealous no doubt of my father’s stock-in-trade, caused it to be crushed beneath the weight of that insidious hailstorm. I hate those Israelites with every fibre of my being.”

           Nodding at the Sergeant-Major, Djer ordered the detachment to halt.

           “Military Police Detail!” ordered the lieutenant, “Apprehend Corporal Henut, and bring him to me.”

           Henut found himself bound in papyrus-ropes, standing before his commander.

           “Corporal Henut,” said the lieutenant, “for speaking out in ranks, and for contravening a direct order—”

           “Begging the lieutenant’s pardon,” interrupted Henut, “What order was that?”

           “Our orders are to shadow the Israelites, not to attack them,” answered the lieutenant, “nor to aid or abet any other people or nation who choose to attack them. We are merely in an observatory capacity.”

           “Yes, Sir,” said Henut, sullenly.

           “And for your outburst,” answerered Djer, “I am reducing you in rank to Private, and fining you your next three weeks’ wages. I run a strong, proud outfit, Private, and I will not have rapscallions such as yourself besmirching our unit’s record. MPs! Keep him under close guard, and, once we return to the Forward Operating Base, he is to go into the stockade for one week.”

           The MPs led Henut away; because the unit was in the field, he was allowed to re-mount his horse, under their watchful guard. The detachment spurred on, again.

           “What is that noise I hear, Sir?” asked the Sergeant-Major, “Is it the sound of rejoicing? Are the Israelites observing one of their pagan festivals?”

           Lt. Djer listened. “It is not the sound of rejoicing or singing,” he returned, “It is the sound of war—hear the women’s screams!”

           As the cavalry detachment mounted the hill, they beheld a ghastly sight: a band of Amalekite Bedouin marauders were attacking an Israelite refugee line—only, instead of attacking in front of the line, where the soldiers and young men were, the Amalekites were deliberately slaughtering helpless elderly, women, and even children.

           “What shall we do, Sir?” asked the Sergeant-Major, “Our orders are explicitly to shadow the Israelites, and not interfere with their Exodus from our nation.”

           “Still,” mused the lieutenant, “The orders said nothing about the deaths of the innocent.”

           “What are you suggesting, Sir?” asked the old sergeant-major, already guessing what was on his young commander’s mind.

           “Sergeant-Major!” commanded Lt. Djer, himself unstrapping his bronze short sword, as well as his cavalryman’s knife and shield, “I order you to have the bugler sound the ‘charge,’ so that we can redress the imbalance between civilian Israelites and armed desert bandits.”

           “You heard the Lt. Djer,” called out the Sergeant-Major to the young bugler, “Prepare to sound the charge, on his order!”

           “Wait a second,” said Djer, half-turning in his saddle to face his troops.

           “Soldiers of Imperial Egypt,” he said in a stentorian voice, “I am commanding you to join me in defending a group of helpless elderly, women and children from a mob of murderous Amalekites. You know our enemy: he is merciless, and so must we be. If you bear any ill will towards the Israelites, you may remain under guard back here with our Military Police, and I will arraign you later for refusing a direct order from me, your commander. But I hope and expect that every man-jack of you will gain great honor for both our Mother Egypt this day, and for Anubis, for whose ferocity and fairness our regiment is named. Will you join me?”

Sadly, the remaining record of the 18th Regiment of Horse (“Jaws of Anubis”), Border Patrol Detachment, Royal Egyptian Army, has been lost. May Osiris welcome their glorious dead,and give plaudits to their triumphant heroes.

Rabbi David Hartley Mark is from New York City’s Lower East Side. He attended Yeshiva University, the City University of NY Graduate Center for English Literature, and received semicha at the Academy for Jewish Religion. He currently teaches English at Everglades University in Boca Raton, FL, and has a Shabbat pulpit at Temple Sholom of Pompano Beach. His literary tastes run to Isaac Bashevis Singer, Stephen King, King David, Kohelet, Christopher Marlowe, and the Harlem Renaissance.

[rpgsandbox]

Interbellum is a tabletop roleplaying game that allows players to take the roles of soldiers, adventurers, deserters or even spies in a world of conflict and the symbiosis of magic and technology. The setting takes inspiration from the aesthetics of the First World War and interwar period.

The system is designed to capture a sense of close combat in trenches, ruins or even whole cities swept away by the total war. Be a small cog in the war machine, survive in military operations with tens of thousands of losses a day. Face the horrors of modern mechanized war, deadly, never-before-seen tanks, the airborne terror of biplanes, the experimental weapons of the future of warfare, forged in constant conflict.

However, this is not the world you know - It is a world of myth and magic, progressed to the diesel age. In other words, your squad can be composed of different fantasy races, where your sergeant can be a formerly enslaved orc or your comrade can be a cursed goblin marauder. In search of a means to break the stalemate of trench warfare, science returned magic from oblivion and tamed it. It changed everything.

The last line of defense trying to stop the dreadful technomagically driven flying fortress.

The game locations are not limited to trenches on the frontline, this setting allows many types of adventures: be deserters and treasure hunters in the colonies, fight in city ruins or the shadow of tanks the size of a mountain, wage “rat war” in sewage networks and subways, or even be the hero of your assault squad in a suicide mission to destroy enemy secret weapons. Your fate is yours to decide: try to survive in war zones, on the frontline or behind enemy lines.

Interbellum uses a proprietary d6 based system, clearly separating the narrative and combat component of the game and encourages teamwork between sqaudmates.

Character creation resembles that of the classic computer-based RPG’s of the late 90's. The choice of main attributes (Agility, Charisma, Intelligence, Perception, Strength, Vitality) and traits - is all familiar. But the choice of race and faction affects a lot - it determines the attitude of NPCs of other factions and races towards you, and can also give bonuses or penalties. The world is still struggling against slavery, for freedom and equality, therefore the influence of xenophobia and prejudice plays a big role in team building and gameplay.

Early sketches of Army Boy mascot in different roles to illustrate attributes.

Another important aspect in creating a character is the choice of his class, his profession. The range of choice is quite broad: Officer, Rifleman, Medic, Mage, Technician, Wild Card and others. Each class gives unique perks and the ability to develop class skills. During character creation you can distribute the starting skill points as you like, but during the game it will be limited only to class skills and only they can be developed to the maximum. Of course, there are also will be workarounds for developing skills and changing your class that depend on the narrative and your game master. Also, your selected class gives you a starting free kit of equipment. Depending on the circumstances, you can purchase additional equipment for bonus points. Levelcap limits the development of the character, so you should consider what the character will specialize in.

Having created the character and built your own squad with your friends, you will now choose one of the pre-prepared missions or one created by your game master. Since the game takes place in an era of rapid technological advance the time period of the mission significantly affects the complexity, the opponents encountered, and the available equipment. Do not forget - this is the era of the arms race, when every year the war brought new items to the arsenal. If you choose Great War - you can start with bolt action rifles in your hands, and finish commanding airborne tanks on airships. In your hands lies the choice of the battlefield: you can participate in another insane attempt to capture an enemy underground fort like Verdun, or try an adventure in the style of Lawrence of Arabia.

Each scenario has a map with the main locations. Moving between them, your squad will run into random encounters - some of them will be harmless, others carry danger or even an opponent. The use of technology provides you with a sense of security and fullness, but this is a very controversial pleasure. On the front line this technology is the hope of your detachment, but the first tanks are capricious, unreliable and very slow. Nevertheless, if your mission and the theater of operations allow, you can take a breezy ride on an armored car, which will support you. Combat uses typical turn-based game mechanics that are a bit similar to skirmish wargames.

Killing enemies and completing missions gives you experience points that allow your character to move to the next level. Each time the player gains a level, he receives several skill points to develop his class skills, and every three levels you can choose a perk. Perks provide an opportunity to further sharpen your character for a certain role in your squad or even acquire magical abilities.

Andre Lagran - famed Death Brigade veteran, fighting for the Alliance faction. He was one of the last defenders of the Border Line.

Specifically, each action and every step in your character’s progress will be very important, the d6 was chosen because of our desire to follow the number 6 in the numerical parameters of attributes, skills, and so on.

An important nuance that brings an element of uncertainty into a conventional war is magic and its manifestations. At a camp deep in the rear lines near the forest, you can battle a gang of vampires, unconquered, and ghosts near the mass graves in place of the old battleground - all this is just the beginning. The select few who own the Gift can use the Words of Power, that is, spells. They are dangerous opponents, but their spells depend entirely on their intelligence and the benevolence of the Higher Powers. Much worse is meeting one of the Touched - a poor fellow who has touched by breath of chthonic chaos from outside of this world. These magicians are literally bursting from the eldritch energy boiling inside them, their bodies can mutate, and they themselves do not use spells, they directly try to control the flows of magical energy with random side effects. Where technology falls, magic creates incredible things.

Interbellum is a fantasy dieselpunk setting. or rather technomagic. What if the usual fantasy world met the era of the first mechanized wars? A world where magic was forgotten for hundreds of years, rediscovered and used to break the positional stalemate, this led to an arms race that spawned 1000-ton steel beasts on land and in the air, make fortresses airborne or devastate whole cities with a few bombs. A world that replaced typical Evil Lords with dictators, knights with armored vehicles, and guilds with corporations. In this world fears of a trench war can materialize, your neighbors can be werewolf infiltrators, and the ghosts of your fallen comrades in no-man's land terrorize the enemy.

Istalian Bastion-class landship. 100 tons of perfect engineering.

Unlike other similar settings, here dieselpunk is dominant, but the fantasy elements serve to deconstruct stereotypes. Of course, magic can be used to create fireballs, teleport and other cool stuff, but the main difference is that magic is used for creating new technologies and machines. In fact, magic used as justification for the typical attributes of a dieselpunk - weird tech, giant vehicles, mutants, etc.

On Jule 7, in the year 1404, the Great War began. Beginning for trivial reasons as a conflict between the two superpowers and their satellites, in 9 years of hellish warfare it grew into a global slaughter between four geopolitical blocs. Hundreds of millions of people were involved, many of them died.

While the three superpowers were competing in the race for technical advancement, the fourth superpower collected magical knowledge bit by bit and united them with its own. From the very beginning of the war, the Sidhean Empire was able to surprise everyone by putting hundreds of combat mages on the battlefield. What was considered lost forever, had returned.

After centuries of oblivion, magic and many other fragments of the Old World rose again. Technology tamed the magic and this created a new leap in scientific and technological development, making the previously impossible now possible.

The playable period in setting will cover almost 30 years, including the Great War for lovers of epic conflict, and local wars in the post-war period. Your character can begin his story as cannon fodder in a world war, and after it become a revolutionary or a mercenary, if he survives on the battlefield.

Factions:

Coalition - a bloc created by one of the oldest and largest human states in the Interbellum world, called the Ecumenical Empire. The imperial interests lie in the domination of Hearthland and creating more satellites. The most industrially advanced faction of the setting, at the expense of the environment, resulting in decaying forests around their smoke-filled megacities. The rigid rule of law and severe punishments are combined with imperial chauvinism, which is a blight on the Empire’s diplomacy, but creates protectionism for their inner policy and trade. The Empire is dominated by materialism and atheism because of the old doctrine that "all gods are evil, and their priests are tyrants”. After the Great War, the Empire was mired in the civil war and disintegrated into several states during the revolution, but the Coalition remained. The Galrian Republic preserved most of the heritage of the Empire, but brought more freedom at the cost of devastation, bureaucracy, the political demagogy and corruption.

Alliance - a union of conservative monarchical states clinging to domination in the central region of the world. A forced union of former rivals against a common enemy, compensates for its technological backwardness with a development balance between agriculture and industry. Having lost almost a quarter of its population in the Great War, in the post-war period it was almost split from within by crumbling empires and national liberation movements. Constant riots, insurrections and civil wars, mass poverty amid the luxury and wealth of untouchable despotic aristocrats all cast challenges on the young Alliance, which consists entirely of contradictions.

Northern League - a self-isolated and mystic bloc of races, nations and countries, united as satellites around the totalitarian elven state, the oldest known race. Forged by constant conflicts with mankind and remembrance of old grudges, northern elves spent more than a thousand years studying artifacts and restoring the knowledge of the Forerunner race, multiplying their magical skills while in the rest of the world technology supplanted the magic. This is the most fantastical and magic-heavy faction of the setting, almost exclusively having full access to fancy magic stuff. Their lag in industrial strength is balanced out by enchanted weapons and technomagic devices, for example, they can raise old fortresses in the air. Dragon-bombers? Check. Trolls with hand cannons? Check. Troopers with magic rayguns? Check. Machines made of living metal, fueled by the dying person imprisoned in them? Oh, boy…

Albian Commonwealth - a bloc of formally independent satellites ruled by the Albian Empire. It is an island-based colonial power, ruling the seas and controlling a large portion of international trade, as well as the development and exploitation of Aborigines in the colonies. Slavery, class and racial segregation are also flourishing in the Commonwealth. However, if you were born a free person in the Commonwealth, then you have many ways to find your place in life. Once in the past, Albia was just a distant province of the Ecumenical Empire, splitting from it during the Dark Ages. Separatists formed a political system around the union of guilds, traders, mercenaries and pirates, which allowed them to capitalize on their advantageous geographical position and control the main oceanic trade routes. They also started a era of great geographical discoveries.

You can also read parts of the lore on our Patreon page.

Kickstarter campaign ends: Thu, June 7 2018 12:22 AM BST

Website: Patreon

[screensirenfic]

The Grandest Of Sins - Chapter 33 - Overkill

“Wow! Talk about overkill!”

Purred the voice of her brother, and her heart stopped in her chest at the sound.

“Killing me is one thing. But killing my men; isn’t that kind of heartless?”

He asked, stepping over their bodies with a slow sense of calculation as his limbs regrew.

“As if you’d actually mourn the loss of any of these pawns…”

Scoffed the Fuhrer, wiping his bloodied boot on Dolcetto’s Gi as if it was some sort of doormat.

“But those weren’t pawns… Those were possessions…”

Explained Greed; his hands now grown back in deep grey claws that looked just as deadly as his smile.

“And one thing I really don’t like is people taking what’s mine!”

He proclaimed as he leapt at the Fuhrer; the King meeting him halfway as they battled it out in the middle of the sewer.

Her brother was fast, but he was tiring, and King Bradley was near enough deadly with his swords; the King managing to stick four of them straight through Greed’s torso, downing him for the sixteenth time.

“You stay put; whilst I deal with your little friend…”

He drawled, as her brother went limp; and for a moment her world fell to pieces, her heart shattered at the sight of him lying still on the concrete.

He couldn’t be dead.

He had to be pretending-

“You there..!”

Called out the Fuhrer as he approached, swords dripping with her brother’s blood still in hand as he gave them a smile that made her sick to her stomach.

“You’re the youngest Elric brother; are you not..?”

He asked with such kindness; she couldn’t quite believe it was the same man who slaughtered her friends and murdered her brother moments before.

“Come let me help you get up. You must be injured…”

He offered; holding out a bloodstained palm for Alphonse to take.

“Oh; no! I’m sure I’ll be fine…”

Refused the boy, but she could already smell the stink of blood, the scent making her heart run cold as she fixated on the sight of her brother on the ground.

“Nonsense. Let me help…”

Bradley insisted; her eyes seeing red on his arrogant face as her hand shot out inside Alphonse’s gauntlet, seizing the Fuhrer by the throat the same way the boy had done to her what seemed to be an eternity ago.

“Emily; no!”

The kid cried as she squeezed around the King’s windpipe, hoisting him into the air with strength she didn’t know she had.

“I’ll kill you!”

She swore; letting the metallic fingers dig into his skin, wishing she could pulverise the flesh there till nothing remained.

“I’ll kill you; you bastard!”

Her voice broke into sobs; the knowledge that she was alone once more almost too much to bear as she continued to choke the life out of the ruler of this once great land.

This couldn’t be it.

Her brother couldn’t be dead.

The Felled King lifted his arm, raising his sword high, then plunged it through the gaps between the helmet and torso; the sharp steel ripping straight through her chest and out the other side.

“Greed…”

She gurgled; blood welling in her throat as she began to bleed out; crimson liquid spilling out and trickling through the joints of the armour.

“My… brother…”

She managed as her eyes drifted shut; darkness closing in like the old friend she knew and loved, a cold sense of stillness overtaking her body.

——————————————————

“How could you send him away?!”

She demanded, storming into the Captain’s office without a care for if he was alone or not.

“Corporal Marauder, an appropriate greeting would be ‘Good morning Captain’ or ‘May I interrupt you Sir?’”

Captain Mustang drawled as he continued to sit at his desk; eyes absorbed by the excessive amount of paperwork in front of him.

“You knew what we were doing together and yet you still sent him away!”

She continued to yell, caring very little if the General himself heard her from down the hall.

“Corporal; judging by your apparent anger, I can assume this is about Sergeant Havoc’s posting…”

He remained annoyingly calm and collected as he responded to her, not even bothering to stop signing his reports as he went.

“In which case, need I remind you that you’re both under my command, which means I may use you as I see fit…”

He told her, throwing the chain of command in her face as if he ever respected it himself.

“As you see fit?!”

She scoffed, not believing the arrogance of this man.

Scratch that; this was Captain Mustang.

She could always believe his arrogance.

“Was it because we are sleeping together?”

She asked him the hard question, because it so obviously was in her books.

“As you have told me before, who you spend your free time with is, quote; ‘none of my business’.”

He replied, using her words against her once more.

“God! You’re such a bad liar that you won’t even admit it!”

She asserted, probably overstepping her mark as a recruit, but she was far past honorifics now.

“Corporal Marauder; I’m usually quite lenient with your dissidence, but your behaviour now is edging on insubordination, and I would be well in rights to punish you-“

He told her, his voice becoming hard as he finally looked up from his desk.

“Punish me?!” Why?!”

She barked back, unable to believe the audacity of him calling her out when he’d been unprofessional with her right from the start.

“Because you’re jealous-?”

She asked, because she could see it in his eyes.

It had been hidden there all along.

“Corporal Marauder-“

He raised his voice, but she didn’t care if he was her superior; he was an asshole.

“Captain Mustang-“

She snapped back; wielding his title like it was an insult rather than an honorific.

“Corporal; I suggest you leave my office now, unless you want to be court-martialled…”

He suggested; and she could tell my the narrowness of his gaze that he’d deliver upon it.

The scheming bastard was so jealous of her getting laid, that he’d court martial her for the privilege!

So she left, slamming the door behind her and knocking some of his books off the higher shelves from the force of it.

It was then that Captain Mustang allowed himself a sigh, running a hand through his hair in a way which messed it up more than it already was.

“You did deserve that, Sir…”

Commented Riza; the woman still sat at her desk where she’d been able to watch the entire argument go down.

“I did; didn’t I?”

Agreed Mustang, knowing that he’d let his own emotions get in the way once again.

Emily was more than just a normal recruit to him, and treating her like one was getting him nowhere.

He either had to work out his issues with her, or have her transferred to another unit; and he didn’t know which one he liked less.

[theodorebennas]

Memories- The Battle of the Pit

Mood music

The sound of crashing steel resounded through the evening air as Iron Horde axes collided with Stormwind steel shields. As the mighty orcish war cries and the shouts of the brave men and women of the Alliance rang out through the Pit, the thunderous boom of artillery shells flying through the air signaled the beginning of the Battle of the Pit.

The shell hit its mark near the front ranks of the Alliance troops yet their morale had not wavered. The discipline of the Stormwind footmen was legendary among the fighting forces of Azeorth and their display was living up to that reputation. The banners of Stormwind, Ironforge, and the other factions of the Alliance danced in the wind alongside that of the 9th “Oathsworn” Vanguard and most specifically that of the proud Gnomish Brigade.

Two rows of fighting men back, Private Shorena Salos was disconcerted, however. The saboteurs should have taken out the artillery beforehand. She pondered to herself. We were told that we would be clear to proceed without fear of enemy bombardment. She quickly shook the thought from her mind and pressed forward along with her brothers and sisters in arms. It made no difference, she reassured herself. Field Marshal Thundermar and her finest men and women had been dispatched to see the matter dealt with personally. It would only be a matter of time. Even the orcs were beginning to fall back. The Alliance’s forces began to push deeper and deeper into the Pit. The entirety of the Alliance force had entered the crater without significant resistance. For the moment, it seemed like the beginning of a quick and decisive Alliance victory that would decimate the Iron Horde’s war effort. But things were rarely that simple.

Unbeknownst to the Private, however, this was exactly the plan. As the last of Alliance forces had made their way into the Pit, whole squads of Iron Horde orcs descended from the crags above and slammed into the flanks and rear of the Vanguard and their allies. The echoing boom of Iron Horde cannon fire rang out once and then twice as the various cannons in the orcs’ possession fired in near unison. Their deadly payloads struck home in the massed infantry in the center of the crater.

Despite this overwhelming firepower and the surprise orc assault upon their rear and flanks, the Alliance’s fighting spirit remained firm for the moment. This moment was not to last however. As the bombardments continued with no signs of stopping, the flanks of the footmen began to falter and fail.

A crescendo of screams erupted as the orcs, led by the fierce Daminka, shattered the defenses of the right flank and a wave of the Iron Horde’s fiercest assailed the shaken survivors who now desperately sought a means of escape. Even as the valiant men and women of Azeroth beat back one wave of orcs, there was always another to take their place.

Though the flanks had endured great strain, the center of the formation was spared no such experience. The Alliance soldiers had now entered the range of the Iron Horde’s rifles. A hail of bullets peppered the Stormwind troopers. For many, their hardened, round breastplates and well-forged steel provided all the protection that was needed. But many others were not counted among the lucky. The marksmen of Ironforge and Gilneas responded with a volley of their own but to little avail. The orcs were far too numerous. The cannon barrages came repeatedly as if to further crush the morale of the wavering, haggard troopers. Then the center began to buckle and then it broke in the face of yet another rush of orcish valor.

It began first with the well-worn flanks and then spread even to the center ranks. The legendary discipline of Stormwind’s standing footmen had met their match. Screams and shrieks echoed through the battlefield as the sons and daughters of Stormwind, now numbering less than half the number of men and women they had entered the Pit with, turned tail and began to flee.

The soldiers of the Vanguard’s units however balked at the prospect of fleeing the field. They had known their role in battle and many of them feared not death but their Colonel Paaine. However, as their less zealous sister units took to flight, it became apparent that remaining would only lead to a needless waste of life.  

It was as the Alliance fled, however, that the true slaughter began.

A hunting horn echoed throughout the Pit as orcs mounted on slavering wolves gave chase to the fleeing troopers. Their superior speed closed the distance between themselves and their prey easily and they could lunge upon their quarry with impunity.

Shorena continued to sprint as she evaluated the situation. She could not simply allow her comrades to be butchered wholesale without reprisal. Nor could she allow the deaths of her brothers and sisters to go unpunished. Spying the Stormwind banner beside one of the fallen standard bearers, she knew what she must do.

“Who among you will fight for Lady Thundermar?” She cried out as she waved the banner in the wind, “Are there not brave men and women who will fight for King Varian? How many among you will fight for our fallen brothers and sisters? So that others may live?” Amid the sounds of clanging steel, cannon bombardment, and the screams of failing men, her voice carried.

The response was immediate, “I will fight for her.” came the voice of an aged gnomish sergeant-major.

“As will I!” A dwarven rifleman called out.

In moments, a chorus of voices, guided by the banner of Stormwind, bursts into battle cries as the rallied men and women of the Vanguard along with the scattered remnants of the other units took up arms once more. Their resolve was hardened steel. Their mission was to ensure that some of their brethren would survive to fight again. Flying next to the banner of Stormwind was the black and white of the Vanguard.

—————————-

Overlord Ojore Bladebreaker smirked as he observed the Private’s defiance, “Even faced with the maw of a hungry wolf, your soldiers will not run. You’ve trained them well, Integra,” He led her to the edge to look at the broken Alliance soldiers and their rallied counterparts before looking to the defeated Field Marshal he held by the neck. Integra Thundermar. The Lioness of Shadowmoon, the orcs had referred to her as. It was a title well earned. The Overlord thought to himself as his attention shifted to the carnage he and his personal retainers had caused.

The corpses of the Vanguard’s fiercest splayed across the ridge beside them. A fierce draenei markswoman, a valiant warrior and his brave markswoman of a daughter, a draenei vindicator, and the human major, that zealous paladin.

“We… are a Vanguard unit. We’re the first in, and the last out. I don’t tolerate insubordination, nor cowardice, nor-” she was interrupted by painfully coughing up blood. Gulping, the Field Marshal looked to the bottom of the Pit, “… They’ve died for nothing… save your concept of honor and valor…”

Ojore shook his head, rather displeased with her response. “They died for the ideals that they carried. The ideals of your people and the ideals of mine. Your men and women are dead. Their corpses will be burnt before nightfall. And that will be the end of your Vanguard. But I am unsure it should be the end of you. Should you live to face me another day, I am certain it would make for a better song.” He whispered gruffly into her ear, “Two generals with two banners, facing each other at the heart of world.” He paused, "But that is not to say I will make this easy on you, Thundermar.” He dug his knife into the defeated priestess’ stomach and raked it against her flesh, “Your eyes shine with a fire I have not seen before. Most of the Iron Horde will think you dead but I know you will survive this. Now prove me right and prove them wrong.” He hurled her to the ground beside him.

Integra struck the ground harshly, gagging and curdling up blood from the lung puncture from her previous conflict with the Overlord. As one of her hands grasped at the ground, she stared up at Ojore with defiant rage, even as her breath was beginning to become more shallow and more sporadic. This defiance was much to the Overlord’s amusement and pleasure as he called to his retainers in the native Warsong dialect. Without a complaint, the two orcs mounted their wolves and rode off to leave the main force as they finished off the last Alliance holdouts. As they left, the dying woman watched with labored breaths. Her thoughts drifted to her long-dead husband Engus and then rest.

But for the Field Marshal, it was not to be her end nor the end of those who had followed her up that ridge.

————–

Shorena pointed forward with her sword as she warned her fellows of another orcish charge. Their numbers were thinning while the orcish forces, who had suffered from the fighting, still seemed ready and able to launch offensive after offensive. She met this wave with vigor despite her great weariness. One hand kept the banner raised high while the other fought. A rush of adrenaline flooded her body as she drove her blade through the unprotected throat of a Blackrock before turning to confront yet another marauder along her lines.

In time, the assaults slowed and then stopped much to her relief. As her mind began to clear, she felt a sudden pain at her side. Her hand slid to investigate only to discover the wicked blow she had been struck. She looked to her left and right to see her hard fighting companions beside her. Greatly diminished in number but fearless nonetheless. She looked behind her and with a smile, realized that the ones she had sought to defend had at least made it out of the Pit. With a grimace, she looked forward.

As if in a pain-fueled daze, she could scarcely stop herself from thinking about her family back home. Her mother and father. Goldshire, the town she grew up in and loved. As the Iron Horde cannons fired upon her, she could scarcely think of anything she would like to do more than return home and sleep in her own bed.

((I've wanted to write out this post for a while but never got around to it! The section with Inte and Ojore actually comes from an RP I did with Inte))

[oneshul]

The Battle of the Sea of Reeds

The Sinai Desert was still pitchy-black when Lt. Djer’s adjutant, Corporal Tem, shook his commander’s shoulder to awaken him. The lieutenant immediately arose—his training at the Royal Egyptian Army Military Academy (Heliopolis) stood him in good stead. He sat on the edge of his cot, blinking and collecting his thoughts.

                       "The Lieutenant sleeps with one eye open, so he does,” Tem said later to Mariamne, the Jebusite barmaid at the North Sinai Bar & Watering Hole (Special Discounts for Egyptian troopers with our Comfort Women).

           “Do tell,” said Mariamne, leaning over the worn-wooden bar, and bending towards the Corporal, in a way good for business.

           Mariamne’s a good ‘un, thought the Corporal. She don’t talk much, but what she says, I like. I really should spend more off-duty time with her. Hm.

           “And there’s nobody like the Looey for the way he sits a horse, neither,” said the Corporal.

           Mariamne continued her part of the conversation by bending over further—she was a woman of few words. For good measure, she wiggled her considerable rump.

           By the beard of Osiris, thought the Corporal, if she bent over any farther, I could see her navel.

           Tem drained his barley beer and asked Mariamne, “What say ye to another one of these little beauties? And have one, yourself—on me.”

           Mariamne smiled. She was missing a canine.

           The Corporal didn’t care.     

             Back in his tent, the Lieutenant woke his mind gradually, and contemplated the day: Today, we pull patrol-duty in our Northwestern Sector, he thought, I must set a good example for my troops.          

           “It will be blasting-hot today in the wilderness, Sir,” whispered the corporal.

            The lieutenant smiled ruefully. “It’s always hot in this furnace, Corporal,” he said, tersely. “Have the sergeant-major rouse the troops—quietly. We are on full combat alert, as befits us chosen soldiers who guard the Blessed Boundaries of Holy Mother Egypt from any invaders or ravagers.”

            The corporal nodded, saluted, and disappeared into the dark.

            The lieutenant did his morning toilet, dressed in his cotton undergarment, and began buckling on his bronze body armor. Djer’s armor fitted a bit more snugly than usual. He had gained a few pounds on his last leave to his home village. His parents raised sweet dates, plums and figs on a little farm close to the Nile River. Pa’s sweet melons were legendary for their size, heft, and color, and he regularly won first-prize in the farmers’ market. Patting his belly—I really must lay off the sweets for a while—Djer left the tent to inhale the pure, sweet desert air, tinged by a salty breeze from the Sea of Reeds to the north.

            “We await your orders, Sir,” came a voice from the shadows, which he recognized as that of Sergeant-Major Joser, his aide-de-camp in commanding 18th Regiment, Royal Egyptian Cavalry (“Jaws of Anubis”). “Will you be desirous of mounted chariots, Sir? It would not take but a half-hour to ready them for patrol and possible combat.”

            Djer had thought about this the previous evening, and decided. “It will not do for the sake of maintaining mounted silence to take the chariots,” he replied, “on the chance that we encounter a desert tribe of Bedouin, and require a surprise attack. No, Sgt-Major; this day, our troopers will ride their mounts.”

            “Very good, Sir,” said Sgt.-Major Joser, “I will have the troops ready their horses. All will prepare the saddles meant for warfare, not parade.”

            “Do so,” commanded Lt. Djer.

            Less than a hour later, the copper bugles sounded, and the 18th Regiment was under way.

            “Which direction, Lieutenant?” asked the Sergeant-Major.

            “Let us head towards the Sea of Reeds,” answered the lieutenant, “just to find any stragglers from that escaped mob  of Israelite slaves. We are under orders to—deal with them.”

            “Deal with them by what means, Lieutenant?” asked the Sergeant-Major. He was a grizzled veteran of many encounters with Egypt’s many enemies. An eye-patch gave evidence of the Old War with the Nubians.

            “By any means necessary—including killing,” returned the lieutenant. I hate to think of murdering innocent women and children, even if they are Israelite, he thought. Still, we are under the orders of Capt. Sobek, who is in constant touch with the High Command at Royal Egyptian Army Headquarters. I have no choice.

The soldiers rode along in silence, whispering only when necessary. A blood-red sun was rising in the east. There was no sound, except the creaking of saddlery and the clank of lances against bronze armor.

            “Sir,” said the Sergeant -Major, “We must halt, to allow Siptah, the Jebusite Scout, to study the trail and tell us what to expect.”

            The lieutenant nodded. Siptah, agile and alert despite his advanced years—he was at least forty—practically vaulted over the head of his horse, and, lying on the ground, began sniffing eagerly, like a desert dog. Djer looked on in disgust—how could a human being, made in Osiris’s image, degrade himself into sniffing at the offal of passing animals? Still, he had to grant Siptah some credit—the scout was nearly always correct in his trail-judgment, and—besides an uncomfortable, earthy smell the scout had—Why can’t he wash more often? Djer would ask, holding his breath while he spoke with him—he was a pleasant enough fellow, and a great warrior, besides.

            “What news, Scout?” he asked.

            The elderly Jebusite grinned and rose, not bothering to dust the desert-sand off of his arms and legs. Arms akimbo, he stood before the lieutenant, not bothering to salute.

            “If it please the Lieutenant, Your Worship—” began Siptah.

            “Just Lieutenant will do, Siptah,” said Djer, fanning the air before his face. How can the poltroon live with himself? he thought, breathing through his mouth, “Give your report, please.”

            “Israelites passed by—oh, perhaps one-two hours ago,” said Siptah.

            “Good; we will shadow them, and make certain they are moving well out of Imperial Territory,” answered Lieutenant Djer.

            Siptah raised one gnarly hand. “I have more to report, Lieutenant,” he said, and his grinning face grew grim, “There is also a war-party of Amalekites following the Israelites, perhaps just one-half hour behind.”

            A voice from behind Djer called out gleefully, “What luck! Let the Amalekites finish what we ought to have done to those evil Israelites!”

            Without turning, the lieutenant called out, “At ease, Corporal Henut! I called for silence in ranks!”

            “Begging your pardon, Lieutenant,” returned Henut, “but I have more than a bone to pick with those abominable Israelites—they laid waste to my homeland, including my father’s little idol-shop! That Invisible God of theirs, jealous no doubt of my father’s stock-in-trade, caused it to be crushed beneath the weight of that insidious hailstorm. I hate those Israelites with every fibre of my being.”

            Nodding at the Sergeant-Major, Djer ordered the detachment to halt.

            “Military Police Detail!” ordered the lieutenant, “Apprehend Corporal Henut, and bring him to me.”

            Henut found himself bound in papyrus-ropes, standing before his commander.

            “Corporal Henut,” said the lieutenant, “for speaking out in ranks, and for contravening a direct order—”

            “Begging the lieutenant’s pardon,” interrupted Henut, “What order was that?”

            “Our orders are to shadow the Israelites, not to attack them,” answered the lieutenant, “nor to aid or abet any other people or nation who choose to attack them. We are merely in an observatory capacity.”

            “Yes, Sir,” said Henut, sullenly.

            “And for your outburst,” answerered Djer, “I am reducing you in rank to Private, and fining you your next three weeks’ wages. I run a strong, proud outfit, Private, and I will not have rapscallions such as yourself besmirching our unit’s record. MPs! Keep him under close guard, and, once we return to the Forward Operating Base, he is to go into the stockade for one week.”

            The MPs led Henut away; because the unit was in the field, he was allowed to re-mount his horse, under their watchful guard. The detachment spurred on, again.

            “What is that noise I hear, Sir?” asked Sergeant-Major Joser, “Is it the sound of rejoicing? Are the Israelites observing one of their pagan festivals?”

            Lt. Djer listened. “It is not the sound of rejoicing or singing,” he returned, “It is the sound of war—hear the women’s screams!”

            As the cavalry detachment mounted the hill, they beheld a ghastly sight: a band of Amalekite Bedouin marauders were attacking an Israelite refugee line—only, instead of attacking in front of the line, where the soldiers and young men were, the Amalekites were deliberately slaughtering helpless elderly, women, and even children.

            “What shall we do, Sir?” asked the Sergeant-Major, “Our orders are explicitly to shadow the Israelites, and not interfere with their Exodus from our nation.”

            “Still,” mused the lieutenant, “The orders said nothing about the deaths of the innocent.”

            “What are you suggesting, Sir?” asked the old sergeant-major, already guessing what was on his young commander’s mind.

            “Sergeant-Major!” commanded Lt. Djer, himself unstrapping his bronze short sword, as well as his cavalryman’s knife and shield, “I order you to have the bugler sound the ‘charge,’ so that we can redress the imbalance between civilian Israelites and armed desert bandits.”

            “You heard the Lt. Djer,” called out the Sergeant-Major to the young bugler, “Prepare to sound the charge, on his order!”

            “Wait a second,” said Djer, half-turning in his saddle to face his troops.

            “Soldiers of Imperial Egypt,” he said in a stentorian voice, “I am commanding you to join me in defending a group of helpless elderly, women and children from a mob of murderous Amalekites. You know our enemy: he is merciless, and so must we be. If you bear any ill will towards the Israelites, you may remain back here with our Military Police, and there will be no repercussions, given the unusual nature of this military encounter. I will bear full responsibility. I do hope and expect that every man-jack of you will gain great honor for both our Mother Egypt this day, and for Anubis, for whose ferocity and fairness our regiment is named. Will you join me?”

           To their credit and the lieutenant’s satisfaction, the troopers nodded and saluted, to a man.

           “Sergeant-Major Joser!” ordered the lieutenant.

           “Sir! Sergeant-Major Joser reporting. What is your pleasure, Sir?”

           “You know the drill,” replied Lt. Djer.

            The Sergeant-Major saluted.

            “I want first through third rank arrayed for a charge, with full spears aloft, and khopesh-swords easily at hand. Every man must have his service dagger close to hand, as well—those Amalekites are treacherous, and we must guard ourselves.”

           “Troop of Cavalry, Atten-hut!” called the Sergeant-Major.

           There was the simultaneous clank of war-spears being placed in position astride the horses, and then, the thunk of swords being removed from their scabbards and laid across the saddles, putting them within easy reach. The troopers had small shields, as well, but hardly ever used them; it would have taken an extra pair of hands, and the Royal Armory had never thought of that.

           “Soldiers of the Egyptian Empire!” called Lt. Djer, “If there is among you a man who has no stomach for this fight, then I will personally mount him upon an onager—backwards—“

           The men laughed.

“…And send his cowardly arse back to Egypt, which bore him illegitimately. Let him depart! His passage shall be made, and I will place the coins of passage in his purse. Shame to him, and his family, forever! For we would not die in that man’s company that fears his fellowship to die with us.”

           The men cheered their commander; beneath Mt. Ebarim, the Amalekites ceased their depredations for a second: What manner of men are these?

           “We will remember, with advantages, what feats you will do this day. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; for he today who sheds his blood with me, shall be my brother. And fellow-soldiers barrack-way shall think themselves accused they were not here. We will not heed; we will defend our land.”

           “Troopers, take your positions!” ordered the Sergeant-Major, “and the strength of Ra be with ye.”

           “CHARGE!” called Lt. Djer, as Qir, his enormous midnight-black warhorse, thundered down the slope of Mt. Ebarim, followed by the troopers of the 18th Regiment of Horse (“Rays of Ra in His Glory”). “Charge, my heroes! Charge, charge, charge!” The bugler’s calls matched the lieutenant’s own eagerness for the battle.

           Perhaps it was memories of his success in Lance Drill at the Heliopolis Military Academy (Division of Horse), or his many exercises riding with the Heavies (for so did the Royal Egyptian Army term the unit they had prepared him for) but, as Qir raced down the grassy, stony slopes of the mountain (and Ebarim was not large, as mountains go—certainly not so large as that Sinai, where the Israelite rabble were to receive their Laws from their Invisible God, just two weeks later), he could not help but notice his Sergeant-Major, stubbly beard and all, muscles bulging—how old must he be? Asked Djer, foolishly--clinging to his mount, holding his sword’s-point low, as the Sergeant-Major had learned from his own riding-master, Captain Khepesh, so many years ago. Worse yet for the Amalekite beasts, the cavalrymen wielded the khopesh, a monstrous weapon with a curved, hooked blade, which clung to its target and ripped a bloody groove when dragged across human flesh, as the Egyptian troopers were trained to do.

           The Amalekites were surprised, as Djer had known they would be. As he thundered past a large boulder and made for the nearest Amalekite marauder, Djer could not help but notice the man’s garb: dusty, filthy desert robes, his head covered with those dirty keffiyehs they wore. The Amalekite had grabbed an Israelite wench by her long, black, shiny hair—at least, it had been shiny before his dirty hands had besmirched it; Djer slowed his horse enough to level his blade, and inadvertently saw a glance of Israelite breast—but then, he swung his brazen khopesh, and sent the Amalekite’s head spinning off into the brush.

           There’s one less bandit to deal with, thought Lt. Djer. It never crossed his mind that he had killed a man; in the heat of the battle just beginning, he was aware only of Qir’s muscles between  his thighs, and glanced both left and right for further targets. He turned Qir’s head, and made for a big, muscular Amalekite whose arms were covered with golden bracelets—doubtless he had been killing Israelites with his huge, blood-dripping scimitar, and robbing them of the Egyptian gold they had collected for—how long was it?—four hundred years of back pay.

           Djer did not begrudge the Israelites their booty; he was concerned only with the Amalekites, who had attacked the Israelite rearguard in a most cowardly fashion. Keeping his sword’s-point low, as his Riding-Master had taught him in cavalry maneuvers, he gut-ripped the innards of two Amalekites, who realized finally that the gleaming soldiers of Egypt were not there to assist them in despoiling the Israelites. The two hapless marauders fell beneath his blade, rolling off from the shock. Djer turned to look for his next target. Big Qir panted beneath him, but he did not worry: his steed was sufficiently exercised and ready for battle. Suddenly, he heard a cry:

           “Sir—be alert, Sir! Behind you!”

           Djer turned, in time to see Private Hotep, he who had refused to fight the Amalekites, drive a charging-lance’s brazen point into the back of an Amalekite warrior who had been about to eviscerate Djer. Hotep yanked the spear out, and, holding it aloft, seemed mesmerized by its dripping blood:

           “Ho, Bloody Lance!” called the Sergeant-Major, “you have tasted the blood of an enemy—you are now a true warrior!”

           Hotep grinned and waved his weapon above his head.

           Not now, you fool; now is no time to congratulate yourself, thought Djer, and he dug his heels into Qir’s sides and raced to attack the big Amalekite ruffian who was running at Hotep from behind—luckily, the Amalekites had none of their swift dromedaries; they would have been able to give an overwhelming fight to the novice Egyptian cavalry recruits, had they not been on foot and surprised by Djer’s sudden salley on their numbers.

           The Big Amalekite ran, and the point of his scimitar stabbed deep and straight and true: the grin on Hotep’s face suddenly changed to that of searing pain, and he toppled off his horse, still clutching the spear.

           “Lay your foul hands on a soldier of Egypt, will you?” screamed Djer, and he charged the Amalekite, who—too late—tried to turn and hide behind the massive boulder. Yanking Qir’s bridle to the right, Djer succeeded in racing around the boulder’s circumference without being unhorsed—to be alone and defenseless in the midst of an Amalekite mob of marauders was to be avoided at all costs; they were famous for stripping their prisoners and planting a huge ant-hill on their groins—Djer readied his lance; he had finished first in the Academy riding competitions, and never forgot the day he had chased and lanced a jackrabbit, there on the desert plains.

           The big Amalekite showed courage: he stood, back against the boulder, and beckoned at the young Egyptian officer, crying out words in their infernal patois, and daring him to attack, while the ruffian held his scimitar in both hands, and braced himself to receive Djer’s charge—

           Too late: Djer’s lance took the Amalekite full in the chest, and the enemy’s look changed from foolish courage—what was one man, on foot, to do to resist a charging steed bearing a determined cavalryman?—to glassy-eyed death. Djer, uncaring and unhesitating, planted his boot in the Amalekite corpse and yanked his spear out, ignoring the foolishly-courageous Amalekite as he looked about the battlefield for more targets of opportunity. The corpse toppled and lay, still holding his useless scimitar.

           My Heavies are availing themselves well, he thought; over to the left, Corporal Temnet, his aide, was successfully holding his own against a pair of Amalekites, who were determined to drag him off his horse. The Sergeant-Major, breathing hard, was thundering down on an Amalekite marauder who was trying to drag an Israelite maiden—she could not have been more than fourteen, Djer thought. These wretches!How they take advantage of these weak, exhausted Israelites! Finally, he spied three of his soldiers, long knives in hand, duelling with Amalekites with scimitars. Their sword-reach exceeded that of the Egyptians, but the cavalrymen had youth and training on their side, while the Amalekites, up since early morn, were tiring. Before he turned Qir and raced for a clump of Amalekites, Djer was pleased to see Corp. Karesh gut-stab the Amalekite leader.

           Still, the savage Amalekites had plenty of fight left in them. From the distance of a bow-shot, Djer spied about three dozen of them forming up into a ragged line, the better to charge his cavalrymen, who were clearly tired after hacking and spearing their way into saving the hapless Hebrews.

           “Dismount!” he ordered, “Sheathe your swords, my Boys, and ready bows-and-arrows for action!”

           As well-drilled warriors, his horse soldiers were also skilled in the use of the deadly Egyptian composite bow, a fearsome weapon when used en masse to fire volleys of lethal shafts.

           “Form up!” called the lieutenant, “Form a skirmish line, men, and present arms!” referring to the bows-and-arrows. Tipped with primitive but effective chunks of sharpened glass or volcanic obsidian, the arrows were particularly effective. When the brutes charged, Djer’s men would be prepared to receive them.

           “Steady your line, men!” he called out, while the Sergeant-Major rode along the front of the skirmish-line, to steady and straighten the cavalrymen.

           With blood-curdling screams, the Amalekites charged. No more were their thoughts about seizing booty or women; they wished only to rid themselves of the Egyptians, who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere to ruin their ravaging of innocents and their property. By this time, Djer had ceased to think of the escaped Israelites as a leaderless, troublesome rabble; to his soldier’s eye, they were the innocent victims of a mob of armed peasants. He recalled two years before when, fresh out of Academy, his then-Captain Pramet had ordered him to lead his men into attacking a rear guard of retreating Hyksos.

           “Drive them out, drive them out, 2nd Lieutenant Djer!” the captain had bellowed, “for they have dominated us native Egyptians for the past hundred years! Drive them out, I say!”

           The Hyksos, for all their bluster and overreach, had left the Royal Egyptian Army a significant war-wagon: the chariot. Nonetheless, Djer had led his then-troopers, the 257th Regiment of Horse (“Head of Anubis”), in a final charge, which sent the Hyksos packing, back to Palestine, where these Israelites belonged, as well.

           But that was different, Djer thought quickly, those Hyksos were seasoned warriors, and gave us one hell of a fight, before riding off to quit Egypt for good. These Israelites are but liberated slaves, leaderless and helpless....

           No time for further reminiscing, he thought, Now is the time for one final assault on the Amalekite line—if one could call it even a line.Let our troops totally destroy the memory of Amalek from beneath the heavens, and never forget them.

           “Form up, form up, my brave boys—no, today you are men, for certain!” he heard the orders of the Sergeant-Major, “Let us charge this rabble, and drive them away from Mother Egypt for good!”

           As he watched approvingly, his tired but eager soldiers formed a line—

           It would be straighter still, he thought, had they not been so tired from a morning’s fighting. Still, my boys do me proud.

           No more time to think or plan, he thought, seeing the Amalekites, themselves tired but still wielding their deadly slings and war-clubs, and readying for a final charge. O Anubis! Guard Thou Thy namesake soldiers today, and shield them from the weapons of the infidel!

           The Amalekites charged. The Egyptians did not panic; as was customary, they listened for the orders of their commander. Djer kept a weather eye on the lumbering enemy, who was getting closer and closer, eager for the blood of his young troops.

           “Steady, men—steady, steady—let the savages get as close as an arrow can carry for its strongest and most effective result!”

           This was a euphemism; the Egyptians had been known for millennia for the deadly arrows they carried, some dipped into black-adder-oil for a poisonous result.

           “Steady, men—they grow closer—ah, here they have come, to receive our Egyptian welcome—fire, Men! Fire, fire, fire!”

           The arrows sped off straight and true, and Djer heard the deadly thunk as each one found a target. The Amalekites either dropped in their tracks, spilling their stolen gold from pouches or beneath their ragged tunics. Others, only wounded, turned to flee. Djer knew it would take a short while for the poison to do its work.

           Nevertheless, the battle was practically over.

           “D Troop and F Troop!” the Sergeant-Major called, and Djer nodded in satisfaction, “Pursue the enemy closely, and be prepared to give him the edge of your khopesh or spear. Let us discourage him from ever re-entering the boundaries of Holy Mother Egypt!”

           With a shout, the men of those troops spurred up their horses, and set off after the Amalekites—but at a safe distance, in case the wretches should re-form and attempt a final charge. Djer doubted that that would happen, however; the Amalekites had been decimated, and were heading to their lairs in the caves of Mt. Seir.

           These boys are the flower of Egypt, he thought. I am very lucky. Sleep safely in your Royal Bed tonight, Holy God-Pharaoh Merneptah!

           At last, it was over. the Amalekites despaired of stealing any more gold, and left the women they would have raped, where they lay, in various stages of undress. Off they ran, helter-skelter, while the Sergeant-Major despatched Companies C and D to pursue, careful not to fall into an ambush or trap.

           Lt. Djer, his lance still dripping with Amalekite blood, gathered his command staff beneath a tree in an oasis of palms, and asked them to give report. Out of the corner of his eye, he beheld the young Israelite wench approaching; her long black hair blew softly in the desert breeze, and she met his curious glance with a smile.

           View halloo, thought Lt. Djer foolishly, Whose little girl are you?

           The girl made to grasp Qir’s bridle, but the young lieutenant shook his head: “I’m on duty, Miss,” he said.

           The Hebrew girl smiled and tossed her head. “I will wait, General, until you are off duty.”

           “Lieutenant,” mumbled the embarrassed cavalryman, “I am but a Lieutenant.”

           “Lieutenant, then,” said the girl, “How can we ever repay you?” And she fluttered her lashes at Djer.

           For the young Egyptian officer, it had been a successful day of combat against a mortal enemy and harasser of his nation’s camel caravans between the Homeland and Nubia, and points West, into Africa.

           Still, he thought, how to justify an Egyptian military unit protecting a ragtag mob of Israelites? He would have to think about that....

           “I was speaking to you, My Brave Lieutenant,” said the Israelite maiden. Djer looked at her through the scalp-wound he had suffered in combat, “You are wounded. Dismount your noble steed; I will bathe your wound.”

           Still in a post-battle daze, Djer allowed himself to be persuaded: he, like his triumphant soldiers (several of whom were cheering a Song of Victory to the Pharaoh Merneptah) needed some rest after the rigors of their morning.

           He stepped—no, more like falling—from his horse, Qir, and the Israelite girl—was she sixteen? No, seventeen was more like it—

           She caught him as he staggered.

           “Come with me, come with me, Sir Lieutenant,” she smiled, “You and your men are our saviors. Moses is nowhere to be found, and it was Adonai’s will that a troop of brave Egyptians should ride to our rescue. We owe you our lives.”

           Numbly, Djer nodded, letting the girl lead towards the pleasant grottoes near the Sea of Reeds. As his consciousness returned, he saw she was a saucy minx—not at all like the stiff, aristocratic women his parents were always arranging liaisons with. She was short, but, even beneath her black robes, well-proportioned. His head ached, and he needed sleep—just a little sleep....

           She took him by the hand. “We owe you our lives,” she said again, and he nodded.

           “It was nothing—” he said, “Any conscientious soldier would have done exactly what I—what we—did.”

           She stopped, and her dark-brown eyes stared into his.

           “Nay,” she said, “My Lord Officer, I disagree. For, as I said, our God willed that you should save us from death, or worse. I must reward you....”

           In the coolness of the grotto, she was as good as her word. Beneath her robes, she was dirty from the desert, but enticing and full of secrets.

           Afterward, Djer felt better: his Israelite maiden had been as good as her promise.

           “What is your name?” he asked, resting his head on his hand, as he rolled to a side-position.

           “Delilah,” she answered, showing a mouthful of perfect, straight teeth which gleamed pure white in the darkness of the grotto, “My name is Delilah. And yours, My Hero Captain of Cavalry?”

           “Lieutenant,” he corrected her automatically, “’I am but a lieutenant. And my name, My Dear One, is Djer.”

           The girl stretched contentedly, like a desert cat.

           “Djer—Djer,” she repeated, “I think that I—love you. And you know, Lieutenant, that according to the laws of my tribe, our coupling makes us man and wife.”

           Djer was astonished: it was not the first time that a rescued victim had rewarded him in such a way. He quickly rose, dusting the desert sand off his uniform.

           “I am not familiar with your laws, Miss Delilah,” he said stiffly, again becoming the Royal Egyptian Army officer he was and aspired to remain, “but I must disagree. In Egyptian Law, any female captive is fair game for the victors—and the victors must always be the Army and its soldiers.”

           Delilah reached out a hand; he helped her rise. Before he could resist, the little minx wrapped her arms around his body armor, and began kissing him. Protesting, Djer tried to push her away. Unfortunately, her grip was so tight, that, in so doing, he pushed her down.

           Instantly, her expression changed: “You may shove me away, my mighty warrior, but you will not be rid of me so easily. Those other wenches—the Amalekites, the Hivites, and everyone else such—you may dispose of, as easily as a dog rids itself of a flea. But I am different—“

           Djer had had enough. He saluted, and said in a formal tone, “Good day, Madame. I must return to my troop. Thank you for your acquaintance, but it ends here.”

           Before he could resist or protest, the girl flung a handful of red dust in his eyes. Strangely, it did not sting; it melted into his eyes, not affecting them.”

           “Hye, Zye, Hine,” the girl intoned, “Now, you are mine.”

           Djer turned on his heel. “I am my own man, Miss Delilah,” he said angrily, “and our friendship is over.”

           “Think not so,” whispered the girl, “for I will stick to you as bark to a tree; as needles to cactus; as the tapestry which hangs over the Pharaoh’s Royal Throne.”

            Djer walked—no, marched away; as he did, he heard the girl laughing—a curious mixture of human laughing, and a cat’s howling. He thought nothing of it.

Rabbi David Hartley Mark is from New York City’s Lower East Side. He attended Yeshiva University, the City University of NY Graduate Center for English Literature, and received semicha at the Academy for Jewish Religion. He currently teaches English at Everglades University in Boca Raton, FL, and has a Shabbat pulpit at Temple Sholom of Pompano Beach. His literary tastes run to Isaac Bashevis Singer, Stephen King, King David, Kohelet, Christopher Marlowe, and the Harlem Renaissance.