Southern Free Marches, City States of Ostwick, Markham, and Hercinia. Two years before Dragon Age: Origins.
Prologue:
"Set. Strike. Strike. Strike. Parry. Set. Strike." My body followed the commands as though my body had no control. This is what I am, a soldier in the great Ostwick Army. When will I get to fight a real, breathing human being? I have been training for months now in combat. There is not much to tell about my past, and less I care to tell. Battle is what I crave, money is what I need, and a future to live to see. My name is Curt Rios, I am a private in the Fist Vanguard Regiment. I hope to survive the first battle; we are the first ones in, and the last ones out.
Act One: Harcinia
Part One: The Shadows
War. We have been ordered to move up the coast towards Hercinia. I have no knowledge of why war was called, nor do I need one. This is what I am paid to do. The Ostwick Navy is too small to transport any troops close to the target, and I heard officers saying that they're going to be used to harass enemy shipping lines. The marching is slow and tiresome. Boredom takes over in the silence, I start a chant I learned from my father. "And when I get to heaven, to the Maker I will tell: One more soldier reporting sir, I've served my time in hell." Others started chanting it with me, soon the whole platoon was in sync. After a few days of forced march you have to be on alert, fatigue starts to play with your senses. You hear things while awake, and your dreams are odd to say the least. In one I was chasing a shadow. And the closer I got to it the faster it went, until I collapsed onto my knees gasping for air. More shadows appeared all around me. I tried to cut them with my blade, but my strike were to weak. They devoured me. The Chantry Priest told me it was only a dream and that it resulted from the long march. We arrived at a small village, they weren't prepared. The scuried about to put up a resistance, but it wont do any good. The war drums started beating. Bum bum bum, my heat pounded with it. The unit was one. I was in the third line when I saw our captain on the horse, "Kill them all, leave no one alive." Those were the command. The trumpets sounded. A field of steel swords and shields and a sea of chain carged towards the small village. I quickly overtook those in front of me; it wasn't me running, but instead the thirst for violence inside of me. My swod was waving over my head as I came to my first opponent. I swung my sword at his chest with all my might, sceaming as I swung. There was no hope for him, the others were easily slaughtered. The villagers held up in the chantry. We encircled the building as the village was blazed into an oblivion. Captain gaves us the order to set fire to the chantry, the only one to object vocally was my armoured sergeant. After a few seconds of deliberation between him and the captain he was the first to throw the torch onto the thatch roof. An inferno quickly developed and we took what little supplies the village had. A few men stayed behind to notify the runners from other divisions and to make sure nobody left the Chantry. It was only at camp that night I realized what I had done. If I can't forgive myself how can th Maker forgive me?
Modifié par xI extremist Ix, 02 février 2010 - 03:18 .
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