RyushiBlade on 24/2/2004 at 00:06
Ok, so my Latin is a little rusty. Non existant, in fact. I've never taken a class on it... so I'll get my friend to fix the title for me. Heh. Anyway, this is another fan fic of mine starring Arkantos, an Imperial General known for his creativeness in the heat of battle, his charismatic personality, and his frequent disregard for any orders given except his own. I wasn't sure whether to make this another group story (like in the Help Tuco threads) because I've got my own plans. But I've decided to go ahead and let anyone who wants to add onto the story, and I can write another version on the side by myself. So without further ado, I give you Exercitus Millarious Lupinus.
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The war was entering its third year. Neither side showed weakness, neither side showed promise of victory. It was a savage, brutal war, one begun a millennia ago and condemned never to be finished. The wolves were hungry.
***
“Commander! The enemy approaches!”
Arkantos shaded his eyes from the sun, staring off across the rolling planes. “From which direction?”
“Directly north sir. Trackers have reported two smaller bands who are assumed to try a pincer maneuver at the time of the main offensive.”
Arkantos shook his head sadly and surveyed his troops. Two months… two bloody months in these plains! Constantly watching for surprise attacks, constantly defending the camps. And the Emperor thought he could win? He was under estimating the enemy severely.
“I want the left and right wings to move forward on my command! The main lines are to stay as they are, fighting line forming a wall of shields. Hold up your spears! Pike-men and spearmen behind them, weapons and shields up! You know the drill! They’ll most likely try leap over as they have been doing.” Arkantos nodded to his lead tracker and raised his voice over the crowd of five-thousand men. “All men with spears, pikes or halberds! To the front lines! Shields up! The enemy approaches, spread the word!”
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. They’d need a miracle to win. His men numbered only five thousand. True, the majority were well-rested and fit. But for gods sake, it was the smallest army in the country! Where were the Imperial reinforcements? Why was Cyrodiil holding them back? Surely the enemy couldn’t have reached that far into the mainland?
Arkantos’ train of thought was derailed by the blaring war horns. He turned to the north, facing the rolling hills and as the first opponent crested the horizon, a cold, icy feeling spread throughout his body and froze him in place.
A wave of wolves flowed down the hill, a roiling mass of fur and claws. Hundreds upon thousands of the beasts converging to an army to rival ten thousand men… And all that stood in their way was his small band. Death was the only option. They couldn’t retreat even if they wanted to.
A volley of arrows greeted the oncoming wave. The air was like a solid wall of wood, felling the werewolves hundreds of yards before they could even think of jumping. The archers paused to reload and the next wave of wolves, scrambling over their fallen, ran towards Arkantos’ army.
“Ready!” The men tensed. The battle field, now devoid of falling arrows, was strangely quiet. The murmurs of prayers to Stendarr, God of Mercy, and to Arkay, God of the cycle of life and death, reached his alert ears. He had fought so many times, from skirmishes along Cyrodiil’s border, to full-frontal wars such as this. Still the sadness reached him. So many brave men… not enough life to go around. Or perhaps just too much death.
The werewolves seemed to defy gravity by leaping fifty feet and straight over the heads of the front ranks. So predictable… The first ten tens were bristling with spearheads. Blood rained down in the gallons, claws lashed out from dying beasts to strike his men upon the head. Another volley of arrows took out more of the enemy.
A group of wolves ran just out of range of the spears before leaping. Some of his taller men sliced into the gut of the wolves, but the leap proved successful in getting a band past his front lines. They were dealt with at the cost of twenty men.
Roars, screams, screeches and yells pierced the late afternoon air. Arkantos was still safe, his men protecting him fiercely despite his grumbling. The wind was indeed blowing towards them. They were winning…
“Sir! Parties close in from the east and west!”
Arkantos cursed. “Bring up the reserves!” Raising his voice, he added, “Main lines draw back! Left wing forward, sun to our backs!”
The men obeyed, but his front lines could not be moved as easily as he assumed. The next wave slammed straight into the front lines. Wolves howled, impaled on the spears. Other wolves rammed into the bodies of their fallen who covered the spears. The line was crumbling, claws tearing through armor and shields as though it were so much paper. Archers let loose one last volley to get the strangling wolves at the back.
With a final push, the frontlines were broken. His men were running backwards as fast as they could to get out of the pincer movement trying to be put on them. Arkantos could hear the yells from his reserves as they were being slaughtered. But it had to be done…
An especially big wolf jumped into the middle of his circle of guards, coming in from somewhere above and unseen. With reflexes that would have amazed the wolf, had he even seen it coming, Arkantos brought his sword across its throat and back, running it through the head. The wolf was pried from the blade and he stood ready. The fight was quickly turning from tactics to melee. He could see groups of his soldiers forming circles around wolves, while in some areas the opposite was happening. Yet his army remained brave and true, bringing up their shields and holding their own until others could arrive.
“The reserves are gone! Enemies come from the northeast and southwest!”
South west?! How? They would have to circle around… he had virtually no defense at the rear. Once again he had underestimated the speed of his opponent and he would now pay dearly… Possibly with his life.
A great cry came from his men, a hopeless and despairing sound. The enemies right flanks had appeared and they were tearing through his weakened left flank with ease. Two volleys of arrows took out the wolves as well as some of his own soldiers. He had been elated only moments before, but now the feeling was all but gone. He gripped his sword tighter, helping out as best he could. His guards were protecting him bravely, but they too knew it was useless. From what he could see he had lost a good 1800 men and the blood soak through his steel boots.
“This is our last stand! I will not lie to you all after all you have done... We no longer have anything to lose! Fight! Fight for your life! Stay alive and we win! Do not be afraid of the inevitable!”
It wasn’t a perfect speech for your last words. In fact, if any other man had said it his army might have just giving up then and there. But Arkantos put pride in his men, and when he said it was their last stand, every man would give it everything they had. Another cry went up and metal crashed against claws. Howls issued forth from the new arrivals. Even with morale as it was, they could do nothing but slow the advancing ranks.
Finally, what he was looking for! He spun his short sword until the edge faced the sky and he charged forward, disregarding the shouts of his guardsmen. They were all dead, even himself. So now he was going to have fun. He brought the blade upwards and into the chest of a wolf, then drew it out and spun to flatten the nose of another wolf with the pommel of his blade. He struck again and again, drawing blood with every strike. His men were amazed at his skill and at the speed of his attacks. Bodies piled high in his wake and neither claw nor tooth could distract him. His sheer presence may have won them the battle as they were. Unfortunately, no one found out. He was struck from behind, his helmet wrenched from his head and the claw grazing his temple. Unconsciousness was imminent.
Irakaz on 24/2/2004 at 02:21
this is very good, im impressed :thumb:
i wanted to write one of these myself, but i want sure how to begin. i wouldn't add to this i would rather YOU aded further details as your style is very enjoyable to read
:thumb: :thumb: :thumb: :thumb: :thumb: :thumb:
a possible lead on from this start could be that our 'hero' Arkantos, which i believe has Greek or Etruscan origins in its structure, became a werewolf and fought against the Emperor, seeing the battles from the wolves point of view, with no hope a being cured . . . . or can he
RyushiBlade on 24/2/2004 at 02:39
Can't have our main character turning evil, now can we? Heh. But don't worry, there will be surprises a plenty. I've written another three pages (what I posted was three pages too.) But it's boring stuff, for the most part. Maybe I'll post it later when more people have given me feedback ;)
Edit: Oh yeah. If you read the background on the Imperials, you'll see that it's heavily based on the Romans/Greeks. Not so much that they seem unnatural in a land like Tamriel, of course. Strange, but true. Some of Rhedd Head's face mods even adds the whole... leafy thing on their heads.
theImmortalThief on 25/2/2004 at 09:41
How about you turn this into an RPG? It would be really interesting.
RyushiBlade on 25/2/2004 at 23:17
Like the group writing thing I was thinking about. *shrugs* I don't mind what happens really. Up to you guys, but I'm gonna post the next few pages soon.
RyushiBlade on 28/2/2004 at 22:29
All right, about time I posted the next bit. This is all I've written so far... And with various writing projects at school, I don't know whether I'll be writing more any time soon.
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Arkantos groaned and rubbed his head. Purple lights flashed on and off in front of his eyes when his finger touched the wound. He groaned again and breathed deeply until the lights went away. His head swam and he was unwilling to move further. He was lying in a nice, warm bed. The fur lined sheets were pulled straight over his head. They felt a strangely heavy, but as he was he didn’t care. Something was trying to get his attention, a small thought at the back of his mind. He wanted nothing else but to continue to lay in comfort, but he couldn’t ignore himself forever. What was it? Oh yes. Where was he? No. Who was he? ‘Ar’ something. Ar…chie? Arthur? No. Ar..k. Ark what?
Arkantos! Next. Where was he? In a bed. How did he get here? He was a general and wounded, so he must have been in a battle. Yes, that’s right, a battle against werewolves. And he’d survived! So whose bed was he in?
His eyes fluttered open and stared into the furry sheets. Now that he thought about it, they really were heavy. And rough. And… wet?
Just like those illusions where an image looks like one thing, like a candlestick, can suddenly shift to something else, like two faces, Arkantos realized what he was looking at. He groaned again and sat up, tossing the corpse of a werewolf from his body. His vision span terribly and he swayed backwards. He closed his eyes tight and waited for it to pass.
The sun was low on the horizon, almost gone. Stars were already appearing in the darkening sky overhead. The bodies around him were piled high. A short way away he could see camp fires and shouts of a camp. Another ten minutes of waiting yielded a clear head and enough gathered strength for Arkantos to pull himself to his feet. He stumbled down the bodies to the bloodstained grass below. The distant campfires and the blood red sun cast an eerie yet appropriate glow to the setting. It was indeed a lucky day.
The camp was set into a small grove of trees, a few hundred tents and small fires encircling a large bonfire and eating area. Swaying and stumbling, he made his way to the bonfire. He sat just outside the light, planting himself next to some unknown soldier. Neither spoke for a few minutes.
“How do you fair?” asked the soldier, finally.
“Fairly well.”
“Aye, you are a… a… lucky… one…” The soldier’s voice died down as
realization dawned. He turned a pale face towards the general before dropping his bowl of soup and crying out. “Arkantos!”
“The one and only. Now what’s for dinner?!” Arkantos smiled and rubbed his hands together, well aware of what was about to happen. The soldiers that could stand surrounded him, pushing in to see their leader. There were shouts of, “He’s alive?!” And, “I can’t believe it!” Arkantos took it all grinning, until stocky man pushed his way through the crowd and took him by the shoulder. “Are you well?”
He eyed the large man. He wore the colors of Cyrodiil’s Fourth Strike Team. Pretty high up. The team specialized in magic. To him, Arkantos was as insignificant as an infantryman.
“Yes… Why are you here?”
“Come with me. You’ve missed a lot. Many saw you fall; we all thought you dead.”
“Hardly.” He stood up and nodded. “Lead the way.”
Cheers were coming from every tent in the camp. Men lined the path Arkantos was walking, just to glimpse at him. He really had been assumed dead. Ha! And he thought his soldiers knew him. Die from such a cowardly attack?
The war tent that he was led into was large, a solid map-bearing table set in the middle as the dominant feature. Around it were chairs taken up by other officers more Arkantos’ rank.
“Arkantos, I present to you the war council of Morrowind. Now that you are proved alive, you will take your place among them.”
“A war council? We’ve fought for the last six months without a war council in this godforsaken country. Why form one now?”
“Take your seat. You will see.”
Grumbling, Arkantos sat down at the head of the table. He wasn’t sure if it was because of his miraculous survival or not, but he was sure he didn’t belong there. The stocky man sat down opposite him and drew his sword.
“This is Morrowind. We currently have half a million men spread throughout twenty five armies of varying numbers and strength. Our strongholds are the red pins,” he took the time to point out the strongholds throughout Morrowind. Ebonheart and Mournhold were the major centers of attention. “Encampments are yellow pins. This information is accurate from a week ago. Werewolf territories are purple.” Purple splotches covered almost a quarter of the map. They were coming from Solstheim and Skyrim, heading south down the mainland and southeast on Vvardenfell. “We think they planning on heading south to the Black Marsh. After gathering their forces, they will head west and center in on Cyrodiil. Once we fall, the rest of Tamriel will hold little problem.”
A man to Arkantos’ right spoke up. “How does the rest of the empire fair?”
“Only Skyrim and Morrowind are being attacked, I’m afraid. The resident Nords have strength coupled with experience, but so do the werewolves. Once their numbers were sufficient, Skyrim fell in less than a week.”
Another man, clad in black spoke in a voice dripping with guile. “How did the werewolves amass such an army? They used to be such a rare thing. Bands greater than ten were unheard of. Now we are dealing with them in the thousands!”
“We still don’t know…”
Arkantos cleared his throat. “All that matters, men, are that they are here. We will worry about why they’re here later. But I want some answers, some you all probably know. Unfortunately,” he added with gleaming eyes, “I have recently been declared dead, so I missed out. How did we win the battle?”
The stocky man spoke up. “That was us. We sent in wizards from the south. You missed the a few waves, but they were dealt with quickly from a distance.”
“I thank you. But what is your name, who so boldly leads his men into a battle that is not his?”
“My name is Favian. I was commanded by the Emperor to come to your assistance.”
“Hm. Fair enough.” Someone else began speaking, but Arkantos cut him off and ignored the dark look he was given by the previous speaker. “Call me a simple man, but I want things set out. Then we can analyze and strategize and whatnot. First! Our enemy numbers less than half of our own armies. Yet they beat us easily unless the odds are three to one, and even then it is a close fight. What are their strengths?”
“They are swift. Amazingly so,” the black-clad man offered.
“And they jump high, almost as if it were magic.”
“And their claws can rip through our toughest shields and armor in only a few strikes!”
Arkantos laughed and nodded. “Yes. So I’ve heard. But don’t forget, they can sniff us out from more than a mile away. And they can see in the dark. The sunlight doesn’t seem to hinder their sight either, unless the sun is directly in their
eyes.”
“Like you so kindly demonstrated in battle,” said Favian with a smile.
“Yes. I’m surprised you haven’t tried it before. It’s an old trick. Now that we know their strengths, what are their weaknesses?”
Answers were not forthcoming. They pondered upon the matter for several minutes. Favian was the first to speak. “They are creatures, and so dumb. I saw no tactics short of divided themselves in groups. Your men told me how they threw themselves at your front lines, only to be impaled.”
“Hm…” mused Arkantos, stroking his chin. “We also have an advantage in weaponry. Siege weapons have yet to be brought in, but we also have archers and pole arms. We can attack from a distance, whereas they cannot.”
Another new face added, “They also can’t control magic. They are immune to most disease, but they hold little resistance to magic.”
A trickle of ideas were finally coming. “They can’t heal either,” volunteered someone else at the far end of the table.
“Aha!” laughed a man opposite the prior. “They have a natural ability to heal swiftly. But the process is slow compared to our potions and spells. If given enough time, they can heal faster than us, but in the midst of battle we have the advantage.”
“Anything else?” asked Arkantos. Another pause proved there was nothing, but the talk had sparked something in himself. A worrying thought that had to be dealt with quickly, though it gave rise to another matter. “For each battle fought, we lose many men. But they do not all die. You wonder why we have not driven off the wolves yet? I figure at least half the men we lose die slowly… Slow enough for the lycanthropy to take hold. From there the natural healing of the wolf brings them to full strength and they join their brethren in the next battle.”
Favian hit the table with his sword. “By Gods! I never thought… ! Lorimer, send out the word. I want the bodies burned!”
The man in black hesitated. “But sir, if they are alive…”
“It is better than the alternative, general! Do it now! And then gather my men, I want spells cast around the clock. Every injured man must be cured of any potential disease.”
Lorimer nodded and left the tent. “Julius, I want you to assemble a team of our swiftest men. Send word to the Emperor of this discovery. We need potions sent to every stronghold and encampment, understand?”
The man nodded and left hastily. Lorimer drew a deep breath. “Anything else you want to add, Arkantos?”
“No. Our numbers are unsuitable for defending this ground any longer. We have kept the enemy at bay. That attack was a large one and we were lucky to survive. They won’t send more for a while, so I suggest we withdraw back to Mournhold… for now. We need to organize this.”
“Understood. You will all find in the basket beside the exit a map, marked like the one before you. Study it well. You all know where your armies stand.”
Everyone nodded and moved towards the maps and the exit. Favian took Arkantos by the arm. “You are injured and may carry the disease. Look, already your wound is swelling.”
“Thank you, friend. I will have it dealt with immediately.”
“I can have it done sooner.” Favian smiled and touched the wound gingerly. Sparks shot out from the tip of his finger and danced around the cut, working their way in. Slowly the wound closed up and left only a scar in its place. Arkantos sagged while he felt the curse being flushed from his body. “And to think, in three days I would have been one of them. You are a strange man, Favian. You carry the guise of a barbarian, but you hold the mind of a mage.”
“The Nord blood in me! My father was a Nord, my mother a Breton. I myself carry the Imperial name. Strange, no?”
Arkantos laughed heartily. “Very. But your strength and arts make a good combination. I wish you and your army luck in the coming years.”
“And I wish the same upon you. Rest well. We move out at sunrise.”
Arkantos grabbed his map and left.
Jordana on 28/2/2004 at 23:45
Great story Ryushi, hope you contnue with it. I sort of hope the lycans kick ass, even though they're "the Enemy", they're just so cool :) Maybe Arkantos could become one :p
I love the bit where he woke up under a wolf corpse..lol :laff:
