Military Ranks and Organization/Dakar Continuation

I’ve done some reworking of the ranks and organization, to better fit with traditional ranks of the Imperial army and modern ones. I won’t be updating the posts anytime soon, but here’s the basic gist of it:

Organization of Imperial Military:

Imperial Legion (Armed ground forces)-

-Legion (Uses Roman Numerals, same size as Corps)

-10x Cohorts per Legion (Uses 1^st, 2^nd, 3^rd, etc. despite being Latin, same size as Division)

-10x Centuria per Cohort (Uses Greek Numbers (Alpha, Beta, Gamma, etc, same size as Battalion)

Imperial Ranks:

Legatus-Augustus/Decurion-Augustus: Supreme Commander of the Imperial Forces/Cavalry. Highest General.

Legatus: Commander of a Legion. Lieutenant General.

Centurion: Grades 1-10, where the 1^st was also commanding officer of his Cohort. Range from Captain to Colonel.

Decurion: Cavalry equivalent of Centurions. Attached to Cohorts, not own unit. Captain to Colonel.

Optio: Second in command to centurions, however lower ranked than all of them regardless of which Centurion they work under. Lieutenant.

Evocatus: Veteran soldier who has reenlisted, gaining NCO status. Sergeant.

Miles: Basic soldier, commonly known simply as a Legionary. Private.

Any new ranks will be written as such, and any military formation references will adhere to his. Caligula is now the Decurion-Augustus, both for the Empire and Republic. Augustus is now just an Evocatus (during the fall of the Republic), Cartas and Ethias are now 3rd-Centurions (as of Dakar). Valencia is still an Admiral (since the Imperial equivalent was usually a consul or other senatorial-ranking individual), and Cassius still a Legatus. Romulus Nero is still just known as “The Centurion” since his rank has not yet been clarified in the story.

I will also be expanding Act 2 to contain the rest of the Battle of Dakar, including the usage of the Hammer of Mars. Any references to it not being finished will be removed in my pieces, but not change on the blog posts yet. Otherwise, the story will remain intact up to its current point.

Excerpt #28 Act 3 Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Within a blink, Cassius bit into his first victim. The man lost his arm at his shoulder, carved off as a machete through a cloth sheet would do. His scream of pain did not last long, due to his distinct lack of a head within a moment of his first wound. Cassius spun around and dropped the next man’s bowels onto the deck. His footwork was flawless, immaculate, and impossible to follow with the eye. Within a minute, five men were dead by his work. Of course, during this minute, Caligula thought it would be wise to join in the fray and had already crushed one Praetorian’s ribcage and snapped the neck of another. He could have drawn his sword, but then it would have gotten dirty. No one seemed to remember they either had state of the art rifles capable of firing almost as rapidly as a machine gun, or actual machine guns. It was a slaughter, partly due to the skill of the attackers, and the shock instilled in the dumfounded soldiers.

Swords were drawn and the remaining soldiers, still a decent number even though they kept losing men quite quickly, split apart in order to tackle their opponents. It was an uneven split, the Praetorians preferring to target the ones they thought would not kill them as fast. Cassius and Caligula had their reputations as being two of the greatest swordsmen in the modern age, and war heroes to boot. They were left with their commanding officer, a female of smaller stature who was running out of bullets, and a older man whom they knew less about. What was tragic to them, however, was the fact that this was not their story and the people they fought far outmatched even the best of them. As a result, they were cut down without inflicting a single casualty on the last remnants of the New Roman Republic or the Emperor’s extended family.

Cassius, known as the Bear of the West, is commonly mistaken to not be very fast. Most people assume that bears are just brutes, not refined killing machines. They think to themselves that if they move faster than him, they could catch him off guard. But this always leads to their death since one simply cannot outpace Cassius or catch him off guard. Bears are very fast creatures that pack a vicious punch. A bear will sniff you out, chase you down before you can find an inch of safety, and rend the very flesh from your bones. Cassius, while not the strongest man alive, was certainly one of the fastest and most dextrous. He would lazily block single strikes with lightning reflexes, and riposte a killing blow without batting an eye. Just as soon as one man fell, he danced into the next, the dead or dying fallen from his mind. He fought with no regard for form, etiquette, or planning past his current move. All there was to him in a fight was the glory of war.

Caligula was known as the Bull of the East, for less subtle reasons. He was big, he was strong, and he would break a man apart without a care in the world. He did not draw his blade in this fight, the same blade he bore at Dakar. Instead, he broke skilled men with his bare hands. A sword swung at him was batted aside with the back of one hand while the other delivered a killing blow to the neck. A thrust or stab was stepped around, and more bones were broken. He received quite a few scrapes and scratches, but nothing as bad as what he was delivering. For Caligula, battle brought calm to his otherwise chaotic mind. He could think clearly, concisely, and with grim determination. Caligula could plan out a series of movements and then carry them out perfectly, with every enemy falling right into place before they fell to the ground.

Augustus was another chaotic fighter, but his strength mainly came from decades of experience. He knew ever trick, ever maneuver, in the book and how to exploit it perfectly. An attempt to open his chest across was met with a vertical block, supported with a sarcastic remark, and followed through with a pretty decapitation. A thrust at his groin was sidestepped, and quick move forward brought his sword through the man’s stomach up to the hilt. Someone trying to sneak behind him found a pistol in his face, and then a bullet. Augustus could focus on every detail, every nuance of every movement, and react accordingly. He always fought on the defensive, and everyone always played into his tricks.

The spawn of Augustus, young Portia Octavian, was more of a go-getter than her lazy father, and the only formally trained fighter amongst them. Cassius fought in the field of Eire, Augustus was baptized in the jungles of the Aztecs, and Caligula was, well, Caligula. But Portia had the privilege of being trained by Rome’s top veteran swordsmen, as well as her father. She might not have been as uncouth or unpredictable as the others, but she was skilled nonetheless. She also had on her side a shock faster. The Praetorians were hesitant enough to engage their commander that it gave her all the openings she needed. A moment’s hesitation brought her through the staunchest of defenses and into their ribs, using the sword she had picked up from Disraeli’s corpse. Leaving the sword there, she threw the man backwards into his comrades, snatching his rifle away as she did so. She smirked as she sprayed rounds into the men before her, cutting them down in a flash of lead. These four fighters, within a few minutes, had sent every last Praetorian to the ground. They were either dead, or wishing they were.

After running through his last opponent, Cassius wiped what little gore that had stayed upon his blade off on the jacket of a corpse. He slid it easily back into its sheath and stepped around the fallen. He spoke to Augustus, “Nice plan.”

“Yeah, I figured you’d like it,” Augustus responded. “Got to kill some Romans.”

“A beautiful day in my book. When they’re of the Imperial nature.”

Augustus nodded. “Aye.”

They stood around for a bit then, unsure of where to go next. Portia did not know the next step of her father’s plan. All she had known was to bring Pax with her whenever the Emperor decided to treat with the Republic. She had received the message weeks ago, alongside one of the covert letters Augustus would normally send to her. Even Augustus himself wasn’t sure of what to do now. He had planned for the eventual negotiations between the Empire and Republic, but had planned on the Emperor remaining behind. If it had gone according to plan, Sevarius would be dead and someone else would wear the crown. It was one of the Praetorians, the one Portia had pulled down, that broke the silence.

He stood up, hands raised in the air above his cowering head. Scores of guns snapped to and were trained on him. “So…nice of you all to spare my life so far. Real nice of you all. Real nice.”

Cassius drew his revolver and aimed it at him. “Any reason to let you live now then?”

Portia raised a hand, motioning for Cassius to lower his gun. “He’s fine. We can trust this one.”

“Why? Who the hell is he?” Cassius did not put his gun away, instead just waved it around as he demanded a explanation.

A spark of realization zapped into Caligula. “Hey! It’s Cartas!”

Cartas smiled sheepishly. “Oh. Hello there m’lord. It’s been a few years.”

Augustus looked over at Portia. “Who the hell is Cartas?”

“He was with us at Dakar,” Caligula interjected. “Or rather, me. Lost him for a bit before the Hammer struck. Didn’t think he lived.”

Dante muttered under his breath, “I still don’t know what happened.” Valencia elbowed him in the side. “S-sorry ma’am.”

Cassius, not hearing Dante, went on. “So? Why should we trust him? Hell, why on earth should we trust this girl?” He gestured over towards Portia. “Let alone her father? Did you forget what just happened, right before these shenanigans? He’s a traitor to the Republic!”

Caligula raised his arms, gesturing for Cassius to calm down. “Now, Cassius, lower your voice. They can hear you just fine. Augustus never hurt any of us…”

“How do you know? You read the note, you know he was part of the invasion! He isn’t even a citizen, so why should we trust him? He’s already betrayed us once, and now his own blood. Who’s to say he won’t do it again when it’s convenient?”

“I am.” Augustus spoke clearly and with force. “I never betrayed the New Roman Republic. If anything, I’ve helped save it. Look at yourselves now: you’re still alive.”

“And so is the Emperor. He got away because of you and your kin.”

Portia stepped in now. “You would all be lying in your own blood if it weren’t for me. This ship would be Imperial property now, and the Republic really would be gone. My father is a traitor to no one. You’ve merely misinterpreted his loyalties.”

Cassius felt drained. The rush of battle was leaving him, and the day was setting in hard. Too much had happened in too short of a time, and no one seemed to have any sort of feasible explanation as to what should be done. He threw his arms out, begging for an answer. “Then tell me, who the hell are you loyal to?”

Portia and Augustus spoke at the same time. “Rome.”

“Which…one…?”

“There isn’t a one. There aren’t several. There is just Rome. The ideals it embodies. The values it promotes. Political names and boundaries do not restrict such a pervasive force. I am not loyal to the Roman Empire, just as I would not be to the Republic. But I am not a traitor. I have always stuck by what I believe in, what my brother dreamed of. Rome. Not as a country, a state, or whatever. But as an idea, a perfect thought. A way of life that brings out the best and fixes the worst. Sevarius, the first one, had the idea for a brilliant Golden Age, one that Rome hasn’t seen for centuries. It would have been perfect. And I still think it can exist. That’s what I’m loyal to. Rome.”

As they stood there, out on the bloodied deck of the Blooded Bull, it started to rain.

Break

So, haven’t updated anything in a while. I’ve decided to take a break from Cassius to do some more research since I felt mine was lacking. I plan on getting a copy of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, which will help. So, otherwise, I’ll just be playing Skyrim (Dragonborn will be fun for Windhelm Renegade) and maybe try some artwork for my works.

Excerpt #27 Act 3 Chapter 1

Act 3: And the Gods Would Not Harm Them

Chapter 1

Caligula, Cassius, and Augustus stood abreast of each other, well in front of the defensive line. Subconsciously they had stood with Augustus in the center, Caligula to his left and Cassius on his right. The wind slapped at their clothes, waving them out behind them. None spoke as the growl of the plane engines grew slowly into roars. From behind crates and sandbags, soldiers and volunteers gripped their rifles. A few weren’t afraid, more still were tense, and the majority of them were incredibly nervous. But the three figures did not show any emotion. They stood still, their backs straight to the men behind them. With the way the sunlight was reflecting off of the three men, Valencia thought a brilliant photograph, or at least a painting, could be made.

“Clear the deck!” The announcement crackled out from the speakers, announcing the arrival of the Roman Emperor’s vessel. It was the only aircraft that flew low, the only one landing on the Blooded Bull. As it rapidly grew in size, now over the edge of the bow, one could make out the designs. Near the nose on each side were the three R’s arranged in a triangle that made up the Emperor’s personal crest, Roma, Roma, Roma: The City of Rome, in the Province of Rome, in the Empire of Rome. Behind that, painted on the wings, was the Imperial Crest, the same crossed olive branch and gladius that made the Mark of Caesar. The craft was a dark brown, with the bottom being a darker shade that the upper half. Several machine guns could be seen poking out of each side as the plane reached the halfway mark between the bow and the defensive line. It gave a thump, followed by a creak, as it touched down on the deck. The wind from the props blew in the faces of the defenders, causing several to throw a hand up in order to shield their eyes. But the three men in front still did not move. Caligula might have squinted a little, but other than that no one flinched. As the plane ground to a halt, silence was all around. The door, situated just behind the cockpit, opened and a stairway was pushed up against it by some of the deck crew.

“Steady, boys.” Augustus muttered back to the men behind him and Cassius held up a fist, signaling to hold fire until his command. A clattering of steps accompanied the several men disembarking from the vessel, each clad in Praetorian black and bearing a different sort of firearm. Augustus, Caligula, and Cassius counted twenty men to come off. Then, an announcement was made from inside the vessel. “Announcing his Divine Eminence, the Caesar of Rome, Heir of the World, His Majesty the Emperor Sevarius Octavian the Second!” With that, the Emperor walked out of the craft.

He stood shorter than the men guarding him, but that was only because they were chosen in part for their height. He was a well fed man, but not portly. Muscle could be hinted at beneath the folds of his heavy coat. The coat was black, made in the same fashion as the Praetorians, but was lined with fur dyed purple. As he stepped down, he gripped just below the collar with both his hands, clad in black gloves. His dark brown, almost black, hair was cropped short and in military fashion. Atop this sat the crown of Rome, worn since the first Emperor Julius Augustus. It was a simple piece, but evoked immense power. It was a simple laurel wreath, fashioned in intricate cherry laurel branches. This crown had been worn by every single Emperor of Rome, throughout the entirety of the Empire’s history. It had seen glorious victories, conquests, and expansions. It bore witness to terrible defeats, invasions, and losses of land. But none of this glory could be seen in the dull, bored eyes of Sevarius.

As he walked down the steps, several of Sevarius’s guards emptied out after him. The three men counted twenty more, as they expected. The Praetorians formed five ranks of men, walking in complete unison and silence as machine would. Sevarius took a position in the front row, in the middle of his men.

The guard to his left began to speak, “Announcing his Imper-”, before Sevarius lazily waved a hand to cut him off. “Enough, Disraeli. They know who I am. And I know them. Or at least, the ones who matter for this particular circumstance.”

Cassius was the first to speak. “And what circumstance is that? Surrender?”

Sevarius rose an eyebrow at this, in mock shock. “Oh dear, not one for protocol are we? Tsk tsk, such a…barbarian.”

Cassius was unlike his namesake in that he was unskilled in social tact and workings. His anger was allowed to show, and Sevarius smirked at this. “Calm yourself, yon Cassius. And yes, we are negotiating surrender. But not mine, mind you. Oh no. Never mine.”

“I thought as much, your Majesty.” Cassius sneered. He extended his raised arm out to his right, giving the signal to ready arms. Clicks and clacks could be heard as rounds were chambered. Sevarius merely rolled his eyes and waved back with his hand. His men spread apart and moved about, so that two rows were formed now with the front on their knees. Rifles were slung down from shoulders and each man pulled a bolt located on the left of the gun backward.

“Really? We’re really going to do this? You might have more people, but my guns shoot faster. A lot faster. And in greater volume as well. It’s a new age, my boy, one of automatic weapons for every soldier.”

“You’ll not have time to revel in this, since my first round is going in your head.”

Cassius drew his revolver and pulled back the hammer. “Fire on my command!”

Sevarius smiled. “Ditto.”

In the commotion, no one noticed the figure dart down the stairs and scurry towards Sevarius. No one, save Augustus. His eyes grew wide at seeing it, and he turned to shout back as Cassius’s troops. “Hold! Hold fire! Don’t shoot dammit!”

The men, shocked into inaction by the outburst, followed orders. But Cassius didn’t. So the Emperor smiled wider as Cassius pulled the trigger back on his gun. The gun kicked, and Augustus was afraid that more shots would follow. But none did. And the round Cassius fired collided with a solid steel shield just inches from Sevarius’s grinning face. Behind the large shield, a light, lilted voice spoke in a calm demeanor. “You forget your shield, your majesty.”

Augustus glared over at Cassius, who only shrugged and said, “Well, the shield worked.”

The shield lowered, and in front of the Emperor stood a short woman, almost a girl really. Her dark brown hair wasn’t short like the men around her, but wasn’t as long as Valencia kept hers and kept up in a tail. She wore a black dress uniform, signifying her as the commanding officer of the Praetorian Guard. Her facial features were sharp, and invited not lust but respect. In fact, she bore a striking resemblance to someone very familiar to the crew of the Blooded Bull, but in a strange way. The face they knew was never serious, until today. Augustus scratched at his beard, speaking kindly. “Hello, Portia dear.”

The girl looked up at the man and smiled warmly. “Hello, father.”

Sevarius rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes. It’s a wonderful family reunion and whatnot.”

Augustus stepped forward. “Not much involving you is wonderful. What, did you bring my wife too?”

“Yes, the Empress is in the plane.” Sevarius spoke through an exasperated, tired sigh.

Cassius looked at both Augustus and Sevarius with disgust. “That’s horrible.”

“Oh calm down, lad. She isn’t a blood relation to any except Portia.”

“Yes, barbarian. Listen to the doddering fool. Really wasn’t my idea anyhow. A political maneuver decided on by my Adviser in order to cement support.”

Cassius shook his head and plucked his revolver back into its holster. “Is she going to make an appearance.”

Sevarius looked to Augustus. “I see why you left her. Such a wretch. Begged me to let her come, wanted to scream at you and tear your eyes out or something. But as we come in for a landing,” he through his arms up, “Bam! She gets cold feet and starts crying.”

Valencia spoke out from the defensive line a few yards back. “You’d speak of your wife and this girl’s own mother in front of her?”

“Oh, it’s nothing I haven’t said about her myself, Miss Cinna.”

Augustus smirked. “That’s my girl. I think Phoenix might be insane anyhow. If there were ever a personification of absolute pride and greed…” He left it off at that, and Cassius finished for him. “It’d be married to a wretch like her.”

The men manning the line chuckled and some snickers came forth. Sevarius, ever the statesman, batted not an eye. Cassius walked forth and threw his arms skyward, turning around to face everyone at some point. “Come now! Might we end this gossip and get this filth off of Admiral Cinna’s ship? What say you men?”

The men cheered, called out war cries, and raised their weapons above their heads. Cassius grinned and faced the Emperor and his entourage. “What say you, King of the Romans? What are your terms?”

“I’d rather negotiate with actual Romans. You know, citizens and the like. Uncle?”

Augustus raised his hands in mock surprise. “Whoa now. I’m just a medico. He’s the one with scores of guns trained at you.”

“What of you, Caligula Claudius?”

“I’d rather not. This is too entertaining.”

“Valencia Cinna? It is your ship, after all.”

“Cassius outranks me.”

Cassius bore a wolfish grin, one of victory. “Looks like I’m your man. Give them forth.”

Sevarius wiped his brow with a gloved hand. “Well fine. But you won’t like them.”

“I don’t like you, and you’re still here.” Another round of laughter followed. Cassius, in an uncharacteristic manner, was treating this negotiation just like a stage play. While he was viewing it a comedy, Sevarius felt that it would soon turn to a tragedy.

“A sharp tongue is all fine and good. Just look at my uncle, he could cut a diamond to dust. But you’re really missing the point of things, boy.”

“I’ve got a sharp sword too.” With a quick wink and slash across his throat, Cassius had the men laughing again.

But Sevarius was finished with these games. He was Emperor and had much more important matters to deal with instead of rogue nations sailing in his seas. He signaled to Portia, and she fired a shot into the air from her pistol. The sharp crack hooked everyone’s attention, and Sevarius spoke in a fierce tone. “Tongues dry out! Swords lose their edge! But none of you can see time as it unravels. None of you!”

The deck was quiet, and not even the birds could be heard again. Cassius frowned at Sevarius. “And you are so enlightened that you can preach to us?”

“I am the Emperor of the Roman Empire. I am all that embodies, entails, and represents. I am the Senate and People of Rome. I run the most powerful force in the world. That has ever been in the world! And you filth, you cretins of low repute, you think to play games? You think that, no matter how frustrated I get here, no matter how witty your replies are, it will matter? Congratulations: you’ve made me angry. Me, the man who can sink this entire ship and butcher every single man, and woman, here with a single word? My pride is strong, but I am still prone to rash decisions. Shall this be one?”

Cassius spat down on the deck, in Sevarius’s direction. “Speak then.”

“Very well.” Sevarius nodded. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded it and cleared his throat. “My terms, the terms of the Roman Empire to the remnants of the New Roman Republic, are as such:

1. The nation of the New Roman Republic will finally cease to exist officially, and its territories returned to their nation of origin, the Roman Empire.

2. The Blooded Bull will be returned to the Imperial Fleet, unless otherwise scuttled.

3. Valencia Cinna, upon common agreement of the Senate and Provincial Governors, will be granted amnesty and allowed to return to the Empire as a full citizen, but will not be given a position in the Legion or sister branches.

4. Caligula Claudius, upon request by his father, will be granted the same privileges as Valencia Cinna and be given a rank in the Caesar’s Cataphracts equivalent to his rank before leaving the Empire.

5. Augustus Sevarius will has his exile extended to a full one, and cease all relations to the Empire. Upon request, the Persians have opted to disallow him from entering their territory as well.

6. Gaius Cassius the XII, will be tried as a traitor to the Empire under suspicion of his close ties with his homeland, Eire of the Celtic Nations. His crimes are attempted subversion of Roman sovereignty. If found guilty, he will be executed.

Are there any questions?”

Cassius spoke up. “Just one. How deluded are you to think that I’ll accept these terms?”

“I never expected this. These are a formality. I’d discuss the issue in full length, but you’ve wasted a lot of time already. I’m needed elsewhere.”

“So you expect to just walk away and leave? We’re at war.” He drew his revolver out and cocked it, pointing it at Sevarius’s chest in an instant. “I could blow you away right now.”

Sevarius yawned. “Yes yes. I’m sure you could. But, you won’t. And I really must go. Portia shall remain behind with these men to enforce terms.” He turned to face Portia. “See to it the terms are negotiated within to acceptable level we discussed earlier. I’ll meet you in Merida, with the wretch in chains.”

“Which wretch, your majesty?”

“The foreign one.”

“Your will shall be done, your majesty.”

Without another word or glance, the Emperor made his way back up the aircraft. Two Praetorians moved the staircase backwards and away from the craft. Without waiting for clearance from the flight deck, the D-7 backed up and turned about. It took off without much fanfare, and everybody merely watched it for the twenty or so minutes it took. The Emperor had been correct: Cassius wouldn’t kill him there. He would wait until he had him face-to-face, man-to-man, swords drawn and only their lives on the line. It would be then, and only ever then, that Cassius would kill the Emperor of Rome.

Cassius was about to speak to Portia when he felt a hand press on his shoulder. “I’ll take it from here, lad.” Cassius looked up to see Augustus walking towards his daughter and the forty Praetorians.

“You have my sword, dear?” Augustus asked Portia. Without breaking stride he caught the object thrown to him from Portia, which she unbuckled from her belt. “Excellent.” He grinned as he drew the blade, a long, straightened, heavy cavalry saber, and slashed the throat of the first Praetorian he came to. Grinning, he danced into the next man, this time running the blade through the surprised man’s chest. Following suit, Portia fired a round into Disraeli’s head, sending him and what was left of his skull to the ground. She pulled the man next to her down to the ground and shot the next three men in front of her. Just as the Praetorians in front started to react, they were stopped by the sight of sunlight glistening off metal. Eyes grew wide as Cassius drew his bastard sword from the scabbard on his back. He looked on with serious determination, and then began his rough harvest.

Windhelm Renegade: Day 5

As it turns out, even large cats hate water a lot. This odd little quirk saved my life yesterday, from a vicious sabre cat eager for my flesh. I’m not sure about those Khajiit or whatever, the people-cats, but I don’t plan to find out. Sneaky bastards if you ask me. Anyhow, I’m sitting in a nice, cozy little shack by the side of the river, decorated very nicely with the butchered remains of whomever lived here.

Yesterday, after dozing off for an hour or two, I left off from Windhelm. I’ll return soon enough, I guess, when I’m strong enough to fight the guards and rich enough to pay my bounty. I can’t right now, too risky. I killed some men back there; they’ll take me to the block soon as I set foot inside those black gates. The way I was thinking, I would just skirt out of the Hold, maybe stay at a little village just outside the border. I’m going to get my revenge, someway and somehow, but not now. Now is a time for rest, a time for thinking, and a time for bandaging claw and teeth marks.

When I had awoken, I thought to check that corpse again, maybe find some weapons for myself. I found near his corpse a nice longbow, made from a very sturdy wood. The bandit probably stole it from someone rich. I snatched a quiver from his back that held maybe five arrows of a very poor quality. He had a dagger strapped to his belt so I grabbed that as well. Feeling that was enough to at make me seem threatening, I set off towards the river, maybe fifty yards to my north. I knew that, if I followed it long enough, it’d take me to somewhere civilized and hopefully out of this Hold. As I crawled over rocks and crunched through snow in order to reach it, I felt some sort of happiness build inside me. Here I was, Sarthis Merithati, sticking it to the Nords like everyone back in the Grey Quarter must have dreamed of every cold night. They couldn’t cage me, couldn’t kill me, and now they can’t stop me. I was drinking in these thoughts, slowly losing my grasp on reality, when a loud, soul-chilling shriek came from seemingly nowhere. I was just at the river banks, and realized that a rundown shack was sitting a short ways ahead of me. The shriek had originated from there. I dropped down low, crouching, and took my bow out. I clumsily slipped an arrow out from the quiver (it’s been years since I’ve shot anything, and even then I wasn’t too skilled) and placed it against the string. Waiting, I watched the doorway of the shack, while also trying to peer through the holes in the wall. I could see movement, but not what was doing so. Then it peeked its ugly head out, and my heart ran into my stomach on its way down.

The sabre cat knew I was there instantly, I could tell. It sniffed the air and then looked straight into me eyes. I could see, just for a moment, the pure, chaotic hatred that dwelled inside. It shrieked again and started for me, not even bothering to set up a pounce. I pulled my arrow back and let it fly, feeling quite proud that I managed to hit the bulking cat in its leg. Sadly, it did not slow it down at all. It crashed right into me, knocking me flat and wide into the river. The rocks that made up its bed broke my fall in a bad way, and I could feel the blood flowing. I staggered up to me feet and drew my dagger. I kept one eye trained on the cat as it patrolled the river bank, debating as to whether attack me and risk getting wet, while I fumbled around in the shallow water for my bow. As soon as my fingers touched it, the cat struck again. I was ready this time, ready enough anyway, so as it leaped for me I caught its strike with my dagger arm, knocking it off balance. I struck out as it slipped on the rocks, again and again, each time stabbing deep into its shoulders. But it didn’t relent. It swiped out at my legs and knocked me back down, then proceeded to bite my arm. I struggled with it, trying to shake it off, while simultaneously trying to free my other arm that had been pinned beneath me. I pulled it out, probably pulled a muscle doing so, and clamped my hand onto its face. I gave battle shout and sent flames pouring out from my fingers and palm, burning the beast beyond repair. It howled, in pain this time not victory, and I crawled to the  other side of the bank, bow in tow.

We looked at each other, feeling a mutual respect for a worthy opponent. This cat had no doubt killed several times before, but here was an elf that refused to die. That had caused it harm and pain just as well as it had dispensed. We looked at each other for a while, feeling this respect and admiration build. So then I shot it in the face. Four times. Respect or not, the bastard tried to kill me, and would have continued to do so until one of us fell. Better him that me, I always say. I crossed back over the river and salvaged what arrows I could, which was one. I took a tooth from the beast as a token of respect and victory. I stepped into the shack, and witnessed the cat’s previous business dealing. Whoever owned this place, most likely built it too, had been scattered across the floor. And the walls. Bits of him (or her) were also on the ceiling. And table. But, I really didn’t care at that point. I plopped down on the, thankfully, clean bed and slept until the next day.

When I awoke, I searched the shack. I ate some meat and bread I found, and finished off the last bottle of mead. The previous occupant had some fur armor stitched up and sitting on a shelf, so I took that. It was much easier to move in that iron anyhow. Underneath the bed though, was the real prize. A steel katana rested inside an intricate scabbard, sitting back behind a couple of books. I took that and hooked it to my belt. Now, I was ready to make the journey out from Windhelm’s Hold. My life as a renegade had truly begun.

Windhelm Renegade: Day 4

I escaped. It was a brutal effort, on both mine and the guards part. It was a bloody affair; my hands are still stained. But it was a splendid occurrence, since I got to kill myself some bigots. They pride themselves in physical prowess. Muscle strength, however, is useless against flames charring their skin off their bones.

I had waited until nightfall, when I knew the guards would be sleeping. A female Nord was keeping watch in the holding area, although I was the only one in her particular section. As she made her rounding patrol around the room (Azura only knows why she had to keep checking every corner), I positioned myself near my cell door. When she walked past me, muttering her usual slur, I slipped a hand between the folds of the cloak she wore wrapped around her armor and lifted the key. I nicked a few gold coins out as well; I would need them on the other side. She didn’t notice my efforts (whore was probably used to people reaching near her posterior) and I waited until she moved on. As she moved out from my immediate sight, I hurried over to my rotting stack of hay (otherwise known as my bed) and took out a strip of metal I had fished out from another guard this morning. I had been planning on using it was a pick, at first, but then decided that a key would be quieter. I slipped it into the strip of cloth that held up my small clothes and moved back to the door. The guard was still facing away, so I quickly unlocked the door without a sound. I smiled then, knowing that fate would soon be at hand. The guard, however, had already begun her route back towards me, so I couldn’t leave just then. I slipped the bit of metal into the palm of my right hand, hiding it from view. When she walked in front of my cell, I smiled at her.

“What are ya smiling at, elf?”

“Why, nothing. Just a beautiful woman.”

“Ugh! Don’t even go there, you filthy beast.”

She tried to hurry away from my insults (of course these people couldn’t handle being beautiful), but never made it three steps. I was out and behind her in an instant, plunging the bit of metal into her throat. I used my left hand to cover her filthy mouth, lest she scream out. She died like a pig, bleeding and grasping around, trying to stop the inevitable. I let her body fall to the floor, hoping she would have a better weapon. Sadly, all she had was a fairly large hammer, far too large for my frame. It didn’t matter much anyhow, since almost as if Azura was playing a cruel joke, three guards peaked down through the entrance to my cell block. I only had time to snatch my journal off of a table before they saw me.

“Stop! You’ll pay for what you’ve done!”

They drew their weapons, swords and axes, and made a move at me.

“Not this day, fools!” I shouted back at them, just as I ignited into flames. None of them were close enough for the flames to immediately engulf them, so I had to lunge out and grab one of their heads. He instantly light up as a candle does, screams filling the room. The other two backed off, so I fired off a stream of fire at them with my fingertips.

“Azura take you!” I could feel power coursing through my veins, my magic burning down my enemies before me. As they crumpled to the ground, I could hear more footsteps clattering throughout the prison. I made a dash for the exit, bumping into and burning another guard in the process. I melted the lock on the steel door blocking my exit and kicked it open. I was inside the Jarl’s main reception room, since the barracks/prison is connected directly to it. As I shocked the guests sitting down for late supper, I felt a sense of pride. The Jarl would be picking ash out of his carpet for weeks. As soon as I made it out the giant double doors into the snowy world outside, I made hast for the gate at the other end of the city. I could feel my flames dying down, my skin starting to taste the stinging cold. An alarm was sent out across the town, and I encountered several guards on my way out. I am not great warrior or mage, and should not have made it through the city. But Azura seemed to have taken my side at this point, since no sword found my chest and I managed to down three more men before an arrow planted itself into my right bicep. It hurt, but thanks to the adrenaline it wasn’t enough to slow me. I made it to the entrance gate and smashed into it, harming my left shoulder in the process. I quickly slammed it back shut and threw another fire stream towards it, melting the metal together. As I stumbled across the bridge into the city, I ripped the arrow out of my arm, crying out in the process. I then used the last of my magical energy to heal up the wounds I had sustained as best as I could. It wasn’t as good a priest would have done, but it stopped the bleeding and numbed it enough to go on.

I would have died outside the city, my energy all but gone, had Azura not reached a hand down to help. A bandit party was attacking the guard outpost at the end of the bridge, distracting them from a lowly elf hobbling out of the city. As I made my around the skirmish, watching bandit after bandit sliced down, I came across a corpse in the midst of the road. A bandit had taken an arrow to the face. I figured that he had no more need for his gear, so I stripped him down and suited myself up. I got some iron boots and gauntlets, as well as an iron chest plate with leather leggings and sleeves. It was a bit damp, smelled a lot, but it kept me warm enough to crawl away. I’m sitting against a tree right now, eating a chunk of bread I found in the dead man’s pouch and adding to my journal. I’ll look for shelter in a bit, when I’ve regained some strength and energy.

Excerpt #26: Act 2 Chapter 8

Chapter 8

“And you don’t find anything about this day odd, at all?”

“Nope.”

Dante walked at a brisk pace at the heels of Caligula, trying to keep up as he questioned him about the day. They were moving out towards the central air deck where the Roman Emperor was to land in a few minutes. Once the announcement had been made, the ship slowly bloomed to life with activity. The crew in the engine rooms began the slow process of turning the engines off. These powerful devices, a breakthrough in steam-power technology several decades old, took an extremely long time to fully shut down. The deck crew had rode in their maintenance vehicles to the central air deck in order to prepare it for landing. The Emperor’s airiot was a newer model, one built entirely from metals such as steel and aluminum, and required a large space to land. It could carry twelve passengers or several hundred pounds of cargo. As a result, the D-7 (for Daedalus, 7^th Model) required a lot of fuel. This combination of space and material requirement meant that the ship had to be as motionless as possible in order for the plane to efficiently and safely land. Otherwise, it could miss it’s designated landing area and hit something, causing damage and loss of life.

Already nearby the deck were one hundred and fifty marines of the Imperial Navy. They wore the newer infantry uniforms, the ones Augustus spoke of, that they had adapted from the Empire. Each amphibious legionary wore the battle-skirt, designed to protect the legs from shrapnel and debris while allowing easy movement. Their boots were larger and sturdier than the ones used just a few years ago, and no longer required the foot wraps to keep dust and debris out. These new boots were steel-toed and reached further up the calf so that the pants were simply tucked into them and the laces tied tight, sealing them effectively. They still wore the signature breastplates of the Legion, and bore the steel helmets. The only difference in those were the chinstraps, and the back neck-guard was reduced in width so that shrapnel wasn’t deflected back into the legionary’s neck. Rifles were all Severus models, the Roman rifle of choice for over two decades. While the Empire was experimenting with fully automatic weapons, every other nations still used bolt-action, breech-loaded, or repeater rifles and carbines. The gladii were not of the traditional or officer variety of sword. Instead they were longer and slightly curved to allow for slashing and parrying, as opposed to the older models designed for stabbing and in conjunction with shields. Romans still used shields, but only in defensive positions where a group could kneel in front of a line of riflemen and bear the shields. They were far too heavy to carry easily due to the thickness of them needed to stop bullets and fragments of debris. The marines rarely used them since theirs was a job of assaulting beaches. Heavy metal tended to sink, so all of their metal equipment was of a lighter variety, or nonexistent. It was not a rare sight to see a marine legionary drop his breastplate before disembarking a landing craft.

At the head of these soldiers was Cassius, his bastard sword carried in the sheath tied to his back. He was barking orders to them, designating areas with his hands at some points. A natural leader, he could have commanded respect and total obedience from the marines on reputation alone. Cassius, however, would never sit out a fight that he sent others to. Instead, he would lead from the front in the event of open hostilities against the Emperor of Rome. While he hated the Caesar with a passion, he would not jeopardize the men in a pointless battle. According to announcements that followed the initial alert to the Emperor’s landing, the Emperor had an air fleet accompanying him that consisted of several hundred fighter and attack craft. They could cause significant damage to the Blood Bull, if not sink it outright. Cassius was counting on a unified show of force towards the Emperor when he landed. He also counted on the Emperor being overly-confident and wanting to retrieve “his” ship intact. Even though there had been no cease-fire or truce called out, the members of the New Roman Republic were very few and had to concede to the Emperor’s desires. For now at least, Cassius told himself.

Caligula waved at some of the deck crew as he and Dante continued to walk around, inspecting the proceedings. Caligula, being the famous officer he was as well as being close to Valencia, had assumed the role of second-in-command of the vessel, topped by only Valencia. Were New Rome to still have a sort of government, Caligula and Valencia would be moved into the two Consul positions. The situation, however, was not quite normal due to the presence of Augustus, and Dante was all to happy to point this out.

“You’re serious? Nothing wrong about today?”

“Not at all. Weather is a bit windy, I suppose. Is that what you mean? The wind?”

Dante threw Caligula a bewildered look. “No, not the wind! The whole day! First we were telling a story about Dakar and the Hammer—which, by the way, I still haven’t heard about—and next thing that happens is Cassius going insane over Augustus. Then, we find that letter and Augustus is shooting Cassius. Cassius shrugs that off like it was nothing and we find out Augustus is a god!”

“Oh. That. Well, he said he wasn’t. So there!”

“Who cares what he says?! You really think you can trust him after that? You heard the man’s story. He’s a cold-blooded killing machine!”

“Ah. Well, I suppose that’s a good point.”

Dante stopped walking. “And now, those two have suddenly thrown aside their rage for each other since the Emperor of Rome himself is coming to our ship! Nothing has made sense today. Gah, the way emotions are flying around today, it’s like puberty all over again.” He threw his arms up in the air, awkwardness all but forgotten. He hadn’t faked a stutter for the past three hours, all of which were spent preparing the ship for the landing.

“And it’s only four-thirty in the afternoon.” Caligula smiled down at the young man. “Look, you’re in the presence of legends now, Dante.”

He placed his head in his palm and sighed. “Tell me about it.”

“It means that you, Dante Ligarius, are living in the very story someone is telling a thousand years from now. It is just like The Iliad or The Odyssey.”

“I…suppose. It’s just so overwhelming. I’m just a kid. When I was of age, I thought to myself ‘Hey Dante, you should join the Guard! Be a soldier, save the world!’ So I went and graduated early. But now, my country is gone-”

“No it isn’t.”

“See any land around here?”

“Point taken.”

“Anyway. My country is gone, I’m surrounded by at least four walking legends, one of them possibly divine, I’ve killed more people already than most in their lifetime, and I haven’t even kissed a girl, gone fishing for the weekend, or anything normal people do!”

Caligula placed his hands on Dante’s shoulders, and looked down straight into his eyes. “Hey mouse, you want some advice?”

“Sure…”

“Fate’s taken the reins now. There’s nothing you can do but walk another step forward every chance you get. So just lose some weight, get a girl, and go out with your guns blazing and no regrets.”

Dante, silent, nodded at his superior. Caligula grinned and gave him a pat on the head. He turned around and began to trot over to the deck crew, since they still had a lot of things to move about and such. Dante slumped down to the ground beneath him, drained from the days event. He sat with his knees raised and palms spread out behind him. He heard a seagull cry out, and he looked out at the horizon, seeing the clear blue sky and bright ocean. He took in the smell of salt and sweat, slowly growing calm. He closed his eyes and sat there, soaking up the sounds of the sea and the men of war. Just as he began to feel a smile growing at the edges of his lips, he opened his eyes and spotted the black dots approaching from the west, just beneath the sun. His mouth drooped, and he felt the turmoil rushing back. He could only imagine what Cassius or Augustus felt at this time.

“Set up those crates over that way, fifty yards off!”

“Aye sir!”

A group of legionaries ran off to follow the orders of Legate Gaius Cassius XII, commanding officer of the remaining armed forces for the New Roman Republic. “I want machine guns set up, mirrored across the runway. If I give the order, I expect no plane to take off. Including the Emperor’s.”

He continued to signal positions and give orders for the possible defense of the ship deck. The Emperor could very well drop in an airborne assault force, something the Sevarian Reforms had begun experimentation on, and the ship would serve the same purpose as a wide open field. The men could not dig in trenches or build bunkers, but they could stack crates and sandbags up all across the decks. He might have had a massively inferior force to whatever the Imperial Legions could throw at him, but he would never let the ship up without a fight. He had also sent out a call for volunteer forces out of the non-vital crew members, the ones whose jobs were not necessary for the ship to be running. This included stewards, cooks, attendants, janitors, and pretty much every other person not involved with the defensive measures, sailing, and maintenance. All together, Cassius was able to cobble together a fighting force of one hundred and fifty marines, backed up by an auxiliary force of five hundred volunteers, each armed with a rifle and gladius from the ship’s stores. He had arranged the defenses to form a crescent shape across the width of the deck, some 500 yards across. The men were spread out enough so that a single bomb dropped would not wipe out a massive number, but close enough for rapid fire action to inflict a nasty barrage. He had a dozen or so machine guns set up in the crescent, allowing for anti-aircraft defense. The BloodedBull held no aircraft of its own, so Cassius did not expect to down any planes before they were in range of the deck guns. But he did expect to keep the Empire off of the ship as long as he could, should an attack arise.

Augustus stood with Valencia, a few marines in attendance. They stood behind the “defensive line”, each of them observing the motions before them. Valencia was wearing her officer’s uniform, after having taken a quick shower and cleaned herself up. Her blonde hair swayed loosely against her back, just above her arms folded behind her back. She watched the approaching dots, coming from Hispania most likely, grow slightly larger every passing minute at first. But, after a bit, her gaze shifted towards the taller, older man standing next to her. He stood proud, his dark eyes never leaving the planes in the sky. A slight scowl etched itself into his features, mixed with a serious determination Valencia had only seen in Cassius before. They were a lot alike, she thought to herself. Both proud, determined, and ruthless. The only difference she felt was that Cassius was used to dealing death, but had never had it cast upon him or his kin. This was what made her think she had finally found someone stronger than him.

Augustus had calmed down, frightfully so. He no longer felt a childish rage towards the man less than half his age. Instead, his thoughts drifted towards cold calculations. He thought of how to best maneuver the coming conversation. It would not serve to ridicule Sevarius, but he would not let him go unscathed. He snorted out his nose, his breath visible in the cooling autumn day. He wore a different jacket than from before, his own. He figured that he ought to meet the Emperor in his best, if only to stop disdainful looks. A heavy, dark brown trench jacket lined with fur, it was the most expensive article he owned. Normally one against frivolous clothing, even Augustus had to admit it was damn warm. He wore another vest, this one a deep velvet black with thin, barely visible purple stitching. He wore cleaned combat pants with his revolver at his left side and a gladius at his right, the weapon hidden beneath the span of his coat. Steel-toed combat boots, newly shined, adorned his feet, his pants tucked in and laces strapped tight. He held his helmet under his right arm, and held a cigar up to his mouth with his left.

“So you have moved up to fancier tobacco now? No more measly cigarettes for the king?”

Augustus glanced down at the girl to his left, a slightly mocking smile on his face. “Not a king.”

“’Measly cigarettes for the god’ better then?”

“Not a god either.”

Valencia was about to retort again, but he held a hand up. “Nope! Don’t say ‘God-King’ either.”

“Explain how you’ve smoked cheap cigarettes everyday then, without a single noticeable trace of disease?”

“One: I smoke clean tobacco, not cheap. Two: I actually have no lungs. Royal secret. Sold them to cover debts.”

She chuckled at that. “Ah ha! The lass has been disarmed.”

Augustus took an overly-dramatic bow, prompting a playful shove from Valencia. “Now don’t get comfortable. We simply have bigger matters at hand.”

“Aye, I know. Hence the cigar.”

She looked up, puzzled.

“Serious business calls for serious pleasure.”

She looked back out, at the clearly visible planes now entering landing procedure. She counted over fifty planes, each of them no doubt holding bombs, bullets, and men who wanted nothing less than the death of everyone on board. She looked back over to Augustus only to see he had begun walking towards Cassius, who had stopped ordering men and was gazing at the planes. As he walked, Valencia saw him take his helmet up in two gloved hands and place it on his head. It was an older model of the Legion helmet. And when Augustus looked back for a moment, Valencia caught sight of the fox that made up the nose piece. Vulpes had risen.