Training the New Recruits (Crimson Please)

[Xavhand Zanneiros]

ooc: Sorry for being SOOOO late job is mean.

ic: Xavhand watched as one of his comrades took the kill and he clapped the man on the shoulder and said "Good job." Once the attackers had been knocked back Xavhand didn't cheer on the outside but on the inside. He looked to his right then to his left and seen a wounded soldier he knelt down beside him hoisted him up. He walked brought the soldier to the middle and left him there with another soldier then rushed back to grab his shield and spear then the wounded soldiers spear and shield. He put the soldiers shield on his back and put his shield on his arm. He slid his sword into the sheath and grabbed the spear and tied it to his pack behind the shield. He then fell into formation and started to march when he was ordered to.

[Crimson]

The woodland continued to hum its mysterious melody as the group of legionnaires marched in their circular formation. Shields up, spears at the ready they were not about to be caught unaware again. Every rustle of leaves, shifting undergrowth, and bird call tensed the warriors in their armor. Their breathing was the only reassuring sound ... their heartbeat an indication that they were still standing, alive. The thin canopy of trees above them allowed enough suns light to illuminate the area up ahead. There was an incline, and immediately Spots noted a flag of the Empire nestled on the hill.

Behind him, Xavhand also saw their goal and the spirits of the other men lifted considerably. There were cheers, some hoots -- and then, figures in silhouettes emerged from the other side of the hill. Armored men, with spears, and swords, and shields. Suddenly, bow strings sung and arrows impaled the ground short of the dorin leader and his squad of tired men. Warning shots. How were they suppose to take a hill without ranged weapons?

"This is your only warning" came the mocking voice of a dark eyed soldier among the ranks of newcomers "surrender or die, legionnaires." The armored men wore dark colors, shades of grey, but beneath them shone their uniforms from the Imperial Army. These were trainers for the exercise. But how far would they go to harden the recruits into real warriors? He pointed at Spots and barked, "stand down, lay your weapons, and go."

[Spots]

Relief washed over the Dorin like a tidal wave. The objective was in sight now. By the sounds he heard coming from the squad behind him, Spots was sure that everybody else felt the same way. However, that particular warm and fuzzy feeling associated with victory or achievement after hard work quickly vanished as arrows landed just short of their current location. Following the landing of the arrows came a warning from the senior legionnaires posing as the enemy.

Lay my weapons down? Surrender? This guy obviously hasn't dealt with many Dorins Spots thought to himself. He took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. Taking the hill without ranged weapons would be difficult . . . difficult but possible. They couldn't have an endless supply of arrows, and once they got close enough to the other infantry units their archers would be neutralized unless they were going to chance shooting their own. Keeping his eyes focused forward, Spots issued his orders to the squad.

"Keep your shields up. We're going to take fire from their archers as we make our way up the hill. Once we get close enough to fight the enemy infantry, the archers should quit firing. Keep your shields up until my command. Move out." Spots stated. He was aware that the men were tired; he was tired too, but he couldn't afford to let anybody know that. He didn't bother to reply to the enemy. Actions spoke louder than words, and he would get the message loud and clear once he realized they were advancing.

[Xavhand Zanneiros]

Xavhand raised his shield on command as he didn't see the arrow land but when Spots said that they couldn't stop firing Xavhand interjected and whispered to Spots so that no one else coould "Sir that is not true they can fire those illusion arrows. If only I had my longbow." Xavhand sighed and fell back into formation. He raised his shield up to the stand height and started marching with they did.

[Crimson]

And so the stand off for the hill began. It was a battle of wits as much as it was between armor and steel; the legionnaires were tired, some afraid, others thirsty for more action. Spots saw this all in the eyes of his men. But the dorin's words gave them purpose, hope. This was the last stretch of their exercise. The arrows, illusions or not, were real enough to pierce earth and grass; and in the wrong place, Spots was willing to bet that it could wound flesh just as easily.

Xavhand took the point near the rear-center. The rear guard were now spreading so that shields locked in place, producing a wall of wood and steel between themselves and their adversaries. A horn broke the din and a hundred shouts followed. The men before them, atop the hill, were forming in lines as well. Archers in front, swords and spears behind -- for now. Spots had called it right; once they were close, the archers would have no choice but to either stop firing and take a more secondary role or take up arms and fight hand-to-hand.

At their advance, the dark eyed soldier grinned. He raised his left hand and shouted orders to his own men. "AT THE READY!" he barked "ON MY MARK! FIRE AT WILL!" A dozen bowstrings sang their ominous melodies as each were pulled and stretched to bring force and power to the arrows nocked along their length. And at once -- "FIRE!" -- they were freed. Bracing themselves, the legionnaires staggered and stiffened as the missiles landed and thunked on their shields. No hits.

For now.

And it was only the first volley.

"FIRE!"

Spots estimated that they were nearing the mid-point of the hill by now. He could almost smell the excitement and fear gripping both parties. A mock flag stood behind his practice-foes -- the flag they were suppose to capture in order to complete the exercise.

Another volley.

One of the legionnaires on the left flank was hit, an arrow slipping between shields and nailing him in the shoulder. He staggered, and fell, away from the group. There were growls of protest and anguish, but the line fell closely together, knitting the hole shut before more arrows could sneak through. And then another recruit was hit, this time on Spots' right hand side. He swore as he fell, blood trickling from his thigh where an arrow skimmed by.

[Spots]

Once they had made it half way to their destination, the formation began to slowly fall apart. Stray arrows began making their way through what was supposed to be an impenetrable wall of shields. As they trudged forward, two options ran through his mind. He could fall back and reassess the situation and make a decision from there, or he could press on. Surrender, still, was not an option he was willing to consider.

A quick glance at their position confirmed that they were indeed about halfway up the hill. Spots seriously doubted they would quit firing if they began what appeared to be a retreat. Taking the chance of losing more men to the enemy archers whilst trying to save them was not an option that made much sense to the Dorin. The only course of action he could see that could lead to a victory was to continue their push forward. But, his men were tired, scared, or filled with blood lust . . . not thinking clearly, not acting as a single, trained unit. Although he was frustrated with them, he understood how they felt. Even now, he was able to feel fatigue setting in. Although he might do a better job of ignoring it, he knew that eventually even a Dorin needed rest. The other men in his squad weren't any different.

"Squad, HALT!" Spots commanded. He placed his shield firmly in the ground, and kneeled behind it to make sure he wouldn't be injured by a stray arrow as well. He listened as the soldiers under his command followed suit. Shields were slammed to the ground, while wood and steel banged together as the wall resolidified now that they were stationary. Although they were easy targets, he doubted anything would manage to breach the wall of shields.

"Alright, men; I know we're all tired. Take this time to catch your breath. Those arrows aren't going to get through our shields if we remember our training. We have to act as one, single unit. If the Legionnaire to the left or right of you isn't able to keep up, it's your job to speak up. When we move again, we'll be going slower. I don't want any gaps in those shields. If we take another casualty I'll know that somebody didn't speak up." After all of this Spots, paused. He took two long, deep breaths to calm himself. His next words were purely tactical in nature. "Now, we've already lost a total of three Legionnaires. We are still combat effective, meaning we can still take this hill. If we lose another, I don't know that we'll be able to acheive a victory. I don't like to lose, and I'm sure none of you do either. Well, these motherless curs have already caused us to lose three of our comrades," his voice was beginning to rise in volume, the anger evident, "and I HATE to lose. Now, I say we take this hill, and make those bastards beg us for mercy!"

Spots didn't wait for any cheers to acknowledge any mutual feelings after his speech. Instead, there was no pause between the word 'mercy' and his next order, "On your feet! Move out!"

With that, the spotted Dorin stood with shield raised. He waited to hear the sounds of those behind him to do the same. When he was sure they were in place, he began their advance once again. The pace, this time, was slightly slower, but now determination and pride wouldn't allow him to stop. They might be forced to slow their advance, but there would be no more halts. In his mind, this would be the defining moment of the battle that was yet to come.

[Crimson]

There was a roar in agreement and Spot took the lead again, this time leading his men in a slower but more determined pace. Overhead, arrows and javelins pricked at their wall of shields like rocks as the opposing group of men threw jeers and taunts toward the recruits. Looking to their dorin leader, the legionnaires pushed on and never faltered. They were tired, yes, afraid even; but something else fueled them aside from their own strength now: duty, honor, and the hatred of defeat. Their blood boiled, their eyes aflame with a newfound passion. They were legion -- they would overcome.

Suddenly a battlecry rang out from the enemy's position. Then, a ram's horn shattered the air around the legionnaires as an all-out attack was called.

"CHARGE!"

Immediately, the arrow fire ceased and the earth shook as at least a dozen armored men descended upon the recruits. Each of their new foes were armed with similar weapons of war: spears and swords and shields. The dorin did note, however, that their enemies wore bulky pads around their torsos and back, perhaps to welcome aggression from the trainees. At once, the legionnaires acted on instinct born from their training. Between their rows of shields sprang forth spear points while those in the rear raised their own weapons.

The first foes to slam into the recruits' position fell in mock death and rolled away from the 'battle'. There were screams as the recruits took their first casualties -- the attackers may have been trainers but they would have done no good in holding back their strikes. Cuts and bruises was all that was certain now -- but there was still a glimpse of victory ahead.

A massive human with a heavy looking battle mace rushed toward the dorin, identifying him as the leader.

"GAH!" he cried and aimed a sweeping blow toward the recruit's furry head.

[Venyanen]

OOC: sorry

[Spots]

"Here they come. Ready yourself, men!" Spots shouted as the order to attack was given, the horn sounded, and the arrows stilled. The enemy hit the line of recruits, suffered casualties. His line suffered too. They would take care of those men later. At the moment, the only way to ensure that anybody survived was to win the battle. Medical aid could be given later. Once the battle actually began, Spots was amazed at how calm he felt. There was no longer the fear or anticipation of the coming battle. It was a totally new sensation that he would later call the "battle-calm".

A large, bulky and formidable looking human rushed towards him with a battle mace. It seemed that the human knew Spots was the leader and wanted to put an end to the battle swiftly by eliminating him. In his present state of adrenaline-induce calm, thinking was acting, but unconscious thoughts went through his mind as he acted.

Spots planted his shield in the ground and braced himself for the inevitable impact while keeping his head below the shield. I wonder if that human can match a Dorin's strength, he thought.
With his right hand, he readied his spear. I wonder if I can match his training, the internal, subconscious dialogue continued.

Although he knew the actions he needed to take to win, at the moment his training was far from thoughts in his mind. Now, his training became memories in his muscles. There was no time for thought. In the moment he saw the man with the mace rushing him, the Dorin knew what he needed to do. He planted his shield in the ground and braced it with his own weight to remain on his feet. He ducked his head beneath the rim of his shield to avoid a helmet denting blow. And, he readied for attack. Once the young Dorin felt the impact- and assuming he managed to keep his balance- his shield would become a weapon also.

With the human pressing his weight against his shield, Spots would push back trying to steal his momentum, grinding both of them to a halt while at the same time maintaining his sheild wall. If he succeeded, in an instant, he would raise the shield enough so he could thrust his spear underneath and at the man's ankles. If the man could no longer stand, he would be easy pickings for the Dorin.

And, while all this was the "plan" of action there was no real plan. Only combat. The whole while, Spots kept his eyes open for any other opportunites of attack that might present themselves to either side. If a man to his right or left was engaged in such a way to prevent either side from sustaining a casualty, a quick thrust of his spear at the distracted enemy would soon turn the tides in the favor of the recruits.

[Xavhand Zanneiros]

As Xavhand helped one of the injured men when he saw a Man attacking Spots. He turned to the man beside him and said "Hold him up ok." He then pushed forward until he got to Spots. Xavhand pulled out his longsword with his spear in the other and took a stab at the top of the man's shield. If and when he hit he would turn to the man beside him and send a spear at the attacker. He hoped his training would come in handy on this battlefield.