The Lycian charge happened so quickly; they always did. Nichol barely had time to finish his mental review of how he had been ferried by the Lycian corps all the way from Thria to the easternmost reaches of the nation— with similar speed, probably. Either way, the important thing was what was happening and not what had happened. There were a few small Lycian units camped along expected avenues of retreat— now that the rebels were being sufficiently pushed back by the wall of armor and cavalry, it was time to cut off their escape.
"Go! Leave none alive!" the voice of the commander of the cell sounded. Similar calls seemed to echo across the landscape as the ones who remained along other routes revealed themselves.
The call to strike was slightly late, to Nichol's frustration— if only he hadn't had to wait for orders. Luckily, the resisting folk were also seemingly retreating too late— Not that it would matter, he thought as he took aim and plunged his spear into one of them. Was that one even holding a tome? How helpless were these people in the face of Lycian might?
It'll be a lesson to them if anything, Nichol thought as he removed his lance and kicked the wounded mystic to the ground. Stamp them out here, and whoever's left will know not to try— His thought was interrupted by recoil and a grunt at a burst of fire that now existed on his right shoulder. His unit hadn't caught as many sprinkles of pure water as the charging armor knights and cavaliers, but the tiny amount on him still dulled the pain enough that he wasn't writhing on the ground covered in burns. Maybe it's just a placebo? No matter. Nichol resolved to replace his thinking with doing and swung his lance at his attacker, who dodged deftly before opening his tome and attempting to prepare another spell, tiny flames sparking at his fingertips. Nichol lunged with a hand, and the mage was pushed off of an outcropping and trampled under the hooves of a passing cavalier.
The retreating mass of people broke into gobs quickly as the Lycian soldiers worked to thin them out. Alone, the Etrurian irregulars would be even more helpless.
Etrurian. That realisation jolted Nichol back to earth.
If I wasn't a Lycian before... I certainly am now. He tried to snap himself out of whatever brand of guilt he was feeling and get back into a mindset more suited for combat as he bashed a mystic who was about to zap one of his comrades.
((blaaah, sorry for taking so long to post an intro post. ·ш· is it accurate enough to the troop formations described?))
"Go! Leave none alive!" the voice of the commander of the cell sounded. Similar calls seemed to echo across the landscape as the ones who remained along other routes revealed themselves.
The call to strike was slightly late, to Nichol's frustration— if only he hadn't had to wait for orders. Luckily, the resisting folk were also seemingly retreating too late— Not that it would matter, he thought as he took aim and plunged his spear into one of them. Was that one even holding a tome? How helpless were these people in the face of Lycian might?
It'll be a lesson to them if anything, Nichol thought as he removed his lance and kicked the wounded mystic to the ground. Stamp them out here, and whoever's left will know not to try— His thought was interrupted by recoil and a grunt at a burst of fire that now existed on his right shoulder. His unit hadn't caught as many sprinkles of pure water as the charging armor knights and cavaliers, but the tiny amount on him still dulled the pain enough that he wasn't writhing on the ground covered in burns. Maybe it's just a placebo? No matter. Nichol resolved to replace his thinking with doing and swung his lance at his attacker, who dodged deftly before opening his tome and attempting to prepare another spell, tiny flames sparking at his fingertips. Nichol lunged with a hand, and the mage was pushed off of an outcropping and trampled under the hooves of a passing cavalier.
The retreating mass of people broke into gobs quickly as the Lycian soldiers worked to thin them out. Alone, the Etrurian irregulars would be even more helpless.
Etrurian. That realisation jolted Nichol back to earth.
If I wasn't a Lycian before... I certainly am now. He tried to snap himself out of whatever brand of guilt he was feeling and get back into a mindset more suited for combat as he bashed a mystic who was about to zap one of his comrades.
((blaaah, sorry for taking so long to post an intro post. ·ш· is it accurate enough to the troop formations described?))