[	Tags	|	maelstrom	]
[	mood	|	uncomfortable	]

DISAPPOINTMENT

This piece is the alternate interpretation of something I wrote some time ago – imagine the protagonist having come off the field of battle, congratulated by his fellows, bought drinks, and generally lauded with attention for a particularly heroic action during the battle in question – but one that he thinks wasn’t heroic at all, merely an action that circumstance made the turning point. He is depressed, feeling guilty, and yet unwilling to destroy the good cheer of his comrades who are celebrating still being alive.

In short, he is messed up.

Imagine, then, that one of the local bargirls has shown an interest in our “hero”. Attracted by the blaze of glory in which he enters, she moves to drag him upstairs.

Now, this isn’t the canon of what happened to the character – this is an alternate interpretation, written mainly to see whether I can do it. It is a bit fucked up, and I'm still really not sure I have done it close to justice, but I've at least tried.  Feedback appreciated but I'm a lot less happy about this one than most mainly because  it is such a hard thing for a male to write about, and I still feel a bit disturbed from having written it.

Enjoy…

(NSFW) 

And here is the perspective that wrote itself - and I think this may be one of my better ones, although I leave it to you to judge.

Here is the scene from the eyes of Alric, the squad sergeant.

retty chambermaid.

OK, so this is *very* NSFW, fucked up somewhat, and written through numerous distractions, but I am interested to see how it came out - do please leave feedback, even if it is "you're trying too hard". I am still unsure if it was better ended before the explicit bit, but I did that with the other version and I thought I'd experiment.

The idea is basically my previous "rope, violence, cheerleaders" fic from another person's perspective.

Enjoy!

Little bit of a cop-out, but this is my response to Simon's challenge of "walruses, wigs and warships"

Edward stood in front of the dock and watched the nobleman and his crew approach. A good forty rough, dangerous men, pistols and cutlasses hanging at belts.

The man who led them was the very picture of what Edward now hated – fat, oiled, arrogant and haughty. A finely tailored coat billowed out behind him, a powdered wig adorned his head and a wide walrus moustache sprouted from his lip.

Edward looked to the seven men to the left and right of him – they hadn’t expected a move to seize the warship so soon, this was a skeleton guard at best. If they were to be rushed now, all chances were they’d be cut down to a man.

The crowd of grinning sailors stopped as their pompous leader approached the revolutionary soldiers. He raised a hand imperiously.

“Out of my way, peasants.”

The men merely stood, looking left and right again and again and not fancying their chances here.

“Come on, you have no chance here. Why die today? Run away like the little mice you are. Now, do you want to die or not? I haven’t got all day.”

Edward felt the coward rising in him. Why, indeed, die here? What was the point of standing, when they were so outnumbered? Surely it was better to live to fight another day, serve the revolution somewhere else, somewhere safer?

And then he looked back at the nobleman in front of him, looked past the arrogant stance, the twitching mustaches and the fat fleshy face, and he concentrated on the eyes. Yes, there was fear there. Real fear.

Edward suddenly knew that there *was* a reason to stand right here, and if he had misread it then he would die here, and so be it.

He raised his pistol.

“If you want people to die here, royalist, then let it start with you. Come on, take one more step, signal to your men. We’ll see who lives and who dies – but you won’t see another dawn. Try it.”

Edward felt his heart soar as he watched the mustaches droop.

This was it. The first charge, the first time at the enemy – the first action. The Gnollish raiders had been tracked down, were holed up down below behind a pile of scree and loose rock.

Edward should, he knew, have been elated. Should have been fired up with the Smith’s anger, ready to go forth and die for his community – but he wasn’t. No, his legs felt like jelly, his throat was tight and his breathing harsh and painful. His mouth was dry, and he felt like his bladder was about to burst – in fact, he was a wreck, shaking, a coward and worse.

The sergeant of the squad pushed along the line, taking recruit and veteran soldier alike by the hand or shoulder and making sure they were ready to go.

He came to face Edward, clapped a hand on his shoulder, and looked into his eyes.

“Don’t worry, lad. We all get it the first time. Look at it same as your first time with a woman – don’t be afraid, get out there and do what you need to do. I know you won’t let us down.”

He moved on along the line, leaving the fresh young recruit trembling and feeling violently ill.

In moments they’d be rushing over the wall they hid behind and plunging into the enemy. In moments, many of them could be dead.

The sergeant reached the last man in the line, turned, and looked along the line.

“Go.”

Edward paused for a moment that lasted an eternity, watching the men to either side hurtle upwards and into the breach in front of him, cries forming on their lips.

He threw himself to his feet, preparing to vault the wall – and fell backwards, pushed down by a dead weight that slammed him into the floor.

He spat, shook his head to clear his vision, and tried to sit up. And then he saw what had pushed him down.

The man who had been stood beside him, half his head shot away. Fragments of bone stuck out of the bloody soup that had been the man’s brain. Everything was covered in blood.

That could have been him. That should have been him.

Edward rolled onto his side and emptied his stomach.

This is another piece from Edward's history, attempting (after challenge from Sal) to include, in some regard, rope, violence and cheerleaders.

The revolutionary soldiers advanced at an arrogant saunter down the wide path that lead through the finely kept gardens of the country manor. Birds flew from the trees as they advanced, muskets held loosely and hands on the hilts of swords and maces in a showy manner.

The Revolution was going well – and here they were, first to a prize. The looting would be rich from this one.

Edward didn’t have the arrogance of the others, maybe – but he was happier here than in the front lines. Here, there wouldn’t be people dying. A nobleman dragged away to stand trial, maybe – but his guards had deserted or fled, there would be no fighting here. No blood-spewing corpses, no stench of death, no screams of the wounded. No, no-one would suffer here but the man who deserved it, and even he would stand trial before he died.

There were people beside the road now – footmen and cooks, washerwomen and stable-boys. Perhaps they would lose the stability of their life here – but gone too was the oppression of the lord, the whip and the rod, the hard work for poor pay. They crowded the sides of the road, pressing flowers and gifts at the soldiers, shouting and welcoming their liberators.

The chambermaids flounced in their pretty frocks, cheerleading the oncoming men with dusters and bright cloths. Even the butler, a respected man before, had thrown aside his fine coat and hat and greeted the men in his shirtsleeves.

The soldiers walked up to the doors of the manor, to find the noble of those lands, a tall fat man in fine coat and powdered wig whose lip trembled as he held an antique pistol pointed, quivering, at the door. Beside him stood his wife, a stately woman in long cream dress, attired as if for a high ball.

“This is my home. You may come no further. Begone…”

The nobleman’s voice betrayed his terror, but he still held the pistol. So much for no violence… Edward began to have a very bad feeling about how this was going to turn out. The now-familiar taste of bile rose at the back of his throat.

Grinning, the Pietkrieg sergeant who led the troop took a step forward.

“Go on then, shoot me.”

He took another step, heavy club held low, his every move projecting arrogance.

“What’s the matter? Coward? Come on, shoot me. You’ve only got one shot, make it count!”

Another step, almost a stride this one. Quick, sharp, confident.

The nobleman’s whole arm was shaking violently now. His wife had drawn back almost behind him, desperately trying to keep tears from her eyes. Edward knew how this was going, could see in a terrible instant how this was going to end.

Step.

Quiver.

Step.

Quiver.

Edward gulped down the vomit that rose.

Alric was almost within reach now…

”So, last chance this one. Going to shoot me? Come on, can’t be that hard?”

He took another step forward…. Quick as a flash, his arm came round. Three feet of iron-hard oak crashed into the aristocrat’s wrist, smashing the fine bones and hurling him halfway about. With a scream of pain, he collapsed into a fetal position, clutching his ruined arm to his chest.

“Take him.”

Two soldiers ran forward and quickly tied the nobleman, leading him outside to face the last journey to a certain fate at the hands of a Revolutionary court. Edward knew that his cause was right, but the crunch of the impact and the flash of blood and broken bone he had seen tearing through the silk of that expensive jacket played again and again across his mind.

“And as for her… someone tie her.”

Another soldier, grinning, stepped forward and expertly bound the noblewoman’s hands.

She drew herself up, as best she could.

“Do you intend to kill us? I will face death like the daughter of noble blood that I am, and nothing that you can do can steal from me my dignity. You may win here, but our divine right under the Teacher cannot be overthrown forever. Your time will come, peasant.”

The grizzled sergeant merely laughed.

“Right, lads, you’re due a reward, and she just asked for it. I’ll be back in an hour.”

Alric had left no doubt as to what he had meant – the evil grin had settled that one. That pretty aristocratic face went pale – and then the tears began to really flow.

Grinning, the first soldier stepped forward and ripped away the front of her dress.

As Edward turned away, her screams began to build, and as he stepped out of the doors all he could hear were her shrieks of torment, the slap of flesh and the grunts of savage passion as the horror began. And on, and on inside his head she screamed…

OK, so this is the "first love" story for Edward, attached to a follow-on to the last thing I wrote. It is probably a bit more informative as to his characterisation and background than I'd like, but not horribly so. Enjoy!

A roar erupted from the Freiboden musket line. Smoke clogged the air, hot lead and death span into the charging Mill-en-ese cavalry. Blood spurted up, and the screams of horses and men rang across the battlefield as the front line of the charge collapsed into a frenzy of pain, chaos and death.

Cowards the Royalists were not – the few survivors rode on, emerging out of the smoke with pistols and heavy sabres held in hands slick with sweat and blood. They hurtled into the revolutionary soldiers, trampling men under hooves and carving into their bodies with their hungry swords. Pistol-shots rang out, the butts of muskets were brought into play and a swirling melee engulfed the hilltop, dust mingling with smoke and blood mingling with sweat as the armies clashed under the hot sun.

Edward thrust the bile back into his throat and forced himself to move forward. He could be of little use here, but better for him to die than another – drawing his sword, he threw himself in front of the nearest horseman. Desperately dodging trampling hooves and slashing sabre, parrying and ducking and dodging, he rushed headlong into the fray.

Seeing one of their number charging in such a suicidal manner into the melee, Edward’s squad raised themselves from their place on the flank and charged into the swirling battle down below, giving up the tactical advantage of the copse they had been hidden within for one death-or-glory charge that might bring them victory.

Seeing the wave of seeming madmen descend from the flank, and watching a seemingly mad bearded soldier hurtling at him with no regard to his own safety, the lancer in command of the Mill-en force panicked. Turning his horse, he desperately fought to escape the melee – and as he turned, his men saw his flight, and their heart left them. Panic spread fast, and with that one man’s cowardice the battle turned. Fleeing down the hill, the proud lancers of Mill-en were picked off one by one by musket shot from the crest.

Edward fell to his knees, surrounded by the horrors of war – dead and dying men and horses, moans and screams and the stench of darkpowder, spilled blood and the voided bowels of the fallen. He felt bile rise again in his throat, and he leant forward and emptied his stomach onto the trampled grass.

Edward had never felt worse than when he was led into the tavern that evening surrounded by proud soldiers, jostling him and congratulating him for having turned the battle. Some even thanked him for saving their lives – he had done nothing, Smith damn it, but what he had to do – what glory was there in doing what you had to do? No, he had not tried to win the battle there. All he had know was that his comrades below were dying, and that it was better that he fell in their place – there was no thought of tactics, that charge could have gotten them all killed as easily as saving them.

Edward tried to seem happy as drink after drink were pressed into his hands, tried to live up to the image of heroism that they had made of him – but his heart wasn’t in it. He alone knew the fear he’d felt, the sense of helplessness as he had run into the battle – he was no hero.

A soft arm slipped around Edward’s waist. He looked up, startled from his drunken reverie, to see one of the tavern’s serving maids leant across him, bodice halfway unlaced and a smile upon her face.

“I hear you saved a lot of men’s lives today. I hear you’re a hero.”

She slid herself into his lap, her arms tight around him and her ample chest pressed against his body.

“I’ve never met a hero before…”

Edward’s drunken mind tried to resist at first – he wasn’t worthy of this, dammit – but as she leaned in close he decided that if he was going to have to pretend he was going to do it properly.

Edward was lead away upstairs, and for a moment lost himself and managed to forget it all in the girl’s warm embrace.

For a few hours, everything was all right. For the rest of that night, he forgot his guilt, and life felt good for a while.

OK, just a bit of fiction from the Revolution, and Edward's past. Not formative at all, just felt like writing it.

Edward crept through the dense brush, low to the ground and tense with awareness. He was not silent, for the forest at night is not silent – he was a noise of the forest, a creak of trees and a rustle of leaves, nothing to stand out from the shadowy woodland’s natural sounds.

Slinking almost parallel to the crest of the low rise, the Mill-en-ese soldier slowly allowed his head to edge into view and observed the camp below.

An armoured sentry stood against a tree, alert perhaps but far from subtle. His breastplate gleamed slightly too much, he stood too still against the night and around him the birds were silent. As Edward watched, the soldier yawned, moving and making himself all the more obvious.

There would be others, he knew. But this one could be bypassed, and the others would be apart a ways – the risk of discovery slight at best. Edward slowly began to work his way down the hill, advancing now at the barest hint of a creep.

The Royalist camp resolved gradually from the night – fine tents for the nobles, simple barracks for their common soldiers. The ashes of fires still smouldered in their pits, and somewhere a careless soldier snored out his sleep.

As he grew closer, Edward’s heart grew heavy. This camp would hold several hundred men, and the shifting and snorting from the horse-lines betrayed the presence of a sizeable force of cavalry.

The main force of the revolutionaries was significant, most line troops of the Pietkrieg armed with long muskets and deadly marksmen, but Edward knew that many men would die tomorrow on both sides.

Edward turned and slid away into the night. As he retreated up the hill, he thought on the coming battle.

Edward began to feel sick.

This one actually happened in play, at my second event. Sorry if it is a tiny bit FOIP - shouldn't be too bad and was ages ago. I don't have enough "deaths for nine and don't play a wemic, but this is inspired by those writings.

Edward walked back towards the Forge’s tents, but one man by his side – unidentifiable in the dark. His thoughts were blacker than the night about them, however – the weakness he saw in himself seemed to be manifest in the Forge as well.

Outside the camp of the Arteman family but minutes before, the gathered faithful of the Smith had stood there, garbed for war, ready to strike out at those who harboured the Demon.

And then someone had stopped. Someone had tried to talk. The war-party had stalled, words had begun, the rot had crept in. Before they knew it, House Bakhana were in behind and confusion reigned. The few desultory exchanges of blows ceased, the Faithful were thrown into confusion. And Edward knew that the chance had been lost then, when the words began.

Retreating now, scattered (if thankfully not broken), the warband would not sally forth again that festival, Edward knew it. The will was lost, doubt had set in. The men would not be ready.

And Edward was not pleased. No, he was far from pleased. He had been prepared to thrown himself into the fray, die so that the Forge might prevail and his community and newfound friends might live – and they had denied him even that chance. This was no way to serve the Smith.

Edward’s thoughts played between his own weakness in not doing more, and that of his compatriots in ceasing their action. Downwards into despair they sunk, and he knew not what he could do to save his community now.

Slow his thoughts were, but blind Edward’s eyes were not. Instincts honed from years of training and hunting of men across the reaches of Freiboden kicked in, sharp and fast. Something had moved. Something dark, behind the tents of the Forge.

Edward placed a hand on his compatriot’s arm, and motioned for him to be still and silent. “Something moves behind the tents.”

The two suddenly alert men crept forward into the tent complex, and their eyes stared into the darkness, trying to pick out movement or any stray shade.

And then it was on them. Out of the dark, faster than anything Edward had ever seen. Moving like a blur, it fell upon his companion.

“FORGE! FOOOOOORGE!”

The volume of Edward’s bellow of warning surprised even him. But the creature was already dispensing with the other soldier.

Might as well make a show. Almost out of habit, Edward’s pistol came up, and then was discarded, the damp powder failing to fire. He swept both hands back onto his sword.

And then it came at him. Inhumanly fast, strong as an ox and wielding a fell greatsword that it took all of Edward’s concentration to hold off, backing away desperately in a defensive two-handed stance.

There was nothing he could do here – it was only a matter of time before the thing got him.

Edward did the only thing that mattered here – he shouted. He bellowed louder than he ever had in his life before. Surely someone had to hear? But no reinforcements were forthcoming.

The opponent, dead eyes glowing, was too fast. A blow slipped past his guard and hurled Edward from his feet – caught on his armour, maybe, but the next three were not.

As consciousness fought to slip away from Edward, he only hoped that he had bought enough time.

Running feet. A torrent of footfalls. But none of the warcries of the returning Faithful – no, this was something else. As Edward finally fell into what could easily be his final sleep, he saw the waves of chitin-plated natives swarm past the tents and hammer into the now-far-outclassed undead assassin.

Any saviour better than none.

Well, almost any.

And then it went dark.