[b]Planned Improvisation[/b]

Claes stood hunched over a table strewn with papers, all around her a score or more soldiers and servants buzzed like angry bees. The sun had barely risen, and many of the officers had not had time to change from nightclothes to more presentable attire. Claes herself had debated saving the time and charging into the makeshift planning room in a nightgown and slippers, but thankfully thought better of it. As it stood she was the only one looking anything near presentable in the throng.

Last minute changes of plans are a soldier's nightmare, only becoming more monstrous as one increased in rank. Claes felt sorry for the man standing opposite the table from her, his face tight and fully concentrated as his right hand scrawled chits and notices, his left performing the requisite sums on a worn abacus. Major Agallon's olive skin was slick with perspiration, his long brown hair bedraggled and his attire unkempt. If last minute changes are terrible for commanders, they are perdition incarnate for logistics officers, and Claes could see the toll of the last few hours already showing on his face, every second filled with requests, reports and accusations. Claes would have to reward him for his excellent service after this affair was over, and lavishly indeed. She herself was not free from the grasping pleas for attention that so beset her Major, but hers were at least in a lesser volume. She was currently studying a map, flanked by Colonels Gordon and Ostilla.

She drew an imaginary line on the detailed and [hopefully] accurate map of their area of operations with her finger, from the coast to their objective city.

"Colonel Ostilla". Laurence's eyes widened suddenly, the General's address apparently pulling him out of a deep reverie. "You will take your Battle and that of Major Bayaz, with changes to uniform to hide your alignment to Oromis. Intercept communications, destroy reinforcing troops, and create a soft cordon of the city. When we arrive at the city proper, break cordon and rejoin the party. Seize food and supplies: you will not be able to give chits without revealing who you are, but do keep violence to a minimum. Nearby towns are to be assessed for risk or garrison. I expect you to punish looting as always, Colonel. Ah, and if you identify any people of importance, take them hostage." Claes finished scribbling down the orders, stamped them with her signet ring, and handed the rolled up parchment to her subordinate. Laurence saluted and strode off quickly; he knew now was not the time for politeness or unnecessary response.

"Colonel Gordon. Take your Battle and that of Major Willem and land somewhere around here." Claes thumbed a rough location on the map, well north of Oromis' landing point. "Leave the specifics to the Commodore. You are to identify the counteroffensive army and harry it. Cut supplies, kill scouts: slow them and starve them. Pay for any food you take from locals, and try to spread whatever propaganda your officers can cook up. When our God-King joins battle, you are to fully commit to the fight. "

Gordon replied with a chuckle. "Don't worry General, I'll bring back coin and glory as always.". Claes nodded, and after stamping the messily-scrawled yet detailed orders with her signet, handed the scroll to her Colonel. He too saluted, though only shifted a few feet to the right to study expected enemy force predictions. She signed papers and checked in with Agallon: horses were just now being loaded, arrow procurement was on schedule and supplies were being bought at cheaper-than-expected prices. Seeing all was well, Claes stood and made for a pair of officers in the corner, talking hurriedly about something to do with hempen rope.

Majors Koltos Sim and Domican Hellico could be mistaken for twins. The two lancer commanders were of medium height, very muscular and with faces more resembling bears than men. Sim had a longer nose, shorter, darker brown hair and was clean shaven, Hellico being slightly taller with a wider face and larger eyes, but Claes still marveled at how two unrelated people could resemble each other to such a degree. Their personalities did not share the odd resemblance their appearances did, but that was only to be expected. 

"Major Sim, Major Hellico, good morning gentlemen." The two men instantly stopped their hurried discussion and turned on their heels, saluting almost simultaneously. "At ease, Majors. Sim, have you prepared unit for Tavellan?" Sim, the more jovial, less formal and more of a maverick, was the obvious choice to receive the newest member of the Winds. He responded loudly, but his voice was almost lost in the din of the room, Claes being a conservative few feet from the two unwashed lancers, both in various stages of half-dress.

"Aye General. 25 good swords, cream of the crop of the mercenaries 'round here, expensive to match. Glad you told me when you did, with the mobilization most the honest sellswords are getting pinched like pennies"

25 was more than Claes had expected, but that was only positive. "To whom did you assign them, Sim?"

"Captain Elias, General."

Elias was the natural choice: fair, ambitious and more than capable, Claes was glad Sim had made the decision. Tough choices have to be made, and should always be made well, but deniability is never something to be passed up.

"Excellent. Return to your duties, gentlemen." The three soldiers saluted, and Claes strode back to the table, her mind already jumping ahead to the next problem at hand.

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Marko was up at dawn with the rest of the Winds, but had managed to find time to wake up fully and look presentable. His short, jet-black hair was combed, his bushy mustache in good order, and his dark, tan skin washed to at least the lowest standards of hygiene. He had found, when he entered the planning room, that most of his work would be done for him: there was not too much of it to begin with, individual Captains not having to deal with supplies or ships or what-not, but even inspecting his men was being taken care of by others.

Instead he found himself outside the door of a bunkhouse, navigating through the nearly empty establishment towards the common room. The infantry seemed to be quality: two young elves and a dwarf who looked ten years too old to be on a battlefield, the rest strong looking men, the sort who follow orders and don't rape peasants or steal from the Company. He didn't expect any different. Major Sim, let alone the General, would never pay coin for troops that didn't follow orders to the letter, but he just hoped they knew how to ride at something above a trot.

He asked the attendant to fetch one Myra Travellan, and after a patient wait the man returned, with him an elf woman that could only be described as 'imposing'. 'Terrifying' could work too, he supposed, but he would save that one for later. Standing, he offered a hand to the woman, still getting over the surprise of meeting two fighting women so different from one another in the span of a few hours, and spoke in a clear, inviting tone.

"Captain Marko Elias, ma'am. I'm your new superior officer, at least for this coming operation. It's good to meet you, and I look forward to working with you in the coming days."