[b]Bohaddon[/b] [hider=Nation Status] [b]Current Leader/Government:[/b]Ducis Alta [b]Settlements Owned:/b] 2 [b]Provinces Owned:[/b] 1 [b]Population:[/b] 160,000 [b]Standing Army:[/b] [indent] -/ - /<6,000>/ - /<1,500>/ - /<200>// -/ /<7,000>/// [/indent] [b]Population Happiness: 60%[/b] [b]Imports:[/b] None [b]Exports:[/b] Slaves, Iron, Bronze [b]Wealth:[/b] Average [b]Alliances:[/b] None [b]Trade Pacts:[/b] None [b]Cease Fires:[/b] Bahaporian (unofficial) [/hider] --- The March To War --- Blood and sweat were the only two things Vile could remember of the last few weeks. Well, that and shouting. Lots of shouting. [i]He had been in the dark hole. The deep, dark hole. Alone. Afraid. Then light came. The masters pulled him up, those glorious masters, they saved him from his misery! That's right! They said he was strong and brave and kind and good and other things but he forgot those. They didn't care about his missing arm, oh no, not the lovely masters! They gave him a weapon, a sword. Showed him how to fight the nasty lizards. Punished him when he did it wrong, but didn't kill him. The masters were too merciful to kill little Vile, even when he deserved it. So kind, so lovely. Then, because he was good, the masters let him fight for them in the real army that had arrived, he couldn't remember how many days ago! He could kill lizards for real now, serve the masters and repay them for their kindness. He couldn't wait![/i] A shout broke his frantic train of thought, and glancing around him, Vile winced, preparing for a beating. Through his pale, near-blind eyes he could make out the distinct features around him. Trampled mud lay underfoot, decorated by the ever-changing of pattern of men's feet as they came and went about the camp. When the rain fell, the imprints of boots filled with water, and Vile could look at his ugly reflection; it was a favourite activity of his. And he truly was ugly, with his slim, scarred green body, and dull features that offered nothing to arouse dislike amongst his masters. He had been bred to please them, even his name was a mockery of his very being. Vile realised none of this, for his mind was preoccupied with feelings of fear and worry. Several men had rushed past him frantically, hastily attempting to pull on greaves or grab a weapon. Vile scratched furiously at a large scab on the side of his face, desperately trying to understand the meaning of this. Thinking was bad, and he hated having to do it. Important things like that should be left to the masters, not Vile. Fortunately, there was a master on hand to do just that. A boot smashed it's way into Vile's back and sent him sprawling into the squelching swamp below. "Get up you stinking bastard!" a gruff voice called out. "Time to die!" Rising, Vile was greeted by a short, pug nose soldier, who was missing several teeth. "We're marching to war you bloody idiot! Get whatever weapon you can, and form up on the front rank with the rest of your maggot friends! Move!" The order activated an automatic reflex in Vile, and he bolted into action, ready to obey. Clasping his rusty iron sword tightly to his chest, he hurried through the camp. In his eagerness to please the masters, he hadn't realised he was marching to his death.