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5 mos ago
Current "Out of every hundred men, ten shouldn't even be there, eighty are targets, nine are the real fighters, for they make the battle. But one is a warrior, and he will bring the others back." -Heraclitus
2 yrs ago
"I have resolved never to start an unjust war, but never to end a legitimate one except by defeating my enemies." -King Charles XII 'Carolus Rex' of Sweden, 1700
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2 yrs ago
“Civilians are like beans; you buy 'em as needed for any job which merely requires skill and savvy. But you can't buy fighting spirit.” -Robert A. Heinlein
2 yrs ago
"Throughout the day, no time for memorandums now. Go ahead! Liberty and independence forever." -David Crockett
2 yrs ago
“It is the basic, metaphysical fact of man’s nature—the connection between his survival and his use of reason—that capitalism recognizes and protects.” -Ayn Rand


I'm Britton. I'm currently a high-school student that has an extreme interest in the historical field, especially that of culture, military, and politics. My other interests include national and international economics.

Most Recent Posts

Beckett, quiet as he was at the spectacle of engineering the place was, had failed to say anything the entire ride. His positions was furthest from the door, safe enough for a combat medic he had figured. His mind was constantly occupied as they rode in the vehicle which rolled and bobbed like a ship on the ocean - a feeling he was not unfamiliar with - yet it was still nauseating all the same. As it bobbed, he reflected back on his assignment. Fighting for aliens was one thing, but he was a combat medic amongst few Humans. What was he supposed to do if one of these squishy fuckers got hit? What then? Would morphine even work? Another time, perhaps, because there didn't seem to be any of them around here now.

Moreover, as medic, he was designated as the AT specialist as well. Who in their right mind- He ceased that thought, exhaling sharply, looking to the racks where his AT implement was lashed. A MAAWS, a Gustaf or 'Goose' as it's affectionately called, not to mention the ammo bag it came with. The thing felt nearly as heavy as the weapon itself, no matter how many spare rounds he'd tried to push off onto other squad mates with any extra space. He'd counted out what he thought he'd need for a MOUT scenario like this one. At least three HEDP (High Explosive Dual Purpose), the be-all end-all of most combat scenarios, able to shear through infantry formations, light vehicles, and civilian constructed buildings. Accompanied was two HEAT (High Explosive Anti-Tank) warheads for any looming armor threat, with a superplastic jet of copper liquifying the crew and equipment inside most armored vehicles. Last but not least, considering the terrain, he'd placed in a single round of Area Denial Munition, a flat, cylindrical warhead packed with tiny copper balls which expanded outwards like a shotgun blast when fired. Perfect for wiping away a formation of infantry, even could be used through thin walls.

As much of a bitch it all was to carry, he had scammed a couple of the other squad members out of their pack space. Two HEDP were passed around, as was a single HEAT warhead. It left one of each for Beckett to carry and utilize in a pinch. He'd passed the field qualification with it, so who better? But that was musings which now were long past.

They were in the thick of it, to say the least, the stench of sulfur and gunpowder invading Beckett's nostrils and mouth, leaving a metallic taste on his tongue. He had the foresight to at the least uncover his SWD goggles, securing them down over his green eyes. He glanced around, hadn't even fired a shot. They were waiting as their friendlies were engaged left, right, and center. And not only that, they were being targeted, as evidenced by the spray of shrapnel and dust which first alerted the incoming rounds. He recovered as projectile dust pattered off his fatigues and scraped along his goggles and helmet. No metal in it, thank God.

Then the second round snapped, closer, a bigger shower of metal in with dust now, the small fragments losing most of their velocity before impacting around him. He heard someone cry out, not over net. He thumped his headset as he glanced about, keeping his head low and concealing himself entirely within cover. His eyes set on Sergeant Park, slumped over and a small pooling of blood forming at his derrière. His HK was dropped to hang by its sling at his side, as Beckett moved over at a low crouch, using his hands to speed his movements. Once arrived he affirmed to the SL. "I'm here, I'm here!" Beckett used gloved hands to bunch his sleeves up at the forearms, reaching quickly into a PALS loop on his carrier, pulling an olive green square packet with a red cross and black stenciled letters.

"Right, Sarge, gonna need you to drop your trousers!"

Trail of Blood

By: @Dusty & @CaptainBritton

Morning light hadn't even breached breached the horizon when Prince Aaron’s party set off. Unlike the hasty arousal of knights that had been intended to give pursuit, this revamped force of thirty-three men contained only single knight, Sir Arvel, and were prepared to the desires of the prince, looking for all intents and purposes like a hunting team out to snare a boar. These were tough sergeants at arms, lancers and outriders, men who were used to hard living, and most importantly men Aaron trusted. No longer were they garbed in gleaming heavy armor, at most they wore mail hauberks covered by green and mottled brown wool surcoats with leather half helms strapped to their skulls. In their hands they hefted not long war lances but short jousting spears with blunted ends like long quarterstaffs. At their hips hung not swords but banded maces and their quivers were filled with blunt arrows. Aaron had ordered all his men to carry non lethal weaponry, only Sir Arvel, the houndmaster Broc, and Aaron himself carried proper swords. His exact orders were to take the rogue knight and his sister alive, along with any men or women who accompanied them. While he had been gathering information about the escape Aaron had been informed of the skill archers slaying Vanguard left and right with feathered shaft. The product of their labors were strewn about the castle for all to see so Aaron had no reason to doubt such a claim. The concerning question was whether these cloaked and dangerous individuals were merely skilled unimportant mercenaries, or something else. Besides himself there were only a few people in the kingdom he knew of who could shoot a bow and arrow with such lethality, and they vastly surpassed Aaron’s own skills. The Woodsmen. And if they were who he pursued, well the thought left a foul taste in his mouth.

Thus equipped and mentally prepared for the undertaking they set off, making haste through the near deserted streets until they reached the gates. Barred against entry and exit as they were it took a moment for the night shift to confirm the Prince’s identity and relay his orders up to the gatehouse where the slow process of twisting the locking wheel began. Content to wait and take his time Aaron sat back in the saddle of his chestnut gelding, the beast was short and wooly and old. And yet as sure footed as a horse could ever be, and although slow on the sprint could maintain a steady pace for hours. Releasing a sigh Aaron scratched at his stubble beard, a sign he hadn’t been caring for himself properly lately. Raising his left arm Aaron stretched and flexed his fingers, twisting his limb this way and that. It seemed well enough, though still sore. He had removed the bandages earlier against the advice of the healers, trusting himself to be gentle on it for at least a few more days.

Aaron’s bored, wandering gaze soon fell on Sir Arvel, riding astride him. Once again the question of Eleanor flickered in his mind and Aaron broached the subject, wondering if he would get straighter answers from this man than all the others he had asked. “Sir Arvel, perhaps you could enlighten me. Every other man seems conveniently uncertain, or to have forgotten the events just prior to Allaway’s untimely escape as to give me a straight answer. You see, there seems to be a consensus from the higher ups in the Vanguard that Eleanor was not in fact snatched from her chambers, but fled with Sir Fenros from the barracks hall. That is indeed where most of the corpses can be found from the fighting. A strange coincidence considering no one can recall just why she was there, alone and unguarded, when I am certain I heard my lord father assign Sir Connall no less to her security. And, should she have been released from her chambers by traitors, it makes no sense to me why they would immediately take my sister to the Vanguard’s barracks, the jaws of the beast if you will. It's all rather confusing to be quite honest, and I have high hopes that you are better informed upon that particular situation than I?”

Arvel gripped his reins loosely, panning his gaze to Aaron. Biting his lip slightly, he spoke softly but surely. “Lord, I fear it may be more complicated and- Controversial, than your expectation. That being said, do you still desire the truth?”

“I would expect nothing less from you.” Aaron intoned, eyeing the knight with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. “I specifically requested you at my side because I saw a man I could trust, not a man like those my father promotes. Yes-men, who tell him what he wants to hear. Whether complicated or difficult you will find me worthy, and all the better for having the certitude of it. Try me sir knight, and test my resolve in handling the truth.”

Exhaling sharply, Arvel formulated his thoughts. “I’m sure you’re aware of the accusations against the Princess Royal, yes?” Arvel nodded. “Given that, His Majesty the King found it a fitting punishment to- Excuse the bluntness or any perceived vulgarity, throw her to the dogs, perse. Gave the Vanguards free reign in the middle of the barracks hall. I-” Arvel paused, clearing his throat, obviously uncomfortable at the topic.

“I left, needed some air, didn’t see what happened beyond that.”

Aaron hissed, long and low his hand clenched tight around the hilt of his sword as he fumed over this answer. At long last he released the sword casting a furious glance over his shoulder back towards the castle. “My father has much to answer for…” He murmured every word containing a level of venom rarely heard from him. “Are you certain of this? These accusations, though not beyond my father admittedly, would be unforgivable should they be proven false? They cast into doubt this very venture, I am of half a mind to let them escape, Eleanor would be safer in Fenros’ care...”

“I am certain. Yet, none of these riders we venture with would say anything the same, I’m sure.” Arvel sighed, glancing around, before leaning in towards Aaron, speaking lowly. “And, if this is the way you feel, Lord, it should be noted I have to agree. The truth is, I saw Fenros that night. He challenged me to step aside or die. Neither could I betray the King nor win against Sir Allaway, those are true.” Arvel paused again.

“So I stepped aside.”

“I am grateful you did so.” Aaron said with sincerity. “The world would be all the lesser without you. And by doing so you may have saved Eleanor from a fate worse than death.” Frowning the young prince stared into nothing for a while, contemplating his options, and the many unanswered questions that remained. “Unfortunately, there rides with the knight Allaway and the princess, men and women of extreme importance, including the would-be-assassin Tyler. All people whom I would very much like to question personally.” Lowering his voice he leaned in as well, mimicking Sir Arvel. “Should the opportunity arise to allow my sister and Fenros to flee, well, see to it they are not brought back home in chains. As of now I must ask you of something a prince should never ask of his knights. I ask you to lie, to keep our exploits secret from the king and anyone who might be loyal to him. Of these.” Aaron cast a hand back at the men assembled behind them. “I trust only Broc absolutely. You have seen first hand how my father treats those he presumes betrayed him. Loose lips could cost us much. Even I could be at risk, and I would not lose you. Can I entrust you with the delicacy of this situation Sir Arvel?”

“You can, Lord. It will be done, should the Goddess strike me down.” Arvel affirmed, offering a gloved hand to Aaron in solidarity.

“I will hold you to that Sir Knight.” Aaron accepted Arvel’s proffered hand shaking it with a warrior’s grip. “Ah, and behold our journey awaits.”

The massive gates creaked at last into place, and a thin line of guardsmen intermixed with watch officers had assembled as something of a Royal escort to send off the prince and his men. They stood in rank and file at attention, their gear having been hastily shined and their weapons sharpened. Lanterns cast small circles of light in the predawn shade of the walls. Crisp air persperated as they breathed vanishing in short order. Without hesitation Aaron flicked his hand and the thirty-three, in unison whipped their reins and spurred their horses forward passing through the honor guard and out onto the main road leading west out of the city.

By the time they reached the escape point of Fenros and his cohorts the sun was rising, casting brilliant beams of light across the rugged land. Several sweaty and tired looking men were waiting for them, those few who had attempted to climb the wall and pursue on foot. Aaron waved them away, before slipping from his saddle and dropping to the ground, summoning Broc the houndmaster and his four dogs. The hounds were all older beasts with graying muzzles, but they had noses sharper than a sword and a record of success that Aaron knew firsthand. Earlier Aaron had been able to locate some of the personal effects secured from Annabelle Tyler during her brief imprisonment and kept in the dungeons. Briefly Aaron held the item under each of the hounds’ muzzles. They cast about, twisting and turning their heads, first smelling the ground and then the air but at long last they all sat down whining.

“Bad trail?” Broc grunted, eyeing the dogs disapprovingly.

“Maybe, but we can try another.” Aaron muttered, not liking his secondary solution. Throwing aside the crossbow, claimed to have belonged to Tyler, Aaron stalked over to his horse pulling open his saddle bag. From there he produced a slipper, a small thing but well worn. This he held to each of the hounds in turn and this time they found the scent.

Straining on the leashes the hounds slobbered and howled eager to give chase. “Mount up!” Aaron shouted, ignoring the fact that he was the only one on his feet.

Charity Beach, Florida
15XX hrs
Saturday, June 11th

Brooks sat under the fading blue, the rolling sky which in mere hours would give to a blood-red sunset, and finally dusk, a black night that, on this date in particular, would be so flooded with festivity and light that its pollution would blot out the stars, even the moon. An interesting thought, that such a thing as simple light reflecting back could entirely obscure the stars themselves. It made no difference to him.

He clutched a bottle in his hand, green and wrapped in a silver label. The bottle, ice-cold as it was, frothed from its neck as Brooks took swig after swig of its contents. He people-watched as he drank, crowds swirling around him, a balloon in every hand and a smile on most every face. But he wasn't here for the people. He was, as his word, here for the food and booze. But that wasn't really the truth, was it? It'd been months, even years since he'd had such an opportunity to appear publicly, without blatant fear or an entire personal armory. It was nice to get out sometimes.

As he brought up the bottle to his lips, he traced over an LEO - a law enforcement officer - standing nearby. FAMA, and were those- lightning bolts stenciled on? Shaking his head, he pursued the gulp of swill he was after, returning to his post of simply watching, basking in actually being in the public and not simply hiding among them. The FAMA officer walked away, accompanied by a woman. Trailing them with his eyes, something caught his attention. Namely the big fuck-off lizard leaning against a poor tree that seemed to be straining under his weight. Henry.

Brooks knocked back the remainder of the bottle, pushing his seat back from the table at which he sat - alone. On his way over, he tossed the bottle into a bin, before approaching the reptilian monstrosity.


Industrial Row
Charity Beach, Florida
1230 hrs
Saturday, June 11th

The motor of the Dodge growled with particular ferocity as Brooks took the turns and roads with little caution. Not speeding, particularly, but with all the care one would expect of someone of his particular position. One hand gripped the ripped up steering wheel cover loosely along the top, the other clutching a cigarette to Brooks's mouth, turning him into a fog machine of cigarette smoke. He was confident he knew where this one was. Boardwalk District, intersect of 26th Street and Boardwalk Row itself, big fuck off docks, couldn't miss it.

An idle hand turned to the beat-up stereo system. "-.3 FM, for all your classic rock needs." Intoned a smooth and calm voice. The ringing of the words in silence was followed by a relaxing drum beat, a moving bass line, strumming, and a sweet sound of harmonica. Returning his hand to his cigarette, he nodded. Neil Young, classic. One pop. Two pops. Not his stereo, it wasn't that beat up. A thundering pop assaulted his eardrums as he began to pump the brake, followed by three quieter. He pulled to the side of the street, brushing against the lip of the sidewalk as he promptly, and calmly shut the engine off.

His right hand went down to his waistband, revealing his trusty sidearm and in-line conceal carry holster. A check revealed the chamber occupied by a cartridge, and a full magazine loaded. This kind of thing wasn't usually his business, but these were close. Less than a block down, westwards. And what harm was it to see, anyways? What would the cops do, arrest him for rubbernecking? He popped his door, tugging his keyring along with him, closing and locking the door behind and starting towards the nearest alley as the streets around him seemed empty, with not even ghosts seemingly calling this place home.

He crept down the alleyway, past rat and mouse alike as he encroached on the position of the last shot. But it'd been minutes since then. Whoever it was could've been long gone. No, he had to see for himself. Whatever this was, it wasn't some driveby or gang shootout, five shots at least, accompanied by something big, something powerful. Immersed in thought, he crept past a dumpster, taking care to avoid any muck or small furry creatures, alive or deceased. But suddenly, something thrust over him at speed, a blur of orange and white which threw him off balance, pressing him against a brick wall and crouching behind a dumpster, a hand now on his sidearm's grip. "Huh-" He managed to rasp out, before collecting himself and peeking from behind the dumpster.

Nothing. His imagination? A bird? Possibly. But something told him that meant he was in the right place. And from the warehouse which the figure had emerged was his destination. Drawing a pocket knife, he pressed its blade into the gap in the latch on the emergency door, peeking into his small viewpoint into the warehouse floor.

Harvest Hills Apartments
Charity Beach, Florida
1200 hrs
Saturday, June 11th

He twirled the keyring on his index finger as he struggled the distance from the elevator to the room door, glancing at the white walls of the hallway. They had scratch marks, cracks in the drywall, and even some outlines of where graffiti had been painted over. Nice place, he thought to himself as he traced the brass numbers nailed to each door whilst limping himself down the hallway. It was a long enough walk, compounded by his gait which he had newly acquired, albeit temporarily.

And finally he found it, the numbers on the white door listing '531' in faded brass number stencils. Shifting the duffel bag on his back, he jammed the key into the door, turning it with a distinct click, before trying the knob. He spilled inside quickly, closing the door behind him, making note of the three different locking mechanisms he had to play with. How foreboding. Gazing upon his new residence, he took in the whole single room and a half he had to work with. A single bed on a simple flat frame, a couch with a coffee table, and a bar-counter with a microwave and minifridge haphazardly balanced atop it, both plugged into a nearby outlet. But what's not to forget about the bathroom. Well, one could say 'room', but it was a toilet located about a foot and a half in front of a sink, leaving a narrow passage to a comparatively tiny standing shower, the shower head seemingly having a constant drip of water.

How quaint. He smirked, internally reasoning that it was better than some bunkhouse shared with thirty other Marines. Shrugging the duffel bag off his shoulder, he let it fall to the mattress on the bed, before giving way to the couch and sinking into the horrifically patterned cushions. Reaching into his waistband, he dislodged his pistol from its inline holster, sitting it on the coffee table and leaning back once again. Did this place have rules against smoking? He couldn't remember, he'd signed the lease in such a hurry, not wanting to spend another night in a roach-infested motel on the outskirts of the city. Now at least he had a roach-infested place to call his own.

Sidetracked once more, he returned to the matter at hand, reaching into the shirt of pocket of his blue patterned button-up and producing a packet of Camel filterless reds. Placing one of the carcinogen tubes between his lips, he struck up with a Bic lighter jammed into the carton along with the cigarettes. Billowing out a cloud of foul-smelling smoke, he pondered his next move. He already had a job lined up, and after that Charleston business, he hoped this was it. There was no way they knew he was alive after that, and he had the scars and limp to prove it. His plan wasn't sound in entirety, but it sounded good in his microscopic skull raisin of a brain. Work at the docks, live your life, and kill anyone who might know or report you.

He glanced down at the pistol sitting on the coffee table. He really needed to clean that thing. Did he even have a gun-cleaning kit after last time? Dish soap would work in a hurry to soak it, but he wasn't even sure this place stocked that. Reaching forward, he grasped the firearm in his hand, thumbing the magazine release and glancing down at the ten cartridges tucked within, before inserting it back into the weapon and pulling the slide back halfway, confirming the round in the chamber. He double-checked the thumb safety before holstering the pistol, bringing himself back to a standing position with a pained grunt. They really didn't have to fuck up his leg like that, did they?

He popped his neck, before glancing down at his second-hand cheap digital watch. 1:15. He didn't start work until bright and early tomorrow, but as for scoping the place out, there was no time like the present. Spinning his keyring on his index finger, he limped over to his duffel bag, throwing open the zipper. Reaching in, he found his intended target at the very top, producing a grey curved bill baseball cap with netted back. He fit it over his unkempt mop of hair, adjusting the velcro strap on the back, before nodding silently, making for the door, on course for the beach and boardwalk district.
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