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The Imperial Dragoons — A Flintlock Fantasy RP [Open]

@AndreyichIf you leave a man to watch the horses, as I imagine you would, they are unlikely to bolt. Their Dragoon horses. You should be practicing shooting their heads while in the saddle. Have some faith in they noble steed sah!

The Imperial Dragoons — A Flintlock Fantasy RP [Open]

The clatter of hooves was a blessedly welcome sound to Francisco's ears as he disembarked in Tomis. He had never been a great fan of sea travel and somehow, after six weeks of training, he did not feel at all prepared for what was to come. He knew his way around a carbine and a horse well enough but the sabre was something new. He would never forget Loannis, the half-mad training instructor, when he had first presented the heavy blade to Francisco. It was actually one of the few times that Francisco had not been screamed at by the man.

"Remember, Iberian, an axe can be used to cut wood and a musket to hunt animals. The sword is the one weapon that is made solely to kill man. Never forget that."

In that instant Francisco found himself take the step from being a civilian to be being a solider. Until that moment he had been scared, out of his depth in most things, but the basics had come easily enough to him with repetition. The sabre was a beautiful and deadly weapon and despite his physical physique he had found the weapon difficult to handle. Muscles that he had never known existed burned as he trained with the blade and he was still in danger of chopping his own horses ear off on most practice charges. He hardly felt ready to ride into battle. Even less so to kill a man. This was something he had never done.

Now, as he led his horse off the Frigate and into the streets of Tomis, Francisco felt the first flutter of fear. He was on an adventure, as he had always wanted, but the epic bustle of Nicomedia was gone, replaced with the very purposeful movement of troops. Even the townsfolk here were very different. They eyed the cavalry with expressions ranging from awe to fear and very few waved, a far cry from the jubilant throngs who had cheered them off to sea. He supposed that the war would be far more real for these people, they were much closer to the enemy after all.

He swung into his saddle, nodding to the overly religious Theodoros. The man's piety was disturbing but he didn't bother Francisco much which was just fine with him. If a man wanted to bow and scrape to God, that was his choice. Francisco shifted in his saddle, hearing it creak beneath him as his horse, a big solid roan named Nubarrón, stomped his front hoof impatiently on the cobblestone. They had been on that ship for almost four days and the horses were not happy about it, secured as they had been in narrow wooden stalls below decks.

Francisco double checked his gear where it hung from his saddle. The Officers had drilled home to him that a Dragoon, often far ahead of the main army, would carry almost everything with him on his horse. His metal helmet flashed in the sun, the cloth cover for it tucked into his saddle bags along with three days rations, some basic horse care products, some clean clothes, and, carefully packed, his guitar. He had seen curious glances from other Troopers when he first arrived but after a few nights of listening to him play they had all agreed it was worth having along, though he would not take it into battle. His bedroll, great coat, and forage net were all rolled up across the back of the saddle. On him he carried his carbine, holstered by his knee, sabre on his left hip, forty rounds of ammunition and cartridges on his belt, and a short handled bayonet. He hoped he would never be that close to another human being.

They had ridden up to the Citadel where they were to find their beds for the night, though Francisco could not sleep, and even if he had wanted to, he was to scared to sleep. Training in Nicomedia had been one thing but as evening fell and he stared over the landscape slowly turning black with night be could not help but begin to imagine every flickering light that appeared as an enemy fire. Normally he sought the company of the other soldiers, his songs and music welcome no matter where we went but not tonight. Tonight he sat on the high wall and stared into the distance where the Mountains glowed briefly with the final rays of sunlight before also falling into deep shadow. There was no moon that night.

For hours he sat, fingers twisting and un-twisting the horse hair plume of his helmet, the feel rough and tangible, a reminder that everything was real. When he got bored of the helmet plume he drew his long sabre and began to obsessively sharpen the blade with long strokes of a sharpening stone. The "shhhk shhhk shhhk" sound soon drew aa alert sentry to his side, an officer who sat beside him without an invite in the darkness. He could see nothing of the man but his cocked hat and heavy moustache.

"Nervous?" The man asked and Francisco paused for a moment in his sharpening. He wanted to say no, to laugh or chuckle but he couldn't.

"Yes." He finally said. A simple word but it seemed to help a bit. The man next to him didn't chuckle or laugh. Instead he lit a cigar and in that momentary light Francisco saw the lined and weather beaten face of a veteran soldier.

"Then you might live. Any man who is fearless charges headlong into danger. He gets himself or his friends killed." The Officer said after a moment. His accented Latin was easy enough for Francisco to follow.

"I have not been in fight before." Francisco said at length. His own Latin was provincial at best but the Officer didn't seem to care. He blew on the tip of his cigar and it flared again. The tip of his nose was missing.

"We all start somewhere." Replied the Officer. Several more puffs on the cigar and the weathered face turned toward Francisco and he could see a weariness in the mans face, an exhaustion that he had not expected. "And some day, it will end for us somewhere. We hope in our bed with a good woman, but in all likely hood it will end with a Roman lance in the gut. Stay safe out there Trooper." He stood, tossed his cigar over the battlements and vanished into the darkness, leaving Francisco alone with his thoughts.

He was still sitting there some hours later when the sun touched the horizon again and the trumpet called him to reveille. He was achingly tired as he returned to the stables, something made all the more obvious by the eagerness of Nubarrón who had clearly had a full nights rest. The two, man and horse, appeared on the parade ground last of all and managed to trot into formation in front of Cornet Koynk as he spared them a brief glare for their tardy arrival.

Francisco listened keenly as their mission was laid out for them. It was a simple scouting mission. They had practiced several dozen during their training. Though this time, the enemy would not be shooting blanks at them. That made his gut go cold again and he could feel the knot tightening inside of him. He was terrified.

The Imperial Dragoons — A Flintlock Fantasy RP [Open]

@VoiDLove the post and the map! Please don't ever quit.

The Imperial Dragoons — A Flintlock Fantasy RP [Open]

Yes! More posts. Thank goodness.

The Imperial Dragoons — A Flintlock Fantasy RP [Open]

@Foxgreat post!

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

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June 01, 1960, Western Rhodesia
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When he awoke it was to the delicious smell of fresh cooked meat, burning tobacco and the quiet but pleasant rumble of conversation. It took him a moment to open his eyes and when he did he was not disappointed. He was lying on his side and some fifty feet away two young women were bathing in a creek, naked and bent at the waist, their most private places exposed to him. He felt a small smile begin to creep across his face until he remembered where he was.

He sat up carefully, eyes darting around the small clearing he shared with at least fifteen to twenty other people, There wasn't a white face to be seen that brought a measure of calm to him. Of the group, about half were women, most of them were walking freely and moving about the camp with laughs and smiles. Two others, he knew they had been captured from a neighbouring tribe, were naked and tied to a tree. Though they were unmolested at the moment, Andrew knew that the men had been taking turns raping the women. It was a tribal thing apparently.

That, ironically, only made the situation he found himself in more unbelievable. His rescuers were a motley collection of "Freedom Fighters" that had managed to find each other and form a sort of rough community in the bush. They all seethed against the injustice of the White Man, his hold on Rhodesia, and how they had been turned into second class citizens. The irony of hearing that from men who, only moments before, might have been savagely raping one of the two captives was so painful it almost made Andrew sick. He was hardly a saint, but a hypocrite, he was not.

"Morning Andrew." A cultured voice addressed him as a handsome man with shaved head, well groomed beard, and green fatigues sat next to him. Wilbur Mudiwa had been educated in Rhodesia before being sent to Britain to attend University. There he had learned economics, politics, and found a taste for rebellion and dissent. He had returned home from University, where his opinion and voice had raged freely, to a country that threatened to lock him up if he did not desist. "A fine day. Have you thought about our offer?" He continued.

The offer. It had been made by Wilbur and his main henchman, Robert Mugabe, two nights before. They had plied him with women and wine as they did, clever moves on their part, but hardly two things Andrew had not enjoyed greatly in his lifetime. He had been a crime lord of some repute after all. They wanted his help, his connections, most of all, they wanted to try and access whatever money he might have left squirrelled away.

The two men had painted a picture of freedom. A Rhodesia without the Whites. A land they called Zimbabwe. Their plan involved turning the populace against the Whites with propaganda, even force if needed. They seemed blithely unaware that the Rhodesian Government paid excellent money to those who were willing to turn over would be revolutionaries. He also had his most recent experiences to reflect on. He had been wealthy, well connected, and well hidden, or so he had thought. Now he was sitting in the dust discussing the freedom and rights of black men while one of the two bound women began to sob quietly. It was ridiculous.

"I have. I think you underestimate the Rhodesians. I already said this. And I don't have all my money buried under a house in chests..." Andrew was exasperated. His fortune had been in business connections and a bank account or two in Switzerland. If and when he managed to make it to civilization he would be able to access them again, providing the Rhodesians hadn't found a way to shut them down or freeze them. He had to grudgingly admitted that they were far better counter-insurgency operatives than the Americans. The product of being a minority in their own country he supposed.

And that, right there, was the problem. He viewed Rhodesia as a White country in Africa. So did many other Europeans and Americans. Sure, everyone knew that Blacks lived there, but there were no great massacres to stir up public opinion, no savage injustices to fuel the righteous. The Rhodesians treated the Blacks well, and elevated some of them to proper citizenship when they proved their loyalty and worth. It was a brilliant system and he hated himself for admiring it. If he had managed to keep his nose clean he could probably have risen high but instead he had done what he had always done, the quick money scheme, and now he life burned all around him.

"We know that." Mudiwa said, waving away the concerns as if they didn't matter. "But you must understand that we need all the help we can get. We are small in number now, but we will grow stronger!" The man slammed his fist into the earth. He was passionate if nothing else. His point was somewhat lost since he was the only one wearing real clothes other than Andrew, the group had five rifles amongst them and no explosives or way of making them that Andrew was aware of. Apparently the two men he had seen fleeing into fields just before his rescue had been coming to join this group. Mudiwa had been certain one of them was an explosives expert but Andrew doubted that very much.

"Mugabe seems certain that we will receive some more recruits today as well." Andrew said, changing the subject. Mugabe was, at that moment, out of the camp with two other men, hoping to guide in a small group that they had been warned was coming in that evening with supplies. Supplies seemed to mean "literally anyone or anything not nailed down", all taken from surrounding villages, not a single one of which had a White person in it. "Are you not concerned that the locals might not like you... "Borrowing" their things, or their women?" He made air quotes and then jerked his thumb at the two battered women.

"It is for the greater good, they understand." Mudiwa said dismissively. Andrew was convinced he was an idiot, despite all his education. All the education in the world and he thought he was owed something by the common folk for his voluntary leadership role. Mugabe on the other hand had seemed more switched on when it came to not making a statement or drawing attention to himself, yet.

"I'm going for a swim." Andrew said and stood, walking towards the water where the other free women had finished their business and moved along after laughing at the desperate pleas of the captives behind them.

He stripped down on the edge of the water and knelt in the shallows, splashing water on his face and upper body, slapping at the dust that had collected as he slept. He splashed his face again and then became motionless. Someone was staring at him. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end and he felt a chill crawl down his spine. He had been watched before, he was a handsome man, but this was different. Someone was staring intently at him.

Slowly, pretending to splash water on himself again, he turned his head, eyes sweeping the clearing behind him. Then his eyes met the intense gaze he was seeking. It was one of the captive women. She was on her knees, buttocks exposed to the world, hands tied above her head so that her small breasts and their bite marks, were facing him. The others had attempted to coerce him into "Training" the women the previous night and he had seen the piteous thanks in her eyes when he declined. Now there was something else, fear perhaps? Yes, fear, but something more. Her eyes were moving frantically from his towards the tree line and back. He quickly shot a look that way but could see nothing.

"They're coming." She mouthed the words, not a sound coming from her lips as she desperately shot a look at the tree line again. Again he saw nothing. He quickly stood up, water cascading across down his body as he did so and strode toward her. He saw terror flash across her face as he grabbed her wrists and pulled her to her feet, turning her to face the trees and pulling her tight against him. She gave a small scream and a hoot of encouragement came from the other men as they paused to watch. He slipped his hands around her waist as if to pull her even closer and then leaned in to whisper into her ear.

"Who is coming?" He felt her relax slightly against him despite the panic that had engulfed her, but there was no hiding the fact that her body was shaking.

"The White Man."

Andrew's blood ran cold at the words. Still pretending to bite at her neck he ran his eyes along the edge of the clearing and that was when he saw the man. Standing back, deep in the shadows, almost completely invisible, was distinct human shape. He was nothing but a shadow against the darkness of the foliage. Andrew ran his hands along the captives body and, despite the situation, felt himself growing hard against her. "How do you know he is a White Man?"

"He has a gun and hides, I saw his shape, just for a moment. But you knew they would come."

So she had heard him talking to Mudiwa! She was more clever than her captors had given her credit. His brain raced quickly, a thousand ideas flashing through them as discarded them one after the other. He wanted to run, to flee, to vanish into the brush, but now he owed this woman his life and Andrew Walls never failed to repay a life debt. Then he hit on an idea. "Play along with me. It won't be hard." He whispered quickly.

He stepped back and gave her a gunshot slap across the buttocks. She gave a shriek of pain and surprise. "You need a bath, little slut." He said the words in English but the meaning was clear enough as he walked to his things, drew a knife from his pants, and walked back toward her. He felt terribly exposed and for a moment felt ashamed at the genuine look of betrayal in her gaze. The look vanished instantly as he slashed her rope and she collapsed to the ground, screaming again as he grabbed her by the hair and began to drag her towards the water. She grabbed his wrist with both her hands and hung on, preventing him from tearing her hair out by the roots. It would look real enough to those watching.

With a grunt he heaved her into the shallows behind the reeds and stomped in after her, swearing loudly in English and slapping her across the buttocks again. She gave another pained shriek and the laughter from the camp doubled. Then he knelt next to her in the water where they were hidden from those in the camp. He quickly cut the rope about her wrist and watched as she massaged the blood back into her hands.

"Can you swim?" He asked. She nodded. "Okay, on your belly then, follow me."

She did so without question, the two of them slithering like snakes through the water just at the edge of the reeds to avoid making them move. They paused once as a camp dog barked nearby. Andrew realized with a start it was the only animal sound he had heard in the last few minutes. The jungle had gone deathly silent. Only the sounds of the camp reverberated around them.

They reached a deep pool soon enough and Andrew slid head first into it. He felt rather than saw the girl follow him. He remained underwater as long as he could before surfacing for air. He was halfway across the pool now. The girl was a much better swimmer than he and made it to the far bank without surfacing.

When he joined her they huddled under the bank in the darkness of a small cave created by the high water season. They dared not try to climb the bank, it was in full view of the camp. The girl was shivering and he, ever so carefully, drew her into his arms. She resisted for a moment and then, with a small moan, she collapsed against him and began to sob.

They sat there for ten minutes before he saw one of the men shout a question toward the water where he had vanished. When no reply came the man shouted again. His angry tone startling the second captive awake. She glanced around and gave a small shriek when she found herself alone. More shouts and two men began to walk toward the reeds where Andrews clothes still lay. It took them fifteen steps to reach the water and they looked about in confusion as their feet touched the mud and they found no one. One turned to shout back toward the camp, and died.

Guns blazed from the brush and both men toppled into the stream. Men and women, even the dogs, tried to run but gunfire erupted from another angle and the piteous rebels, caught in the crossfire, were slaughtered. The girl had pressed herself closer to him as the shooting began and he found himself clinging to her as much as she to him. Unified by their terror, they didn't move even when a stray bullet slapped into the mud above their heads.

The shooting lasted no more than sixty seconds. As it died away the attackers appeared from the brush. Andrew was surprised to see primarily black police officers and then, to his stunned horror, Robert Mugabe strode into the clearing next to a white man dressed in Rhodesian Security Force fatigues. Four other white men followed and even the two white police officers gave them a polite berth. Andrew pegged them for Feds at once. He watched as Mugabe picked his way through the bodies, turning over the dead and dying, and shaking his head as he went. Andrew was stunned. Mugabe, the rebel leader he had heard so much about, was working with the Rhodesian's, not against them.

The girl obviously recognized him as well as she moaned quietly. "Quiet, little honey bee." He whispered urgently. Three more white men had appeared and there was no mistaking the tall, sleek shapes of Ridgebacks that trotted along at their side.

Mugabe gave an exclamation of satisfaction and waved the Federal Agent over. Using his boot he turned over a body and Andrew did not have to see it to know that the dead man was Mudiwa. The Agent nodded, took several photos, and then stepped back, gesturing at the captive who was still tied to her tree and sobbing loudly now. Two black officers quickly stepped forward and cut her loose, one of them taking a blanket from nearby and covering her nakedness before escorting her back the way the attackers had come.

Mugabe was speaking to the Agent now, shaking his head and gesturing at the jungle around him. Andrew could guess who he was looking for. He silently cursed himself for ever using his real name when he had been rescued. If he survived this he would take a new name immediately. He did not wish to die for the sake of being lazy. He watched as the Agent ordered the police officers to begin a search of the area. They did so, half heartedly, enough to make the man think they were trying. They found Andrews clothes, which meant nothing to them, and Mugabe had either forgotten, or failed to note, that there had been a second female captive present. The Ridgebacks scoured the edges of the camp for any fresh scents but found nothing. Mugaba had been gone for nearly two days, with any luck he would think Andrew had already left the camp.

For two hours they huddled under the riverbank, a fallen crime lord and a sex slave. Andrew could almost see the dime store novel he could write when he returned to America. The idea hit him like a Thunderbolt. If he survived, that's what he would do, he would be a writer! No more crime, no more dead bodies, just a nice cottage somewhere and a typewriter. It sounded awfully appealing given the last two weeks he had just gone through. He was still lost in the dream when the girl touched his face gently.

"They are leaving." She said so quietly that he almost could not hear her. He glanced across at the camp. The police had long given up their search and had stacked the bodies of the dead rebels in the middle of the clearing and set fire to them. What the fire did not eat, the Jungle would consume when night fell. Predators would come, as would the ants, and little would be let in the morning. The police left first, weapons casually slung as they walked away, eating rations taken from the camp. The white men and their Ridgebacks followed a short time later, leaving only the Agent and Mugabe standing next to the smoldering pile of corpses. Mugabe said something Andrew could not hear and the Agent nodded then the two turned and walked away into the brush.

The girl began to move but Andrew stopped her, holding her tight against him, eyes slowly sweeping the clearing. They waited for an hour, and then another, until, after what seemed like an eternity, the brush moved on the far side of the clearing and two white men stepped into the opening. They brushed dirt from their fatigues and slung their rifles, gave a final glance around the clearing and then vanished after their comrades.

He waited another fifteen minutes and, taking the girl by the hand, he slid into the water and swam slowly toward the camp. Nothing moved. The birds in the trees around them began to pipe up again and the smaller sounds of the Jungle came rushing back suddenly. The enemy was gone. The two exhausted fugitives staggered onto the bank and lay there for a moment breathing deeply, glad to be free of their mud prison. They didn't have much time until dark however and Andrew stood. He quickly began to go through everything left behind by the dead. He retrieved his own clothes, the knife from the streambed, and found his boots. The girl had been quick to take his cue and dressed herself with what was left of the womens possessions.

Andrew was rooting through discarded canisters for anything the police might have left behind in the way of food when he tripped over something imbedded in the earth. He cursed and turned to find a small metal spike that had been concealed beneath the now scattered fire pit of one of the cook sites. Curious, he took his knife and dug down, pulling the stake free along with a small rope attached to it. He heaved on the rope and, after several more tugs, a long case came free of the dirt. He knelt next to it, heart pounding, and found it to held closed by only a few rusty nails. Using his knife he pried the lid off and almost wept with gratitude. There was a rusty old rifle but, nestled next to it in the hay, was a six shot revolver with a box of ammunition.

Twenty minutes later they were headed west into the Jungle, to where he did not know.

The Imperial Dragoons — A Flintlock Fantasy RP [Open]

Tfw they don't let you be a bully

But Pardon me, we're still training, they do not yet have said rank do they?

@Andreyich

Saved by the LT...

The Imperial Dragoons — A Flintlock Fantasy RP [Open]

@VoiDJust to confirm, our next post is going to be set how far in the future of our training? Just trying to brainstorm some ideas.

The Imperial Dragoons — A Flintlock Fantasy RP [Open]

Francisco de la Cal Delgado

The abrupt change from wandering about the city to the rigid training regime that came crashing down on his head was almost bewildering for Francisco. He familiar with being stressed, trying to round up animals that had stampeded in a thunder storm, hunting Wolves, running from his lovers fathers, but none of that had prepared him for army life any more than learning how to bath cats might have.

He had been very careful with his uniform when it was issued. Being of peasant stock he knew how to keep things clean and organized. While he could not read the Latin papers given to him, a helpful soldier he had befriended during his initial four days, had showed him how to properly wear the uniform so that when the inspection came the Lieutenant had only growled at him to fix his twisted chin strap on the helmet. It was a good feeling for Francisco to pass that little test.

He dutifully yelled "Yes sir!" with everyone else, though perhaps a bit late as he wasn't aware that Officers were called "Sir" instead of their rank. His lapse had been surely noted by a Lance Corporal who was eye balling him near by, or maybe it was a Sergeant, he didn't know the rank structure at all! He felt glad that the Lieutenant was in charge, he seemed serious but at least he was trying to explain things to everyone. Francisco had been warned by the friends he had made that the first four weeks would be the hardest of training as he got used to everything, but it didn't seem so bad.

Then the men were assigned and the units broken up and he understood what those warnings had been about as the soldier who had been glowering at him took over. He resisted the urge to try and smile at the man. He knew he was likeable but did not think that this was the time or the place. The military was a serious business after all.

With a little indignant puff the veteran paused and swiveled to face the new men without much apparent movement in his legs. "Oh no you bunch aren't going to be able to learn that here. Most of your filthy hides will be shot or chopped up. But we'll do our best so you at least won't wet yourself... much. We're going to split you up for various parts of the training. You think you just might just be smart enough to manage that? Good."

Francisco was surprised at the speech. It seemed strange to tell everyone they were going to die. Didn't you want people to stay in the unit, scaring them was hardly going to do that. He risked a glance down the ranks and saw that the others didn't look afraid. He stiffened his spin and stared ahead. If they could be brave, so could he. His arm was on fire from where the carbine sight was digging into his bicep and the helmet was heavy on his head, he'd never worn anything heavier than a hat before.

Eventually they were detailed off to begin training. Francisco was pleased to be assigned to a lad his own age by the name of Konyk. The man looked as much like a boy as he did, though he wore expensive spectacles which Francisco had only seen on Priests back home. The two had barely introduced themselves when the angry soldier appeared again and screamed in Francisco's ear.

"A hundred push-ups in a minute, then perform the eighteen-count manual of arms in perfect form and order. You fail, you do it again. You do it right then you can have a drink."

Francisco clumsy put his carbine down and dropped into a push up position. He knew that much at least and physical exercise was something he was used to. He was strongly built, fitter than most, but as he began to hammer out the push-ups he began to feel a burn in his arms. There was no way he would be able to complete one hundred push-ups in a minute!

Then, the Varangian squatted down beside him and hissed "You a Catholic, Iberian?" with venom to make a snake envious.

Fransisco almost stopped his push-ups to answer but caught himself at the last second. Sweat was already pouring down his face as he reach forty, his reply coming out between each push-up.

"I. Think. So. Sir." The rhythm of the push-ups was slowing as he went now but he had noticed that the man did not carry a time piece. Around eighty push-ups he began to fade and then, arms shaking, he crashed onto the stone of the parade square.

The Imperial Dragoons — A Flintlock Fantasy RP [Open]

@VoiDUgh, Reading, four letter word around here...