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Legend of the Silver Legion Redux (Open)

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Legend of the Silver Legion Redux (Open)

Before I dig through the character sheets, and because there is no geographic map, do we have a desert race yet?

The Imperial Dragoons — A Flintlock Fantasy RP [Open]

@VoiDWhat colour are our uniforms? I did quick Google search for Byzantine colours and got mostly red or purple. I put grey for now since purple tunics is silly and red would make us British.

Let me know and I'll amend my post.

The Imperial Dragoons — A Flintlock Fantasy RP [Open]

The crack of the musket seemed so loud and unexpected that all Francisco could do as his companion tumbled into the roadway was stare in surprise. A second musket ball whipped through the air inches from his face and that drove some awareness home to him and, even as he looked toward the distant trees, he saw smoke drifting across a small ridgeline much closer to him, his horse already turning in response to the pressure of its riders knees.

"Cavalry!" The shout came from the third man of the patrol, Beppe Renzi, who was dragging his carbine free of its holster and pointing back the way they had come. A small squadron of lancers, their weapons glittering threateningly in the sun, were trotting out of the low ground that had been hidden them from Francisco. Five lancers, and an unknown number of persons firing muskets. Ten seconds had passed and Francisco was already trying to decide which way to run.

"Romans!" He managed to croak out, recognizing the white jackets worn by the infantry. The lancers wore the same white but with blue facings denoting their regiment. Fifteen seconds and Francisco's horse had finished its turn, he was now aiming directly for the lancers.

Another pair of musket balls slapped the air near him but, in that moment, he realized that the infantry were to far to be any real threat, the first shot had been a lucky one. He leaned across the dead mans mount and drew the carbine from its holster. Now he had two shots. The terror he had felt so keenly seemed to cool as he measured the distance between him and Lancers and his training began to take over.

The lancers had spread out and were trotting easily down the roadway toward them. To the West a small infantry squad had sprung to their feet and was quickly retreating away, their hands and backs heavy with gods knows what. A forage party! Francisco twisted his gaze back to the Lancers who were closing quickly now so that he could make out individual moustached faces beneath their glittering helmets, teeth bared in savage snarls.

"Wait, wait until they charge!" Francisco called as Beppe raised his carbine. The Lancers were still out of accurate range for the carbines and if they wasted their shots, they were be dead men. They had one chance, and only once chance. The two Byzantines began to walk their own horses forward and, just as the Lancers touched back their spurs to charge, the two fired. Francisco's target gave a scream and dropped his lance, clutching at his shoulder and wheeling away. Beppe's target jerked back in his saddle, sagged, and then collapsed sideways so that his body remained upright in the saddle, jerking like some gruesome marionette doll with every motion of his horse. Francisco threw down the carbine and the Dragoons kicked their horses into a gallop.

The three remaining Lancers checked for a moment at the sudden loss of two of their number, long enough for Fransisco to draw his sword. Then the Lancers were on them, the long blades reaching for his chest. He did as the drill instructor had told him to, barely managing to brush the lance point away so that it tore his uniform sleeve and he hissed in pain as it cut his arm. Then he was past the point and swung his heavy sword backwards with a scream that seemed to release all the terror he had been harbouring. The blade, new and as sharp as he could make, and driven by the strength of an Iberian farm boy, smashed into the Lancers back and cut through the wool uniform, severing skin, and tendon until it grated on bone. The Lancer gave a high pitched scream and arched his back until he fell from the saddle and crashed into the hard packed roadway.

Francisco screamed in triumph. He had killed. He had become a soldier! He sawed at his reins, savagely forcing his horses head around as he turned to see the other two Lancers trying to turn their mounts as well. Beppe was down, he had been taken clean out of his saddle by one of the Lancers, the wicked point tearing into his waist and out the other side. He lay on the roadway near the Lancer Fransisco had killed, hands clutching at his side where his intestine was trying to escape the savage wound that began in his belly.

The Lancers managed to turn to face Francisco and then one screamed as a Francisco shot him with the second carbine he had not yet fired. The bullet, fired in a hurry, struck the Lancer in the neck and blood fountained across the white mane of his horse. The Lancer clapped a hand to the wound and wheeled out of the fight, dropping his lance and spurring off the roadway. That left one Lancer, his long moustache marking him as a veteran horseman.

Fransisco threw down the carbine, he would never have time to reload it, and took a grip on his sword, reassured by the weight of the steel. The two men were sitting at a standstill now and both looked about them at the carnage on the roadway. Beppe and one of the Lancers still moaned piteously in the dust. A bloodied blue jacket showed where Francisco's other comrade lay, his head tucked beneath his body at an impossible angle. The Lancer Beppe had shot was still hanging in his saddle, his horse, no longer interested in the fight, was eating grass some hundred yards away, the body hanging comically askew, still trapped in the saddle. The man Francisco had shot in the shoulder was watching the two from distance away, his face twisted in pain, his good hand holding a bundled spare shirt to his bloodied shoulder.

A small wind blew from the ocean across the two remaining combatants, gently brushing at the manes of their horses and pushing the carbine smoke away. Both men flinched as a crash announced the collapse of the man Fransisco had shot in the neck. Blood had soaked the white tunic and the Lancer, unable to remain erect in the saddle, had finally collapsed into the ditch beside the road. His fingers still attempted to slow the flow of blood but the movement slowly weakened and Francisco watched with a detached curiosity as the man gave a hiccuping gasp, his body twisting for a moment as if he was trying to stand, and then sagging into the ditch, his blood pooling beneath him.

The small movement of the remaining Lancers hooves brought Fransisco's head back up and he watched as the Lancer measure the distance between the two of them. He was shocked to see fear mirroring his own in the hard eyes that stared at him. Moments ago he the two men would have been trying to kill each other but the killing mood had come and gone. Almost hesitantly, Fransisco raised his bloodied sword in a salute. To his amazement a small smile broke out on the Roman's face and returned the salute with his own curved blade.

"Well fought! May we never meet again!" The Lancer called out in Latin and Francisco found himself also smiling despite the situation though he did not reply as the Lancer turned his horse and spurred back down the road, his wounded comrade hurrying after him. Fransisco watched them until they passed over a small rise and he was alone, the master of his little battlefield.

For a long minute he sat still in his saddle, bloodied blade resting on the pommel of his saddle. The smell of gun smoke was still strong and the scent of fresh blood crisp to his senses. Beppe's moans had died away and Fransisco looked down to realize that the man was dead, his guts slowly sliding out of his stomach and onto the roadway.

Nothing else moved around him. The wind picked up enough that the horse hair plume of his helmet began to tickle his face and his horse moved beneath him, one of his hooves making a "tocK' sound as it struck a rock. He was alive. He had done it. He had killed, he had become a soldier.

He kicked his foot free and dropped from the saddle to retrieve his carbine which he reloaded and slid back into the holster. He went to the downed men and, remembering the advice from his instructors, went through their pockets and purloined any valuables he could find. This was his battlefield and he would take what he could from it.

It took him considerably longer to round up the dead mens horses but he managed, his time on the farm certainly useful enough at that moment. The one with the dead Lancer still in the saddle evaded him and galloped after the two Lancers who had ridden away. As the horse topped the same small rise the body finally came free and vanished into the long grass. Fransisco was not going to go looking for that one and he was certainly not going to wait around for the enemy to come back in strength.

The enemy dead remained where they fell; Fransisco taking the time to drag his two dead comrades into the ditch and hastily pile rocks and dirt over them. It was hardly a grave and scavengers, already circling above, would be at the flesh before he was out of sight. He pulled himself into his saddle and took a last look around. He was still very much alone in the wide open space. Incredibly, for the first time since he had joined the Dragoons, he did not feel afraid.

He turned his horse and, with his fallen comrades mounts and two captured Roman horses in tow, he rode back toward the bridge.

The Imperial Dragoons — A Flintlock Fantasy RP [Open]

@FoxThanks very much! I write from personal experience which helps. Granted I never served as an 18th Century Cavalryman, but you get the idea.

I have been enjoying your chaps slow growth as a leader, it is well done.

And, lordy lordy, an ambush!!

The Imperial Dragoons — A Flintlock Fantasy RP [Open]

Francisco's patrol rode out just as the sun began to spread warm tendrils of light across the landscape. The darkness that had so fed his nightmares was vanishing to be replaced by the genuine pleasure of a ride in the country. He had taken the time to pull the helmet cover into place so that no light would flash from its burnished surface, double and triple checked his carbine was loaded, and ensured more times then he could count that his sword moved freely in its scabbard.

As they moved out into the countryside Francisco found himself enjoying the ride. They passed first through the town and, once, under the foreboding gateway and past the earthworks, they entered into neatly kept farming country. The locals watched them warily but a few waved and a couple of pretty girls paused in their chores to blow him a kiss as he rode by. He winked back and was rewarded with a flurry of giggles as they rode through, their horses raising small puffs of dust beneath their hooves.

Their ride took them into the interior of the landscape, the high mountain peaks visible above the trees as they rode. The majority of the land about them was turning into open grazing, vast fields of it that rolled up to the edge of the forest to the North, and down to the ocean in the South. Francisco had worried aloud that an enemy might ambush them from the tree-line but one of the Cornets had scoffed at the concern. Only the British used proper rifles and they were far away. No musket fired from the distant tree-line was going to kill a man. What they were really looking for were other enemy cavalry, sent out to screen the advance of an army. No army could move without roads, the heavy supply wagons and guns would require the easy route or they would have to be abandoned.

Despite the sun and the assurances from the Cornet, Francisco was slowly loosing his good mood again. The fear was back as he looked about him. They were at war. Eventually they would run into an enemy and then what? Would he be killed? Could he kill another person? He doubted his six weeks of training really made him a soldier and it seemed all the more obvious he was not as the experienced men in the bandon acted as if they hadn't a care in the world.

Francisco had no way of knowing that they were as nervous as he, their experience simply allowed them to hide it more effectively. His own fears made him feel cold despite the sun and he almost wished he had never left his family farm. At least, despite the off highway man, he had never been in any danger. The thought occurred to him that he would probably also be a father by now and he shuddered at the thought. Fatherhood was not high on his priority list.

The path they were riding led to a distant bridge that they caught a glimpse of briefly from a high hilltop. For a brief moment Francisco thought he saw a dark shape moving against a distant green hillside. He opened his mouth to report it, looked again and found the thing gone. Maybe he had imagined it? He couldn't say for certain and did not want to make himself look a fool for reporting vague shapes. He kept his mouth shut.

The Imperial Dragoons — A Flintlock Fantasy RP [Open]

@AndreyichI feel like you're rushing things... We only just got sent out to patrol and you're back already? Maybe the GM had an enemy encounter in mind?

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

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June 4th, 1960, Salisbury, Rhodesia
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Two Rolls Royce Phantom III's rolling onto the Salibsury Airfield was nothing new to the men who worked the tarmac. The vehicle was commonly used by Government Officials and wealthy business men to come and go as they pleased. What caught their attention was the young women hanging out of the windows laughing and waving from the second car. Four of them, two white women and two black women, all of them heart stoppingly beautiful. Work by those within easy visual range ground to a halt as the vehicles swept by and headed toward the big hanger on the south side of the field where private aircraft sat gleaming in the hot African sun. The two Phantoms were followed by Henry Cornell in his Melsetter, the big engine roaring as he accelerated and tore past the Phantoms to reach the hanger first.

A Canadair North Star had been drawn out of the line of aircraft, the great silver flanks marked only by a green band that ran from nose to tail, which was also green and sported, in great white letters, CORNELL. When he had first bought the plane Henry had been worried it had been a frivolous expense but as his business interests expanded overseas he had found the plane invaluable. The aircraft Captain, co-pilot and four hostesses waited at the bottom of the ramp as he drove up and the Captain stepped forward to open the car door for Henry as it ground to a halt, rocking back and forth slightly on its heavy suspension.

"Fuelled and ready to fly sir. Flight plan filed for immediate departure. Salisbury to Cairo, Cairo to Bombay, Bombay to Singapore, Singapore to Manila." As he spoke the ground crew hurried forward to take the suitcases from Henry's car and stow them in the aircraft. Henry greeted the aircraft crew, complimented them on the state of the aircraft, and then turned his attention to the two Phantoms as they drew up to the aircraft.

The first disgorged four serious looking white men in business suits. One was undoubtedly a body guard but the other three looked like they might be lawyers. The second car was the real surprise for all as it stopped and the four women piled out giggling. They were dressed in identical green and white dresses with white gloves and their hair held back by Rhodesian flag styled hair accessories. This was a new tack for Henry, one that he had hit on in the last month during planning sessions for this trip around the world. He knew from his newspaper friends that violence, puppies, and sex were the stories that sold papers. There was no shortage of literature with beautiful women consuming products in the print ads, and air hostesses dressed fashionably. This trip would include these four young women who had been brought onto the staff as sales staff. They would assist in presentations, either pitching the ideas, or handling props. They were the real salespeople here. The four men who accompanied them were there to draw up the paperwork. It would be an interesting departure from the belief that only men could sell.

The giggle squad, as he was affectionately calling them, made their way into the aircraft followed by the legal team. The hostesses, long used to transporting men who were horrendous flirts, chatted happily with their female passengers and had to be reminded that they still had a job to do. The lawyers settled in as the aircraft engines roared to life.

Henry settled in his own private "office" at the rear of the aircraft. It was really just a larger cabin with a desk, and a double bed that was separated from the main cabin by a curtain. The trip would take roughly 36 hours of flying time and they would overnight in Singapore so that he arrived in Manila rested and ready to do business. He felt a jolt as the plane began to taxi forward and another gale of giggles came from the forward cabin. He smiled involuntarily. This trip had a promising start.

***Forty three Hours and one overnight in Singapore later***

The wheels of the North Star slammed into the tarmac, jarring the remainder of the party awake. Henry hadn't slept since the take off in Singapore that morning. He was pouring over documents to acquaint himself with the Philippines even further. What he was really interested in was the Tobacco industry and, most importantly the political situation.

Upcoming elections in a nation like the Philippines were a golden opportunity to back one side against the other and win some trade concessions in the mix. He took a moment to look up from his reading as they began to taxi down the long runway and back toward the main terminal. The Jungle had grown up tight against the edges of the airfield and he could already feel the humid temperatures beating on the sides of the aircraft. He was not looking forward to the amount of sweating that was in his future.

The forward cabin giggling had died away but he could still hear the girls commenting on the same things he had noticed. It did look somewhat like home but the jungle seemed much thicker and different birds could be seen exploding from the forest.

Henry had called ahead when they landed in Singapore and made arrangements for three cars to meet them at the terminal. His contact had already secured a meeting with Presidential hopeful Aurelia and that would be his second stop after they checked into the Manila Hotel. He wanted to shower and shave again before he met with anyone. He had invited Aurelia to join him for a buisness lunch at the hotel, it would attract far less attention than driving to her office. (@Letter Bee)

As the plane came to a stop against a pair of chalks, the door was lowered to allow a blast of hot humid air. Henry, as befitted his owning the plane, was the first one off and into the somewhat cooler interior of the rented town car. The rest of his entourage followed and they drew away from the aircraft within five minutes of landing. The Cornell brand had arrived.

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

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June 3rd, 1960, Salisbury, Rhodesia
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Wind tore at Henry Cornell as he roared down Fourth Street in the heart of Salisbury in his open top Melsetter offroad car. The vehicle was large, with tires mostly seen on military vehicles, painted a deep green, and providing only a small windshield for the driver which required Henry to wear goggles and a scarf when on the dirt roads. The vehicle turned heads, White and Black alike, as it roared past. A couple of black police officers eyed it enviously as they leaned against the hood of their Riley Pathfinder patrol car in its distinctive white and blue colouring. One even waved and Henry waved back.

Fourth Street was the largest street in the city and housed many of the corporate entities, local and international, that had sprung up, attracted by low commercial taxes. The Cornell building was the largest of the all, matched only the Rhodesian Bank of Commerce. While Henry sold tobacco, cigarettes and cigars, the RBC ha carefully been investing across the world through shell corporations to ensure maximum investment opportunities and the building itself was even more heavily guarded than the Presidents mansion.

Henry rolled up in front of his building and stopped at the entrance to the underground parkade. A uniformed footman stepped from a booth, saluted, and activated the electric gate that ground open to allow access into the cool darkness below. Henry rolled the vehicle forward and down the ramp. His parking space was immediately in front of him and he let the vehicle weight carry it into place before shutting down the big engine and tossing his travel goggles onto the passenger seat. He climbed from the car as the gate behind him began to grind close again. He pulled a brown leather briefcase from the back seat and strode towards his nearby private elevator. The footman inside, warned of Henry's arrival by the gate guard, was already opening the metal cage as Henry approached.

"Morning sir." The Footman smiled, his teeth white against the honest black face. Like the footman outside, this man was carrying a semi-automatic pistol at his waist.

"Morning Dani. How are the wife and kids?" Henry was rich for a variety of reasons, but the loyalty of his employees was right up there. Regardless of colour, he paid them equally, treated them equally, and never forgot their names, no matter how low on the totem pole they might be.

"Good, thank you sir. Moreshah had to take the girls to school today. Our car was hit by a garbage truck last night so I rode my bike to work today." Dani laughed as he told the story. The image was amusing to Henry as well. Dani was a big man, nearing 6'4 and two hundred pounds, the only bike he owned was meant for someone far smaller. The last time Henry had seen him ride the bike, the big mans knees had almost touched his ears.

"I am glad you're staying healthy Dani." Henry replied with genuine concern. Dani was a valuable employee. Not only was he the size of a small Rhino, but he was highly intelligent and was being wasted as a Footman. "See you in a few hours Dani." He said he stepped off the elevator onto the sixteenth floor, his own personal space, which included an apartment, a library, massive board room, and of course his office.

The elevator opened right into the receptionist desk and his personal secretary Sandra Van Hell smiled at him. He smiled back, knowing full well that she had her hand on the double barrel shotgun that could cut him in half at the waist. She was a stunning beauty, long blonde hair and blue eyes that smiled out sweet innocence, cloaking the cunning mind behind them. She had worked for him the last three years after he lured her way from a shipping company in the Netherlands. No one got to him without going through her.

"Morning Mr. Cornell." She purred as she saw him, her hand releasing the shot gun as she stood and, with wave at Dani, she placed a stack of folders on the counter in front of her. "All for your attention. It seems the French markets are not as open as we had hoped. You may have to, how do you say, find another way?" She winked and he smiled.

"I'll take a gander at them then." He picked up the files. "But, we must find something better suited to Dani's talents. Do we have a reliable man to take his place?"

She thought for a moment then nodded. "A couple of Security Forces veterans names have come up looking for work. Two would be better suited to on-site protection but the third would be an excellent fit for your private staff. As for Dani, we have an opening for a shift supervisor at the Maputo docks?"

Henry thought for a moment. "Have the Security Forces chap you're thinking of come in today and I will speak with him. If he works out, we will get Dani transferred right away. Also, buy him a bike that would fit him would you?"

A smile shot across her pretty face and she laughed. "Of course sir, he does look a bit silly riding that child's bike around. I'll see to it at once."

Henry nodded his thanks and pushed open the big heavy oak door that led into his office. It smelled of leather bound books, rich mahogany, and very faintly of expensive cigars. The window behind his desk was one huge plate of glass, disgustingly expensive, but very much worth it as he looked out over the city of Salibsury. Life was good, very good.

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

**Ignore**