Submitted by DieterVonDietrich t3_11788km in WritingPrompts
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cmdr_chen t1_j9qk00v wrote
[…]
The thick black columns of smoke were sure to attract attention – some of them were clearly unwanted. To the elven and dwarf defenders, it would be the incoming of more ravenous orcish hordes – to the orcs on the other hand, it would be the presence of a third party, who had grown some concern for the situation and decided to intervene. Though effectively nobody would ever shed any tears for the arrogant elvish lords or a few unbounded dwarves, the southern titan of Tiberium Imperium would surely intervene, if Zolg the Ravager failed to control the spread of his own forces and let his scouting party stray too close to the human controlled territory.
The human approach to warfare was unlike any other races – for starters, their infantry forces were average in every ways, however, that same infantry always packed themselves full of gears, equipment and provisions, not for battles, but campaigns, even that their operations were just a half-day march from this fortress to the next. This, combined with the human tendency to erect roads and landmarks everywhere they went, made them an odd match to any other races – saved only for the dwarves.
And then them humans did not march into wars alone, they brought alongside them their cattle. These quadruped beasts served their bipedal masters well, from the oxen and mules to drag their heavily built carts all the way to the horses, whom these humans sat on their backs to go to war with. Though the domestication of these creatures wasn’t limited to the humans, the ways they used them, was very different – at least, that’s for the Tiberium Empire.
For every type of infantry, it seemed to always have a horseman counterpart. There were the horse archers, unlike the elvish ones that always had to dismount to shoot, the Imperium ones would always release their arrows on horseback. Needless to say, their accuracy was pathetic, same as their range and power – their recurved bows must sacrifice those for mobility and handiness. However, these horse archers made up for it by their ability to do two things: to shoot at the weak points from the vantage points, thanks to their unmatched mobility; and to be able to constantly applying pressure to anyone that unfortunate enough to be on the receiving ends – “Suppressive fire”, as those humans called it.
The orcs could counter that by deploying their own mounted infantry, the wargs. Normally, the wargs could easily tear any horse archer forces apart, if they could get close enough. Either the northern giant wolves could bite easily through the horses, or the warg-riders could easily cut through the tunics and cloaks of these bowmen. But again, IF they could get close enough. Normally, them horse archers could have bolted as soon as the wargs got closer to thirty paces, all the while peppering the pursuers with arrows, while their infantry closed the gaps. Though the wargs could have charged the infantry with a certain level of success, getting pinned in one place would be suicidal, for there were other types of horsemen these Imperial army could use.
The spear horsemen would then swing into action; this time, the riders were much better armored than the archers. Although not armed from heads to toes, these moderately armored spearmen, armed with a middle length lance and a moderately sized wooden shield could easily skewer the warg riders from their height advantage – providing that they were the first to make contact. Horses, being the herbivore they always were, naturally feared the wargs and often panic at the sight and smell of the giant canines. However, the horse spearmen did not need to stay around to be deadly: their lances were nimble and lightweight enough to be throwable – and in the distance of less than twenty paces, a hailstorm of javelins would be devastating.
That’s why Zolg had spent the majority of this pre-campaign season trying to… appease these Tiberium Imperium humans. Though orcs were often horrible at such diplomatic affairs, he had managed to… delay the intervention for a short time, making concessions along the way. One of these concessions was to NOT attacking the human settlements littered around the valley beyond the White Mountains – a task that was pretty impossible for the incoming orcish contingents, many of them outright disregarded the diplomatic approach of their supreme leader as weak but so far, his reputation and prowess had kept their insubordination in check – but for how long them gonna stay obedient, none can tell.
“Gorzghul, take thirty wargs over the southeastern mountain pass, seeing if those Imperium are there. Howl if clear, keep them busy if there are many walkers, come back here if there’s only horse-riders…”
Gorzghul was among the most loyal horde leaders Zolg had in hands, and in the word of the orcs, the most obedient. Hot headed and rather reckless in his approach, as shown from his scar-covered body. But if there’s anyone who’s most familiar with how the Imperium humans conducting warfare, that’d be him. And of course, there’s Zolg the Ravager as well. The supreme leader was pretty sure the unrestrained orcs had already defied the deal between him and the Empire’s provincial officials – judging by the dwindling number of returning warg scouts coming from the southern mountain passes.
The humans were coming – no doubt – but it would be better if Zolg the Ravager could have some ideas about when and how those Imperial men were going to proceed, whether they were here to merely observe or they came to intervene. If that was a full contingent of mostly light armored cavalry, then likely it’s their patrols – better left them alone then. But if there were many infantry marching in columns, well, it’s best that those forces be delayed at all cost.
“Supreme Master, you put those filthy humans higher than their worth… Why do we need to run away from them horse-riders? Our wargs are clearly superior to them in every way…”
Zolg rose up from his command seat at the subordinate, it was until then that the Ravager’s height actually showed. Towering over the lesser orcs, Zolg the Ravager was clearly a deadly warrior, with many decades of experience under his belt – literally, in the form of many skulls and helmets, hanging under his belt. One of them was an Imperial cavalry helmet, still having the cheek pieces strapped around an expressionless metal face mask.
“You are an outstanding warrior, Gorzghul, that, I have no doubt. But you do not yet know them humans like I do. They do not fight battles… they fight… wars…”
***
To be continued
jackofalltrades04 t1_j9fk6i2 wrote
Dwarves are stubborn, clever, and patient to a fault. Their fortress stout and resilient. Their natural talent for working stone and metal is paralleled only by grand master crafters of other peoples. They achieve this through tireless tinkering, pursuing perfection in the works of their hands. It should come as no surprise that those with the best fortresses know best how to unmake them. However, their small stature, stubbornness, and patience lead them to inflexible strategies. They are good, but not fast, and definitely not cheap soldiers.
Orcs are proud, strong, and large. Their culture developed around a severe imbalance of males to females, with only the strongest, most successful orcs gaining access to a mate. Because of their strength and size, combat was a natural course to test the menfolk against themselves. An individual orc infantry can demolish any other soldier in armed combat or athletic endeavors, but lose their edge at scale. As soldiers, they are fast and they are cheap, but they are not suited to mass formations - rather shock infantry, raiders or saboteurs.
Elves, by contrast, are proud, slim, nimble, and elegant. The average elf is little use to other elves until the age of 50, after they have master of their first speciality. Because elves have time, they seek perfection and loath failure, so will often delay until the perfect opportunity arises. Due to their longevity, producing low birthrates, and their natural agility, they prefer to avoid tactics which produce 'meat grinders' - it takes too long and costs to much to replace losses on short order, if it can be done at all before the end of the war. They find a beauty in archery, a skill which has a range of quality which is acceptable without being perfect, and make devastating foot archers. Their skill and agility allow them to reposition quickly at need, and find optimal angles to hit priority targets at extreme range. As soldiers, the are good, they can be fast, but they are by no means cheap.
At last we have humans. Humanity is madness incarnate. They are a generalist people, and can bond with a bread box. They have no formal strategy, no predictability, no preference. They pursue excellence, but for most there is a 'good enough' break point. Their comparatively short life span allows rapid recovery, and their youths develop skills faster than ice melts in summer. Above all, humans are flexible - in all things, not just tactics or weapons or strategy, but morals and size and quality.
The most outrageous tribes seen ride 'horses,' a badly deformed, dumb, panicky centaur, almost as an extension of themselves. This permits speed comparable or faster than elves, and weight beyond the orcs. The riders with bows can shoot almost as well as an elf, reposition almost as well, and can turn on a hapenny to avoid counterfire or infantry blocks. They're faster than just about any foot and last longer too. Mounted archers as soldiers are sterling, good, fast, and modestly priced.
But that is not the end of the madness. There are those humans call 'Lancers' who ride into battle atop a massive horse, all decked in armor, wielding a pointy tree branch, with a song on their lips, a smile on their face, and death in their hearts as they race headlong into an infantry formation. The morale blow alone collapses battles.
Imagine 2500 pounds of flesh and metal hurtling toward you at speed, thunder and drinking songs filling your ears as the 10 foot stake aims toward your heart. This is just one lancer. Cavalry formations are often more than one hundred riders. Nevermind the fact that companies of cavalry often send 1000 riders on contract.
Humanity is flexible. Humanity is crazy. And there's nothing to stop a dismounted archer from staving your head in with the discarded helmet of his fallen ally, getting up, going home, having a pint, and then do it all again tomorrow.
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ShySilverSurvivor t1_j9bxo6t wrote
Harry, Octavia, and Persephone were cavalry members. They were tasked with taking out mythical creatures. In their shining armor, they rode up to a clearing in the Hills of Gasta. They saw what looked like roosters. The knights charged, and the birds looked up at them. The creatures looked to the sky, opened their mouths, and shot out fireballs. “I think they’re cockatrices”, said Octavia. The knights shot at the birds with arrows. The birds tried to escape by running, but they were too slow. There were explosions heard above. The knights looked up to see multiple fireballs falling toward the ground. The fireballs that the cockatrices sent up earlier had multiplied via exploding. The knights jerked the reins, and their horses ran. The grass was lit ablaze.
“Great job, White Boy”, Harry told his horse. “Really? That’s what you named it?”, asked Persephone.
ShySilverSurvivor t1_j9bxr29 wrote
I named my white horse "White Boi" in BOTW.
cmdr_chen t1_j9dorfs wrote
[…]
The city of Iyhadren, once a proud beacon of the Light Elf might in the north, now was in shamble. The once marvelous white marble arches and beautiful gates made of ferning-oak laid in smoldering ruins, with countless corpses of the valiant defenders littered the streets behind the sandstone walls. Anything that moved would quickly be snatched up by the ravenous Guntaban Orc patrols, then flayed alive, only to get butchered into pieces for the whole party. Many occupants met that fate and soon, those few remaining behind the Royal Courtyard would soon meet the same fate, had something not being done soon.
All messengers sent away in the beginning of the siege had met their fate. Great hunters and huntresses got their severed heads impaled on the spikes of the numberless invaders, or flailing their expressionless contorted faces on the waistbands of the merciless besiegers. The only reason that city was still standing would be the presence of the Dwarven diplomatic envoy – their expertise in siege warfare had proven to be very valuable for the city defenders. For countless times, the dwarves stood on the line, countering the crudely made siege engines employed by the unsophisticated orcs. And yet, the siege remained unbroken, and as long as they’re besieged, the occupants were sure to suffer from attrition.
The Elven prince Dorhanden stood silently at the top of his high tower, gazing his eyes toward the once beautiful maidenland of his domain getting ravaged by the ravenous enemies. For decades, he and his elite Soul Hunters had doing their best to contain the orcs in the snowy mountains of Guntaban, at one point drove the orcish hordes into the mountain caves, reducing their numbers down to single digits in their territory. For a time, the mighty horse archers of Iyhadren had neutered the deadly orcish warriors into simply cave-dwelling goblins, existing only in the tales using to scare off the little children.
Little did the prince and his predecessors knew, their prideful oppression only served to drive resentment from the Moriae dwarven domains and the southern human frontier at their peril – while festering an unrelenting hatred from the orcs. Their current horde leader, Zolg, played right into the role. Using the dark art of forbidden magic from ages untold, the orcs bounced back like never before, gathered their once divided innumerable forces into a single stack, then mercilessly ravaging the land of those that had oppressed them for many, many years.
Now when the proud beacon of Light Elf might started fading, only a single cohort of wandering dwarves answered. And they alone, were never enough. The prince could remember clear as day the time of centuries ago where all races stood together facing the onslaught of the Dark Lord Morgoth. The unbounded orcs fought and bled their own kin alongside him – the very same filth he and his predecessors banished to the mountains, subjected to untold horrors and oppression of their old allies, letting it festered for many, many years. If only had he known, if only that.
“I can sense your sorrow, m’lord. Is it the burden of your city, or is that something else?”
Just what the prince needed right now – the prying of a dwarf. In normal circumstances, a company of a prideful Elf and a stubborn Dwarf was never a good pair – their different mindset often clashed heavily with one another, lighting a fuse that would always go off. Yet after many months fighting side by side in this doomed last stand, the two races finally learned about each other. The elves often enjoyed their unrivaled senses of the world around them, all honed down to their excellent use of the bows and graceful movements of their strikes. It might not be the hardest hits, or the sharpest punches – but the elves always felt the moment to land it where they wanted it to hit – all in just a blink of an eye.
In the contrary, the dwarves tuned their skills with their dexterity and diligence. A race of superb mining engineers and craftspeople had honed them in their unique way, turning them into a master of siegecrafts. It’s all about the forces and how one could have applied it. Strike a surface hard enough and long enough, it would always break. Their uncanny understanding of siege warfare made them into a valuable ally of Iyhadren – for one knowledgeable enough in an art, was surely knowledgeable in the art of countering it.
As weeks turned into months, the two races learned to value one another: in their strengths as well as weaknesses. And yet, despite their dogged resistance, their numbers dwindled – if it wasn’t for the ravenous orcish army relentless assaults, then it would be by the hunger, thirst and sickness. So that’s surely a lot of sorrow – despair even – for a regular elf. But even with doom standing on their doorsteps, the prince must not fret – morale was the only thing that held the defenders together, and he couldn’t afford to lose that.
“Ah, master Tharin, it is nothing much to trouble about. You know of our people’s true nature. We see, hear, smell and feel in much depth than the others, and the prospect here brings me both hope and despair…”
“Well, yer pointy-ear lots surely worry too much, m’lord… Hope or despair, we’re still here, killin’ them damn orcs. Soon, them orcs are gonna run out of meat to throw at us… Plus, the black smoke of the lower city will get someone else’s attention…”
“I wish things are that easy, master Tharin… That someone else could be anyone… and that anyone here including many other orcs…” – the prince shook his head, trying to contain a painful tear from shedding. But came to think of it, the dwarf made a lot of sense in saying the smoldering city would get someone’s attention – though that someone here would not likely be what he though.
“Well, then we will have more orcs to kill. It’s easier thinking of it that way… You’ll need more of that and less of sorrow in the next days ahead, m’lord!”
***
To be continued