Desirea - Rum memories

Game date: 2/1/2012

Desirea sat in the tavern, once again wondering why no one had ever designed such a place with every seat in a dark corner. She watched the unit of knights under her command steadily growing more boisterous as the evening wore on.

Earlier today, the knights had not been fully focused, that much was clear.  The news of the Althainia/Shalonesti forces' retreat from the swamps had them all in high spirits.

"Come on, Commander! The invaders are leaving. Can't we relax for one day and celebrate?"

She pondered the request. It was always a fine line, maintaining discipline among such men. "Arrayt, gaon an' 'ave some fun."

At one time, the Eidolon had turned to drink for the classic reason, to forget. What she'd found was that it did the exact opposite, bringing up memories.  Just as it was doing tonight.

Desirea sipped her rum, remembering the day she first took command of her unit...

-=+=-

The new Commander looked at her mounted warriors, each sitting ramrod-straight in brightly polished armor, all in a neat row - ready for inspection.  She sighed, silently praying, What the hell am I doing here, Drakkara? She'd asked this question many times before, but it was purely rhetorical.

She knew nothing of military protocol. Her only battle experience had been gleaned from watching pirates raiding merchant ships, safely from belowdecks - the only times she had been safe on that accursed ship.  I'll just have to use what I do know, she thought, and drew a deep breath.

"Arrayt, ya grayt clankin' gits!" the slight elven woman yelled with gusto.  "Wot the bloody 'ell y'fink yer doin', loinin' up loik that? Myking pritty TARgets fer hARchers? Brayk up tha' loin!"

The knights, most of them burly men twice her size, murmered amongst themselves, making no attempt to follow the order. She watched them, waiting to hear a certain phrase. They did not disappoint.  There was always one.

"What did she say?" one of the men asked his fellows, who responded with a burst of laughter. "What language was that?"

The whip Desi kept coiled around her waist snaked out, curling around the comedian's neck. She quickly wrapped it around her own saddle's horn and guided her horse backward with her knees, silently giving thanks for the hours of training she'd endured to learn the maneuver.  The knight fell heavily from his saddle and lay bruised on the ground, momentarily helpless under the weight of his own armor.

"Ay SAID," Desirea hissed, "Brayk up yer loin."

This time, the men quickly moved to obey.

"See, the PROBlem wif Fataloites in GEN'rul," the Eidolon lectured as she rode past each member of her unit, "izzat thay're a'too ready t'dye fer thayr god."  She stopped and flicked her whip at a knight who was attempting to help up his fallen comrade. The tip landed on his helmet, not harming him in the least but ringing out like a bell in a tower. "Layve 'im," she ordered, and wheeled her mount about, facing them. "That en't 'ow ya win a war."  She paused, then shouted, "'ow d'ya win a war, ya silly buggers?"

As one, they replied with the age-old aphorism, "By making the other bastards die for their gods!"

The elf nodded and went on, once again riding among the men. "An' the PROBlem wif knoights speCIFFikly, izzat they a' want the glory kill.  Go one-on-one wif the biggest, baddest bugger onna fayld."

"That en't 'ow ya winna war, eivver.  hesPESHly iffen yer houtNUMbered.  So, t'dye we're gonner work on lairnin' t'cut a swath an' disapPEAR.  Stroik, vanish. Stroik again. Gottit?"

An awkward couple of seconds later, the knights replied, "Yes Ma'am!"

She turned her attention to the lone armored figure, still struggling on the ground. "Wotcher nyme, sojer?" she asked him, a kind tone in her voice.

"B- Barton, ma'am," he wheezed.

"'ow long ya bin onna ground, Barton?" the elf queried sweetly.

"I don't know...couple of minutes."

Desirea leaped from the saddle, landing lightly next to the prone man, and whispered in his ear.  "Four minnits. Yer a dead man, Barton."  She stood and addressed the rest of her unit.  "Barton 'ere's dead. Ennybody tell may why?"

The seconds ticked by. One knight finally spoke up. "Because he's been underwater all this time."

"Cor!" exclaimed the woman. "They tol' may tha' knoights wazza craym o'tha crop. Glad t'say summa you kin fink."  She remounted.  "Yer gonner bay foightin' inna MARSH! A bleedin' SWAMP! From 'ere on aout, don' wayr nuffin y'canna e'en SIT UP IN! GOTTIT?"

This time the reply was near-instantaneous. "YES MA'AM!"

That's what I need, she thought. They're ready to train under me. Now let's see if I can make them willing to follow me into battle.

"Ay bin told," she said, "that aych o'you knoights is worf twenny graound-paounders.  Izzat roight?"

Among the staggered chorus of "Yes, Ma'am!" came a few interjected, "Thirty!"

"Then lemme tell ya this," Desi replied. "Afore we're done, yer a' gonner bay worf a HUNNERT. Enny man 'ere wot dies afore 'e's kilt an 'unnerd o'the hENemay, that man izza deZERTer. Ya gets no burial, no 'onner, yer fam'ly gets no penshun, an ay'l PERS'nally hANimyte yer BLEEDin CORPSE 'til ya fill yer quota! GOTTIT?"

The response was practically a cheer.  "GOT IT!"

"Arrayt naow! Ditch yer hARmour an' remaount.  An' summun 'elp Barton up afore ay slit 'is froat on PRINCiples."

-=+=-

Desirea smiled into her mug. Yes, they'd follow her in battle. Most of them would follow her to the gates of hell, now.  Some of them might even live through this war.

I might even live through it.

She made a mental note to reschedule the next day's exercises for two hours before sunrise. They'd get no warning, because the enemy would not warn them either.  We are not out of the muck yet, she thought. Hope we can all hold our breath long enough.