[ in the aftermath of a localized conflict that will surely leave the region reeling in reparations for the next few years or so, the total number of corpses pile up in eseld's mind-eye like cost-benefit tax accountancy analysis. from one side, fifty-three knights dead, ninety-three wounded, and enough damages to infrastructure that the honourable justin melenikus will be wringing his hands over for months to come. probably not enough left in the coffers for another free breastplate or convenient suit of armour, but that's why eseld has always been a proponent of taking liberal advantage of your allies early.
on the other side, an astounding pile of two hundred to three hundred lizard people, and half that number of bullywugs, corpses left split open to dry in the awful, choked afternoon air. eseld hadn't been counting, honestly -- from beginning to end, his claws and beak had been so drenched in blood, guts and offal that their effectiveness as cutting tools had been long-since diminished, leaving him with the unpleasant task of bludgeoning creatures to death for hours on end. lack of elegance, that, but war isn't about elegance, it's about attrition, and call it insurance, but he's never been big on being on the losing side.
or the injured side, but unlike people, dim-witted, faithless lot they were, or worse yet, the other so-called 'intelligent' creatures that roam this god-forsaken hell, there's very little room to glibly negotiate your way past an arrow. it's why he's currently lurching in mud, half-dragged, half-carried on the back of a condensed lump of justice and virtue and all things superfluous like that, trying very hard to not focus on the fact that he's half-drenched in blood and mucus and whatever else.
also, his hair. the feeling of the tangled mess draped down his back, features akimbo and fluttering sullenly in the mid-afternoon breeze, catching on the giant lug's armour-- eseld winces, and with better nature than he feels: ]
That's right, Torth, love. Jostle me around a little more like a ragdoll, why don't you. It's not as though I'm bleeding down half your armour.
[ and losing hair. this is unacceptable. his tired gaze trails down the side of torth's banners, and, despite himself, he feels a twinge of satisfaction there, buried deep within his cynical soul. ]
Lovely shade of pink, that.
[ church colours should've always been dyed red. ]
war ♝ aftermath
on the other side, an astounding pile of two hundred to three hundred lizard people, and half that number of bullywugs, corpses left split open to dry in the awful, choked afternoon air. eseld hadn't been counting, honestly -- from beginning to end, his claws and beak had been so drenched in blood, guts and offal that their effectiveness as cutting tools had been long-since diminished, leaving him with the unpleasant task of bludgeoning creatures to death for hours on end. lack of elegance, that, but war isn't about elegance, it's about attrition, and call it insurance, but he's never been big on being on the losing side.
or the injured side, but unlike people, dim-witted, faithless lot they were, or worse yet, the other so-called 'intelligent' creatures that roam this god-forsaken hell, there's very little room to glibly negotiate your way past an arrow. it's why he's currently lurching in mud, half-dragged, half-carried on the back of a condensed lump of justice and virtue and all things superfluous like that, trying very hard to not focus on the fact that he's half-drenched in blood and mucus and whatever else.
also, his hair. the feeling of the tangled mess draped down his back, features akimbo and fluttering sullenly in the mid-afternoon breeze, catching on the giant lug's armour-- eseld winces, and with better nature than he feels: ]
That's right, Torth, love. Jostle me around a little more like a ragdoll, why don't you. It's not as though I'm bleeding down half your armour.
[ and losing hair. this is unacceptable. his tired gaze trails down the side of torth's banners, and, despite himself, he feels a twinge of satisfaction there, buried deep within his cynical soul. ]
Lovely shade of pink, that.
[ church colours should've always been dyed red. ]