A Role Reversal
2342 IC
The grass is green. The sky is blue. Soldiers never stopped whining. Universal truths even in this godsforsaken land.
Unforunate, Greatsword Ingert Aach thought to himself. His fellow Greatswords had reluctantly stripped down to half plate, some more mournful than others as the great chunks of plate were wrapped tightly into oilskin blankets and away from their sight. The damnable rain continued to pour down on them and a great many of the soldiers, nursing killer hangovers and fighting in some strange land, were muttering to each other in low voices, their talk muffled by the sound of endless gurgling streams and water crashing down onto them. Nothing too damaging to morale, and nothing that went against the wishes of their respective lords. Still. Still.
It was godsdamned annoying.
One of his fellows, Kraft, continued to curl his fingers around his mustache, all the heavy seawater and freshwater they were surrounded in having made its way through the moustache wax he normally used to keep himself presentable. Eyes bloodshot and his hair a mess, the man looked a far cry from the dandy he often looked like. And the talkative man would not shut up. He was amusing to many of the others, but this time his tone and words had gotten quite queer. Strange, and yet… familiar.
"Bastards," Kraft muttered. "Savages. The Empire hands them finest plate and arms and what do they do with it? Cast it off for it to rust while they wear the barest bits. Ostland craftsmanship. Wasted. And these hovels. No need for stonework no sir, who would ever need stone when you have mud in an eternal storm? Like casting pearls before swine."
Ingbert recognized it now. It was the tone often heard from a newly arrived Dwarf to Ostland, one who'd look at the finest works and man and call it rubbish craftsmanship, the tone of a craftsman seeing the works of a child with some sense of condescension.
Another Greatsword nudged Kraft, distracting him from the rant. "Eyes up man, the lords and wizards going on talking to the headsmen, and these Albionese are getting mighty excited. What do you think they're saying?"
Kraft raised a hand to his eyes, squinting as he did. He saw the furious gestures between what looked like primitive shamans and the finely dressed wizards of the Empire and diverted to a new rant, this one a phantomime. "Oh great and mighty lords of the Empire, though your land is vast, your armies mighty, your women beautiful, and your men in possession of tackle of great girth, us dirteating mucks have been eating worms since my great-grandfather's time. We say to you that not only must you throw aside your arms that have been your livelihood for all your lives, but that you are mere children here while we stone bashing primitives know best. You wizards stay away, for our hedge shamans possess might that you can't imagine despite all your schooling."
Ingbert recognized the shift. This was a bloody Elf talking now. A paternalistic one who thought that humans were a bunch of overgrown wretches who enjoyed burning each other with flame while they'd long mastered fire. "Thought you didn't much care for the wizards man," Ingbert said, unable to stop himself.
"Better Imperial Wizards than these boyos I tell you. Strange and dangerous lot they may be, but gods take me if I take the side of some savage that fornicates with foliage by the looks of it, rather than a proper wizard from the Empire."
"You do realize what you sound like right?" Ingbert asked.
"I sound like the soldier I am! Always ready to fight and twice as ready to complain. Get a hold of yourself man. Have to empty the tank of complaints before a fight don't you know? Judging by the shaking and moving, we're about to give some bastards the taste of cold steel."
Ingbert sighed.
Forget it.
'd by GM
