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The sun cast thick blankets of heat down toward the shimmering surface of the swamps at the southern-most tips of the Delta near Ras-El-Akhen. Only occasional breaths of wind came from the sea, and those didn't help much as far as the temperature was concerned. But the heat didn't bother Agel. Agel stared out over the expanse of swamp-land, his eye-lids drooping to the point of where they would appear shut to any casual observer. But they were not shut. Even in this state of restfulness Agel was as alert as if he were in a private audience with the First Centurion himself. Not that he would ever get near the First Centurion, or want to. He was a Leander from mainland Ulandus. He had grown up using the name of the First Centurion synonymously with the words Tyrant, and Oppressor. Everyone in his little village knew that those of their kind who “Visited the First Centurion” never returned, not that they could do much about it. Yet the rural Leanders never spoke his name without including the traditional spit. “They come.” Agel turned to see his mentor and main companion, Dijhar, standing a short ways off, his small recurve bow and one arrow in hand. Agel nodded and returned to surveying the landscape. They still had a few minutes, Dijhar always gave several minutes warning. It was Dijhar who had originally recruited Agel to join the High Council Guerrillas, all that time ago. When Agel's father was “hired” by a rich Ulandan Merchant, his mother feared the same would happen to him, so everyone was relieved when a distant uncle of his mother's stopped by and volunteered to take care of the lad. This “taking care of”, as Agel soon found out, involved a large amount of Guerrilla warfare, something the Leanders were expert at. Not that he minded much. A familiar squishing sound reached Agel's ears, from somewhere behind. Humans. Agel turned to see the bottom half of a Ulandan soldier passing on the other half of the stone pillar he was leaning against, their boots making the squelching sound made by humans unaccustomed to the to the mosses of the swamp-lands. One of them began to speak. “Darinthus, why is it that whenever I ask you a direct question you act as if you didn't hear? Is acting spiteful the best thing you can do with your time?” There were two of them. The one with a goatee was the one who spoke. Agel watched with interest as they continued. “Hmm?” The other, Darinthus, glanced up from whatever it was he was studying on the ground. “See!” The goatee man said, clearly annoyed. “You are illustrating my point exactly!” “What point?” Darinthus looked quite confused, as befitted the strangely shaped head that each of his kind seemed to like. “IN THE NAME OF ALL THE GODS!!!!!!” There was a splash as Darinthus stumbling in surprise, tripped over a vine, and fell into a small pool, barely as wide as him, yet deep enough for him to sink up to his waste. The goatee man threw up his hands in exasperation. “Of all clumsy fools in the word, you are the worst Darinthus!” Darinthus climbed up out of the sinkhole, his face showing his anger. “Well if ye hadn't hollered at me like ye did I wouldn't have felled in!” “Excuses, excuses. I'm tired of your constant excuses!” The goatee man waved off his companion's replies as if they were flies. A signal from Dijhar caught Agel's attention. The time had come. Sneaking forward, Agel readied his thick, short blade. He paused behind a small chunk of stone, the last cover between him and Ulandans, glancing back at Dijhar. The old cat nodded. Agel turned back and took a deep breath. With a single bound Agel leaped over the stone, uttering an earsplitting yowl, the trademark call of the Leander Guerrillas. The two Ulanders spun around, surprise written all over their faces, and brought their spears up to bear. Behind him Agel could hear Dijhar making enough racket to be mistaken for at least a dozen Guerrillas. The first Ulandan, Darinthus, made a clumsy thrust at Agel's neck. Agel easily sidestepped the spear and sliced at the man's torso, his well-sharpened blade sliding into a crack between two parts of the Ulandan's armor, and sinking into his side. The man doubled over in pain, whether real or imaginary, only to be pierced through the neck by one of Dijhar's arrows. Agel spun, just in time to dodge a thrust from the other Ulandan, bringing his blade down on the Ulandan's neck. The man crumpled, proof that Agel had hit his spine, just as Dijhar emerged from behind the stone block to dispatch of the Ulandan he had already taken down with his arrow. Agel delivered the death-blow and stood, panting, over his kill. Turning toward Dijhar, Agel prepared himself for the regular lecture that always accompanied their exploits, whether they be the killing of Ulandans, or the starting of a fire. Dijhar stared thoughtfully at the slain man lying next to Agel, his kill. “That one almost made a corpse of you. If you hadn't turned you back to him, you could have kept an eye on him, anticipate him. That yell also alerted them a second or two earlier then necessary. A few seconds can often mean the distance between life and death.” Agel nodded mutely, letting the words pass over his head. Dijhar abruptly turned and started back toward their campsite. Agel had to hurry to catch up with the older cat's fast lope. They remained silent as they traversed the swamplands, their current home. Agel allowed his mind to wander, let it bring his mind to memories of the past, and thoughts of the future. 'I wonder when we'll leave this God-forsaken marshland? Probably not until every single Ulander is annihilated, then we'll do the same somewhere else until we both make some fatal mistake... Yep. That's our life.' The build. So I'll just say it now, just in case your wondering, this build did eat up pretty much every single olive piece I own. All of my Olive. (Sorry, had to pull that one). Anywho, I hope you enjoyed the story, despite it's apparent complete lack of characterization. Just another character to use for different warzones. If I win, then I would like to have square D3 as the next warzone. Soli Deo Gloria & Sola Gracia! I would like to claim UoP credit for: Trees: my third technique. Geography: swamps.
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The sun filtered into the hall in silence, creating patches of colored light where the stained glass windows shone. Nasr's footsteps echoed through the hall, mingling with the muttered prayers of the one worshiper in the temple at the time. The two Mummy guards stood at rigid attention. Not every day did the Commander of Operations in the area north of the Nestlands come to their jurisdiction, this lonely shrine. But now he was striding next to Nasr, one of the few men Nasr knew who could keep pace with him. The man's deep, alert brown eyes turned, fixing their gaze on Nasr's battle-hardened, black ones. He stared at him thoughtfully for a few seconds before speaking. “I hear you performed well at the Duels. It is a pity you were eliminated.” Nasr inclined his head, taking the compliment on face value. The man continued. “And now that your leg hampers your athletic capabilities we must find a position of command for you. To tell you the truth, I would have liked it if you were here to replace me, these bird worshiping jungle dwellers are giving us quite a hassle, and we can never seem to completely eliminate them... but it was not to be.” Nasr's face didn't change expression. “What are my orders?” “Ah, orders...” A wry smile passed over the man's face and his eyes passed beyond Nasr for a few seconds. The worshiper's servant, one of those cat-creatures from Ulandus, shuffled his feet uncomfortably, waiting for his master. The man's eyes refocused on Nasr. “A certain High Council Guerrilla band has been paining me recently. They are few in number, but have the support of the natives. Your job is to hunt them down and kill every last one of them... except their leader. I want him alive.” The man back toward the door and restarted his stride toward the door. “You will be given half a score elite assassins and anti-Guerrilla experts. That is all I can spare at the moment.” Nasr nodded. 'Only ten men, against a complete Guerrilla force... Pretty good odds.' A grunt sounded behind them and Nasr spun around to see one of the mummy guards topple to the ground, and arrow shaft protruding from his neck. A bang echoed through the hall and Nasr turned to see a group of High Council archers rush through the door on the far end of the building, arrow on string. At their head strode a mummy dressed in the red and blue of the High Council and wielding a black longsword. Nasr heard a gasp of recognition to his left and there was the sound of steel scraping against steel as he and the Commander drew their swords. The Mummy behind Nasr growled and started toward the intruders only to drop to the floor with an arrow in his chest. The leader of the Archers glanced at him then turned his gaze toward the Commander. “I would suggest that you and your crony drop your weapons, unless you wish to become a storage unit for my company's arrows.” Seething hatred boiled up inside of Nasr at the name. 'When was I ever this man's crony!?!' But the sight of the half dozen arrow shafts aimed at his neck spoke for themselves and Nasr slowly let his blade drop to the floor. The sword clanged loudly on the flagstone floor, shortly followed by another to his left. The worshiper's servant dropped a long dagger he had drawn. The Mummy Commander Fixed his gaze on the Commander, waiting a few seconds before speaking. “A pleasure to see you, Ramir. Last time we met you appointed me commander of a small watchtower near Everlast. Remember?” “I remember.” Commander Ramir said, through clenched teeth. “That tower, along with all the surrounding land,” the Mummy continued, “is now in the hands of the High Council. And now, I believe, you are too.” Nasr took a step back. “You won't get away with this, traitor!” Ramir yelled. Nasr took another step back. “You are mistaken, in both respects.” The Mummy responded. “For one, I am no traitor. 'I' was never on your side in the first place. Secondly, I will get away with this, because you are coming with me.” Nasr took another step back and felt for something behind him. His hand met a pillar and he quickly ducked behind it. He glanced around him, searching for a weapon. His eyes lit upon the small stone pedestal upon which some sacred jewel was placed. 'Perfect'. “You betrayed our trust!” Ramir shouted. “Trust is only as strong as the thing in which it is placed.” The Mummy responded. Nasr leaped out into the open and hefted the pedestal, letting the jewel fall clinking to the ground. The archers spun towards him, but not soon enough. Taking a few running steps forward, Nasr hefted the pedestal toward the High Council archers, aiming specifically for their commander. The Mummy turned, and his eyes focused on the object flying toward him. Reflexes kicked in and he leaped out of the way, just as the pedestal smashed into the floor past him, almost hitting one of the archers, and demolishing his Longbow. Nasr didn't wait for them to react. Ignoring the pain coming from his leg Nasr sprinted toward the open door, closely followed by the worshiper’s cat servant. Ramir hesitated a moment, still trying to comprehend what happened, then started after them. An arrow whizzed over Nasr's head and he redoubled his pace. There was a yell from behind him but Nasr didn't bother to look. He had been given an assignment. Not even the man that gave it to him would stop him from carrying it out now. The build. I was experimenting with a different style of stonework, (having only patches of greebles, along with patches of olive green for moss) and a raised part of the floor. I also tried stained glass again, and I think I was slightly more successful this time. The chandelier is new design for me as well. 'nother Pic. Anyhow, another LOM convertible, that happened to be directed against the Desert King (heavens knows we need it). Hope you enjoyed the story. And also; you are correct if you drew a distinction between the Ramir fig and Disco's character. I was originally planning on making this a counter-guerrilla to his attack on Eastgate, until I found out about the size limit. (Dang it!). In any case, hopefully this will do. And also: since there seemed to be some confusion about how to counter my previous Guerrillas, I will set out a few possibilities. 1. Recapture the Commander. 2. Show a capable replacement. 3. Destroy the whole building with them in it and take the title for yourself. Anyway, as long as you don't kill any of my characters, you can do pretty much anything with them. Soli Deo Gloria & Sola Gracia! I would like to claim UoP credit for: Stained Glass (Mosaics, stained glass, or other complex SNOTed floors designs).
