Rogue Regiment

[Thaumantica]

Part One:
Meet Your Maker
​

Melodic bursts from several hand crafted wood flutes filled the tight cabin of an aging plane, shabby in the same way an old horse trots along with a favored hoof. Currently, the flying relic found itself infested with men of differing ages, races, and creeds. Tunes born from the 1818 Zivolution, which was intended to accompany marching men, lock in step wearing not much more then broken shoes, with muskets often a few years older then the young lad carefully balancing it upon his shoulder. In years of revolution, it was the voluntary militiamen who filled every trench, charged every hill, and bled out pints of their own blood on the bittersweet fields of battle.

A volunteer answers a primal call, it is rarely driven by greed or lust for violence, he is the humble agrarian pulled inconveniently, as any call to duty ever was, so very far from the hard earned joys of a prudent lifestyle.

Emerging from the cockpit, the honorary Brigadir Petrovik Fedzinski made himself known by sharing intense puffs of smoke from a fattened foreign cigar native to the far west, starkly obscure to the hill country blends of Komenoge that these warm hearted Zivs were accustomed to. His wrinkle carved smirk was soon illuminated by the fiery embers of that delectable burning roll of tobacco excellence, though only long enough for the amused Fedzinski to muster another round of overpowering smoky clouds, with which he devilishly enraptured the full population of this planes occupants with his soon to be signature aroma. Devouring mile after mile of dark deadwood forst, the 'Bottlecap Dandy', Fedzinski's self-owned propeller plane cast a looming shadow over countless towers of age old pines.

Nadnarednik Zjazac promptly called his men to attention while the tall Brigadir quietly circled around these rigid voluntary statues who carefully braced their bodies to prevent being thrown about like a bouncing ball, as Bottlecap Dandy shook the mental and physical confidence of the passengers in this elderly aeroplane, a glorified deathtrap at best. "TAKE" Fedzinski began after casting the spent cigar behind his back like he would if he were not soaring hundreds of feet above the ground in his personal deathtrap, "SEATS!" In quick precession the volunteers obeyed.

"Hug yourselves Gentleman, wrap those pitiful little arms around your own skinny, pitiful, disgusting bodies." this order was not so easily followed, though within time almost all were within reasonable compliance, even with a look of confusion barely displayed, "Damn fine, see that right there is your personal gratitude. . .Which is all you unwanted bastards are going to get, because I'd be god damned before I wasted a fuckin' hot minute on you; you one hundred god damned heaps of smashed barbecued ass, god damn it. Now, tell me what the moral of that statement is, you?" he asked directly of a sheepish looking man, to which was answered "SIR, GOD DAMN, YOU DON'T GIVE A GOD DAMN ABOUT US, SIR!".

He now theatrically assumed a somewhat serious demeanor, "Sympathy -- is now devoid from our vocabulary, and it would behoove you to empower yourself with the virtue of brutality in its stead." he said, removing the somber look off from upon his face instantly.

"Now, I am here to bare some bad news: You may have been promised the opportunity to spread democracy and liberty to your country by serving in a peaceful capacity. Not so fast there mister humanitarian, we have a bushel of chaos and cruelty to unroll before any one of you patriots can participate in the democratic process, or I can relax my chiseled ass back in the foothills of Kamenoge, with a bottle of gen-u-ine Divovian Whiskey burning my throat", the Brigadir's pace diminished to a comfortable shuffle back towards his aircrafts cockpit, "Now, the pompous bastard Prince of Cassiopeia is making no mistake about it, there will be a Cassiopeian presence in the villages we rape, pillage, and plunder - and thus the Cassiopeian will be shown as much brutality that any one of you fightin' men can muster. It is amongst our most sacred endeavors to shame the Cassiopeian by outperforming him in every way. As a band unforgiving killers, we will effectively tattoo our mark in to the European psyche; painted with a campaign of shocking and deadly force, we will make no mistake of our own".

Fedzinski crushed his used cigar beneath a mud crusted boot, still burning on until this point, "Mmmhmm" noises of approval creeping out from a questionably drunk old man, "Publicly, Europe will be made quite aware that Zivotinje intends to foster democracy with every ounce of its liberty loving Union. We are beyond the Union, this Regiment answers to me and me only. I am accountable only to God, and I assure you that he is behind our actions one hundred and ten percent, with a blindfold and some earplugs".

Looking back from the cockpit door, Fedzinski bid his men farewell, advising them sarcastically of their first mission - "It'd only be fitting, if as a pack of blood thirsty animals, that we began this traveling circus of terror up a few miles from here along the border of Cassiopeia" and with a wink an the same smirk he set out with, the cockpit door was slammed loudly behind the Brigadir of this Volunteer Regiment. Within fifteen minutes, Bottlecap Dandy made a bumpy landing in a clear field not too far removed from the forest that separates the Blue Union Captaincy of Zivotinje, and the Most Serene Republic of Cassiopeia.

 

[Thaumantica]

Part Two:
Wakey Wakey​

Rusty from a harrowing night of cold wind, and the subsequent creaking shifts in the Northern Deadwoods along the controversial border between Cassiopeia and the Captaincy of Zivotinje, the surly Brigadir stumbled out from his snow sprinkled tent. Immediately, the naturally steaming Officer let out a long a foolhearty yawn that he genuinely expected to ward off this frozen breeze that aimed to mount an all out assault on his formerly warm person. With his right hand, Fedzinski slowly withdrew his firearm from around a black leather waste belt, standard issue to this [Former] Officer of the Air Corps, Zaktrupa.

"Pištolj Cazziopeijia", a large frame double-action revolver featuring a full length under-barrel ejection-rod lug and six round cylinder, carefully manufactured in Sangemuntenia as apart of a program funded by the good Brigadir himself. To explain the firearms title, the wildman Fedzinski vehemently insists that all weapon or ordnance projects he involves himself with are named after nations, people, or ideologies he wishes to lay down a deadly force with

At 0-Dark-30 in the morning, the Brigadir was ready to start his day off right -- by blindly firing his large revolver in to the woods, up towards the starry sky, and clean through a tent or two for laughs, while he tightly closed his eyes to add an element of personal intrigue to an otherwise reckless and rambunctious act of wild man antics. "Wakey..Wakey!" the Brigadir screamed like thunder in a valley, near the top of his lungs. This was actually a codeword, and a clear indicator to a few senior members of the Regiment who were already awake, firing weapons of their own in random directions.

Fedzinski did all of this so very joyfully, before returning back to his warm tent to conduct the more refined act of dressing himself for the day, an perhaps brew up a hot cup of coffee if the adrenaline rush provided from his blind fire was not enough to do the job.

Amidst the true organic core of 'Camp Provocation' (as it was now being called), the 'Briggie's Backbone' were screaming a brand of bloody-murder to make this moment unique and their own, "ENEMY CONTACT!" one shouted gleefully, "GRAB YOUR FUCKIN' RIFLE!" a counterpart added before singling out an older man who seemed unusually confused as compared to the others - "YOU, DON'T FORGET YOUR MAGAZINES, WE MIGHT WANT TO ENGAGE THE MOTHER FUCKIN' ENEMY THIS MORNING!".

Nothing less then tough love would be dished out this morning, not even to those men who were legitimate veterans at one time or another, for the moment being every last one of them were to be treated as identical grunts, especially now with the great majority scurrying about like rats in a cage. At this point in the game, Briggie's Backbone were not about to attempt to illustriously command over a disorganized gaggle of untrained (in some cases) young men, instead they would observe and report their findings to the Brigadir. With this firsthand information, he planned to adjudicate, then strategically advise what syllabus to use over the next few weeks before proper operations could be launched with presumable capacity for victory.

Manufactured chaos at the hands of this Rogue Regiment's leadership effectively proceeded with complete success. In an after action report, the Regiment had the opportunity to analyze their many mistakes in hasty reaction to the Brigadir's questionably irresponsible wake up call. More then a few of the men were harshly embarrassed, and would have to use this failure as a wake up call in less literal terms, in that they would amend to firmly grip the realities of the 'Rogue' environment they had immersed themselves in.

In tradition of the common infantrymen, mock fortifications to include the foxhole were to be built along the borders of Camp Provocation, their tools would be the shovel an the hatchet; carved earth might be cast to match the capabilities of a modern compound. Irregardless, the crucial lesson of improvised concealment and cover were being applied so the Regiment could be prepared to adapt to any situation in the Ziv Wilderness, or abroad if need be.

Breakfast was served soon there after, country eggs, a small serving of bacon, and fresh loaves of bread stolen from a nearby village in Divovia. Looting in this region could and would be much worse, cattle herders in the far east would have to count this as a blessing, that the Rogue Regiment chose Divovia as their staging ground for its carnival of chaos. A meal is a meal, for now the men were not concerned or even curious to find out where their hot meals were coming from. Without having to procure it themselves, these country boys easily viewed it like mana from the sky, delivered from a burly blue Brigadir demigod.

 

[Thaumantica]

Part Three:
Turn'em Loose​

Transcending rapidly in hundreds of seemingly improvised spirals, cascades of piping hot brass plummeted from a recently bombed out building top. Melodies of suppressive fire echoed in and out of conscious comprehension with aftershocks of imminent impact upon flesh, concrete, and scorched earth. Absolute orchestrated perfection could not be farther from realistic attainment, weapon jams from these outdated and incompetent tools of war that were too often failing the warrior embracing its focused directional fury. In a professional corps of armed soldiers, it is the lowest bidder that earns a contract to supply a war machine. Accounting for this Regiments hardware would become increasingly difficult while the mornings battle proceeded in to an early afternoon. Dynamic rhythms were only desecrated ramping consistency of aggressive TLAK-7 carbine fire.

Prior to completion of one standard hour, scarce ammunition supplies carried by Rogue Regiment had diminished grossly. Uninhibited pure necessity forced desperate combatants to literally strip their downed enemies of every last round. Brigadir Fedzinski had cited the enemies use of a Cassiopeian carbine as a motivating factor to pick Głowzeki, no more then ten miles removed from Cassiopeia. While usage of foreign firepower is not a condemnable trait in any corner of the Blue Union, Ol'Briggie Blue was under the firm impression that allegations regarding Głowzeki's Minutemen Militia, that village leaders were collaborating with the Prince of Cassiopeia, was ample grounds for an all out massacre on the entire town. The rabid Rogues were by no means regretting the necessary utilization of this TLAK-7, operable more then their issued armaments by vast leaps and bounds, and procured under circumstances dissociative from the Carbine's designers.

"Beyond a shadow of a doubt, the towns people of Głowzeki are dancing with a seductive demon." Brigadir Fedzinki suggested in his pre-operational brief, "It would behoove us to dictate a swift assault, thus disassembling any effort from our sister country in Cassiopeia from fraternizing to the point of incest with this undoubtedly misguided village."

Evidence tying Głowzeki to said traitorous acts was not precisely clear cut, and the Officers leading Zivotinje in Sjadnbrdo were quite aware of this, which is why they had not committed Union Troops to this mission. Instead of risking already stained Union hands, a blind eye would be turned towards Brigadir Fedzinski's Rogue Regimental mayhem. Laughing, Fedzinski reminded his primary staff that "Once turned loose, this Regiment will not allow itself to be drawn back in by anything less then extinction, you can all count on this". He intended his fighting force to make itself akin with a villain from ancient folklore, townspeople would be made to both fear and respect a burly blue beast that bares a bite more potent then their everyday policemen.

On the ground, Fedzinski found himself escorted by a three man fireteam designated to find a path with minimum resistance to City Hall. Seemingly abandoned, the Brigadir waltzed around each hallway asserting snippets of disappointment with the Minutemen's lack of initiative an drive to keep this building. Crouching beneath his own oak desk, the besieged Mayor of Głowzeki sprung up like a jack-in-the-box, armed not with a projectile weapon, but a chipped broomhandle he had scarred with nibbling nervously over the course of this harrowing morning.

"I'd reckon your a dead man Mayor, whether it's by my rifle or from one of your own." Fedzinski insisted while the fireteam viciously tore the fool hearty attempt at a weapon wielded by the Mayor. "Now, I would have criticized your Militia for surrendering before I had a chance to gauge the aggressive competency of my Regiment -- we really did want to hit the ground running here in Głowzeki, what's worse is: until those men surrender, I cannot within my right mind order my men to cease from this brutal manhandling, looting, and regrettably rape of your women, and your wealth here as a township."

"S-s-s-sir?" the Mayor asked with an uncontrolled stutter, "You-you are speaking Živjezik? And with-with a, sir, you have a Zanguine accent, sir, why are you sh-sh-shooting us down in cold blood? Are you a collaborator?" still jittering with no stop in sight.

Fedzinski grimaced with further disapproval, "Not to fond of all these questions here Mayor, last time I checked we had the guns and you have the broom handle." the Brigadir reminded in disgust, "Who and what I am is not all too important to you, as you'll be dead by the end of this afternoon. Your replacement will be more familiar, I assure you of that." he stated with confidence. Fedzinski grabbed the Mayor by his collar, fastening a tight grip with no regard of his victims general comfort, "You get them Militia boys to lay down their arms within the hour, and I can promise that this village will remain a dot on the map for as long as your replacement can keep it there". With a few hundred more stuttered words, and enough shakes to quake a third world country, the Mayor complied with this offer. And by the time evening emerged dominant over afternoon, the Głowzeki Militia was limping back to their burning village with arms in the sky, for those who still possessed that limb.

 

[Thaumantica]

Part Four:
Bombs and Cigarettes​

Nestled firmly between two lips, an unfiltered cigarette with the thick characteristics of a cigar motioned in circular rotations, round and round with every unintentional spasm of an old mans lower lip. Its owner wore a tailored uniform, some might even say too tight for a reasonable man, but with his expense account - replacing undersized suited uniforms was no object at all.

After igniting the roasted tip, the man holding this cigarette offered one to another man standing no more then five feet away, extending a box in his direction, with another cigarette revealed for an easy picking. Without pause the other man accepted, likely surprised by this sudden charitable gesture. "Hmm, it appears your security detail confiscated my.." Fedzinski acted as if he still had items in his pockets, by rustling through fabric and thin air, "lighter, care if I catch a light?" he said, extending the cigarette back in the direction which it had come from.

"No" Maresal Huszar growled, "This is'nt a fucking charity" he continued, quickly ripping the cigarette from Fedzinski's outstretched hand. "You have a tendency to walk in to other mens houses, drinking straight from their unopened bottles, throwing those mudcaked boots of yours up on the table, and expecting to be greeted as 'sir'", Huszar took in a long insulting drag from his own conveniently lit cigarette, as a sort of accented bookend to that verbal jab.

Fedzinski's eyebrows rose in reaction, surprised with a hint of embarassment that he had been duped in to thinking that Huszar would descend from his self-imagined heavens to do Fedzinski, a savage at best, favors. At this point in time, the siege of Glowzeki had been four months ago, and two identicle raids later; 'Ol'Briggie Blue' was damn near a household name across the Union. Brigadir Fedzinski was talking the same talk Huszar had been for years, though his defining trait meant the walk there followed with consistency. To his defense, Sindikat Maresal Huszar carries a command presence that extends much farther then a Regiment of rogue mercenaries for hire, bound by no rules, and funded without standards or expectations. Appointed by a military comission to uphold a militaristic state on one hand, and a humble pacified on the other, appeasement of both spectrums requires a most tiresome balancing act.

"You are romping about in my country" Huszar said, interrupted by his own coughing fit, "Killing people without my approval no less. We may still enforce corporal punishment, but god damn it there are rules when it comes to execution." he was now passing the midway point through is cigarette, with a squint he pulled it away from that spasm ridden lip.

Fedzinski rose a finger into the smoke filled air, slowly ascending to insert a word in edgewise, "Maresal. .", again Huszar was there to interupt - "Drop that finger, right fucking now Brigadir." his strict attitude was quickly approaching a tipping point in to an overbearing rage, "I'd expect this from an Army man, but you were a member of our beloved Corps, a Senior Comissioned Airman at that.", this one was meant to hit Fedzinski's core. Adjusting to a position where both hands were snug behind his back, Fedzinski let out a great sigh, "Sir, I am not sure whether I need that cigarette more then I want you to close that arrogant pipe-hole of yours". Huszar snorted uncontrollably, genuinely giddy with a shocking surprise of his own: there is a Union man who is not afraid to still speak his mind, face to face with him.

"We can sit down now, Brigadir. I just wanted to make sure you were'nt here to waste my time, hockey is on full-force tonight, you know?" Huszar began moving towards a set of rocking chairs, a classic Divovian Mahogany, comprised of as much character as perhaps the cigarette Huszar put out, using a simple glass ash tray. "Our Ambassadors tell me that smoking is banned in public buildings in most countries nowadays, where the fuck do they get off?", Fedzinski simply shook his head in disgust. "Brigadir, or Fedzinski, I'll call you that - it gets worse, trust me. Our Defense Analysts report that other militaries do not allow their Officers to smoke, OR, drink while serving on duty hours."

He was already helping himself to a chilled brew when the Maresal informed Fedzinski about these foreign tendencies, "Sir" he began with a chuckle, "My boys smoke what they can afford, and drink what they can loot. Bar Owners know what we all look like by now, but we can still order cartons of smokes in by mail.". "You savages have an address?" Huszar asked quickly, to which the younger man, Fedzinski, fired back with "Let's pretend like you never asked that, sir. And I won't ask you where you keep those Union atom-bombs!". Maresal Huszar grumbled at that one, "Hmm, suppose that is fair, bombs and cigarettes."

"Tell me sir, what is stopping you from strangling me to death, here and now?" Fedzinski asked inquisitively. "They like you" Huszar answered, "Zivs identify with a man who can do what you do, they envy your go getter spirit." he continued with an obvious tone of indifference. "And what do you think, sir?" the Brigadir queried, "No" Huszar said while crossing his arms, "I like horses, whiskey, and these cigarettes. . .The man I identify with has been dead for over a century" finishing with a stern look that was meant to humble Fedzinski, who may have thought the two were beginning to get along, "No, I cannot kill you right now, that's a shame too. Your passing would save me a bit of trouble in the next few months"

Mimicking his counterpart by crossing his arms, Fedzinski nodded a few times to pass these quiet awkward moments, "Well, let's toast to dead men, and those of us who are cheating it for the time being.". Their bottleneck glasses met in mid air, sweating in their recently opened glory, and like a fountain the two men drenched their palettes with a native brew. "Indeed, Briggie." Huszar stated with concurrence, "I need you to lay off the Cassiopeians for awhile, our spring gathering is coming up, so I do not need you defecating all over that like you'll want to."

Brigadir Fedzinski smiled, "That can be managed, sir. Besides, my rough tough Regiment has yet to show the Wieser what they are made of, a little sideshow due west would'nt bother me a lick".

 

[Thaumantica]

Part Five:
Parting with Free Reign​

Jerked from his customary nine-to-five nap, a daily ritual regular to the men of Fedzinski's rogue regiment since the Brigadir ordered an open ended stand down, Tadija Slodan slapped an open hand over the telephone like meat thrown on a grill.

'Who the hell?' Tadija whispered aloud. Only a handful of powerful individuals in Europe were aware of this phones digits.

His lips were cracked and parched from a few long hours of sleep, yet he was capable of firing off a labored 'Morning' to whomever was on the other end. Several bleak seconds of eery silence followed the young mans greeting, enough time for him to stroke his free hand over the sprouts of facial hair that had grown since he last shaved.

'Hell..Hello?.." he repeated, a trace of aggravated impatience in his tone. Two weeks of manning the phone lines, and now a mute was wheezing lazily, toying with him like all important people liked to do with junior members of society.

'Indeed sir, top of it to you' a male voice coughed, static obscuring every other syllable. 'Calling from a Sat-Phone, excuse. ." the connection jotted out for a moment, 'talk to the Brigadir'.

Tadija shrugged off a harrowing yawn, 'Hope I'm not patching in some lunatic' he whispered, too dazed to decide whether or not he was loud enough to be heard by the caller. 'Name, rank if you have one, and reason for calling. In no specific order if you'd like'.

'Indeed sir. Jáchym Ctibor, Podpułkownik,' while this came out garbled and distorted, his reason for calling transmitted through loud and clear like a train conductor 'I call on behalf of the Herd'

A shot of self produced waking chemicals powered to his veins like an ink dye in translucent water, Tadija had not begun his military career yesterday, the "Herd" was in obvious reference to Životinje's historically relevant Third Militia Brigade, nicknamed the "Third Herd". Visualizations of mismatch uniformed Patriots charging hills and raising the Union flag flashed in his minds eye, the Herd summoned sincere admiration from every one of his elder relatives involved in Europe's Great War, and reached a near mythological status in Tadija's own pantheon of heroes. 'Right away sir, I'll connect you to Brigadir Fedzinski immediately.' he said, informing with a chipper matter-of-fact flavor of speaking.

Fedzinsiki stood beyond ten feet of gleaming tiled floor, waxed days ago yet not trodden upon as no one had been in or out. One door with a fist size hole, redecoration stylizations by the Brigadir himself. A carpet, akin more to a canvas now, illustrated with chunks of skin, dirty plates and silverware, and long finished bottles of beer. 'Call for you, sir!' Tadija exclaimed after bursting headlong through the fractured door. The burly Brigadir nodded, back still shown to his junior. 'Tell whoever it is that I didn't kill the Kasjopejan Prince, and we are not for hire to kill his successor' Fedzinski murmured, clearly disappointed at what he had not done, and wanted so badly to do. His "pacification" or stand down of Regimental operations was in direct reaction to the Prince's untimely death, many troops were beginning to imply Fedzinski, the man man himself, was in mourning for the foreign leader.

'Sir, if you do not mind me asking, where have you been pissing these last few days?' Tadija asked sheepishly. To which Fedzinski shot a sharply pointed index finger to the rooms open window, filtering in a light breeze as the Brigadir motioned towards the telephone.

'I didn't do it' Fedzinski announced to Jáchym Ctibor, who had found optimum reception standing atop an armored vehicle. 'Podpułkownik Ctibor, interim commander of the Third Militia Brigade. We aim to offer you a full-time job' replied the Third Herd officer.

Forced snickering peeped from the Brigadir's half open mouth, 'I freelance now, y'all must have caught word months ago. Some of those villages we hit had Herd militiamen, crispy or maimed herdsmen now, partner.'

'Caught word that booze and cigarettes are the only thing your regiment is lancing these days, partner.' Ctibor bluntly retorted. 'The past is the past, you know that Fedzinski. Third Militia Brigade may have never turned back the Miedzymorze Cavalry in the fields of Hladnmopot if our Herd remembered their loss on Wjaczlaw the day before.' he said, before breaking off in tangent using a foreign language. 'Aldrin Company was deployed to Abruzicstan last month, I'm "adapting" as we speak'.

Fedzinski ceased his laughter at the mention of Wjaczlaw Hill. Slaughtering innocent men was one thing, but nailing their end trails to the doors of their families home was a special degree of sadistic. The Miedzymorzan Cavalry, in the 1820s were nefarious wraiths, said to have turned back the Jizhou Imperial hordes on more then one occasion, and vigorously inflicted an estimated seventy percent of casualties on Zivolutionaries in the Wars of Assertive Independence. 'Point taken, young man, point taken. What position did you have in mind?'

Static recurred momentarily while Ctibor speechlessly stalled for a moment, mentally gearing up for the personally humbling request he was about to make, 'Will you take command? Guide our movement when even yourself are within reach of the last breath? Pass judgement upon our men, the men we kill, and the men we choose to fight for? The Third Militia Brigade is looking, Third Herd is looking for a new Commander."

A mouthful of beer gushed from Fedzinski's lips, trying to form out an expletive while downing his half finished brew. 'What happened to Sturvich?' he asked, Sturvich being whom he thought was the Third Brigade Commander.

'Dead sir, cause of death on a need to know basis, our next Commander will know" Ctibor answered 'Repeating mistakes is not a Third-Militiamen's trend'.

'Well, you didn't kill him . . . Did you Podpułkownik Ctibor?'

'Need to know, sir'

'Fedzinski paced back and forth as far as the phones wrapped chord line would take him, the thought of command weighing like a sack of bricks slung over each shoulder. But in his heart and mind he knew, he had always known really, 'I will. Expect my regiment to link up with the Herd by the weeks end, details can be mulled over when you return from that shithole Abruzicstan.'

Ctibor had hung up within mere seconds, wasting no time in getting back to whatever far flung mission he might be working towards in the deep southern wastelands of Europe. Brigadir Fedzinski simply sighed, it had been a joyous drunken ride while it lasted, free reign over a reckless and unaccounted for Regiment. And now he was about to part with this youthful spark of chaos in the latter half of his life, for Command over Životinje's grand Militiamen's Brigade, perhaps an indication of a new chapter in the aging officers career. 'The last chapter' Fedzinski whispered to the buzzing dead line whooping back at him, 'I'm getting too old for this'.

 

[Thaumantica]

Part Six:
Star Struck
​

Crickets chirped with the constancy of poor men in a mansion as the shallow prairie bush of Southwest Orion shifted with every gale of lamenting early winter wind. In its natural beauty, this was the sort of countryside that mankind yearns for, shown justice by a night sky that poses to arrest any wandering soul, completed by the warming scent of barley and gunpowder, truly satisfying ones sense of smell. Light all-terrain vehicles were made to jerk and careen over bumps of dirt and the fallen dead, frivolous obstructions to the forward advance of Fedzinski's Third Herd.

Nostalgia soured as the disenfranchised Commander replayed the skirmish again in his mind, a tale of overconfidence and amateurish actions were illustrated incessantly by the sight of comrades own entrails scattered about like children's toys in a playpen. It had been an ambush for the ages, certainly the worst within his own, from an enemy armed beyond their wealth. These farmers and unemployed workmen had given Fedzinski a run for his money, his life, and the mission which he had been entrusted with: recapturing farmland lost in a brutal uprising. The Battle of November was underway in Orion.

'We sure gave'm hell, huh Briggie?' a budding infantrymen asked, unveiling his toothiest grin. In this environment, false motivation was supposed to be better then no motivation at all, but Fedzinski sneered and released the grip around his rifle long enough to deliver the soldier a swift backhand. 'Those bodies there' he said, pointing directly at downed insurgents, rifles still in hand, 'They took us to hell, and spat us back out like a mouthful of cum!'.

Discontent with that reply, the surviving young imbecile scurried to those very bodies to check their bodies for rigged explosives, but later spoils of the dead. A peculiar thing had happened in Abruzicstan just before the split between Belmont and Zivotinje, weapons assembly facilities filling abandoned warehouses and homes in an effort to match their occupants firepower. More or less, insurgents were fighting with weapons made partly or entirely from Zivotun scraps. Living as scavengers on the fringe, the Third Herd had taken to recycling as well by modifying or adapting weapons systems to feed from hauled in parts or ammunition. Their weapons were not the durable rough and tough firearms they needed to sustain fighting strength, particularly in field operations, and it was beginning to show when a soldiers first priority after battle was to strip down slain combatants of their armaments.

Insurgents, insurrectionists, or otherwise, these farmers of the Orion were beginning to truly embody more then just resistance. Courage had been shown in the fray, and it bothered Fedzinski more then any foe met in Barazi or at home before. 'I won't venture to call what we won this evening a whuppin, not for our kind or them' he verbalized to his junior staff over the rumble of truck engines and the screaming injured.

'We came out here with our tongues out, but it was the enemy who gave us a lick to remember' Fedzinski continued, 'What kind of count are we looking at Lieutenant?'. Jáchym Ctibor snapped to attention to report, but was waved down by Fedzinski immediately, tiring of the damned formality months ago. 'Sir, eighty men assigned, eight dead, fifteen wounded, fifty-seven fit to fight sir!' Lieutenant Ctibor reported. Ctibor strained to remain as indifferent as the other Officers, though he could not help but rush through the casualty listing at lip numbing speed.

Fedzinski nodded curtly, 'I want their names as soon as possible. Their fatherland shall know what they did here . .' Fedzinski chuckled 'with a few exaggerations where its deemed necessary of course'. Third Brigade was becoming somewhat of a legend in Zivotinje, and the Brigadir it's enigmatic hero, the newswire stalked them for even losses like they had experienced today, all apart of the "struggle" Assertionists were howling for in Karpatica. 'We'll give them what the hell they want, and we'll get what we're here to get, a god damn fight to be proud of'.