this is what I am currently working on. I 'll post the first page or two for some criticism. I've rewritten this story time and again for the last few years, and these are finally the first pages I have no problems with. It's military pseudo-fantasy, and the world-building is turning out slowly, but anyway, on with the post. I put the actual text in larger size for easier reading, although that might be a mistake, but I guess thats what being a newb is all about

The three of them lay low in a hollow in the brambly brush three hundred meters from a forest on the Lossian border. They were wearing neutral green uniforms that designated them as scouts, with the many-pocketed pants tucked into their tall leather boots that had five buckles running down the side. Inside their pockets were different things: bandages, cigarettes, scripture, candy; the small comforts of a soldier. In their webbing belts they carried a canteen, a large knife, spare ammunition, and a case with maps of the surrounding area. Their heavy waxed greatcoats were iron gray and sprinkled with dew, for they had been lying in position since the previous evening and dawn was just beginning to break. On the shoulders they wore their insignias: on the left was their unit insignia, a pair of black crossed hammers with a red 77 in the foreground denoting them as a member of the 77th infantry division; on the other shoulder was the Crescent and Fist of Trestvane. Two of them wore their domed helmets that had been blacked with ashes, and the third had taken his off to expose his black curls.

They held their rifles in readiness as they had for the past 18 hours. All of their weapons had been manufactured by the Drossnevel Company, and were about as top of the line as was available off a conveyer belt. They were wheel-locked and wooden-stocked, with a three round magazine that loaded into the top. Rifled barrels made the .30 caliber brass-jacketed leaden slug quite accurate at ranges of up to two hundred and fifty meters. One of them had a longer barrel and a brass telescope riveted on which increased the accuracy an additional hundred meters. Nicest weapons you could get without a real gunsmith to craft them, with the nice addition of having all the weapons break down into the exact same parts so that broken ones could be quickly and, best of all, inexpensively, replaced.

The three men were named Felix Vasken, Thomas Morrow, and Timpson McBride. They were all quite nervous, for this was their first combat action, and from all reports from the Information Corps, they were going to be fighting against the hardest troops that the Principality of Lossis could throw at them. Lossies were damn good at war, it was well known, and they were protected from invasion by thick forests around their borders. They employed incredibly terrible cavalry, and supposedly had some new tricks, if the reports from IC were to be believed.

Felix rechecked his rifle for about the hundredth time. The tawny-haired scout found nothing wrong with it for the hundredth time. He rubbed his longish, pointed nose, checked his helmet band for the fiftieth time to make sure the two extra clips were still there (they were), and rubbed his green eyes with his left hand.

Thomas Morrow, called Tommy Matches by everyone, removed a piece of charcoal from one of his many pockets and began blacking out the already black telescope on his longrifle. His helmet was on as well, although the band contained a pack of his namesake paper matches and a purple and green pack of Purgate Cigarettes (“Only The Finest of Imported Tobaccos!”) rather than the spare clips carried by his boyhood chum Felix. His steel gray eyes glanced through his scope again towards the woods in hopes of seeing the enemy drifting through them, but to no avail yet again. He let out a nervous sigh and reached up to scratch his black hair that was prickling underneath his helmet.

Timpson was nervously flicking his safety catch on and off, making small clicking noises. He had removed his ash-blacked helmet some hours ago, claiming to the others that it was too damn hot to keep it on, and his hair was being ruffled by the chilly morning breeze that was drifting through. He had also laid his signal flag by his side, for it had poked him mercilessly for several hours as he laid down. His job was to signal to the main block of the 77th when the enemy came through, and all he could think about was the fact that the rest of the boys were too damned far away to do the three of them much good when the Lossies came through and killed them all. He had heard that Lossie elite troops were very thorough when they searched an area. His brown eyes glanced back at the signal flag and he thought about just signaling without justification and the punishment be damned when Tommy turned and whispered.“Here they come.”Timpson reached for his flag and Felix grabbed his wrist. “Not yet!” he hissed.

Ten or fifteen men in brown uniforms were stalking through the edge of the forest. They carried short rifles with barrel-shaped magazines hanging off of them as well as short, cleaver-like swords. They wore caps, not helmets, and Tommy was zeroed in on their leader, who was picked out by his white circular designation worn on his shoulder.

“I can nail the sergeant,” he said quietly “but I doubt I can do the same for the others. You should probably signal the others, Timp.”
“Not yet,” Felix said “wait for a few more of them to come into view.” Timpson shook his head in exasperation, but didn’t grab the flag. Instead, he grabbed his helmet and clamped it over his curls. “If we get killed, Felix, I want you to tell my mom that it was your damn fault.”

“If we get killed, I won’t be telling anyone anything.” Felix grinned nervously. Timpson gritted his teeth at the reality of the statement and Tommy spoke again.
“More of them now, but no cavalry. They’re all carrying those odd short rifles.”

Felix looked and saw about twenty more men slinking out of the woods and progressing to the small surrounding copses. A group of five or so were approaching their brush. Timpson lifted the flag and began waving it to signal the infantry just as the stress of the approaching enemy got to Tommy and he fired at the sergeant. The left side of the mans heads exploded in a thick red mist and the thirty-odd Lossie soldiers turned to look at their now quite dead non-commissioned officer. “Shit, Tommy, look what you gone and done!” Felix said through gritted teeth as he fired at one of the five men who had previously been advancing toward them. He shot the brown clad private in the chest, worked the wheel on the side of his rifle, and shot the one next to the first, crumpling him too. Timpson wasn’t much of a marksman but he made up for accuracy with his speed, missing his first two shots before putting a slug in the closest Lossie’s gut. The man began screaming by which time Timpson had ejected, reloaded, and fired another shot at a group headed towards a copse to their left. The Lossian infantry finally began to snap out of their state of stunned shock, with men turning toward the brambles and raising their stubby weapons to fire.

Felix fired again, nipping the fourth man in the knee and dropping him to the ground, ejected his magazine, and slammed in a new one from his helmet just as Tommy blasted a corporal’s eye away along with the back of his head. Bullets began to whine and buzz around them, searching for their flesh and organs. Timpson killed the fifth man nearest the brambles, putting a bullet in his temple as he turned to holler at the rest of the group.

“Dammit, there’s still nearly twenty five of them, Felix!” Timpson yelled above the gunfire. “Twenty four,” amended Tommy as he downed another soldier in brown

Very good and interesting to read. One point i would make though is that the first three paragraphs sound like stage directions or a guidebook descrbing the scene before taking you into the story. Try and find a way of describing the scene through the characters' thoughts and actions.

I have thought about that, but one thing that I have found is that for a comic book, you need stage directions to inform the artist as to what the characters look like as well as their surroundings. I've noticed that it's rather more like writing a script than an actual novel, although I see your point as to how it reads.

here is the next couple pages of the as-yet-untitled work


“However many, it’s still too many! We’re dead, boys, dead!” Timpson wailed as he reloaded and loosed off another shot.

“It’s not as though we really wanted to be veterans anyway, Timmy boy,” Felix grinned “Hey, and this way it’s my fault.” He fired again, not really caring if he had a target or not. They were dead, and Felix, Tommy, and Timpson all knew it. What the hell, Felix thought, at least they’d done their damned job. Hopefully the 77th would decide to show up sometime in the next couple of minutes to save their asses, but he doubted it would happen. He was interrupted by a gasp of “Haah…oh shit…” coming from Timpson.
“Timps! You okay?” Tommy hollered.

“I’m bleeding! Oh shit! You fecken asshole, Felix! I’m goddamned bleeding!”
Felix fired another shot and looked at Timpson. He had dropped his rifle and was rolling around on the ground. Sure enough, there was an awful lot of blood all over the place. “Where, Timps? Where did those mother-loving sons of whores get you?” Felix yelled, as he shot and killed another Lossie.

“In the right side! Oh goddammit! Oh shit it hurts so damn bad!” Timpson gasped.
“Pick up your rifle and shoot those bastards, Timps. You gonna die if you don’t. We’ll die if you don’t! So pick it up, quite your whining, and kill those fecken Lossies, dammit!” Tommy yelled as he blew out the knee of another advancing soldier.

“Look, Timps, it was a lucky shot. These fools can’t even see us. They’re shooting blind. You’ll be okay, man!”
Timpson gritted his teeth and nodded. He grabbed his rifle and began to fire it again albeit with less speed, still curled fetally toward his right side.

The Lossian force, about twenty of them now, began to fan out around the brush, putting out a terrifying volume of fire. The three scouts all screamed and fired and reloaded as bullets zinged all around them, shredding the thick shrubs and bramblevines around them. Tommy yelled as a bullet slapped through the meat of his left bicep, and he dropped his rifle in an attempt to reach his bandages inside his coat.

“We’re dead,” he said in stunned monotone as he fumbled for the roll of canvas “it’s really true. We’re dead. Dead.” He kept repeating the word dead, setting Felix’s teeth on edge.
“Shut up! Damn you, Tommy! We’re just in a rough situation right now. We’ll be fine!”
“Like you know,” Timpson said breathily. He knew he was hurt something terrible. He grinned weakly “But we’re not all gonna die, Tommy. Felix has still gotta tell my mom that it’s his damn fault.” As Timpson spoke, there was a huge shout from their rear, and a grin broke out on Felix’s face. The 77th had arrived.
“Fall back, fellas, we’re saved!” Felix whooped.

The opening salvo of the hundred and fifty strong 77th infantry ripped through the twenty or so Lossian troops as they looked up to take in the new sight heralded by the great shout. Tommy grabbed Timpson, who was looking quite pale at this point, and dragged him out of the bushes as their brothers in arms ran forward to see if the scouts were still alive. “Get those two to the rear!” Felix was shouting. “Get them to the rear and do it quick! Timps took one in the side!” Two medical corpsmen rushed forward and grabbed Tommy and Timps.
“Damn, boys, thissun needs a stretcher! ‘E’s ‘urt summenk awful!” They looked Tommy over.
“I got shot through the fecken arm. Hurts like hell, but if you give me a painkiller…?” the corpsmen shook their heads.

“Laddie, ye can’t even carry a rifle, an’ eff we don’t get that fexed ri’ away, ye’ll jes’ be pensioned off, an I’m sure ye don’ want that.” The stretcher came up for Timpson, who was moaning and bleeding and not doing much else. Tommy grumbled and complained, but allowed the medics to take him back to the medical tents some distance away.

Felix was the only scout left and was busy being congratulated by the Lieutenant.
“Sir, I just did my job. To be absolutely honest, I was the one who fouled up and nearly got us all killed. We should have signaled you long before we engaged. It was simply good luck that we were still alive when you got here.”

The Lieutenant, a heavily mustached fellow that was built like an ox, grinned slightly as he adjusted his peaked cap. He was as close to old guard as the armies of Trestvane had, having served before the Great Turning Out, and there was no way he was going to wear one of those hot, itchy helmets like the new boys did. But he was no condescending fop like the Gentry had been, and when he saw good soldiery, he praised it.

“Son, twas a good spot of fighting against bad odds. Like as not, they’d have found you before long and you’d be prisoners now and they’d have had the jump on us. I mean, the three of you against a load of Lossies, and you came out without anyone getting killed. They weren’t elites like the fecken IC claimed, thank almighty God. You did alright, laddie. Don’t worry about it now, anyhow. We’ve still got a contingent of Lossies in them woods to be killin’. So buck up, reload your rifle, and let’s go into those woods.”

“Sir!” Felix saluted smartly and turned on his heel. He reloaded his rifle, and realized he had spent all of his spare clips in the fight a few minutes ago. As he turned to ask a passing private for some ammo, the man’s head exploded into a shower of blood, brain, and skull.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed as he hit the ground. His greatcoat was spattered with the blood of his former fellow, and his sense of propriety was such that there was no way he was about to search a dead man for ammunition, especially a dead man who had splattered on him.

A column of about fifty some Lossian cavalry in their brown drab was beginning to trot out into the open, firing and chirruping as they rode. Perhaps they were wondering what had happened to their infantry detachment, or perhaps their orders were to move ahead regardless of any intelligence of enemy movements. As it was, they had blundered. One hundred and fifty men of the 77th infantry opened fire, sharpshooters clipping officers from their horses, .30 caliber bullets smashing horse and rider alike. The crack cavalry of Lossis didn’t have a chance, with their ugly, stumpy rifles that had large calibers but short range, their lack of any cover, and their large silhouette augmented by the horses they rode. Within minutes they fled back into the woods.

“After them, Lads! Give ‘em Hell! 77th ONWARD!” the Lieutenant bellowed. Felix got up, glanced around cursorily to see how many casualties they had taken, and ran full tilt into the woods with the rest of his company. It was only after he had twenty some meters into the woods that he realized that he had only three bullets. It was also when he realized that following an enemy into unknown woods with the low light of dawn was an incredibly bad idea.

More comic, although I doubt anyone is waiting in anticipation :P


Of course, the enemy was at low strength (he hoped) but that still didn’t make it a good idea. His thoughts were confirmed when he heard intense firing and screams of “Medic!” to his left and right. Far more cautious than the rest, having already been through his first trial by fire, he knelt behind a tree to fix his bayonet onto his rifle. He hadn’t realized that he was all by himself until he heard a twig snap to his rear left. He whirled, barely waiting long enough to see if the uniform was brown or green-gray, and, with a double fisted grip on the metal barrel of his weapon, smashed his rifle butt into the face of the Lossie. The Brown let out a yelp as he fell to the ground, and Felix, with the insanity of terror and adrenaline blasting through his veins, switched his grip and continued to smash the prone man’s face over and over with his rifle butt in vicious spearing motions all the while crying out a stream of unintelligible profanity.
The now faceless man had long since stopped making noise when Felix calmed down enough to cease his assault. He stood dumbly, looking at the bludgeoned body without a face. He looked at his rifle butt, and at its thick new coating of dripping gore. He was stunned at the savagery that had taken place, so stunned that he was only able to back up a few paces to the tree where he had been attaching his bayonet and sat down heavily, his Drossnevel .30 caliber rifle in his lap. He zoned out for what seemed like hours in the slowly lighting forest, watching the black and gray trees turn slowly to browns and greens as the sun continued to rise.
Felix heard the crunching of careless boots coming toward him from the other side of his tree and, realizing that the ugly stubbly rifle with its barrel magazine was more a more realistic choice in a close quarters fight, grabbed the former enemy’s weapon with a new found practicality. Looting an enemy was different from looting friends, he thought, attempting to justify himself in his mind.
The Lossian rifle was heavier than his own and had a pistol grip without a trigger guard, as well as a crank action rather than his Drossnevel’s wheel-lock. Weird, he thought. He had no sooner familiarized himself with his new gun before he saw three soldiers waltzing along. He came close to firing before he realized that they were wearing greatcoats and helmets rather than brown fatigues and caps. Felix hailed them
“Ahoy! What of the rest of the fight, lads?” the three of them whirled, spotted Felix in his firing crouch, and burst out laughing.
“We sen’ ‘em packen, dedn’t we lads?” the first one grinned. “Kicked all them horsey-boys ri’ en the arse, tha’ we ded.” He looked about his two fellows for confirmation. They nodded, laughing. It was more of a relieved laughter than anything else. They came around the side of the tree to give Felix a slap on the back and saw the mush-headed faceless form lying several feet from him.
“Well, I see you’ve ‘ad as much fun as possible for one day, huh?” said the second one with a laugh. They gave the body very little consideration, and Felix supposed that they now had a story or two to tell.
“We’re headed back to Command, p’rhaps ye want te come wi’ us?” said the first again. “Why not?” Felix grinned “You’re better company than he was.” At that all four of them laughed. Terrible joke, Felix thought, but for some reason it was funny as hell. They walked and laughed at the stupid joke until they hit the edge of the woods. After that, it seemed as though introductions were in order. Felix learned that the fellow with the heavy accent was a corporal in a different platoon. The other two were privates in his squad.2nd platoon, blue squad. Felix was in seventh platoon, green squad, as were Timpson and Tommy. ‘Oh damn!’ Felix thought ‘Timps! I’d forgotten.’
Some little while later they reached the Field Command tent, a large gray edifice of poles and canvas stamped with a large red 77, Felix parted from his companions and demanded that a dress shirted member of the Command Staff without a greatcoat direct him to the medical tent. The staffer directed him farther back, down the line of pack mules that were slowly coming up extend the supply lines of the 77th. He could make out a small forest of tents, all gray. As he approached closer he could see that they were stamped with the black needle and thread insignia that denoted a field hospital. He saw some wounded being hurriedly trucked in on stretchers by medics. Not too many, he was relieved to see. He made the mistake of looking in one of the stretchers as it passed. Most of the man’s head was gone and yet he was still alive. No sound at all from him. It was quite terrible. One of the medics glanced at Felix as he turned slightly green. “Don’t worry, kid, he’ll be dead soon. We’ll dope him up and he’ll be eased out of this world.”
“I wasn’t worried,” Felix stated, shaking his head at their callousness “just interested.” The medic grinned as he veered left with his stretcher partner, away from the tent that Felix was headed to. This particular monument to the functionality of canvas was designed for the walking wounded, of which Timpson was definitely not numbered among, but Tommy certainly was. As he entered, he noticed Tommy instantly. His arm in a sling, and a smoke in his hand, he was staring at the canvas wall.
Felix was still surprised at the lack of caring that the medical corps seemed to have for the other soldiers. It wasn’t as though they’d seen all that many injuries. This was, after all, the very first time that the 77th had seen real combat. Hell, it was the first time the entirety of Army 2 had seen combat.
His mind returned to the moment and he walked around the rest of the wounded, most of whom were smoking or eating army soup, in order to speak to his oldest friend. Tommy looked away from the wall and smiled when he saw Felix. “Made it through, didja? Any hard fighting? How many shithead Lossies did you bury?” the questions streamed out of Tommy so quickly that he nearly tripped over his words. Felix grinned wearily. “First, you tell me how Timpson is.” Tommy’s smile faded, and he looked dour. “Not so hot, my friend. If he lives, and that’s a big if, he’s out of the army. He’s got a medal coming, maybe two, but they’ll be sending him home with them. Those gut wounds…well, they’re not exactly easy to live with, if’n you get my meaning.”
Felix sighed. They hadn’t known Timpson all that long, just a bare three weeks during the end of their training period, long enough to know that he was a guy that could be counted on to be tough and steady. It was pretty awful, to have a man in his prime be hooked to a colostomy bag or dead because you thought that waiting was better, Felix thought. It must have showed on his face, for Tommy looked at him concernedly.
“It wasn’t your fault, man. We did our job, that was all. If anyone is to blame, it’s me. I was so scared that I blasted that sergeant without even thinking about what could happen, even though you told me not to. Don’t feel bad, Felix. He chose this, remember? We asked to undertake the first scouting mission, thinking it was going to be a lark. Just remember that Felix. He requested the job, same as you and me.” Felix still felt little better. He looked away at the wall of the medical tent.
“So hows about answering my questions, Felix?” Tommy said, smiling one of those ‘oh, come on, cheer up’ smiles. “How many of them Lossies didja waste?” Felix shook his head. Tommy could be irrepressible in his demand of details, so he decided to give him the actual story. “One. I smashed his head in with my rifle butt. Christ, Tommy, it was so scary back there in those woods. There was gunfire, screaming, sneaking…he would’ve gotten me had he not stepped on a dry branch. After I stove in his head I was just too stunned by how awful it was that I sat there and stared at the body until some guys from second platoon found me.” Tom let out a low whistle in response. “So what about our side, How many of us got killed?” Felix asked
“Fifteen killed in action, about twenty wounded severely, and just the ten of us,” he gestured around the room “fit for duties that don’t include combat. Which means I’ll be cleaning latrines for a week or two.”
“Seems as though the two of us have been sufficiently introduced to the army, doesn’t it?” said Felix.
“Yeah, well, it’ll probably only get worse from here, my friend, seeing as how fifth army is moving up to hold this territory and we’re meeting up with 12th artillery in a few days.” Tommy grinned. “You tend to hear about what’s going on when you keep bitching to the staff sergeant that you’re fit enough to track and shoot a rabbit, let alone a spineless Lossie.” Felix laughed aloud and felt much better about Timpson. That was Tommy’s job, he thought, keepin’ my head on straight.

Very good. I particularly like the voice of one of the characters (Ri' en the arse, dedn't we?).

One point though. The 'all four of them laughed' sentence. I've been finding with my writing that as soon as you say all of the characters laughed, it's no longer funny. I don't think readers like being told when to laugh.

Might just be me, but i thought i'd point it out. What does everybody else think?

yeah, it definitely needs more polishing, especially on that line. I'm trying to display hystericall laughter (think Micheal Caine at the end of Zulu), but I guess I didnt really write it in. thank god for proofreaders, huh? :P

I have a friend, and though I don’t pretend to understand what he does, I do know he started his own company and it has something to do with graphic novels. He asks for my input on storylines sometimes, and I’ll be damned if yours isn’t a world more descriptive than what I’ve seen.

I’m a passing fan of the graphic novel and comic genre, and I have to say think twice before turning this into comic format. Your first post definitely read more like a script for a comic, but the two subsequent ones were better than most of the hack fantasy you’ll find on a bookstore shelf.

I think Sci-Fi/Fantasy is simultaneously home to the worst disgraces to ever put ink to paper and the some of the most brilliant and original writers ever. Unfortunately, these days it’s much more of the former.

This story line is original. Its not dime store fan fiction, a clichéd wizard led quest to save humanity, or unoriginal space age. The time, people, civilizations, and weapons are creative. I think it has potential for a good novel with a few alterations. Mainly (and I know you are doing this for the benefit of the future artist) if you’d show and not tell it would change the flow of the entire script and read more like a novel.

Ultimately, it is your decision what format to run with, but I think this would make a much better novel. On a side note, if you’re going to make it a comic, be careful of internal monologues and think about adding more dialogue.

I've begun to veer away from the comic book idea and move more to a novel, although I'm still keeping all the options open. I think as this pans out it would kick ass visually, but I'm sitting the fence still.

Now, this I believe is so far the weakest part of the story to date, but I have difficulty in designing a situation in which the background can flow from, so I used flashbacks (which I loathe, but sometimes...) anyway, I could really use help on this section here:



chap. 2
Lord Commander of Trestvane Jason Binak sat in his painstakingly and intricately carved throne-like rosewood chair in his great study and surveyed his opulent surroundings: ebony desk, teak chairs, priceless tapestries. He was a simple man, and had no need of the palatial mansion with which he had been given by his generals and in which he now lived. He sighed. When he led what was now called The Great Turning Out fifteen years ago, it had been to put an end to mansions such as this. The Gentry that formerly ran the country had lived as he was now expected to, and despite his constant protestations that he was a simple man of simple means and always had been, he had been enthroned like the kings of old. He sighed again. There was just no helping it. People wanted their rulers to be special men of expensive taste and refinement rather than scarred old soldiers who would rather eat fresh bread, beef stew, and strong beer instead of imported wine and veal.
He looked over the pressed black uniform he was wearing, with its high stiff collar on which his golden Fist and Crescent pin was affixed, and the impeccably tailored chest on which was pinned the medals he had had struck for his followers in his great campaign to free the people of the callous yoke of the Gentry and felt better. There was always the army, he thought, and smiled. The army made him what he was, and he made it what it was today: as modern a fighting force as had been seen on the continent, perhaps the world. He was currently testing it against the Grand Armies of the Principality of Lossis. He had no real cause to go to war with them. In fact, as far as foreigners went, Lossies were pretty alright, but the kinks had to be worked out of his armies.
If there were problems with weapons, armor, cannon, or the command structure, he needed to know before the real war began. Lossis, he thought, had a good army. Their cavalry impeccable, their soldiers without fear, and their regiments swift and strong; they were professionals at the lightning raid, and experts at taking their enemies by surprise, but Lord Commander Binak knew that their greatest weakness lay in their command structure. They were commanded, as the Trestvanian armies had once been, by Nobility and Gentry, and Jason Binak knew all too well the incompetence and cowardice that were ingrained by the lives of privilege into which those types had been bred.
His armies, run by men of merit, not privilege, would crush the will of the Lossian Nobility he was sure. It would be like the days in which his armies of common rabble ousted the former rulers of his homeland, rulers who had rendered destitute the common men of Trestvane with their foolish war against their neighbors and rivals, the merchant princes of Kilti in the war of The Gentry’s Folly twenty years previously.
Jason scowled at the memory of the ignominious loss to the Kiltish nobles, thinking of how easily the Trestvanian armies could have won if only the Gentry hadn’t squandered monies that could be used for food and ammunition on elaborate squash courts and imported spices. But that was to be the downfall of the Gentry. Jason smiled when he thought about how the histories were already portraying them: foolhardy and foppish, looking for another war so that they could award themselves medals, perhaps steal a few estates, and then go home and marry some nice Lady, perhaps from Trestvane, perhaps from somewhere abroad.
They lost the war to Kilti, for the merchant princes spent their money on new weapons and trains to speed their soldiers to the front. Color Sergeant Binak and his men were always low on bullets, never had enough to eat, and their weapons always fouled and jammed and because of this, they died in far greater numbers than they should have. After the war, Kilti occupied one third of the eastern marches of Trestvane, and forced upon its parliament an indemnity for the war. The Gentry of course wouldn’t hear of paying for their own folly themselves, and thus they taxed the people. There were bridge tolls, mule tax, and cheese tariffs. Inns were charged a licensing fee and a liquor tax, when they were open they were charged a duty on their business, and when people were absent they were charged a vacancy tax. Farmers were taxed for growing their crops, but they were also to pay duty on crops they didn’t grow. It was a terrible time. Poverty was everywhere but in the estates of the Gentry. Lords and Ladies played bridge while people starved, enjoyed fox hunting while men froze in the cold, and they laughed merrily to tunes played by foreign minstrels as children stabbed old men for their shoes.
Ah, but when the people were angry, now that was a memory to treasure. Jason remembered well how clenched fists shook in anger at passing hansoms and the angry mutters of hungry men gathered around fires in old rusted oil barrels grew. Jason remembered how hungry they had been, and the despair they felt. Color Sergeant Binak felt it when all of a sudden that despair turned to anger, that anger to rage and hate. It was beauty incarnate. That first time, when he and the few surviving friends from the war stopped a hansom and burned it, ignoring the money inside, laughing at the Lord and his Lady as they first attempted to bribe them for their lives, and then begging and pleading and crying for mercy. Those screams were as the sweetest of violins to these tired and almost broken men. The flames charring the brocaded silk were panacea to their ills. Yes, Jason remembered, it felt good to kill.
Jason broke from his reverie and returned to his maps. Yes, once Lossis fell, it would be time to put paid to the Merchant Princes. Long past time.