01-24-2017, 02:44 AM
The rain tingled as it fell on Kelly's bare arms as he stood in the line, the cold and the wet bringing with it a pleasant, vivid numbness. It saturated his dark hair, a steady stream of water dribbling off the end of his ponytail, and soaked into his shirt, turning the blue cotton almost black with the damp where it hung loose on his athletic form. Dense droplets drummed against the trampled fabric of now-abandoned tents, and beat a somber tattoo on the armor of the troops as they rushed about in a last-minute flurry of activity, checking weapons, tightening straps, forming ranks. The sky opened further, pouring its disappointment upon the soon-to-be-blood-soaked field, and the ground turned to a muddy slurry. It even soaked through the sturdy fabric of his already-dark jeans, bringing the ghost of a frown to Kelly's narrow lips.
Leaving the issue of chaffing aside, the rain was going to cause problems. The psychic strategist figured he'd be fine, for the most part - his boots were oiled, had hob-nails, and a tread you could use to grind meat - but the footwear of the men and women assembling around him wasn't anywhere near as formidable. They'd get bogged down in the mud. Of course, so would their enemies, but all that meant was that both sides would lose fighters to otherwise-avoidable stumbling.
Kelly adjusted his grip on his quarterstaff and put the mud out of his mind. There was, unfortunately, absolutely nothing he could do about it. The only things in the coming battle that the psychic had the power to control were himself and his immediate surroundings, and he would do that to the best of his not-inconsiderable ability. Other than taking note of the potential tactical applications of the change in the weather, and some basic preparatory discussion with the soldiers in whose unit he'd been stationed, there was little more to plan for. The fight would happen, and he would form small strategies based on prevailing conditions.
In theory, the traveler could use the small amount of time remaining to turn his thoughts to his long-term plans, to Coruscant and Camelot. Alternatively, he could look inward, and use the overwhelming familiarity of this frantic scene as a probe to dredge the mire of his clouded memories. Somehow, though, in this place and at this time, it just didn't seem appropriate. He'd hang onto that feeling of deja-vu, and make use of it later, but not here, surrounded by soldiers, some of whom wouldn't have the luxury of a 'later'.
Besides, now wasn't the time to be splitting his focus.
Instead, Kelly focused on the falling rain. It had, he found, a strangely calming affect on him - as though the drops were passing right through his body, carrying away the tension and the noise, and the questions, and leaving only a blissful sense of hyper-aware clarity. His skin, otherwise nearly senseless from the chill, tingled. Every physical sensation, every sound, was heightened - but not to the point of distraction. It all flowed together, somehow, infusing the otherwise fraught scene with a sense of tranquility.
Somewhere on the walls behind him, a booming voice, tiny from distance but still audible even over the clamor and the rain, began to give a rousing pre-battle speech.
Atelos.
The gathered troops moving around the traveler grew quiet and turned to listen, soaking in the Spartan's words as he spoke of the difficulties ahead, urging them to victory. When he was finished, they erupted in a cheer.
Kelly raised his weapon in salute alongside everyone else, but remained silent, the roar passing through him like a wave through still water, there and gone without a trace. He admired the guard-commander's presence, and his command of rhetoric, but remained unmoved by the man's words. The psychic understood too well the truth that hid behind those sentiments - the things that a general knew, but couldn't say to his army if he wanted them to actually fight. He was certain he'd given that speech himself, in one form or another, at some distant battlefield in another time.
A horn sounded from atop the walls: three lingering blasts, deep and loud and mournful, echoing across the moors like the death cry of some great and melancholy beast. It could only mean one thing - the enemy was near. As one man, the army turned and faced the moors, squinting into the mist and the rain and the dark. From the wall, Atelos made a final rousing cry of defiance.
Shapes were moving out there, flapping in sky and charging across the fields in great disorganized columns. Lightning flashed, and arrows arced from the city walls, whispering far overhead in a vast hissing swarm before vanishing amidst the onrushing horde of wraiths, ghouls, monsters and marauders that pounded towards the massed defenders of Darkshire like a vast and vicious flood.
Kelly hefted his staff in both hands and took his stance, calling to mind the names of the people who stood beside him, learned scant hours before and now locked forever in his remarkable memory.
...how many times have I done this? Whose dead are lost behind the fog in my head?
There was no time to wonder. The psychic allowed the thought to wash away in the rain, pooling alongside the names and the faces, to be recalled another time.
The crucial moment when the battle began had crystalized around him, and soon, it would shatter into the unfiltered chaos of war.
Leaving the issue of chaffing aside, the rain was going to cause problems. The psychic strategist figured he'd be fine, for the most part - his boots were oiled, had hob-nails, and a tread you could use to grind meat - but the footwear of the men and women assembling around him wasn't anywhere near as formidable. They'd get bogged down in the mud. Of course, so would their enemies, but all that meant was that both sides would lose fighters to otherwise-avoidable stumbling.
Kelly adjusted his grip on his quarterstaff and put the mud out of his mind. There was, unfortunately, absolutely nothing he could do about it. The only things in the coming battle that the psychic had the power to control were himself and his immediate surroundings, and he would do that to the best of his not-inconsiderable ability. Other than taking note of the potential tactical applications of the change in the weather, and some basic preparatory discussion with the soldiers in whose unit he'd been stationed, there was little more to plan for. The fight would happen, and he would form small strategies based on prevailing conditions.
In theory, the traveler could use the small amount of time remaining to turn his thoughts to his long-term plans, to Coruscant and Camelot. Alternatively, he could look inward, and use the overwhelming familiarity of this frantic scene as a probe to dredge the mire of his clouded memories. Somehow, though, in this place and at this time, it just didn't seem appropriate. He'd hang onto that feeling of deja-vu, and make use of it later, but not here, surrounded by soldiers, some of whom wouldn't have the luxury of a 'later'.
Besides, now wasn't the time to be splitting his focus.
Instead, Kelly focused on the falling rain. It had, he found, a strangely calming affect on him - as though the drops were passing right through his body, carrying away the tension and the noise, and the questions, and leaving only a blissful sense of hyper-aware clarity. His skin, otherwise nearly senseless from the chill, tingled. Every physical sensation, every sound, was heightened - but not to the point of distraction. It all flowed together, somehow, infusing the otherwise fraught scene with a sense of tranquility.
Somewhere on the walls behind him, a booming voice, tiny from distance but still audible even over the clamor and the rain, began to give a rousing pre-battle speech.
Atelos.
The gathered troops moving around the traveler grew quiet and turned to listen, soaking in the Spartan's words as he spoke of the difficulties ahead, urging them to victory. When he was finished, they erupted in a cheer.
Kelly raised his weapon in salute alongside everyone else, but remained silent, the roar passing through him like a wave through still water, there and gone without a trace. He admired the guard-commander's presence, and his command of rhetoric, but remained unmoved by the man's words. The psychic understood too well the truth that hid behind those sentiments - the things that a general knew, but couldn't say to his army if he wanted them to actually fight. He was certain he'd given that speech himself, in one form or another, at some distant battlefield in another time.
A horn sounded from atop the walls: three lingering blasts, deep and loud and mournful, echoing across the moors like the death cry of some great and melancholy beast. It could only mean one thing - the enemy was near. As one man, the army turned and faced the moors, squinting into the mist and the rain and the dark. From the wall, Atelos made a final rousing cry of defiance.
Shapes were moving out there, flapping in sky and charging across the fields in great disorganized columns. Lightning flashed, and arrows arced from the city walls, whispering far overhead in a vast hissing swarm before vanishing amidst the onrushing horde of wraiths, ghouls, monsters and marauders that pounded towards the massed defenders of Darkshire like a vast and vicious flood.
Kelly hefted his staff in both hands and took his stance, calling to mind the names of the people who stood beside him, learned scant hours before and now locked forever in his remarkable memory.
...how many times have I done this? Whose dead are lost behind the fog in my head?
There was no time to wonder. The psychic allowed the thought to wash away in the rain, pooling alongside the names and the faces, to be recalled another time.
The crucial moment when the battle began had crystalized around him, and soon, it would shatter into the unfiltered chaos of war.