Military (for the sake of this world, he's a wannabe)
He has a story about how he was in the military and was kicked out for reasons, but it's all a sham. He has illusions of grandeur but doesn't have the patience to enlist, so the volunteer route suited him better.
Thanks for the strong response everyone, looks like we've got a pretty full crew. Going to take the recruiting tag off for now. Will set up the scene where characters can introduce themselves later today.
"The Club" Lithmark Volunteers HQ - A Mobile Barracks in an undisclosed location near the front. It is a gray afternoon, the air moistened by a light drizzle. The mood in the HQ is appropriately somber. The fighting has gone on for weeks without an advance on either side.
A group of newly enlisted volunteers huddles around their tables, waiting for the arrival of their commander, Colonel Bitterhorn. Support staff bustles around them - cooks, medics and squires.
Everyone chatters among themselves between pulls of ale and bites of plain bread. You're able to pick up snippets of news from the barracks staff - none of it particularly encouraging. Rumors of new flying machines and more horseless vehicles, nicknamed "tanks" add an ominous new element to the already dire conflict.
Heads turn to the creaking of the entrance door as it opens. The newcomer is a male Gnome in the uniform of the TCA Messenger Service. He stomps in with high black boots and a long combat knife hung slackly on his belt (by Gnomish proportions). His drab olive fatigues have splotches of mud on them. He wears a harness over his chest to which several small vials - presumably potions - are clipped. He deftly unrolls a scroll and speaks in a high, tinny voice that somehow carries through the room.
"News on the war. The Lorsan Sector has been overrun. The 1st and 3rd Armies were forced to make a tactical withdrawal. High Command insists this was a minor setback."
Groans, mumbles and head shaking come from some of the staff. The messenger continues. "An all points bulletin has been issued to announce the loss of Sir Trath, hero of the Battle of Stogrilm Field. Maybe he rest in peace. That is all."
The messenger rolls up his scroll, tucks it through his belt, does an about face and exits the barracks. Bitterhorn is due to arrive any moment. Though there's still some time to make introductions - before you and the other volunteers are sent to who knows where...
"A minor setback? That's an interesting choice of words" says a tall pale blue Genasi with deep green eyes and medium length black hair that seems to be suspended in water even though it's relatively dry inside. You also notice his skin seems to be constantly sweating but the beads of water aren't falling as if they are part of his skin. A gnarled staff of driftwood with a blue sapphire embedded into one end and a harpoon spear are strapped to his back as well as a rectangular shield that seems to be a combination of part of a shipwreck, barnacles and sediment that has hardened into a single item.
"I guess each of you are here for the volunteer group. My name's Tempest, don't worry about the beads of water and weird hair. *sensing the weird looks* That's just a normal part of my race and living in the water for 18 years. I'm from a small fishing village in the north. It's beautiful there, nothing like it is here." *raises hand to the current setting*
"I bet each of you probably heard the same pep talk about the volunteer group. It's the reason I joined, at least it gave me the sense that I had some kind of decision even if it is for a dangerous but "essential" mission."
You see Tempest raise his left hand and fingers begins to move in a circular motion and watch as the outside of his flagon of ale begins to frost. *casts shape water cantrip*
"I can't stand warm ale. Anyone else like their's cold?"
I'm cool with that format. Hello to everyone as well, excited to start.
"I don't drink I'm afraid, otherwise I would surely take you up on your offer", the half-elf in the corner replies, popping a morsel of bread in his mouth. "Although, I'm not sure I'd want you sweating in, around or over my beverage of choice."
The half-elf, reclining back in his chair with his feet on another, pushes a lock of light brown hair off his forehead, and throws a smirk in the direction of Tempest. Dressed in browns and greys over similarly-coloured leather armour, and with a rapier, shortbow, quiver and backpack leaning against the wall next to him, he gives the impression of being disinterested in his surroundings. His eyes, however, follow every person around the room, darting to the door every time it opens.
"I'd wager my pep talk went differently to yours, my friend: rot in jail, or freedom with a slight chance of death. I'd rather be on the right side of prison bars when this place falls, although come to think of it, perhaps I could pretend I'm a political prisoner, and switch sides..."Lost in his train of thought, Balian strokes his thin beard and takes a sip of his ale.
I've got in the habit of starting every post with my name, and colouring my speech and thoughts, to make my posts easier to identify. Anyone else use a different/similar system we can all agree on?
Also, in absence of an OOC thread for now, hi everyone! Looking forward to our adventures together.
Liankrana looks up and lowers his hood allowing his black hair to spill out
"i shall take a drink to wash away the taste of this news" he says softly
He is dressed in browns and greens with a faded ranger patch on his shoulder, in fact everything on him looks well worn except for the longbow sitting next to him
The slight, dark-haired young man in dark red wizarding robes grunts from the table next to Balian.
"Friendly fellow, aren't you?" he asks rhetorically, left eyebrow raised. He has no right eyebrow. "Well, good to meet you, Tempest, and most of you all, too. I'm Ignatius." Ignatius waves with a slight smile to the room as a whole. His face could be handsome were it not covered in multiple small burn scars.
"I didn't get a "pep talk," but I'm glad to be here. Never know what can be learned about magic from seeing it used in war. And hopefully my talents will be useful on the front lines! But this news on Sir Trath is bad, indeed, though I'm not certain how it will affect our tactical situation."
Having said his share, Ignatius turns back to the leather-bound, burn-marked book he's holding, scanning its first pages with clearly feigned interest.
"The loss of Sir Trath is devastating, I didn't know him personally, but I had heard what he could do. The Battle of Stogrilm Field was a huge success, one he had a large part in. We'd all be lucky to reach his level of skill on the battlefield" From beneath a mess of long blonde hair a pair of blue eyes looked up to the group sleepily. He has a shaggy beard of several days growth, and it smells as if he hasn't showered in several days. The stench of alcohol pours off him like a thick soup. "I'll take one of those cold ales there Drippy *hiccup*"
Despite his current condition Lord Dameion appears to be wearing fine armor, he has sheathed a longsword and shield, and leaning against the table is his Greatsword, he also has a mace and a set of javelins. All of his equipment appears in good to great condition marking that he comes from money.
Balian shudders in disgust as the 'thing' next to him slurs a eulogy to Sir Trath. He could be mistaken for a corpse if he were asleep...
"My well-lubricated friend, if he died despite being blessed with a certain level of skill, then you should aim to surpass him, rather than put him on a pedestal, lest you suffer the same fate. Either that, or you should pick your battles with more care than he clearly did."
Jumping to his feet, the half-elf give his most gracious bow to the assembled group. "My manners escape me, esteemed friends. I am Balian, at your service."
"A minor set back indeed. And the enemies total victory just all part of a grand strategy, they really should give it to us straight, I don't even want to know how far they got with the 1st and 3rd in retreat." A dwarf speaks up from the middle table, thumping the top of his war hammer onto the bench as he finished his drink. He sits, suited in his chain-mail, his shield covering his back it is adorned with a large dwarf face with it's mouth wide open. His armor and weapons show of hard use as they have been dented, scratched, and otherwise marred by combat.
"Now I can't say the speech was the same, but honor and glory will be bestowed upon us all as you all look of fit men, though some more fit than others for combat." He looked for a moment in worry at the lord, as it was unaccustomed for dwarfs to reach that level of intoxication before a fight. He shook his head to regather his thoughts before turning back the assembled volunteers. "My apologies, Thalvos Thundershield. If you find yourself in trouble, find me." He offers a bit of a cocky smile before he goes back to meal, the first one not of rations in quite a while, and he did not know when he would have another.
OOC: I'm considering it filled for now, we'll see how things go, don't want it to get too crowded.
(You'll want to go to Edit Thread and change it to private, then, if possible.)
Ignatius looks up from his spellbook and squints at Balian, then closes his spellbook and begins to eat. He stops, mutters a phrase, points at his meal, and sends a spark flying at it, then begins to eat once more.
A rather large half-orc raises his head from his deep sleep that he was in when you all arrived. "Huh? Who is there?" he speaks with a gruff voice. As you see his facial features you all notice that he does not have the normal tusks that every half-orc usually has, he also has a scar over his left eye, it looks fresh. He is wearing chain mail that is a dark color, almost black but not black. He has a shield on his back and a longsword sheathed on his side.
"My name's Berak. Pleasure to meet all of you, what are all of you called?"
Another half-orc walks over with his beer, rivaling the size and physical power of Berak. He is unnaturally cheery, smiling broadly, which is kinda creepy. He claps Balian and Liakrana on the shoulders, calling them brethren (which probably leaves them confused). He puts down a well-worn mace on the table. Beneath the crust of old blood, you can see that the mace head had yellow paint in the shape of... a smiley face.
"My name is Drusk. In times of ill news, it is even more important to hear the joyous blessings of Lliira! A round of beers, drinking to those still alive." (Spends a gold piece to the waiter.)
Beegred Thornpost - Lvl 8 Halfling Ranger - Out of the Abyss by Kerrec Drusk - Lvl 8 Half-Orc Life Cleric - The Long Road: Dragon Heist by Mingofaust (player & current DM) Hunferho Aelorothi - Lvl 5 Half-Elf Bard/Rogue - Baldur's Gate: Descent Into Avernus (by Pokepaladdy) DM - Frontier City of Nunkreet (ended)
The door opens again to reveal an old, armored dwarf. A corncob pipe hangs at the corner of his mouth. Its pungent smoke wafts through the air. He tucks a swagger stick under one arm, as he strides toward the group. His ornate armor clanks with each step. A row of medals and service ribbons gleam on his breastplate. A thick vertical scar stretches over one of his white eyebrows.
Following in the dwarf's wake is a slender female Elf. Her blonde hair is done up in a series of braids surrounded by a large bun. She wears a pressed red jacket with golden epaulettes and buttons. A pair of googles rests over her head .A satchel hangs over her shoulder, containing several rolls of parchment.
The dwarf speaks in a gravelly, booming voice that commands the room.
"Lithmark Volunteers, attention!"
As if to lead by example, you notice the elf click her heels together and stand ramrod straight, hands clasped behind her back, chin raised.
An unnerving silence hangs in the air as the dwarf's eyes pan from one end of the team to the other, as if peering into everyone's very soul. It feels like its never going to end, then he speaks again.
"At ease. I am Colonel Bitterhorn, your commanding officer. This is my aide-de-camp, the honorable Dame Thanril."
She gives a slight nod of acknowledgement to the group. In another demonstration, she moves her feet apart and holds her hands in front of her in a more relaxed stance.
"You're here to make a difference in this war, and I expect you will perform accordingly," Bitterhorn continues. "Everyone has mostly joined of their own accord..."
He shoots a quick glance at Balian, perhaps having researched his background before arriving at the Club.
"So you're well aware of the risks, the dangers and the odds. I will run a tight, but fair outfit. As long as you serve in the volunteers, the Alliance will do its best to meet your needs and reward your success. Time is of the essence, report to the map table for briefing."
The dwarf points his stick to a large wooden table in the center of the barracks. Thanril pulls out a roll from her bag and unfurls it across the surface. You see an old worn piece of parchment depicting the continent. Lines, symbols and notes have been drawn all over its tattered surface.
Bitterhorn stabs a thick finger at a particular point on the map. "The Thirteenth Battle Mages are pinned down here. Their wands are running out of charges, and they can't rest long enough to remember spells. They've been under constant siege by this..."
The colonel snaps his fingers. Thanril promptly retrieves another scroll and unrolls it on the table. Its an artist's rendering of a grisly trebuchet, made with what appears to be human bones. Its as tall as a siege tower, and looks capable of firing several projectiles at once.
"This...monstrosity was brought to the field in pieces and assembled due to its size. Its harassed the mages ever since. Only their trenches kept them from being wiped out. But they won't last much longer. If they attempt to leave their defenses, they'll be killed. They must be free to redeploy to another critical sector where they're needed."
Bitterhorn lifts the parchment off the table and is quickly retrieved by his aide.
"That's where the volunteers come in," Bitterhorn says. "We need you to sneak past enemy lines, eliminate the siege crew and destroy the trebuchet, thus allowing the Thirteenth to leave the area safely."
The colonel takes a long drag of his pipe in thought before continuing.
"Intelligence is limited. The enemy is strained as we are. C.U.'s artillery units hang in the back lines and aren't likely to be guarded too heavily. My senior officers devised a route for you to follow. If you stick to it, it should sneak you past the frontline. Resistance should be light – recon units, patrols, scouts. The main threat will be the siege crew. Due to the make of the trebuchet, we suspect it might be manned by an...undead unit. Could be living skeletons or zombies. We're not sure."
Bitterhorn looks over his shoulder to Thanril and nods. She hands everyone a folded map with directions to the siege engine's location. The C.O.'s icy stare bores into the volunteers. "Questions?"
If you're still looking for players, I'll pitch my dex ranged figther.
He has a story about how he was in the military and was kicked out for reasons, but it's all a sham. He has illusions of grandeur but doesn't have the patience to enlist, so the volunteer route suited him better.
Thanks for the strong response everyone, looks like we've got a pretty full crew. Going to take the recruiting tag off for now. Will set up the scene where characters can introduce themselves later today.
Forgoil, if you want, you can create a campaign and give us the link I can enable content sharing.
Sounds good Xtra, campaign created. Invite Link: https://ddb.ac/campaigns/join/2520281790544961
Going to follow this post up with the intro.
Content shared.
"The Club" Lithmark Volunteers HQ - A Mobile Barracks in an undisclosed location near the front. It is a gray afternoon, the air moistened by a light drizzle. The mood in the HQ is appropriately somber. The fighting has gone on for weeks without an advance on either side.
A group of newly enlisted volunteers huddles around their tables, waiting for the arrival of their commander, Colonel Bitterhorn. Support staff bustles around them - cooks, medics and squires.
Everyone chatters among themselves between pulls of ale and bites of plain bread. You're able to pick up snippets of news from the barracks staff - none of it particularly encouraging. Rumors of new flying machines and more horseless vehicles, nicknamed "tanks" add an ominous new element to the already dire conflict.
Heads turn to the creaking of the entrance door as it opens. The newcomer is a male Gnome in the uniform of the TCA Messenger Service. He stomps in with high black boots and a long combat knife hung slackly on his belt (by Gnomish proportions). His drab olive fatigues have splotches of mud on them. He wears a harness over his chest to which several small vials - presumably potions - are clipped. He deftly unrolls a scroll and speaks in a high, tinny voice that somehow carries through the room.
"News on the war. The Lorsan Sector has been overrun. The 1st and 3rd Armies were forced to make a tactical withdrawal. High Command insists this was a minor setback."
Groans, mumbles and head shaking come from some of the staff. The messenger continues. "An all points bulletin has been issued to announce the loss of Sir Trath, hero of the Battle of Stogrilm Field. Maybe he rest in peace. That is all."
The messenger rolls up his scroll, tucks it through his belt, does an about face and exits the barracks. Bitterhorn is due to arrive any moment. Though there's still some time to make introductions - before you and the other volunteers are sent to who knows where...
Tempest
"A minor setback? That's an interesting choice of words" says a tall pale blue Genasi with deep green eyes and medium length black hair that seems to be suspended in water even though it's relatively dry inside. You also notice his skin seems to be constantly sweating but the beads of water aren't falling as if they are part of his skin. A gnarled staff of driftwood with a blue sapphire embedded into one end and a harpoon spear are strapped to his back as well as a rectangular shield that seems to be a combination of part of a shipwreck, barnacles and sediment that has hardened into a single item.
"I guess each of you are here for the volunteer group. My name's Tempest, don't worry about the beads of water and weird hair. *sensing the weird looks* That's just a normal part of my race and living in the water for 18 years. I'm from a small fishing village in the north. It's beautiful there, nothing like it is here." *raises hand to the current setting*
"I bet each of you probably heard the same pep talk about the volunteer group. It's the reason I joined, at least it gave me the sense that I had some kind of decision even if it is for a dangerous but "essential" mission."
You see Tempest raise his left hand and fingers begins to move in a circular motion and watch as the outside of his flagon of ale begins to frost. *casts shape water cantrip*
"I can't stand warm ale. Anyone else like their's cold?"
I'm cool with that format. Hello to everyone as well, excited to start.
Balian
"I don't drink I'm afraid, otherwise I would surely take you up on your offer", the half-elf in the corner replies, popping a morsel of bread in his mouth. "Although, I'm not sure I'd want you sweating in, around or over my beverage of choice."
The half-elf, reclining back in his chair with his feet on another, pushes a lock of light brown hair off his forehead, and throws a smirk in the direction of Tempest. Dressed in browns and greys over similarly-coloured leather armour, and with a rapier, shortbow, quiver and backpack leaning against the wall next to him, he gives the impression of being disinterested in his surroundings. His eyes, however, follow every person around the room, darting to the door every time it opens.
"I'd wager my pep talk went differently to yours, my friend: rot in jail, or freedom with a slight chance of death. I'd rather be on the right side of prison bars when this place falls, although come to think of it, perhaps I could pretend I'm a political prisoner, and switch sides..." Lost in his train of thought, Balian strokes his thin beard and takes a sip of his ale.
I've got in the habit of starting every post with my name, and colouring my speech and thoughts, to make my posts easier to identify. Anyone else use a different/similar system we can all agree on?
Also, in absence of an OOC thread for now, hi everyone! Looking forward to our adventures together.
Liankrana looks up and lowers his hood allowing his black hair to spill out
"i shall take a drink to wash away the taste of this news" he says softly
He is dressed in browns and greens with a faded ranger patch on his shoulder, in fact everything on him looks well worn except for the longbow sitting next to him
Laissez les bons temps rouler
The slight, dark-haired young man in dark red wizarding robes grunts from the table next to Balian.
"Friendly fellow, aren't you?" he asks rhetorically, left eyebrow raised. He has no right eyebrow. "Well, good to meet you, Tempest, and most of you all, too. I'm Ignatius." Ignatius waves with a slight smile to the room as a whole. His face could be handsome were it not covered in multiple small burn scars.
"I didn't get a "pep talk," but I'm glad to be here. Never know what can be learned about magic from seeing it used in war. And hopefully my talents will be useful on the front lines! But this news on Sir Trath is bad, indeed, though I'm not certain how it will affect our tactical situation."
Having said his share, Ignatius turns back to the leather-bound, burn-marked book he's holding, scanning its first pages with clearly feigned interest.
And that's all I have to say about that.
"The loss of Sir Trath is devastating, I didn't know him personally, but I had heard what he could do. The Battle of Stogrilm Field was a huge success, one he had a large part in. We'd all be lucky to reach his level of skill on the battlefield" From beneath a mess of long blonde hair a pair of blue eyes looked up to the group sleepily. He has a shaggy beard of several days growth, and it smells as if he hasn't showered in several days. The stench of alcohol pours off him like a thick soup. "I'll take one of those cold ales there Drippy *hiccup*"
Despite his current condition Lord Dameion appears to be wearing fine armor, he has sheathed a longsword and shield, and leaning against the table is his Greatsword, he also has a mace and a set of javelins. All of his equipment appears in good to great condition marking that he comes from money.
Balian
Balian shudders in disgust as the 'thing' next to him slurs a eulogy to Sir Trath. He could be mistaken for a corpse if he were asleep...
"My well-lubricated friend, if he died despite being blessed with a certain level of skill, then you should aim to surpass him, rather than put him on a pedestal, lest you suffer the same fate. Either that, or you should pick your battles with more care than he clearly did."
Jumping to his feet, the half-elf give his most gracious bow to the assembled group. "My manners escape me, esteemed friends. I am Balian, at your service."
Tempest
"Drippy is actually my uncle's name. Frosty brew coming right up."
*casts shape water* Lord Dameion's mug of ale begins to frost around the outside.
"Let me know if you like it any colder... " * looking over to Balian* "Well met Balian"
OOC: I'm considering it filled for now, we'll see how things go, don't want it to get too crowded.
Link to OOC thread: https://www.dndbeyond.com/forums/d-d-beyond-general/play-by-post/25882-lithmark-volunteers-ooc
Thalvos
"A minor set back indeed. And the enemies total victory just all part of a grand strategy, they really should give it to us straight, I don't even want to know how far they got with the 1st and 3rd in retreat." A dwarf speaks up from the middle table, thumping the top of his war hammer onto the bench as he finished his drink. He sits, suited in his chain-mail, his shield covering his back it is adorned with a large dwarf face with it's mouth wide open. His armor and weapons show of hard use as they have been dented, scratched, and otherwise marred by combat.
"Now I can't say the speech was the same, but honor and glory will be bestowed upon us all as you all look of fit men, though some more fit than others for combat." He looked for a moment in worry at the lord, as it was unaccustomed for dwarfs to reach that level of intoxication before a fight. He shook his head to regather his thoughts before turning back the assembled volunteers. "My apologies, Thalvos Thundershield. If you find yourself in trouble, find me." He offers a bit of a cocky smile before he goes back to meal, the first one not of rations in quite a while, and he did not know when he would have another.
(You'll want to go to Edit Thread and change it to private, then, if possible.)
Ignatius looks up from his spellbook and squints at Balian, then closes his spellbook and begins to eat. He stops, mutters a phrase, points at his meal, and sends a spark flying at it, then begins to eat once more.
And that's all I have to say about that.
Berak
A rather large half-orc raises his head from his deep sleep that he was in when you all arrived. "Huh? Who is there?" he speaks with a gruff voice. As you see his facial features you all notice that he does not have the normal tusks that every half-orc usually has, he also has a scar over his left eye, it looks fresh. He is wearing chain mail that is a dark color, almost black but not black. He has a shield on his back and a longsword sheathed on his side.
"My name's Berak. Pleasure to meet all of you, what are all of you called?"
Kandalou Dle'tan - Level 9 Githyanki Fighter (Champion) - Rrakkma PbP
Liakrana sips his ale watching his "new companions" warily, he has that sunken look of someone who has seen some action, and not good
Laissez les bons temps rouler
Another half-orc walks over with his beer, rivaling the size and physical power of Berak. He is unnaturally cheery, smiling broadly, which is kinda creepy. He claps Balian and Liakrana on the shoulders, calling them brethren (which probably leaves them confused). He puts down a well-worn mace on the table. Beneath the crust of old blood, you can see that the mace head had yellow paint in the shape of... a smiley face.
"My name is Drusk. In times of ill news, it is even more important to hear the joyous blessings of Lliira! A round of beers, drinking to those still alive." (Spends a gold piece to the waiter.)
Beegred Thornpost - Lvl 8 Halfling Ranger - Out of the Abyss by Kerrec
Drusk - Lvl 8 Half-Orc Life Cleric - The Long Road: Dragon Heist by Mingofaust (player & current DM)
Hunferho Aelorothi - Lvl 5 Half-Elf Bard/Rogue - Baldur's Gate: Descent Into Avernus (by Pokepaladdy)
DM - Frontier City of Nunkreet (ended)
The door opens again to reveal an old, armored dwarf. A corncob pipe hangs at the corner of his mouth. Its pungent smoke wafts through the air. He tucks a swagger stick under one arm, as he strides toward the group. His ornate armor clanks with each step. A row of medals and service ribbons gleam on his breastplate. A thick vertical scar stretches over one of his white eyebrows.
Following in the dwarf's wake is a slender female Elf. Her blonde hair is done up in a series of braids surrounded by a large bun. She wears a pressed red jacket with golden epaulettes and buttons. A pair of googles rests over her head .A satchel hangs over her shoulder, containing several rolls of parchment.
The dwarf speaks in a gravelly, booming voice that commands the room.
"Lithmark Volunteers, attention!"
As if to lead by example, you notice the elf click her heels together and stand ramrod straight, hands clasped behind her back, chin raised.
An unnerving silence hangs in the air as the dwarf's eyes pan from one end of the team to the other, as if peering into everyone's very soul. It feels like its never going to end, then he speaks again.
"At ease. I am Colonel Bitterhorn, your commanding officer. This is my aide-de-camp, the honorable Dame Thanril."
She gives a slight nod of acknowledgement to the group. In another demonstration, she moves her feet apart and holds her hands in front of her in a more relaxed stance.
"You're here to make a difference in this war, and I expect you will perform accordingly," Bitterhorn continues. "Everyone has mostly joined of their own accord..."
He shoots a quick glance at Balian, perhaps having researched his background before arriving at the Club.
"So you're well aware of the risks, the dangers and the odds. I will run a tight, but fair outfit. As long as you serve in the volunteers, the Alliance will do its best to meet your needs and reward your success. Time is of the essence, report to the map table for briefing."
The dwarf points his stick to a large wooden table in the center of the barracks. Thanril pulls out a roll from her bag and unfurls it across the surface. You see an old worn piece of parchment depicting the continent. Lines, symbols and notes have been drawn all over its tattered surface.
Bitterhorn stabs a thick finger at a particular point on the map. "The Thirteenth Battle Mages are pinned down here. Their wands are running out of charges, and they can't rest long enough to remember spells. They've been under constant siege by this..."
The colonel snaps his fingers. Thanril promptly retrieves another scroll and unrolls it on the table. Its an artist's rendering of a grisly trebuchet, made with what appears to be human bones. Its as tall as a siege tower, and looks capable of firing several projectiles at once.
"This...monstrosity was brought to the field in pieces and assembled due to its size. Its harassed the mages ever since. Only their trenches kept them from being wiped out. But they won't last much longer. If they attempt to leave their defenses, they'll be killed. They must be free to redeploy to another critical sector where they're needed."
Bitterhorn lifts the parchment off the table and is quickly retrieved by his aide.
"That's where the volunteers come in," Bitterhorn says. "We need you to sneak past enemy lines, eliminate the siege crew and destroy the trebuchet, thus allowing the Thirteenth to leave the area safely."
The colonel takes a long drag of his pipe in thought before continuing.
"Intelligence is limited. The enemy is strained as we are. C.U.'s artillery units hang in the back lines and aren't likely to be guarded too heavily. My senior officers devised a route for you to follow. If you stick to it, it should sneak you past the frontline. Resistance should be light – recon units, patrols, scouts. The main threat will be the siege crew. Due to the make of the trebuchet, we suspect it might be manned by an...undead unit. Could be living skeletons or zombies. We're not sure."
Bitterhorn looks over his shoulder to Thanril and nods. She hands everyone a folded map with directions to the siege engine's location. The C.O.'s icy stare bores into the volunteers. "Questions?"