The spiced wine of the Blade & Stars was warm and robust this morning and Xandos carried his mug towards the fireside with crisp and measured strides. After taking a drink from the simple wooden mug, he reflected on some for the oddities and differences he discovered along the Sword Coast. The weather was colder here then any he had known at home and pants far more prevalent. The warriors favored heavy Platemail as opposed to the leathers and breast plates he was accustomed to. The wines were often sweeter, and in the winter months it was not uncommon for the people to add herbs and honey to such while warming them over a fire. So much and more of the customs and culture of the Sword Coast were amusing oddities and curiosities to him. Even after a year within the region, he continued to feel out of place among the people of the Sword Coast.
Xandos drank from the mug of belly warming wine laced with honey and other flavors still foreign to his tongue. The heady drink and comfortable seat near the fire set his relaxed mind to wander. Vaguely he remembered his earliest years Chondalwood before he was captured by slavers near the Emerald Way Road. He drank deeply and remembered his youth spent in the fields harvesting grapes beneath the hot Sun. The vineyard was impossibly vast in his memory, with the rows reaching from horizon to horizon. Those memories though were from long ago, made in a time before he understood things like map scale and means of measuring distance accurately.
The sound of a wagon driver whipping his horses outside shook Xandos from his Reverie, and he took another sip from his mug.
He reflected upon his year spent at the Citadel of Strategic Militancy. He remembered well the sense of accomplishment felt upon finally reaching the the War College, and his sense of pride when he signed his name to the enrollment records after he paid his tuition he had hard earned. The road from slave to the War College had been a long one. He remembered how happy he had been upon having made it.
They say ignorance is bliss, and Xandos had been ignorant.
One of the lessons the instructors hammered home during his first year of study was the difference between Tactics & Strategy. The concepts were not new Xandos, but in time he came to develop a deeper understanding of how they may apply to all aspects of life. With these revelations he came to realize how his own life was in truth lacking.
The majority of his peers had arrived at the War College with their futures already decided. Many already had family lands they were responsible for defending, or were part of standing armies. They came to the college in earnest effort to better prepare themselves for the various responsibilities awaiting them after graduation. They had commitments that provided them earnest and true objectives to see their people and lands defended. Xandos had nothing of the sort.
He was simply a mercenary who wanted to better himself, and now he asked himself why and to what ends?
Xandos lifted his mug to his lips and found it empty. With his keen eyes he searched the bottom of the simple wooden mug, and found no answers.
Tactics & Strategy
Tactics & Strategy
Current Characters: Ravik Ports
Re: Tactics & Strategy
"Know where you are."
~ Aeron Aporos, First Scout of the Society of the Sword
The maxim of the Society of the Sword's lead scout echoed in the wine soaked chamber of Xandos's head. There was nothing more important then knowing where you were. This was the lesson that had been drilled into him ad nauseam. If you did not know where you were, any direction you choose to move was slotted to the whims of fate to decide your outcome. No scout worth their salt should ever allow their life nor the lives of those that followed them to be subject to such fickle whims.
Lazily Xandos looked about his surroundings within The Blade and Stars. It was an inn that the Adventurer's of Baldur's Gate occassional gathered within, and Xandos had developed a routine of stopping in for the comforts of the fire side and mulled wine. This routine though was becoming a rut. The wine that was once used to warm and fortify his bones against the cold, was now more often consumed in measures better suited for eroding away the mind and drowning emotions. Xandos had lost his sense of direction.
There was a subdued conflict within him that he was unwilling to face directly. He had found himself a warrior without a war, a solider lacking an army to stand in, nor a cause to stand for, and the spiced wine was a shield he used to guard himself from this reality. To have endured capture and slavery, to have been awarded freedom and found a small measure of success as a warrior, and to now be overwhelmed with what was nothing more then the burden of choice now that he was established enough to make choices was embrassing. He knew he needed to make a choice but he felt overwhelmed. It was already a wound on his pride that he allowed himself to flounder as long as he had. It was this sense of shame and confusion that he felt, that motivated him to hide in his cups.
Running his tongue over his wine stained teeth, Xandos worked to retrace his steps. He started to take inventory of the choices he had made that lead him to where he was. He remembered his earliest days amongst the Society of the Sword. Rides spent beneath the burning summer sky upon the sharp sun cooked rocks of the coast line North of Cimbar. He was one of many recent recruits, almost all of them young men eager to prove their mettle as Warriors. Desperate to raise their station in life, desperate to escape their pasts. Young men who were either unqualified or undesired within the standing army of Cimbar. Those of low birth, known criminals, the unskilled and poorly educated flocked to find their opportunity for a warrior's life amoungst the mercenary company and Xandos had been no different.
He had been raised within the City State of Cimbar and indoctrinated into its customs and cultures from an early age. It was there he learned the tongues of the old empires, felt the lash, learned of personal responsibility, and was introduced to title of War Hero. There was no higher station then that of War Hero, and the yearning of such title was planted deep within all the beating hearts of Cimbar. It was a rare and coveted title only awarded to those champions whose actions upon the battlefield were selfish, skillfully performed with prowess, and inspiring to others that they were worthy of being etched in the collective memory of the people forever immortalized and praised for their valor in song and story.
Everyone of the youths who were tested upon those rocky shores with sweat stinging their eyes, the sun baking their flesh, and working weapon drills till their hands bleed and muscles were sore, did so because some part of them believed they could be a War Hero. Each and everyone of them recgonized that becoming a warrior as a way forward, and each of them had reasons to want to put distance between themselves and their past. The bastard could earn legitimacy, the poor could earn riches, and the criminal could earn honor, all of this and more was available to anyone willing to fight for such and risk their lives upon the most glorious fields of prowess and battle.
Amoungst the mercenaries of the Society of the Sword, the title of War Hero was bantered about as an open jest and wielded as a weaponized insult aimed at the recruits struggling to endure their initial phases of evaluation and training. It was awarded as a mocking insult for failure. Those that fell out of runs, those that dropped their weapons in drills, those that were found soft or weak, those that could not hit the mark or carry their share, they were awarded the most coveted title. It was a cruel barb with a bite that aimed itself at the soft underbelly of each young and desperate recruiter's desire to better himself. It attacked those targeted with such where they were weakest. It declared to the unwanted how undesirable they were, to the weak it mocked their strength, to the slow their lack of speed. It made a victim of each recruit's desire to better themselves. Worst of all it did so in a manner that echoed within their heads and hearts, planting seeds of self loathing and doubt. In addition to the daily physical conditioning, trials of skill at arms, sleepless nights, improvised living conditions, it forced each and everyone of the recruits to ask themselves when they were at their weakest if they truly desired to press on.
With flaring nostrils and an audible exhale, Xandos set his half full mug upon the table and pushed it away. More then once had he earned the title of "War Hero" during his first turning within the Society of the Sword. He wondered if he had broken a record for having earned the title more then any other. As he reflected upon this, he gave the fire a toothy drunkard's grin before releasing an audible sigh of resignation. Tomorrow he would sort himself out.
~ Aeron Aporos, First Scout of the Society of the Sword
The maxim of the Society of the Sword's lead scout echoed in the wine soaked chamber of Xandos's head. There was nothing more important then knowing where you were. This was the lesson that had been drilled into him ad nauseam. If you did not know where you were, any direction you choose to move was slotted to the whims of fate to decide your outcome. No scout worth their salt should ever allow their life nor the lives of those that followed them to be subject to such fickle whims.
Lazily Xandos looked about his surroundings within The Blade and Stars. It was an inn that the Adventurer's of Baldur's Gate occassional gathered within, and Xandos had developed a routine of stopping in for the comforts of the fire side and mulled wine. This routine though was becoming a rut. The wine that was once used to warm and fortify his bones against the cold, was now more often consumed in measures better suited for eroding away the mind and drowning emotions. Xandos had lost his sense of direction.
There was a subdued conflict within him that he was unwilling to face directly. He had found himself a warrior without a war, a solider lacking an army to stand in, nor a cause to stand for, and the spiced wine was a shield he used to guard himself from this reality. To have endured capture and slavery, to have been awarded freedom and found a small measure of success as a warrior, and to now be overwhelmed with what was nothing more then the burden of choice now that he was established enough to make choices was embrassing. He knew he needed to make a choice but he felt overwhelmed. It was already a wound on his pride that he allowed himself to flounder as long as he had. It was this sense of shame and confusion that he felt, that motivated him to hide in his cups.
Running his tongue over his wine stained teeth, Xandos worked to retrace his steps. He started to take inventory of the choices he had made that lead him to where he was. He remembered his earliest days amongst the Society of the Sword. Rides spent beneath the burning summer sky upon the sharp sun cooked rocks of the coast line North of Cimbar. He was one of many recent recruits, almost all of them young men eager to prove their mettle as Warriors. Desperate to raise their station in life, desperate to escape their pasts. Young men who were either unqualified or undesired within the standing army of Cimbar. Those of low birth, known criminals, the unskilled and poorly educated flocked to find their opportunity for a warrior's life amoungst the mercenary company and Xandos had been no different.
He had been raised within the City State of Cimbar and indoctrinated into its customs and cultures from an early age. It was there he learned the tongues of the old empires, felt the lash, learned of personal responsibility, and was introduced to title of War Hero. There was no higher station then that of War Hero, and the yearning of such title was planted deep within all the beating hearts of Cimbar. It was a rare and coveted title only awarded to those champions whose actions upon the battlefield were selfish, skillfully performed with prowess, and inspiring to others that they were worthy of being etched in the collective memory of the people forever immortalized and praised for their valor in song and story.
Everyone of the youths who were tested upon those rocky shores with sweat stinging their eyes, the sun baking their flesh, and working weapon drills till their hands bleed and muscles were sore, did so because some part of them believed they could be a War Hero. Each and everyone of them recgonized that becoming a warrior as a way forward, and each of them had reasons to want to put distance between themselves and their past. The bastard could earn legitimacy, the poor could earn riches, and the criminal could earn honor, all of this and more was available to anyone willing to fight for such and risk their lives upon the most glorious fields of prowess and battle.
Amoungst the mercenaries of the Society of the Sword, the title of War Hero was bantered about as an open jest and wielded as a weaponized insult aimed at the recruits struggling to endure their initial phases of evaluation and training. It was awarded as a mocking insult for failure. Those that fell out of runs, those that dropped their weapons in drills, those that were found soft or weak, those that could not hit the mark or carry their share, they were awarded the most coveted title. It was a cruel barb with a bite that aimed itself at the soft underbelly of each young and desperate recruiter's desire to better himself. It attacked those targeted with such where they were weakest. It declared to the unwanted how undesirable they were, to the weak it mocked their strength, to the slow their lack of speed. It made a victim of each recruit's desire to better themselves. Worst of all it did so in a manner that echoed within their heads and hearts, planting seeds of self loathing and doubt. In addition to the daily physical conditioning, trials of skill at arms, sleepless nights, improvised living conditions, it forced each and everyone of the recruits to ask themselves when they were at their weakest if they truly desired to press on.
With flaring nostrils and an audible exhale, Xandos set his half full mug upon the table and pushed it away. More then once had he earned the title of "War Hero" during his first turning within the Society of the Sword. He wondered if he had broken a record for having earned the title more then any other. As he reflected upon this, he gave the fire a toothy drunkard's grin before releasing an audible sigh of resignation. Tomorrow he would sort himself out.
Current Characters: Ravik Ports
Re: Tactics & Strategy
“The most important qualification of a soldier is fortitude under fatigue and privation. Courage is only second; hardship, poverty and want are the best school for a soldier.”
~ Azoun Obarskyr "the Crown Prince of Battles" 51st King of Cormyr
The morning air of Nightal was cold and crisp, and Xandos strode out to face it. The winds coming off the Sea of Swords had a sobering effect, not unlike being slapped across the face in unison by the Frostmaiden and the Bitch Queen. The brisk gale was enough to cause his shoulders to rise and his muscles to reflexively tense to brace himself against the elements. The single word Xandos muttered under his steaming breath was a strong one.
The Citdal of Strategic Militancy was forty miles North East of Baldur's Gate. With roads and weather fit for travel, a capable rider with a stout mount could press hard and see the distance crossed in one long day. The winter though made for harsh miserable conditions, and Xandos knew he was a less then capable rider. As it was he anticipated nothing less then two days of travel in which to explore his options.
Saddled up and wrapped in his cloak he slowly made his way through the near empty city streets of Baldur on his way towards the Black Dragon Gate. The bitter cold appeared to inspire most of the citizens and denizens of the city to find a reason to stay in doors. As he plodded along he made a study of a pair of Watchmen standing sentry in the early light of dawn. In passing, Xandos and the pikemen exchanged silent nods, all parties in agreement it was to early and cold to bother with anything as strenuous as a verbal exchange.
The Flaming Fist was a unique entity in that it was both a mercenary company and the standing army of Baldur's Gate responsable for the City State's defenses, law enforcement, and potentially more aggressive military and martial interests. The arrangement seemed suspect at best to Xandos. The Flaming Fist had a reputation as being well disciplined, highly motivated, capable, and had a tradition of standing on the right side of history more often then not. Regardless Xandos was suspicious of them and their Leader High Duke Eltan. He was suspicious of them because of what he saw to be a rather obscene display of greed and profiteering.
Wrapping his Cloak tighter about his frame, Xandos further examined his thoughts and feelings about the Flaming Fist as he slowly passed through the Black Dragon Gate and slowly made his way North. It was rather traditional that regardless of size or methods of organization, most peoples had some form of military that they relied upon for all manner of martial matters be they offensive or defensive. Tribes, Villiages, Towns, City States, Kingdoms, Empires, and such all relied upon some form of Military be it a few chosen warriors, a small militia force, or a large standing army. Traditionally such militaries were made up of members of the society they fought on the behalf of, and their loyalties were those of the people they fought for. It was not unheard of for some military forces to allow others to join and serve within their ranks, but even then such outsiders were often only accepted under the understanding they were swearing themselves in service to a people they desired to earn a place amoungst through their service.
The Flaming Fist though were not the Army Baldur's Gate raised from amongst it's own, in an effort to see their interests served in matters Martial. The Flaming Fist were a mercenary company for hire who had been awarded the contract to defend the city by a Duke who was also the leader of the mercenaries. The entire arrangement struck Xandos as short sighted and rather self serving in Duke Eltan's interests and in no way a favor nor in service to the actual people of Baldur's Gate.
While at the moment the arrangement proved functional, Xandos did not believe the arrangement would prove sustainable. He strongly suspected that it would only be a matter of time before the conflicts of interests would make themselves painfully apparent to all involved. What hell would there be to pay the day the leader of the Flaming Fist Mercenary Company was no longer one of the City's High Dukes? What leverage did the arrangement grant Eltan over the other Dukes? What long term suffering will the people pay as interest upon High Duke Eltan's short term gains in gold and political clout?
It was a cycle of hubris and violence Xandos had seen play out countless times before in the history of Chessenta's warring City States. It was a cycle Xandos believed would play out the same here as it had there, regardless of geographical distances and cosmetic cultural differences. It made the Flaming Fist, a less then attractive wagon to hitch his horse to.
His horse snorted and then sneezed, and Xandos raised his gaze from his thoughts to see it was nearing midday. There remained a long ways to go ahead of them before evening and the comforts of a rented barn or a spot on the floor beside a farmer's hearth.
~ Azoun Obarskyr "the Crown Prince of Battles" 51st King of Cormyr
The morning air of Nightal was cold and crisp, and Xandos strode out to face it. The winds coming off the Sea of Swords had a sobering effect, not unlike being slapped across the face in unison by the Frostmaiden and the Bitch Queen. The brisk gale was enough to cause his shoulders to rise and his muscles to reflexively tense to brace himself against the elements. The single word Xandos muttered under his steaming breath was a strong one.
The Citdal of Strategic Militancy was forty miles North East of Baldur's Gate. With roads and weather fit for travel, a capable rider with a stout mount could press hard and see the distance crossed in one long day. The winter though made for harsh miserable conditions, and Xandos knew he was a less then capable rider. As it was he anticipated nothing less then two days of travel in which to explore his options.
Saddled up and wrapped in his cloak he slowly made his way through the near empty city streets of Baldur on his way towards the Black Dragon Gate. The bitter cold appeared to inspire most of the citizens and denizens of the city to find a reason to stay in doors. As he plodded along he made a study of a pair of Watchmen standing sentry in the early light of dawn. In passing, Xandos and the pikemen exchanged silent nods, all parties in agreement it was to early and cold to bother with anything as strenuous as a verbal exchange.
The Flaming Fist was a unique entity in that it was both a mercenary company and the standing army of Baldur's Gate responsable for the City State's defenses, law enforcement, and potentially more aggressive military and martial interests. The arrangement seemed suspect at best to Xandos. The Flaming Fist had a reputation as being well disciplined, highly motivated, capable, and had a tradition of standing on the right side of history more often then not. Regardless Xandos was suspicious of them and their Leader High Duke Eltan. He was suspicious of them because of what he saw to be a rather obscene display of greed and profiteering.
Wrapping his Cloak tighter about his frame, Xandos further examined his thoughts and feelings about the Flaming Fist as he slowly passed through the Black Dragon Gate and slowly made his way North. It was rather traditional that regardless of size or methods of organization, most peoples had some form of military that they relied upon for all manner of martial matters be they offensive or defensive. Tribes, Villiages, Towns, City States, Kingdoms, Empires, and such all relied upon some form of Military be it a few chosen warriors, a small militia force, or a large standing army. Traditionally such militaries were made up of members of the society they fought on the behalf of, and their loyalties were those of the people they fought for. It was not unheard of for some military forces to allow others to join and serve within their ranks, but even then such outsiders were often only accepted under the understanding they were swearing themselves in service to a people they desired to earn a place amoungst through their service.
The Flaming Fist though were not the Army Baldur's Gate raised from amongst it's own, in an effort to see their interests served in matters Martial. The Flaming Fist were a mercenary company for hire who had been awarded the contract to defend the city by a Duke who was also the leader of the mercenaries. The entire arrangement struck Xandos as short sighted and rather self serving in Duke Eltan's interests and in no way a favor nor in service to the actual people of Baldur's Gate.
While at the moment the arrangement proved functional, Xandos did not believe the arrangement would prove sustainable. He strongly suspected that it would only be a matter of time before the conflicts of interests would make themselves painfully apparent to all involved. What hell would there be to pay the day the leader of the Flaming Fist Mercenary Company was no longer one of the City's High Dukes? What leverage did the arrangement grant Eltan over the other Dukes? What long term suffering will the people pay as interest upon High Duke Eltan's short term gains in gold and political clout?
It was a cycle of hubris and violence Xandos had seen play out countless times before in the history of Chessenta's warring City States. It was a cycle Xandos believed would play out the same here as it had there, regardless of geographical distances and cosmetic cultural differences. It made the Flaming Fist, a less then attractive wagon to hitch his horse to.
His horse snorted and then sneezed, and Xandos raised his gaze from his thoughts to see it was nearing midday. There remained a long ways to go ahead of them before evening and the comforts of a rented barn or a spot on the floor beside a farmer's hearth.
Current Characters: Ravik Ports
Re: Tactics & Strategy
"You wear that Armor with the fierce proficiency of a War Hero prepared to march single handedly into the enemy's bath house to surrender your virginity and serve as his towel boy!"
~Rathagar the Rape Spawn, Half Orc and Combat Arms Instructor for the Society of the Sword
The fire in the farmer's hearth burned low, and Xandos's tossed another piece of firewood upon the flames. As the night progressed, his thoughts turned to his earliest days as a mercenary. Elves were nothing more then a slave race in Chessenta, between his heritage and lean frame he had more respect to earn then most before he was accepted by the Society of the Sword.
During his indoctrination period he had been tested and measured, and found wanting. It was declared his arms were to thin, and his constitution to frail to properly serve and stand amoungst those that stood together to create the phalanx. While others continued their training to learn the ways of the Spear and Shield, Xandos was assigned the less then prestigious role of serving as a reconnaissance scout for the Society. A position that was for a variety of reasons, less then desirable or coveted. In truth it was a responsibility only those of questionable sanity volunteered for, and men considered otherwise unwanted or disposable were assigned.
Xandos had felt betrayed, cheated, humiliated, and ashamed. It hurt knowing he was unwanted in the phalanx, and it hurt worst knowing he did not belong there. He had wanted to fight. He had wanted to earn his accolades upon the field of prowess fighting beside the others. Xandos had desired to stand tall once in his life and battle with zeal and honor. Instead he had been assigned the one task that required he avoid fighting and instead skulk about honorless. He might as well have been a camp follower who earned his coppers doing the wash, cooking meals, and pouring wine.
All of that though was before meeting and studying beneath Aeron Aporos, First Scout of the Society of the Sword.
~Rathagar the Rape Spawn, Half Orc and Combat Arms Instructor for the Society of the Sword
The fire in the farmer's hearth burned low, and Xandos's tossed another piece of firewood upon the flames. As the night progressed, his thoughts turned to his earliest days as a mercenary. Elves were nothing more then a slave race in Chessenta, between his heritage and lean frame he had more respect to earn then most before he was accepted by the Society of the Sword.
During his indoctrination period he had been tested and measured, and found wanting. It was declared his arms were to thin, and his constitution to frail to properly serve and stand amoungst those that stood together to create the phalanx. While others continued their training to learn the ways of the Spear and Shield, Xandos was assigned the less then prestigious role of serving as a reconnaissance scout for the Society. A position that was for a variety of reasons, less then desirable or coveted. In truth it was a responsibility only those of questionable sanity volunteered for, and men considered otherwise unwanted or disposable were assigned.
Xandos had felt betrayed, cheated, humiliated, and ashamed. It hurt knowing he was unwanted in the phalanx, and it hurt worst knowing he did not belong there. He had wanted to fight. He had wanted to earn his accolades upon the field of prowess fighting beside the others. Xandos had desired to stand tall once in his life and battle with zeal and honor. Instead he had been assigned the one task that required he avoid fighting and instead skulk about honorless. He might as well have been a camp follower who earned his coppers doing the wash, cooking meals, and pouring wine.
All of that though was before meeting and studying beneath Aeron Aporos, First Scout of the Society of the Sword.
Current Characters: Ravik Ports