the (un)wanted news

After more than a month of training, you doubt your decision to become a soldier. Throughout this month, you have depended on the favors of whores to replenish your energy. It is a cold morning. The camp is just waking up when a weary mounted messenger reaches the camp. He dashed through the gate and stopped his horse abruptly in front of you. Quickly he jumped off and threw the reins to you. The horse snorted, its breath creating a fine mist with each snort and snort. You look after the messenger in irritation as he rushes to the centurion's tent, panicking and stumbling over and over. The old man had left shortly after your promotion. Only later do you learn that the old man is the head of the legion. Just a blink of an eye later, the entrance to the centurion's tent flew open and the centurion rushed out. "Alert!" He shouted and after a brief moment of gathering, the guards startled and people the bells. It's always impressive how the tuned-in machine gets revved up by the sound of a simple bell. Every week there was such an exercise, but this time it was probably not one. You tie the horse to a post and hurry to your tent. Hastily, you put on your leather armor and grab your bolas and slingshot. You don't get the metal balls, which were used as ammunition in an emergency until you move out. You always trained with stones, because that way you didn't always have to look for the bullets. In the four corners of the camp, groups gathered and equipped themselves. The outer ring of the camp consists of the tents of the nobodies. The nobodies rushed over and put out the fires, while the bodies and legs gathered and marched in formation to the drill ground in front of the centurion's tent. As more groups began to move, the thunder of footsteps grew louder. The steps thundered like the beats of a drum. After less than a short time, the centurions lined up in front of the tent. The training had been worthwhile because, without it, this would probably have ended in a big chaos. Directly in front of the tent stood the 80 bodies, behind them stood the more than a hundred legs. Only from the rank of bodies were the numbers of the legion fixed. Legs could have as many as the Legion could feed.

"Men..." Shouts the centurion, beckoning his horse. "Just now a messenger has arrived, with cruel news. The barbarians have dared to raid. They have attacked the lands under the protection of the Zicor..." A murmur went through the troops. "The Zicor was victorious, but they have suffered great losses..." The murmurs grew louder and already the first rumors were traveling through the ranks. "Therefore, our Emperor has decided that enough is enough. These filthy barbarians have insulted the generosity of the Empire long enough. We, the glorious Echatir are dispatched to subdue these barbarians!" He raised his fist to the sky and a cheer and shouting began. Bodies pounded against their shields, creating a gruesome and impressive soundscape.

So now the time had come, the first campaign.