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3/28/2025, 3:20:18 PM
Your grin slides away as you wipe your bloody hands on the undergrowth. With appalling losses to Savis patrols and a lack of any notable gains from the expenditure of considerable resources against a militarily inferior foe, the continued absence of a significant blow in favour of the Savis Empire since their retaking of the Dis cities and major settlements half a galactic year ago was now by all accounts a grand military embarrassment. One that the reinforcing Legions were doggedly keen to blot out. It wasn’t all fun and games for the League of Dis however, disease and malnourishment continued to nip at the heels of the various rebel encampments. And, aside from your main base of operations positioned at the old smuggling hideout, most of these ‘encampments’ blurred the line between military outposts and disorganised refugee camps.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ozpJJQ0J28U&list=RDozpJJQ0J28U&start_radio=1&ab_channel=EnnioMorricone-Topic – The Hunter and the Hunted
Your eyes flick up to the dense foliage as you sling your satchel, heavy from the successful hunt, around your shoulder. Despite their adeptness in guerilla warfare thanks to yours truly, the jungle was far from friendly territory. The League of Dis, and even the Black Company, had suffered their own defeats out here sure enough. Far from the glory-seeking eyes of Savis officers and hardly the stuff fit for propaganda touting podiums, sure, but painful losses all the same. Out here, in the dark of night and in the shadows of the jungle canopy by day, an entirely different war was being fought. Fought not with artillery but with knives, not with airstrikes but with tripwire and pitfalls, a war in which your peers were outclassed in everything but numbers.
Your ears prick up, checking for whether the jungle is too noisy somewhere… or too quiet. The Cradler Auxiliaries, the long genemodded arm of the Savis Legions, reigned supreme out here. Your people were good, you’d trained them well. But they could spend ten years out here and not hold a taclight to one of your fellow humans from the tribes of Clayton’s Cradle. There weren’t many of them, at least there hadn’t been at first, but these veteran jungle deathworlders hunted rebel and mercenary alike with ruthless predation. Sentries would go missing, uncovered later spiked through or dangling somewhere. Comms would be lost with remote outposts, those sent to investigate bringing back tales of empty camps or never returning at all. You were used to being hunted, your whole voiddamn life you’ve been hunted and by far worse than your fellow man. But even you don’t like this feeling of the noose being drawing ever tighter around your collective neck.
[3/4]
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ozpJJQ0J28U&list=RDozpJJQ0J28U&start_radio=1&ab_channel=EnnioMorricone-Topic – The Hunter and the Hunted
Your eyes flick up to the dense foliage as you sling your satchel, heavy from the successful hunt, around your shoulder. Despite their adeptness in guerilla warfare thanks to yours truly, the jungle was far from friendly territory. The League of Dis, and even the Black Company, had suffered their own defeats out here sure enough. Far from the glory-seeking eyes of Savis officers and hardly the stuff fit for propaganda touting podiums, sure, but painful losses all the same. Out here, in the dark of night and in the shadows of the jungle canopy by day, an entirely different war was being fought. Fought not with artillery but with knives, not with airstrikes but with tripwire and pitfalls, a war in which your peers were outclassed in everything but numbers.
Your ears prick up, checking for whether the jungle is too noisy somewhere… or too quiet. The Cradler Auxiliaries, the long genemodded arm of the Savis Legions, reigned supreme out here. Your people were good, you’d trained them well. But they could spend ten years out here and not hold a taclight to one of your fellow humans from the tribes of Clayton’s Cradle. There weren’t many of them, at least there hadn’t been at first, but these veteran jungle deathworlders hunted rebel and mercenary alike with ruthless predation. Sentries would go missing, uncovered later spiked through or dangling somewhere. Comms would be lost with remote outposts, those sent to investigate bringing back tales of empty camps or never returning at all. You were used to being hunted, your whole voiddamn life you’ve been hunted and by far worse than your fellow man. But even you don’t like this feeling of the noose being drawing ever tighter around your collective neck.
[3/4]
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