Centuria

As the sun begins to dip below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of orange and purple, the column grinds to a halt. Men, previously disciplined and stoic, break formation and begin the process of setting up camp. The site chosen is a broad, open field, the grass providing a natural cushion against the hard ground.

With practised ease, the soldiers start erecting tents, the canvas structures quickly dotting the landscape. Fires are sparked into life, their warm glow offering a stark contrast to the creeping chill of the night. The smell of cooking food soon wafts through the air, mingling with the scent of fresh grass and the earthy smell of horses.

Garrick, taking on the role of the camp overseer, directs the knights and their squads, his commands cutting clearly through the bustle of activity. Argon and Brolan, along with their chosen men, work to set up their own quarters, the camaraderie between them evident in their easy banter and coordinated efforts.

As the night deepens, sentries take their positions at the perimeter of the camp, their alert eyes scanning the dark surroundings for any sign of danger. The camp settles into a semblance of calm, the only sounds being the occasional neighing of horses and the quiet conversations of men sharing stories around the fire. Despite the deceptive tranquillity, the air is thick with anticipation, the upcoming conflict casting a long shadow over the makeshift military encampment.

As the night grows darker and the campfire crackles, Argon turns to his squad. The harsh lines of his face are softened by the fire's glow. He looks at the six men, who'd been chosen for their size and strength, each possessing a unique quality that Argon finds valuable.

He speaks to them in a gruff, unceremonious voice, cutting through the soft hum of the camp. "Alright, listen up. I don't care about your pasts or your sob stories. All I need to know is whether you can hold a spear and follow orders. And don't even think about stepping out of line."

As Argon approached his group, he noticed the diversity in his small band of men. There was a sense of underlying tension as they waited to see how their new leader would handle them. Argon's gaze scanned each one, committing their faces to memory.

First, there was Brom, a colossal man that towered over the rest. He had arms the size of tree trunks and a chest as broad as a blacksmith's anvil. His brown beard was bushy, framing a face that was set in a permanent frown.

Next in line was Dael, a man that had been shaped by the elements. His skin was deeply tanned, scarred by years of harsh sunlight and winds. He was lean, more wiry than muscular, but his weathered features showed a man accustomed to hard work and hardship.

Edrik was next, of average height but deceptively built. His body was compact and muscular, and his eyes were sharp and calculating, hinting at a man who relied more on his mind than his physical strength.

Fourth stood Garen, another towering figure, almost rivalling Brom in height. His shoulders were broad, his frame so wide it gave the impression of a stone wall.

The fifth man was Ulf, a stark contrast to the others. He was smaller in size, but his compact body was a mesh of hardened muscles that suggested a strength that belied his size.

Finally, there was Lark. The youngest of the group, his body was lean and hard, a testament to years of training. His youth didn't hide the resolve in his gaze, a determination that came from a warrior's spirit.

With a hard edge to his voice, Argon addressed his men, "Listen here, you fuckers. Don't get cocky and start playing the hero. You've got spears for a reason, so use 'em. Keep those bloody peasants at arm's length. They're desperate, and desperate people do stupid, dangerous shit."

His eyes roved over each man, ensuring he had their full attention, "Getting gutted by a farmer would be the saddest fucking way to die. Don't make me look bad, 'cause I'll make sure the whole damned kingdom knows you lost your life to a bloody pitchfork. You lot understand?"

His words were harsh but necessary. These were men, not boys, and they needed to know what was expected of them. Argon's cold gaze scanned their faces, looking for any sign of dissent or fear. He wouldn't tolerate either in his squad.

Taking in the group, Argon grunted his acknowledgement. "Well, let's hope you lot can fight as good as you stand there," he said, his voice laced with the harsh, gravelly humour that only a soldier could truly appreciate.

His eyes scanned the lines of his soldiers, and Argon's voice was a harsh bark in the stillness of the evening. "Line up! Spears out! Show me what you're worth," he commanded. His men quickly formed a spear line, their weapons forming a formidable wall. Argon strode back and forth, inspecting the formation critically.

"Not bad, you fucks. Not bad at all. Don't screw it up when the time comes," he said, a grudging approval in his tone. "You're dismissed. Get some rest. You're gonna need it."

As the men dispersed, Argon looked out into the dark night, a sense of anticipation building within him. The cold air did little to temper his excitement. He'd been cooped up for too long. Finally, the prospect of battle loomed on the horizon. He could hardly wait to let lose the pent-up energy and aggression that had been building within him.

The dawn light is an unwelcome intrusion on Argon's sleep. He blinks open his eyes to find Garrick towering over him, an irritating grin plastered on his face.

"Wakey wakey, fuckface," Garrick drawls, looking far too awake for the ungodly hour.

Argon grunts in response, scowling up at him. "The fuck do you want?"

Garrick clucks his tongue, feigning a hurt look. "Is that any way to speak to the army commander?"

Garrick snorts, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "I ain't some prissy bitch like Kael; remember how I beat you?"

Argon's grin tightens at the reminder, but he nods. "Point taken." His voice holds a warning, a silent promise of a future confrontation. But for now, they have a battle to prepare for.

Garrick's smirk turns serious as he shifts the conversation towards their upcoming mission. "Baron's scouts reported that the united peasant 'army' — if you can call that rabble an army — is out in the open. They're camped just outside Willowbrook, gods know what they're doing. Maybe they're foolish enough to think about attacking a neighboring village," he muses.

"We will use the foot soldiers as a unified force," Garrick continues, sketching out their battle strategy in the air with broad sweeps of his hand. "The knights, on the other hand, will all form the cavalry. Our plan is simple - we'll flank the peasants from behind, hit them where they're not expecting. Essentially, we're going to fuck 'em up the arse."

His crude description elicits a chuckle from Argon. The idea of outmanoeuvring the ill-trained peasant army is quite appealing to him, and he's eager to see Garrick's plan in action.

With a rough and commanding voice, Garrick starts the introductions, pointing to each knight one after the other.

Grinning with a wicked glint in his eyes, Garrick claps a heavy hand on Argon's shoulder, jostling him out of his reverie. "Come on, you arse-faced mule," he growls in a teasing tone, the gravelly notes of his voice slicing through the morning chill. "I've got some people you need to meet."

With that, he yanks Argon up, leading him over to the other knights, each clad in their own armours, glinting in the dawning light.

"Here, you lazy sot is the rest of our esteemed company. This here is Ser Edwin," he points at a man in his early forties with a wise yet stern look on his face.

"Ser Kael, you've already met, I believe." He gestures at his previous opponent, and the ego-bruised knight nods in recognition.

"Then we have Ser Reynald," he moves onto a tall, burly knight with a thick beard.

"Next is Ser Cedric," he introduces a younger knight, perhaps in his late twenties, with an eager look in his eyes.

"Here's Ser Aldric," he points towards a knight with a contemplative expression, with lines etched on his face that suggest years of service and experience.

"This is Ser Percival," Garrick continues, pointing at a strong, middle-aged man with a well-kept beard.

"And over there, we've got Ser Gareth," he gestures towards a bulky knight with a friendly grin.

"Lastly, meet Ser Leopold," he concludes, pointing at a knight with a refined air, his neatly-trimmed beard framing a face that suggests quiet authority.

Argon nods, taking in each face and name. He would be fighting alongside these knights, and it was vital to know who he could trust in the heat of battle.

Cracking a wicked grin, Garrick raises his voice, his boisterous tones cutting through the chatter and noise of the encampment. "Alright, you shits," he bellows, his words hard and uncompromising.

"We've got a date with some lousy peasants, and I'm in no mood to keep them waiting. You lot know the plan, and if you don't, it's your own bloody fault," he says, casting a reproachful glare at the assembly of knights.

Garrick's voice cuts through the bustle of their forward march; his tone is as unyielding as steel. "Listen up," he barks, levelling his gaze on Argon and the other knights. "I've left my second in command to wrangle those footsloggers into some semblance of a line. By the time we're done with our charge, they'll likely be poking at peasant corpses."

His eyes glint with a merciless gleam, a harsh testament to the brutality of their task. "We're the hammer that smashes them to pieces. Those foot soldiers will just be there to mop up our mess. Any questions, or can we get on with our fucking jobs?"

"Now, let's mount up and go earn ourselves some glory. Or at least a good laugh. To horse, gentlemen!" His command echoes in the brisk morning air, followed by the clash of weapons and armour as the knights ready themselves for the day's gruesome work.