Special Shower Scene... right... you got my attention...
The word special implies he's going to wash a cat or something equally silly
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The word special implies he's going to wash a cat or something equally silly
Sunday /meeting/ hmmm?
Haha what's that supposed to mean ? XD
Special Shower Scene... right... you got my attention...
haha good !
The word special implies he's going to wash a cat or something equally silly
ROFL a cat ? I'm not even going to go near that one XD
Naa I wouldn't do that to you XD
update is 99.9% done . Just need to do final proofread and it'll be up in the next 30 min
Shower Scene = Lies.
I'll believe the promised steamy scene when I see it.
Now just watch, the show scene is going to be a repairman fixing a broken shower or something mundane, 'cause I opened my mouth! XD
I'll believe the promised steamy scene when I see it.
Now just watch, the show scene is going to be a repairman fixing a broken shower or something mundane, 'cause I opened my mouth! XD
Shower Scene = Lies.
I'll believe the promised steamy scene when I see it.
Now just watch, the show scene is going to be a repairman fixing a broken shower or something mundane, 'cause I opened my mouth! XD
Haha , no , I won't be that mean XD
We have 300 pages...you know what that means...
300 jokes!
Oh goodness . Well before that happens here's the update XD
Chapter CXXX: Assault of the Grenadiers
15 March 1643
The lone lamp shone above the creaky apartment and huddled the space with a thick darkness. The windows looking out towards the rear of the flagship were draped in dreary, sagging rags. A lone desk and a singular chair was occupied by a brooding figure casting a dark shadow over his maps as he looked down. A swift knock rang at the door and the quill that was being held by thoughtful hands was placed to rest on the table. General Wiers let himself in.
“What is it, General?” the man behind the desk inquired.
The General stood with his hands behind his back and a subtle casual imbalance in one foot. Nonetheless, he kept a respectful glance to his superior. “My lord, the fleet has raised sail. The scout ship has detected a chain protecting an area around the sixth mile marker from Brighton. The chain is strong enough to bar our ships.”
One of the brooding commander's hands closed into a fist. “The rebels are alerted to our presence. Admiral van Ossel raised sail too close to the city.”
General Wiers shifted his weight quickly, “He felt surprise was wiser...”
“He is as clumsy as he is stupid,” the commander snapped quickly, “General, prepare your troops for a land attack.”
General Weirs bowed down sharply, “Yes, my Lord.”
The commander rose from his seat and followed the General out. While Wiers made his way to his men, however, Balaguer climbed the stairs to the bridge. He was immediately noticed by both Admiral van Ossel and Captain Pied. He looked at the two men and spoke up with a bit of an exasperated tone: “Make ready to land our troops beyond the enemy trenches and deploy the fleet so that nothing gets out of the harbours.”
---
General Cromwell observed from the top of the belfry the transformation of the twig-like masts of the Spanish ships from little sticks on the horizon to tree trunks dominating the far beaches like a dead forest. He snapped his spyglass shut as his aides approached him, but he kept his eyes trained towards the water. Below, he saw the rush of his men towards the walls and barricades on the far side of the Adur River.
“The men are in the trenches along the river, General,” one of the aides informed him.
“Detach Lieutenant Woodhouse and his skirmishers into a flying column further up the river. Attempt to flank them as they engage our lines. We can't let them get to the chain moor on the side of the river.” Cromwell barked out orders as calmly as he could. He paused to look at the situation with his eyes once more before turning to his nearest aide. “Begin evacuating the supplies and transports out of here.”
“Sir?” the aide asked with some surprise.
Cromwell replied more quietly, “we will not be able to hold this position against an entire Spanish army unloading on our shores. We're lucky enough that they sailed in with their main ships this close. If they had been outside of our watchtowers and unloaded their men, we might be surrounded right now. Nonetheless, we have a chance to get our supplies north. If we do lose Brighton, we'll at least transfer what we need to a different port.”
With that understanding, the young aide replied in the affirmative and saluted. “Right away, sir,” he said before rushing down the tower.
Cromwell looked back towards the preparations ahead of him. He could already see Lt. Woodhouse's brigade move forward down the roads as he instructed. He unlocked his spyglass again and extended it out towards the direction of the looming dark wood topped with the ensigns of Castille and Aragon. Men were beginning to unload from the ships under banners of blue, white, and red in various divisions of style. They began marching, in four columns, towards the trench line his men were occupying on the far side of the river. He couldn't count on the river for protection since sacrificing that side of the bank meant allowing the enemy access to one side of the chain which would then be disabled. So long as they held that side of the river, the Adur would be safe from enemy ships.
“Colonel Lincoln,” Cromwell began addressing another subordinate, “I want you to provide cavalry cover for the transports--” Cromwell grimaced and seized his left shoulder while letting out a sudden cry. His right knee seemed to give way slightly and he pressed against one of the columns of the bell tower with such force that his cuirass scraped against the old stone.
“General!” the Colonel he was addressing immediately stepped forward and grabbed hold of the man's metal armour to help support him up.
“I'm sorry, Johnathan, it just acts up every now and then,” Cromwell said through a grisly face. His whiskers and hair were filmy with sweat and he breathed so heavily that Colonel Lincoln could feel the liquid condensing on his own cheek.
“You still have a fever...” Colonel Lincoln observed as the other aides began to crowd around their commander. “You should let me take over from here, Oliver. The doctor said that you shouldn't be walking around with your injury still giving you trouble like that.”
“Whatever it was the assassin put into me with his weapons,” Cromwell replied with a croaky voice that sounded like a gravestone and a rugged rock rubbing together. “I just have to sweat it out. Right now, I need to be here...”
Colonel Lincoln looked at his commander's misty eyes and waited for the man to straighten himself out before silently giving him a stern salute. “I'll make sure those transports get out of here safely,” he said quietly. Cromwell gave a salute in return before Lincoln turned and brought his aides down the stairway with him. Cromwell turned back to the beachfront and leaned on the stone column. Very soon, the main battle would begin and he would only need to await the puff of smoke to inaugurate the bloodshed.
“What is the number of the enemy fleet?” Cromwell asked as he tried to count the enemy sails he saw rolled up.
“At least twelve warships,” one of his aides announced while listening to dispatches as they came in, “with about one and a half dozen merchant vessels refitted for combat.”
“And their disposition?” he asked although he could already begin to guess by the movement of the enemy armada what it was they were attempting to do.
“They're fanning out to blockade the port, General,” the aide confirmed.
For a moment, Cromwell assessed the situation before closing his spyglass and turning to his hive of aides. “Have all our ships assemble at the south entrance. The heavy transport ships will leave as soon as they're loaded. Only two brigantines per ship.” Cromwell looked towards his messengers to the sea captains. “The chain can only be opened for a very short time so you all will have to stay very close to your transports.”
“Two brigantines against a Spanish galleon?” the messenger reacted with surprise.
“The harbour guns will fire several shots to make sure that any enemy ships will be out of your escape path. When they've gotten past the chain, proceed directly to the rendezvous point. Understood?”
The aide nodded quickly. “Yes, sir!”
---
As Lieutenant Woodhouse ducked behind one of the trenches on the side of the river, he notices the incoming enemy divisions with his spyglass. He adjusted his hat to block the sun from interfering in the lenses and carefully rubbed a gloved hand against the line of hair that dominated his upper lip and chin carefully kneading it into pointed edges to his sides. The dirty uniform that was hastily slapped on his equally dirty red tunic blended him well with the ground and loose mud around him. The rest of his unit was similarly clad as they lay hidden behind the trench.
As Woodhouse aimed his sight towards the incoming soldiers, he ruffled his sharp eyebrows. These did not seem like the usual Spaniards that had, for so long, occupied the various streets of London, Bristol, and other key cities. Just by knowing the distance, he could discern these were taller than usual soldiers. Heavier built and with faces that reminded him more of the stoic expressions of Roman busts than the passionate and romantic Spaniards.
“We'll head up the river,” he said to his men. “While the main force attempts to stop them from reaching the southern tip of the harbour, we'll flank them from behind and try and trap the division before the ships can send the main force forward.” The others gave an affirmative response. “Let's go.”
---
Colonel Barrett watched the steady approach of the solid lines of enemy columns advancing towards his position. He had stationed his men in three lines along the hills and a trench hoping that the added protection of the terrain would dishearten the incoming enemy force. Unfortunately, he had no guns to bear upon the enemy. As was expected, most of the guns were being kept in the harbour to prevent the enemy ships of the line from approaching and delivering their own volleys against the encampment. It was those particular guns that he now heard fire in the distance.
He momentarily looked behind him and he could see the trail of smoke rising up into the air: there was a hit. He could see sails slipping past the disoriented Spanish ship. One of the lieutenants spoke up quickly, “the first transport is away!” The entire line erupted into shouts of joy. Only Colonel Barrett remained subdued. He would turn back again to the incoming enemy troopers with some discomfort.
“Imperial soldiers on the North Ridge!” was the announcement and Colonel Barrett immediately looked up towards his right flank.
“Let's hope Woodhouse's skirmishers can keep them occupied,” he said quietly. “Men! Prepare to fire at the main corps!” A flurry of arms assembled and guns flustered the edge of the trench and hills. A sea of halberds rose up behind them. Barrett looked forward and could see the enemy now directly ahead. What he witnessed next was a curious sight... they seemed to be throwing something at the English line. With heavy lunges, objects were being tossed a great distance in the direction of the trench. He looked again at the enemy line and could see that they were advancing rapidly heaving these objects forward as they ran. By the time he could yell out the warning, his voice was overridden by the explosions: “Grenades!”
His line received a volley and men exploded to his right and left as instinctive missile fire was returned by the shocked troops. Barrett's ears rung and dirt clouded his eyes as debris floated around him sloshing down in muddy precipitation. Training on where the musket fire was coming from, Barett watched as a group of gunners to his right suddenly exploded.
---
Wiers watched as the enemy lines in front of him began to disintegrate. Utterly shocked and surprised by the explosions from his expertly trained men, many of the rebels were beginning to flee their defenses. His men were advancing slowly towards the enemy front without so much a break in their running as they rained terror upon the opposing army. Pleased with his progress, Wiers spotted to his extreme right the position of the chain mooring device. It was there that the enemy was keeping the toughest defense. As his extreme right approached the target, he turned to one of the runners riding up to his side.
“The commander wishes to know your progress, General,” the young man saluted, “and if you have secured the ground.”
“Tell him: 'Yes. I've reached the main mooring anchor. The chain will be down in moments. You may start your landing.'” As the messenger reared backwards to deliver the message, General Wiers turned to his left. A sparkle of red caught his eye.
---
Woodhouse had bypassed the first temporary bridge that had been put up just a few days ago for the movement of soldiers. Instead, he had circuited all the way to the last pontoon bridge in the water before hurrying his men across. His division of skirmishers shared the same kind of disposition as their lieutenant: brash, violent, and swift. United only by their hope for a better life in an independent England, these were the vagrants and criminals who had decided to form the crack light infantry unit that Cromwell had dubbed “The Rogues.” In exchange they would have their debts annulled and their lands restored.
They held no flag and the only the meanest of military uniforms distinguished them from the enemy. Their usual task was simple: move in, cause chaos, and then slip away while the main force struck the killing blow. Much like their name, they intended to move in swiftly and slice at the enemy's weak point before letting the bigger more visible man take the opposition on. Woodhouse himself was not even a real lieutenant. Only given a commission because of he was the only one his men respected, Cromwell had given him a wide latitude of operations. His unconventional form of warfare helped to win over many urban campaigns such as York and Cardiff.
It was this team that now climbed the northern ridge and had arrived at the rear of the enemy flank attack. Seeing the backs of the enemy, Woodhouse raised his sword: the only form of communication he could impart to his men, and heralded the charge down the ridge with a gunshot right at the enemy flank with his pistol. His men rushed forward, but Woodhouse paused for a second before joining them. Despite the sudden surprise, the Spaniards had not been dislodged a single man. All of them remained in their lines while some now turned their weapons to face the incoming flank attack. Woodhouse could even see that the man he had just shot: a young man with broad shoulders began bleeding from his side but stood as firm as a wall.
Knowing the desperation of the situation, Woodhouse concluded that shooting them all down would not stop the assault as it would take forever to do. They needed to create confusion and quickly. “Their discipline is too strong to blast away at! Fight hand to hand and go for the legs. It might be our only chance of stopping them!” Aiming for the legs was one of Woodhouse's specialties. Fighting the Spanish Tercios, which usually used their long pikes as protection, had taught Woodhouse that Spanish regulars were extremely vulnerable from one or two adventurous fellows who snuck underneath the array of pikes to slash a few kneecaps off. An explosion rocked Woodhouse's thoughts as the enemy now began to launch their attacks at them. There was no choice but to charge them.
---
General Wiers watched the pathetic remnants of the rebel army begin to buckle and retreat across the makeshift boats and bridges. Without even a single change in his professional expression, he shifts his mount towards his right flank. “Distance to the mooring station?” he asked his aides.
“One seven yards or so,” his aide replied. Wiers snapped open his spyglass and noted the distance himself before calling out to the troops in front of him.
“Target. Maximum firepower!”
The men heaved back their payloads and launched their bombs into the air. Concentrating all of the grenades onto the stone mooring station, a terrible crack split the air and the chain immediately flew away from the side of the river and began sinking into the mouth of the Adur. The path was now open for the Armada.
---
“Order the retreat,” Cromwell grimaced although he barely had to issue the order: the lines were already crumbling and the enemy fleet was already beginning to make way for the exposed river. The town and its position was being shelled by the naval guns and what remained of his army was rushing northward. Luckily, the northern flank of the Spaniards was halted by the sudden rush of Woodhouse's men. Otherwise, the entire column might have been captured. This way, he would have lost the port, but he could meet up with Fairfax's army in the north and deal with this surprise invasion.
As another shell erupted near the belltower, Cromwell held his shoulder once again and shuddered against the wall. His tunic began to stain a crimson hue. “General, we should get you out of here as soon as possible-- I'll call for the medic,” one of the aides said as he took up Cromwell's arm gently.
“Of course...” Cromwell conceded.
A second aide began to speak up: “My Lord, what should we do about the assassin? Should we bring him with us?”
Cromwell felt his wound tingle a little at the sound of his attacker. The chronic illness and suffering of his shoulder channeled a burning hatred inside of him to that audacious man who had attempted to take his life several months ago. “I've interrogated that man for months now and we still don't know his name. He's too dangerous,” Cromwell began to spit, “kill him and meet us at the rendezvous.”
As Cromwell delivered his order, another shell shattered a nearby building and a shower of dust and debris fell all around the officers as they began their escape.
Interlude
The shower helped to shed the dust and debris off of Trey's worn out frame. The warm water lunged a steamy cloud around his body and the soap swirled underneath his toes like a snowy whirlpool. His vision was blurred by both the fatigue of the game and the warm embrace of the water rushing down his chest and stomach. He was the last person in the shower room: cleanup had been his duty today. He allowed himself to enjoy the steady rush of liquid rolling down his skin, massaging him. The solitude was something he needed.
The sound of a latch opening forced a gasp through his teeth as if something frozen had dropped down his back. He turned immediately and looked over the chest-high barrier of the stall at the surrounding lockers and showers. “Is someone there?” he called out. Trey's voice echoed against the tile walls.
Trey waited for a moment and peered out into the dimly lit locker room. Small whispers of air sang through some of the aisles and creaked an open locker door to a different position. Trey suddenly felt colder. He thought he could hear something, like a backwards whisper. Something was repeating itself backwards and forwards, but he couldn't make out the voice. The back of his head started to hurt again... What's going on...? he thought to himself as he brought one hand up to hold the side of his face.
Passing through the aisles of lockers was this sound and it reached his ears like someone speaking as they inhaled. It started to get louder... “Who's there!” Trey called out. Suddenly it stopped. As if his voice commanded something to cease in the room. The motion and the wind stirred no longer.
“Are you alright?” a voice called out to him from the doorway. Trey nearly slipped in surprise as he shot his head to face the entrance to the locker room.
“Jim...” he said lowly. That guy... Trey thought he had left already. “What are you still doing here?” Could he have been the one making those noises?
“I left something in my locker,” the young man replied to Trey as he stepped into the room. “Are you alright?” he repeated.
“Was there someone else here just now?” Trey asked.
“No-- I didn't see--”
Jim's voice was interrupted by the heavy footsteps rising in the hall. The young man turned around and Trey's attention, too, was diverted to the doorway. As the running footfalls reached their peak, Natasha's face appeared flushed and red. “Trey!” Natasha could barely call out.
“Natasha-- what are--” Trey attempted to say.
“Get away from him!” she mastered her panting while leaning against the doorway. Her eyes were squarely at the other young man in the middle of the locker room.
“...What's going on?” Trey began to ask as he looked at both of them.
“He's...” Natasha tried to say, “He's here to--” she stopped mid sentence as Jim began to run towards the shower stall.
“Trey Coom!” the young man yelled out loud as he rushed towards the shower, “listen to me,” he shouted as he was a few feet away from the stall. Trey nodded upwards to those words and looked at the incoming man's eyes. He could sense something. A burning sensation was being felt behind his head, but it was not hurting this time. He listened to his voice as if it was the water running down his back. The man continued to yell at him: “Instrumentality Project command input: It Was You Who Broke My Mason Pla--!”
A shot rang out. Blood splattered against Trey's face and he let out a staggered gasp. The young man in front of him collapsed in a heap of blood splatter on the floor and behind him was the figure of Natasha holding up a pistol. Trey drew air again as the taste of blood touched his tongue from his lip mixing with the stinging water vapour. Looking down again at the young man, he could see the wound on his shoulder where the bullet entered and went out the other side.
Chapter CXXXI: Rescue? (coming soon)
Good lord, not the russian girl! What was that for? Jim was just trying to enter the code to make Trey turn into the Hulk.
Brilliant fighting scene. Those grenades are nasty
Sounds like the Cromwell assassin is a fighter, but why wouldn't they have killed him after months of not talking? I bet when they try to kill him, he won't die
EDIT: I knew the shower scene would somehow be off
Brilliant fighting scene. Those grenades are nasty
Sounds like the Cromwell assassin is a fighter, but why wouldn't they have killed him after months of not talking? I bet when they try to kill him, he won't die
EDIT: I knew the shower scene would somehow be off
Suddenly appeared on the horizon, on the very edge of timelines universe, a haggard man dressed in the rags of a simple peasant, beholden to no one but the benevolent overlord canonized. He flails about, reaching and desperately grasping toward a bright light hovering not an inch above the flat earth. The poor stranger in a strange land who calls himself demokratickid had finally done it. Reaching forth, he touched the orb of his wishes, and was transported to the realm of the present, back from the scorching sands of the past...
In other words, I've finally caught up... :rofl:
In other words, I've finally caught up... :rofl:
When I read Natasha shooting Jim, this is immediately what popped in my head.
EDIT - about 1:35 in... though the whole thing is hilarious!
EDIT - about 1:35 in... though the whole thing is hilarious!
ROFL, I was wondering already how you would include the battle of Hoth, nice done!
IMO best battle you did so far, keep it up!
When we did ask for showerscenes I don't think we wanted males under it tho...
(and I have to agree with Murm and Balkanite here)
IMO best battle you did so far, keep it up!
When we did ask for showerscenes I don't think we wanted males under it tho...
(and I have to agree with Murm and Balkanite here
)
That was an excellent battle scene, and a very good homage to Hoth, the interludes are hotting up too, perhaps Natasha might shed some light on whats going on?
Mr. Woodhouse apparently is hotting up by the thoughts of Natasha and Trey in the shower....
Good lord, not the russian girl! What was that for? Jim was just trying to enter the code to make Trey turn into the Hulk.
Brilliant fighting scene. Those grenades are nasty
Sounds like the Cromwell assassin is a fighter, but why wouldn't they have killed him after months of not talking? I bet when they try to kill him, he won't die
EDIT: I knew the shower scene would somehow be off
ROFL Turn into the Hulk . Usually the logic behind keeping a spy alive is to break him . Much more valuable that way . Since the English weren't having too much trouble mopping up the surrounding garrisons , there wasn't really a big reason to kill off our dear Renault . Furthermore , Cromwell was incapacitated for a while because of whatever it was that was dealt to him so they probably kept him alive for at least that long before torturing him some more .
Huzzah
Very glad to hear it ! What did you think of the previous chapters ? XD Anything jump out at you ? Haha , I hoped it seemed more desperate than that XD
Go Rogue Squadron!
Good job
that's right !ROFL now I have that song in my head . And It'll be there ALL DAY !!!
Yikes! Blood in my precious shower!
Haha , yep ! What a violation XD
ROFL, I was wondering already how you would include the battle of Hoth, nice done!
IMO best battle you did so far, keep it up!
When we did ask for showerscenes I don't think we wanted males under it tho...
(and I have to agree with Murm and Balkanite here
Yeah , definitely a fun battle XD Was kind of hard figuring out what would be a good analogy for the planetary shield and the ion cannon and snowspeeders and AT-ATs and all this XD
That was an excellent battle scene, and a very good homage to Hoth, the interludes are hotting up too, perhaps Natasha might shed some light on whats going on?
Thank you , sir
And we'll see how Natasha explains things in the next chapter Mr. Woodhouse apparently is hotting up by the thoughts of Natasha and Trey in the shower....
ROFL . gosh , terrible thoughts XD
ROTFL, that is funny! Here is the original song if anyone is interested
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5cpSv2mNhhc
EDIT: It's kinda crap...
EDIT2: THIS is amazing: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MLyzscHXtWM&feature=related
ROTFL
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