Hound's Rout

The battlefield lay silent, save for the distant echoes of cannons and the faint cries of wounded soldiers. In the midst of the chaos, a lone figure stirred, slowly regaining consciousness. The haze of battle clung to his senses, obscuring his thoughts like a thick fog.
With a groan, he opened his eyes, only to be greeted by a scream that pierced the air to his left. His gaze turned, drawn to the source of the agonized cry. There, a comrade writhed in pain, wounded by the brutality of war. The sight shook him to his core, reminding him of the horrors he had witnessed.
A cannon fired in the distance, its deafening boom rattling through his bones. He instinctively turned his head, his eyes catching sight of a gaping hole in a nearby tree. The violence of the explosion had left its mark, a stark reminder of the destructive force that surrounded him.
Time seemed to blur, the seconds stretching into an indistinguishable void. Confusion filled his mind as he struggled to make sense of his surroundings. "What? Where? When? How did this happen to me?" he mumbled aloud, his words lost in uncertainty. It felt as though he spoke a language foreign to his own lips, unsure if they carried any meaning or were merely gibberish.
A trickle of liquid streamed down his cheeks, its warmth against his skin a disturbing sensation. "I hope it's blood and not saliva," he thought wryly, a touch of dark humor breaking through the turmoil within. The idea of succumbing to a rabid dog's bite in the midst of battle seemed both ironic and embarrassing. In that moment, his thoughts wandered to his faithful hound back home, wondering if she had birthed a litter of puppies. He hoped they were safe and well-fed, their bellies filled with the comforting sound of dinner, unlike his own...
But as the fog slowly lifted, memories flooded back with an unwelcome clarity. The truth washed over him, drowning him in its bitter embrace. He had been shot in the face, his body tumbling and falling upon the unforgiving ground. His comrades, armed with muskets, bayonets, pikes, and sabers, had charged bravely at the enemy, a wave of determination and desperation. And the enemy, in their ruthlessness, had unleashed their hounds, their mongrels, to sow chaos and fear.
Panic had consumed him then, a primal instinct to survive at all costs. But his efforts had been in vain. A shadowy figure emerged from the chaos, an enemy soldier with a bayonet poised for the kill. She moved with mechanical precision, following orders without question, like a marionette pulled by invisible strings. The bayonet found its mark, piercing his flesh, and he had bled and died upon that field of grass. No medals or honors adorned his chest, only the emptiness of a life cut short in the brutality of war.

Historical Significance

This skirmish has been notorious for the underhanded tactics of using hounds to attack the opposition. It has opened the denizens of the continent to the "Ethics of War" and whether there should be an agreed upon "Conventions of War."

Technological Advancement

Muskets, Cannons, Pikes, Sabers, .... etc.

The Last Bayonet
Mine eyes closed... then ope—
"Aughh..'' I hear a scream to my left.
Hear a cannon to mine right....
a hole in the tree is what I see.
...
...
...
I don't remember but I lay upon a field of grass... the ringing in my head is more mystery to me than some fog obscuring my vision. "What? Where? When? How did this happen to me?" I tell to myself out loud, but unsure of my tongue's utterance... could be gibberish, could be fiddle fish.
I could feel some liquid flow down my cheeks. "I hope its blood than saliva, it would be embarrassing if I died bitten by some rabies infected mongrel." I thought to myself. "Speaking of mongrels, has my precious hound gave birth to some pups back home? I hope they are well and hear bells for dinner and not like mine hea—" the fog became thinner.
And as the fog dissipates, I remember it all. I was shot at the face and then tumble-fall. My comrades charged at the enemy with muskets in hand, also with bayonets and some with pikes and sabers. The enemy released their hounds and mongrels as I recall, then I panicked thru it all.
"Are my comrades victorious?" I shouted with all my might. Then an enemy soldier came and stab-at-me with her bayonet, she followed thru the order like a marionette. And I bled and died upon a field of grass, I don't even have a medal-brass.

Conflict Type

Skirmish

Battlefield Type

Land