EB AAR - Margorix of Caern-Brigante

This AAR is also hosted in the EB section of the forum, but thought I'd post it here as well, hope you enjoy it :)

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“Margorix! Wake up you damned goat!”
Margorix groaned and swung a fist out, though the haze cast over his eyes by a night celebrating meant that his angry strike hit nothing but air, coming back to rest over his eyes as he once more slipped into sleep.
“Margorix!!”
This time it was the kick to his spine that roused him fully, sitting bolt upright, Margorix glared at the blurry image that had so rudely interrupted his sleep. He could see now it was his older brother, and superior officer, Ventix, the long spikes of lime bleached hair, and impressive gold torque hanging from his neck meant that even in Margorix current state, Ventix was clearly distinguishable.
“What do you want brother?” Margorix, though now awake, still had trouble trying not to mumble his words.
“They’re here…”

*********************************************************************Two years prior, on the eve of his seventeenth season, Margorix had been out on a hunt with his father, Camulodogus.
Camulodogus was a bull of man; he stood a head higher than any other in his native town of Caern-Brigante, on the north-west of Britannia, and his long, bleached fork beard showed his age. Only five years earlier, Camulodogus was the right hand man of his local chieftain, and had been appointed town defender, commander of the town’s garrison of over two thousand fighting men. That was before the Casse tribe came from the south. Their King, Brennus, was an ambitious man, who sought to unify Britannia, and forge a grand kingdom out of the remnants of all the local tribes that resisted him. Camulodogus’ own Caern-Brigante was just one such tribe. Camulodogus had fought bravely with his men, many of whom though, were more used to chasing off bandits, rather then fending off a full scale invasion, let alone from behind a few measly sticks of wood, that served more as a filtering wall for incoming merchant caravans, rather than hold off a determined and sizeable force of professional soldiers.
The town had fallen swiftly, and was brought into the Casses’ tribe. There had initially been some resistance, until they got their first taste of how the Casse treated their tribesmen; money had come from Camulosadae in the south, and been used by the new local governor to dig basic sewage trenches in the streets. After that came new methods of farming, a new wall, even a small port. Caern-Brigante had never been so well off, and soon enough, young men from across the town were happily volunteering for positions in king Brennus’ growing army as it marched steadily northwards, seeking to consolidate on their gains..

Camulodogus was one such man, and in deference to his earlier position, he was given the role of captain of a small force, and was soon due to sail to Hibernia, to further the Casses’ conquests, he spent his last few hours with his youngest son Margorix:-

“I tell you Margorix my son; it would seem our world has grown in the time since we have become Casse”
Margorix turned to his Father with a quizzical look
“You see, it used to be our concerns ranged as far as the next harvest, occasionally driving off a few bandits, and now our fates are tied with people in lands entirely foreign to our own. When I was your age I had barely spoken to someone from the next tribe, let alone get ready to sail on a voyage of conquest overseas”
Margorix looked at his leather bound feet, it seemed to him that his life was only just beginning, and yet even he could feel the change. Caern-Brigante had grown immensely since the Casse took over; even he openly referred to himself as Casse. It was who they were now. Besides Margorix though, why be ashamed of it, since they took control we no longer struggle for food, last years harvest was a difficult one, but food was simply carted over from Rattae, who had food in abundance. If this was what it was to be Casse, thought Margorix, then there are many others who should be Casse also.
“Snap out of it Margorix, always thinking, one would think you’d rather be in the college with those Scholars, behaving like a roman toga lifter, rather than out here learning Javelin throwing with me”
Margorix laughed at this, like many Bretons, he knew of people on the mainland, their merchants had been through his lands many times, still they were a curious people, and seemed to think of the Bretons as simple hut dwellers.
Well though Margorix, now even we are building schools and forming armies, one day those sandal wearing lovers of boys will-
“Margorix…”
Hearing his father whisper his name snapped Margorix from his thoughts, Camulodogus was pointing further down the track. Margorix followed the gesture, and spotted a large boar, stopping to nuzzle some truffles at the base of a tree.
“Remember what I taught you son, place your feet apart, look down the javelin, and throw”
So Margorix did as his father instructed, taking a deep breath he planted his feet, and sighted the boar with his javelin, and in one fluid motion brought it back, and with all his strength hurled it forward.
The javelin flew true, whizzing as it reached the apex of its parabola, seemingly hanging in the air for an instant, before descending rapidly.
The head of the javelin burst through the boar’s leg, and pinned it to the ground, while it screeched and wailed in a tone Margorix had never heard, and froze him to the spot.
“A fine shot Son! Now finish the job”
Camulodogus handed his son a Celtic Dagger, finely crafted, after recovering from his shock, Margorix strolled over to the Boar, grabbing it by the tusks, the beast looked him in the eyes, seemingly knowing its fate.
As he put tomorrow’s feast out of its misery, Margorix became aware of his father standing behind him.
“We’ll make a fine spearman out of you yet, maybe even fight for me when I return from Hibernia, which reminds me son, I have a boat to catch”
As Margorix watched his father stroll casually back towards town, he thought about these parting words, should he join up with the army to make his living? His older brother Ventix had, who was at this point fighting in Caledonia to the north. One thing was for sure, he had a knack for throwing a spear, and he didn’t want to waste that talent…

That winter, Margorix had settled into his new trade as a town watchman. Upon his older brother, Ventix’ triumphant return from Caledonia, where they had added yet another province to their fledgling empire, and consolidated Britannia under the rule of the Casse, and King Brennus, Margorix had found his inspiration.


Ventix had signed up to Prince Tortexs' campaign army, that had successfully besieged and worn down the Caledonian tribes, after a few small skirmishes, and one final battle that had removed the last of any real resistance to the Casse on their island. Ventix had been promoted after catching the princes’ attention during a battle in the lowlands. The Caledonians had engaged the Casses' main battle line in a clash of infantry. The numbers were fairly even, at three and a half thousand men on each side. However the Caledonians had turned the tide in their favour when they managed to successfully conceal a small force of four hundred skirmishers, which had silently manoeuvred their way through the forest, to the west of the main battle.

Avoiding the Casses’ scouts they had burst onto the flanks of the infantry, leasing a hail of javelins that struck home hard in the ranks of the Kluddboro, lightly armed Britons with short swords. The javelins had come across almost horizontal, due to the close range the Caledonians were able to manoeuvre to, meaning that they punched through the ranks of the Casse with a deadly force. Javelins hit men in their sides, knocking many off their feet, with explosive gasps, as those who had survived desperately tried to pull the spear heads from their exposed ribs and legs, often bleeding out once the points were removed. Thos few lucky souls in the rear of the ranks who had managed to raise their shields in time survived the initial downpour, only to find that their shields were now useless, weighed down by the shafts of the offending weapons.

It was at this moment, when the Casses’ force on the flanks realised that that was to be the first volley of many, that the less experienced, and unblooded soldiers began to drop their equipment and flee for their lives. Other, bolder soldiers, who may yet have pressed on, despaired at the sight of their flanks retreating away, began to edge away from the battle lines, heedless of the bellowing of Prince Tortex from his position in the Chariots at the rear of the battle.

It was here where Margorix’s brother, Ventix, made his name. In his time marching north, Ventix had yet to be in the front line due to his inexperience. Safely at the back of the ranks, he had not yet engaged in any fighting, save to throw spears over the head of his comrades, losing sight of them as they dipped below the horizon of bronzed Celtic helmets, to land in a sea of blue tattooed demons.
Now however, he found the front ranks of his band of soldiers, on the right flank of the battle, melting away and streaming past him. Just beyond, he could see the Caledonians on this side of the clash, celebrating already. He watched as one of the brutes, clearly a man of some importance or rank, owing to the medallions hanging over his leather armour, raising his spear in the sky, and rudely gesturing to the Casse. This man then stooped over an injured Briton, and hacked at his neck with a sword lying two feet away. Cutting the head clean from the Casse warrior, the Caledonian held it aloft and let out a victorious cheer, as many of his counterparts took up the cry.
Something inside Ventix snapped, snatching a spear from the warrior next to him, he charged forward, remembering his footwork, so diligently taught to him by his father, Camulodogus, who was now campaigning overseas in Hibernia.

Left foot down…
He raises his head
Right foot down…
He sights his target
Left foot down…
He raises his spear
Right foot down…
He quickens his pace

With a ferocious roar, Ventix heaved the spear into the sky. As the projectile flew upwards, many of those around him stopped to watch its progress. As it arced into the sky, the spearhead reflected the morning sun for a moment, before revealing its lethality as it plunged down. The Caledonian captain looked up all too late, as the javelin whizzed down, slamming through his armour as it caught him just below his ribcage, bursting through his abdomen and sending him sprawling to the floor, as he coughed blood and hopelessly clawed at the weapon, trying in vain to pull it out.
Caledonian’s and Casse alike were in awe at this, and Ventix seized the moment, drawing his sword he held it in the sky.
He intended to shout something patriotic, or inspiring, but the meaningless roar that escaped his lips had the effect he desired, as the retreating right flank turned about and charged the Caledonians.
Ventix was amongst the first in this charge, he was aiming for the captain, but some of his men had stepped in front of him to protect him, so Ventix raised his shield and braced his shoulder against the inside of it. At the last moment he thrust the shield forwards, slamming it into the ribs and arm of the Caledonian blocking his path to the captain. Throwing his full weight into the charge, Ventix knocked his enemy clean off his feet, and landed on top of him, crushing the mans ribcage as he grunted with the weight of the charge, so that Ventix could smell the ale on the Northerners breath. Pushing himself up slightly, but retaining the pressure on the shield, Ventix hacked at the helpless man with his sword, but his foe managed to wriggle slightly further under the shield, and from the position he was in, Ventix could not get a clean sight of the soldiers head to deliver the blow. Instead he targeted the mans shield arm, as it was crushed under his own knee. Rising up Ventix hacked down at the exposed wrist, the sword cutting through muscles and bone, nearly severing the limb. Ignoring the bile rising in his throat at this sickly sight, Ventix pulled his sword back and hacked again, and a third time. The Caledonians arm was a pulped mess, and the man had seemingly passed out, as his eyes rolled back and his head lopped senselessly to one side and a trail of vomit could be seen rolling down his cheek.

Confident that this foe was out of the fight, Ventix stood up and looked around, the impetus of the charge had been tremendous, and had seized the initiative. The first wave had overwhelmed the Caledonians, who were now themselves retreating.
Then Ventix saw his target, the Captain, abandoned by his bodyguard, still lying in the same spot, trying to poke his intestines back into place, until he saw Ventix standing over him, sword in hand. The captain roared in anger, which changed pitch into a sigh of resignation. Cursing at Ventix in his native tongue, he held his arms out wide.
Eyes wild, Ventix pulled his sword back, and punched it straight forward, and into the mans ribcage, breaking through his bones and piercing his heart, to emerge from his back. The captain made a strange, haunting groan, which reminded Ventix of a tired dog collapsing to sleep, before finally letting go and falling back, dead before his head hit the ground.
Ventix straightened up, and placed his boot against the mans shoulder, pulling on his sword, before it finally came free with a spray of blood and a hunk of meat splattering against him as he nearly fell backwards with the effort. Looking two his left, to the centre of the battle line, he could see this rout had won the battle. The Caledonians had lost their flank, and the Casse cavalry made light work of their unarmoured infantry. The day was won, and the few Caledonians that would successfully flee, would prove little resistance when the battle for their town would take place.


This was the story as Ventix told to Margorix upon his return from Caledonia, Margorix stood wide eyed, staring at his brother, enthralled with the story. Margorix looked at the medal Ventix wore on his neck, and the bronze armbands that displayed his new level of wealth. The spoils of war had been great, and now his brother was a Captain. Perhaps even he, Margorix reflected, could one day become such a man?