Battle Tendency

Like a sea of men, the iron tipped spears sparked as they grate against the bronze shields, and with exaggerated strength, the Britons exhale and state pushing and pulling their spears.

The two sides met with a clang that echoed through the valley, a cacophony of steel on steel that sent shivers down spines and rattled the teeth of those unaccustomed to the pattern of battle.

Like oarsmen in the ships, they push and pull the spears and the Hoplites follow suite, pushing and pulling their own sarissa, and for a moment it's like a worm shaking through the lines, the spears looking like the strings of a harp.

The first clash is fierce, with a sound like the earth itself has cracked in two. The metallic screech pierces the air as the two lines of men lock into place, the smell of iron and sweat thickening with every breath. The soldiers' faces, once filled with determination, now twist into grimaces of effort, their eyes locked onto their foes.

Vibrating through the lines of men, impaling some of the poor souls too slow in their maneuvering. The Britons with nothing weighing them down thrust their spears faster, but the Hoplites with the strength and discipline hit harder.

For thirty minutes this slogging match continues, the two lines of men silent except for the occasional grunts and screams as they fall. Even without ever seeing each other before the two groups of combatants know combat.

The commanding officers on both sides shout orders, their voices cutting through the din, trying to keep their men's spirits high, their morale in check. They know this is a battle of attrition, where the first to break will be the first to fall.

Even facing men from opposite ends of the world, there is one constant for humanity. The thirst for blood, victory and combat. This is humanity, this is our human nature.

The Britons, raised on the harsh lands of the northern isles, had grown accustomed to battles of endurance. Their hearts beating in rhythm with the clash of iron, each thrust and parry a silent verse in the poem of their existence. Their eyes, once filled with the green of home, now burned with a fiery resolve that could only be forged in the crucible of combat.

Who knows how the hell they got here.

As for the Macedonians in their beating hearts they carry only the dream of Alexander, it's on their lips and on their minds.

Who knows how the hell they got here.

Prince Euenios with his cavalry attempts to move into the Briton flanks, but the Briton charioteers have regrouped, and started riding into their ranks. Looking just as fearsome as their infantry, the charioteers start driving in between the spaced Macedonian cavalry.

The earth trembles as the chariots clash, their wooden wheels digging into the soil and sending clumps of dirt flying. The horses snort and whinny, their eyes rolling in terror as the smell of blood fills the air. The charioteers' faces are a mask of focus, their muscles straining as they control their beasts with precision and ferocity.

The strong Greek horses had to move, keeping in mind that their legs don't get sliced off by the chariots' spiked wheels, a blade that protrudes outward, slicing everything it comes across.

The charioteers had a grim determination, their eyes glinted with a wild light that spoke of a fierce love for battle and a desire to conquer. They knew that their survival depended on their ability to outmaneuver and outfight the Macedonian cavalry.

Chariots are prone to going out of control, but these Britons had tamed them, turning them into instruments of war that danced to the rhythm of their battle cries. The Macedonian cavalry, bred for speed and finesse, found themselves at a disadvantage in the confined space of the combat zone.

Prince Euenios' horse gets their legs caught by the blades, making the beast fall to the ground, launching him straight into a Briton's chariot. Rotating his body, he grabs onto the edge of the chariot.

The Briton thrusts his short spear straight at his face, forcing him to parry the spear with his own, the small of his blade hitting the tip of their blade, pushing the thrust to the side. 

The chariot jolts forward, throwing Euenios into the chariot, his armor clanging against the wooden frame as he rolls to his feet. He finds himself face to face with the Briton warrior, their eyes locking for a brief moment.

Almost immediately Euenios with sweat on his face, and his heart beating on his ears thrust the spear forward just a bit faster than the Briton, piercing his chest. The second Briton on the chariot turns around and lunges on him.

As they wrestle on the chariot's floor, it goes out of control, the horses trying their best to shake them off both. Euenios lets go of the Briton's neck who's on top of him and the Briton falls forward due to the inertia.

Euenios takes this opportunity to elbow him, before hoisting him off the chariot. Euenios grabs the railing and stands up, the horses still in a panic run faster. He looks infront of him and sees the chariot is heading straight for the Macedonian lines.

Those sarissa are going to skewer him alive if the horses do this. But as wild beasts are, a wall of spiky iron is an effective deterrent, the horses swerve to the side, nearly throwing him off the chariot.

Euenios grips the chariot with all his strength as the horses move, all the while the Briton javelins emerge from the forest, throwing the javelins at him and his men. He hoists himself over the chariot and onto one of the horses.

He unsheathed his sword, and with a swing he severed the ropes connecting the horse to the chariot. The other horse then ran off leaving him with a single horse, that was running in a completely random direction.

The wild horse, with no intention to be ridden, wildly jumps and runs around, Euenios has no choice but to hold on for as long as he could. "Macedonians! Wake up!" Euenios yells out, and the phalanx behind him starts marching forward in response.

The Briton berzerkers start swarming out of the forest, and without fear, smashes into the Macedonian phalanx, with the corpses of their brothers they pull forward through the sarissa, reaching out and swinging their axes down their skulls.

A few Macedonians were unlucky enough, and the iron axes cleaved their foreheads and brains in half, the immense strength of these barbarians, no… these warriors different from the usual Greek battle tendencies.

Euenios knew that these men from the edge of the world must be related to the cyclops, the titans. They were most likely in the land of Gods! Explains the face paint and weird hair styles and hair colors.

"Today in the name of Zeus, we fight Titans! Macedonians charge!"

The Phalanx marches forward, thrusting their spears over and over again against the Briton onslaught. The Iberian mercenaries they hired prepare their javelins and arrows, aiming at the Britons they unleash wood and iron.

Iron and blood, what lays scattered in the field as the Britons even as they're being shot at and skewered still fight with ferocity, Euenios has never seen something like this before. 

Euenios grabs his sword and kills the horse under him. Once the horse fell over, he ran to the flanks of his men, who are overwhelmed by Briton berzerkers. Euenios using his sword, fights a few Britons on his own when the Macedonian cavalry arrives from the rear.

After finishing off more Britons over there, Dionysus of Lamia leads the cavalry forward, tearing through the Britons like paper, but some of the Britons grab onto the legs of the horses, stabbing into their abdomens.

A number of Macedonian cavalrymen are killed this way, and the cavalry is bogged down. Dionysus realized they used their bodies to trap the horses, with some of their companions responsible to cut them down and their riders.

This battle was not just about land or resources, but about something deeper, something intrinsic to the very core of mankind: the desire to conquer, the need to prove their mettle, and the unyielding spirit that had propelled humanity to conquer.

"Insanity…" Dionysus mutters as he orders his men to retreat. The human spirit of war, this is why humanity is the most prolific species on earth. Why no other animal can compare. 

What we say to the animals, first, let them be human.

The Britons, fueled by their anger and desperation, fought with a strength that seemed unnatural. The Macedonians, trained for discipline and precision, were now in a battle where brute force was king.

The archers and slingers on the Macedonian side start firing into the mass of Britons, but they're too entangled with the Macedonian infantry to do much damage. The skies are filled with the sound of death, arrows and sling bullets cutting through the air.

But amidst the chaos, there is something that catches Euenios's eye, a figure standing tall on a hill, a man with a crimson cloak, watching the battle unfold.

Could he be the king? The leader of these unyielding warriors?

Without a second thought, Euenios sprints through the field, his sword drawn and his shield high. His men see his charge and follow, their morale bolstered by their prince's valor.

The Cavalry follow behind him, and the phalanx while bogged down slowly head his way. The General of the Britons, wearing what looks to be a looted armor set from a Roman soldier, but this time it's red.

'There are red Romans?' Euenios puts these thoughts at the back of his head as he opens with a punch to the side of the face. The General, Aneirin the Carvetii raises his shield.

Euenios' gauntlet smashes into the Roman shield, smashing the wood to pieces and with his sword he follows up with a stab to the abdomen. Aneirin parries it to the side with his sword and and follows up with a hand jab to the side.

Euenios blocks it with his sword, but Aneirin grabs his wrist, making him let go of his sword, and straight up punches him in the jaw. Aneirin rushes up to him with his sword on his left hand, slashing down on him, and his right arm going straight for his chest.

Euenios blocks the sword coming from top using his gauntlet but Aneirin punches his chest hard, making him step back. Aneirin rushes towards him, his arm moving to clothesline his collar.

Euenios blocks Aneirin's arm with his gauntlet but Aneirin jumps up with one leg and with the other, kicks him away, sending Euenios flying into the air. He lands with a thud on the ground.

Euenios stands up and charges at Aneirin again, this time with a roar of anger. Aneirin sees the rage in his eyes and knows that he has to end this soon or it will turn into a farce. He takes a deep breath, focusing his energy, and charges back.

The Britons are routed anyway, but a good fight is yet to be had, and Aneirin needs to vent his anger. He only brought 400 Britons with him since he was only attacking a small Iberian settlement, but suddenly an army of 1000 out of nowhere appears.

The two men collide with a thunderous sound, their fists and feet moving in a blur of motion. The ground trembles under their weight as they trade blows, each trying to gain an advantage over the other.

Aneirin with his strong legs and his one handed sword and Euenios' gauntlets and arms. Aneirin kicks Euenios who struggles to defend with only his gauntlets. He also needs to watch out for the Briton's sword.

Aneirin's breathing is labored, but he refuses to show any sign of weakness.