Garrick

Garrick trudged through the dark camp, eager to rest for the events of the following day. The faces of his comrades, dimly lit by small cook fires and torches, projected an overall dour mood throughout the camp. As he worked his way through the lines of tents, Garrick reiterated the orders his commander, a young, ambitious man named Fulton, had given him until he could repeat them verbatim. He knew that forgetting some small nuance of the deployment could be the difference between life and death for himself and the men of his squadron. During the counsel of the previous hour, Fulton had briefed Garrick and the other lesser commanders of the basic layout of the city and the detailed plans of the siege. Fulton explained that the lord of the city they were about to attack was little more than a spoiled boy who had grown up in the opulence of his noble status. The boy in question had recently inherited rule of the city after the death of his father. The new power he held had adulterated his pliable character to the point of making him arrogant enough to rebel against the Empire. This was a poor choice. Garrick admired the fortitude that Fulton displayed during the counsel, and he saw no intimation that this was simply a guise to gain the confidence of the other commanders present. This was Fulton’s first assignment of real importance and Garrick knew that his stolid command style would bring him the first of many victories in the following day.