The one thing historians and poets always forget about combat is the filth. Legends and epics always talk of clear skies and resplendent warriors, of polished armor and clean blades. In truth, a Legion fight was one of grime and muck and dust and blood. Even without Absolom's spell, one would be hard-pressed to see through the chaos during the battle for the Castra Talara.<br/><br/>As a frontliner, Titus knew that feeling all to well. He nearly slipped on the mud of the undercity, which had been turned into a quagmire by the blood of the fallen. He slid backwards as the Deep Ones hurled themselves at the legionary shield wall and stumbled as he pushed them back. As one, the front rank of Lucibius' contingent laid in with their blades, emerging from the illusory fog like an army of spectres. Like an army of dead men walking. How fitting.<br/><br/>Stab. Cut. Thrust. Chop. The first rank cut a bloody swathe through the enemy, leaving a carpet of disemboweled and maimed corpses for the others to follow. Titus cracked a skull with his shield and finished his victim with a quick heart stab. The next, he knocked down with his shield's downswing and impaled with his gladius. He twisted the sword for good measure before wrenching it out and kicking the corpse free. And still, the enemy came at them.<br/><br/>Aulus fell, his gut split open. Titus almost recoiled at the unpleasant aroma of ruptured intestines. Pulling the man back to the rear ranks, Titus waved up the man behind him to fill the vacancy in the line.<br/><br/>'Son of a<span style="font-style: italic">bitch</span>,' groaned the fallen legionnaire. 'Optio, am I going to die?'<br/><br/>Titus had unpacked the medical kit issued to him as part of his temporary status as a Primus Medicae. Thumbing through the kit's pockets, he picked out pouches of antiseptic and numbing powders. He tore off their seals and began to spread them liberally through the wound.<br/><br/>'Don't know, Aulus,' he said as he fought to stem the bleeding and seal the wound. Calling on his minor magical talents, the paladin channeled a trickle of healing energy into the injured soldier, sealing the intestines and repairing blood vessels. 'What does your gut tell you?'<br/><br/>He groaned, more in exasperation than pain. 'That you're a terrible comedian, sir.'<br/><br/>Finishing up his stitching, Titus called over a pair of orderlies, who lifted the man onto a stretcher and rushed him away from the fight. Wiping his blood-slick hands dry, Titus retrieved his gladius and shield and made his way back to the front. He chuckled darkly. With all the blood staining their Legion blue, he and the XIV almost looked like the crimson-clad elites of the First Legion. He'd done the doctor's work. Now it was time to resume the butcher's work.