Writing Prompt 1

On Reddit, there is a place for fantasy authors called r/writingprompts. The deal is, someone comes up with a scenario, and you have to write a short around it as a reply to the post.
The exercise is quite fun, and I managed to knock out a few things in between daily work activities. In each case, the prompt is given in bold, and my effort is in normal format. This is the first in a series of such. Because of the nature of the character in this first one, there's a swear alert for sensitive readers.

(Btw, I could not find appropriate images on Shutterstock or Wikimedia Commons for the life of me, so you're just going to have to use your own imagination, this time!)

You aren’t a great Hero or a mighty Mage, you’re not the Chosen One, Hell, you’re not even one of their beloved Companions. You’re just one of thousands of nameless footsoldiers just trying to survive the final battle.

It's a living, I suppose. As long as you're living, ha-ha!

 

What else does a peasant's third son do? The Lords don't always have land for extra sons, so here we are: a bunch of blokes with more muscle than brains, their lives defined by Pay, P***y and Plunder - in that order.

 

Serving in the Heavy Foot is supposed to be the best - you're first in line for any goods looted, for any women in conquered territories... but now we're fighting for our lives because the nobs couldn't pull their f***in' fingers out, innit? Where are those highborn numpties now, with their steel and horses and stuff? Oh, I dunno...

 

Pay will come if we survive the week, Plunder, well, we gotta work for that, and work hard. And P***y? Hah! These are orcs, dammit, you can't tell the difference between male and female, even if you wanted to!

 

We've been waiting for f***in' hours... no, there it is, the charge signal! Time to move. Shut up, Sergeant, I know, we drilled for this: ten pound pack, two pound spear, three pound shield. That's on top of the leather-and-mail standard issue we get. At least we got shields, them poor b*ggers in the Light Foot don't even get that! And everyone in front at least gets to run on grass, we have to run on the mud they've churned up. Well, mud and blood, hopefully black not red.

 

Sh*t, there are warboars coming from the right! Do we turn and face them, or keep charging? I'm getting worried here...

 

Well done, Light Foot - those arrows did a number on those f*in' boars, but some of them are still coming.

 

'WARE TO THE RIGHT!! BOOAAARSS!!!' The mob around me breaks ranks, unsure. 'SHIELD WALL!' I bellow. Training takes over, we form up into a shield wall, breaking the formation that had been charging the orc front. I could be in dung for this.

 

The boars slam into us like a ton of bricks. Some of us even get to stick the f*in' pigs, man-high at the withers, but it's a f***in' nightmare. The noise, the crashing, the screaming, the shock of impact. But I stay upright. A goblin riding a boar swings a scimitar at me, I spike his stupid bum with me spear, heh heh! That'll learn ya!

 

Johnny gets a tusk in his brisket. Dammit. I lunge at the boar, striking for its neck. the spear sinks in beautifully, but sticks there. The boar squeals like, well, a stuck pig, and thrashes around, chucking its rider and my spear. I get a helluva wallop from my right, and a boar just shoves me over. The world explodes in pain as its hooves pummel me, running right over me.

 

Trying to right myself, I hear another set of hooves - horses! I look up to see a white horse, elf cataphract on its back, pounding after the boar that rushed me, narrowly missing. The elf on its back is loosing arrows right and left, then sweeps out this gorgeous sword and lays about him with it. Have you ever seen a blade shear through the top of an orc's skull and sink into another's? You should try it some time. But I'm too sore to care right now. I'm still upright, I can still see... I might just survive this after all!