I was going to cheat tonight and post something that I used ChatGPT to generate. But even if I clearly labeled it as AI generated, I could not use it to meet my 500 word goal post for the day. I have to write something out myself. Here I go.
The scenes I was going to post were fictional in-universe speeches, an outnumbered princep rallying their troops to make a final stand against a vast demonic army, the Battle of the Monontonos Plains.
I can picture the scene in my head; the Princep, a skinny and young person, pale, dressed in fancy but not very functional robes and armor, helm too big for their narrow head flopping down over their eyes as they raise their thin, reedy voice above the clamor of the thundering rainstorm that soaks them, and their soldiers.
The small squad, maybe a score of them, beaten, weary, armor dented from the running battle of their retreat, their weapons blunted against the defenses of their inhuman foes, faces caked with blood and mud, squinting up to the naive young royal who’s misfortune lead them here.
Above them, only black clouds and falling rain, split by constant sounds of cracking thunder and flashes of white-hot lightning. They stand on top of a rise that could barely qualify as a hill, a desperate palisade crafted of stunted saplings pointed outward at the base of the mound.
No other cover gives them a moment’s rest against the rain and the hail of bolts, arrows, and fire from the encircling armies. No supplies of food or medicine, no stocks of ammunition or tools to sharpen their meagre swords and spears and clubs.
And all around them, in every direction, countless horrors and demons and devils. Every enemy’s eyes shine blood-red, piercing the darkness. Every form a mockery of human shape. Every hand holds a massive weapon of war, every body clad in black iron plates the approximate thickness of a castle wall. Tiny and fast ferrocious needle-fanged swarms swirl around person-sized gangly armed swordsmen and archers. On giant booted feet ogres and giants loom above the hordes, grunting in mountainous hoots of flesh-hunger.
Enemies abound in every direction from the tiny Imperial squad. Yellow tear-filled eyes stare across a blasted barren plain of mud and grass to thousands of hungry hellish eyes.
How did it come to this, though? The speech that ChatGPT wrote for me is in the vein of inspiring but doomed speeches but surely this final stand does not bear scrutiny from a tactical standpoint. No general would allow themself and their crew to become so intensely in the worst position? Had they no fortress from which to fight? No reinforcement to shore up their defense? No higher ground from which to rain down destruction on those who would oppose them?
This is a legend, a tale told to scare leaders who would squander the loyalty given to them. Leaders should not rush to battle because lives are precious and should be spent only for righteous causes. Defense of the weak and oppressed. Attack against intolerance and ignorance and fear. Those are only the true fights, and in those battles every good general is overmatched, but can surely count victory in their grasp.
Surely, they can?