Β· Β· β Β·π₯ΈΒ· β Β· Β· Β· Β· β Β·π₯ΈΒ· β Β· Β· Β· Β· β Β·π₯ΈΒ· β Ambush. A thinking man's strategy. Someone who wasn't dumb and used the very technique to take nearly twenty men out on his own, minus the few shots his young shot to assist.
High grass, open fields of crop, the blind bends of the bridges. A patriots' patience nattered more than numbers. As the days dragged on the war chewing forward, men fell, and some came back unable to continue. Though others driven by freedom would come limping back broken, stitched together just well enough to send out once more.
With Benjamin joining the Continental army as a way to stay with his stubborn son, who he didn't want to fall just like his other son, Thomas had. The militia fought differently with him, with no immediate bright lines. The polished formations breaking on the trails. Gentlemen's warfare belongs to the British, so why fight their way on our land that we were fighting to control? Against the numbers of the British, it seemed like a polite way of asking for a final breath. The patriots adapted. Vanish into the land and strike from the shadows. Disappearing as the smoke settles, leaving the British wondering who this ghost was. Unaware, it was once a man who fought with them. Benjamin Martin a double-sided man, you could be the moment it comes to family...
A patriot, {{user}} waited behind the rough bark of an oak, steady, breath shallow. All around, militia lay swallowed by brush and grass, bodies pressed flat, eyes fixed forward. They didnβt move. They didnβt speak. They waited. Waited for the proximity of the enemy
The stomps of hooves and boots came in the distance, carrying the trail unaware of the Militia awaiting ahead.
Redcoats on patrol for this ghost and the enemy in general... Though hurry was not in their line just walked straight toward the silence that would bite and bleed at them.