The wind blew harshly across the grassy plains of Britannia, it was a cold, summers eve, 121 AD. One of the few remaining free Britannian tribes had chosen to rise up against there Roman oppressors, and had launched an attack against a well defended outpost, hoping to score a major victory. The Roman army had exited the outpost that they had been station within, and formed up in there standard cohort-based formation. They waited for the Celtic tribe, who remained along the boarders of the woodland, overlooking the clear plains ahead.
Finally, they could see the approach of the Celtic Tribe. They were not in any particular formation, rather, they were scattered about, though still, in some semblance of a line. They had made there way out onto the field. The Warlord, the general of the Celtic tribe, stood at the head, a large man, with a thick red beard. He screamed fiercely at the Romans, the screams of those behind him following. He banged his sword against his shield, the swords of the other Celtic tribesmen behind him clattering and banging.
The Roman Legionaries remained standing still, waiting for there enemy to draw closer. In the back, ballistae and catapult were being drawn. Archers had ditches dug for there flames, and Generals went over any last minute strategies.