Knights of Anathaeum For Whom the Ghouls Groan

[Hector]

Everyone knew Wilhelm was, a little obsessive, to put it kindly. Especially when it came to his studies of the pursuits. And even more so when it came to the Pursuit of Death. Which, well, which was a problem.

Squires are not supposed to mess with the pursuit of death. Not unless they are under direct supervision of a Knight ranked Pursuant or above. That's what Syr Edelbert had always said, anyway, and he was a Pursuant of Death, so he had to know. And if Master Grimstone caught a squire so much as sketching a glyph related to Death magic? Well, you were stuck pulling kitchen duty at the Knoll for a month. And that was getting off easy.

Naturally, that meant squires, Wilhelm in particular, got creative whenever they wanted to do some more advanced studies on the matter. Sneaking away tomes from the library. Raising some poor dead rat they...hopefully found dead. Things like that. But, Vos swore once that he had heard Vilhem communing with a spirit in the dead of night. Innis did not seem to believe him though. Said it was probably just him talking with Master Featherwind. Winry , however, totally believed him. Started following Wilhelm around at night even, just to find out.

It was a good thing they did too.



On one such night the moons were new, and the sky was dark. Winry had followed Wilhelm beyond the protection of the henge-wards and into the wilds. They would end up in the Mires of Lant, so named after the expiditioner, Lant Bel, who lead his entire company to ruin. It was a well known spot to older squires, and the stuff of nightmares for the younger ones. A place where Lant had built a fortress that was to be their base of operations as more adventurers and mercenaries cut through the vast wilds of the vale, to find the treasures and fortune that was at its heart.

Of course, Lant did not quite prepare for all the wild beasts and vengeful spirits of the wilderness, and what men and women were loyal enough to follow him into the wilds on such an expedition were slowly ground down to nothing. Story says that on moonless nights, you can find the spirits of those long lost adventurers wandering about the old fortress ruins, looking for a way back home.

Perfect conditions to commune with the dead.

Turns out, communing with the dead is a lot harder than it is made out to be in the old stories. That or the necromancers are just much stronger than you would think.

Still, Vilhelm was lucky Winry was there, because when the undead came crawling out of the ground and clawing after him, Winry was there to pull him out of the stupor he had fallen into when the corpse he had brought back didn't want to talk to him, so much as eat his face off.

Long story made... slightly shorter, Winry told Syr Edelbert. Syr Edelbert told Captain Selene, and Captain Selene said "The squires made the mess, let them clean it up," Captain Helena on the otherhand said that a Knight Sworn needed to accompany them at least. Or a Pursuant, but only if they really wanted to.

Now, Hector found himself before the swamplands that were the Mires of Lant, jaw dropped as he watched so many walking cropses mill about the marshland, a thick fog rolling over the terrain, hiding gods only know what.

"How, how many are there?" the squire could not help but ask.

 

[Jehsalia Ruststone]

It must've been half a life ago that Jehsalia first laid eyes on Lant's murky lands. She'd recently unlocked a new secret from the tattoos scrawled over her arms, and gone to Knight Master Hawken for guidance, who'd in turn brought her out to this place. With so much fatal misfortune in its history, the miserable energies that pervaded the area were well-suited for helping a young medium become acquainted with death.

Sometimes she'd wondered what might happen if the untrained tried to train themselves on matters of death, without the wise oversight of a master. Well, now she knew.

If nothing else, this would be a good lesson for the squires. Jehsalia stood in front of them on the soft earth, dark braid and dark robes both damp with mist. Her fingers were clad in plated gloves and steepled together to form a warding seal, a mask of Death to guard them from the ghouls' notice while they scouted the marsh.

Not that scouting helped much. There were... a lot of the things. Very much a lot. It was entirely possible that Wilhelm had managed to rouse every last member of old Lant's fallen company from their restless sleep. Truly impressive.

"More than there're scales on a garr-hound, I'd wager," she replied to young Hector, voice low, eyes watching a corpse in the distance as it shambled about, its sunken silhouette hazy in the fog. "And any one of them has more brains in their skull than you," she added, sending Wilhelm an iron stare.

On their left flank, five figures emerged over a muddy bank. Their swollen tongues tasted something alive in the air, and their milk-white eyes searched about, fighting to find their meal. As one, the pack shuffled forward. They were not yet able to sense the intruders through the ward, but any closer and the ward would do little good.

 

[Arlo Talworth]

An education upon the nature of Knights of Anathaeum was Sir Arlo's charge, to learn of them and their ways, to learn from them the art of magic that would bolster his own order's practices, and in the end, ultimately, his task was to carry word that would judge this arcane order in the eyes of his own.

The knight of the Enshrined Blades, one Sir Arlo Talworth, had been amongst this unusual knight order's presence a scant two days before this task had been uttered within his presence. Duty to his vows and acceptance of his mission could guide him nowhere else but to the battlefield. He had reasoned what better way to determine their worth, and prove his own to them, by entering the field so readily. And so now he dwelled within the swamp with those who had taken up the cause, steel already drawn and within his hand, near strangers around him now comrades in arms, ready to fight the living dead.

His heart was steady, his hands sure, his brow furrowed, his blue eyes looking out to the enemy that shambled. He felt the ward around him, but did not understand it. Not with his mind, but with his arcane wit did he come to appreciate it. The tingling sensation of being affecting by such a thing. He considered it a sign that this was most assuredly the right place to educate himself. It was a shield of sorts, he deduced, and that was the principle magic which Sir Arlo had been assigned to learn about. He held his tongue in questioning. This was not the time to ask about theory. This was theory in action. And so too, did his own concepts of battle did unfold according to doctrine.

The knight recited the relevant vows under his breath as his eyes looked out to the animated corpses that threatened their position.

"Let others look to me for the quickness in step to advance the cause, never let my heart be saddened by another moment to continue the fight, let me be joyful in my work, let me be assured in my zeal."

This almost spurred the knight into action immediate. To charge forward, longsword in hand, to butcher and to end the animated there and there. Such would be an easy path. But one frought with danger. Their foes numbers were great, and he sought not to betray the tactics that his new found comrades displayed and would demonstrate. Consignment in battle was a difficult lesson, it was easier to yield to immediate action to quell the trepidation and uncertainty of battle than to wait. But wait Sir Arlo did.

He gripped his longsword and readied his own minor magics to activate with a thought. He handle of his blade felt lighter within his hand, and he knew that once a stroke was delivered, it would ignite into blue flame to assist his cleaving. He looked to the others in his group.

A group, he thought, of those committed to the knightly ways. He was unsure of their worthiness or their capacity for warfare, but this was the moment in which they might display the merit of their training. He breathed in deeply and visualised the cuts he might deliver upon the enemy, and reminded himself that he fought with others, to watch his backswing, to fight with the just properly.

And so another vow was uttered by his tongue from the twelve principle vows of the Enshrined Blade.

"The just are worthy of providence, and so, I work to reinforce their presence."

He ended his recitation of vows, satisfied that he had bolstered his purpose so. He raised his voice to be heard by the rest of his group, but not so much to bring the attentions of the dead. He respected what chain of command was here. It would not do to supplant this order's methods. He reminded himself that he was here to learn according to their manner.

“Merely give the word and I shall dispatch this handful, silent as their past grave. Unless you seek to infiltrate further, Knight of Dusk? To use brain now instead of brawn immediate? Direct, and I shall enact.”

Arlo spoke assuredly, as if cutting down their number was a simple task, as one might take food from a mess hall.

He looked to the squire and smiled. He had seen the fellow's jaw drop in sighting the enemy. Sir Arlo's features were determined, but in this moment as he looked towards the squire, it was almost as if he was enjoying a piece of theatre, as if he welcomed the next act as much as he was enjoying the present one. A smile crept upon him as he felt the exhilaration and tension. Battle was to be drawn soon, and he might see those who he was assigned to react according. The number of undead did not deter him, he was confident in his own abilities to cut, but should the horde entire sweep upon them, he was not sure if he could battle his way out.

He awaited direction with a glad heart that he had been given this opportunity to see such odds be defied by fellow aspirants of chivalry, courage, order, and the art of violence.

 

[Innis]

Of course Innis was there with the band of squires, not only because mucking after the undead in an abandoned ruin was right up her alley, but because the stranger Knight had volunteered his blade for the task as well. Ever since he'd started staying at the monastery, she'd developed a distant interest him, with his different spells and funny cantor of speech. She didn't really understand half of what he said, including today, but that hadn't dampened her curiosity about the man yet.

"Well, I don't know about all that..." Innis cut in after the guest knight finished his statement. "But I can tell you there's about ten more on the other side of the bank." She cocked her head to one side - risking her hat falling into the muck - as if she were listening to something. "Maybe twelve. Some of them are like, only half formed."

It was unusual for a squire to know enough about the Pursuit of Death to sense the undead. Forbidden, actually. But Innis wasn't like Wilhelm - it wasn't anything she'd ever had to practice. From the time of her earliest memories, she could just sense all things ghoulish and ghastly. Innis didn't think much of the ability. Despite it being the whole reason the order had scouted her out as a kid in the first place, it didn't come up very often at the monastery. Except when Master Featherwind didn't feel like manifesting, and wanted her to run some errand or other for him.

Innis scratched at her cheek with one finger, pouting at the slowly approaching horde of five. Maybe she should just keep her mouth shut and let Syr Jehsalia handle the medium work. People might get the wrong idea.

Nah, the practical thought fled her mind as soon as it entered. This was a perfect opportunity to practice stuff that was normally above her rank.

"Let me run the other ones in circles so we don't get flanked," Innis announced with new resolve. Pulling a glass bottle from her beltloop, she uncorked the blue mixture and blew on the top of it. Out came an ephemeral smoke, that settled onto the ground in the shape of a skeletal cat-thing, skull and rib bones given bulk by a swirling mist.

"Innis, not you too!" Winry gasped from next to her.

"Shut up, Winry," she snapped back. "This is a familiar summon, it's not the same as a corpse at all. The fact that its shaped like a skeleton is completely coincidental."

Arlo Talworth Jehsalia Ruststone Hector

 

[Rangvaldr Tal'deneshaar]

The Mires of Landt. Nothing truly extraordinary, but a simple cut through for a much larger adventure. At least, it should have been. He had heard rumors of undead, and so he set forth to deal with them. Though the area was quite the marsh, there were areas where a horse could walk, gallop, even build up speed for a charge. The gods were with him this night, because he was fortunate to see the commotion on solid ground.

Undead. He didn't need to be within a yard of them to know what he was looking at. They were shambling and a vast number of them were closing on a small group of people. Possibly a knight by the looks of it and several squires.

He cursed and readied his lance for the charge. Any day was as good as the other to die. Today was no different. His free hand would reach for his horn, then lift it to his lips. He would blow the Horn of Tal'deneshaar with a single, mighty burst. Silence would befall the undead as he drove his spurs into his war horse, urging it forward.

Horn released and dropped into its sling as he reached for his shield. There was no going back. "Be without fear in the face of your enemies. Be brave and upright so that the Gods may love thee." He mused as the shield hand raised to lower the visor of his helm and he cradled the lance. "Speak the truth always, even if it leads to your death. Safeguard the helpless, do no wrong."

Before him, the horde began to shift towards him. His head lowered. "That is your oath.." he heard his fathers voice in his head. This was just, the gods willed it. "And this is so you remember it." Valdr would brace as lance drove through re-animated, and horse trampled through the mob.

As the lance got caught in the corpses of several undead, he released the weapon and pulled his warpick, roaring as he drove the pick side into the head of the first enemy, causing the mass to drop. He would then lean forward in the saddle to swing downward on another, the hammer side crushing the head entirely and freeing his mount from the burden it was dragging.

Breaking through the mass, he would twist in his saddle, causing the horse to turn and prepare for another charge. He had lost sight of the small party. There was a hill and then another small group of undead just before the bank, to where he thought the others were. The dead were stirring and they had to be put to rest.

Innis Arlo Talworth Jehsalia Ruststone Hector

 

[Osuin]

What to do with the squires….

The pursuit of knowledge is appealing, and forbidden knowledge even more so. But there is a reason that forbidden knowledge is considered such, and this lesson would soon be imparted on the other squires, lest the get the same or similar ideas as Wilhelm had. Maybe Selene had seemed harsh on them, but she had to be. This was not an act the knights could allow them to repeat. Having to face against the result could serve an invaluable argument as to why the wisdom of their elders ought be heeded. Even the best behaved and most obedient would find a lesson here.

It might also dissuade the notion that Winry was a snitch. Which, well, was the case, but it was for the greater good that it was so. Osuin too had been a squire, and he may have gotten away with the odd bout of mischief himself in his younger years. But not anything like this, and even as a younger and more rebellious man had he ever committed such an act as Wilhelm. This was well beyond what any squire should consider covering up. Dealing with the resulting mess may just drive that point home, and expunge Winry for bringing it to their attention.

Officially, they shouldn’t cover anything up. But Osuin wasn’t about to forget the rebelliousness of youths…

He hardly had to be here himself, with Jehsalia present and watching over the squires. Better that he was even if he needn’t be, he reasoned. This was neither an exercise nor training, and the mettle of the squires would be tested by the undead monstrosities they’d been bid to clean up. It provided a perfect opportunity to observe how they perform, guide those who needed help, and protect those who might really need help. Lant sure could’ve used help; these mires might not be named for him if he had it.

Thick plates of armour jostled with muffled metallic clattering at each stride the bulky knight took, until visions of the undead could be seen. There in the distance, the mess that Wilhelm had made could be seen shambling about. By all appearances, none of them had yet noticed the knights on their arrival.

"How, how many are there?" Hector asked. Which was a good question. There seemed to be quite a few visible already, and Osuin didn’t doubt there’d be even more lying beyond. A fact Innis confirmed, revealing there must be at least ten more waiting further on. At least – Osuin felt sure there would be many more. Innis seemed to agree.

"And any one of them has more brains in their skull than you,"Added Jehsalia, scolding Wilhelm further. A warranted attitude, but the boy surely must be aware of how badly he’d screwed up by now. Especially with the evidence so clear before him. If he didn’t, there was simply no helping a squire so ignorant. Not all were cut out for the Order.

Though some from outside of the Order were cut out to serve beside them. One Arlo Talworth happened to be such an individual, who could be heard reciting the vows of his Order in preparation for battle. Such a mess Wilhelm had made, that that knights of more than one order were present. Arlo stood ready to cut these undead down – had even offered to charge forth and dispatch them himself. Which did earn a look from Osuin, who eyed him at the statement.

“Merely give the word and I shall dispatch this handful, silent as their past grave. Unless you seek to infiltrate further, Knight of Dusk? To use brain now instead of brawn immediate? Direct, and I shall enact.” Spoke Arlo.Was he serious? Full of himself? Arlo was not intent on rushing the undead, but that charging forth head-on was an option for him was odd, to say the least. Maybe he had abilities beyond their knowledge, or perhaps he was reckless. Time would tell, and Osuin was curious to see the work of a Knight foreign to the Order of Anathaeum.

"Innis, not you too!" Winry gasped, and Osuin's attention was stolen away in an instant. At her feet was a cat, or something that resembled one. At least, the skeleton thereof, anyhow.

“Innis, what is that thing?” Osuin asked, though by the tone of the Knight Pursuant it was surely clear to the squire that he was not making a simple inquiry, but demanding explanation.

 

[Lorinna Astarel]

Lorinna had set herself down on one of the rocks to check her armour and to gather her resolve before the fighting started. She didn't have a magical bone in her body and certainly didn't bring any expertise to the group.

The socialite that still resided deep inside her had baulked at the notion of missing out on anything. Even, apparently, wading through what appeared to be a small army of the dead.

"What a monumental fuck up," she muttered under her breath. Her mother would have feinted at such language.

Her armour was well fitted. It was going to provide a lot of protection against unarmed undead fiends. They would need to drag her down into the mud to kill her. Lorinna knew she needed to keep moving and avoid being surrounded.

She unsheathed her longsword. A shield would be of little use, so she had a heavy mace hanging from her belt. It was the kind that could easily crunch skulls. She had never killed a man before, she supposed cutting apart an undead creature would provide some insight on what that might be like. From one perspective, anyway.

As a squire, the other insightful experience would be finding out what cleaning rotting flesh from armour was like. The smell was offensive enough at a distance.

She stood bolt upright at the sound of a horn. Another rider charging through the Mires of the Lant. They were not fleeing, but charging with lance.

"Do we attack?" Lorinna asked.

 

[Alaric Wulf]

Muck and grime on his boots as Alaric trudged boredly behind the others. The newly oathed Dusk Knight was less than enthused about helping squires clean up after themselves. He swung his sword idly, a swagger in his step as the encountered their first shambling flesh eaters. The group halted and an exchange of words between several of the party members ensued. Alaric groaned internally, if they stopped to talk about every instance before attack, this was going to take all night.

The dead had yet to notice them as the group talked, and got distracted by each other. Was he really the only one paying any real attention? No, the one reciting the oaths seemed every bit as in tune as he was. Alaric sighed and propped his blade on his shoulder as he waited for things to get started. He was not the senior knight here, so there was naught for him to do but wait.

The sound of a horn echoed across the marsh and he lifted his head. The thundering hoofbeats soon heard after. A man on a horse was bolting through the marsh directly at them, no at the dead. "Really, blowing a horn to attract them all. How dumb can you get?" Alaric rolled his shoulders and watched the man decimate the undead. He sighed and threw a hand up. "Might as well get ready folks, they'll all be making their way here now."

 

[Hector]

Scoldings and warnings and the groans of the approaching dead. Hector's heart quickened.

Breath in, breath out. Relax. You can do this. They are just shambling dead. Slow, easy to hit. Keep them from swarming, and all will be well. Syr Osuin is here, as is Syr Ruststone, and Syr Wulf. Captain Helena made sure you and the others would be safe. Breath in, breath out. All will be well. You are not alone.

Sir Arlo began reciting what sounded like vows of his own order. An intensity there in his vows that called forth images of destruction, gleeful and without doubt. But they did not harken his young heart. Only filled his own head with more doubt. Why could he not summon such certainty? Why did he question each step and action?

Innis called forth her familiar. Said she would pull the attention of a horde. Lorinna had ommitted her shield and was ready for the attack. Even Winry and Wilhelm had drawn their steel. Hector gulped, and pulled his shortsword from its sheath. The enchanted thing gleamed with a streak of dawn-fire across its polished blade. He had made it in the forges of the Monastery under the watchful eye of Master Alduin, and its weight gave him comfort, helped him remember his own mettle.

The blast of a horn sounded out, and Hector's eyes could see the rider breaking through the waves of corpses. "I'll take the point!" Hector barked out, heat in his throat and stomach full of fire as he stiffened his shield arm. "Squires, this is our mess! We can't let strangers take care of it for us!" He looked back at them, and raised his blade without thought. "For Anathaeum!" he cried out, turned and charged to the shamble of five.

Breaking out of the obscuring veil, he crashed into one zombie with his bulwark, the corpse fell to the ground, but he did not finish it, instead, Hector turned to a ghoul to his right, inside the guard of his shield and slashed out with a cut that saw its neck cleaved through, rotten flesh sizzled and burned with the magic of enchanted fire that coursed through his blade.

Winry was there with him, stabbing through eye of a Zombie to Hector's left. Eyes wide with disgust before Winry kicked the two times corpse to the ground.

 

[Jehsalia Ruststone]

Jehsahlia, fingers still locked together to maintain their ward, glanced sideways to Sir Arlo as he murmured under his breath. She couldn't quite hear the words, but cadence and tone made clear that they were some sort of preparatory chant. Truly fascinating, the traditions of other knightly orders. She still wondered at the wisdom of bringing an outsider along to the squires' lesson, but the captains had assured her that the Enshrined Blade would not require extra protection. And what the captains said, went.

Sir Arlo asked about their next step. Jehsalia hummed in thought.

"We've scouted enough. Safe to say it's a fine mess out here, one that needs cleaning up."

Innis offered a distraction. The familiar she summoned had Osuin asking questions, but Jehsalia wasn't concerned. The cat might've looked like a dead thing, but she could tell it wasn't a dead thing, and that was good enough.

Before Jehsalia could answer, a blast of noise suddenly echoed. Heads both dead and living swung in its direction.

"What the-"

Jehsalia squinted at the sight. There was a warrior on horseback charging down the undead, not one of theirs and not one of Sir Arlo's. A well-meaning stranger, then, caught up in the righteous desire to purge the mire? Whoever he was, he crashed into the undead with the violence of a thunderbolt. He was probably fine. Probably.

The stranger disappeared over the crest of a hill.

"Do we attack?" asked Lorinna, longsword at the ready.

"Might as well get ready," said Alaric, and Jehsalia agreed with her fellow Dusk Knight's assessment.

She dropped her hands. As the Death Ward faded, the air around their group would seem a little colder, a little sharper, the stench of corpses pushing a little deeper into their nostrils. Now the only obstacles between them and the packs of roaming undead were their own steel and might.

Hector volunteered to take point, shield leading the way. Jehsalia nodded at him, approval glinting in her eyes.

"Too right you can't let strangers do your jobs for you. And you can't let them out-do you, either. Go on, show them the will of Anathaeum!'

As they charged forth, Jehsalia would follow at the rear, content to let the squires serve as the tip of their spear, and her fellow knights support the youngsters as they saw fit. None of the shambling corpses on the field were true threats to the squires yet, though if she sensed a shift in the mire's energies, Jehsalia would of course leap to their defense.

Some distance off to Jehsalia's right, a lone corpse sprang out of the fog, closing the distance to her with admirable speed for one whose legs were half-rotted. The edge of Jehsalia's shadow rippled--and a single tendril shot out, straight as an arrow, black as the night. The creature jolted to a stop, pale eyes rolling to regard how the tendril had impaled it through the forehead, and exited the back of its skull. The tendril flexed, undulating like a snake. There was a quiet snapping noise as the undead's head was wrenched off its neck and flung deep into the mists. The rest of the body crumpled shortly after.

The tendril retreated back into Jehsalia's shadow and went still. She continued on, her stride unbroken, watchful for signs that any of the squires were in trouble.

 

[Arlo Talworth]

Sir Arlo's listened to Innis' headcount and nodded. Twelve at first and then more to cut, Arlo thought, a simple matter. A heartbeat passed, and his thoughts turned to consider if it was by hearing alone that Innis made such a count. The answers to such a question would have to wait he knew. As would the education on what the skeletal thing the squire produced to aid them, except the lesson upon the name of such a thing, a 'familiar summon'.

Familiars, Arlo had heard of such a thing, but knew the scant mention of such things offered him no method of application. Toads, and rats, and cats, things he had read of witches and the like. Not something to be stored in a bottle, a thing of vapour. He contained the thought within his mind to inquire upon, and perhaps report upon. Familiars. I truly am amongst the spell witted, Arlo thought.

And then a blast of sound declared the galloping of hooves that followed. Such sounds were familiar to Arlo, the art of the lance, the boldness of the charge, and he embraced the rallying call as he felt his blood quicken to the pace of what unfolded. A worthy one that did charge, and from the sound it seemed as if they were only one person that did engage so readily. A roar from noble throat as combat was meted out. Good, Arlo thought. I am not alone in the readiness to fight alone. Whoever was out there served as their own champion, and to our advantage.

The one known as Osuin made their inquiry concerning the familiar. So this was not a common technique to bring forth such a thing, or universal syllabus to the squires, Arlo thought. Arlo rotated his right shoulder, blade held stiffly within the hand as his thoughts carried out it's duty to the task he had been assigned. He held the blade as if it weighed nothing at all, but Sir Arlo's subtle magic had already had an effect upon his weaponry. Violence was a simple thing upon the ghouls. His mission in completeness was a subtler thing. But one that demanded violence all the same.

Lorinna stood bolt upright, and Arlo followed suit. The question as to if they should attack was asked. Sir Arlo's hands itched at the question, and appreciated how strange a task he had been assigned had been. Not to lead, not to be a champion, not to protect a figure of renown, but to learn, and to report. How it fought against his training to engage single handedly. But he knew that there were value in being so tempered, so tested. To follow the direction of this martial lot was not such a bad condition, he thought.

And then the first blot of firmly black ink did stain the page. Alaric made their statement concerning the stupidity of the knight who did blast the horn, who kicked the stirrups, who charged in to such a mass of targets. Stupidity, was it, to uphold valour, Sir Arlo thought with scorn in his heart. He took a sharp intake of breath and resisted casting a baleful eye at this one. All that was revealed was an upturning of Arlo's mouth at the sound of such a statement. It spurred him to commit to the fight so that he might not suffer Alaric's company without some impression of his own ability to dole out cuts. Alaric's manner of speech was offensive, the weakness of it. 'Might as well get ready', those words uttered by Alaric etched themselves into Sir Arlo's memory. It contrasted his own method of language, the direction of the vow of lexicon. To speak properly was a vow upheld. To suffer such dismissive language threatened to sap his comrades of their will to fight. Sir Arlo could have spoken at length as to why this manner of speech was unworthy, but it was not the time. Such a rebuke would be unworthy to his purpose in the order, and function on the field.

But then the speeches came from others. Hector and Jehsalia offered their voices, and Arlo smiled wickedly at hearing it. So, my presence as an outsider spurs them on in some way to do greater deeds he thought. All too familiar function that. To battle it was then upon such words.

Arlo readied his blade to the his right shoulder, and became aware of a changing in temperature, yet did not deduce that it was due to the death ward being dropped. Sir Arlo wondered what that could mean, for he lacked the thorough arcane education to know such a sign. It was not a natural thing, he knew this much, but just attributed it to lingering necromancy of the enemy, not the host he was part of.

Arlo advanced and considered that the squires were the first to lead, with the knights supporting behind them. It reminded him of being supported during his time of being a squire, of rigorous training against beasts with true Enshrined Blades affording reinforcement to them in the proving grounds. He himself had not instructed any squires of his own order, but at this moment, he realised that should he prove successful in his studies under this particular order, he would be expected to teach what he had learned, to bolster their defenses to arcane assault.

Jehsalia served their purpose with magic, and at first Arlo thought it was some diablerie that afflicted them instead of serving them. As her shadow did strike out at a distant enemy Arlo both marveled at such an action and was somewhat chilled by the notion of using such darkness. There had been much talk of the Knights of Anathaeum using magic to their ends, but no reports had made mention of so much darkness in their application.

Am I to side myself with such dark practitioners, Arlo thought as he took up position on the right flank. But upon this musing, he saw a magic that he recognised so similar to his own performance of the arcane. The enchantment of a wielded blade, to ignite it in fire and fury as it did perform the cuts in the hands of Hector. Good, Arlo thought, I might find some common ground after all.

As if the fire around Hector's blade did kindle Arlo's own steel, the longsword within the Enshrined Blade's gauntlets did ignite in kind, a wreathing blue flame wrapped lovingly around the sharpness of his weapon at Arlo's command. He mounted a small raise in the ground to the right flank of their movements and looked to his duties to combat. There would be time for questions, there would be time for education, of talk and talk and talk, but now, he knew it was time to apply himself to the deeds to which all knights are called as their most basic and essential function: the crushing of an enemy.

The foe did reveal themselves in heaving, shambling fashion upon the group's right flank, which Arlo stood ready to meet alone as they shifted forward. Eight ghouls did slowly, but with increasing momentum and hatred towards the living in each footfall and raised claw and tooth, engage. The wicked smile upon Arlo's face remained as he committed himself with all the brutality that was required of his ilk. His steel was lightened by magic he commanded, and burned with blue flame that quietened the living dead which met it's bite. Two strong cuts delivered cleaved the first two in twain, diagonally cutting through the trunks with ease, the ichor from such grievous wounds evaporating from the sting he delivered. The separated midsections did collapse upon themselves and the blue flames crackled as if fed by such executions.

Three more did approach, assuming all the strategy of the horde, clambering in an unorganised and willful gait to meet him. Arlo pivoted upon his position and delivered quick strokes that met little resistance. These were not intelligent foes with weapon to parry and counter, they were but meat to be cleaved apart. The knight found little satisfaction in such smooth executions of combat, there was no resistance in the dead flesh, no salute offered or received, this was butchery, fair and simple. And fast was the knight's blade, each cut flowing into the next, his feet moving on the uneven ground with all experience and assuredness.

His brow was knitted, his eyes sternly fixed to the right, his ears attentive to the sound of combat behind him and his footwork expertly delivered, the knight held off more ghouls that would seek to envelope. He held his blade to his hip and thrust forward towards the skull of one, ending it's animation with a redoubling of blue flame, and then whirled the blade across and down efficiently at another. He did not seem troubled in the least by being engaged with such foulness, yet he carried out his duty with all the seriousness it demanded. He was glad to be able to swing his blade apart from the others, with space to operate such cuts.

The work required was performed in the space of but six steady heart beats, the eight who had mounted their assault had been quelled, stilled, ended. Arlo exhaled a heated breath through his nose, his muscles primed from such exercise. But there were more to come, Arlo saw as much, and Arlo knew that he could not remain static for fear of losing those who he was attending and appraising.

Arlo sprang down to join the host once again and looked to his comrades. His deeds were carried out without battlecry, and everyone had their own actions. He expected and looked for no praise. No noble speech was upon his lips, but he kept his eye upon the one who had deemed the charge of the mounted knight stupid with great spiteful interest. Years of being told that the Enshrined Blades were the elite of the elite, the paragons of the vow and the keepers of the spirit of the knightly ways had engrained upon him a sense of pride, and contempt towards those who might carry out the path of chivalry with undeserved nonchalance. He saw a felled ghoul rise up again, and thrust the flaming blade through it's neck.

A disabling cut delivered by a squire no doubt, followed up by an ending one at my hand, Arlo thought bitterly. He considered that while the enemies fell to the squires, they might not end each one completely. Sir Arlo decided to keep an awareness of what rose behind them and to their sides, to aid Jehsalia's tactics of support with flaming blow and stern heart. It was to the rest to charge through completely.

 

[Lorinna Astarel]

Lorinna didn't have any magical abilities for the fight. All she had was steel and near perfect form in its application. Form, drilling into her through countless hours of training, that was for fighting another living person with a sword.

She kept close to Alaric Wulf and several others as she advanced. The last thing she wanted was to get surrounded and dragged down into the mud. Her armour would count for nothing then.

Facing off against one of the beasts - with perfect form - she braces herself. The ghoul came at her, heedless of the danger. The tip of her sword broke through its gut, but it kept coming forwards. Another slow step, driving the blade deeper through itself. Lorinna gasped in horror.

She dropped her longsword, yanking the mace from her belt and swinging it hard. It cracked the creature's jaw and sent it stumbling before it could throw its weight at her.

 

[Innis]

A lot of the goings-on around Innis were missed. She was too concerned with Osuin's scolding tone, as he interrogated her on the summon at her feet. It wasn't fair, everyone else got to cast their spell. Hector and Arlo's swords glowed bright through the marshland mist, and Syr Jehsalia did that scary-cool thing with her shadow. A cat in a bottle was really nothing compared to that.

Several other things happened. A horn was sounded off in the distance, Syr Ruststone dropped the barrier that shielded them from the rotted senses of the dead, and the other squires got down to business. The horn hadn't been one of theirs, Innis noted to herself as she unsheathed her own dainty sword from her side. Perhaps a comrade of Syr Arlo's? She couldn't tell from this distance.

Even with all the commotion, Innis had a dreadful feeling that Osuin would not let her go without a proper explanation. She decided not to wander off too far, lest she worry the Dawn Pursuant more. "It's a piece of my mana fermented around a malleable core," she began. "In this case sifted chrysocolla powder and hickory smoke--"

With Syr Ruststone's ward not protecting them anymore, a few more visitors noticed their ranks. All those that had not stirred to action yet would need to soon, because the undead were shambling their way. Some were crawling out of the muck itself, bolts of muddy water sloughing off their exposed innards like fabric untied.

"Just a moment," Innis called out to Syr Osuin, reassuring him that she had not abandoned the explanation.

She dodge a wet and squelching swing from an already mostly dislocated arm, and thwacked the undead that had assaulted her soundly in the torso with her sword. It didn't even cut through, just sort of stuck between a couple of ribs. Perfect form, Innis did not have.

Wiggling her sword free, she huffed and backed away from the shambling thing. And the other shambling things that were next to it, too. The cat creature leapt to her defense, bravely standing off against the much bigger undead, and Innis picked her sentence back up as if there had been no interruption at all. "...then I left it in a bottle for awhile until the mixture's form congealed into a co-dependent familiar summon with an elemental range similar to my own."

The creature was a wisp of scalding steam as it leapt at the throat of a corpse. Then it was cold and spiked as ice as its claws dug in to soft flesh and rotted bone. Frost crackled over the corpse's joints, slowing its already creaking movements to a a halt.

Innis wasn't the flaming sword type, but she could at least make these things easier for Lorinna to shatter with that big mace of hers.

 

[Osuin]

A knight of a foreign order was already deep into the masses of undead on horseback, slaying them by lance while surrounded. Another squire of Anathaem threw out a comment regarding tactics and communication. For the better that he was here, given the attitude the Knight Pursuant reasoned he had much to learn.

"It's a piece of my mana fermented around a malleable core," she began. "In this case sifted chrysocolla powder and hickory smoke--" Innis began to explain, but the hordes advancing on them quelled any opportunity for continued conversation. She had more to say, but the explanation given thus far was cause enough for Osuin to cease with his concerns. As long as it was her own creation constructed from own mana, Osuin had little to worry about. All he wanted to know was that it wasn’t brought forth by something unknown. They were already dealing with a problem sparked by one squire’s attempt to wield magic he shouldn’t have.

Doubtful that Innis would do such a thing intentionally, she was still a squire and he a Knight Pursuant and thus, still felt obligated to confirm this. While concern may be fitting, Winry’s tone and immediate leap to conclusion wasn’t. Osuin hadn’t seen Innis summon it, but he couldn’t imagine that the act of doing so should cause such alarm. He might need to address the spurious reaction with Winry afterwards, lest such unwarranted distrust in comrades fester in attitude.

But the time for talk was later – the time for battle was upon them. With shield and sword brandished in hand, the Knight Pursuant pushed forth to meet those foes accosting them. A swing of his blade found purchase against the neck of a shambling ghoul, nearly decapitating it outright. Another approached from his flank during the attack, and Osuin shoved his round shield sharply into the oncoming threat to knock it towards the ground. Another swing of his sword brought the blade against the chest of the foe who now lay prone on his back, breaking through ribs and cleaving into decayed flesh.

Innis manage to slay one of the foul creatures herself. While her form left something to be desired, the thing was good and slain. The very familiar Osuin had inquired about leapt to her defence next, leaping to accost numerous other ghouls threatening her with their approach. With the moment of respite, Innis continued with her interrupted explanation from earlier.

"...then I left it in a bottle for awhile until the mixture's form congealed into a co-dependent familiar summon with an elemental range similar to my own." She concluded. She needn't continue with further worry, he was content the magic was her own and would promptly express it. Osuin simply turned to her, concern now absent from his tone.

“All good if the magic is yours, and not some occult oddity. Don’t fret about it.” he responded, moving forth immediately after with his round shield held in front of him. Osuin bashed the shield against the skull of another ghoul with a sickening crack, his sword held in hand and ready to slay any further foes who approached.

 

[Rangvaldr Tal'deneshaar]

Valdr could hear the sounds of battle approaching, so it had worked as intended. Many of the undead had turned to mounted warrior, exposing their flanks to the freshly joining Knights.

His second pass had gone well, more of the undead lie defeated. "Syr Edeldbert would have been handy for this.." he mused, sweat now gathering at his brow. ".. even Drast.." he readied the third charge, blowing his horn a second time to draw the enemy once more.

Spurs dug into coursers side and he was off, racing once more towards the enemy. The warpick had been tucked into its belt loop and he had readied his third lance. Only two left.

He crashed into the enemy, lance holding out in this onslaught, until he felt a drag on his mount. They were trying to claw at his courser's underside. Shield swung down to knock one back, while that leg kicked up and over the horses head. In a practiced movement, he dismounted his horse, colliding into the group of gathered undead. Their collapse would free his horse, and soften his own landing. Recovering in a roll, he would drive the lance down into the trio, trapping them on the ground. He didn't worry about his courser from there, it was well trained.

Shield arm tightened to withstand the charge of an undead and with a little added weight, shoved it back. As it stumbled, he would take his shield in two hands and drive it downward, severing the head of the ghoul. Valdr's hand would then drift to his family's sword, a blade forged of silver from his fathers homeland. It glowed like starlight and cut through the undead as if it were a heated knife through butter.

Soon, the horrid screams of the undying replaced the Tal'deneshaar horn blasts. Separated from his shield, he fought with an overhead two-handed grip. Wide arcs for clearance would cut down the ghoul who thought it happened upon an easy meal.

 

[Alaric Wulf]

In a whirlwind, the squires broke for the undead. Alaric and the other knights followed at a slower pace letting them lead the charge. They were only here to make sure the squires didn't die after all. Groaning undead crawled and scurried seemingly everywhere. It was a big cleanup task, but lessons would be learned through this.

Lorinna stuck close to him and he watched her approach of her first foe. Already she was struggling a little, and the ghoul was yet to be finished. She caused it to stumble back, and Alaric stepped forward and with a lazy swing of his sword, he impaled it through its skull. He looked back at the girl and gestured for her to continue her assault as he slid his blade from the decaying flesh of the undead. "Keep going, I have your back."

Alaric sidestepped another ghoul, it's clinging fingers only grasping air. He turned with a flourish, another lazy swing to behead the foul creature. He scanned ahead, it seemed some of the undead were not as easy foes as the bulk of the group. Extra juice? Didn't matter, they'd all be put down.

 

[Hector]

Each breath could be heard in his ears. Loud, and louder. His heart pumped and pumped, and he could feel the throb of arteries in his neck. How vulnerable he felt, as blood rushed furiously through him, the stench of the rotten foes thick in the air. The sound of his comrades crashing into their enemies dulled. Muffled. By his own sounds.

Two down and still many more to go.

The crackle and hiss of ice sounded chill in his ears, his eyes scanned for his companion. Part of training together was getting to know each other's limits. Strengths and weaknesses. Innis was confident in her abilities. Never one for the front, but finding the weakness of her foes and maximizinf the strength of her fellows. Even if her encouragement oft came from a swift rebuke. Winry was never far behind from the action and quick to act, even if it got them into trouble some times. Wilhelm, well, he was Wilhelm. Then there was Lorinna, she was keen of eye and swift of form, and seemed to rarely back down. Even if she had no magic of her own.

He would remember that for when the fighting was thicker.

The squire glanced out at the field, saw the rider charge through the mass of undead once again, trampling many under foot until he was forced to dismount. In a show of skill, the gallant stranger seemed to crash against ghouls turned ticks, and roll up to his feet, silver of his sword flashing in the low light of the moon, felling walking corpse after walking corpse.

"To me!" Hector cried out both to him and his fellow squires, and surged forward, headlong into another mass of undead. Winry gulped but followed suit.

Hector raised his kite shield and caught a shambling corpse there upon its planks. Its arms flailed and its undead clutches tried to scratch at him. But he had seen the thing coming. Measured its approach. He groaned and shoved it off of him, his head turned and his eyes found the shape of the undead man. A hack from his shortsword down where the arm met the shoulder saw the limb hacked clean off with a squelch. He huffed hot air through his nose, drew in a breath as he brought his blade up, arm cocked as he took aim, and thrust its magicked point through the neck. Felt the spine pop free, and ripped his sword out to the right.

Hot breaths left his lungs, but he turtled behind his shield, he eased back toward the line of his allies. His boot snagged, his weight throne off he jerked, nearly lost his footing but managed to recover. He looked down and saw a pair of hands latched around his ankle. "Shit!" he cursed, and tried to yank his foot free, but other zombies were already encroaching upon him as the one bellow him seemed to try and pull him into the soft earth.

"Hector!" Winry cried out, and cut down one shambleman with a hack to the knees and a quick stab in the brain, but his sword got stuck in the bone. "Oh no!" he ditched the weapon.

"Winry, here!" Hector called out and tossed him his short-sword.

With deft hands, Winry grabbed the enchanted weapon and sliced down another foe.

 

[Lorinna Astarel]

Frost crackled over the corpse's joints, slowing its already creaking movements to a a halt.

Innis wasn't the flaming sword type, but she could at least make these things easier for Lorinna to shatter with that big mace of hers.

"Keep going, I have your back."

The squire breathed out hard and turned her head just a fraction to offer a nod of thanks towards Alaric.

Lorinna then turned towards the ghoul that was being frozen in place. She liftwd her mace high and swung it down from above her right shoulder.

It's frosted skin shattered with the impact. Against the weight of the mace bone was next to give way. With a bit of clear space around her, she retrieved her sword from the dead - or double dead - ghoul. She had to place a foot on its sternum and yank it free.

"To me!" Hector cried out both to him and his fellow squires, and surged forward, headlong into another mass of undead.

Keeping the mace in her left hand and longsword in her right, Lorinna chased into the pointed wedge of weapons that crashed into the undead.

If they kept a lose line then they would keep anyone from being surrounded and dragged down into the bog.

 

[Jehsalia Ruststone]

Jehsalia had a clear view of the carnage in her role as rearguard, and it was splendid. Here and there burst gouts of flame, the red and blue tongues a beautiful sight against the mire's murky backdrop. A sound like fragile glass echoed as Innis's cat darted about the battlefield, trailing pale smoke in its wake, and she could see Alaric supporting Lorinna in a moment where the girl seemed to struggle. Osuin's practiced butchery was lovely in its own way, each flash of steel winking in the fog like the light of a distant star.

Through the cacophony of violence cut another blast of the horn. Jehsalia took her eyes off the strange warrior, now dismounted and wielding a blade that gleamed like precious metal, and cast her attention in a wider net, stretching her awareness across the mire.

She could sense all of them, these lost souls from Lant's company, every single one that seethed in rage for what they'd lost, and now sought to reclaim from living trespassers. Drawn by noise and smell and sound, the press of undead rolled in with crushing force like water down a whirlpool, with the gathering of knights at its center. Still, Jehsalia was unafraid. Witnessing what she had of her comrades' prowess, she doubted any force the shambling corpses could muster was capable of breaking through their dam.

A ripple of presence behind her turned Jehsalia's head. Across the marshland came a fresh wave of enemies, their hungry groans rising from the darkness like steam from a cup. She faced them, steadied her armored heels in the mud, and slammed a gauntleted fist into her palm.

The corpses charged, their voices coming together in a death rattle. Jehsalia's shadow pulsed. Two spikes speared forth to knock the nearest pair of undead off their feet, their chests pierced through by deepest black. A third and fourth charged onward, unable to feel fear.

Jehsalia caught one's wrist as it tried to grab her neck. A vicious twist tore off the rotten hand completely, and a sweep of her leg broke both its knees, toppling it into the muck. The other dove in for a deadly hug, arms wide. Jehsalia sidestepped the attack easily. As it passed her by, she swung around and slammed her fist into its back. Vertebrae shattered under the blow, and that foe too, dropped to the mud.

Her veins hummed with thrill, the magick of her Steel Body feeling as pleasant as silk over her skin. Jehsalia's foot lashed out once, then twice, crushing the skulls of the fallen. The sticky grip of the mire's foul air seemed a little lighter now as those souls cut down by her brethren faded away, in their re-death released from suffering.

 

[Rangvaldr Tal'deneshaar]

Valdr didn't need to look to know the others were headed for him, he could hear it with the squelch of every repeated death. And he had more pressing matters to worry about.

Silvered blade lunged forward, piercing the rotting flesh of the corpse before him. He could feel the heat as creature turned to ash in a most hideous scream, hopefully for the soul to be returned to rest. Yet he had no time to dally. His left bracer lifted to catch the clamping jaw of a ghoul that had leapt at him from the side. Cursing, silver slid along steel as he forced his blade through the creatures teeth and up through its skull.

With his wrist free, he stepped around the ghoul and grabbed ahold of the blade with both gauntlets, yanking the cross guard through the ashing skull and swinging the cross guard into the jugular of the next. A sickening squelch as a fresh spray of coagulated blood repainted his armor. One hand applied pressure and forced the ghoul to its knees while the other slid to the hilt and yanked back, severing the head from its shoulders.

He would turn to face the next, only for the ground to shake. First once. Then twice. The shaking would soon resemble the cadence of walking as several undead giants exploded through the outcropping of trees and ruins.

They wouldn't see it, but there was a grin beneath his helm. A worthy challenge, at last. He readied his own charge, stopping as a massive hand erupted from the earth beneath him to grab ahold of him. Another giant. It squeezed until it had clawed its way entirely free, before angling the young knight towards his maw.

Panic meant death, hesitation meant death. Both had been drilled out of him during his training. Blade in he would swing it for the thumb that had locked him in place, the rotten flesh and fickle bone cutting easily beneath it. Freed by the lack of thumb and the angle at which he was held, Valdr slid toward the maw and drove his blade downward. Piercing through the giants eye, as he landed atop its face and began pushing all the way until his gauntlets were in the eye of the giant and twisted.

The scream was horrendous, and it's fall even moreso. Giant collapsed backwards and Valdr would fall with it, trying to hold on for the duration of the ride. Back collided with surface and the Warden was thrown from his perch in a heap.

No time for respite, he could hear more ghouls scampering for him, but a glance to the giant confirmed his blade was still residing in the giant.

Alaric Wulf Hector Jehsalia Ruststone Lorinna Astarel

 

[Arlo Talworth]

Arlo watched as Jehsalia manipulated her very shadow to end the foe in scores, and gave a murmur of approval as the result revealed itself to undo the enemy. For now, he reserved judgement upon the nature of the magic she employed. It was not for him to say yet, not without more information, a keener understanding of what was being enacted. To report back to his own order, once he had more information upon the permissible arcane nature however, was his duty, if such knowledge would not endanger his soul in the process of acquiring it. The shadow work ended the threat, and that, for now, was enough information to satisfy Arlo. It was a display which assuaged him that Jehsalia was more than apt to protect the rear of the formation without his diligence.

The Enshrined Blade rolled his shoulder, blade in hand, and paced in the centre of the formation as a caged tiger might. He looked to the displays of martial prowess and arcane focus applied to deadly effect. The squires fought with appropriate vigour, with acceptable poise, with self preservation and enemy devastation held in balance. Another facet about this knightly order to report, Arlo surmised, more positive in account than the shadowplay of the rearguard. The knights supported them without denying them glory or experience, and elemental magic was regularly being unleashed to supplement their attacks.

Another blast from the horn in the distance. Further churning of the seas of the dead as it rose, and rose, and so did it give rise to the giants. And with that sight, Arlo looked to the positions of his comrades, not in fear, not in deferment, but to ensure that he felt no weakness in the formation before he set out to do as he felt he must. To do as he was compelled.

“When the dead tower, the living must stand tall,” Arlo breathed to he gathered himself for what he deemed necessary. The squires could handle much, that much was obvious, especially with the knights supporting them, yet giants? Arlo thought that a tall order and immediately smirked at his own unspoken pun. His eyes adjusted to the shifting battlefield, breathed, and recited another vow, this time to be heard but any and all, as he drew power from the litany. The others could handle the immediate situation, of this Arlo had faith.

Sir Arlo took upon him the duty of resembling the champion he had been trained to assume in the field as he began to utter one of the deadlier vows to himself and to the world, a proclamation of intent, a recital of techniques to galvanise one to the path of war.

"All vows satisfied I go do my terrible work, all power within me to this cause-”

Those who might sense the arcane would discern that the knight was drawing energy from some source unknown, to invigorate him, to bolster his reflexes and skills, although this was more a matter of faith than of sorcery in origin. As Arlo spoke, he felt the familiar sensation of his muscles tingling with anticipation as they coiled with purpose, his feet and calves tensed as a sprinter might before a race, his eyes sharpened and focused upon a giant who cast it's dead eyes out to the formation of squires below, and his blade reignited in a plume of freshly fuelled blue fire. The words carried with them power, the power to know that he was trained for be an elite, to rely upon vow and duty to carry the day, to be given purpose by the bloodiest of tasks accepted.

“-may my will be unbreakable, my cause be carried out, I am emboldened now that all vows do align, let me strike true and conquer what opposes my might!"

And upon the final word, Arlo was away. He moved as if every motion was preplanned, rehearsed, steady, sure. He seemed not tarried by his equipment, he moved with a momentum and weight that was akin something launched by a trebuchet. His boots left heavy imprints in the mud as he slammed his feet down upon the marsh, and he exited the battle line with a bound that separated him from the group as if he were diving into the depths of the ocean with weights upon his feet to carry him deadly deep. With that bound a broad cut was prepared, and as the knight transgressed from ground earned to ground contested, he did cut with roaring fire in a wide sweep that sundered the swarm that bustled to greet his entrance. There was no moment of slowness, the cut delivered turned into another that scorched a clearing, and Arlo landed.

Arlo had the inherent knowledge that for his cause to succeed, he would have to be relentless. His vow recited gave him that ferocity, that ruthlessness and fluidity of action as if it were all practised, rehearsed and performed without error in execution or hesitation to grant violence without support. Relentless he was in motion and thought, both in fleet of foot and in the wielding of the sword as he cut a solitary path to the giant. The swathes of blue flame extended beyond the blade to strike at the ghouls in leaps of anger that mirrored Arlo's conditioned scorn.

Three more such cuts were delivered, as if Arlo wielded a mighty lash to flog the dead in punishment for their impediment to his true quarry in wide sweeps of assured punishment, the column of fire that roared from his blade incinerating the ghouls as it raked them. Arlo's face was red, his brow adorned with sweat as he made sure to deserve every syllable of the vow of the emboldened blade.

The way was clearing with each cut enacted, and Arlo sprinted on in the space granted to him by his efforts. He was but twenty feet away from the giant with nothing standing between him, and as his sharp eyes focused on the enemy and his boots attacked the ground, as if the earth itself was to be scorned, the blue fire of his weapon extinguished in one final terrible splutter. No summoned power was inexhaustible. The blade resembled nothing more than typical steel now, yet, the knight pressed on with all the speed his vow, training, attitude and discipline afforded him, as if he had not been so disarmed. His vow still shielded his mind from doubt, still gave his blood the fire within it to drive so deep into enemy lines alone without steed or lance.

“Fie!” Sir Arlo bellowed in one loud proclamation at the giant, and with his mind sure with hatred for all actions weak and unsure, with scorn tempering his actions and his blade prepared, he sprang forward, the instrument of violence that was his body set in motion for the confrontation against the monstrosity. To be emboldened to defy even the most assured death from the things that set most knights asunder, to deal out death and death again heedless of how impossible such a task might seem, this was what it was to be the product of a lifetime of crucibles passed.

And so, the combat between the two began, with a word of hate, a vow resembled, steel and undead flesh summoned and no fear to be found in either foe.

Alaric Wulf Hector Jehsalia Ruststone Lorinna Astarel Rangvaldr Tal'deneshaar

​

 

[Alaric Wulf]

Alaric would offer Lorinna and encouraging smile as she turned to nod at him. The ghouls themselves were not difficult as long as the squires kept themselves from being crowded. He paused as he watched the impressive display from the squires, they were doing well. It seemed no one needed assistance quite yet. He watched his fellow knights with pride, they were wrapped in the splendor of chaos.

He was brought back to focus as a shambling corpse neared him. With a smirk and quick step forward, he plunged his blade into the neck of the foul abomination. A quick flick of the wrist freed his blade, and he finished it by relieving the undead of its head. He paused again as the ground rumbled, a frown on his face.

The cadence of heavy, burdened footfalls could be deciphered. This couldn't be good. Soon it was made apparent what the new foes were, and Alaric cursed angrily. Undead giants, of course they were. Now more than ever he needed to keep close to the squires. He couldn't have any of them separated, they couldn't fight a giant on their own if they were cornered. He continued behind Lorinna, keeping his eyes on her and her fellow squires. His mission was to keep them safe, that's what he would do.

 

[Lorinna Astarel]

This was very different from striking straw targets, which was the only thing she had ever sunk a blade into before. Lorinna had trained endless to make up for her lack magical talents, but with mannequins or people in full armour.

Cutting through flush, even dea flesh, was completely different.

She was glad of support at her side and to have Alaric close by. With little variation required in technique, Lorinna found herself trying to preserve her energy as much as possible as she used her longsword to make space.

Being worn out and stumbling or getting surrounded was the real danger now.

At least, she had decided that was the case until the figures rose up from the ground.

"No one mentioned giants!"

Her armour, rendering ghouls little threat, was of no use in protecting her being being crushed underfoot by a giant. The flesh was falling from the decrepit bodies as they came on. Arlo had already rushed out to meet them.

"Fan out, go for the ankle tendons!" She shouted. Staying together, which kept them safe against the hordes, put them in danger against the giants. Lori tried to imagine fighting an opponent as small to her as she would be to the giant. Even armed with a sword, a goblin that didn't reach her kneecaps wouldn't threaten her in the slightest.

 

[Innis]

Syr Osuin seemed sufficiently bored by her long explanation, and proceeded to leave Innis alone. Which was good, because it left her room to do her work. There was much left wanting about Innis' sword work, but even she fell into a decent rhythm against the shambling horde, letting her familiar weaken things before moving in to hack off a crucial limb or head.

She saw Syr Arlo bounding forward into the muck like a deer, saw him hack through the undead crowd with swaths of blue flame, and then keep on hacking when his magic sputtered out. It was valiant, but it was also senseless. What was he thinking, charging off alone against a bunch of giants? No way was anyone going to die on this stupid quest! Sure Wilhelm was a fool for practicing forbidden magics, but even he didn't deserve the weight of a death on his shoulders. Not for one mistake, not so close to home.

The elemental cat steamed cold in response to Innis' wrath, swirling larger until it was something truly intimidating to look at. Everywhere its paws landed, threads of frost wove through the reed grass and up the legs of unsuspecting zombies, slowing their already feeble movements to an easily managed crawl. Innis gripped her sword with a little more gusto than usual and pushed forward away from Osuin and the rest of the squires. She was set on cutting through to the giants, not hoping for much else than to give the stray knight an opening against his foes.

Luckily, Lorinna had a better strategy already available.

"Fan out, go for the ankle tendons!" the other squire shouted, as she followed her own advise.

The shear practicality of the order cooled Innis' head. "Understood!" She called out. Fine then, they would run the giants around, and trust that the older knights could finish them off. It was the squire-ly thing to do, after all.

Following Lorinna's lead, Innis got herself far enough away from the others so that she wouldn't trip anyone up. She sheathed her sword and instead pulled forward the crossbow slung across her back. The machine was heavy and inelegant, all might and no flare. As she loaded a bolt and let loose, it gave a creak and a clunk, kicking back with unpleasant power. Usually she was pretty good at hitting the targets, and she didn't need much skill here. Shooting at the giants was like aiming at a barn door. If she missed even one shot, she silently vowed to quit the knighting business then and there.

The arm of a giant came up, ready to smash at Syr Arlo beneath it. She aimed, chanting as she did so, the bolt let loose with a comet's trail of frost flying behind it. With a wet thud it stuck in the elbow crook of the giant, crystalized. Then with a terrible shatter of ice and bone, the enchantment burst outwards. The giant stumbled backwards at the damage, groaning in a dead and wordless voice. Its arm swung uselessly away, only held together by the barest scraps of flesh at the joint. With no way to feel pain and no purpose but to swat at the antlings that scurried underneath it, the towering zombie would not be deterred for long. But Innis was already loading another bolt.

Tendons and timing. Lorinna was right, that's all it was.

 

[Osuin]

Arlo and Valdr were in the thick of it. Osuin left them to it. The two knights were external to their order, and their strategies were the own. Reckless perhaps, but extremely effective. It was well evidenced by their movements and ferocity that they both knew what they were doing. Arlo was making headway towards one, and the crashing thud against the ground once Valdr felled a different giant confirmed this assumption.

While unconcerned for the two experienced knights, Osuin did hold some concern for the threat these giants might pose to the squires. Slaying ghouls was one matter, but giants were a much more menacing opponent.

"To me!" Hector cried out, bravely taking initiative and leading his fellow squires into battle. Winry’s sword remained dug into his opponent’s skull, and he did not remember the proper method to remove a blade that had been caught by bone. The young squire struggled, but ultimately. Better that he did, he didn’t look like he was going to remove that sword with more than a moment. It would have been better still had Winry remembered his training. But training him was Osuin’s duty, and it would be his job to teach the squire at the next opportunity after battle. At least Hector had been there to offer a blade in a moment of need. A fitting display of teamwork, in the Knight Pursuant’s eyes.

Jehsalia was doing just fine too despite the thick mass of ghouls surrounding her position. Two were downed, and then. Even when the ghouls occluded her from view, the violent ferocity with which she thought could be observed in the growing number of motionless ghouls on the ground near the fight.

“No one mentioned Giants!” Osuin heard Lorinna shout out of the corner of his ear. The comment earned the young squire his immediate attention.

“Should I ask the ghouls to play nicer?” Responded Osuin, in that telling sardonic tone that told of an impeding chastisement.

“Adjust and respond!! Battle is unpredictable; what will you do when left to your own initiative?” Shouted Osuin. To his pleasure, Lorinna proceeded to do exactly that, and relayed her chosen strategy to her comrades as well. Innis followed suit, loosing a well aimed crossbow bolt into its elbow and severing the arm beneath it.

Osuin would allow the squires to contend with the giant, but didn’t dare stray far in case they faltered in bringing it down. He wasn’t about to let them get killed in combat, but neither would he coddle them. This was valuable experience – for some, their very first taste of true combat – and they needed to learn. They needed to apply the skills and strategies taught to them, and witness firsthand their effectiveness.

Squires could be trained. Fighters had to be forged.