Knights of Anathaeum War? No! A Skirmish!

[Faramund]

War had come to the Valen Wilds.

Well, they called it a war, but in reality it was more like a series of distinct border skirmishes involving several Lords and Ladies that had, by all accounts, started to escalate. 'So, a war?' Turning his head, Syr Faramund, Sworn-Knight of Anathaeum, raised an eyebrow in response to his brother's question. 'No, not a war,' he replied, a few brown whiskers protruding over the lip of his snow-crusted scarf. 'A skirmish! It's kind of like a war, but not quite!'

No. Wars involved entire Kingdoms. Thousands upon thousands of men, women, and, in some parts of the world, children.

Their ally, Lord Dunstable, had brought only four-hundred. Men-at-arms and mounted crossbowmen, mainly. No kids. There were a handful of the Lord's knights milling about, the closest thing Faramund could find by comparison. Most of them are too fat for their armour, he remembered thinking, when first he had laid eyes on them.

As for the enemy, well, they only fielded... What? Eight, nine hundred men?

A small difference, that. Easily overcome.

'Gotta hand it to Lord Järnberg. His boys look like they actually know what they're doing. I mean, just look at them!' Faramund pointed down the hill, to where the enemy were massing. 'Almost as if they're forming up for battle,' the brother-knight observed. Pulling down his scarf -a fool-ass thing to do in the heart of winter, admittedly- the dawnling squinted.

The swirling snow obstructed most of what he could see, but what he could see worried him some.

'Fuck me! That's exactly what they're doing!' Standing, Faramund wheeled on his companion, all thought of subtlety having fled his mind the moment he realised what was happening.

'Go tell the Captains, quickly!'

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

The frost touched air ruffled feathers as Theo Montbank collected himself beside a tree, hunched down, laden with equipment, his owl eyes peering at the foe as he huddled about himself, back straight against the bark. Alone.

His talons went through the motions as he stared out. Belt, bandages, salves and rejuvenation. Right strap, offensive measures, limited though they were. Left strap, obfuscation and evasion. Left shoulder, further bandages and tonics. And the rest. All flush in uniform against his person as wings shrouded his person. Nestled by leather strap to lightweight plate.

No need to check his weapon's presence. A short sword, instead of regular longer blade. Less weight. Quicker to lash out as he attended the duty to the wounded and dying.

Eyes unblinking as the opposing force began to shuffle. Superior hearing noting Faramund's declaration. This quiet moment soon to become loud struggles. The contrast of sound he never got used to. His to endure to the screams, the braying, the clash of steel. To become numb to it was to deny his duty to those who needed his help. The sound of the wounded, calling out all in multitudes for assistance from the lone sky warrior.

Alone in his task, a multitude of potentials to save. A multitude of potentials to leave unattended.

Too dangerous to fly out alone so early, a multitude of arrows could bring him down should he swoop too low. No sky mage did he wish to be felled by if they had them in their employ. Regular sight could see this formation for what it was, Montbank surmised, reconnaissance was not required for such a pitched contest. There was honour enough in the practice, he thought bitterly.

Solemn to the purpose before him, his mind bid himself stand. Yet, his body did not move. Like one who long slumbered, wishing for precious minutes further of warmth beneath the covers, he remained still.

Eyes unblinking forward to the force. The enemy moved as cohort. The sound of preparation about him. Shouts of command, their host drumming up support and vigour to the battle to come.

Montbank finally closed his eyes. Counted to five.

Flashes of those who came before this moment in the pitch. Dismissed each in turn silently, knowing that there would be further denials to make in future for this day's effort. It was inevitable. All he could do was his utmost in the chaos. To act with firm initiative, to attend with consignment his arsenal, with compassion to those who he had sworn to attend from the skies he would roam and provide succour, assistance, in rare moments, evac. Such were his choices to make, for good or ill in the moment, he would have to live by these split moment decisions.

He stood slow, resolute.

Eyes met him from his comrades who filtered about. Nods here and there to which Montbank remained silent and unmoving.

It hurt too much to grow too personable at this point.

He looked up to the sky where he belonged for the strength he needed.

And seized upon it.

His shroud of wings broadly spanned, beating as strong as his heart, the din of blood within his sensitive ears. Muscle and hollow bone made motions to make altitude. Up, up, up did he course and fly in circling arcs, gaining distance and height as he took position, his sight making all detail his from friend and foe alike. The gleam of weapons, the five o clock shadows, the eyes determined as arrangements of fighters made their dense organisations clearer from the vantage Montbank possessed.

Gliding on the frost touched winds, Montbank coursed, ready to do as few could in the soon to be bloodied field with a dutiful heart, all forlorn thought abandoned as swiftly as the ground that had been departed.

 

[Aarno]

New snow was falling in great feathery chunks, prying an occasional hiss from the fires around which plenty yet remained, huddled. Cold fingers busy with tying a braid into his hair, Aarno glanced at the skies above, wherein clouds spanned the entire firmament. No favours to visibility — perhaps for the entire night?

That might mean more waiting. Unless, of course—

Amongst his fellows was a sharp cursing as a gust blew through, grasping at garments with icy fingers, frozen ground alive like dunes. Face scrunched and throat aching from the dry air, he coughed and threw the braid over his shoulder. It had definitely been a while since he’d been afield, he realized, let alone a skirmish as this. One in the dead of winter, to really elevate the experience.

Humming, he braced against his knee and rose slowly like an old man, aware of the ache in his joints. It bore not to remain sitting down for too long like this, hadn’t for years. Curse it all.

With an irritated snap to his movements, he patted the snow off the shoulders of his cloak and bent down to pick up the rest of his armour. He’d just about donned his gauntlets and helm when there was swift movement in the camp, followed by voices that rose with urgency. People were rousing to attention, stilling to eavesdrop on an exchange of information and instruction.

So — We’ve action yet, tonight. Joy. Raising his chin, he gave a final adjustment to the aventail and turned heel, marching to find whichever Pursuant for orders.

Beneath, in the Earth, was a great stir.

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

The quiet anxiety of waiting was maddening. Especially with moments like these spent in the in between, in the space held solely before explosive action, watching a horizon with bated breath.

Farren held that breath now in lupine lungs, her black furred body tucked against the side of a nervous squire, her tail curled around her snout to snuff out the chill, while the squire's cold fingers dove into the exposed scruff of her neck for comfort, intent on trying to borrow her soft strength. Farren had been grateful to them for helping outfit her current form in the armor she had commissioned from Rulgak. Magicked and fitted to protect her sides and neck against spears and minor offensive spells. Although, the Dusk Knight chose to ignore the following frenzied whispers under the squire's breath, recitations of their completed tasks and other prep responsibilities. She knew that frenetic energy well, the need to ease the mounting dread in the air. That lingering pyyrhic question that hung about before any battle: Whether you should rally first, or wait to answer with your own sword and shield. Who and how many would die or be injured in result of your choice?

But Farren realized that the answer had been made for them with the chorus of yelling that went about camp. The blood rushing to her ears as she lunged to her paws, shaking off the dusting of snow that had settled on her pelt while she waited. With the power of the Wyld flowing through her limbs, she had made herself larger than any natural born wolf. Her teeth glinting and hardened by magic, their purpose to rent armor and tear flesh. Her job would be to scatter what men she could within the calvary. To pull them from their horses and snarl fear into their hearts.

 

[Saskia Kerraelas]

A fire was all the warmth she could get as the snow floating down to the earth and collected on every surface it could find. It was not often she was pulled away from her only friend, and this individual sat amongst comrades gathered around the same fire, yet it made the young woman feel alone still. I am not truly alone, she thought to herself, amber eyes staring into the licking of flames, I have my shadows.

Never one to be afraid of the dark, she subtly dropped her hand to the side and let it dangle in the night's shadow. She felt it wrap around her palm and interlocked with her fingers, a phantom squeeze of reassurance filling her with newfound confidence.

How soon it faltered.

Shouts and bodies rippled through those gathered, waiting. When those around her stood, so did a readily outfitted Saskia, grateful to have the movement warm her muscles again. Her gaze peered around, looking for the first face she always sought but when she remembered he was not here with her, she then looked for someone that would know what is happening.

"What are they shouting?" She was still green, inexperienced besides hunting monsters with Alaric. Saskia did not care if she sounded foolish, preferring to be informed first. There was no shared grin of excitement, no friend to rush into action with. She was to do it all alone now, to memorize the faces of those she would join in quelling the forces belonging to the opposition.

 

[Byanka Valkas]

The knights were gathered around the fires in a futile attempt to warm themselves and block out the cold. But they would be warm soon enough, when they were in battle and blood steamed in the snow.

Many were quiet with the uneasy anticipation of upcoming battle. There were both experienced fighters and young squires here, and Byanka knew there would be loss of life.

Byanka kept her gaze on the enemy shifting in the distance. She blinked and then it seemed they were forming ranks, preparing to fight. Not long after she noticed this, there were shouts from the scouts as they noticed the same thing. Now, there waiting was over, and they would get a fight, some were excited to be moving, creating more warmth in this winter wonderland.

A blonde night stood beside Byanka, asking what was going on. "The enemy is preparing for battle. It is time," she said simply, turning to look at her fellow night. Byanka tightened her armor and returned her gaze to the enemy lines.

 

[Hector]

Sick spilled out onto the ground in vile splash against the wet snow near their camp. Stomach tied into knots. For all the quests and missions Hector had carried out, this part of his duties never quite settled with him.

I usually don't have this much time to think about it.

Bent still, with breath hot and foul to his own nose, he wiped away what sick still coated his lips. Grit his teeth as he felt his hands tremble with the memories of conflicts not long past.

Remembered the warmth of different fires. And all that had transpired since their deaths.

"Syr Hector?" a straw haired squire asked, armor in hand, ready to be tied down and fitted.

Hector let out a long breath, and rose up. "Thank you, Lemock," he said and sat to have the last bits of his kit tied down and fitted.

Armed and armored, Hector joined Syr Valkas and Syr Kerraelas. A nod from behind the plate of his bevor, and beneath the brim of his kettle helm. A long bright feather plumed, he held fast his war pick, his sword at his waist, and a shield upon his back.

A Pursuant of the Order, Syr Eironmar, nod to them in turn, visor up and fully plated. "Mount up, we will ride to the flanks in preperation for the charge," he looked to the three sworn before him, steadfast. "With luck, we won't run into any enemy mages," he moved to mount his stead.

---

Byanka Valkas Saskia Kerraelas

 

[Arbok]

"Nobodies looking are they?"
Arbok tried to peer from aside the embarassingly small tree she had chosen to disrobe behind.
She didn't want anyone to see her change. Either way.
Her armour could be loosened quick enough to accommodate her transformation because she had never gotten the handle on changing to include her vestments. For some reason they always remained.
The problem was she had to fiddle with the claps and loosen them until she was ready to assume her other form. Which meant there was a frequent non zero chance that her clothes would just fall straight off her.
"Okay, I think I'm ready."
The transformation was almost instantaneous. A pop of bone and muscle accompanied by the fursplosion all across her skin.
The result was Arbok in the form of a large reddish brown bear wearing her chainmail and tabbard. In lieu of weapons she was now down to using a thin tree as a club. It wasn't pretty but it was effective.
Lumbering on her hind quarters she returned to the camp rather sheepishly and sat on her rump.
She could not speak anymore so at least she wasn't going to embarass herself that way.
Her dark eyes looked at the others and she let out a whimpering groan.
She wished someone was talking. The silence was awful.

 

[Faramund]

Faramund could hear war horns braying behind him as he ran back up the hill and into camp. Gruff, brutal things, their call to war sent shivers down his spine. Not a war, he reminded himself, hurrying to gather up his weapons and armour. A skirmish. Nothing too serious. 'Yeah, right!' Faramund could not recall who had convinced him of the gravity of their situation, or the lack thereof.

A man-at-arms, in service to Lord Dunstable? One of the cooks?

Doesn't matter now, he thought, whipping off his scarf and arming himself as quickly as he could. A squire, Gruki, rushed over to help him don his armour. Taller by an inch, and thickly-muscled, the she-orc was one of a number of squires ready to be sworn-in. Like most of them, this would be her first taste of real battle, and quite possibly her last.

It won't come to that, the dawnling promised himself, directing his iron-hard glare towards the Gods.

Weighted down by mail, with pauldrons to protect his shoulders and upper arms, Faramund took the helmet Gruki offered him with a grateful nod. 'Thanks,' he said, smiling at the squire as he slid it over his arming cap. For a moment, the world went black. A flick to the visor sorted that right out, though.

'Ready?' he asked, picking up an axe and shield.

'Ready!' Taking a few short, decisive breaths, the she-orc shouldered her greatsword. Around them, men and women hurried off to their positions. Faramund noted how some of the other knights, Syr Hector among them, were moving off towards the flanks. They had their horses with them, caparisoned for war.

'Are we going with them?' Gruki asked. Faramund shook his head. 'Not this time,' he said, resting his axe on his shoulder as he began walking towards where the Lord's men were forming on the hill's crest. 'I'm not much good on horseback. Sides, this lot'll need us to put some fire into their bellies once the fighting gets going,' he grinned. 'A couple big bastards like us ought to be capable of doing that, surely!'

Faramund saw some of the tension leave Gruki's face. Pleased with himself, the knight moved to take up his place among the front rank of warriors facing down the hill. The snowfall was growing heavier, the new dawn's light barely managing to pierce the veil that had descended over them all.

'A bad omen, do y'think?' A spearman asked, hopping up and down in an attempt to keep warm.

'For us or them?'

'Them.' Faramund chimed in. 'Definitely them!' Gruki echoed, rattling his helmet with her knuckles. He could almost see her smile.

You'll make a knight yet.

Keeping his visor open, the dawnling stared into the shifting snow-bank. He could just about make out the shapes of figures, all arrayed in a nice, neat line. The crunching of boots on snow, and the incessant sounds of their war horns gave the enemy an almost eerie appearance.

Like ghosts, they were. Spectres. Or walking dead men.

Officers barked instructions as the enemy approached. Shields thumped together. Weapons were hefted. Gruki's armoured bulk brushed against Faramund's back, a reassurance. Faramund could see them clearly now, the enemy. Big men in mail and leather, carrying axes and swords and spears. Their round shields hinted as to a foreign origin.

Mercenaries, then?

Gazing to left and right, Faramund aligned his shield with those of the men standing next to him. Forming an overlapping wall three ranks deep, the Knights of Anathaeum and their allies waited for the inevitable charge to come. 'Steady, now!' A sergeant bellowed, clearly an old hand at this sort of thing. 'Shields up! Heads down!'

As if on cue, a shower of hand-axes and spears hurtled from the gloom.

Raising his shield, Faramund felt something slam into the boards. Men grunted and cursed as the thrown weapons bounced off their shields, or else buried themselves in the wood.

There were a few screams, but most were snatched away by the wind before Faramund could quite hear them.

'Here we go!' He shouted, spying the enemy over the rim of shield.

With an almighty chorus, Lord Järnberg's warriors charged the last dozen meters towards their enemy. Lord Dunstable's warriors charged too, spurred on by their Lord and the men of his retinue. There was a crash, a ripple. And just like that...

The battle had begun.

Theolonious Montbank Aarno Farren Lóthlindor Saskia Kerraelas Byanka Valkas Hector Arbok

 

[Aarno]

Sound of marching was beneath hoof and paw beats as way took downhill, to take position by lead of Syr Eironmar.

“ Infantry is closing in— That’s our que. “In a raise of a hand, attention was called and instruction given in the man’s eternally firm tone.

“ We’ll charge the enemy from the flank and scatter them, clear a way forward — see if— “ The man stopped of a sudden, straining to hear over the taunting roars of both friend and foe. There was next to nothing to see at this distance, so listen they did instead, staring in unison at the airborne static betwixt the darkness of trees and infantry line.

A rumble. It meant only one thing. The pursuant’s face twisted with realization and he wheeled his horse around.

“ They’ve beaten us to the charge. We ride and intercept, now! Forward. “

A counter-charge. Unable to help it, Aarno cursed loudly, face twisted with disapproval as their unit lurched to motion.

“ Absolute madness. “ He hissed, errant glance happening upon the large wolf he’d taken side with. Syr Farren. Smart of her, shifting — if anyone was likely to survive any of this, it was her. That one should’ve been mounted always added the wild twist of an animal’s unpredictable temperament to the mix, one that had the potential to twist the neck of whoever dared to sit upon it.

He didn’t like his odds, considering the unfamiliar horse he’d been assigned. While calm and steady, it had yet to see actual battle and by his standards therein, was yet unproven. But then again, one could’ve spoken similarly of a number with whom one was to fight alongside. Have faith, damn you.

A breath was drawn in, held and released in a cloud as they picked up pace. A thunder resonated in his ears and there was no telling whether it was from within or without. Mail crunched as he brought the lance underarm, securing it in his grip as his stare scanned the swirling air ahead for any sign of the enemy.

Some plan. Can barely see the arse of one’s fellow ahead—

And then, there they were. Faster than one had the time to register, shapes of riders materialized from the wall of snowfall, oblivious that they were about to be driven through diagonally. There was no stopping, nor slowing down.

He just about caught sight of the whites of a man’s eyes, alerted, before his lance made impact.


Cliffsnotes version :
- Cavalry is lead to a counter-charge by Pursuant Syr Eironmar
- They make impact with the enemy from the side, ramming into them

Faramund Theolonious Montbank Byanka Valkas Farren Lóthlindor Saskia Kerraelas Hector Arbok

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

Farren echoed the cry of horns with a reaping howl of her own. Her mournful song cutting through the snowfall like a clarion call. Let them know the shadow of teeth that would be let loose from her leash and into the fray.

Her focus harrowed to a knife's edge as she marched to form a line with their cavalry. The steady shoulder of Syr Aarno's horse was at her left, her head at his knee. While the hidden face of a soldier of Lord Dunstable sat amount a steed that quaked at her proximity. Its eyes starting to roll while it fought the desire to listen to its master versus succumbing to instinct so close to a predator.

Quiet now, fair beast. Carry your Master well. For I mean him no harm. A flare of calming Wyld energy carried her words and with the flickering of an acknowledging ear, the horse's dancing feet settled. Pleased, the rider gave the gelding a steady pat on the neck, as if his equestrian skill alone were enough to bring his horse to sanity once more.

It was then that the calvary began to move as one. The line of charging knights and their fierce steeds surged forward like a force of nature, a sea of pounding hooves and glinting steel. Farren's lean form, sprinted ahead of the vanguard, her bounding shadow form devouring the ground beneath her, her breath forming ethereal plumes in the biting cold, and her heartbeat a frenzied drum that matched the beat of her paws.

They crashed into them at a diagonal. The sound a macabre thunderclap. Cutting through the enemy line, like a blade through flesh and sinew. Horses reared and whinnied in terror, their riders losing control as the wolf slipped in and sowed chaos amongst their ranks. Some of the enemy were thrown from their steeds, tumbling into that chaos below, their fates sealed in the stampede of hooves.

The blinding snowstorm, once a shroud of concealment, had become a maelstrom of fury, concealing and revealing the shifting tableau of the battlefield. The charge was a tempest, quick, decisive, and powerful, as the line of knights bore down upon the enemy, their cries echoing through this newly red made winter.

Hector Faramund Byanka Valkas Saskia Kerraelas Arbok Theolonious Montbank

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

https://soundcloud.com/david-giffard%2Freharl-chronicles-prelude-to-a-skirmish

Gliding over all, high in vantage, Montbank forced himself to look at the backline of the foe as he passed over his comrades. Forced himself to flush out the sound of collisions and violence as the countercharge expressed it's purpose below, the collisions of axes and javelin against shield before that too crashed together, the shapes of organisation smashing into coagulation.

An indulgence to simply being an observer. His was to action as singular agent, eyes and ears to the further forces to bear against them. To thwart them. Eyes forward and down as he maintained altitude as he ran his course towards the further depths of this foe.

The wind brought much sound from far afield. Further density of snow rose up in blinding torrent that made even superior sight a folly now, frustratingly so to the sky knight. No arrow might find mark, yet his presence so far afield was now a liability to his function. Precious moments of action wasted. Gliding required little energy, and was no concern. Yet, time to act in good order was quickly bleeding out.

Without hesitation he made the call even as winds made their gestures to throw him off course in the blinding snow, heavy wingbeats fighting to maintain course true. The upper skies were quickly becoming denied, Montbank knew he would soon become exhausted if he tried to fight with such virulent chill blast of winds. The barriers of snow that coursed in the wind would render eel head a wasted effort at this moment, and mayhap may be required for further deeds ahead, he surmised.

Descending, descending, as if yielding to the mightier presence in the wind, wheeling around back to that dreadful sound of such tightly bound fighting, Montbank slowly drew his short sword, resolving himself to the bold deeds to come as he held the blade flush to his trunk. His vision now filled with the lances that he approached from behind, the beating hooves, the armoured warriors who were two to one to his comrades as they surged still forth, Montbank surging with greater speed as he pursued those who snapped barb to drive on.

Into the rear and flank of the cavalry who within helmet visor and tunnel vision of the charge did not see the pure white flash and slicing cut of Montbank's sword as he approached as dreadful as a razor wind. Slashing with precision at arm that held firm lance, sagging now for virtue of the attack. Claws sinking into back, throwing rider into the soil that was the end for virtue of charging tread of horse. Rising up, and sinking low, Montbank took on the rearguard in methodical and vicious display, his yellow eyes flaring as he removed another from their mount. Ever moving, throwing foe off course, slashing true, riding the wind that carried such snows as he made his influence on the day.

Wild swings of lance were scarcely avoided, jutting of spearpoint in his direction were narrowly swept aside as he spiraled in avoidance as some noticed his presence as they moved, moments away from meeting rival force in strength.

His wings wide and crashing down to gain altitude to soar beyond that which entangled his comrades, Montbank removed himself from harm's way, breathing firm and hard as he made his exit.

Above and away, arcing around to the rear of the infantry was now his call. To attend the wounded, or other duties that he was uniquely equipped to contend. A figure of white on white, sword sheathed, Montbank rallied his courage for a far more dangerous venture as he wheeled into position, hopeful that his run of things had made some small difference. Soon would be the moment the injured would require him, as battlelines formed and shuddered still, as the infantry would do grim work in frozen, slowing field.

He only hoped to have enough wits on the ground, that speed be his ally, that he would plunge in with all the zeal that he had displayed in the skies. And that luck was on his side to save.

 

[Hector]

Blind as they were in the snow, he rode tight as he could beside his fellow knights. Till the enemy showed before them. Lance points down, weapons couched under arm as all thundered about them.

A crash. Poles stuck into flanks. Points glanced against plate. As horses brayed. Pulled their heads away. Too late. Flesh thumped dull and hard. Bone crunched, vicious and wet. Steel rattled. Rang.

Hector's heart raced wild in his chest. His horse pulled. Kicked. Willed itself away. Unwilling to stay in the ball of death that they had crunched into. Hector's warpick came loose from its holster, his hand firm around it. He gave a shout that he could not hear, but felt within his blood. He saw the weapon's head crack against his enemies arm. Knocked him hard.

A flutter of white wings he could hardly see. The bounds and gnashes of a darksome thing that moved like no wild beast of its shape as all the horses and riders bit and fought and raged for advantage. The lines jelled together in horrid mess.

Breath filled his lungs. His eyes wide. Hector tried to match his horse's will. Tried to turn it about to better angle his own blow. But the beast surged under him. Tried to break free of the tangle.

A clatter against him. Hector grit his teeth behind the plate of his bevor. He twist in his saddle. Ducked the cut of poleaxe that came for his head. The weapon rattled against the brim of his kettle-helm.

Another foe assailed him on the opposite flank, their spear jabbed desperately, scraped across Anathaeum barding.

---

Cliffnotes:
-In the cavalry melee
-Hector is fighting against two foes while his horse is panicked.
Byanka Valkas Saskia Kerraelas Arbok

 

[Saskia Kerraelas]

There had been no time for fear or nerves to settle in her as moving forward and following direction had led them out to meet the oncoming attack. Saskia was good at thinking on her feet, a testament to her constant drills and practice in wielding her weapons of choice. Confusion was quick upon those that followed Syr Eironmar, already scattering them into a line to fend off the advancing enemy.

She was no good at wielding her blade from horseback, but adapting was not too difficult for her. Her sword was an extension of her arm, one that sliced and arced with precision to slow down those that came towards her or those of her comrades. Her cheeks stung with heat against the frosty air that still clung to all, her horse's breaths materializing in a silvery cloud. The onslaught was unforgiving, no sense of reprieve coming to the young knight as she lucked out and knocked an opponent from their horse.

Even with a small victory, it did not last.

A blow caught her, almost knocking her aside but as her free hand went to grasp for something to steady herself, it costed her another blow. Her vision blurred from the whiplash, lifting her head that now weigh three times it's weight and kept her eyes open. She ignored the sense of the world floating into a swirl, bringing her blade down hard on a nearby opponent, too dazed to see if she hit true.


Byanka Valkas
Arbok
Hector

 

[Lorinna Astarel]

Lorinna's hands shook as she finished the last of the straps to arrange her armour. Despite the betrayal of her cold fingers, she felt an odd sense of calm. The melee would be upon them soon, the enemy having formed ranks and started the assault to catch them by surprise.

Her father had always said there was a calm before the battle. She did not know if this was the same for everyone, or something specific to her family and their upbringing. If she had seen Hector emptying his stomach at that moment, she would have known.

She rushed down from the line of tents, fitting her helmet. She carried no shield. Her armour was plate as fine a steel as had been made by human hands. She kept both hands free for her longsword or poleaxe. The latter was for dealing with armour.

Lorinna passed the guard around the Lord. She wasn't taking up position there. Instead she joined a rank to the right of Faramund

By now, Hector would have ridden out to harass the formations marching towards their lines.

"Let's meet them," Lorinna said, taking up position behind the bannerman and the front rank of spears.

"Fuck me, that's a woman in there," someone grunted. "Meanin' no offence. Sorry."

Lorinna did take offence. She drew her sword, took a breath and watched the enemy lines. They were already on them. Damnit.

She stood her ground as the volley tried to break the ranks.

"Hold!" she cried out. And they did.

Spears were lowered, meeting the charge. Bodies were pressed together to tighten the rank. They would not be dislodged easily from the hill. As the two lines met, Lorinna was held to doing little more than pushing the men in front of her.

She took sight of the banner carried by the enemy. That would be her prize when the formations started to break. Her feet threatened to slip on the snow, but she changed her stance.

"Heave!"

 

[Arbok]

Blood smell filled her again. This time, like many times before Arbok, strongest child of her Clan, prayed to the North Wind that it would be different this time but it wasn't.
The smell sickened her to her core. The noise and clang of weapons on bodies. The sinking of horses and riders into oceans of raging men screaming and bleating.
She didn't want to be there.
A gruff noise of refusal came from her as she waited outside the melee torn between duty and the overwhelming disgust welling up in her that this was all wrong.
She did not remember what reason had been given for this fight.
Eyes like dark brown pearls watched keenly until she saw something that forced her great body to drop the club she held in her jaws and with a mighty bellow rushed into the fray.
Bodies were bumped away from her as she simply barrelled past, now stronger than nearly any of them.
A pang hit her shoulder, another pang forced a second bellow of pain from her lips.
Finally she had reached her target.
She didn't know Saskia well but for their shared allegiance but it was enough. With great force she slammed into the side of an advancing conscript and knocked him to the floor bellowing a warning to all around them.
Despite the chaos a small clearing of maybe ten feet was made around them. None of them wanted to fight a bear today, least of all an one in chainmail.
Another huff of promised danger came out of her snout before she turned her large head to Saskia who was bleeding from her smell.
Arbok gave a croon of concern her nose sniffing to inspect wether the blood was really Saskia's or someone else's.

Saskia Kerraelas

 

[Byanka Valkas]

The battle had begun.

Byanka tightened her grip on her horse's reigns and leaned forward as they charged. Horses could read their riders' emotions like an open book and so Byanka kept her breathing even and her movements quick but calm, which thankfully her horse seemed to take note of, even as they sped through the snow towards their enemy.

They hit the enemy with a sound almost like thunder, weapons hitting weapons and flesh alike. Byanka muttered silent prayers for every person on this battlefield as she swung her sword from her horse, cutting down anyone who got too close. Breathing in, out, in, out- consistent and calm and clear.

Telling time in a battle was nigh impossible for the adrenaline sped time up and fear slowed it down. But soon a bear barreled into their ranks, taking care of the soldiers closest to Saskia. Her fellow knight seemed to have taken a heavy hit, but Byanka felt that with some time to gather her senses, she would fight once more. So she gave the she-bear a nod and turned her horse in front of Saskia's to defend her, giving her time to gather her senses once more.

Saskia Kerraelas Arbok

 

[Faramund]

The sound of the two shieldwalls colliding was like thunder from the gods. Men cursed each other as the first blows were traded. Blood flowed to turn the snow red. Hacking through a shield rim, Faramund lent his voice to theirs. Impact jarred up his arm, helped him hook the weapon free. The enemy, those he could see without exposing himself to the bite of a blade, all looked foreign.

The language they spoke was just as strange. A war cant of some sort, Faramund understood the intent behind their words, if not the meaning.

Turtling up, he brushed aside a sword-blow, countered it by putting his axe-blade through a helmeted skull. Blood and gristle adhered to the weapon's edge as he pulled it free. He welcomed the next man to try his luck by striking out with his shield. Something crunched under the surprise blow. He whipped it back just in time to prevent a spear from skewering his face.

'Isn't this glorious?' He laughed, shouting to be heard over the din.

'No,' Gruki replied, equally loud. 'Not in the slightest!'

She was right, of course. There was no glory to be found here, only blood and grief. Why are we here again?

Driving forwards, his shield deflecting a sword-stroke, Gruki watched as Fara cleaved through a cheek guard to send some poor sod crumbling to the ground. Getting a firm grip on the dawnling's sword belt, she pulled him back into line before he could get himself surrounded and killed.

'Sorry!' Faramund yelled, dropping his shield to catch a thrust from beneath the lower rim.

Gruki huffed, nodded. A moment's distraction, that was all.

A moment was all the next mercenary needed to deal Fara's helmet a ringing blow. Stumbling, his vision blurry, Fara saw more than felt his feet slip out from under him. Gruki grabbed him, put all she had into keeping her knight up and in the fight.

The mercenary tried again. The man standing to Fara's left buried his sword in the bastard's armpit, dropping him.

A long-axe killed him a few seconds later, and the person to take his place.

Reeling, more pissed off than hurt, Fara roared as he went back to work. His axe smiled wide and red as it took a bite of a shield, a neck. Arterial blood sprayed. The killing continued.

Lorinna Astarel

 

[Aarno]

Pain.

In a groan he grasped at the ground, a handful of snow crunching within his fist as he pulled it next to his chest for leverage. Voices and movement raged at the edge of his attention, dulled by the ripping sensation in his ribs when a valiant attempt at hoisting oneself was made. He only made it to his knees, huffing. Unto the white fell red, which he quickly diagnosed as just a split lip by trying his face with gloved fingers.

Whatever. Holding in a breath, he undid his sword belt and swung the scabbard out to use as a support, hand firmly on the hilt as he forced himself to rise. If it hadn’t been so painful, he might’ve cursed.

When and how he’d fallen escaped him, but it was of no importance. Less so was what was fast coming to end him in a wild click of mail, steel drawn. He swung the scabbard around with both hands, deflecting the blow just so, before a kick in the shin took his leg from under him. In a roar, he stumbled.

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

Her teeth shattered the canon bone of a destrier that tried to stomp her head. Its scream rattled her teeth and she dashed out from beneath it as it stumbled into the carnage, its rider losing balance and lurching forward. Shifting, quick, black blood coating her maw, she bunched her hind and launched at the woman, not seeing the spear she carried as it pierced the gap below the modified gorget that left Farren free to move her shoulders.

But still the momentum crashed Farren into the rider, lupine fangs already wrapping around the terrified face of the mercenary, her screaming denial ripped away in a wet slicing of teeth.

Then the two came tumbling to the ground on the other side of the fallen steed, the body twitching and gasping beneath the Dusker before she lurched away, already focused on the next.

Adrenaline pushing her onwards, made her forget the pain of a dozen and one cuts marking her body. Forget the new blood drenching her pelted shoulder. A result of her carelessness, her miscalculation.

It was then her grey eyes snagged the struggling form of Syr Aarno and without thought she dashed forward. Like smoke she appeared, a feral rage at her heels, her snarling jaws closing around the forearm of the man who dared raised a sword against her oathen-kin. Steel and tooth met, magic fueling her grip as she shook it, staying the man's hand while his gauntlet began to give and crumple under the wolf's unforgiving bite. He yelled in a rage and began punching her in the head repeatedly with his other armored hand as Farren bought Aarno precious seconds to right himself.


Aarno Hector Saskia Kerraelas Byanka Valkas Theolonious Montbank Faramund Arbok Lorinna Astarel

 

[Hector]

Breath after heated breath filtered through the slits of Hector's bevor. His ears adjusted to the ringing. To the scrape, clatter and crack of weapons. The screams. Around him, before him. A shout, clear and familiar above it all.

"Harry them! Harry them and reform!" Syr Eironmar called out, wheeling his mount about as spears jut forward to try and knock him down.

Footmen rounded about. The banner that snapped in the wind marked them as Järnberg's troop.

Hectors horse steadied some. Enough for the half-elf to will his beast back, away from the enemy line. A parried blow caught on the hook of his war-pick, a turn of the wrist and work of the arm looped the weapon's heavy head to crash into the enemy rider's chest.

Crack.

Ice crunched as the rider fell to the snow. Their horse stamped and trotted and trumpeted. Hector turned and saw the banner of allied cavalry behind him. A kick of his heels, a snap of stirrups. His horse lurched forward.

Hammer held firm in hand as walk turned to trot. The wolf, plated and familiar to him, was assailed by armored foe. Hector grit his teeth, aimed as the trot turned to canter, and the hammer came down with a sharp ping against crest of helm.

Neck snapped under the blow. A jostle of body's weight against the wolf, and Hector rode on towards the mailed bear and his fellow riders still mounted, as words of magick poured in hot whisper from his lips.

---

Cliff notes:
Hector breaks from the tangled line
Eironmar calls to try and reform the rank of cavalry
As Hector rides back to his allies, he cracks the armored foe assailing Farren

Byanka Valkas Saskia Kerraelas Arbok Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

On the ground, lurking between sword cuts, Montbank slinked between engagements as best he was able, hunched down, moving fast, a column of silent white in the blizzard. A gasping figure in the snow revealed as he moved about, belly slashed that caught the yellow eyes.

Attended with a quick production of bandage, balm smeared double quick across wound, and healing word that surged through the downed knight. Eyes softened from pain relieved, a shoulder taken, Montbank's sword drawn now in retort to those who would deliver a coup de grace, his own retort wildly granted, felling foe in desperate flurry. Replace steel, moving on, further steps to remove the wounded in his care from the immediate danger. Each action flowing into the next from required demand, talons sealing pocket as thanks was offered to the knight unshouldered.

“Thanks, I thought I was-”

But Montbank only gave a firm nod as he moved again to further function, his charge relieved of him. His wings arcing, beating fast and furiously to hover, his eyes scanning the infantry that fought ahead and around, his head spinning.

Twirling throwing axe greeted him as he turned back into front facing orientation, and Montbank pulled his wings in close to his body as to fall back to the ground in quick order. The axe went above and beyond the medic. But he had seen what was needed of him.

Three with shields blocked his path, and to take the sky again would generate too much risk to him, or require much effort to simply rise and sink. Through, it was through Montbank would go.

Short sword drawn with right from left scabbard and placed point forward.
Eel head drawn with left from right strap and placed within beak.

The foe banged their blade against their protection and closed in. Montbank lowered himself, spread out wing to intimidate and balance, blade forward, eel head gulping down as he met steel with steel, deflecting it and holding center line jutting outward with point.

He decided to clamber up the shield as it was presented, talons finding purchase on the steel rimmed sides, scaling up, rising over, descending to where he was needed. Sparks issuing from electrified beak as he made his entrance to Aarno's predicament, seeing him stumble.

The sight alone spurred Montbank into quick action, the three that he had pressed beyond now embroiled in further conflict from more soldierly sort. He hoped.

Farren made her move to assist, and afforded Montbank the time he needed to assist Aarno. A placed palm on the back to steady him, tapping him twice to make sure he knew it as a friend, wings folding around as shield and to support in steadying the fellow. The hairs on the back of the neck would stand, so close to such electrical summonings that Montbank wreathed about his beak as he worked.

The left hand went to belt for rejuvenation. Steady hands did their business, and a potion of glowing gold emerged in a snap.

Another foe made heavy bootprint in the snow, axe raised towards Aarno and Montbank, eyes furious, descending down with steel.

To be blasted by bolt from open screeching maw of Montbank. The lightning blasted center torso truly, sending the fighter spiralling backwards with a low grunt, blackened armour and singed flesh.

“Drink,” Montbank commanded, popping cork and handing Aarno the potion as his eyes looked around for the next foe to his present charge. The potion would give further vigour, healing the ache and fatigue, designed for himself to allow him to continue working from the sky when muscle and sinew drew their toll for the gift of flight and action. The energy provided might be enough to provide Aarno with second wind and the means to secure his place as survivor of the day.

Wings receded as balance restored, and Montbank defended Aarno's as he might quaff the potion, another foe rushing lightly with speartip gleaming, to be knocked aside in whirl of wing, and the soldier savaged by short sword and talon tearing.

Aarno Hector Saskia Kerraelas Byanka Valkas Faramund Arbok Lorinna Astarel Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Lorinna Astarel]

Once pristine, undisturbed snow was churned up by the melee. Splatters of red were not as common as the dark mud.

"Heave!"

Spears went back and forth. In the close press the defence held.

Lorinna heard screams, but between her helmet and the close press of bodies her situational awareness was almost nothing. This was why her father had told her to stay mounted with the vanguard.

Several in the front ranks fell and the line started to break apart. Lorinna kept her pole-axe close to her chest and pressed forward.

A spear glanced off her armour and she found herself close to the enemy. She brought both arms up and swung down. It was the only way she could find room.

The pole-axe was a horrible weapon. The sharp point and heavy head made a mockery of armour. Up and down it went, felling two. She had sight of the bannerman.

 

[Saskia Kerraelas]

Was her mind playing tricks on her? A bear?

It was hard for her to make sense of what her eyes has seen, recognizing at least a horse she had seen Valkas mount earlier when they had all found their steed to take them this far. Her vision began to stabilise. finding that her gaze could hold steadier as she tried to focus.

It was a bear! Surprise jolted her awake, present, and catching up to the scene before her. The momentary relief was appreciated by Saskia, righting herself in her seat and readjusting the stance before rejoining in holding rank. If she sustained an injury, she could not feel it as adrenaline coursed through her being, fueling her in the efforts of clashing against foe. It was Eironmar's orders that cut through the air, forcing Saskia to tighten into a formation that soon became hard to dispel.

Her strikes became precise now, as if needing that knock to the head to bring out her ferocious demeanor. Her inexperience was forgotten, instilling in her mind that this was yet another run of drilled practice, to simply knock those not in alliance with her from their horse, to ensure they no longer had the advantage of an attack.

That they had nowhere to retreat to.



Byanka Valkas
Hector
Arbok

 

[Arbok]

The small circle of respite was ending.
Steadily the enemy closed in again.
Arbok, not wanting to harm anyone roared a threat, that kept the smallest back but one came forward. A large man who wore no helmet. Features chiselled into hard angles. In his hands an axe almost as large as himself.
He wasn't cowed by her mock ferocity. In fact it spurned him on.

She took a step backwards and roared again but the illusion was broken now. Others closed in emboldened by their comrade.
Arbok reared up to her full height and slammed the earth, sending plumes of snow up and about her. Coating the nearby fighters with a light dusting of melting white.
The axe warrior smiled and charged her.

Saskia Kerraelas
Hector
Byanka Valkas