Knights of Anathaeum War? No! A Skirmish!

[Byanka Valkas]

Byanka sensed rather than saw Saskia regain her senses. It seemed to strengthen all the knights around them and their adrenaline surged. There was a pushback of the enemy, and Arbok's roar brought with it a surge of energy. They could do this.

Byanka pushed forward, blood dripping from her sword and steaming when it hit the snow. It seemed that for the most part, they were winning. But she didn't focus on it because she knew how quickly that could change and there were too many lives to be lost.

Hector rode up to join them, adding his strength to their own. Byanka kept her focus forward and knocked a soldier off his horse. The horse reared, smelling the bear and the wolf, and trampled any of those that were unfortunate enough to find themselves prostrate on the ground. Blood pumped, within and without.

Hector Saskia Kerraelas Arbok

 

[Faramund]

At the battle line...

Blood flows freely now. Red, red everywhere. It splashes armour, drips from weapons, creates rivers in the crags of faces. Bodies litter the ground. Hundreds of bodies. The mercenaries have paid the heavier toll, but the fight's far from finished. Sat well back from the line, Lord Dunstable watches from atop her horse as her men pick apart the enemy ranks.

Axes and hammers reap the bloodiest harvest. The mercenaries are faltering, their line disintegrating as their numbers diminish. The fighting is fiercest around the standards. Both sides rail and rally against each other. Big men wearing wolf pelts cut men-at-arms down. They scream in a language no-one really knows.

One screams right in Lorinna Astarel's face, lashing out with his long-axe. The blade gleams as it catches the wan light. More blood flies.

And yet, the fight is far from finished. Where in the seven hells are Lord Järnberg men? Faramund wonders, going shield-to-shield with his opponent. The bastard's breathing hard. His blade barely makes a dent.

Fara's riposte drops him to the snow, dead.

The opening he leaves in the enemy wall gives Faramund the answer he's looking for. His axe falls to his side.

'Oh, fuck!'

---​

Meanwhile, on the wings...

The surprise charge takes the wind out of the enemies sails. Lances drive hard to fracture ribs, shatter spines. A handful of riders die in the same instant, so well-timed is their attack. Momentum has dwindled since then. Now, the enemy come seeking revenge.

Syr Eironmar spots them first. He attempts to reform, to present one unbroken body to the shadows advancing through the swirling snow. There is something strange about the weather, he realises. Something... sinister. It is not a natural storm that tears at his skin like ice-cold claws. Something, or, perhaps, someone is trying to turn the storm against you.

The shadows grow closer, materialising into men. Disciplined, and well-armed, they close on the gathered Knights. Spears flash out to harry Farren Lóthlindor and the bear-thing that is Arbok.

There are enemy knights among the shadows, too. Syr Hector notices one armed with a pole-axe heading straight for him. His visor is down, eyes shrouded in darkness. But the man's intent is clear. He aims to kill your horse, then, you. Failing that, he might just be trying to buy his mounted comrades time.

Time to regroup and pay you all back twofold. If only there was someone to do something about that...

Saskia Kerraelas Byanka Valkas Aarno

 

[Aarno]

Hand at his side, he glared at the length of blade visible past the edge of his helm. It was moving, towards.

And then, away. Snow was brought to flight as a struggle broke out, its harbinger a great wolven form that ripped into a man. The force of it was terrifying enough to witness, let alone feel. Breathing shallow, he fought himself out of his defeated stupor, an enemy’s pained roaring of a sobering effect.

“ Farren— “ He mumbled aimlessly, watching amidst his struggle to stand as she was subject to a yet another merciless, gauntleted blow.

Get up, dammit.

Turned out, in quick succession, that he didn’t have to, not on his own. So soft was the landing beside him that he barely noticed another arrive to aid him at it, a great shadow and an assuring gesture descending. Past the beating wings, his stare remained fully preoccupied, spotting an approaching rider.

A storm gust, kettlehelm and hammer reflecting bright in the gloom. Familiar, rendering a favour. It was enough to assure him and he stilled to down the liquid given. A burning turned to warmth that spread through him, a strange feeling in his chest like that of palpitations as heart rate soared. But the pain subsided, a dark pulse at the edges of his vision narrowing it to new focus. Absolute.

And at that, he surged to motion without thinking or saying anything, arm slinging to pick up his yet scabbarded sword on his way. He reached Syr Farren at a swift march, bending to yank the deceased off her.

“ Farren. “ He repeated her name firmly, laying his palm on her head. There weren't the time to sense anything through the adrenaline, let alone the wave of new rallying cries. Thick air split to steel.

How he’d drawn his sword fast enough, was beyond him. But it did what he’d meant, nigh breaking the long haft of a spear as he knocked it aside, teeth grit.


Cliffsnotes :
- Aarno gets up, finally (wow! much talent with the help of many friends)
- Given a painkiller on steroids, he remains in battle next to Syr Farren as spearmen appear
- Nothing else of note really

Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Hector]

Hector regripped his hammer, teeth grit tight as a vice. Blood hot in his veins as his cant came to end.

A sphere of flame, snapped into existence. Hissed and wicked against the cold wind that ran against it. But it burned all still bright at the end of his hammer's head. Fed well by Hector's wrathful will to live.

The enemy knight, closer and closer, angle of his visor surely measured the encroaching rider. Fingers testing grip with some excitement. An eagerness to act and have the dead done.

Hector swung his weapon forward in a loop, and set the sphere to sail across the icy field. Speed doubled by the horses' charge.

The brave armored knight had little time to react before the sphere of flame splashed against his helm. Magick fire burst to hungry shards that twist and snaked into his visor. Ate hungry at his eyes.

Down came the poleaxe in reflex as Hector rode by. Timing off. Its cross caught against Hector's war-pick, the blow blew off the block and the fire went on eating at whatever it could as Hector's horse galloped on toward Eironmar's formation. Well away from the spears and the encroaching footmen.

The Pursuant, Eironmar, shout the final word of his own magicked spell, and raise his sword up into the sky. A golden light glowed from the run of his wand-weapon, and the whipping air about him and those around him stilled, if only just enough to keep the icey winds from biting too deep.

With sharp command, as the field of his magicks spread, Eironmar called forth a fellow knight, versed in horse archery. Called for fire against the hulking brute with the inhuman axe. The knight nod, with the blizard calmed just about them, she took aim, and loosed arrow after arrow at the proud fool who harried the squire-turned bear.

The ground about Eironmar would be flush with Life's magick. A locus, bolstering spirit, and steadying nerves as it eased hurts.

Hector found some succor there, but saw the scene play out before him, the arrows falling against the axe-man, his deft ability to ping them away with the broad head of his weapon. Though one sliced the flesh of exposed bicep.

The young knight gripped his weapon anew, looked to his fellows about him, to see if they would join him to the task of aiding the squire he knew as Arbok.

---

Cliifnotes:
Hector splashes fire across the poleaxe knight, and breaks back to eironmar's line
Eironmar uses Life magick to create an aura of protection around him
A fellow knight pings big axe dude with arrows.
Hector looks to those around him to see if they will ride out with him to help Arbok (que Saskia and Byanka)

Saskia Kerraelas Byanka Valkas Arbok

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

Dazed, Farren felt a heavy weight lifted from her, and she inhaled a sharp and grateful breath. A hand rested briefly atop her head and the touch centered her in the whirlwind of shouting as splinters showered her. A broken spear haft swinging wildly over her head, Aarno having intercepted the strike on her behalf.

Pain was now her constant mistress, but still Farren felt her brethren next to her and she rose from the ground, answering the approaching spearman with defiance curling a snarl on her lips.

A Knight refusing to yield.

But the fighting was thickening where they were. Men with the pelts of wolves closing in, eyes gleamed like serpents where they caught her front leg shaking. Even the blizzard around them began nefariously surrounding them, magic's influence carried on furious snowflakes. Farren cautioned a glance at Syr Aarno. They needed room, they needed space to breath and regroup. She couldn't fight like this. At least... not in this form.

With a great shudder, a silver light flushed down the Dusker's body, from nose to tail. The beating drum of the Wyld in her blood turned her lupine growls into the bellows of an enraged elk. Huge, spiked antlers sprawled from her crown like two mighty sharpened shields, her bloodied pelt like dusted night under the magicked armor that changed and shaped to her new form.

Her head hung low, stormy gaze unwavering and fierce, locked onto the approaching spearmen. Steam rolled from her flaring nostrils as she dug at the ground, her hoof churning up bloodied snow and earth.

Her only warning a thunderous snort, before surging toward the enemy, antlers clattering and entangling with their spears. Swinging her antlers in an unyielding assault, the striking of antlers against armor was cacophonous and jarring. Flesh giving way to bone as she trampled through the first line of their ranks, scattering foes in her path, creating a whirlwind of chaos that forced the enemy to retreat before her relentless advance.

In the wake of her powerful charge, Farren had carved out a space for her and Aarno to retreat, regroup, and regain their footing towards the blazing beacon of Syr Eironmar's sword.

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

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

Erstarz was the wind that howled so forcefully to the fore, no regular pulse in it's bitter gesture that Montbank recognised as natural. There was much intent behind it's course so engrained and relentless against them. Too much so for happenstance to guide it's path.

Yet to those with wings to purchase upon such pressures of gale, it presented an opportunity in the mind, yet distasteful was such a venture when so much begged to be attended upon the ground.

Montbank looked around, blades clashing and bodies colliding, wounded scarcely given chance to be pinned by dire circumstance before a rush of fresher combats greeted sight, the wounded lost to blizzard's barrier and fresh struggles silhouette against the white of snow. The wounded, so many to attend, were all calls to action. Fading lives into coalescing snows.

Yet folly took many forms.

Montbank took some small steps back, looking around himself at multitudes of causes. No cowardice in his frame, yet...

This part the worst to endure. Almost harder to bear for the knowledge this moment was deemed to arrive at some dreadful point. To his conscience in this quick of desperate decisions did he silence, to be attended in the awful slow of aftermath. The balance between salvation and devastation had to be attended each in part, each man felled a potential ally saved. Montbank refused to shirk his two fold duty. Compassion had it's place on the field.

But so too did terrible skyborn violence.

Wings spreading out in resplendent display of white, Montbank was carried up and away in sudden rush, all becoming distant white and dopplering havoc as he looked down and took his singular place within the sky. Vision focusing from the vantage where he belonged, he saw the hazards beyond those he had been so close and familiar.

The blazing friendly flame to rally sat all too near the threat that Montbank saw immediate to be nullified.

The course was decided. Bold was the necessary action. All forlorn feeling and regret to those who he had left upon the ground escaping him, now, now came the demand for assault on high on foe forming with speartip pressing. All determination to the assault was resolved within him. He soared.

Racing upon those winds with wings that powered true, availing in winds above the blizzard's arcing course, Montbank regarded the formation to which angled to make approach, a fierce organisation of soldiers that encroached upon his allies.

His friends.

Fierce faced, he dived.

Claw retrieved salamander gizzard, slipped into firm beak, kindling to the spectacle of war required of him.

Descending, descending and arcing, Montbank clasped upon the potency within his maw, and willed the fire pour from wide beak as he strafed. The legion of spearmen saw nothing but a shooting shimmer of white against white, and then the rush of conflagration roil in his passing.

Billowing waves, deep into the lines did the fire place confident territory to it's cause to end. Hesitation forced into the formation, burning barrier scorching, soldiers searing, speartips shuddering as weapons fell for want to smother rampant flame upon them.

Montbank arced away, run complete, rising high into the sky, silent, wishing not to hear effects of what he had just done in chasing chorus in his sensitive ear.

Yet the sound pursued with speed beyond his capacity to escape.

And hear it all the same he did.

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

 

[Saskia Kerraelas]

There had been much confusion on all fronts, and no matter where her sword and horse led her next, the waves of enemies never seemed to cease. Her eyes began to play tricks on her as the snowstorm turned her armour cold, for she swore there were shadows moving in the snow. That perhaps they were of her own making, that if she reached out with her own shadow, wherever it may be, that they would call to her and join her in this fight.

Like a fool, a stunned fool, Saskia chanced one second to watch them move more fluidly, to finally take shape of even more men that were not here to ally with them. The curse was frozen at her lips, but the explosion of light somewhere to her left ripped her gaze from the incessant sea of mercenaries. No longer were they shadows, but Saskia had never been afraid of the dark, of what may lurk in the deepest pits of shadows.

She could endure. That was the stubborn part to her being. Kerraelas would not abandon her comrades, would not allow them to lose hope or momentum. Saskia found where she needed to be, rushing to close in and protect the bear that had helped buy her time to recover her previous blows. Perhaps when this was all over, her sunny personality would shine through and thank the bear, thank the being for having her back and remark how cute she found the mountainous creature....

But they had to make it.

Saskia threw all other thoughts from her mind, dispelling the sadness that waited to be called upon at the thought of even herself not getting through.

She counted on those that fought alongside her, as they would with her.

Her eyes flicked to Eironmar, to the light he produced and the shadows that blossomed beneath him and those closest to him. It was enough. The darkness that pooled there shook, swimming across the dusting at their feet and gliding over the sanguine stains to coalesce by Saskia's horse and grow to her awaiting hand. They would snake up and around her arm, clinging to her person until she willed it to take shape, to be weaponised when she saw fit.

"They just won't stop..." She muttered to herself, not expecting anyone to hear her amidst the constant noise that came with battle.


Hector
Arbok
Byanka Valkas

 

[Lorinna Astarel]

One screams right in @Lorinna Astarel's face, lashing out with his long-axe. The blade gleams as it catches the wan light. More blood flies.

An axe wasn't a weapon to trade blows with. Not when the wielder was such a wall of muscle. Spears pressed forwards. From behind her, from in front of her. The foreign mercenaries were trying to dig in. It was hard work when the ground was treacherous and they were fighting uphill.

The blood looked worse on the pure white snow than the losses. When one side broke and it devolved into a true melee then the losses would start to pile up. A soldier fell, a deep axe would that had sheared their collarbone would be fatal.

Lorinna dropped her poleaxe and drew her sword. There was just enough space to use it properly.

She feinted forwards, drew out the strike. Lorinna pressed in, her blade moving through a typical offensive routine. Anyone with Syr Rickards sketches on a third-form advance could have matched her to the pictures. Her blade came in low, edge bloodied as she drove two of them back. Spears and shortswords followed.

The man holding the banner was a brute of a man. His free hand held something more like a cleaver than a sword or axe. Even if they were foreign, she doubted they trusted the banner to anything less than one of their fiercest fighters.

 

[Byanka Valkas]

The storm picked up, blowing snow in faces. Byanka thought she heard it breathe a laugh and she knew this was no natural storm. Neither were the shadows that took the shapes of men and joined the enemy's numbers. There was no surprise, shock or fear on Byanka's face, just fierce determination.

If anyone was not too focused on their own fight, they might notice how the enemy soldiers nearest Byanka seemed to forget how to wield their weapons and so fell easier at her blade. She continued to mutter prayers under her breath for everyone that died on this battlefield, no matter which side they fought on.

Syr Eironmar's light ignited the snowy battlefield, inspiring enthusiam in the Knights' push forwards. But as the light grew, Byanka saw out of the corner of her more shadows. But these were friendly, under Saskia's control. The smell of wolf changed to elk and it stirred even more fear inside the horses, making Byanka's surprisingly calm horse even more out of the ordinary. Horses sense fear and panic, and rely on their riders to guide them.

Byanka felt as if she was separated from her body. Despite the screams of death and the sounds of metal on metal and the roars of war beasts, she knew a calm like no other.

Suddenly the sky lit up in fire as Montbank swooped down, incinerating a good chunk of the enemy lines. The screams of the dying increased tenfold, as the heat flared in front of them, and finally Byanka's steed showed signs of hesitation. She placed a gloved hand on the side of her horse's neck, soothing words intermingling her prayers. She knew if she was thrown from her horse her advantage would be lost.

A man in heavy metal armor with an elaborate war helmet roared in laughter. His blade dripped blood into the snow and Byanka thought anyone who took pleasure in killing someone they did not know should not deserve to live. She focused on him, her dark hazel eyes flooding with an unnatural light.

He jerked towards her suddenly, as if he was attached to a rope that had been tugged. The expression on his face was a smug one but the swing of his massive axe was weak; but still on aim. Byanka leaned backwards in her saddle, the blade clipping the air right above her nose, her breath fogging the shiny surface. She did not waste her opportunity and had a dagger lodged in the gap between his thigh armor and pelvic armor, catching the soft flesh of his groin. He howled and lunged for her.

Straightening in her saddle she hit him across the head with surprising force, knocking his fancy helmet off, exposing his rough, brutally scarred face. He dropped his heavy war axe but still managed a punch to her gut, her chest armor digging into her stomach. She curled forward, taking advantage of the motion and cut his throat open from ear to ear. He slumped forward onto her and the horse, blood spraying. Byanka kicked him off with some effort; he was a large man and even heavier in death.

She gripped her horse's reigns which were slick with blood. She was beginning to lose her mount, she could feel the fear rising in the animal, no matter how calm Byanka was or how hard she prayed.

Saskia Kerraelas Arbok Hector Theolonious Montbank

 

[Arbok]

Shadow doesn't have a smell but it felt these ones should.
It was all she could do to avoid the axe-man as he came at her again and again driving her back. She swiped at him, at his axe and at the closing shadows.
Sharp pain rung through her side, a deep burning that felt wrong in its warmth despite the cold. One of the shadows had pierced her armour and hide in one stroke.
Again she bellowed and reared up to crush the offending thing but when she came down on it it was like crashing through steam. The shadow creature broke and formed again a foot away from her.
Her own blood added to the mixture on the muddy earth and she was forced to think again on who exactly they were fighting and why.
This magic was something she had not seen before and a far cry from the kind wielded by the Knights of Anathaeum.
The axe-man came at her again and she found herself feeling a burst of frantic energy as one may do when their life may be about to end. With a pounce she didn't think she could perform she caught him and pinned him. Large paws crumpled his breastplate as she roared in his face and he flinched away. The soldiers behind him began to waver which was a good opportunity but again the shadows appeared as if from the very edges of her vision to impede her. Their spears high on her they slowly closed in with a unity and patience that wasn't in any way human. She could not see the glimmering sword of Eironmar, or anyone else it seemed beyond the wall of menacing and seemingly invincible shapes.

Saskia Kerraelas Hector Byanka Valkas Aarno

 

[Hector]

Flame bloomed across the field of snow. Swallowed ranks of their enemies whole. The sight alone sucked the air out of lungs. Then the screams cried out in the distance. Sharp against the dull howl of the blizzard.

The Pursuant gave sharp command. They would retreat, up the hill. Rejoin the main line.

Hector stared wide eyed through his visor. Heart a drum in his chest. Kith and kin fought desperate in the field to survive. To break free.

"Riders! Riders!" he cried out over the din. "With me!" He shout, as he willed his horse forward. A few brave fools took to his flanks, eyes full of horror, yet hearts pulled to the cause.

Yet the beast gave pause. Here are numbers. Here there is safety. Its stamp of hoof told him. Anger came easy. His hand trembled into a fist. He bowed his helmed head against the beast's powerful neck.

"Please," he whispered to it, hand loosed. "I know it is frightful, but we must,"

The horse gave a powerful snort. Steadied beneath him.

"Syr!" One of Dunstable's men called out.

Hector whispered a word to his stead. Pat its neck, and as he turned about, a flame sparked overhead. A spiral that sparked and rang out like hammer's strike as it took form. The wings of a great rook spread above him, like a banner ablaze.

"Ride!" He called out, and set forth. The other rider's looked to one another. Gave a shout, and their horses rushed forth.

The charge sped forward. The light of the rook drew the eyes of the enemy and gave pause. Some men broke from their line. Turned tail and ran as blazing wings burned bright above the riders that sallied forward to aid those still caught in the melee.

---

Cliff Notes
Eironmar sounds the command to retreat.
Hector sees his allies still caught around the enemy line.
His horse says fuck no.
He asks nicely
Hector wills a cool fire spell over his head and charges forward with a small number of Dunstables' men. (maybe 3 men on horseback)
Saskia Kerraelas Arbok Byanka Valkas Aarno Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Faramund]

On the hill, where the battle lines meet...

From where Faramund stood, looking down at the enemy, it seemed as if all the world was about to end. Fire wreathed the cloud-locked sky, giving the impression of razed villages burning in the distance. Men, many of them young and impressionable, scream as they are cut down or run through. Good, bad, or somewhere in between- it mattered little.

Either you killed or got killed. There was no room for mercy. Not yet.

The mercenaries knew this. Fighting through their exhaustion, they continued to hack away at the wall barring their path to victory. Many of them had already succumbed to the wounds dealt them below the shield, or else above. Around the standards, however, the tight-knit group remained strong, resolute in their convictions. It was there most of their veterans had been placed.

To punch a hole, and to protect the swaying banners under which they had marched for the past millennia.

Lorinna Astarel was learning the hard way just what these men were capable of. Swift, fluid movements pushed back two of their number, but the mercenaries had sword-craft of their own, and they used it to butcher three of the men pressing in alongside her, after the banner.

The big man with the cleaver slashed at her head, a feint. The cruel iron whipped in low towards her leading leg.

Meanwhile, just down the line from them, Faramund, with the help of Gruki and a dozen men-at-arms, began to turn the enemy's flank in on itself. Bodies impeded their progress, but with the hill on their side, it was only a matter of time.

Further down, waiting for the mercenaries to do their job or die trying, Lord Järnberg's regulars readied themselves to strike.

---
​

On the wings...

Death does not discriminate. He comes and He goes, snatching threads as He pleases. Today, in this moment, most of the threads bear the colours of Lord Järnberg and his mercenary allies. But not all. A few are the blue-gold of House Dunstable. An old ally, her men are steadfast in their duty, and die, if such a thing is possible, well.

A few threads belong to the Order.

You do not see Syr Basco fall, though you do hear his cry of pain. Squire Istvan makes no sound at all, other than a sad sigh as a bolt punches through the slit of his visor to bury itself in his brain. Grim. Unfair. Such is war. Such is Death.

Rallying riders to his side, Syr Eironmar brings the formation about. The scene is too chaotic to make much sense of, and every second spent floundering in the snow is a second in which the enemy grows bolder. Better to return to their lines, he thinks, a beacon of calm in the storm.

He does not know that the other wing has met with fierce resistance. Nor do any of them realise that the cavalry element there is climbing the hill to take Lord Dunstable's force from behind in order to cause a route. If such an event were to occur, well... Who can say, really?

Syr Hector certainly can't.

Supported by less than a handful of knights, he charges into the fray, magick peeling off ahead of him. Before he can strike, however, something odd happens. It starts off, as most premonitions do, with a prickling sensation. He, like many others close by, feels the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand tall. His fingers tingle in a way entirely unrelated to the rigours of battle.

It is then the knight on his left bursts apart, as if crushed beneath a great weight. Looking around, your armour soaked in blood, you spot the man responsible.

Though, of course, he is no man at all.

Farren Lóthlindor Theolonious Montbank Saskia Kerraelas Byanka Valkas Arbok Lorinna Astarel Aarno
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Notey notes
The mercenaries line begins to crumble
Bannerman goes toe-to-toe with Lorinna
Järnberg's regulars wait, watching for a moment to strike
Syr Eironmar leads his band back up the hill. Most of them, anyway
The opposite cavalry wing has not met with the same success
An enemy spellcaster obliterates the knight closest to Hector
You are still outnumbered

 

[Hector]

Spatter and horse's scream did little to slow Hector's charge. His hammer cracked into one spearman's side, their eyes blinded by the bright bird of fire that hung over head and cast deep shadows all around.

"Break! To the hill! To Eironmar!" Hector screamed through his helm, tried to guide his fellows with a point of his weapon. That way. Up the hill again.

His flame spell sailed over head. A deterrent to those footmen around him, for the fear of fire was still in their hearts.

"Retreat!" Hector supplicated with a forceful shout. "We must-"

That pull of cold and twisted magick came again. His stomach sank. His hands trembled, and his eyes felt near pulled from his skull as he looked across the tattered line of foes. A silhoute unlike any present. A thing like nightmares he had seen before.


A thing of the Everwatcher, a creature made of the Sightless, weaving its next prong of devilry.

One of Dunstable's men stared wide eyed. Turned his horse and forced it to full gallop. Away. Wherever away was. He went away from that thing that tickled its sphere and gathered its magics.

Hector felt the breath leave his lungs. His horse gave a horrible shout and turned. If he did not know what to do, it surely did. Flee. It thrashed and turned itself about from the fire and the menace.

The spearmen reformed their line, and looked to close about the small band that fought so desperately to save the squire, Arbok.

"UP THE HILL!" Hector called, fighting his horse to stay, just a second longer as crossbow bolt pinged off his armor with heavy dent.

One of Dunstable's men, reached down to Syr Aarno, and helped him onto the saddle before breaking away from the enemy line.

Eironmar's unit crested, the hill. A swift rider gave news of enemy movements, and he ordered his troops to make ready once more. They need screen the line of foot, as best they could.

---

Cliff notes:
Hector arrives to the area around Arbok, begging them to break away, back up the hill.
Hector sees "the man responsible" for all the fucked up magic. (its a weird mutant, the likes of which he has seen before)
Scared shitless, he screams to his allies to get the fuck up the hill.
(There are lots of dark shadows cast by the fire bird that is sailing over head as an active threat to enemies)
Saskia Kerraelas Byanka Valkas Arbok Farren Lóthlindor Aarno

 

[Aarno]

Absolute madness. That had been for the countercharge alone. Whatever this was, he hadn’t words for.

Deflected another strike from a spear, wild eyed. Man, owl, wolf — swords, talons and fangs clearing the smallest circle in what approached. A gauntlet closing its steel fingers around ants, the death-fearing tension in his gut coiling up like a spring.

A wave of light had him glance at a friend, catching antlers and a charge as she went. Through. He sought for Montbank then, intending to signal him away, but the great owlman would no longer be found. Until fire descended, reflecting from arms and armour, burning at the skin and eyes from yards away. He squinted, bringing an arm to shield his face as the spearmen scattered.

He was forgotten. But only by his enemy. A retreat call, a bright light amidst the sea that flared red. Emboldened by both substance and the decimated line, he made a break for it.

His sword was in a wild swing as he sprinted, barely avoiding collision on his way. A man with half his face burned away shambled in front and he almost tripped, stumbling with both horror and the effort of pushing him aside. A few sliding steps on the snow saw him upright again, gathering speed. His breath was frantic, echoing in his ears and deafening most sounds.

Hoofbeats. Suddenly, a rider was next to him and had it not been for the prompt, steadying clap on his shoulder, he might’ve turned and sliced the horse’s side open. Instead, an ally announced himself. He could now hear the calls, pulled back by the sight of a great avian beacon. Now, that’d be a destination.

Without a word, wirst to wrist, he accepted the ride.

---

Cliffsnotes:
- My dude sprints away and gets to retreat, offered a ride by one of Dunstable's men
- Nothing else of note, no larger scale maneuvers or impact

 

[Arbok]

It was time to go.
Arboks great body swung and she charged forth towards the hill. Into dark spears of air that shred into her chainmail and skin.
It hurt in a way that denied explanation. If she could speak then she would have failed this pain with mere words.
But she was an animal now and animals could convey things people cannot.
A moan that said "I'm lost" began in her throat as she crashed against the shadows, breaking them like wind breaks smoke.
The cry grew into a sharp sound that echoed "COLD" as she made it to the line near Hector and Saskia but then the final note came and Arbok's body collapsed on the ground with a mournful croon.
Three wounds from shadow spears smoked noisily from her sides. They each hummed with an unsettling tone.
Dark eyes looked up and she focused on changing back but she was too weak.

Hector Saskia Kerraelas Byanka Valkas

 

[Byanka Valkas]

There is a call for a retreat. While the knights had been winning by sheer strength and skill in fighting, it seemed their enemy had hidden magic weapons to cover their asses in case their mercenaries couldn't defend them. Clever, really.

Byanka hesitated only a moment when she saw the likely source of the magic. Her prayers paused, replaced with a curse as she turned around and urged her horse away, back up the hill. She did not need to give much encouragement.

As they fled, Byanka saw Arbok struggling, steaming wounds on her sides. She slowed, eventually collapsing. Byanka could sense her struggle and pain and Byanka didn't even have to think about it as she stopped, and leaned over to the massive bear on the ground beside her. She slid off her horse, gripping the reins with one hand and sliding her other hand into the thick, blood-matted fur on Arbok's scruff.

Byanka's eyes fluttered closed as she focused on the bear's breathing. She would calm Arbok, and ease her pain, lending the bear some of the knight's strength so that she might get up and make it to safety, where she could have her wounds treated. The magick of Loch could be sensed around Byanka.

Arbok

 

[Saskia Kerraelas]

Saskia felt the disturbing intrusion in the air, how her skin prickled and itched under her armour. Amber eyes watched as someone was blasted with a unseen force, but still the knights rode ahead, a greater source of light now present amongst the thick snowfall. She wasted no time, willing the shadow that wrapped around her left arm to pool towards her palm and in quick procession had thrown it forward, watching as it arced towards the sky and reached towards the shadows left by the fiery avian.

Pausing in her own retreat, Saskia sheathed her sword in order to wield with both hands, feeling the great mass of shadow calling to her. It had been so loud to her ears, enough to almost drown out the screams and shouts and clangs, and she preferred the gentle hum that came from the darkness.

It became a sea out there, every inch of snow covered in shadow remained even when the light source moved onwards, enough to reach under the horses and feet of the enemy line.

Saskia inhaled.

She could easily wrap her shadows around the enemy and pulled them towards the cold earth, buying their side enough time to retreat and reform... and yet, what if that sort of attack would bring upon something worse from the creature of nightmare?

There was a sea at her command, waiting in caught shadows. Each second she thought, the sea grew wider, wilder, roaring an ocean in her ears.

Saskia exhaled, lifting her arms and pillars of shadows with it.

It was enough to scatter and separate their foes, and the closer they had been to her allies, the pillars grew thick and narrow, almost like a great barricade to shield those that needed to retreat. One of Dunstable's men recalled the order, not wasting time when they had been blessed by shadowy cover in their favour. Saskia gritted her teeth, hard, almost locking her jaw as she kept her concentration on the crashing waves of shadows assuring her they were still strong.

But Saskia began to feel a pain at the side of her head. She was sweating now, unaware she had even felt warmth since they made camp. Her head injury was too hard to ignore now, shoulders drooping slightly as her hands continued to weave her shadows.

She was only able to hold the pillars just shy of a minute before they fell to the snow, causing up a massive cloud of dusting as the shadow sea formed once again.


Hector
Arbok
Byanka Valkas

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

The spearmen had scattered, and Dunstable's men made a desperate dash towards the distant beacon. As they retreated, the lifeless form of a mercenary dangled from his jaw off Farren's antler, blood-coated and dripping steaming droplets onto the remaining patches of virgin snow.

Her attention was caught by the flashing sky, for winter's fury had blended with the arcane. The blizzard, once a shroud, now danced with shadows and flames—manifestations of the unfolding chaos. The air around her snapping in rivulets of brutal heat and blinding shadows, offering them a calculated retreat, a moment to gather their forces, and a chance to strike back.

She shook off the gruesome burden and before it could even hit the ground she had charged away at a gallop. The light of Syr Eironmar's sword gleamed through the shifting battlefield, guiding her ascent, the clashing sounds of steel chasing her like hungry teeth until she had joined her people once more.

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

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

Frost born winds carried eyes sharp. Appraisal of numbers, regarding of singular horror that took the field. Not too long did Montbank gaze upon the grotesquery that displayed itself in breach of the ordinary, as if not to tempt it to cast a returning cursed gaze.

Information gathered from the highwinds of cold, Montbank made his way to the command structure via high born flight.

Landing before the banners that marked their position, he made report known. Made observations known to those in command, and gathered breath and vigour as his understanding was galvanised into further responses.

Montbank, from some safety behind the lines, made small inventory and gathered his strength for the next surge that would be demanded of him, draining a flask of water and checking his supplies diligently.

That image of the cruel manifestation troubled him as he did so. For if he was averse to such a thing from altitude, how more shocking a thing to face grounded and close he wondered.

He looked beyond and listened as the acid of exertion dissipated and courage replenished by all that was knightly within him.

 

[Faramund]

The fighting ebbs. Over the howl of the wind, and the groans of the soon-to-be dead, Syr Faramund can hear a war horn calling. Repeating blasts drown out the bray of Lord Dunstable's tubicen. 'Looks like it's over!' One of the soldiers next to Faramund says, leaning heavily on his shield. Blood soaks the sleeve of his gambeson. It is hard to tell who it belongs to.

'Doubt it,' the dawnling replied, ever the rabble-rouser. From where he's standing, it looks as if the first stage of someone's masterplan had just played out. He knows the next is about to begin.

The trumpets sound again, drawing looks and comments from the men in line. Though many are still standing, it is plain to see the line is thinner than it once was. Bodies lay strewn across the hilltop, a barrier for the next assault. The majority belong to the mercenary company Lord Järnberg hired, but there are still a number of friendly faces lying amongst the ruin.

Somewhere around fifty, Fara guesses, going by the tabards. Maybe triple that for the mercs.

And still we're outnumbered. Sighing, the knight opened his visor. He could see the second wave coming now, black on white on grey. Järnberg's regulars, and something else. Something... monstrous.

'We need to go,' he tells Gruki, taking a sip from his waterskin before passing it to her. Sergeants and officers are shouting to the men, preparing them for a fighting retreat. Clearly, the situation is graver than any of them realise. 'Are our horses saddled?' Faramund asks, leaving his position at the run. Gruki goes with him, moving at a brisk walk. There are advantages to being tall.

'Yes,' she said, 'and I made sure our things are packed, too, like you asked!'

'Good!' The thundering of hooves made them both turn sharply. A handful of men-at-arms turned with them, closing ranks almost on instinct. 'Friendlies!' Gruki yells, pointing out the banner they bear. Faramund notes the two shapeshifters with them. He frowns. 'Looks like Arbok took one for the team, poor lass!'

Many of the riders are battle-scarred and tired. Syr Eironmar does what he can to bolster their resolve before heading off to find Lord Dunstable.

'We should join them,' the dawnling comments, hastening to his horse. 'Quickly, now! The enemy will be sure to try their luck again soon!'

---​

Cliff notes:
The mercenaries disengage, taking their banner with them (Sorry, Lori! Better luck next time!)
Lord Dunstable's men begin to retreat, falling back through the camp in somewhat orderly fashion
The Knights of Anathaeum mount up en masse to screen the withdrawal
It's not over yet

 

[Arbok]

With Byanka's help Arbok stood. The warmth and strength of the magik struggled within against the persistent pain and magical darkness. Still she moved, large unsteady limbs underneath her trudged up the hill the last few yards huffing and puffing.
Knights and soldiers moved aside as they made their way to the area beyond and the promise of rest.
When they had gone far enough for Arbok to get under an open tent and lay on the floor she did so with a heavy this and a fresh moan came from her lips. Her deep brown eyes found Byanka through the dimming pain. She wanted to change back and thank her, apologize for allowing herself to be wounded so easily. A fresh wound of shame cut her heart deeply as she realised the whole Order saw her be shepherded off the field like this.
With a massive paw she covered her head in shame and let out a whine that was only partly from the pain of her wounds and she was still too weak to change back.

Byanka Valkas

 

[Hector]

With fire to guide them, and shadow to hide them, the survivors crested the hill once more. Arbok collapsed with exhaustion, as Hector breathed hard atop his mount. The flame wings of his spell came shut, and the bird of fire turned ot cinders and ash. He looked to those around him. Familiar faces, though the lines seemed frantic with movement. Banners marching in retreat.

What rest they would find here would be brief before the retreat forced them to move.

His horse shook its head, tail a-swish, and he could feel his steed breath heard beneath him. Its heart a pounding thrum. Hector sat heavy in his saddle, and tried to ease his legs about its barrel as his eyes scanned for helmet and armor he was all too familiar with, breath held as he looked amidst the throngs.

---

Lorinna Astarel

---

About the young Lady Dunstable's retinue.
At the rear of the camp.
Word has just been received of the sound for retreat, and report of the grotesquerie in the field has arrived.

---

"With all due respect, Your Ladyship, our men outclassed that rabble, near three to every one," Eagan Rount said, with a brashness shared by the band of well armored, and clean bladed men about him. "And this Anatheaum lot, well, they gave our levies more spine than I gave them credit for," grunts and rabble in agreement. "Horror, grotesquerie, call it what you will, but I call it nothing more than battle shock, a wee fracture in morale, nothing more," groans of disagreement. Shouts of dissent. "And certainly! Not worth losing our winning position!"

The men, landed all who gathered bout the newly inherited Lord Dunstable, save her personal guard. A young woman, no more than twenty years upon Arethil, who still struggled to earn the respect of her deceased father's men.

"Careful with this one, your Lordship," Her old and trusted guard, Hezzard, whispered into her ear. "A glory seeker, hungry for honor and trappings earned in his men's blood, though he is a sound tactician,"

Ser Denrick stepped forth. "Your Lordship," he began, and the number about them settled some.

"Good man, Denrick," Hezzard whispered quiet, as the crowd still mumbled and muttered. "A soldier's soldier," he nod. "Sides the being landed and all," a sly grin.

"We've no reason to distrust the reports, as they come for the Anaetheum's own number, straight to my man's ear," Denrick gave.

"And are they not prone to fear, your Lordship?!" Eagan retorted, with force. "Their magick like makes the mind more likely to see horrors, where there is not but snow!"

 

[Lorinna Astarel]

"Hold! Hold!"

The cry went out, signalled by a sharp rap of battle drums.

Lorinna hissed, breathing hard and fast. The mercenaries disengaged, losing several in the process. This was an orderly retreat, not a rout. She watched the banner bobbing back to the front of the formation of spears and axes as they turned and returned into the storm.

Lorinna sheathed her sword and retrieved her poleaxe. She lifted her visor and breather deeply. The ice cold air seemed to burn her lungs.

A battle is not one fight, one melee, her father had told her. It is attrition. You can lose a battle well and win a war, but sometimes it takes the entire day to decide. An organised army becomes a string of fights. Orders break down. Just focus on what is ahead of you, but take the time to look at the big picture if you're well placed.

She was not well placed.

"Wounded to the back!" someone called. "Take the spears they left behind to the caravan."

 

[Aarno]

Aarno dismounted the moment they reached the hill. No purpose burdening further the horse that’d struggled the entire climb, for to do the opposite befit him just as well. In parting he grasped the obliging Dunstable, one who’d practically saved his life, by the hand and shook. They met eyes, embers to a hazel, and held on for a couple seconds as he spoke his thanks. He’d make sure not to forget.

With his scabbard lost to the snow of a battlefield, he made haste to just shove his orphan sword into an errant loop on his belt. Like all the rest of this mess, scrambling, battered, just about scraping by, it’d have to do.

***
​

Hildegard Dunstable stood, one hand on the hilt of her sword, and stared. There was a weariness to her expression, one that just about hid her indecision. She’d heard so much from Eagan Rount, most of her life, that Hezzard had hardly needed to advice her on him. Her father certainly had kept some choice people around.

“ Ser Eagan Rount. “ She started, swallowing the dissatisfaction that threatened her tone. “ None questions, am sure, that your tactics and council have largely wrought what we behold today. “ Even this disaster, that currently surrounds us.

“ But, as I see it, is one thing to misjudge our odds — No! “ Her hand rose as the man loudly drew breath, seemingly to speak over her. No more.

“ And another entirely to so disrespect and speak ill of our allies. They could’ve well disregarded our call, just as you are doing to our own, presently. “

“ And you’d just give away your father's hard-earned lands first thing word of some boggard riles up amidst the ranks. “ A ripple of amusement sounded around the table. Not able to recognize whom had heckled, she forewent addressing them.

" A man was, apparently, obliterated. Burst. " She spoke anew, straightening a little. It did nothing to temper the ridicule.

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

The swirling camp buzzed with fervor; the young Lady Dunstable's retinue embroiled in a discussion about the recent battle. Eagan Rount's assertive words sliced through the air, claiming the battle shock was merely a fracture in morale, while dissent and disagreement reverberated. Farren frowned inwardly.

Observing from a distance, Farren sensed the tensions rising within the Lady Dunstable's entourage. The weight of leadership hung heavy upon Hildegard Dunstable's shoulders.

Heatless silver flames fell away from her elk form and Farren stepped through the line of grumbling men with a slight limp. The signs of the recent skirmish were evident. Her once pale blonde braid, normally adorned with a red thread and silver bells at its end, now also bore streaks of blood that weren't her own.

Her dark Dusker armor, scathed and marked, clad her slender frame. It bore the telltale signs of the battlefield, scars and slashes marring its surface where it had taken blows meant for her in the heat of the fray.

"My Lady, if I may," Farren began after a brief bow, her voice resonating with calm authority. "Respectfully, the field bore witness to a turmoil beyond mere battle shock. It has been overshadowed by the presence of something far more insidious."

"From the accounts relayed by my oath-kin, they witnessed among the ranks of mercenaries, a singular aberration. A creature so twisted and beastly that it was a thing of nightmares. A thing of cultists." Farren's gaze shifted, aimed pointedly at Eagan Rout, "So it is clear that this conflict has surpassed the grasp of ordinary soldiers. In such circumstances, there is no one more qualified to speak on this battle now, than the Knights of Anathaeum."

The murmurs and whispers dwindled as her words hung in the air, her pale grey eyes scanning the faces around her before looking back to Lady Dunstable, Farren's expression softened as she addressed the Lady directly, a gentle warmth now in her gaze. "We, as Knights, have stood firm against these malevolent entities, guarding against horrors that would otherwise consume the land. Let us do what we do best, and we will win you this day. For it will be a day won for all of us."

Aarno Hector Faramund