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Diplomacy / The Battle of Curaw Bridge
« on: June 21, 2015, 04:23:47 am »Prince Althalos
The men of Lord JayJrod's host were running every which way and everyone was shouting at one another. The snow was brown and mushy, the kind that makes an ugly snow man but its good for making snow balls that hit hard. Somehow in the confusion he had been sent to the camp with Finnian's baggage train which didn't make much sense to him because his brother was still in the woods hunting for the outlaws that captured Thalion. All he knew was that there was soon to be a battle. "Squire! Fetch cold water and clean rags to Lord Jay's tent NOW!" He almost corrected the surgeon before he realized the opportunity that he'd been given. So he played his part and tried not to grin as he thought of the other boys faces when he told them of meeting the best swordsman in the land. In the center pavilion stood two men wearing furs that smelled of dog that he recognized as Jona and King Bonesaw as well as a few other men bearing freshly dyed heraldry of Mithrim. On the bed betwixt them lay the finest swordsman in the land, shaking and dripping sweat. "Give me those... we must break the fever" said the surgeon as he snatched the pail of chilly water and rags and shooed him away. As he made his way back to the baggage he heard the soldiers muttering about their circumstances. And why shouldn't they? Their champion lay fever stricken in a tent and their generals were very far from the battlefield. Even at the age of 12 he knew what pitifully low morale was when he saw it... but what if- The idea struck him so swiftly he found himself running before he knew why. After spending some time fumbling with all the armour plates that made up his brothers churburg cuirass he finally managed to assemble the lord of Mithrim's battle gear. The blue gambeson made him feel fat and poofy and the great triangle shaped kite shield was as tall as he was. Never the less he thought he must look quite dashing in all the +3 gear. With his feet lodged in significantly shortened stirrups he rode to the front to the front lines smirking as he heard the exclamations of "Lord Tiercel is here! Finnian has returned!" As the formations arrayed themselves before the enemy host he turned and faced them. "I AM FINNIAN TIERCEL! MEN! FOR A GLORIUS CHARGE! CHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGE!!!!!!!!!!!!!" As he lowered his lance he remembered Finnian telling him never to use all caps... oh well. (click to show/hide)
Donaldson
A clump of snow slid off the rim of his iron kettle hat and fell at his feet. He watched the falling snowflakes fall around it, slowly creeping up blurring its form and softening its shape. Suddenly a torrent of raucous shouting distracted him. There was a man wearing vibrantly dyed clothing running across Ismirala Castle's courtyard with an arrow sticking out from his turban. Behind the man ran a pack of armed men, mercenaries by the look of them, shouting things as "We want gold!" and "Give us our damn pay!". The turban wearing man tripped on a trailing sash and came up shouting obscenities. It was then Donaldson suddenly realized the harrowed man was his friend Rostam. Shortly after he realized it would be expected that he attempt to alleviate the situation. Mithrim's warriors numbered only a handful and some of its allies fewer so it was merely by the promise of wealth, fame, and perhaps the number of acquaintances that the Lord Tiercel had made that enabled them to field an army. Mercenaries and errant warriors were unreliable at best. A trait accentuated by any sudden dearth of income. So Donaldson knocked the remaining snow off his iron hat and made his way towards the throng. (click to show/hide)
Finnian Tiercel
The lord of Ismirala Castle sat on the lichen coated trunk of a fallen spruce, one leg atop the other, grinding with whetstone the dullness away from an old falchion. The blade was forged long ago by an Astralis smith and by the number of notches it had likely clashed against one of the old straight swords used by the wardens long ago. Perhaps the old thing could remember back to the Battle of Fenada. Now in retirement it serviced him as a tool to cleave a path through bracken and bramble so that the donkey carrying his provisions could pass freely through the woods. When he finished and stood the pair of blood hounds lent to him by Jona rose as well, their tails thwacking against up shooting saplings. As he hacked away at the vegetation he thought of the soldiers hacking at shields and pole shafts on some far away field. His hand had been forced without any advantage on his behalf. He almost was reluctant to find his viceroy as finding him meant the admonishing of his undiplomatic actions. Somehow Thalion could accomplish more with one raven than he could with 24 (24 being the total number of messenger birds that had roosted in Ismirala keep before he frantically sent them to the imperial council). Darkness had just set when a twinkling of light appeared off ahead and to the right of his course- a campfire surely. Finnian tied off the donkey and hounds to a tree and stalked ahead stealthily as he might. As he crept up to the shadows cast by the light he beheld a figure silhouetted against the crackling fire- the all too familiar great sword of war was slung across his back. "Thalion!" he called only to realize his own folly as the name left his lips. The figure turned to face him and though he drew forth Thalion's sword, he was not the Viceroy of Mithrim. It is an unlucky thing to wield in earnest a fallen foe's blade as it may hold the bitterness of its former master. Finnian hoped that Thalion held a closer bond with his blade than the Astralis soldier who once fought wardens with the falchion Finnian now brandished. (click to show/hide)
