The morning gloom finally began to part, the dawning sun banishing the creeping mist to shadows cast by jutting, craggy ridges. The sound of horns and drums interrupted the normally serene silence of the hinterland morning. Men could be seen on either side of a long, flat expanse of grass and rock, struggling against the morning chill to assume some semblance of formation under colors and banner.
"It's fucking cold. Why the fuck are we up so early?"
The grumbling complaint was issued some distance from the masses of infantry, where two men sat upon steed, lances lazily rested across saddle pommel as they surveyed the slow procession of men from sleeping quarters to battle lines.
"Because the King wanted to catch them with their breeches down."
The simple response was given, though the blue-clad italian himself would've preferred a few more hours of sleep and a sun higher in the sky than the biting chill the two faced this morning.
"Fat fucking good it did, what with them thinking to do the same. Fucking civilized cunts, always trying to outsmart the other. It fucking stinks. To hell with this smelly countryside." the other mounted man at arms replied in his usual uncouth manner.
The two, despite being battle brothers, were at times opposites. The italian's mount a fleet, white courser of fine bloodlines, a noble steed bred for speed and stamina. The other man sat astride a behemoth of horse flesh, a thickly boned beast of belgian bloodlines, though little of the actual steed could be seen under the thickly scaled layer of cataphract armor the uncouth barbarian seemed to prefer.
Even in uniform, the two differed. The italian preferred his simple helmet, open save for nasal guard to allow for greater visibility at the gallop, easier to lance one's target he always argued. A blue tunic over simple chain mail was his standard adornment, the crest of kingdom Veluca ever present as well as a smaller patch displaying his family crest, the House Orsini.
The other man was encased in so much iron and steel, it was a miracle he could so much as turn in the saddle to face his comrade, heavy plate over chain over leather over padded cloth. He was too pretty to risk injury, was the sarcastic excuse the northern man often offered. For a helm, he wore an archaic Scandinavian helm with nasal and eye protection, an homage to his ancestors.
"It smells just fine. You drank too much, retched on yourself, and fell asleep with the hounds." Orsini countered, a wry grin offered to his companion.
The iron-clad man scowled for a moment before snorting deeply, conjuring a mass of mucous and spit to hock out onto the field, then replying, "Well. That would explain the fucking fleas." He grinned, picking lord knows what from the messy tuft of hair growing off his chin.
Just then, trumpets and horn blasted, interrupting the horsemen's banter. With a loud cry, men on either side of the field surged forward, eager to shed blood for king and country. The two horsemen held their ground, though both stallions pawed impatient furrows into the grey brown soil beneath them. The steeds knew their jobs, and the air was charged with adrenaline, both human and equine.
"Look, there goes his bearded majesty. Fucking asshole."
The northern brute nodded to the vanguard, a cadre of blue clad warriors, a frantic charge of sword and spearman led by an exceptionally bearded fellow, who wore no crown but stood apart regardless.
The two men nodded to each other, touching right hand to left forearm, where under armor were three simple but important letters were tattooed. S. M. C. An old knighthood, nay, a brotherhood, nearly gone and forgotten save for these two cavalrymen.
"Die well, brother." were the final words exchanged between the two before the Italian's swift mount exploded into a burst of speed, leaving torn grass and turf behind. The italian knight took his steed fast and around the main battle, using his lance to pick off stragglers and enemy crossbowmen as they attempted to harass and impede the oncoming wave of blue-clad warriors.
As he shook off the still groaning body of an impaled enemy from his lance, the knight Orsini took a moment to check upon his battle brother, whom often took a more straightforward route.
True enough, the iron clad brute had smashed his equally brutish mount directly into the main formation of the enemy charge, disrupting their lines for the benefit of the still oncoming friendly forces. The gigantic Belgian steed, clad in cataphract armor, crushed and knocked aside enemy footmen, barely even slowing in stride as it powered through men, a mad cackle could barely be heard above the crying and shrieking of crushed men.
The Italian knight shook his head as he watched his companion hold his lance brazenly in both hands, high above his head as if to taunt the enemy underfoot, and though he knew his companion was well beyond reach of reasoning or even hearing his words, he muttered them nonetheless.
"At least use your fucking weapon, fool."
