(1865-10-22) Battle in the Foothills of the East
Battle in the Foothills of the East
Summary: The Forces of the Eastern Province of Galenthia advance on what they assume is a large nest of Thorn Loyalists.
Date: 10/22/1865
Related: Battles against Thorn Loyalists
NPCs: {$npc}
Players:
Bethany  Henric  Thomas  Varian  Wulfred  

The Foothills of the Ergonian Mountains
There are rocks and trees and trees and rocks and WATER!
10/22/1865

The caves that Wulfred found are certainly being fortified. Two ditches make half circles, and filled with water while being twenty feet wide. The opposite side of the ditches are lined with wooden stakes. Two crude towers guard the trail that leads through the ditches on the far end, after winding it's way through the stakes. For those familiar with military history, it is the beginning of a motte and baley fortification.

Men patrol just outside of the cave, and smoke rises lazily through a hole in the top of the cave, likely cook fires. The men appear to be in good shape, wearing armor kept in professional care. Many of them hoist Long Cannons on their shoulders, and the men in the towers each have long cannons themselves, along with what appears to be another two or three. Enough to keep a continual fire up. IN the back, on a THIRD Tower and heavily covered, is a Scorpian team. Ready to rain down a steady stream of bolts.

Bethany didn't dare let anyone know she was coming. Probably surprised Wulfred and everyone else something fierce when she did. But now she's there, on horse back; fifty infantry and fifty archers under her direct command, the young knight's on horseback with three of her infantry beside her. "We will ride out," she explains after having spoken to Wulfred and Varian both, "and use me as bait. Once we get their attention, we ride back here…"

The Heavy Cavalry is out of sight, just on the other side of the rise prior to the slope leading down into the fortifications, holding a charge line that was waiting for a signal. There were just a few banners amongst the line, to drop and wave when necessary to pass the command through the lines quickly and quietly. It was difficult to keep the horses quiet, which is why they're downwind in a strategic spot, in case the sounds of so many horses gave some indication to scouts around the area, if there had been any that failed to be taken out by the forces gathered. Henric is astride Trigger, the Tarris heavy war horse. He had given her an extended time in rest and felt her anxiousness quivaring between his legs. His visor was up as he continued to inspect the line, thirty five with the fifteen held in reserve. His shoulders set as he took a deep breath, inhaling as he waited for the scout to pass along the signal - a scount who was pressed tight to the dirt, just enough to peek his head over the rise to wait for the outcome. Henric sat confident despite the sick feeling in his stomach for the plan that Varian had been forced to agree to. It was madness as far as the Cassomir was concerned, to send Gauvain's daughter out as bait. He had said that very thing before he was calmly shut down. His shield was upon his arm and his sword loose already, in his hand. The first line of the charge would bear lances, the other's would move in shields and swords. He shifted up in his saddle, waiting. It was harder to wait than to act.

It is with a steady hand that Sir Wulfred lifts the old locket from beneath his armour and brings it to his lips, his little ritual, and one that is as simple as rituals can be. Tucking the tarnished silver back beneath his armour, the bearded knight looks to the gathered Spurs mounted behind him, their hand cannon prominently braced against their chests. Sir Wulfred leans forward to swat away a horsefly from the neck of his mount, his eyes wrinkled from staring at countless enemies across countless distances as he simply waits that first order to be given. Awaiting that first drop of a banner as he and his men sit back amidst the treeline, ready to charge, to support his comrades in arms. To kill the enemy. Not a word spoken, just the quiet rustle of horses and the soft crunch of earth beneath their hooves.

Varian Reine sits atop his mount as he surveys the scene beyond the tree-line in which he sits, obscured by the greenery so that he can take stock of their situation. No one had mentioned anything about fortified cave systems; that would be an annoyance. Gauntlet-covered hands pull on the reins in his grasp as he presses his heels into Arondel's flanks, turning the great black destrier about and returning to the other commanders of the battle. For the battle, they would need to be creative.

Creative however in his mind didn't entail using the Tarris heir as bait, but Bethany was… Insistent. Bait was necessary, yes, but the count was not entirely content with the notion of sending Bethany. "Do not get killed," is all the Laughing Dragon has to say to Bethany as he regards her from atop his mount, grey eyes turning back in the direction of the field that he had just surveyed before slowly shifting back to the red-headed knight once more. "Head low, body small." The rest would be up the whims of fate.

Varian would be charging with the infantry in the final push, should things prove so successful; from the center of the amassed forces he would send his commands down the line. Everyone was appraised of the situation, it just remained to be seen whether or not their ploy would be a successful one. A drawn-out, bloody fight down into the caves was not the desired out come.

The forces of House Tarris move into position. The troops from Duval, led by the Heir of house Tarris herself move forward. Fifty Tarris Infantry, followed by fifty Archers. The Archers fire over and around the Infantry in front of them at the men in the front. They form rank quickly, forming a shield wall in front of the opening to the first ditch. Once of the men calls out exaclt that: "SHIELD WALL! Hold them Here!" Until Bethany rides forward. The man's eyes go wide and he calls out: "CHARGE! KILL THE TARRIS HEIR!" The men at the entrance surge forward, running to engage the Tarris forces and kill Bethany.

There is a curse from inside the fortifications. And the archers let loose. The Scorpian begins a steady fire of bolts. Long Cannons belch fire, bolts slam into shields, flesh and dirt. The battle has truly begun. The second line, the line that was supposed to defend the entrance to the second ditch moves up the entrance, but no further. They lock shields and wait for the enemy to enter their domain. TO come to them. Once the signal is given Cavalry forces swoop in on the Infatry forces that fell for the trap, and the Reine infantry moves in to seel it and press forward.

The three men and Bethany ride out and salute with the heir the enemy has such a hardon for using her middle finger to do so. "You want me," she calls out, "then come and get me, you bastards." Instead of cutting back to where the others are hiding she first spurs Aragon on TOWARDS the mass of soldiers and other foes, counting to fifteen before she does wheel her steed around so they can, as a group, head back.

Once the signal is given to ride the charge, Henric lifts his blade in a silent command that sets the banners flagging and forward the vanguard of the cavalry presses. When they pass over the hill and rise, he swears at once, noticing that the plan hadn't worked! He grits his teeth as this will be now a bloody battle that puts the horses under scorpion fire. He makes a quick decision. He gestures toward the group, "Lances! Hold back!" Lances wouldn't be fast enough, with them still under fire, "Shields!" He notes to the men, sending a word back the line, "The reserves with the shields ride with us!" That means the 15 men in reserves will now be the Lancers. "Keep your shields up! Head down! We'll ride and pass, ride and pass! Do not tarry. Fast movements. Do not stay in a straight line if you can help it!" Then with a bellow, "Let's get these Bastards!!" And he'll lead the charge…

Wulfred exhales slowly, bows his head briefly and looks ahead. There's little else to be said, his knees and heels guide his horse into action, a sudden spur and a canter as he leaves the treeline before him and his men surge forward without a word. Just a thunderous charge as he raises his sword towards the enemy and his Burnished Spurs follow suit. The ground churned beneath their hooves as they seek to thunder through towards the towers. However, the infantry is in the way and there's but one thing to do with them. Ride them down. Shields raised, the Spur's poised and ready to punch through armour and rend through flesh, "With me Sons of Tarris!" His voice finally raised to echo across the field.

Beth's helm gets hit in such a way that it nicks her forhead but it is nothing serious, thankfully. All it does is cause her to become very, very angry. And the others are about to learn that they will not like her when she's angry. Brandishing her sword, she rides back towards the enemy, seeking to take down anyone close enough to be reached in a hurry.

The charge that lead his men into that inferno ensured that Sir Wulfred took the brunt of the blast, the explosive power of the scorpion tearing through the old knights left arm, splintering his shield and blood soon begins to trickle through the rent armour. His horse doesn't exactly fair all the better as the poor steed stumbles, wounded and anxious. The charge having slammed into the enemy at least ensures that the artillery they face is more of a danger to the defending forces as much as themselves as they press forth. Sir Wulfred dismounts with a gruff rumble, kicking out and bashing with his shield as he swings his sword and shouts to this men as they hack and slash and their horses stomp and bite amidst the enemy, "Onwards! Onwards! Kill the traitors! Destroy those towers!" The old knight's horse riderless and panicked as it twists about, blood pulsing down it's flank as it gallops off.

The thundering of the cavalry and the scream of men that were coming to slam into the enemy was what Henric really saw and heard until the chaos errupted around him. Being the lead of the cavalry charge had obviously put a target on his head - LITERALLY. He barely felt his sword clank against the armor of enemy infantry before the world shifted in an impossibly alarming rate. The bolt from the scorpion slammed into his shoulder with such a force that it sent him jerking on the reins so fiercely that Trigger squealed as her neck was twisted and she lost her balance. She spilled into a tumble with the heavy burden of her rider, who was pelted secondly with an errant bolt from cannon fire on his way down. Trigger's legs shot into the air as she struggled to get up. Her rider initially stays down, while the rest of his cavalry seems to continue the charge around him…

Thanks to Wulfred's Knights and their deadly profession, open fire with their Hand Cannons at his order. The rounds hammer into the siege tower holding the Scorpian and it's explosive bolts. Slamming into the wooden frame and as they load the Scorpian for another rapid fire spread of bolts, a round impacts the scorscorpion itself. There is a resulting firball takes up the entire two thirds of the top part of the tower. Sending debris flying everywhere.

The Infantry fighitn in the field is holding, but it is clear they are close to breaking.

Trigger has climbed back to her feet, forcing Henry to roll hard to avoid a kick of a hoof. He has just enough time to try and draw his shield up to throw back the spear that comes at him, though anyone could tell his left arm is barely hanging onto that shield, for the remains of the huge bolt that is thrust through bone and is sticking through his shoulder. The horsemen around him are trying to come to his aid but they continue to ride out of the mess and ride back in, as ordered. Henric staggers to his feet, trying to keep back the infantryman after him long enough to climb back up into the saddle. He does manage to avoid it and the teeth gnashing war horse responds with thrashing front hooves toward men that get close as Henric drags himself back up onto the saddle. He has to drop the shield though, there's no way he could hold it, for it felt as if his arm was tearing in two with the weight on that massive wound.

The explosion of dust, dirt, and pieces of men that flares up in an alarmingly abrupt fashion is startling, to say the least. The plan had not been to engage in the range of the distant siege weapon, but plans change; particularly when the life of the Tarris heir is at stake. The infantry surges forward with a thundering cry and the sound of a hundred and more feet pounding the dirt as they charge forward into the oncoming ranks of the enemy. Along the outer edge, where his horse is free to move and to keep him from being swarmed by the enemy soldiers, Varian is carving into the faces and chests of anyone who draws near enough for Ashwind's bite to find.

A severed head goes sailing away from Varian as he removes it from the shoulders of one of the officers with a single swipe of his sword, before lifting Ashwind up and dropping it down on the neck of another man to send a gout of blood up into the air. The armour plating upon his leg shrieks as it is rent by long cannon fire, a trickle of blood pouring out through the twisted metal. Varian continues on however, setting his jaw and swiping out at the exposed head of the next nearest soldier before he is off, charging away in order to twist back about for another pass.

The thunderous retort of the hand cannon brings a smile to Sir Wulfred's lips, his sword swung and parried, but even so he blocks a blow against his shield and winces slightly at the jarring of his bloodied arm. The explosion is something spectacular. The fireball a thing of utter beauty. The fire reflected against the polished armour of the Burnished Spurs, the sound truely something that the black powder loving knights of the Burnished Spur find to be almost exhilarating! If there's something that can inspire them, it is loud noises, fire and explosions! And that was a damned good EXPLOSION! With the upper two thirds of the tower scattered so successfully, more successfully than Wulfred even intended, the bearded knight yells loudly for all to hear, "Send them to Hell men! Volley fire! Pin those damned long cannon down!" The shout rising above the battlefield as he hacks into the enemy, pushing against them with his armoured bulk.

There's more going on than Beth's aware of. She keeps on hacking on the guy, her sword cutting in fairly deep when her first blow slices into his chest. And there's no stopping there. Poor guy might do better in a mincemeat pie than in combat if she has her say.

Archers and Wulfred's Hand Cannoners open fire. Though they get time to fire despite the volume of death coming their way, the end result is, that the men in these towers are eventually all killed. The towers, fall silent.

The few Infantry that came out find themselves swarmed over by Henric's Cavalry with bethany's forces slightly bogged, but they held them in place long enough for the Cavalry to run them over. The H. Infantry has a look of Nervousness at the entracne, but remain there, not coming out.

The anger that was intensifying in his chest for the continued chaos has the Cassomir slam down his sword against one man and then the next, feeling his blade take off an arm here and catching up against armor there. Henric's eyes sweep the location around him, his men… some of them are still on horses, others are scattered…others lost. "FORM UP!!" He cries over the sound of fighting. The attack was failing, but they were still holding the advantage, slight as it was against the infantry, "FIGHT WITH STEEL MEN! DO NOT YIELD! FOR THE ROSE! FOR TARRIS!" They MAY HAVE underestimated the enemy with this foolish plan of baiting them out of their cave and hadn't gotten the range away from the scorpion as they wanted. Still, the infantry were trampled with exasperating efforts! Henric remained confident even if he was damn near passing out from the blood loss, the plate of one arm slick with blood down to his gaunlets and dripping from his fingers. He had to keep a hard face for the men on their side, "THESE MEN - THEY DESIRE THE DESTRUCTION OF OUR FAMILIES! THEY MEAN TO TAKE YOUR SONS and DAUGHTERS! FIGHT THEM, FIGHT THEM FOR OUR FREEDOM!" At least it rallies their hearts, for now, gathering the cavalry back toward his side, noting the heavy infantry who are reluctant to come out from where they stand. His eyes search for the others on the field… A bloody battle this has been. It hadn't gained them any ground.

As Arondel's hooves come crashing down on a soldier, stomping him underfoot and stamping until the twitching ceases, Varian's eyes are on the battlefield. There are not nearly enough enemy soldiers out on the field; not for what the information had said there would be. The towers were silenced in a hurry by a flurry of arrows, but even those felt almost like facades, shells not nearly full enough to account for the men that should be there.

Varian's right hand pushes Ashwind through the neck of one of the nearest infantry standing beside him before withdrawing it in a vicious wrenching motion, his left pulling up the horn attached to his saddle. The iron-bound instrument is brought up to his lips and blown, a piercing sound pouring fourth that echoes across the field and sounds the call for a tactical retreat. Things are not right.

"You, sergeant, take your men and guard the retreat," he shouts down from his steed at the nearest soldier bearing his livery, gesturing with his sword from where the man stands to the direction of the cave-fortress. "Hold the position and follow when the forces are clear of the field." With the order given, Varian digs his spurs into Arondel's flank and sets the horse off at a sprint, moving to gather his men and organize them as needed to get them off of the field.

This day had not been going the way it was planned. They seldom do. It's an old military maxim that a great plan never survives first contact - and it did not today, what with the siege towers, the long cannon equipped men on the hilltop or the stiff resistance the infantry had put up. But, then again, Duke Gauvain Tarris was no fool and neither were his underlings. He always has an ace in his sleeve. His ace on this day was a reserve of House Chandus, a hundred pike militia, well trained and seventy five heavy infantry with their Sun standard behind, with archers and light cavalry in reserve.

Lord Thomas Chandus is in the dirt, on the ground, his expression grim. It's always difficult to suss out a battle from the plumes of dust rising in the air but squinting, the narrow eyed man was able to do it. "They're pulling back. Sir Carl." He turns to the gruff, weather beaten man next to him. "Push out the Hobelars as a screen. Let the Leatherbacks and Scout Troop loose on the enemy. Sound the advance. Cook! Bring up that horn, sound the general advance! Strand Ray, advance at the quick march. Sun Shields, one bound behind, advance. Cook, sound that on the horn!" The young soldier next to him blows a variety of commands into his bugle which sounds loud and clear, even over the din of battle. The standards of the men, bearing House Chandus's white sun in splendor on cobalt field flanked by daggers on grey, dip down to signal the advance. The pike lower their weapons, set their faces and move. The infantry follow. The archers shoot onto the enemy towers and formations, covering the retreat and letting their comrades pour in.

Right on the heel of Varian's command comes another. "Tarris…. regroup and fall back! FALL BAAACK!" 25 of Bethany's infantry and ten of her archers, as per a plan long ago conceived, stay behind to provide cover, falling in with Thomas and his men to do so, while the rest do as commanded.

Henric hears the sound of retreat. His eyes are upon the palisade walls, the ditches dug, the water in the ditches, the infantry in heavy gear looking on but staying put where they are. His men were gathering, what was left of them and as the call goes up, he flicks his reins to pivot Trigger, drawing up his arm to signal the retreat - a round 'em up motion and flag toward the rise they had initially come down from. "FALL BACK!" And while some would beg the question of retreat when it looks like the enemy was getting pinned down, fighting in the caves, fighting through that wall, was not exactly what they had planned for. Knicking his spurs into Trigger, he surges her forward, the motion at once setting him to grip hard on her mane as he sways in the saddle, his vision swimming. The sound of horse hooves behind him at least lets him know, they're coming if but reluctantly with him.

The H. Infantry stand firm, despite the Valley forces and Duval forces move agianst them. Numbers are jsut against them, and the sheer volume of arrow fire is too much, even for the clealry well trianed shield wall. They exact a toll of fifteen men from the Valley, but the old Weather Beaten Knight salutes Thomas. "My Lord. The enemy is defeated. We have both lines of the Fortification."

Sir Wulfred hears that call of the horn and bellows as he stands fast, "Reload! Dismount and form ranks!" The bloodied knight sheathes his sword and draws his hand cannon, his shield simply too heavy to carry effectively on his near shattered left arm and so that arm hangs limp, the bloodied and splintered shield grasped within his twitching and dripping hand. The Knights of the Burnished Spur form their ranks ready to offer a volley of fire if need be, while seeking to move alongside Varian's own forces as they fall back nice and steady. Sir Wulfred casts a glance about for his horse and seeing no sign of the poor injured beast, begins to fall back nice and slow, hand cannon held at the ready as he watches the forces ahead of him trample the enemy in a crush of hooves and flurry of arrows.

It's not pretty, but it works. The rush of arrows, the push of pike and, on the sides the smash of shield and sword is just enough to push the Thorn's heavy infantry back into their cave system in disarray. Perhaps Thomas was glad that others did the main slog, the main fighting and dieing, the main suffering, but he doesn't show it. He grits his teeth and directs his men from just a bound behind, putting in men to reinforce this position, now rushing some Sun Shields into an area where the enemy appeared to be counter attacking.

It was easier than expected, but not solely because of the skill of the Chandus troops. Rather, the enemy was tired and demoralised and the reserves were committed when they should have been. As the Thorn troops believe that they've won the battle, a wave of disciplined citizen soldiers, the Sun Spears militia crash into them, stabbing with viscious abandon. The Thorns commit. Destroy a group of peasants and yeomen in padded armour? Not an issue. So they push into the pike, compressing themselves against it, starting to hack and slash past the points into the formation.

But that's when the Sun Shields hit - House Chandus's professional infantry, trained and drilled and ready for battle. Through the flanks they pour, they swarm, they hack and they slash. They are relentless. As the Thorn infantry retreat, first orderly, the Sun Shields press harder, hacking, stabbing and thrusting, smashing with their shields. They trample the fallen into the ground, they show little mercy. And the Thorns run. They back themselves into a corner, just shy of their retreat. The pike presses, the blades press. They are annihilated. The Thorns die to a man. This kind of thing rarely happens in battle. But as they fall and flitter away, their numbers are so severely diminished as to not be a fighting force. Many are simply left dying on the ground, covering the blades, the boots and greaves and the dirt in their blood. Lord Thomas yells, halting his men before the caves. "THE UNYIELDING SUN!" His house's words. They cheer frightfully and reform their ranks. "Corporal Smith! To me!" Thomas turns around, calling to a certain Franz Smith.

They've taken fifteen casualties - all men of the militia but one unlucky Sun Shield. The Thorn loyalists, though outnumbered, pushed into the pike formation and did their bloody business there before being made into corpses in turn.

The wind against his open visor helps to reduce the swimming vision and he rights himself in the saddle, feeling the odd way that Trigger is cantering, but unable to do anything about it now. He makes a look over his shoulder in time to see that Thomas' forces were victorious and smashed through the infantry. This has him rein in and order a turn about of the cavalry and not as fast as he would like them to turn with him either. They weren't well formed up yet with one another. There was lots of training to do, if they survived the night of their injuries. He stalls the retreat, waiting as they hear cheers from the otherside where the Chandus lord has taken his men. Henric grimaces as the victory, for there weren't enough bodies of the enemy strewn about. One of his men rides up to him and stares at him, openly. Henric glances over, realizing there's a scorpion bolt still lodged in his shoulder… yeah that was going to hurt coming out. But the shock and awe from the fellow that Henric was still in his speaks of the respect. Thirty five had ridden in… and not all back out, only twenty eight by his initial count. Horses were limping out in the field, some were dead, some had long since run off… "Order the lines Sir Boltan, have them ready to move. Call the reserves." And he's nudging his horse to ride over toward Varian as soon as he spots the man, "Viscount, I'm regrouping my men… What are your orders?"

It isn't until one of his knights approaches and rests a hand against Sir Wulfred's left shoulder, that the grizzled veteran finally looks down to the mess that is his left arm. His hand twitching and bloodied, his arm limp and the shield rent and punctured. The once fine crest of the golden cockerel is mangled and the paint scratched and burnt. Slowly but surely, the mangled remains of the shield is slowly pulled from Sir Wulfred's arm. There's naught but a gritting of teeth as he stares ahead and rumbles darkly, "Form up! We'll mourn our brothers soon enough! Ready for your orders Viscount!" Though even as his limp arm is bound, shards of torn and dented armour pulled from the charred skin, he looks to a nearby squire, "And find me a long cannon, make that two! One for the viscount." Who soon scurries off to do the knight's bidding, "I want to see what they're wielding!"

The Reine heavy infantry live up to their reputation; only one man was cut down on the field, and his body was brought back in by his comrades when the retreat and regroup call had sounded out. Varian was yet mounted atop Arondel, once more at the head of his infantry once they had fallen back into formation and grouped up, shields and swords at the ready for the next order that had yet to be given. The viscount's face, however, was unreadable; a mask of neutrality that gave nothing away of his thoughts as he stared out towards the cave, and the heavy infantry that had been cut down by the Chandus forces.

Varian snaps his attention in Henric's direction with an almost sharp abruptness, as though startling from a dream when the knight calls to him. "Sir Henric, you are injured," he notes, his eyes raking over Henric's form to assess the damage. "Hold for now. We are missing about one hundred and fourty enemy soldiers," he adds, his eyes slowly returning to the field to rake it over. "Either they are inside that cave, or they are not. I am not sure where I would prefer them to be."

Franz Smith, the once jolly thief and welfare distributer and now Scout Troop commander comes to attention in front of Lord Thomas, his large, ten pound warhammer hanging in hand and bow slung. "Corporal Smith - take your men and recce the caves. Take caution - your lives are precious, and the enemy is not. As soon as you've got an idea, return to me." And the twenty five men of the Scout Troop do move in and do look into things. As they are doing their business, Thomas jogs back to Varian a few hundred yards away, with a small group of Sun Shield body guards. "Your excellency!" He calls, coming to a stop and raising his sword in salute. "The caves are taken, the enemy slain. None surrended. I have scouts looking into the caves. Orders?"

Henric greets Varian with a head nod and as for the attention to his injuries, a bullet hole and the shattered remains of a scorpion bolt still lodged in him, his one arm completely soaked in blood, he smirks, since really what else is he supposed to do? As for the orders, he gives a nod, "I'm going to send to gather the bodies of those who fell from my regiment. But…" he looks around at the bodies, then back toward the group he had left, "The fifteen that did not ride against the battle, I will set them to scouting to see if there was something we missed, a reason we didn't come across the entire forces. Perhaps we can gain a direction… if the others left earlier." He repositions in the saddle, grunting, "You wouldn't… happen to have some whiskey?" Numb the pain.

Arondel snorts underneath Varian as the viscount descends from the saddle, landing next to it with the heavy sound of metal plates slapping together. He spares a glance for his leg where blood still trickes faintly from the hole torn into the plate there before he refocuses his attention upon those standing nearby. "Excellent, Lord Chandus. See what your men can find inside. If our Thorns are not here, then they have gone elsewhere. I am.. Intensely curious to know where that is." Off to the side, several Reine infantry are dragging corpses from the field and piling them in a neat little stack. "I don't like the idea of over one hundred armed men skulking about the countryside." Again he looks to Henric, nodding his head. "See what you can find. They did not vanish into thin air like ghosts. As for the whiskey…" There is a breath of a pause as the viscount looks over to Wulfred. "Perhaps Sir Wulfred could oblige you."

Henric remains in the saddle even as the Viscount dismounts, waiting to hear for Varian's response. The reaction has the Cassomir nod in agreement, "We'll see what we can do. Perhaps we were too late." He grimaces at the idea, "Or someone warned them that we were coming." And with that in mind, he pivots Trigger and turns her back toward his men, nodding for the ask of whiskey from Sir Wulfred. First, he sees to his men, spurring Trigger to ride the distance back to them, where they were already starting to gather the bodies of their fallen commrades. While there may be victory for some, there was a solemn look for those gathering their friends. Henric asks of the fifteen to set to sweeping the area, finding something, some trace, that could alert them of an armies movement. He will then rein Trigger further to have her ride toward Wulfred, "Wulf," he says with a relieved smirk, bloody arm and all oozing blood, bolt still there, "Suppose you couldn't lend me a hand and borrow me some whiskey?"

"Sir Henric, you have my thirty Hobelars under Serjeant Talbot." Thomas mentions briefly to Henric, his trust in the man implicit judging from the firm look in his watery blue eyes. Finally, he sheaths his sword - it saw limited action today but is still nicked, slightly, and still carries the blood drawn of the Thorn. He is quiet for around twenty minutes, until the same man he had talked to early, wearing a Corporal's subdued two downward chevrons on his leather jerkin comes running down. The man is dark of hair and eye, short, stocky and unnoticeable except for the look of conviction in every action he commits. "M'lord!" The warhammer wielding bowman bows at Varian, Thomas and Henric all at once.

He begins. "We've found nothing at all. They destroyed everything, m'lord, collapsed the cave. They escaped from there, destroyed their route. There was a fire pit, everything burned. Papers, banners, tabards… all gone." Corporal Smith gesticulates wildly. "But we found one thing. It was almost burned to a crisp, but Trooper Langland saved it. A White Griffon with a black rose, bleeding. I don't know what that is. And the snippet of a letter. I've it here, I can't read." Handing it to Thomas, gingerly, the Lord of Chandus reads. "It's all gone. Sir Selan. Who in the hell is that? That's it, your excellency. Sir Selan and a bloody white griffon." His face twists, angry.

Wulfred nods to the Viscount and pauses for a brief second, casting a slightly annoyed glance towards his numb and bloodied arm. Deciding them to reach out with his right hand, Sir Wulfred gestures for a mounted knight to approach, "Of course! Sir Henric needs your cask and as for a hand? I only have one at present." Sir Wulfred grins slightly as the other approaching knight simply nods and reaches down to unbuckle the small 'medicinal' cask of whiskey. Said cask is soon passed across to Henric, the cask evidently full of that sweet pain numbing nectar. Another bark and Sir Wulfred beckons for the squires to begin gathering the dead, the poor men eviscerated during that first fateful explosion that erupted amidst their ranks. To Varian, the powder loving knight inclines his head respectfully, bowing lightly as his right hand clutches at his limp left arm, "The One was with us this day Your Excellency and with your permission I would like for my squires to gather the long rifles and any powder and ammunition they may have scattered amidst their corpses. Duval could no doubt use them and I confess I would appreciate the chance to claim one and put the thing to damned good use." The scouting party from the caves is regarded with a certain interest, their findings giving Wulf cause to arch a brow. Just the one mind.

"Thank you Sir Thomas, but I think you can do more with them at this point than I can…" he admittedly declares, while his riders are already starting to distance themselves to sweep the rolling hills around the cave. At Wulfred's side, Henric reaches for the cask of whiskey once it is offered, "Nice wound there Wulf," he says with a cocky drawl of breath, since both of their arms suffered in that attack from the scorpion. He tilts his head back as he brings the cask to his lips, guzzling a fair portion of it fast, before he offers it back to Sir Wulfred. There will be some relief, eventually, when it hits him. What he really needs is someone to yank out the damn bolt. His eyes turn to Thomas however, listening to the man's words about what was found, not catching all of it and blinking vacantly toward the man.

Varian inclines his head towards Wulfred at the knight's words. "Certainly, Sir Wulfred. Take as many men as you need and have them see what they can find amidst the rubble. Any long cannons or other equipment we can salvage from this will be a benefit. We'd be foolish to leave good working equipment behind." The viscount raises a hand up to his chin, the claw-like tips of his gauntlets scraping slowly over three days worth of stubble growth as he considers the burning tower from afar. "I should like to have a look at that siege equipment they were using too, but I suspect there is not much left to be found of it. A shame, it seems to have done quite the number on us. A few of those pointed at the cave and we would have saved ourselves a few lives today, I think."

"Well, then, Sir Henric. Sergeant Talbot - screen us. Take the Leathernecks and set up screens, making sure we've got security. Come back to me if you need dirt pounders." The lorrica clad cavalryman lifts his lance up and nods in affirmation, riding off to his men. Lord Thomas turns to Varian. "Sir Selan… wasn't he that death knight in Four Corners? The one who's killed most who've fought him in duels? He's one of those who challenges men to a duel for something petty and then when they come out to the field, demands to death instead of first blood. And then he kills him. I've heard of him - stories about him when I went to check up on our agent in Four Corners after the late unpleasantness." Thomas reaches up to pull his helmet off of his head and loop the chinstrap on his belt. "Your excellency - " he points it at Varian. "He's not of good blood, but he's a knight none the less. A sell sword. He's got his own company, though damned if I can remember how big it is. But the Thorn is obviously contracting him, no?"

Wulfred reaches out to take the cask with his right hand, taking a good swig of the whiskey that soon has a few wasted rivulets trickling through his beard before he relinquishes the cask back to the knight, "Thank you my good man." The words a little weary, but with his arm bound enough and the whiskey dulling the pain, plus his own stoic nature, the older knight nods to Varian, "Of course Your Excellency." And that said he moves off, gathering a few men along the way to route through the dead for ammunition, powder and long cannon.

Finally Henric makes an attempt to dismount, as the adrenaline is wearing off, the pain is coming on strong. The whiskey is starting to warm him at least, but, it wasn't quite enough to overpower the pain. He damn near catches his own feet in the stirrups as he dismounts and holds his one arm on the saddle, leaning up against the mare. His head tilts down as he closes his eyes. Anything about the sell sword, while heard, isn't necessarily comprehended as well as it ought to be.

A thoughtful expression passes over Varian's face at Thomas's words, regarding the man for a moment as he thinks. "Sir Selan, hm. He sounds like a man of unquestionable moral character," the viscount remarks with a sardonic tone, his tongue clicking audibly within his mouth. "I wonder if we have not just shaved a few men off of his roster today." Varian gestures to the field where the dead lay - sans twenty soldiers - before drawing his hand back and laying it upon his hip. "I think we will need to find out more about Sir Selan, whether from the man himself or from those who know him. Does he have family or friends who call Galenthia home, I wonder?"

"Of that, I'm not sure, my lord." Thomas switches into a slightly more casual rythmn of speech, instead of calling the Viscount by his full honourific. "But I can almost guarantee that someone in the Kingdom does. Our Duke is the Marshal now, is he not? We should be able to scour records for this scoundrel and unearth him. Perhaps some pressure can be put on the Senate in Four Corners." Upon noticing that Henric is wavering, Thomas slings his shield and walks over. "Sir Henric. Please, sit down. We'll have the healers come for you. Rest now, I know it hurts."

Wulfred nods as he lets his men do the searching, his own injury proving more of a hindrance than much else as he looks back to the cave, "We should see the man stripped of his knighthood if he's involved in this." Such a sort honoured with such a title certainly doesn't sit well with Sir Wulfred. The stoic knight showing little discomfort, the odd twinge perhaps but little else as he looks to those gathered, the soldiers searching, claiming the dead and wrapping the bodies within their cloaks, "Whatever happens, we've forced them to move and where ever these caves lead, we can probably expect reports of attacks within the next few days if they stay true to form."

It sounds all very interesting, if he could focus on the words. It's as if the words were grains of sand cupped in his hand and sliding through his fingers. What does make sense is to sit down. "Aye aye…" he motions once he straightens up, his eyes languidly rolling open, as if he had been close to passing out while standing up like that, the support of his arm over the back of the saddle was likely keeping him up. His hand brushes alongside Trigger as he moves to her neck, taking the reins in his hand, handing them off to a squire that comes, "Have her legs checked…" told to the squire and then he's gripping Thomas' shoulder as the man comes over, fiercely, with his right hand, to steady himself more than anything, "Well done Thomas." Then a clap and Henric's taking a few steps to find somewhere suitable to sit down before his legs fail him.

"Standing on the shoulders of giants, Sir Henric. We'll get you sorted out." Thomas turns his head about and bellows in his best command voice, "HEALER!" Taking a knee next to Henric, he'll offer the man some of the quince brandy he usually carries in a small flagon with him. "Drink some of this. And then water, after. You'll need water."

"It was…" Sir Wulfred intones as he slowly moves to settle against the battered and shot defences, his bloodied arm limp against his side, "… as ever an honour to fight beside you all." A deep breath is taken and Sir Wulfred loosens a couple of buckles upon his brigadine armour, charred and battered as the left side is. Closing his eyes, he fishes that locket from beneath his armour and kisses the tarnished trinket once more before tucking it away and lifting his gaze skywards, a thankful prayer uttered softly to the heavens. Weapons gathered, Sir Wulfred's horse found and soothed, the dead wrapped up and laid out. This will be a tale to tell and living to tell it is a bonus.

Varian nods his head, passing the helmet he had tucked underneath his arm off to a nearby soldier for handling. "We will speak to the Duke, to see what can be done. I would know more about this Sir Selan and just what sort of operation he is running out of Four Corners. If we are fortunate he will not have gone to ground yet, and we might be able to arrange a meeting. Whether or not he is in irons is another matter." Varian's eyes flicker over in Henric's direction, noting the dazed appearance of the man. He beckons to a pair of nearby soldiers, sending the pair of them to assist Thomas in attending to Henric. "A successful day, I suppose, but not as successful as I would have liked. We will send word to the Duke, and plan our next course of action." The viscount sets his jaw as he turns towards the cave, his booted feet carrying him a few steps in the direction of it, watching the plume of smoke that still rises from the burning tower.

Brandy, whiskey… whatever it took, as that damn bolt was going to be a tough son of a bitch to get out of Henric's arm. It had ripped through armor, flesh, tendons, bone… everything and the metal head poked out the other side. The saving grace was that it was still plugging up the hole it was about to leave. This was no damn arrow head or cross bow, this was a damn scorpion bolt, the shaft of it shattered off somewhere in the fighting. He lifts his eyes as he staggers and eventually just comes to a clumsy seat, hand outstretched for the brandy. "I want it as a trophy," he notes with a sardonic humor toward the bolt.

OOC: FORCES
TARRIS FORCES
Order of the Burnished Spur
35 Knights, 15 Squires
House Reine
100 Blood Claws, 100 Archers
Tarris 3rd Cavalry Regiment
10 Knights, 40 Heavy Cavalry
Duval
50 Tarris Infantry 50 Archers
House Chandus
100 Militia, 75 Heavy Infantry, 30 Leatherbacks, 25 Sun Troope, 30 Hobelar Cavalry
Total: 660

THORN LOYALISTS
30 Infantry Spearmen
35 Heavy Infantry Spearmen
10 Long Cannon Gunners
2 Scorpion Crew
Total: 77

LOSSES
TARRIS FORCES
Tarris 3rd Cavalry Regiment: 7 men, Order of the Burnished Spurs: 5, Duval Forces: 8, House Reine: 1, House Chandis: 15
Numerous Minor wounds.

THORN LOYALISTS
All 77 men were killed.

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