(1866-01-22) Goldhollow: Picket Debate
Goldhollow: Picket Debate
Summary: Sir Thomas comes to see upon the picket defenses and speaks with Sir Henric. The two get into a speedy argument about whose to blame for the messy attack on Goldhollow and the chaos of it. Surprisingly, or not so surprisingly, it's a debate that lands the command of Lordship Volstak up against Duke Tarris… and eventually the outcome of such a debate.
Date: 1866-01-22
Related: Goldhollow, Directly after storming the town.
NPCs: {$npc}
Players:
Henric  Thomas  

Goldhollow
Looking up at the Keep
1866-01-22

It was surprisingly post haste that Henric gathered up the regiment of his Cavalry, easy to do with the enemy smote upon the cobblestones of Goldhollow and all that remained standing were those of one's own army. The pickets were seen too, men set up and stationed at particular points in the streets, some safer than others from ambush but all nearly giving some point of protection from the scorpions that loomed on high. Only two out of the four had been captured and given a reason to fire, he imagines the men still mounted on the back two towers would do so. The others that were not given strategic points to watch, were kept close for refreshments and were finding spots to settle down in. The injured, which, in Henric's regiment's case, were few, but had been sent back to see the healers. Henric himself was standing near one of forefront positions, horse reins in one hand, the other on his waist, elbow jutting out as he looked up at the Keep which was sealed up tight. The siege had indeed, just begun.

Thomas has seen better days. The side of his cuirass has been smashed and will require some repairs. Had the armour not been there, however, it's very likely that he would have been almost folded in half by the massive blow of the warhammer. In addition, his sword hand was badly cut up by an axe swing from a second knight and his bandaged up. Somehow, the eastern lord managed to kill two men with the hand in this state. He's already sent his troops off to begin a house to house search and, after making a link up with Henric and getting a little bit of treatment, intends to get back in the fight. No rest for the weary. He comes up alongside his old comrade on foot, his shield grasped firmly. He's in the company of five men; his squire, acting as bugler, a signaller, one of his senior serjeants and two troops. "Sir Henric." Thomas smiles wearily.

The stitch in his side from his previous injury hadn't faded, it was still there. The pain too. Though in battle, once you ran through the pain and endured well beyond it, it was a sweet release and something of minor tickle in the back of one's mind. That is likely why he's able to stand, despite the blood soaking his tunic from underneath his armor, more evident on the hip of his pants, as it surely wasn't splattered from a death of another. Thomas may then, note this, and the awkward stance that helped the Cassomir avoid thinking about it, slightly hitched in one direction. The horse that was standing next to him whickered and pinned it's ears back when Thomas and his men approached. Henric took his eyes from the keep only at the voice that addressed him, turning his chin over his shoulder first and foremost, before a half pivot would greet Thomas, "Sir Thomas…" and then a note of the man's particular condition, "You should listen to your own advice." He leans forward to clap the man where it was safe to do so, "You made it though. I'm glad. Damn glad. What of Sir Wulfred? I saw neither of you in battle… By the One, that was chaos. Evident that different armies working together don't work together well enough!"

"Evident that Lord Volstak perhaps should have been battle commander in name only. Sir Wulfred made it. His men are covering the outside line, preventing escape. But do you know who I didn't see there? The Arkanin men. I did see the Charing, One bless him. I'd had my doubts about him… they were wrong. But his men must have been true cowards. I would not be surprised if the Arkanin have skin in this game." What game Thomas is referring to is left to the imagination. Is he saying that they are neutral? Or in line with the Thorn? He doesn't speak clarification. He simply breaths, and sips from a water skin. This is offered to Henric, next. "Your advice… is sound. I was not expecting such chaos. I have fought in town as I have fought alongside the plough, before. This was very poorly coordinated."

"No-" Henric snaps at Thomas, "Lord Volstak is not to blame for this. It was Duke Tarris who was -late- to the field and bolstered the numbers beyond swelling and beyond proper order. He knew -nothing- of our plan and just stormed in behind our men. Pushed -passed- our men I should say." He shakes his head, irritated by the questioning of a lord vassal under his House's name, a point of contention to stand up for the Lordship. "The Cassomir men though, they should be properly disciplined. They had no man to lead them after Volstak fell. I should need to inform my brother of that poor decision, that, I will concede." His one hand shifts, trying to push into his hip, opposite the one that was injured, to put the pressure on. "I'm glad that Old Wolf made it," he nods, "I would be beside myself if the fellow didn't." Their bond had grown, in the way comrades at arms did. Perhaps more so, for the Wolf had ways to make the Cassomir laugh that others did not. "Damned hard to tell who was afield, with the town swollen like it was. If the Arkanin weren't there, they'll hear about it. At least their one daughter came, to represent when her House fails to." He shakes his head, understanding exactly what Thomas had meant. A hand reaches to accept the skin, nodding for the pass, "I've seen worse. The assassination attempt on the Queen's life at Giorgio's Redoubt, that which earned my brother his fame and love of the Queen,… there our forces were … unprepared and out matched."

"You might be quick to blame his Grace. He was extremely far away and the fact that he even made it to the battle is a wonder. We needed his men and his leadership steadied the troops who were wavering on the fall of their commander. I saw Lord Volstak fall, just as you did." Thomas shakes his head and waves it off. "Let us not cast blame, then, if only to say that we, as commanders, would have been far better off if we'd been less impetuous and more orderly. We should not have charged down the streets to the Cathedral square but instead moved slowly and methodically, until we saw an opening. We are all to blame for squeezing into that tiny area and losing our focus. Agreed?"

"I -might-…" Henric says with some tested loyalties, for he hadn't seen Gauvain personally for months now, nor received word or order from him, "But I cannot help to think that had he held his men at bay and not charged in like a crazed boar, we would've stayed order. Then again, the battle could've been completely lost. It is, as it was." He grunts, "A matter of learning for us all, I reckon." He glances aside at Thomas, "That -was- the original plan. To move slowly and take the town building by building. As I said, the Duke's men filled the streets and pushed our men into frenzied disorder. The street I took, I took with my men as we should have done. Infantry swept the buildings we passed…" He's not appeased, "Blame, well, Duke Tarris can take the blame for the numbers we lost. I for one though, won't. My men served me well. The count has me at two serious injuries, a handful of minor injuries, and the rest, healthy." He himself had been healthy without the previous injury causing him strain.

"Purge that of your system, then, purge the flame and the passion in your words and take the proper lessons and talk to the Duke about them. Or I can. I imagine that he trusts me, enough that when Viscount Letholdus was married to his sister, he gave me the job of suffect Warden of the East. But remember, you are sworn to him. You serve him, and he is a wonderfully talented commander." Thomas removes a small flask from his hip and offers it to Henric, to go along with the water skin he'd offered before. "Something a bit harder. I do believe that his Grace's mistake was in presuming that all of the other troops were trained, led and disciplined to the extend of those he brought. They were not. Period. It matters less now. Our losses were not too great, although at one point I feared myself dead."

Henric has a hardness to his eyes as he regards Thomas, Thomas who was loyal to his Duke as Henric should be, though how could Henric be? The Cassomir's fought the Tarris not so long ago. The past was hard to erase so completely. Tarris were Thorns once. "You must concede that a wonderfully talented commander wouldn't have gone headlong into battle charge such as he did? The confusion was clear I think, due in part because of discipline, but also because suddenly a Lordship fell but why were they listening to him when the Lord Marshal was present? Shouldn't we have all waited for the Lord Marshal then? To come? Prior to attacking?" He squints, pinching the bridge of his nose, "The plan we had was not for such vast armies to bottleneck into the town. It failed because I failed…" He grunts, the crux of the matter, "My sister and I, we spoke to Lord Volstak to convince him of this plan." He was not really upset with the Duke then, but himself, "Had I known that the Duke was this close to reaching Goldhollow, the operation would've waited for him. Command would've been given completely to him. We didn't -react- properly to when he did come afield…" a smirk, "This is why I'm only a regiment commander Lord Chandus. A mere lance to break against the wall, that is all."

"Then that's our fault, for not waiting for the Lord Marshal. Not just your and your sister's, who, by the way, has my utmost compliments for her taking of the gate. Remember, Sir Henric, you are a Tarris regiment commander. Whether or not you prefer to command Cassomir troops, good Sir, you command Tarris men. But does it really matter? We're all fighting the same enemy. The old civil war is long over. This is the new civil war, and I would like to say that we, former Thorns, have /earned/ your trust in blood." Thomas narrows his eyes, frowning slightly. "Do I not walk to the side, as a Thorn hammer as almost crushed in my ribs, as you walk with a stitch for wounds you took from the same Thorns? Have we not both lost men to this enemy? Let us not squabble, now. Only improve our performance, sharpen our blade for the next time."

Henric shakes his head at that firm reminder of what colours he wore, "You are right of course, Sir Thomas. You are right… Forgive me, this, damn…bloody conflict has little purpose but to shed more blood… OUR blood," his eyes reverting to the Keep, looking up toward the high walls where he could see figures of men strutting the palisades every so often, safe in their lofty Keep. A quick look back, "No, Sir Thomas, I mean not to question your trust. Especially not yours," he frowns, "Forgive me. My tongue does get ahead of me. I should rip it out one day and I'd be a better man for it." A long heavy sigh, the last remains of anger that stems from fighting yet another civil war, "We must get better. We must learn to stand united. And swing with one mighty blade."

"You say what's on your mind. You're in good company for that right now, for I do not judge or begrudge you. Some of what you say is true. Some is coloured by your experiences in the line. None of it is malicious. But if we can take the good from it and move on and better defeat the enemy." Thomas advises

"Right…" Henric looks at the Keep again, "We need to look forward, not back. The past must stay behind us, though we may learn from it, we should never let it guide our future. And our future is that fucking Keep…" He folds his arm across his week old injury, "How do you purpose we're going to take it, I wonder?" A glance back toward the town, where the smoke was billowing from fires yet raging or needing to be put out, "It'll be a damn long siege… unless we can figure out how to slice open her belly."

"If we can simply invest it with troops, we ought to wait it out, whether it take months or not. Even though it ties our troops up, we can take the balance to new lands and stamp out new Thorns. If we absolutely must storm it… it will be a bloody slog. I prefer the idea of a siege better. We lose less men, especially that they can be quartered in a city with warm beds and food, instead of a camp on the cold ground. It makes all the difference. Time will tell." Thomas stops, breathing heavily and winces. "I ought to get this changed. God keep you, Sir Henric."

Henric considers the weight of Thomas' words on the best way to take her, the Keep. There's a grunt of agreement to the assessment, "We're not prepared to ram against that beast. And I'm sure the damn Romante's will want the keep without damaging her too badly." It was on Romante land after all, "We'll hope to invest then. It is as you say, we hold the town. That, we can be thankful for." Even if some of it was burning and they've yet to learn the true extent of what those fires really meant for their immediate futures. "Yes my friend. Go see to the healers. If you can, find that Priestess, her name's Viola. She's damn fine and not only to look at." An impish wink, before he claps Thomas on the shoulder, "My forces and I will hold. Rest easy Friend. I'll make sure to send you a few pillow fluffers. Amazing for the morale." With that, he turns back to his careful study of the Keep standing in their way of justice.

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