| This little Valley |
| Summary: | A Galenthian scouting party is ambushed by Rikton forces. |
| Date: | 1868-07-30 |
| Related: | All relating to the Galenthian efforts to push the Rikton forces from their lands. |
| NPCs: | {$npc} |
| Players: |
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| A valley in the Fallow Lands |
| The land around Oracla, Galenthia's forward position in reclaiming the Fallow Lands from the Rikton push into the kingdom, are much of the same. Farmers merely note the passing of the armed group heading to meet up with the Lord Marshal, and then go back to work tending their fields or flocks. The land itself is hilly, and covered in trees, the forests of which break into valleys between these hills that allow for very excellent famring and grazing. Men and women tend these farms and herds. The sky is just as bleak as the land, for though it is in the heart of summer, the sky is thick with dark clouds that threaten rain, but have not as of yet done so. |
| 1868-07-30 |
The Fallow Lands have seen some of the heaviest fighting in the last two wars of succession, as both the Rose and the Thorn battled over the land's resources. The Casualties were the nobility, and the Rose, who emerged the victor in these confrontations, have had a tough time giving those lands and their resources out to loyal deserving followers. The result is a land that while not quite lawless, is a land that does not appear to care. The people merely glance up from their day to day lives as one rides past. Takes not if you are a threat or not, and acts according.
The land around Oracla, Galenthia's forward position in reclaiming the Fallow Lands from the Rikton push into the kingdom, are much of the same. Farmers merely note the passing of the armed group heading to meet up with the Lord Marshal, and then go back to work tending their fields or flocks. The land itself is hilly, and covered in trees, the forests of which break into valleys between these hills that allow for very excellent famring and grazing. Men and women tend these farms and herds. The sky is just as bleak as the land, for though it is in the heart of summer, the sky is thick with dark clouds that threaten rain, but have not as of yet done so.
The Lord Marshal sent the Jarl and a few of his men to meet up with a scouting party sent by Baron Thomas Chandus, to make sure the men defending the walls of Oracla don't accidentally fire on the advancing reinforcements. The two groups meet between two hills, in a small-ish valley surrounded by trees, a winding road leads to Oracla in the distance, which can be seen despite the bleak day. Cook fires, and forge fires drift lazily up creating an almost welcome appearance.
—-
Finally meeting up with the other party, Ranulfr skips down from his horse, quite relieved at the prospect of good solid earth beneath his boot-shod feet, and raises a hand in greeting towards the other party of Galenthian nobility and their soldiers, while his group of raiders, pillagers, northmen and northwomen to a tee remain mounted behind him, "Greetings!" That easy, lilting, northern accent rings out, warm and inviting, "The Lord Marshal sends his greetings I am sure also, I am Jarl Ranulfr of Dorling, at your service, here to join your party." The wave ends just as easily as it began, with his hand resuming its place upon the bearded axe sheathed at his hip, which certainly shows that even in service to Galenthia, there's no mistaking the young Jarl for anything but a Whitehaller. Clad in scale and fur, armed with axes, in any other time or place, they would be feared, likely laden with plunder, and certainly not offering a hearty greeting.
—
Astride her lean and swift footed black horse sits Sonya Kaedon. The ebon haired Countess has her dark curls up in a secure bun, out of the way. Her pitch black leather armor covers her body and overs both flexibility as well as some protection. Her bow and daggers are carried on her person as well her expression one of serene calm as she guides her men and women out to meet with the Jarl the Lord Marshal sent out. She is cautious, her horse and the horses of her scouts moving swiftly yet carefully occasionally stopping to let one of the scouts go on foot to scan the area ahead for signs of danger and report back. The group makes it to the intended meeting point and Sonya pulls her horse to a stop scaning the area carefully as her scouts pull up around and behind her. Bright ice blue eyes are alert as they watch the area with a cool calculating expression, waiting. As the Jarl greets her she blinks her icy gaze focusing intently upon him. She trots her horse forward and slides gracefully down from the saddle. When she speaks though it may surprise for its in the tongue of White Hall. "Greetings to you Jarl Ranulfr of Dorling. I am Countess Sonya of Kaedon. It will be most enjoyable to fight alongside you, I have heard things of your peoples valor in battle." The language she speaks is a bit unrefined as though she hasn't practiced it often but she obviously knows the white haller tongue and its words. She smiles faintly and switches effortlessly to common again. "Has the Lord Marshal any orders for our units right away then? If not I will send my scouts to examine the area and see what they can find."
—
Men and women slide off horses to stretch legs and backs. Some speaking jovially wiht others, while still others remain in companionable silence. Merely enjoying a moment's respite. The two groups mingle, speaking friendly to each other. Shaking hands in greetings, some in common, some in the Barbarian tongue. So when the first shot comes, it is almost not even noticed. There is no sound that come swith the shot. Just a sudden blossom of blood as a bolt sprouts in the neck of one of the Glaenthians. The man's eyes go wide as he clutches at the sudden intrussion that is slowly ending his life. He falls to his knees and then to his side, His eyes rolling up into his head, glassy and lifeless.
One of the White Hallers calls out, "Crossbow! Somewhere in the woods!" And then he arcs his back, dropping the axe he had quickly pulled from its frog as a bolt from the OTHER side slams into his lower back. He falls to his knees screaming.
—
"You honour us." Ranulfr replies, "You have a good grasp of our tongue, and we too have heard good things of our Galenthian friends, and experienced them to boot. So lets pity whatever enemy we face." That said, Ranulfr's attention rarely flits from Sonya, at least until that shout rings out, "SHIELDWALL!" The order plain enough, but even as the one Whitehaller falls, the shout is enough to spur the barbarians into facing the woods, shields clashing together, two lines, above and below to form that defensive wall. While further out, Ranulfr unslings his own shield and kneels, shifting to cover Sonya with the shield moreso than himself, "Hold still Olaf!" The words of encouragement shouted to the fallen Whitehaller, "Looks like our orders are moot, lets kill the bastards.." Though soon he shouts, "Healer! Your good lady needs you!"
—
Jarret is here somewhere as well. Dismounting, with his poleaxe ready, as the bolts start to fly, he ducks down a bit, but keeps silent for now, looking for the enemy.
—
As hte shieldwall forms, and the Galenthians react, forming their own battle line creating a back to back line, men emerge from the wooded areas tossing crossbows aside. The initial barrage having killed a few, and wounded others. For the most part the wounded are able to still hold weapons and shields and get in the line and are able to brace for the charge from the two sides.
These men wear the livery of the Grande Army of the Faith, red trimmed in white. Leading them a Templar, in his white enameled armor, and wielding a Greatsword with intricate gold designes in the blade. He levels the blade and cries out; "FOR THE ONE AND RIKTON!"
There is an audible, bone jarring CRUNCH as the forces collide, shield to shield, weapon to weapon, and almost immediately the two sides begin to exchang eblows.
—
Only once the bolt-stricken Sonya is protected and being seen to does Ranulfr look to the ensuing melee, "I shall return to check on you, look after her." A nod to both Sonya and her retainers is given, and the Whitehaller leaves his smaller round shield in the care of Sonya, drawing both his axes as he approaches the shieldwall, taking his position with an axe in each hand to hook, slash, pull and slaughter as best he can, "Kill them! Their God is jealous of our Gods! That and pissed off at some other God that might be the same God! Who the fuck knows! They're our enemy! Slay them!" And so axes clash against armour, sparks fly, Ranulfr takes something of a scratch, and the push and shove of both sides churns up the earth beneath.
—
Jarret moves for one of the enemies, swinging his poleaxe. Unfortunately he ends up taking the hit from the enemy, but there's nothing said as he keeps on moving.
—
The Riktons press into the melee, and the shieldwalls, expertly formed have quickly devolved into individual melees. Men slash, hack, stab, kick and even bite at each other. Anything to gain an advantage. It is not a large battle, only about twenty men on each side, but it has the feeling of one. The man next to Jarret screams as a sear finds a chink in his armor, and he goes down, even as his killer, draws a hand axe, unable to rip the spear from his target's chest and leap at another. Near Ranulfr, a woman screams in pain as a hand is sheared by a Rikton axe, which she then burries her own bearded axe in the man's skull, kicking the man away with a furious curse.
—
The Jarl of Dorling swings both axes with a certain deadly skill, blocking, hacking, warding off those who might get a trifle too close. But one such slash buries the Jarl's axe deep into the neck of one of Rikton's own, and with a fierce amount of effort, the axe is tugged free from the sucking wound, ensuring an ample spurting of blood from the Holy soldier of Rikton who finds himself kicked away, while Ranulfr himself sets his eyes upon the Templar, "For Galenthia! For Melisandre!" The lilting common of the Jarl rings out, a ringing endorsement of the Queen and the Kingdom who have welcomed them. For their grain as much as their prowess on the field. Kicking out at another, Ranulfr aids in tripping another, though as to their fate he cares little as he points his axes towards the Templar and charges…
—
Still no words from Jarret, as he stabs with the spike on the top of his weapon, straight at the throat of one of the Rikton people. That done, he moves for another, wordlessly.
—
The Templar dispatches a White Haller with cold efficiency, the heavy Greatsword crashing into the shield, shattering it, severing the man's arm at the forearm and burying the heavy blade in the defender's skull. With a casual jerk he pulls the heavy, blood soaked weapon free and turns to see the Jarl of Dorling barreling toward him. No words are spoken, the Templar merely adjusts his grip and charges toward Ranulfr screaming as he goes, that heavy weapon dripping White Haller blood as he raises it over his head to perform a terrifying and powerful overhead strike.
The Galenthians fight beside Jarret, protecting the Heir of Sokar, while also following in the path the Blood Axe creates with his skill and silent determination. One on each side, they protect his flanks, while the other Galenthians fight their own battles. A man charges Jarret, a sword clutched in his hand and a shield held before him, the point of that blade driving toward the Knight's face.
—
Ranulfr's charge is met with a rather fierce reply from the Templar, the scale-clad Jarl may well be lightly armoured in comparison, but he is perhaps a touch more nimble. Not that it staves off a nasty ringing blow from the Templar's own weapon, which for a few moments has the Jarl's head ringing and a sharp pain piercing his body. The wound for the most part slows the Jarl's approach, blood is almost certainly trickling beneath his armour, giving him a breathless moment or two to ponder, and ponder he does, swinging both axes once more, each bloodied with Rikton blood, to hack and slash and wound the damned Templar.
—
Someone charging him with a sword and a shield, hmmm? Jarret moves to the side, to get out of the way of the charge, then swings his poleaxe down for the man's neck in a well-racticed move. Still no words, as he moves on towards the next man.
—
The man that Jarret strikes has hsi spin severed from Jarret's swing. The heavy Poleaxe biting deep, but not severing the head. Blood sprays as the weapon is jerked free and he falls to the ground, limbs jerking sporadically as they receive their last signals and the man dies in a pool of his own blood. The man on Jarret's right has an axe buried in his chest, when a Rikton soldier throws his axe at Jarret, but the Blood Axe's companion leaps in the way to save his lord. The Rikton who threw the axe rips a spear out of somebody and then charges toward Jarret, screaming the whole way.
THe Tmeplar grunts, managing to side step and then parry Ranulfr's deadly swings. As the White Hall Jarl staggers from the graze, the Templar moves in for the kill, gripping the bladein a deft move to swing the hilt of the weapon toward Ranulfr, the crossguard coming for his face.
—
Ranulfr tangles the oncoming hilt within the crook of his one bearded axe, protecting his features for another few moments at least, in doing so, the Jarl pushes in against the Templar, bringing down his other axe against the man's head. Giving that helm good cause to ring out! And not that Ranulfr stops there, the Jarl hacks the Templar to the ground, rending armour, drawing forth bloody gouts and letting loose a stream of obscenities at the man who finally twitches no more. Standing proud, aching, bloodied, but with those gore-soaked axes held aloft, Ranulfr vents his fury with a soul-curdling scream directed at the heavens themselves. With that out of his system, with a trifling amount of Templar blood smeared across his features, Ranulfr lets slip a snarl of utter barbaric fury, and launches himself at the next man! Leading by bloody example.
—
Screaming foe, meet silent death. Jarret once more brings up the spike on the poleaxe, going for the chest of the enemy now. Frowning as he looks around, he sees Ranulfr fight the Templar, and starts moving towards that templar as well now.
—
Almost as quick as it began, the battle is over. As Jarret kills the man charging with the spear, and Ranulfr fells the Templar with a vicious series of blows. One of his men catch him as he launches himself. "Easy brother." The man says soothingly. "They're all dead." He releases him and slaps him on the back. "Well fought!"
This little valey, maybe fifty yards across is litered with the bodies of the fallen. Some men groan, wounded, while others lay dead. The grass trampled by feet, crossbow bolts stick in the ground like blooming flowers from that first deadly barrage. Somewhere a raven cries out, it's shrill cry filling the space of the battle. The soldier who stuck by Jaret through the fight leans on his knees. "One's breath. I think that was the largest group of these Rikton fucks we've seen. Orders my Lord?"
—
Ranulfr takes a moment or two to realise just that as the adrenalin slows and his heart ceases its rapid pounding, "Make sure Lady Sonya is safe… tend to the wounded, dispatch the dying, and loot those Rikton bastards you slaughtered… you've earned it." Ranulfr's words are spoken easily enough, even if they are matched with a pained grimace as he pats at his bloodied side, giving his lifeblood reason to ooze between his fingers for a moment as the pressure is applied, "And well fought you all." The words spoken a trifle louder still, to Whitehaller and Galenthian alike, "A victory for our Queen Melisandre!"
—
Letting out a bit of a breath, Jarret glances around, nodding a bit at Ranulfr's words. "I would suggest that this is probably a good time to get to our side of the lines," he comments, glancing out over the battlefield.
—
The soldier nods to Jarret. "Aye m'Lord." And then heads off to first tend to the wounded as Ranulfr suggested then to organize the survivors in getting those wounded back to the lines. The combined White Hall and Galenthian troops give a cheer at the victory. Even as they mourn the fallen. The dark clouds begin to lighten their load, as a light rain begins to fall on the battlefield, as if to wash the blood, and horror of this small battle away.
—
Ranulfr takes a moment to strip and loot the Templar, the armour though bloodied is no doubt repairable, and that soon finds itself thrust into the arms of a particularly skilled White Haller. The sword itself by way of diplomacy and building bridges, is handed over to a Galenthian who uses such a weapon. While five crowns themselves are tossed into the pot, to be shared amongst the White Hallers, the remaining five handed over to the Jarret, "For your men m'Lord." And then, with the rain falling, back to the lines.
—