(1866-02-15) Making Preparations
Making Preparations
Summary: An unfortunate letter is received, prompting a flurry of action in Riverend.
Date: 14-15/02/1866
Related: None
NPCs: {$npc}
Players:
Varian  Thomas  Synthia  

Riverrend
Riverrend, capital of House Reine
15 Fevrier, 1866

Any sane commander would have stopped for the night. Any sane commander, but Thomas, Lord Chandus, was determined to make it to his destination for the night. Thus, with the darkness descending on them and both officers commanding asking when they were to stop, old, gruff Captain Sir Reginald Holden of the Dragon's Claw company attached to him and the stout, friendly Captain Sir Ainsley Buller of his own Sun Shields, the young Lord answered in the negative. "We'll keep marching, gentlemen. The night is cold and with us ten miles from Riverrend, is there really a point?"

Three hours before, the barge that the soldiers had taken up from Duval had been stopped in the middle of the River Leonor. Its path was blocked by the smashed remains of a barge travelling the other way, towards the Great Salt - judging by its bent flags, it had been a boat of House Riven and no one had survived the plunge into the icy waters, after it must have struck the slick, frozen rocks. While the boat crew waited, Lord Thomas decided not to. It was twenty miles to Riverrend and damned if he wasn't going to be sleeping in a warm bed in a friendly town and finally, in the East, with at least some of his troops at home.

That said, why stop when it was dark? The men, tired and footsore, were alert. They were fully laden as if for battle. No one took risks these days on the open road. As they rounded the bend toward Riverrend, Thomas, from his stout mountain pony, motioned at the band up with the command team. "Play something suitable for homecoming after the battle. Raise the standards high, even if they can't see them. Ho!" The bugles blew and the drums beat.

The only road into Riverend was the most well-fortified part of the city, except of course for Ashwood Keep which sat at the far end of the city, backed by mountains and surrounded by the city itself. Reine's banners fluttered in the wind over the parapets of the city, waving stiffly in the cold winter's breeze that blew through the air that evening. As usual the walls were manned, the city guard well-bundled that particular evening to keep out the night's cold touch. At the sound of distant approach, however, every man atop the walls turned and looked, peering through the gloom to see what was approaching. The rather upbeat tune, however, implied not so much an invading force but a returning one. Calls rang through the city, echoing off of the walls as watching lights were lit and suddenly burned into existence along the walls to better illuminate the city front.

It did not take a runner long to reach the keep and hail the guards who stood watch on /those/ walls. Fortunately, however, the Viscount kept late hours; when the news reached him, he was still very much awake. With some members of his house guard in tow, the Viscount descended down from his keep, towards the gates of his city to meet those who had returned from Goldhollow. He'd heard news, but rumour was not nearly so good as the actual recounting of the men and women who had been there. Varian was, understandably, eager to learn just how the affair had gone. He had to assume at the least, however, that if his soldiers were returning then it had not gone too poorly.

Thomas's squire, a young man from a good yeoman family in the Valley of Scales, had been killed at Goldhollow, his head rent in two by the violent axe of Anders One-Eye. Since then, his only bodyguards were two soldiers from his regiment, Sun Shield infantrymen. The Corporal at Arms was a tough man in his mid twenties, Beaven Lewis, doubling as a bugler. The other, doubling as a standard bearer, was barely out of his teens though well adjusted to his experiences, the Lance Corporal at Arms, Robert Stewart.

Those two were ahorse slightly aback from the triad of officers when the master of the city appeared. "Lance Corporal Stewart, raise the standard to the Viscount. Corporal Lewis, blow the Salute." A short burst of carefully blown and easily distinguished music is emitted from the bugle, as Lord Chandus orders in a high voice, "Men of Windholme, to your Viscount - SALUTE!" The officers and Serjeants, in unison, raise their weapons in front of their faces towards Varian.

Mounted atop his great black destrier and looking for all the world like he had come prepared to greet returning soldiers based upon the finery - appropriately warm for the weather of course - was the Viscount, his immediate ring of elite guards standing at attention about him once he had drawn Arondel to a halt. With his left hand about the reins of his war horse, Varian raised his right in welcome to those who stood now before his home. "Soldiers," the Viscount called out in a strong, clear voice which reverberated off of the stone walls about them as he lowered his arm down to his side. "Welcome home."

The reins of his horse were passed into the waiting hands of one of his guards, allowing Varian to slip down from the back of his horse and land with a slight thud and rattle of a scabbard as his booted feet connected with frozen stone. "Lord Chandus," he began, in a voice not meant to be heard by the gathered as he approached Thomas. "You are most welcome here. Please, with me," he spoke in his pleasant baritone, gesturing to the lord to move forward and join him.

"Your Excellency." Thomas greets in a more personal manner, once his sword has lowered and is put away. "I thank you. It is a relief to be back east oncemore." He turns his head towards the two officers accompanying him. "Captain Holden, it was a pleasure to fight with you, and my compliments to your Dragon's Claws. Captain Buller, please ensure the troops are quartered well and the considerations are taken." Instructions given, the Eastern Lord nudges his pony into a trot to keep up with Varian's much bigger and much quicker black warhorse. While Thomas has a good Tarris rouncey horse, he typically preferred the smaller beast for long marches. His expression appears relieved at finally arriving.

Varian watches as the preparations are seen to. There is no need to anything to them, every man and woman who arrived that night would be given good quarters and warm food; sometimes a scarcity on the march, and a boon he is more than glad to extend to those who have returned home victorious. "I can imagine. The West, it is pleasant to visit but it is far indeed from home," the Viscount agreed as he remounted his warhorse, taking the reins from his guard and drawing the horse around before setting it to a slow and easy trot back up the central lane of Riverend with the guard in tow although rather loosely. "I am eager to hear of everything that has taken place. We've had bird messages in spades, and rumours even moreso, but I would like to hear a proper first-hand account of just what took place."

"I've noticed that Westerners have a great deal of trouble understanding us, not linguistically, your Excellency, but in our thoughts. We are colder blooded than them and I would argue, with his Grace the Duke in exception, more rational." When Varian requests Thomas to tell him stories, he smiles broadly, reaching up to the corners of his watery blue eyes. "Of course. Might I ask for a good glass of wine or brandy and some bread to quench thirst and hunger, my lord? It is known that we tell better stories when warm and sated."

A short, easy laugh escapes from around the Viscount's chest as he listens to Thomas, his eyes focused upon where he knows the banners of his house to be fluttering above the parapets of his home. "Yes, the Duke is often the exception to many things," Varian remarks with a touch of amusement upon the edge of his mouth. "And, of course. You will be my guest for the evening, and take a late meal with me," he added as he turned his head to glance in Thomas' direction, nodding as he did so. "The fire in the great hall is always burning, after all. A good thing too in these cold winters, when guests come calling in the evening hours. I had not expected your return to be quite so swift, or so late in the day." There was a faint backward glance, to where he knew the soldiers to be. "I imagine they did not much appreciate the extra march, but hopefully a warm bed and food will ease their aching feet."

"They will appreciate it when they've got those two, not to mention a belly full of wine or brandy. And honestly, I feel that we're safer inside Riverrend than elsewhere. Every day, there are new stories of villages burned, convoys taken, towns sacked and formations routed by these brigands. I would argue that the Kingdom is still not taking this seriously enough. While our troops cannot be everywhere, they ought stick together, use their damned scouts to prevent these kinds of disasters and call their bloody militia out." Thomas snorts, shaking his head in seeming disbelief at what he's judged as the weakness of his fellows' decision making. "We lost good men at Goldhollow, your Excellency, but we thoroughly defeated the enemy. Some were able to withdraw, though. I believe Sir Thaddeus pursued and routed them, though I go only by vague reports after I left."

The viscount nods his head as Thomas speaks, listening to the words but offering none of his own in the immediate. As the gates of Ashwood Keep are raised with the rattling of massive, frozen chains and the portcullis is swept upward out of sight, however, "We will speak more of it all tomorrow, I believe. Tonight, food and a warm place to sleep are the chiefest demands. Talk of plans and strategy can wait for at least the light of dawn." Varian dismounts from his destrier as he finishes speaking, handing the reins over to an attendant and beckoning for Thomas to follow him into the Keep proper. The roaring fires within stand in stark contrast to the cool winter air outside of the stone walls, providing much relief to those who had spent far too long out in the latter.

Come dawn, however, the Keep has been kicked into an absolute furor. Men and women move quickly, some carrying scrolls and others simply jogging toward the stables where dozens of horses are being saddled in the cold chill of the early winter morning. While their breath fogs in the air, their riders themselves look just as harried as the animals themselves; in the wake of an early letter delivered by moongazer, the viscount has been whipping the Keep into a frenzy. He himself is fully-dressed, pacing back and forth slowly before the great fire that burns within the ancient dragon skull set into the far wall of the hall itself. His lips are thin, drawn into a pale line that belies the tension beneath his heavy black clothing. He waits only on the arrival of his guests, in order to deliver the news that rests in his right hand, written on the letter held there.

It's a good thing that Thomas isn't the type to slip into bed right away. No, when he went off of on his own for the night, Lord Chandus bathed, had his clothes cleaned as best as he could and made sure all of his equipment was oiled and ready to go. While it made his sleep shorter, he's not running to make sure the maintenance of his person is complete in this insane morning. He's already wearing a clean gambeson and clean clothes, although his armour has not been donned. "Your Excellency. What news?" He asks upon entering the room.

Synthia comes down the staircase and into the great hall calmly and with composure. The young Reine Lady is dressed in a tunic, trousers and boots that she wears to train in. Despite the rather plain outfit she move gracefully and seems to glide down the stairs. She pauses breifly when she sees the Viscount and his agitated state. She steps off the staircase and moves to Varian's side her expression unreadable. "Cousin? Is something the matter?" She asks him gently and then glances to Thomas dipping her head to him politely. "Greetings my Lord." The Lord Chandus is given a look of faint curiousity as he speaks but the Lady is focused mostly on Varian. Her hands and arms that rested previously at her sides come to cross over her chest and she tilts her head to the left regarding the letter carefully. "I get the feeling something has happened."

Varian's grey eyes are pulled up and away from the fire burning inside the truly massive maw of the long-dead creature that decorates his hall, turning about on the spot at the sound of approach and then recognizable voices. "Griffon Point has been sacked," he replies bluntly, his right hand coming up with the letter he received pinched between his middle and index fingers. "Perhaps burned to the ground, even. Reports are unreliable, but this message came this morning from whatever remains of the city's guard. It was sent when they were attacked, it seems, and I have had no word since." The letter is held out toward Thomas once he has finished speaking so that the noble may look at himself. "Synthia, prepare your armour and make preparations to depart immediately. We are leaving as soon as the levies in the nearby countryside can be mustered, the runners have already been sent. We'll march on Griffon Point, and see for ourselves what has happened." The viscount's tone is cold and measured, his eyes like ice in his face as redirects his attention to the fire burning nearby. "It would seem, apparently, that I need to kill a man for a second time. The letter spoke of The Butcher, leading the attack."

Thomas's face hardens at the thought of Griffon Point burning. He had spent months there in the fall as suffect Warden of the East, and before that, many pleasant memories with his brother and even his father before at the court of Duke Gauvain. "The very same Butcher that you struck down before the Battle?" Thomas does not name the battle. He doesn't need to; clearly, he's referring to the Battle of the Betrayer, but a dislike of that byname for his Duke means that he seldom uses the vernacular. "I did not get to this last night, your Excellency. I am still effective as a formation, but my men have taken bad losses. We lost twenty eight infantry, five archers and a scout. In the balance, I've fourty seven Sun Shields, twenty five Leatherback archers and twenty four scouts. I am at your disposal, of course, and I wish to march with you, by your leave." Synthia is an unfamiliar face; she gets a puzzled glance, but it's only for a moment. Lord Chandus is more interested in the matters at hand.

A golden brow raises as Synthia takes in what Varian has to say. Those normally calm green eyes turn cold with rage and she gives a sharp nod at the orders. "As you wish Cousin. I will be armed and ready to leave in an hour at most." She turns to go and prepare but she only gets about three and a half steps away before she pauses. She turns back to Varian her expression puzzled and her eyes showing a hint of disbelief. "The Butcher? You killed him. Dead men don't just get up and sack cities Cousin." She looks thoughtful. "Either that letter lies about the Butchers involvment or something strange is going on here. We will just have to find out wants going on ourselves then." And with that said she marches up the stairs at a brisk pace going to get into her armor and calling one of the servants to have her horse saddled and another to have her nescessities packed for a march.

"Indeed, the very same," the viscount respons with a slight click of his tongue. "Perhaps his heart was located somewhere other than to the left of his sternum, because that is the only way that man could still be breathing and leading armies." It was a mystery indeed; was someone merely mistaken? Perhaps, but it mattered little for at the very least someone was masquerading as The Butcher, and that was insult enough for Varian. That level of rudeness would not be tolerated. "Lord Chandus, gather the men you have with them and ensure they're well-supplied. If you're ready to march then you will join us as we head to Griffon Point to see the truth of this letter," he replied, giving the letter a slight shake with his hand as he did so. It was then folded, bent neatly in half and then once more before being tossed into the licking flames before the viscount. "It is a strange day when dead men come back to haunt the living, and our most southern holdings are besieged by them. One way or another, I will have answers. And, this warmonger's head on a pike."

"My men have just come off the march. Therefore, they are ready to march again. We'd expected a more protracted campaign in Goldhollow and our supply situation is good. How long, roughly, until the levies are mustered, your Excellency? I'll inform my officers and serjeants to make the necessary preparations. And a damned shame we don't have more time. My yeomanry," Thomas is referring to his fief's pike militia, "would be quite useful. But I suppose they will have to remain."

"The levies nearby are well-practiced, the benefit of sitting so close to my capital and where my soldiers are. The supplies will be gathered and the men will be assembled no later than two days from now," Varian responds as he turns about on the spot to put his back to the heat and his attention on Thomas. "I have no idea what will be waiting for us when we arrive. I intend to march to Griffon Point ready for whatever we might find there, whether it is only the charred remains of the city or the enemy waiting there for us. Siege engines will be constructed on the outskirts, once we are able to set up a proper base of operations nearby. The scouts will need to be a good few miles beyond the bulk of the forces, I want to know what I am marching at before I get there. I've sent word to the Duke as well, though he has likely heard already. We may very well meet him there."

"My scouts, though only a quarter of a hundred in number, are quite good. Not quite on the huntress level, but very proficient none the less. Of course, we're at your disposal, your Excellency. Were you planning on collecting any of your other Lords for this march, or shall you leave them for defence of home? Obviously, the enemy has proven that it can strike near anywhere." Thomas muses. Turning over to one of Varian's servants, he instructs, "Find Corporal Beaven Lewis, my Corporal At Arms. I need him to carry a message for me. He should be nearby."

Synthia comes striding back down the stairs in her armor with her bastard sword in its sheath. Her hair is pulled neatly up into a tight bun and her helmet is tucked under her arm and a small bag slung across the other shoulder. She moves to Varian's side and stands there alert and waiting for a chance to speak. When she has it she speaks calmly but directly. "I'm ready to leave. I just need to make sure my horse is properly saddled." She glances to Thomas and studies him more carefully now. "We have not met before have we? I am Lady Synthia Reine, squire to His Excellency here." She gives Varian a glance. "I suppose I will be entering a true battle sooner than I had thought." She looks thoughtful but not troubled by this.

"For now my other vassals will remain and guard the lands that I'm pulling my men from. If the enemy is no longer at Griffon Point then they have gone elsewhere, and I would not have it that they come and burn my lands behind me while I am away investigating what has happened. All the better, then, if we can catch them near Griffon Point and put an end to this.. Insult." The nearby, high-backed chair with spires of dragon bone adorning its ridge plays host to the viscount as he seats himself down in it, his pale hands gripping the arms of the ancestral seat while a dour expression blankets his face. Synthia's return causes him to return from his thoughts however, glancing first at her and then at Thomas in turn. "Ah, yes. The moment has pushed aside pleasantries. This is my new squire, who it seems I will be taking into battle sooner than either of us had thought. Nothing like a proper war, however, to turn a squire into a knight," he remarks as his hands find their way to pent before him thoughtfully. "Make your preparations such as you need, Lord Chandus. The entire force will march in two days, but I will be leaving today to see to my soldiers while the levies filter in."

"Thomas, Lord Chandus. Well met, Lady Synthia." Perhaps in ordinary time, Thomas would be more inclined to let his eyes linger on Varian's squire and cousin. These aren't and he doesn't. He is still dour looking, whether from the battle at Goldhollow, the march, the burning of Griffon Point or some other concern. "Well, battle was where I was knighted, so I suppose there's that. My soldiers will be ready at your convenience. Should you require me for staff duties, to plan and to make sure our officers are marshalled, I am available for that as well. At your service, my liege." The Lord doesn't appear to be doing this for points; he is a true believer in the highest Eastern tradition.

Synthia doesn't smile she simply nods respectfully to Thomas her expression a blank mask. "A pleasure Lord Chandus…though the circumstances could be better I'm sure." Her tone is equally calm and respectful and then she turns to Varian and nods faintly at his comment about war making knights. There is a determined look in her eyes now and she stands off to one side quietly for the moment waiting for her next order and thier departure.

"Indeed. We will speak soon, Lady Synthia." Thomas moves off to find out where his damned Corporal At Arms is.

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