Hector

Hector

a heart for iron
Character Profile
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A week's ride west of Astenvale and the Order's Monastery, Knights of Anatheaum rode. Across fields and hills claimed by petty barons and marcher lords, they rode. Crossed the banners of Rodhan, and Hvithelm, whose threads still snapped their warning high on towers, across bridges, and before dread forts, they rode.

No colors to show. No banner to fly, nor badge to dawn, for the Chrysanthemum won little love before men sworn to the lords of these lands. So it was with guile of tongue, and fleet footed stealth that their number moved across the land, day after day and night after night.

Three pairs they were. Of Dawn and Dusk as oath bade them. Gathered there in the shadow of a woodland copse. Eyeing guards on wooden walls, and more who moved idle before the gate. The vision of a fort, spied through machined glass.

Sy Sando.webp"Don't right recall this bein here, last we came by these parts," Drawled Syr Sando, as he let down the spyglass, and worked thumb and forefinger across salt and pepper beard.
​
Lefelan (3).webp
"That is because it was not, Sando," Cut Syr Lefelan. Taking up the glass and putting it to his eye.
​
"Well now, that would explain the thinned out woods, then, wouldn't it?"

"Say what you will about The Thumping Rabbit of Rodhan, but he musters his power with expedience,"​

Syr Sando's lip spread sly with grin. "Sounds like you almost respect the man, Lef,"

"Only so much as one needs respect all threats, Syr Sando,"
​
Hector felt the crisp chill in the air nip at the point of his ear. Felt its sting, all too deep in his bones. Could remember the mud that had gulped him up, when his very blood felt aflame. Breath turned to steam and smoke. He blinked. Mouth dry. He pulled his water skin from his saddle bag. "Why not go through it?"

Sando let out long and low whistle. A soft thing between those gathered about. "Could be they know us,"

"The odds are slim on that," Lefelen went on spying. ​

"Even so," Sando thought aloud. Pointed down a way. "We can head further south, along the wyld lands, better cover for us, neway,"

Hector drank from his waterskin. Wiped clean his mouth, and offered drink to another knight beside. "That would add another day,"

"It is a hard checkpoint, aye," Lefelen confessed. "But we have received no word regarding travel restrictions,"
​
"Could be they built the fortification to act as refuge from the blighted," Hector added.

Sando looked to the woods they had traveled through. Thought on the scars that had marred the land they had trekked across. War torn scars of ripped up earth and blackened fire. Shroudmuted, that horrid grey, where war witches and battle wizards let loose all their learned talents. "Could be," he thought on.

"With word of the Sightless growing in the region," Lefelen touched. "Its paramount we retrieve the colossus from where it was laid to rest,"
​
Sando clicked his teeth. A wry grin bloomed across his mouth. "Not to mention we've heard news of a gheist on the move,"

Hector flinched. "A wargheist?"

Lefelen nod. "Appeared near a silver mine, some time ago," turned to regard Syr Osytha with the spyglass. "I believe the sighting wasn't too far off from that Sumu village in your reports, Syr Hector ,"
 

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One hand cradles Forbítter’s chest, the other sweeps its brush along broad flank. The feel of his hair and muscle is a tranquil thing; as calming for Osytha as she hopes her own touch is for the beast. They meet each other’s gaze, briefly, until Forbs swings his head forward and stares deeper into the woods. Pondering deep and profound horse thoughts, no doubt.

A small motion draws her eye down. There’s a waterskin there, held her way. Woman smiles appreciatively at Syr Hector as she takes the thing. “Ta,” she says, and has herself a swig.

Mouth might have been running a little drier than she thought, because that water hits like crisp ambrosia. Their little band has been mindful they don’t go through the stuff too quickly. Clean water’s not as common round these parts as it once was; not once armies had gone churning up the waterways with mud and ash and bloated flesh and, always, always creeping in the wake of such vileness, Blight. You’d think people would know better by now, but no. Not when the ones actually deciding these things never have to deal with the fallout. Well, Osytha would like to pour all those barons a nice, tall, cup of that ‘water’, and make them drink up every last drop. Why not? They’ve worked hard to screw things up this badly; they deserve to taste the fruits of their labours.

Osytha hands the waterskin back. “It’s still not as easy to reach the cities as before,” Osytha remarks, returning to the task of grooming. “The lords — and their soldiers — remain on edge. They don’t need as much cause to be suspicious of others, so even if we’re not recognised as Knights, it might not make a difference. Not if they think us some rival lord’s ferrets come to find the Rabbit in his burrow, or suchlike.” She glances over, and there’s Syr Lefelen, squinting ridiculously through the spyglass her way. She coaxes Forbítter’s head into view instead, by means of a salt lick, which then has the beast’s mouth going in some caricature of speech. “If’n the fort’s an obstacle for us, hopefully it proves the same for any Sightless,” Forbítter adds, taking over in a voice much more effeminate than one might expect. “Unless they’re already ahead of us.”

Very wise, Syr Forbítter. What can she say? Her boy’s a thinker.

“The delay’s not great, and if it increases the odds we’ll cross paths with a wargheist… it mightn’t be that much safer, either.” Forbítter muses. “But still better odds than contending with a hostile garrison, in my book. And that gheist mun be dealt with sooner or later. Could save us making a return trip. Ending it sooner could save a few bodies from its trouble, an’ all. Do we ken owt else about it?”
 
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Lefelen stared a while longer at the bit of mummery that mused through Forbítter's fuzzy muzzle. "I see," he said the words as his lips coiled. Snapped the spyglass shut, and stashed it away at a pouch on his belt.

"Depends on if its a new gheist, or and old gheist," Syr Sando chimed. Sucked at his teeth over it.

"It's an old gheist," Hector said without missing a beat. Realized how the other's eyes turned on him slow as drawstrings being tested. He turned his eyes away.

Syr Grenmerrie.webp"Well, how'n you know that, Syr Skykiller?" jibed Syr Grenmerrie of Dusk, tucking down her saddle bags the more.

Hector frowned. Shook his head. "I asked you not to call me that,"

"Oh, come now, It's pertinent information, given we are talking about sneaking around a fortress in lieu of raising any alarms, eh?" Syr Grenmerrie went on.

Lefelen, her senior by half a century, cleared his throat. "Well now, just because a few village folk dubbed him that doesn't mean-"
Syr Landro.webp

"Heard tell of the Skykiller and the Dragon not two taverns back," Longfaced Syr Lando of Dawn added, melancholic and regretful as he spoke the words to the air. "Bard and their lute, of all things, bout a devil with pointed ears, who bannished the brigands, and called fire down to the sky,"

"A right comedy it was," Syr Grenmerrie said with a harshness to her laugh.

Hector shook his head. "Then I will go around, and you lot can reach the miner's
encampment the sooner for it,"

Syr Sando cleared his throat. "Alright now, you lot, listen here," he clasped Hector by the shoulder. "Things are too dicey by half to be splitting up now," eased his hand off the younger man. "We go around," he nod. Looked to the others and ended his gaze on Osytha. "And if we come across this here old gheist, we high tail it out of the bosque, no heroics,"

Syr Grenmerrie grumbled.

Syr Lando but nod.

Syr Lefelen was already upon his saddle. "Though I wouldn't mind more of Syr Forbítter's wisdoms," he said with a stiff humor.

It was enough to make Hector huff a little laugh as he saddled up. "Hard to tell if you mean that as an invitation, or a warning, Syr Lefelen."

"Mystery is the better part of Wisdom,"

Sry Sando barked a laugh as he thumped down onto his horse. "Is that what you call it?"

"I do indeed, Syr Sando," Lefelen called proudly. Set his black courser to trot.
 
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“And if we come across this here old gheist, we high tail it out of the bosque, no heroics.”

Syr Sando’s command is acknowledged with a nod. “Aye, syr,” Osytha replies as she packs away the lick.

The possibility they’ll get to kill two birds with one stone while they’re out here, it’s a nice thought — but the mission has to come first. It’s hard to imagine any scenario where dancing with an iron revenant, especially one so glutted on war and carnage, wouldn’t carry terrible risk. Just, it’s only going to get worse the longer they leave it. And if it finds its way far enough south, now that the old empire’s making its bloody play to re-take the Free Cities…

Maybe they’ll soon see if there’s actually a limit to how big the blasted things can get.

She clicks her tongue a couple of times toward a small, dark shape keeping loyal watch at the perimeter. Its head whips round, and in waddles wee Guffers. Lad gets a little scratch behind his skew-whiffed ears before Osytha hauls him up into his basket, tucking him in nice and snug. She follows right after, and with that, they’re on their way again; a knight upon her sage steed. Forbítter’s not the only one mulling things over, though.

Colossus. Sightless. Rodhan. Wargheists. Sumu.

‘Syr Skykiller’.

Nor is Syr Lefelen alone in having read the reports. You learn all sorts of useful things by staying abreast. She’s a lot more wary of pynots than she used to be, that’s for sure.

As for Sumu, it… had been a tough read. One of those tales that makes Osytha actually glad she can’t weave — can’t slip up and suddenly, whoops, there goes your village. It’s easy to walk away from something like that feeling as though you only made things so much worse. Bairns had died, Ghanga, guide their little souls. Syr Hector had tried to help Sumu. Now he’ll have to carry that for the rest of his life.

Syr Osytha has been quite careful to avoid any use of ‘Syr Skykiller’. And she sure as shit can’t imagine what Syr Grenmerrie finds so funny about it.

Odd. Osytha’s pretty sure she’d have judged Syr Hector near as harshly as Sumu had, once upon a time. Nowadays, she just sounds more and more like her mother. Maybe she’d have been better off a midwife, after all…

… nah. Still sounds ridiculous.

Osytha brings Forbs up alongside the forge-knight’s steed. Good choice for a brick shithouse such as himself; some may look down on the humble rouncey, but Osytha respects its work-horse origins. She tips her head forward to catch Syr Hector’s eye. There’s something she’s been meaning to ask about, something she’d noticed out there in the dark. Something she thinks he, especially, ought to know.

“Did’st tha hearest it? Last night?” Osytha briefly cups her hands in front of her mouth and lets out a soft, high-pitched note which dips slightly toward the end. Sounds a bit like a rusty hinge. “Long-eared owl,” she explains, grinning. “Ullotts — er, chicks. Must’ve been a nest nearby. Don’t s’pose tha saw’st mum out and about fetching their supper whilst tha took’st watch?”
 
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The bit of movement does the trick, and Hector's gaze finds Syr Osytha there spying on him. Eyes wide with that daring curiosity he had come to know of her. He shrinks into himself under its scrutiny. Looks away entire.

Maybe she had not seen him looking back?
Maybe she was just looking at something behind him. A resting nighthawk, perchance. Or a stray heron's nest? The river wasn't far, after all. And they-

"Did'st tha hearest it? Last night?" ​

His long and shortened ears twitched to attention. "Hearest it?" his head already turning back so his eyes could find her, when she let out the mock cry. And he couldn't help but laugh at the impression. "That's too good," he eases some in his saddle as she grins.

"Long-eared owl, ullots -- er, chicks...Don't s'pose tha saw'st mum out and fetching their supper..?"
​
A nod from Syr Rookheart. "I cannae say I did see'st the ullots maw last night, Syr Osytha," a scrunch of brow and quirk of lip. "Mum," he corrected. No mock in the warm candor with which he tried to match her sing song. "Still don't think I have that dialect quite right," he scrunched his nose, and had his eyes crinkled some. Glad for the moment's kindness. "Hræfn Leah, right? Where'n you hail from?"

Their squad of six moved steady enough. Their pair at the point. Sando and Lefelen at the center, and Grenmerrie and Lando at the rear. The sounds of the forest, full in their ears, and the horses' hoofbeats dulled by the soft earth under shoe.

Hector cleared his throat, and sat up the straighter. Set his eyes forward. Remembering their position in the file. While his posture did lean toward the curious Dusker. "Though, thinking on it, I did see a pair of red moons glowing up on yonder branch," he flicked his nose in the direction of a tall pine whose crown seemed to have been split by a lightning strike. Black scar marred much of it. But green still grew verdant and true as the spring sun that painted its boughs and dappled through its needles. "And the screech of a felled rodent, with nary a snap of branch, or harsh thump of earth," a solemnity at the memory. If only in a beat. "So life turned on that critters horrid scream, and like, the ullots got some fresh spit up from mum," he smirked. Looked to Syr Guffers, sat upon his own nest. Without a care in the world beyond his nose as they rode. "A real Pursuant, that one," Hector smiled. Looked to Osytha once more. Blinked. "Whyn' you ask?"
 
“Still don't think I have that dialect quite right.”​

“An’ Ah would ne’ax such a thing of thee,” assuages Osytha, though she looks amused. “’Tis an unkerd thing, full of archaisms, vowels un-shifted, an’ vestigial case inflections. But I could teach thee et, if’n tha truly wish’st. Should the twa of us speak et, might be enow to send Syr Grenmerrie reight barmy.”

Used to be that Osytha took pains to break out of that dialect she’d grown up with. Those first, lonely years at Astenvale Monastery had been difficult enough already, and she hadn’t wanted to become known as the Yokel Knight on top of everything else. She cares a lot less about that sort of thing these days, though, and has found that old cutter creeping slowly back. Most noticeably in the wake of her visits home.

“Aye. Hræfna Leah — ‘the ravens’ clearing’. So named, for when ets wayward founders came ’pon an unkindness in that glade, they deferred to yon canny bird’s judgement an’ chose to mek et their home an’ all. Or so t’tale goes, anyroad.

“What of thissen, though? From whence dost tha hail’st? Er, if’n et’s ne’rude of me to ax.”

“Though, thinking on it, I did see a pair of red moons glowing up on yonder branch. And the screech of a felled rodent, with nary a snap of branch, or harsh thump of earth. So life turned on that critters horrid scream, and like, the ullots got some fresh spit up from mum.”​

Osytha laughs delightedly at that. “A smith in more ways than one, eh? Ah’d ne’kenned tha’rt a word-wright of such verse, an’ all. Consider missen tickled.”

Her eyes slip over to that tall, sky-lashed conifer, and she murmurs, “Twa red moons, tha saw’st…?

“I see t’mean a’ t’mean sees me,
Ghanga bless t’sailors oot on t’sea.
New mean, new mean, I hail thee,
This neet my true love for to see.
Not iv his best or worst array,
Bud iv his apparel for ivery day.
That I to-morrow may him ken
Frev amang all other men.
Eevein’ red an’ mornin’ gray:
Certain signs o’ a bonnie day.
Evenin’ gray an’ mornin’ red
Will send t’shepherd reet to bed.”​

… and then, that smiling sea-wrought gaze sweeps back to Syr Hector. “Twa red moons of t’even, for thissen alone. Happen muther owl were wishin’ thee bonnie fortune? Doubly so, for good measure.”

Osytha faces ahead, her gaze restored to watchfulness — scanning forest fringes, deceptively open fields, the curves about their path ahead; even wanderers upon the wing high above receive her careful study.

“Why’n Ah ax? Well… no real reason, Ah s’pose. Ah but found missen tryin’ to count all t’owl motifs ’pon thy person, an’ wondered if’n such a thing might be of interest to thee.” She spares another glance at Hector, or rather, to the embellishments on his kit. “They’re quite lovely,” Osytha remarks, before she looks away. “Did’st tha craftest them thissen? Ah’ve seen thee workin’ t’forge often enow.”
 
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"...Should the twa of us speak et, might be enow to send Syr Grenmerrie right barmy."​

A huff. and a curl of the lips he couldn't quite hide from himself. Warm as his cheeks felt, even underneath the shade of his kettle helm's wide steeled brim.

"Well then," he said, summarily. Laughed. "You've given me much to consider, Syr Osytha," he settled into his own skin, nose wrinkled as he forced his eyes away from Dusk knight. "Like, what inspires the state of becoming, barmy, Or'n what one should make of enow?" What feelings warmed across his visage, settled some as his breath swirled against the metal catch of his lowered bevor. "One thing is for certain though," he nod. "If'n tha speak true, then..." nose scrunched some. Wiggled it out. "T'would honor missin t'ave... thissen?" a pause as he thought behind steel bounce and rattle of his plated kit. "to speak et, thine sing song of the raven's clearing."

Lip pulled at the corner as he liked the picture her tale had painted in his mind. A glade governed by those dark lordlings of the wynds inf the wylds.

He pondered a moment, as the breeze blew by, and the birds sang beneath the half day sun.

"What of thissen, though? ... if'n et's ne'rude of me to ax."
​
"Where'n I hail from?" he quirked a brow. Blinked. Cleared his throat. Mulled it over. "No, I mean, its not rude in the slightest, simply, well," he gathered his tongue. "Not oft one asks about where'n the ground I sprouted from," the warmth bout his eyes turned wistful. Though their embers burned all the same. "I'm Order born," he confessed, and gave bow of his head to the memory. "To Syrs Hilda of Dawn, and Dantilion of Dusk, since claimed by their Oaths," a moment for him to think on it. Long since scabbed over, and silvered. The ache of it never quite left. Though much green and happy memory had since grown over those withered roots to him. Turned roots all their own.

Then she spoke of words, and how he wrought them. To which he blushed, and shook away. Muttering small words to make all he felt smaller. If only so that he might save some manner of grace. With chance, a piece of dignity. Whence came the poem, he but found himself caught amidst the rise and fall of each verse. Humor hidden there behind each turns of her phrases.

"Twa red moons of t'even, for thissen alone...wishin' thee bonnie fortune..." ​

So she set those eyes of morning gray seas upon their way. His own eyes stuck to her frame a long moment as they rode. "Might be," he found himself saying. He pulled his eyes back to their patrol. A hush fell over them. For but a beat before Syr Osytha gave word to her curiosity once more.

"...Quite lovely..."​

His face went ruddy once more. He shook it away. "But simple etchings, and push work with many a crack," he said with a laugh. How oft his hammering push had spread the steel too thin.

"Did'st that craftest them thissen? Ah've seen thee workin' t'forge often enow."
​
"Aye," he said with a bit of pride sure in his voice. "I hammered them out m'self, Syr Osytha, won't go denying that bit of truth,"

Syr Sando and Lefelen spoke on about the stratagem of Lance and Lightning. In where the points of the formation tore forward. Usually armored, and shielded. Though, no less at risk. Whilst those with skill at range, archers, weavers proficient in the distanced strike, let loose their works.

"Horrid business, really," Sando confessed.

"Aye, well, there is no glory to be found in the field of battle," Syr Lefelen confessed.

"Hark, what doth mine ears hear, Syrs?" Syr Lando said, in that tired drawl of his, that made all words that fell from his mouth feel like a chore. "No glory to be found upon the field of battle?" he called up from the rear.

Syr Grenmerrie barked a laugh. "Surely you jest, my Syrs," the Crown born knight spoke. "What of those songs in which our brave number fell horrid beast, or turn tide against wretched Lord's men, or raiding brigand?"

Syr sando clicked teeth. "The doin needs be done, but that not means there's glory in it, m'Syrs,"

Lefelen nod.

Hector rod on in silence. His eyes forward, unto the forest and fields about.

Twas the click of gear cranks and the harsh snap of latch machine let loose that sent bolt through the air. Pinged off Syr Rookheart's pauldron from the fortress side with a horrid scratch and twang.

A harsh whistle, like a falcon's cry loosed from Hectors mouth.

Ambush.
 
Ricochet zips past Osytha’s face so fast it’s just a blur, yet some base part of her recognises it in the simplest way; feels death cut through the air barely a foot ahead.

If Forbs had taken one more step…

A hair’s breadth of a second with her body clenched in terror — before that keening whistle sends the signals her brain refuses to; then epinephrine and relentless conditioning are moving that body for her.

“Shields up!” She cries, slinging her own into place as she manoeuvres Forbítter with her legs. Another bolt shrieks heavily by. “Arbalists, dextral!”

Two over three.

Her horse circles tight behind the column, in which time Osytha’s fingers first check that Guffers is still strapped down, then pluck her sallet free. “Heald,” she commands of that anxious brown gaze staring back at her, before ramming the helmet on.

Zip. Three over six.

There — sixty yards off, up an embankment with a clear view of the surrounds, sheltered in a craggy dolorite outcrop spewing treacherous scree downhill. Tackling that is a great way to break a horse’s leg. Bastards sure knew how to pick their spot, and waited until the file was well within effective range.

She charges.

It’s a stupid, stupid thing to do. Running head-on toward their position and slowed by the uphill slog? Those snipers couldn’t have wished for a better target.

So, Osytha counts. About as long as it takes to sight down one of those mail-punchers before she veers Forbítter off to the left. Two more shots in quick succession whiff past aback of her, goaded out by such a juicy target, and a third darts toward the convoy. Six over ten.

Followed by a telling lull.

“Six bows!” she calls to the Syrs, urging her horse to catch up.

Six shots over ten seconds and now the arbalists have to re-span. Which probably means, at most, six foes waiting for them in that stony bunker — since the length of this reprieve suggests there isn’t a support crew helping to reload. Possibly there’s as few as three, rotating out their spent weapon for a pre-spanned and ready one. She should get a feel for the exact number based on the rate of fire now that the opening volley has been spent.

Three to six… not all that many. It’s still suicide to charge their position on horseback, only becoming moreso as that gap becomes smaller. But these aren’t Knights of Anatheum; even at a half-dozen, that’s a suspiciously small unit. They’d been pacing their shots, too, until Osytha had messed up their rhythm. Do their attackers want to keep the Knights under pressure, keep them moving…?

A hand whips her visor up and she lets loose with a whistle of her own; high-pitched and somewhat hoarse, capped by clacking tongue. A snowy owl’s warning cries.

More on the path ahead — lying in wait?
 
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​

Screech and teeth born clacks pierced and snapped sound through the speeding thunder beat of Hector's charging roan. Her hooves loudest in his ears. Along with all the tearing of earth neath and afore him. His eyes wide on the hill as all the world rattled and shook with all their daring to meet their takers.

Six, she had called out. Six.

Hector's sword was already loosed. Held firm in the grip of his left hand. The old short thing, with its willowsteel blade, and its core of amberglass, sliced through the wind like a feather made to fly. Its edge caught the shroud like a bird's wing full upon a thermal's gale.

The bladewand lit up, as the dark rounds of Hector's eyes came traced with Flame's light. On the charge. He need only see it. The shape which would drive the blurring fury out. A blink between the rip of his mare's gallop, where in he could feel they flew.

"Weaver! Weaver!" came calls about as the rider's at the tip of the tilt closed fast.

Raise did the blade, on high above Syr Rookheart. Glimmered bright as all that dappled sunlight through the leaves so many seconds behind them. The air hissed. The blade steamed fore it flashed. Blinding white bloomed from the witchknight's blade with a heated pop that rattled teeth and bleered through ears.

The roan neighed sharp. And turned her head away too afeared to keep her line. Ground treacherous beneath her in the loose scree. Hector's sword still hot, he turns her with legs, twists in his saddle to keep his eyes on his dusker.

Those ambushers caught by the mesmer of shroud caught to weave turned blind. Some of them gave to panicked shouts. One and two broke from their cover behind the formation of painted pavise. No heraldry, save the muted pattern of hillside stones.

Six bows. With Four spearmen at the front. One, clever enough to turn from the weaver's blade, grabs up his speer and jams its head out toward the oncoming rider.

The rear four Riders fan wide. Syr lefelen and Sando at the center middle, while Grenmerrie and Lando guard the wings.

With yew wand, Syr Lefelen pinpoints the ground about the pair of pavise nearest to Osytha. The ground beneath them rattles and stirs. Turns loose as it slurries.
 
Foreboding, is that rippling gleam over Rookheart’s high blade. Heavy with potential. A few choice descriptions from the Sumu report rise up in Osytha’s mind, and she smartly snaps her visor down.

It’s no spot of sky-killin’, but the ghost of that flash still slips though visor slit and lidded eye. A pulsing line of un-colour veils Osytha’s sight, faintly, ’til it ebbs away.

Well, suppose that’s one way to solve us little arbalist problem, she considers. Happen being able to weave wouldn’t be so bad after all.

But that only removes one of the dangers they face.

Her fellows plough on ahead, slamming their horses uphill to close the gap before this window they’ve won starts to close. Which is forgetting—

“—Wait! Yon ground’s too unstable!” Ahyiid damn it all, for all her cry seems to do is bounce off her comrade’s backs unheeded. They only get further away as Osytha guides Forbítter on with greater care. “Slow, you fools, else—!”

She sees it happen when some scree shifts drastically underhoof of Syr Lando’s horse, and the beast goes down. Hears it, too, over the other thundering hooves. There’s something so terribly visceral to the sound of a hundred-stone animal’s leg giving out, and how heavy it hits the ground. But that’s nothing compared to the screaming. Osytha knows what that awful, relentless screaming means; cold horror seizes her chest as she realises the wretched thing has completely broken its leg.

And there’s Syr Lando pinned beneath, as this frenzied creature thrashes atop him. Crushing him into the jagged earth. There’s a dreadful desperation to behold in the man’s movements, and it’s little wonder. If Osytha doesn’t free him soon, he could die, and likely Syr Lando knows that. Likely he can feel exactly how it’s killing him.

Osytha is just wending her way over when she sees a tell-tale glint bobbing round the slope, and things go from bad to a whole fucking lot worse.

“Sinistral!” she roars, as five more soldiers rush toward the other Knights’ flank; seems that second ambush party she’d predicted lay ahead has broken from their hiding spot round the haugh, and come to reinforce their fellows. “Sinistral, you dogs! Halberdiers on your damned flank!”

Not good. Not good. There’s nothing like a halberd for unseating a rider from their horse.

Range — Osytha needs range. Unless she wants to charge up there like the others and join Syr Lando, which isn’t exactly her idea of a good time. At least she’s not under fire any more, so she uses the reprieve to stow her shield at her back and bring Forbítter to a brief stop while she strings her bow there in the saddle.

“Easy now,” she urges, awkwardly tilting and contorting around recurved limbs. The words are as much for her as for the whining bundle of nerves at the small of her back. “Easy does et boyo, good lad — there we go…”

Osytha rights herself. She controls Forbítter with her legs, continuing carefully on to Syr Lando, while her hand deftly draws and nocks an arrow. She trains on the halberdiers closing upon Syr Grenmerrie there, and as she feels her horse’s gait, times it… looses the shaft. The dart whistles up and away, but her fingers are drawing another bodkin-point out her quiver before she even sees if that first one hits.

It does, as a matter of fact. Osytha watches her target’s head snap sideways as the arrow lodges through their open bascinet, and the body immediately falls limp. One down — but they’ve almost reached the Knights’ formation. No way she can drop them all before they get into mêlée. Furthermore: they’ve taken note of the horse archer now as well, and seem none too pleased with her…
 
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Lando gasps. The steel of his plate the only thing that saved his bones entire from being beyond fractured. But the air is squeezed out of him like a bellows pump slow to give out the last of its breath. Wheezing all the more as the broken beast atop him thrashes and flails. He screams along with it. Grunts. Gasps horrid for air as the earth beneath him slips and sinks.

Clatter and scrape. Hector catches the spear head against the long plane of his kite shield. It rattles hard as it glances off the banded wood. He knocks it away, horse turning counter to the batted weapon to avoid the bite of its diamond head. Rides across and away from that threat.

The earth beneath the entrenched pavisé erupts in a jagged fist of terrafirma and casts a pelting spray of stones. The spearman is bone broken upon the shroudified dirt spike as two others near to him are sent through the air and crash hard against the rocky ground.

Three wounded of some ten.

Tucked behind shield, shards of earth plink off Hector's armor and board, so couched off the side of his saddle to cover his roan. His breath swirled behind his bevor, His eyes took in the moments there between pull of breath and beat of heart. Curses blur through the air with all the sounds of fire crackling in his blood. He was the closest to Syr Landonsera til Clemonde.

Sando and Lefelen wheel their steads about, slowing their charge as the pavisé scatter. The mounted Knights set their attention to the flankers, sprinting across the scree rich slope. Sando strings his shortbow. "Hold it now!" he cries out. "Round about their number!"

Grenmerrie hears not the command. She gives chase to the fleeing archers and their would be guards, armored horse and rider sure over the scree, slowed, but faster still than a man on foot. The dusk knight barks curses as her sword hacks down one man. Loops about to lop down at a second but trot beats away. Her horse tramples over a third under its ironshod hooves.

One man falls neath bloody spray.

Lefelen, with eyes a Wyld green, whispers to the tip of his wand, right hand splayed at its base, fingers a wild tangle of roots. His horse still upon the earth.

"Come rumble and roil, across the bloody toil, oh happy stone, who'd not but stayeth so still as mortals blood doth spill before ye,"

Leaves grow across his brow. Bark scales across patches of his ears.

"Stir now. Oh slumbering stone. Stir now! Oh honored earth!"

Lefelen shouts and whips his wand forth like a sword's point to the side of the hill. Sweeps his arm in lolling arch.

The hillside rumbles loose before them. Slides and crushes afore and across the charging pikemen.

Sando keeps his horse under him as it rears and kicks away from the loosed earth. Lets out a sharp whistle as hooves come back down and horse snorts hard. "Hec! Get on that rescue!" click clicks of the tongue set his mount to wheel back. Lefelen follows. Distance between them and the billhooks and crowsbeaks of the halberds.

Hector was already thumped to the ground. Rope pulled from saddle, tied round horse's midline quick. Moved about the downed creature. Tied it round. Pulled once, twice, to signal the roan with clicks of tongue.

The red girl huffed. Shook her hed. Pulled. Hector rounded about as the broken horse screamed. Using what legs still could to push itself up. If only halfway. If only enough for Hector to pull the Knight out from under their stead. Dragged him away from the horse. Toward his rouncey. Strides cleared. He set him down Slammed up his sallet's mask.

"Breath now, Lando," He looked to the horses. "Breath!" he called out as he stood, strode, and cut his horse free.

Lando gasped. Purple in the face. He gulped at the air. Neurons straining to remember basic function amidst all the green haze and pops of black in his eyes. Hector slammed back to him. Scooped, lifted. Hucked him onto the red roan at the front of his saddle. Set foot to stirup. Kicked over. Thumped down and turned.

Mimicked pidgeon song with fist held like trumpet to mouth.

Ready for retreat.
 
Rocks and pebbles cascade down by Forbítter’s hooves, unsteady ground made yet more fickle. It throws her aim off and the shot goes wide. Osytha swings herself out of the saddle and leaves a stinging trail of expletives through the air, pausing only long enough to bid her horse stay. Then, she hobbles the rest of the short distance to Syr Lando.

Hector’s there just ahead of her, rigging to heave in tandem with his roan. The downed beast is still thrashing, though, and it’s making the work more difficult, more dangerous for it. Osytha casts her bow aside and kneels to the poor creature’s head. His eyes are pain-addled, searching without seeing; unknowing of anything but the fear.

She grasps his head against her body firm as she can — bracing, without crushing.

“Hey now, my pet,” she lilts to the beast. “Hush, my Honeysuckle. Hush now my lad.”

Honeysuckle knows the voice. It’s a voice which often has a fresh carrot for him, and knows just where he likes to be scratched on his neck. It seems that voice has always been there. Back when everything else was bigger, and it was so scary when the Above turned dark and wet and loud… that voice would be right there, holding and soothing. That voice comes to bring fresh hay and water for Honeysuckle when he’s in the not-field, the small place with all the other horses, and the voice leaves his little part of it smelling nice. That voice is safe. That voice will help him. It will stop the Hurting.

Honeysuckle stills in Osytha’s grasp. Just a second, perhaps, but a second is all she needs.

“I am sorry, sweet boy,” she whispers, and drives her rondel in.

Her blade finds the gap where spine enters skull. It’s quick; just one last, weak little spasm, and then Honeysuckle is no more.

Toils, damn it all. This shouldn’t have been. But there’s no time to dwell on ‘shouldn’t’, only on what is.

Seems Rookheart has a handle on freeing Syr Landonsera. What they do next is going to be tricky, with six riders and five horses. Well… if someone else takes Forbs, she can slip out of her hauberk in seconds and outpace these soldiers. Forbítter will follow the other horses of his own accord, so it don’t even matter that whoever’s riding him won’t have much control. Tracking that lot down won’t be hard, and then they can figure out a plan once they’ve some breathing room.

But, to Osytha’s horror, she sees Syr Hector climb up into the saddle behind Syr Lando there in his rouncey.

What is the man thinking? Rounceys are sturdy, sure, but with two fully-armoured men riding double, and one of the men as big as Syr Rookheart? Forget how much more risky it makes this already-treacherous ground for the poor horse. They’re going to snap the beast’s spine before it even has a chance to break its leg. It’s a miracle the mare’s not trying to buck them off.

Is the bloody fool trying to kill our steeds?

“Stop!” she growls at him, taking her courser’s reins and following after them. “’S too much for thy beast! Put Syr Lando on Forbs — now, while there’s yet time, an’ afore tha cost’st us another horse! I can get free of these ’uns an’ find you all later!”
 
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Heat rose in him. Eyes still painted by the flame glowing midst the shade neath steel kettle and hind bevor's mask. A quiet inhale. Nose full of the iron stink of horse blood. "Mount your steed, Syr," he said cold. "'fore you cost us another Knight," he said without give. Legs urged the mare on. The roan headed with careful steps. "Shepherd's trail there, same way Ronja and I rode up," he tilt his head toward the path which wound away from their would be pursuers.

A sharp whistle from Sando. "Let's move, Syrs!" calm, for all the chaos. He and Lefelen were the most experienced. A pair of veterans to the field. Their eyes found those trails which snaked across the rocky hillside. Gave sure footing to their mounts, as the battle lulled a long and heavy moment after the initial shock and crash.

The scattered halbadiers clamored and shout over the landslide that had swallowed up two of them. The other three, gobsmacked. One dastard dragged a man out of the dirt by the legs like he pulled an onion from the ground.

Grenmerrie rode down towards her fellow knights, sword blood drenched. Grim smile across her face. A wild look in her eyes. "Bloody fucking bastards," she said, rattled. "Teach them to ambush us,"

From on high upon the hill, from whatever hole they had hidden in. A small contingent of the pavisé reform. The boss amongst their number, willed enough to ready two arbalest shots with the help of a windlass machine. They scrambled to firing position.

Hector paused, and turned toward the Dusk Knight. Eyes still glowing. He waited.
 
She wants to argue. No — Osytha wants to clobber the man right over his Toils-bedamned head, and then argue with whatever sorry mess is left of him once she’s done kicking his teeth in. But she can’t. Not the time nor the place to fight him on this. And, loathe as she is to admit it… she’s compelled to follow his direction. Were they up against a weaver, or Blighted foe, then Syr Osytha of Dusk would have the final say. But this is soldierin’, and that makes it a matter of Dawn.

“Think’st me blind?” She hauls herself back up onto Forbítter, and urges the horse to follow behind Rookheart. “Yon trod’s t’only reason I got Forbs up this far — an’ now et’s ’alf-buried in rubble. Go careful, syr.”

She twists in her saddle to check on the others’ status. Syrs Sando and Lefelen aren’t far behind, having kept fairly tight to formation. But there’s Syr Grenmerrie, only now changing tack having heard the signal to retreat. Recalled before she’s finished running down her quarry… and giving this squad’s snake the chance to rally what’s left of their forces.

So Osytha sees the first of the two arbalists marshalled up there raise a crossbow, trained on Grenmerrie’s retreating back. Woman’s about, what, forty yards? That’s point blank range. Fuck.

Her bow’s already up and taut. One more bodkin point set to target, body contorted in a Parthian shot. Forbítter moves steady, jostling to a familiar tempo, and she’s back in the rhythm. Feels the beat — and the space between it.

Her arrow catches the arbalist on the shoulder, and that ruins their aim somewhat. Syr Grenmerrie might not even notice the bolt whip behind her, for how far off the mark it flew. Osytha sees the other soldier point his arbalest to a more urgent target now, to her. He see she’s already trained another arrow on him in turn, and that’s enough to make the last of those crossbowmen’s number duck back behind his pavise.

She eases the bow to rest, though, woman keeps it nocked and her eyes set on the enemy behind them. The other dusker reaches them, eyes asparkle and voice heated with such ruin wrought.

“’Appen that’s so,” Osytha says in answer to Grenmerrie’s brussenness.

Teach them to field more soldiers against us next time, perhaps, is what she says to herself. Hope we haven’t just kicked the hornet’s nest. That’ll be fun on us way back.

The halberdiers give up their chase at this stage. There’s no cover from spell nor arrow for them out here, and no fire support left on their side, neither. The knights are simply out of their reach, so those four, dust-covered and tattered, opt instead to clamber back up the hill to regroup with their fellows.

No time for them to rest though, Osytha will bet. Those survivors have a report to make back with their garrison at the fort. And quite a pyre to get to building, too.

What a stupid fucking waste. A complete and utter waste of time, and of lives. As Osytha follows Syr Hector’s lead, she feels shackled by a rage she can’t quite shake off, and tastes nothing but bitterness.
 
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"Think'st me blind?"
​
Something in him eases as she hauls herself into the saddle. He turns the glowing ember of his eyes away. "Blind as an owl is deaf, maybe," he says in the tense quiet that falls between them. Turns Ronja about, and sets her on the trail. He is attuned to the two beat trot that works through the roan's coil. Feels the strain of her pulse, and the labor of her breath. Even the heat of her life's furnace blazing the more for all the toil she endures. There is a sympathetic bond forged between them, wrought through Flame's Pursuit.

"Yon trod’s t’only reason I got Forbs up this far...Go careful, Syr."​

"We go as the needs must," he assures within the next beat. Their number on the move with a steady trot.

Grenmerrie's words fall upon them. Her iron soaked joy, at odds with the others.

Sando says nothing. Bow strung, and eyes scanning their rear, and fore. Focusing more on the field afore, as Osytha's keen to snipe back their flank.

Lefelen grumbles. "Your actions were most unbecoming of our Sanctum, Syr Marharrow," he cuts.

"Unbecoming?!" Grenmerrie bites back. "I cut down our enemy!"

Osytha's bowstring twangs against the air. Something far off snaps and hisses against the earth.

“’Appen that’s so,”
​
"Appen that's so! Four currs to your what? Single feather?" she balks. Sounds almost a child keeping score of a game.

Landonsera makes some pitiful sound. And his Dusk Knight's face blanches. Sense enough to turn away.

Hector rides on in silence. Careful as they go. For Landonsera's sake, as much as Ronja's.

Syr Sando rides scout ahead of the party as they near woodlands and all its cover. Syr Lefelen wields the shroud to cover their tracks in patches here, and lengths there. Its small, simple spellcraft. But it makes it harder for would be pursuers to follow, all whilst the periodic mimicries of Stellar Jays, Rooks, and Ravens signal the all clear, and follow me hear.

They arrive at a clearing in the underbrush. Heavy rooted oldgrowth acts like ancient guards about them, whilst the soil is deep with life, and dark with all its promise. To the weavers, the well of shroud is deep, should they need it. Sando's already dismounted. The makings of a camp begun. One that can be torn down or left behind easy enough, should the need arise.

Hector dismounts. Begins to work Syr Lando down as careful as he can. Eyes back to their natural brown. Limbs leading, breath short. He works through it. Not for the first time.
 
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