Oliver

Oliver

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Dusk loomed, all peach and purple and a vibrant red, the tops of trees aflame with a sliver of fleeing light. It’d grow darker rapidly from here, the russet nature losing the rest of its colour alongside the warmth of day. A chill already crawled in the shadowed bends of the road, much too sudden. But it served well to keep a man alive and keen through the hours when most had already tucked themselves away to slumber.

The company had fallen quieter a while ago, talking and laughing amongst each other in a more hushed tone, audibly aware of what drew nigh. Though a party as them, armed and armoured on none too shabby horses, was bound to catch attention in parts as this, it didn’t do to have it be in excess. Despite the jokes and some borderline arrogant confidence in their midst, he remained of the mind that it served none to assume they were dealing with idiots. Let alone deaf and blind ones.

Mercenaries, while debatable case-by-case in all other aspects, weren’t known for being unable to defend themselves. How himself and his kin had equipped themselves perfectly reflected the fact, though it had been done with some restraint in order to travel relatively light to this distance. The bumfuck of nowhere — would anyone even hear the living and the dying out here?

The hoofbeats sounded so loud in the cooling eve, calls of nightbirds crisp as they reached from the branches hanging overhead. Their ultimate manner of approach had yet remained undecided; whether to hitch horses somewhere out here and go the rest of the narrowing path on foot, or ride on more openly into the unknown. Negotiation had thus far with this adversary been a bust, but thus far whomever had conducted it with them hadn’t had half as much metal upon them.

There was no counting out the possibility. He knew at least one amongst their number who was itching to dispatch every last one of the ‘violent fools’ ahead, Syr Leinas having said as much, but as for the rest— Glancing past his shoulder, he made a point to ignore every questioning stare, his look mooring on Syr Faramund with purpose. With a small gesture, a flick of the hand, he urged the man over.

Only once they rode comfortably abreast, would he speak in a low tone betwixt just the two of them, breaking his own uncharacteristically long silence.

“ I can think of a total of two ways we can go about this from here. I’ll not make it a vote, but— “ Suppose I trust you, in particular. “ How would you prefer it? “

He stared into the surrounding woodland, then sidelong at the man.

“ You’ve done what I’ve failed to and talked to the rest. What approach, do you figure, bodes better? The road and the cold has a way of— “ A shrug, his face a grave mask.

“ Inflicting a sort of jitter into every fiber. Leads to impatience. “

And bad choices.
 
'And impatience leads to ruin. Worry not, brother. Syr Lionel is many things, but a fool? Hardly.' Staring ahead, Syr Faramund studied the brother-Anathaeum. Having himself been partnered with Syr Breklinn, the dawnling could not claim to possess the same qualms the ever-personable Oliver did. Indeed, he quite clearly enjoyed the company of his dusker, her laughter a boon during the cold and dreary nights the band now found themselves suffering through.

With winter just around the corner, they could all do with a little light in their lives. Something to guide them, when the nights grew dark, the winds bitter.

'As to your question, I s'pose either would work, assumin' fate favours us and doesn't leave us traipsing around with our trews down 'round our ankles.' Glancing to the knight riding alongside him, he continued, stating; 'A softer approach would serve us better, methinks. On foot, through the trees, hoods up and heads down.' The going would be tougher, slower than if they charged headlong into the fray, blades bared, weapons raised in anger. It was what Leinas advised- wanted, even.

A fool's errand, that. Sure to see them all dead before their time. Faramund had other plans.

'We have a rough estimate of their number, but not their ability. Who's to say what surprises they have in store for us. Nothin' good, I'd wager.' Shifting in his saddle, the ranger shrugged, looked away. Whatever happened, they would have their answer soon.​

@Oliver
 
Fate. A smile rippled about his face, at both the absurdity of their collective luck of late and just how calmly Syr Faramund went about the business ahead. Nothing but the opinion he’d asked for, gods-honest and at ease. Or at least it felt that way, assuring some part of him he hadn’t known needed assuring as such. Visibly less tense for it, he bobbed his head with acknowledgement, mouth pressing with thought.

“ Safer to assume equal ability, at the very least. Doesn’t hurt to have humility, if only so we might remain careful. “ He responded, tentatively decisive as he narrowed his look at the distance.

“ Circumstances have their sway, sometimes enough to overrule whatever a single man can do, by force or skill. As for surprises, I shan’t speculate — but perhaps at least a part of them be rendered lesser in effect, if not nil, when we surprise them first. “ Hazarding it against his better judgement, he spoke with a tad more confidence and a wider smile, reaching decision. There was naught to be had against Syr Faramund’s advice — it was objectively speaking sensible and to his own regret he had to admit the man had been afield more than him as of late. Lazies up the judgement.

“ The path cutting off and uphill to the old homestead is some yards after that upcoming bend in the road — “ He gestured ahead, wherein great bushy evergreens blocked out the majority of what lie beyond. “ But the hike up isn’t so short as to warrant a lookout all the way out here, I don’t think. We’ll keep our eyes open, of course, but it should be safe to dismount there. “

Stash the things we don’t need and embark onwards, as a group but loosely so. Should have just a bit of light left, picking our way through the trees and the rustling undergrowth.

“ I’ll relay this to the rest once we’ve stopped. See if we can figure out the bones of a plan, collective like, when we’ve a better sense of the terrain ahead. “

Don’t think too far. Leave nuance to the architects and artists.
 
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'Aye.' No plan survived contact with the enemy, but it was always a good idea to have something in place to fall back on. 'I can always take a mosey on ahead, should the need arise.' Scouting was his business, and had been for as long as he could remember. Not that my memories can be trusted, he mused darkly, glancing around at the russets and golds, for want of something to do rather than any general interest in the larger world, or the people in it.

Falling into an uneasy silence, Faramund tried to keep his inner thoughts from unravelling. For all his shortcomings, the others at least trusted him enough to know he would be there when they needed him.

Following on behind the duskers, the dawnlings passed the time in companionable quiet. Syr Oliver had never been much of a talker, and despite his own penchant for conversation, Faramund didn't much feel like exercising his vocal cords. Not right now, anyway. 'Somethin' amiss?' Blinking, the Sworn awoke from the stupor he found himself in, a familiar voice drawing him back to the moment at hand. 'Hmm? Y'say something?'

Reining in at the side of the road, Syr Breklinn paused long enough to scrutinize the dawnling thoroughly. Her eyes, a deep green colour, as beautiful as the hidden glades surrounding their monastery home, narrowed thoughtfully. 'You're being awfully quiet,' she pointed out, the beard of her polearm hovering in the air over her shoulder, like an executioner's axe poised for the cleaving. 'Everything okay?'

Shooting a brief glance toward Oliver, Faramund spurred his horse forward, between the flanking duskers.

''Course,' he replied, giving her his winning smile. 'Never been better.'​
 
He watched the man go, a knowing smile about him as words all too familiar be exchanged. A friend’s worry and a response that wasn’t any unlike ones he’d given himself in the past. Which is it this time— The truth, or deflection?

A strange serenity in his heart, he gave the horse a bit of his heels and seized lead of their small procession, wordless as he directed them to first lower their voices and then . There they’d hitch their horses, adequately covered by the woodland that had seen neither axe or forager for some time, by the way many trees hugged each other close and any which fallen branched had gone ungathered. Parts untreaded, unusually so, as any forest in the country hardly went untouched.

Suppose it was a more well-known story, then, that little rumour of hauntings and cursed beastmen. A cover exploited by the mercenaries-turned-bandit or perhaps made up by their regular presence altogether? His was the intimate knowing of all manner of things peasants will tell amongst each other, if just for protection. To what end was it meant this time, was no predicting.

Bowing his head to put on his helm, he dispersed the matter out of his mind. It’d serve the lot of them better to keep an eye on the untidy ground for now, lest the noise of their approach be heard from a mile off.

“ Hear. “ He started on his way to the rest, tone determinate if low in the eerie quiet of the resting wood. “ We’re losing light quick, so we’ll need close the remaining distance briskly, before our arses be snared in the sack-dark of these woods. “ For effect, he glanced about past the upturned visor of his sallet, one hand steadying the hammer that rested in a loop on his belt. He’d not bring a sword this time — a dagger for a blade would have to do.

“ But we’ll do so quiet as we can and in loose formation, for the plan is to keep an advantage of surprise. In interest of which I’ve elected Syr Faramund to take vanguard— “ He met eyes with the man, some appreciation in it for how he would’ve so obliged. “ As he is the most capable ranger. You’ll go with Syr Breklinn, unless you’d rather have someone else with you. Going alone, however, is out of question. “

He tried to smile, half apology half smug confidence that parties hardly needed shuffling. There would be no objection, surely.

“ That goes for all of you. We are but eight out here, against equally as many if not more, and looking out for one another is paramount. “ He looked at each in turn, making sure to not linger on anyone in particular for too long, as enforcement of the rule was not meant as a personal affront. Despite everyone’s plentiful experience, it never hurt to say regardless.

“ Syr Lionel, with me. “ They exchanged nods. “ Syrs Angre and Kärki, together. Hoffren — Leinas. “ Was there enthusiasm betwixt the latter two, it was well masked.

No matter. He looked to Faramund once more, all warm assurance.

“ At your heel, Syr. “
 
'And here I was hoping for some peace and quiet.' There was a smattering of laughter as Faramund flashed a quick grin in response to the Pursuant's words. A fist collided with his arm, drawing a sharp intake of breath from the dawnling. 'Ass!' Smiling, Syr Breklinn laid a hand upon the shortsword at her hip, the other holding fast to the halberd she could so often be seen carrying, even in the safe confines of Astenvale. More pairings followed.

Oliver and Lionel, Angre and Kärki, Hoffren and the ever-irritable Leinas.

It would do.

'Right, then. Let's be about it.' Before departing, Faramund instructed his fellows to see to their arms and armour. Dressing down, dirtying up, they completed the task with little griping to be had. 'Get rid of the brooch, and leave your cloak behind,' he instructed Syr Leinas, singling the man out. 'Why?' Hands working at the straps of his saddlebags, the knight didn't even bother to look at Faramund as he spoke. Rude bastard.

'You know why,' Faramund replied, keeping his cool. 'Bit o' sunlight and it'll light up like a beacon. As for the cloak, you'll snag every branch from here to home, if you ain't careful.' Leinas snorted. 'Oh? Really?'

'Just do it, Leinas,' said Angre, bringing his weight to bear on the smaller dusker. A man of few words, the orkin was a finger's-breadth taller than Faramund, but just as broad in the shoulders. 'No-one else is kicking up a fuss. Why are you?' Looking around, his eyes narrowed, Syr Leinas was forced to concede the point, the faces of his brethren staring back at him too much for the knight to handle.

'Very well,' he grumbled, doing as bid, albeit reluctantly. 'If needs must.'

Satisfied, and smiling inside, Faramund gave the group one last look over before heading deeper into the woods off to the side of the road. 'I suggest we stick to finger-code from now on,' he whispered in a quiet aside to Syr Breklinn as she closed in to cover his right flank. 'Much as I enjoy the sound of my own voice, noise travels far out here.' And his was louder than most. 'We know,' she signed back, smiling as she flipped down her nasal helm's nose guard.

'Now, lead on, big man.'
 
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Choices were certainly being made, stirring up discord not minutes into final preparations. Listening to the discord some generous couple steps away, he restrained himself to merely observe it sidelong, the general air of weary disapproval about him. Kaarle had his temper and the same amount of disrespect reserved for each and every one, that was rather correct, but as for the others—

So much for softer approach, or was that reserved only to one's actual enemies. Their junior sworn, Syr Kärki, had assumed both confusion and concern upon herself at the flare up, standing stiff as a fence post at the edge of the group. Not bearing to look at it, he drew a breath and turned his shoulder at the lot, staring idly into the way ahead.

Though not a word left the man, he could feel Syr Hoffren’s eye on him. He’d conveniently forgotten he had been right there all along, standing a yard and a half away.

“ I’m sorry. “ He started, not yet daring to look at him.
“ What for? “ There was an amused ring to the response, though it was asked genuinely.
“ I know you’ve rammed heads. “
“ He’s done that with most people. “

Suppose he has. Oliver took a seconds’ breath for himself, until rotating on heel to face Syr Hoffren proper.

“ You’ve more patience than anyone else I know. “
“ That why I’ve been appointed leash-bearer? “
“ Does it offend you? “
“ No. I’d rather it be that, than the fact I’m old and slow. Tie a millstone to a hound— “
“ I resent such a notion. You’re more a— “ Pausing, Oliver traced the sight of Syr Faramund finally taking leave with Syr Breklinn in tow, idle acknowledgement bobbing his head once over.
“ Suppose a type of anchor. Neither nature nor rank affords me such steady authority. “
“ You know— “ Syr Hoffren cocked his head to meet eyes, tapping a hand on the hilt of his sword. “ You talking to me in this manner has me thinking am about to perish. Have you knowledge of something I don’t, friend? “
“ No. “
“ Do you swear it? “
“ I do. “
“ Then let us be away. Afore Syrs Faramund and Breklinn take on those bandits by themselves. “

With that they shook on it, wrist to wrist, and finally parted. Paired up in relative accord, though simmering, the remainder took to the forward party’s wake at a settled distance from each other, if in close mimicry to Syr Faramund’s path. The first encountered trou de loup served to convince everyone of the sensibility of the plan, as well offer some explanation as to the state of the forest, but this understanding was exchanged only in looks. Talking had ceased and remained so even as night begun pulling its cloak over them, flicker of firelight becoming visible betwixt the trees. The lack of encounter with a patrolling watch was unexpected and first a little unsettling, but on second thought not terribly peculiar. Many a novel had been written on the hubris of men, as well as the effectiveness of a myriad of traps and fortifications.

Though the knights had cleared the forest without incident, its presence loomed at their backs a touch threatening. So many ways to die, biding their time. He hadn’t yet decided if the same applied to where they were headed, as in it’s presentation it was as secretive as the woodland.

On the clearing was but a grass field and a collection of adjacent buildings, ones that formed a big rectangular yard in their midst in traditional farmhouse fashion, though it had a look of rundown wealth to it. That was in the painted details and embellishments, motifed woodwork and decorative hinges on the doors and shutters. Many of them were closed, letting out but litte light from indoors and even less sound, though in the yard a great fire yet burned. Some grace in this moonless night.

His appraising stare drifted to Syr Faramund, first in search of him and then his opinion. Could it be that they’d caught all of them completely unawares, extinguished for the night in whichever way? Not even a watch?

Now that, was unlikely.

Motioning for Syr Lionel to keep post, Oliver stowed his helm underarm and picked his way to the ranger at the very edge of the thicket.

“ Terribly quiet. “ He remarked, whispering beneath his palm. “ Any sign of a watch? “
 
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'None. Hide nor hair.' His voice little more than a whisper, Faramund studied the farmhouse as Oliver settled in his periphery. He had applied dirt to his forehead, brow, nose and eyes in preparation for a closer look. Breklinn had taken his bascinet into her safekeeping. Upon seeing the Pursuant approach, she tried passing it back. The dawnling shook his head.

'Permission to check the outbuildings before we move in?'

Slowly, he swept his gaze across the darkened windows and the archway leading into the farmstead's main yard. There had been a wooden gate there, once. Someone -perhaps multiple someones- had taken an axe to it, forcing entry.

Within the main building, a fire glimmered, smoke pluming from a chimney flute sticking up out of the slate rooftop. Quiet as the grave, thought Faramund, eyes and ears peeled. Only the rustling of leaves and the hushed breathing of his comrades from where they squatted amongst the trees spoiled the otherwise peaceful scene.

Well, that and the body strewn in the grass not a dozen feet from the farmhouse.

'Before you caught up, I did manage to take a quick look around the side, where the ground opens up some.' Nodding, he gestured towards where the road ended in a gently rolling slope leading down to another copse of trees.

Horses, at least a dozen, slept in the open field twixt building and bough. Faramund had half-expected to find a guard or two posted there, but a thorough search had proven him wrong. Much to his confusion.

'You should also know there are more animal tracks leading into the yard itself. Those're stables, I think.' Another nod. 'The hoofprints are fresh,' Breklinn chimed in, corroborating his findings. 'I checked myself. Half a day old, maybe a bit older,' she shrugged. After a moment's pause, she asked the question they had all been thinking. 'What're your orders?'

With a grim look, Faramund turned back to Oliver.
 
His brow creased in a frown, look tracing the yard as Syr Faramund relied his observations. All it managed to do was deepen his expression, a mix of disbelief and scrutiny upon him as he accepted the lot in a nod. A body, no guard, quite the number of horses.

And a clear desire to move forth to investigate. Bravery or— The notion drew him to meet eyes with the ranger, regarding him with the scrutiny reserved for men whose deeds were well-known, though personally thus far unwitnessed. Not so much distrust as consideration, the sight awaiting ahead nothing short of uncanny. Were it that they’re all just biding their time, waiting for anyone to show themselves in the open. The unsuspecting prey come out of the woods, at long last.

“ Your experience grants you clearance to move ahead from here as you see fit. Checking the outbuildings is only sensible, let’s us put them out of our minds. “ Close around the mark like a noose.

“ I’ll instruct the others to spread out a little, to help out. One will stay here to keep an eye from a distance. The moment you see or hear anyone, do signal for it. “ Pausing, his look sought the rest of their company, catching all of them watching. This was it then, wasn’t it — relinquish power. Or whatever illusion of it had survived thus far, the predictability of the next step, the path as far as one could see it.

And even then—

“ Tread quiet and careful, until you no longer can. Anyone taking a sword to you be disposed of, lest they yield. Do not give chase for whoever makes a break for the woods. “ This much was obvious, wasn’t it? They weren’t here to outright stage a massacre, by his estimate, but taking who they were dealing with hesitation alone could see any which one killed. The company hidden away in this farmhouse was far from innocent and merciful.

The Lord will certainly execute the remainder for banditry either way—

“ Luck with you. And, before you go-- “ Shifting, he landed a glance at the grassborne body about the yard, indicating it with a jerk of his head.

“ Had you opportunity to confirm whether whoever lay there is truly dead? “
 
Quiet and careful, right. Stifling an enigmatic smile, Faramund let the Pursuant's words lead him back to the body lying out in the open. 'Not yet,' he confessed, sensing Oliver's anxiety and doing his best to dispel it. 'Mind you, if the fellow is pretending, he's doing an awfully good job.' Scratching his beard, the knight shrugged. Corpse or not, he would be going in.

'I'll be down the way if you need me.' Tapping him on the shoulder, Syr Breklinn gestured to where the road disappeared into the trees. She still had his helmet nestled in the crook of her left arm. 'Watch yourself,' she warned, subtle concern deepening her otherwise dulcet tones. 'That thick skull o' yours won't stop an arrow, let alone a blade.'

'Do you want to bet?'

Snorting softly, the dusker shook her head. 'No, I bloody don't.' Giving the dawnling one last, meaningful look, she turned away. Twigs and leaf litter crunched underfoot as she crept away. Though he doubted anyone in the farmhouse had heard, the noise still made him cringe. More movement out of the corner of his eye made him turn back to Oliver. 'Amateurs,' he huffed, flashing his fellow a wry smile.

Leaving the cover of the woods behind, Faramund ghosted towards the farmhouse, a dark figure in wool and mail.

Grass swished lightly against his boots as he passed the body by. A quick glance revealed a head wound severe enough to leave a man facedown in the dirt. It was the kind someone suffered when running from mounted pursuers.

Slipping silently into the shadows flanking the sundered gate, Faramund waited a few moments, half-expecting to hear a cry of alarm or the snap of a crossbow discharging its lethal quarrel. When neither came, he smiled, signalled back towards the treeline.

He couldn't see the others but he assumed they could see him. Or at least some of them could.

Pausing at the corner leading into the yard, he chanced one final glance back at the trees before making his way inside.
 
An assurance, a bit of banter and a smile yet, before it came to parting. The ease at which they went, knights two, left an air of calm to the edge of the wood wherein the rest remained a moment longer, watching. Now that all of it was properly in motion, given up to fate, he felt tension bleed out from his frame.

The keen eye of Syr Lionel would be left behind. He’d been half considering Syr Kärki for the post, as she’s proven a competent lookout in missions past, but the anxious look about her face persuaded him against it. The dark, the quiet, the pressure of the unknown? It wasn’t the time to debate it, so he allowed her stay teamed up with Syr Angre instead, side by side with that steadying presence.

Syrs Leinas and Hoffren wouldn’t speak a word to one another, mere looks and expressions communicating thought betwixt, but that was how he had to assume they preferred it. Being more experienced, they’d keep up the rear in their advance. Himself was going alone, directly to Syr Faramund’s wake.

The due signal was spied, delivered on to his haunt by the wave of a gauntleted hand. He held onto his darkstained helm, steadying it about his head as he left he brush behind, advancing to the gate in a slosh of grass and wet leaves. Despite his fellow knight having disappeared beyond it a generous moment prior, there was no sound but that of the large fire, the crackle and pop of burning that had the grand potential to drown out so much. Advantage and hindrance.

A long shadow sprouted off his heels as he rounded the tall gatepost, making a quick turn therein to have his back to the wall, hunched low. Though a cursory glance found the yard empty, the bonfire left very little spots to hide in. There was equally as many windows shuttered as not, but in none flickered any which meager indoor light. The doors of the buildings were closed, save for one across the yard that hung ajar, if almost imperceptibly so. That sliver of darkness had the effortless look of something completely innocent, but he’d not trust it. His eye fell upon Syr Faramund as he pointed it out, if not in urging.

They'd not disrupt the plan of clearing the buildings in order for mere one suspicious thing, but it was a matter to be wary about.

A night bird called somewhere in the woods, distant. Holding his breath, he could just about hear the approach of steps from wherein himself had just come, as per instruction. Adjusting in place, he peered past the slanted shutters at his shoulder, only to find darkness within. He strayed on a couple steps to approach the door.

In the room beyond it, something tumbled.
 
There were three more bodies in the yard; two men and one young boy. All had suffered the same fate as the man lying beyond the gateway, but these ones at least possessed weapons of a sort. A pitchfork and an axe, and a sword that looked like it had spent too many years rusting away above a mantelpiece.

Stepping over their prone forms, Faramund tried to ignore the defensive wounds covering the boy's hands and arms. The sight made him angry, and anger made him reckless.

They died hard, he realised, overwhelmed and butchered before they could make a difference. The door leading into the farm residence had been broken down. The room beyond was too dark for Faramund to get a good reading, the bonfire at his back throwing his silhouette high up the whitewashed walls. It preceded him up the steps, disappearing into the gloom. Resting his sabre against his shoulder, he reached out with his left hand to ease what was left of the door open.

Two figures cowered beyond, their hands bound behind their backs, dresses torn and dirtied by maltreatment. The gags in their mouths stopped them from crying out, though the fear in their eyes was enough to warn Faramund of what lay just beyond the threshold.

Unable to glance over his shoulder at Oliver, the dawnling gestured for the Pursuant to summon the others.

Climbing the steps, he met the door with his boot as it swung back towards him. The man standing in the shadows barely had time to voice his surprise before it hit him full in the face. 'You idiot!' Appearing from the opposite side, the mercenary leader swung his mace at Faramund's unprotected head.

Ducking, the knight riposted, striking from the wrist. His blade met the snout of the mercenary's helmet, scarring the metal and forcing a snarl from his opponent's lips. 'Alright! You wanna play, cunt?!' Bulling forwards, he forced Faramund back out into the yard.

'What're you all waiting for?!' He shouted towards outbuildings. 'Now, lads, now!'

With an almighty roar, the mercenaries sprang from their hiding places, the barn doors opposite swinging open to disgorge six, seven figures in armour, wielding polearms and blades. Outside, those who had been hidden amongst the horses stood, a few vaulting onto the backs of their steeds, spurring towards the trees and farmhouse.

@Oliver
 
He turned on heel for signal, discreetlike, when the silence broke into a godless racket in one fell swoop. His heart jumped, well felt in his chest as he turned to attention, first in surprise and then outrage. Inside, metal rung, clashing. He stuck two fingers to the edges of his mouth and blew a shrill whistle into the night air.

As Syr Faramund came stumbling back out through the door, with a man on heel who shouted orders, Oliver welcomed the latter to the yard with a kick in the shin. The warhammer followed, going for the mercenary’s head that he’d been smart enough to protect with a bascinet. It rung a dull clang, like a stuffed church bell. The man roared, stumbling to get up. He swung again.

Outside the gate was a yell. The rest must’ve ambushed whoever had broken for the woods. Mere seconds later, Syrs Angre and Kärki appeared through the gate and into the fray.
 
The term "clusterfuck" came to Faramund's mind as Oliver hit the leader a second time. The dull clang of metal on metal filled the yard, like a blacksmith's hammer striking the anvil. Painfully sharp, it did little to cover the cries of the mercenaries coming to kill them. Six, there were. Not the seven Faramund had originally thought.

Maybe he was losing his touch.

Lifting the edge of the leader's mail collar with the point of his sabre, the dawnling pressed up and away, slicing the man's throat with one practised motion. Dazed as he was from Oliver's pounding, the "leader" barely had it in him to resist.

The other mercenary, the one whose encounter with the door had left him bloody-nosed, was another matter.

Movement in his periphery had Faramund stepping back, animal instinct helping him to avoid the sweep of an axe aimed at his head. Another followed. Firelight caught the killing edge, freezing the moment in time. 'Bastards!' Faramund saw the mercenary yell, a hint of a goatee, there, twixt jumping shadows. 'I'll gut you! Both of you!'

'You'll try,' replied Faramund, catching the weapon's haft with his blade in the vain hope he might cleave through. His gaze flitted to Oliver. 'I've got this prick. Go help Kärki-... and Angre!'

@Oliver
 
What a fucking stealth mission.

He drew a breath as the man with his dented helm scurried along the ground, only to be halted permanently by Syr Faramund’s saber. First blood — and how fast did come from a neck, leaving the man gargling underfoot. He could only hear it past the yells and the next devil who ejected himself from the house, axe in hand. He’d turned to meet him, hammer aloft, but Faramund was faster.

“ Don’t you fucking order me! And you better have him— “ He yelled at the man, already turning on heel to leave him with his prey. “ Or I’ll come wherever it is you go in death and beat your arse. “

In the next instant, he was back at the gate. Syr Kärki gave a sheer yell to will more power to her swordarm, but she’d always been faster instead of stronger. Don’t meet the swing— The mercenary’s polearm was struck aside, but only just. Teeth grit, Oliver pummeled into the man sideways on the sly, staggering him from the next sweep. The pointier end of the hammer went for the man’s neck as the younger knight took her opportunity to stab at an unarmed leg.

“ Oliver! “ It was Syr Hoffren, running past with poleaxe on shoulder. “ Horses! “

Something was indeed coming from the fields. Louder.

" Clear the gate! "

Syr Leinas would do no such thing. He'd slowed down from Syr Hoffren's wake, remaining for the riders that'd come for their brethren's rescue. Squarely before the gate, as if guarding it. He breathed fire into the fuses of two little clay spheres and pitched them at whomever dared come through.
 
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