Marianne Delacroix

It came rather surprisingly, a massive tree having been lit aflame and somehow sent crashing upon the camp to divide all within and serve as a major distraction. Forcing about an immediate change in plans. When it came down, Marianne had halted in her tracks and raised her arms in front of herself to shield herself from the flaming, charred splintered bits of bark and wood. After the debris had settled, she lowered them and looked about.

"What in the Goddess Reon's name had the strength to topple such a thing?"
She wondered as she stood there, looking on with sorrow from the unfortunate souls that were caught underneath the massive tree.
At least their deaths were quick.
To her, it seemed that both sides were equally stunned and thrown into sudden disarray by the tree's tumultuous appearance.
"We must keep our heads with us. Continue with the mission, adapt accordingly." Marianne told herself, the battle having died down temporarily.
But then the thought struck her, where were the other Iron Roses?
Were they okay?
Frantically, she looked all around her when she caught sight of Sir Garrett, Dame Sult, and the terrifying doctor Teller advancing up a hill in the distance. Navigating the gargantuan tree in their own fashion. But, why? Where were they heading to? Were they abandoning the mission? No, there had to be some other-

And then she saw them.

Captain Fanilly, somehow separated from the rest of their allied forces and faced against a man who stood as massive as even Sir Garrett, if not larger. Upon instinct, Marianne took a step toward their direction. Desiring nothing more but to rush to the Captain's aide. But, as she heard a familiar voice call out her name ever so faintly, she stopped and turned about to see Sir Tiral moving toward her. As he came closer and his voice more easily heard, she absorbed his words and thought to herself. Sir Tiral was right. No matter how much she desperately wanted to, she still had her orders. After all, what would Sir Eadwig do? Against her own fleeting wishes, she made her decision and set it in stone. The Iron Roses were more than capable, she would come to their aide later. She just prayed they would all come out of this alive.

Nodding, she shouted her response back to Sir Tiral.
"Aye, it's agreed! We'll regroup whatever forces remain on our side to route the remaining bandits!"
Looking around, she could see many of them had already been slaughtered. Others starting to flee, being corralled by allied cavalry towards Sir Eadwig's forces which lay in wait for them. Few remained, still foolhardy enough to believe that they stood a chance at victory against the Iron Roses. Turning to her men, she issued her orders to them. "Cavalry! Nothing has changed! Route as many of the fleeing bandits towards Sir Eadwig as originally planned. Once out of the camp and into Sir Bernhard's clutches, circle back around to regroup with our forces here at the fallen tree! We will not allow a single bandit to rally and interfere with our allies on the other side!" To which her men replied with spirited enthusiasm. Her cavalry riding off to do as told and her pikemen coming to her side.

Walking closer to Sir Tiral, she continued.
"We must make haste, the sooner we clear the bandit camp, the sooner we can aid Captain Fanilly and the others!"
Given to the rigors of combat, her attire was dirtied. No longer donning pure and clean white armor, a bruise on the side of her cheek and a thin trail of blood had trickled out from the side of her lips from when she was struck.
Turning back to her men, whose numbers increased as knights, squires, and others were separated from their original platoons joined them.
"Do not let a soul pass over the fallen tree to assault our allies from behind!"
Slashing at the empty air, Marianne broke out in her sprint. Resuming her work, slicing a clear swath of bodies as she continued to gracefully 'dance' between foes.

Ian had scrambled to throw his crossbow on his back and grab his shields from the ground after Fanilly's sudden take off. He sprinted after her, she was capable of handling herself of course and handle the crossbowmen she was after, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to fight by her side. though he had gotten there to late, or perhaps to early, as a large flaming tree came down and he wasn't able to get out of the way.

He'd leapt back to try and avoid being crushed but it was the instinctive raising of a shield that did him in. When the tree landed on the shield it slammed to the ground, taking him with it, pinning him and crushing his arm. He cried out as it happened, his other arm almost getting wrenched as his other shield caught on the ground as he fell. He whimpered and coughed for a moment as he got his breath back, almost panicking when he realized how close to the flames he was, and tried to wriggle his arm out from under the shield.

When he got himself free he dragged himself back to lean against some not-burning pieces of what the bandits were formerly using as fortifications. He took the crossbow off his back and threw it down next to him, he then started to feel his arm and cried out again when he shifted it wrong and realized that at least one bone had fractured. He broken bones before, it would heal, for now though he set to make a quick makeshift sling for his arm.

Before he could finish a bandit had set upon him, Ian barely got his arm up in time to stop a dagger from entering his chest. The bandit had started to press down making it a contest of Ian's strength against the bandit's weight. Somewhere along Ian's hood shook off and his ears exposed, which were targeted by the bandit who attempted to bite them. He barely managed to flick his ear out of the way and the bandit's lunge created an opening for him pull his arm back and throw a bunch, stunning the bandit long enough for Ian to kick him off and pick up his crossbow. Taking quick aim he fired a bolt right into the bandit's eye but he had a friend charging right behind him. Dropping the bow, Ian grabbed his axe and kicked out for the bandit's ankle, causing her to trip and her neck to land right on Ian's blade.

Shoving the corpse off him he rose his axe again to defend himself but friendlier forces were moving into this part of the camp by now and he was safe for the moment. He dropped the axe and went back to his arm, tucking the limp appendage safely across his chest and lashing it there with a little difficulty due to using one hand. Once it was in place he was finally able to look around and appraising the situation. The tree had separated Fanilly from the rest of her forces with what must have been the bandit king, already some knights where making their way over the flames to help her and some where remaining to finish off the fleeing bandits.

He pushed himself up and looked over the flamming tree, without his shields he wouldn't have been to much help in that fight anyway, yet, so he set to help against the bandits. Picking up his crossbow he walked, with a slight limp, toward the group of soldiers being led by Marianne and Tiral. While the two knights led a charge Ian found a spot and rested his crossbow on the ruins of a tent and his hip, pulling back the string with his good arm and then putting a bolt in the catch, taking aim for a bandit close to Knight Marianne and firing. He repeated the process and kept aiming for targets close to the two knights at the front.

The enormous sword came down. Fanilly lept back, her heart hammering in her chest, and watched as the hard ground was torn where she just stood. But without missing a beat, Jeremiah brought his sword back up and pushed forward, aiming to skewer her before she could recover. The blonde girl managed to throw herself out of the way, but barely, rolling to the side and holding her sword at the ready. But the huge man was already facing her, ready to attack once more.

"Do you know why I'm here, little girl?!" he said, his voice a gleeful snarl as he spoke. In an instant he was already swinging his enormous sword. Fanilly, eyes wide with fear, attempted to sidestep, and in a last desperate bid raised her sword to defend herself. She felt the impact slam into her body even from a glancing blow and was sent reeling, pain reverberating up her arm as she did. She barely managed to catch herself. The flames were so hot from the burning tree, she could feel them from here. Perhaps if someone was moving fast enough they could get through it relatively unscathed, but...

For now she was on her own.

"... N-no, I don't," Fanilly, straightening and trying to quell the quavering in her voice, "But regardless, you are an enemy of Thaln's people and must be defeated!"

"Heh, what a fool," he commented, simply, "I have killed hundreds of knights, spilled the blood of men across the battlefield for years. I'm here to do the very same with your order!"

He was moving again. This time, Fanilly felt herself move before his sword came down. His swings were practiced, he wasn't attacking like a wild berserker! But at the same time, Fanilly herself was learning that if she kept moving she could still outpace him! Perhaps if she could get around him, perhaps...!

Suddenly the girl saw Jeremiah alter the course of his sword, swinging it outwards and towards her. She barely had time to get her sword between her body and his before it hit. The impact slammed into her, and she felt the breath leave her body and paint reverberate up her arm. Fanilly was lifted from the ground and sent careening through the air, her sword tumbling away and skittering across the ground. She rolled once and came to a stop on her stomach, panting as she tried to right herself.

This man was a monster! Even unarmored he fought with such confidence!

The girl's arms trembled as she tried to get up. She didn't think she was seriously injured, she had to calm down! She had to get her sword and-

Fingers wrapped around her helmet and pulled it off, tossing it aside. A hand wrapped around her throat and lifted her into the air, immediately digging in.

"My joy in life," growled Jeremiah, "What brings me happpiness, is death. So I joined this trash, to make them into a threat that you Iron Roses would notice. To draw you here. To kill you. And what better way to kill you then to begin by beheading your order?"

The man chuckled to himself as his grip tightened on Fanilly's through. Her heart was bounding, her eyes wide as she struggled to breath. No... she couldn't breath, her legs kicking as one hand clasped at his arm.

"But maybe... maybe I'll keep you, girl," the man continued, grinning, "Let the death of your order break your will, turn you into nothing more then a trophy! The trophy that marks the death of the Iron Roses!"

Fanilly gasped. She could feel herself slipping. She'd fall unconscious soon. Was he right? Would he kill the Iron Roses? Her own grip slackened as she felt her dagger begin to-

... Her dagger...

"Besides, it would be a waste to-"

Fire lit in Fanilly's eyes, she swung her arm up and then downwards. A Parrying Dagger was not made for attacking, and yet it served well against Jeremiah's bare arm. The tip bit into his flesh and plunged into him, drawing blood. He let out a cry of pain and shock, his grip loosening!

Fanilly fell to the ground, clutching her throat with her free hand and coughing. Her neck hurt, his grip had been squeezing the air from her body... but she was alive! Managing to steady herself before the massive man could recover, she sprinted for her sword, grasping it in her right hand and raising it.

"All your words have done is tell me you're nothing more then a monster, Three Hundred Man-slayer!" she called, raising her sword, "And it is the Iron Roses' duty to slay monsters, even if they're human!"

His arm was streaming red. She'd managed to force her dagger in deep. Fanilly was still scared. But now... if she could keep on her toes...!

Their captain was a better fighter than the last few had been on their ascension to the post. Good enough to hold off an enemy with considerably more experience and greater physical abilities, though Tyaethe had to grant him that he seemed to have been taking her less seriously than he should have.

Or she would have given him that leniency had she been thinking much at all rather than embracing anger. This jumped-up killer of knights dared to touch her captain? To threaten her with death and worse? Or, most heinous of all, to set out explicitly to destroy the order that she safeguarded for Elionne?

Some might express their anger by tearing the man apart verbally, or joining in with the captain's flowery declaration. There were those that would try to calm themselves, or at least focus through the anger. Tyaethe was not one of those people and didn't even bother co-ordinating with Garret or the new girl: she jumped down with embers still caught in her armour and the scarf starting to smoulder.

Her surge forwards slid into a low stance and the paladin threw all her momentum and weight into her swing, the massive blade slicing down with more than enough force to split him--and anyone foolish enough to stand in line with the bandit 'king'. If it only got his sword or even missed, that wouldn't matter. It would force him away from fighting the captain. Even if he got a lucky hit in, Tyaethe was confident that it wouldn't be a blow that actually killed her.

Not until she calmed down.

The wind was twisting pleasantly through the clearing of tents and lean-tos. Men and women were milling about doing their late day duties around the camp. Lame Larry was deep in the cup already and he refused to hide it like the rest of them. He leaned against a heavy oak cask of wine and raised a goblet up to his lips; his eyes were gleaming from the flicking fire. Larry was a man of singular misfortune, and ugly as well; though it was difficult to determine whether his ugliness was the root of his misfortune or the other way around.

A lush curly black beard masked half of his face, but the other was marred by a large shining scar that prevented any hair from growing on the left side of his face. A Reonite missionary tent had caught fire after a pot of grease began boiling over; this was unfortunate. What was unexpectedly unfortunate was that Larry warned them not to leave the pot over the fire for too long, yet they did not listen and he was the only one injured. He hated mentioning the fact that the Reonites had come to his village to deal with a strange plague, of which only he was afflicted and all it did was rot half his teeth away.

Larry twisted the ankle of his lame leg; stretching out the discomfort of the injury he obtained when lightning split a tree that crossed down upon him. The fractal scarring that grew like roots across his body were the result of the sky deciding a man struck by a tree was also one who should be struck by lightning.

“When’s the last time any of you had a good hog roast?” He asked with a stupid grin. Most of them were still reeling from the decadent feast they had just ravaged.

A woman lying beside the fire lifted her head lazily and clutched her stomach, “Oh, I think ‘bout six years ago.”

“Fuck . . . I think me an’ Seev had one once,” said Neev one of two blonde twins.

“Neev, I told ya we don’t really know what nothin’ about that year,” Seev barked through the billowing smoke of the fire.

Larry raised his thin eyebrows, “What is that s’posed to mean?”

“One of them Lunar re-in-carr-nate-ion cults went an’ moved into Seev and Neev’s town,” Old Roger lisped as he rubbed oil across the blade of an antique billhook. He said it was good for catching cavalry men, but there wasn’t a net on it so Larry really was not inclined to believe it would do anything. “That cult had the whole darn town drunk on Moon Berry Wine for the best part of a year.”

“That was definitely the best part, yeah,” Seev said wistfully.

“Yeah, yeah! Until we had to burn down the town o’course,” Old Roger gave a wheezy laugh, “Then we got our own hog roast to celebrate the liberation.”

“Oi! We might be uncertain ‘bout our own hog roast-,” Neev interjected dropping the bloody tunic he was scrubbing, “-but you liberators just slaughter Missy Petunia’s pony and roasted her up. We was all a little upset ‘bout that!”

Lame Larry swished the sour wine in his mouth, “Is that why you joined good Jeremiah’s band?”

“Well yeah, our town got burnt as hell. Ain’t much work to be had in a burnt down town,” Neev picked the tunic back up and resumed scrubbing the same spot he had been for the past hour.

“That might just be all of us, Mary Matilda Merryl said from her spot on the ground, “I was a fish monger, but the local lord decided to dam up our river and he wanted to charge us all for a fishery license to use the pond! It cost more than I earned in two years!”

Larry pushed off from his barrel with inspired confidence and pointed at Mary with one of the three fingers remaining on his goblet bearing hand, “That’s just it! That’s the heart of it Mary! Centrally planned bureaucracy and economics is only beneficial to the dominant hegemonic forces in the land-”

Darios the miller groaned from between the piles of wool gloves he pilfered from the last village they raided, “Here we go again . . .”

“-there is socio-economic collusion between the upper classes in an effort to maintain a perception of superiority!” Larry continues, “Take my home village of Little Luttle Lutefield. Poor as dirt! I lost the geographic lottery! Little Luttle Lutefield was smack in the epicenter of every foreign war, tax rebellion, cult uprising, necromantic apocalypse, and dwarven pyramid scheme of the last five hundred years! We were so impoverished, the beggers of Tennelberg would come to our little town just so they could be treated like royalty for a week,” He paused for a moment, “They also spent so much money that they would destabilize our economy with hyperinflation. And why are they so rich?”

“Why Larry?” Seev and Neev asked in unison.

“Because they are from the capital! A place that the economic hegemony displays their power for the rest of Thaln! This is central planning at its heart! The closer to the center you are; the more they give a shit about you!” Larry was swaying back and forth between his disproportioned legs and enrapturing the attention of his fellow bandits. “I was a barber donchaknow? I used to cut hair like the best of them! And I was the best, let me tell you, I was good. Every hair style I studied, and by Reon we had so many hair styles, but I knew them all.” He gestured back and forth shrugging and nodding to what he is saying, “That is, until the upper classes decided to start wearing their hair long with unkempt beards like they was a bunch of damn rangers. Then no one got any haircuts! Not any more than once every other year! It drove me to poverty! All the barbers went poor! Some of them had to become surgeons! Can you believe that? Even I had to learn some surgery because I wasn’t making any money cutting hair anymore! So when good ol’ Jeremiah came around raidin’, I joined up! We can make good coin raging against the beast of classist domination, and we can live much better than playing at their game where they decide who does and does not make money!” Lame Larry finished with an emphatic swing of his arm which sprayed wine like confetti over the fire.

“Ah . . . Fuck off Larry,” Darios mumbled through the twilight gloom, “I don’t know shit about no social echo-gnomes and their relations to hedges.”

“Listen! It is because you are still indoctrinated into a system that favors the few with wealth over the many who produce,” Larry said with self-dignified smartness. “Also, I thought I told you all this, but my name is Lewis.”

“Lame Lewis don’t roll off the tongue the same,” Mary Matilda Merryl replied; she was the closest thing to an expert that they had in matters of alliteration.

Larry’s shoulders sagged. He would never be able to get through to these people. He could not blame them either; they just wanted money so that they could live the rest of their miserable lives in comfort. What did they care about the big picture of their plights? They could kill, get rich, drink all day, and save up money for their children’s and grandchildren’s education. Retreating back to his wine cask, Larry sipped sullenly. I am a bad bandit, I can’t even kill anyone. Larry was in fact a singularly bad bandit, but perhaps not as bad as he was at being an existing entity. Always he went out on their expeditions with faux vigor; banditry was grim and the most he could really commit to was yelling at an old monk, “The Church is but the paved road for which oppressive ideologies ride!” He did, however, say it with an impressive candor, and the monk had surrendered a box of scissor and ivory combs; enough for him to reenter the barber profession as a well-equipped journeyman.

“You know . . . If ya think your story was a pain in the bung–” Darios stood up, raising a gloved hand. “–lemme tell you all what happened to me kids and I when Phoran Cal had us levied! First we marched off to – What was that?”

There was a commotion somewhere toward the edge of camp. Lame Larry lowered his goblet from his face and squinted through the shade, “Oh fuck.”

“Loose arrows!” A high feminine voice called, and the rain of death was upon them.

Darios was felled by an arrow to his neck, and dark blood gurgled from his throat in grotesque bubbles. Larry tried turning away, but Mary Matilda Merryl had rushed to stand up and had stumbled over the fire, kicking up a cloud of ash and sparks.

“Run! Run! Run! Run!” Seev screamed grabbing Neev and scramming. Old Roger stood up and waved his billhook in a way that might have been considered menacing if not for the fact that he was completely turned around. Larry was scrambling; he reached for a stick but recoiled from the burning fire. He settled for a long iron tent stake and rushed to follow his friends.

“Charge!” The voice shouted, and from the forest a wall of armed soldiers and knights surged.

“Go the other way! Go the other way!” Larry shrieked leading his companions north. They weaved through their fellow raiders who were a mess of panic and confusion. Through the tents they ran, until they were at the far end of the camp stooped over and gasping for air.

“Those were Iron Rosees! I saw their sigil!” Neev was coughing.

“Dammed Iron Roses! Thems folk always do a number on us privateer types,” Old Roger beat his chest. He had always bragged of being the brother of a Bandit King named Evan, but no one had ever heard of him. “Not today thought! We gotta fight back!”

Old Roger’s confidence was truly short lived as the air crackled and filled with the sounds of deep booms. They turned to witness their palisade freeze solid and then collapse onto itself.

“Now!” A young knight shouted. From the treeline, dozens of his fellows swarmed into the camp and killed with indiscretion.

“Run away!” Old Roger squealed.

Lame Larry limped half a stride behind the rest with the iron stake grasped in his sweaty palm. This was unfortunate, very unfortunate. Through the carnage, he could only wonder if he would have time to get his scissor and still escape.

“I think we should go the other way!” Larry shouted after Mary Matilda Meryll who guided their retreat.

“No! This is the best dir–” It was like a flash; Larry looked to the forest on their right and spotted a third charging mass of soldiers led by a knight with an unwieldy blade, thick antiquated armor, and a spear that pierced fully through their stomach like a spit. A quick motion pulled the spear from them and javelined it into Mary who flew half a dozen yard before being pinned to the ground.

“Not the best direction! Absolutely the worst direction!” Larry cried out pushing Neev away from where the knights embarked on their blood lusted odyssey. They saw a host of characters that engaged in the wholesale evisceration of their merry band. There was a hundi that wielded duel tower shields and a crossbow. Seev tried throwing an axe at him for the hell of it. A woman that paused mid-battle to ignite Jeremiah’s throne. He also could have sworn that he saw a plague doctor reaping their way through the camp like an agent of death. I think one of their leaders is a little girl! Larry ran with confusion on his face.

The cowards sprinted past a woman who was stooped over, reloading a crossbow as a shield wall enclosed upon them, “Stop! Stop! Anne! Not the time to reload!” Larry yelled as they ran by, but it was too late. Anne had been run through by a spear. It took them just half a minute to come across a large number of bandits hiding behind the canteen tent gripping whatever weapons they could gather.

“Okay listen! On my count we will charge!” Blind Barry was standing astride two barrels with a sword held aloft.

“Oi! We didn’t vote for ya!” Neev integrated into the crowd.

“Yeah! Who put you in charge?” Seev echoed.

A woman among the bandits piped, “If anyone should be in charge right now, it’s me!”

This was an unpopular suggestion.

“Katherine you are a gossiping bitch!” A voice replied.

“I’m the oldest here! I am in charge!” Barry wrestled for control of his audience, and Larry had a pang of sympathy for him. He too had an alliterated name. His actual name was Bernard. Or was it Brandon?

“You old fart! I’m older!” Old Roger was a red hot fire of criticism, “Do you even remember the eleventh winter skirmish war?”

“Shut up Roger!” A chorus replied.

Larry suggested surrender. This was received with mild and polite head nodding.

Just then, a horn sounded out from the only direction that they had not yet been attacked from. The sound of cavalry was thunderous and fast approaching.

“I thought you said cavalry couldn’t get into the camp!” Lame Larry turned on Big Cloud, their Master of Strategies whom had once read a book on war partway through.

The man threw up his hands in a defeated shrug, “I only thought stubborn bastards would do it!”

“Yeah! Well lookie hear boys, this stubborn bastard’s got another thing coming!” Old Roger whooped a war cry and charged forward with his billhook before all was chaos.

A lance shattered on Big Cloud in an instant, and then Larry was knocked into a foot-over-head roll which turned the world into a kaleidoscope of green and brown and red. A hoof caught him in the hand, and at one moment he was confident he had twisted in such a way that he was smelling his own ass. The flurry of pain and colors ended in a second and Larry found himself face down in the mud.

“Hah! I got one!” He heard Roger’s jubilance over a low symphony of moans. Larry spit up dirt and blood and looked up in time to see Neev plunge a dagger into a fallen soldier’s visor. I’ll be damned, I guess that hook does work.
The rest of the bandits did not make out particularly well, and at least a dozen or more of them were dead. Blind Barry still stood on his barrels nonplussed by the carnage and coolly he said,

“I agree with Larry. Let us retreat.”

The survivors mumbled in agreement.

“No! Not retreat! Surrender!” Larry yelled as his friends began limping off. “They’ll be less forgiving if we run off!” But they were gone: Old Roger, Neev, Seev, Blind Barry, Drumming Darrle, Anastasia, the Comedic Louis, Richard the Almanac, and surprisingly Mary Matilda Merryl who was nursing the spear that pierced her shoulder. Larry hesitated to stay, “Well! Fine! I’ll surrender by myself!”

It was perhaps wiser to go off in a disorganized retreat with the cowardly band, for, at that very moment the air was filled with a great WHOOSH, and a flaming tree thudded upon Larry’s already trampled arm.

“No! No! No! Nonononono!” He babbled incoherently as he ripped and twisted his manged arm out from beneath the great tree. The heat was unbearable, and he could feel his hair singeing as pulled his broken arm from beneath the inferno. It had not been his head, but that did nothing to alleviate the raw ache of pain that emanated from his shattered and burned arm. “Okay!” Larry bounced to his feet, raising his arms to the best of his ability, “I surrender! I give up! No more please! We are defeated!” He witnessed bandits still charging about at the knights, and he could have sworn he heard the chilling voice of Jeremiah over the rumblings, “Well . . . I surrender.”

“No. No. NO! NO! YOU FUCKING DON’T!” Someone roared.

“No! I swear I do surrender!” Larry shouted as he turned a corner and spotted a knight who ripped his helmet from his head and gave a preternatural cry. That sounds familiar he thought unexpectedly. It was like sinking into warm nostalgia. Childhood wonder and good memories. His face flushed into a smile, that man reminds me of my youth. He drifted in thought for a moment. In that time, the knight unsheathed his sword and began hacking a path through anyone who crossed him. It definitely seemed and sounded familiar. “Ah . . . Hill tribe raiders,” He muttered with enlightenment as Valdoth Thorn came upon him. “I surren–” he tried to call out, but a sword swing took his right arm off at the elbow and he stumbled back crying, “I surrender!”

Larry did not realize that he was on his feet again until he was stumbling onto his collapsed tent groping for his bag of barber supplies. “Nope, not today. You’re not going to die this day Lewis! You did not survive a tooth plague for this!” He cut a strip of cloth from his tent and tied it tight around what was left of his elbow as a tourniquet. Digging deep into his pack, Larry pulled out a collection of old rusted calipers and he used them to pinch his wound closed. It was blinding agony, but he was not entirely sure if it hurt worse than the tooth plague had. “Not today! Lewis you’ll be quite alright!” He screamed out.

When the bloody business was complete, the man stood with a contraption of calipers, tourniquets, stitches, and bandages on his stump. “Right . . . That should do it.”

All around him the camp was in absolute chaos. A veritable army of elite knights were charging for King Jeremiah, cavalry was tearing apart any sizable group of bandits that stood and fought, the lines of pikemen were capturing prisoners or killing left and right. Larry sighed and picked up the stick he tied a white flag to and began waving it, “I surrender! Hey! Please! I’m done!”

--

Eadwig’s shield arm was clenched tight to his torse squeezing the arrow that pierced his shoulder tight. His knuckles were aching from clenching his horse’s reins so tightly.

“Sir, are you okay?” A rider beside him had moved to aid him, but Eadwig glared daggers at him.

“Aye, keep formation.” The forces alongside him were making good progress. Any that stood against their line of pike were quickly dealt with by spear and arrow. “Prepare to sortie!” Aethelmund barked out raising his sword, “And . . . char–”

“Move out of the way!” A voice screamed out and everyone became aware of the massive tree that was falling in a pillaring conflagration.

It became every man and woman for themselves. Horses scattered to and fro, and the pike men and archers split as the tree fell right in their direction. The echo of its collapse bounced hollowly across the forests of Thaln. A great wall of flame roared up into the sky the moment the trunk impacted the earth. A cloud of black smoke, dust, and dirt was kicked up obscuring the battle field. Eadwig could hear his heavy breathes, in and out, as his mind became focused on survival. He pulled hard on the reins guiding his horse through a rain of burning debris that fell from the sky. Split wood, and splinters exploded around him as he rode. His ears rang and his shoulder throbbed as he searched for respite in the cloud of darkness. A low roar gained in intensity as he realized he was being charged upon by two bandits.

“Back!” Eadwig commanded the men as he kicked at the sides of his horse, “Regroup!” He yelled swinging his sword down onto one of the bandits below him. The sword glanced off of the haft of his axe. A menacing bandit side stepped Eadwig’s front and swung a club only to find purchase on the old knight’s shield. He winced and spun the horse around quickly; catching an axe blow to his shield before his blade tore through the neck of the clubber. The axe man hesitated just long enough for Eadwig to spin and whip his sword upward fast enough to catch the man across the chest and face. “Regroup!” He cried out again sounding his war horn, and riding back to where his soldiers had previously stood.

Six of the pike men and eleven of the archers were picking themselves up from the ground, when he rode upon them. Sir Athelmund gritted his teeth; their forces had been cut in two.

“We’ve lost one of our,” Dame Efelia rode to him; the rest of the cavalry began to regather, ten of them in total.

“Who was it?” He masked the anger in his voice.

“Arthur sir,” another horseman said.

“We lost another three,” Sir Indrew said grimly from afoot. Eadwig bowed his head and placed a fist to his heart. The others followed suit for a silent moment.

“Form up!” He said grimly, “Pike hold the line and follow us. Cavalry with me!” They galloped hard around the tree with men in tow. They made a wide path around the burning branches of the tree, and on the other side they bore witness to total anarchy.

Captain Danbalion was locked in battle with a colossal man at the edge of the forest. They fought at the roots of the fallen tree, parrying between each other deftly, but it seemed as if Danbalion was only surviving by chance. Eadwig’s heart fluttered and a gasp caught in his throat seeing her alone, but the other knights had moved quickly. Sir Garrett was sprinting like a bull up the hill, and Dame Julianna and Dame Sult were hot on his heels. Dame Tyaethe too had climbed the burning tree and charged like a flaming demon into melee with a tremendous swing of her sword at the man who could only be King Jeremiah. In the camp, things had descended into a brutal hand to hand combat. Many more bandits had been forced to this side of the burning tree than the side he had just come from.

There were only three pikemen on this side and two archers. The rest had either perished beneath the tree, or two the onslaught of raiders that they were now fiercely engaging. “Go!” Sir Aethelmund raised his sword, and the cavalry rushed unto a swarm of bandits like a wave; hacking and slashing through them with savage abandon. The old knight fought with every strength he had; his sword carved a path, and his pommel caved in helmets. His horse would rear and kick any that came near him. A heart beat passed, then two, and the bandits were in flight.

Eadwig breathed heavily and his shoulder throbbed painfully from the exertion. “Form up.”
His eyes scanned the battlefield. Marianne’s cavalry and Sir Tiral’s forces were ripping through the field skillfully, and it looked to be that they were pushing the fleeing bandits toward the flank that he intentionally left exposed. “Excellent work you two,” Sir Aethelmund whispered as his pike and archers regrouped and reformed before him. Any that came upon them would be destroyed, and those that ran would have to contend with Sir Bernhard.

“Sir Aethelmund! Over there!” an archer pointed to the hillside where some Tyaethe’s forces were being pinned between an ambush of crossbowmen and the main camp.

He stole a breath. Sir Rhydderch was leading a charge against the ambush, but the two knights he left to guard their flank were struggling to hold their flank against a growing surge of bodies “Sir Indrew, hold the line. Fire upon any that do not throw down arms. Cavalry! We move to reinforce Sir Rhydderch!”

Across the field, the knights had driven off the ambush, but they were becoming surrounded as they fought off an emboldened force from the camp.

“Form up!” The knights were double ranks of five, and Aethelmund gave a signal and the soldiers rode with the banner of the Iron Roses trailing above them. “Shields up!” He bellowed as a light rain of arrows struck at them. Like a stampede, they flattened the loose formations of bandits caught between fight and flight.

“There’s too many, break through!” Sir Rhydderch rumbled charging into his opponents with Sir Bors and Sir Gawain in tow. A moment passed and the cavalry crashed into the mob.

Eadwig’s boot rammed the back of an enemies head with a crack. His shield was a drum of impacts that were silenced when the second line of horses silenced the drummers. A lance felled an outlaw to his left, and Eadwig stabbed forward into a distracted foe. Their blows were an iron rain falling steadily to clear a path for their fellow knights.

“Did you need help?” Sir Aethelmund’s voice echoed through his visor.

@snagglepuss89

Sult bit her lip as she struggled to her feet, watching the events unfold before her eyes. Fanilly was fighting valiantly, but there was so much one could do against the raw strength of the marauder. Stopping for a moment to admire the chiselled, yet monstrous physique, she wondered if the bandit was half a giant, before assuming a combat stance. That had been too close, Fanilly was gasping for air in the ground, before the mighty bandit. She did not hesitate in jumping to her position, clutching the younger captain against her body, and steeling herself with her shield raised.

"Well done, my cute captain." She added, trying to instill reassurance as the Immortal made her important entry, like a maddened force of nature, roaring against the bandit. Sult rolled her eyes as she witnessed the scene unfold... and for a moment she even forgot her captain was in her arms, within earshot.

"Why must you be so crooked with such nice abs, bandit king?" She sighed. "Then again, i was born under a new moon." Her movements shifted as she sheather her own blade, and with Fanilly still in tow, grabbed one of the embers that were coming off the big tree.

Only to toss it at the ugly and confident bandit king's face.

This will have to do for now. Like hell i am getting between Tyaethe and that beast of a man.

Tiral took a moment to notice that it was, in fact, the Captain that was under assault by the enemy behind the tree before nodding. If it truly was the Captain, then there was even more reason not to dally any longer. With a nod, Tiral drew his sword and turned to the men behind himself.

"Spread the word! We are to clear the camp before aiding the other companies! Do NOT, under any circumstances, rush in recklessly; by abandoning your fellow knights, you open them up to just as much danger as the captain is in now! Clear this section of the camp, then push through to defend the log!" he barked, to which the men responded with a quick "Yes, sir!" and a salute before rushing off.

"Damn... No holds barred now, huh? Was this a desperation attack or something...? Damn. Well, regardless, we've no more time to waste!" Tiral swore to himself before following close behind Marianne. Throwing himself back into the fray alone was suicidal at best, but at the very least he act as support for someone more competent than he was.

His fellow knight's prowess with a blade was somewhat entrancing, but the ice mage had better things to watch than the blood of his enemies stain that shining blade. Matching her pace as best he could, Tiral continued chanting and firing off icicles towards whatever bandits were too far out of her range to easily assault, or those who were locked in combat with the other knights.

"My apologies for following, madam, but it was the easiest way to move ahead. If we can push our way through the remaining defenses and hold out for a few minutes, I may be able to douse the flame long enough to facilitate a cleaner rescue. Do you mind?"

The request was punctuated with another icicle shot toward a bandit about to swing down upon another knight's head, to which the rescued knight responded with some sort of prayer.

...

"Seriously, I'm NOT an agent of the goddess! Why do so many people here think that?!"

Marianne Delacroix

Blinking as a bandit was suddenly killed mere feet away from her by a crossbow bolt, Marianne stopped in her tracks. Turning her head as yet another bandit was killed by an ice spell cast, she looked around for their sources and was pleased to see Sir Ian and Sir Tiral. Graciously being afforded a moment to catch her breath thanks to her allies. A thin sheen of sweat coated her skin, her attire damp and sticking to her body. Panting heavily, she watched as both crossbow bolts and icicles flew about the battlefield dropping bodies like flies. She had to conserve some of her energy, as she tired rather quickly. Especially if she still intended to aid the Captain. Turning to Sir Tiral, she was a little confused as to why he was apologizing. Did comrades not commonly fight side by side? As she thought over Sir Tiral's words, she nodded wordlessly in agreement with his plan. It was a great plan, after all. What better and quicker way than to douse the flames and allow their forces a direct path to regroup with the Captain?

Looking over to Sir Ian, who neared them at a slight clip, her face grew saddened when she realized he was injured. He was nursing his arm and his gait was affected by yet a different wound it seemed. Eyes widening and mouth slightly agape, she noticed Sir Ian's hood had fallen back and saw his ears. Her expression lighting up visibly, despite her environment.

"He's Hundi!?"

She thought to herself, forgetting where she was and the situation she was in.
She had never met a Hundi in person, only having heard stories and reading about them in books.
She took a step forward, wanting to touch those ears as her hand partway lifted.
But she stopped and shook her head as regained her composure.
Clearing her throat, she turned back to Sir Tiral.
Looking around her, she finally offered her response.

"Please, Sir Tiral. You insult me. Just 'miss', is fine. I'm not betrothed yet. I'm still a young woman."

She laughed, smiling. Referring to his usage of the word 'madam'.

"But yes, your idea is sound. The battle here is nearly over and won. I'll command my forces to the base of the fallen tree and we'll provide you with cover as you work. Once the flames are out, I'll begin to cast my own magic and support the Captain from afar. It should be more than enough to strike down that false 'King' Jeremiah."

After referring to the bandit as a 'King', she turned her head and spat at the ground to rid herself of the disgusting aftertaste.
Such a title should only be reserved for the most honorable and noble. For the most respectful leaders of this world, not to be sullied by such filth. To consider the bandit leader Jeremiah as a 'King' would be to insult her own father.
There was a sudden commotion as a few bandits began to lay down their weapons and kneeled with their arms raised, offering their surrender.
Eying a bandit waving a makeshift white flag, Marianne stared at him for a moment before turning back to Sir Tiral and Sir Ian.

"We must act quickly." She said softly to them.

Turning to her men plus their additions, she issued her orders.

"Men! Be mindful of the bandits that lay down their arms to surrender! Do not murder them senselessly and attempt to restrain them, we are not barbarians! Continue to subdue any who dare raise arms at you! Move to the base of the fallen tree, as we are providing support to Sir Tiral and Sir Ian!"

She said, her projecting her voice as loudly as she could so that her words carried far.
Thankfully, they all seemed to hear her clearly as a resounding cheer was their response to her.
Smiling somehow, Marianne slashed at the empty open air to flick excess blood on her blade to the ground as she turned back to her two comrades.

"Let us move. Sir Ian, did you need me to stay close to your side? Or can you still move and fight with your wounds?"

She said as she began to walk forward, towards the tree. Partly to offer her genuine aid to him, partly because she wanted a closer look at those ears of his. Did he a tail, also? She would have to sneak a look when she could.

With the lines moving forward and the camp being cleared Ian fired one last time before putting the crossbow away. He stayed behind as the troops pressed on with the intent on finding better care for his wounds, or at least staying out of the majority of the fighting until he could, but he was soon approached by Marianne, the knightess showing concern for his wounds.

He smiled "ah please, I could use a hand" he made to lean on her though with his shorter stature he had to put his arm around her waist and lean into her side "I can still shoot if you need me to, if you can find me a spot to shoot from and I may need some help reloading" one of his ears unconsciously flicked against her arm "if not, I may just find a place nearby to rest until I can get this seen to" He let out a slight groan of pain as he shifted his broken arm.

Sir Garrett barely noticed the back up that had made it to the fight with Fanilly and the Giant of a man. As the Knight Slayer threw the captain Sir Garrett flanked him and swung his sword towards the man’s left leg aiming at the Achilles tendon. Following the cut he brought the sword in a smooth arc and swung it at the man’s clavicle aiming to remove the man’s man left arm by cutting through the joint since it lacked any kind of actual armor.

Catching the flash of light off to his left Sir Garrett launched himself to the right moving away from any kind of counter attack and out of the way of burning embers Sult had launched at the Knight slayer.

What a presumptuous name I think it is high time to teach you a lesson.

The thought surged to the front of Garrett’s already narrow focus as he prepared to fend off any sort of counter attack that the man launched at him. Regardless of how dangerous the Knight slayer was eventually the other knights would simply overrun him and Tyaetha wasn’t going to let Fanilly die. This fight was already over it was only a matter of time really.

Hot ash scored across Gillian's face as the tree slammed into the battlefield. 'Ah, just what this needed. Even MORE burning timber.' he though, following the offending fir (or was it an oak? Botany was not his strong point) to its point of origin and was surprised to find a giant of a man bearing down on the young captain. "The hell is she doing up-" he begins to say, cut off abruptly as he feels a sharp pain across his ear and the whizzing of a bolt in flight.

Out of reflex he raises his shield and backs up quickly, resisting every urge in his body to paw at the fresh gash. His comrades seems to not share his reaction, screaming forward (in one case quit literally), to aid the captain. Calming his momentary panic, he looks for the origin of the shot. 'Lucky shot?...' he thinks, watching as the offending crossbowmen and his friends where over taken by Tyaethe's forces. 'No. too many. Ambush. Well laid too...", he thinks, looking over the devastation. While few in Fanilly's charge were hurt (it seemed Sir Aethelmund's forces claimed the majority of the honors) they were woefully out of position, cut off from both their captain and the fray. They held their position, slaughtering any bandit still on their side who was too dumb or too desperate to escape the flames to stay away, but were hesitant to do much else, fearing another trap.

Gillian cursed it all, the damage to morale (much less the physical) had crippled their line. The only savings grace was the flaming sanctuary the felled tree provided. The situation called for a charismatic, tactical young knight to step up and take charge! But Gillian didnt see any candidates in the throng of knights(self included), so he'd have to wing it. "..P.." He shouts above the ruckus, barely sure of what he was doing (engagements like this were why he was a mercenary). "PIN THE REMAINING BANDITS BETWEEN US AND THE FIRE, WE'RE GOING TO MOVE TO THE RIGHT FLANK AND GET AROUND IT. THEN PRESS ONWARD TO THE MIDDLE!" He calls out as the company begins to move, though purely from a sense of urgency rather than and regard for rank. "If I live through this Klien, I'm going to beat you within an inch of your life....", he thinks bitterly, hoping he'd not just doomed the very charge he was in (or any of the others).

Fanilly watched as the hulking man's arm continued to stream blood. How deep had she managed to get him? The injury was more serious then she'd initially suspected.

"You... little bitch!" he snarled, raising his sword to advance on her. Fanilly's heart felt like it would burst out of her chest, but she adjusted her footing, ready to dodge when he started to swing, eyes on the motion of his sword!

Then... a nearly inhuman cry of fury from the right. Jeremiah looked up just in time to block an enormous sword, the sheer force of the blow making him stagger, stumbling back as he did. Tyaethe had made it over the burning tree?! Fanilly could see embers caught in her plate, her scarf smouldering as she slammed her blade into the Man-Slayer's. Even as she watched this spectacle, she suddenly felt arms around her, pulling her up and against... another girl? Fanilly swiftly recognized her protector as Sult... and despite the situation, couldn't help but feel a sensation of embarrassment. Cute? Was this really the time for that sort of thing? It couldn't be.

And... then Sult talked about the hulking man's abs, and how it was unfortunate he was such a terrible man.

For a few moments, Fanilly was pulled from the battle. She could only look up at the older girl, incredulous, at the comment she had made.

"... Wh... what?"

Of course, he attention was once again taken as the burning debris sailed towards the fake Bandit King. He caught site of it just in time to raise his still-bleeding arm into the way... and there was a sizzle of burning flesh. Even if the debris had not met its mark, it had done its damage. Burned and bleeding, one of the huge man's arms was, while not incapable of moving, unusable in a fight. Still, one handed, he managed to deflect the next attack from Garret and stagger back.

He wasn't backing down.

---

The bandits were in bad shape. Less the a hundred of them remained, and most of the survivors were wavering. The shrinking crowd was condensed towards the middle of the camp, and the charge sent several to their knees in surrender. The remaining bandits that were attempting to fight were largely doing so due to the fact that there was no escape for them.

But there were murderers, all of them, and had only brought this upon themselves.

Tiral nodded at Marianne awkwardly as she half-chided him for using the word 'madam' towards her. Damned if he understood any of that mess of titles and whatnot, but it hadn't managed to get him into hot water as of yet. Tossing out whatever seemed right for the situation had somehow always worked out for him, so... No problems there, right?

Turning to face Sir Ian (who was... actually somewhat injured, worryingly enough), Tiral's gaze flicked between him, Marianne, and the bandits who were cowering on the ground. It hadn't taken long for the remaining bandits to be routed and forced near the center of the camp, which would at least mean that if there was any time to be doing what he was planning, it would be now.

"Thank you for your assistance. Please, just hold out a while as I prepare," he stated as Marianne lent the wounded soldier her support. Well, it wasn't quite 'holding out' as much as it was 'finishing the job', but who cared about semantics at a time like this?

Rushing over to the fallen tree, Tiral took a deep breath and steeled himself. The magical energy that remained in his body would... Hopefully be enough to complete the job, but it would more likely than not knock him right out for a good while.

"Too late for second thoughts now..." he grumbled, drawing the dagger from its hiding spot once more before beginning to chant.

"O, moon; though your light shines not upon this battlefield, the men grow weary in the wake of the sun. Smoldering embers, remnants of a battle neither won nor lost. And, above all else, the darkest sky that lights up even the coldest of nights. Heed my call.
The waters of life, from which all beings come forth; without it, we may die as we may live. With the strength of the rivers that so calmly flow through these lands, and with the chill that pervades those lonely mountaintops...
Entomb this burning waste in ice, and grant us safe passage forward!"

With a controlled breath, Tiral quickly braced himself and plunged his dagger--and his hand--into the blazing log before him. The reaction was almost immediate; a quick-forming frost began to spread out across the log (however slowly at first) before beginning to encroach upon the rest of the obstacle. The flames that fought back were quickly extinguished by what seemed to be a burst of water out of nowhere, and before long bush of the flames had been quelled.

During the entire spectacle, though, Tiral struggled to stay conscious as the ice began to crawl up his weapon. Though the dagger wouldn't break from something so trivial, he needed to retain contact so long as the spell was still in action. The toll it was taking on his body wasn't a small one by any means, and by now he was struggling to stay conscious as the magic ate away at his reserves.

"...Ah, damn. Harder than I thought... But this should be over soon enough."

Julianna had managed to finally get around that big tree but she quickly realized that her help was not needed. Fanilly was safe in Sult's arms, Sir Garret was fighting the large man and the undead knight was on the scene as well. It was annoying but her help was certainly not needed.

"Guess I should have known those fanatics would manage to get there in time, I was worried for nothing." Julianna sighed as she turned back around to help contain the remaining bandits and make sure nothing else went wrong.

At this point pretty much all the bandits were either dead or had already surrendered so there was little else to do but make sure no bandits escape as the remaining fighters were quickly cut down. Tiral was able to douse the fire thankfully so there would not be the threat of a fire breaking out and destroying them in the clever trap. Overall the battle was won but not much had really gone their way, their captain had put the company's lives in danger at least twice by charging on ahead and a few good men had lost their lives in the skirmish.

At the moment Julianna had nothing really to show for the battle, except for a few bruises and scrapes from her encounters with bandits but that changed when a knight showed up beside her.

"Dame Julianna, here is the spear head from the weapon lodged in the undead." The knight was one of the Iron Rose Knights completely in the noble faction devoted toward changing the system. "I know its not much but anything that can bring us a step closer to changing this archaic system is what I'm after. By the goddesses today was almost a disaster!"

Julianna quickly took the spear head and hid it on her person. Like the knight had said it was not much but the piece of evidence would help build up their argument. Even though the spear had been used as a weapon again in battle, since it had been lodged in the undead the magic keeping her alive would still be on the spear head which would be detectable by the clergy.

At least the day was not a total waste.

"Thank you for your cooperation, I'll make sure my family remembers your deeds." Julianna watched as the knight nodded, then left her side to help contain the bandits. Julianna rejoined the main force to help take command while the captain and the others were occupied.

"Bandits! Lay down your arms and surrender immediately, those who refuse will meet the sword for your crimes against the people of this kingdom! This is your only warning!" Julianna looked over at the bandits but at this point most of the fight was gone from them, the fight was now pretty much over except where the captain was.

Tyaethe moved forwards further even as Garret's attack was deflected, nearly getting hit by the rebound as she did so. It was clear that the knight still wasn't displaying much forethought beyond whatever skills she had honed into instincts over the years. That was enough to give her a solid idea of how to continue. Even an animal knew to go after the weak point to bring down their prey, whether that was targeting the weak link in a group or an existing injury.

But Tyaethe didn't want him to have a chance to keep backing away until he could find a position to launch a counterattack or escape. She wanted him brought down now for daring to touch the captain. Any desire to keep herself safe was long since eroded and she took the very real risk of getting cut to move even closer before swinging at his injured arm: he could back off and still be in range, block it poorly and still be hit, or drop down and be on the ground where he could be finished.

Though he could attack, she felt like it wouldn't be an issue. What sort of injured foe could actually deal an injury that was inconvenient, let alone problematic?

Marianne Delacroix

Marianne's heart filled with a little joy feeling Sir Ian's ear flick against her. She admired the young man for his valor, but as she looked around and saw the battle nearing its end, she saw no need for him to continue as hurt as he was. Looking over to one of her men, she beckoned him over as she found an appropriate spot to lean Sir Ian against. The pile of rubble offered sufficient cover and concealment, easily defensible by only a few men. Her men silently understood her desires, forming up around Sir Ian to protect him.

"There is no need, Sir Ian. The Iron Roses have very nearly won. Fight if you must and find a need to, but I would rather you stay safe until we can return home and tend to your injuries."
Marianne spoke with kind and gentle tone, kneeling on one knee as she spoke face to face with the Hundi knight.

Standing, she turned and allowed Sir Ian to remain in the good hands of the soldiers they commanded. Returning to Sir Tiral's side, she watched on as he cast his spell and doused the flames quite effectively. As he froze the entirety of the tree, she couldn't help but become awed by Sir Tiral's prowess with the magical arts. Perhaps after their current mission, she would have to confide in him and request to be tutored. Though, she doubted that he could help her develop her own spells because of her affinity for lightning magic, anything new she could learn would be greatly appreciated. Her own understanding of magic only going so far to allow her to know a grand total of two spells. Now, they could cross to regroup and reinforce Captain Fanilly's numbers. But, for what she had in mind, that may or may not be needed. With a graceful leap, Marianne landed on top of the iced-over wood and stabbed the point of her blade down to act as an anchor to steady herself as she knelt on one knee.

Looking across the horizon, the other Iron Roses were holding their own against the bandit leader Jeremiah. Out of concern for her comrades, she couldn't help but worry that they may not all make it out of their duel unscathed. This mission needed to be done with. Their fight had to end and quickly at that. So, turning head to look down at Sir Tiral, she decided it was now her turn. Whether or not they would accept Marianne's aid was up to Sir Garret, Dame Tyranthe, and Dame Sult. She simply wanted to expand their options.

"Sir Tiral. As you rest, I politely you request that you allow me to bide time. I'll be supporting our fellow Iron Roses from where I kneel here. I leave my care in your hands, please watch over me."

Turning back to eye the bandit leader Jeremiah from her distant location, she removed the dirtied white gloves she wore and set them on the ground. Reaching up with her now bared hands, she then removed the white veil she kept in her hair. The veil bearing the symbol of the Delacroix and acting as a slight remedy to keep her long hair under control whenever she became electrified, a blue rose attached to it simply for fashion. Clutching the veil in her left, she bowed her head and raised her right hand toward the skies. Her palm opened wide as if to beg to the deities above.

Closing her eyes as she started to channel and collect her inner mana, she began to recite the lengthy incantation that called forth her currently most powerful spell. One that she was certain could either turn the tide in the fight against Jeremiah, or end him altogether.

"I HAVE invoked thee, O Sun, in the midst of the high heavens.
Thou art in the shadow of the cedar, and thy feet rest on the summits.
The countries have called thee eagerly, they have directed their looks towards thee,
O Friend, thy brilliant light illuminates every land, overthrowing all that impedes thee, assemble the countries, for thou, O Sun, knowest their boundaries."

Like a exploding swarm of insects, Marianne's mana erupted from her body and took its form. Angry and feverish arcs of yellowed lightning crackled and hissed, spider-webbing across her body as they covered her. The ground upon which she knelt began to hum and vibrate as a slight warm glow emanated from Marianne. The arcs climbing and crawling upward as they began to collect in her palm, creating an orb of intense and bright light. As her mana collected, the surrounding area began to warm and heat. The frost on the tree thawing outward with Marianne as the center and source.

"Thou who annihilates falsehood, who dissipated the evil influence of wonders, omens, sorceries, dreams, evil apparitions, who turnest to a happy issue malicious designs, who annihilates men and countries that devote themselves to fatal sorceries, I have taken refuge in thy presence."

Gradually, the intensity of her emitted heat and light increased. Growing more and more as she continued to weave and cast her spell through her incantation. Her hair floating and levitating from the static build up as stray arcs of electricity raged and snapped out to strike at random points on the ground around her. The sound of her spell cast becoming louder and louder. The humming causing the ground near her to tremble and shake, deafening. The crackling akin to hundreds of miniature explosions with their pops and snaps.

"Do not allow those who make spells, and are hardened, to arise.
Frighten their heart,
Settle also, O Sun, light of the great goddess Reon
Right into my marrow, O Lords of breath, that I may rejoice, even I."

The orb of lightning in her hands increased in size, like a miniature 'Sun' in its own right. The air around her heated to the point of where it became difficult to breathe. The light blinding, forcing any to look away. The trembling ground from the vibrations of her spell cast made it difficult to stand on steady footing. The arcs of stray lightning threatening friend and foe alike and dared any to approach her.

"May the goddesses who created me take my hands!
Direct the breath of my mouth!
My hands direct them also, Lord, light of the legions of the heavens. Sun, O Judge!"

Opening her eyes, she tightly clutched the orb of lightning. Crushing it as she 'finished' her incantation. With a loud roar and thunderous boom imitating a localized clap of thunder, the orb took its final form as a long and jagged javelin or throwing spear. A gust of wind erupting outward dramatically upon its birth. Marianne basked in the warm, golden light of the massive spear. Her figure difficult to lay eyes on as she remained there on the fallen tree, her gaze locked onto Jeremiah as she waited for her moment. All she required was a clear shot, for her allies to safely move out of the area. All she needed was a signal, a sign. When that moment came, she doubted that even Jeremiah could evade her spell or even survive it. Its flight path and speed caught many off guard, which would seal their fate to an early grave.

If they simply finished Jeremiah off, then that would be that and Marianne would allow her spell to die away. At the very least, her presence on the battlefield now served as a major distraction and prime target. For until her spear was allowed the freedom of flight or to fade away into quiet death, Marianne could not freely move. Though anyone foolish enough to come near her risked being burned, electrocuted, or hit at point-blank range from the javelin. Without Jeremiah, surely the remaining bandits would surrender and their lives spared. Her brown eyes took on the same color gold as her javelin, expression stoic as she focused all of her attention to maintaining the spell and on ending the bandit leader's life.

Iowerth's fatal slash cut through the man in front of him just as cavalry broke through the ranks around him. In one fluid motion he pivoted, and drove his sword through one of the few remaining bandits before withdrawing the blade with a grunt of disgust and taking a moment get his bearings. The battle, it seemed, was going as expected in spite of the surprises the knights had faced. The flanks had finally been secured, and it seemed most of the resistance was focused around the center of the camp, where a mob of undisciplined men were surrounded. The battle was won, more or less, and with a rare smile he allowed the thrill of victory to wash over him as he caught his breath.

"Did you need help?”

"Hardly. The odds were, what, five to one? You should have set up a betting pool instead and shared the winnings with me after we stomped them. That would have been helpful."

The man's smile faded into his usual grim sarcasm as he looked up at the knight. Iowerth already felt like he was in a constant state of I'm too old for this shit he couldn't imagine what Aethelmund felt at his age, especially being wounded. With a sigh, he pulled out a handkerchief and began wiping the blood from his blade, convinced that it's use for the day was done. He'd eventually have to find his crossbow as well somewhere in the chaos of the battlefield.

"Sir, if I may, the battle is nearly won. You should get that shoulder looked at before infection has a chance to settle in. I can take over command from here. There won't be much more resistance."

Speaking of command, he didn't have a chance to hear the old knight's reply before the sound of shouted orders reached his ear;

"Bandits! Lay down your arms and surrender immediately, those who refuse will meet the sword for your crimes against the people of this kingdom! This is your only warning!"

Juliana Silvern, the Captain-that-could-have-been. While far newer than House Rhyddarch, the influence of House Silvern had been growing at an alarmingly rapid rate since the last war. Every noble family across Thaln had taken note, especially Iolyn's own. According to rumors she had been bred all her life to be in Fanilly's position, in spite of her birth. They were, from what he'd seen of the woman so far, plausible at the very least. He came up beside her, sheathing his sword, and gripped her shoulder tightly. Speaking low so that only she could hear;

"You are not captain yet, nor are you of a leadership position within the Order or this battlefield. Do not go issuing commands as if any of these things are the case."

And then, after a brief pause.

"It would be wisest not to show your ambition too openly before you've gained more support."

Iolyn's criticisms were harsh as usual, but level heads could usually see the intent beneath. Juliana risked appearing more as a spoiled brat competing with Fanilly rather than a leader better fit to rule with the attitude he'd seen from her so far. At least, to the older knights in the order. Respect would have to come first, and more modesty would help that. These of course were only assumptions on Iowerth's part. If assumptions with a pretty hefty basis.

As for Iolyn's own thoughts on how the knights chose their captain: He had never spoken a word about it, and his opinion remained his own for now. It was clear though, whether he wanted the process changed or not, he expected the current hierarchy to be maintained, at least on the battlefield. Breaking the chain of command breeds confusion, which wastes lives.

Finally, the man raised his voice, clearly accustomed to giving orders himself:

"Obey flags of surrender! No quarter to the rest!"

No other command was needed, he wondered briefly about how the fight against the Bandit King was fairing, but considering the number of talented knights he'd seen taking part, he assumed that battle was even more well wrapped up than this one.

He hoped, anyway.

Tyeatha presented the best opportunity Sir Garrett could have ever hoped for. Her reckless assault wouldn't get her killed but it also provided an opening that he could utilize. Sult’s little distraction had also helped. With two quick steps the Hill Knight was behind the Knight slayer as Tyeatha pressed the assault from in front of him Sir Garrett took advantage of the fact that the man had use of only one arm and no armor. Driving in from behind Sir Garrett aimed an arcing cut which swung smoothly up on his right side driving across under the Slayers right arm. If the strike connected it would sever the muscle holding up his sword arm. Continuing the cut Sir Garrett pulled it around in a vicious C pattern as it came low cutting across the back of the Knight Slayers knees aiming to sever the two joints or at the very least cut the tendons holding the man’s calves in place.

Following the vicious cut Sir Garrett hefted the sword and flipped it so that he was gripping the blade in his gauntleted hand. One hand on the hilt and one on the blade he drove the top of the sword towards the man’s unprotected back twice. One stab went high towards the base of the spine the other he drove toward the man’s left kidney. If his two stabs failed to connect Sir Garret made sure that this would be the last of the Knight Slayer as he flipped his sword over so he grabbed it by the blade in two hands. With a heavy and a roar like thunder he drove a murder stroke with the cross guard of the sword towards the shoulder of the Knight slayer.

After all of it Sir Garrett did not trust that the murder stroke would do the trick. Given the state of his shoulder after the protracted fight Sir Garrett heaved the sword into the air and grabbed the hilt of it and with a single one handed cut drove the sword at the Knight Slayer's neck with only his left hand aiming to sever the head from its body.

Time to die scum you aren’t taking another soul with you, you damned monster.

Even in this situation, the Knight Slayer grinned. It was a vicious, animalistic grin, filled with cold joy at the prospect of death and pain.

His enormous sword flashed, clashing against the undead knight's. With inhuman-seeming strength, he pushed the attack off-course, and whirled to deflect the blow from Garret with speed that would have seemed quite unlikely for someone with one useless arm and such a massive sword. His feet shifted, and suddenly he was further back, the massive blade raised and his eyes wild, almost sharpened teeth visible in a widening grin.

"You think you can win!?" he snarled. Even though the odds, of course, seemed to favor the knights, Jeremiah seemed to believe otherwise. How could one injured man believe that he held the advantage? "Years and years of my life have been spent spilling blood time and time again! My whole life is a song of violence! Never has a day passed where I did not kill a man! Can you say the same, knights?! Can you tell me you have done the same?!"

His enormous blade glistened with the blood of the man he had cut in half not long before he engaged in battle with Fanilly, as Jeremiah raised it towards his opponents.

"Your order will die here, by my hand! Today you-"

There are some things that no-one can expect. As wild and manic as he was, Jeremiah was focused on his opponents. He had not seen a spell cast beyond the now-frozen log. For all his experience in the act of killing, his bloody-minded rage intermixed with glee had kept him from perceiving this more distant threat. At least, until this moment.

The golden bolt of lightning tore towards him, faster then he realized. Jeremiah's eyes widened in shock, and he had no time to react. No time to dodge.

There was a crack like thunder as it hit him. The bolt exploded through his body, crackling as it burned a hole clear through him, a wide, smoking cavity that exited out his back, showing nothing but blackened, unrecognizable matter around the edges. The bolt hit the ground with another thunderclap, tossing up dirt and debris behind him.

Jeremiah took a step back.

"... Kuh... you... damn you..."

He let out a wheeze, falling to his knees.

"I... always hated... magic..."

He fell, face down into the dirt, his enormous blade clattering against the ground.

Knight's Doom Jeremiah, the Three Hundred Man-Slayer, was dead.

Tiral stared at Marianne with an incredulous look as she asked for his aid. His hands were already sort of tied right now, given how he was not exactly in a position to cast much anything else unless he wanted to risk going unconscious in the middle of the battlefield. At the same time, though, with his goal having already been achieved by now and the bandits mostly routed, the mage responded with a nod and a somewhat-strained smile as he drew his dagger from its icy sheath.

"I shall... Do my best."

What he was not expecting, though, was the spear of lightning that his fellow knight had formed right in front of him. The heat was astounding, melting the ice near where she had anchored herself nearby. How she could stand retaining such a spell... Well, given how Tiral hadn't ventured out further past his current repertoire, maybe it would be in his best interests to learn what caused this phenomenon. Later, though. That would have to come later.

The fight against the Captain's enemy was over in an instant; once the spear of lightning had launched, it was as if it became an unstoppable force, easily plowing through the man's chest and leaving nothing but a burnt hole in its wake. Tiral winced at the sight; how brutal. Unforgiving.

But somehow satisfying to see.

"Well. That was... A spectacle. Could do with some more speed in the incantation, though..." Tiral mused to himself as he extended a hand to help Marianne down from the log. There seemed to be a bit of electricity floating around her in terms of spark, but surely that was just a trick of the light, right?