Lem Arronson could not sleep. He could not sleep because of the noise of the man dying in the tent next to him.

They had been encamped at Tradeforth for nigh a week now. The captain had been fine as they had rode beneath the city's gate and through its narrow streets to the grounds set aside for them outside the castle's barbican. He had been hale and healthy as ever upon his warhorse, expounding with zeal to his leftenants about how this contract would be the one that restored the Band of Fortune to its former glory. The captain and Lem both remembered those better times, long ago as they may have been. Maybe he had just been inspired or infected by that optimism, but Lem had been sure he could have felt something in air that day. As if destiny was waiting behind the corner of every timber framed building, or lurking in the shadows of a cobbled alley. Now it looked like his oldest friend and commander was about to die.

The sickness had started the second day after they had arrived. At first the captain had blamed it on that he was eating richer fair than what he had been used to on the road. It was true Duke Howard kept a good table, but by the next morning it was apparent that it was more than just a mild complaint of the stomach. All that day he had made the trip out to the latrine pit leaning on the arm of his squire, then the vomiting had started and they did their best to catch it in bed pans and chamber pots. They knew it was the flux by then. The captain hadn't left his bed since.

It was inescapable for Lem, even over the patter of the rain against the canvas. The hacking, gagging, gasping sound of the captain retching up blood and whatever liquids they forced down his throat was only ever a few feet away. They had to do it, Lem knew that, he had seen enough men die of the flux. You had to keep them drinking, as cruel as it might seem, or they would die within the day. Sometimes the captain would rant and rave to people who weren't there. Old comrades they had both known, now long dead. His wife who waited for him back with his family in Neystead. The grown man had cried and begged for his mother all the night before.

Lem could hardly stand it. He sat upon his stool at his low table, burning a candle for no reason other than that he couldn't bare to listen to those sounds alone and in the dark. He drank sour wine from a wooden cup. It eased the pain in his soul... and the pain in his leg as well. It always seemed worse when it was wet. He grimaced and took another sip of the wine. It so tragically unfair, that the man who had dreamed of their future was dying just before their chance to grasp it. The Band of Fools could be the Band of Fortune once more, the captain had believed that more firmly than anyone. But on the eve of the largest war the country had seen in decades, their great opportunity, the man was dying in his own shit. Maybe they were all fools after all.

He worried. He worried about the captain. He worried about the himself, and the men, and the war. Was Northall the right choice? He had offered them more than the going rate, and was a seasoned commander himself. But they had seen the size of his army encamped here. They said more were coming, the lords of the Hook and a fresh levy from Northall. They said the Duke of Forlinger would call his banners and come to their cause any day now, or that the sails of longships from Skerry would be seen on the river at the next tide. One thing was for sure, they were running out of time. Godfrey's army was in the Wolds, it was days, not weeks until they were upon them.

Lem sighed to himself and drained his cup dry. He should try to get some sleep now he supposed, he and Sir Branimir had to keep things running in the camp and he needed his wits about him. But that damned noise would prob-

Lem sat bolt upright.

There was no sound except the rain against his tent.

"Shit."

At that moment the door to his tent parted to reveal the captain's squire, his eyes were wide and his face was paler than a ghost. Lem already knew what had happened before he opened his mouth.

"Wake up Branimir." Lem commanded him gently as he could. "Its going to be a very long night I'm afraid..."

---

The rain had cleared before dawn, and when the sun rose it was glorious. This did little to raise Lem's spirits however, because he was sure he was facing on the most difficult days of his life. He had decided to don his armour before going out to face the men. He told himself that it was for their sake, to a reassure them that even without the captain there were men of experience and martial prowess amongst them that they could rely upon. Deep down he knew it was for himself. The armour would protect him, in more ways than one. He wore a long surcoat over his mail that was emblazoned in the black and gold colours of the Company. It would help to hide his limp. When he was ready he tied his sword belt around his waist and strode out of his tent and into the camp.

The ground was drying out in the morning sun as the Company stirred itself to action. There was woodsmoke from the cook fires lingering in the air and in the distance the sound of a blacksmith hammering away at his forge. Beyond that there was sounds of the city, although it was no doubt somewhat subdued - many had already left in fear of what might happen if Godfrey decided to try to and take Tradeforth. In the still air the black and gold banners hung limply.

Already eyes were turning to him, but no one greeted Lem as he made his way to the centre of the camp. It was clear the news had already gotten out. Branimir was waiting for him at the foot of one of the wagons they used to transport their equipment and supplies. The large knight had a noble countenance and a natural charisma. Coming from him the words that Lem was about to speak would not doubt probably seem more poignant or meaningful, but Lem was the senior of the two, and the captain had been his oldest friend. No, it was his duty to do this.

As he clambered atop the cart, Lem couldn't help but notice the glint of silver around Branimir's neck. The necklace, the one that supposedly kept a man from death - had he parted from it for but one night perhaps Lem wouldn't be doing this. Perhaps. Once he was elevated above the camp he opened his mouth and raised his voice.

"Alright you lot, listen up!" They began to gather round. "I have some grave news for us all. As some of you may have already heard, our captain is dead. He went last night, quietly, in his sleep." That was a lie. "He was a good man, who fought by my side for two score years in more battles than I care to count. He believed in the Band and served it in everything he did. He had faith in us, and we had faith in him. He is with the Blessed One now, may he judge him kindly."

He paused for a moment, he had meant to say more but he couldn't remember it. He should say more, but the words wouldn't come. Words had never been his strong suit. His Northern accent and plain manner butchered fanciful prose. There must be some way he could communicate what this man had meant to him, and to others.

"Ah fuck it... I will miss him... but we have no time to mourn. There is a war going on. We bury the captain tomorrow, and then we elect a new captain. Until then, there is work that needs to be done. Foraging parties, you know your task, there shouldn't be a scrap of food left outside these walls when Godfrey the usurper gets here. Everyone else, there are hoardings that need to be built, ditches to dug, walls to be repaired. Duke Howard is paying us good coin, go earn it."

With that he climbed down off the wagon. The men started to go their business. As he reached the ground his leg almost went out from under him as he put his weight upon it. Lem caught himself against its wooden frame and hoped no one had saw. There was tear in his eye, was it from his leg or from what he had just said? He didn't know.

"One of us should speak to Sister Margaret." Lem turned toward Branimir. "Someone needs to see to the body, make sure he's clean. And there's still the matter of his effects."

It was definitely going to be a long day.

"Lem's awake. Looks like he's about to give a speech."

The words weren't even addressed to him, but they roused Cedric from his sleep all the same. He dressed hastily, leaving his armor and weapons by his bedding and sliding between the gathering crowd to get a clear look. His spirits rose for a moment; Lem was dressed for war, his armor gleaming in the warm morning sun, which was a welcome sight. The colors, the surcoat, the sword...everything pointed towards a serious announcement. Cedric was on the verge of rushing back to pick up his own armor when he saw Lem's face. It was almost as though the weather from the previous night had returned. Something absolutely dreadful had happened, and he had a feeling that it hadn't a thing to do with war.

"I have some grave news for us all. As some of you may have already heard, our captain is dead. He went last night, quietly, in his sleep."

Cedric winced. He trusted Lem with his life, but he hated being lied to. The sounds that came from the captain's tent had not escaped his razor-sharp hearing. The crackling of fire and snoring of older men were unsuccessful in drowning out the mindless ranting and liquid-fueled gasps that had invaded his dreams and robbed him of a good night's rest. Lem had ceased from talking, but his face continued to tell a story so grim that Cedric had to look away, instead observing the other men. Most looked surprised. Some looked angry. A few of the older soldiers bowed their heads and muttered a prayer, and somewhere in the mass of hard, grizzled veterans, someone was quietly sobbing.

The speech continued, switching now to tasks and jobs. One in particular caught his ear.

Foraging parties, you know your task, there shouldn't be a scrap of food left outside these walls when Godfrey the usurper gets here.

The young archer hurried away to avoid the throng of men as they went about their duties. Berislav would likely be joining him to map out a route for the day, though his nature and talent made him hard to keep up with once they were on the move. Cedric kept both eye and ear out for him as he dressed, strapping and buckling on everything from helmet to greaves. He couldn't resist a grin as he slid his bow from the bag it had been stored in. It was a fine day for shooting and, having honed every arrow to a fine point and filled his quiver to the limit, he looked forward to the hunt. He closed his eyes and plucked the string, listening to the shrill "chirp" that resonated from it. To his ears, it was a finer sound than any musician could produce on any other string. Giving his belt a tug to confirm it was tight and grabbing a bit of food for the trail, he jogged off, weaving his way through the crowd and heading for the stables.

Waking early to start his day, Gerard had been busying himself with Bona until time to wake his father. She had been fed, brushed, and returned to the stables in no time at all; incidentally, Gerard realized he had little left to do before the sun broke the horizon. Gerard opted to wait outside his father's tent until the proper time, lest he get carried away and drift back to sleep. Taking a step, Gerard's foot caught a soft spot and rushed out from beneath him. Reaching out, Gerard managed to catch himself on Bona. That had better been mud.

A couple of stable boys had poked their heads around at the sound of Gerard's shocked cry. Gerard gave them a quick wave as he steadied himself. Watch where you step, fool. Moving quickly now, Gerard made his way across the camp towards a bundle of tents. Darting past several of the men, Gerard couldn't help but be curious as to what was causing such an early commotion.

Finally, reaching his father's tent, he stepped in to see his father already awake and half dressed. "You're early this morning, Father." Johannes Gast merely stared back at his son, no expression of joy or merriment on his brow. "Come to think of it, several of the men are early rising today." Gerard had helped his father finish dressing. Johannes clapped him on the shoulder and, without a word, left his tent. Gerard quickly doused the flames of the tent and sped out behind Johannes.

"Gerard. There's to be an announcement made this morning. Don't miss it." Johannes dismissed him and walked hastily across the fields. An announcement? Was there a conflict soon? Gerard knew the usurper was close but he had overheard that there was more time to be had. A shiver of fear rippled down his spine as he milled about, lost in thought. Eventually, he asked anyone who listened for information. He was given a jumbled mix of rumors that were of no use to him. Gerard had managed to discover where the announcement was being held as his father had failed to mention where it would reside. He knew his father had simply forgotten this was his first march. He thanked each stranger he spoke to earnestly and rushed off to hear the announcement.

"... our captain is dead..."

Gerard had only now managed to reach the throngs of soldiers standing leisurely about the carts but those four words stopped him in his tracks. Uncertainty swelled within him and his thoughts began to wander. Raising with concern were other voices, men who had more questions than patience.

"... elect a new captain." Gerard despaired. His employment with the band had been tied to the captain and the bond he bore with Gerard's father. With a new captain, would Gerard find himself deserted, told to run home like a child? He shook his fears off, replacing them with a brave face. He would simply have to work harder.

"... ditches to be dug..." Ditches! I can dig ditches! Determination ate away at the uncertainty in his legs and Gerard began to move again. He run quickly to find his father, eager to see what task he could tackle. Surely if he worked as hard as two men, the new captain couldn't possibly toss him out of the band.

Despite spending half the night soaked and speaking with Lem, Branimir did not falter in his gaze or posture as his fellow leftenant gathered the company around to give them the news. Out of respect for his loss, Branimir wasn't offended at all that Lem was the one addressing the crew. True, Branimir had been apart of the band for a number of years and had fought and bled alongside the Captain, but not nearly as long as Lem. What's more, he know how close the two of them were. It was only right.

Even standing beside the towering Lem ontop of the wagon, sir Branimir (as men still oft called him) was a powerful figure of stalwart strength. Even now he wore his armor, despite the scouts assurances that no enemy force was within a day's march, if not several. But a commander was a leader, not an overseer. To lead by example was his duty, which was why he also personally saw to many of the men's training or performance of duties. Such qualities helped skyrocket him to position of leftenant in a relatively short amount of time, though he was not without his flaws. He admittedly could be a bit overbearing in certain circumstances, and was quite the bad haggler when it came to hiring price.

Hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword, his other hand was closed into a fist as Lem described his lament of the Captain's death. His wolfish gaze swept over the Company however, ensuring everyone was at the ready, paying attention. He wouldn't halt barking orders at a disrespectful soldier when need be. Luckily, the men had respected the Captain as much as any sellsword could, and they listened in silence, before being ordered off to their tasks.

"One of us should speak to Sister Margaret." Lem turned toward Branimir. "Someone needs to see to the body, make sure he's clean. And there's still the matter of his effects."

"I'll see to it," Branimir said, his voice far more cultured than Lem's, carrying the power of a military zealot even in normal speech. He placed a hand on Lem's shoulder, as much to check his steadiness as to reassure him. "Afterwards, I'll oversee the men at the ditch." With a nod and a final pat on Lem's shoulder, he stalked away with a surety of movement. Despite their differences in upbringing, Branimir and Lem respected one another's skills. The former Knight recognized that Lem was a thoroughly dangerous and capable man even without formal training. They had both been tried under real combat, and months of waiting, and disease.

Unfortunately for the Captain, you cannot survive ever hazard, every time.

He marched to meet Sister Margaret.

Bang

Bang

Bang

A large tent near the center of the camp was always filled with both light and movement. Wulfric never seemed to sleep long, always up early and to bed late. His hammer was an extension of himself at this point, and if he wasn't pounding out metal or quenching a group of longswords, he was asleep. Ironically, most of the mercenaries that lived around his tent grumbled for the first few days, as most would cast lots to not have to sleep near the iron forge and its blacksmith. Towards the end of a week however, most of them claimed the banging became natural. That when the hammer finally quieted, that was when they woke from their sleep. Wulfric knew he could not stay up the entire day, and the aforementioned captain, heaven rest his soul, had chided him for it in the past.

Today was different however. Wulfric was hard at work early in the morning, and had heard of the captain's death through the rumors and the murmurs of the different mercenaries that lived near the captain's tent. Wulfric did not know the captain well, only talking with him when it came to orders and the like. The captain knew Wulfric's story, and thankfully had allowed him access to the Band of Fools. Most would not have bothered taking in Wulfric, but the captain took pity on the man. Actually, Wulfric was unsure of the major reason the captain allowed him to smith for the camp. Was it pity or just plain desperation?

Regardless of the reasoning, Wulfric had been known to many throughout the camp. Being the camp blacksmith meant being a doctor of sorts, repairing those items that soldiers found important. Most of the time, though a miracle of his hands, Wulfric could fix their weapons and armor. Today however, Wulfric's orders were apparent. Arrowheads, swords, helmets and even armor needed to be made and Wulfric was already behind schedule. A pitched battle could happen at any moment, as the entire country seems to be boiling into war. Conflict had a habit of restricting metals, and Wulfric knew how difficult it would be to find equipment in the future.

Once the equipment was finished, Wulfric would make sure to aid the masons in the rebuilding and fortification of Tradeforth. Simple crafting like stakes and the like were easy enough to carve, and Wulfric knew that doing that would be more helpful then anything else he could do. Continuing to strike the anvil over and over again, Wulfric's face twisted as the embers rose from the sword he was shaping. The heat and rose color made the scars in his face leap out to those around him, and his determination in crafting seemed undeterred by anything else in the camp. Squires and other soldiers that asked him questions were given their answers and nothing more. His work was his pride, and nothing would stop him for now.

Somewhere in the camp, out on the fringes but not that far from the most outward structures of Company tents, what looked very much like nothing more than a pile of rags and furs began to move; it shivered for a moment, a wheezing noise heard from within it, the outermost coverings moving before the entire thing began to heave upward. Slowly but surely the wheezing grew louder, the weight of the nights rainfall only making progress harder, before those rags most exposed to the elements started to slide this way and that away from the centre of the mound – with one final, heavy, thrust the makeshift shelter collapsed to reveal an arm and the figure beneath it.

There was much blustering and swearing as the top of a head appeared, the musical and lilting language of the clans of the Skerry Isles veiling there more gratuitous meanings from those that did not understand, the seemingly cotton-capped flesh giving way to a furrowed and haggard face – though the beard lining the jaw was clearly kept in fine condition! - a full head neatly appearing, to be followed by a lean body swaddled in saffron linen and a mat-like cloak about the shoulders.

Keen eyes took in the obvious commotion about the place, the head shaking itself, while measured movements bought clicks and pops from old bones, something was happening...or had already happened.

“Ey,” came a raspy summons, the exclamation directed at a dour looking fellow returning to his fireside, “ey...Jankin!” The bidding was louder yet just as raspy, Jankin – a middle aged infantryman from Kingsbury – turning to peer at the elderly fighter with black-rimmed eyes. There was something else though, a sadness only recently entered, something had indeed happened while the arguably eldest member of the Band slept beneath his sodden pile.

“Ah.” Croaked the veteran, giving a small smack of his lips as he bent backward in an effort to ease some of the pain in his spine, “so the captain has finally gone to meet his ancestors.” It was not a question but a statement, for though he walked with the other foot-sloggers of the Band, Brádach has seen the captain both before and after they had encamped themselves at Tradeforth...a time that seemed like an age ago now, though it was but a week. He had seen the state of the man, and he had lived long enough to know that there would be no saving him, nor did it help when he had seen many other die in a similar way already.

“Aye Piper, the Caps gone,” acknowledged the broad Westar man, taking a seat by his fire and offering the man of Skerry a mug of barely warmed something-or-other, a mug that was accepted and soon revealed to be mulled wine. Brádach had never really liked wine, but on a day like this – both in the flesh and in the soul – there was much comfort in a warm sup of anything that would lift the heart.

While Brádach had not known the captain that well, he had known him well enough, always a reassurance to his soldiers and a decent human being – much better than many he had known – it was a shame to lose him, especially now, what with the freshly sealed contract and all.

“Any else?”

“Aye, seems they'll be electing a new captain soon...” Jankin paused for a moment before going on, “my monies on Lem, though how Sir Bradford will take it I do not know.”

All Brádach could do, all he did do, was give a crooked smile and a small shake of his head before handing back the clay mug and reaching an arm into his sleeping hole. He had dug it specifically lower at one end so the water had had somewhere to go, not that it helped much, everything was still soaked. Nevertheless upon pulling back his arm he lifted with it a jumble of wooden tubes and an airless bladder.

“Oh, please, do not start playing that thing here.”

“And why not, Jankin Alsermann?! It is only fitting that I compose something for the dearly departed captain, is it not?”

“I keep telling you, you're not the bard of this Band, your not even really a musician, so please stop making my ears bleed with your damnable wailing sack of moans!”

Letting an affronted expression cross his face, the elderly soldier belted up his tunic, tucked his arming sword into it, put the steel cap upon his head and tucked the pipes under his arm.

“If I find anything missing from my hole when I return, I will gut you.”

Jankin would easily have laughed that off as a joke...except that he knew it was not, instead he gave a small nod of his head and went back to prodding his fire as others began to filter back to their tents and shelters all around the pair.

“Right then.”

Tucking the bladder under his armpit, his wetted lips meeting the mouthpiece of the blowpipe, he curled his fingers about the chanter and gave it an experimental puff of air. After a few moments of nothing but water expulsion, much to his annoyance, there came a low drone and a smile to the islanders face.

Mere moments later and the barefooted piper was marching off for 'a walk' so he said, having forgotten his sandals and not too concerned with occupations best left to younger men. Foraging? His eyesight, while honestly not too poor, was something he even so claimed to be terrible. Repairing walls? He could barely lift a fecking slab of stone anymore, how was he supposed to repair walls?!

While he had no idea what Lem had actually said, he did have a vague idea of what their orders may be, and he for one was happier where he was...wandering around the fringe of the camp, around what was left of the spare ground beyond the barbican, attempting to come up with a tune fit for a funeral; maybe he'd call it 'the captain's dirge' or 'amazing waste' or some such, he hadn't decided yet.

What did take hold was a piece of sorts, slow and steady, a tune that men could walk slowly to – up a hill perhaps, or to a grave - it was not exactly pleasant to listen to, but the pipes were not really made for leisure anyway.

Shame motioned Ottavio, as Il Sposoletto stoked the fire that warmed their Lancia. The mute knight made a couple of lazy gestures that roughly indicated his concern – the captain had been a rock that kept the company grounded, the Compaigna di Fortuna isn’t what is was half a decade ago. Compaigna di Sventura would be more accurate, the company of misfortune. Ottavio sucked his teeth, before hawking and spitting bloody phlegm into the fire, returning to sharpening his blade.

Il Sposoletto had just returned from the company meeting with a few of the other men-at-arms in their lance, bringing the news, food supplies and water. Tossing hard loaves of bread at a pair of the archers still asleep, he dumped some of the water into an old cast-iron pot to prepare a heartier meal. He predicted it would take about half a day for the company to divide itself into who it’s going to support in the election, and a bit of stew would drag a conversation out of the hungriest of men.

Hanging the pot over the fire, ignoring the grumblings of the archers he woke, Letto turned to Ottavio. “I hear there are two farms and a small hamlet along the east fork of that stream near the windmill.”
Ottavio nodded without looking up, his hand twitching in a semblance of acknowledgement. Slowly returning the nod, the little groom looked around to the rest of the Lancia, in various states of getting ready for the day. “Quarter of a bell, then mount up,” he said, to their grumbling. At seven men they made up one of the larger lances in the contingent, but Taratis have to stick together, especially with the rumours of the Prince gathering his armies to push his claim. There were perhaps another forty Tarais and their Bordian cousins spread throughout the company, but there was no complaint – Taratio has been fighting Taratio for centuries, it was ingrained into the culture.

As Sposoletto turned away from the fire and began heading towards the centre of the camp, Ottavio grunted to get his attention. Where? the Knight motioned, pointing at the squire.
“Blacksmith.”
The knight shrugged, spat again, and went back to cleaning his blade.
Sposoletto shook his head slightly, continuing to make his way towards the banging in the centre of the camp, tugging on his beard in thought. The knight had an unhealthy obsession with knowing his movements of late, but since the plague he had seemed overly concerned for most. As young men they had seen some of the worse epidemics sweep the slums of Taratio so it wasn’t a surprise. One of his archers was still recovering from the same flux that had killed the captain.

Which reminded him… he shot out an arm to catch a longbowman who seemed to be rushing toward the stables and looked up with a squint. “Scusa...” Sposoletto sucked his teeth before recalling the name, “Amberstone – si?” He pronounced the name slowly; while his mastery of Common was excellent, he knew he still had a heavy accent. “I’d feel safer with an extra archer in my lance today, and you were a farm lad, si? Do you feel like a short ride this morning, or are you already tasked?”
@Mattchstick

The ground, damp from morning dew; a slight misty fog blanketed the field. A morning chill enveloped the camp like a dark omen. Everyone felt it. Baldric Durant sat up from his resting spot on the ground. He shook his arms, as if he were shaking the tightness out, yawning wide. It seemed the older he got the harder it was to sleep on damp soil, waking up to make water in the tree line at least once during the night. He recalled hearing the Captain moaning and groaning, taken ill by the Flux. Baldric felt bad for the old man. He hoped he would come back from this. Most men rebound, but it still needed to run its course.

Baldric loved the man. He had given him a break when he joined the Company of Fortune. Baldy, as he was called by those closest to him, his brothers, bound in a shared misery committed himself in the knowledge he would fight for any of them and die if need be. Loyalty was a quality the middle aged north man placed a high value upon. He held it for those he served and felt it for those who served with him. Loyalty and respect were both two-way streets.

Wearing his gambeson, breeches and boots, Baldric stumbled to Lem’s tent. He wanted to check on how the Captain was doing. By the time he got there, he found Lem emerging from the Captain’s tent. By the expression on his face, it did not look well.

After a silent exchange of looks, the Leftenant called for a meeting. Baldric returned to the tents his mates were sleeping in to rouse them. He gathered his Sellswords up, five in all and herded them over to the wagon Leftenant Arronson stood atop. Durant’s Lance gathered around as the Leftenant began to speak. Several others in the company gathered around as Lem began.

"Alright you lot, listen up! I have some grave news for us all. As some of you may have already heard, our captain is dead. He went last night, quietly, in his sleep." Baldy wasn’t exactly surprised by the Leftenant’s words. He knew a man ran a chance of dying once Flux took hold. He had prayed, the Captain would survive, but he also knew the old man, didn’t go quietly. He heard him at high moon when he was making water in the trees. It had been a noisy death. But sure, let the man have his say. It doesn’t matter. ‘The fucker’s dead,’ he thought to himself.

The death of the Captain bothered Baldric terribly. ‘He popped his clogs,’ Baldy thought to himself, an expression found in Ragmark, one he grew up hearing from time to time. After the Leftenant finished, he motioned for the soldiers to follow him back to their spot. None of the men were happy about the news. They were quiet, contemplating the Captain's fate. They knew a new Captain would be elected. Most were all siding with Leftenant Arronson. He was naturally, next in line of succession to take the Captain’s job.

“What scran do we ha’ to break our fast wit?” Podrik Webster asked.

“We ha’ dem rabbits we culd roast,” Craig MacDonald stated matter of fact. "Howay, man, hinny, I said I was clamming!" Craig was very hungry.

“Aye, roast the rabbits,” Baldric commanded as they arrived. “We ken gather s’more later.” The soldiers of the lance skinned the small animals, preparing them for a skewer.

“I need to go see the Smithy,” Baldy addressed Craig and Podrik preparing the meal. “I’ll be ‘ight back.”

He walked past several tents hearing the noise of a hammer striking steel…

Bang

Bang

Bang

He walked past the old Baird, MacShana, overhearing someone comment on his pipes, “I keep telling you, you're not the bard of this Band, you’re not even really a musician, so please stop making my ears bleed with your damnable wailing sack of moans!”

Appreciating the sweet sound of the pipes, Baldy could not help himself. “Ney a listen to this lout, Brádach. Ye keep on a playin’ me lovey.” He smiled at Mr. MacShana hearing the sounds of the hammer getting louder.

Bang

Bang

Bang

Finally, he reached the anvil and forge. “Aye, Yorkie?” Baldy asked his friend, “Ye finish wid me spaulders ey?”

The man motioned to their location. “Thanks, mate,” Baldric picked them up and fitted them over his shoulders. “Ye do fine work, sir,” Baldy smiled at Wulfric, then flipped him a coin. “Fer yer troubles.” Baldric took his new spaulders in hand and made his way back to the lance to break his fast. “Dem rabbits mus’ be ready by now.”

@WestWall@Jbcool

This was going to be one of those days.

A single bead of blood seeped out of her left index finger, hazel eyes staring intently, as if daring the blood to drip down. It hadn't moved at all since she pricked it, though admittedly, she was more concerned that it happened at all. For years she had honed her sewing skills and enjoyed it personally as a hobby, so when she spotted the smallest of tears in her veil, she figured she figured it would be the easiest fix. She had taken a seat on her cot, veil laid out on her lap, needle in hand. As soon as she had plucked through the material with the thin needle, she felt the prick almost immediately. What irony that a holy garment would be indirectly responsible for drawing blood.

Rubbing her index finger and thumb together, Margaret let out a small sigh. She could hear people shuffling around outside the tent, and was tempted to leave her veil behind. No, that wouldn't do, her irritation needed to be put to the side. Still, she was suspicious; anytime she managed to fumble a menial task, it meant bad news. The likely cause was the worsening of the captain's condition, although she had left him stable when she went to bed last night. As she stitched together the tear, she couldn't help but wonder just how much longer he would last. There was a chance his condition would pass, but that was an optimistic hope. A bad feeling formed in the pit of her stomach, and she found herself sewing faster. It wasn't often that she let some negative thoughts influence her, but for now she would prepare for the worst and hope for the best.

Her thoughts interrupted, Margaret nearly leapt out of her skin as an unfamiliar sound soared through the tent. Her eyes were wide as it took her a moment to realize that it was likely pipes, and her surprise was quickly replaced with annoyance. Of all the things to be heard, who in the world thought that would be a good idea? Suppressing several unpleasant thoughts of maiming whoever was responsible, she shook her head, quickly braiding her hair as she decided it was about time she finished up.

Oh yes, this was going to be one of those days. Deciding to play the optimist for once, Margaret let out a sigh, though the song playing through the camp was admittedly distracting. "What a dreadful sound," She murmured, finding the sound difficult to ignore.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Came the sound of three white-fletched arrows hitting a nearby tree. Morning light was just breaking, but the avian denizens of the sparse woodland around Tradeforth had been singing their morning praises for an hour already.

Berislav had left the encampment the night previous, taking with him his bow, sword and a candle lantern he unhooked from the support of one of the tents. He hadn't been sleeping far from the captain, and eventually, the hacking, retching and spewing became too much for the scout. A night of peace, alone, would do him the world of good he thought, and so it had. If it wasn't for the persistent rain, his sopping boots, and the now water-locked earth around him, it might have been a perfect night. At least by Berislav's standards.

Approaching the sturdy Oak, Berislav pulled the bodkins from the bark, one of which had penetrated up to the socket of the arrow head. Noticing the growing rumbling in his stomach, he realized it was due time for a feed and slid the arrows back into their quiver before collecting what was his and making for the camp.

His boots sloshed through the sodden muck, causing him to nearly lose his footing a couple of times as he traipsed and trudged through the woodlands. Within a couple of hours Berislav had made it back to the edge of the camp but had missed the announcement. However, it was a different atmosphere from when he had left the night before, there was a somberness lingering in the air, taking a hold over everyone present. It was not hard from here for the scout to deduce that the captain had not made it through the night. He hung his head low for a moment before finding his groups tent and replacing the lantern he had taken last night on its hook.

Unable to do much, Berislav wished to show some sign of respect to the late captain, and of course the rest of the band that had taken him in and given him purpose anew. With haste he made from the camp to Tradeforth and found the local Clerisy. It wasn't a difficult task, Berislav had become accustomed with the township in his travels of Westar prior to signing up with the free company he now called home.

---

"My son." The church's rector greeted the scout as he entered the nave of the building, drawing the attention of Berislav who nodded in a gesture of recognition.

"Your holiness." Drew the response as Berislav made his way towards the steeples entrance, examining the aisles as he passed. There were few around at this hour of the morning, those who sat or knelt quietly probably praying for some salvation. The young man had never been religious himself, something instilled in him by his Grandfather, although at one stage of his earlier life it had nearly been a very different story, thanks to a father's aspirations for his son. Places like these always conjured thoughts of Henryk, thoughts that would only flit by as Berislav would do his best to shake them off as soon as they reared their heads. He had found, over the last few years, that dwelling on such things did no good for one's head, he had experienced first hand what overthinking had done to his father and did not want to end up the same, disheveled husk. It was then his mind wandered to his father and how he was doing now, maybe Berislav would get a chance to visit him before the war fully kicked off. This, however, was unlikely as he knew full well, it could even be that his father was dead and his sister too, although he hoped otherwise.

Climbing the stairs of the steeple at pace proved an arduous task, even for a man of Berislav's physique. Halfway up the spiral staircase he ran into another cleric, "You can't be here!" proclaimed the shaken cleric meekly, taken aback by the harrowing, hooded figure racing towards him.

"This won't take long, I am sorry." Berislav responded through bated breath, pushing past the holy man, but being sure to take him by the wrist momentarily to ensure the cleric did not fall to an untimely death.

"B-but..." The cleric tried to reason, but it was no good, the scout was already out of sight and so he followed him, the rector following suit having joined them from the nave, both curious and confused about what was happening here.

---

Upon reaching the belfry of the tower, he wasted no time to catch his breath. Instead leaping at one of the three ropes, holding on tight with his hands and legs to engage the stay and slider, before he began to glide downwards, stretching out his legs to touch the ground. The effort was now made easier and the wheel and rope slid gracefully farther above him.

Bong. Bong. Bong. The bell tolled, a death knell for the companies fallen commander, clearly audible over at their camp. It was short lived however, on the fifth stroke Berislav was joined by the rector and cleric who had taken chase up the stairs.

"What are you doing!?" Asked the rector, voice raised as the final toll rang out.

"Leave, now!" Interjected the second cleric in the wake of Berislav's silence and apparent ignorance to the question. With another nodding gesture the scout brushed past the two clergymen and rushed down the steps. He made his way through the transept and halfway down the nave before veering off course through one of the aisles, deaf to the exasperating gasps of the crowd, now greater in size, interrupting their prayers.

Berislav threw open one of the side doors to the clerisy and quickly left the holy grounds, parading down the streets of Tradeforth, head still covered by his hood, once more returning to the free companies encampment. While hoping he had not missed anything else in his absence, he felt achieved in his actions for the late captain, sure many at the camp had taken notice and recognized the ringing of the death knell.

Cedric jumped as a hand descended on his forearm. He twisted around and found himself staring into the cheeky grin of Sposoletto, who proceeded to pronounce his surname as carefully as possible. Cedric blinked a few times, trying to draw his mind away from the task he had already set in his mind to give the man attention he requested.

“I’d feel safer with an extra archer in my lance today, and you were a farm lad, si? Do you feel like a short ride this morning, or are you already tasked?”

Ugh.

Cedric weighed his options. If he chose to ride, he wouldn't have to worry about making another decision all day. Il would see to that. Not that such a prospect was a bad thing, since it was always easier to follow orders than invent your own, and you wouldn't have to dread finding yourself unoccupied. Even in a time of mourning, Lem would not allow an idle set of hands. And regardless of Il's temperament or bossiness, he was a solid tactician and would keep them on track, both physically and mentally.

If he chose to go with Berislav...well, would he even be going with him? The solitary archer was unlikely to come find him if they didn't cross paths between here and the wilds. There was an informal meeting place, but he hadn't seen Berislav all morning, and waiting around for him to show up would be just as unproductive as doing nothing at all. Lem's name came back to him, and he winced mentally at the thought. Besides, even if Berislav was at the meeting point, and Cedric didn't make an appearance, the other archer would go on just as well without him. He could have gone already.

So a ride it was. Well, why not? He was on his way to the stables anyway. Besides, worst-case scenario, Cedric could always just let the blame slide off onto Il if things went awry. A smile found its way onto Cedric's face at the thought, and he gave the squire a short nod, shrugging off the grasp the man had on his arm.

"Alright, Sposoletto," he responded, needlessly dragging the man's last name out and deliberately mispronouncing one of the vowels. "You've got yourself a farm lad for the day. I'll meet up with you when my's mare's been fed."

He tossed a salute in the general direction of the man and slipped away, desperate to escape before Il could retaliate. He wiped the mischievous smirk off his face at once, remembering that this was a mournful day. The captain was gone. Now was a time for somberness. Sighing, he trotted over to the stables. Maggie was exactly where he had left her, rubbing her head against the post she was tethered to. He lifted her mane and gave her right ear a good scratch, smiling quietly as the horse leaned into him and grunted.

"Still scratching, Magg? Come on, put your nose up. You've got a long day ahead of you."
@Trivval@Dziady

Lem watched as Branimir walked away. He felt a mixture of shame and envy in his wake. At that moment he felt that Branimir possessed the qualities which he desired the most. That steadiness in his stride... the strength in his legs. Lem was the senior of the two, but it was Branimir who supported and reassured him. He knew that Branimir respected him, and likewise he respected Branimir - but he envied the younger man nonetheless. At his age surety was a luxury no longer permitted.

But this solemn day's business would not wait for an old man's anxieties to subside. The foraging parties should already know their remits, and if Branimir was overseeing the digging teams, then that left Lem to co-ordinate with the Duke about where he wanted men for the fortification project. Ah... the Duke. That was one thing that no one had got round to yet, someone still had to inform His Grace that the captain was no longer amongst them.

Lem began to move through the dissipating crowd of men. The shrill drone of the pipes of Skerry rose up from behind a line of pavilions, despite their funerary tones, the sound brought a thin smile to Lem's lips. Brádach would take any excuse to play the damn things. How he wasn't sick of that awful wailing after so many years Lem couldn't fathom. The man was older than he was for the Blessed's sake! Faintly in the distance he thought he could hear church bells ringing, odd, but fitting perhaps.

His squire was waiting for him when he parted the still damp canvas.

"Bring around Russell and your own horse, we're off to see Duke Howard."

Gerard had managed to find his father in a meeting with several other members of the cavalry. He waited patiently aside as the men spoke. He watched the other folk of the company mill about, doing chores and tasks, busying themselves until mealtime. The meeting had departed during his daydream and Gerard had to catch up to Johannes. "Father. Did your meeting go well? You seem concerned."

"It's trivial. It does not concern you, son." A quick response, short and to the point. Gerard had honestly expected nothing less. He followed his father for a short time until gathering the words needed to ask.

"Lem demanded everyone work even harder now. I wanted to prove myself on the digging crew."

"...Very well. You are relieved for the day. Work hard, son." Johannes briskly walked away. Gerard wondered for a moment if the request had made his father proud. He let the thought pass as he raced to find the rest of the digging team.

Il Sposoletto screwed up his face as the archer walked away; the man had been unnecessarily rude. Sniffing slightly and spitting on the ground, he turned away from the retreating archer and continued on his journey towards the centre of the camp. While the mood was slightly subdued, nothing could truly quieten the early morning racket of close to 400 soldiers and camp followers. Sposoletto wondered who, of the two Lieutenants, he would throw his lot in with. Whoever paid the most, he supposed.

Before he knew it he was at the centre of the camp, in front of the Blacksmith.
"Wulfric," he called, once the hammering had died away, "we're heading out to some hamlets along the river. Do you still require any scrap metals?"
@WestWall [[Yes or no doesn't matter]]
Sposoletto nodded his understanding to Wulfric. It was safe to be on the good side of all the craftsmen in the camp, and the little groom regularly took the time to give that little bit extra. Giving the slightest courtiers bow, he parted ways with the blacksmith and made his way towards the Stables.

By the time he arrived, the rest of his Lancia - Ottavio, and four hardened Tarati veterans armed with an assortment of weapons - had arrived and were ready to go. He looked over towards where Amberstone stood with his mount, the only real bowman of their band. Everyone else was armed with crossbows, all former squires or veteran soldiers from the Taranti city-states. "We're to leave no resources for the enemy outside these walls. South-east along the river there are supposed to be two farms and a small hamlet. Anything of use we are to take, anything we can't take we destroy."
Sposoletto mounted his horse in one swift movement and looked over to Ottavio, who made a couple of short hand gestures and looked pointedly at the Archer. "When we arrive, Ottavio wants you to take two of the other men and locate any winter supplies the farmers won't tell us about. We can't leave anything to our enemies."
Ottavio nodded, then indicated towards the gate, and they all headed off.

[[@Mattchstick I'm writing on my phone at the moment cause my computers carked it. I'll chime in as much as I can but my posts will be short or wont be that fleshed out]]

His heavy boots sunk into the mud, cracking what dredge that had merely begun to dry. Men shouted and worked all about him as the leftenant made his way through the camp. A few of the lads hauling a great log before him giving their apologies to him as one of their commanders. He merely nodded his acceptance and let them continue with their labor until the passage was free. It took him less than another minute to make it to Sister Margaret's tent.

Branimir knew he was one of the few men Margeret didn't mind intruding, for unless a soldier was sick or she had saved his life and gained his respect, the comely woman often received a myriad of leers and unwelcome looks by some of the less honorable men. Branimir might be a disgraced Knight, but a Knight he was. He stopped at the flap of her large medical pavilion, announcing his arrival. "Sister Margeret?" he called, his strong voice would be easily recognizable.

He heard a small curse, and blinked, striding in to see the woman failing at sewing, a small bead of blood on her thumb. He gritted his teeth in embarrassment, not knowing if him calling out was what distracted her. "Um, Sister Margeret." Branimir began, clearing his throat and squaring his broad shoulders. "Forgive me for intruding, but...there is the matter of our Captain's body and the rights he'll need before the burial."
@Hero

So the Captain was dead after all. Her gut had led her to the right answer once again, albeit a grim one this time. Placing her veil to the side for the moment, Margaret brushed back a stray lock of her hair, letting out a disappointed sigh. Should she feign surprise? No, that wouldn't be the right thing to do. Still, it was hard to admit the grave fact of the matter. Life was cruel, a soldier dying to illness. Where was the honor in that? No one spoke of men who died to disease, they spoke of those who died in battle with glory behind them.

Realizing she had been quiet for far too long, she would simply stand in response to Branimir's words, her finger to her lips for a moment as she searched her bag, rustling through her possessions. After pushing aside several medical journals and a few of her own notes, she pulled out her religious text, lightly brushing it off, though the gesture was more for show than anything else. Looking at her finger, she wondered if the captain's death would be the only bad news she would receive today.

"I pricked my finger trying to fix my veil," Margaret stated, hoping he would appreciate the irony. "I've sewn since I was a child. Almost twenty-five years, and here I slip up." She mumbled, somewhat annoyed.

Ah, that wouldn't do. A woman such as herself needn't be concerned with such a trivial thing. Patience, patience. "As for the captain...it would have been nice if he made it through the night, though he would have likely continued to suffer," She resigned herself to her more pessimistic thoughts, optimism flying out the tent by now. Dead bodies weren't foreign to her, but it was unpleasant as always. Taking her veil in hand, she spotted the half-sewn hole, and shook her head. How embarrassing. But leaving the tent without it would probably raise a few eyebrows she wouldn't appreciate. Lingering for a moment, she realized that once again, she had been quiet. "Do not grieve for long, he is in the Lord's hands now," She told Branimir as she walked up to him. "Let us go together, then."

It wasn't a particularly long ride from the base to the hamlet, but it felt much longer to Cedric. He was in a bit of a tough spot, his thoughts spinning rapidly between excitement, pride, and dread. He was riding straight out into the front, leaving the diggers and builders with their menial tasks behind. The fresh breeze that had swept away the rain pressed against his face, and he had to shake his head occasionally to keep his unkempt hair out of his eyes. Not only that, he had been given a place of authority. As far as he could remember, this was the first time he had been given direct command over other men, likely older than himself. His behavior and actions would be scrutinized and possibly even reported to Il, who would be expecting him to handle the task to the best of his ability, but it was still a rush in a time when moments of pride were hard to come by. Unfortunately, the task was a bit ambiguous, and he couldn't shake the aforementioned dread as he recalled his orders.

"When we arrive, Ottavio wants you to take two of the other men and locate any winter supplies the farmers won't tell us about. We can't leave anything to our enemies."

In principle, the squire was absolutely right. It would be foolish to leave supplies or resources for an invading force, who may not be so merciful to the farmer. In practice, Cedric was being told to interrogate and steal from unarmed non-combatants who were not at fault for the impending conflict. Of course, the Band members weren't exactly the heroes in this tale. They had performed other somewhat immoral and illegal acts that, in the eyes of a judge, would just as heinous, and over time Cedric had come to accept that they acted out of necessity, not malice. The same was true today. After all, they were not here to kill the man and raze his home. Gregory's men may not be so charitable. In the end, though, he would be robbing men of food and pride, and it did not sit well with him.

But orders are orders.

The first of the farms came into view. It was a pleasant little place, with only a home, storehouse, and stable. It couldn't have been more than three or four acres in size. Cedric saw a slight movement near the back of the house and a lump formed in his throat. A child. He estimated that the boy could be no older than 10. He appeared to be dancing around in a small yard, though as they grew closer Cedric could see a small sword in his hands and realized he was play-fighting. It didn't gleam in the sunlight, so it must have been made of wood. For a moment, Cedric reconsidered. He really did not want to be the face of the people who came to they child's farm and stole his food. What would he think of them? Cedric had hear the stories of warriors motivated by vengeance for the cruelty of older men, and he would have considered them merely campfire stories if he didn't know several by name in the Band of Fools with that exact story. Would the boy become an adversary in later life? He took a deep breath and forced the thoughts from his mind. It didn't matter. Orders are orders. They can't leave anything for their enemies.

He split off from the rest of the party, joined by several others who would be doing most of the work. After a few words, Il rode off, taking the majority of the force with him. Cedric dismounted and tethered his horse to a post, turning just in time to make eye contact with the boy, who stared at them and darted away. A few moments passed. Then, without warning, the door of the house opened and a men stepped out into the sunlight. He looked to be at least 60, and his hands and face were lined with wrinkles, but no one could doubt from his posture and appearance that he retained a great deal of raw strength. There was not an ounce of fat on his body. Whatever was not skin and bones was pure muscle, and Cedric knew that, if push came to shove, the old farmer would not go down without a fight. Their best hope was that he was a kindly, generous old man.

The farmer stopped in his tracks and eyed everyone carefully. His eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened into a scowl. He carried no weapon or instrument, but from a good ten feet away Cedric heard the man's knuckles crack as he clenched a fist. He was greeted by one of Il's men, who informed him of the situation and told him that they were acting for the greater good. Cedric tuned him out and turned to examine the storehouse, located near the edge of one of the farmers' few fields. Halfway between it and himself was the boy, who stared at him with wide eyes. He was still clenching his tiny sword in front of him, holding it as though he wasn't sure if he would need it or not. The child took a few steps to the side to get a view of the rest of the men, then returned his gaze to Cedric.

"Are...are you h-here to k-k-kill us?"

“All right ye fucking cunts, gather ‘round,” Baldy called the men of his lance. He sat on a stump waiting for the group to form up, there were only nine of them. “Where the fuck is Webster?” Baldy announced, then mumbled, “proly off rubbing the bell end agin.” Podrick Webster sauntered over to the group after a few minutes, “git yer arse over here ye wanker.”

“Hold yer tether, Baldy, I was usin’ the netty,” Podrick spoke up.

Once the lance was assembled in front of the Northerner, he spoke in his usual subdued tone. “We’ve thrown our lot in wid that cunt, Howard of Northall. Ye kin espect us to be fightin in a fortnight. The Lieutenant wants us to work on building the defenses. Git yerselves spades and picks. We’re headin’ to the mines.”

“Bloody Hell,” Craig MacDonald mumbled as the group got up and headed to retrieve the pioneer tools. Along with several other lances, they would work on digging a trench and a series or redoubts along the perimeter they would defend from during the upcoming battle. Baldric gave the battle very little thought. He honestly hoped it would not happen. He worked quietly, digging into the rocky soil.