Farrin watched with knitted brow as is new group cut through the Hoplites. His own hand was making work of the lashings of one of the horses in the stables, the frightened movement of the horse making everything difficult. As the last of the hoplites were cut down, Farrin’s fears were made reality: the bronze helmet of one of the Kotharians rolled off as the body slammed into the bloodied dirt, revealing a youthful face, no older than fourteen or fifteen winters. A horn blew and Farrin snapped to attention, his face looking back towards the town.

“Hold fast, most of these were green, tempted by loot to abandon the bulk,” Farrin shouted over the ever growing cheer in the distance. Slowly a black line of soldiers began to ooze through the buildings of the town, the grunts of unified movement matched by a harmony of steps. The enemy was closer than expected, with some Kothar soldiers spilling out next to the stalls, a mere stone’s throw away, each chanting a single name.

“Torros! Torros! Torros!”

The champion whose name they chanted walked in front of the soldiers, a tattered red cape snapping in the wind, and a spear pointed at Farrin. It became apparent that without a good distraction, the Kothar were close enough to gather their own horses and chase down the group if they had wished.

Farrin quickly turned to the closest member of his group, Alcello, and handed him the reins of the horse he had just untied, “Ride for Roshad, find the Silesian named Yua’ad in the great library, and give him this.”

The old man procured a jeweled dagger from his belt and handed it to Alcello, “tell him to take you to the second gem, he will trust you.”

Farrin took Alcello’s other hand and palmed the gem into it, “You have an old Kestaphos’ trust, Yua’ad will fill in the rest.”

With a gentle push Farrin nodded at Alcello before turning to the approaching Torros and unleashing his own blade from its scabbard. Pointing it at Torros, Farrin yelled, “Let Lekos decide who deserves to live among us!”

Torros bellowed back from across the dusty street, “I accept your challenge, old man.”

Farrin swung his blade a few times and began his walk towards Torros, the other Kothar soldiers stopping in their place to observe what would be a massacre of the highest caliber, and in the name of Lekos to boot.

The old Kestaphos raised his blade in an unusual ward, unseen far from outside the lands of Silesea, “by Ill-” Farrin was cut off as a stampede of horses shook the ground, a wave of Mennonites breaking out of the plains to the west and spilling into the town, lead by a line of shimmering Kestaphos, lances angled. The old hero cringed as he heard the unmistakable slam of the two armies and the screams of the horses. Bodies went flying into the air, some ripped off of horses, others pounded out of the simple shield wall the Kotharian’s managed to form. Despite this, Torros stood unharmed, his eyes glaring like a devil’s at Farrin.

“Fools,” Farrin muttered, he craned his head towards his group, “Leave!”

Without another word the old man charged into the new fray. He ducked under a swinging shield, slicing at the knee of the offender as he slinked by. He dodged to the right, avoiding a spear tip, and as a Kestapos lance nearly struck him in the head, he rolled.

The old man tumbled between the piles of the slain and the forest of fighting men around him, sliding his handless arm through the loop of a Mennonite cavalry shield. Rising quickly back to his feet, he raised the leather bound wooden shield, a great thwack sounding as a Kothar kopis chopped into it.

Farrin looked past the shield to the arm holding the kopis, the arm of Torros. The man’s face was twisted with the rage of battle, blood speckling his tanned skin. Farrin yanked his shield to the side in an attempt to disarm Torros, but the seasoned warrior held fast, ripping the blade out of the shield in time.

Torros swung again, but Farrin slipped to the left. He punched out with the shield, but Torros leapt backwards, only to spring forwards again with his blade. Farrin caught the iron with his own sword, the blades sliding off each other with a vibrating clang. Another Kothar soldier thrusted forward with his spear, but Farrin managed to step into it, knocking the spear to the side with his sword. Before Farrin could counter strike, however, Torros swung his blade at the back of Farrin’s leg. Quickly the old man slapped the other enemies spear with his shield, forcing it at an angle to parry Torros’ strike. The Kothar soldier swung with his shield arm, but Farrin ducked, rising up to strike Torros, who spun away from Farrin’s sword.

A Mennonite stabbed at Torros as he escaped Farrin’s swing, but Torro’s quickly hacked his kopis into the soldier’s exposed inner elbow, severing it all for a length of stringy muscle in an explosion of scarlet. The Mennonite’s attack fell limp, and Torros spun behind the screaming man in time to use him as a living shield against a Kestaphos’ lance.

Farrin leapt from the fighting masses, his blade leveled at Torros’ neck. The Kotharian managed to catch the blow in time on the bottom of his blade, Farrin’s sword cutting a notch into the edge of his kopis. Farrin swung backwards, his blade slicing an unexpecting Kothar soldier who was approaching from behind, the Silesian metal sinking into the soft exposed flesh of the neck. The Kothar gurgled as he fell to the ground, Torros not missing a beat and stabbing at the exposed Farrin. Farrin shifted to a side stance, catching the kopis on his battered shield. Farrin took the second of control to lean forward and shove Torros, who fell backwards into the fray. The old man gritted his teeth, leaping in after Torros as both Kothar and Mennonite soldiers overtook any chance for Farrin to escape the battle, their own eyes set on survival in the ever growing mist of blood and gore.

The sun was still too bright, and Alcello was still gasping for breath as he glared at the two hoplites closing in on him. He was oblivious to any of his new companions, or of any of the other hoplites, his only focus was the two soldiers that faced him. They were within paces of him when one of the men was suddenly sent sprawling to the ground, weapons falling forgotten to the floor as he desperately clutched the shaft of the spear that had punched through his gut.

Alcello didn’t have time to look for the thrower of the spear, and even as he watched, the struck hoplite began clambering to his feet. Before the soldier could gather his weapons again, he was dead. An olive skinned figure, standing a few inches shorter than Alcello, his forearms and face shrouded by wraps, stepped from the dust. A long, curved blade flashed in the light for an instant, slashing open the downed hoplites throat. The body sprawled back to the dirt, blood already staining the ground, but Alcello had no time to celebrate. The remaining hoplite, still advancing despite the gash in the side of his neck that had already soaked his armour with blood, lunged forward, his spear tip driven towards Alcello.

The thrust was weak, the soldier’s strength draining as quickly as the blood pouring from his wound, but Alcello was still winded, his movements slow, and he barely managed to knock aside the spear. Another thrust, but again Alcello was able to knock it aside. The balance of the fight was quickly turned in the Mennonite’s favour, as he caught his breath, the ringing in his ears faded, while the hoplite only got weaker, even the coursing adrenaline unable to keep his body moving. Alcello managed a weak smile as the third spear thrust, almost feeble in it’s strength, and the kestaphos easily grasped the shaft of it, and with one quick move pulled it from the hoplite’s weak grasp.

The Kothar soldier staggered forwards, his strength all but spent, and as Alcello stepped to the side, the hoplite fell to his knees, the shield clattering to the ground. Alcello was a merciful man, and he didn’t hesitate, shifting his grip on his sword before driving it down through the back of the hoplite’s neck, killing him outright. Placing his foot on the centre of the dead man’s back, Alcello wrenched his blade free, wiping it clean for an instant on the bloodstained cloak of the soldier before turning to survey the chaotic scene that surrounded him.

He saw the ranks of more hoplites, hardened warriors in dark armour. He heard the horn as it echoed over the cacophony of battle that was swelling all around them. He saw the hulking champion, the crimson cape, the already blood-stained kopis clasped in his hand. Alcello had already sheathed his sword, quickly reaching for his bow, when Farrin turned to him, and Alcello hesitated.

Taking the reins pushed towards him, Alcello nodded quickly, reaching a hand up to try and calm the panicking horse as he carefully listened to Farrin’s instruction, committing them to memory. Tucking the jewelled dagger into his belt, Alcello carefully took the gem, cradling it with his free hand as he watched Farrin turn towards the champion, pulling his sword free as he met the challenge.

Alcello moved quickly, his thoughts focussed as he retrieved his cloak, pulling it about himself before mounting the wild-eyed horse. His movements were natural to him, he had been all but born onto a horses back, spending his childhood in the saddle, as any horsemen of Mennon did. Pulling the horse about with a quick pull on the reins, Alcello gave out a wordless cry as he squeezed the panting torso of the horse between his knees, pushing it onwards.

The hooves pounded on the dry dirt as the horse galloped through the towns narrow streets, away from the crash and roar of battle. He did not turn to see if any of his new companions were following him, he did not even turn to see Farrin’s fate. He had his mission, and he pressed his body low against the horse as it carried him towards Roshad.

Moving slightly to stand atop a fallen timber, Cical looked over the battlefield with quick precision. Mostly everyone he had spoken with was engaged with an enemy. Then his eyes landed on that abomination... She was eating a man. His screams pierced the ambient sounds of battle and even the elephant. Something like that was absolutely inhuman. Even if cannibalism was justified - they at least waited until the man was well and dead!

That was the last straw. Regardless of what she had to say, he wouldn't listen. What explanation she had, or background, reasoning. None of it mattered. Something that foul could not, and would not live. Yet he was not a stupid man. Obviously he seen the worth in having another warm - with a cold heart - body to fight alongside. When this was all over, when they had succeeded in their task however: His spear would pierce her heart with vengeance. This was a promise, and one not taken lightly either. Never before had he sworn to kill with such intensity, never before had his spears truly been anything besides tools to serve his own sense of morality. They were not used in anger, or sadness or revenge or even righteousness - a weapon like him had no use for such distracting emotions, they would only serve to dull his weapons... Yet would declaring vengeance on this foul abomination dull them now?

His face contorted from neutrality to a vehement scowl. This inner conflict was stirring more in his mind than he would care to admit. In fact, it distracted him so greatly, that he completely forgot about the hoplite he kicked.

When a mighty roar of anger and exertion broke his concentration, natural instincts let loose and contorted his body to the left, right arm flinging upwards and releasing his spear to allow the limb to fully be free. With a hollow clatter, it cascaded down the timber and into the rubble below. It took more strength to repress a howl of pain however, as the hoplite's spear slid along side his ribs on the right side, opposite to the still healing claw marks on his left. Fresh blood immediately began pouring from the wound down his side, coating the leather loincloth which preserved his decency.

Cical's left hand was on his back immediately, grasping the white short spear and yanking it free in one quick move. With his back to the enemy, this fight would be nothing but awkward from the start. The spear tip was in-front of him now, momentum carrying the wooden staff right along his freshly made wound. His right arm clamped back down, holding the shaft in place against his own body tightly. The left hand rolled his spear over in his hand, now holding the weapon in a reverse grip as he blindly stabbed backwards. It was doubtful the attack would hit - and it didn't - but it provided enough time that the Kothar would be unable to finish the job with a more precise strike. Through the shaft caught on his side, Cical felt the hoplite change his grip and body positioning. He was more towards the right now, so that was the same direction Cical leapt off the section of wall.

Where he had been standing a timber had fallen, taking with it a section of the wall to make a makeshift wooden ramp. To his right and left were jagged edges of rood and a small drop off into more rubble. Somewhere down there his long spear had fallen but that would be recovered after surviving this fight. When Cical jumped off to the right, he jumped off the ramp, taking the spear caught in his arm with him. Having more leverage on the tool than the wielder forced the hoplite to awkwardly move with the tail end of the spear in a desperate attempt of holding on.

Through this lapse of grip on the situation, Cical released his catch on the enemies spear and turned his body around its tip. With a shield directly in his face now, the Baccumese was forced to retreat, pulling back to avoid metal-on-face contact. Now, with a healthy amount of distance and both men properly prepared, they could actually duel. However one was clearly outmatched, with a shorter spear and no shield. It still didn't stop said outmatched man from leaping forwards into battle once again. Unlike the others who Cical had gotten the jump on, this one was more difficult to slay. The range forced Cical's rapid re-engagement to screech into a halt, short spear deftly forcing the tip away from his body. While his movement forwards stopped, it didn't falter backwards. One step forwards and the lancer had to contort himself to avoid a head blow. Another pace, they became locked in a cross, sword-spear embedded in the wood of the hoplite as they fought to overthrow one another. Too close, the Kothar held his weapon arm stiff and jammed the other - holding a shield - forwards. It may have worked, had Cical not predicted this move from the time their head-level battle of blades began. Cical's own arm released tension and followed the carrying motion of the hoplites former attack towards the right. His sword spear created a solid bong off the edge of the shield which quickly followed into a rasping noise as it was drug backwards towards its wielder.

In one snapping motion, the shield shot forwards and out of the hoplites hands. The construction of Cical's spear, the white one specifically, featured a broad-head like design for the blade. When it was pulled back this sharpened bottom edge caught the shield and roughly contorted it free. Now Cical could advance properly, as the staff of his enemies spear thwacked against his shoulder. A pang of repressed pain caused his left hand to become difficult to grasp. A toss moved the white spear into his right hand and subsequently, the hoplites neck. A gurgle and clang of weaponry was all he needed to declare himself the victor and release that breath he had been holding. All that had happened in seconds. With the fighting done - for now - pain reared its ugly head.

His left wrist was most assuredly bruised from the wood shrapnel. Peppered with splinters no less. His right thigh bled quite profusely, as did his right midsection where the spear had grazed him. The foot he had used to kick a solid breastplate earlier stung harshly and the most recent injury, his shoulder, throbbed with tell tales of a steep bruise. He returned to cursing that blasted succubus for technically being the cause for half his injuries.

Looking over the battlefield once more, the lancer verified he hadn't left out any loose ends or wouldn't be a fool to his own ignorance. Through gritted teeth and with a goal in sight he moved back along the side he entered into the battlefield. Haphazardly tromping through the rubble and into the stables where he could 'saddle up' as it were. The spearman hardly even noticed that his long spear was retrieved in his grasp. Slightly dusted and still coated in blood but in one piece at the least. Replacing the short white spear on his back the lancer had been half limping-half jogging the whole way. It would be easy to see the pain was enough to override his stubborn brain. Even the most resilient had their limits and after a fight and Cical was always seemed to be at those limits. Upon making it just past the house the elephant had gone through, Cical spotted the blur of a horse and hooded man spewing from the stables like he was possessed. So it hadn't been his Baccumese brother to be the coward, but the hooded bandit he had agreed with earlier. Bandits may very well be cowards, greedy and such but they still had a motive to their flight. They could tell when a battle was a loss and with the rampant screams of terror, bloodshed and pillaging, nobody would doubt their end should they remain. A brief glance around solidified that thought. So these were the scouts, that was the main force. A small curse ran coursed along his brain against himself. How could he be injured by a rookie? At least the remaining members of that 'squad' had survived. Maybe they weren't so useless and could actually be called "heroes" should they keep this up. Then again, who was he to be assigning who would take that role? He had just been injured twice by the same man, by the same sneaky tactic. With a scowl, Cical entered the stables and located his own steed.

A white and black stallion. From the forelegs on wards it looked as if someone had splashed shiny ebony pain across the animal. Splatter marks and spots ran further back towards the hind quarters, off setting the white rather keenly. Burgeoning muscle and fiery, wild eyes that matched the Baccumese man's at this moment drew the human to the horse like moth to a flame. They had to be a perfect riding pair. Bloodied hands fumbled with the knots of the tied, rowdy horse before getting everything undone. Every sound of clashing metal seemed to cause the horses muscles to twitch in excitement, nervousness or fear. To be fair, Cical was never good at speaking horse so it was hard to tell. Hoisting himself up and wincing at the pain the exertion caused his leg and midsection, the lancer settled onto the warm bare back of the horse. Obviously this one was specifically was being broken in. Saddle-less but used to weight, he had a bridle in his mouth and seemed to respond to the light movements he tested quite well. Perhaps they intended to use the poor stallion as breeding stock or a work horse, a sad life for one so keen to be guided.
It took some time for the horse to understand Cical's weight, trying to lift off with his front feet a couple times before settling down with a loud whinny and responding better to his orders. It helped that the lancer gave him a few sharp kicks to keep him in line as well. Like that, Cical followed where the hooded bandit had fled off, hoping at some point he could catch up and either slay him for his cowardice, or offer him ale for a battle hard fought - and a possible task well accomplished.