Member
Lildear18
datadogie
Mixtape Ghost N"You have command, Captain."
His posture completely rigid on his mare, he rendered a raised right hand, a salute as the Prince spurred on. Arvel pulled the reins to one side, looking back on his company. His blue eyes twinkled with the delight and gravity of having been given a blank order, an excuse to take command, and one to prove himself no less. His men had spread to the sides of the path, regaining strength for what little time they had. Spurring his mare lightly, he drove himself into their midst and spoke with perfect clarity, and at once all his men ceased their chatter.
"We move for the barracks. Every man in the company is to rest, I'm elevated to Captain of the Watch for duration. I want section commanders to assume joint responsibility. Make haste!" He barked, spurring his horse on faster.
Arvel felt like he'd been awake for centuries. He stood overlooking the exterior wall, a courtyard below at the watch station his point of interest. His armor felt as if it had become a thousand times heavier, but yet he still wore it, sans his helmet, as his piercing blue eyes traced the figures meters below with sheer grogginess. Of course he'd maintained his distance, looking imposing and cold as ever.
Below him were members of the Watch, men which he'd been given command over to regain control of the city. He'd stepped on many toes of commanders surely senior to him, and for that he would never hear the end of it. But it was pure ecstacy to be in such a position with such opportunities available to him. The Watchmen below worked with far-off speech, unintelligible from Sir Arvel's perch.
He honed in as he escaped his own thoughts, pinpointing the chatter. The Watchmen had prisoners in transport at the courtyard. Violators of the curfew, to see the gallows by order of the Lord Commander of the Vanguard. The previous night had been packed with such encounters, Watchmen clubbing down any peasantry that failed to stay within their homes. It was.. enlightening, to say the least. He had not dealt much with the civil side of things before. Most riots and insurrections turned bloody quickly, and he'd cut down his own fair share of mobs with pitchfork and torches in hand.
But this had gone well, coordinated mostly by delegating the proper interaction with isolated peasantry to the Watch. His Vanguards, including the Household Guards, were turned loose with an intricate web of signal fires and runners, putting down the masses which had formed, albeit not without blood being shed. Flats of swords and shafts of spears could only spare so much damage, and the toll was high enough, but with all considered, it was a resounding success. And now as the sun of the day beat down, the city was back in control, with only small pockets of resistance being delegated to the now augmented Watch.
Arvel smirked through stiff cheek muscles and ran a gloved hand through greasy and sweat-caked hair. Returning his glove down, he looked down at its digits. Not grease or sweat. Dried blood, not his. He had not been spared from combat, the echo of a man's cry as he recalled his shoulder crunching under the weight of a longsword's flat edge, a man who persisted despite it and was cut in twain, one of the few intentional fatalities of the night's events. The man was courageous, sure, but stupid, bluntly. Arvel fought to recall through a fogged mind. The man had somehow made it past his retinue of mounted men he'd collected, had clambered up the side of his saddle, and fought to break Sir Arvel's helmet free.
It was a close enough call, and even thinking about it made Arvel's hairs raise. The man had been close to knocking him clean from his saddle and into a sea of rabble, peasants with clubs and cooking knives. But he had been quicker with the blade, and the man did not survive. Arvel mused, lost again as the Watchmen in the courtyard below disappeared one by one. He bit his lip, turning to an aide, further off and watching the exterior of the wall for those approaching the gate. "Send a runner to the Lord Commander, his will is done! I shall retire, leave my subordinates to resolve the remainder."
He swept up his helmet from the ground beside, turning with the seeming weight of a thousand ingots of iron on each shoulder. His work for the day was done.
His posture completely rigid on his mare, he rendered a raised right hand, a salute as the Prince spurred on. Arvel pulled the reins to one side, looking back on his company. His blue eyes twinkled with the delight and gravity of having been given a blank order, an excuse to take command, and one to prove himself no less. His men had spread to the sides of the path, regaining strength for what little time they had. Spurring his mare lightly, he drove himself into their midst and spoke with perfect clarity, and at once all his men ceased their chatter.
"We move for the barracks. Every man in the company is to rest, I'm elevated to Captain of the Watch for duration. I want section commanders to assume joint responsibility. Make haste!" He barked, spurring his horse on faster.
Some hours later...
Arvel felt like he'd been awake for centuries. He stood overlooking the exterior wall, a courtyard below at the watch station his point of interest. His armor felt as if it had become a thousand times heavier, but yet he still wore it, sans his helmet, as his piercing blue eyes traced the figures meters below with sheer grogginess. Of course he'd maintained his distance, looking imposing and cold as ever.
Below him were members of the Watch, men which he'd been given command over to regain control of the city. He'd stepped on many toes of commanders surely senior to him, and for that he would never hear the end of it. But it was pure ecstacy to be in such a position with such opportunities available to him. The Watchmen below worked with far-off speech, unintelligible from Sir Arvel's perch.
He honed in as he escaped his own thoughts, pinpointing the chatter. The Watchmen had prisoners in transport at the courtyard. Violators of the curfew, to see the gallows by order of the Lord Commander of the Vanguard. The previous night had been packed with such encounters, Watchmen clubbing down any peasantry that failed to stay within their homes. It was.. enlightening, to say the least. He had not dealt much with the civil side of things before. Most riots and insurrections turned bloody quickly, and he'd cut down his own fair share of mobs with pitchfork and torches in hand.
But this had gone well, coordinated mostly by delegating the proper interaction with isolated peasantry to the Watch. His Vanguards, including the Household Guards, were turned loose with an intricate web of signal fires and runners, putting down the masses which had formed, albeit not without blood being shed. Flats of swords and shafts of spears could only spare so much damage, and the toll was high enough, but with all considered, it was a resounding success. And now as the sun of the day beat down, the city was back in control, with only small pockets of resistance being delegated to the now augmented Watch.
Arvel smirked through stiff cheek muscles and ran a gloved hand through greasy and sweat-caked hair. Returning his glove down, he looked down at its digits. Not grease or sweat. Dried blood, not his. He had not been spared from combat, the echo of a man's cry as he recalled his shoulder crunching under the weight of a longsword's flat edge, a man who persisted despite it and was cut in twain, one of the few intentional fatalities of the night's events. The man was courageous, sure, but stupid, bluntly. Arvel fought to recall through a fogged mind. The man had somehow made it past his retinue of mounted men he'd collected, had clambered up the side of his saddle, and fought to break Sir Arvel's helmet free.
It was a close enough call, and even thinking about it made Arvel's hairs raise. The man had been close to knocking him clean from his saddle and into a sea of rabble, peasants with clubs and cooking knives. But he had been quicker with the blade, and the man did not survive. Arvel mused, lost again as the Watchmen in the courtyard below disappeared one by one. He bit his lip, turning to an aide, further off and watching the exterior of the wall for those approaching the gate. "Send a runner to the Lord Commander, his will is done! I shall retire, leave my subordinates to resolve the remainder."
He swept up his helmet from the ground beside, turning with the seeming weight of a thousand ingots of iron on each shoulder. His work for the day was done.
