Errant Son

[MEDIEVAL, REALISM] Marches of Man: The Black Shields!

Haesteinn laid still in the shrubbery, paying attention closely to the small encampment and the treeline behind it. For a moment, he thought he saw movement among the trees. A man? Was his mind fooling him? If Eira didn't notice then perhaps his mind was fooling him indeed. Eira noted that there'd be many inside - perhaps true. But these were brigands. Haesteinn doubted that they got by on staying in that little palisade. He didn't pay mind to Eira, more occupied with the fortress ahead of him. 'Fortress.' The place seemed to be falling apart. Why hadn't the lord of Murkran cleaned this bunch up? “Perhaps.” he simply added, looking carefully at the guard on the tower.

He could die - quietly. Eira could shoot him and then they could approach the palisade without raising alarm. It made sense in his head, that much was sure. Genseric added his own little comment - it wasn't worth much. For a nobleman, he was silent. Haesteinn had expected him to raise his voice and immediately betray their position. Noblemen had little tact, that much he had learned from lord Jachsen in the Barren Hall. “These are brigands - outlaws and cowards. They'll likely run at first sight of a real sword. And their status means that they likely are out right now, holding up peasants or something of the sort.”

While Eira had made a good estimation of the camp, she was new to the south. Haesteinn, however, was not. In fact he knew little of the North apart from the few trips he'd made there. It was for that reason that, even though he understood Eira, he was unable to answer her using the correct norse words. The language was little more than a dialect - exchanging a few words for more old words, but it was a tricky language. It was therefore for the best interest of the others that Haesteinn had little to no talent in his own vocabulary of the dialect. But because Eira was new to the south she didn't seem to understand that these men in the camp were likely not even present. They'd return at nightfall, most likely. All that was left behind would be a skeleton crew. At least.. that was Haesteinn's estimation.

“I would suggest we try and get closer. You want to impress me, and by extent Terryn?” he said as he gestured towards the fortifications. “A chance has presented itself. My only concern..” His eyes would focus on Ellinor, the midwife. She would be in danger, and would barely be armed. “My only concern is that we lose our cook and healer.” He could tell her to wait here while they did their business - and that'd be the safest approach to it all. Perhaps for the best.

“So Ellinor, you must stay here. Eira, Jahan and ser knight shall come with me. As soon as Eira can take down the guard, we will creep up to the wall and we shall help eachother climb over it. Eira, you'll be last in. Move low, and stay close to eachother.” His words sounded final, and it seemed that he was intent on going in, either with his party or without them. As soon as the rest had gotten ready he'd inch forwards, moving low to the ground through the tall swamp-grass that reached nearly up to his waist. The ground made some wet noises as he stepped in it, clearly muddy, but at least they weren't chest-deep into the waters. As soon as Eira had taken the shot on the guard, the party would speed up and reach the palisade walls.

Haesteinn's hushed voice spoke again. “Knight, Jahan, offer me your hands. I'll climb onto the wall and take a quick look. Then I'll get you guys in. Hurry.” The words used made it sound like a question, but the tone sounded like an order. Haesteinn softly wondered if the knight was used to it - more than likely he wasn't. And now that they had reached the wall, he wondered if they could really climb the wall.. Jahan and Eira were light - especially Eira. But the knight was clad in armor.. they'd have to see. If push came to shove, Haesteinn could go look for another entrance. And if that couldn't happen, then he'd simply clamber out again and they'd go away.

Meanwhile over at Ellinor, soft footsteps would approach from behind her. They made soft squishing noises as they came through the mud. Slowly the metal sound of a knife being drawn was heard, a possible warning to Ellinor as to what was approaching her.

[MEDIEVAL, REALISM] Marches of Man: The Black Shields!

@Kho I decided I didn't want to wait for summer to launch it again. :^)

@Brother Tumbo@Zhaliora

The idea was to go in, yes, but then it occured to me that we do have a midwife of sorts with us. I mean, it'd be hilarious if she just ran in first with a meatcleaver and started cleaving them up, but I feel like that'd be really out of character.

[MEDIEVAL, REALISM] Marches of Man: The Black Shields!

Do you guys think we need a larger crew?

The Absent King

Gawain was promptly shown what side of the blade he was on in this sad sad story of treacherous elves and Eretol whores. The kick between his legs landed, firm and stout, sending him hurling forwards landing on his knees. He planted his fists into the ground as he grunted, coughing slightly and spitting out blood on the dusty, sand-covered floor beneath him. He took a brief moment to recover before looking up, grinning slightly. The grin morphed into a deep, ragged laugh. “You kick hard,” he said with a voice equally as ragged as his laugh. “.. for an elf.”

“Give me a knife like you have and we can settle this betwee-” his answer was cut short by the elven leader, who stepped between to stop the woman. He then proceeded to ask the knight if he'd like to be delivered to his monarch. Oh, if only... “I'd like that very much, elf.” he said, looking down at the floor again, still wincing from the pain. Oh, if only he had a knife, he'd string that elf bitch up on a noose along the rest of these vile creatures. The Eretrol whore, she'd meet a kinder fate. She was a whore, surely, and a tribal at that.. but she was still a human. She'd become his personal servant, to serve his every whim and need. Just the thought of that made the pain between his legs ease away.

A set of boots approached the man again, and from the sound of the voice it seemed to be the Eretol. She didn't get far past her initial sentence before Gawain really did collapse - not from pain, but from laughter. Was she serious? He snickered even as she continued to speak. This woman was remarkably fun, even for being an Eretol whore. “I know what I said to be untrue, is it?” he asked her then, looking up finally with a twinkle in his eyes. “Then I s'pose you're not a criminal, and you simply arrived here to feed these poor villagers.. and then somehow a fire started and you came here with your weaponry to make sure I was unharmed?” He shook his head; no, it was clear what they had done here. And justice would be served for it as soon as he saw the chance to do it.

Her comment about her never spreading her legs for him didn't do much for him. For her, ten Eretol whores who would gladly offer up their hatred for the Aretians for some money. So he simply raised his shoulders at her comment, slowly rising upon his feet now, pushing himself off of the ground with his fists. This was the first time, however, that he managed to get a good look at the woman. She was stunning. It made him think twice about what she had said before, too - she certainly was attractive, for an Eretol. Only his hatred for those desert faring half-traders kept him from acknowledging this, even to himself.

His staring was interrupted by her cold, cold gaze into his eyes, and voice that spelled only hatred for him - the kind he returned the favor of, most definitely. As she ordered him to move, he simply bowed lightly, as if he was bowing for a noble woman in court. “After you, milady..” he said playfully. In his mind he promised himself to make these fools pay for taking him captive. They should've killed him when they had the chance, because he was going to annoy them to death for the lack of a sword to do it with.

The one thing that betrayed his playfulness was his body, which was bruised and dehydrated. As he attempted to step forwards to follow the woman into his captivity, he felt a sharp pain between his legs and in his side. The mage had been kind - played only mind tricks on him, which would explain why he couldn't recall much of his time in captivity. But between the hard sandstone floor in his cell, the elves and the Eretol whore beating him up and the bad shape he was in.. Gawain had seen better days.

His arm was placed across his stomach to hold his hurting side, as he slowly made his way up the stairs following after the woman, and no doubt followed himself by whomever of the two remaining elves had decided to follow them up. His side hurt like hell, as did his sack. And his leg wasn't feeling too good either.. he swayed slightly as he attempted to hide that he was hurting. He did a bad job at it - it was clear to anyone that he was in some pain.

It didn't stop him from wishing death to all those who were in and around the village at this time.

The Absent King

@Life in Stasis I will wait with posting until someone has seen it fit to take Gawain (unless you want him to wander around unguarded.. ) so that I can get that into my next post.

Where would Gawain be put? I doubt he'd be given a horse, so he'd just be dragged alongside a horse with a rope?

EDIT: well my answer arrived in the form of a post. I'll reply right away.

The Absent King

@Culluket good to know someone has my back.

[MEDIEVAL, REALISM] Marches of Man: The Black Shields!

Military Camp

31st of August, 127 P.B.

---

A man walked through the muddy field leading up to the encampment - several wooden stakes had been put up as a makeshift wall, to make it at least somewhat harder to cross from the field into the camp. It'd keep out unwanted visitors at least, but it wouldn't hold long against any type of war band that wished to cross blades.

The man approached a knight of sorts - he looked to be one, by any rate of the word. To Haesteinn, personally, the man seemed like he should have stayed at home, scribing away and writing a book or something. Unknown to Haesteinn was however that this man was the son of Aedric, count of Rossex and famed war hero. If Haesteinn had known that, he would perhaps have chosen to approach him differently - or perhaps not, Haesteinn had always been rather cold in his approach to anyone, remnants of the North, Lord Jachsen had told him. “Hail, knight,” Haesteinn said as he raised a hand at the man. “It seems that I am to be sent out to gather some supplies for the cooks,” he continued, standing in position in front of the lower-ranked knight. It was amusing, to say the least, that a man who'd never lead any retinue before was now in control over a noble knight. No doubt a privilege that Haesteinn owed to his many years of service, and Terryn's view for practicality rather than noble prestige. “You seem to be unlucky enough to be the first to catch my eye, so come with me.”

Haesteinn then continued his march through the camp - looking for a specific area of the camp that he'd been given precedence over. According to the ensign that had explained to him briefly who he was commanding, there was a woman of sorts - tribal, a scout, archer, whatever you called them. Furthermore there was also a former acrobat, who had served as a caravan guard? A strange combination, and Haesteinn was willing to bet this man would bite the dust sooner rather than later. Asides them, there were several other unimportant figures that were described by the ensign as 'peasants and militia's.' To take care of his little corner of the camp there had been a cook, and healer. She was named Ellinor, according to her signage in the book.

All in all, it sounded like it was going to be a great warparty - the scout, the knight and the acrobat, as well as a healer. And all four would die in the mud. A grimace appeared on Haesteinns face as he finally approached the corner of the camp. His voice raised the moment he arrived, shouting at the people in the area. “Had you thought to go to sleep so early?!” his voice rang, turning heads on a few other sides of the camp. There was no doubt that Jachsen and Eira would be brought to attention to face the man in battle ornate.

Ellinor, too, would likely be alerted by the voice, and if she knew what was good for her, she'd come to pay attention to the sergeant who came here to deliver a sort of talk. It seemed to be a talk, anyway.

Haesteinn's neck was covered in tribal marks - none reaching above his jaws or chin - and his hair had been slicked back. His beard had been freshly comb, as to look presentable for his troops. On his forehead were the three dots - indicating that Haesteinn had been a Servant, a warrior of the Monarch. His stature would perhaps be impressive to those who hadn't spent much time in a military camp yet. And if his stature didn't do the job, his deep and masculine voice might do the trick. “Nay, we have work yet to do,” he continued, lowering his voice slightly. “The quartermaster instructed me to forage for supplies, and whether that means we pick berries, hunt an animal or order a village nearby to give up some food, I do not care. But we will get supplies.” His voice was harsh, deep and yet, at the same time, it was warm and full of a strange sense of familiarity. It was almost like his voice was the embodiment of a cold night in the winter, being forced to camp out in the bitterly cold snow - and yet, you had a fire and a companion, and it provided a strange sense of fear and comfort.

Not wishing to wait for midday to go out, he immediately pointed at Jachsen - unaware that this man was the acrobat he'd been told about by the ensign - and Eira. “You two will come with me,” he ordered with a stern and strict voice. He then glanced at Ellinor, and adressed her too. “I've little knowledge of plants in Murkran. You'll have to come with to see which plants and berries we can and can't take.” Finishing his little spiel in front of his troops, he glanced at Genseric. “Knight, I do not expect you to toil in the mud picking roots, but you shall have to come. It never hurts to have an extra sword, and we don't know where the Cherwinian knights went after they destroyed our regiments in the swamps. They might have moved closer to the capital to plunder villages - and so they might be nearby. Understood?”

He didn't wait for an answer, and Genseric wasn't expected to answer, in fact, he was expected to not give an answer and simply accept what was said. But Haesteinn wasn't aware of any of these people's personalities, and so he simply asserted himself as the leader and that was that. Whether they'd accept him or not, well, that was up to them.

As soon as everybody had gotten ready, for which Haesteinn would wait maximally 10 minutes, they would move out and head through the forest. The ground quickly became more muddy, and some parts were even under water completely. It was a sign that they were indeed in Murkran, the characteristic swamps being evaded carefully by Haesteinn as he led the party of five, as to cut down on travel time. As they went along, they should try to forage as much as they could - Ellinor being the one to explain what could be taken if needed.

However, as quickly as they'd left, Haesteinn would suddenly stop dead still in his tracks and look to the front. If the others paid attention to what was ahead, they would quickly note the column of black smoke ahead of them. “Knights.. so close?” Haesteinn mumbled to himself. They had barely walked for half an hour. If they were this close, then it was inevitable foragers and scouts would find the other party quickly. Slowly he inched closer, moving through a bush and kneeling in it, taking a careful look ahead.

In front of the party of five was a clearing in the forest, more muddy than their own clearing. In the middle of it was a small palisade - it wasn't professionally built by a carpenter, and it seemed like a man could probably bring down sections of the wall with a few good pushes. There was a singular watch tower on one corner of the palisade, and a man seemed to be on it. There was a bow nearby him, but the man was sitting still in a chair. Perhaps sleeping. “Not knights..” Haesteinn mumbled again, to nobody in particular. “Brigans and cutthroats.” He looked back at his party of four, and urged them to come closer. “Careful.” he added, insisting that they be silent as to not get spotted. “What shall we do?” he asked them, looking at the small encampment again. He couldn't be sure how many were inside. An attack could provide them with the supplies they might need, or otherwise, an attack might endanger them all and possibly get them killed.

[MEDIEVAL, REALISM] Marches of Man: The Black Shields!

@Zhaliora Well, I have no direct feelings towards either side. If you want your character to perhaps know him (if she visited the Barren Hall a lot then it might be likely) then go ahead.

[MEDIEVAL, REALISM] Marches of Man: The Black Shields!

@ZB1996 I knew I forgot to come back to this.

@Zhaliora I don't think Haesteinn would know much people, he only went there for a few years and, given how harsh the North is, it seems likely that anyone he'd met would also be dead now. It's possible though.

And I wasn't sure. I'm guessing a few years back, but it seemed unimportant at the time when his father died.

@Brother Tumbo Very good. I'll wait the rest of the day I guess.

[MEDIEVAL, REALISM] Marches of Man: The Black Shields!

I have added the new character I was talking about to the character bin - if anyone was interested. He'll be leading the crew, to make it easier for me to interact with you, and to steer the plot.

Any questions?