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Estylwen
Foxy13
Sir Lurksalot
Snowdrops
Ithradine
Red Schuhart
Irradiant
Izurich
KawaiiOtakuGirlFionn MacKerracher
@VitaVitaAR @HereComesTheSnow
Hmm.
So, the captain was as unsure as he was. That wasn't the sort of thing to inspire a lot of confidence in dealing with the beast itself; while they would undoubtedly manage, Fionn's goal was, as ever, to minimize friendly casualties as much as possible. Facing some unknown predatory beast that may-or-may-not-be planned as a beast of war against any reprisal wasn't particularly conducive to that goal, and without any concrete information to mitigate that which they couldn't control, they'd have to rely on their ability to think on their feet.
Unfortunately, in Fionn's experience, most of the high-born sort he'd dealt with as a mercenary were woefully inept at being forced onto such a reactive position. Many had earn their ranks and command by dint of their birth, rather than through experience, and most who showed particular skill and knowledge in tactics and battle had taken positions with the military or other knightly orders instead. Thus far, at least, none of those he'd interacted much within their fellowship seemed to fall into such a trap; with luck, the same would go for Captain Fanilly, even though she was thrust into command by tradition rather than proven skill.
"My thoughts exactly," he replied with an affirming nod as she mentioned keeping the beast—or its corpse—contained. "In fact, in the absence of a blade like Dame Tyaethe's..." He trailed off mid-sentence, the rest of his thought going unspoken. Not that it would make where he was going any less obvious, as he cast his eyes downward, looking among the lost weapons of their enemies, and picking up a crude-looking, but brutal bardiche to take the place of the sword sheathed at his hip. "Those of us who prefer their blades mounted on sticks might prove the best prepared, eh?"
He bent down, wrapping one arm over the chest of their late informant's corpse, dragging it over to meet its head on the rapidly-growing pyre.
As carefully as they had approached, at this point they couldn't entirely afford to simply skulk through the night lest they lose any possible surprise they had left after the advance party failed to report back. It was no wonder that members of the night's watch had gone about waking as many of their fellow warriors as they could after noticing the knights encircling their camp, but the simplicity of their plan and the efficiency with which they prepared for it meant that the camp wasn't half as ready for such an assault as it would need to be to stand a chance of repelling their attack.
Not that the knights could afford to be complacent, of course; just that they had the advantage of speed and focus, even if their surprise wasn't quite as much of one as would be ideal.
At the Captain's command, he sprung forward with a grunt, loping strides quickly catching him up to Gerard as they fell upon the enemy. When the other mercenary bound up with an archer, and as the other knights around them fell into similar positions clearing a path through the bandit forces, Fionn's eyes quickly caught a swordsman advancing towards one of his detachment. Another springing stride brought the blade of his commandeered bardiche hammering down, taking the bandit down with it with the sound of crushing vertebrae and collarbone. He charged over the fallen warrior without a moment to observe the work—he'd let someone else clean up behind him if the brigand was only paralyzed, not killed—bringing up his weapon slightly to displace the thrust of a spear even as he lunged in and flung his weapon forwards, the reinforced point splitting rings, tearing cloth, and finally puncturing a lung as the next bandit fell before him.
No time to put the man out of his misery; a furious bellow and glint of steel off to his left caught his attention before he could. Quickly shifting his right hand ahead of his left, he whipped his blade over to that side with a cross-step backwards, the sudden movement smacking aside the blade of a halberd that sought to take advantage of his lowered position with an overhand strike.
He let the momentum play to his advantage, bringing his right hand back to meet his left at the rear of his haft as the blade whipped around his head with another advancing step, shearing through the opened jaws of the halberdier who'd thought to take advantage of his extended position. Hoping, perhaps, that he'd thrusted too deep, that his blade would hang up within the body of the spearman and leave him open. A worthy tactic, certainly, against the common soldiery or average bandits; but Fionn had not spent so long working up to an elite position within his mercenary company, let alone being accepted into the Iron Roses, to fall prey to such an elementary mistake.
A pity. Some of these enthusiastic, opportunistic bandits might at least have made good pikemen, had they cast their lot with the right side.
The top half of the halberdier's head bounced once as Fionn switched his hands again, blade high and rushing with a roar at a still groggy-looking swordsman who hadn't yet been engaged. Whether due to sleepiness, shock, or poorly-judged distance, the rebel cut high, his blade clanging uselessly against the side of Fionn's helmet, before the entire side of his neck was opened with a pushing cut. Grimacing against the fresh ringing in his left ear—an unavoidable consequence of choosing to take such a strike, even though no true damage would be done thanks to his armour—he swiped the bardiche from left to right repeatedly, warding off the bandits closest while the others made their advance up to his position.
As surely as the sun would rise in a few hours, the bandits were corralled deeper into the camp, even as the rear ranks of the knights cleaned up any stragglers who avoided death in the initial charge or who had managed to flank past it. Up ahead, the covered cage loomed, dominating far more of Fionn's focus than the empty throne beyond it. Even if Jeremiah had fled and would survive the night, the chances that he could recover and mount any worthwhile opposition following the destruction of his main band were nil; assuming he made any such attempt, he'd be met with nothing more than the total failure and death that he merely postponed, with the loss of a veteran force.
In that light, the beast was far more concerning.
The momentary lull on their end of the field was shattered as an arrow snapped against the shield of one of the knights near him; with Gerard returning to the front in the corner of his vision, he charged forwards again. One bandit evaded the tip of his bardiche, only to be bowled aside and knocked from their feet as they were caught by a quick shoulder tackle and sent to the ground to be hacked apart by the others.
The next wasn't so lucky, catching the point inside the thigh, just between the tassets and above the cuisse. That one fell to one leg with a spurt of blood, muscle and femoral artery both severed in a single stroke. A kick sent them sprawling backwards, even as some of the other bandits retreated. Fionn spared the fallen man a glance as he stepped over.
"Hope it was worth it," he muttered, before slamming the butt spike of his weapon down into the bandit's uncovered throat.
