The Wayfarer's Odyssey

[Samson Option 9652]

 

 

 

1st of the Deep Cold, 1518

 

The corners of his vision appeared fogged, his body laid still. This must be what it feels like dreaming. His body had always tossed and turned and he felt no good rest. Not this day, he had finally found himself a home. His pillow stuffed with plucked feathers and his bed cushioned with moist straw. The people that apparated before him appeared indistinct, impersonal, and they ran from him. How did these faeries of his dream know about him? Had they found out that he stole the bed for a single night? They ran through a meadow and his every sprint brought forth his fists in view, they were clean. This was true, he sat in a river and doused himself with clear water and scrubbed away with a lost article of clothing before he laid himself to sleep.

 

The sky grew a faint red, was it dusk?  He kept nodding upward to the sky as he gave chase to those who fled from him. Lines of scarlet became distinct and then came the black outlines. The sky no longer appeared smooth, but rather thatched. He looked back to the people who had gained a wider distance by then. They are not fleeing from me, but from the sky. A draft of stench took hold of him, the faeries melted away into the background. His dream blew away with a hacking cough as he awoke. His breathing came irregularly as he mopped up the sweat that threatened to smother him. He fell out of his bed and pitifully scurried like that of a mischievous rat. His knees ground against the floor and pain throbbed along his spine.

 

The roof of mud and thatch burned clean away from the walls. The clangor of swords against shields and whooping noises of marauding raiders caught Branwen by the ears. The door swung open with the aid of a fiery hand. Only the frame wavered free of the licking flames, a godsent to Branwen as he leaped through the opening. He slithered through the mud trampled fresh by foot and hoof and waddled to the side of the hovel. He began to claw away frantically at the soiled ground, but then methodically scooped away dirt and rubble as his awareness became more focused. The hovel collapsed into itself, providing even more material to hide himself within.

 

Within minutes, Branwen hid himself in a mess of a cloister. Debris, dirt, and wood made a shoddy cover for him as he feigned death. The raid drove the livestock of the village mad and caused them to run aloof and wild. A horse galloped down the path with a lasso tied around its neck. As the horse ran past Branwen's hiding with oblivion, his hand shot out and grabbed the rope that dragged behind it. Branwen mustered all of his strength to yank the horse in and made a makeshift stake to drive the end of the rope to a firm anchor. A stolen bed he was driven from, and a horse driven to him to be stolen. Branwen fell asleep in this position of false burial with a horse in tow and a village torn asunder around him.

[Samson Option 9652]

 

 

7th of the Deep Cold, 1518

 

The road roughened as he continued past Felsen. The pines stood tall and seemed to lean in towards him as if to menace his horse. The horse whined and bucked as the road became enclosed with bushes and thickets that shook with game and quivered under the weight of wolf and fox. However, their ride continued throughout the day until he reached the foothill that Brelus sat upon. He had not figured who the raiders from a week before were and did not want to gamble his life into the hands of more soldiers. He turned to the right and found himself a forested glen. A brook dribbled water from bend to bend across the glen and he dismounted and took a moment to swill some of the muddy water through his mouth before spitting it out. A noise troubled his horse and he lifted his head and scanned the surroundings.

 

A Kharajyr dressed in spotted orange stood at the same pace as Branwen. Their eyes locked and the kharajyr's muzzle twitched and its whiskers whipped about. The horse exhaled coarsely and Branwen reached his arm across its neck and mounted in a single push, his feet fitting snugly into the stirrups. The kharajyr's ears slid backwards as its neck tensed and it began to pad towards Branwen with its rear legs hunched.

 

"You there, you better stop!" Branwen cried out as he ran his left hand across his side until it met the leather cover of a large holster tied to his hip. He fumbled with the button and flipped the cover up to find his composite bow fit snugly. The kharajyr continued its pacing, the shadows cloaking it save for its reflective feline eyes.

 

"You are smart enough to walk on two legs, but daft enough to think I'll let you any closer," Branwen asserted as he brought his composite bow out and an arrow nocked. The kharajyr stood up suddenly, whispering something in its alien tongue with its distinctive lisp, and brought out a bow of its own.

 

Branwen brought his foot hard against the thighs of the horse and set off on a hard gallop. The kharajyr bounded for the trees, slinking in and between tall pine and thick fir trees. Branwen raced back to the road where the driven stone and filling gravel pathed across meadow clearings. The kharajyr sprung forth in chase only to find itself without its customary advantage. Branwen turned his steed and pulled back the arrow, waiting for his horse's front legs to smack against the ground before aligning his aim and releasing. The arrow dug deep below the kharajyr's clavicle and caused the sprightly foe to collapse and roll on the ground. Another arrow shot and the kharajyr's struggle ended with an expiring yelp.

 

T  he pelt looked clean save for the puncture below the neck. Branwen dismounted and quickly went to work turning the body over to let it bleed without letting the fur mop up the dark red fluid draining away. He turned to a pine and slung the body against a bough, allowing the body to drain as if on a hook in a slaughterhouse. He took out a finely sharpened knife and made a cut down from the arrow's insertion to the coccyx and then separated the fur from the flesh underneath. After all was said and done, Branwen set off towards Brelus with the kharajy'r skin in tow in hopes to find a tailor that might do better work with the fur than he could have.

[Samson Option 9652]

 

 

 

17th of the Deep Cold, 1518

 

 

Snow and slurry of ice packed his every step. The township of Vaneheim appeared in the midst of the snowy visibility. Branwen padded through the snow with a lean to his step to counter the windy ward that blew over the walls. He saw neither lantern nor fire through the peep-holes of the gatehouses flanking the portcullis, but instead found a treacherous bridge leaping across a river flushing globules of snow and shards of ice to his left. Branwen drew his cloak tighter around his still-warm form and bent over to pick up a lengthy branch for a walking aid. His walk turned to a stomping march as he labored to keep his footsteps firm and free from slipping. The crossing felt like an hour-long endeavor until he made it to the other side and threw the branch into the water and watched it puncture a thin layer of ice like a javelin into the hide of a beast.

 

On the opposite end of the bridge, silhouettes emerged from the foggy background of falling snow. Branwen brushed away tufts of snow from his eyelashes and squinted. Cavalrymen had spotted him and he watched as they talked through an entire chain of command until a more regal appearing horseman, obviously the commandant, brought his horse to ride hard across the bridge with his retinue following. In this position, I cannot flee. They'd ride me down the moment I fooled myself that I was free. Branwen hiked up the cloak to tug against his shoulders and keep in place, then ran a hidden left hand along his belt until his fingers wrapped around a grooved pommel. The horsemen jeered and hollered as they passed, riding a few circles around him while the commandant studied him hard.

"Who goes there?" Titus de Sola inquired.

 

"Branwen, Branwen Gileyard, a mere traveler who stumbled upon this place," Branwen replied as he begrudgingly eyed the circling cavalrymen.

 

"You ought to pay more care where you stumble, thought you were a Vanir," Titus scoffed as he smirked Kaedrinly atop his stallion.

 

"I will keep that in mind, much obliged sire," Branwen remarked as he paced backwards trying to tear away from the encirclement.

 

The cavalry split away into wings flanking Titus as he rode further into the township. Branwen followed their riding until they turned the corner of a street and disappeared from sight. Branwen sprinted across a street parallel, ducking out of sight each time a horseman turned throughout the labyrinthine town. He found the livestock pens before the horsemen, rushing to mount a horse and separate from the township. His eyes darted to and fro as fires sprung out of the roofs and windows of different hovels and buildings, his memory threatened to drown him in past fears. He trailed the town until the horsemen galloped away to return to their homes and he pursued through two days riding.

 

Dour Watch's appearance matched its name. The marsh to the northwest seemed most suitable for an encampment. The hill provided an overlook past the outer walls. Branwen managed to evade notice save for a siegemaster's visit. Branwen pursued permission with the Baron through traded letters. In fact, it was Branwen's witty quip that earned him the permission most like. After Titus inquired as to how Branwen found them again, Branwen had responded that the noise of hard riding brought him there. Titus's response begged the Creator to render horses silent beasts. Branwen replied And I wish my wife would be quiet instead of moaning but strong men ought to take pleasure in the haughty hoof and the moaning mistress. Titus de Sola visited Branwen's camp still laughing heartily at the response. His camp lit with light and resonated with revelry.

[Samson Option 9652]

 

 

19th of the Deep Cold, 1518

 

 

Branwen had just finished his rocking chair, a crisp creak in its wooden joints as he laid back in it. The two stoic boughs flanking him made him feel almost kingly, like the sides of a proper throne. However, all that bowed before him now was a homely fire and a cooking pot wrought with flakes of iron and a vegetable stew. He had just said farewell to a Marked Man whose name he did not catch and the baron Titus de Sola. It was Titus who proudly laid the decree in his hand and made sure that Branwen knew it was from the King. Branwen blew upon the letter, an unconscious joke made real. He had said that the King must have brushed cobwebs when he awoke and gave command, so to did Branwen wonder if the letter had any cobwebs enmeshed between its folded page. He licked a finger and padded it across the corner to unfold the letter and sat reading.

 

He scanned the last letter of the response and folded it back up.

 

"I can't say I will be fauning over this lauded King when he steps out of that coffin of a castle," Branwen commented to himself as he let loose the letter and watched it parachute into the fire across from him. The letter and its ink served as good tinder to keep his fire going.

[Samson Option 9652]

 

 

 

2nd of Malin's Welcome, 1519

 

 

Fissures ran the length of the wall as the portcullis shook and clangored. Branwen had just popped his head up, his vision still groggy, only two indistinct forms banged away at the portcullis of Dour Watch. His vision sharpened the more he wiped away at his eyelids. The two forms took on a hairy texture and a bipedal stance. He slumped over a wooden bucket and ladled away water with his hands to splash his face. He looked back from his hillside encampment to find the forms even more distinct, gnashing gnarled tusks and standing at an unwieldy twelve feet. He crawled on all fours towards his rocking chair, finding his shealthed longsword and clipped it to his leather belt. He jogged down the hill towards the outer gate and inquired about the two trolls with an agitated voice.

 

The two trolls slammed their fists one last time against the portcullis, they turned and grumbled as their hands reverberated against the hardwood gate. The trolls regarded Branwen with a curse and a laugh. Branwen studied them and found one of them using a fir tree as a flanged mace. The trolls paced in his direction with Branwen falling back into a parrying stance. Their steps grew into a infantile run as they barrelled past him up to his camp. One of the trolls drew his cooking pot and scrapped a mottled finger through the inside and sucked at the contents. The other cried out about its prestigious cooking skills, gloating to Branwen that he ought to try its pancakes. Branwen walked back up the hill with exasperation as the trolls goofed and stomped about on his campground kicking away logs and days old charred wood chips.

 

One of the trolls tumbled his way with arms wide open. Branwen paced backwards with his sword held diagonally, finally surrendering to the troll's hug. Before the trolls' arms encircled him completely, Branwen drew his sword to the side like a ripcord and opened the troll's fleshy stomach. The second stared in astonishment as the first fell backwards as if trying to cup its innards back into the open wound. Branwen stepped forward and twirled his sword until the blade faced downward and pierced the first troll's groin. The second troll came to the first troll, staring in disbelief at its companion's wounds only to feel the slash of Branwen's longsword through its shoulder.

 

"Monsters, the whole lot of you. You've wrecked my campsite, be gone!" Branwen proclaimed as the second troll stood eyeing him with malice.  The troll teetered as if in deep thought, then turned away and fled the camp leaving its companion writhing in expiring pain.

[Samson Option 9652]

 

 

 

6th of Malin's Welcome, 1519

 

 

Dark clouds stole away the heavenly ceiling above Felsen. Branwen noticed the streets seemed to steer away, mayhaps hiding sinister persons, as the clouds cast their shadows from overhead. He ventured the purported capital rarely and typically did so to refill his canteen with harsh whiskey or sweet mead at the tavern. He took his usual route, cutting off slightly to the left of the main plaza to venture into the tavern when he found the Marked Man. The Marked Man seemed to loiter with oblivion with his attention turned to the tavern's inside leaving Branwen to pat him on the shoulder with a firm and friendly hand. Adeon of Rhoswyn looked over his shoulder with a mix of concern and grief and soured Branwen with the latter.

 

"What is it o' Marked Man?" Branwen inquired.

 

"The nun inside was attacked," Adeon stepped aside and allowed Branwen to see the inside of the tavern better. There, a nun dressed in white held the hand of a companion and steered herself out of the tavern. The two men gave her space to step out into the plaza and they turned and watched as she entered the cathedral on the opposite end.

 

"A damned shame. Did you witness the attack?" Branwen asked with an afterthought of annoyance at how accusatory the question may have sounded.

 

"No, came to the aftermath," Adeon responded nonplussed. Branwen sighed and his shoulders shifted as he appeared visibly disturbed.

 

"This civil war really has touched the minds enough to have someone try for our last vestiges of innocence. I'd wager the attack took place to shake morale more than anything," Branwen remarked.

 

"Regardless, the red riders are simply ignored," Adeon scoffed. Branwen looked at him with slight exasperation. These red riders that I haven't seen.

 

The two men sat in silence for a few minutes before Adeon bid farewell and the two separated. Branwen sat in the tavern and uncorked his canteen, spinning it loosely in his hand to determine what remained inside. He took a few coins and bought himself a refill from the tavernkeep. He returned to the tavern proper and sat down at the most secluded corner with a gruff sigh and leaned himself against the wall. The tavern proved mediocre these days with rarely a customer save for a merchant from another nation and the Stauntons, the recent-most refugees due to the civil war. The candles hanging from the walls of the tavern went to work lulling him to sleep. The chatter echoing in from the plaza replaced the whistle of crickets and he dropped off into a slumber.

 

Cries emerged from the chatter, shaking Branwen awake. He found himself lurching from his seat and his torso snagged by the tavern bench and dragged a few inches before he fell over. His awareness clarified and he peered out one of the windows. The tavernkeep ran in with her hands smacked across her lips in shock and reported that a nun was assassinated. Branwen slid out from his seat and sprinted out into the square as people bounded in panic away from the church. Branwen pushed shoulders and hips aside as he marched through the crowd and found the inside of the church empty except for the same nun and her companion knelt near the confession box. A guard charged for the tower with shield and axe in hand with another volunteer following him. Branwen turned and found himself running full sprint for the King's Palace where he found a few mubarizun of the Caliphate entreating with the gate guard - an emissary's escort.

 

"You who care for the peace of the realm, with me now! An assassin has cut down a nun of our Church!" Branwen exclaimed as he patted the shoulders of the mubarizun with desperation. He turned away,  praying that his call met some ears and ran back for the Church.

 

The church doors had been left open. Branwen paced inside and felt his face turn pale. The nun and the companion disappeared and at the foot of the tower laid the same guard with an expired and stiff red hand holding his throat. His volunteer cried out asking if Branwen had seen the assassin run out of the church. He did not. The cityfolk filled the plaza as the puzzled and curious shot glances inside the church and people stepped aside as Branwen exited. Branwen still heard the chaos as he made his way to Dour Watch.

[Samson Option 9652]

 

 

 

1st of the Sun's Smile, 1519

 

 

Walls of stone and mortar opened up to Branwen and Augustus de Sola. The son of Titus guided Branwen from Dour Watch where he levied the wayfarer from his encampment. The walls seemed burdened by the trail of men-at-arms and archers preparing baskets of lit pitch and supplies down to the central plaza where the cavalry trotted into formation. The Savoyards of Saint Amyas, said to be one of the last holy orders harkening to Oren's past. Branwen studied the arrayed rows of infantrymen dressed in chain with some squatting in plate. The commandant of the infantry, Guy de Bar barked orders to the conflicting paths of traffic as the army assembled. Titus de Sola galloped around the mess of horses and riders while goading them with his kaedrinly arrogance. He isn't a poet, but I guess soldiers have no time for fine rhymes.

 

Branwen and Augustus entered upon the keep after alerting the guard up above who raised the portcullis. He split away from the son of Titus and found an unoccupied corner and began to dress himself in his own armor. His scale dress fit over his body snug as a shirt and the rest slipped on just as easily. The army had arrayed by the time he dressed for battle and they appeared anxious with a few whistling hymns as if they too were not worried. My first battle, Branwen's throat cinched at the thought, this will be nothing like hunting I reckon. Branwen knew how to hold his own against the highwaymen and brigand who typically wandered like stray flocks of sheep and knew little organization. Armies are shepherded, the staff sways and they fall upon an ascertained path. He gathered himself into the formation, brushing shoulders with strangers he had neither time nor grace to acquaint himself with. These men, will they augment me or am I on my own, Branwen bounced slightly on the balls of his feet to ward off the doubt.

 

The portcullis rattled upward and the marching began. Branwen tried to keep lockstep with the formation. The army, under the flanking strides and scouting rides, made their way towards Brelus. They ventured past meadows and forests until an open field beckoned them forth and the marching halted. The sun kissed the bravest and the field fled and stretched far enough to where the Adrians had halted on the opposite side. Branwen choked on fear and kicked up dust as the front ranks began to banter and cry out taunts and insults. A pitched battle, watch as the commandants plot on this here chessboard. By the time the army reorganized, Branwen found himself in the centre and the lesser-armed stood on the flanks. By God, the most able are rewarded with the most work. Branwen's thoughts routed as Lori Oathcast ordered the central mass to march and engage. The men in Branwen's view started up with a basic march, then drew into a running charge and clash. Branwen felt lucky as his shield met the back of a Savoyard to support and augment the push and shove that came between Adrian and Loyalist.

 

Branwen took his longsword in both hands with one hand holding the blade, held it overhead, and drove it over a Savoyard's shoulder into the neck of an Adrian. Another had broke the Loyalist line and swam through the pushing and felling towards Branwen. Their swords met overhead and their crossguards locked. The Adrian's face, as sweaty and dirtied as Branwen's, drew close and Branwen spat a slurry of grit and phlegm. The Adrian buckled with shock and disgust and Branwen overpowered him and ran his longsword like a saw across the Adrian's neck. He stepped away with a heavy pant and slovenly wiped his forehead with his gauntlet. A sharp pang of pain flared through his back and he felt his body fall forward over his slain opponent and his mouth swallowed sweat and mud. Darkness threw itself like a veil over his eyes and he felt a throbbing ache before passing out.

 

Hymn and prayer whispered softly in his ears. A single movement and he felt lighter and unburdened. Branwen's eyes opened and he first saw light. What heavenly abode have I? Am I perished? Guy de Bar's face emerged from the single shadow that crept into his view. He heard from Guy that he was one of few who fell. I am ashamed, a near casualty and a rarity. This will be the talk of torture and ridicule mayhaps. His hands skirted his chest, a tunic ran taut across his biceps. Guy de Bar snickered and remarked that an Adrian follower may have stripped him of his arms and armor. Branwen leaned over and found Titus de Sola with a bloodied nose and coming to. If the Bloody Baron fell from his horse, than I shant feel nearly as embarrassed then - it must have been a rough battle. Branwen stood himself up with a slight teeter in his step and continued on to the celebration and oratory within the castile of the Saint Amyasmen.

[Samson Option 9652]

 

 

16th of the Sun's Smile, 1519

 

 

Droves of men, women, and children circumabulated the gates of Felsen as if in pilgrimage. Branwen departed from his encampment in the early morning after his companion roused him from his rest. The traffic through the nearby King's Highway had riled his new companion, a half-elf with the accent of the Raevir, into a fit of discomfort. Branwen had studied the traffic for some time, all the more curious because those who gathered at Felsen did not bear arms, tabards, or the regalia of levied soldiery. The two wayfarers ducked and slinked past the maze made of loitering and conversing bodies until they found the banner of the Orcs fluttering against the plain stone walls of Felsen's forward towers. A random man with a clear voice took it upon himself to read and re-read the missive left behind. He seemed to have been on his twentieth reading as his face squeezed sweat with every inhaled breath and his voice ran ragged.

 

Quinn and Branwen looked between each other with an agreed incredulity. Many of the commonfolk in the audience remarked either dismay or disregard, but a good majority agreed between the pockets of conversation that nary an Orc had been seen in the realm. The two resurfaced away from the animated crowd and took a seat along a fallen tree blanched like that of a stripped bone. Their eyes wandered and studied people apart, but their conversation kept them together.

 

"What do you make of that?" Quinn inquired.

 

"I can't say it sets a quiver in my bones like that of the civil war," Branwen commented and continued after hearing Quinn snicker, "but a hidden host is what most often astonishes opponents."

 

"The histories make this threat hollow at best though," Quinn remarked forthright. Branwen shrugged his shoulder and recoiled with pain, having wrinkled the violet bruise decorating him from the battle a few weeks back. I ought to lay with a woman and see if this bruise delights her as much as an oft-admired scar. Branwen knew the histories as well as Quinn and couldn't bring himself to argue.

 

"Be that as it may, if the traffic of these supposed Orcish warbands comes our way, then we'll have to move our camp," Branwen asserted and turned away to watch the crowd once again as Quinn nodded in agreement.

[Samson Option 9652]

 

 

11th of the First Seed, 1520

 

 

He walked humble surrounded by prideful fellows, Branwen noticed as he ventured towards the city of Felsen. The Holy Ser kept silent as he marched onward with a company of companions and churchfolk. The High Pontiff, the last to exit of the Holy Ser's entourage, paraded incense and seminal encouragement. Branwen did not hide his rosy temperament as the entourage crossed his path and he fell in with the crowd as they headed to the Cloud Temple. Neither could he hide his knowledge of the Holy Ser's purpose; Branwen became privy to the planned duel when he conversed with acolytes at the church. In fact, the arranged combat between the Rex of the Orcs and the Holy Ser tore away the white frock and hidden pasts of the churchmen and Branwen learned who were leatherworkers, blacksmiths, and enchanters in their past and forgotten lives. The Church did not fail to mobilize their best talents towards arming and preparing the Holy Ser for his future endeavor.

 

The field that the Orcs and Men met at was as plain and modest as the Holy Ser. The meandering and brutish Orcs stepped aside to reveal their Rex and Branwen's face gave away his surprise. An elf, tall as the Orcs, but lithe with skin colored mahogany stepped forward with a feigned look of intimidation. An Elvellyn of the forest leading the Orcs, quite the task he is burdened with to appear so strong while his body and culture demands limber tenderness. Much ot his surprise, the Orcs cheered on Phaedrus with a violent and proud fervor. Meanwhile, the Holy Ser dipped his head and swallowed vainglory and shown calmness instead. The two combatants stepped forward and traded words inaudible and began to turn in opposite directions and circled about. Their hands shot out to ward off their companions and the mass of observers spaced away and gave them their dueling grounds.

 

Atalf Benard, the Holy Ser, took first liberties to strike. Phaedrus spun his elvellyn sabre and parried. Phaedrus sent a swing diagonally only to find Atalf deflect it and return to a defensive stance. The two came to blows and pulled away, the crowds on either side inhaling and exhaling with anticipation and relief respectively. These two are remarkable, somber and skilled enough to not appear like belligerent marauders but rather tested and patient duellers. Branwen set his hands on his hips and lost himself in observation, he realized how competent the two were and how amateurish his prior combats were. The feigns and dancing prolonged the duel for twenty minutes, before one of the duelists earned the bated gasps and hoots from the observers.

 

Phaedrus's elvellyn nimbleness served him better than Atalf's calculated calm as Atalf struck forward in hopes to lock blades for the fiftieth time. The monotony broke when Phaedrus blocked with his sword held downward and slid blade and body to Atalf's side, then forcefully thrusting Atalf away and tripping him at the same time. Atalf, threw off from the sudden maneuver, tried to step away and straighten himself up until Phaedrus's sabre cut into his left hamstring. The High Pontiff shook with shared pain as he watched the Holy Ser bend his unharmed knee and kneeled with various churchfolk praying in return. Atalf turned and tried to deflect Phaedrus' sabre, but his injured leg throbbed and his aim fell too low with Phaedrus's strike swiping cleanly into a shoulder. The Holy Ser flailed from the impact and fell away, dropping his blade. His will has been broken, for shame.

 

Atalf gathered himself and leaned away from Phaedrus's sabre. His knees buckled and his head hung high with stalwart opposition. Be brave, but be honest. Atalf spoke with Phaedrus and commended him on the well-fought duel. The Elvellyn Rex returned his compliments and stole away Atalf's fallen sword. Phaedrus stepped behind Atalf as the Holy Ser's head leaned forward as he clasped his hands for one last prayer. The Rex has chosen to put him to the sword like that of a lamb, I suppose to make the consequence a swift and easy one. The Rex slid his sabre between Atalf's neck and collarbone and pierced heart and severed spine. The Orcs and their celebratory cries eclipsed the weeping and lamenting of the Humans. The acolytes gathered around Holy Ser Atalf and took to mourning. Branwen looked between himself and the High Pontiff and paced through the woeful masses. He placed his hands firmly under one of Atalf's shoulders and found that two others did likewise and they hoisted the Holy Ser up and marched the pallbearer's path that evening.

[Samson Option 9652]

 

 

22nd of the First Seed, 1520

 

 

Quinn and Branwen looked between each other, their locked glances thrown awry with each bump on the road. They rode north on a haphazardly built wagon drawn by both of their horses.  Branwen looked onward to find fields of wheat and barley stretching to the horizon, combed by the wind to draw waves of goldenrod from the yellow sea. Quinn remarked about the simplicity of Brelus and they drew near to find the gate closed. A Sarkozic guard demanded the what-for of the two wayfarers and heard their appeal for an encampment nearby. The Raevir regarded them mildly, but permitted them safety on the outskirts.

 

The horse cantered gingerly to the right and drew them to a gulch. The two took to dissembling the wagon and all the goods loaded and set to both fire and hearth. A slow procession of men and boys gathered past the encampment with tools, weapons, and harvests in tow.

 

"They gather for a battle I suppose," Quinn pondered.

"You figure they know I fought against their liege lord?" Branwen asked with a slight nervousness in his voice before turning to stuff dry straw in a bale cord.

"You fought in one of the Savoyards' victories, I'd reckon they didn't get a good look of your face."

"Wager you'd be fine fighting alongside a turncoat?"

"The common man often times turns his coat when either side gets wet. The spittle of the lords through their terrible tantrums simply wets us, turns us sour, then we take out our anger between each other. You aren't a commander, you aren't betraying any cause. You were levied, just as you seem to feel now." Branwen looked impressed after Quinn finished his musing.

"Fair enough, let us get to the city. The camp can wait, the Orcs won't ravage our home here." Branwen took up his longsword fitted snugly into the scabbard and attached it to his belt. He looked over and nodded as Quinn slung his poleaxe over his shoulder. The two headed for Brelus.

 

A great deal of soldiers, the two noticed, wielded polearms and spears. Tercio squares formed up with heavy infantry filling the gaps and what little cavalry they brought rode as the vanguard. Branwen and Quinn stepped into the mass of formations that marched away from the gates of Brelus and made its way within view of the Savoyard host on the other side. The terrain served well against the arrows that halted the Adrians, the forest surrounding the road welcomed the Raevir looking to negate the missile offense. Branwen, Quinn, and a few Raevir went deeper into the forest hoping to cut off any flanks from under the deeper canopies. Branwen's suspicion proved true as horsemen tried to wheel through the forest and meet the Adrians unaware.

 

Just as suddenly as the cavalry rode in did a portion of Adrians gather together into schiltroms and hamstrung a few of the horses with their riders falling and breaking neck or leg. The forest combed the horsemen away from each other, permitting the Adrians to duel them or thrust their spears into their destriers.  Branwen found himself confronted with a horsemen armed with a sabre, his longsword's length clashed and cut into the opponent's armpit before falling from shock. Branwen took his sword and plunged it into the fallen man's neck and looked up. A rush of Adrians sprinted his way and he felt a hand tug on his shoulder.

 

"Run! They brought their vassals, Elvellyn cavalry encircled the main flank!" Quinn barked as he turned and joined the rout. Branwen quickly followed. They outnumbered us? Where are the Orcs?

[Publius 4098]

Moved to the Archive. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.