An Ivory Mire

[_Stigwig 1510]

An Ivory Mire

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dFh71_ftxLE

 

Smoke was wafting from the shell of a castle - jagged parapets mangled with bodies and chunks of broken rock bursting into the sky akin to the gnarled knuckles of a punching fist. Men, the size of ants against a backdrop of such magnitude, surged across these broken towers with a reckless abandon found only in barbarians that know their lives are lost. A scant few of the encroaching horde were felled in the headlong charge by the defending Adrian sharpshooters, arrows whistling past as they rushed forth as one.

 

 

 

Around these broken shells that once buzzed with merriment was a sea of swords and steel that clambered to join those already assaulting the craven Vladovics - the proud banners of Savoie, Bar, Sola, Chivay and the coalition of those that had assembled to defend the true King fluttering above a host of combatants larger than any seen in the realm of Vailor.

 

The slow paced-lumbering of a rickety wooden tower, small wheels crawling along ruts lined with rocks and dug deep by the gallop of horses, filled the tense air to the south of the keep. A tower filled by men bearing the cross of Lorraine on their breast, their once-ivory tabards now lined with soot and pocked by cuts. The soldiers muttered soft prayers as the siege engine lurched across the ashen ground, rumbling over several holes.

 

Clouds shifted over the dark sky, briefly plunging the baleful path ahead into a dim twilight before illumination came for the crusaders in the form of fiery death - arrows burning brighter than the half-sun arced downwards as though from the heavens, buckets of searing oil being pitched from the crenelations high above them. This steaming rain of fire halted the slow moving beast in its path, rumbling to a halt as the brave souls pushing it were felled by arrow fire that ripped through their plate.

 

The stricken warriors who were not spared a quick demise writhed listlessly as their lifeblood pooled underfoot, and one of the unwieldy tower’s wheels found itself ensconced in a deep pit of mud. A handful of brave footmen leapt from the siege engine, trudging futilely through the viscous liquid only to become ensnared in the muck and felled by arrow fire. The remaining men within the tower exchanged knowing glances at their dismal circumstances, all hope seemingly lost.

 

 

 

Struggling from the mire of waste and muddied rainwater a single figure hurled himself out of the now body-filled trap and pushed through the quagmire to stand behind the engine, grasping the trapped wheel and heaving with all of his might. A guttural roar burst from his mouth as he called to the soldier still lingering with fear at the edge of the platform to join him in pushing the tower forwards, despite the downpour of bolts embedding themselves into the ground mere feet from his exposed form.

 

At first a pair of proselytes, fearful of being reprimanded, and then a trickle of hardy veterans, burly and able, joined the hardened officer in his arduous plight - many out of respect for the grizzled young Fournier who commanded them with such bravura. Spittle flew from the baron Charles’ mouth as he reprimanded those too craven to offer him assistance, his harsh words spurring on a small rabble of loyalists.

 

The assembled group began to grunt as they pushed fruitlessly at the firmly imprisoned wheels, men piling up as more threw their weight into the task laid before them. Still a storm of projectiles fell upon the plethora of men, a handful of the men crumpling lifelessly under the ferocious effort to halt the tower. None felt the rain of fire greater than the Fournier, a bolt embedding first into his shoulder and then a second through his lower leg. These efforts to halt the man in his path were not met by a cry of pain and failure though; rather through gritted and invigorated determination.

 

Another howl, this one more resembling that of some enraged ape, echoed forth as a final push of effort exploded from his frame- and forth the wheels rolled, freed from the pit as the score of men finally pushed as one, sinews straining and muscles tensing with all the energy left in their fatigued limbs. Tersely shouting his approval, Charles maintained an even pace as he pushed along the rickety engine, braving scores of enemy fire despite his daunting wounds.

 

 

More men plunged downwards and joined in from the raging battle to force the siege tower along the harrowing trail, the slow yet steady footfall moving it closer to the waiting walls, cracked as they were, of the stronghold of Barrowyk. A brief smirk, an expression so commonly seen on the nobleman’s face, burst through onto his visage as the tower neared the objective close ahead. His rough and calloused hand grasped his sword blade as he shifted to stand before the tower, raising it above his head with a haunting outroar of triumph.

 

His head tilted upwards, the youthful nobleman’s eyes widened for a fraction of a moment before being enveloped in the burning tar that had trickled all the way downwards and now fell in incendiary globs, the searing of oil on flesh earning a piercing scream from the previously invigorated warrior. The ivory-clad figure fell to his knees, hands and nails clawing at the cracking skin with an agonizing desperation never before seen in him - legs giving out as he tumbled backwards and under the ever-encroaching machination of war.

 

The pace of the siege engine had only increased; wheels grinding over his ravaged body row by row as the sound of snapping and breaking bones filled the air. Death had become common to warriors, with even the loss of their commander going unnoticed as they clambered towards their destination. The still and broken body of Charles Fournier lay facedown in the grime, several ragged breaths gurgling forth from his ravaged form.

 

As the baron’s life ebbed away, the last sound to reach his ears was the raucous clatter of his vanquishing countryman storming the battlements in droves, coupled with the screams of the Belrusi partisans as they were rended apart by his comrades’ blades. With nary a further moment of heroism or dignity, Charles Fournier breathed his last in the muddy hellhole of the Barrowyk fields, alone and without reprieve of the cruel pain that had enveloped his final moments.

 

“A glorious day.”

 

[Halsi 381]

Upon receiving the news, Camile de Savoie was unable to comprehend it. The death of a good friend pierced like a dagger through her heart, leaving her mourning for her friend's death.

[Treshure 5818]

((Holy ****. Good read.))

[Norman 492]

 

     The battle was won, but from outside the collapsed battlements of Barrowyk a new sound made itself known - the keening wails and mournful cries of the wounded and infirm following the vicious combat. Adrian de Bar sat in the muddy ground between two tents, a crude bandage wrapped around his head. One of the dissenters had scored a blow upon the nobleman during the final, frantic melee, though his helm had spared him from an untimely fate. 

 

     However, as the wounded lord watched carts of lifeless and bloodied bodies parade through the camp, he could not help but feel a pang of sorrow. The battle was won with the blood of countless Savoyards, and the hard-won victory had claimed the lives of many of his countrymen. As one such cart passed, however, de Bar's eyes widened as he sighted a shock of auburn hair upon the muddied head of a corpse. Despite numerous wounds, the golden Lorraine embroidered into the tabard clinging to the commander's body had been untarnished. Adrian staggered away with a slackened jaw, suddenly awash with regret. 

 

    An unforgiving death had befallen his comrade and friend Charles, but Adrian did not tarry with guilt for long. It is not his final moments that make a man's life whole, the grizzled veteran thought to himself as he watched Fournier's corpse unceremoniously tumble from the cart amidst several others, atop a crude mound of bodies. 

 

    It is the life that man has lived.

[Imi 425]

Upon hearing the news of her Nephews death, Jean gives a slight shake of the head, making her way to the nursery to tell the now orphaned Fournier children of their Father's passing, before entering a state of mourning.

[Harri 4815]

Bastien weeps as the news of his father's heroic last actions are retold to him, a sudden weight of realisation finding it's self on his shoulders as he now has to take over in his stead.

[Publius 4098]

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