The Toll of Battle

[Crevel 4727]

Spoiler

 

[OOC]

This is a third-person narration of the ending sequence of battle focused on Father Petyr's perspective, who fought for the Canonist League. This post is meant to introduce how the battle affected Petyr psychologically. This is by no means a public document of any sort accessible to people in roleplay. It's something to be read OOCly and to potentially enjoy as light reading. It goes without saying that unless you were there, nothing from these roleplay encounters are to be metagamed and/or acted upon.

 

The Toll of Battle

 

As the Adrians began hacking down the doors of the Adrian Church and making quick work of those who tried defending it, Petyr spotted the rear window that had made a viable point of escape if he could only just climb. Narrowly, he would hop through the window as the soldiers of Adria swept through the church with their weapons picking off those who were not lucky enough to escape in time. Before the priest could make his escape, an Adrian soldier had been sicced onto him by an officer. An exchange of clashing swords commenced for a short period of time before what was likely a trained Haeseni soldier interrupted with his own swordplay, drawing the attack away from Father Petyr. Taking this chance, he would flee towards the ruins towards the north of Adria where he would stumble along those equally lucky to have survived.

 

“Father Petyr, what are we to do?” a young Barclay boy spoke who seemed to have just barely passed through his teenage years.

 

The priest stood still with a blank expression across his face as he peered towards Velec, where he had seen so many from both sides lose their lives alongside him. The whines and groans of injured soldiers from behind him began to be a blur until an elderly Waldenian knight spoke up.

 

“We ought to go back to Minitz” the knight responded gruffly, putting an injured teenager on the rear of his horse before mounting the horse themselves.
 

The voice brought Father Petyr to his senses, “Yes.. Yes.. we flee.. and we fight another day.. the Lord has still blessed us with our lives!” he remarks, almost in such a way to reassure himself as well as the others.

 

“My armour barely holds together still..” stated the Barclay boy which was met with a dreary agreement by others as well.

 

Petyr chucked a glance down at his own body. Blood had stained his chained armour, even to the point of leaving splotches on the clerical garments he had worn under the armour. The chains of his leggings and helm were immeasurably damaged to the point where they would have provided no protection, and his chestplate and boots had been largely unlinked but still provided enough protection if he had been attacked once more. The weighted blade he held in his hand had been blunted, chipped, and blood-stained. The cracks in his sword served as an accurate comparison to the forces of the Canonist League that pursued the anathematised duke.

 

As a few of the injured soldiers escaped on horseback, Father Petyr alongside a few others fled to Minitz on foot where they would be welcomed by a crowd of youthful and clean citizens who were prepared to administer support for a battle they had never seen. The priest peeled off the chainmail that had only just barely clung to his skin after the thrashing he had received. The sword, after being securely clenched in his hands for hours, fell to the floor. His hands would continue to shake as he looked out to the injured soldiers being brought into buildings.

 

Having made sure that he brought who he could to safety, Father Petyr would then stumble alone to the Free City of Florentine. His hands still shaking along the way as he periodically spoke to himself, “The Lord God has blessed us with our lives.”