Flowers of Westmark

[olpx 1013]

 

 

 

 

An Announcement of Victory, proclaimed by the Cavaliers

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Flowers of Westmark

On the 5th of Tobias’s Bounty, 248 S.A

Spoiler

 

 

 

 

THE FIELD OF WESTMARK was a place known to each and every soul that stepped atop it that morning, be they Cavalier or Druscan. As the dawn’s mists lifted from the field, Calias of Myrine saw blood. Was it a vision of the past, an inherited recollection of his family’s great victory nearly ninety years before? Was it his own imagination, desiring a triumph of higher importance, if of lesser renown? Was it a foreboding portent of his own defeat, where his body would be one among many of those he led? A farmhouse lay ahead, and an open field to its left. It would be there that the battle was made. Father Iudas’s blessings upon the soldiers calmed some anxieties, but it was not long before war cries needed to be made.

 

“FOR IDUNIA!”

 

“BLACKVALE-AT-ARMS!”

 

“MYRINE PRINCELY CAVALRY!”

 

“GOLDENFIELD, MARCHING ORDER!”

 

“IRON FROM ICE!”

 

The lieutenants beside him bore little of the same expression. Captain Vander, at the head of a company of pikes from Goldenfield, marched east, assuming the vanguard of the army. Joining him were hundreds of the common ranks. Ser Valanór Vourkehardt and Cálonir Orenyth paced beside the Adunian Chancellor, Athaenis, who had donned a helm to take her place among the foot. The three forsook the horse: their place was to stem the tide of battle. A golden light flooded from the footman Seojin (though mayhaps it was just the sun), as she traded barbs of wit with Uthyr Marsyr, for both were men assured of their place in battle, and what nerves were in their bellies was less than the joy of a moment’s camaraderie before the fight.

 

The advance was soon called, and the mass of foot soldiers, most of them beneath the pennant of the Tar, as well as their own houses, lumbered to the fields beside the farmstead. Not long after, the hordes of Druscans, augmented by those of a dozen other nations, once-great and small alike, emerged through the woods of Westmark. At their head rode Roger de Rouen, flanked by lords, mercenary captains, and household guards. Much like the Cavaliers, the majority of the host was mounted, though the few that remained on foot advanced ahead. 

 

Within minutes, as the sun still rose, and at a time and place earlier than expected, the forward elements of the infantry met at the fields, as Veletz and Covenant had generations ago. Those of Goldenfield and Numendil had the better of the initial push, and they were soon aided by others: Sir Ezelsteen and Trey of Blackvale led their small company to support the push. Paul of Myrine, invoking the soldier’s spirit of Jude Amaranth (though not his magic), did not hesitate to lead more spears to the melee, felling a foe in the process. Beside them, the orcish warrior sworn to the van Aerts, Brutaz of Ugluk, supposedly caught three between his teeth before decapitating an Aaunishman. Other pikemen of Krukiv, at the flanks of their commander, Earoslav, threw themselves into whatever gaps in the enemy line opened.

 

A stream of Euler banners, the turtle on the blue field, flooded towards the farmhouse. A wall of spears flashed before the Druscans, and behind each was a stout, strapping man of Eulersberg: Isak, Severin, Vicenz, and Baudemund. As the first wave came over the bushes and barrels strung around each side of the home, they were met by a sudden, sharp thrust of steel. Many were felled in the first wave, but more were to come. Atop his steed, another Euler, directing the line, Konstanze, was ripped down, but quickly rose again and traded lance for spear, joining the wall. In the midst of them all stood Sir Frederick, whose armor withstood the blows of the coming tide. Bending, but not breaking, a cheer came from the Eulers as their knight drove his halberd through the shoulder of the Lord of Avistra, who was carried back by his soldiers in a hurry.

 

However, it was not long before the weight of horses bore down upon the Eulers, pushing them back a few paces and forcing a regrouping. It was the fortune of the clear-sighted second line to decisively back the Eulers. When a hole in the line emerged, Jarad Mah’nel, Petyr Valkonen, and Joseph of Valfleur were quick to plug it and hold firm, and elsewhere Cameron Reinhold, his family’s brilliant crest displayed across his breastplate, drove his spear into a rider that had broken through the wall. By the time a company of Norlanders had arrived, under the command of the thegn Iulius Rauðrdrakar, brandishing a flaming torch like a beacon, the cascade had been stopped, though the movement of the battle shifted elsewhere. 

 

Coming at a trot behind the wall of infantry, the cavalry prepared to join the engagement. As the Holy-Man Carandir raised the spirit of their souls with a prayer that boomed across the battlefield, overawing the clash of steel before them, the squadrons of horse maneuvered where they had been directed by Calias of Myrine. Four hundred Silasian horses, under the command of Count Arturas, whipped their reins to join the infantry and hold the line. At his side rode his dependable kin: Nuvilta Whitewood and Sir Leif Whitewood, as well as his captain, Symon Vallenfal, all driving their steeds towards the teeth of the foe. 

 

Far to the south, to the right of the farm, rode the lighter, swifter cavalry of the Akatari. Elements of the Druscans had moved to flank, as the Mareno heir had predicted, and it would be the responsibility of the steppe warriors to keep them at bay. The rider Arokas, leading the Akatari, cleaved through a line of skirmishers. A breach opened, Lajos and Tolun flew through, leading others in a whirl around the stunned archers and javelinmen, scaring them so greatly that they dropped their weapons and ran without firing a shot. Those who had been lucky enough to avoid the encirclement were soon driven off by Berke and Sarnai. Some straggling elements of the enemy did what they could to stem the retreat on the Druscan left, but the Akatari kept the area firmly in the hands of the Cavaliers.

 

Contact between the cavalry was soon made north of the farm. The knights of Numendil, under Prince Llewyn Glennmaer, began a cat-and-mouse skirmish with the enemy, trying to force them to thin their swelling ranks. The prince’s kinsman, Llyw, evaded strike after strike as he knocked riders from their steeds. Ser Kieran Callaghan was in quick pursuit, jabbing down at those whom others had knocked off, preventing them from rising again. The skirmish would not hold as such, and soon these riders, save the Prince and Ser Kieran’s grandson, Bronadron, were also dismounted as more and more of the Druscan flock pursued them. Some of Prince Llewyn’s soldiers were overtaken, slain themselves, and it appeared that the squadron would soon be forced off the field.

 

For Tar-Zôrzagar, it would not be so. The Druscans that had peeled off from the general engagement, though now overwhelming the Glennmaers, had spread themselves dangerously thin. The Tar of Numendil, at the front of the direly-needed reinforcements, led his soldiers headlong into the disorganized mass of enemies alongside Duke Viago Vourkehardt. Ser Edwyn O’Rourke and the Lord-Regent Thândôr Orenyth fought beside their king, fearless as they slew a number of enemies that approached in a desperate bid to change the tide of battle by slaying the leader of the Adunians. The help was appreciated, but Tar would never let it be his demise that changed the course of war: his lance deflected one cavalryman’s own before spearing his heart, then his shield bashed across another’s face, sending her flying to the ground. Lugda'Rustfang, the resident olog of Numenost, soon followed behind the knights of Numendil, giving a cry so fierce that it put the disheartened Druscans, their attack already faltering, to flight. As cheers rose from the Numenedain. The crippled Lorian, riding, for he was unable to walk, arrived with word from Calias. Archduke Roger’s reinforcements, a battalion of late-arriving mercenaries, were coming from the north, sent to aid the center, where the battle was at its worst.

 

It was the Colborns and the Archduke of Petra who answered the call. Therin and Sir Caspian Beowulf Colborn III, Kapten of the Carrenguard eagerly led their soldiers east to halt the arriving mercenaries. Ser Caspian, at the head, drove his lance through Antoine de Bruges, causing him to crumple to the ground. When he rode too deep into the enemy ranks, his kin, Astrid, Ulfric, and Rhosyn, raced to his side, cutting through the enemy to allow him a path back. Just a moment after he withdrew from the enemy mass to the safety of his own soldiers, Sir Therin and the others arrived, spurring the Colborns to re-engage. Godmar von Augusten and Kerina Mondblume split from the group, circling around the committed line of Druscan mercenaries to strike them from the rear. Seeing an opportunity, Sir Therin directed more horses to the leaderless rear of the enemy line, driving a wedge between two parts. After several minutes, the mercenaries faltered, and they fled from the field of battle, the opposite direction of the great melee towards the field’s center. Sir Therin and a man named Celeam pursued the ones who ran, while Ser Caspian and the rest returned to the Tar.

 

Although we have spoken now of the periphery engagements: those far to the left, and those far to the right, and those far above, it was at the center where the thickest of the fighting was had, for what space could be seen was fought over, and what space could not be seen was plugged by a soldier. Cavalry, infantry, archer, spearman, swordsman- it made no difference. Everybody who could be pushed into the widening scrum was ordered there. Even the Boy-King of Norland, Haraldr Haakonson, whose heart was of the same material as his late father’s, the great warrior that he was, found himself among the heaviest of the fighting. At one instance, when he was knocked from his steed, his trusty footman, Ulfric, aided his liege’s rise and urged him to continue the fight, which he did. 

 

Amidst the cavalry in the center of the field, clumped holdouts of the Cavalier infantry, their line now blown apart, made their respective stands as clouds of dirt rose around them, masking friend and foe, and concealing the strikes of Druscan knights until a moment before the flash of their swords. Ser Mauricio Salazar, Lady Gloria Leomonte, and the footman Endran led one stalwart pocket, dismounting any rider that came near, and (in the case of Endran, who did so five times), killing them before they could stand as infantry. Lazar and Ultio Octavianus, attached to a company of Lucienists, resisted five charges before allowing themselves to be extracted by a gap opened by two wizards: Weston and Vivian Maelstrom, who did not use magic, but were so feared for their ability to do so that the thick mass of Druscans parted like walls as they neared the Lucienists. 

 

Captain Vander, his Goldfield pikes worn down by receiving the brunt of the initial engagement, fought on as if he were still fresh. The captain alone dismounted five and slew four, but nothing made his heart swell with pride as much as when a flick of his spear buried itself into the exposed knee of Duncan Baruch, his nemesis. The Baruch fell to the ground with a yelp of pain, but before the Captain of the Goldfield could pull out his dagger and finish him off, the whirl of battle surrounded them both once more, and when its course shifted again, the pair had been separated. So is the account of Jerry Drusco (of no relation to the Druscans), and these chroniclers allow the reader the liberty of deciding its veracity. 

 

Among the thick was Princess Ardirnien, her sorrows forgotten by many save her, and inflicted by the Archduke Roger and his men, is said to have fought alone. Sparing pike for bow, shield for vambrace, and sword for arrow, she sang the holy song of the scrolls as she fired point-blank at every red sun that crossed her sight. Be it her own luck, short stature, or the intervention of the Lord, she evaded the clanging blows of the cavalry above her and the jabs of lances in her direction as she fought. 

 

The young commander Calias did not allow himself to be a stranger to the fighting that he demanded of the men and women beneath his command. Maneuvering his way in and out of the line, rallying those who were wavering, the fearless Mareno lost three horses beneath him that day. On one occasion, he was pinned beneath his horse when it was struck by a Druscan spear. Seeing his commander on the cusp of being surrounded by the foe, the Blackvale footman Dario Vedra ran forward and stood over his liege, battling back ten foes as they tried to end the war in a single blade’s stroke. By the time others among the infantry had rushed forward to relieve them, Hektor, Berengerus, and Hierodas, the commander was generally unharmed, while his savior had suffered twelve wounds. Dario Vedra, despite his injuries, remained standing upright until Calias could be retrieved and given another horse.

 

Just as it seemed that the battle was deadlocked, both sides kept in check by the other’s zeal, determination, and untapped source of manpower, Calias committed the last of his reserves. Prince Cassius and Princess Madelief, joined by the dazzling might of House Mareno, began a wide flank of the Druscans, who were beginning to bottle up in the center. Sakis Mareno, carrying the banner of Myrine, was the first into the fray, where, in a duel within the whirling battle, he cut down the Druscan flag-bearer and took it as his own prize. Sir Ghetsis Mareno was unfortunately laid out with a devastating illness for six saint's weeks. Georgie Mareno and John of Myrine perhaps rode best of all that day: lancing foe after foe as the disoriented Druscans began to waver beneath their continued charge, which bore deeper and deeper towards Archduke Roger, firmly in the middle of it all. The halfling Ferryman Kaedwyn, with the desire for justice for the wronged Princess Madelief within his mind, joined Zinzolin of Myrine in a two-man drive towards the Lord of Rouen. The pair came within a hair’s breadth of taking the man’s life, but he was pulled away before their swords could reach his neck.

 

Not to be outshone by their Mareno friends, the heavy cavalry of Blackvale had driven through the front of the Druscan line itself, searing a path right towards Roger and his bodyguard. Sir Martius, though missing an arm, did not miss his skill, and with each stroke of the sword back and forth, he found the flesh of the enemy. Halrik van Aert followed closely behind, batting away the weapons of any who came near to Sir Martius. Even the hefty Prince Coenraed claimed a foe’s life during their Blackvale charge. While crossing blades with an enemy knight, the prince was knocked from his steed and landed atop one of Lord Roger’s bannermen, killing him instantly with the full brunt of his weight. 

 

The honor of dismounting the Archduke of Drusco would be none other than Sir Carolus van Aert himself, he who had enshrined himself as a hero of many battles already. Despite having elected to attach himself to the infantry, the esteemed knight ran forward, polearm in hand, without regard for his welfare nor the threat of the horses around. With the riders of Blackvale on either side, Sir Carolus cut down five of the Archduke’s finest guards before plunging his pike into the chest of the Druscan lord, shattering his plate and sending him flying from his horse, down onto the ground. Unable to rise, Lord Roger merely gasped for air as the brave van Aerts closed in. However, a few of his remaining bodyguards surged forward to push the van Aerts back and lift their broken liege onto the back of an outrider’s horse, whom they sent back to Drusco. 

 

As the Tar and his forces joined the battle from the left, and the Akatari joined from the right, Calias gave the call for a general advance. The teetering Druscans, deprived of their liege and commanders, broke and fled, a practice they were now much accustomed to. Encircled by the Cavaliers, defeated on all fronts, those who did not have the opportunity to escape were soon felled by the thousands that pursued them. Miluil Kevariel and Kazuya Shikuae, the banner of Numenost above them, ripped fleeing riders from the mounts and forced death or surrender upon them. The former bandit, Kevin Miller, led Rio Rykari and Faelianeth Fornaer, all weary from having stood strong against the enemy cavalry, across the battlefield to the wounded on either side: those of the Cavaliers were aided, those of the Druscans were aided, conditional upon their surrender, of which most did when given the choice. 

 

Fod Waterdew, while a humble, well-mannered man by most accounts, is said to have had the most zeal in pursuing the flight of the enemy. Determined to not let a single soldier escape, he ran ahead of the thousands of others who had now joined the chase. With air beneath his heels, flying through the sea of grass like a ship catching a strong wind, the spearman was among the first to catch up with a group of fleeing Druscans, startling them into turning around. As the Cavaliers behind him bore down upon this last pocket, Fod buried his spear into the face of an enemy.

 

A third Battle of Westmark (the second on the same grounds) had been concluded, as shattering as the others had been. As the wounded Calias rode through the clumps of men, bloodied, tired, yet elated by victory, the commander looked out over the blood-soaked field. For a moment, out of the corner of his eye, the spectre of a rider seemed to appear from the corner of his vision. However, when he swiveled his head, the Mareno saw only the Tar of Idunia offering a hand to a wounded crossbowman whose armor bore the crest of the black hound of a field of burgundy. The heir of Myrine, a small smile upon his face, gave a gentle whip to his reins. He wished to see his parents.

 

As he rode off, the sun began to set over Westmark.

 

Spoiler

Credit for the post @Nectorist
Shout out all these guys wouldnt be possible without them 
 @pkdon@ninjaclimb1@Vermy@wolfdwg@Coronate@Lenny@Nooblius@FunkehMelon
@Gaja @Pepto @Zqppy and much more to be named

 

[The Tough Guy 4319]

Sir Ghetsis Mareno patiently recovered for the upcoming six Saint's weeks.

[Hom 1987]

Having somehow survived the engagement with little-to-no injury upon them, Cameron ‘Caz’ Reinhold tends to their armor back at home, with a smile on their face. A fair bout felt all the sweeter to win. And the Highlander found that recently, they became restless without a battle to fight. 

[Sandman_Plays 659]

{!} Caspian found himself walking from the battlefield pain radiating the man had taken some wounding, he looked upon the devastation before him, dead bodies in mounds as the crows above circled, a scene he was unfortunately all to familiar with.

He offered a sorrowful expression to those who had fallen upon the field people he had known upon both sides, "May your souls find the seven skies" he muttered in prayer to all who had fallen.

the man found himself wandering toward the carrenguard, his levy stood firm yet clearly hurt from the battle, wounds had mounted up in this fight and left his own family in agony.

Stepping forward towards them he clasped his Hand upon Erik Colborn's @JuliusAakerlund Shoulder looking at his Soldier's the only solace he had found in this battle was that all his levymen were still standing, a small smile emerged from beneath his helm as he congratulated them.

"A stalwart victory, hard fought and won this day" he nodded, "Tend to your wounds, and offer your respects to the fallen even the Druscans, they deserve it as much as any" he ordered before mounting his horse.

"Family Through Fire" were his final words before departing the battle, trotting back to Herzskar, his mind still racing at the horrors he had just witnessed, Caspian though already forged in the crucible of war still hated it, "Last one.." he pondered "My last war, when this is done I am done" is all he could muster before arriving to his family keep, opting to lock himself a way to recover from his injuries.

[KaiserJacobII 1456]

Paul of Myrine recovers from his wounds in his small home beside the Mareno keep. He readies himself for the coming fight. Also, he lost his voice shouting, "MYRIIIINEEEE!" at the top of his lungs, and that will take a few days to recover.

[Nectorist 12869]

Cassius Mareno’s lance, which had struck many foes that day, finally breaks as the battle comes to a close. The prince buries it beneath a tree in the woods east of the battlefield.

[kuerbis 3802]

Princess Madelief looks upon the battlefield once the fighting was done. Her blade had seen blood, her armor had been dented beyond repair and her heart was half swelled with pride and half full with profound sorrow.

All of this could've been avoided if one man's tongue had been cut out. 

[Kardika 1057]

The battle which seemed to be going well at first was soon lost... In the heavy melee John Oren's armor was dyed red by the blood of allies and enemies alike. Captain Butterfield soon found him to give his report...  "sir, our troops are fleeing the field of battle!" John Oren looked to the captain with disbelief before shaking his head... "shameful display!" 

Edited September 1, 2025 by Kardika

[ChainedDragons 1374]

Bron remembered chasing one of the last remaining Druscan cavalierly through the blood soaked fields, turning and weaving with his steed - trying to get the man to fall. He had never felt so at one with his mount. Rest in peace Honse.

[Coronate 5519]

“Jude, they’re getting bolder.” The Warlord of Goldenfield looked off toward the Amaranth. He turned and lifted his blade from another Baruch. “Though doubtless there will be little left to do battle.”

 

The sun began to set upon the battlefield, irony filled the air.

 

”Come, we have a lizard to kill.”

 

@Ninjay

[Trenchist 864]

After the Battle of the Flowers of Westmark, Sir Prenkus stood amid the wreckage, his blade stained and armor scarred, but his stance unbroken. The meadow, once bright with color, now bore the marks of a hard-won victory. Around him lay the fallen—enemy and ally alike—testament to the price of triumph. He did not mourn in silence; he stood tall, the banner of The Holy Host still in hand, a symbol that justice would endure.

[Laeonathan 5889]

"Ave Idvnia," Screamed an Euler Patriot out of the depths of his loungs, despite his heavy injury from the battle.

[Tainga 521]

Athaenis Vourkehardt limped back onto the battlefield. From the moment this war had begun, she been in its marrow–every clash, every raid, every desperate rescue, and in every furious counterstrike. Now, her eyes swept across the carnage–the butchered plain, the silence of steel and blood. 

She drew in the sight with a steady breath, a small smile tugging at her lips. Tidebreaker, her trident, was anchored in the soil. Its prongs glimmering faintly in the fading light. This was a battle well fought. Well won. And she had stood shoulder to shoulder with them all. 

Never had she felt such pride in her people. 

“UTÚLIE’N AURË!” She cried, her voice thundering over the field of corpses, echoing through the stillness. 

“LOTHRON I ARAT CAR ARTHALIONATH VEDUI UIR!”

[__Stal27 2126]

The aforementioned Haraldr, seated himself upon a brick of the barn where much of the fighting transpired. His hands resting upon the head of his warhammer, sullen eyes moving among the field of red and armour, sitting in silent thought.
 

“Iron from Ice. . .”

[The Vulgate Cycle 577]

Castamir caught wind of the news and a radiant smile grew across his features and touched his silver eyes. 

"Blood for Ashford indeed." He remarked.

Edited September 1, 2025 by The Vulgate Cycle