“Oot teh gaits!” called a brave voice of the Poor Fockin Infantry. Leopold looked out from the battlements, stunned. The young cadet came down, accompanying two other more experienced soldiers to the outer wall. Unmistakably, these were men of the dreaded A.I.S., but the Prince hadn’t quite caught their faces amidst the drawing of blades and the twanging of bows. A cavalryman of noble stock, and a knight of some description, each decorated in expensive armour and sporting Horenic features. Clearly he’d thought, the nine year old and his peasantly compatriots would be no match?
Woe to the young Prince Leopold, who’s first fight should have been his last. His sword, fitted for size, was the only sharpened blade of the Kaedreni force’s, whilst the Poor Fockin Infantrymen led the charge with their pitchforks and scythes, slingshots and bows fashioned from recycled walking sticks.
For near a Saint’s Hour the battle raged on, as working men marched and dove through brush and field, chasing their better equipped foes on through the Kaedreni hedgerows, only for the scoundrels to slip off into the trees or across the streams and outpace the Poor Fockin Infantry and their patriotic boy-soldier each time over.
The situation seemed dire, perhaps hopeless as they ventured far from the safety of Ves and into the east… But then, a miracle.
A well tossed pitchfork took the rider’s horse down, courtesy of the apple-chewing Manfred of Kaedrin and an unnamed Poor Fockin Infantryman. Meanwhile the young Leopold followed on after the other mysterious figure that’d threatened Kaedrin’s borders, with the guidance of one Declan of Kaedrin who’d pelted the knight with stones and turnips alike, twanging them from a decrepit slingshot until the invader was fool enough to stop and engage. There they met the warrior head on, and the young Prince of Kaedrin bloodied his blade for the first time. A clang of one sharp rock hauled by Declan into the mysterious soldier’s armour brought him to a halt, followed by crunch of sword upon bone as Leopold took an unclean cut into the man’s spine.
“Oi bloodie ‘ell.” proclaimed Declan amidst the sound of the A.I.S. soldier’s choking on his own blood, a well placed hand checking for valuables “Tha’s only A NONDESCRIPT SOLDIER, A NOBLEMAN FROM Rewbern!”. Prince Leopold shook, as he wiped blood from his face, the nine year old coming to terms with his newfound awareness for the mortality his fellow man. He blinked down at the suffering RUBERNI NOBLE , before making the final blow to finish off his enemy for his Kingdom and his Empire.
Head in hand the party re-grouped, the mysterious rider having made his escape, though the head of their enemy remained clenched in the Red Prince’s hand. This would be a day to renew the spirit of Kaedrin and its impoverished soldiery. A day of celebration. The first of many days, perhaps, on the road to victory. More peasants were called across the fields of outer Ves and into the square, to celebrate the Poor Fockin Infantry’s triumph.
A new portrait of the Prince and the Poor Fockin Infantry came to decorate the Palais de Varoche...
And a new trophy was placed at the gates of the Golden City.
((Post updated to comply with staff ruling on namedropping dead characters through forum RP that may not intend to PK))