A Calling [Attn: Lugh]

The World outside the Grey Tower is a vast place.
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Bella
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Re: A Calling [Attn: Lugh]

Post by Bella » April 12th, 2019, 2:17 pm

Isla felt Beron's near presence with relief. She expected him to approach her, which would help in the ousting of the annoying man talking to her, but he didn't. His amusement was there, but he moved to sit at the bar... She realized after a moment that he was probably giving her space to gain more information.

For her part, she really wasn't sure if this young man would have much more to tell her, but she'd give it a little longer.

"This Calter farm must be relatively close to town if they have chosen to camp there," Isla commented with as much idleness as she could force into her force, taking a sip of her tea. Her dining companion made her wish for something stronger. "Though it would have to be a rather large place, to house a troop of soldiers like the Children."

Too much time living in the Grey Tower made her want to call them Whitecloaks, but she knew that many considered that pejorative, and this young man was likely among them. She didn't want to offend him before she had gathered everything she could from his narrow mind.

"Pretty close, I guess," the man said thoughtfully, stealing a piece of bread from her plate and chewing as he considered. His apple was apparently done. She had the brief urge to cut his fingers off, her irritation rising, but she resisted and kept herself calm. "And yeah, it's sizable, but not quite a whole army is camped out there. Couple dozen of soldiers, I guess. That's why I figure they will need more. Why I'm headed out there today."

"Today," Isla repeated, pushing her plate a little away. She had no appetite now. "Eager, I take it."

He laughed, this time spitting bread crumbs as he did. "Oh, yeah. Besides, I hear they've gotten everyone they suspect and will be marching out soon. So I better get there before they do!"

She forced a pleasant, placid smile. "I suppose you'd better," she said smoothly.

By this point, she'd had about all she could take.

"I wish you luck," she said. It wasn't exactly a lie, since he'd need all the luck he could get... "I fear that I must be on my way now, though, but thank you for the chat." She inclined her head slightly and then rose to her feet. Her sword had been sitting on the bench seat beside her and she took it up now, strapping it to her waist.

The young man's eyes widened at the sight, but she didn't give him any time to ask as she cut through the growing breakfast crowd and made her way to where Beron sat.

"Impertinent little runt," she muttered, standing next to him and leaning one arm on the bar in mock casualness as she told him in quick, low tones what she had learned.

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Re: A Calling [Attn: Lugh]

Post by Lugh » April 12th, 2019, 7:40 pm

"There's one or two everywhere you go Isla. Bored with village life, dreams of strutting around making men green with envy; and the women swoon with desire. He'll end up an infantryman somewhere, sick and grousing once he catches a pox from a camp follower no doubt," said Beron with a smile, a little humor to help diffuse her frustrations.

Turning to watch the young man leave, he was glad to see few signs of surliness or suspicion. Just a village drunk, who should have had an older relative pound some sense into his brain with hard work. "The rest of what he said though, that's ill news indeed. We knew there was a chance preparing had taken to long, but we cut it just close enough it sounds like," he whispered into her ear, taking advantage of their closeness to lean in.

"With a couple dozen, the best time to hit them would either be now, while they are distracted with preparations; or once they are on the move. But will they transport the women with them, or deal with them first I wonder," he said quietly, sick dread settling into his stomach as he contemplated either fate for a handful of young women. That they were simply drug into this situation because of suspicion and fear angered him, but he was more worried for them than angry.

Quaffing the dregs from his cup, he let out a sigh at the burn of the drink. He then looked to Isla, dressed in her swordbelt, and ready for the day, and nodded. "If you are ready for a little ride, I think we can probably find this farm. Take a look and see what we find," he finished, sliding a coin across the bar for his drink.
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Re: A Calling [Attn: Lugh]

Post by Bella » April 19th, 2019, 4:21 pm

The fear and uncertainty that had stirred in her the night before had now taken root, but the tree that grew from that was something else all together... Something more like anger. Like righteous indignation. It had been watered by listening to that fool of a boy, that arrogant and misguided child.

"I'm ready," she said, her words pregnant with more than the obvious meaning.

Nothing else was said as they made their way with all outward casualness from the common room and then to the stables, where they tipped the stable-hand to fetch their horses. While he was doing so, she turned to Beron and spoke in a low voice. "We should try to hit them before they leave. Depending on what they determine of each girl, they may choose to...not bear their burden on the road."

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Re: A Calling [Attn: Lugh]

Post by Lugh » April 24th, 2019, 5:02 pm

Beron "I agree Isla, as much as I would prefer to plan it out more. If they are leaving, all of the women are in danger," Beron said with a grim face, his mind full of the whole meaning behind Isla's words. He thanked the stable boy, smiling a little as he noticed the boys wary stares at their swords.

Especially Isla, the young lad seemed especially taken with her. And Beron could hardly blame him, she looked good; strong and competent, her sword a natural weight at her hip. Hopping in his saddle, he thanked the stable boy and moved Aethan through the streets. The horse was eager to ride, a stay in the stables having done it's job with the well bred horse. Beron kept his eyes open, scanning the crowd for signs of trouble, but fortunately no one seemed overly concerned about two riders leaving town.

Once they left the confines of the town, he breathed a little sign of relief. His horse chuffed beneath him, and he knew the well trained grey was picking up on his building tension. At least in the open countryside they had more of a chance of escaping, of Isla being able to break away if things went south.

---

The trail had been easy to find, there was simply no way to hide an encampment, especially with the arrogance many Whitecloaks displayed. Their riding columns would look impressive, and cow the families that worked the land, but it was as good as drawing an arrow on the map. Beron rode towards the camp, taking the time to angle them along with the contours of the land around them, his years as a scout paying off as he made sure they presented no silhouette to any sharp eyed sentries that might be present. And so with a few hours of riding, circling and doubling back; Beron was able to find them a small vantage point. An outcropping of stone, that broke through the trees close to where their horses were picketed and bored soldiers carried water from the stream.

Taking his looking glass out, he hitched his horse and crawled forward to look over the camp. It was well laid out, the horses picketed in neat rows, with a few soldiers grooming them. The rest of the camp was orderly as well, tents in clusters around small cookfires, smoke rising from a small camp forge; and on the outskirts near the creek, a small clump of rope and stakes. Cursing he saw the women in his glass, torn dresses and filthy from the mud and elements, many of the women cowered as far from the laughing men as they could, while some stared at them with hate in their eyes. Turning to Isla, he gave her the glass and let her look as well.

"Looks like a charge either way, surprise and speed will help. With that many women, it's not going to be an easy dash into the countryside. Isla, I am with you, but I'm afraid the worst of the attack is going to fall on you. I can distract them, or ride in and raid their horses, leave them stranded here and pursuing on foot. But to save those women, men will have to die," Beron said gently, his hand on the hilts of his weapons. His heart was prepared, he would bring death to those below him, but he knew Isla preferred to heal, not harm with her ability. And they would need all the strength she could channel.
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Re: A Calling [Attn: Lugh]

Post by Bella » May 4th, 2019, 9:19 pm

Isla wanted to heal. She did not want to harm...

...except right now.

"Men will have to die," she replied, her tone almost flat as she stared toward the camp with a fierce blue gaze. "What must be done will be done. We have to get those women away from here before they leave. Before it gets worse." The looks in the victims' eyes... She had seen it in the eyes of other women, those taken when she was still a soldier with the Children.

She knew what some of the men would do.

Anger was rising in her like its own creature, but she wrestled with it until it was constrained. She needed to use it, not let it loose to the point where it was ineffectual.

Mixed in with all this indignation, however, was a thin thread of self-loathing for all that she had once been.

It was time for atonement.

"I can cut the picket lines from here," she said thoughtfully. "And set the horses running. Several of the soldiers will pursue their steeds, and the numbers of the camp will be cut. We'll have to move quickly and try to at least free the women so they can get a running start while we keep them from being pursued."

She turned her gaze on him. "If you agree, I am ready when you are."

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Re: A Calling [Attn: Lugh]

Post by Lugh » May 5th, 2019, 4:11 am

Beron Beron took a moment to steady his breath. With what he was feeling through the bond, he was ready to charge headlong into the camp before them. And that would do nothing but get the two of them killed, and would do nothing for those poor women in their cage.

Instead he turned his mind inward, picturing a candle's flame. Feeding that flame, he fed it the hatred and pain he was feeling. As the bond showed him Isla's emotions, he did his best to channel that into the flame as well; until finally he was floating in the cold heart of the ko'di.
Then, once the calm surrounded him, he finally trusted his instincts once more. Looking at Isla, knowing her resolve was steel, he mounted Aethan. "I am ready Isla. If you can take care of the horses from here, I will take advantage of the chaos and move in. With any luck, the bastards will have caught a Wilder they haven't discovered. Maybe some unexpected help," he said as he waited until he could tell she was ready to begin.

Carefully moving Aethan down the small rise, and into position he counted the spaces between the guards, the ko'di keeping his nerves at bay while he took note of positions and small details of the camp. Suddenly panic broke out among the horses, although Beron could not see what she was doing, he had no doubt it was Isla as a groom was crushed in the sudden rush of hooves. The horses broke for the trees, although many of them made their way into the tents, and a chorus of shouts and warnings broke out at once.

Taking advantage of the chaos, Beron charged forward. Aethan loped over the ground eagerly, the training both horse and rider had shared with Miahala Sedai paying off. Aethan lept a small pile of timbers, and Beron caught the unprepared Sentry by surprise. His horseman's axe shattered through the man's hasty guard, all of the power and momentum of the charge overwhelming the Whitecloak. Beron spied another guard, this one closer to the prisoners, and Beron heard his shouted curses distantly as he wheeled Aethan to engage with the soldier.
Peyton Peyton was miserable. She wanted to be home, she wanted her quiet farmstead and her books. She had never believed the rumours to be true, always imagining that the women who had been grabbed before her must have given the Children of Light some reason to believe. But then she had been returning from market, riding home to her family when suddenly a patrol had come down the road. She had done everything her mother had told her, minded her tongue, minded her eyes and made sure to look down respectfully as the men passed. But one of the men had muttered something to the leader as they passed her, and before she had known it; she had been penned like an animal in the mud.

That had been followed by taunting men, screams from the women who were brought into the tent in the center of camp. And the look of horror in the ones who came back. She had tried to be brave, tried to help soothe the nerves of those around her. But eventually even her own hope had dwinded, and it was all she could do to keep from collapsing into the mud.

As the chaos broke out, she panicked at first, hiding against the far wooden posts that made her cage. But as she heard the curses and horses, then heard the shout of "Darkfriend" right outside the pen, she had mustered up enough courage to look over the fence. She had seen the first sentry slain by the rider, disbelief in her storm grey eyes as he turned to engage their guard. Now she watched in silence, breath held in her chest as both men fought, their weapons and bodies lashing out at each other. They fought, the blows to fast to track them all and finally the rider's horse struck a kick that sent the guard down to the ground with a scream. The rider moved past the soldier, his face cold as marble, and Peyton could summon no sympathy for the guard. He had whispered enough foul things to the women in the dark, that she had no doubt who the true darkfriend had been.
Beron Isla had been right. The thought was fleeting, soon buried in the ko'di; but Beron had to admit the guard had been a strong fighter. Fortunately for the Gaidin, he had been unimaginative, too used to his trained routines to think with creativity. And so Aethan had been able to catch him in the midriff, a kick from the gelding more than enough to take out a man. Beron had watched him for a moment, to make sure he was dead, before tying off the bleeding cut on his forearm. It had been a desperate parry, but he had been unwilling to risk a blow to his mount's neck. Especially if they needed to make a hasty retreat.

Seeing there was no more Whitecloaks advancing on him, the horses and panic that Isla was creating doing it's job, he took his axe and began to work on the heavy hemp cords that held the prisoners penned. Each strike of his axe splitting the cords slowly, he knew it would take precious seconds to bust through the gate, and he could hear the women begging him to hurry. Although their pleas fell upon the Void, as did his anger and fear.
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Re: A Calling [Attn: Lugh]

Post by Bella » May 15th, 2019, 2:54 pm

Disabling the picket line was easy. All it took was a single razor-thin thread of Air, and the lines were cut apart. A bit of Air to follow that sent the horses running. She would never hurt any of them, of course. It was just to encourage, or frighten a bit at worst. And it was effective, as the entire equine complement of the Children of the Light detachment placed here went running off.

They didn't even display their usual herd mentality, and they ran in different directions. That was even better than she had hoped for.

Once the chaos erupted, she saw and felt Beron enter the melee. There was a shiver of fear at first, worry for him, but she shoved it away with speed. This was the sort of feeling that neither of them could afford right now. She gave him a moment to do his work, and then move in to release the girls.

Isla had no intention of remaining hidden on this hill, however.

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Re: A Calling [Attn: Lugh]

Post by Lugh » May 15th, 2019, 4:56 pm

Beron Beron sighed in relief when the fourth stroke of the axe finally split the thick hempen rope. It had been well made, strong and tight and the axe had been dulled by the soldier he had killed earlier. Each stroke of the axe had cost precious time, time which had felt like an eternity in the cold focus of the ko'di.

As the wood gate moved and Beron entered, many of the women cowered in the back of the pen, as far away from his as they could. Not that he blamed them, he had arrived in a rush of chaos, with screams and angry shouts filling the air. "We have to move, we cannot stay here..." he pleaded with them, cursing as the first woman he approached fought him. Scratching and wild, she was clearly in a panic, and Beron bore the pain of her nails as he began to try and herd the women.
Peyton Light look at her. Two weeks ago and she would have hurt her back trying to give the man a look at her goods. Now she's scratching him like a hellcat Peyton thought sourly, and then sighed as she realized she was being unfair. Moira had suffered at the hands of the guards, not questioning or torture, but they always seemed to find a reason to press against her, search her for hidden letters, that sort of thing. And this man, this man looked rougher than most. He moved with a grace and confidence, and the weapon at his hip seemed as much a part of him as her braid was for her.

"Enough you milk brained idiot," said Peyton as she slapped Moira. Her hand stung from the impact against her cheek, and she realized she had vented her frustration more than anything. "Moira, he's here to rescue us. He's here to get us home, why would he break in to hurt you. Think all of you, and move," she said forcefully. Some of the women knew her, their families having been friends before her father had been forced to sell. Others were simply glad to have someone shut up the screaming that had been adding to the noise. Whatever their reason, she was just glad they were beginning to file out of the pen.

"STOP THEM!! Can't you see, there was a witch here. I knew it! She sent her darkfriend lover to rescue her he's right there. Leave the horses you fools! We cannot let the witch escape," screamed a voice that made Peyton's blood run cold. She knew that voice, could picture the sneering, weasel faced man who owned it. A blood red sheperds crook had been on his cloak, and even the other soldiers had given him room she'd noticed. Cold eyes, and a soul just as cold had simply stared at her as she was penned, now was the only time she had heard fire in his voice, and it scared her.

"I hope you brought an army, where to now stranger?" she asked the swordsman, as she helped the weaker women stand.
Beron Beron froze when he heard the slap, and then smiled his thanks to the woman who had calmed the other one down. Taking his cue, he left organizing each other to the women, and went back outside to see what the enemy was doing.

Beron heard the shouted command, and easily spotted the Questioner. He was man handling soldiers, cursing and kicking at those who went past him to go for the horses, while some of the Whitecloaks began to gather. His screams added to the chaos, which didn't help is goals but unfortunately, a few soldiers had listened. Even in the ko'di, Beron felt the beginning of dread creep upon him as he saw the soldiers advancing. Their own caution would buy a few precious moments, clearly they expected more fighters to burst from the tree, but Beron knew he would likely be fighting a long ardous retreat.

"Take the women and make for the trees. If you can scatter, scatter. I don't know how long I can buy you, but I will make them earn every step. You have to get away, all of you. You can't go home, not yet," he thought as he readied his sword, passing his daggers and axe to a couple of the stronger looking women. It wouldn't save them, but as the farmwife who took his axe tried a few swings, he knew she wouldn't go meekly.

"Does anyone know of the spring fed pond near here. It's about a day's ride, just off the road," he asked and breathed a sigh of relief when a couple women nodded. "Good make your way there if you can. We will meet up, and try to get all of you to safety," he said, knowing full well many of them would long to return home to their lives.
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Re: A Calling [Attn: Lugh]

Post by Bella » June 3rd, 2019, 9:10 pm

This is a placeholder for when Bella feels up to writing the 1,100 words of sword-fighting that she needs for her third point in the sword...
By the time she had her last opponent down, she had managed to wind her way closer to Beron. Now, with a break in combat to take a break and take a look, she swiveled her head and body until blue eyes fell on her warder. He was also fighting, and she charged across the space to lend a hand--with sword and the One Power.

"Hey," she said with a tired smile as this Whitecloak fell before them. She looked around and saw another pair headed towards them. "Girls away?" she said, half-panting, as she readied herself...

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Re: A Calling [Attn: Lugh]

Post by Lugh » June 4th, 2019, 6:07 pm

Beron Beron had lost track of Isla in the fighting. As soon as he had heard the concussive echoes of her attacks on their flank, he had advanced towards the Whitecloaks himself.

He knew it was foolhardy, and likely to get himself surrounded, but he trusted Isla to do what she could; and it would hopefully buy the women some time to flee without becoming overrun.

As he engaged the first of the enemy that had become organized by the Questioner’s screaming, Beron grunted and moved through his shoulder charge. Both men struck each other, only the momentum and a quick back pedal keeping Beron from falling to the ground with his enemy. The Ko’di trembled with his fear, for falling there would have likely spelled his death, and so Beron fell into Ox lowers his horns , his foot sliding backwards as he brought his blade into the aggressive middle guard. Striking, he used his strength and the soldier’s hesitation to press outwards, drawing the men away slightly as he angled himself towards the sensation of Isla in his head.

Parries met his attacks, the Whitecloaks clearly well trained and diligent in their practice. His aggressive stance kept them on their toes, but Beron knew that taking on opponents who were used to cooperating would be tough for anyone less than a Blademaster. Still, he fought for time and space, using Eel among the Lilypads a striking form that would wound and slow the men down.

The ground gave a lurch, and Beron grinned fiercely. He was unsure if the moment was caused by Isla, or if there had indeed been a Wilder lurking among the women; but he took full advantage and charged the men as they fought to keep their balance. Long hours of practice on the obstacle course kept his own footing sure, and Plucking the Low hanging Apple took one of the Whitecloaks in the throat. As the man fell, the others backed away to form ranks, and Beron was able to score a strike, the wound red and sucking as he pulled his sword from the Whitecloak’s thigh.

The other man fell to a sword as well, the sensation of Isla in his mind right beside him now. With a break in combat, he was able to look on Isla, her face marked with the fatigue caused by both fighting and wielding the One Power.

"Hey," she said with a tired smile as a Whitecloak fell before them. She looked around and saw another pair headed towards them. "Girls away?" she said, half-panting, as she readied herself...

Beron spied the pair as he felt her own spike of readiness, and deep within the ko’di he smiled at her strength. “Yes, they should be. They might not all make it far, many of them seemed to want to return home, but I convinced some at least to make for last nights camp. They’ll need more time though..” he was cut short as Isla moved, engaging one of the pair in a series of sweeping attacks.

Beron engaged his own man, the young Whitecloak flowing easily into a defensive stance as Beron’s own speed allowed him to close the distance. Rain in the High Wind battered at the Whitecloak. Beron used his blade to thrust, slash and strike at the man, hoping to overwhelm him quickly; but fatigue was against the warder. While a sudden attack had caught many of the men asleep or dull witted, this soldier had been able to get his wits about him. With the fighting Beron had already accomplished, his body was unable to maintain the stamina required to truly overwhelm a seasoned soldier.

Beron cursed as he was forced to dance away from a slash, the diagonal cut burning a line across his cheek as he narrowly missed the blade. Knowing Isla was there though forced him to bury his pain in the Void, and so he returned the favour with a slashing cut of his own. Scarlet blood bloomed on the white shirt of the soldier, his wrist having been slashed by Beron’s blade. To his credit, the soldier switched hands and fought on, but he was clearly ill practiced in off hand and Beron felt the moment his sword claimed the young man’s life.

Isla had dispatched her opponent as well, and he turned as he felt the stab of fear and anger, that lanced through her. Beron cursed and tried to see what she saw, but he was unable to make anything out from the chaos of the camp. What he did see was a Whitecloak approaching, men forming up behind him as he stalked towards the two of them.

Without thought, Beron was moving to engage this new enemy. In the chaos of the battle, this man was an island, Beron could sense the way the ebb and flow of the battle responded to him. Knowing that, meant this was a man who had to be faced, a man who had to be stopped before he could organize a pursuit.

The two of them met in a circle, not one as organized as the Warder Yards, but in the ko’di Beron’s mind instantly sketched out the dimensions. Burning tents, and littered gear marked the edges of their fight, as Beron’s blade crashed against his opponent.

With a cold disgust that Beron felt even through the Void, the other man parried his blow. Both men traded a series of feints, testing blades darting forth like serpents as they began to circle each other. As Beron watched his opponent, he realized the men respected this swordsman enough to leave the fight to him. As he looks at the man, the almost boyish face at odds with the thick bristly mustache he wears, Beron curses as he realizes the man is himself a Saldaean.

More importantly, a golden knot rests on the shoulder of his tabard, a mark of rank within the Whitecloaks.

“You die today Darkfriend, for those you’ve slain I will make sure the death is a torment,” sneered the Whitecloak as he settled into The Leaf Floating on the Breeze .

Beron allowed his taunt, for that was all the words were meant to be; fall upon the wind as he matched the man’s stance and continued to circle each other. Knowing that this space would not continue forever, no matter how much their leader desired a duel; Beron knew he had to make the first move. With that thought no more than formed in his mind, he darted forward, his blade striking from both sides before correcting it into a stab for the abdomen.

His opponent moved with each blow, the man’s body smooth and supple as he didn’t even bother to parry the first slash, knowing it for a feint. As Beron’s sword stabbed for his abdomen, he felt the man’s blade stop the blow but Beron felt surprise strike the Ko’di as the Whitecloak used his own speed to try The Grapevine Twines . Beron cursed and held onto the hilt of his weapon, a sudden strike from his knee pushing the soldier apart from him. He could feel the strain in his wrist, and knew that only the strength he had built from using the axe had allowed him to keep his weapon.

Beron once more moved into an attack. As he closed the distance, he used a feint to try and swing his opponent out of step, opening up his side for an attack. Both men slashed and cut, their swords turning as each used the flat of the blade to try and jockey for a critical opening. Now!! Beron thought to himself as The Sapling Trembles went for the man’s wrist. Beron’s sword moved through the air with a purpose, but he was shocked to see the man counter the move with a quick upwards slash.

Beron separated from his opponent, a cold spike of fear lancing through the Void. This man was fast, that strike should not have been able to miss given the press of their bodies. He wasn’t just fast, Beron realized as the Whitecloak took advantage of his shock and pressed his advantage; he moved like a serpent amongst the vines.

Beron was not one to let fear defeat him, not with everything he had faced since choosing the path of the Gaidin. As the man attacked, he fought defensively, buying time with smooth parries and dodging as he tried to overcome the other man’s speed.

In the heart of battle, moments feel like hours and Beron could not tell how long he had been fighting this man. He had faced superior foes before, but that had always been in the training yard. Warders training him to push himself, to better his own technique, not out for blood. And this man was superior, he was the better swordsman; Beron throughout their fight had been holding his own, his own strength and stamina forged in long hours of practice.

But where Beron had tried to learn many things, the dagger, the axe, even unarmed fighting; in order to protect his Aes Sedai in any situation, it was clear that for this man he was on the path of the sword. As Beron felt his opponents blade claim his blood, the ko’di trembled as his thigh opened. He was able to keep his footing, the muscles holding on despite the pain, both men staring intense hatred into the eye of the other.

Suddenly, an older woman from the pen came out of the smoke and chaos of the fighting. She was holding a sword awkwardly, the blade clearly too heavy for her; but her desperate scream and sudden appearance distracting the other man. Her fear was bright in her eyes, and the tattered cloth of her dress spoke of hardship, torture and other ills. Madness filled her as she swung her sword, the weapon doing no harm as she missed, the Whitecloak striking her with his hand contemptuously.

Beron took his moment, and struck. He felt sick for doing so, felt sick even as he could hear his unarmed instructor reminding them that protecting their charges mattered more than any notion of honour. Pain bloomed in his head as he smashed it into his enemies nose, both of them falling to the ground in surprise. Blood was in his mouth and he did not know if it was his or the enemy’s, but as Beron fell he used a motion he had practiced many times to bring a dagger forth from the sheath on his forearm. Both men fought and cursed in the mud, and with a scream of pain as the sword burst free of his thigh, Beron slew his enemy with a dagger. He held the knife as the man bled around his fingers, watching the light fade from his eyes, the screams of outrage and shock from the small group of soldiers distant.

As his opponent died, Beron forced himself to stand, wincing as he felt blood filling his boot. The matronly woman, the brave soul who had helped turn the tide of the fight stood beside him, trembling. “Thank you. You saved my life, though I fear we may now all perish,” Beron said simply, his words hearfelt. Losing one of their leaders had shocked the men nearby, but Beron replaced his dagger and grabbed his sword from the ground, readying himself as he felt Isla nearby.

"Young man, you saved me. If I can take even one of these flaming goats with me, I'll meet the Creator with a smile. My daughter and granddaughter are fleeing because of you," the old woman said as she stood, taking Beron's offered hand. Her face was already bruising from the strike, the mark vivid on her pale skin; but though the madness still lurked beneath her brown eyes, Beron knew she meant what she had said.
Last edited by Lugh on August 17th, 2019, 5:22 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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