South of Windstorm

[Dorian Hawkmoon]

It had been some days now since the two Hunters had come upon their prey...and They had bided Their time and watched. It was a testament to their skill in concealment that not even the small party of Windstorm's Rangers had noticed Their presence....indeed the one known as Godfrey had passed so close to Him that He could have reached out and grasped the man easily. And if even those stalwart woodsmen and trackers couldn't see either Himself or Lan....then what chance had the Franks of finding Them?

He had noted with pleasure that a signal of sorts had been given....rather ingenious, He'd thought...and as the Franks themselves seemed to be in no hurry as they made their encampment....He had foregone riding back to Windstorm in lieu of watching these troops and their leader to see what additional information He could glean.

He'd almost snorted in derision as He watched....no scouting parties, to speak of....pitching their tents with hardly a semblance of order....no patrol sorties...and more often than not, the sentries snored at their posts...And their commander....a pompous ass if He'd ever seen one....so supremely confident in his troops that he lounged as if on a holiday. Yet as He watched, He noted a cruelty within this one...one who revelled in the pain of others...and THAT...made him a dangerous foe...one not to be taken lightly. Oh, He never took any enemy lightly...that was a fact. But enemies such as this sullied the very honour of those that called themselves Warriors and He would keep a close eye on this one. More than a few times in the years past, He had encountered such men...He knew them too well....remembering back when that particular type of madness almost claimed Him. BUt He'd defeated it....put it out of His life....and He would relish the opportunity to send another such twisted soul screaming to whatever Hell he believed in...

And so They watched...often from positions so close they could smell the wine the Frank commander swilled...and waited. At the first sign of these Franks breaking camp....they would disappear like the shadows as the sun rose...

[Ranger Gerrad]

*They had seen the signal.....word had spread by way of arrow and messenger, and they were ready. The local farms and few scattered homes lay empty now their inhabitants supposedly buried beneath the ground. Several signs had been placed at strategic spots, and unless the foreigners did not know any English....they at least might slow their pace, or go around the area.

Gerrad had bade the Rangers wait now....for as he knew...some of the battle would ensue upon the seas.... but always there would be men on foot or mayhaps even mounted. He had never faced a French man in a fight....perhaps the time was drawing nearer.

All was quiet for the moment, many of the Rangers had moved further out and about....some staying hidden in the settlements. The lad Jorgen was almost attached now to Gerrad as the two made their way back along the track towards Summersville and the Castle Windstorm.

The task set them by their leader done as best they could...they left behind a dedicated array of men...ranging in age from early youth to elders..each one ready to defend his homeland to the best of his abilities.*

[Manassier]

After his tiny spat with Germont, concluding with the young noble receiving the go-ahead for commencement of hostilities, Manassier strolled down the path towards the main tent.

He passed Chevallier along the way, holding up a hand and clicking with his fingers in the man's direction and gesturing around the camp.

It was time.

Manassier parted the opening of his tent and headed inside to prepare personally while the Officers began the troops. The first mission was to head through the villages and determine the extent of viking activity present among the enemy, as well as the opposition that would perhaps be encountered among the peasantry.

To break the spirit of the crown, you must break the back of the people. That is the first step in bringing even the dizzying heights of a proud kingdom down to the level of re-order.

Manassier sipped wine from a glass as he stood before a mirror, waiting as a solitary servant began to encapsulate his lither form in armor. Red and exquisite, it reminded him of home.

"For the truly victorious, there will be no return" he whispered.

Cocking his head back he down the last droplets, then threw the glass against a table. It shattered on impact, sending solid rivulets showering upon the rugs. He tied his hair back into a ponytail and donned his gloves.

The men had better be ready.

[AscilliaFlerani]

*As per the scions orders, the archers moved south wards, holding well the lines of the land. They moved silently, hidden from sight that was shy of keen. With what she had heard from scouts and had even seen, these so called invaders held little of either. All the better then for thier movements. Having the others take up their assigned positions spread out and concealed, she made her way towards the one called Dorian Hawkmoon. She had been given a good description of the man, and guessed he would be watching the soldiers from near them. He was cunning, insightful, daring and loyal. He would have made a fine Elf.

Silently she crept through the areas casting over the french army. How arrogant they seemed, on the edge of a possibility to invade, yet they acted as if this were merely a summer outting. Such arrogance often meant the downfall of it's owner. In her short time of 200 years, she had seen it time and again.

She was impressed, they were well hidden, barely noticeable. Had she not been paying sharp attention, they would have slipped by her as surely as the Scion himself might have. He was right, these people of Windstorm were a rare breed. She waited a ways until they would pull back from the enemy lines. They were to close now to startle, to close for her presence to be made known. Picknig up a twig, she snapped it lgihtly, far enoguh back to know they would be the only attentive enough to hear it.*

[Dorian Hawkmoon]

At times, it was difficult to simply remain hidden within the trees and simply watch these....Franks. He ached to be Home...in Windstorm....overseeing the preparations being made for the Castle's defense. But He reminded Himself, not more than once, that Gerben was more than capable of that task....and He knew others as well would be assisting His second in command. Gerben was the penultimate soldier...a wily and crafty veteran..and His trust in the somewhat grizzled and seasoned Warrior was complete and without question. And so He watched....and waited...

It was as He'd witnessed the heated exchange between the Frank commander and his underling, catching more than just a few snippets of the shouted conversation...if indeed that was what one wished to call it....that He'd made an important discovery....this man was a zealot...and He felt a sour, bitter taste creep into His mouth as He came to the realisation that not only a zealot was He...but a religous zealot. His hands balled into fists as He deliberately fought down the creeping anger....recalling more than a few memories of atrocities commited in the name of religion. Murders and even worse commited in the name of some god or another...even entire races made extinct. He had never been what anyone would call a religious Man....He had His belief, but never forced it upon another. His features grew grim and determined.....and His hand now slipped to caress a midnight hued dagger....this one must die...before he could infect others and spread his plague of madness.

It was after this little scene that the Frank camp began to bustle....this was what He'd been awaiting...they were preparing to march. With a gesture to the nearby Lan, they both began to edge away silently from the encampment. As they delved deeper into the wood, heading to the small grove where they'd secreted their mounts, He spoke softly to Lan....bidding him ride hard and fast to Windstorm, to appraise His Majest that the Franks were on the move....He would stay behind and shadow the Frankian troops....harassing and slowing them as He could...then He would return to Windstorm. Suddenly, He hears the soft snap of a twig close by....and flows swiftly into movement. Fast as quicksilver, the assassin's blades are drawn as He crouches....He is a whisper away from sending them into a deadly flight, when His sharp eyes detect the lithe form of a woodland Elf...a female Elf, if He sees correctly....and relatively young. Slowly He stands, His eyes never leaving Her....knowing there must be at the very least a score or more of Elven shafts pointed at His heart. There is no trace of fear as He sheaths His blades and steps forward without a sound...His hands open in front of Him....and awaits Her words...

[Germont Frank noble]

What had come over that man? Was he insane? No, it wasn’t a question, it was a fact – Manassier was insane, and Lord de Sennis as much so for choosing this… monster. Germont didn’t sit long onto the floor of the tent, clutching his throat, his face red from the beatings, his nose and mouth bleeding. With as much dignity as he could muster he walked out and away from Manassier as quickly as possible. Finding his horse, he saddled it and broke ranks. He needed t get his composure back, clean himself up. Maybe there was a spring somewhere…

Turning his horse towards the adjacent wood, Germont thought about ways of how to make Manassier’s deed come to haunt him a thousand fold.

[AscilliaFlerani]

*She grinned as he came towards her with such an open gesture. Nearly skipping towards him, she winked lightly as she tossed her deep brown hair over her should. Her voice was elegant, yet soft as she spoke*

Sir Dorian Hawkmoon is it? No need for such formalities. We are here by command of Scion Moonmist. We are spread defensively and ready to act. What is to be done, is under your command Sir.

*She stood, one hand resting on her hip as she awaited her reply*

[Dorian Hawkmoon]

As She spoke, He wore the face that He always wore when in a battle ready situation...that is to say, His features betrayed nothing. His mind worked quickly, though....and as He digested Her words, a plan formed.

"Hail and well met, Archer...Thy presence here is a boon I'd nae expected, but gladly I welcome. There is a small party of Windstorm's Rangers nearabouts....We shall add them to our numbers. For now, allow the Franks to break camp and begin their march. They should send out scouting sorties, I should think...I nae wish those scouts t'return...every man that nae returns is one less t'worry over. 'Tis M'thought t'allow the main force t'march a few miles, then We rain a hail of arrows at them from hidden locations. We shall continue that every few hours until halfway to Windstorm...then We shall melt into the wood one last time and break quickly for Windstorm. Stay close t'Me so that Ye can relay M'orders t'Thy fellow Elves. I shall retrieve M'mount and We shall make to our positions..."

[AscilliaFlerani]

*She tilted her head for a moment, then grinned lightly, her depicate ears seeming to have heard something he could not*
There has been a scouting party to the north of Windstorm which scouts no more good sir.*She looks to him and winks lightly* Scion was correct, you are good strategists. He had thought that was what you might do, the safer bet of it all. One moment.

*Pulling a small silver whistles from a pocket inside her vest, she began to play it, yet no sound escaped it. As she took it away, there was a slight russlnig about the two of them as if somethings were moving away from hem. Tucking away the whistle, she nodded*

At your leisure good sir. *She pulled the bow from across her back, running her fingers along the ornately carved ebon shaft, then reading and notching an arrow*

[Dorian Hawkmoon]

He strode the short distance to where Stepper stood tethered...removing from the saddle His own bow, very nearly as long as He was tall....it was Acadian in origin, a gift from a friend that had met with an unfortunate fate...and a full quiver of yardlong black fletched arrows. The quiver went on His back, placed so that drawing and nocking would be a smooth movement....the bow He strung silently and swiftly. He had never been what one would consider an archer....certainly not on the level of the Rangers or the Elves, but He was more than passably proficient...and for his plans to come to fruition, He would have to rely on His bow rather than His blades.

As he made ready to move to the first ambush position, He'd discovered that His waterskin was uncomfortably low...turning to the Elven archer then, and indicating He would take a few moments to replenish His supply....and almost forgetting, He also asked Her name...then leaving the bow across Stepper's saddle horn, He slipped off silently to accomplish that task. It was as He'd neared the small stram that meandered through the forest that His sharp ears detected a faint noise nearby....footfalls...a man and horse. He doubted it could be other than one of the Franks from the encampment. He approached the stream cautiously, making himself invisible and watched....letting all His senses range out. There....just a few yards away...and by the Lords, it was the same one that He'd witnessed taking a beating from the Frank commander. A wicked smile crept upon His lips as an idea formed....and slowly His hand curled around the hilt of one of the black daggers...slowly slipping it noiselessly from the well oiled sheath it resided in. He crept closer and closer....he would needs act swiftly if His plan was to work...the man's mount would most likely bolt, but it was a chance He would have to take.

He took His time...made no sound...until He was so close He could reach out and touch the man. It was an added gift that the man was mumbling angrily to himself as He washed his face...suspecting nothing until it was far too late. A shadow loomed over him as he attempted to stand....reaching for his sword as he did....and the heavy pommel of a dagger thudded leadenly to the back of his head....dropping him as one smitten by the scythe of the Grim Reaper. He quickly sheathed His dagger and scooped the senseless nobleman up into His arms, tossing him over His shoulder as the man's mount shied and bolted, as He'd almost expected. Quickly, He made His way back to where Stepper and the Archer awaited....knowing every second wasted could be a fatal second. It was only moments later that He arrived...shouldering the still unconscious man over Stepper's saddle and speaking quickly to the Elf...

"Help Me lash him to the saddle....'tis rope in M'saddlebag..."

She moved quickly to assist...and in seconds, the Frank was lashed firmly to the saddle...then gagged with a bit of cloth.

"Now, good Archer...we make all speed t'the appointed place...and with a neatly trussed package t'boot..."

[The Frankian Army]

They marched on, no matter the obstacles they faced. The villages they passed were deserted to the last man… signs of disease and death abounded, yet Lord Manassier did not care – the men had to march on, northward, to Windstorm castle and their destiny.

It also didn’t deter their fanatical leader when the troops were ambushed, time and again, by archers who shot at them from adjacent woods. They lost about a tenth of their forces, Manassier insisting on letting even injured men stay where they had fallen. If disease was about these God forsaken lands, it would son claim them. There was no time for mercy or sentimentality, the injured were left behind to die or fend for themselves.

On they marched, soon avoiding the proximity of forests and bush rows. Their progress was slow, the repeated attacks wearing on the nerves of men. But Manassier reigned with an iron fist, stragglers were disciplined in the evenings, the rest of the men encouraged with speeches of gold and women to be had when reaching the castle. Speeches Manassier liked to give from the back of his horse, riding back and forth from the front of the marching column to the rear and back to the front.

Nothing but death itself would stop them – nothing but death and the promise of a better life thereafter!

[AscilliaFlerani]

Hunts woman Ascillia Flerani. *She gave the elegant reply as he vetured off. Drawing a vial from her pack, she grinned as she poured some of it's contents into one of her quivers, readying it. Not every arrow needed to directly kill an opponent. Nature's creations had many venoms. It was one of these arrows she notched and drew when she heard the heavier footfalls. Seeing the unconscious man, she did aide Dorian in binding him, then in moving to the meeting place.

Time had dwindled their forces, envenomed arrows and all. It was simply not enough to slow them any large amount. At one point between ambushes, she approached Dorian.*

"Good Sir Dorian, they still march a good force strong. We need a way to scatter them about. Now that they are clear of the woodlands, might I make a suggestion? We possess an alchemical substance which when exposed to air will flare quickly and hot. If we combine this with some well placed oil arrows, we could start chaos within their ranks. This has worked before in the Olden wars good sir.

*She stood looknig to him. The final say was his as per the Scions order. She would much rather end this stumble and bumble now. Best to halt them here than at the castle walls.*

[LucienMoonmist]

*He heard the arrows before he saw the fighting. They were doing a fine job of harassing the soldiers on their trek. It was a shame Dorian was needed elsewhere. Pausing on a small crest overlooking the current fight, he watched scroe upon score of arrow fly towards their target. He shook his head as the Franks merely left their wounded as they passed. If it were not for his duty, he would be firing an arrow or six himself. Darting from the rise, he blended back with the woodlands, allowing himself to be seen only long enough to question a ranger or elf where Dorian would be. Soon, he had the trail of the warrior and was soon to come upon him and Ascillia. Flowing from the woods about them, he bowed quickly to Ascilla, grinning lightly, then turning to Dorian*

Good sir, it is well I have found you. There is trouble, we must return to the castle unseen by order of good sir Agustin.

*Handing him the scroll that Agustin sent to him, ((read missive to Lucien for full scroll)) saying that Tyrun had been captured and a rescue mission was in order. Lucien awaited Dorian, bow in hand, ears ever alert*

[Dorian Hawkmoon]

He had sent the next to the last of His shafts winging towards the Frank troops as Ascillia spoke to Him...His fingertips burned and throbbed, but it was little more than a minor irritation as He listened intently to the young Elven Archer's words. She had impressed Him, surely....for despite Her youth as the Elessar mark time, She was a well disclipined Warrior...and Her skill with the bow was remarkable. True, He had matched Her shaft for shaft with every ambush...but He fought to maintain speed and accuracy, while Her own labours were smooth and effortless. He prayed that she would survive, for He saw great things in store for Her.

He was chewing thoughtfully on Her words when a slight flicker of movement caught His eyes...and He smiled truly for the first time since the other day when He saw the lithe form of Lucien detach itself from the trees, His ever present grin playing about on His lips...He stretched out His hand in a welcome as Lucien approached...and the two Warriors clasped hands...one Human...the other Elven...two separate Races, yet bound together in a common bond...a bond that only a place such as Windstorm could forge. They spoke but a few brief words...each knowing there was little time to be wasted..and Lucien handed Him a small, tightly rolled scroll. He looked to His Elven Friend with a question in His pale eyes, then unrolled the scroll and began to read, immediately recognising the King's hand. His jaw muscles bunched as He read the dire words He did not wish to believe...Tyrun betrayed....under a flag of parley....and captured....casualities among His men....and perhaps Tyrun Himself, even. His anger flowed and mounted as He crumpled the missive in His fist and looked once more to Lucien....

"M'Friend...I know well Ye must be aware of the contents of this scroll...this sickens and angers Me more than I can say. I must needs return Home with all haste...and I have a prisoner that I shall take with Me. I shall leave Ye in command here....of both Thy Elven people, and the score of Rangers under Ranger Godfrey...Thy Kinswoman Ascillia spoke of an alchemical weapon that might be used t'great efficiency...I bid Ye use whate'er means Ye feel necessary t'slow and diminish that force,,,I move t'depart...but ere I do, there is one thing left I must do..."

He turned then, moving to the woods edge....just inside its concealing foliage. He drew the last of His shafts and considered it for a moment, before nocking it to string and drawing it back. He faced the Franks, looking for a very special target....and in a moment, the now familiar red armoured Frank commander was in His sights...it was a long bowshot, but His bow was larger than any of the others, for it had originally been designed for just such a shot. His muscles flexed as He drew the shaft back....back....until the black fletching tickled His ear. He held it there as He whispered what might have almost been a prayer...for though He knew of the Christian God, and believed in Him, of a sorts....still....now....He fell back on what He knew...and had trusted for millenia...

"Lord Juric, guide My hand....Lord Terak, strengthen My arm...Lord Aklas, make My eyes keen...."

And with that, He released His shaft towards it's target...He turned then, not even waiting to see if His aim was true....it either would be, or it would not....whatever the result, His arrows were spent, and He was commanded Home. He calmly unstrung His bow and made His way to where Stepper stood tethered, the Frank nobleman still lashed securely to His saddle. It took Him scant moments to secure His bow and quiver, then He methodically checked the bindings on His prisoner. The man's eyes burned with hatred as he watched Him....but He was unfazed....then He looked at him and the barest hint of a smile touched His lips and He spoke once more...

"Soon, Ye shall know precisely what it is t'be My enemy...and e'en I feel sorry for Ye..."

With that, He swung Himself into Steppers saddle and turned slightly northwest, meaning to use the forests concealment until He was well ahead of the Frank troops...then He would turn for the road and make all speed for Home.....

[LucienMoonmist]

*He nodded, his face lacking such the regular feature as his grin. He understood well what had transpired. He looked to Dorian as he moved, gonigto him with a grin once again*

Aye good sir, consider them delt with. A small matter though. As I left Windstorm to find ye, there was a detachment of soldiers coming from the north through the woodlands. I would like Ascillia to travel with ye to the castle, then onwards to the woods to take my place there. There should be little left of the Franks, but there will be... guests.. If you could be so kind.

*he turned and grinned to Ascillia, who promptly bowed, returned his grin and moved to Dorian as he went. Stopping mid step, Lucien turned and grinned to both*

Here!

*He tossed each of them an extra quiver of arrows. It would be a short, yet long travel, especially for Ascillia. Perhaps some Mithral tipped arrows might allow them time to have a little fun on the way. With that done, he turned to look over the deployment of the soldiers now under his command, and those of the Franks. For their benifet, they had moved away from the woodlands. For their woe, they still stood upon fields of grass. Lucien gathered a few of his kin and moved back to a small, sheltered area to conduct some work...

A score of minutes passed, elfin runners were dispatched to the various groups with arrows coated and carrying a deadly head. Though the arrow it's self would cause no damage upno impact, the arrowheads would break, spilling their contents, which was a alchemiacle formulae which, upno contact with air, burst into flames and held as tar to whatever it hit. If they would nae travel through the woodlands, then the furry of the woodlands would be brought to them. He grinned, setting a few of his own arrows at ready, then watched as the first few sailed through the air at the Franks. There would be nightmares of this place, that he was certain. Holding a grin with no joy, he moved into position for his first volley*