South of Windstorm

[AscilliaFlerani]

*She looked over the field once before moving to Dorian and ready for the travel herself. She was leaving several of her Birth Mates here to fight without her, but if the Scion commanded such, she would listen. Nae, it was more a request than a command. Looking to Lucien for a moment, then back to the path, she realised that he was quite differant than the others before him. On that thought, she grinned to Dorian as they set off. He was most unlike others of his kind. A few hundred years more and he would be well past her skill, possibly even the skill of any for that age. More and more she saw reasons to why this war was being fought with both elven and human. It was nae for boundaries or privilages. It was for friendship. With that thought in mind, she moved along the trails with Dorian. This was a war which would not be lost. She mumbled as they went* "May you return to open arms."

[Dorian Hawkmoon]

He waited silently as Lucien spoke a few words to Ascillia...then gratefully accepted the quiver full of Mithral tipped arrows He'd been gifted. His eyes held Luciens for just a moment...just enough to allow Him to see the determination and resolve there...and before the darkness that also resided behind those pale, dead orbs could infect, He turned away. It was not His intent to be rude to Lucien...no, far from it in fact...He was grateful for all that Lucien and His Kin had done. This was not their war....their battle....their conflict...but yet they stood beside men...and died next to men...as it had been so very long ago when Men and Elves fought together. He hoped silently within the recesses of His mind that few more would die in this senseless war...a war that was not fought with honour, but instead with trickery and half truths....outright lies and deceits. But He woulds be true to His own values....He would not stoop to the level the Franks had. When His time came, and He drew His own steel....He would draw it openly, and with honour.

And so He departed now....Huntswoman Flerani as His companion. He would see that She arrived as Lucien wished, for it was the least He could do. She proved once again Her worth, as She showed Him trails and pathways that saved precious hours of travel time...staying almost completely within the forest as They made Their way resolutely and unerringly towards Windstorm. More than once, the bound prisoner had atempted to wriggle himself free, but he was bound far too tightly...and it mattered little to the Dark Lord that this man was uncomfortable, for there was discomfort...and then there was discomfort. He would survive easily until They arrived at Windstorm....then he would understand what true discomfort was.

They travelled silently, yet more swiftly than one would have believed..until parts of the forest began to grow more familiar. He called to Her to pause a moment and looked around for a few moments...She halted and grinned to Him as He looked about....already knowing what He was about to discover. This was where He'd hunted last fall.....and brought down a good sized hart. He would make His way Home alone now, for this was where They would part ways....She rejoining Her Kin to the north...and He returning to His own Home. He dismounted now and moved to face Her....His words coming from deep within...

'Tis where We now part, Huntswoman Ascillia Flerani....M'thanks and gratitude be Thine for Thy assistance...'Twas a rare pleasure t'have stood aside Ye and drawn a bow with Ye...May Thy Goddess watch o'er Ye and smile Her favour on Ye always....and May Thy shafts always fly straight and true....the Lords of Law speed Thy return t'Thy Kin...and know always that Thee and Thine shall be spoken of with Honour and Respect....fair winds, Warrior..."

As He finished, He reached out a hand and clasped Her forearm, in a Warriors farewell. Again He hoped She would survive, as He remounted Stepper and turned his head towards Home. Onward He rode, the terrain growing more and more familiar as He nudged Stepper to a trot. Another hour saw Him leave the forest and take to the road, the uppermost battlements of the Castle now in clear view. Soon the Castle itself was in clear view, but instead of hastily urging Stepper forward, He once more turned off the road, and into a small copse of trees. No fool, was He....and it was prudent to be certain of what He was riding into. So He tethered Stepper and saw to His prisoner, nearly unconscious and weak from lack of water and the strain of being bound. He would not loosen the bonds, yet He did remove the gag long enough to give the man some water, after quenching His own thirst a bit. He'd re-secured the gag, then and moved off to scout around a bit. It was perhaps two hours later when He'd returned, having found nothing to cause alarm...yet as the shadows were lengthening, He sat to rest and await nightfall....only then would He allow Himself the pleasure of returning Home...

[Ranger Godfery]

*He held his breath.....drawing the arrow back and keeping his eyes upon the target. As he let loose the flight...he quickly reached down to the quiver of arrows that he set beside him, shielded by the dense undergrowth behind one of the houses. It seemed the enemy had taken no notice of the signs of death and marched north towards Summersville. He notched another arrow.... found a target and let it loose.......he did not look back then but lifted the quiver and moved back further into the shrubbery and the safety of the trees.

The Rangers around him all did the same......several had been wounded and gathered closer within the forests. It was decided then to take stock and return north. These foreigners seemed hell bent on getting to their destination, perhaps the Rangers would do better to set up traps nearer home now.

As the word spread to each man......a slight rustling was heard as they prepared to leave the ghostlike villages.......a new day would come.. and a new battle to fight. Godfery lifted his hand and the small band of Rangers, some riding with a wounded comrade...others still on foot...set off to regroup.*

[Chevallier Josserand]

More and more of their men were picked off by snipers from the edges of forests, abandoned buildings, barns, carts that lay abandoned along the side of the road.

At first Josserand, a noble man by birth despising the tactics and cruelty of their leader Manassier, had tried giving chase to those who were shooting at them. Taking about 10 of his cavalry men with him, he had pressed into the forests from where the shooting would come…always, their assailants fled, and it was impossible to follow them on horseback. He kept loosing men that way, too… struck by stray arrows from retreating enemy bows. 11 men so far had died in his attempts to stop these ambushes.

Only once had he found one of those men… a rather young man who had been caught on a thorny bush with his cloak. In his struggle to free himself he only entangled himself even more… he was an easy target for Josserand.

Looming above him on his horse, he had struck the man with the flat side of his axe. The man fell to the ground, turning swiftly over and onto his back, his dagger in his hand, but no fear in his eyes. It was strange.. Josserand had dismounted then, another of his men had joined him, and he had placed the tip of his blade against the younger man’s throat, drawing a few trickles of blood… when he saw the white of a piece of fine fabric showing from one of the man’s vambraces. He picked it out of its hiding place with the tip of his sword and took a longer look at it. He could discern two letters and a picture on the handkerchief – DK, crowing the head of an elegant little dove with spread wings.

“Is this your sweetheart, boy?” Josserant inquired, now curious, and beginning to feel pity for the man laying on the ground before him.

“No… she is not… but she is one whom I will protect from you and your men with my life!”

Jossereand could have killed the man there and then, but somehow… he reminded him of his son. His son was not much younger that this one, and he had a sweetheart. Would his son not do exactly what this young one was doing to his men right now?

After some more coaxing he even learned the name of this one, his fierce enemy – Nicholas, a ranger of these woods, and sworn to protect those who resided within the walls of Windstorm.

With sadness in his eyes, Josserand gave back the handkerchief and fixed the young man with his eyes. “Defend your love well, young one. For I fear we shall soon be at your castle to protect our own within there. And one last word of advise – very cross my path again, Nicholas of Windstorm, for my blade would surely taste your blood should we meet again!”

With that Lord Josserand let the ranger go, and returned to his own men, wondering how many more would fall before they even reached the place of windstorm castle … where a dove had caught a ranger’s heart.

[Chevallier Josserand]

The attacks on the marching army seemed to stopfor a bit and Josserand thnked his God that at least for now there would be no more deaths. Josserand hated that aspect of the campaign... hated to see comrades, good men and able soldiers die by enemy arrows.

Soon the men, now numbering 245, down from 305, approached a hill. Lord Manassier had asked Josserand and two others to accompany him to ride to the top of the hill. From tehre they could see the castle of Windstorm, laying proud and mighty before them. Without any siege wepaons, what chance would tehy have? Even if they build some on site.

But then Manassier turned to him, that dangerous twinkle in his eyes like any time he had something up his sleeve. Indeeed, what he then asked sounded like the plan of a mad man – Josserand was to take 20 men of his choosing, take a long arch around the eastern side of the castle, and try to penetrate its defences during the miuddle of the night. There were always hidden doors, passages, tunnels to find which would led into the castle. They were to disable the guards and open the gates.

A simple plan, according to Manassier. Josserand, however, knew it was a mission from which not many of the men he would pick would come back alife. Nodding towards Manassier, a sad frown on his face , Josserand made his way back to the troops to select those who would die with him.

[LucienMoonmist]

*As the others had withdrawn, Lucien stayed behind to shadow the enemies. With Dorian gone off on his duties and the Rangers pulling back to set foot stubs closer to the keep it's self, Lucien had his host of elves, the ones still able to, withdraw and move to the north at a brisk pace, staying out of sight of those they hunted. They were to drop as many Franks as they could along the way, but not to endanger themselves. Everything else aside, Lucien had his wolfen companions to aide him should trouble arise. These beasts were large, even by wolfen standards.
In the shadows he followed the Franks, watching their movements, shadowing their steps. He hadn't dared take any shots to drop them. He was a lone archer. Even with his skill, he could be overwhelmed swiftly. As the troop broke the hill and night began to set, he couldn't help but wonder what their plan was. They moved to the east, a small contingent. He followed them. He was told the Franks were tricky devils. Indeed they seemed to be. As they were tricky, so was he stealthy. If they did indeed find weakness in Windstorm, they would not live long enough to exploit it.*

[Manassier]

After Josserand had departed, he sat slumped against the base of a tree and nursed his shoulder. The arrow from an unknown assailant had pierced a weakpoint in his armor; were it not for an inadvertent shift in the saddle the projectile would have found its mark in his chest.

With a bottle of wine in hand, he took a pronounced swig of the bitter contents. Several men were made to stand circle around him in defensive positions as he basked against the bark - cursed English bastard, he thought. If he ever found out who that was...

Tugging at the bandages which were wrapped tight around the wound, he gave thought to the situation. The mighty fortifications of Windstorm now stood just over the horizon but their numbers had been whittled away by the English snipers during the march through the woodlands.

He could see it in the faces of his army; they were etched with doubt, as morale had sunk low. Mumbled conversations about the rangers in the forest appearing like apparitions then vanishing in ethereal enigma carried to him. Despite the lack of spine, it was a good point. Now they were close to Windstorm, they still had the skilled hunter woodsmen on their backs.

Manassier rose to his feet, hauling the bottle of wine with him for another heavy glug, then wiped his wet mouth with the reverse of his hand. Wordlessly, he unravelled a bloodied bandage from around his arm and stuffed the crimson-coated cloth down the neck. It exposed the sickening injury that had shunted through his flesh, but from the way he moved he either was baring the pain quite well or too obsessed to notice.

"Give it to me" He snatched a torch from a young soldier and lit the end of the cloth.

Tossing the torch aside, he reared an arm back then hurled the bottle through the air and deep into the wooland. Soon enough the crack was heard and the flickering flame of orange could be seen as the contents ignited.

Manassier turned to the rest of the men. "Do it" he commanded. "Burn the trees"

The men were uncertain at first, then a few of them quickly began to follow suit. They used a combination of alcohol (not too much of course, since the majority were hapless alcoholics) and dried branches to fuel the ensuing fires. Soon enough, part of the forest was ablaze like a solstice candle; the flames spreading across the canopies and branches in a wild inferno.

The men began to step back and picked up camp to move further along the clearing, leaving the hellish frenzy in their wake. The primary purpose was to keep the rangers occupied, but even now the fire could be seen from Windstorm itself if they looked hard enough. It was the signal that heralded his arrival, an ultimatum that guided his purpose.

Manassier paused only momentarily, the glare reflected in his fevered eyes which twitched in satisfaction, before spinning on his heel. The tail of his cloak snapped along his ankles as he departed the scene like a devil emerging from rising of Hades.



((ooc: my deepest apologies to all those contributing to the rp for my absences. just been a little busy these days, but thank you all for keeping it going))

[LucienMoonmist]

*Aware. A keen sense of awareness passed over him suddenly. Turning his head sharply, his sharp eyes picked up the thin trail of smoke. He had felt it, felt the cry of the land, long before he had seen the trail of smoke. Whispering to his wolven companions, a few stayed behind ,the rest following him back towards the encampment. From over a nearby ridge, he observed, with disbeleif, what transpired before him. Men, if they could be called such, throwing bottles of liquid into the woodlands, fueling the flames. He had seen such tactics before, they were to smoke their enemy away and give them some well wanted relief. Relief he would not allow them. He set his eyes to the camp, their ice blue depths piercing an inferno over the scene of the men now moving away from the Hell they created. These humans were the reason the Elven kind had gone into the Retreat. Humans such as this epitomised everything the Elven could hate, everything that would cause an Elfen's weapons to be reared in murder and malice. These Humans were no longer Human to him, they were beasts. They were demon - spawned savages. If they chose to act as such, then Lucien would treat them as such. The time for mercy was passed.

He pulled two arrows from his quiver. Setting the first, he let it fly towards the woodlands, a shrill, sharp piercing whistle heard from it. Though the Franks would never know it, that arrow heralded their death as those Elven who heard it would regroup south, reform their ranks, and would now show no mercy in their strikes. Not being without control, Lucien moved away from his place quickly, moving more to the south, away from the camp. There, he sparked the fuse on it quickly, then sent it fly high into the air. Not pausing long enough to watch it's rise, he moved quickly,his wolfen comrads in tow, the savagery of the beast burning within their eyes. They knew full well what the Humans were doing, they would not allow it to continue.

Above him, the arrow flared suddenly, a single sharp point of light lasting but a mere moment against the night sky. He knew hte guards of Windstorm would see the flash, he hoped they would then see the blaze. Time was not a matter he could afford at this moment.

Still moving, he paused but at one point in his circular arc to the south, he gathered a hand of mud, smearing it across his features, turning his face as dark as the night it's self. This night, he would hunt. With a nod to his wolfen companions, he began a sharp run, taking along the edge of the camp which faced the darkness.

A single howl pierced the night. A flurry of arrows followed that howl into the camp. Any unfortunate enoguh to be near the edge were assulted by the wolves, dragged off into the darkness. The wolfen were not stupid, they only stayed long enough to force wounds upon their mark, or death if it was quick, hen moved to follow Lucien's passing. Lucien did not even pause to shoot, relying on his instincts and rage, his arrows flew without peer as his steps measured the distance back into the night easily

This night would be one of Flame and Blood. The inferno alnog the woodlands was a sharp mockery of the one which burned inside Lucien.*

[Siren Song]

: -The smoke in the forest was thick...it filled her little den and forced her out....as she crawled out...she looked back to see a plume of black smoke rising to the heavens...she knew it wouldn't be safe where she was for much longer. She brushed away the leaves and twigs..straightened her hair and crouched forward...staying in the dense foilage as she made her way to the edge of the forest. Faintly she heard the unmistakeable pinging of arrows. The war was growing...spreading near to the castle. She would travel there to be sure it hadn't reached within it's walls. Stepping out of the forest...she saw the guards dragging a man off to the far end of the castle....being detained she assumed for reasons of war....Quickly she moved to the middle of the path....as if she had always been walking along it.....making her way up to the castle-

: -she is sure the guards will not stop her...as they have seen her come and go a few times lately. She walk up the steps as if she belonged...pushing the door open...she steps into the hall...sure it to be empty..as no voices were singing out this evening-

-while in the castle...she removes the amulet from about her neck...no voices shall be needed for a time...and she may need to remain silent...something she might be capable of if she has a voice. Getting back to her little hiding place...she would need to be very quet...so not to be caught. Sliding the amulet down into a small pouch tied about her waist...she turns and steps back out of the castle....making her way down the steps and to the garden and the blue rose...plucking three petals from it and stowing them away...her eyes turn up to the horizon....the smoke is thicker....the sky glows orange from the fire causing it....if it is not stopped soon...it will comsume all that lives within the forest.....she could not even bring herself to think of such a horror....and soon...it would make its way to the villages...and the people......she scurried out of the garden and back to the path...glances to the side only once to be sure the gaurds were still busy ...with anything...then ducking back into the forest.....quietly her bare feet step over the leaves and brush on the forest floor....she had learned to be stealthy...stepping lightly so the leaves crackling would not cause alarm to any ears within hearing distance...reaching where she needed to be...she drops down to her hands and knees...and crawls back into her cubby hole-

[Josserand de Nanteuil]

Chevallier Josserand had failed. It had almost cost his life to try and penetrate the castle’s walls with a small group of men during one of these moonless nights. Alas, they had been discovered, and all but Josserand perished in a rain of arrows and by the hands of Windstorm’s guards.

Now he stood again facing the onslaught from about 300 castle guards and others, the small force of Franks south to the castle falling man by man, their cries filling the air and their blood soaking the earth.

All that were left now were Josserand, their commander Captain Manassier and a dozen other men still standing, ringing their leaders, desperation and the willingness to die for their superiors in their eyes.

Defiantly Josserant looked at the man who supposedly was the leader of the guards, holding his sword by his side, blood crusting his armour, face and hands. If he would die this day, he hoped it would be in combat against that man and not being taken down by a stray arrow piercing his throat.

“Come here and fight if you dare! I am Josserand de Nanteuil and I am not afraid ! »

he hoped the man would take his challenge and grant him a decent death.

[Dorian Hawkmoon]

The battle had been short and ugly...the ranks of the Franks decimated by both shaft and sword. Blood spattered His golden armour and dripped from both blades as He stood there, listening to the words of the fanatical Warrior that faced Him....the cold fury that had driven Him now quelled, He simply considered the Man. Though they had been badly outnumbered, still they had inflicted casualities on those that fought to protect Windstorm...but He had expected casualities. What He had not been able to understand, however, was the Franks willingness to die in a hopeless cause. He raised His gory blade in a signal....Windstorm's Guards, Rangers, and the Elves of the Wood ceased fighting, yet held themselves wary, watching what remained of the Frankish attackers. His blades remained unsheathed as His voice boomed it's reply:

'Ye are defeated, Monsieur....the battle is over....there is nae need for more t'die this day...lay down Thy weapons and cease this senslessness, and Ye shall yet draw breath another day...continue, and Ye and what remains of Thy men will die. Thy force t'the north has been obliterated....the ships within Our harbour have either been destroyed or captured....there IS nae more reason to continue....What shall it be, Monsieur...will Ye choose life....or will Thy corpse corrupt in foreign soil?"

He speaks no further, yet stands at the ready, awaiting the man's reply...hoping He will not have to kill more than He already has this day....

[LucienMoonmist]

*Lucien stood on a small rise overlooknig the ringed soldiers and their leader. His hatred had been quelled for the beast at the heart of that circle. It had taken a careless step and an arrow to nearly pirce his arm through to quell it. Now, the haphazrdly bandaged wound adorning his left arm was a good reminder that beasts or nae in his mind, they still possessed the same weapons he did, and were trained well in their use. Ascillia stood beside him on that rise, well within arrowshot of the circle, as well as a dozen other elves. Most of his kin were intermixed within the Rangers and the Guard of Windstorm, save those whom had rested to guard the prisoners to the north and within the walls of Windstorm. His sharp ears easily heard the challenge as well as Dorians demands. He wished this battle to end. To many had suffered, both of kin and of nae. Even now, the land herself was crying in pain fro mthe flames which danced about her. The Elves stood their ground though, discipline ingrained into their being. He knew though, it would not be lnog before each of them were moving to douse the flames with whatever means they could bear. Nearby, a small group of the wolves growled and paced anxiously, as much from the flames as the wanting of bloodlust.*

[The Franks]

Chevallier Josserand looked over to his leader, captain Manassier, whose eyes were filled with blind hatred for all that was not Frankish. Only now, after having heard the words from the leader of the Windstorm guards, did Manassier realize that this game …his game… might indeed be over. Sword still in hand, he stared at his opposing alter ego, the man who commanded those who had slain his Frankish soldiers.

Josserand, on the other hand, was almost relieved to hear this fight was at an end. Lord de sennis would be hard pressed now to continue his pressuere upon the king of this realm; in fact he might even face imprisonment himself. That, Josserand would not tolerate however. He was a loyal man, not so much to Manassier who was a zealot and quite mad at times, but to the Frankish councilor. He therefore took a step closer towards the man who had spoken, and after a long moment tossed away his sword to the ground.

“It seems your men have won the day, Milord! You fought honorably, as did our men. Let us live, and let us go then. Call Lord de Sennis and grant him free movement so that we may gather our survivors and see to them. The day is yours!” Josserand lowered his head, anger and disappointment in his heart but logic and the rules of chivalry dictating that defeat had to be accepted.

Manassier, however, was of a whole different disposition. Mad with anger of losing his troops, he stormed past his fellow knight, grabbing a spear sticking in the ground closeby, then shoved away two of the men who stood in a circle around their two leader. With one enormous haul Manassier threw the spear against the guard leader who had spoken to them.

“Die like the lying dog you are! You treacherous LIAR!”

The spear flew towards the leader of the guards …

[Dorian Hawkmoon]

He stood there....tensed, yet seemingly oddly at ease as the man who named himself Josserand spoke...His entire posture designed to give the appearance of relieved fatigue. Yet every well honed sense was razor sharp...His body trained to react almost without thought...He was battle ready and dangerous, and yet He made His one and only mistake, for He had not reckoned on any of the Franks to be foolish enough to continue against such overwhelming odds. He had been ready to accept the Franks surrender, for despite the fact that they were the enemy, they had indeed fought honourably....and died valiantly, even if in vain for a fool's gambit...indeed, His lips had parted to speak when the crimson armoured commandeer had bulled forward insanely, shouting curses. The man moved quickly...His eyes barely had time to mark the spear in the man's hand...only an instant to react as it flew towards Him...the Dragon Katana (held in His left hand )flashed upwards as He attempted to divert the lethal steel tipped shaft away from Himself, turning His body in a counterclockwise motion to present a smaller target....but unfortunately, not His head. It was by sheer fortune that as He turned, His head moved an inch, for He was only a millisecond late with the parry, the shaft ringing against His blade....but it was late enough that the sharp point took Him upon His left cheek....tearing the flesh and scraping along bone as it passed, leaving a deep bloody furrow in it's wake. The point tearing through the upper part of His left ear as it passed, He almost staggered at the impact...blood pouring from the riven flesh to freshly decorate His armour. Without thought, His body reacted....His right hand shifted it's grip on the heavy longsword...His arm cocked back, then flew forward as He regained His momentary loss of balance...a ballista made of bone, muscle, and sinew sending the massive blade flying towards His enemy's chest. And as it left His hand, He moved...flowed into a position that would bring Him in mere seconds to clash with His opponent...the midnite hued dagger ripped from its scabbard on His right hip....His features now reflecting a cold mask of fury as the blood pumped down his torn cheek....a mask that none had lived to see a second time....

[Manassier]

A grimace came across Manassier’s face as he saw the spear narrowly miss his intended target. Before he could react, however, and grab another spear, the man whose ear now was torn by the sharp tip of the projectile weapon had flung himself at the frank commander with a roar and a rage the Frank had not reckoned with.

His sword switched hands, he lifted his weapon … when the sword of his attacker drove deep into his chest, right below the sternum, skewering his stomach, deflecting lightly at his backbone and driving deeper downwards, slashing through his liver and spleen before exiting at Manassier’s back. Fury, disbelieve, and then a smile could be seen when his legs buckled underneath him, his knees crashing to the ground where he knelt like that – sword protruding from his back – for many a long moment.

He still held his sword in his left, his right hand grabbing the hilt of the enemy’s sword with not much power. Manassier stared at the man who had so deftly evades his spear, seeing the dagger being aimed at him, grinning like a madman.

“Soon I…I shall be with my Lord… and you…will die with your…stinking Vikings!”

The Frank remained upright in his kneeling position, knowing his end was soon upon him.