Post by The Smith on Oct 22, 2008 13:24:02 GMT -5
(Five or so years ago):
“Milord Varner, Dornishmen are headed towards Blacksable.” The young man, in his mail had scarcely dropped to his knees on Stoatheart’s stone floor before the words tumbled out of his mouth.
“How many?” Cyrus asked, as he rose, striding fast towards the armory.
“Mayhaps, as many as three score.” The herald replied, “They bore no standard, and were on foot.”
“They must have made their way past the watch towers in the mountain passes some how. Send riders to the holdfasts to spread the word, I want all knights who can be roused, and their men at arms to meet us at Blacksable.”
“As you will Milord.” The herald ducked his head rapidly, and sped off to do as he had been commanded.
The raids had been coming on and off for years now. No rhythm or reason to them, just Dornishman doing as they were won’t to do. Cyrus replaced his robe with a padded tunic, than added the boiled leather. His steward helped him strap on the plate mail cuirass, colored black. A chain mail coif for his neck, mail for his arms and mail leggings under plate greaves for his feet. Over that a black leather surcoat with a white weasel painted across the torso. He held his helm under his arm, as he entered the courtyard.
His men-at-arms waited. Each already ahorse each man nodded his readiness to their lord as Cyrus mounted, and fixed his helm.
“Come, quickly now, we’ll pick up men along the way.” And indeed they did, as Lord Varner and his ten men-at-arms rode, they were joined by the men of Irwyn, Shallowgrave, and the other small hamlets. As they reached the small village the air was thick with smoke. Yet the buildings of Blacksables seemed intact. A man in a mail hauberk with a kite shield featuring a black weasel rampart with sword approached. Cyrus smiled
“Ser Brandon how do we fare here?” Ser Brandon was the bastard son of Ser Torn, the Weapon Master, and Lise, a serving wench at Stoatheart. He had her blue eyes, but his father’s black hair. Cyrus had granted him his father’s holdfast at Blacksable perhaps five years ago.
“The snakes slowed up to burn a farm about two miles from here. We can expect them within the next hour or so if they keep their pace.”
“They’ve good arms?” Cyrus asked.
“Nay, not really. Mayhaps some boiled leather, spears, pitchforks, threshing flails, they seem like brigands, I doubt Lord Blackmont or Harlaw have a hand in this.”
“Except not acting to prevent it. Very well, we’ll form up for a charge than. Brandon, keep your men in reserve. Barricade the entrance of the town with carts and what you can find.”
“Aye milord.” Ser Brandon bowed and went to do as he had been instructed.
Cyrus surveyed his men. Besides himself, there were five other anointed knights, and their squires. That made for ten, plus his men at arms, which made for a total of twenty, plus himself. Cyrus had learned from Lord Roland that even dedicated men on foot could rarely stand for a charge of heavy horse. No mountain clan had ever done so, and these rapinous Dornish were surely no Burned Men.
The brigands appeared at the edge of a smoking cornfield. Even from where he sat atop his courser, Cyrus could see they looked ragged, but also desperate. Blood was visible from the scythes, hoes, machetes and long wicked sickles in their hands. Their lines, such as they were, were deep with wild-eyed mountain Dornish.
Cyrus turned the war lance in his hand, as they watched. They were outnumbered, two to one at least, possibly as much as three to one. Cyrus hoped quality would trump quantity today.
The Dornish howled for a moment, yelling obscenities, before they charged. They were quick bastards, Cyrus noted, even on foot, they were moving to close the distance fast.
“Ready friends?” Cyrus asked, as he raised his lance, drawing all attention on him. The men surrounding him nodded.
“ROOT THEM OUT!” The Lord of Stoatheart cried, as he spurred his horse forward. They covered the distance of the hardened ground quickly, his horses hooves breaking the dirt. They formed a line of two riders wide, and five deep, lances out. Cyrus grunted as they pounded their way across the divide.
Crash… the Reach knights collided with the Dornish foot, lances impaling through the front lines. Their men broke way, revealing space like the outgoing tide. The knights of Stoatheart held formation, wheeling around as they cleared the brigands last line, to prepare for another strike. The Dornish had broken, though, men were running off in all directions, seeking to escape the thunderous hooves.
“Ride them down.” Cyrus called, his own attention zeroing in to a Dornishman with a long recurved bow. A shot from that bow could puncture plate, especially at this distance. The man turned, to plant his feet and pull back his string, but Cyrus decided he would give him no chance.
The heavy metal tip of the lance penetrated through the man’s right armpit beneath the bow, and lifted him bodily off his feet, propelling the bowman back a good ten yards.
All that remained was the wailing of the wounded. Two squires had been killed, and a knight had taken an ugly thigh injury, which would likely heal if given attention. The Dornish had thirty nine killed, the remaining injured. Most would not survive the night. Cyrus growled to himself as he surveyed the scene.
When would they learn that the answer to their troubles did not lie on this side of the mountains?
Results: Cyrus Varner improves to Noteworthy Riding
Cyrus Varner Improves to Noteworthy Lance
“Milord Varner, Dornishmen are headed towards Blacksable.” The young man, in his mail had scarcely dropped to his knees on Stoatheart’s stone floor before the words tumbled out of his mouth.
“How many?” Cyrus asked, as he rose, striding fast towards the armory.
“Mayhaps, as many as three score.” The herald replied, “They bore no standard, and were on foot.”
“They must have made their way past the watch towers in the mountain passes some how. Send riders to the holdfasts to spread the word, I want all knights who can be roused, and their men at arms to meet us at Blacksable.”
“As you will Milord.” The herald ducked his head rapidly, and sped off to do as he had been commanded.
The raids had been coming on and off for years now. No rhythm or reason to them, just Dornishman doing as they were won’t to do. Cyrus replaced his robe with a padded tunic, than added the boiled leather. His steward helped him strap on the plate mail cuirass, colored black. A chain mail coif for his neck, mail for his arms and mail leggings under plate greaves for his feet. Over that a black leather surcoat with a white weasel painted across the torso. He held his helm under his arm, as he entered the courtyard.
His men-at-arms waited. Each already ahorse each man nodded his readiness to their lord as Cyrus mounted, and fixed his helm.
“Come, quickly now, we’ll pick up men along the way.” And indeed they did, as Lord Varner and his ten men-at-arms rode, they were joined by the men of Irwyn, Shallowgrave, and the other small hamlets. As they reached the small village the air was thick with smoke. Yet the buildings of Blacksables seemed intact. A man in a mail hauberk with a kite shield featuring a black weasel rampart with sword approached. Cyrus smiled
“Ser Brandon how do we fare here?” Ser Brandon was the bastard son of Ser Torn, the Weapon Master, and Lise, a serving wench at Stoatheart. He had her blue eyes, but his father’s black hair. Cyrus had granted him his father’s holdfast at Blacksable perhaps five years ago.
“The snakes slowed up to burn a farm about two miles from here. We can expect them within the next hour or so if they keep their pace.”
“They’ve good arms?” Cyrus asked.
“Nay, not really. Mayhaps some boiled leather, spears, pitchforks, threshing flails, they seem like brigands, I doubt Lord Blackmont or Harlaw have a hand in this.”
“Except not acting to prevent it. Very well, we’ll form up for a charge than. Brandon, keep your men in reserve. Barricade the entrance of the town with carts and what you can find.”
“Aye milord.” Ser Brandon bowed and went to do as he had been instructed.
Cyrus surveyed his men. Besides himself, there were five other anointed knights, and their squires. That made for ten, plus his men at arms, which made for a total of twenty, plus himself. Cyrus had learned from Lord Roland that even dedicated men on foot could rarely stand for a charge of heavy horse. No mountain clan had ever done so, and these rapinous Dornish were surely no Burned Men.
The brigands appeared at the edge of a smoking cornfield. Even from where he sat atop his courser, Cyrus could see they looked ragged, but also desperate. Blood was visible from the scythes, hoes, machetes and long wicked sickles in their hands. Their lines, such as they were, were deep with wild-eyed mountain Dornish.
Cyrus turned the war lance in his hand, as they watched. They were outnumbered, two to one at least, possibly as much as three to one. Cyrus hoped quality would trump quantity today.
The Dornish howled for a moment, yelling obscenities, before they charged. They were quick bastards, Cyrus noted, even on foot, they were moving to close the distance fast.
“Ready friends?” Cyrus asked, as he raised his lance, drawing all attention on him. The men surrounding him nodded.
“ROOT THEM OUT!” The Lord of Stoatheart cried, as he spurred his horse forward. They covered the distance of the hardened ground quickly, his horses hooves breaking the dirt. They formed a line of two riders wide, and five deep, lances out. Cyrus grunted as they pounded their way across the divide.
Crash… the Reach knights collided with the Dornish foot, lances impaling through the front lines. Their men broke way, revealing space like the outgoing tide. The knights of Stoatheart held formation, wheeling around as they cleared the brigands last line, to prepare for another strike. The Dornish had broken, though, men were running off in all directions, seeking to escape the thunderous hooves.
“Ride them down.” Cyrus called, his own attention zeroing in to a Dornishman with a long recurved bow. A shot from that bow could puncture plate, especially at this distance. The man turned, to plant his feet and pull back his string, but Cyrus decided he would give him no chance.
The heavy metal tip of the lance penetrated through the man’s right armpit beneath the bow, and lifted him bodily off his feet, propelling the bowman back a good ten yards.
All that remained was the wailing of the wounded. Two squires had been killed, and a knight had taken an ugly thigh injury, which would likely heal if given attention. The Dornish had thirty nine killed, the remaining injured. Most would not survive the night. Cyrus growled to himself as he surveyed the scene.
When would they learn that the answer to their troubles did not lie on this side of the mountains?
Results: Cyrus Varner improves to Noteworthy Riding
Cyrus Varner Improves to Noteworthy Lance