((LFRP post))
Wake up, commander.
Light rushed into his cracked eyelids. A bleak pale sky--it was morning. A face, crisp and clear against the blurry surroundings, loomed over him. He blinked and it was gone.
Scent came next, the iron tang of blood and the reek of offal. The Hanged Man had smelled war many times in his life. He wriggled in the shell of his breastplate and became aware of the ice-cold stickiness that he was laying in. Blood--his own, but plenty of others' too, friend and foe alike.
Only then did the pain hit him. His head erupted in a terrible ache and he went to clap his hands over it, only to find that he could hardly move them at all. He squirmed; it was all he could manage. Even words escaped him. As he tried to call out for survivors, all that came from his throat was a hoarse rattle.
He tried to get a bead on his injuries. He had a stab wound near his right armpit, just barely missing the artery, where some clever blade had snuck around the rondel. Then there was his head, of course, which bore an ugly, bloody lump. He had other damage too, though they were mostly superficial flesh wounds. A meter away lay his huge shield, its burlap covering now stained with mud and crimson splatter, and his falchion was just out of reach of his hand. Other bodies lay in heaps all around him.
Groaning, he struggled hard to raise one hand and grasp at the neckline of his armor, just behind the gorget, where a slip of white fabric poked out. It was possible someone would see him stirring in the aftermath.
Wake up, commander.
Light rushed into his cracked eyelids. A bleak pale sky--it was morning. A face, crisp and clear against the blurry surroundings, loomed over him. He blinked and it was gone.
Scent came next, the iron tang of blood and the reek of offal. The Hanged Man had smelled war many times in his life. He wriggled in the shell of his breastplate and became aware of the ice-cold stickiness that he was laying in. Blood--his own, but plenty of others' too, friend and foe alike.
Only then did the pain hit him. His head erupted in a terrible ache and he went to clap his hands over it, only to find that he could hardly move them at all. He squirmed; it was all he could manage. Even words escaped him. As he tried to call out for survivors, all that came from his throat was a hoarse rattle.
He tried to get a bead on his injuries. He had a stab wound near his right armpit, just barely missing the artery, where some clever blade had snuck around the rondel. Then there was his head, of course, which bore an ugly, bloody lump. He had other damage too, though they were mostly superficial flesh wounds. A meter away lay his huge shield, its burlap covering now stained with mud and crimson splatter, and his falchion was just out of reach of his hand. Other bodies lay in heaps all around him.
Groaning, he struggled hard to raise one hand and grasp at the neckline of his armor, just behind the gorget, where a slip of white fabric poked out. It was possible someone would see him stirring in the aftermath.
Venerio looked upon the battlefield with pitty and remorse. He didn't wish to see such carnage and waste of human life upon this now blood-stained field. But what is done is done, his superiors gave him a task and he promised no failure and no respite towards his foes no matter the cost it will need. He was given the task of finding men still alive from the battle and capture them as prisoners of wars. He and around 20 others have been busy for the last 2 hours in collecting prisoners as the carts began to fill up more and more. Venerio already has gotten fifty by his lonesome with more coming on the way.
He had three men under his armpits that were knocked along with another male on his shoulders between his neck and pauldron. He could carry one more but couldn't find anymore that were currently alive. But as he believed his luck has run dry today he found himself another one, this time trying to get up but injured. The giant of a man walked slowly and menacingly towards the blonde male with the added effect of blood splashing from his every step.
He had three men under his armpits that were knocked along with another male on his shoulders between his neck and pauldron. He could carry one more but couldn't find anymore that were currently alive. But as he believed his luck has run dry today he found himself another one, this time trying to get up but injured. The giant of a man walked slowly and menacingly towards the blonde male with the added effect of blood splashing from his every step.
A shadow appeared against the steely morning sky, rising taller and taller, to an impossible height. The Hanged Man wet his bloody lips with his tongue and tried to focus his bleary eyes on the figure before him. It was a monstrosity, hulking and deformed--no ... no, it was a man, a large man carrying several others. And it almost certainly wasn't one of Lady Asgore's men. The fallen warrior tried to speak, but it came out as a cracked rattle before he finally could form words. "G-gonna ... kill? Or I'm ... pris ... prisoner?"
The Black Knight remained silent from the question of the blonde and through his action, he would answer his question. He grabbed the left leg of the hanged man with his massive right hand and lifted him as if he was weightless. He watched the man with nor disdain or anger but with that of pity. Pity that they had to be enemies upon a battlefield instead of a friendly spar between two warriors. But his helm hid his expression as he threw the man upon the left shoulder, his free shoulder. He believed the man to be far too weaken from the battle to even put up a desperate fight and as such didn't even think what the Hanged Man could do. As he finished, he saw his own hands were full of the bodies of the future prisoners and ended his collection here. He than began his small but still mournful trek to the carts and send the prisoners wherever his superiors would send them. He hoped somewhere not too cruel to be sent to.
The Hanged Man gasped when his leg was seized in the other warrior's massive hand and he was hoisted bodily into the air. For a moment he dangled upside down by the left ankle, and a flash of ancient pain hit him, unrelated to this battle, this war, these provinces ... despite himself he let out a quiet, wheezy laugh and grinned up at his captor's helmet. The laugh was cut short when he was slung over the shoulder like a sack of grain. A wave of nausea shook him and his head panged violently.
"My sword," he grunted as they started to move. "My sword and ... shield ... you should take them." The armaments lay near where the Hanged Man had fallen. "Your commander w-will want them."
"My sword," he grunted as they started to move. "My sword and ... shield ... you should take them." The armaments lay near where the Hanged Man had fallen. "Your commander w-will want them."
Venerio heard the blond on shoulder speak. The Black Knight listened and looked back at where he had picked up the Hanged Man. At a moment of feeling pity to the fallen warrior, he obliged to gather the sword and the shield. The sword he saw was a unique Black shade and to him seemed quite intriguing and was something that does feel to be of use to his leader. But the shield seemed average with it being on the larger side with being rectangular and without markings. A simple shield and a unique sword, two contrasting elements to a strange man thought Venerio.
So he picked up the sword and shield with his now open right hand, picking it up was simple to a man like him and it seemed to be on the light side of things to him. Once he had both items in hand he begins to walk westwards where he last saw the carts.
So he picked up the sword and shield with his now open right hand, picking it up was simple to a man like him and it seemed to be on the light side of things to him. Once he had both items in hand he begins to walk westwards where he last saw the carts.
When the towering man turned to fetch his armaments, the Hanged Man relaxed against his shoulder. The longer he was awake, the more he could move, but he made no attempt to escape. He just patted the back of Venerio's breastplate appreciatively. This was a benevolent giant indeed, though the fallen warrior knew he would have to confiscate the gear, and he may never feel his shield's comfortable weight in his hands again. Still, he was grateful. Such was the nature of wars like these, pitting good men against each other at the behest of strong masters.
They were headed back towards the cart now. It already held several other prisoners, nameless swords that the Hanged Man didn't recognize. He slumped into place against the side of the cart when he was dropped inside. Now that he was upright again, the blood sloshed down out of his head, making fresh pain burst through him with every heartbeat. He cringed, but tried to crane his neck to get a better glimpse of his captor ... his savior. The Hanged Man understood all too well that he wouldn't have survived long on that battlefield without help. "Your name, ser," he called weakly. "May I ask wh-what it is?"
They were headed back towards the cart now. It already held several other prisoners, nameless swords that the Hanged Man didn't recognize. He slumped into place against the side of the cart when he was dropped inside. Now that he was upright again, the blood sloshed down out of his head, making fresh pain burst through him with every heartbeat. He cringed, but tried to crane his neck to get a better glimpse of his captor ... his savior. The Hanged Man understood all too well that he wouldn't have survived long on that battlefield without help. "Your name, ser," he called weakly. "May I ask wh-what it is?"
Once he arrived at the carts he placed all 5 men he had in the cart that was almost full to capacity. He dropped each one of them in the cart quickly to finish his work as soon as possible to a man of his size. Once all of them were in, he did a quick headcount of many were in there... 30...30 in total, there was more to be found and to be brought back. He sighed to himself as he held the blonde man's weapon and shield thinking of many thoughts. He wondered what has led up to the situation in the first place and why war has come. As he turned around to leave he heard a voice. It seemed to call out to him so he looked, and so he looked back with his body face the left of the and his head and neck facing the cart.
He listened and saw it was the blonde man that was calling to him. He asked for his name which surprised the Jolly Giant but he could at least grant the last wishes of a fallen warrior such as this. He answered him in a strange but still pleasant accent to hear, "Venerio... Venerio L'Alto... but I am also called Venerio The Tall." He said with both pity and respect. After he said that, He said to the carriage driver, "Carts Full!" He yelled at the Driver. The cart then slightly jerked to the front but nothing too bad happened after. He watched for 4 seconds at the cart leaving before he turned back around and walk the other way to capture more prisoners as spoken. He wishes that he wasn't chosen to do a job as dirty as this he thought sadly to himself.
He listened and saw it was the blonde man that was calling to him. He asked for his name which surprised the Jolly Giant but he could at least grant the last wishes of a fallen warrior such as this. He answered him in a strange but still pleasant accent to hear, "Venerio... Venerio L'Alto... but I am also called Venerio The Tall." He said with both pity and respect. After he said that, He said to the carriage driver, "Carts Full!" He yelled at the Driver. The cart then slightly jerked to the front but nothing too bad happened after. He watched for 4 seconds at the cart leaving before he turned back around and walk the other way to capture more prisoners as spoken. He wishes that he wasn't chosen to do a job as dirty as this he thought sadly to himself.
"Venerio ..."
The Hanged Man tasted the name. His eyes slid shut and his head tilted back slightly as the cart lurched into motion, drawn forth by lowing oxen.
Last night's battle took place in a cleft between two rolling foothills, so the cart took a path that wandered upward and through a bank of coniferous forest for a while. The road wasn't well-worn, causing the cart to lumber and lurch over root and stone. Each bump made the prisoners sway into each other. Occasionally the Hanged Man's head banged against the side of the cart, making him cringe in renewed pain. Some of the prisoners had been bound, but most were quiet and compliant. Even with treatment, many were going to succumb to their injuries before the next dawn.
The Hanged Man had a while to muse, though his head was still muddled. He closed his eyes and began to weakly sing.
"As I was walking all alane
I heard twa corbies making mane;
The tane unto the t'other did say, oh,
'Where sall we gang and dine to-day, oh,
Where sall we gang and dine today?'"
He had joined wars under many guises before. He had played the valiant knight riding tall at the elbows of lords and ladies with powerful convictions and charisma. He had been the secret weapon, a thrall to vile forces. He had filled the role of the mercenary when he had needed to line his pockets to continue his long journey. And in this war, he had been drafted.
"In behint yon auld fell dyke
I wot there lies a new slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there, oh,
But his hawk and his hound and his lady fair, oh.
But his hawk and his hound and his lady fair."
He had settled here in Rin years ago when weariness stilled his westward journey. For years he lost himself in a laborer's trade, living on a small homestead belonging to a nice family with three daughters. The eldest tried to get him to notice her in ways men were supposed to notice women. The middle asked that he teach her to fight. The youngest watched him with too-bright eyes and make up stories about his scars.
"His hound is to the hunting gane
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame
His lady's ta'en another mate, oh,
So we may make our dinner sweet, oh.
So we may make our dinner sweet."
They were probably all gone now. Two years ago Lady Asgore raised her banners against the incursion, calling forth able-bodied people to repel them. The invaders were attempting to take back land that had been seized by another Asgore in another war, decades past. Among the drafted was the mother of the three daughters and many of the homestead's other laborers. The Hanged Man hadn't seen any of them since. He wasn't sure he remembered how to fight, but it returned to him as easily as breathing. He hated how easily it had come back.
"Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane
And I'll pike out his bonny blue een;
Wi ae lock o' his gowden hair, oh,
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare, oh.
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare."
The trees thinned to reveal a field tucked between three hills. Canvas tents filled the valley, bunched together in neat, tight rows that grew chaotic along the outskirts. The encampment bustled with activity. Blacksmiths repaired armor and weapons in a flurry of distant clanging. Medics tended to the injured in tents marked with red striping. Pages hurried to and fro, cooks prepared meals, saddlers mended tack ... a thousand cogs in the wheels of war.
"Many a one for him makes mane
But nane sall ken where he is gane;
O'er his white banes, when they are bare, oh,
The wind sall blow for evermair, oh.
The wind sall blow for evermair."
The cart swayed as it began its descent into the encampment.
((Tus, you want to post in now?
))
The Hanged Man tasted the name. His eyes slid shut and his head tilted back slightly as the cart lurched into motion, drawn forth by lowing oxen.
Last night's battle took place in a cleft between two rolling foothills, so the cart took a path that wandered upward and through a bank of coniferous forest for a while. The road wasn't well-worn, causing the cart to lumber and lurch over root and stone. Each bump made the prisoners sway into each other. Occasionally the Hanged Man's head banged against the side of the cart, making him cringe in renewed pain. Some of the prisoners had been bound, but most were quiet and compliant. Even with treatment, many were going to succumb to their injuries before the next dawn.
The Hanged Man had a while to muse, though his head was still muddled. He closed his eyes and began to weakly sing.
"As I was walking all alane
I heard twa corbies making mane;
The tane unto the t'other did say, oh,
'Where sall we gang and dine to-day, oh,
Where sall we gang and dine today?'"
He had joined wars under many guises before. He had played the valiant knight riding tall at the elbows of lords and ladies with powerful convictions and charisma. He had been the secret weapon, a thrall to vile forces. He had filled the role of the mercenary when he had needed to line his pockets to continue his long journey. And in this war, he had been drafted.
"In behint yon auld fell dyke
I wot there lies a new slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there, oh,
But his hawk and his hound and his lady fair, oh.
But his hawk and his hound and his lady fair."
He had settled here in Rin years ago when weariness stilled his westward journey. For years he lost himself in a laborer's trade, living on a small homestead belonging to a nice family with three daughters. The eldest tried to get him to notice her in ways men were supposed to notice women. The middle asked that he teach her to fight. The youngest watched him with too-bright eyes and make up stories about his scars.
"His hound is to the hunting gane
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame
His lady's ta'en another mate, oh,
So we may make our dinner sweet, oh.
So we may make our dinner sweet."
They were probably all gone now. Two years ago Lady Asgore raised her banners against the incursion, calling forth able-bodied people to repel them. The invaders were attempting to take back land that had been seized by another Asgore in another war, decades past. Among the drafted was the mother of the three daughters and many of the homestead's other laborers. The Hanged Man hadn't seen any of them since. He wasn't sure he remembered how to fight, but it returned to him as easily as breathing. He hated how easily it had come back.
"Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane
And I'll pike out his bonny blue een;
Wi ae lock o' his gowden hair, oh,
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare, oh.
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare."
The trees thinned to reveal a field tucked between three hills. Canvas tents filled the valley, bunched together in neat, tight rows that grew chaotic along the outskirts. The encampment bustled with activity. Blacksmiths repaired armor and weapons in a flurry of distant clanging. Medics tended to the injured in tents marked with red striping. Pages hurried to and fro, cooks prepared meals, saddlers mended tack ... a thousand cogs in the wheels of war.
"Many a one for him makes mane
But nane sall ken where he is gane;
O'er his white banes, when they are bare, oh,
The wind sall blow for evermair, oh.
The wind sall blow for evermair."
The cart swayed as it began its descent into the encampment.
((Tus, you want to post in now?
))
Joesph saw riches on the battlefield. Plenty of them in fact. The helmet of a dead combatant. The chipped sword of a fallen ally. All of them are riches.
Sure, with Vinereo, he was supposedly to be looking for POWs, but since he lost his weapon in battle,he was looking for two swords.
Yes two. He felt confident in his skills,and rather would show that confidence in battle by dual-wielding two weapons at the same time. Besides,he broke his previous swords on purpose beating some corspe in a blind rage, and that where he found one sword at least, and it was a beauty in his eyes.
It was pitch black,about 110 centimeters more or less, and looked like a one handed sword. He wasn't sure as it was still in the sheath.He'd would walk over as he picked it up,and would grab it by the handle,and pulled it out, revealing a black blade.
"Yup,I'm keeping this"
Sure, with Vinereo, he was supposedly to be looking for POWs, but since he lost his weapon in battle,he was looking for two swords.
Yes two. He felt confident in his skills,and rather would show that confidence in battle by dual-wielding two weapons at the same time. Besides,he broke his previous swords on purpose beating some corspe in a blind rage, and that where he found one sword at least, and it was a beauty in his eyes.
It was pitch black,about 110 centimeters more or less, and looked like a one handed sword. He wasn't sure as it was still in the sheath.He'd would walk over as he picked it up,and would grab it by the handle,and pulled it out, revealing a black blade.
"Yup,I'm keeping this"
Glendale was a renowned thief, swords-for-hire and an informant, a man who would sell his own soul if the price was good enough. He had no principles or morals of any kind which made him perfect for his work as a spy.
While many rogues accepted work only in return for coin, and a good amount at that, Glendale was happy enough to take and keep all spoils of prisoners and slaves.
On this particular season, he had been working for Tron the Terrible, the leader of the batallion that was attacking these forsaken lands, fighting at the service of Lord Vincent... the nobleman who claimed ownership and inheritance rights over these highly valuable, luscious , productive lands now soaked in blood and corpses.
When he caught sight of Joseph Gisborne, picking up a sword to keep it for himself, Glendale strode over the man, fist on hip to scold him for the blatant theft.
"I'd suggest you hand over the loot... this sword doesn't belong to you and lord knight Tron Pentre will not take it kindly to thieves who steal from him... or from me" demanded Glendale in a firm and confident tone of voice, extending a parchment to the guard which bore Pentre's seal and coat of arms, a document that gave Glendale ownership of all items found on the battle fields and surrounding areas which were of any interest or value to him
While many rogues accepted work only in return for coin, and a good amount at that, Glendale was happy enough to take and keep all spoils of prisoners and slaves.
On this particular season, he had been working for Tron the Terrible, the leader of the batallion that was attacking these forsaken lands, fighting at the service of Lord Vincent... the nobleman who claimed ownership and inheritance rights over these highly valuable, luscious , productive lands now soaked in blood and corpses.
When he caught sight of Joseph Gisborne, picking up a sword to keep it for himself, Glendale strode over the man, fist on hip to scold him for the blatant theft.
"I'd suggest you hand over the loot... this sword doesn't belong to you and lord knight Tron Pentre will not take it kindly to thieves who steal from him... or from me" demanded Glendale in a firm and confident tone of voice, extending a parchment to the guard which bore Pentre's seal and coat of arms, a document that gave Glendale ownership of all items found on the battle fields and surrounding areas which were of any interest or value to him
Enthlyi wasn't sure exactly when or how he'd ended up on the ground, but he figured it may have been at some point shortly following the routing of Asgore's bowmen. As an archer, he was positioned towards the back of the defensive army and spent a while raining arrow volleys upon the enemy with his unit. It was a position of (relative) comfort, sparing him most of the violence that took place in the melee. But somewhere in the midst of the battle a sizable group of enemy horsemen managed to weave around the defending army's flank, ramming into his unit and sending them into an almost immediate route.
He took his eyes from the battle line at that point so he wasn't sure what had happened elsewhere, but the soldier of fortune knew the enemy wasn't letting them go easily. Enth had desperately sprinted through the chaos before finding himself within the sights of a horseman with a nasty-looking war hammer. On foot, he stood no chance of outrunning the mounted combatant, and he dove forward when he heard the beating hooves close on him, and...
...Well, that was when he woke up. Face down. On the ground. He felt as though his head was going to split, but before he made any attempt to move or look up at his surroundings he heard the sound of footsteps and rummaging. Not yet gaining his bearings, the archer froze where he was and listened. Perhaps the stranger was merely a looter and would not hear him?
Shortly after that Enthlyi could just hear a second pair of footsteps, just before one of those feet pressed down on his left leg. Well it turns out that leg may be broken because the instant it did so the archer felt cripplingly excruciating pain shoot up his leg; he nearly shuddered at the sensation and bit his tongue to stop himself from crying out. And any hope of the strangers above being there to help were dashed when he heard the authoritative lecture that the one who stepped on his leg had to say.
Oh, this is bad.
But perhaps, if he stayed really still, these looters would not notice he was alive and eventually leave him alone...?
He took his eyes from the battle line at that point so he wasn't sure what had happened elsewhere, but the soldier of fortune knew the enemy wasn't letting them go easily. Enth had desperately sprinted through the chaos before finding himself within the sights of a horseman with a nasty-looking war hammer. On foot, he stood no chance of outrunning the mounted combatant, and he dove forward when he heard the beating hooves close on him, and...
...Well, that was when he woke up. Face down. On the ground. He felt as though his head was going to split, but before he made any attempt to move or look up at his surroundings he heard the sound of footsteps and rummaging. Not yet gaining his bearings, the archer froze where he was and listened. Perhaps the stranger was merely a looter and would not hear him?
Shortly after that Enthlyi could just hear a second pair of footsteps, just before one of those feet pressed down on his left leg. Well it turns out that leg may be broken because the instant it did so the archer felt cripplingly excruciating pain shoot up his leg; he nearly shuddered at the sensation and bit his tongue to stop himself from crying out. And any hope of the strangers above being there to help were dashed when he heard the authoritative lecture that the one who stepped on his leg had to say.
Oh, this is bad.
But perhaps, if he stayed really still, these looters would not notice he was alive and eventually leave him alone...?
Glendale paid little attention to the piling corpses, stepping on Enthlyi's squishy leg as he walked a little closer to Joseph, waving his arm and motioning for the Gentle Giant to come over too, to surrender the loot he'd taken, his heel digging into the man's wounded limb some more as he put all his weight upon the man
"Sir Venerio The Tall... I'll have the blonde prisoner's sword and shield too. A falchion of that craftmanship is not an easy find nor a common sword" noted Glendale now demanding The Hanged Man's belongings for himself too, knowing well neither of the men were in a position to refuse him his dues.
It had been his snitching that had secured Pentre's victory on this occasion, after all. To the victor the spoils... and in Pentre's case, it meant the spoils would be given to and be kept by Glendale for the filthy rich knight Sir Pentre had no interest in any of it, other than making Glendale happy to secure more intelligence reports, spying and scoutings services too.
"Sir Venerio The Tall... I'll have the blonde prisoner's sword and shield too. A falchion of that craftmanship is not an easy find nor a common sword" noted Glendale now demanding The Hanged Man's belongings for himself too, knowing well neither of the men were in a position to refuse him his dues.
It had been his snitching that had secured Pentre's victory on this occasion, after all. To the victor the spoils... and in Pentre's case, it meant the spoils would be given to and be kept by Glendale for the filthy rich knight Sir Pentre had no interest in any of it, other than making Glendale happy to secure more intelligence reports, spying and scoutings services too.
Sir Pentre was a crude, cruel, nasty knight whose only knightly virtue was the title itself. A ruthless man of little patience and less morals whose task was to ensure victory for Lord Vincent at all costs, no matter the cost and he had to admit that, reporting to lord Vincent upon this new crushing victory left, yet again, an intoxicating glorious taste in his mouth and lips, almost as sweet as honey. His wealth, pride and ego made all the greater with this string of victories of late. Hiring Glendale and sending him ahead of any skirmish or battle had proven by far the most effective weapon ever used.
Pentre was pouring over maps and reports, to ascertain their next target and location, when he heard the carts arriving with the prisoners of war.
He left his tent, with a steady pace, the stomping of his boots oozing authority of the ominous kind, causing all those at the camp to be weary of the man at work, and the existing prisoners and slaves to tremble in fear, worried at becoming his next target.
Nonetheless Pentre walked past them all, focused on the main entrace, coming to gather up the arriving carts and prepare the prisoners to meet their fate.
Those too wounded or crippled, he'd run through the sword there and then... no point in feeding idle mouths and empty hands
Those with survivable injuries would be treated briefly and put to work immediately.
A handful of them would be unlucky enough to become the centre of his attention... of these better furnished warriors, capable of enduring torture, he would take them back to his tent to undergo... questioning, of the lengthy and painful kind.
If any appeared noble or wealthier lineage, he would use them to further his own wealth, knowledge and power, considering a ransom or extorting lands and titles off them, as he had done to date, rather succesfully at that.
Those defiant, of course, would meet a very slow and painful death of the many varied kinds Pentre liked to indulge upon, all equally gruesome so as to teach others subservience and their place
"Bring them out and line them up..." ordered Pentre sharply at the cart drivers, hands folded behind his back briefly, examining each of them in great detail, from the walk to the stance they took
Pentre was pouring over maps and reports, to ascertain their next target and location, when he heard the carts arriving with the prisoners of war.
He left his tent, with a steady pace, the stomping of his boots oozing authority of the ominous kind, causing all those at the camp to be weary of the man at work, and the existing prisoners and slaves to tremble in fear, worried at becoming his next target.
Nonetheless Pentre walked past them all, focused on the main entrace, coming to gather up the arriving carts and prepare the prisoners to meet their fate.
Those too wounded or crippled, he'd run through the sword there and then... no point in feeding idle mouths and empty hands
Those with survivable injuries would be treated briefly and put to work immediately.
A handful of them would be unlucky enough to become the centre of his attention... of these better furnished warriors, capable of enduring torture, he would take them back to his tent to undergo... questioning, of the lengthy and painful kind.
If any appeared noble or wealthier lineage, he would use them to further his own wealth, knowledge and power, considering a ransom or extorting lands and titles off them, as he had done to date, rather succesfully at that.
Those defiant, of course, would meet a very slow and painful death of the many varied kinds Pentre liked to indulge upon, all equally gruesome so as to teach others subservience and their place
"Bring them out and line them up..." ordered Pentre sharply at the cart drivers, hands folded behind his back briefly, examining each of them in great detail, from the walk to the stance they took
As the soldiers were recovering from the recent fight, a young man by the name of Jacob was going around and collecting stories for his new song. He had a slew of instruments that he had talents with, but he seemed to favor his lute and drum as he wrote the song out. It was still a work in progress, but he was sure it would become a success. Now, all he had to do was find the commander, but no one had seen him yet. It was quite an odd situation. Hopefully something would come up to reveal where he went.
The caravan lurched to a halt at the outskirts of the camp, where the Hanged Man was ushered out of the cart with the other prisoners. His feet hit the ground and sent a shock from heel to crown, making him stagger against the wheel, though he managed to keep his feet. Some of the others had to be dragged to the lineup, and couldn't remain upright once they were there. One had already succumbed to her injuries and was carried away to be burned.
Standing in a lineup waiting to be inspected by a powerful lord ... the feeling was deeply familiar. The Hanged Man smiled weakly, despite himself, though the expression soon faded. He still couldn't see well, nor could he hear who was issuing the commands. But with every passing moment he became more and more sure he knew who was in charge here. His stomach sank.
As Pentre approached, the Hanged Man drew a deep breath and stood as tall as he could. Most of his weight was balanced precariously on his right leg, while the left trembled. Despite his attempts to hide it, his weakness was apparent. His face was expressionless, barring the occasional cringe.
The years had been good to Pentre. His features were more rugged, his hair longer. Everything about the man screamed power and confidence. In contrast, the prisoner looked no different than he had ten years ago, though now his face was smudged with dirt and caked blood, and his blond hair was askew, sticking to his cheeks and forehead.
"Tron," he said quietly. "I had a feeling this w-was your doing."
Standing in a lineup waiting to be inspected by a powerful lord ... the feeling was deeply familiar. The Hanged Man smiled weakly, despite himself, though the expression soon faded. He still couldn't see well, nor could he hear who was issuing the commands. But with every passing moment he became more and more sure he knew who was in charge here. His stomach sank.
As Pentre approached, the Hanged Man drew a deep breath and stood as tall as he could. Most of his weight was balanced precariously on his right leg, while the left trembled. Despite his attempts to hide it, his weakness was apparent. His face was expressionless, barring the occasional cringe.
The years had been good to Pentre. His features were more rugged, his hair longer. Everything about the man screamed power and confidence. In contrast, the prisoner looked no different than he had ten years ago, though now his face was smudged with dirt and caked blood, and his blond hair was askew, sticking to his cheeks and forehead.
"Tron," he said quietly. "I had a feeling this w-was your doing."
Pentre had immediately noticed The Hanged Man among the prisoners, nonetheless, he did not give his former mentor and superior the satisfaction of letting him know he had been noticed outright.
Instead he walked up and down the row of prisoners picking those he deemed were not worth keeping alive, running them through with his sword, watching them drop to the ground to be removed off to the burial site, either dead or partly alive.
Once the dispensable had been disposed of, he turned to those who remained standing, giving them his fullest attentions
"Kneel in the presence of your betters and kiss the soil you stand upon, you scoundrels" barked Pentre unwrapping the whip, ready to crack it against those who were either too slow or outright defiant, his eyes now fixing upon The Hanged Man with keen interest to see if the years had subdued the man or defiance still beat inside his chest, whether the wisdom of time had taught him to bend the knee or he remained as reckless as the day he dared walk away and turn his back on him and the earl Vincent
Instead he walked up and down the row of prisoners picking those he deemed were not worth keeping alive, running them through with his sword, watching them drop to the ground to be removed off to the burial site, either dead or partly alive.
Once the dispensable had been disposed of, he turned to those who remained standing, giving them his fullest attentions
"Kneel in the presence of your betters and kiss the soil you stand upon, you scoundrels" barked Pentre unwrapping the whip, ready to crack it against those who were either too slow or outright defiant, his eyes now fixing upon The Hanged Man with keen interest to see if the years had subdued the man or defiance still beat inside his chest, whether the wisdom of time had taught him to bend the knee or he remained as reckless as the day he dared walk away and turn his back on him and the earl Vincent
The Hanged Man tried to ignore the sound of slaughter making its way down the row. In truth, quick death was a mercy, compared to the sepsis and agony that likely awaited them in the camp. The prisoners who were well enough to be spared mostly capitulated and knelt before Pentre--those that tried to be defiant were soon cowed by the whip.
The Hanged Man remained standing, even when Pentre's withering glare fell upon him. If this had been any other commander, he would have bent the knee right away, but with Pentre ... Hangman still clung to some kind of foolish pride. His green eyes locked with the knight's. He set his jaw and squared his shoulders, though he was likely to keel over any time now.
The Hanged Man remained standing, even when Pentre's withering glare fell upon him. If this had been any other commander, he would have bent the knee right away, but with Pentre ... Hangman still clung to some kind of foolish pride. His green eyes locked with the knight's. He set his jaw and squared his shoulders, though he was likely to keel over any time now.
Venerio looked upon Glendale with a somewhat grim stare. 'The Lord's Pet Fox' he thought to himself, 'Out of all of his men, I get the duty to watch scum like this' continued to think. If there was one thing Venerio tolerated the least in this world it would be Thievery, he loathed them with a passion and promised to never in his life deal any type of thief, even those with good intention. He looked down upon the man at the smaller male blocking out the sun from Glendale's position. He said the Crook, "I will bring these items back to our lord myself THIEF; if you wish for his favor look elsewhere." He said feverously and even somewhat ragefully at the word thief. He walked past and to Joseph to talk with the younger man.
Glendale grinned broadly at Venerio's intended insult.
"Now now... Sir Venerio... no need to get all worked up about it... thieving is but one of many skills I possess. There's also persistence, endurance, reading and writing, stealth, bribery, impersonation, trickery, forgery, the refine art of torture to extract confessions and of murder to dispose of witnesses and inconveniences, poisoning, alchemy, arson, lock picking, escapism, tinkering, tracking, spying, infiltrating enemy camps and sowing discord, tax evasion, lying, womanizing, slave trading... I could spend all day listing my qualities... qualities and skills you couldn't understand their worth like Pentre does.
I used to be a royal marksman at the lord's service, once... with good archery and swordsmanship too, well trained in tactics, and using a wide variety of weaponry and have seen many battlefields in my earlier days until I realized the dark side is far more lucrative in a far shorter time.
You can choose to remain a lackey, licking others' boots and following others' orders like a loyal dog for the rest of your days. I prefer to follow the gold wherever it may lead me, with freedom to roam and to choose my labours and rewards... you know... they call this... swords-for-hire" grinned Glendale holding a sturdy leather pouch with valuable insides, all the rings and jewellery from the fallen, many different keepsakes they wore, trinkets they carried, maps and diaries, parchments and identifying items, silver and gold items like belt buckles and medallions. He left nothing of worth behind, not even the leather clothing these corpses had worn, or boots, having confiscated many different kinds of outfits from high and low born alike and from different social stations which would come handy to pass off as one of these positions if required to mingle again among enemies.
"As for that sword and shield, if you wish to carry them all the way back to Pentre that's fine by me. They will be mine before sun sets tonight at the camp all the same" shrugged Glendale
"There's many ways to win battles... you know... some far more effective and efficient than the honourable way of the sword you lot follow. Your Old Code of Chivalry cannot compete against devious schemings and underhanded moves like mine which secured our swift victory today... and... at the end of the day... all is fair in love and war so long you end up victorious" assured Glendale being a gutless, remorseless scoundrel with not an ounce of integrity in his veins.
With that said, he trod over Enthlyi and walked past him to collect more belongings from a few corpses piled up not too far off, having seen the glint of shinny gold on a fallen man's hand... likely a ring or similar piece of jewellery, perhaps a small blade
"Now now... Sir Venerio... no need to get all worked up about it... thieving is but one of many skills I possess. There's also persistence, endurance, reading and writing, stealth, bribery, impersonation, trickery, forgery, the refine art of torture to extract confessions and of murder to dispose of witnesses and inconveniences, poisoning, alchemy, arson, lock picking, escapism, tinkering, tracking, spying, infiltrating enemy camps and sowing discord, tax evasion, lying, womanizing, slave trading... I could spend all day listing my qualities... qualities and skills you couldn't understand their worth like Pentre does.
I used to be a royal marksman at the lord's service, once... with good archery and swordsmanship too, well trained in tactics, and using a wide variety of weaponry and have seen many battlefields in my earlier days until I realized the dark side is far more lucrative in a far shorter time.
You can choose to remain a lackey, licking others' boots and following others' orders like a loyal dog for the rest of your days. I prefer to follow the gold wherever it may lead me, with freedom to roam and to choose my labours and rewards... you know... they call this... swords-for-hire" grinned Glendale holding a sturdy leather pouch with valuable insides, all the rings and jewellery from the fallen, many different keepsakes they wore, trinkets they carried, maps and diaries, parchments and identifying items, silver and gold items like belt buckles and medallions. He left nothing of worth behind, not even the leather clothing these corpses had worn, or boots, having confiscated many different kinds of outfits from high and low born alike and from different social stations which would come handy to pass off as one of these positions if required to mingle again among enemies.
"As for that sword and shield, if you wish to carry them all the way back to Pentre that's fine by me. They will be mine before sun sets tonight at the camp all the same" shrugged Glendale
"There's many ways to win battles... you know... some far more effective and efficient than the honourable way of the sword you lot follow. Your Old Code of Chivalry cannot compete against devious schemings and underhanded moves like mine which secured our swift victory today... and... at the end of the day... all is fair in love and war so long you end up victorious" assured Glendale being a gutless, remorseless scoundrel with not an ounce of integrity in his veins.
With that said, he trod over Enthlyi and walked past him to collect more belongings from a few corpses piled up not too far off, having seen the glint of shinny gold on a fallen man's hand... likely a ring or similar piece of jewellery, perhaps a small blade
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