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"You serpent-tongued knave," the Hanged Man growled. Though his words were sharp, his posture remained submissive. "You besmirch my honor, then in the same breath boast of w-w-war crimes." He narrowed his eyes suddenly. "... war crimes that I am sure were Tron's idea, not Vincent's." He paused. Who had Vincent become in the past ten years? He didn't know. Perhaps Vincent had become just as cruel as Pentre.

Zerald's ice-cold proclamation of his duties made him grind his teeth. He didn't complain, nor question. He merely turned away and prepared to go about the work that was asked. "You are wrong, Zare," the Hanged Man said, glancing back. "Those years were not for naught. Perhaps they were wasted on you and Tron ... but not on the others. I wonder what has become of them. Merthyr was practically a child ..."

"The others have learned to bite the tongue, to bend the knee and kiss the lord knight's ring... of course. Defiance is seen as rebellion, it leads to immediate dismissal from duty, with dishonour, which means they collect neither wages, pension nor compensation. And if the offence is grave enough, they could land with vanquishment, hard labour, a hefty fine such as their lands and property being confiscated or long term imprisonment for themselves and their families" assured Zerald

"Sir Pentre does keep a tight grip on the men beneath him... lavish rewards for those loyal to him... and a sharp edged sword against those who would otherwise dare question or oppose him" smiled Zerald watching The Hanged Man limp to his task, deciding to personally keep watch on this prized prisoner

The Hanged Man contemplated Zerald's words. The man had implied that the other members of the honor guard mostly followed Pentre out of fear or obligation, rather than true loyalty. He didn't know what that meant in the long term, but it was an interesting detail.

The cold air invigorated him somewhat and helped to clear his head, though he knew it wouldn't last long. He moved at a steady hobble, one he was accustomed to. He followed Zerald's direction to reach a simple well dug near the outskirts. There were empty buckets stacked nearby, as well as a yoke. The Hanged Man turned to face Zerald and held out his bound wrists. "I can hardly do as you ask with these tied, ser," he said.

Zerald looked at The Hanged Man and let out a long sigh of defeat shaking his head negatively

"Sorry... Sir Nonaime ... or better said... no-name... only Sir Tron Pentre has authority to release or unbind prisoners. You'll have to work your way around it and swiftly. If you want comforts and privileges then you'll have to garner favours with him... I'm not losing my privileges just to make your task easier" refused Zerald outright not foolish enough to anger Pentre in any way for the sake of his former mentor who abandoned them

The Hanged Man's face wrenched into a grimace when Zerald denied him the simple assistance. "Do not call it a 'task,' Zare," he said softly, continuing to use the man's nickname. It could be construed as an insult, but perhaps his intentions were more innocent. "You know I w-won't be able to do it. This is punishment, plain and simple." He grabbed a bucket and went to affix it to the pulley, but it slipped from his grasp and fell down into the well, where it hit the water with a ploosh. Not looking back at Zerald, Nonaime took a second bucket and managed to hang it properly, lower it, and crank it back up. (The bucket he had dropped before was perched on top--he returned it to the pile.)

With no way of using the yoke, Hangman was forced to grasp the handle awkwardly in his mangled hands and waddle towards his destination. Ice cold water splashed onto his abdomen and breeches--combined with the sweat of exertion, it made him shiver even harder, and he rapidly started growing woozy again. It was only a matter of time before his hands would quit on him.

Zerald raised a puzzled eyebrow

"Sir no-name you clearly have been away from the household for decades... punishment is what is coming to you later if you fail in your chores... this is a breeze by comparison" assured Zerald following The Hanged Man but not assisting the prisoner in any way shape or form, leaving him in other guards' care and watch after a while, so he could come to report to Pentre about The Hanged Man having recovered and been put to work right away

It came as some relief when Zerald finally departed to tend to other duties, leaving Nonaime in the supervision of a pair of soldiers. Both watched the man hobbling down the path between tents with some level of pity, though they didn't dare help him lest they invoke their commander's ire.

Hangman's scarred hands screamed at him, and he had to pause every so often to rest the bucket briefly on the ground lest he drop it outright. Ahead, he could see Pentre's fine canvas pavilion, its seams painted with the bright colors of his house. His steed was tied up beside it. The animal had a little personal space to itself, a cleared area a few meters in diameter, which was far more than any of the common soldiers got.

Fixated on the trough, Hangman hoisted the bucket up higher and waddled closer. His mangled fingers chose that moment to seize up and spasm. Swearing colorfully, the prisoner attempted to regain control of his burden before it could fall, but he ended up stumbling backwards into the path and spilling it all anyway. The frigid water shocked him as it splashed over his torso, as well as anyone else who might happen to be passing by. He grasped awkwardly at the air in an attempt not to slip in the mud and fall.

Jacob happened to be near and tried his best to catch Sir Nonaime before it was too late. He did take some water, but his instruments were perfectly safe. "Oh my, good sir. You nearly took a tumble there." He helped the knight up onto his feet and picked up the bucket as well. As he was picking the knight up, he whispered into his ear. "Don't worry, I'm a friend on this side. I may be able to get some information, as well as a way out."

The Hanged Man's hands shook violently as they clasped Jacob's. The bard would need to really heave to help the prisoner up, for his strength was waning with every moment. The whispered revelation made his brows shoot up. "I, ah, I apologize, ser!" he said in a raised voice. The guards were watching carefully. Neither moved to help, but neither ran for Pentre or Zerald, either. Nonaime took the bucket back, trying to think of a way this fellow might accompany him without looking suspicious. He swayed forward again, a ruse to get close enough to whisper, "If you are seen helping me, your life may be forfeit." He glanced at the flap of Pentre's tent, not knowing if the lord knight was inside or elsewhere. Then he continued at normal volume. "I must f-fetch more water." He started slowly towards the well. Each step was slow and swaying and his head felt as though it was stuffed full of cattail fluff.

The deftness with which Glendale stepped forward to evade Enthlyi's attack surprised the archer enough that he didn't move out of the way when the man stomped on his wrist. The injured mercenary cried out in pain, the counterattack twisting his wrist as well as crushing it. He fell onto his side and impulsively grabbed at his forearm before he tucked it back against his shoulder, not keen on having his other arm stomped on as well. The archer, now without his dagger, cast his frightened gaze onto the two men who had just been speaking with the thief who bested him.

"You don't have to do this," He pleaded with them. "I can leave. You won't see me again!" Enth might be good with a bow, but that never made him the stoic type.

The giant silently snorted at the attempt by Enthlyia. When he watched the attack by Enthlyia he hoped that the attack remained true and would have at least injured the thief. But as luck had turned out Glendale dodged the attack and counter with his. Venerio sighed under his breath and said 'Oh Well'. But there was a good thing about that made Venerio somewhat joyful was Glendale's reaction to the whole debacle. And so we walked over where Glendale stood tall over the fallen Enthlyi and took a good look at him. Long Black Hair and a long black beard and bright emerald eyes, nothing too special about this one.

So stood near Glendale and hunched over and grabbed the fallen man up by the left and placed him under his right arm with the man head facing behind Venerio. He turned his head and looked down at Glendale and spoke to him in a neutral tone, "Then I suggest to be more careful your daftness, there may be more false dead men around acting as bait. Now, I shall take my leave with Blackbeard here and head to camp. Joseph, get what you can carry and come, were heading back to camp, our soldiers are expecting our arrival soon." He said in still neutral but slowly turning into a somber state of voice.

Joesph had a smile on his face when the man tried to land a blow on Glendale, and as much as he wanted him dead. It seemed to not do much but it was entertaining to his life flash before his eyes.

So when Verenio asks them to take their leave, he simply nods and walked over to him, regardless of what loot he came across of he stayed, as the sword and the failed attempt was enough for him. As they walked further from Glendale, Joesph said to the the POW, "If you just awaited 3 seconds later, or attempt to take his leg, you could have taken his life"

Venerio's initial inspection of Enthlyi gave the latter man just enough time to fix the gallant knight with his best grown-man puppy-eyes. It didn't work, though; he couldn't help but cry out as he was collected from the ground, mostly due to the searing pain from his broken leg. If he lived through this and ever met that horseman again, he was breaking his leg right back.

Enth knew that actually convincing sane, loyal soldiers to let him leave (especially after his knee-jerk reaction to being noticed) would be a hard sell; nonetheless it still formed a pit in his stomach to see the two of them ignore his plea. With a broken leg, the man didn't figure his chances as a prisoner would be any good. The tone of the two's voices didn't escape his notice, however. Despite their dutiful behavior, it seemed Glendale was about as popular with them as they were with him. So, in a continued, desperate effort to stay alive the injured archer tried to seem charming. Venerio didn't address him, so it was Joseph that he replied to. "Th-three seconds? Oh, no. You two would've certainly been on top of me by then. Right?" He managed to smirk and wink, despite the white-hot pain that ran up his leg as he was being carried.

He then turned his attention to the man that carried him. "You sound tired. I'm sorry about that. If it makes things easier you could lay me down again and I will continue being a false dead man until you've departed."

The Black Knight walked along the blood-stained hills with each step being heavier than the last. The clacking of his armor sounding out his location to the empty, lifeless fields of this contested territory. Joseph following by his side speaking with the newly acquired prisoner, his subordinate head reaching barely below the Giant's location ribcage, he listened to the conversation and was laughing within his mind. Oh, he wished to laugh like this in open once again, but as the time change so does your stance. He couldn't speak like this as he was afraid as he believed the walls have ears of their own. He knew it wasn't true most of the time but he couldn't be too cautious to any future spies and eavesdroppers. So unless it was in private or where he needed to speak... his mouth will be shut and he shall listen.

He heard Enthlyhi speak this time and contemplating the audacity of this man even when he was captured. He wanted to laugh as this was probably the most entertaining man he has met since the war has begun. So with a smile that was hidden behind his helm, he said to the captured man, "Hehe, that is the most entertaining jest I have yet. If your lucky maybe Pentre would keep you as his jester. But in seriousness, You are the most zany man I have seen and heard since the beginning of the war... Keep that, you going to need it, friend." His tone starting from amused to slightly grim. "That you will need." He whispered under his breath.

Nonaime gave Jacob a final solemn look before picking up the bucket and slogging back towards the well. The prisoner was a stoic man, great of fortitude and well-used to punishing conditions, but his reserves were dwindled to naught. He moved slowly, focusing on putting one unsteady foot in front of the other. His limp was exacerbated by exhaustion and the cold. He managed to fill the bucket and bring it back to successfully fill Pentre's horse's trough, but it took him nearly half an hour. And he had only scratched the surface of Zerald's tasks.

With great effort, the Hanged Man returned to the well and drew up another bucket. There was no way he'd be able to do all Zerald asked of him, and he had a sense that that was the point. Nonaime had put Zerald through something similar when he was still his teacher. He had tasked his pupils with duties such as chopping wood, changing candles, and carrying hay bales--each one small, but together insurmountable. The true test was to admit defeat and to ask for help. Both Pentre and Zerald had failed, and grown irate when they were told as such. The prisoner was quite sure Zerald would chop off his fingers if he was to ask for help, however.

Every so often Nonaime's eyes flitted around for Jacob, though it likely wouldn't be safe for them to talk until deep night. He found himself looking for the towering figure of Venorio as well, though he wasn't entirely sure why.

Joseph agrees with the Pow. He needs that attitude during these worse times."Though, if I can figure out for that leg of yours to be healed for a bigger chance of survival. Consider it thanks for attempting to ending the fool life."

However, Joesph could see the condition Venerio was currently in. Tired, and he listing strength to go on. He couldn't talk at the moment, as for the same reason Venerio thinks, but he more likely to do something he isn't going to regret.

As one of the thoughts he put into himself, people don't kill cause they don't disagree, people kill when someone else is making sense.

"Very well... go back to camp... I shall join you shortly" agreed Glendale going to grab a few horses and look around the fallen warriors.

He took the bodies of Pentre's more well-known fallen guards and tied these fallen comrades to the horses, to make it seem as though these wounded men had tried to escape the battle field, to run for dear life, yet died of their wounds on the way to safety, callously stabbing these dead dear riders with arrows to their backs without qualms, to make it seem they were part of the aftermath of a battle gone wrong.

No doubt when these bodies of the unfortunate reached the other side of the boundary, the enemy's side, it would give them the impression their side had won the battle and lure them back to the same area, ready for another attack. Having won already, they would likely bring less men, thus less arms, and be less cautious too... effectively walking into a trap, a deadly one.

He discreetly followed the horses until they were taken into the enemy camp, watching the soldiers cheer and rally around the stray horses and its dead riders, smirking at their merry-making and cheery attitude. He sneaked away to return to Pentre's side and report success

When it came to cunning and devious schemings... Glendale excelled on devious and dirty tactics.

Martha was among the captives that had been taken during the dawn raids. She stood among others and looked at Nonaime with concern and pity at his struggles, well aware who the limping figure was for they both hailed from the same village and household.



Martha disregarded the shackles that restrained her ankles and came over to the unfortunate prisoner all the same, ignoring the clanking of heavy chains which prevented the prisoners from trying to escape.

"Noinaime! Nonaime! It's me! Oh... it's so good to see you alive, I feared the worse when I heard the guards gossiping about the battle and its bloody aftermath... do you need help with that?" quizzed the helpful villager, willing to assist such a good friend

Pentre came outside his tent, looking for the bard, his narrowed eyes scanning the surroundings, looking over the peasants and captive warriors alike.

"Come over... Jacob... I want you to fetch a bunch of peasants and prepare a welcoming party, with songs and clapping and dancing.

The lord or his taxman might be visiting soon and I want to inspire a sense of normality, reassure that all is well at the camp.

Get the music going, practice your story telling and make sure you portray my heroic deeds and our recent battles in a very flattering flare to win these commoners' and our guests' admiration.

I'll have the cooks roast a couple of hogs and the carpenters prepare a large table with stools, nothing must be amiss." informed Pentre frowning at The Hanged Man's clumsy walk and slow pace, eyes narrowed as a woman made her way over to him.

The Hanged Man paused when he heard one of his monikers called out. His vision was blurry, and he didn't recognize Martha until she was upon him. "Oh, goddess, nay," he whispered, his heart sinking into his stomach at the sight of her. So the war had reached the homestead he'd taken as his house, working the jobs of a common laborer in exchange for room and board. He placed the bucket on the ground and awkwardly took one of Martha's hands in his own. She would feel that they were shaking, as they often did, and were frigid to the touch. "You mustn't be s-seen with me." Nonaime released her hand as soon as he has grabbed it, then glanced around nervously. "Keep moving. And keep close t-to your sisters and parents ... if they yet live."

The prisoner stooped to pick up the bucket again, with difficulty. Upon standing again he reeled from a wave of dizziness and nausea, staggering a step but not spilling any of the water. He didn't notice Pentre's judgmental glower.