The command tent for the Eagles of Hope flew the descending eagle device on a tremendous white banner, though the Marshal was not in occupancy. Instead, he was at a nearby manorhouse for one of the minor nobility of Bil Havil, which he had 'taken over' with but a few words. Those words, spoken to a man who knew full well what had transpired in Tepmona, spread quickly throughout the land, but in the meantime Red had suitable quarters.
In the courtyard, he inspected his men. Their equipment showed wear and tear from hard riding, and they were running short on fresh lances, but everything seemed to be in order. He was called away then by one of his healers, an elderly robed man. "I am afraid that some of the wounded will not make it through the night." The cavalier nodded, frowning in thought. "Well then," he finally said, "When the battle begins, tie them to their saddles; at least make sure they die on their damned horses." He waved him off and then stepped inside his ersatz dwelling.
There he ran into his Captain, a jousting prodigy by the name of Ehrl who looked several years younger than his sixteen winters. "M'lord. A letter has come from Lady Cataryna. She says Melhed is coming, and wants to know if we are to retreat." Sir Red fixed the young man with a stern glare. "No, I don't think so. We are here precisely to impede their retreat. In fact, I've even forced their hand with this 'takeover'." In his mind, the strategy was akin to hiding a diamond inside of a gator's mouth and then telling the town fool to climb in and get it. He would tell Cataryna as much in person, though much more tact.
Ehrl blinked, and looked away. "Well, the men shot a boar and are roasting it now for your supper. Do you intend for the evening to be romantic?" The knight, who had continued his stroll, stopped once more, and without looking back, said, "I cannot imagine what business that would be of yours." This time, his Captain was ready for the venomous tones of his Marshal. "Well, I found some bards at a tavern nearby and they've 'volunteered' their services. They even know the Rose of Tralee."
"Hm, that would seem to be rather inappropriate." He knew that the song was about his own dearly departed cousin, though that was not common knowledge. "Have them compose an ode to raven-haired Ladies in general." "Very good, Sir," Erhl responded, quickly nipping off.
His tasks concluded for the day, he stomped toward the kitchens, his armor clanking with each step. He seldom removed it, particularly in enemy lands, and the heavy plate-and-chain seemed like a second skin to him. "Now, where in all the hells is a corkscrew..."