After the disastrous battle in the Mines of Isadril, following the allied defeat in Domus.
A calm wind blows.
22 noble heraldries on each side, but the reality of established and ancient kingdoms facing off against the upstart Imperium. Out numbered nearly two to one, it is indicative of what has been a short but difficult existence.
Godric would have it no other way.
Captain Eodred, who once was a touch fearful before battles, is trotting up and down their ranks shouting of their impending victory. The weak will die, so if you are strong you will have no fear. Padded and hardened leather and occasionally chainmail clothe these men, perilously perched atop their horses. Toren, a people with no mounted tradition, yet these men have become legends in their own right.
The horns blow and the armies march.
Godric is irritated. The sky darkens as over 1000 arrows fill it in the span of a minute. There is no reason to be fighting so far back. The sky fills with the twang of bows and whistling of arrows, shuffling as the armies march, thundering cavalry charge ahead: Godric has bid his men wait, lest they trample their own.
Countless men are felled in the charge. There are no more melee troops. They have no choice but to provide cover for their inferior ranged forces.
The drums beat as Eodred begins a song. It is time to charge.
***
Godric God-Eagle charges forward
Fearless for he trusts in Tor
His men follow their great þegn
Through the fire they will thole
Six-hundred and sixty arrows
Scattered across the sky
Raining down upon the warriors
Were to reap a painful price
Sing, O! Fates, not of their doom
But of the men they drove away,
Our fated warriors fearless were they
Did not meekly die this day
Sixty-six slaves they slayed
Some fifty more fled in fear
But thirty-seven Toren killed
And thirty-one wounded
***
Disaster. Caught by a crossbow bolt in the thigh, Godric and his Toren fled, unable to even drag their dead from the battle field. Eodred died quickly. His head was cracked open by a bolt during the charge and his brains splattered all over Godric. An unfortunate end to a man Godric had warmed up to and even started to appreciate.
They fled into the hills of the Mines, four men succumbed to their wounds on the way. Their þegn taken ill with a fever, his men tend to their own wounds and attempt to keep Godric alive.
Then the hunting begins.
Semallians begin their ambushes. Unable to keep camp the Toren can scarcely stay ahead of the search parties. Little by little their numbers are whittled away until they are caught atop a knoll. The fighting was swift, outnumbered and unarmed the men fought valiantly but could not protect Godric from capture. They all gave their lives.
The Semallians cheer and celebrate, quipping about excitedly as they discuss the reward for the capture of an enemy noble.
They are unaware it is highly inadvisable to awaken a sleeping Toren.
***
Chatter. Filthy, smelly hill-bandits. Godric stirs slightly but remains still, listening, acclimatizing. The damned wound in his thight stings, he must have caught a fever. A few moments pass, they are discussing the ambush and fantasizing of the rewards for his capture. That will not do. Godric's mind races as he calculates his next steps. His hands slide to the usual locations of weaponry: nothing. They are dragging him with a tarp back to their camp. Eyes still closed, he begins murmuring a prayer to Tor, anger welling within him.
Slow breaths.
An explosion as he rolls backwards and leaps up, eyes wide: a score or so of men, short swords and crossbows, likely trained, they are surprised, Godric is not. He roars as he leaps to the closest one bear hugging his arms close, teeth clamping on his neck, then drives his thumbs into his eyes. The man's screams are foul and only serve to make the situation more alarming. Godric leaps to another man and clasping him firmly by the balls takes his other hand to squeeze and break his trachea. He takes a self-indulgent moment to savour this before looking up, they are starting to notch up their crossbows: in a flash Godric disappears into the forest.
He spends the rest of the night fleeing towards Oc Lu Pesh. None who see him are allowed to live, no man, woman, or child. An old hag is killed because he needs to dress his wound and she caught him rifling through her things. Creeping through a small logging village a young girl, scarcely a woman, sees him. He does not enjoy when he must do so, but he snaps her neck with little remorse. A group of young men, chatting and drinking on the outskirts of a farm have the misfortune of meeting Godric. He kills all six of them, the last one he chased as far as the door to their family home where he quietly bashes his head in with a large rock. He leaves the bodies. They deserve to live in fear.
Word spreads of a demon, madman, reaver, passing through the lands. And so it was in Oc Lu Pesh, a small village off the road to Betholm had formed a sort of guard against the madman but by this point Godric had found a knife. He creeps out of the brush, eyes wild, hair disheveled, covering the man's mouth and driving the blade through his throat then up through his chin so all he can do is gurgle and whistle as life slowly drains from him. His two comrades wheel about in awe and fear, their farm axes would not save them. Skillfully Godric drives forward castrating one man who falls to his knees, the other hesitates and that gives Godric the time to tackle him to the ground, the knife plunging gleefully between his ribs. Standing up, covered in their gore, Godric finishes the job with his boot. Turning back to the other man, moaning and rolling on the ground, Godric snorts. He is young, probably early twenties. Godric does not care. He kicks him in the head until he is unconscious, and with a practised skill, scalps both hair and face. He tosses it aside. He is not dead yet but there is no way to survive what Godric has done to him. So be it. His travels become a blur of death and slaughter.
Betholm is much quieter. It is already a land of death and Godric is familiar enough with it to not need to follow roads. A young boy is mercifully drowned when he catches Godric stooping for a drink of water. When he finally reaches a distant guardpost of Xavax, the guardsmen can scarcely believe it is a noble until he produces his seal. A caravan ride back to Torrenhal and then a bath. Godric convenes his court, mead is poured, and discussion begins.
There is still work to do.
The 3rd Mounted Toren were founded, ready to honour those who served before them.
