Author Topic: Sir Nicholas Archival - Tales and Stories  (Read 3603 times)

Archival

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Re: Sir Nicholas Archival - Tales and Stories
« Topic Start: December 16, 2017, 09:02:09 PM »
A Taste of Battle

The dust of the battle had long since settled, as Nicholas and his Sworn Swords picked over the remains. It was unclean work, not fit for noblemen or commoners alike, but it had to be done. Equipment was only a finite supply, and to ensure that both himself and his men did not perish quite so easily at the hands of the enemy, some scavenging - or retrieval, as he had phrased it to the men - was a necessity. The older men, veterans of past battles, put themselves to task without much by way of hesitation - their experience in handling the matter was discomforting about the realities of warfare, but it was a lesson well learned, Nicholas decided. The younger men had appeared taken aback by the order; they had expected glory, as they struck down monstrosities with righteous fervour. The Knight himself had been fortunate to have been spared that delusion during his training, at least. Not that it settled his stomach at all. The stench was already beginning to become revolting and he was hard-pressed not to gag.

As the men rummaged and retrieved whatever bits of slightly less battered armaments they could find, Nicholas set off to attend to his own objective. He strode across the field of battle, weary but uninjured, and still in most of his armour. It paid to be careful; who knew how these undead would act. They were already dead, playing possum was doubtless easy for them. Further, he was well-aware the damage they could cause. Nicholas had watched both Sir Donald and Sir Matthew be carried off during the second battle in Grodno, though had been unable to come to the aid of either. Their conditions were treatable, so he paid it little mind for the moment. Instead he focused on the bludgeoned corpses of man and monster alike. As he continued, he found himself growing numb to it - not from callousness, but likely his mind's inability to properly comprehend the horror of it. It would take time, his father had always said, to become accustomed to the savagery of war. It was better than vomiting, at least.

He scanned across each face he came across. The undead looked typically disturbing, and he tried to give them a wide berth. Instead, he was looking for the minority - the men who had not yet been taken from the battlefield for proper funerary rites, the men who had not been accounted for. Eventually, something caught his eye; the White Chevalier of his family. It was emblazoned on a man's tabard, though his face was hidden under the corpse of a shambling monster. Nicholas steeled himself, before striding forward and firmly planted his boot against the undead, to shove it away. The sight revealed was what he had anticipated. The boy - Alaric, Nicholas remembered - looked peaceful in death. It was a blessing that his features had not been ravaged, despite the cruel axe embedded in his shoulder. The Knight sighed quietly. It was the obvious conclusion, when he had not reported for his usual post, guarding Nicholas within his tent. Of all the eager youths among the Sworn Swords, Alaric had always seemed a step too idealistic, too enamoured with the romanticism of battle and chivalry. He was a reminder of what Nicholas himself might have faced, had he been taught a little differently. His sacrifice would be a lesson to the others; recklessness was an easy road to death.

A short while later, he returned to his men, grim-faced by the experience. He waved over the soldiers, expecting a report.

"We've found some bits and pieces, milord," one older soldier remarked, "Though not enough to fix all our gear. Not by far."

Nicholas nodded simply. "It will do. I passed Alaric's body; collect it if you would."

The soldier paused, before giving a deft salute in response and yelled some commands to the other soldiers. "Still, milord, we lost less men than we might've."

"Fewer," Nicholas corrected absently, before retiring from the field and back to his tent.