For a moment, Archibald continued staring at Marwood, his one eye widened in disbelief. His feet had migrated to the top of the wooden slab that served as a table and he was already leaning back on his seat, causing a steady ricketing noise. All of a sudden, he burst into laughter. "Bloody Serafew!?" he managed in between gasps for breath. With a loud thud, the two suspended legs of the chair hit the ground. Wiping away a tear, the bandit lord looked up again. "...Oh, you were serious..." he said, the tone of voice changing instantly. Standing up he picked up his bow and walked towards Marwood menacingly, a half smile on his face. "You must still be wet behind the ears if you think that would work, Royal" he said mockingly, pacing around Marwood without ever looking directly at him. 

"Lets assume that, hypothetically, all units are mounted like you," he said as he shrugged his shoulders, plucking an arrow from his quiver with the same movement, "It'll take you a good day and a half to get from here-" With a single swift motion, he nocked the arrow and fired it into the map on the other side of the room which stuck fast in the wooden backpanelling, "to Serafew. Compound that with the fact that you THEN have to move the food caravans BACK here, probably under constant attack from the Jehannans..." Archibald paced back around to his seat and flopped back down, resting a leg on the armrest. "This isn't your little fantasy world any more, princeling," he said, once again, mockingly, "you don't have legions of elite troops under your command, or unlimited resources." Sitting up straight, the young archer folded his arms and leaned back in his seat, "Welcome to the world that isn't served to you on a silver platter, Lordling," he declared, a wicked smile on his face. Honestly. These royals seemed to have no grasp of basic tactics or troop movements. Soft lands and soft foods breed soft men, he vaguely remembered an old deserter saying. He could see now that it was true.