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[h3][color=aba000][i]For man's only weapon is courage that flinches not from the gates of Hell itself, and against such not even the legions of Hell can stand.[/i][/color][/h3][/center]

Heavy dew beaded on the long grass of the untamed field, reflecting the heady glow of dawn to the east. Such a wide swath of land had perhaps been a farm once, in another age, but the hands of men had not cultivated this ground in many years. A gentle breeze of early morning rolled through, sending ripples through the the blades of shimmering gold. It had rained the night before, making for muddy ground and difficult marching. The Order of the Crimson Shield rode steadily through the field in long columns, their horses trampling down the grass so that those behind them would not sink into the soft earth.

Dolores Braise, known to many as the Crimson Maiden, rode close behind the Order's commander. Dressed fully in her armor, she clenched her horse's reins tightly, fighting herself to keep from showing her nervousness outwardly. It never got any easier, despite how many battles she fought in or won. Every battle brought anxiety all the same, the expectation of some fresh, new horror. She never got better used to it, only better at hiding how nervous it made her. Turning slightly in the saddle to look at the knights behind her, riding silently, she reminded herself that it was likely they were likely feeling the same as her at that moment.

Knight-Commander Cryadmour, some paces ahead of Dolores, swore and dug his heels into his horse, sending it galloping forward. Dolores snapped back around and strained to look head of her, to see what had urged him on so. Smoke. They had been too late after all. After offering a rallying command to the knights behind her, Dolores dropped her visor and rode to catch up to the senior soldier ahead of her. They had been tracking this particular warband of Northmen for roughly a week; an easy task considering the trail of ruin and destruction they left in their wake. They had meant to circle around and ambush them before they arrived at the village that they were heading directly towards. However, the previous nights' rains had slowed them down considerably, and the barbarians had outpaced them.

The village came into sight quickly, and sure enough half of the cottages were ablaze. These marauders seemed to prefer to attack in the early morning, then spend the day picking through the remains of whatever village or stronghold they sacked. Somewhere behind Dolores a warhorn sounded, and the vanguard riders assumed their assault formation, lances drawn. Quite deliberately, the Order had attacked from the East, with the sun at their backs. They would take no chances when combating foes as vicious as these, and took every advantage possible. Such precautions were taken despite fighting alongside the "unconquerable" Crimson Maiden, at Dolores' own insistence; if her charms and visions were to fail, she would not have her comrades die due to overzealous faith in her.

Barbarians met the cavalry lines with shields and axes drawn, and the sound of clashing metal filled the air. Dolores kept near the Knight-Commander, somewhere to the middle-front of the formation, keeping ever-vigilant for signs of their formation breaking or other unfortunate possibilities. A lone Northman broke past the front line, and ran screaming towards Dolores and Crydamour. Skirting to the left, he chose the Crimson Maiden as his target, bringing his great axe to bear against her. Manuel, a graying veteran of a warhorse, did not so much knicker as Dolores wheeled him around to catch the axe on her shield. She grunted with the effort of withstanding his strength, but had the advantage of leverage against her attacker. He continued to close in, though his weapon was thrown off balance, and so Dolores sent him sprawling away with a booted kick to his chest. She bit her lip to keep herself from crying out in pain; she had taken a bolt to that leg only a few months prior, and it was not yet entirely healed. Leaning over, she gripped her spear tightly and thrust it into the heart of the downed barbarian, piercing his rusted maille. She was breathing heavily, she noticed, and licked the moisture from her lips as her breath condensed against the inside of her visor. As the savage gurgled his bloody death-cries, Crydamour was riding up ahead, and so Dolores left her spear where it stuck rather than struggle to retrieve it. She drew her father's sword, and advanced to the Knight-Commander's side.

The assault was advancing as planned. The vanguard bore the brunt of the enemy's counterattack, while the men on foot swept through the dusty streets to push any stragglers into the waiting blades of the mounted sternguard. However, Dolores felt something amiss. An impending sense of dread overtook her, leading her to cast her gaze at to the knights at her left. Golden light seemed to seep through the cottages and fences of the village, and she could sense a mass of soldiers just beyond her sight. Dolores had only ever gotten as far as she had by trusting her instincts, and this was exactly the occasion in which she did so.

"They're flanking us! To the left!" She cried out, to any that could hear her.

Some knights nearby took notice of her, and rode out to strengthen the flank, but not enough. Luckily, however, the Knight-Commander had also heard her, and echoed her with his great, booming voice. "Strengthen the left flank!"

The sense of dread did not disappear, however, and Dolores soon saw why. A hulking, nightmarish shape rounded the corner of a cottage, leading the charge of a dozen-odd Northmen. It was a mutant, at least ten foot high, an abomination of black fur and bull's horns. As was the custom among the repulsive Hyperboreans, the beastman was kitted to wear some sort of huge, crude breastplate, and carried a thick club the size of a child. It bellowed in its horrible, throaty voice (which could have been sensible in the barbaric tongue of the Northmen, for all Dolores knew), and charged the left flank, just as she had expected. The charge was met with shields and lances, but the beast did not go down. The line was holding, but it would not for long.

Looking about frantically, Dolores spied a broken spear clutched by a dead Northman. A strange aura surrounded it, an air of fate and purpose. Dolores knew this feeling well. She dismounted Manuel, grimacing as she landed hard on her bad leg, and sprinted the short distance to retrieve the destined spear. The death-grip of the warrior did not give it up easily, and so Dolores drew her sword to take his hand with the spear. Gripping her gruesome prize tightly, Dolores turned back around to watch the inevitability of the horrific monster breaking through the battle-lines of her comrades. She had never thrown a spear before, but she knew that it was what she had to do at that moment. Taking up the position for it was much a feeling much like tracing the steps of dance she had not performed in years, or singing the words to a song she had forgotten.

The monster upended a horse, legs flailing as it crushed its rider. Dolores gripped the spear tighter; not yet, the mutant wasn't close enough. Its hoofed foot came down on a staggered foot soldier, caving in his breastplate with a sickening groan. Still not yet. With its empty hand, the beast grabbed a mounted knight, and bit his head off, ripping cleanly through his maille. Dolores blinked the tears out of her eyes; she would need to see clearly when the moment came. Finally, after agonizing seconds of despair and horror, the golden moment arrived, and Dolores clearly envisioned the creature's downfall. She let fly with the broken spear, which sailed cleanly through the air and embedded itself in the monster's eye. It issued an inhuman screech as half of the spear's shaft was buried into its brain, and its revolting blood spurted from the mortal wound. It thrashed about, knocking away its human companions with its massive club, and finally collapsed into a twitching heap.

The morale of the Northmen broke quickly after their pet monster was felled, and the Order of the Crimson Shield quite cleanly swept the rest away. Before long, the enemy had been fully routed, and the peasants that remained emerged from their homes to repair the damage, mourn their dead, and carry on with their lives. Knights set about gathering up and burning bodies, the only sure way to keep the Scourge from spreading. It took five men to haul the corpse of the beastman into the pyre, all of whom scoured themselves with white ash and sweet herbs afterwards. Dolores stepped solemnly through the village, leading Manuel by the reigns as she tried to find a place to water him. She had removed her helm and cap, allowing her long, fiery locks to flow in the iron-tinged air of midmorning. Watching the scene of pain and loss that surrounded her, she felt as though she had stepped into a painting of some great historical tragedy.

She eventually found a trough, but it had been fouled with the arrow-ridden corpse of a villager. Not yet totally discouraged, Dolores continued on, and found yet another somber scene. A young girl knelt at the side of a man whose chest had been opened by some barbarian's axe. She wept bitter tears beside him, marking her face with dirt as she rubbed her eyes. A single scene of tragedy, lost among hundreds. A young girl, senselessly deprived of her father. This was something Dolores had seen before, only the girl was a bit older, with hair like fire.

She felt a strange compulsion, and acted on instinct as she always did. Dolores put a gauntlet-clad hand on the kneeling girl's shoulder, who looked up at her with red and bleary eyes. In a soft tone, she simply said, "There is still hope."

[center][h3][color=aba000]A C T  I :  R I S I N G[/color][/h3][/center]