[b]Near Astraea[/b]
Ælfrige snarled as he saw the few nomads ride towards them, just as he received word that an equally small group was behind his men. It was not an advantageous situation for the Wealdmenn; he was not only outnumbered but the wide open terrain heavily favoured the nomads. Unfortunately it didn't seem as though there was any plan that wouldn't result in heavy casualties for them, with the possible exception of him ordering his men to pack up and head back to the Weald. But the thought of doing so never even crossed Ælfrige's mind; it would be a disgrace not just to him but to all those who had chosen to follow him to the Eye. They had traveled too far to simply give up now, so they could either die where they stood or try to make their way into the ruins not only to retrieve the Eye but also to mount a better defense against the nomads' onslaught that would inevitably come.

Then Ælfrige heard the sounds of battle, watching from a distance as the grogar vanguard slammed into the nomad's forces. Though he couldn't what they were, he could see their numbers. And he grinned. Perhaps he could use their assault to his advantage, as the nomad's didn't seem particularly keen in engaging his men just yet. If they happened to pull men from their western force to deal with the paleskin horde it would undoubtedly be easier for his men to force their way into the ruins. So he decided once more to wait, though he knew that his men were already restless. In truth he was restless as well, and hated sitting here while their goal was within view. It was so close, but it could scarcely be farther from their grasp. But it wouldn't be much use to go and get most of them killed in a reckless charge, glorious at it would be. But Ælfrige could not simply sit on his haunches all day, either. The nomads knew the Wealdmenn were there and an attack [i]would[/i] come eventually. If they happened to charge his forces before dealing with the grogar to the south, then so be it. But he could still prepare.

"[i]Scildweall![/i]" he shouted to his men at the top of his lungs; a cry that was quickly carried on the wind by the numerous other Wealdmenn. Quickly the Wealdmenn made their way into formation, their shields up to protect themselves and the man to their left. The first few ranks were those like Ælfrige, warriors of the upper class with real armor and weapons, while behind them were the poorer warriors with their spears. And behind even them were the archers, ready to rain death down on those who approached. But still the Wealdmenn didn't advance, waiting for the word.