[center][b]Vesta[/b][/center]

[i]Told you we shouldn’t have let that bastard go,[/i] thought Vesta venomously as the Queen was retreated from the field of battle, stepping out of the cracks that she had thrown herself into the moment Gartian had begun barking again in anticipation of what was coming next. From her hiding spot she could hear the familiar sound of a flock of bows firing, although the noises following were decidedly much different than what she was used to experiencing during her days of war. The ground where she had stood was cushioned with arrows that would have shredded her lightly armored body, but closer to her allies the earth lacked the usual porcupined appearance that followed a volley. Perhaps if she had known that the very men she distrusted were responsible for the rather magnificent defense she would have better opinions of them.

Okay, well, she definitely wouldn’t, but maybe she’d be a little grateful just this once. 

As others charged past her to cut down the archers, Vesta calmly held her ground and drew her bow. She knew that running headlong into the fray was something she no longer could do, at least not until her hand was forced, and trekking back to her horse would just result in her needlessly butchering a fine mount. Besides, the H’kelans had been so kind to leave her with a fine supply of decent arrows and there was something poetically just about maiming a prick with his own ammo that Vesta could not bypass. With shaky hands fueled by anger, not whiskey, the woman ripped a small handful of arrows with still usable fletching from the ground. Properly equipped with enemy arrows, Vesta nocked one, drew back,  and took aim.

The good thing about war was that it didn’t matter if your aim was shit. As long as you could fire an arrow far enough over the head of your countrymen, you were bound to hit some bastard who deserved it—and if you did, Divine’s forbid, hit one of your own, you’d never know anyway. One, two, three arrows flew out in quick succession in a high arc. With all of the chaos, Vesta could not tell if they hit any of the less-protected archers in the backlines or not. Regardless, she fired off another quick four, five, six shots before she began walking perpendicular to the frontlines, grabbing more arrows as she went and firing them high above so they could pierce down into the surging mass of yellow below. 

However, at the sight of Cyril’s back charging towards the fray the woman, cursing under breath, began limping forward as fast as her crippled leg could carry her. The Prince may have claimed to be nothing like his father, but he sure had that foolhardy “lead from the front” attitude that the late King held. No longer trusting her bow arm to distinguish between the foes in yellow with the friends in blue, Vesta drew her blade. The snicker-snack of it sliding from its sheath seemed to shout out a challenge to those around her, for three enemies that had been moving towards the Prince now broke off to make the easy kill of a crippled woman. 

Growling deeply, the woman wasted little time making her way towards the men, and was determined to spend even less on wasting them. Deflecting the first blow away with her scabbard, she tucked her body fluidly under the man’s arm and drove her sword through the gaps in the helmet of the second man before he could even scream. Withdrawing the crimson blade she smacked the third man in the head with her scabbard, the shaft ringing loudly against the metal, before twisting and slashing the first man through his less protected back.

She was about to drive her sword through the third man when she stepped awkwardly and, long used to falling, twisted to avoid landing on anything important. Dropping her scabbard and grabbing her knife, she reached up and jabbed the last man between the joints in his knee. As he came down she forced up her sword and caught him on the point, gravity and his weight doing the rest. The man fell to her side, dead, and Vesta began stumbling to her feet. During the struggle another H’kelan came at her, turning just in time to have a blade scrape against the front of her gambeson and flash within inches of her eyes. Blood pounding in her ears, Vesta jammed her sword underneath the shoulder of her attacker and righted herself. 

[i]Too close,[/i] she thought, eyes darting  in anticipation of other foes.

All she saw were soldiers blue; she heaved a sigh of relief. As she bent down to pick up her scabbard she noticed blood dripping on the man below her. Touching her chin with the back of her glove, she pulled it away to see the material stained a darker color. [i]Way too close,[/i] she thought, sheathing her weapon and taking a second to catch her breath while amongst allies.