[sub][h3]Nikolai von Krähenvald & Ser Theowald von Leinbicker[/h3]
[indent]M A R C H I N G  O R D E R S   -  R O A D  T O   N U B I N A    -  1 5 T H   D A Y ,   8 T H   H O U R[/indent][/sub]
[hr]

Theowald heard a prayer not uncommon among his kind as he and Alexus were taking down pikes with now dead undying hanging from them. It was a grizzly, dirty work, but it had to be done. Every so often, one of the would-be corpses would twitch and reanimate, some small spark of undead malice remaining. At that point, they put to the sword and quick. Looking around for the source, he spotted a young man. Noble from the look of his equipment and posture.

“Greetings friend! Belia protects you!” He hailed the the man as he walked over.

The sound of Theowald’s deep but friendly voice broke the astute concentration Nikolai was pondering in his eager, steady mind.  His posture shifted slightly, metal shoulders turning acceptingly towards the man who was now approaching him. The side of his lip played a tribute to the man’s mention of Belia; innocence and trust abiding in the man’s words of acknowledgement towards Belia’s mercies, “Ah, good den, my lord!” His voice stood strong in parallel to his own physique as his dark eyes studied the light weight of the man’s pleasantry and attire for war.  His lack of mail and metalworks was shocking, especially for such treacherous hostility that was soon to be endured or forsaken, “I assume and pray Belia guides and protects you, as well!” His voice continued in steadiness, much like the slow tramples of mud and filth beneath the 30,000 creatures marching in grim rythm.  

“It is nice to see another Belia faithfull. My name is Theowald,” he took the man’s hand in his, shaking it. He noticed the man’s size belied his strength. That was a good thing, because they would need all the physical strength they could get their hands on. 

Nikolai extended his arm and allowed his hand to grasp and shake the other man’s hand.  Both of their eyes locked, acknowledgement of the other’s strength and girth of power to be portrayed within each other’s physique, “And, I am Nikolai von Krähenvald.   It is an honor, Theowald, to fight along the side of another one of Belia’s believers,”  their hands released, and Nikolai’s hand fell to his side again to continue the marching sway of the Duchess’ soldiers.  

This man, Theowald, was the first person with whom he had made such direct interaction.  From the looks of it, Theowald held some noble statute in his bones--firmly pressed and woven into the core of his being like a burning spirit, still young in its own right despite some wisdom held under his breath as he had spoken.  Belia had brought them together, and Nikolai knew that unity in the Duchess’ forces was of high importance.  A pile of rocks and stones thrown together could all too easily let the waters through, but if it were tightly knit together and molded as a sturdy mountain, the enemy would have a hard time breaking through them.  He assumed many others had made their first or second and so forth direct introductions, already.  It appeared, his time had come to make his first acquaintance.

[i]Theowald,[/i] Nikolai repeated in his mind for emphasis on remembrance.  Forgetting the name appeared all too dishonorable in taste on the tip of his tongue.  

“The honor is all mine, young lord.” Theowald grinned at him. “I hope to see that morningstar of yours crush many an Undying skull.” He said with some admiration as he kept pace alongside the younger man before he heard someone call out his name, “Ah. Seems I am being called back to my order,” He said with a gruff nod,  “See you on the battlefield, Nikolai von Krähenvald!” He jogged off to leave the young man to his own devices.

A small nod of agreement moved Nikolai’s head as his eyes carried their concentration on his new acquaintance’s position moving further ahead of him.  His pace continued in routine carefulness but not so much in timid nature.  The last remarks of Theowald had him thirsty for battle.  He needed patience if he was to persevere through this battle, and it was true that he had only been with the Duchess for a small amount of time despite the yearning inside of him.

[sub][h3]Nikolai von Krähenvald[/h3]
[indent]M A R C H I N G  O R D E R S ;  R O A D  T O  N U B I N A  -  1 9 T H    D A Y ,   D U S K[/indent][/sub]
[hr]

Nights seemed strangely dreamlike to Nikolai, even with the rustles and hustles of the grunting camp mates turning in odd hours and gossiping like stoic giants trying to puff their chests or ease each other’s minds for ready and rapid drawing of weaponry at any given moment.  It didn’t bother Nikolai too severely.  The small make-shift loft he had been sharing with his mother and sisters for the past decade seemed all too distant, now, and he preferred the present over the past.  The tent held such privacy, and the campfire talk—warmish meals shared with fellow brethren in the wake of a war march, awakened a part of him he had been suppressing in the peaceful farm fields of Operath.  He would take the sound of rain clawing its way from the dreary and dark clouds outside the road of Nubina than over the small make shift wooden loft cramped with four humans trying to feign comfort.  If there was any regret in making his decision, coming in nervousness and prayer to Belia, it had passed.  It was never a surprise to him when Belia answered his prayers, for this, he was not going to hesitate thanking her once more.

And as news had progressed, the message of lost scouts smitten—destroyed—dead by the vise of the Undead had come slithering through the army.  Whispers and loud talk of each had evolved into what could have happened.  Everyone agreed if he were to see one or more of the scouts, again, death would be the only discovery.  Many creatures were tense in this situation, Nikolai was not spared from this, but he knew Belia was looking after him.  So, with an eased and steady mind, his once eyes rested in perception were shifting in relation to his surroundings—the dreary, massive trees stocked with stories long forgotten by words but not by demeanor.  The gloom was setting heavy in a foggy emotion, and the voices of the soldiers began evaporating or disappearing into the vastness of the damp and stark forest of deathly history.  Nikolai thought not much of it, unlike a dog might during the calm before a storm, when suddenly, the twisted sound of cracking bark and strange moans gathered like a title wave ambushing the men and women around him. They were innocent prey so unaware and startled.

The unfortunate scenario unfolding before Nikolai was watching the devastation of crusaders on the outskirts of their formation pillaged mercilessly like twigs snapped in half with body fluids emerging from them, splattered victoriously by the enemy. The stench of death of which he had grown accustomed immediately intertwined with the newly naked and exposed insides of just met comrades, unclean, now, and spoiled with nauseating smells that may have caused Nikolai to retreat or vomit had the scenario not been between life and death.  Nothing short of quickly acknowledging that Belia had granted him a fair position in this [i]first[/i] play—his arm tightened, bringing his kite shield upwards to shield his body as his other limb plowed an Undead’s body.  The first death, a quick release of energy not ready of which to be made aware but of certainly a fueling fire that braided and gnarled his body this way and that as [i]Kursiv[/i] dug his spiked head through another version of the enemy.

His leather boots digging deeply into the mud and skeletal remains was a hinder at first, but as the fighting continued, a good display of adaptation took place if he could manage to keep light on his toes and move quickly about the deep woods.  Any ounce filled with a sinking hopelessness, as he heard sewered screams from someone submitting lethally to the enemy was conquered from his narrowed vision of Belia and the honor she would ultimately grant him.  Feeling a dent push into his shield as his morning star was knocked into a crushed skull, Nikolai’s head fell backwards, pressing hardly against the muscular bark of a tree.  Thank Belia for his helmet; the cushioned blow wasn’t as comforting as he had expected, but he’d experienced worse hits—in situations less dire than now.

At least, he thought he had.  Upon opening his eyes to discombobulate his orientation, he was surrounded by them.  Any help was either too far away or too busy fending for himself, but a blood lust soak of courage was pumping adamantly in his chest; thunderous pleasure for what could happen if he succeeded.  Tightening his own body, he leaned forward with a cold whispered prayer to Belia to grant him further strength as his morning star began glowing with arcane magic and mana drawing around it.  Lithe movements of power drew from with inside of his towering frame, and a loud war cry shouted from his mouth not forgetting anything less of Belia.  Do or die. Flight or fight. It was all or nothing, now, as a bright weave of magic protruded from [i]Kursiv[/i] and jetted variously at the unholiness begging for his mortality and end-stage.