Ciern kept to the back end of the knights, gently patting his horse's mane as he rode silently, ghost-like and listening to the conversations that floated back towards him. He watched the group's hind, although he never officially accepted that designation. His light armour clinked as they progressed, the scratched armour plates occasionally jamming briefly before realigning themselves. Ciern felt his horse stumble a little as they passed an overgrown patch, but steadied itself soon and ran to catch back up.

His horse, this time, was a runt of the pack. Dirt-brown and unnamed, the horse clearly was the one intended to be passed off to the common soldiers by the stable-masters. Still, Ciern suffered narrowed eyes and grudged glances, but in the end, secured his ride for the dispatch. The horse was overeager and prone to wander, but still with the smaller frame, Ciern was surprised that he kept up with the other knights all the same. Ciern was worried that it might over-exert itself, but so far, the horse showed no signs of wanting to stop. Was it because of a sense of determination or pride? Ciern was secretly fond of its determination. Ciern was tempted to name the horse, but really, who was he to so?

As the Knight-Captain and the vanguard discussed the strategies to tackle their enemy, Ciern mulled over the nature of the foe. Bandit-King, so they called him. A storm Broke the King's army and challenged the Knights. The Bandit-King wasn't an ordinary bandit leader, especially not if they brewed up the attention and might of this magnitude. Though bigger territories would be more desirable, it also meant that the bandit leader also had to "rule" that much more territory as well, along with the risk of drawing the ire of stronger powers. Medium size, manageable territories were much more 'economical' for the common bandit.

So, Ciern conjectured, either the Bandit-King was driven out of a desire to "rule" rather than settle with the simple accumulation of wealth, out of arrogance and challenged the Iron Roses to make an example of power, or out of the desires of a third actor. In any case, there would be a reason why this particular individual had managed to accrue so much command over his forces, by fear, respect or otherwise, and that would certainly be a factor that no opposition should take lightly. It was a mission of a simple objective but a complex execution, though Ciern hoped it would be just as simple as "magical bombardment." If for anyone...

Ciern adjusted his visor and watched the Knight-Commander on the white mare. 16 years old. Born on the full moon and chosen without consent to lead a centuries old Order. As much as Ciern tried to convince himself, Ciern was nervous for her. No doubt, she would have pressure on her shoulders, unbearable to most. What if she over-reached? What if someone tried to puppet her? What if she lost too much too fast, and made the same mistake so many made?

Ciern realized he gripped on his horse's mane too hard and was now tugging on it. He patted the tuft of mane back down as an apology, though Ciern doubted the horse would understand. No. He swore to be loyal to both the Order and the Knight-Captain. Regardless of who the leader was, he would be loyal all the same.

[i]The Red Hound of the Roses...[/i]

Ciern's mouth tugged in a fascimile expression, neither a sneer or a grim grit. He will be loyal all the same.