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The sight of each and every rescued prisoner who split off from the Iron Rose column - freedom in hand and opportunity to start anew or return to what they'd been snatched from... the sight of Fionn and Gerard, each and every time, holding up the gargantuan sword of Jeremiah - a symbol of triumph that onlookers would cheer and celebrate...

It all made everything worth it.

The pain and injuries, the danger, the horrific nature of bloody combat, the up-close and personal displays of death... every moment of that awful night was worth these rewards.

[i]Follow orders. Don't die.[/i]

He'd managed it.  Just barely (in fact, Reon may well have been carrying him through it all, such was his luck) but he had indeed made it through his first mission.  On the left flank he rode, mismatched with the dozens of bodies in shining full plate and helms to boot, he might have been mistaken for one of the rescued.  [color=6ecff6][i]Those who observed me in action might mistake me too,[/i][/color] he thought with a smile.  It was a tired smile.  He was exhausted.  But happiness filled him.  After the battle was over, he'd looked around and saw some familiar figures in the band had made it through alive, including all of Paladin Tyaethe's team.  The griffin was amongst the corpses, body still tethered by the chain.  After a little tense anticipation, he eventually had visual confirmation on the health and wellbeing of one Sir Gerard Segremors.  All was said and done.  The Iron Rose's list of injuries was short, and there had been only one casualty.  A successful first foray for the new Knight-Captain.  Good for her.  Good for the Iron Roses.  Good for all that [i]is[/i] good.

In the city, passing over the moat and through the gate of Candaeln was a treat that Lucas thought might never get old.  The knight's eyes drew upward as they entered the courtyard, his expression full of appreciation for such splendour.  Once they were dismissed, Lucas went to his room and collapsed on his bed a moment, staring at the ceiling.  The moment of solitude and oppressive silence hastily brought back memories of the screams.  Of blood coughed into his face as he watched the light in his enemy's eyes disappear.  It suddenly occurred to him that, in spite of his exhaustion, sleep may not come so easy.

Each piece of his patchwork armour he removed, looked like armour looted from a corpse.  Random pieces of plate and leather, full of knicks, dents, rips and cuts.  His heavy leather jerkin was slashed an unnerving amount of times, nevertheless he placed it reverently on the armour dummy, then stepped back and looked at it pridefully.  After that, he changed into more casualwear; a white open-throat shirt with some simple black pants and boots.

Not really knowing what to do with himself, only knowing that he needed to be somewhere that was busy enough to distract him, he found himself in the mess hall.  After grabbing an excessive amount of food, he sat down at one of the long tables, giving a comradely nod to anyone he made eye contact with.  Then, his nose reminded his stomach how bloody hungry he was and he tucked in.