TheDuncanMorgan — Roleplayer Guild

Andrew braced himself for the battle that was to come. He was currently alone in the war tent and sat quietly in his chair as he mulled over his thoughts. Though he remained optimistic for the battle that was to come he knew that a victory would not be without heavy casualties. The forces of both House Neptuna and the Coruneon garrison had arrived just two days prior to the predicted arrival of the Concord's forces. Andrew had ordered the Alliances army to ensemble just to the west of Clarm; though rocky, the terrain was flat and open meaning the Alliance's Calvary charge straight at the Concord army without hindrance from cliffs or mountains; they would be vital to winning this battle. In the quietness of the tent Andrew though back to his wife and nieces; what would happen to them if Andrew lost? Would the concord show them mercy or execute them to make an example. Andrew shook his head, he couldn't afford such thoughts to plague his mind. From outside the tent a deep warning horn sounded. The Concord had finally arrived. Andrew Emerged from his tent where he found a servant guiding his horse towards the tent. Andrew mounted and cantered towards the battlefield. As he approached his army the various troops in front of him made way for their leader as he rode up towards the front lines. The front lines were composed entirely of the Alliances Calvary and elephants; Andrew hoped to weaken the concords forces with his cavalry and elephants before the infantry joined the fray. As he reached the very front of the Formation he was greeted by Daeron

"They have arrived my friend, with numbers and weapons far greater than our own" As Daeron spoke Andrew glared at his opponent. Daeron was right, the Imperial army greatly outnumbered his own and Patrick already had his men in formation despite only just arriving. "If you have a invigorating speech prepared now would be the time" Daeron said with a half hearted laugh. It was clear from the troops faces that their confidence was wavering. As Daeron had suggested, Andrew decided to raise Moral. Andrew rode out in front of the army, while not everyone would be able to hear his speech, the battalion commanders would be sure to repeat it.

"Listen to me men, across from us stands our enemy, those who wish to take away our freedom and way of life. If we win this battle we have a chance to win this damn war, to declare freedom from the concord and change Formaroth for the better, when we return to our homelands we shall return not as soldiers but as hero's, charge into battle knowing your names will be forged in history" Andrew shouted with a triumphant roar and the alliance roared in response. While their fear was not completely gone it helped them to know that their leader would be fighting alongside them. Andrew turned to face the concord army before yelling the order that would start the battle. "CHARGE"

Patrick had found a good cliff to the side of the battlefield, from here he could see the battle in it's entirety while keeping a safe distance. He was vital to the concord and unlike Andrew he wasn't foolish enough to throw himself into the heart of battle in the name of honor and glory. Beside him rode Eli and Grandin. Orland was supposed to join them, however he decided to fight alongside his men in a final attempt to regain his honor. Alongside the three Kings were various flag holders with a array of different shaped and coloured flags. These men would be vital in communicating Patrick's orders to the rest of the army. Patrick had ordered the concords forces to march in formation before they even neared Clarm; he didn't want to risk the alliance catching them off guard. The front lines of the Concord's forces were comprised of militia from various kingdoms, much to the levies displeasure. While they wouldn't stand a chance against the alliances cavalry they would serve well to protect the professional soldiers. Interestingly enough, Beatrice Blackwell and the elite dragonguard had chosen to fight on the front lines, where they were at most risk.

"It is brave of your sister to fight on the front lines" Patrick said to Eli.

Eli smiled, thinking of his burly sister on the front, no doubt champing at the bit for a chance to fight the very best the Alliance had to offer.

“I do not believe that bravery or cowardice are traits Beatrice considers in relation to herself.” Eli replied before continuing after a customary brief pause. “And even if they were… When one has faced down both Dragons and my father on a regular basis, the concept of bravery takes on a rather different meaning.”

Of course, Eli could also be down on the front alongside his forces and family members, but he served them and the army far better from the eagle’s perch Patrick had chosen. Grand strategy was his strength far more than skill with a blade - though that was far from lacking.

“What is brave, however, is your gambit to destroy the elephants. I can think of at least two people that will not be pleased with you when they learn of the cost.”

“Sacrifices must be made in war. Surely you are aware of that?” Patrick said. “Though it is a shame that so many talented mages must die in exchange for our victory” at this a war horn sounded in the distance. As Patrick turned to face the Alliance forces he saw the entire force break into a charge. As he predicted the Elephants lead the charge with the light cavalry following around hundred meters behind. It was time to put initiate his plan. Patrick signaled to one of the flag bearer who responded accordingly.

“Of course it is necessary.” Eli replied without pause irked by his compatriots superior attitude. “I merely warn of the repercussions at home. Now, let us focus on the battle.”

Far above the battlefield a mighty eagle soared. Greater in stature than any seen in nature, this beast had a far superior perspective to even the most well placed of generals. It spied, far below, mighty lumbering behemoths charging fearlessly towards prepared lines of humans. At the core of the line was an unwavering bulwark clad in rough scale that made them appear nearly as beastly as their foe - but to the sides, the other humans cowered and faltered in primal fear - barely holding their place.

The eagle saw these things, but they were not its focus. Its focus was fixed keenly on the small opposition that rode out to challenge the grey behemoths. In groups of five, atop stout steeds they moved with confidence that belied their purpose - to seemingly random positions across the battlefield. When they arrived, they dismounted and joined hands in a number of circles. A faint glow could be seen emanating from the centers of these circles.

The eagle knew what was to happen. Barrels of water had been pre-placed a little further ahead of the mages now at the fore of the battle - not a threat under most circumstances but shortly to become extremely lethal. When the foe reached a certain point in their charge, a signal was given. The light in the circles flashed, and the harmless barrels of water became lethal spikes of ice reaching meters high.

The plan was sound from a purely tactical point of view, but the eagle disapproved all the same. It began to swoop down, its features betraying none of its feelings… And yet, fury and urgency built inside it.

Andrew watched in shock as his elephants fell to the giant ice shards that had seemingly manifested out of thin air. Where had they come from? No mage could summon so much ice without a large water source. The sight of the majestic elephants dying in horrific pain before him saddened him, they hadn’t stood a chance. Upon seeing the the loss of their elephants his infantry slowed their advance, what should they do? Andrew considered falling back and adopting a more defensive position but quickly decided against it. Without the infantry the light cavalry didn’t stand a chance.

“Continue onward” Andrew commanded “We must break through their lines. Do not let their magic scare you, trust in your weapons and your shields and we will be victorious” At this the infantry continued their advance.

When the deed was done, some of the mages staggered and collapsed from exertion. Some helped those that fell, still others looked to their mounts with a desire to flee, though some of said mounts had bolted - terrified by the unholy noise of flesh rending and the piteous sound of elephants in mortal pain.

Some of the mages were swift in their escape, but most were not. Unaccustomed to such positioning and with no attempt made to guard them, they found themselves vulnerable. Thunderous hooves approached, and the mages that had not mounted, or taken to long to, would soon be cut down.

Near the edge of the oncoming line, the eagle swooped down - claws extended, murder in its eyes. There was a cry of shock as it gripped the lead man and tore him clean off his horse before dropping his flailing, bloody body onto the one behind him. That section of the line slowed as the men and horses both spooked from the air attack - giving just a little longer for a few more of the mages to escape to the safety of their own line.

Yet, as the eagle rose in the air once more, it knew the strike would not be enough to save many.

Patrick smiled as the Alliance’s elephants fell. His plan had worked perfectly. Prior to the battle Patrick had scouts place barrels of water across the battlefield. The task was done at night so the alliance didn’t see them and the barrels were painted grey and covered in rocks and foliage so they wouldn’t be noticed from afar. Given this was the only place Andrew could have deployed his cavalry effectively Patrick knew precisely where to have the barrels placed. Patrick signalled his flag bearers

“Signal Henri’s heavy cavalry to prepare themselves, they will be charging soon” At this he turned to face Eli “I truly hope for your sister’s sake your Dragonguard can hold the line” Patrick didn’t sound particularly concerned but unlike normally he didn’t sound scornful either.

Eli did not feel the need to reply, merely smiling, confident in his elite troops ability to stand in the face of any onslaught.

On the front line, as the cavalry approached, a defiant cry of “Death’s no stranger!” erupted from the Blackwell lines. Men and women clad in Dragon scale armor and wielding exotic combinations of two handed weapons and light, paired weapons stood firm.

At the head of the line, Beatrice stood, her wooden greatsword held ready before her. When it was clear the cavalry had committed thoroughly to their charge, she shouted “Dragon’s maw!” It sounded like a curse, an exclamation of shock… But it was not. As one, the previously straight line the Dragonguard had formed shifted. Splitting into columns of four, one column would step forward while the one next to it stepped back, and so on down the line - forming a shape reminiscent of a crenellated wall when viewed from above.

As the cavalry struck - the use of the formation became clear. The staggered line held as the horses slammed into it, though many in the first rank of the forward columns were bowled to the ground or slain by carefully placed lances and blades bypassing their tough armor, it did not matter, for the horsemen that rode into the gaps had fallen for the trap. As the cavalry filled the gaps one and two abreast - seeking to break through the line - they found themselves assailed from three directions at once and quickly cut down. The blades of the Blackwell troops moved quickly and efficiently, unhampered by bulky shields - short blades and axes chopping at legs and horses - long blades striking at the rider's arms and heads.

Though Dragon guard fell on the forward sections, more cavalry fell as they stormed into the gaps - not realising that the breaks in the line were no weakness at all, but planned.

At the front of the central most column - Beatrice stood; bellowing challenges and roaring in defiance as her wooden blade rose and fell. She smashed bones in men and horses alike, shrugging off the impotent return strikes as they slid off her near impenetrable armor. Quickly, a circle formed around her as the troops at her back were struck down while the foes before her stayed back from her where they could. She fought as one possessed, and her valiant display buoyed the Blackwell morale whenever they saw that she was still standing.

At the back of the Blackwell line, a similar circle had formed, but not for the same reasons. An ancient, grey haired man was knelt, head bowed, eyes closed, blade sheathed. The Old Man, meditating, saw no reason to join the battle yet. The deaths of the soldiers meant little to him - they did their jobs on both sides.

The circle around him had formed because the men could not comprehend how a man could meditate on this field of death. They did not understand why he waited, but all feared to question him.

For now, he would wait.

When the time was right, none would stand before him.

Andrew was hopeful as Dearon’s cavalry charge hit the concords lines; the concords militia were unable to resist and the first few lines crumbled completely. Only the lines of the Blackwell’s dragonguard were able to hold formation. However Andrew’s hope soon turned to dread. He had fallen right into Patrick’s trap. From  both sides of the battlefield the concord’s heavy cavalry charged towards the Dearon’s forces. Though the alliances riders were skilled they stood no charge against the heavily armoured cavalry of house Anjervine. To make matter’s worse Dearon had no room to maneuver his forces, he was trapped by the concord’s forces on one side, and Andrew’s approaching infantry on the other.

“Forward”! Andrew commanded as he rode on ahead of his infantry. He was eager to get to the heart of the fighting. Dearon was one of his closest friends and Andrew intended to help him however he could. As Andrew drew closer the chaos of the battle became brutally clear. The concord’s militia hadn’t stood a chance and those who had survived the charge were either desperately trying to get behind the lines of the professional troops or were being cut down by the Manshrew cavalry. However things weren’t looking much better for the alliance soldiers, from all sides they were being cut down by imperial blades. 

Andrew had ridden straight to the center of the battlefield, near to the Blackwell Dragonguard. This would be where Dearon would be. As Andrew entered the fray an arrow whistled past his head. Andrew blocked with his shield as another arrow came flying towards him. He had been so distracted with blocking the arrow he didn’t notice a man cladded in full plate standing right in front of him. Judging from his armour it looked like he was part of a religious order, likely a fanatic knight from the church of Kelbirthy. The man’s sword went straight through the neck of Andrew’s horse sending him flying across the battlefield. Andrew fell face first and roughly slide across the terrain. As painful as the fall was he knew he had to get up immediately, lying down here would be a death sentence. As he stood up he thanked the gods that he hadn’t broken anything. Charging into battle like this had been a mistake, he had let his emotions and desire to save Dearon get the better of him and now his army had lost their leader. Still it was too late for regret now, he thought as two imperial soldiers charged towards him, one from either side. As the first one stabbed at Andrew with his spear Andrew grabbed the front of the shaft and redirected it behind him. The spear went straight into the neck of the soldier’s comrade, Andrew quickly drew his short sword and slashed across the first soldier’s throat. Once both men fell Andrew drew his second short sword. From the back he could hear the battle cry’s of the alliances infantry and they too joined the fight. A few more of the concord’s soldiers charged at Andrew, desperate to slay the enemy king themselves. Andrew cut each one of them down, one after the other. 

“Look out”! Andrew could just about make out Dearon’s yell throughout the deafening sound of the battle. Andrew dodged just in time as an Imperial soldier almost stabbed him in the back. Before the man had time to react a spear came through the air and hit him in the chest. As Andrew looked up he saw that it was Dearon who had thrown it. Andrew quickly fought his way over to his friend. 

“I am glad to see your still alive” Andrew shouted

“Well if I wasn’t you wouldn’t be either” Dearon replied pointing over to the soldier he had just killed “This brings back memories” Dearon said before parrying a concord soldier, Andrew took full advantage of the opening and brought both his sword down on the soldier’s neck, killing him instantly. Andrew attention was quickly drawn elsewhere as the sight of Beatrice Blackwell and the Dragonguard came into view. Even through the chaos the towering warmadien of House Blackwell would be impossible to miss.

“Send me more!” Beatrice bellowed as she dispatched the latest of the Alliance soldiers brave enough to take her on. The enemy troops were giving her a lot of space, keeping back as best they could, even as she advanced further and further from friendly lines. She looked around with a fierce expression, and as she made eye contact with each enemy they only recoiled. “Cowards!” She shouted, many of the soldiers recoiling at the very sound of her voice.

Then she spotted the ornate armor and dusky face of her true foe. They had sent her the best - at last. The would be King - Andrew Manshrew. One thought filled her mind at the sight of him: Vengeance at any cost.

She surged towards him, raising her battered wooden sword to attack with a swift vertical blow to the head. Helmet or no - the impact would be punishing if it landed.

As Andrew saw Beatrice charge towards him, he turned to Dearon. 

“Guard my back.”

“Ok but be careful. I'll back you up if you need it.” Dearon quickly responded. Andrew smiled, with both short swords he charged to meet her in the midst of battle. As he got closer he saw that she was preparing for a vertical swing. Andrew decided that he would take on a more defensive stance. If he could talk to Beatrice long enough, he could persuade her that the De Reimer’s framed him for the assassination attempt. If he succeeded her family would maybe switch sides. Swords were about to clash, as her sword swung down towards his heads he held his swords like a cross and managed to block the blade. “It's an honour to meet you here Beatrice Blackwell.”

“Shut up and fight me!” Beatrice retorted angrily, rapidly shifting into a swift swing at his side, meant more to disrupt than injure. She hoped for vengeance, yes, but she also wanted a challenge.

Swords clashed yet again Andrew had to be on guard Beatrice was a fierce opponent. Andrew avoided each swing, left, right, right, left. It almost felt like a dance. It reminded him of the summer solstice ball back in Uzgob. But he was just distracting himself he had to focus if he was going to have a chance at beating Beatrice. Swords locked once again. “You have to listen to me.” Shouted Andrew. “This is exactly what the DeReimer family want. They want us to wipe each other out. To save them the trouble of dealing with any opposition they'll have in the future. You're being tricked!”

“Fight or die!” Cried Beatrice as she used all her strength to deliver a powerful swing, aimed at bludgeoning her foes weapons. She sought to jar his wrists to the point that he could no longer hold his weapons - leveraging her greater stature, strength and the power behind her two handed blade.

This proved to be too much for Andrew as both his swords flew out of his hands. As he stood in pure shock, Beatrice delivered a swift pommel strike to the point of his jaw. Andrew fell to the ground stunned. Was this it? Was his death close at hand? Beatrice swung her blunt blade up into the air - it would be a messy, crude end if it came down.

Fortunately for Andrew - it did not. At the peak of the upswing, Beatrice hesitated. This was a kill her father desired greatly. She had earned it - it was her right to claim vengeance for the Blackwells now - yet her father's wroth was legendary. The pause, however slight, was too long simply by existence. It gave time for Dearon to charge in and tackle her. Unprepared as she was, she nearly thought it was her father striking her aside… It was not, yet she fell all the same. The breath was knocked out of her as she hit the ground, and she lost vital seconds as she recovered.

Dearon took the chance to help Andrew up. “How many times do I have to save you in these battles?” He asked with a smile on his face. Andrew jokingly replied “As many times as you want.” The two of them laughed for a bit. 

When Beatrice scrambled to her feet and saw she now had two foes against her, she just laughed and mockingly bellowed “Send me more!” before settling back into a ready position. Inside her simple mind, she had regained her conviction, and purged the thought that lead to hesitation. Now, if she had an opening, she would take it. Andrew would die this day. “I will have vengeance.”

“Come and take it then - if you can.” Said Andrew challenging Beatrice to this claim. 

“We shall fight her together. Said Dearon “We don't want you falling on your ass again do we?”

“Side by side once again” said Andrew with a smile on his face. The two of them charged towards Beatrice. Together they stood a chance against her. The two of them had each other's back.

Beatrice parried and blocked, her great blade moving with remarkable dexterity as she adopted a defensive posture. She was looking for an opportunity, but with Andrew's twin blades and Dearon’s shield and sword, she had to rely on her armor to even attack at all. Several times she did just that - feeling the blades of her foes slide off her nigh impenetrable armor, yet Dearon’s shield was a solid bulwark and Andrew always seemed to be able to dodge at the last moment.

Beatrice was no lightweight, she did not tire easily, but every blow that struck her armor pushed her back, and every shield bash Dearon landed staggered her just a little more. Two to one odds were not good for a battle of attrition, even for the mighty War Maiden. By this time, a wide circle had formed around them - troops from both sides moving back from their Lords and Champions for fear that they may be slain in the exchange, or for respect for the honor of the duel.

And yet - despite this separation, as Beatrice was forced back, one Blackwell Dragonguard chose to step forward and join his leader in battle. He carried a gleaming silvered blade as yet unmarred by the blood and dirt of battle. The cloth elements of his garb were deep crimson, and flowing from underneath his full faced helm - long grey hair.

He stepped forward, and with unerring precision stabbed at the gap in Dearons’ armor beneath his shield arm. A swift, shallow attack… but a crippling one. Beatrice knew this even as the soldier stepped back.

Andrew was optimistic - he could see that Beatrice was tiring, slowing, and becoming more vulnerable. Then, without warning, Dearon shrieked in pain and surprise and dropped his shield.

Beatrice seized the opportunity immediately. She swung her sword - really more of a jagged wooden club with a metal core now - first at Dearon’s knee to knock him to the ground. Then, with all the might she could muster, she delivered a crushing blow to his chest. The plate - clearly not of the quality Beatrice expected - buckled and crumpled and the sound of snapping ribs could just barely be heard over the sound of the battle nearby.

Andrew couldn't believe what was happening. He spied the Blackwell soldier that had made the opening for Beatrice to exploit and without thinking threw one of his blades at him before turning to Beatrice. Just in time to miss the Dragonguard’s blade coming up and slapping the sword out of the air in a near superhuman feat of speed. Yet, with the sanctity of the duel broken, a pair of Manshrew soldiers had rushed forth to engage the Dragonguard as well, and they arrived just in time to tackle him to the ground while he was occupied deflecting the blade.

In a fit of rage, Andrew rushed Beatrice and before she could recover, slammed his armored fist into the side of her helmet. She staggered back, but Andrew was not done. His swords pommel came next, bashing the other side of the woman's helm, leaving her dazed. Taking the opportunity, Andrew gripped her helm and tilted her head back - revealing one of the few weaknesses in the mighty armor of the War Maiden, running his blade quickly across the exposed flesh, then let her fall.

He quickly dropped his sword and went to Dearon’s side. His chest plate was crushed and he was clearly having trouble breathing. “No, no, no Dearon hold on. Someone get a mage!” Shouted Andrew in desperation.

 “It’s too late for that Andrew. I fear that this is the end... Promise me... that you'll look after Helmara, and help her find Aulus. Promise me!” Said Dearon coughing blood and laboring for breath. He took a hold of Andrew’s hand with firm grip and blood started to trail out of his mouth.

 Andrew tried to hold back the tears but he couldn't. “I promise.” 

“Good, it’s been an honour. My friend... my brother, my king.” As he said this Dearon's grip started to loosen and he let out his last breath.

Andrew let out a yell of anguish. He couldn't believe that one of his closest friends was gone. He looked at Dearon’s body and closed his eyes. “You've earned your rest brother. May the gods protect you in the next life.” Said Andrew with a deep sadness, there was no time for a funeral. 

While Andrew tended to Dearon, the Dragonguard soldier with the grey hair removed his helmet, having long since dispatched the Manshrew soldiers that had tried to restrain him.

Beatrice heard a dull sound near her head as the soldier threw his helm near her - to get her attention. She slowly moved her head, still clutching at her neck with her armored fingers, to look at the figure. What could this soldier want in her final moments?

With horror, she realised it was no soldier at all. Though her vision blurred at the edges... she would know that face anywhere. That cold, harsh, disapproving face.

It was her father.

She saw no rage on his features. No despair. Only cruel disappointment. Tears welled in her eyes as her vision continued to darken. All her life, she only wanted to make him proud. Now, at the end, she had failed him. She felt hollow and empty inside.

Then the darkness flooded in.

Giles Blackwell slowly turned his gaze towards Andrew. Only now did his features twist into an ice cold rage. He raised his sword and stepped towards his foe with purpose. He would finish what his daughter could not.

Andrew could see the rage from Giles’ face. Andrew knew that he was in for the fight of his life. If he could call it a fight. All he could possibly do was prolong the fight in hopes of even surviving the fight let alone win. Andrew had heard about the legendary skills of Giles Blackwell. Alun often talked about Giles during training. 

As he used to say “If you ever meet him in battle Andrew. Run the other way. If you do have the unfortunate luck of fighting him. Pray that your shield stays true, as it’ll be the one thing that will save you. Also a prayer to Gods always helps.” 

Andrew smiled as he remembered this advice. He could see that Giles was preparing himself. Andrew went over to pick up his shield. With both sword and shield in hand he was ready for battle.

However Andrew hoped that Giles (unlike his daughter) would listen to reason. 
“Lord Blackwell, I implore that you listen to me. The Duncan DeReimer would have you believe that I was responsible for for the assassination attempt on your family. But this is a lie. You know that I would never use such a scheme against your family. The DeReimer family wants us to destroy each other. That way there won't be any family houses that can oppose their rule. If you cannot see this then you are a fool for trusting such a snake.”

“Trust - Ha!” Giles scoffed, his tone making it absolutely clear he considered Andrew a fool for even considering the notion. “He is next. As for you - it doesn’t matter now whether you attacked first or not. You just killed my daughter. Now I will kill you.” He spoke with icy, controlled fury. He was not making threats - he was making a statement.

He stepped forward, his blade flashing before him almost too fast to see. Steel clashed against steel as the two legendary warriors fought - yet it was hardly a fair fight. Giles was a powerful fighter, but also virtually fresh. Andrew had been on the front since the start and had just taken on the War Maiden in a duel of attrition. Even the mightiest men succumbed to weariness eventually.

There could only be one outcome now. It would only be a matter of time. Giles could already taste his victory.

Andrew was being beaten back with every blow - his shield the only thing keeping him alive and on his feet. Unfortunately, while it was clear to Giles that victory was at hand, it was also clear to the nearby soldiers as well. Just as Andrews defence seemed to be faltering his men broke the sanctity of the duel once more. Lannistark troops swarmed in to cover their King. First five, then ten, then even more - all rushing Giles at once. Giles’ first swing slew two of them immediately - but still they rushed on - eager to give their lives for the Manshrew King they fought for. Giles killed left and right, but every swing took time and every second they bought allowed Andrew to retreat behind yet more soldiers, whose only goal was to bury Giles beneath a pile of bodies living and otherwise. When Giles finally withdrew to his own line, fury left unsated, he had no choice but to grudgingly respect the loyalty Andrew seemed to inspire in his men. He may have been thwarted for the moment - but he would have his vengeance eventually.

It was only a matter of time.

Patrick smiled as he watched the sides of the alliance’s battle lines crumble to yet another charge from the Anjervine heavy cavalry. The battle was going exceptionally well. It would take a near miracle for Andrew to pull a victory from this; the concords lines were holding strong, and the constant barrage of arrows and mage spells were proving devastating to the alliance. Furthermore the Blackwell Dragonguard had managed to hold their position despite being vastly outnumbered. However Patrick noted that the Lannistark infantry had managed to fight their way to the front lines. The Lannistark soldier’s were as deadly as they were brutal. If the concord forces continued to engage them they would take heavy casualties.

“Call for our forces to fall back behind lines of the heavy infantry” Patrick said as he signalled one of the flag bearers. “Lets see how these soldiers of Glamrion fares against Cawanor steel”.

Andrew had been narrowly saved by the fanatical loyalty of the Lannistark soldiers. Had it not been for their bravery he would have surely fallen to Giles. Now that they had fought their way to the front line, perhaps his forces could finally push back the Concords battle lines. Over the racket of the battle Andrew could hear a horn sounding in the distance, likely Patrick giving his men new orders. A few moments passed before something very unexpected happened; the Concord infantry started to slowly pull back. Immediately Andrew knew this was a trap. For a start while they were retreating it clearly wasn’t a route. The soldiers remained formation and continued to engage the enemy as they broke away from the battle. Secondly there was absolutely no reason for the concord to retreat now. They were winning which meant Patrick had something planned.
“Hold position” Andrew cried but his commands fell on deaf ears. From all around him the Lannistark soldiers fell for the concord’s ploy. 
“They’re retreating, press the attack” One man cried as he and the rest of the Lannistark army pursued the concord infantry.
“What the hell are they doing” Andrew growled to himself. The Lannistark’s were always known for being impulsive and headstrong, normally this worked to their advantage when in battle. However this was not one of those times. Soon Patrick’s plan became clear; the Concord soldiers pulled back behind thick lines of Cawanor heavy infantry. They stood shoulder to shoulder, armed with tall tower shields and a range of deadly one handed weapons. They were wearing full plate armour, all of the highest quality. Behind the soldiers stood lines of the Cawanor militia who, unlike the militia of other kingdoms, were very well equipped. They held long pikes, meant to kill the alliance soldiers from a distance while the professional soldiers held them at bay. However even after seeing this the Lannistark’s continued to charge hitting the shield wall with everything they had. To little avail. The De Reimer forces barely moved, even with the full force of the Lanistark army pressing down on them, greatswords and warhammer bounced harmlessly off the De Reimer shields. In response the De Reimer soldiers slew any Lannistark soldiers who dared to come close to the front line. Upon realizing they weren’t going to break formation the Lannistark forces tried to back up for another charge, however the Cawanor soldiers weren’t going to give them the opportunity. Almost simultaneously the Cawanor soldiers advanced together, shields and weapons constantly facing the enemy. Andrew saw a Neptuna soldier who had fallen out of line pierced by multiple pikes. He saw a alliance mage using fire in a desperate attempt to break the concord lines. The flames were merely blocked by the soldiers thick armour and shields before he himself was stabbed by a militia spear. Any alliance soldiers who tried to advance were either cut down blades or impaled with pikes. The situation was dire, Andrew knew he had lost this battle.
“Retreat!” Andrew shouted “Pull back immediately, everyone full retreat!” His orders were swiftly repeated by the numerous soldiers around him and soon the entire army was in a full route. His men broke line as they desperately tried to escape the slaughter. Andrew was already planning his next move, trying to think of a way to escape the Imperial forces. His attention was immediately called to the sound of a horn in the distance. It wasn’t an alliance horn nor did it sound like any of the Imperial command horns he had heard before. Andrews heart sunk when realized where the origins of the horn had come from. Before him charged the full Blackwell force. During the course of the battle they had somehow flanked behind them. The concord had cut him off, and there was nowhere to escape to. They would have to fight through them, it was the only change they had for survival.
“Fight on men!” He commanded and he charged forward “break their lines!”

Drevala swooped above the battlefield, her eagle form providing her with a commanding view of the conflict whenever she was not harassing the foe with beak and claw. She noted the advance of the rest of her family's force behind Manshrew’s army.  This element - the majority of the Blackwell force - was primarily militia. Yet to compare it to the militia of the other nations was foolish, for the citizens of Alenius were hardened by dragon attack, honed by effective training and clad in high quality armor.

She could see they were moving not in a straight battle line, but one that seemed hesitant at points and overly bold at others. She was no strategist, but she understood this formation. The weak points were a falsehood, designed to look the way they were to funnel the foes retreat. A broken army was no different to a wounded animal after all. To let it know it had no hope would only inspire it to fight to the last - but to let it believe it could escape… That gave you power.

The line was fluid, moving to cut off and destroy elements of the foe entirely while letting other run. Drevala might’ve remarked on  beauty and elegance of the troop movements if not for the bestial ferocity that currently overtook her mind.

Every time she saw a group of Manshrew soldiers surrounded she would swoop down, changing form in mid air and landing amidst the foe as a huge cat, or sometimes an oversized she-wolf, and tearing them to shreds. Sometimes they would land grazing strikes, but the pain just made her fight harder. When such a group had fallen she would shift back to her bird form and take to the sky, healing and injuries she sustained as she did so.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she was aware they were winning the battle, and with it the war, but she didn’t care. To her animal mind, there was only the hunt.

Andrew felt the full force of the charge as his men clashed with the Blackwell forces. Despite the best efforts of the alliance troops the Blackwell forces held strong. From behind Andrew could hear the heavy march of the Cawanor forces advancing forward, they had been completely cut off. From all sides Andrew could hear the screams of men and women as they were cut down by Blackwell and De Reimer forces alike. At the very least the enemy had stopped bombarding the alliance with ranged weaponry. It would appear that even the De Reimer’s had the honor not to fire upon their own men. Even so he had to get his people out of the slaughter zone.
“Everyone charge at the center of the blackwell’s force, push through!” Andrew yelled as he pushed his way through his now densely packed forces in an effort to get to the front lines. If his men could focus their force on one place then hopefully they would be able to break through. Andrew finally managed to push himself to the front lines, it was clear his plan was working. The Alliance had started spearhead themselves through the center of the formation forcing the Blackwell forces further back to the sides. Finally the alliance broke through Blackwell lines, allowing the Alliance to retreat from the slaughter behind, many of the soldiers threw down their primary weapons and shields so they could run faster. Andrew himself was one of the first to escape, as he looked back he saw the gap widen allowing thousands of alliance soldiers to escape. As Andrew continued to run he knew the casualties of this battle had been severe, chances of him winning this war were now nearly non-existent. Once he reached a safe distance from the battlefield he looked back over to his men. His heart sank at what he saw. The Blackwells had manage to cut off the escape route and his soldiers were once again trapped between the Blackwell’s and the De Reimer forces. It look like nearly half his force was still trapped, and without help they would be massacred. However there was nothing he could do; his surviving army was in a full route making it impossible to coordinate an attack. Even if he could help it would only result in him losing his entire army. All Andrew could do now was retreat, at the very least the concord would be too focused on the men left behind to chase after the routing soldiers. Andrew took one last look at the battlefield that was now nothing more than a slaughter, before turning round and retreating alongside the rest of his men.

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@Sundered Echo
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