Steel clashed against steel.
The bandit she fought was better equipped then the men they had encountered in the ambush, his armor sturdier steel, likely pilfered from a retired mercenary or a higher-ranking solider. Far more skilled, as well, his axe cleaving the air beside her head as she narrowly dodged its edge.
But no matter how heavily her heart pounded, the Knight-Captain could not, would not, let her training fail her.
Beneath his arm.
Both hands tight on the hilt of her blade, Fanilly thrust its tip beneath his arm. The chainmail was not enough to protect from the finely-crafted sword, and she heard a ragged gasp leave his lips as she drew it from his body, leaving him to fall to the ground.
Confirmation that he was dead and not merely dying would have to wait, as another bandit was swiftly upon her, a longsword raised above his head with the aim of sharply bringing it down.
She caught its edge with the side of her blade, forcing him to back off in the very same motion.
Practiced maneuvers. Her hands, her body, all of it responded to the training that had been drilled into her very soul. The intensive work that had been done to sharpen her skills just as someone would sharpen the sword she wielded.
They had to crush this camp. They had to kill these bandits. They had to free the prisoners.
Already, the figures in cages, mostly young women and children, had gotten to their feet, eyes wide as some reached out, as if to call the knights to their sides. Those whose feet had been chained, mostly further young women, were scrambling to leave the center of camp while the bandits were distracted.
To avoid being taken as hostages as much as to avoid the fighting.
The bandit struck again, this time with a thrust that narrowly scraped the her left pauldron, sparks flying. And yet all it achieved was damaging his own blade.
Fanilly's doubts about herself did not extend to her equipment. Her dwarven-made armor was resilient, to say the least.
She brought her sword down, hacking into the side of his neck with its edge, sending him to the ground with a sputtering gurgle.
Sir Villis strode forward in resplendent armor, smashing his shield into a surprised bandit's face before following with a crushing blow of his mace, caving in the man's helmet and the skull beneath it in a single blow.
"By the shining moonlight, we shall deliver judgement!" he cried, his words echoing from within his helmet.
And yet... where was the bandit king? Where was Jeremiah?
"Cover the prisoners, if you can!" called Fanilly over the din of the battle, "Do not allow them to take hostages!"
That was her next biggest concern. It would make navigating the battle far more difficult, not least to mention that it would place the lives of the prisoners in direct danger.
Catching sight of a crossbow leveled at the fiercely-fighting Sir Rickert, Fanilly broke into a sprint, taking the man by surprise before he could loose a single bolt. His armor, light and made of leather, was no match for the edge of her sword as it cut through his side in one swing, then his throat as he twisted, falling.
She had to ensure the safety of the prisoners.
But also that of the knights under her command.
The heat of battle was intense.
Too intense.
Why did the air suddenly feel so much hotter?
Fanilly's question was answered when the dead tree at one side of the camp was suddenly engulfed in roaring flames, licking at its twisted limbs. With the creaking, grinding sound of breaking wood, it fell.
"Look out!"
It was all Fanilly could manage.
Its immense trunk slammed down across the camp's center, cutting the battlefield in two, the resounding thud reverberating through forest. An unlucky bandit, having been retreating in a bid to snatch one of the nearest prisoners as a hostage, was crushed beneath the burning wood.
With the burning tree cutting them apart, the Iron Roses had been split down the middle. At least for the moment.
"Ah..."
Had there been signs? Had she missed them? Was it her fault that the battle had suddenly changed so drastically in an instant? Fanilly did not know. But the mere thought clutched at her heart tightly.
"Knight-Captain, are you alright?!"
It was the voice of Sir Rickert. Fanilly turned towards him.
"I'm fine, we must-"
Her eyes widened, but there wasn't even a chance to warn the knight.
The immense blade came down, shearing through plate armor in an instant, cutting through Rickert's body from shoulder to hip.
The Dragon-helmed knight came apart, hitting the ground with a spray of blood.
"... Sir... Sir Rickert..."
Fanilly's hands shook. Her heart tightened.
A knight died in her command. A man died under her command. Because he had been trying to see if she was safe.
Because-
The enormous blade descended again, Fanilly's body reacting before her mind, hurling her to the side and away from its impact.
"At last," the blade's wielder began, his deep voice betraying amusement, "The Iron Rose Knights."
He was a huge man. As tall as the tallest of the Knights, perhaps even moreso. His body rippled with muscle, and no small number of scars. He wore no armor, standing barechested, looming over her. The sword he wielded was an enormous, thick chunk of metal, stained with blood as he hefted it onto his shoulder.
"Let me introduce myself, little girl. I am the Terror of the Red Flag," a vicious grin came to his lips, "Knight's Doom Jeremiah! The Three Hundred Man-Slayer!"
He charged.
The din of battle was well and truly underway. Former soldiers, now traitorous bandits fighting against stalwart knights, the bandit king, at least, for now seemingly nowhere in sight. Under the moonlit sky, it seemed as though things were going in the knights favor, at least for now. They had successfully circled the camp, Captain Fanilly leading one group, Tyaethe a second, and then Sir Villis a third. It was a sound plan in theory, but plans rarely survive first contact with the enemy.
As the tree caught fire and began to fall with a might cracking of splintered wood, the smell of smoke began overtaking the battlefield as it crashed to the ground. The mighty, ancient tree slammed into the ground, its trunk otherwise remaining unbroken, unlike the knights formation as the ranks lead by Sir Villis, Captain Fanilly, and Tyaethe.
Split from each other now, the knights must fight in their own groups at least for now.
And while perhaps, this would not be a problem against most of the bandit rabble the group that was fighting initially...the bandits that were now swarming Tyaethe's group were proving to be anything but common rabble. As she had correctly surmised, these were no simple bandits. Plate Armor, dirtied and wearing faded, old iconography and logos on some signifying faded glory. Veterans from the red flag war. It would not belong before Lucas, Renar, and Tyaethe were embroiled in melee with the old traitors.
Tyaethe deflected the blow of one expertly, the heavy axe he was wielding being shoved away with grace and skill expected of a paladin. A dissatisfied growl escaped the mans lips from under his helmet, grip tightening on his own weapon as he'd immediately transition into another heavy swing for the Paladin's arm. If she wanted to be the center of attention, it seems she was getting it. A second of the bandits would soon join the melee, a spear attempting to catch the Paladin in one of her legs.
Lucas and Renar were not faring much better, having been surrounded by these more skilled bandits. He might have been able to quickly cut their way through the bandits until now, but these veterans of the war were proving just as difficult to deal with. One, wielding a particularly large warhammer would engage Renar, attempting to go for the mans legs with the weapon while another engaged Lucas with a halberd, attempting to cut the boy down, certain he had the upper hand here.
Cecilia's strategy was hardly an unwise one. The impact of her bow knocked bandits from their feet, and those who still had their wits about them were stunned by the sight of a man's head exploding from air pressure.
But the lock on the cage rattled from the blast, the faint sound of creaking metal inaudible under the sounds of battle.
And then, when the burning tree fell, it slammed onto the campfire, a burning hunk of wood sailing through the air and catching the cover thrown over the cage alight.
From within came a fearful screech, and the cage rattled once more, the creature within slamming into the door in a bid to escape the flames.
If the lock was fully intact, perhaps it would have failed.
However...
The door burst open.
The beast emerged.
Its massive wings spread, feathers almost gleaming in the light of the fire as they flapped once, bowling over the rising bandits once more.
Its hooked beak, tipped with black but brown at its base, came open for another shriek, clawed forelimbs scraping at the dirt, its rear limbs tensing.
The front of its body resembled a bird of prey, but the feathers gave way to a thinner hair-like covering near the rear of its body, resembling some manner of large cat.
Griffins were known as proud, powerful, dangerous animals. They had made their way into numerous pieces of heraldry for this purpose.
And now this one stood free, full of rage and fear, surrounded by men who had imprisoned it.
It would not differentiate between the bandits and the knights.
@Raineh Daze@Rune_Alchemist@Psyker Landshark@Pyromania99@HereComesTheSnow@Saiyan@The Otter@Crimson Paladin@ERode@Psychic Loser@Richard Horthy@Aeolian@Rin
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