| A Day in the Field |
| Summary: | The aftermath of the initial march from Stonebridge |
| Date: | 07/01/289 |
| Related Logs: | The March West |
| Players: |
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| Worn Road |
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| This is a dirt road that leads away from Terrick's Roost towards Stonebridge, it passes over several low wooden bridges. (It is a day's walk to reach Stonebridge from TR.) |
| 07 January 289 A.L. |
At the head of his knights, squire still flanking him with the Haigh banner, Aron enters the newly-formed camp. His armor, gleaming bright at dawn, is splattered in muck and gore - largely gore. Banshee, his courser, is sweating and shaking beneath his quilt and Aron spends a moment soothing the exhausted animal, leaning down to scratch vigorously at his neck. He walks the horse right up to the Haigh encampment before dismounting, stiffly, rolling his right arm and shoving his shield out to the squire - who barely catches it, still being mounted.
"I expect that to be polished by the time you start on the rest of my armor," he announces to the poor exhausted kid. The boy nods, knowing better than to argue. Two pages approach, warily, to take Banshee away and bed him down for the night. Tucking his helm under his left arm, Aron rakes a hand through sweat-soaked hair and grins suddenly, a radiant smile that completely ignores the slaughter of such a short time ago. "A good day, gentlemen," he announces to his knights. "Get yourselves some wine, eh?"
*
Anders takes part of the raising of the Flint encampment, sweating with his men to raise his tent and setting the standard. The horses are settled in their corral, grained and watered properly. Any grass that is within their enclosure, of course, is fair game. Once it is up, the cooking fire is next. Nothing wrong with getting something cooked; a warm meal and a cup of ale is always good form.
*
Following the bloody and brutal encounter out in the fields, the camp has been erected with the speed that comes only with practiced efficiency. And, in some cases, a dire need for a healer's tent. Those arriving back with their senses intact would no doubt be heartened by the sight of their colors flying and fires burning, warming wine being poured and, let's face it, maybe a change of tunic available for those with the presence of mind to think of such things.
Amid the hustle and activity, of course, a few ladies tend to their own affairs, some merely waiting for an absolution, others actively seeking to further proceedings. As the first of the injured begin to trickle in, handmaidens and septas alike hasten to their aid at the behest of their mistresses. One such figure is Ceinlys Erenford, who seems, inadvertently, to have found herself standing in just the place for everyone to ask her stupid questions. Of all the people expected to care about any other House! Ah well, you work with what you have.
"Over there. To the maester." Some fellows haul their wounded comrade off, an arm over each set of shoulders. The next group to pause and settle worried gazes upon her she regards in turn, with a surprisingly candid and practiced eye. With a subtle shake of her head, the young lady pronounces the bleeding squire's fate to be pointless in seeking to avoid, waving them off toward a quieter side of the camp… where already some rather macabre carts are waiting. What a joyless task. But she seems to be managing it well enough. If a little ruthlessly.
*
Having seen to the setup of the Charlton camp, Aleister has since stripped from his armor and passed it off to his squire, no doubt to be tended, cleaned and polished. Now, he sits with a smaller group of Charlton knights, wineskins in hand and laughter escaping their lips as they recount the battle that was had. It would seem that those that serve house Charlton are in good spirits on this day.
*
Battles almost inevitably mean injuries, and somewhere among the camps there is a small cadre of people whose job is to see to them. Senna's among the maesters and the others, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and her hair braided back away from her face as she waits for the first patient.
*
Heading to the newly pitched camp next is Gedeon Rivers, his courser moving at a slow pace. The knight's sheathed his sword and gazes down at the ground with some reserved concern at the idea of moving. With the flush of the battle fading, the gash to his belly s being felt even more than it was previously. Still, sucking in a slow, careful breath, he begins to work a foot free from the stirrup and see about dismounting. "Radish," he mutters, "for whatever love you bear me, don't move."
*
His squire having been dispatched to tend to his shield, Aron finds himself stuck in his brigandine for now - oh, the horror! Swiping at gore, he somehow manages to smear a bit on his cheek - though thankfully, the young knight doesn't seem aware of it. He paces through the campsite, taking in the howls of the injured with remarkable equanamity. After all, none of his own men were injured. What concern is it of his if others suffer? Spotting his sister, the Haigh slows, watching her work with an astonished expression before approaching.
"Hello, Ceinlys." Grinning broadly, the young knight spreads his arms as though for an embrace - and then realizes that blood spatters the front of his armor and lowers them sheepishly. "..I think I need a bath," he admits after a few beats. "Would you mind pulling a few of our servants to heat up my water?" Completely ignoring the fact that those who are not working on the camp are treating the aforementioned wounded.
*
With the fire going now, and his men thus released, other than to care for their armour, Anders has to do the same as there is no squire here to tend it.. and it is his own fault, of course. He's out of his and seated at the fire, beginning the slow and painstaking task of caring for that which could mean the difference between life and death. It gives him the chance to consider the days ahead, and those just passed..
*
Noting the approach of her brother, Ceinlys' unreadable mask slips a little to reveal a broad grin, relief and pride mingling across her features. Seeming quite prepared to leave this rabble to get on with things, now that her -own- rabble have arrived unscathed, she at least hesitates as Gedeon draws his mount up nearby, perhaps recognising the face. Looking away from Aron just for a moment, she scans her surroundings, blue eyes eventually setting upon a young healer not too far away. Senna. "You there! Come see to this one. The carts are getting full, do what you can."
There. Responsibility successfully shifted. With a last skeptical glance over the 'knight' - he really doesn't look well - the young lady moves for her sibling, likewise pulling up abruptly short of an embrace, but at least reaching to wipe that crimson smudge from his cheek with one thumb. "I am pleased to see you safely returned, brother. Alas, I contributed my ladies and the returned squires to aiding those less fortunate… but come. I am sure we will find -some- loitering about."
*
"Yes, my lady," Senna bobs a quick curtsey to Ceinlys - always wise to show the appropriate respect - before moving toward where Gedeon is dismounting. It isn't until she's at his horse's side that she looks up and actually recognizes the knight. "Ser Rivers," she greets, summoning up a small smile and reaching over to steady his saddle. "We really should stop meeting like this."
*
Gedeon offers Senna a glance, but the majority of his focus is on bringing his leg around and easing himself down to the ground. It's amazing just how many muscles pull those in the abdomen when one moves. There is a soft growl he swallows down before giving the woman a strained smile. "This time, I make no promises about my intestines, mistress, once the armor comes off."
*
A flicker of panic shows in Aron's eyes - so cool on battle, he is unmanned now as he realizes that the blood of some common Ironborn has actually touched his *skin*. "Did you get it all?" he asks urgently. Gedeon is regarded blindly, before recognition sinks in. "I do hope he's alright," he notes absently. "Are you /sure/ you got it all off me?" Meekly following his sister, Aron continually brushes his gauntleted hands against the front of his breastplate.
"I quite enjoyed that," he remarks to his sister, still fruitlessly scrubbing at himself. "It was rather like hunting from horseback, once we broke them. I had one fellow clean through the throat - that's very hard to do, you know." Perhaps the Haigh leader -had- felt the adrenaline rush of battle after all. He seems to be babbling as he walks along.
*
"Gentle," Senna murmurs to the horse, keeping her other hand on the reins while Gedeon works himself down. "Boy," she calls to a young man she recognizes from Stonebridge. "Take the knight's horse to wherever Oldstones has set up. As for you," she sighs to Gedeon, stepping closer and moving to duck under his arm. "Let's get you where we can lie you down before we take a look at that, shall we?" At least she seems practiced, calm and collected in the aftermath of even a small battle.
*
Thankfully, most of the dirt of the armour is that of the road and not blood, and so it's easy to clean. The slice upon the right hand needs to be repaired, and that's easy enough; a little ring and pliers will do as a quick fix. When he gets home, he can get it repaired properly, or— perhaps there's an armoursmith in camp? Rising from his seat, he pulls his armour out to put it on its stand before he goes in search of his friend. His gaze moves across the flags of the encampment, and begins his trek when he finds the pennant.
*
"No," Gedeon murmurs as Senna calls for someone to take his horse. Indeed, he's leaning rather heavily against the placid creature's flank. "He's all that's keeping me standing."
*
"Come here." With a long-suffering air to her manner, the young Lady Ceinlys simply halts in her tracks and turns to face her taller brother. Grasping his chin delicately between the thumb and fore-knuckle of one hand, she tilts his head upward a little, then one way, then the other, examining his cheek with a suitable amount of concentration to mollify him. "..yes." she assures him, at length, patting his cheek lightly with her fingertips. "It is off. But gods, your -armor-…" Releasing Aron, she presses the back of one hand delicately to her nostrils, as if a foul scent permeated the air. Because of course Ironborn blood smells fouler than that of good, -proper- folk. "Are you sure it will clean up..?" Her tone is genuinely dubious as she starts off again, strolling toward the colors of her father's house as if she had not, moments ago, been dismissing young men to their death with a simple shake of her head. Shaking out her dark curls, she listens to her brother's tale with apparent interest, also. How -do- noblewomen learn to be so indulgent?
*
Anton sees to his horse and armor, first, unusually quick to deal with his equipment, perhaps a remnent of his mercenary years. He heads back to join Gedeon and Senna, looking up at the knight on the horse, reaching up to help him down as necessary.
*
Gedeon's answer brings a measure of concern to Senna's features, her lips pressing into a tight line as she watches him. "All right, then. To the Oldstones tent. Try not to die on the way." As Anton approaches, she looks to the older knight, nodding once. "Ser Anton. If you can get him to the tent, I'll be right back with supplies."
*
"I shall do my utmost, mistress," Gedeon promises, managing a smirk, though it's not really up to his usual playful expression. He's standing now, or rather, leaning against Radish, but as Anton appears his smile is wry as he moves to settle an arm around the taller knight's shoulders. Which causes his torso to shift and Gedeon to go a shade paler. "Well, fuck," he gasps under his breath.
*
"Of course it will. And if it -isn't- clean by morning, I'll have the boy's hide. And he knows it. There should be a barrel of sand and vinegar ready for him to scour it down with already." Aron's haughtiness doesn't stop him from gratefully inclining his head to Ceinlys as she removes the last of the blood from his cheek. "Thank you, sister. You know how I feel about mess.." Strange preoccupation for a man who makes his living injuring others.
"I'm afraid my cloak is ruined," he natters on as they walk. "An Ironborn -ripped- it with an axe, can you believe it? And look here, he scratched my gauntlet." He holds his hand out for inspection indignantly. "-That- scratch might take work at a proper forge to get rid of. And this, my finest suit of tourney armor." The Haigh smiles a bit then. "But he'll not do that again."
*
As he crosses the encampment, Anders looks for a moment that he'll go and help Gedeon. He'd seen the lad take the hit, but his Lord apparently has the same idea. Thus relieved, the Young Lord continues on his way to the Charlton camp, looking for his friend. As he approaches, Anders calls out, "Hail the Charlton camp. Is Lord Aleister about?"
*
Glancing back over a shoulder, Ceinlys does look at least a little pleased to see Anders still standing, though she makes no attempt to draw his attention as she moves deeper into the Haigh camp with her jangle-nerved sibling. Returning her attention to him as he continues talking, she adopts an expression of sympathy and understanding. "Filthy savages. Fear not, dear brother, we shall see your things mended.. and if not, replaced with still -finer- things." Given that the man she addresses is a respected tourney competitior -and- just survived a foray with the vanguard, it's odd that she gets away with soothing him as one might a petulant child. The benefits of family. Frowning as she traces a fingertip across the proferred, woefully scratched gauntlet, she shakes her head, then sweeps aside the resulting tumble of dark tresses, tucking them behind her ear. "A shame about your cloak… it was a gift, was it not? Perhaps I shall have one made for you and embroider it myself, if it please you." Stepping gracefully over the legs of one of Aron's less savory comrades, who appears to have already drunk himself into enough of a stupor to be unconscious in the middle of the path, Ceinlys never breaks stride.
*
Anton helps Gedeon down, giving a nod to Senna. He sighs as Gedeon goes pale, as if he is the one experiencing a hardship here, as he says, "Right, I forget you're so damned short." Which means he's just going to get carried. Well this is embarrassing, isn't it? Anton walks back to the Oldstones tent quickly, to save them both as much of it as possible.
*
Senna takes off at Anton's nod, dodging tent lines and ducking battle-amorous knights with…well. Practiced ease. In short order she's back at the Oldstones camp, lowering her bag from her shoulder and getting ready to inspect the wound. "Water. Hot water. Where's Alek?" she asks, grimacing over her shoulder. "He can heat water, at least."
*
That… this… it is not a good day for Gedeon. Taking a wound in battle, that's one thing. Being carried to the tent. The set and steely expression on his face suggests he'd have preferred another wound. "Seeing to the bowmen," he gasps for Alek.
*
"It was a gift from Harlyn, yes, when I won my first tourney. He bought it with his winnings, of course." Aron seems soothed by his sister's offer, smiling at her with a childlike, puppyish eagerness - so different both from his cruel tempers and the ferocity he displayed not so long ago - perhaps whatever demons torment the man have been doused by the prodigious bloodshed. "I would love a cloak from you, dear sister! I'd treasure it always." He, too, steps over the prone form of one of his knights. Pausing briefly, he snaps twice and points to a few squires lingering just outside the Haigh camp. "Get him into his cot, you good-for-nothing little wastrels!" The snap in his tone makes them both jump, but just as quickly, he is back in a cheerful mood and happily disappears from sight amongst his House's encampment.
