Page 265: Far From Home
Far From Home
Summary: Ser Jarod, Lord Artur and Jaksyn of the Mire kill some time on the even of battle.
Date: 10/04/289
Related Logs: Greyjoy Rebellion logs in general
Artur Jaksyn Jarod 
Pyke Isle — Wilderness
Tents, campfires.
Tue Apr 10, 289

Evening's settled in on the camp of the Army of the Cape. It's a chill and cloudy one, summer doing little to warm the Pyke. Most of the men have retreated inside their tents by now, to sleep as well as they can before what's rumored to be a push on the castle proper tomorrow. Ser Jarod Rivers is still awake, however. He ducks out of his own tent, drawing his thick, green cloak made to keep off Riverlands rain up around his shoulders.

Army of the Cape. That's the name that had been assigned to this particular group of soldiers intent on taking down another one of the Greyjoy walls. It wasn't a unique name, didn't really have that much thought behind it, but as many of the names seen in wars are typically not for the use of the soldiers, they have to make them somewhat realm friendly. Of course, most people don't worry about this, but when you're grumpy old Artur Terrick, even the smallest things are worth complaining about.
Artur has his own tent, mostly by and large near the rest of the Terrick tents, though somewhat off to the side and behind the others, just so people don't get the idea to come visit him. Tent location aside, he also wasn't doing much in the way of sleeping, slogging his way out of the tent and up towards the front of the camp - or front in so-far as he's concerned. Along the way, Jarod sticks his head out, the eyes of grumpy old Artur picking it up and snorting loudly, not out of disgust mind you, that's just how grumpy old Artur greeted the people he likes - note the keyword being the people he likes.
"Jarod, I see that the severity of the situation hasn't seen past your own recognition," there's a pause, "What I'm saying is, you're slightly more tolerable than the rest of the rabble. Since we both seem to be enjoying not sleeping, we should take the time to talk…and by talk I mean stare at each other while you entertain a conversation and I grunt, giving you answers that are neither helpful nor easily understood."
He pauses again, meandering over towards Jarod, "What I'm saying is, say hello kid."

A grin flashes across Jarod's face as he catches sight of Artur. The Terrick bastard smiles easily. Though the expression isn't as boyish as it was a few months back. "A good eve to you as well, m'lord uncle." He chuckles. "Hullo. Haven't seen you about camp much. Was begging to worry we'd misplaced you on a boulder a few isles back."

Not having to be on guard duty for Rafferdy this evening, and not having been assigned to the camp guard duty this evening, Jaksyn finds himself with very little to do. His gear is dealt with, his meal has been eaten, and so, the Young man in the buckskin tunic with the Nayland insignia emblazoned over his hear sits at the edge of camp, just barely on the edge of the fire's glow, a large Single headed axe across his lap as he painstakingly sharpens the decidedly non-issue weapon.

Artur laughs at Jarod, "Lost me on a boulder awhile back? You and the rest of the family wishes. If I got left on a boulder at sea, I would never hear the end of it from my brother." He moves to find something to sit down on and does so, pulling the hood on his cloak closer. "Don't get too full of yourself Jarod, I may be old, but that means I have to be twice as good and twice as mean to make up for it."
There's a grin, "You any better with that sword of yours?"
The sound of a weapon being sharpened is pretty obvious and it doesn't take long to steal a glance at the Nayland sharpening his axe.

"I'm coming along," Jarod says simply, as to his skill with a sword. "C'mon. Let's walk a bit." He strides away from his tent and more toward the camp proper. Toward the general area where Jaksyn's working on his axe, as it happens, though he doesn't take immediate notice of the Nayland sworn. "I was talking with some of Lord Royce's men before dinner." Bronze Yohn Royce, commander of the Crownlands forces. "They figure we'll press for a final assault on the Greyjoys soon. Just a matter of when."

Eyes lifting from his work as he hears voices coming closer, Jaksyn stands respectfully as those avbove his station approach his general location. Axe head resting on the log, the young man keeps his eyes downcast for the moment.

Artur snorts loudly, "You realize that this will only end in bodies I suppose? You weren't born into nobility, so you have common sense, a quality the majority of the lords and knights seem to lack. We're attacking an emplacement set on a rocky, mountainous coast with no sure footing and only few paths up to it. I like you the best out of my nephews and nieces, so take this to heart: The only goal you have is staying alive. Don't get caught up on the slopes and don't let arrows catch you. Keep moving, stay towards the middle and watch your steps."
There's a shake of his head as the other man lowers his eyes, Artur snaps his fingers at him, "Stop that. I'm too old to deal with heraldry here. We're all going to shed blood tomorrow."

"A good eve," Jarod offers to Jaksyn, polite enough, Nayland or no. To Artur, he shrugs. "We'll see how it plays. It's different than it was back during the Rebellion. Only had to be concerned for myself then. And the knight I was squiring for. Be leading men into battle on the morrow." He's taken charge of the Terrick forces, along with Ser Hardwicke, during the invasion of the Iron Islands. "Never could sleep worth a damn before battle, though. All keyed up, nowhere to put it for lots of hours to come, y'know?"

Nodding slightly, Jaksyn grunts. "Apologies m'lord, Evening Ser." and like that, he settles onto the log once more, weapon back across his knees the boy, barely out of his teens if that is back to sharpening the weapon. the Axe wasn't fancy A simple handle of Ash wood and a broad, bearded head of good steel, it was completely unadorned aside from a pair of small grooves on either side of the head to ease in removal of the weapon when it strikes an object.

Artur snorts again, "I heard. You and Hardwicke, the old man. He may just be grumpier than me." There's a pause as he eyes Jaskyn, "It's fine. Out here on the battlefield we're all equals no matter how much they want you to believe differently." A grin, "It just means you have to be three times as mean and three times as good to get the recognition of a lord." Then a laugh, "But you look stockly enough, I'm sure you can do that."
Then his attention is back on Jarod, "Hmm, restlessness before battle then? I know what you mean. In actuality though, that's just you understanding the severity of the situation. All good warriors are restless before a major battle, whether or not you put on a brave face the next day." Then a laugh, "Well, if you need to work off that frustration, we could always have a little lesson. I'll give you some life advice, from the grumpy old man. The minute you think you're the best, you've already lost."

"Ser Hardwicke's not the most chipper of fellows, I'll say that," Jarod says, though there's fondness in his tone. "Steadiest knight I've ever met, though." It's evening, a cold and cloudy one, though Jarod is burning off some energy wandering camp with Artur rather than tucked into his tent. He snorts. "No chance of me losing, then. And no apologies needed, Master…?" That last to Jaksyn. Jarod leaves it hanging, seemingly waiting for the man to supply a name. While waiting he offers his own. "I'm Ser Jarod Rivers, with the Terrick contingent."

Watching the pair queitly for a moment, Jaksyn nods to the both of them as he stands once more. "Jaksyn Trehearn, Ser. Pleased to be knowning ya." The name was pronounced more like Jek-sin, the boy either carrying a slightly stronger accent than most, or saddled with a speech impediment, it was hard to tell. "Sworn to House Nayland." Looking at Artur, he adds. "Just here to do a job My lord, if I'm noticed, so be it, I'd rather just get out of here with some of me mates alive."

Artur nods, "I can respect that. It's a good, solid, grounded position to hold when we're looking forward to this kind of battle." There's a moment as he considers the man, "Lord Artur Terrick, Master at Arms, contingent self evident."
His attention turns to Jarod, "Well, good lad. Good to know that something I've said has been washing off on someone. Granted most of you probably see it as the jaded talk of the grumpy old master at arms, alas, I find it rather prophetic. Was that a yes to the lesson by and by Jarod?"

"Smartest way to go about it," Jarod says with a nod to Jaksyn. "This your first campaign? As a soldier, I mean. There're a good many men here who remember Robert's Rebellion. Some others who've fought in places beyond the Narrow Sea, where it seems like there's always war among the mercenary companies. Always seems to be somebody to fight, if you go to the right spot for it. Hope it doesn't come to the Riverlands again for the long, once all this is over." As for Artur's question, it earns another quick grin. "Think you've got anything left to teach me old man?" It's fondly said. "Sure."

Nodding slightly, Jaksyn replies quietly. "Was my father's assistant in Hag's Mire before this Ser. Been here since July. Aside from training, never been in combat before ser." Nodding to Artur, he adds. "Thank you My lord, you do me an honor."

Artur laughs at Jarod, "You're thinking about it wrong. I don't have anything left to teach you about swordplay, but you have everything left to learn about yourself. Spars are just one of the ways you become familiar with your own way of doing things."
Then he turns to Jaksyn, "Never been in combat? Hmm. When you line up in your contingent, look for the person who looks the least sure, then stay with him. The smart ones are always the ones who are skeptical of the surity of victory and they're usually the best soldiers and most trustworthy."

Jarod gets a chuckle out of that from Artur, albeit a rueful one. "Things a man learns about himself tend to be harder lessons than any knocks I took on the practice field, my lord uncle. I'm trying, though. Hope I've done a little better for myself on that score of late." He nods to Jaksyn and asks, with a tentative sort of curiosity, "What's Hag's Mire like? My squire's Lord Rowan Nayland. Lord Rickart's younger son. He speaks of it sometimes, though he's been at Four Eagles long enough that I think that's fresher in his mind than his family's home. Never spent much time in the Mire myself."

Waving his hand slightly, Jaksyn grunts. "well then I'm safe, because everytime I find myself standing in the front lines I find myself saying. 'This is probably a really bad idea. the Butcher's son is standing behind me with a sword and there's 100 Greyjoys standing in front of me with pikes.'" Realizing he jsut spoke before his brain coiuld catch up, Jaksyn blinks once closing his mouth, as if to try to salvage the situation, he adds. "Anyways my lord, that's why I still carry my axe." Looking to Jarod, he adds. "Wet Ser. I like it well enough, but it's a mire in more than just name. All the same, I grew up there and it's home."

Artur nods at Jarod, "I understand. You have my support and I know that you'll do fine. I'll be the old man in the corner of your eye tomorrow if you need me." He moves to sit down next to Jaksyn on a makeshift chair, "Well, I'm getting too old to stand up in all this armor for long. I should probably take it off but I haven't found the energy to do it yet. Trust me, it will be awful to grow old. You get pains in places you didn't know you could get pains and then you start to hate the world." There's a pause as Jaksyn speaks, "Butcher's Son eh? Well, I didn't hear anything."

"Felt much the same my first time out," Jarod says with a nod to Jaksyn. "Gets easier. Or at least, you get to know what to expect, so it's not so much a shock anymore. Is certainly enough to make a man miss the swamp, though. Or the coast. Terrick's Roost is near enough to the sea that you can hear the waves on a clear day. Ones here sound different. Can't quite put my finger on how. Just not home, maybe." To Artur, he shrugs. "I just want to make an account of myself Lord Jerold can be proud of. That's all I ask of the morrow."

Nodding to Artur, Jaksyn motions to a heavy set boy in his late teens joking with a couple other soldiers at a fire nearby. "That's the butcher's son. Fairly steady actually. I'm the Smith's son, my lord." Looking to Jarod, Jaksyn nods quietly. "I feel Nervous before the battles Ser, but I find when it all comes down to it and we're actually in the crush, I'm not worried anymore, just another job to do."

Artur nods, "We're all nervous, just that those of us not showing it have been in enough battles to keep it to ourselves. You'll get used to it, like he said. It's the duty of the experienced to wathc over the inexperienced. One of the ways we do that is by giving you hope. Or so we try, it doesn't always work."
A snort is given to Jarod, "You realize that my brother would have never brought you into the family so publicly if he thought you were nothing more than a louse. Give yourself a bit of credit boyo."

"You'll have good men around you. Ser Rygar and Ser Bruce're some of the finest soldiers in the army," Jarod says to Jaksyn. His praise to the Nayland men comes easily enough. Artur's words make his shoulders square a touch, with no small amount of pride. "I'm but a Half-Eagle, my lord uncle. But I do my bit. Anyhow. I should be getting back to my tent. Try and sleep a bit, before the night's completely gone."

Nodding to both men, Jaksyn's own shoulder square somewhat as he says. "Things are different now. Been told to stick to Lord Rafferdy from now on. Looking at the pair, Jaksyn's face colors slightly more as he realizes he's getting close to that line between politely social, and impolitely chummy. Nodding to both men, he says. "I should get back to my station soon My lord, Ser."

Artur nods, "I suppose so. Rest is needed before a battle like this. Well, fare both of you well when the battle begins."
He stands, brushing off the cloak, "Well, Jarod, off we go. You back to your tent and me back to mine, in the back, so that no one stops by." Then a laugh.