|Summary:||The front line orders are given for the Army of the Cape's offensive.|
|Related Logs:||The Iron Eagle: I|
|The Low District - Seagard|
|The lower class residential district of Seagard, just inside the city walls, with all the worst smells of the fishmonger's trade and the tanneries mingling together. The roads are paved with cobblestones, but the avenues which wind between buildings are of packed dirt, reek in the heat and turn to muddy morass in the rain. With little of worth, and only enduring occupation for a scant few hours, this quarter of the port city is largely intact.|
|28 January, 289 A.L.|
The pale light of the sun barely fights it's way though the early morning clouds, casting the sky in an ethereal cloak. Coming from the lines, is a group of Terrick men, led by a tall and imposing figure, helm held in the crook of his arm, as the other rests on the hilt and a half sword strapped to his side. "Those cocksuckers will move, mark my words, lads.." the older figure bellows only pausing long enough to spit out a stream of red sluice from his mouth. "No ironman will be content to let this bit of a jewel slip away, an' I reckon they'll be right devils about it. The Seven fuck them.."
Those words belong none other than Ser Hollister Slane, and given the scowl on his face the previous night's activities were not much to his liking. "Pray they don't decide to just set everything on fire…" a grimace, upon catching sight of Jarod seeing to his sword, the older knight reaches into his mouth to pull out the wad of red leaf and chuck it to the ground. "Get some rest, if you boys can." A nod passed to the young man. "Ser."
And from yet another direction, the steady approach of heavy, sedate hoofbeats announces another addition to the numbers milling about the Low District. A painted cob of black and white traipses cheerfully enough in the wake of a skinny, dark-haired girl; judging by her slightly overlarge longcoat and rather rakish appearance not one of those sorts of camp followers. Never far from the Nayland folks, Starling has been seen nevertheless wandering here and there, sometimes briskly sometimes not, carrying messages or supplies as and when they're needed.. or available. For now, it seems, after a long night of such things, she's headed for one of the ramshackle buildings still standing, most likely to settle her mount in with any hay she can scavenge.
When her dark eyes find Senna, a lone familiar face in passing, the young woman tilts her jaw in a subtle upnod of silent greeting, the hint of a weary smile conveying sympathy for the healer's obvious fatigue. The men, for now, she casts only a swift glance before averting her attention. Knights are troublesome creatures, everyone knows that.
"Ser Hollister." Jarod doesn't rise, sword-across-knees as he is, but he inclines his head respectfully to the elder knight in greeting. "I don't see how they can hold the city, with Lord Tully's men surrounding us, and fighting our armies in this bit while Lord Mallister's men hold the keep. They'll make the retaking of it as ugly as possible, though." His expression is grim on that note. "Did you come to blows with any Ironmen out by the line? They still hold bits of the market, but they seemed content to dig in last I was there." Spotting Senna, he offers her a quick grin and friendly, "Mistress" in greeting. The sound of hoofbeats also draws his eye. Starling is eyed with no small amount of curiosity.
Senna manages a weary smile for Starling, a lift of her brows answering that nod. "Whatever they plan on doing," she chimes in on the talk of Ironborn, rubbing a hand at the small of her back as she moves toward the Terricks, "I wish they'd get on with it. Give me a tent full of screaming men with a night of sleep after over this endless trickle of small inconveniences." She glances over her shoulder at the camp, then speculatively at the knights. "I just hope they're taking as many inconveniences are we are."
"It could be so, Ser Jarod." the elder knight allows after what could be deemed of a moment of scowling. "I just don't really trust the sea born bastards as far as a dog could fuck them." Ah, ever the colourful language from the older man, but still he does offer a half cracked smile at last. "Either way, sword's the only way t' lance this particular wound from Seagrad. A welcomed remedy in my eyes-though what damage has been done." Nothing more does he even comment on. Instead, Hollis is pulled into looking over towards Senna, and Starling, the former getting a queer look before he bows his head all the same in quick greeting to Senna. "Mistress.." muttered out hastily, before his own chuckle comes out.
"You'll be lucky in that. war, allows for never a dull moment, least of all in the hospital.." Hollis states, before adding a shrug. "I hope for worse. Truth be told." A faint smile at that, which molds into a more neutral hold on his face.
Drawing gradually to a halt, reins only loosely grasped in one hand, the brunette in the faded leather riding coat is nudged an abrupt half-step further forward as her little horse's roman nose butts her solidly between the shoulderblades. It doesn't appear to startle the girl, though; for the most part she barely seems to notice. Must happen a lot. But she does pivot a half-turn, slowly, on a booted heel, sliding her free hand under the creature's thick mane and scratching gently with her nails. Though her gaze roams idly over her surroundings, it's perhaps plain enough that Starling is quietly listening to the discussion taking place nearby, likely hoping for some useful snippet of information to pass on the next time someone asks her for the news. While the gentry are well enough informed, the lesser born men and stragglers are often out of the loop. Odd that it should fall to a stablehand to keep them abreast of things, at times. But maybe it gives her further purpose than merely tending to the surviving coursers, or their riders.
Grinning, she glances downward as the cob lips at the deep pocket by her right hip. "I've nothin' for you, m'love.." The words are little above a murmur and voiced with obvious affection for the stocky animal. They're met with a deep sigh.
"Happy to put as many squids to the sword as I can, Ser, no doubt on it," Jarod says, hefting his sword and getting to his feet. Satisfied with his inspection of it, apparently. He nods a bit at the 'for the worst' part. "My hope as well, Mistress Senna. I can't imagine they've as much ability to care for their wounded as even we do ours. Not that we've got so much as one might like. They didn't seem to come with any sort of aim for the Roost beyond looting and destruction. Not sure they've got anymore aim here, either. Take what you want and make your foes pay the iron price. That's all the squids seem to know."
"Fair enough," Senna laughs softly to Hollister's words. "I'd much prefer to imagine them all bleeding out in the middle of a street somewhere. As long as we leave them to finish bleeding without trying to sew them up." She looks to Starling and her horse, speculative, but doesn't say anything just yet.
Hollister keeps his eyes focused between Senna and Jarod, content to fall silent for a moment and listen to their own thoughts, but it also helps him keep a more discreet eye on the camp follower close by. Quite clear what her role is now, with the horse quibbling with her. A hard line sets in his jaw, before he merely grunts in agreement with Jarod's words. "Though." Hollis quips up, "I suspect they'll know another truth soon enough. One does not come into our homes and leaves easily with their heads and hands.."
A nod is passed over towards Senna. "Of course Mistress., though I think the only reason to save one of those bastards would be to find anything new out, before making sure they bleed out proper, or are hung as a warning." A shrug. "As long as they are dead, matters not to me how it is done." Finally after a moment, Hollister allows for a small sigh. "All I can say is, from patrols done last night they've not made much of a budge to try and uproot us, not that they can. Harassing the pickets is all they seem keen on doing right now anyway. Tire us out, or bore us out of Seagrad.."
Rubbing lightly at her horse's muzzle for a moment, leaning gratefully into the stout curve of his neck, Starling eventually steels herself and starts off again at that same strolling pace. At least, that's the speed. It's really becoming more of a trudge, though, as if her heavy boots were weighted down. Altering her path just a little, she wanders vaguely toward Senna's side of the impromptu gathering, letting the cob follow after her with no apparent need for guidance beyond her own steps. Drawing a deep breath, the girl deliberately sets her jaw before daring to look toward the nobility loitering about, offering a soft, polte greeting of, "Sers..", before looking somewhat warily to the other young woman here. "Mistress."
One hand rises, tucking a stray mahogany tendril back behind her ear as she speaks further, keeping a low tone so as not to further interrupt proceedings. "..don't want to trouble you, when you're so tired. But.. I was just wonderin' after a little advice. Friend of mine managed to get his ribs cracked a few days back and well.." Starling hesitates again, dropping her hand habitually to be shoved into her pocket, the cob coming to stand at her shoulder now that she's motionless once more. "..is there anything -I- can do to ease the pain a bit? I know he won't trouble the healers with it but it's definitely still botherin' him. What's good for it?" Her wide eyes flit again toward Jarod and Hollister in turn, blatantly ill at ease in their presence, in contrast to Senna's enviable candour.
While marching is a hallmark of professional soldiers and men at arms, the uniform tread of hundreds of feet falling in unision is a rare, rhythmic sound, audible for some distance. Advancing up the Street of the Clothmakers are the long lines of Nayland levies, pikes carried vertically against the shoulders with practiced polish, forming a mobile forest of ash hafts moving up from their camp to the south. Ahorse at the head of that column is Rygar, straight backed and stern in the saddle.
Jarod is standing by the steps of the ramshackle building in the low district the Terrick men have taken as their quarters in the city. To Hollister, he nods. "Bleed us as much as they can, while they've still the ability to make us bleed. I'm getting restless, I'll admit. Rather go at the full sooner than later, so they haven't time to tear down the city as they fall themselves." His eyes go to Starling when she speaks, offering her a little half-bow. "Miss," he greets her, with as much chivalry as he can put in the gesture. He says no more to her, leaving her to Senna. His own gaze drawn to Rygar and the column of Naylands.
Senna half-turns at the sound of marching, a small smile touching one corner of her lips when she sees the source. "Nothing like a disciplined corps of soldiers to make a girl feel safe," she sighs, then turns back to Starling, brows rising. "Cracked ribs?" she echoes. "Not a whole lot to be done, outside of binding them up. If you want, I can show you how to do it the first time, then you can do it from there."
Alas, poor Starling only gets a raking of eyes and a nod from Hollister, thought that is probably a shade better than what other knights or sworn swords may do. Still, Hollister being no healer, and the question not asked of him, he doesn't give an answer as eyes slide from Jarod, over to the approaching column. Naylands. Still the Knight doesn't say anything or call out in greeting to the incoming Lord and party-no, like his comrade in arms on the steps, he's quite content to stand there and watch.
Rygar turns his head- the motion of his neck still rather stiff- and speaks a quiet command to the serjeant at the head of the column, who echoes the order much more loudly. "Company..HALT. Order. PIKES!" At the first command, the hundred and a half men under the colors of Stonebridge and the Mire stop their marching, and at the second they set the butts of thier pikes to the cobbled stone underfoot in three prescise motions. "Fall. OUT!" Without fighting looming right away, the pikemen fall out of formation, and begin seeking a seat in the morning shade. Only then does Rygar dismount his own charger, hand off the reins to a squire, and turn a cold blue regard about the street in search of someone or something in particular. Without finding it, his eye returns to Jarod, toward whom the thin Nayland turns his steps.
Parting her lips, obviously with the intent of replying to the healer, Starling instead sweeps her gaze toward the advancing levies, watching for a moment as if searching for one in particular among their number. Small hope of seeing the needle in -that- particular haystack. The cob rouses, too, ears flicking as he turns his large head and whickers a civil greeting toward the far grander mount of Ser Rygar. He's a much braver peasant than his mistress. Shushing him gently, the stablehand reaffirms her hold on his reins a little closer to the straps of his simple bridle and prepares to walk him onward again.
It's simple enough to assume she might have come across the Nayland Knight before, seeing as she's been lending a hand to the squires charged with caring for the House's remaining coursers. Not in any conversational capacity, of course. Even if she had thought of it, his reputation probably would have changed her mind. Gathering herself, after a moment, she returns her attention to Senna, mustering a grateful smile. "..thank you. I'll.. see what he says. Best be goin', for now, though.." With that, and a rapid clucking of her tongue, she's off, urging her sturdy horse to a slightly faster gait than before. He's having none of it and merely plods along as she departs.
Jarod comes to stand beside Hollister. Strength in Terrick numbers and all. Senna and Starling left to their own devices now, his focus on the far less pretty Rygar. "Ser Nayland. Shall we have orders to move soon?"
Hollister keeps his stoney countenance focused on the Nayland knight, even as his hand leaves the hilt of his sword, for a small pouch kept at his belt, pulled out a ball of dried red sourleaf, which is promptly placed back into his mouth after a quick. "Ser Nyland.." by means of greeting. A small bit of chewing and positioning with his tongue, seems to keep Ser Hollister's tongue occupied, while hand sees to finding itself with an easy lean on the pommel of his sword, the other hoisting his helm tighter into the crook of of his arm.
"Sers," Rygar returns Jarod's greeting, turning a brief pass of his eyes to Hollister to include the big commoner in the greeting, before he looks back to Jarod to answer. "We shall, Ser. We have learned that Rodrik Greyjoy has a body of picked Harlaw men before Lord Mallister's Keep, seeking single combat. The Kennings and Stonetrees before us has entrenched themselves to deny our passage, but they shall have little support from their rear ranks, with the best of the Harlaws attending the Greyjoy." A long drawn breath. "You are to bring this next to your Lord: Ser Jerold and his knightly strength are to join with the free lances and some chosen knights from among the Frey chivalry. You are to muster in secret with your chargers at the warehouse which stands at the join of the street of Ropemakers, and that of the clothmakers. You are familiar with the place, Ser?"
"Sure. You know where to find me," Senna smiles ruefully to Starling, though she falls silent as well when Rygar approaches the group. She flicks her skirts, bending in a slight curtsey, but certainly doesn't interrupt battle plans. Which doesn't mean she isn't listening.
"I am familiar with the place, Ser, aye," Jarod says with a nod when Rygar mentions the Street of Ropemakers. "We shall bring these orders to Lord Ser Jerold. What shall be our chief aim, in pushing from that area?"
Hollister merely nods again, before turning his head to spit out a stream of blood red juice from his lips. A grunt, and the tall common born Knight, merely shifts his weight as he listens to the plans being discussed. A glance is passed back to Rygar, given the question asked, before he chooses to weigh in on this, or not.
"I shall bring the Nayland foot against the Ironborn barricades," Rygar begins in answering Jarod's inquiry. "Once the attentions of the warriors are fully upon us, Lord Terrick, together with the Groves and chosen Frey knights, are to break through said warehouse and make with the cavalry for the ground before Seagard castle. The Greyjoys cannot be permitted to take that Keep, ser," he emphasizes. "The Groves infantry will follow and flank the Ironborn at the barricades to secure the market square. Is this understood, Ser?"
"Understood, Ser. Break through the warehouse, make for Seagard castle. Lord Terrick's force shall not fail in this."
"Understood, Ser. Break through the warehouse, make for Seagard castle. Lord Terrick's force shall not fail in this." Jarod makes the promise firm and short. *re*
While the knights discuss their plans and Senna remains, proper and quiet, to one side, Starling is hastening her stout horse away from the little gathering, picking a path through the numerous pikesmen now milling about the area, offered a reprieve from their march by Ser Rygar's leave. She can't seem to get away fast enough, and yet she has time to offer a last nod of assent toward the healer. And those dark eyes are still wandering the street as she moves, plainly searching for someone in particular. Or so one might assume. The black and white cob, entirely unperturbed by the presence of nobility, ambles along after her.
Tam comes strolling up toward Rygar, limping only very slightly as he approaches. The big Haigh knight carries his bastard sword across his shoulders, one hand on the hilt and the other resting atop the blade. He grins toward Starling as he passes, half-bowing without slowing his pace or forcing her to slow hers. But the grin lacks his usual warmth, grey eyes quickly rising toward the barricades beyond them all. He draws up just short of joining Rygar and his other knights, waiting to be recognized.
That's going to mean more injuries. Battles always mean more injuries. Senna glances up at the sky, gauging the time, though she does her best to remain unobtrusively nearby. Best way to prepare for what type of injuries she's likely to see, after all.
Rygar nods curtly, once. "Very well, Ser. The order is given. I shall move against the barricades within the hour." A short dip of his chin, an appropriate degree of respect from a noblemen to knights of lower station.
DUMP: Anders gets cranky with the database.
<Public> WWRD? Ceinlys says, "lol aww. Anders is allowed to be cranky, right now"
A nod is given back to Ser Rygar, before Hollister is turning his head to watch Jarod's features, as if trying to get a read on what the younger knight thinks of the plan. A sniff, and another stream of sourleaf juice to the ground later, Hollister turns to spy Tam ambling his way over, and for the Haigh knight, he gets a nod, as well as a neutral scowl back towards the fellow. "Ser." called out, so as to at least bring him into the circle so to speak.
Jarod's features are not hard to read. He's an expressive sort, and they rarely are. In general he looks approving of the plan, or perhaps simply approving of having clear orders and the call to move soon toward Seagard castle. Green eyes bright, he offers a half-bow to Rygar and inclination of his head to Hollister. "I shall go relay the word to my lord," he says, turning to head back into the ramshackle building and seek out Lord Ser Jerold.
Senna listens and watches, quiet. She does turn a carefully attentive look on Rygar, though, watching the way he moves.
"Aye Ser, I'll be round shortly. I need to get something hot in my bowels, before they turn to water." And at least keep him propped up with some energy. There's a look and a dipping of Hollister's head towards Rygar "Ser Nyland.." as means of leaving, before he's turning-spitting sourleaf here and there, before tramping for the door of the rambshackle building. A breif nod is passed towards Senna as he absently calls out 'Mistress." and pulls the door open before slipping inside.
Rygar gives a second curt nod to Hollister, "Ser," in scknowledgment, before turning to move in his purposeful manner on toward the next captain who must be informed of their role in the coming battle.