| The Brass Tacks |
| Summary: | Bruce and Fenrir meet to discuss their situation. |
| Date: | 20/02/2012 |
| Related Logs: | Keeping Order, On Mists and Scouts |
| Players: |
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| The Nayland Campsite |
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| An empty patch of ground in the foggy night where Bruce has laid his bedroll. |
| Monday 20 February, 289 |
It's the evening, and Ser Bruce and the Naylands are back in their section of the camp. Ser Bruce and some of the levies had the Ironborn priest brought out to sea in a small boat and sunk, in what they deemed appropriate burial for such a man without really knowing. No evidence of the death, except for some blood on the ground at the gravestones. Now he is leaned against his pack, sipping some black tea by the fire.
**
Fenrir emerges out of the fog, escorted by a few of the Nayland pickets. He's still wearing his matte-black brigadine, but carries his bullet-shaped helmet beneath one arm rather than donning it. It makes his scruffy blond hair - so similar to the Ironborn, come to that - rather recognizable, even in the dim light. Bidding thanks to the soldiers, he shakes himself free of their care and approaches Bruce's rucksack-cum-pillow. "Ser Longbough. Oi, we didn't get a proper chance to talk tactics earlier before things got wobble-sided. Thought I'd drop in."
**
Bruce hasn't looked anything even remotely happy for the last few days, but he levels a tight smirk at Fenrir and rises to stick out a hand. "Master Viiding, well met. Please, just call me Bruce, mate. I hate poncey titles when I'm dealing with someone I'm level with. And I think I can level with you, if you catch my drift. You lads packing up tomorrow morn and moving in here?"
**
"I was sort of hoping we would, aye. Part of what I wanted to discuss. Also, I'm sending out scouts. As far as I can tell, this whole army is blind as shit, and I don't like it very much." Fenrir crouches down beside the man, reaching to clench his arm in a brief greeting. "I hope we can level with each other, mate. 'Cos I got a lot of things to talk about. Like.. who's running this army?"
**
"Listen, it was a shite situation today. I personally think you did the right thing in skewering that idiot priest, but the opinion isn't shared here. It doesn't matter, there wasn't a soul watching and unless some of them can magic themselves into sparrows and watch us, there wasn't anyone there. He was buried, and he isn't going to run back to his friends and tell them where the infidels are." Bruce casually shrugs, as he pulls his hand back. "Grab a cuppa, if you like. Tea's still hot." His tight smirk has evaporated on the man's question. "That's the big problem. A lot of big egos running around. I took charge in enlarging the camp yesterday, when we arrived. The others followed lead in digging the double ditch around and digging latrines. But they've been bloody well idle, while we trained. Unfortunately, my folks don't have good scouts. Our scouts are with Ser Rygar, funny enough. If he's still breathing."
**
"Good fighting man, but a bit of a sour stone, ain't he?" Fenrir moves to pour himself a mug of tea, raising it ina silent toast of thanks. He sips it thoughtfully, then looks up at Bruce, his expression bleak. "They don't like that we killed a priest? Dunno how they'll take what'll come next, then, mate. You know and I know that if we're to subdue these isles, there'll be nastiness. I wouldn't be surprised if we was ordered to raze the villages." He doesn't sound enthusiastic about the idea - more resigned than anything. "We need a leader. You and me are professional soldiers. How d'you feel about us trying to get things in line, once we choose a likely noble to figurehead? I'd suggest Lord Anders - cool customer, and sensible to advice - but sounds like no one would follow him."
**
"Not a nice person, no, but he's professional as they come, has a very good mind for men and logistics and leads from the front. Stoic. And I like him well enough, anyways." Bruce shrugs again. "No, they don't. Think it's a terrible affront on our honour, and not good for morale. I think it's great for morale, personally. None of the common soldiers have any affection for the Ironborn or the Drowned God. If bloody knights and lords want to make a fuss because it offends their delicate educated sensibilities, they'd do well to remember that their troops don't give a rats arse." He snorts in disgust, spitting. "No one would follow Lord Anders, sad to say. Maybe we'd do better with the Quellyan Charlton, or someone like him. He's not a delicate fucking flower like some of the others. Tomorrow, I'm going to bring it up when they're yapping like old ladies around the command tent's fire. Well, bring up that you men need to get in here. Now. If they bitch, I will tell them that it's going to happen, and if they don't like it I'll have fucking Lord Tytos Blackwood himself skewer them when we find him."
There's a pause, his anger plain in both his voice and face. For a normally relaxed man, it's very obvious he's enraged at the army's state. "I'm Blackwood smallfolk. I levied with the Blackwoods for two years, and was a house retainer for them for nine. I commanded their foot when I got knighted during the war, and my brother their horse - he's their Captain, now. Lord Tytos both knows and trusts me. Then I worked for Lord Hoster as his master of foot. I've got pull beyond what their birth is, because I've paid for it with blood sweat and tears. They try to one up me, and I will do my best to fucking end them. Figuratively. We need your men."
**
Fenrir is normally an affable man. But when he grows angry, it shows - stark red spots on his cheeks, beneath the scruffy half-beard, his eyes narrowing dangerously. He sits in silence as he listens to the other man's concerns, but when he speaks, his voice is unusually gravelly. "What the fuck do they think happens when they decide to play war? Do they think no Septons were killed during their glorious fucking revolution? No innocents raped? Damn them, half those men did it themselves. I didn't order Einar Flint to take that shot, but if I could've, I sodding well would've. It was the right choice."
He scowls into the fire, then begins to speak in a more measured tone. "I am going to move my men alongside this camp first thing tomorrow morning, Bruce. If any of your fine nobles raise a hand to Einar Flint - or even fucking utter a word to him - I'm counting on you to destroy them with the Blackwoods. So I ain't got to do it with my dirk." He touches the long fighting knife at his belt, studying the other man. "The Flints are the gentlest souls I know. It's why they keep Viidings around. Back to business.. I'll pass on any scouting reports my men bring in, until we find Rygar Nayland and his lads. And then he can command this damn shit-show."
**
Bruce has seemingly exhausted his anger, at least for now. He simply nods at Fenrir. "Aye, you've got it right, Fenrir. Ultimately if we need to keep to ourselves because of tempers, we will. But we won't divide the army up. We're already scattered and we can't afford to. This is a war, and personal dislikes take second importance to the actual fighting. I'll make sure they understand that you lads coming to us is /going/ to happen. Maybe you wanna wait for me to talk to 'em though? Your call. I trust your judgement, I think."
**
Fenrir purses his lips, considering. "We can't wait," he finally answers. "I've trained my men to a whore's hair, Bruce, but there's still only a hundred of them. Less my scouts. And we can't use our cavalry here." Fenrir ticks off the problems with his free hand, takin a sip of his tea as he talks, letting the heat soothe him. "If we're hit in force, we'll die in place. I mean to say, I'll make them sing of my death, but we'd lose." He shakes his head to the other man grimly, absently dampening his lower lip. "Nah. I'd do it tonight, except a night movement is always a cluster-fuck. First thing tomorrow. But I'll keep our lads separate from your knights until you make them understand."
**
"Alright, then that is what it will be. I've got to go check on our pickets. Not scouts, but they'll do for now. Gods keep you and your men well, Fenrir." Bruce again sticks his hand out.
**
Clenching Bruce's hand tightly, Fenrir rises to his feet and drains his tea before taking the helmet back up. "Right. You be safe, mate. I'll see you and yours on the morrow, and we'll see about steering this shoddy outfit the right direction." With a tired little smile, Fenrir turns and disappears off into the night with long-legged strides.
