Sweat beaded along my brow, dripping down unto my tabard. I looked beside to look upon my fellows, five of which are of the Greenway guard, the rest...We're all the Greenway Guard now, remember? I shook my head as I thought about the trouble we've had as of late. A few huntsmen have come through, giving us the gift of news. "Armies, aye. Thousands of em. But Trestlebridge stands defiant, it ain't been attacked yet." said their eldest. A grisly, mean look. Perhaps they were a bit more than mere huntsmen? The dirks at their belts and their step suggested so. But too few to cause us trouble. The Tarkrips kept probing our perimeter, they have lost many fighters the night they sacked Stonehieght, they've grown more wary, and cautious. They've built themselves a camp, in direct view of the farms too. Just out of bowshot, else wise I would have the hunters have their fun. Though to tell the truth, their bows won't count for much anyway. Simple self bows made for the hunt, not for war. We had such bows back at Stonehieght, but the risk is too great, aswell as the weight that will drag me down from returning.
"Captain!" said one of the lads, hobbling toward me, "Look, we all appreciate the effort. Tryin' to train us, and help us fight, but let's just try getting to Trestlebridge. Be safe." he said, the air around us seemed to shake at the drums of the Tarkrips were rolling and their horns blaring. Every morning and night, they would roar and and beat their drums. It unnerved the most of us, truly. The farmer glared toward the camp in the distance, his fist tight around the shaft of his axe. The head of the axe was heavy, as it was meant for lumber, and not war, as it thud onto the ground as it slipped from the mans sweaty grasp. Before he began to babble once again, I turned to look him over sternly, "How many horses have we now?" I asked him suddenly. He bit his lower lip, before shaking his head, "Dunno. Ask Mister Gatson." he said, deciding to walk away, someplace more central within the farmland, now crudely fashioned into a camp.
Night was setting, as I was making my rounds. The wooden fences were repurposed, to surround the farmsteads, rather then the farmland. This isn't a castle, but some sort of barricade will hinder them. Just about a hundred men, in the armour of the Greenway Guards, steel helms gleaming in the moonlight, kiteshields slung across their backs. Only a quarter of use have the billhooks given as guardsmen, though we've all got the swords at our belt. Our armour used to be a rich dark green color, though the lack of peace has added dirt and grime to our arms and armour.
I looked toward the center, the farmers, lumbermen, trappers and huntsmen, all trying to stay within the middle of the camp as best they can, like a cyst ready to burst. Amongst them there were some potential warriors. But the most of them are lazy, or have already given up. The hunters though, are a more worthy foe, however, stalking the brush and hills like one of the lynxes we've chanced upon. But armed as they are..We need to leave. That is for sure. But Orc armies block us to the South, North, West, East..Nor do I have the men to give battle.
I neared Gatsons house, he was seated upon the porch, as I wove my way past tangled men and women, lost and confused and wanting nothing more than a full belly and a nights rest in peace. I stopped upon the stair to look up at Gatson, "A word, sir?" I asked him, giving him the courtesy, as befits the last prominent land holder. He looked at me for a long moment, displeased, perhaps, "You've raided my larder, and enlisted the lot of us into your Guard. Of course you can take my words aswell." he said, bitter, but I couldn't tell if his anger was toward me or the situation. I just nodded my head and followed him inside.
"So, good ol' Captain Hame Waithman. What do you need now?" he asked, though the anger shown moments ago melted into a smirk. I clasped my hands behind my back as I looked him over, "Horses. I think it is about time we send word to Trestlebridge of our survival, and how things stand to our knowledge. Might be that if thy know that people yet live, they'd be more quick about sending aid. Or atleast give us safe passage into their town." I said, breathing in deeply through my nose. He bit his lower lip in thought, groaning irritably, "The only horses we have are to pull the plow for the coming harvest, no matter how poor it'll be, it'll be worth something. My larders are running low. And we can live on squirrel and acorn paste for so long, Waithman." he responded, though a glimmer of sadness hinted in his voice. He grabbed the edge of a chair, and sighed, "Just take them." he said, shaking his head, "No matter the outcome, Captain, I will stay in my farm. I will die here if I have to." I nodded, though didn't have the heart to tell him it was my duty to escort the rest, with or without him.
Five men of the Guard mounted up, Sergeant Plowman was in command. A scroll tucked securely in his belt, as he led the men toward Trestlebridge, and one can only hope that they survive the trip.
