Year 3014 of the Third Age ((All dialogue in this entry is spoken in the tongue of the Eorlings. In other words, imagine it in Old English. There will be some words written in from the language. ))
"In war, solitude is seldom found. Do not take heart for long, young rider, for the thunders of battle will not cease for you to rest your weary head." - Baedric of the Ridenna-mearc
The glittering stars rested aloft in the drape of night, a magnificent cascade of beautiful white specks seeming to endlessly stretch across the skies. It was a small valley in which the camp was nestled within, surrounded by three rocky knolls that gave way to a dip of soft, low grass; an ideal spot to lay for the eve. Two watchmen sat before the smoldering embers of what once was a roaring fire, reduced to naught but gleaming ash and thick, smoky tendrils listlessly billowing in the still air. They spoke in hushed and agitated whispers, uttering words of their long journey; having travelled leagues upon leagues away from the littered villages of Harrowdale to the very mouth of the West-march.
"This has been the third eve Bronson has put *us* on watch, Forstrang. The third! Ever since we left Harrowdale, he has done nothing but yell." Helmstaag tossled the heaps of ash from the campfire with a long, sinewy branch he had procured from a nearby brush pile. His elbow rested upon his knee and in turn, his chin in his palm. He heaved a heavy sigh and then yawned almost too audibly. His companion, Forstrang, stood strong and vigilant. He domineeringly towered over Helmstaag, gaze held firm upon the surrounding foothills, paying little attention to the man's words.
"Be silent, Helmstaag! Baecere, Bronson, and everyone else are trying to sleep. You'll be able to rest soon once our watch is over." Forstrang peered down to lock his piercing gaze upon his friend, shaking his head briskly and emitting an angered growl.
"Stand up, good man! Keep your vigil!" Having been scolded, Helmstaag rose to his feet with an aggravated snarl and rounded upon Forstrang, furling a tight grip around the collar of his linens, leering close to speak through gritted teeth; the two now glaring pointedly at each other.
"We've been standing guard for three days and I'm tired! Don't you understand?! Nothing is out here, nothing has ever been out here, and nothing will be out here, Forstrang! I've not had a full night's sleep in days! It is a waste! What're we defending this camp from?! The chirping of crickets?!" Gesturing with an open hand towards several tall reeds, he inclines his head to the side, listening to the sound before dubiously looking to his fellow Mearc's-man.
"You see? There is noth-" Several thuds sounded nearby, basking the area in a sudden blaze as a barrage of arrows bore down upon them, setting the grass alight. One struck Helmstaag upon the shoulder, and with the impact, his entire body twisted before plummeting to the earth, pierced by another straight to the back. Forstrang swiveled around and dived for cover, wrenching his blade from the dirt where it lay upright nearby, then bellowing loudly at the top of his lungs.
"SWEART-FOLC! SWEART-FOLC!" Within moments, the camp roused from their slumber, only to be pelted by yet another fiery shower of arrows. By now, the horses had arisen in a stupor, whinnying loudly out of fear. They reared upon their hind legs before slamming their hooves upon the ground with a series of raucous thuds, a number galloping away. One, in a desperate attempt to flee, ended up trampling over the closest tent. With an array of sickly squelches, several of the lethal, fire-tipped projectiles bore into the creature's flesh and in a heap of debris, it collapsed, pinning two Eorlings underneath and killing them out of the sheer brunt of the blow.
The Dunlendings swarmed the camp, charging forth from over the above highlands, barking their war cries as they began to battle the stunned Eorlingas. One had approached Bronson's tent, but before he could set it alight, the behemoth of a man lunged from underneath the tarp with a crude shortsword in hand. He plunged it into his foe's flesh several times until the colour of his eyes began to fade, then whirled around just in time to catch his brother's makeshift dwelling ablaze. He quickly strode over, and with one large swipe, wrenched the cloth of the tent from the pinned stakes lodged in the ground. Baecere was huddled up, half-dressed in mail and loosely clutching the cured leather hilt of his greatsword, coughing profusely due to the billowing smoke. Bronson forcibly pushed aside the remains of the tent and furled a tight grip on Baecere's forearm, hauling his younger brother up to stand beside him.
"Up, brother! We make father proud this day." Baecere's view swam as he tried to compose himself, gripping his blade tightly and holding back the fit of coughing that continued to plague him. No longer did the faint chirping of crickets sound in the night, replaced by the ringing of steel, the clashing of blades, and cries of agony. Above all else, however, was the crackling of fire as it engulfed the small vale they had set up their encampment within.
The sweart-folc were unrelenting in their advance, despite having had most of their archers dispatched through a surprise flank by a company of clever Eorlings who had used the remaining shadows to their advantage. Baecere, thrust into an encounter with several alongside his brother, kept his gaze held firmly upon the closest Dunlending. The swarthy man, quick to act, lunged; he was met with a cleave to the leg, severing the flesh there, and rendering him unable to stand. The next was caught off guard by such a strengthened blow, blood splattered forth from the strike and with a garbled cry, collapsed.
"Give them no quarter!" Bronson yelled as he narrowedly avoided being skewered. The man who made the attempt had, in fact, succumbed to a blade through the gut shortly thereafter and fell into a heap. As the battle waged, it soon tipped in the favour of the Rohirrim. Baecere caught sight of one of their own being felled and cringed, meeting a tempered blade with his own; the ringing of metal upon metal deafening him a moment as he pressed all his weight down and then, in a sudden surprise maneuver, whirled his own broadsword in a quick circular motion, twisting his opponent's wrist and flawlessly disarming him. With a lunge, he thwarted the Dunlending, then wrenched his sword free.
Stumbling back, Baecere managed to draw himself out of the fray to wipe his sweatened brow, chest heaving in exasperation. He shook his thick mane of hair and brought a hand down his long, shaggy beard. There was no reprieve to be had however, as thick arms tethered around his collar. Just before the Dunlending managed to snap his neck, he withdrew a pointed dagger from a sheath at his waist; steel hissing against cured hide as it was swiftly wrenched from its hold. Plunging it inbetween the crevace of his side and forearm, it sunk deep into the swarthy man's gut. He heard the soft, surprised gasp followed by the guttural wail, twisting and forcing the sharpened dagger deeper and deeper into the meaty flesh of his foe. The grip upon his neck soon loosened and the man doubled over, dagger slipping from his visceral coated in thick crimson. Baecere drew its flattened sides across his pant leg, cleansing the blade as his gaze swept across the small battlefield. There were still a handful of Dunlendings within the vale, others had fled having lost most of their kinsmen in the siege.
As he strode through the thick smog that now engulfed the entire valley, a desperate straggler bound toward him, blade held high. Baecere swung his claymore to meet the crude sword, forcing its tip to the ground before lifting his entire knee into the man's gut, winding him. The visage of surprise etched onto Dunlending's countenance swiftly assumed one of agony as Baecere shifted his hold upon the dagger clutched in his other grasp, clasping it back-handedly and aiming an abrupt hew to the neck, sundering the flesh of the man's collar. Blood gushed from the wound immediately, bubbling up into the man's throat as he spluttered and choked on his own gore. His head swayed languidly, then with one last attempt to gasp for air, he fell into the ashen remains of the campfire.
"Bronson! Brother, it's over! Everyone, help me get the injured out of this vale!" Baecere eyed the carnage before him in horror. Arrows were sporadically held upright in the earth, most surrounded by blossoms of flame. The brush pile nearby had been set alight and all that could be heard were groans of pain and suffering. The horse that had fallen earlier now laid still, no longer thrashing upon the two corpses that lay beneath. Baecere clambered over body after body, some still writhing; eyes fluttering as they drifted in and out of consciouscness. The remaining Eorlings began to separate the dead from the injured, hauling their own up and out of the small valley until only a few others remained. It was then that he caught sight of him.
The Dunlending was young, appearing naught more than eighteen winters. He was clutching at a wound to his side, whispering pleadingly for his life to be spared. Holding the tip of his greatsword to the young man's throat, Baecere eyed the boy with a cold and calculating gaze. They stared at each other for a moment, the grip upon his broadsword loosening as a wave of sympathy caught hold of him. Kneeling down, the Mearc's-man began to tend to his enemy, pressing his palm over the bloodied hand of the boy as he searched for spare bandages in the nearby debris.
It wasn't long before Bronson arrived, and without a second's hesitation, plunged his sword into the Dunlending's chest, the short blade sliding cleanly inbetween the boy's ribs. Baecere rose to his feet in an instant, advancing upon his brother, who piped up before anything could be said.
"What are you doing?! We do not aid those who seek to kill us!" Bronson towered over his kinsman, prodding a finger to Baecere's chest as he narrowedly glared down at him.
"I was tending to the wounded," hissed Baecere, returning the tempered look.
"You tend to our own and only our own, sāmwīs. Know your place. We fought hard this day, and they deserve no reprieve for their deeds. Come. We leave." Bronson clasped a hand around his brother's wrist, leading him away from what was left of their camp and into the luminous glow of the moonlight.
--- Later that eve, Bronson approached Baecere as he stood atop a rocky knoll, gazing up into the skies a few paces away from the remainder of the Eorlingas, resting wearily from the prior battle. He was in a far more joyish temperament, having seemingly forgotten what occured earlier, clasping a rough hand upon his brother's shoulder and bellowing a hearty chuckle.
"You made father proud this eve, Bearn. Many were slain by our hand. You should be basking in the glory of our victory with the others!" Bronson grinned, giving his kinsman a brisk shake. Baecere simply looked over at his eldest brother, and then spoke.
"I mourn the loss of our kin. Helmstaag and Forstrang were good men, as were all those who were felled. I do not enjoy bloodshed, Bronson, and it saddens me to know it was needed this day." Bronson released his grip upon Baecere's shoulder, his grin fading as he gave a brisk and solemn nod.
"Ah. It is- it is unfortunate, yes... but worry not. Their sacrifice, it is worthy of song and so it shall be."
