The Eorlingas

Ceolswith could be seen speaking with the shieldmaiden and the rider. Signs of being further along with child were obvious as her belly was rounder now. She seemed to be listening to the shieldmaiden's jokes.

(Gyric : Captain of the Forlaw forces, head of the footmen team (green V)

Ceorlghas: head of the archers (orange lines)

Radbald: head of the reserves, vanguard

Assigned team: Yrminas, Faerhild, Langhund, scouts and archers (purple)

Start position: crossroads (yellow triangle)

(The text needs editing, it is from our rp chatlogs, we will be continuing with the event on Sunday 19 Feb)

        The howling wind, burdened with the burning snow of the northern mark, grazed the ridge before the plains. Nine shadows stood tall, nine pairs of keen eyes looked at the open plain and the hill upon the center, on it the fortress of heaps of stone and iron standing guard. The tall, young earl took heavy steps down the hill as he gazed upon yonder.

Two days it had been through the snowstorm that had swept across the land. Two days to plough the cart over the frozen road, pushing, cursing and encouraging the horses to speed on your way to follow your Reeve his orders. Evacuate the villagers of Dunfast. Tired limbs shivered in the cold and longed for the fire made by those that needed to be rescued. From the hovel little was left to be seen aside from the trails of feet, some warning cry, echoes into the dark sky, when the Reeve's men arrived. Frightened faces peered out of windows and doors.

Régnwald opened his eyes after what seemed like winters to him. A grim, worried expression growing in his lined features as he turned to gaze upon the maiden. What has she said, he thought. A hand finding the moisted rag embracing his chest, and he once attempted to study his wound, a deep sigh of pain following, which would mayhap be enough for Faerhild to wake up if she had not.

Régnwald has been lying in the bed for some hours now, eyes closed; though no one would say where his thoughts were riding, 'twas a mere darkness for him. Until now, hazel green eyes of the warrior opening halfly on this bloodstained dawn. Aching waist unflinching as his hand ran with a sudden pain to hold his face, finding a worn rag hugging his forehead. A bare deep sigh escaped him.

It was the shifting of the winds that brought her out of her thoughts. The one, known as a witch, looked up from where she was cooking. The shifting cold winds from the mountains smelled of death; foul and sour. Wychtleth, the daughter of a Helming and some Dunlending whore, knew something was wrong.

Aeschere charged the first orc with an insane fury. He bashed his face with his shield, knocking him out of his way. He then clashed his sword with the other orc, breaking his sword in half and slashing his flesh. He swings and bashes as the orcs throw themselves against him, only to be hewn aside with missing limbs and gushing blood.

Faerhild charged against one of the orcs, bashing him with her shield, to block him from seeing her incoming sword that went to study his black guts.