Spirits of the Earth

OOC: tags to @Magyar !

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She had known the Grand Dukes men were coming well before they arrived. Wallund was, if anything, very carefully guarded, with many maintaining the area and keeping watch. They had to fear deceit and foul play from their brothers in Allar to the East, Chaos to the North, south and west- leaving just about no where else to go.

Petrin didn't mind. She had lived in Wallund her whole life. She had guarded the place as fiercely as any other- she being a woman or not meant little to her family here. Though patriarchal by law, she still held a vow to her father, and her brother Toma, too.

Acting as the ruling reagent, Lady Petrin Stark took the news and acted quickly, not about to waste her time and bathing and doing up her hair as all other ladies of society were apt to do. No, here in Wallund, the women road freely, spoke freely and were strong as the west winds that shaped the very valley and people themselves.

She sat atop Stormrider, her horse she had been riding all after noon. She had paused briefly for a rest when the news had come to her, and she sent word back to the castle, to warn her brother Seldon of their approaching 'guests'.

Perhaps it was foolish of her to think she could stop the advancement of the men upon her home by meeting them on the road-
But then again, Petrin had a lot of things to protect there, and those carrying the banner of the Grand Duke had no business putting their noses in it.

She wasn't sure on the number of men, and it frightened her some to think there was enough her scouts couldn't count. Though they mentioned the party was long tailed and the numbers seemed to shift and wane then grow like the winter snow, Petrin decided to simply take this information in stride.

Galloping down Kingsmill Road, her horse kicked up a hefty amount of cold, thick mud as he ran. And as she crested the hill and crossed the narrow river, the path split into two, and she chose to take Broadshoulder pass, as her horse raced on and came up to flank the bannermen.

She possessed her own crest, chiseled proudly into her armor as the men all halted to see the approach of a woman rider, with wild long red hair scattering behind her in the winds like a flag of fire, and eyes that seemed to pierce like the color of the sky.

Her horse came to an abrupt stop and the men put up a defensive position. Petrin simply clung to her reins and turned her horse sharply as her eyes cleaved through the men.

"I am Lady Stark, current regent of Wallund. I demand you approach no further to Wallund and allow me to speak with whomever is in charge."

"Annefain! The Lady Petrin wishes to speak directly to you!" One of the Bannermen called back into the rows of silver and white clad men.

Tinkling armour and chafing tunics rasped among the snorts and pawing of horses, as the men split down the middle, allowing a path for High Captain Gwynne Annefain, Leader of the Ahjfeld Regiment. The title was preemptive, and it fit the hulking figure, for although he wasn't overly tall to an outsider, he towered among the Connloathians, outdistancing most by almost half a foot. He was solidly built, and wore little visible armour, other than silver trimmed pauldrons, and Mordecai greaves. His Mordecai tabard was not as pristine as his comrades', nor was his armour as polished, and his face bore a burn that rimmed under his left eye, giving it almost a stretched quality.

The beast he rode looked the part as well, an ivory mare larger than most, with a black mane and horse armour plating gracing it's spine. He sat proud and tall in the saddle, his eyes trained on Petrin as he trotted towards her from within his war party. A scowl complimented the glare he was shooting at his quarry, and his scar twisted ever so unsettlingly.

"What is the meaning of this, Lady Stark?" His voice betrayed a sense of weariness that his façade did not. He was exasperated, and it shone through in a haughty tone layered with annoyed tolerance. Even in a deep and booming response, he seemed not to phase the lady. That was to be expected though, seeing as she was the sole protector of her lands, she needed resolve. He respected that. He also resented it. She was not the first strong willed soul he had come across, and the last he had problems with had left him a gift that framed his left eye socket. "Were we not to meet at your hold, under friendly accommodations? My men could use a rest, and we would much prefer a thick roof and warm stew to thunderheads and roasted squirrel."

Petrin frowned.
"No such accommodations had been promised, Captain. The letter came stating a meeting was desired and one to discuss allegiances. I'd prefer this take place quickly, and here rather than at my keep. The winter has been hard on us all, and we haven't the resources to simply put out for an entourage of men of your size."

"So be it. Petrin Stark, Regent of Wallund, I, High Captain Gwynneir Annefain of the Mordecai of the Arch Duchy of Connloath, hereby request Alliance and Treaty with the Duchy of Ahjfeld on behalf of Arch Duke Callent Allarick," Gwynne said, over formal and stiff throughout his delivery, practiced words recited in a cold tone, "What say you?"

The near entirety of the Mordecai outfit and their lesser counterparts held their breath as they waited for the lady's response. This was a turning point and one that would decide the fate of all of Ahjfeld for the next few months.

Her smirk was a dark one.
"I say you're using a lot of unnecessary words. But, since you came all the way out here, let's not waste anymore of our time than needed. Sound good to you?" And she didn't wait for his reply, dismounting and giving him a big, fake smile.

"Unnecessary words are what make the dealings of nobility different from those of common folk, Regent, even if it is all pompous and flashy." He replied, exasperated. This woman could be painful to deal with. Dismounting, he stood to her, taller, but not overbearing. She stood her ground with a defiant stance, countering his bulk.
"Let's keep the nitty gritty details of the alliance out of this unless you choose to accept. And so, I ask, do you accept a conjoined war effort, in which the Mordecai station themselves in Ahjfeld, primarily out of your hold, and use your keeps as Connloathian barracks and halfway camps? Do you also agree to  Mordecai guarded trade routes, as our way of thanking you for your land and compliance?"

"You know, for a fellow that knows a lot of fancy words, you'd think whoever your teacher was would have at least taught you some common sense. Or history." Her smirk was mean, her eyes, stormy.

"This is Ahjfeld, and the land you're approaching is my home, Wallund." She watched the man carefully, and made sure to talk as slowly and to the point as possible. She didn't need to use large words for flattery or to make him understand.

"My father rules here and had no desire to agree to such terms and support. As regent, I can assure you..." she went on, eyes flicking up and down his form. "That from the last time someone penned a request, or asked us in person, as you do so now, that our mind hasn't changed, nor will it."

She gave him a pretty, petty smile that had an obvious bite to it.

"Now, do you have anything else you'd like to discuss, Captain? 'Cause if not," And here she gave him another mean, but spirited smile. "I've got to get back to my castle. We're having duck, and I'd be very angry if I were to miss my favorite meal."

"Alright." He grunted. Her demeanour was annoying him, and he had no time for games. If it had been his way, they would have started with Plan B, and proceeded with the stronger strategy, but Allarick had pressed on the diplomatic approach. Gwynne didn't understand his persistence on fair play. They were the superpower. They should take what they wanted.

Raising an arm and snapping twice, Gwynne simply glared daggers at the Acting Regent as his bannermen stepped aside. A mounted Mordecai squadron quickly circled Petrin and her horse, lowering pikes, and readying swords and axes. Following closely were the crossbow men, standing in between the horsemen, training their pre-loaded weapons on the now surrounded Lady Stark.

"Let me make this clear, and not fancy, as you seem to have a problem with big words." Gwynne growled, loosening his war hammer in it's sheathe loop, "Your father ruled here. Now you do. As of now, neither of your desires matter. You are no longer in control, except for when I or the Arch Duke say so." His scowl grew with every word, his hatred for the woman, or rather what she stood for, surfacing. Now drawing his hammer, he mocked her voice, high pitched and adding a whine, "And didn't you know, it's common sense not to meet your enemy alone and isolated during war?"

As he said the last word, his voice dropped to a low grunt, and swung his hammer toward the side of her armoured right  knee, aiming at the inside with great speed and force.

There was a certain sort of satisfaction to see the man get riled. But she was simply following her own family's orders, and her eyes grew wide When his men moved to circle her. Shebared her teeth and growled.
"What sort of response is this? You bring out weapons, you bring out war!"

And though if she were to die here she knew the whole of Wallund would rise up and rennounce the Grand Duke, she was far from ready to just roll over. So when the swing came from his heavy weapon, she did the only thing she could, and dropped off herhorse who took theblow, and it began to buck in a panic, knocking over enough men for Petrin to slip through and escape the circle of men.

"Do not let her escape!" Gwynne roared, and several horsemen reared back, confusion spreading in the circle as the lithe woman slipped in between the Mordecai steeds. Crossbow bolts flew in all directions as the secondary line of defense sprang into action. Two crossbow men fell to the bolts of their comrades, and a horse was stuck in the throat, sending it reeling, causing more chaos.

Gwynne could not see if the Regent had been hit by any of the bolts, but he himself had been glanced by one, denting his left pauldron, and sending him to his knee. "If she escapes, this becomes war!" He bellowed out into the chaotic ranks, both to his men and Petrin. She would know that she couldn't get far without a horse, and the Archduke had sent enough men to siege, if not sack Ahjfeld's hold. The Regent would not serve well to Allarick as a martyr, but she also wouldn't deliberately put her people in danger. Probably.

(OOC: I'll be away for about a week, on a trip, so if I don't reply that's why. Just wanted to give you a heads up.)

She had never been in such chaos as she had that moment. Bolts were loosed, men were exploding blood, and swords swung too close to comfort. Her adrenaline exploded through her veins, giving her just enough strength to get out of the masses of massacring men to open ground.

She knew she wouldn't be hard to follow, her hair was red and she was a woman, her figure much slimmer than the rest. Plus she proudly wore her family's crest, where as the men all wore the Grand Duke's flags and that of the church.

Knowing she couldn't outrun men on horseback, and knowing she couldn't call her own horse to return to her (for if the horse wasn't injured enough to die from his wounds, she knew he couldn't survive any more such brutality). She soon found herself fisting her hands into dirt, crawling up a steep hill side before she turned back to see just where Gwynne and his men were.

No doubt they'd be hot on her tail, and if she could manage to steal one of their horses.. She might have a chance to survive.

Wild eyes darted all around, searching, seeking any familiar ditch or tree she could use to her advantage. And then she saw one, a low lying limbly pine to her right. It had a hardy branch that reached out wide over her head.

The sound of the men advancing upon her was clear, and she felt her stomach leap as a pair of men on horse back began to rush the hill. She didn't have time to think, only to act, and just as the men were getting closer, she jumped.  Muddy fingers gripped onto the tree branch's slimmer end, and she threatened to lose her grip. But as she refortified her grip with a stronger one, it gave her enough momentum to swing herself, and soon she was throwing herself at one of the pair of horse saddled men.

The act was enough to startled rider and horse, and with all of her fury, she clung to the man and aimed to throw him off- but in the process the horse bucked up wildly, and both she and the rider were tossed to the ground.

The horse barely managed not to stomp the pair of them, and Petrin was well on her back as she looked for her opportunity to snag the horse. And then she saw it, a few low laying supplies hanging off theback of the saddle. She scrambled to get to her knees, and just as the second horseman was coming right for her, she threw herself away from his weapon, lunged at the horse and gripped onto the dangling sacks as she shouted fiercely for the horse to run.

Spooked, the beast obeyed, and took off running, with Petrin dangling dangerously off it's side.

OOC: Have fun on your trip!

"Damnit! Damn you and your accursed hide, Petrin!" Gwynne snarled under his breath. He had been searching for hours, and he hadn't found so much as a hair of the girl. Of course he was only heading one of ten search parties, and they each could've found her, but a growing sense of dread in his gut told him they had fared similar to he.

Her tracks had vanished into the forest moss, and the now torrential rain had only furthered her chance of escaping him. He brooded about the undoubtable consequences he was to receive at his botching of the capture. A military Coup d'Etat could still be arranged with the royal family, but Petrin could easily stir the people into a revolt if she was left out here. She was the face of power after all. The Duke would not be pleased.

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The Duke's Army camped outside of The Stark Keep that night. The city's walls were nothing overly impressive, and Gwynne had no doubt that they could sack the city if they tried. But he waited now, not only for the return of the rest of the search parties, but also for Arch Duke Allarick's hawk. He had sent a message asking guidance in the matter, whether to directly assault the city or to wait for Petrin to show herself and proceed as planned. The bird flew fast, and a reply was almost always garunteed within three days or so. As of now, he would simply wait.


(OOC: Sorry for being gone much longer than anticipated. Would you mind an Archdukely reply, via messenger hawk?)

The Grand Duke had received the messenger hawk in an impressive amount of time, and found himself chewing over a reply. But he didn't waste much time on it, knowing there wasn't any leeway, and penned a message himself and pressed his crest into a hot wax seal before sending the hawk back to Gwynne.

The message would read:
Your efforts to bring Ahjfeld back under the crown are noted, but as all Connlaothians are, we're a proud breed. Do not get into battle with the Stark family. If they resist peace, only then make the appropriate actions. Be it now, we need all Connlaothian royals at our side. If the Stark's continue to ignore the crown, do inform them of the potential consequences which could lead to their excommunication from the capital. Also, remind them that they are still viewed as our allies, and what the Duke of Turgall has done to them and their people will be rectified. Keep us posted on your activities and if their is failure to bring the Starks around, send another message for proper action.

Grand Duke Calent Allarrrick

Lieutenant Baylein winced as a barrage of noise washed over him, the volume vibrating water inside the cups of the High Captain's tent. it had been two days, and despite a formal request sent to gather in peace at the city gates a day previous, there had been no news from within the city. Petrin hadn't shown up either, much to the chagrin of Captain Annefain.

"How could one woman escape you? You are a trained Mordecai, you tottering idle-headed clotpole!! Have you even seen Petrin Stark?! She's tiny!" Gwynne bellowed, reddened face contorted at a strange angle. All but one of the search parties had returned fruitless, and Gwynne grew ever more sullen with each new group that came in. Truth be told, he was making the situation worse than it was, thinking of the consequences of the future as if they were happening in the present. As of now, there was no reason for the Stark family to suspect ill of the Arch Duke's forces despite Gwynne, and now Petrin, damn her, knowing otherwise.

He did however have a sliver of hope. That last search party wasn't yet returned, and with the luck of the Gods, they might have her. Simply put, the success of diplomacy in this endeavour was riding on Acting Regent Petrin Stark being either foolish or unlucky enough to be captured. If she was let free, and caused enough trouble, a show of force would be required, and Allarrick wouldn't like that nearly as much.

These were her lands. Perhaps it was the only thing on her side. She couldn't go home, not directly. Those men had search parties all over the place, and were hounding all easy access there of. Yet there were places she knew they would not think of, but it would be costly in time- and she wasn't sure she had the benefit of that option.

But she had no real choice, and while trying to decide which way to go, Petrin found herself having to remain just two steps ahead of the search parties, until she was left with just one- one very determined group that, unfortunately, knew they were getting closer to her by the hour.

She had to abandon the horse, at this point, it made it too obvious where she was. Tracks were easier to cover when it was just a two legged creature (herself) rather than four, and with her being a much slower animal than a horse, she could cover her tracks as she walked.

But she was so close to her castle home she could taste it. But how much refuge would it bring? Then again, her own men were probably looking for her by now. Should she wait for them to seek her? Or... dare she just make a run for her haven?

Night fall...
Night fall it was decided. It would be poor visibility on all parts and from what she judged..
It looked like there'd be snow. She needed to get home, to explain to her men what was going on and chase off these ruffians. The Starks were not slaves to the crown. They owned their own land and would not bow down to some pestilent king who thrust unfair laws against those with magic.

Her blood boiled at the thought. And she waited. The sun fell, the moon rose, and as the last search party was setting up camp- she made her move, and began the long run from the woods to her family's keep.

A cold reception would have been an understatement for how Gwynne had been greeted by the Starks. They'd picked up quickly that something was off, given that Petrin hadn't so much as sent a messanger to say she'd be staying in the Mordecai camp, as was implied. Neither could their guests procure Petrin, and so barred from the city, the hosts of the Archduke made camp around Ahjfeld's walls.

Diplomatic relations were quickly turning into an impromptu siege, with only a fraction of the food shipments making it through the gargantuan military barricade. Almost ninety percent of the produce and livestock had been kept for the Mordecai and their men, leaving a measly amount for the city. The Archduke had been clear in his intention for diplomacy over conflict, but Gwynneir was a war man and he was doing what he knew to work. If you wanted something your way, you made it happen. That philosophy did not, however, apply to the capture and ransom of Petrin Stark for the military occupation of Ahjfeld. Gwynne was working on that.

"We starve them, but not entirely. Not until we find the girl," Gwynne ordered, sharing a table in his own tent with his captains. Each had been given a station near the entrances to the city, and the leftover men were on patrol. They'd effectively encircled what they could, and had begun constricting their target. But unfortunately, a red haired wrench had been thrown into their plans, "Once that last party arrives with the Stark runt, and by Ansgar they'd better, we starve the city. Ahjfeld will be captured for the Archduke. If you so much as glimpse Petrin Stark, you will go to any length to apprehend her. If you need to cripple her to do so, you may engage and use everything short of lethal force."

Gwynne leaned back in his chair, a metal goblet lax in his fingers. He surveyed the men around him, approving of the determination and aggression he saw among them. He brought the goblet to his lips, tasting the bitter imported wine they'd captured not an hour before. To himself, he muttered, "The games are over. Now we truly begin."

The way the army fanned out around her family's land was not expected. Perhaps she had misjudged had many men this man had brought with him; a fact that only continued to fuel her hatred towards him. But she was growing weary, and she had been gone for too long for her family not to notice; and with an army setting it's position just outside of her walls....


It was all for nothing; for her next step was misguided, a huge misfortune that had her screaming out to sweet Ansgar for mercy before wordless she dropped to her knees, fingernails clawing at the heavy bear trap that was now smashed around her leg. Her bone was shattered, it had to be, and the blood... it seeped out warmly from her boot as she frantically clawed at the metal trap, mindlessly forgetting how to do so for the pain was so potent all sense had gone numb.

Who knew how long it had taken her to realize it's release, and once the jaws opened, another scream, this one of rage, was released as she shoved the thing aside and frantically crawled backwards up against a tree.

She was breathing, frantic and heavy, a hand nursing her wounded leg and frantically working at her boot laces. Shakingly, the last buckled was unclasped and she winced, removing the blood soaked boot to look at the gnarled gashed up leg.

Tenderly, she prodded at the wound, but it was hard to see it, the pain was so intense it welled her eyes up with tears. Brushing them aside, she moved quickly, tkaing off her scarf and securing it stiff and firm around her wound before applying more pressure and attempting to blink back more tears.

Damn it all! She was so close to her house, yet in the dark of night it all seemed so far away-

and then she heard it...
Something.. someone.. or a bunch of someone's were coming.

Shit.

No doubt they had heard her cries and the army was coming. She had to think fast. She attempted to stand, but any weight on her leg elicited another cry and she collapsed back to the dirt. But she was stubborn, like a mule, and kept trying, kept desperately trying to at least stand when a group of men rounded the bend and she froze in their torch light.

"There's the fucking girl! Seize her!"

She wasn't sure when the men had gotten to her, but the second one of their grubby hands was on her, she threw all of the weight of her head into him, then the whole weight of her body at another. But she only managed to stun them, and she- only managed to take two steps before shrieking out as she collapsed. And once she did, the man, who's nose she set to bleed, kicked her hard, and then hard again, right in her ribs.

She was winded, wincing on her side when a man grabbed her by her hair and looked at her in the moonlight.

"Bitch." She felt his hot spit on her face. the other man saw her leg.

"Daemen, look, her leg's all fucked."

The man's smile was crooked, and she noticed a few missing teeth. He lifted two fingers, gave their dirty tips a lick, before moving to sink them straight into her wounds. The cry she made deafened even her before he yanked his fingers out and back handed her. She was coughing out blood.

"Bitch has a mouth on her." He spit to the side. "Think Gwynne'll care much when we bring her back?"

At first the Daemen didn't get what his comrade meant, but a wicked smile had him throwing Petrin onto the ground.
"Hold her done. We deserve at least somethin' from this red haired bitch."

The goat couldn't have possibly seen it coming.

It had woken up surrounded by hundreds of other gray-brown, yellow-eyed caprid brothers and sisters, like every day before. It had been fed, and shepherded, and loaded onto a cart. It had slept, and bleated, and scuffed at the wooden cart. All had been rather uneventful, even by goat standards. When large shapes and loud noises began, things began to change. Still, he was led by the rope he had always been led by, and so he did not panic. He was left in a pen, in the mud, and all was normal, in absence of the excess noise, but even that was like the incessant bleating of the herd.

It wasn't until the war hammer's spiked steel head punched through his skull did things begin to get exciting.

Gwynne grunted at the nearly headless livestock. It was too complacent, and though killing it had elevated his mood beyond downright miserable, it hadn't provided a distraction in the stead of Petrin's return. He could've had women join him, but he wasn't in the mood. He was angry, and he needed something to take out his anger on. Hence the poor goat, whose brains painted the mud and whose blood saturated the earth that was now its final resting place.

"Fucking Stark..." he bit out under his breath, "You'd better come back with that search party, or by the gods above and below they'll be joining your livestock in the mud."

Gwynne turned and called for someone to roast the bedamned thing, before storming back into his tent.

The team that found her had thinned out considerably from the rest. They had been itching for at least some kind of result, so instead of a few handfuls of men, it may have just been a handful; which still afforded Petrin enough time someone else had heard her cries, and not just those from the bear trap.

Men savage from wore were brutal to her, and took everything they could. They didn't care it was freezing and everyone was watching. Perhaps that's how it was made so easy for her to be found, because the bear traps weren't put down to catch Petrin- and the trapper hadn't been that far away.

These lands were fertile for something, brown bear included, who, despite the time of year, came out every so often when the weather would break. It was perhaps the animals were as sturdy as the people, learning to adapt and survive in such harsh conditions so near to the boarder of Hyoite.

The trapper who spotted them was no fool, keeping to the shadows, especially after he realized what had happened- and who it was happening too. Ahfeld were a people who stuck to their own, and though the Stark's weren't of the highest standing in the country, they were known well and true to those of their home, and treated with much more respect (and even power, in some cases) than the Duke that once ruled hear ever was.

The Starks elicited a true respect from their people, because through the years, time and time again, the noble family stayed side by side with their common blooded brethren, and this is perhaps why the trapper did what he had done.

He wasn't alone, even as old as he was, and it didn't take long to drag in what help he knew and with as much haste as he could muster. The men wouldn't have seen it coming, the massive, grey bearded trapper knocking his ax into their skull as the last of them had their fun, while three other veteran picked off the rest.

But they didn't take them all down- no...
A man had gotten away, scrambled off to warn the rest. And in doing so, they knew they didn't have much time.

The man offered Petrin a hand.
"Gimme your hand, lass. We need to get you to the castle. It ain't that far, and I'm sure once they see what the Grand Duke's men have done to you.." Even he couldn't believe it. The men were savages and Petrin's face was as red as her hair, her eyes puffed and raw with tears as her chapped lips were twisted into a snarl.

"They want our land, Sam." Petrin began, taking purposeful, but careful steps forward with his help. "All of it, without a care. They know we've got resources the Grand Duke needs for the war."

The trapper frowned and looked to his comrades.

"Well, they've challenged the wrong family, and done them wrong."

Petrin winced as she slipped, gripping onto Sam's thick fur coat to steady herself. He asked if she wanted to rest, but she shook back the idea. They didn't have the time. As slow as they were moving, she knew it they had to keep moving. They had to get her home. They couldn't let the Grand Duke win. Not now, not ever.

He started this war when they just wanted nothing out of it. Ahjfeld had already fallen. Nobody ruled here. And as she heard the call of men off in the none too far distance, she cringed. Could they make it?

Daemen was by no means a smart man. If he was smart, he would have taken Petrin back to camp the moment they'd caught her. He'd have stopped his idiot comrade from raping the Stark girl. But he was by no means a smart man.

Now his rather stupid head was missing a significant chunk from the tip of where his nose used to be to the back of his cranium. He'd been dropped next to the goat after Gwynne had finished following through with his promise.

"Tonight it burns." Gwynne snapped to no one in particular. His captains, large and intimidating men in and of themselves, had kept their eyes averted and their lunches down when Gwynne had mutilated Daemen. Now they played a dangerous game, sneaking wary glances at Gwynne when he was turned away, only to quickly shift their gaze under his scrutiny. "All of it. I'll deal with Calent when we get back to the fucking capital, but in Ansgar's fucking name it all fucking burns!"

Gwynne was shouting now, the veins on his neck bulging and his face twisted red with rage. The spattered darker crimson of Daemen's facial bits didn't improve his appearance. "Ahjfeld will drown in oil and burn to ash! Sound the Horns of War!"

In minutes the legion had lit their torches and saddled the pack animals with oil and tar, and Gwynne mounted his own steed, a Theocog. Slowly, like a great machine of black leather and white tabards, the Archduke's forces began to spread out and away from the city. Then the yelping bleats of goats and sheep who'd been drenched and then set aflame echoed out across the forest. From above, in the city's turrets, it would look like hundreds of running and leaping torches had been set loose into the dark shadows of the trees.

She was almost home. She could nearly taste the pine shrub scents that dotted the front gardens, could nearly touch the rough stone walls of the keep. But as they just crested the top of the hill and beneath them Wallund's castle grounds spilled into view, still but a mile from the main gate- she saw the light. A swooping, swift moving serpent. And her heart dropped, blood going cold.

She knew what that was. It was an army of men. His army of men that now were marching directly at her castle.

"Lass?"

Sam's gruff voice broke her from her thoughts as she turned to him and regarded him and the three trappers to his left. She knew it was men like him, and those too old, or two young for war, that remained here in Ahfeld, and kept the place still alive. But as stubborn as she was, with blood that ran thick over the years, she found herself at a loss if she could really do it-
Really just let her family fall to these war hounds- let the snow stain red all winter.

Was there anytime for this to stop? Would the hunger of the war ever go away, even if she turned herself in? Turned her own castle in and just surrounded beneath the full ruling of the crown? It was said the Grand Duke needed them, needed their land...
but if that was the case- why bring a second wave of war down to it?

"Lass.." but this time, Samuel corrected himself. "Lady Stark... you need to make a decision." For even he knew that despite the fierceness of all Ahfeld families this side of the Waeht River, war would doom them all. And saving her from those soldiers would be moot. Whomever sent for her didn't give two licks of her well being, and would likely sever many more heads after her's.

"Can your men get to the stables in time?" she asked, setting her jaw, fighting back any trembles of fear, and trembles from the cold.

"They damn well will."

Theocogs they were not, but the sturdy horses the nobles of Wallund had were nothing to scoff about. Heavy hooves trampled in the snow as a horse as fiery red as it's rider was brought forth to her. She knew her leg needed tended to, it's wound only cinched by what the soldiers had done for her before taking advantage of her state.

But who knew if she'd survive any of it, and onto her mount she went, hoisting up the flag of her people and motioned to two of the trappers to send word to the castle while she remained back with Samuel and his brother, Cowl.

THey moved to spread out just enough to become visible to the approaching army, and kept just south of the wall so as to let them know they were truly alone....
But even she knew speaking might be futile, and she kept a heavy blade at the ready by her side. It was her father's training blade, one hidden away in the stables, and one Cowl's friend Rahnt had fetched for her on her orders.

To think, these men, just simple folks, were willing to die for her, for her family and for what they were scraping together of what was left of Ahjfeld.

Why couldn't the war leave them alone? Why couldn't the war just let them heal?
Perhaps if she survived enough as a prisoner and got to speak to the Grand Duke himself..
she'd at least get to spit in his face for all he'd done, and what all had been done unto her.

His Theocog pawed at the mud, a wild snort to accompany his own restless behaviour. Gwynne was wearing his scowl again, but instead of a tired man with a grumpy face, he was an angry man with a face infuriated. He was bloodlusty, and deeply disappointed, disgusted even, in his own men. Leeches to the empire, they were, but necessary ones.

Petrin had the gall to show herself. Not just herself, but the ragtag peasantry of her foothills and the ragged banner of her lesser house. Insolent whore. She would be ignored. Their fight was with the city now. Battering rams held by men had been ineffective, even against the previously broken gate. But it had been reincforced with new, supple wood. So they had set it on fire. And then rammed it again. It would break soon, and if not, it would crumble under the tongue of flame.

Petrin's distraction would only be dealt with if she charged, or parlayed. Otherwise, they might as well have been stalks of wheat for all Gwynne cared. The horns, deep and throaty, reverberated against the stone walls and the drums beat out a rythym quick and tense, but also in time with a beating heart. There was a primal aspect to it all, and Gwynne's men could feel it. Blood would run in these streets, lest a miracle occur or the Archduke himself called it off. For the first time in days, Gwynne smiled. An ugly smile, one born of the anticipation of pain. The knowledge that a lesson in fear would be taught to these people, and he would be their teacher.

Her hands were shaking on the rage. She was ignored. She felt the tickling fear of what was happening race through her blood. She knew she had been seen. The long line of armed men were too great a number he shouldn't have had. Yet her importance seemed short fed, and she closed her eyes to calm herself.

She should have known it had become more than just her now, more than just simple talk. But her men were the ones who raised the first attack, the first crime of war...
So who could blame her int he way she countered?

The winds had been silent- the men should have been thankful, but off in the distance, even she knew a storm was brewing- threatening to blanket Ahjfeld with more snow. But distance didn't matter. She felt her powers calling forth, gripping and twisting at the winds that began to charge, even a mile away from where she stood. And rage over took her, and she took the winds, and soon the men would begin to feel it- perhaps as a small whip at first, but it wouldn't take long to realize the winds were growing, as trees began to sway and creak and kick off their snow, casting it like a horde of locust into the winds, that were now building and howling like great gales to rival those of a great sea storm.

The wind had begun to snuff out the weaker flames, and even had lessened the burning of the gate. Gwynne had oil thrown on it, and the burning resumed with just as much feorcity. Ahjfeld's damn winds had picked up at the most innoportune time. A great shattering creak sounded from the gate, as one of two battering rams tore the wooden doors from one side of hinges. The hinges themselves had held, but the wood had been weakened by flame and struck endlessly for the last ten minutes.

The mens' bloodied hands had paid off, and they renewed their attack. The gate would fall soon, if the wind didn't pick up a snow storm and stop them frozen. Then, when the gate fell, so too would the city. It had been too long since Gwynne had sacked a city. He'd begun a war chant among his captains, and they sang the praises of Ansgar while they prepared to slaughter those who worshipped him. "Shoot her," Gwynne called to his captain of the archers.

Within seconds four rows of thirty black arrows apiece came raining down from longbows in the direction of Petrin's men. Whether or not they hit their targets was a mercy of the wind, but Gwynne didn't care. The gate would fall. The gate would fall and then the fun would begin. Calent would have his province, broken and burnt or not at all.

The winds protected only she who commanded them- bolts being deflected like the snows still yet to fall. But even as her powers came calling, billowing up in warning-
she watched in horror as the gates did fall. And her stomach sank.

Maybe it was all a mistake. Maybe she should have conceded. Maybe.. this all would have happened anyway.  She swore and let her magics go to hell. It was hard to tell if she was dragging them along as her steed tore across the snowy landscapes, or if she instigated teh full fury of a hellish wind.

It didn't matter now. She had only one task at hand, and it was to defend her land against those seeking it harm- while her own people were waking up to this windy world now flooding with the cries of war.

The screams of women and children punctuated the rhythmic beating of the drums and the bass rumble of the battering rams on the breaking gate. Like a cacophonous song of terror and destruction, it encompassed the city and echoed from her walls. The din was paired with the stench of burnt oil and the choking black smoke, an inky cloud that filled the sky and tinged the howling snow ashen.

Gwynne smiled, ignoring the flecks of snow and ash that pelted his face. This was going wonderfully. His hammer was loose in his belt loop, and he clenched and unclenched his right hand in anticipation. He was jittery, a light shiver present in his tense jaw. His off hand was white-knuckle tight around the reins of his steed. Battle was never pretty, but it could be exhilarating. The adrenaline of past battles' experience had already begun to rush through him, and he was itching to fight. To win. To Conquer. This was what he had been bred for. This is what he would die for.

Another great creaking, followed by a crack so thunderous as to silence the screams. Only, there was more screaming... but this was screaming in victory, a war cry filled with the malicious intent of an army of witch hunters, child murderers. Soldiers. Men doing their duty... the duty of war. Gwynne led the charge, his great grey-blue charger leaping over the burning shards of oak and steel, landing amongst a courtyard of awaiting men. Some had already fallen, thanks to their gate-crashing, but now the survivors had to deal with a warlord. In quick and brutal blows, five men lay battered and dying, if not already dead. Gwynne's smile had turned into a predatory snarl, and with the roar he let loose his army began to flood through the broken defenses. Ahjfeld had been infiltrated, and tonight it would burn.

@Spicyspice
@Magyar

(joining the fight as we outlined in the plotting thread. Do let me know if anything is off or I need to make corrections.)

Wylie had arrived a few days late. Probably for the better, as a large army was camped outside Wallund by the time he arrived. It looked like the Grand Duke had meant to force His the Starks' hand, and judging by siege, right into his. Wyndham forces kept to the hills. Wyndham forces kept to the hills and avoided Gwynns's scouts while they probed the siege. There was no way they could meet such an army in the field. Wylie had mostly rangers under his command with a handful of knights. And there were the three wise-women. The army had been intercepting caravans due for Wallund. Sieging was hungry work. Wylie made sure he got to them first, and allowed the Three Crones to blight the food. Mind you, sickness might have reached the city too, but he had mages to mend the survivors. The grand duke's men had no such thing and would be shitting themselves to death in some days, gods willing. Of course, that was all rendered moot when they stormed the gates...

He sat atop a hill now. Oswin, his squire, was at one side. Old Morganella at the other. "Wh-what do we do my lord?" the boy's face paled, and he suddenly looked a lot younger than eighteen. Wylie couldn't answer. He wished Calliban had come. Or his father. Or anyone to bear the weight of the decision.

Wallund began to turn orange against the sky. If any Starks lived he'd have friends, that was for sure. More strange was the frost that answered the flame. From the hilltop it looked as if a wave and ice and snow had enveloped the battlefield. Amidst the wave you could just make out several figures on horseback. Mages? As close to friends one could hope for. "A burning city is a bad place to be trapped. And I don't suppose a charge across snow will go well. Pick off their rear." Wyndham archers moved forward, knights positioned in front, and launched a volley into the grand duke's flank.

"And bring the prisoner." Wylie's squire frowned at the order but returned with two guards holding a young woman, kicking flailing. She was a knight and prized captive. It took three to handle her and one was almost bitten.

"Swamp fuckers!" she spat and cursed. "Angsar damn you!"

"A fine thing you waited until now to be so... so cruel. It would be a shame to die with a broken nose and fat lip. Especially with such a face." Wylie replied softly, almost taunting. In all honestly she probably gave her guards hell for weeks and toting around an Adhara was a pain. No matter. He produced a curved and made of bronze and white oak, and the Three Crones began speaking in the old tongue. The lady-knight's god could not still their voices.

The only thing Petrin was thankful for was the lack of any mordecai with a good enough range in his possession. And as she watched her castle get stormed, the fury of the winds picked up as it felt her agony. With it, it forced the skies to produce snow prematurely, and soon flurries amplified just how rough the oncoming winds were.

Too bad it did little to hinder an entire army that ransacked and slaughtered everything in their past. Petrin balked, feeling the bile rise like acid in her belly as the winds calmed suddenly and she made motion to storm the castle herself. The men at her side caught her, reminding her of her sustained injury, and that, as heroic as the deed might seem, she would be throwing away her life.

"We should run. We're out numbered. Run to fight another day."

But there were tears in Petrin's eyes as she shook her head.
"How do you expect me to run away from this? My home? They're destroying it. Can't you hear the people scream?"

The sickening schlick of Gwynne's hammer sliding from the ruined skull of a man-at-arms was quiet in comparison to the pandemonium of war, but to he, it was louder than all the rest. He was focused, a tunnel-vision of red rage obscuring the outside. Only those he fought garnered his attention, and may Ansgar help their doomed souls.

He was slowly but surely beating his way into the heart of the city, the mass of black and white tabards cutting through the city's inhabitants like wheat farmers during the reap. Dark crimson filled the cracks in broken cobblestone roads, and still, the fire of the gate belched black shadows across the sky. It was a dark day, to say the least. Gwynne was unaware of the outside forces nipping at his flanks and though they might do some damage to the lasting occupation of Ahjfeld's prime keep, whether or not they could stop the onslaught of the Duke's men was yet to be seen. Perhaps the day could be won for the Stark Clan, but it seemed far from likely.

"Easy... easy...." Wylie coaxed, grimacing as his blade found the heart. The guards tried to look away and Wylie cringed, trying not to hesitate. You couldn't with something like this. Had to do the deed. Soon blood oozed from the corpse and stained the snow. They continued their chant and the bloodsoaked earth churned. Then it split open and a hulking beast of cold stone and jagged ice emerged, screeching in triumph. More followed - one for each mage. They were stupid and vicious, but easily controlled. Wylie felt his mind grip his daemon's like his hand would a sword.

Oswin blew a horn and Wyndham forces emerged from the forest, white-and-green banners flying. By now the Grand Duke's men were mounting a counter-attack, but one meant for archers, not elementals. Petrin's blizzard had slowed them some, leaving them prone to another volley of arrows. The daemons lead the charge as they met the reserve force. A mordecai at the vanguard found himself engulfed in cold mist, freezing skin to steel. He faltered, shocked his aura did nothing, and a stone fist sent him flying, limbs bent unnaturally. Brave as the riders were the daemons stood fifteen feet with voices like thunder - the horses did not care for it. Many who weren't frozen or dead broke ranks.

Meanwhile Wylie and his daemon, Oswin, and a contingent of riders broke off from the frey. A small, ragged looking force lingered near the far gate. He wanted to know what they were all about. As they approached it became clear these were not soldiers. Old men, young men, and even a woman! The young lord straightened his posture, and Oswin lifted their banner. "Who goes? Do you stand against the grand duke? Lucky weather you've brought." he gave a half-smile.

The ice elemental gave a jagged grin somewhere between maniacally friendly and horrifying.

She noticed the approach of these strange mages long before they were before them. Were they friend or foe? It was hard to tell in such a harsh climate as this, and Petrin did little to steel the winds riled by her anger. But she stilled her tongue, waited for the man to approach before stealing the blade from the nearest man and pointing it straight at Wylie's head.

"Take another step and your head will roll in the snow." Her eyes flared unnaturally blue, though green rarely dominated the snows. "You will answer to us first, for you're on my lands."
The swirling winds made her feel as epic and strong as she felt, even in her feeble position and bleeding leg.

"State your name, clearly now. And where you've come from. And why."
The men beside her were about to protest but her hand went up to silence them, eyes only on Wylie.

((Not to bump @Magyar 's spot.  I didn't move anything in the battle. Figured in the time it takes for tides to shift Perin and Wylie mgiht have an exchange))

The few sworn-men Wylie brought raised their blades in turn. And the daemon hissed as the girl's magic flared. A fine thing he brought guards. Mage or not this ragged bunch ought to be more grateful. The lord stood tall, trying to look calm, but lowered his visor all the same. "Wylie Wydham. Lord of Caelshire. Regent of Hightower. We've come to expel the Grand Duke from Ahjfeld. Neither he nor the late Buttswicks have been doing a fine job of it.

"And your lands? Wallund is a Stark castle, isn't it? Or it was. Its the army within we're looking to smash." Wylie paused to study the posse more closely. If the woman was leading them that meant- oh. She was the daughter. He flushed, every so slightly, motioned his knights to stand down. It was her fault for not wearing livery and looking like a farmer.

"You're Petrin Stark, aren't you? I sent you a letter."

She didn't once drop her weapon, but her face hardened before creasing at his realization of her title.
"Yes, I am Petrin Stark."

She looked Wylie over. It had been a good while since she'd ever seen the man. The last time might have been at a party where she had to wear some fancy, frilly dress. No doubt she looked anything like the candid style a lady ought to. Not that she cared. And she was wounded.

The men at her side, at least, were smart enough to remain quiet as the pair conversed.

"I never received a letter." Her lips flattened before sinking into a frown. "I was a little preoccupied."

She still held the blade, but realized what side he spoke for. And with some hesitation, she eventually lowered the blade.
"The Lord of Caelshire is late if he wanted to speak with the Grand Duke's men. As you can see, they only have intentions of making sure the lands are secured for the crown."

Wylie remembered Petrin as well from past balls and banquets. Gods, the last must have been a decade ago. She had been a  pretty girl, seated close to the place of honor beside boys in silken doublets and ruffled shirts. He was a smallish child, and sent bundled in outlandishly dyed scarves and tartan. The fierce and bloody woman before him bore little resemblance. Hopefully that was true for him too.

"I hadn't intended to do much speaking with the crown. I thought your house might be interested in talking. We're both ripe for plunder by the grand duke" Wylie cast an eye to Wallund, before looking to his squire. "Oswin, do you have it?" The ginger youth fumbled with his pack and produced a furled scroll. Of course it fell in the snow. Oswin gracelessly slid off his horse with a sigh and tiptoed forward to offer it to Petrin amidst the eye-rolls.

QuoteLady Stark,

I hope the winter has been kind to you and your family. And I am deeply saddened to hear of your dear father's failing health. I am writing you as I believe we, as neighbors, have much to discuss as the war continues.

Like my family yours did not raise men when Harmond came through Ahjfeld. Perhaps you disagreed with Grand Duke Calent? Perhaps you feared Blaith Harmond? Perhaps you long for peace? I cannot say. I do not think General Mordeth, or the Grand Duke, will forget.

Also like my family, unless Wallund stands empty, you have fighting men who are not so weary of battle. We would treat with you to ensure our lands remain well-protected, and prosperous, through this unfortunate turmoil. For alas, without the late and honorable Chester Buttswick I fear we are without a leader to look to.

Should you agree, I would prefer we treat in person. Whether you come to Hightower, or I to Walland, is your choice.

Wylie Wyndham
Lord of Caelshire
Regent-Lord of Hightower

Wylie gestured toward a collection of banners and archers barely visible atop a far off ridge. "Unless you're keen to lose more blood and men we should get you behind my army, and me tot he front. Unless you and your men object to joining my host?" he turned his horse, meaning to ride off and make them all follow. Well sort of. He hesitated a moment to make sure she didn't need more convincing.

Petrin folded the letter in half before lifting her eyes to meet to Wylie's.

"The men I see is all I've got."

"But don't let our numbers fool ya," Sam finally spoke out, having grown a bit too anxious remaining quiet during all their civil talk. He rolled his broad shoulders, smiling so broad it was a cut of white against the dark contrast of his greying beard. "Men all here with me know Ahjfeld better than the backs of our hands, we do."

"Aye," the men all agreed, nodding with one another and readjusting their belts. They might not have had formal weapons like blades, but the sharp ends of their brutal axes were nothing to scoff at.

Petrin smirked, knowing full well these men were ready to die for her if they needed to. The north were a stock above the rest, close nit because they were close bred. Lords never remained too high out of reach of the commoners, and for these lessons, she was glad for who she was and where she came from. Pride alone,s he knew, would not win this war, but she wasn't about to let her castle burn down without a fight.

"Though I carry no banners, nor do my men, Wallund blood will strike and remain true." She pressed a fist across her chest and nodded, the honorable bow of the Ahjfeld army. She of course, knew it well and held it true, and the men all along side her, though trappers and hunters them all, they all carried the same gesture with crooked grins and leaning eyes.

"It's better to die in battle than from a damned leg wound," she joked, knowing full well she ought not be doing this- but if she was going to die, so be it. Her death would at least not be in vain-
and what was one raw, bleeding leg to hold her back?
She had already had the men sully her and her land. Petrin was not about to go down without a fight.

That damn crown kisser would pay.

Gwynne was in the middle of a three on one spar, and winning it too, when a great crackle and snap thundered through the air. He paused and so too did the men he was fighting, all turning back to where the sound had originated. The Gate.

The formidably large wooden gates had been aflame for the better half of an hour, and it was no small flame that had caught. While the duke's men had pillaged the outer rings of the city, it had burned, and now whilst the main chunk of the wooden gate was still intact, the beams on the gigantic hinges of the right side door, the ones that kept it secured to the wall and mechanism, broke. Split, snapped, weakened by flame and the lack of a base to support it, the several dozen metric tons of oak fell from the wall with a creaking roar that silenced all but the monstrous whispering of the flame. The sounds of war died, in exception of a few clangs and yells. It was almost like slow motion, every eye in the city and out watching the gate fall. It never made it to the ground in one piece, crashing into the left door and taking a chunk of the left-hand wall with it. Dozens of voices called out, screaming their last breaths and cutting the silence before the erupting crunch of the gate drowned out all other noise. The gargantuan oaken door splintered into thousands of pieces, almost exploding on impact, and letting out a billowing cloud of shadowy black smoke. Along with the newly formed pillar of black, hundreds of thousands of sparks flitted up with it, like tiny fiery faeries swarming up and out of existence.

The clink of mail behind him shook Gwynne from the spectacle, reminding him that he was in combat with three other men, all of whom were behind him. He swung his hammer, wide and sweeping. He meant to catch one of them on the turnaround, and the spike war hammer found its mark in the cheekbone of the man closest to him. He jabbed for the helm of the man on the far right, twisting on his steed. The oversized charger gave a few panicked kicks at the center man's position, and Gwynne spun back towards the gate, giving the men no more thought.

The gate had fallen, crushing at least thirty of his men, perhaps forty. That wasn't his concern. His concern was that the wall, the stone that had fallen, and they only proved his worried theory. They were trapped. Most of his men outside the wall, and his small raiding party inside the city. He didn't worry too much about his men's chances, overall, but if his lieutenants were killed, and his army destabilised, their numbers wouldn't matter. His faith in Perrin's abilities didn't suggest that, but stranger things had happened. What he worried about was the infiltration force. If the Stark bitch could find a way into her goddamned city, which she could, for there were always dozens of backdoors, he could only stand so long without reinforcements. They were playing on her field, without the muscle he'd brought. Perhaps three hundred men were in the city. Too many of them were simply foot soldiers. Gwynne scowled, turned back into the city, and rode for the fortress in which the Starks made their home.

"Fall in, men!" he cried, ragged and commanding amidst the newly sparked chaos, "We take the castle!"

"So I see," Wylie said dryly, glancing from Petrin's band of hunters to the burning city. The brother must have rode off with their professional force. Though to be fair to the defenders, the besieging army was cream And to be fair the attacking army and general were some of the Duke's elite forces. None of that made him feel better, but at least Sam was optimistic.

The Wyndham vanguard pressed slowly but steadily into the rear of the encampment. The ice daemons left dozens of broken bodies in their wake. One had lost a horn to a poor, brave giant of a man and his hammer. More importantly the daemons moored their adversaries in the the frozen earth.  Archers made quick work of them. Wylie and Petrin made their way to the vanguard, trailing behind the men-at-arms and monsters. "Can you manage another storm? Their commanders are not foolish. They'll figure out pitch and fire can harm my friends here. And they are... costly to replace.

"Take one alive if you can! We'll need more for tribute!" Wylie called out, as if he were simply asking them to march. He'd hoped Petrin's men weren't church-going and squeamish.

If they were cautious they could do severe damage to the reserve force and command. The men in the burning city would have nowhere to flee. But he saw the eyes of Petrin and her men were fixed on the burning city; judging by the smoke and burning gate things were not going so well within. The Lord of Caelishire arched a skeptical brow, "You can't mean to go in there. The Mordecai. Your leg..."

"Oh... oh my poor dear girl. Such fire. But come, come, oh what a mess..." crooned an almost motherly voice. A gray-haired woman, covered in feathers and bones and charms, trotted beside Petrin. 

Petrin frowned deeply. She had been ignoring the pain of her injured leg for long, and once someone came tickling past, she winced and placed a hand over it protectively. She narrowed her eyes at the old woman, before turning to Wylie.

"If I can get inside, the men that are left... they'd rally behind me. And we'd be fighting on our turf. The castle wasn't built by fools."

Then her eyes narrowed towards the strange woman, her hand still guarding her leg before she looked to Wylie.
"She one of yours?"s he asked, uncertain what to make of this random, elderly woman just making her way through the ranks of men beginning their march of war.

"How can you sure there are men left to rally?" Wylie frowned, eyeing the ruined gate and rising smoke. If the city was lost it seemed wiser to simply decimate the grand duke's army. Petrin probably didn't want to hear it. "If I sent men with you you're sure you could flank whomever's in there? And you trust the keep? Your outer walls have not fared so well.

"And Morganella is a mage sworn to me. Their Calleach." The  bone-clad woman had turned her gaze toward one of the larger ice daemons, murmuring in tongues.

The Wyndham raiding party held its ground for now. Perhaps they'd press farther, or some would enter the city while the rest broke for the wooded hills...

Petrin cringed. She knew he was right. But she was growing anxious.
"And your certain we can crush him in one direction?" Because she could not be certain his doubts weren't true.

"They outnumber us. We can bleed them, draw them out, stretch their supplies..." Wylie gave a sharp sigh. Even with magic it would be dangerous to push any farther into the main force. "I don't suppose you know who leads them? Where he is now?"

"Gwynne Annefain, he's their captain. He was sent by the Grand Duke and-" Need she prattle on more. "As far as his location, he's somewhere in there," she gestured towards her burning home. "He's their leader. So look for the one barking orders and I can assure you, it's him."

"Fucking whoresons, the lot of them!" Gwynne roared, hurling insults at the men on the keep's short walls, "What men are you?! Who says you stand tall against us?! We are Ansgar's chosen!"

The walls of the keep were short, far shorter than the city walls enclosing them, but they did have a distinct advantage: They were heavily manned and terrifically barricaded. Gwynne had assumed the gate was blocked from within by whatever had occupied the yard, and then some by the fruitless attempts at breaking their way in. And above them lay an uncounted amount of the Stark whelp's men-at-arms. It could be that they outnumbered Gwynne. It could be the opposite. From where he stood, Gwynne had no way of telling.

Outside the walls, his troops had begun excavating the the stone. First they had tried to scale the pile, but the unstable ruin had come down on them again and again, to dangerous effect. In lieu of that method they had thought to dig through the smouldering wood and make paths between the stone barricades. Their progress was slow, but sure. Within the next half an hour, the Duke's men would again have full access to the city upon which they laid siege.

"A soft name for such a hard man. Probably took beatings for it as a boy. Or gave them."

The master at arms bellowed. Another volley of arrows struck at the stragglers as they tried to advance through the sleet and frozen muck. They were beginning to return fire, though, and one of the elementals was coated in burning pitch. Wylie was not sure if it felt pain, though its rage was palpable as it sent a pair of screaming horses and their riders flying. Several Wyndham soldiers could be seen dragging one of the duke's men toward the trio of witches, whose chanting was beginning to grow hoarse and strained. Another tribute.

Now they were clearing the gate. Lovely. With that Wylie ordered his men forward toward the excavation. "We can't dither. If your keep can't endure we'll trade officers for whomever's inside. You won't have a city or much of anything if they breach the gate. Bring another storm, quell the fires and we'll smash them." he gestured to the ice giants, it wasn't the time to be sugar-coating things. Of course, Neither Wallund nor Petrin would be any good if the Starks all died because of him. Well, maybe in a fit of loneliness and despair she'd fall into his arms and they'd wed and have an heir to this place. But who'd want to inherit a decimated and ruined city? And she also did not seem the wilting type.

His mind briefly flickered to the mage camps. He'd made sacrifices to get his nephews back. Loyal men had died. The shy and smiling boy he was would not have made the Confessor confess, either. Wylie gave a sharp sigh, "One hundred men and a single summoner. That much I can spare. But you'll stay back where its safe. Now how can we get in?" Some men-at-arms broke off from the main force. They would be following Wylie and Petrin to this back entrance if she agreed.

The battle roared off in the distance like a terrifying storm too surreal. It was harsher than any of the winter winds that had decimated needed crops, and terrifying tornadoes that tore down from the heavens and had taken Ahjfeld castles from the lands in the past. But those were weather's wounds, not the slaying hand dealt by men.

Her eyes grew distant as she regarded her city, and for a moment, it seemed as if the Stark woman might cry. But then a heavy swallow had her turning as she cut a look to Wylie.

"There's a way in. From the other side. I see no soldiers there. It's a secret passage- an escape route for the royals through a siege." Now it looked like they might make use of it, taking in through the tunnels and going at the siege rather than from it.

She glanced up at the skies. It felt as if any mordecai resistance was waning still from this distance, and she felt her finger tips tingle as she pulled on the winds still yet to come from further North. They could use these winds, though they seemed so far away... even still, she reached for them, and reached for them still, until a rush of winds swept up her hair and had the men all around them gasping at their sudden charge. She smiled a little, but felt light headed.

"North path watch, it's called," she told him, world skewing as she tried to focus, the winds feeling like a barrel. She lifted a hand, pointing towards a cove of tall pines to the north west.
"Beneath the third wooden bridge up the water path. A door.. there's a door that leads to the castle tunnel. But even within the last doors will be locked."

She touched a hand to her breast, eyes closed as she tried to hold onto this reality. No, no. It would do no good for her to pass out here. But she had lost a lot of blood..
and her powers were becoming untamed, and the winds- so harsh it whipped at her skin and stung at her ears.  She barley had a chance to find the key hung away on a tie about her neck before she felt her legs give way as she fell into Wylie's arms, catching onto him with a start.

(@Magyar @Spicyspice sorry for the long delay. I imagine we're eager to get all three characters in a confrontation)

The soldiers began getting in formation, some ready to break off and follow the rocky trails toward the north path. And then Petrin collapsed, Wylie just managing to catch her before she keeled from her saddle. "Petrin? Petrin! Catch her!" a pair of soldiers already noticed, and rushed forward to guide Petrin off her horse and carried the lady some yards away behind a crag. Wylie trotted his horse after, sliding off to get a better look. He knew something of medicine but was no chirurgeon. He had other mages, much better versed in the secrets of land and ley, but they were at the front. Clumps of blood were encrusted about the rim of her boot. She was remarkable to have stood so long

"Gallant of them, putting an unarmed lady to the sword. But Mordecai are spiteful by nature - comes from a life of toiling in mud - and being told you're important for how ordinary and drab you make the world.

"You should have said you were hurt." Wylie tried not to sound admonishing, hoping to keep her awake as cut away her stocking. There was an enormous gash across her calf, throbbing and swollen and purple. Mangled flesh did not phase him. "We can take you back and set it and give you willow's milk - if you want that - but I don't think you do." The young lord's gaze flickered from Petrin to her steed. Clever and affectionate as horses could be there was a tragic stupidity in how the beasts let themselves be used. Wylie called his stallion Dauntless. He heard some knights avoided names and attachments.

With a sharp sigh Wylie reached into his coat, producing a crude doll of dried mandrake. He beckoned Orin to bring forth Petrin's horse, and began to speak in the old tongues. The great daemon of snow and stone which flanked him began to keel over, turning into rubble, but the doll began to grow... two of its twisted limbs black wrapping about Petrin, and two her horse.

Petrin nearly swallowed her heart as it jumped into her throat, eyes so wide she felt they might pop from sheer surprise as the enchantment reached out around her. It wasn't until then she finally had her tongue as she seemed to protest the help a little as she squirmed and glared towards Wylie.

"What difference does it make if I'm hurt?" she asked, words biting. "War is war. Many get injured but the battles still wage on."

"Above! They pour oil from above!"

The black-clad armsmen scattered from the base of the stout walls, scrambling like roaches from the light. The white of their tabards had long since been dirtied by grime, blood, and ash. Gwynne's white cape had itself blackened at the edges, torn as it was from the jagged rubble and blades stuck at odd angles in the air. This siege-within-a-siege was becoming a much larger hassle than Gwynne would have liked. His progress forward was too slow, and the excavation behind him was only just getting underway. Twenty minutes, perhaps. That was the longest he'd have to wait before either his men began to spill through a newly made gap on the collapsed wall, or he was overwhelmed here. The defendants were not so foolish as to forsake their vantage point for a head-on counterattack against Gwynne's men. The Stark archers had been raining down hell upon his men, who'd taken refuge under their shields or fallen debris.

Every now and then the men would dash for the wall and try to scale it before the next wave of pain came over, but they'd faced little success and lost a small but worryingly increasing group of their number each time. The arrows were now accompanied by burning oil and tar, it seemed.

"Blasted Starks!" Gwynne bit out under his breath, "Whelps, the lot of them..."

He could only wait, unwilling to lose his life in the foolish bid his soldiers had attempted, but also unwilling to relent this position. If they left, a proper defense might be set up around the inner keep, thoroughly fucking up everything for Gwynne and the Dukesmen much worse down the line.

"Wouldn't do to have you dead or crippled. Just another sacking of Thaedes if you're killed. Your voice would be more valuable," he cleared his throat. "Among, um, other things.

"You can join my reserve if you'd want safety. I'd prefer it. But won't we need you to get inside?" He nodded toward the city. Passage was liable to be filled with tricks and traps for would-be Invaders. Progress at the gate was slowed. But I'd they were going to enter the city it had to be done now!

"Be still, just for a moment..." fungoid hyphae wrapped themselves lovingly about the horse, and Petrin's shattered leg. Necromantic energy coursed through the Wylie's new companions. Petrin's horse began to buck and sway weakly in protest, looking deathly ill in a matter of seconds. Mesnwhile the highborn girl's fractured leg reformed with a series of sickening cracks.

If she could see the way her castle, her people, held their own, she would be proud in that moment. Her castle was one of the few left still standing in this duchy, so war torn it had scars as deep as rivers. But as it was, she was too busy focused on the pain of her wounds rehealing, and a shrill cry errupted from deep within as her breath escaped her. Weak from the moment, she fell forward and clutched onto what she could as bond and flesh mended to the terrible, sacrificial magics as her equine squealed out in it's own set of pain- a sound she'd never forget, that echoed inside her ears as the beast bucked and squealed and broke free for just a split second before it fell- crying, writhing into silence as Petrin watched in silent horror the eyes of the horse glaze over and it's body, go still.

She hadn't even noticed that beneath her clutching hands, that the bloodied wound no longer bled, that the bone no longer was broke, nor the pain there any longer. No, the fearful beating of her heart to see such terrible magics at hand was deafening in itself. And she couldn't stare her gaze away from where she remained.

The storms had gotten away from her by now, like the reins of a horse gone wild, and no longer seemed to care which side it lashed at. She cringed. The winds stung at her eyes, but not more deeply than the loss before her as she raised her eyes to look at Wylie, her voice wavering.

What had he said? Her lips remained open.

The sounds of war brought her back to her senses as she looked away, eyes snapping to the castle. And when she stepped forward, she toppled out of surprise, rather than pain, and turned her skewed expression to the man before her.

"My horse may also have been as valuable as my voice," came a biting reply. She jut out her chin, knowing full well these consequences were his own. She looked down to her leg, then back to Wylie. It was a blessing not to feel pain. But hte horse...
They were invaluable during these times of war.

But even she was not so foolish to believe more valuable than her own life.

"You and I are already allies." A consequence of the war. She looked away from him, an dtowards the path towards the river. "Come. We've wasted enough time." The longer they stay out here, she knew it would only give the enemy the upper hand. "My people need me."



With Wylie and his men following her lead, Petrin Stark lead them forward, up the curling stream path, past two wooden bridges to where North path watch lay hidden beneath. It seemed unassuming, a place set so far to the north of the castle walls- but Starks were no fools. She lead the army down around the bridge to where the weeds were overgrown, obscuring the door. She wrenched the grasses aside to reveal the decaying, strong door behind it. At least she knew this hadn't been found. But she knew it'd only be a matter of time before the enemy would know what they were doing. So many surrounding such a small bridge...
And so many other castles had entry ways like this.

"Come." She had opened the door and stood before the void of darkness. "We must hurry."

"The Kingdom lost for want of a horse?" Wylie glanced to the dead animal, it wasn't a very funny quip, but it was a kinder way to go than many alternatives. "I'd nurtured that little mandrake for years if its any consolation."

They hustled across bridge and to the passage. The masonry was crude and rough that it seemed more a cave and less a castle. At least it wasn't cramped. Several squires struck torches. Their journey seemed to take hours as Petrin took them down a series of winding and branching tunnels. She had it well-memorized, but without her they'd be quite lost. Soon muffled screams and crashes sometimes echoed in the distance; they were getting close. Wylie held up a hand and felt about his cloak, producing a grizzly totem. It was the Adhara's frozen heart; Orin wrinkled his nose.

"Where will this put us? I'd suppose they're at the keep now by the look of it."

A great crumbling of stone and timber alerted Gwynne to the success of his excavators. They'd cleared enough away to begin filing in. Good. He would need their strength soon enough.

His strike force, numbering now about nine dozen, the rest having been picked off by archers or scalded and crushed under the stubby walls of the keep. He'd seen some individual men flee into the alleys and between the rubble of the city, but he counted them as dead or deserted now. Only those standing by his side could he count on. And they were not faring greatly either. With the shields of their fallen compatriots, they'd hobbled together a set of crude lean-tos, each hiding perhaps five to seven men. Assisted by the houses and debris, almost all of the Duke's men were hidden from the defenders on top of the walls.

The Starksmen had defended well. Gwynne could respect that, even while he cursed them for it. He was crouching, resting on his haunches and absentmindedly twisting his war hammer back and forth between his fingers. He dared not convene with the rest of his men, perhaps fifteen strides away, for fear of being sniped along the way. They could even see eachother, and speak as well, but they couldn't do much as whisper, lest their enemies hear them. Strategy dictated they were to wait, and now that the Dukesmen had begun to re-enter the city, that was a truly viable option.

A horn blew by the gate, a pure note cutting through the screaming wind and crackling fire. It crooned on the air, before cutting out and beggining again, this time joined by another. A deep drum, quiet in comparison to the roaring blaze, but still very audible began to start up again, like it had when they had stormed the city gates.

Gwynne smiled in a wolffish flash of white among the grime and blood, and fumbled for a horn he too had at his belt before raising it to his lips. He let loose a loud, round note, answering his men's calls. The drums and horns went silent for a moment, before returning in full force, accompanied by the roar of men. Around him, Gwynne's foot soldiers wore similar expressions, and began readying their weapons again.

Gwynne loosed another note from his horn, only to hear four or five more in return, as well as the speeding in tempo of the drums.

"Soon," he growled, to no one in particlar. He stole a glance to the Stark flag, rippling above the keep as if in defiance to him, "Very soon indeed."

"The path splits ahead. One leads to a hidden hallway tucked behind a false way beside the front gate." She made a gesture, as if they could see the other path- though at the moment, they could not.
"The other leads up to the royal chambers." She paused a moment to release her breath before the hallway narrowed and the quietly rounded a bend. Just as she described, the pathway split. She bit her lip and stared forward.

"The question is, do we hit high or low."

Had this day occurred a thousand years prior, it would have been legend. An overwhelming force warring against an insolent northern hold on behalf of the glorious and holy nation of the day, and at the centre of it, a clash of two spirits. One the vile and contemptuous heretic vixen, and her opponent, the noble knight captain, carrying out his righteous campaign. Truly, a magnificent tale. He would see it through to its magnificent end.

Gwynne's smile was wide, welcoming even, as his underlings swarmed forth from the gates. Though some of the advancing Dukesmen fell to Stark arrows, the Captain's apparent mirth did not falter. Not even when the first of the runners stumbled, danced the dance of a man unbalanced, and fell in a jumble of limbs and wasted momentum did the Captain's smile fade. And even still when Gwynne reached out with his war hammer, hooking the runner with the pick, and dragged the wincing, wide-eyed man to safety - even then he wore the face of one overjoyed. For despite all of this spindly infantryman's personal failings, Gwynne Annefain knew what he represented. He was the first, though certainly not the last, of a great force soon to flood these streets. Soon to break the gates of the inner keep, and to push not just their way into the castle, but their thumbs into the eyes of each and every Stark whelp that hid therein.

Until of course, the runner spoke.

"Lord," the smaller man spluttered, still hooked at the shoulder by Gwynne's hammer, "Great giants of stone and ice! A force of mages assails our flanks!"

It was then, in a moment so small that it sat betwixt heartbeats, that Gwynne's mood fell. Fell as had Wallund's gates. Fell as would his hammer upon Petrin Stark's pretty little skull.

Gwynne drew in a cold breath, the air brisk despite the roaring of distant flame, and looked up from the runner boy to the approaching Dukesmen. Past them, to the crumbling gates from which they came... to where the screams of men and great grinding thunder of stones could be heard faintly over the cacophony of the city. And he scowled.

"Form rank!" he bellowed, calling to the approaching Dukesmen, "Shield wall! Bring forth the Archers!"

Gwynne stood from his hobbled-together lean to, holding his shield up behind his head so as to protect his neck from the keep's own bowmen. He jogged to meet the quickly forming wall of black and white shields, pushing between them whilst his infantrymen from the raiding party slipped in of their own accord.

Once again behind friendly shields, Gwynne lowered his own, and levelled his hammer at an approaching lieutenant. He barked, "Bring about the bowmen, and have them fire volleys on that wall."

He swung his hammer back towards Wallund's keep, nearly taking off the head of a nearby soldier, "I want them to feel the sting of our arrows, as we have of theirs."

Gwynne lowered the hammer, to the relief of both his lieutenant and those in the shield wall around him. The Captain eyed his forces, more still coming in through the ruined gate. He turned again to the lieutenant, and ordered, "Find Commander Ramst. Tell him on order of the High Captain to mount a counter-attack on the flanking mages, and to send runners if either the line breaks or he cannot stage a successful defense. Go! Quickly!"

Gwynne shoved the man away none too lightly with his shield, and settled into position just behind the shield wall. He again faced the keep, and met the gaze of the defenders with his own steely glare. There were enough men to begin their push, and a quick glance back to the ruined gate confirmed that his archers were closing in rapidly. His smile, wolfish and warmongered, crept back on to his features. He reached for his horn, brought it up to his lips and loosed three short blasts. By the time he'd settled it back at his hip, the shield wall was advancing at a steady walk towards the Keep's Inner Gate.

"For Ansgar!" Gwynne roared, bashing his hammer against his shield, "For Connloath, Calent Allarick, for GLORY AND DEATH, BRING DOWN THAT GATE!"

It was then inspiration hit and Petrin's eyes blazed as she turned towards Wylie.
"Let them aim high as we hit low!"
She moved fast, loosening her armor and stretching her limbs.
"I need to run. Get to the chambers and lure their attacks in that direction." She paused and turned to cut off Wylie with a sharp look before he could protest. "It's me they want and they're bold enough to focus on that." She looked to the others and drew in a breath before exhaling, sharp.
"Can you move quietly and get into a position to take them down? They'll be using a shield wall. We'll need them to open themselves just right for us to do any sort of damage to their front line fighters."
She paused a moment, clutching a fist as it rested before her belly, her lashes hanging low as she sought for the familiar feeling....
The Wind.
Her brows furrowed, lips curling back to expose teeth for but a moment. She felt her body heat rise, her heart racing before she grunted and opened her eyes to Wylie again.
"The winds are strong," she forced a smile, but it was evident just that attempt weakened her. "I'll channel them in our favor."
So long as she could still get that connection...
The wind was fickle, and with adhara's and mordecai no doubt close by, her window of opportunity would have to rely on her distance away. So they had to keep them back as much as possible.
"I'm staying the wind, building it up. I'll release it once it's prudent."
She drew in another breath again, staring at the men in the darkness of the hallway.

"This moment is crucial. The men outside are hungry for our defeat, for a death to us beyond death itself; for some righteous cause to suffocate us." She shook her head at the very idea that the men beneath the Grand Duke felt themselves so heroic, and noble. She released another breath and stared at the group once more.
"We must turn the tides, to get the men to retreat or weaken them as much as we can. This campaign, no matter which way it goes, must send the message back to the Grand Duke- That the North is willing to protect it's will and way of life, and to honor the true laws that made this nation once great." She paused, a small smile quivering on her lips as she turned to Wiley, then the rest.
"I thank you all for bringing yourself as sacrifice, perhaps not in life, but in your time, your spirit, the very soul that makes us all. We will take this day and remember it, one where men and women were united over the basic freedoms that make us human," And her smile grew a bit more leftward as she looked to those not quite human among them. "Freedoms that make us peoples and creatures of what we know and have come to be as righteous. Let us take a moment, for those who pray, to pray to those Gods who humble us now, and have blessed us with this oppurtunity." She bowed her head, but not for too long- because time was of the essence. But they needed all of the help they could get.
"Thank you, Ansgars.. and of those Gods here today, protecting us."

Wylie watched Petrin give her speech, adoring eyes upon her. It must be nice to be that way, to so easily draw friendly and admiration. Such things were harder fought for him.
"Brave of you to draw their fire, but they seem fixed to take the keep. You being in there? It's just more danger and you might not make it out alive. At most we send a runner to pull your soldiers and servants out.

"I think we need to reach the gates and cut off reinforcements." Wylie looked her up and down. She seemed a bit like a storybook heroine. The kind of leader men might really.march to death for. But did she have the stomach for it? "We'll trap their frontline in a burning city with nowhere to run.

"We need to get you far from any Mordecai, and make your winds can fan the fires. Most soldiers aren't more than children in shiny armor, really. They can only take so much smoke and heat. We can pick them off as they come out." The Lord of Caelshire left the rest to her imagination. It was not exactly pretty. But where would the world be if people didn't think like him?

They pressed in grim silence through the passage. It was damp, dark, and musty. It seemed to be a crude crypt. Some of the bones and dried flowers laid out But soon they could hear the screams above as soldiers pressed into the sacked City. At the end of the roughhewn corridor there was a flicker of sunlight; the exit was near.

Petrin gave him a small smile at this reply.
"Yes, dangerous and foolish..." But so was taking on the Connlaothian army. She shook her head.
"I need my power at it's most potent. On the balcony of my keep.." she went on, drawing in a slow breath. "I'm most comfortable and closest to my powers." She paused a moment, smiling sheepishly again before looking to Wylie. "And is also a good point to get myself, and any other powerful mages at a good vantage point to make a strike."

Perhaps she should have stopped at just offering herself up on a platter for the enemy- but then again..
If others had powers as useful- why not let them come forward?

"Do you know of any others whom this might be of used to, Wylie?"
She hoped he'd answer quickly. Time was of the essence and who knew how much longer before they barreled down the gates.