COMITATUS: Prologue, Battle of Fruelaburh

[Dirty Chai]

The two camps had been gaping at each other from across the valley for over a week now.
Each sat upon a hill, but the hill of the invaders was a short, sallow ridge, while the high slope upon which the defenders sat was a steep, large bluff like the spine of a giant.
And today they were coming, these men from beyond the southern sea, these Southrons from the Oultremare.

Broda stood in front and looked out over the vale in front of him, the butt of his kite shield sitting into wet grass.
A light rain had kicked up, and the lightly forested landscape had become a bit slippery in the deluge of the past few days.

Broda was a man of King Adathal - risen to a paladin and honoured for his lifelong service.
Lifelong service, he reckoned, in these shieldwalls. As a paladin, he was expected to stand beside and around his lord, at the center of the shieldwall, like a bulwark to the enemy.

He turned his head slightly to look behind him at the silver-haired youth he called his nephew, Cunedda.
Cunedda was 'ere manhood, and had to learn to fight, so he was here under his uncle's watch.
But there was more to it; Cunedda's mother was an elf, and his siblings were just as likely attempting to rid themselves of their bastard brother.

Broda looked back out to the field, watching the enemy host begin to cross the valley, and his old hand gripped the shield tighter.
A spear sat in his other hand, and a sword worthy of his rank hung from his mailed waist.

He finally turned his gaze to look at the oriflamme, not far from him.
A red, crimson banner it was, dark and of the finest artisanry; a golden sunburst was displayed upon it, wide and bright for all to look upon it.
Sul would look upon this army with favor, and whoever these men fought would be Sul's enemy on earth. No fleeing, no mercy. Under the oriflamme, there was no advancing before the flag, nor was their routing when it stood before you. You could not turn your back upon mighty Sul's emblem.

There must've been half the lords of Sulendom present, if not more, putting aside their grudges and feuds to push back a conquering horde.
It took several, quick and bloody conquests of the southern kingdoms for the chieftains and kings of Sulendom to acknowledge the predicament before them.

King Adathal was a bearded, dying king, who had struggled for three decades with his siblings, cousins, and nephews for a united throne over the Aedlings.
But here he was, ready and prepared for the foreign threat which now advanced.
Adathal prepared for seven years, since he learned that these foreigners had crushed his rival, Recca, at Urthum in the south near the coast.

Now, it was the end of the harvest season and the invaders, having campaigned in the south of the kingdom all summer, were determined to continue their path.
They crossed over the Erma River not two weeks prior, but then found Adathal's coalition waiting for them, blocking their path to the town of Fruelaburh.

The leader of the enemy, it was said, went by the name "Faram." Broda figured this was some corruption of however the foreigners said his name.
He himself had heard their language, but it was a rather harsh gibberish to his ears.

Faram, then, knew that he needed to continue, take Fruelaburh, and spend the winter there.
In the past, this was no difficult task. The invaders had spent their winters in captured fortresses and then simply continued on once spring broke.

But now Adathal was waiting for him, with a position that couldn't allow Faraam to circumnavigate.
He had to face Adathal; even crossing back over the Erma River was a negative option, with Adathal's forces attacking from the rear as the invaders marched south with hungry, defeated, stomachs, bearing through the coming winter cold.

It was already cold, now, to be honest. The invaders were not dressed for the weather, and rode horses not suited for the climate.
Faraam had to act, Adathal knew. And so Adathal waited, not letting go of his prime positioning as Faraam likely hoped he would do.

And so Faraam finally attacked after a week, and advanced across the valley.
The shieldwall was ready. It was not heard of for footmen to hold fast against horsemen, especially these horsemen, but the shieldwall was ready and confident.
It was rainy, grim day, but Sul's faithful held the hill, united and ready.

[Gandalfus]

A tall, fair skinned figure stood alone, separate from the other men. Lanky and ungainly, he had squatted slightly, his emerald eyes straining for a sight of the enemy. Rain had dampened his hazelnut hair, with the mess of curls now sticking to his head. One hand lay on the weathered hilt of the dulled iron blade that hung from his hip, while the other hung loose by his side. Battered and dented, a battle-worn kiteshield lay flat on the ground, with a small helmet resting carefully on top of it, and an ordinary looking spear lying alongside. Eventually, he stood, his smooth, young face hardened into a frown as he scratched his messy mop with a wayward finger. Once he had decided his itch had been quenched, the young warrior pulled on his helmet, and his long, thin arms picked up his shield and spear from the ground. The young soldier looked upwards, at the arrayed banners, seeing if he could spot the banner of his Lord. Lord Sagramor was not a great king or Earldoman of many lands, but his Lord Sagramor was a great warrior, and a natural leader of men. Relaxing slightly as he spotted the black goose of his Lord, the young warrior wandered over to his Lord, who had gathered his small number of household warriors around him. For Sagramor was not the lord of a rich or fertile land; the land he ruled was cold and harsh, and was populated with men of a similar demeanor.

"Aella." One of his comrades greeted him grumpily, a short, stocky, dark haired man with a wild beard and cold eyes. Aella merely acknowledged him with a nod, taking his place near to his lord. Sagramor was a man of around thirty or forty summers, not particularly tall or strong, with fair skin, a gaunt face, and a hairless chin. Everything about him was ordered; his hair was cropped short, and his eyes were an unremarkable shade of brown. But still, he was no unremarkable man, being renowned as a fierce fighter and an astute tactician, Lord Sagramor has long served King Adathal, fighting in dozens of battles. Aella's father had fought under the black goose of Sagramor, and died defending it. Sagramor took Aella into his warband, to repay the blood debt.

The warband of Sagramor remained silent through the drizzling rain, as if waiting for something. The tension was rising, and Aella was itching to fight. It would be only his second battle, and he had developed a taste for the bloodlust inducing slaughter of the shield wall.

[Iron Aquilifer]

Haed had not long served the King, instead giving his spear to the bandit-clan Tyrfoern. Long had they existed on the southern shore, feeding themselves on the labours of their lessers. No king or nobleman had been able to crush them, despite trying everything from bribes to assassins to night raids carried out by bands of mercenaries. That was, until the enemy came.

A moment of weakness, of fear, led them to be dragged in to battle, fighting alongside their former prey in order to drive off the foreigners. It had not worked. They were crushed at Mosbyr Mire, the royal shieldwall broken and the army decimated. They were driven back from Armagoron, dragging their screaming injured from the raging bonfire which had once been a great town. North and north they fled, each new battle seeing battle-weary faces being replaced by the blank expressions of those who had lost everything. When Haed found himself in command of the Tyrfoern, more refugees than criminals, he saw the ragged column to relative safety in Suledom.

With little of their wealth left to them, the Tyrfoern looked to be set to fall apart, no less than eight rivals threatening to split the band between them and go back to a live of banditry. The only thing which kept them together was Haed's promise of revenge. King Adathal could give them that, the leader reasoned. This was their one great chance of seeing the invaders humbled and driven back.

A few hundred they were: old men in armour as stiff as they were; bandits armed with the weapons from a dozen fallen warriors, stoic with the knowledge of what was to come; former household soldiers without a king to serve, unsure of everything but the battle before them; farmers clad in ill-fitting iron and leather, dreaming of the life they had lost; young men without beards; and skinny boys who clutched their father's weapons in white-knuckled fists. It made a sorry image, the remnants of a land now in flames.

Sandwiched between two lordly bands, Haed knew that they stuck out like sore thumbs. They looked out of place; they were out of place. Yet the Tyrfeorn needed this. They needed revenge.

[McScottish]

Fruelaburh...

What was this settlement, this name, to the people of the lance and the horse? What were the lives of these strangers, nay, these settled foreigners to the warriors of the Eósfolc?

It was not for Bægmund to challenge the decisions of his grandfather, Hunsige, but as he sat atop his chestnut charger and fiddled with the chin strap of his conical plumed helmet he could not help but ponder as to why they were here; some said it was because Hunsige had taken a large payment from this King Adathal, king of those that called themselves 'Sulanites' and their lands 'Sulendom' after the odd notion that the burning sun was a deity. Bægmund, raised as he was to worship the horse and the raven, had never considered this thought, but did admit that it could well be so - was this Sul the greatest deity though? It did not stick well in the mind of the young Eósenas, and he thought probably not.

Nothing mattered really - if his grandfather had been paid, then it was good, and if they were simply here for some political reason or gain then he did not wish to know!

"Bægmund," came a grunt from beside him, his father pointing a thick finger at the milling enemy horse, both squinting beneath their helmets to see if they could make out these so far elusive adversaries of their people.

The Eósfolc, originally inhabitants of the frozen north who had migrated into the near-east in centuries past, were considered (at least by themselves) to be the finest horsemen in the northern reaches; seen by the Sulanites as ferocious heathen marauders that swept into their bordering lands, javelins flying and lances splintering, swords and axes descending from on high to clove skulls in two. It would come as no surprise that a good number of the lordlings surrounding his people were likely to hold a grudge, perhaps their cattle had been reeved, their crops hacked down and carried away, or even their women stolen? Only their elusive and nomadic nature, and the size of the lands they inhabited, had stopped the princes and lords of Sulendom from exterminating such a familiar nuisance.

Then again, better the Demon you know...

When it had been discovered that these 'Southrons', men who seemed equally at home on horseback as his own people, had come north to decimate the southern marches of Sulendom the Eósfolc had taken it as both an affront and a challenge to their superiority - which was more than likely the actual reason they were here at all!

"You are prepared, my son."

For Bægmund to be able to look his father in the eye again, the question asked in a flat tone and with little actual regard for his son, he would need to bring pride to his family and fight well in the coming hours; for a lad of only fifteen this was no easy task, even one raised in a warrior society on the fringes of civilised lands, but with his mount between his legs and lance and sword at his side he would enhance their prestige even at the cost of his own life.

Shifting a little in the saddle, he once more looked out over the heads of the shieldwall before him - his scaled armour glistening and the plates of his helmet buffed to a shine, his long red plume moving slowly in the chilling wind - and whispered a quick prayer to Fæder Hræfn, eater of the dead and guide of souls, as well as Ealdmóder Mere, bringer of life and ever a friend of the Eósfolc.

"Ðǽr him hrefn nimeþ heáfodsýne slíteþ salwigpád sáwelleásne.*"



*There shall the raven, dark-coated, pluck from him his eyes, shall tear him lifeless.

[Dirty Chai]

[OOC: Impressed all-around, guys, great roleplaying so far and great creativity at work.]

Broda looked around Adathal's host one last time, his head glancing at each pace for long intervals.

Of note, the horse-worshippers were here. Their name was "Aostenfolc" in Broda's home along the river Geb, but in Sulic, the language of the literate, they were the Ausenians from Ausenia, and Broda had no mind to argue with the monks and priestesses of Sul and Layla about their name. Indeed, it was easier this way - all of Sulendom had a language in common, with the same words for the same things, through the worship of mighty Sul.

Broda was not a zealot - rather, he avoided temple gatherings - but he could see how Sul brought unity to a people otherwise divisive and petty.
It was evident here, as he glanced down upon the invaders crossing the vale, that it was their belief in Sul and his light that brought them here, to this hill.
Well, most of them, he thought. No one was exactly sure why Ausenians had come to fight beside their bitter neighbors, though one of the abbots Adathal had brought along on campaign had, to Broda at least, claimed that their leader, Unseg or some such, made a bet with Adathal - if the invaders were defeated, Unseg was to abandon his false gods and join Sul through the Incensing ceremony.

Looking out of the corner of his eye at what he figured was Unseg or one of his retainers, red-plumed and mounted on a chestnut, Broda severely doubted the veracity of this claim. At the end of the day, Broda recalled, this was the same abbot who claimed that Sul would kill the invaders before they crossed into Urthum with lightning and fire.
But no such thing occured, Urthum burned, and the invaders hauled along their own eerily similar solar banners with them, unmolested by Sul.

"ing ," hissed Hulm, a bearded man who stood to Broda's right.
Hulm spat, and then kept chewing on whatever it was that sat in his mouth.

Broda squinted, unsure of what Hulm spoke of, but it wasn't long before he got a glance at the band that was to protect Adathal's left flank.
He wanted to curse them as well, but held his tongue. A desperate man was a good fighter, he reckoned.

"They'll rout like rabble," Hulm said, growling as he gestured his nose in direction of those southern bandits from beyond Urthum.
"They seem eager enough," Broda said calmly, refusing to engage Hulm on the matter.

"Isn't that Sagramor?" a familiar, youthful voice asked from behind without any level of confidence.
"Aye, it is," Broda answered his nephew, glancing over to the right of the line at Sagramor and his shieldwall.
"A fine warrior, and a fine lot he leads," growled Hulm, "A lot better than the rabble the king's put on the left."
Broda and Cunedda ignored Hulm and his continued grumbling, and turned their attention forwards.

For the enemy approached.
A great wailing horn blew in the deep pit of the valley, alien and strange. No change came immediately, with the host of round-shielded and dark-robed warbands advancing at the same pace as before, unbroken. But a slow, quiet rumbling began to kick up, and it was then clear that they would charge up hill, through trees and shrubbery at the the shieldwall, their bristling lances first. Their warcries could be heard as the groups of ten and twenty broke their way through the infantry and amassed together into a long, thick line, all while galloping across the wet green field.

"Shieldwall!" came the expected order down and up the line as each gesith and paladin yelled it into the ears of their flocked brethren.
The shields went up, spears were pressed against the rims of the shields, and seaxes and swords were at the ready.
Broda caught himself looking back at Cunedda to see how the boy looked, but tore his gaze away.
Let the boy prove himself, he thought, Sul knows he'll need it.

[Gandalfus]

Watching apprehensively as the dark-robed warriors picked up the pace, Aella tightened his grip on the shaft of his spear. Inquisitively he glanced at Sagramor, who had remained silent. The experienced warlord watched quietly, his dull brown eyes scanning the encroaching force of foreign warriors. While other men were unsettled by the hooting and primal screeching of the southrons, Sagramor remained unflinching. Aella heard the cries of the centre beginning to form ranks, but their lord had done no such thing as of yet. When one of the men dared to break the silence, Sagramor merely raised his hand, and stared for a few agonizing moments longer, before turning his head slightly to gaze upon the banner of Sul. Aella and the other men followed his example, many saying prayers to the omnipotent Sun God aloud. Aella remained silent, like his lord; never sure of the Gods, was Aella. He prayed before battle like any other man, but that was out of fear, not faith. Fear that if there was a deity, and he did not pay homage to it, it would forsake him. So he prayed wordlessly, his mind was his temple as he prayed to Sul for safety, and strength. Strength to fight the barbarians who had come to set all of Sulendom to flame.

Finally, their prayers were put to an end. Sagramor turned his head slightly, nodding to his gruff looking standard bearer, who pressed his lips to a battered warhorn. A raucous, cavernous sound erupted from it, and the men of Sagramor began forming a shield wall. They formed a fearsome wall of bristling spears and oaken shield; a wall that could only be met head on. For that was the way of the shield wall. One was destined to hold, blessed by Sul, while the other would be beaten down in an onslaught of butchery. It was grim work; but nearly all of Sagramor's men, men who had come from the lands to the north of the river Hymbre, were strong and hardy, many of them being veterans of at least half a dozen shield walls. They all knew the bloodbath that would ensue once the Southrons attacked the shield wall, for they had all lived it a hundred times. Even Aella had experienced the front rank of a shield wall - the sweat, the blood, the stench of human waste. Once they had formed up into a coherent formation, Sagramor spoke - his voice steady and calm, but carrying.

"Today, fate is in our hands. If we flee, us and our families die. But if we win - we gain immortality. The first to stop the heathen invaders, the unstoppable tide!" Passion filled his voice, and the men took up a great cry. He waited for them to be silent, and spoke again.

"Do not give them a single inch of this ground. If you lose your sword, find another. If you are hurt, fight on." He paused, and all the men were as silent as the dead, hanging on the end of his every word. "If you die... walk it off." He said finally, and grinned. Aella smiled slightly and cheered emphatically along with the other men. Sagramor pulled his helmet over his head, and drew his steel blade. Now began the long wait; the wait for the inevitable slaughter that was to come.

[Zeus Almighty]

Kimbr looked upon the forces laid out before them like a drab and holed cloth over a grassy floor. Looking upon them Kimbr felt a small amount of remorse. Those across the field from them shared their hair, their skin, their heritage. It was years upon years since Kimbr's people were received into Sulendom from the land beyond the southern sea. Kimbr's ancestors ruled their tribe for at least seven generations. Their oral history tells of a horrid time when Kimbr's tribe, Tribu Fortis, fought tooth and nail for their land against the bigger horde. They lost and were chased away, eventually finding themselves to the land of Sulendom. Their landing place would prove to be another struggle however.
If they see you with that look, they will kill you and supplant you. This is not the time for Kimbr the historian, a burly bearded man whispered to Kimbr's right.If war time is upon us for good, I will not hesitate to kill you and take over big brother.

Kimbr looked over his shoulder to his little brother. Paelyr was shorter than Kimbr, and stockier too. Paelyr was a warrior and one of the fiercest of his tribe. He had little regard for his older brother and he made this fact plain all too often. The only reason he allowed Kimbr to rule, Paelyr claimed, was because his relationship with King Adathal came from when he was young. Kimbr had maintained the peace their grandfather had forged years before. Well, as much "peace" as it could be considered despite the occasional raiding. His people were despised by the rest of Sulendom but the oath taken to secure the peace, to fight for it if those from their homeland ventured north, must still be fulfilled.

Da, when will it be over? Said a small voice behind Kimbr, turning around he sees a figured just over 4 ft and with his light brown eyes. The light brown eyes over his brown complexion and jet black hair made his eyes both haunting and beautiful. The child's slender figure was the cause of much ridicule among the elders, but the Elven kind were not cast away from the castaway Tribu Fortis, and the boys mother was clearly evident in his figure.

Maybe never, maybe soon. You will stay on this hill and watch from here. You will watch. You will learn. At the end you will put down any that still stir.
The boy was 12 and it was time for him to be brought to the world of a warrior. Satyr, Kimbr's son, was overdue to see such carnage. Blood had been kept from the youth of his tribe for too long. His brother had said it before as he was forced to beat and batter the last boys that came of age.

Kimbr mounted his horse and shushed the whining animal easily. His tribe was exceptional with horses, this fact had led to problems between them and other clans around them but would put them at even ground with their enemies. He turned to his younger brother and scoffed, ​Think what you will, dream what you will. While I live you are still my right hand. If that means you need to wipe my ass after I in your mouth, you will do so. Now get everyone ready.

[McScottish]

By the time the Southron army had started their advance, their cavalry filtering swiftly through their robed infantry until they formed a formidable line across the entire front of their army, Hunsige was very nearly falling asleep in his saddle; his blue eyes opened in time to watch these movements, a large hand wiping the moisture of the valleys light rain from a snow white beard that reached down to his gut, his other limb reaching for the blade that had hung from his side for most of his adult life - it was no ordinary blade, oh no, for whosoever should wield the blade was just and rightful Eohwalda of all the Eósfolc!

When he drew forth the weapon, as long as a man's arm and forged in such a way that a pattern in the shape of waves could be seen marking the blade, he did so with a great grunt of exertion, lifting it high above his head and kissing the guard of the hilt.

His nephew sat silently and observed the whole thing from over the older warriors shoulder, feeling both safer and yet more frustrated at their peoples position behind the shieldwall, his eyes pulled from the shimmering sword of kings and taking a quick glance at those that would fight with them; for the most part he saw Sulanites, many of them, but especially gathered around the banner of their King Adathal and his retinue of picked killers, some men he spotted that looked more ragged than the rest - meaning they were more desperate, and would therefore fight harder, probably brigands and refugees fled from their old lives and homes - before turning his attention to the only true adversaries he could see on the battlefield.

In his own tongue they were called the Eorðecynn or 'Soil tribe', both due to their darker complexions, the way in which they had arrived as if from out of the ground, and as a derogative moniker against a foreign people who believed themselves to be the equal of the Horsefolk when it came to the quality of their mounts, cavalry, and raids. By the Eósfolc they were considered as pests and as rivals, each people being newcomers and outsiders to Sulendom and each finding their places in similar lifestyles.

Spitting a gobbet of phlegm onto the floor, he tightened his thighs grip on the flanks of his mount, checking the straps of his round shield carefully and unconsciously weighed the eight-foot lance tipped with iron that he held in his other hand, his keen eyes moving away from these earth people and their noticeable blood-link with their enemy with reluctance and focusing once more on those brave, but ultimately stupid, dervishes assembling for a charge.

"We hold here until they break," came his father's voice, cutting through the din of battle like a knife, his jaw set tightly beneath his helmet with its black plume, "then we chase them down like hounds on a rabbit. Yes?"

"Yes, fæder, of course."

At the front of the several hundred or so horsemen that Hunsige had bought to the field, the man himself sitting before them all so that all could see, he began to hammer hilt of the king's blade against the wood of his shield; slowly but surely he was joined by others, some with their own swords, some with their mailed fists and others with whatever part of their lance of javelin they could bring to their shield, very soon a rhythmic shudder filling the very air around the horsemen.

Then the barritus began, a veritable lifting of both souls and voices among the Horsefolk, "E-ós!" They began, weapons clattering on shields and Hunsige leading them, "E-ós!, E-ós!, E-ós!"

Bægmund joined the booming chorus with gusto, the shaft of his own lance hitting the iron-clad rim of his shield in time with his kinsmen, inside his head he could see a red mist beginning to descend over his eyes and feel blood pounding in his ears.

Yes, these robed fanatics would make a fine gift for the hooves of his mount and the Gods above.

[Xion]

Rising from the rock she was sitting on, Drysi watches the Southron host grow closer and closer, gripping her longbow as she makes her way to where her father and his teulu stand in the formingbattle lines of the warriors who marched to Fruelaburh underneath a banner bearing a silver wyvern on black, with four elvish runes around the wyvern in crimson.

Passing by retainers to Dokkweald nobles, whether one of the other Fliath present, a vassal or petty lord who marched, warriors of the clans who reside in the forests, hills, and mountains of the Dokkweald, she arrives to stand next to her father, Guiare. A noble sworn to Ainmare, the Fliath of a sizable kingdom centered around the city of Silvienar, and a distant kinsman to his king. Guiare, dressed in lamellar armor, a ridge helmet, has a hand resting on the hilt of his longsword as he watches the approach of the Southrons. Noting his daughter's arrival, he looks to the right for a moment, noticing Ainmare and his retinue a bit further down the line before turning to his daughter as both watch the Southrons come even closer, and their horsemen begin to line up. "Drysi. Take twenty men with you, and may Macha watch over you." "The same to you father. You men, with me!" Drysi shouts at a handful of the Teulu and several other warriors nearby as she makes her way to her position in the battle line. Guiare mutters a prayer before waving his hand as a signal to his bannerman to signal the formation of a shieldwall.

"Shieldwall! Archers to your positions!" One of his captains shouts, repeating the words being shouted down the line at the men to assemble, the skirmishers and archers in front, then the shieldwall behind. Compared to the shieldwall of the Sulendom kingdoms, the Dokkweald shieldwall varies, with the forces of the petty kings appearing similar to their Sulendom counterparts, while the warriors of the clans that dot the landscape of the Dokkweald form a different one, appearing to be fighting in a vaguely circular formation rather than a line.

"Wonderful, the raiders think they can fight in formation." One of the men with Drysi mutters when he sees what the clansmen are doing. The clans of the Dokkweald are known raiders, fighting outsiders, each other, and the various states of the Dokkweald. With the only exception being when the occasional clan swears fealty to a king, of which the clans present at Fruelaburh were, led by a giant of a man, Zephan. The chieftain can be spotted towering over his men, wearing mismatched armor, likely loot from his raids, a bear pelt, and wielding a large sword. Drysi laughs at the soldier's comment. "At the first whiff of plunder that'll fall apart!" Several other soldiers laugh at her remark, then begin to prepare for battle, some banging their spear, sword, or other weapon such as an ax or bill on their shield as many other soldiers are doing, mutter a prayer, or just stand there waiting.

Drysi looks down at the bottom of the hill, where a few days ago a few Dokkweald men had dug a few pits for defense in preparation for a possible enemy attack that did not come that day, which now are filled with water and mud. A rising crescendo of battle cries, war horns, and banging on shields draws her attention to look over at the rest of the host fighting under the banners raised, and in the distance, a Oriflamme raised by the men of King Cerdric."Músclaígí Haearn!" she shouts in unison with the warriors around her, the battle cry of the warriors fighting under the wyvern.

[Iron Aquilifer]

Haed gripped his spear as tight as the muscle would allow him, the skin stretched to a painful white. At the order to form the shieldwall, the Tyrfoern froze. Overlapping their shields, the men in the front three ranks prepared their spears for the fighting to be had. Wearing the heaviest armour among them, they had been volunteered to be the first to face the foe. Firmly placed in the third rank, the leader could watch the flow of their section of the battlefield. Whatever good that will do us.

Someone off to his left began to chant, shivering boys taking up the words with a fervor akin to some drugged fanatic. Whatever keeps them strong. Sul had entered many of their lives, creating believers from former heathens. Haed looked to his right, sharing a moment with a greybeard who went by the name of Dudda. The man had an angry scar running down the length of face, in all probability received from facing against Haed years ago, the elder oddly familiar.

Ready for this brother?

Are you ever ready to meet your gods?

Today is not my day.

Getting a toothless grin in reply, Haed twisted to fix his eyes forward. Religious fools and dead men. If he managed to survive then he would make something of the Tyrfoern. They would not be allowed to waste away, a broken plaything left out to rot in to nothing. No, he would make a new home for them.

Vengeance brothers! Vengeance is what I promised and vengeance is what you are here for. Take it! With bloodied hands tear it from their chests! Shatter their skulls and defy their gods! Vengeance!

[The Mad Skylord]

Eoín Uí Néill stood with his warriors as he watched the southrons advance. His men were different from these strange men who used shieldwalls. They spoke like the elves, and they used the elvish longbow. Many tried to bully them. Many failed. For Clan Uí Neíll was made up of savage warriors. They did not, however, fight like these strange Sulenites. They came from hillier and more mountainous territory. They had perfected the schiltron, or phalanx, depending on your place of birth. They had also perfected the art of ambushing. They appeared from nowhere, fired hundreds of arrows from their longbows, and then disappeared. But when they had to stand and fight, face to face, they fought like this.

Their schiltrons were long lines of men, 4 ranks deep. They were armed with long pikes and large hexagonal shields to stop arrows. No Scotaí schiltron had been broken in living memory. Behind these schiltrons stood ranks of longbowmen, who fired their massed volleys into the enemy ranks. All Scotaí carried a longsword and a dagger as well. When an enemy broke themselves on the schiltron and began to rout, the Scotaí would charge bellowing savage warcries and slaughtering the fleeing foe.

They stiffened their hair with lime, and their leather breastplates and faces were covered in woad swirls. They looked incredibly terrifying. If there was one place on this line that would definitely hold, it was here. Infantry could not break a schiltron. Cavalry did not stand a chance.

These soldiers, these Fíanna were hungry for battle. Eoín looked around the battlefield, up and down the line and saw the different bands who had gathered to fight these southerners. It was disconcerting, disconcerting to look at this long shield wall, and then you came to the Scotaí, who looked strangely out of place with their long pikes. They stood out like a sore thumb, but it would never be joked about. The Scotaí had banded together and marched to fight these southrons under the banner of their Ard Rí. The first Ard Rí elected among the Clan Rí's in hundreds of years. The bickering clans had banded together for the one thing they loved most, a good fight.

As the southrons got closer, Eoín barked out his orders, and his men dropped their pikes and formed their fearsome schiltron. The banner of Uí Neíll stood proudly above this section of the line. Eoín could see the banner of the other Clans - Macabae, Uí Reílleí, Mac Donaghue. The list went on. And then the banner of the Ard Rí stood proudly above all the others. A silver boar on a dark green background.

The Scotaí were here for a fight, and a fight they would get...

[Dirty Chai]

"Arrows!"

The cry came, and soon every soldier would look up to see the black, whistling storm coming down upon them.
Shields were lifted up, and men hid beneath them; The iron tipped teeth slammed into the hill, flying between the shields and into the grass.

Cunedda was pushed down onto his knees as an arrow slammed into the lower half of his shield.
Beside him a man reeled onto the grass as an arrow lodged into his shoulder. Similar, heart-wrenching screams came from all over as the dying began.

The young half-elf began to truly fear what was now coming, what he had been terrified and anxious about.
He was sure his heart was now in his lungs, for he couldn't stop breathing short, quick breaths in rapid succession.

Then the army stood up, the shields coming down.
Soon came an order, instead of a warning.
"Archers! Draw!"

Cunedda watched from behind the first row of warriors, looking over his uncle's shoulder.
There horsemen were close now, drawing in - their faces now almost distinguishable.

"Fire!"
The yell was accompanied by a rapid release, the bowstrings and whistling arrows creating a racket overhead.

Within moments, Cunedda could see the arrows connect with the enemy, bringing horsemen down in the front line.
Numerous foes went down, Cunedda saw as he squinted, creating breaks in their once-even line of lances.

"Brace for the charge!"
The shields went forward, strong, defiant, defensive.
Cunedda positioned his spear so that he could stab it over the shoulders of the first rank, as he had been taught.
Fear sat in his eye, but he didn't look away.