Raleigh the Spirit in the Shadow of Victory

Gilbert was pacing inside his tent, unused to his surroundings. Mireille, his loyal retainer, was standing guard next to the entrance.

It seemed the Halidom was intent on not giving the young Lord a moment of rest. As soon as he had somewhat recovered from his wounds, enough to stand up straight and hold a weapon, the order to reclaim a border fortress from Plegian soldiers had arrived. And while he might have appeared sound of body, his mind still carried the damage done in the ambush. But he could not refuse orders, he was loyal to the Exalt as his house had been for generations. All he could do was hide his grief. While it was exhausting to keep putting up a mask to the world, it was better than letting his men see their Lord skulking in his room all day.

"Milord?" Mireille's voice shook Gilbert from his thoughts, and he looked up at her. "Someone calling for you, sir." She continued, her face and voice neutral, as if she had not tried to call her liege back to earth several times.

"Y-yes..." The white-haired Lord took a deep breath to steady himself, then called out louder "Enter!" and moved behind his desk, taking care to appear as a calm and collected leader to his visitors.

He would never allow himself to show weakness in front of those he had to lead.

Targus entered first, making sure to hold the door open for Alaine as she entered. Another part of the "hero" facade.

But here he was, in a meeting with a lordling! Yes, he would taste the sweet, rich texture of gold yet again, and soon. He made the first move to speak, taking a knee before the lord. "Lord Raleigh!" Targus began, his voice booming just softer than when he would shout his prices at market. Next, he made eye contact. You really had to sell it, Targus knew. At least, he thought he knew, but he was little aware of the Lord's particular predicament. He also wasn't selling something the people needed to survive; the tricks he had learnt during his time as youth could possibly not even work on the lord. Before continuing, he flashed his practiced smile in the same instant that he looked Gilbert in the eyes. "On behalf of Lady Alaine's mercenaries, I would like to introduce you to the lady herself." He remained kneeling as he gestured towards Alaine.

"I believe we have a service we can offer..?" He trailed off, his grin turning more than a bit mischievous.

"Er... Yes. Yes, I do."

Gilbert blinked and stared at the duo in front of him, in particular the youth who had delivered the rather... dramatic entry. He supposed it was a mercenary thing. The woman, however, was more straight to the point.

"Ahem. Forgive me. But yes, I am looking for mercenaries to aid me and the Halidom. Anyone who can take up a sword is welcome, though it is all the better to hear you have an experienced group with you. Though I trust we will only be facing living enemies." He tried not to think too hard about the Risen Alaine had mentioned. The inhuman moans and grasping claws still haunted him, the screams as the guards around him were taken down...

But that was not what he was here for now.

The Lord then realised the youth was still kneeling, and that he hadn't given him any kind of order or indication that he could stand up again. He was not entirely used to people doing that. Even for his father people had rarely kneeled. Then again, their house had never been one of much formalities.

"Oh, please, there is no need to kneel. Rise, er... I didn't quite catch your name?"

"I see. As for the contract..."

Gilbert looked down, shuffling through the documents and maps scattered on the desk. There had to be an empty sheet somewhere...

"For now, it will be only for recovering the fort. After that, it depends on what the Halidom commands me. Though I suppose, if your service proves outstanding, I, as the head of House Raleigh, might contract you personally... I cannot promise anything yet, though."

He finally found what he was looking for, and with nimble fingers, Gilbert plucked an empty roll of parchment from underneath a pile, smoothing it out on the desk. He prevented it from rolling back up again by putting down an inkwell on one corner and a rock on the other. The white-haired man frowned a little, it was not very sophisticated and perhaps not the way it was normally done, but he had little experience with hiring mercenaries. Raleigh had never needed any before.

But that did not matter now. What mattered was that he carried out the mission given to him. Reclaiming the fortress was his biggest concern now.

"If you all agree, then we can draw up the contract?"

Gilbert looked ahead at the fortress. A frontal assault was a terrifying thought to him, especially against living, thinking enemies. It was not something he had fought before, save for sparring and training matches. If he failed here, he would pay with his life, or be taken hostage. Whatever the outcome, it was not a comforting prospect.

The young Lord pushed his fear away, concentrating on the battle plans he had formed over the past few weeks. While their aerial units would strike the fortress from above, hopefully drawing most attention towards them, his own group would storm the gate and break in, working their way to the top of the fortress to reunite with the rest of the army.

At his side, he Gilbert heard Alaine speak up. He nodded in response, gripping his glaive so tightly it made his fingers hurt. His father was a true master on the battlefield, and he was his father's son. It was time to make him proud.

Taking courage and comfort from that, the white-haired man held up his weapon and raised his voice, appearing much braver than he truely felt.

"Troops! We will take back what is ours! For the Halidom, go!"

Targus whistled over the noise of the archers releasing their arrows, which flew pointlessly around and past the somewhat experienced winged cavalry. He let out a shout as one of them neared, "You! Take me to that wall!"

He hopped onto the steed with some difficulty, though it wasn't too terribly difficult. Within a second, they were sailing over the entrance, at which point the pegasus rider deftly knocked him from the steed -- and sent him plummeting below, into the leagues of archers that sat high upon the stone walls. He landed with a thud -- okay, but a slight bit dazed. He looked up into the bright sun, and felt its warmth dampen a bit. There was a shadow. "You!" The voice commanded, clad in purple armor. "Get up! You've got fighting to do. How did you get on that pegasus, anyway?"

Targus got off the ground, and dusted himself off a bit, before turning to the man. Targus was a fair bit larger than he. With a swift motion, he drew his blade, and . . . completely missed the first swipe of his sword. It was light. Lighter than anything he had ever held, at least. Turning back to the bewildered man, he swung again -- this time connecting, scratching across his face. "It is Targus von Cornwall, peasant! I will not have you address me as a commoner!" The man soon fell over, the unintentional poison of his blade taking effect. Targus smirked to himself. It seemed he was just that good.

He made his way past the ramparts, the archers too preoccupied with the flurry of winged beasts and siege forces below to notice Targus walking along. Besides, he was far from the only mercenary here -- it wasn't too odd of a sight, in their eyes. But why wasn't he preparing to charge? There had to be... Another blow from Targus struck an archer in the back. The archer turned, eyes wide as he ducked below his next blow. He yelled out to the rest of the fortress-- "They've breached the walls!"

((Holy smokes am I bad at keeping up with FERP posts. Sorry about that.))

They charged through the storm of arrows, on land and through the air alike. Where Gilbert led the soldiers on the ground, Mireille had taken to the skies with Shelagh and commanded the other part of the offense. After what had seemed hours to the young Lord, they reached the gates. The soldiers carrying the battering ram sprang into action, slamming into the solid wood, sending sprays of splinters everywhere.

"Fine so far." Gilbert replied to Alaine. Then he noticed the other mercenary was nowhere in sight. "But where did-"

He never finished his question, as he soon found what Alaine's protege was up to. With growing confusion and horror he noticed Targus running after one of their flying knights, hoisting himself up on their steed and taking off into the air.

"He's mad..." Gilbert whispered.

The young mercenary disappeared from sight, presumably landing somewhere on top of the fortress. Hopefully.

"Sir! We're through!" Gilbert's attention was quickly drawn back to the soldiers surrounding him, now rushing forward through the broken gates.

Targus prepared to strike the archer once more, narrowly dodging the arrow which had been knocked and fired. He ran at his relatively inexperienced opponent, swinging his sword all the while -- Targus hadn't noticed yet, but now the wall had been actually breached. It would have been a sight -- had he been focused on anything other than accosting the near-criminal.

Finally, Targus reached his target. A solid blow sliced deep into the man's chest -- finishing the already heavily-damaged archer off for good. Snapping out of his reverie, Targus turned, just now aware of the chaos that was raging throughout the fort. There were many, many more people here suddenly, than there'd been a moment before. There men larger than him, wielding tremendous axes cast of... what looked like glass, in his eyes. Some of them held axes formed of bronze, like his own blade.

Without thinking, he ducked under one of their tremendous axes, the thing sailing overhead smoothly. He looked behind him, his blade already moving, as if moving itself. Closer and closer, it was positioned to slice clean into his thigh. Time slowed in Targus' eyes, as he watched an arrow fly into his arm. Finally, his blade connected -- the slice was clean, but the man wasn't out of the fight. Thinking quickly, he moved himself behind the man, hopefully hidden from the archer's fire, and attacked again. He struck once, tearing through whatever hide armor the axe-carrying warrior wore. It went into the fighter's chest, but he wasn't out -- not yet. But soon.

Narrowly, the fighter missed once more. Targus was unsure if he could take a hit from the burly warrior.

"You! Up the steps, aid the flying cavalry!" Gilbert pointed at a group of soldiers and shouted orders, like he had practised over and over in his tent. The group dashed off, working their way up the stairs leading to the top of the wall. Two other groups were send into the fortress itself, working from the outer hallways to the central hall.

The white-haired man himself prepared to lead the charge at the main doors, until a vicious blow to his back nearly knocked him off his feet. He stumbled, but by some miracle managed to catch himself and whirl around, striking out with his glaive.

He felt it impact something and heard a grunt as blood spattered on his face. It had been a large man, heavily muscled, but the glaive had pierced his throat and ended his life swiftly.

The young Lord froze. No matter how desperately his mind cried out for him to move, his limbs would not budge. He had been prepared for battle since the day he could walk, but that had not been enough to prepare him for the brutal reality of it. The sensation of the warm blood dripping over his cheek and seeing the man drop dead at his feet shocked him to his very core. Suddenly it was like being back in the ambush, seeing his father being dragged down all over again, death all around. Panic seized him. It was too much.

It quickly became apparent to Targus that he was in a very bad position very quickly. He had made many mistakes today -- separating himself, an inkling in the grand scheme of things, from the rest of the main fighting force. While he could hold his own (for how long, Targus was unsure), there were three simple facts preventing him from grasping victory in this situation:

First of all, as much as he disliked admitting it, he was completely inexperienced when it came to direct combat. While he was certainly wetter behind his ears now, compared to when he first set foot here today, there was no escaping that he'd never seen combat before in his life. Sure, his sword was... well, it wasn't good; no, in reality it was actually so shitty that it poisoned whoever it struck; but that only added to his rate of survival, as was already being sampled on the battlefield.

The huge man behind him fell to a knee as the toxins in Targus' blade continued to wreak havoc through his body. Targus swiped at the man again, before immediately falling to the floor, more arrows whizzing over his head.

Second of all, he had completely forgotten to bring any form of bandage, or vulnerary, or... Well, you know what I'm getting at -- his hot-headedness had gotten him into trouble. Trouble that he just might not live to get out of. Pain throbbed from the arrow stuck in his arm, reminding him of his incompetence. He needed to get out of here, fast.

Thinking quickly, he leapt from the battlements onto the stairs below. He looked from side to side -- he was close to the main gate! He could already see the Plegian footmen huddled around the gate, attempting as eagerly as they could to keep the mercenaries and men of the Halidom from piercing their defenses.

But, somehow... Targus guessed that they wouldn't last. Thinking quickly, he deftly moved along their backs -- it was difficult to directly call him an enemy, especially with many non-Plegian troops working within the outpost. Simply put, he was in the best position in this scenario, and as he went, began to hack down enemies from behind. He started with the wounded first -- they would be the easiest to immediately end. Then, he turned to those whom hadn't even been grazed by the conflict; surely, they would succumb to both the direct wound he inflicted upon them, as well as the wounds they would no doubt sustain from the Halidom's efforts.

Gilbert startled back into reality, cheek stinging. Under any other circumstances Alaine's actions would be severely punished. But in the heat of battle... Well, he could only hope no one else had seen it. He could not afford another moment of weakness. Not in front of anyone.

"Y-yes! Yes..." He took a shaky breath, pushing the woman away. Targus was still nowhere to be seen. Gilbert did not want to think about what that meant. As his breathing steadied, he barked out more orders. "To the gates! Now!" The sense of terror was overcome by a rush of adrenaline, though the young Lord was sure he had never felt his heart beat this fast. He gritted his teeth. He would not shame his house with failure. That was unacceptable. He would not give up.

Death would have to claim him first.

Normally, he would have continued his nearly stealthy operations on the inside of the fort. However, this was not a normal occasion -- there was very obviously someone barking orders, and it wasn't just some stuffy officer, either. Or maybe they were. It didn't matter to Targus -- they sounded about as green as he did, frankly. Maybe a little greener. Either way, it didn't matter; he ran to where the orders were coming from.

"Archers --" the man in the dress uniform looking over the walls stalled for a second. There was only, like, three of them left. He was a strategist. It was his job to direct the fighting to be, well, efficient.

This didn't seem very efficient to him.

"Down the stairs! Reinforce the group at the gates!" With any amount of luck, they might arrive in time to make a difference.

The archers followed their orders with only a small amount of concern. They... well, they knew they were losing. Either way, they were diligently trained to follow their superior's orders, and so, went down the stairs, stationing themselves behind the soldiers, fighters, and mercenaries alike that battled below the raised gates.

Targus continued walking past the migrating archers as he approached the figure in the purple uniform. "Uh... sir!" He really hated talking like this. He could probably kill him right now, he thought as he subconsciously grasped the hilt at his side. "I'm reporting here for, um, orders." This was all a ruse, and he couldn't wait to grasp the blade at his side in his hands against this... was coward the right word? He didn't know.

"Your orders," the man began, almost with a snarl, "is to go defend that damned gate!" The man said in a quieter voice, almost to himself, "You mercenaries are so worthless, I swear."

His grip on the hilt of his saber tightened as it slid from its scabbard. Worthless? Targus would show this snobby little man worthless.