Journey's End: The Battle for Wales

[Queen Beathag Aberdeen]

The Story : Wales has never been a unified country. When other countries began to form a national identity, uniting under one sovereign, the home of the Britons remained distinguished by different kingdoms. The power of one man among many filled the stories of the age, and disputes with neighboring England the prolonged epic of life. Only now it has become far worse. The King, in the hostility and losses being piled on to his shoulders with the successful rebellion of other territories is turning to subdue what he can. There have been eyes on Scotland, pity for Ireland, but a great travesty has been committed in Wales that has been kept silent until the day that a ragged band of landless, tired yeomen soldiers and their former lords have escaped in the berth of a cargo ship. In Turas Lan's harbor, the men are discovered by crate and barrel. Having survived off on the lowliest food smuggled to them by a cabin boy, one of the sons of the men, they emerge from the ship first thought to be English stowaways. They are pulled out into the light of day, cowering, wincing at the garish light of spring. The shipmen give them over to the keep of a lawman, where the deck they are made to kneel and tell their story. Of this ragged man no man speaks English because in his exhaustion the words do not come. The ship they have stowed away on is a Scottish vessel, turned quick from the country after seeing the shape it was it.

They speak with a strange passion. Bound hands lifted up to their captors, they shake them, moving fingers to prayer as if beseeching them to fill a need. But what are they asking for? The names of places being uttered, Powys, Gwenyd, Glamorgan, the Carmarthenshire, and cities mean little but it the utterance of Neath and the Brothers Llewellyn that spark the eye of at least one bailiff with close ties to civic business. There has been one silent man among them, with a throat too dry to speak. "Water." is the first word he manages to push over the cotton thick tongue, to which it is given him as it seems he will fall out. Noticing the word was in English, it is asked of him what they are talking about. He shakes his head, too hurt, too ill from the voyage to say much more but he does confirm names. "We need to find the last strong son, Meurig ap Llewellyn, and those that help him...it is failing, badly. There will be nothing left of Wales. The people are calling for him, calling on him to find the Princess but by God that went badly. We shouldn't have done it to Dylan..we shouldn't have. His daughter has never returned to us, and those brave enough to own up to their princehoods by blood are being gathered and killed. We are overrun! Only the south holds on..but it will break into the sea..We're doomed."

"Wot makes ye think them 'ere man? "

"Priests...priests....son of hero..daughter..Llwelyn the Great."

To A Scot this would mean nothing. But if you are Welsh, it means all the hope that is left in the world. The failure of calling Dylan, son of Grufford, and blood of Lwelyn himself King of Wales meant that the lords who dared called themselves "princes" were punished. Some have been disfigured, with ears cut off to hear no more, a face that can no longer charm with slit noses, hands to no longer fight with fingers cut away or the whole limbs themselves. The pieces of these men have been put on display throughout the country as the price paid for defiance. Believing religious bodies to be the source of messages and intrigues, already one nunnery has been burned and the women defiled before execution Land is being stripped of ownership by the Welsh. So that as the people scream they live not to tell about it, and the take over then is as seamless as any. Promises of leniency were made, only to draw the last of the Blood out into the open. Blinded and removed of their tongues, they could only listen to the screams of their women as they were put to the heretic's fires. For while the monasteries had once been the last bastion of civilization and Cymru's only hope for a sustainable civilization where education and technology were allowed to develop, they were also harborers of smithies, armorers, heretic scholars, foreign ideas, and vast wealth. The Abbot of Neath's rumored army was not under direct attack. It was being turned out in droves to the hills, as laymen were expelled from the monasteries and burned out of their homes. The only way to hear these stories is to find the two people the others have come to find, being that they will be the only ones who understand Welsh.

Coincidentally, it is already known that the Artisan is Welsh, and she is called to try and appease the men as they are released and need to be cared for to find out their story. Meurig arrives to help translate, but he must leave immediately for Wales to collect the men from the hills of Wales, who have scattered as the English infiltrate the land. He does not leave Eirian alone, however. He introduces her to the Ruthenian scholar, informs her of Sascha's military past, and before Meurig leaves Skye, guilt-trips his brother Seithfed into returning home to Wales. During this time Eirian and Sascha meet, and Lord Adam puts forth a mission to them: Find out the truth of Wales, and if there is a way, set her free.


Battle: Royal House of Machynlleth



Sascha and Eirian have spent time marching south from Carmarthenshire collecting the hidden Cisterian monks who were expelled from the abbeys in th e South, and forming an army to challenge the invading English. The English have heard of the rebellion and are amassing near Machynlleth. Villagers have been burning out their hamlets and destroying their stored food, a clear signal to the English that the Welsh army is near with the utilizing of a standard Welsh tactic and ready to converge on the town. Maybe Llewellyn ap Llewellyn, brother of Seithfed, is in the fortress, and he puts up a reasonable fight to the English before sneaking out through an underground tunnel, which he then collapses, trapping the English inside by nightfall, when the Welsh forces arrive.

Llwellyn ap Llewllyn, The brothers Llwellynn, the daughter of Dylan ap Llwellyn, a relation to the Obray who lived in the eyes of a king. Such stories, a poem, a ballad that unfolds for the taking but this much is true. All that have come to Wales have discovered that their kinsmen bind them as cousins, and so the people the Princes and Princess of Wales have come to bare them home, believing one of them will ascend a throne that does not exist, making it real if only for the sake of their freedom.



Key Notes

- Welsh strategy in fighting is to burn their own villages and crops, and hide in hills. Encase themselves in castles with longbowmen and drive the English back, making it impossible for them to break in

- This style of warfare will have led the English + allies to the royal home with the thought the Welsh rebells are inside.

- When the English arrive at the house, a trap will be sprung on them by arrows dipped in oil and fire.

- The fight will occur in the house and the land surrounding it, with two unannounced tactical suprises!

- We will begin at 10 promptly and end by 11:45, going longer only if we have to.

[/b]Participation![/b]

- One can play as one of the warrior clerics from the hills
- a villager, yeomen farmer
- English army, any rank
- Welsh army, any rank
- Observer from afar
- One of the Griffin Lands who come to collect people/go and tell of the liberation of wales
- Servants of the main character households, having been in wait for said persons to return
-any idea not yet listed

Conclusion:


With the defeat of the English at the royal house, the gathered army and refugees now return to Turas Lan, to inform the Griffon that he has faith and loyalty of Wales, as given to him by perhaps some of the last true royal blood descendants of anyone in merit. It will be a hard road. No matter what has come of it the past was confronted, the future still uncertain. More will be told of the strange "royal kin", one might even say "The Lost Regents" of Wales. For now their leadership took on the form of bodies and oath and they would be needed before the end.




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[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Narrator: Night rolled in fast among the Welsh hills. The sun plunged down past the mountains and all light fled with it, though bands of phosphorescent colors remained over the western sky. Here in the ancient seat of Machynlleth, the villagers knew the old deer trails and animal tracks through the impenetrable forest, so well that in a thousand years, none had ever dared follow them further north. Tiny villages glimmered out of the darkness, lights winking in windows and fires sometimes burned in the old traditions. Yet tonight, fires were of a magnitude rarely seen before. In the crossroads between North and South, in the old seat of the ancient kings, where stories of Arthur were told in authenticity, fires kissed the tops of trees in an ominous golden glow, razing across food stores, lighting cow byres, shooting across thatch rooftops until clearings were left with sooty piles of where life once thrived. The English scouts could smell wet coal and ash, and disappearing off into the encroaching shadows were the tracks of an entire village fleeing for height and safety, where the rebels would sing their dirty ballads about the English, plot their next attack, draw their strength, and pester the English until they could no longer suffer the continued back and forth march to this godforsaken mountainous, disease-ridden, swampy wilderness on England's backside. "The damn fools burnt 'emselves out again!" one of the scouts said unnecessarily to his cohort. While in the dark, the Welshmen hid smiles as they snuck away toward the wooden fortress of Machynlleth, a new structure that was the first sign of civilization north of Brecon. The men moved slowly enough that they would be followed, in a trail too fresh to be ignored, and slipped through the gates of the fortress where the Lord Senghenydd held his mockery of court.

Eirian: The ship had borne them from the capital of Turas Lan to the port town that the sanest of shipmen would not venture too. Aside from the shipping boats, the harbor had been eerily devoid of the tall masts that made the forests of the great sailing ships. Even England had given up her prize by sea. Something wicked this way comes.. she said unto her companions only in the coming weeks to be proven true. They fled from one hillock to the another, the next marsh to the next mountain pulling out of the thin-aired world the holy, the warrior, and the poor to form the mighty Welsh Army. This was it, then? Among them were experienced bowmen and the the surviving warrior priests of Neath, but the nuns sustained the spiritual succor of the fearful and the riddled bodies of the sick. Spring had not come to Wales on the same great wings that it had. The Lost Royals of Wales heralded nothing but war in their wake. Is this not what all countries are made by? "Hurry, hurry quickly! This way, aye, pass him unto me.." In the weeks with the rag-tag band of a Ruthenian and the 'Italian' consort, her English had proven of little good among peasants.

Holding a boy in her arms she climbed up the deer trails with a fleet foot for a woman, too good at this entirely. But ah, it meant she had a chance against the backdrop of fire that she watched at a distance from this place north of Brecon. Lost royal and lost native daughter pined for the tactics of bawdy ballads and burn outs as they left nothing. Permanence was insubstantial here. Lord Sengheyndd was waiting however and she could already smell the oil for the arrows and hear their dipping. Daethom at 'n bell awron at aflwydda. Dduw bod chennym. ( We have come to far to fail now, God be with us.)

English Soldier: The English, satisfied with quelling the minute uprisings as soon as they occur, kept a pretty stable garrison... healthy patrols continued to roam the countryside virtually unopposed. Until this fateful evening... when all hell seemed to let loose... What would they do? We had not trained for such incidents as these... "To arms...to arms..." I yelled at the top of my voice... Would I be heard? Would I live thru the night? God be praised... "To arms..." I ran thru the lodgings of the commanders... "MiLord, ships..." I pointed... I ran along the picket lines, sounding the alarm... Arrows with flaming tips fell into the thatch roofs... I was dodging flames and arrows... "God save me..." I thought. "I should have believed my mother when she said be a potter..." Just then an arrow grazed my arm...

Adam: The Gryphon Army forged their way across Scotland, gaining momentum as they marched in support of the King. By the time they reached Edinburgh the army was some 100,000 strong. Men from all walks of life...potters, smithies, tanners, scribes, and soldiers... noble and peasant alike. Now over 420 Kilometers (260 miles) they had marched from Skye to the Scone of Scotland... They gathered at the base of the King's Castle, waiting for the men that would lead them against the English.

Some 600 kilometers away from Edinburgh, deep thru the heart of England and to the far west coast, was a brew beginning to boil over in a place called Wales. Timing was something Adam had planned on, and now his army was in position... now all he could do was hope Lady Eirian was able to rally the call to arms.

Kryptmann: The armies of the English were held the demon in their ranks, swaddled in the clothes of its loyal soldiers. One of the advancing Scouts, swathed in robes, utterly silent in the face of it. Apparently able to tolerate the man's banter no longer, he responded in hissing voice. "Shut up!" Crouching low, imagining, however briefly, that he could scent his prey. He had wanted to murder Maubrey for this: were it not for the soothing words of Krause he would have spit in the man's face for being forced to leave work undone, but the words had relayed simply enough. We must assure him that he did not regret our services, Kryptmann, and we can not afford his plays for dominance now... forcing him to this god-forsaken hellhole, stalking in mud. The man's blood was up and it put him in a murderous mood, barely restraining himself from slaughtering the dead weight trailing behind him to make his own movements easier. Soon, it would be revealed soon. The only way to soothe his ire would be a body count, and Kryptmann intended to make see that quota filled, no matter what corpses he left in his wake. Other scouts watched him warily then, uncomfortable at being forced to accompany this unfamiliar--and deeply troubling, man.

Llewelyn (Senghenydd): The Lord Senghenydd was a shrewd man. A Scot had once called him "canty," but most of his Welsh brethren had decided "crazy" was the far better adjective. Whatever he was, he was one of Cymru's last defenders against the English. He had a decent partner in his brother Meurig, the Abbot of Neath. Together, they had outfitted more than a dozen monasteries throughout the country with smithies, trained more than a thousand laymen in combat, and given the Word to the people. The Welsh were, by far, more knowledgeable and more learned than any people en masse of the era, and it was all due to the Cistercian influence. Admittedly, it was due to the Cistercian influence that Wales was on fire now. Llewelyn ap Llewelyn, son of one of Wales' greatest heroes, looked out on the ramparts now and watched the tiny blooms of fire approach. Each village went up as the English approached, drawing the oncoming forces closer and closer to Mach. He could see torches arise now, tiny dots in the northwest, of his brother Rhys's force. They were approaching quietly, still out of sight of the English, but not to eyes atop Mach's walls. He did not know if Meurig's forces were near, but he could not afford to wait longer. The English were upon Machynlleth, and Lord Senghenydd was far too mad to be caught in this tinderbox.

Sascha:Meanwhile, the Italian Prince Consort and the Ruthenian were holding their peace, waiting for the signal from Mach. Sascha smiled. "It is good. To come home," he offered, holding a canteen out to Seithfed. Seithfed merely grunted, took the flask, and swigged down water. He was tired of marching. Ana-Catalina did not make him march. Hell, he had not marched since he was twenty-four years old, and that seemed like eons ago. "Maybe not," the Ruthenian added, seeing Seithfed's expression. "Your mother says hello, Gruffydd." He caught Seithfed's hand as it snaked forward in an instant flight-or-fight response.

Seithfed: "Sorry," Seithfed said contritely, and dropped the fist.

Sascha: The Ruthenian laughed softly. "It is fine, I think. But what name do you prefer, ah?" The real Welshman merely shook his head and waved the Ruthenian aside. His brother Meurig had a big mouth.

Eirian: Eirian elected the Cymrueg responsa to Lord Senghenydd to be the correct one, for one could neither use 'canty' nor 'plithy' nor 'adventurous' to describe the man. Desperate times needed the employ of desperate measures, and beneath the colors of twisting midnight, jet black, and husked lavender a daylight orange was being born time and time again. Perhaps the logic was not to fight for stone but to burn thatch and make mockery of those who came for it! Llwelyn ap Llwelyn and Senghennydd trained men of God to be the heavy steel hand in the secret abbeys, gave the Word to the people and became heretics in the process whilst the Italian Prince Consort was no more Italian than Eirian had come from a star. She came upon the man drinkng from a canteen with the Ruthenian Sascha, both who had protected her along the arduous journey to rally Wales. They had done a grand job for a ballad but a piteous job in the wake of reality, but the Welsh if nothing else were grand at a bardic turn. "All of the villagers are here, but so are the English." She pointed over towards the beacons and swore to see them winding in the mists. " Where is Senghenydd? " The braid of hair had been doubled, leaving two thick plaits dangled. With a dirty streaked face and clothes that smelled of soot, ash, and marsh it was hard to see 'Your Highness' at all. Rhys' forces were somewhere in the midst, and in the likelihood of traps she felt..something may go arduously wrong. Should not have Rhys' forces been here by now? In fact, meeting places had been cut off by the sudden English surge, so they were a separated army. About the only thing that stayed decent on the lady's person was the sword kept a constant friend against her back.

English Soldier: I cried out from pain... and ran to hide... peeking out from my hiding place, I could see men running about, almost confused as I am... No more arrows, I thought and I left my hiding place... running toward the fortified walls of the garrison... "I must make it... I cannot die here in this God-forsaken land... my King has forsaken me...God help me..." I uttered out loud... I see the men running at me... their swords raised to dash the life from me... I throw up my shield just in time... "oooffft" I can barely stand... Must get my sword swinging... there... Take that...Oh my mother doesn't like me to use curse words... sorry Lord, as I look to the man before me... In the sword fight, I use my shield, I wish I could have slept... Must... Must win this battle... "Take that yu damned welchman..." I decided not to stand and fight... I shall run... back closer to more of my brethren...that's it...safety in numbers... Aye MiLord commander, be right there... I run with other men toward the fort at Machynlleth... Arrows rain down upon us... I use my shield to block them.... Careful fool where ya step, I tell myself as I hold my sword... to the gates... Open? I wonder... well maybe my fellows got it open... I push against the doors hard... me and my fellows grunt to push it open further... Inside was pretty easy I thought... Now to kill this man... Quiet? Its not suppose to be this quiet? I lower my shield and look around... Something is not quite right !!??!!

Adam: Though he was feeble and nearly unable to stand by himself... he leaned against the parapet over looking the army below.... his eyes watered as he looked to Shaden, then his successor, Adam... "Mo'r Triath...yer army awaits yae..." Then Adam held the gold and black gryphon flag aloft and the crowd roared...South, out of Edinburgh, the army marched... drums sounded the rhythmic beat of standard... horns signaled commanders' orders... An army of men seeking freedom...a new life...

Kryptmann: The scouts didn't know whether to be relieved or surprised when their charge left their supervision--they turned their eyes elsewhere and the man was gone, moved to ground to better attack his prey. The man admitted a certain vicious satisfaction in the sights--the villages burned around him, not by English hands but by the hands of a ruler. It fit with his style, tickled him. He might have even liked the man who created the strategy, or at least believed he would. But it wouldn't change anything. Given chance, he'd die like everyone else. Focus on the task at work. Kryptmann slipped through in search of his first man, like a shade, that even the most seasoned Ranger would be unable to find. But damn him for being taken away from what he wanted! Skye was the hated place now, not this wretched place, and he wished nothing more than to see its denizens ruined before him. Let he be finished with this quickly enough so he could return to his previous duties, and see the ruins of its proudest at his feet!

Seithfed: "My brother," Seithfed said dryly, "is a complete and raving lunatic. But God love him, he is not an idiot." Just then, there was a burst of light from the direction of Mach's fortress. It waved side to side, three times. Then slowed. Then disappeared.

Sascha: The Ruthenian interrupted the tender moment among those gathered from Skye with a polite cough. "It is time," he announced. "Let us move quickly. The fortress is under siege." If they looked hard, they could see bursts of light that did not belong to the villagers leading the way toward the fortress. Arrows. English arrows, for there were a great deal of them. The Welsh used longbows, bolts that put the fear of God into the English, but were used sparingly, and usually only from behind the walls of a fortress.

Rhys: Rhys ap Llewelyn finally appeared. His small force, sizable only when combined with that gathered by Meurig and Eirian, had been routed further west by the English, but he had arrived on the western wall of Machynlleth fortress just in time to see the signal from the top. Just then, he felt a tap on his shoulder and let out a whoop. "LEW!" The brothers clasped in a quick hug, but that was all the reunion they could afford. Rhys and his men set to work flinging fire into the wooden fortress, which now resembled to them nothing so much as a great big tinderbox. My, this would be easy, no?

Llewelyn (Senghenydd): Llewelyn, not quite ready to rest on his laurels after collapsing the escape tunnels he and his men had devised over the past weeks for just such a trap, took his men in the opposite direction so that they could all converge on the gate, crushing the English between and within the fortress.

English Soldier: I look to my left... then to my right... "Oh God, I am in the middle of this chyt... where can I hide?" I begin to move farther into the fort... working my way left... "Oooppfft..." I am pushed right and yelled at by my sergeant... "Why God... just two months and I would go home..." Ok, if I cannot move left, then let me try right... I thought... The man next to me began telling me not to worry... he spoke of some noble lord named Maubrey who would make us the best fighting force since William the Conqueror... Me? I asked... part of something... Yeah my mother's pottery shop, I muttered quietly...and I just nodded to the older warrior....Men are screaming... I look around... there are fireballs crashing upon us... "Ohhh Goooodddd..." I stare at the man burning before me... I puke from the smell... I start to run... I can't see... the smoke... the smell is terrible...I know I am dead and gone to hell... "God forgive me..." I have dropped my shield and sword...The doors, I see the doors, they are closing.... "Noooo...." I pound upon the doors... it is hot... I back away... and Look inside... men are dyuing... burning up ...My heart goes out to mothers, sisters, wives... Mother.... shall I ever see her again... "Yikes... oh chyt..." I move aside just in time to see the doors fall... and I run for my life...

Adam: The English had marched north from London, then onward to Newcastle, where they resupplied for the march into Scotland... Hearing of the loss at Glasgow, the English garrison there decimated... the English commander knew he must meet the Scots head on... the Gryphon army would attempt to stop them. In a open field, just a low-lying area, with nothing but rolling hills, nestled between a small community named Galashiels and her sister towns of Melrose and Newton... the two armies faced one another... less than a mile apart. On the south was the English flag in the center, surrounded by the Maubrey red bull banners... There were thousands of blue-black uniforms... some on horseback, some infantry... Trebuchets and ballistas at the ready...

Eirian: "God save Wales if there is anything left by night's end or the next!" No one need tell the Lady among the men to move when all was set into place. Like it was expected, the Englishmen moved right into the royal house where instantly it was set to burn like straw cast into the hearth. Joining the thatched roofs north of Brecon in a steady blaze, it was a wonder that they would even discern what a signal fire looked like. The screams, the scent of flesh burning from bone was sickening but it did not turn Eirian's face to ash. What did were the forces still fighting their army below, and the lack of a signal fire from the Abbot. While the brothers clasped arms and men talked among themselves the small woman begged the question, "The Abbot is not yet here, nor have you seen his fires by God, have you?" In the crisping crackle of charring wood the smoke made it difficult to distern friend from foe at a distance. Charged with her safety, there would be two men who might grow pale as the smallest of patriots asked Rhys ap Llweyn and Llwelyn ap Llwellyn for a horse!

"You need a swift rider, and sturdy in the saddle, and to my credit my lords I needn't one, nor does Talion. I would send my husband but he is currently indisposed." Tallion Apollius was a pacifist, or so recent events had claimed. He had not lifted his sword in the battles on Skye if only to preserve his life. At his age, he had seen many fields with many chances for glory obtained, but knowing the pull of his young wife's heritage and the cost it would be if the call was not heeded, he made an exception. The Avarian was a fierce edition to the battle for mud or smoke didn't slow him. He slammed his sword into the adversary and his spear slit backs. "The mountains are perilous, and if it is one thing I have come to learn in the last few years, it is the hillsides" One month in her company proved that women of any size might have substance. The glint of steel against her back shone as she turned her back to the fire, pulling up her skirts to tuck them in the belt at her waist. Really they were layered tunics and one skirt, leaving her legs pale white and bare as she sought out a mount.

English Soldier: "I made it out..." I thought... but as I stand, I see welchmen... men who are my enemy... not my enemy...my commander's enemy... I have no sword, no shield... Why was I here? I didn't want to be here... Money does me no good now... for these men wish to kill me... I did nothing wrong... I killed no one... Pain... excruciating pain.. I look down... something is sticking out of my stomach... a sword... The man pulls it back from my stomach... My hands cup the blood... but it won't stop... I feel me hit the ground... my eyes hurt from the smoke... I cannot breathe... "Please God... forgive me for my sins..." Everything goes black... I am dead.

Kryptmann: The trap sprung Rhys mere moments after his mistake--, the first of his men dead where he stood before he even knew one was upon him, a blade jammed through the the soft flesh of his stomach and withdrawn swiftly, leaving him a boneless heap on the ground. The second cried his alarm, but the attacker, charging low like some predatory animal was on him. The Guard's blade went out, and struck hard against the steel of the murderer in the midst, but it was deflected high from a brutal swipe, the body of the killer twisting effortlessly and plunging a second blade into his chest, felling him near instantly. There was no panic--to the credit of the Welshmen, they reacted to the threat without pause, closing in around him, blades at the ready. but it wasn't enough--like a man possessed, he swiftly ducked and swiped, soundless as he struck them down, one by one, with precise, surgical strikes, murdering one--twisting, his blade slashing through the slats of armor and disabling the second, rolling, twisting, putting the body between him and the third--comrade slayed comrade, in turn was slain by a leaping slash from the murderer, blades flashed and glistened against firelight, and soon the man possessed pushed through and came upon Rhys, lifting both blades, quicksilver and sinous, and bringing them to bear in tandem against him-the glimpse of dark figure, rugged and unshaven, bloodshot eyes opened wide and vengeful peeking from beneath the cowl, the face of a madmen, peeked for but an instant before the blades came down.

Sascha and Seithfed: Sascha was wickedly proficient in arranging these monks in such an order that they could properly assault the raging inferno of the fortress. As the gates opened and the English came pouring out, longbowmen quickly dispatched the soldiers. Meanwhile, the rest of the tricked army was being swiftly dealt with by Gruffydd ap Llewelyn, the Italian nobleman and the one-time pirate. It felt good to destroy this army, as if he had been waiting his entire life to wreak this vengeance. For the father that they were too late to save, for the people who had starved under terrible mismanagement, for men who were too greedy to govern the land the King had rewarded his faithful, all were excuses he was happy to use as he plunged his sword into the nearest body, and removed it covered in gore and blood. When he looked up, though, and saw that his charge had disappeared, he could have burst in sheer annoyance. Here Meurig had guilted him into returning to a home he had no intention of ever returning to, and the Ruthenian knew not only his name but that of his mother, and no one was bothering to look after the Avarian! "Woman, go one step further and I shall brain you," he threatened, the Ruthenian unexpectedly sneaking up behind Seithfed and giving a firm nod of agreement. Between the two, Seithfed was the most expendable from the present battle, and so he lent his sword to the woman's protection, long enough to find two horses from fallen cavalry, and give over the reigns of one. Meurig was out there somewhere, and his forces would be just a little helpful in cleaning up this mess.

Eirian: "Man, try to stop me." She shot back at him and became Aerona of the old faith, a goddess of war. Or was it simply Epona, mistress of the horse? Naked legs hugged either side of the horse that was offered her "I am no innocent, I have no maidenhead to offer so need no man to guard me thusly, unless you ride quick and fight as quick as you threaten." Two thick plaits of black were being loosened as strands danced a hazard in front of her face. The horse cried out for its owner, and she leaned forward to whisper in its ear. "All will be well. Come, bare me to Meurig and you shall come home and be the horse of a true king's stable." Somewhere out there, Meurig was sending his men into the fray but he would be stuck with nothing at its back. With no signal from him, there could be no thinking he would join them in the rings of fire. "I am quick,cover my sides." Order? Be damned if it would end this way, for she had not lived so long, nor had her parents died in her grandmother's web of deceit for nothing. Aerona oddly enough, was her grandmother's name, and though her motives were wicked and the Church her tool, perhaps her heart lay somewhere in the right place. "HA!" She kicked her heels hard into the flanks of the horse and took off like a streak of white lightening through the thicket.

I ride, through the uncertain unto the heart of Hell itself. I have seen Heaven, and should I die here I will no what it looks like. Turning past an arrow, making the beast go over the bodies of the living and the dead I wonder if these Welshmen, my countrymen, are among them. My countrymen...I have never seen them as so. Lo, ever have I been the bastard of noble houses and the reluctant heir of a lost and failed king. Yet, false or no, they look at me. SEe there, a man! Raise he his banner and calls out THE PRINCESS RIDES and in that, I have become his Joan of Arc. ..my lips..they speak. "ABBOT! ABBOT! WHERE ARE YOU?" God, forgive me my sins as death is nigh, the sword drawn as I defend my life. The Lord is my shepard...I shall not want.. The twenty-third pslam was recited as the sword was drawn, cut, and lifted. Turning over her shoulder she saw the dervish dance that of death and Rhys was made to fall! She could do nothing for him now, as his form was swallowed up and all that mattered were the living.

Kryptmann: Throughout the chaos Kryptmann saw but one and smiled a wretched smile, the second target. God himself was seeing him wrought this destruction! as the body of the slain cooled in the turned Earth Kryptmann began to run, parallel--for no matter how fast he was not capable of outrunning a horse, leaving him but one opportunity, one small window. The man closed and ran along and just when he drew close enough he leaped, the weight of his throwing the horse briefly off balance, turning the full sprint into half of a stumble that would force Eirian, but already her killer had clasped hard on the saddle, his legs braced against the creature's side till he was vaulted behind the woman, the parody of a lover riding behind his love, the blades sheathed and traded for a slender knife. The killer smiled wolfishly and reached an arm around the woman's waist, pulling her tight against him whilst another wrapped suddenly about her neck, holding the knife to its edge, whispering in hissing, hushed tone. " Krause sends his regard, Lady Apollious, and your child is his for the taking..." were it for one weakness of Kryptmann's, it's that he paused then, took in the scent of her, the feel of her hair against his face, the sweet nearness of the woman who would doubtless now be frozen in sheer terror, briefly committing this joyous moment to memory, the split second before a kill!

Seithfed: He muttered under his breath about women not taking his threats very seriously. In fact, threats made them do even more unnaturally unfeminine things, like run off into the dark on a horse without adequate guard! "I'm not worried about your virtue!" he shouted lamely after her as he swung himself into the saddle and sprang forward at a gallop. He was seconds behind her, long enough not to see the ominous tumble of a body in the slight glow of the burning fortress, indicating the brother he would never have a chance to reconcile with. Rhys. They were of a similar age, being but a year apart. Rhys would have understood, if any of the brothers had a chance, why Gruffydd had taken the deal, and walked out of the Tower of London and into the arms of the Church, to adopt a new name and identity, and turn his back on revolution. But he did not see it. He was unaware that Rhys was even at the battle. So he galloped onward, seeing instead a shadow racing briefly alongside Eirian's horse before swinging up behind her. With the extra weight, the horse's gallop slowed ever so slightly, enough that Seithfed, hunkered low in his saddle, gained an extra two strides, enough to bring him at an intersect with the deadly pairing, his horse at full-speed playing chicken with Eirian's. It was an act of God, a miracle, mere chance -- he was no longer sure. But Eirian's horse veered away first, long enough that Seithfed could swing his drawn sword and smack the flat against the rider's back, as he was unable to do anything but that singular Hail Mary action.

Eirian: He leadeth me to walk in green pastures...... The recitation of prayer was constant as hands reached up for so well placed a target. The Lady of Wales. One Lord was Dead, but a few remaining to contend for the a faulty, ancient throne but none could do so if they did not live, aye? Talion was cutting a path through the fray for the Cisterians of Neath to overwhelm the English, seeing his wife upon the back of a horse he gave a strange crooked grin. How well she rode, he thought, and how strangely beautiful the palor of her bare legs. He was an Avarian and a simple man at heart! The heart mentioned would give a violent lurch as the killer of Rhys swept up to consume her form like a lover gone mad. It was so sudden!" No! I will not die here....and you will not mention my child on your vile mouth! No!" To her credit fear gave way to adrenaline as she thought of ways to struggle, but call it a miracle. Maybe it was the hail mary posture, or the 23rd psalm, or just that she had not fallen off her horse sooner because Seithfed's hit caused them to loosen and in a moment of uncertain balance her arm was freed. The sword was swung back, cutting Kryptmann a hard blow across his face, over his left eye, and over his shoulder before the lady pushed, risking cut of his own blade but leaning away so it was not her throat onto the ground.

Kryptmann: Her words would have been fruitless, all the adrenaline in fear in the world would have meant little in the embrace of the animal, but the confluence of events worked hard against him, mixed with his own foolishness in wishing to savor the moment. The man hissed and twisted suddenly to bat away the sword swing with the hilt of his knife, cursing momentarily again, but he saw no threat in Eirian and paid for his mistake. Kryptmann's body veered away, but the proximity he had so ironically forced worked in her favor, and the blade a thin line over his face--and his eye. the man screamed and and threw his weight away, tumbling off the force into the dirt, his mind reeling, a maddened cacophony of "No, killherkillherkillhercan'thappenwon'thappen!" there was a cruel snap as he force of the blow crushed his arm, as thicket and stone ripped numerous small wounds in his flesh, tangled in his cloak unceremoniously. When momentum finally carried him, when sensation dulled to mere pain, he managed to stand through sheer force of will, cradling his arm and staring from an unbloodied eye, watching as the pair of them rode into the distance and roared his utter frustration. So close, and denied again! useless and exposed, he slipped away again into the chaos of the battle, intent on retreating from the fray.

Seithfed: Seithfed heaved a sigh of relief as he and Eirian charged forward. He wasn't going to give the assassin any more of his thoughts than necessary to reach their goal, though he wondered if he could say the same for Eirian. He gave her a brief look, but she seemed intent on moving forward, and so he did not pause for her, did not give her time to collect her thoughts. He shifted the grip of his sword in hand. Though the grip was worn enough to be comfortable and new enough that it should not slide as sweat gathered in his palms, he could not seem to grasp it properly. Nerves? He had seen worse battles before. He had seen assassinations before. Hell, he had been the assassin before. This was different. What if Eirian had been his wife? No, he could not give that any more thought. Meurig was up ahead. He was supposed to have converged on the fortress long ago, following the English who obliviously tracked the burning villages toward the trap at Machynlleth. They left the sounds of battle behind. Even the smell of burning faded into the pine and old growth forest. He did not wish to speak, and if she said anything, he would only greet it with a monosyllabic word, or perhaps a grunt. Until eventually he saw the flicker of torchlight ahead -- and then another -- and another -- and another.... Strung along like little lights along a winding trail far into the distance, it was the Cistercian army making its way down from the passes.