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Crushfists organises the wounded and they nod, focus restored and ready to get back into it - and seeing the Company Standard on the high ground, they know where they must go. Imagine that: The proud banner, in the breeze. A sight to restore your spirits.
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Markhan regrets ever trying to run up a hill in full battle harness good VOID and the SWEAT and the burning in his lungs that was CHAOTIC but look - the Vanguard forms up around him, ready to hold the ground, and here, fighting enemies coming up at them, their spears will have an enormous advantage. The one confused Ironwrought he grabbed said they were fit for fight, and they're holding now. Sure. Heaving lungs and burning muscles. But they're holding.
But on the dusty ground back the way, a steel-skinned soldier lies. Didn't make it.
The Windsworn, much like the Company, uses this chance to re-organise. Some catch their breath. Some rally their shaken peers. Some adjust their weaponry. None fancy the sprint up the high hills into the waiting grasp of the Vanguard (or Markhan, with that halberd).
But they'll come. . .
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Facsimilie rules the high heights and catches his breath. From this enormously advantageous elevated position, the landscape clears, the fog of war departs, and he can see the width and breath of many things (though not all, as some details are hard to make out).
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Rion ducks, dodges and weaves, surprise-charged by a gaggle of sword-wielders.
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Out in the fields, the scrap goes on. Probos smiles - it's a fair thing when both sides suffer curious calamity.
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Speaking of calamity, the entire Windsore contigent would have been dead in the dust if not for Wicklighters shouted warning and their speed at diving into cover. Arrows rain down from on high, that first lethal volley of the aimed, prepared archer. The follow-ups will be lesser, now, because as they redraw, reload and tire, they won't also have so much time to find their marks. One of the Windsores plucks an arrowhead out of his uniform, grumbling.
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Caedo tries some gentle nudging of the world, and though it does not form a stout wall, it does trip up a Windsworn and make their whole unit poorly footed. Seeing an opening, the Blades nearby dive in and the Ravens, guided by the faintly wind-whispered words of some distant officer, join them.
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A stray gust of wind steals a lot of hats! What a crippling blow to morale! How will we ever recover??
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Jove sweeps the inside of the little fort on the high hill and spots a score of small, carapace'd shapes, slumbering out of the sun. And a few sealed lockboxes, recently arrived. Must be a smuggler using this to store their gear, or the villager may be making some extra coin on the side.
But the guardians might wake up if we try it. They must have moved in after the packages were delivered. Relatively simple to chase off, they hate fire and smoke, but that takes twenty men and a bonfire and Jove is but... slightly more than one?
Hey who's THAT guy??
