Arden stood ten paces ahead of the frontline, his torso glistening with the lurid sweat of anticipation and hunger. With one hand resting on the hilt of his blade and the other loosely by his side, he held a certain charisma undeniable. He wore loose fitting slacks wrapped tightly below the knee and a pair of cloth shoes in traditional Akashiman style. Nothing about his appearance suggested skill or finesse, save for the expression on his face, half covered by strands of long, auburn hair.

“Shields up!” he roared as the distance between Us and Them narrowed. Now, he could see the whites of their eyes, as eager to clash blades as he.

The Knights Brae raised their shields and laid them across one another, sword tips protruding from between the winged curve on the right edge of each sheet of metal. The white plumes atop their helmets rocked in unison, and unspoken stratagems and dusk till dawn drills began to pay dividends.

“Hold steady!”

No charge came. Only an undeniable advance. Arden retreated and fell naturally between two of his men. The shield wall broke only to allow him to take his place, forming behind him and moving in time with his languishing gait. At the far flanks of the line, the wedge formation kept their sights set on the rugged landscape, trying to gauge wherever or not their enemy was trying to outmanoeuvre them. A single, scraggy looking raven flew over the battle lines, cawing indiscriminately and odalisque eyes silently observing the pieces far below.

---

Leopold fared a little worse than Arden, running back and forth between the cadres of archers and scouts that formed the army’s rear-guard. They had not anticipated such an intricate engagement, given the bulwark of the city walls behind them and the relatively uncomplicated terrain on which they were to make their stand. As he barked orders left and right the merchant regretted vehemently only bringing one bottle of bourbon. Whenever he got a chance, he slipped a hand into a purple whorl to fish about in his otherworldly armoire and swore louder and louder each time his clenched fist re-appeared holding yet another long lost trinket.

“Ordman!”

A plucky redhead appeared out of thin air, white shirt soaked with sweat.

“Yessir!”

“Run to the northern lines and tell our special little guest to do his thing.”

“His thing, sir?” The young recruit looked puzzled. Leopold could never be sure if it was his intellect or the fact he shouted every order in an increasingly inscrutable Scara Braen twang.

“He’ll know what you mean.” He shooed the boy away.

“Yessir!”

As the frontlines closed and battle broke out on the plains, a war of another sort raged in the shadows of the colossi walls of Radasanth. One between a merchant, his bird, and his increasing need to abandon sobriety.

“Count your arrows, and string your bows!”

Five hundred good men and women did just that, eager to let their weapons sing in defence of their homes. Before each groups of marksmen were mounded white fletched arrows, steel tips barbed and swanlike. Far from yet another homage to the heraldry of Scara Brae, they were designed less to kill, more to ensnare and encumber and turn a close-knit engagement into a savage pitfall.

“Wait for the signal, then fire like you’re shitting yourself!” Leopold produced a top hat and set it on his head, along with green lensed goggles and a rather excessive hunting rifle and scope. He checked the barrel and retreated to the city walls, atop which he would find a suitable position to carry out his own little coup de grace. No matter how dire the hour, he was not about to let Arden Janelle have all the fun.