Mattias eyed the knight indignantly.

He's threatening me? The tin knight has the gall to threaten me, a delegate of the Empire on foreign soil?

Mattias opened his mouth to utter a retort, before considering the other knights in the courtyard more closely.

Although perhaps the knight has point. Maybe discretion is the better part of valour, at least until we reach Wendolyn and I am no longer in need of guards.

Instead Mattias shrugged slightly, "As you wish, Knight." Mattias left a certain emphasis on the word. "I shall prepare to set out at your... order."

With that, Mattias turned away, and began to walk rapidly towards the stable where he had left his mare, his pride wounded, but still strong.

Somewhere west of Wyndolen, at the rendevous point marked on Agonold's map.

Aramis and Jon rode to a halt in the valley clearing. A few minutes previously, they had noted a group of people moving quickly in this direction, and had decided to intercept them.

It is easy for a young knight to affect confidence, even more so with a friend beside him, and the two of them were currently engaged in a competition, the terms being 'who can be less bothered by the noise in the undergrowth coming this way.'

It had almost become a dare. Jon's hand hovered his sword's pommel, and Aramis's an inch higher. Young noblemen in Bretonnia are not so different from their cousins abroad.

Aramis leaned forward as the source of the noise become evident, and spoke firmly and calmly, his tone that of a young man used to being obeyed.

"You there, come forward, attend to me."

In ones and twos the peasants exited the undergrowth, their clothes torn and faces scratched from the brambles. Young women carried babes in their swaddling robes, the elderly appeared ready to drop dead from exhaustion, and two girls barely into their adolescence held hands as if each other were all they had left.

The first of them, a man who had long left middle-age behind, looked up as if the Lady herself had granted deliverance. "Young Lords of Bretonnia! Please, we are pursued! Little devils, dozens of them! Led by a beast with an axe stained with the blood of Wyndolen!"

Jon began to scan the undergrowth, as Aramis replied. "Are there more of you? Where are these foes who would chase you this far? We are some twelve miles from your hamlet, are we not?"

The gutteral sound of a misshapen hunting horn echoed from the woodland behind the peasants, and for a moment they forgot the presence of the young knights, and began to run past them before a lifetime's servitude reminded them of their duty. Aramis slammed the butt of his lance into the ground. "Listen to me. Follow the river, you'll find sanctuary with Sir Gunthar of Brienneford. Go quickly, and you'll be able to rest there."

As the peasant's departed, a further three, all young boys, emerged from the undergrowth in a state of complete panic, forcing Jon to grab the reins of his steed as they flew past him. The horn sounded again, and then the forest became alive with the children of chaos.

A Strong Offense

The harsh, reedy cry of a crudely fashioned horn of bone blared ominously from the dark depths of the forest. Hooves beat rhythmically upon the nearby roadway. The beasts were on the move.

“Lady’s left teat!” Flam swore under his breath, sweat beading on his forehead beneath the jester’s cap he wore, its bells jingling conspicuously as the morning breeze rustled its tips. He hid within the thicket of poison thornwood, his faded blue and yellow checkered costume nicked and ripped, his left hand blistered with the irritating oils of the briars that cut his flesh. His mace hand, a metal ball of spikes grafted to his right arm in place of the one he lost, dug into the smelly soil to support his awkward position.

Still, ‘twas the safest place for him to be.

For an entire day and night he had traversed the winding flow of Wendolyn, though how he had arrived upon its bank was an utter mystery. One moment, he was at the western edge of Lyonesse with Sir Gastion le Vaillant and the damsel Elise de la voix d’argent. They were urgently riding to aid Duke Adalhard against the northern arm of Mousillon’s forces. Though hazy, Flam remembered resting for a night beneath a cedar-shrouded lake that misted with thick fog. There was a bright flash of white light and he awoke on the muddy shore of the river Wendolyn, its waters washing over his filth-stained clothes. He had recognized landmarks and the clean blue hue of the water from the last time he had been in Parravon, then looked to see smoke flying to the sky.

At first, he attempted to avoid paths toward the black smoke, tried to turn away from the direction of the destruction. No matter where he went or how often he altered his orientation, he found himself moving toward the spouting clouds of ashen grey. Flummoxed and frustrated, he opted to rest beside the river and catch his next meal. Wading into the flowing current, he used his mace hand to bash the large and slug-like catfish that slithered on the bottom. He then built a fire and set about cooking the fish, an activity which proved exceptionally difficult with only one hand. To pass the time, he whistled an old tune he’d learned some years ago, when last he was in the province.

Whether the smoke from his fire or his whistling attracted the brigands, Flam did not know. They soon arrived as he cooked. There were three of them, wielding stolen arms and armor from looted yeoman corpses. Outnumbered, Flam chose to flee and abandoned his supper. He spent the evening running against the flow of Wendolyn, traveling ever nearer the orange glow above the twilit trees.

When night fell, he moved to sleep within the folds of a yew grove, but his slumber was soon interrupted by the clarion song of sylvan horns. The very forest itself seemed to shiver with excitement, each leaf poised and anxious, each root twisting with preparation. Though he had never seen it, Flam knew the ancient tales of the Wild Hunt of Orion, when the fey folk of Loren rode out to slake the bloodlust of their god-king. Once more he bolted through the woods, his hole-rent boots crunching on decaying leaves, his feet tripping over brambles and saplings. Then the braying of the hounds sent shivers down his spine.

The fool ran into a clearing wherein he found a great dog. ‘Twas near the size of a small horse, its fur like grey moonlight, its ivory teeth slathered with the saliva of anticipation Its eyes glowed gold, and it howled loudly and charged. Flam drew back his mace hand to swing against the running beast, but it soon stopped and sniffed the air around the fool with curiosity. Its nose inhaled air at an alarming pace, darting to the left, to the right, then directly at Flam. A pained expression crossed its face as it smelled his soiled clothes, and its body gave a small convulsion before it vomited forth the contents of its previous meal. It then turned and fled.

Flam gave his arm pits a sniff and gagged. Elise had been right. He did smell worse than spoiled Artois goat’s milk. “The best defense is a good offense, I’ve always said,” he muttered to himself with a brief grin of self-satisfaction, “And I certainly offend.”

He quickly hid inside the nearest thicket of overgrowth he could find. In the darkness, he hadn’t realized it was poison Thornwood. Still, he was safe for now, awaiting whatever thundered down the roadway, hoping beyond hope that it wasn’t whatever had caused the destruction farther into the forest.

He scraped his rash-painted hand with one of his metal mace spikes and let out a soft sigh of satisfaction. Even in such dire situations, Flam was one to enjoy the pleasures that life offered. Scratching an itch was certainly one of them.

South-East of Wendolyn, near Lake Somerspoole

Dante knew that the road he was set upon was a difficult one but over a decade ago, when he had handed his lance over to his most trusted advisor and grasped his warhammer, he had not known the nature of the difficulties. Fighting powerful foes were one thing for the results were very obvious: victory or death. Fatigue, weariness and even the loss of hope were all things he had prepared for and had suffered at one point or another but his crucible was indecision!

Now knowing what to do! It left him feeling like he had done as a child, watching wise and powerful lords make sweeping decisions in his fathers keep: he had wondered then how they instinctively knew what to do and when to do it. Now, over twenty years later, he was still none the wiser and that worried him.

Now, there was no battle for him to charge off into or no ditch defence to shore up and await death: just a series of unknowns and possibilities which were as maddening as they were unclear. If the Lady had a plan for him then she certainly was not willing to reveal her mysterious ways.

Sir Ortwin pointed out that the smoke rising from the South-East was the product of neither Fey nor Beast and that in itself was promising for it meant someone else was alive in the area, thought if it was the vanguard of a relief force or the disheartened refugee’s from the massacre it was not possible to tell.

“We need the Damsel and peasants Sir Ortwin,” He finally replied, after running a long list of possible scenarios through his head. “If this is indeed a force of arms to fortify this position then I would warrant that their first destination would be the Castle in which case Sir Oderic should be in a position to greet them.

If it is survivors then I cannot in good conscious abandon our search for the Damsel for what may be no more than a pair of terrified teenagers.” Dante concluded.

He expected Sir Ortwin to reply: his decisions seemed harsh and cold hearted for what other purpose did a Knight of Bretonnia exist for if not to serve the people and land? After a few moments of silence he began to speak again, feeling it necessary to explain his decision and break the uncomfortable silence.

“What if the relief force had been delayed? What if it arrives and is not sufficient to meet the threat at hand? We will need the Damsels magic to protect us from the evil curses of our foe and the peasants to take up spear and bow to defend the keep. I do not like the idea of abandoning folk to their fate but I will not gamble the defence of the realm on what could transpire to be nothing more than a fool’s errand.”

With his mind made up, Dante once more set his horse off towards the Lake, carefully directing his steed around the seemingly endless corpses of slain beast intermixed with the odd peasant that had been victims to the blood-fuelled madness of the fey folk, quietly praying that he did not find the slain corpse of the Damsel and the villagers he was searching for.

He wanted to drink…or fight….or fight and then drink. But with one option unavailable to him and the other unwise, he was forced to grasp the hilt of his warhammer until his knuckles turned white and his fingers ached….

Clay and Reynard hoped they had done their liege lord proud. The muster was going as well as expected. Reynard had gathered the last of the necessary items from Clay and quartermaster. He was heading back to the stables to prepare his mount and ready for the arrival of the Marquis so he could quickly give his lord's warhorse, Scal, a proper rub-down, feed, and watering to ensure he was ready for the journey.

Just then, nearly as one, the gathering knights, yeomen, and peasants went down on bended knee. Momentarily stunned, Reynard whirled around to see Marquis Agonold had returned, but he was accompanied by a Damsel! Reynard immediately knelt in her presence, hoping that his momentary delay went unnoticed!

"Milord," the page said, bowing his head respectfully. "My lord, Charles, requests to speak with your lordship, at your convenience." The words were delivered well, though in truth, the young lad was doing his best to mask the fear and pride swirling inside of him. To bear the words of a grail knight, even if so simple a message, was a great honor and one he performed frequently while in service to the baron. However, the honor was well worth the terror of misspeaking that was the lad's constant companion.

Agonold looked across the courtyard to see Mattias arrogantly walking away from sir Charles. He looked down to the page, and stated, "Thank you for the message, you do your Baron proud." The page looked up, trying to look professional, but failing to hide the sudden relief from getting the message right.

Agonold patted the boy on the head and nodded to Isabella. "It seems for now we must part ways, I wish you luck on your endeavors." Agonold held the wrapped banner pole tightly as he bowed to Isabella. She nodded back, before looking out towards the Duke's pavillion, "You might want to keep some of that luck for yourself, you'll need it." Isabella cryptically mused as she rode off, leaving Agonold at the gates of his castle.

Agonold turned back to Charles, and nodding in deference to one of his position, before asking, " You wish to speak with me, Baron?"

"Indeed," Charles replied, watching the reiklander depart with a mix of irritation and concern. "I have taken the liberty of instructing young Reynard to organize a vanguard force," he explained, though a hesitation crept into his voice. "However, in hindsight, the order should have come from you," he said pointedly.

"While haste and speed are needed now, you are the commander of this venture, not I," he said contritely, "And, though I have the lady's favor, I should not presume to command those who serve you directly."

"In this matter, you were chosen to lead and so... I formerly pledge my lance to your cause."

"You did what you thought was best, Baron." Agonold said, "You are used to giving orders to other knights and peasants, I hold no ill will against you for it." Of all of the events happening in recent times, Agonold never expected a grail knight, other than his brother, to ever apologize to him. "I gladly accept your offer, Sir Charles, and I will have you act as my adviser. You have fought in many battles and have undoubtedly lead at least small forces in your time, as is your rank." Agonold adjusted his sword belt while noticing his squire in the keep entryway, still kneeling.

"I'll need a skilled knight to make sure I don't get too distracted from my duties. You may act in the best interest of this company when I am not present, and your first duty is to assemble the vanguard to ride ahead and see how Wyndolen fairs. You are free to leave after we receive our blessing from the damsel." Agonold finished. "You out-rank me in the eyes of the Lady, and I out-rank you for the course of this journey, so I will always listen to anything thing you wish to say during this journey." As he walked towards his squire, he quietly murmured to himself, "The real question is, will we both be returning to a Bretonnia we know, or will one of us be with the Lady when all is done."

Charles gave a silent nod as the Marquis walked away. He had not expected to be the one in charge of the vanguard, but he would be a liar indeed to deny that a part of him relished the thought of riding out to bring the lance against such a festering evil as the beastmen.

He kept his eye on Agonold as he made his way to his own tent. Though there was still the question of who else would ride ahead and who would remain with the main force, that matter could be settled after the blessing was received.

“Cecil, a word,” he commanded, beckoning to the most senior of his retainers. “I will be riding out at the head of the vanguard, squire Tobias will be riding with me... along with our... spirited cousins,” the knight explained, gesturing to the group of knights errant that were nearing Reynard, each one more boastful then the last.

“I want you to take command of our yeomen and have but two orders to give to you before we part ways. First, guard Mattias well... allow him to learn non-fatal lessons only.”

The other knight nodded grimly at the prospect of protecting so overbearing an outsider, but made no remark.

“Secondly, obey the Marquis as if he were I. For he will need every man, from peasant to knight, to follow and serve him well if we wish to overcome this enemy.

With the order given, the younger knight left the tent to see to his duties while his master began to gird himself for war.

Though the blessing was always with him and there would be time for a formal prayer later on, Charles found himself praying by habit as he armed and armored his form.

“Lady, Open my eyes to see through fear and deception and give me wisdom enough to discern the difference.”

“Lady, steel my body and leave unbroken my heart. Grant me compassion.”

“Lady, give my arms strength. My right to mete justice, my left to shield the innocent.”

“Lady, give me your favor, your kindness and be both my sword and my shield.”

“Grant me thy blessing.”

Somewhere west of Wyndolen, a mile or so north-west of the rendevous point marked on Agonold's map.

"Fall back!" Jon screamed at Aramis as he withdrew his sword from the guts of the ungor that had unhorsed him. Twenty minutes of constant battle had left his bones aching from the impact, and for every beastling they killed, two more took it's place. "You must tell Sir Gunthar to circle the wagons!"

Aramis stood in his stirrups to bring the full weight of his blade crashing down upon the horns of the beast before him. "I won't leave you here! We go together!"

The ungor before him was decapitated where it stood, it's ruined carcass collapsing even as Aramis brought the blade high once more.

Behind them, an ungor grabbed at the reins of Jon's panicking steed, only to have it's teeth knocked out by the riderless Bretonnian warhorse, elven linage granting it speed beyond that which these corrupted beasts could muster. It's rider limped towards it, and Jon grabbed the saddle, desperately attempting to pull himself into it. A futher half-dozen of the beastmen ran from the undergrowth, spooking his horse once more and leaving the knight Errant flat on his back, facing the children of chaos as they leapt towards their prone target with glee.

Everything went black.

And then Jon realised that it was just the underside of Aramis's mount blocking out the sun as his brother-in-arms leapt over him, scattering the beasts before him and crushing one beneath the hooves of the rampaging warhorse.

Aramis moved to engage the closest two, refusing to take his eyes from them as he called back to Jon. "Mount up, we ride!"

By the time he reached the shore of the lake Dante was glad there were Beastmen present: each hoof-fall on the way had been another log thrown onto an ember of temper that was rapidly being turned into a raging inferno.

He was not a man prone to a short temper, indeed he had been amused by the time he had seen Imperial Knights of the Order of the White Wolf, whose tempers had exploded within seconds and been quenched just as rapidly. A short temper was not a noble attribute and the savage beast that lurked within all men’s hearts was a terrible thing to behold.

Yet the strewn bodies of his kinsmen, even though they were lowborn, had been sufficient. It was not warfare or at least not in any way he would have ever waged it. Slaying an armed opponent was one thing but cutting down a child or an infirm elder was beyond cowardice. He had wanted to weep: not just for the loss of life but for his inability to defend them. With each failure or defeat he wavered perilously close to embracing an aspect of him he did not care to acknowledge.

Now, with three Beastmen on the shores of Lake Somerspoole he finally had a way to vent his frustration. With a grimace of disgust and loathing, he almost leapt from the saddle with warhammer in hand. He covered the ground in two large bounds and with a cry of rage brought the fleur-de-lys headed hammer down in a mighty two handed overhead blow.

The Gor didn’t even react: the strike would have been sufficient to fell a Minotaur and the lesser beastman died an instant death and its head was turned into little more than jellied meat. For a moment its fellows blinked their large evil eyes in confusion before another strike smashed the femur of the second Gor, sending it tumbling to the ground before a series of strikes smashed its ribs and organs below to pulp. It died coughing up its own black blood and choking as its lungs were skewered on its bones.

He was fighting like a fool, allowing rage to dictate his blows and drive his method and as the last beastman drove its spear towards him, he smashed it away with ease. The Ungor looked panicked by the situation as Dante dropped his warhammer and grabbed the creature by its neck with both hands before bringing his forehead down with a sickening crack across the creatures nose.

“Where are they?” he shouted in its face, driving a mailed glove into its stomach before it could have ever responded. Then again, and again: a dozen times until he felt muscles tear. “Where ARE THEY!!!!!?????” he shouted again.

The Ungor coughed violently from the blows, attempting to breathe through the agony engulfing its midriff before it felt its hoofed feet being dragged across the floor towards the edge of the lake. With a mighty heft Dante forced the creatures head underwater, holding the struggling creature there before dragging it back upwards as its struggles lessened.

“WHERE ARE THEY!!??” He yelled, ramming his mailed fist into its face once more.

As he did he realised he wasn’t South-East of Wyndolen anymore but back outside Middenhiem, on that last fateful day in the Storm of Chaos. Everyone he knew was dead or dying and the bodies were waist deep in every direction. He had seen regiments been slain to the last man and creatures consumed by cannon fire only to be reborn from Daemonic magic: on that madness that was the battlefield he had felt a strange power grow within him, something he had not felt since his early days when he had visited Norsca and participated in some ancient blood-right that he, as an outsider, was apparently privileged to be invited into.

He didn’t remember much after that: he had fought and slain many foes that day and triumphed against impossible odds, not just physically but with his sanity intact at the end. But something had changed within him: the blood lust would not abate and he was as wild as any Northman, smashing his foes with his hammer and even when the fighting was done and the enemy in flight, chasing them on untiring legs to bring them to what he perceived as justice. Only the intervention of a trio of Priests of Ulric who had been physically forced to restrain him had saved his life.

With a harsh realisation he snapped back into the current moment. The Ungor was dead: he had either throttled it or else beaten it to a pulp, re-enacting the battles of the past in his half-dream like state but he dropped it on the shores of the lake. Then he vomited as the rage subsided and the realisation of him losing control dawned on him.

There were no peasants, no damsel: it had all been for naught.

Unless...

He would swim to the island to investigate: fear drove people to extremes and maybe they had made it across the mist wreathed waters to reach the safety beyond.

Weak from exhaustion and shame, he wearily retrieved his weapon.. and trudged back to his warhorse that he had ridden so hard he had left Sir Ortwin behind….

Fully girded for the ride ahead, Charles stepped out from his tent, helm held in the crook of his arm. His eyes passed over the arrayed army, looking like a haphazard tournament ground as orders filtered down the chains of authority, mobilizing Knights and peasants alike.

His squire, Tobias, had made ready their horses, but before the baron could saddle up the trample of hooves and the shouts of peasants fleeing drew his attention.

Caring little for anyone not wearing the livery of a knight, the impetuous band of young cavaliers had trampled their way to Sir Charles's tent. "Hail cousin!" the self-appointed leader of the group shouted to the baron as they came to a staggering halt.

The glare the grail knight gave his relations was enough to cool their brashness, drawing out a few mumbled apologies regarding protocol. Even at ten feet he could tell they had been in their cups and he gave them a disapproving frown. "Well?" he asked, deciding to get this over as quickly as possible.

"Forgive us, Sir. We were trying to find Reynard but he kept running off on some order or another..." one of their number finally said, with the others nodding and mumbling in agreement.

The grail knight sighed. "By all rights I should tan your hides for this display," he said with his usual growl. "Be grateful that you haven't had enough chance to embarrass yourselves or your families."

He let his eyes do the scolding for him, his piercing gaze adding an unspoken threat that caused the group to grow quiet. "It is just as well. I will be riding with the vanguard, go make yourselves ready," he commanded, before giving them a faint grin. "...and save the wine for when each of you has a beastman's head on the end of a lance."

Chastised but grinning, the group thundered away.

The young knight had been on the road almost a week before he heard the news that a force was mustering under the command of Marquis Agonold. The news drove the knight into the lands of Bastonne in search of the army of the Marquis. A peasant two nights before had told him that Castle Estern was close and now he could see it. The knight took a deep breath and began to make his way to the castle saying to himself “remember you are a Knight, don’t let the senior knights push you around but REMEMBER YOUR STATION” he repeated this to himself as he approached the gates of the town.

As he approached the gates the guards stiffed to attention at the sight of an unknown knight with no heraldry and colours they did not recognise. “I have come to speak with Marquis Agonold the Daring”. The Knight spoke with such an air of authority that surprised even him. The guards not sure of who the knight was but afraid of the consequences if they refused him entry, opened the gate and pointed to the castle “you will find him in the castle, sir”. As the knight made his way through the hustle and bustle of the town he repeated the words to himself “remember your station and don’t make a fool of yourself”

The castle was of impressive size, twice the size of his fathers back in Montfort, more even. The young knight dismounted his horse and took her by the reins, she felt as nervous as he did “easy Benson” not sure if he was trying to calm himself or the horse. As he made his way inside the courtyard he ran over in his mind the speech he would give to the Marquis, however when he caught sight of the Marquis standing in the courtyard his mind went blank. All ideas of station and rank evaporated from him like dew in the morning sun and before he knew what he was doing he found himself on his knees in front of the Marquis with his dull sword drawn. “Sire, I am Bastien of Montf....” he tailed off “I am Bastien a knight newly on my Errantry tour, I pledge my lance and life to you and your cause so I may serve the lady and the land”. He closed his eyes waiting to hear the laughter from those who had gathered in the courtyard and from the Marquis himself.

"Young Bastien, your sword will prove of some use." Agonold quipped as he looked down at the young errant. "It would provide better use if it were, well..." Agonold stopped himself, looking at the craftsmen ship on the blade. It wasn't anything well made, his smith might have made something of a better quality with scrap iron than what the poor errant was holding.

"I see your horse there has no heraldry on it, and you lack a lance, did you come to fight without a knights tools and his family's honor." Agonold questioned the young errant. The boy continued looking down with no response. Agonold sighed, he didn't know what he could do about his lack of heraldry, but he could get the boy more respectable weapons. It has been said that charity is a virtue as much as patience.

"Go to the armory, past the door to your right, tell the smith you have be ordered by the Marquis to be issued a new lance and sword." Agonold whispered to the errant. "After that, find sir Charles of Bastonne, tell him you will be part of the vanguard. If anyone asks about where you ride from, claim you are a distant cousin of mine who has come to fight for our cause."

Agonold turned from the young errant towards the entrance of his keep with a slight smile. A small kindness can go a long way for knights not as landed as himself, he thought, and maybe that boy might become a strong knight when he becomes a full blown knight.

Bastien listened for the sound of the laughter he expected from the people in the courtyard, he was after all the son of a drunken minor lord in the backwaters of Montfort what use would the Marquis have for him, but instead there was silence, the Marquis was speaking to him. His sword would be of use to the Marquis, “wonderful” thought Bastien, whose mind began to race with images of the battles he would fight and the creatures he would defeat in the name of the Marquis and the Lady but his happiness soon turned to shame once again when the Marquis rebuked him for his lack of knightly equipment. The lack of a lance being a particular sore point for him, what kind of a knight appears with no lance he thought to himself. He listened closely to the instructions of the Marquis, go to the armoury, find Charles of Bastonne and join the vanguard. He paid particular attention to the last instruction the Marquis gave him about his lineage and thanked the lady that Agonold did not enquire about it in public, he did however realise that he would have to tell Agonold if he was going to serve in his army. Bastien through shame and embarrassment waited for the Marquis to begin to leave before he stood up and called after him “yes sire” and “thank you sire”

As he made his way to the armoury Bastien examined the sword he had taken from his father’s armoury. His father would have told him that the sword had killed a hundred greenskins in one of his drunken boastful tales. “I will get my own sword” thought Bastien “one that WILL see battle”. As he entered the armoury Bastien announced “by the order of the Marquis I am to be issued with a lance and sword”. The big man who worked the armoury had not seen Bastien approaching and jumped when he heard his announcement, which knocked the items placed on the shelf beside him. He went away to fulfil the order cursing under his breath with Bastien calling behind him “and a shield” just realising he did not own a shield “another essential I do not have” he thought to himself. While he waited for the smith to return and he thought it would be a while in return for giving him a fright, Bastien remembered the last time he was in his father’s armoury. He announced now that he was of age he intended to begin his errantry and he also intended to renounce his family name and give up his heraldry as he would gain his own, ones not drenched in wine and shame. His farther snorted “fine “Sir Knight”” he said mockingly “as it is my duty to help a knight in need I will let you have one item from my armoury, return in one hour and you can have your pick”. When Bastien returned he found that the armoury was emptied except for a sword and a lance, he chose the sword as the lance looked as if a strong breeze would break it. Bastien was brought back to reality with a bang as the smith dropped a plain shield and a lance on the table in front of him. As Bastien examined the items the smith returned with a sword “freshly forged sir” said the smith “thank you” answered Bastien handing him his old dull sword and worn scabbard. Bastien gathered his new equipment and left the smith holding the dull old blade wondering what he was going to do with it.

After he had lashed his new lance to his horse, slung his new shield over his shoulder and tightened his new sword belt Bastien began his search for Sir Charles of Bastonne. As he made his way through the camp he realised that he did not know who he was looking for or how he would find him. After asking a yeoman he was told to look for the grey towers on a blue field. He found the banner and made his way to the tent telling himself to “address Sir Charles properly, DO NOT do what you done with the Marquis and just rush in without thinking”. As he approached the tent Bastien spotted a group of riders being chastised by a knight and as they left he approached. “Sir Charles I am Bastien knight Errant and distant cousin of the Marquis” “oh no” he thought to himself “my mouth is like the bowels of a peasant after a week old stew, everything is coming out” “ and I wish to join the vanguard” he stopped red faced and staring at the ground in front of the Knight.

Joint post with Angrypeasant and Klinktastic
Agonold briskly walked over to his still kneeling squire, noticing a few bags and other pieces of equipment on his person. He leaned over and whispered to Reynard, "She's gone, lad, people will think you turned to stone if you don't stand up soon..."

Reynard still in awe of seeing a damsel for the first time stirs back to reality. "Yes....yes, my liege. The lady, m'lord, her beauty must have stolen my wits, for but a moment," he quibbed, recovering from the mesmerization. "Most of the men have mustered, per your orders. Clay is making sure the yeomen are organized and equipped."

"Good, it seems that a visage of Damsel Isabella has not dulled you completely." Agonold cheerily mentioned while rubbing the young squire's head. "Go and send notice to Clay and Hoss that Sir Charles had been appointed my adviser and is second in command of this, well, hunting party." Agonold smirked at his title for a mission, maybe it would raise morale to make it seem so simple. "I see you have my equipment, place it on Scal and do as I have commanded. I will be checking my Keep once more before I leave if anyone requests my presence." Reynard nodded, eager to get on with his duties and escape out of the spot light

Clay looked over the 20 Yeomen before him. They were the smallest of Sir Agonolds riders, actually young men of Reynard's age. Clay picked this group because they came from the Chalons forest and were well versed in woodcraft.

"Well cousins, we are marching off to find a big herd of beastmen and put it down. You lot are going to be running way ahead of this mess" Clay waved his hand behind him at the muster slowly forming itself. "Leave your spears behind, and take some extra arrows. I need to to be the eyes, not the teeth."

The Yeomen started to stack spears and remove items from their packs.

"If you see anything off, come on back, better to bring back a warning, then not come back at all." Clay stopped to look at one of the yeoman's bows. "Don't let JoJo here take an arrow, I think his sister likes me."

As the yeomen were getting ready to ride, he saw Reynard jogging up to him, with a look of excitement flashing in his eyes.

"M'lord" Clay nodded as Reynard stopped before him.

"I planned on riding off with this lot to get ahead of the knights and scout some. The knights are still getting ready and the rest of the yeomen will ride with them. Who do you plan on riding with? Your welcome to come with us, but we are just going to be doing a lot of riding and looking for signs" Clay spat out his blade of grass at the thought of beastmen.

"You have a chance to talk to that Grail Knight, he might show you something Clay can't teach ya." a touch of concern went into Clays voice, fearing for the Squires well being with the scouts. .

Somewhere west of Wyndolen, three miles or so north-west of the rendevous point marked on Agonold's map.

Gunthar stood in front of the elderly peasant, stroking his beard as she drank deeply from his waterskin. Her feet were scarred and bloodied, and even now one of his men-at-arms gestured that three more had been sighted, approaching from the woods.

"You're safe now, rest easy. You ran into my young knights, you say?"

She looked up at him, nodding slowly, before her eyes darted back behind her. Her parched throat now moistened, and the breath back in her lungs, she cast her arm across the route of her approach to the wagon train of Sir Gunthar of Brienneford.

"Yes, m'lord. Not an hour ago, south-east of here. They saved us from the beasts that walk like men. The Lady must have sent them, they couldn't have been more needed!" She leaned forward, carefully bending to one knee as she returned the vessel.

"Hmm. Well, that's not quite.."

"You don't understand!" She burst into tears, wailing as she rested her forehead upon the ground before him. "Wyndolen is lost, and your young lords with it! Thousands of them! They walk as a tide of filth, and the Knights Errant, for all the valour given by the Lady, can't possibly have survived! How they sacrificed..."

"Ahem." Gunthar interrupted her in turn, dropped to sit upon his haunches in front of her, as a large grin spread upon his face."I don't think either of them plans to end their quest this day."

The peasant turned to see Aramis and Jon approaching the caravan from the woodland path, each with a small child riding upon the back of their saddle, and a further score of the refugee population of Wyndolen around them.

"Praise the Lady!" The elderly woman continued to cry as a Yeoman led her away to one of the wagons, where a pot of stew was lazily boiling away.

Gunthar looked towards Aramis, who was handing the boy down to the child's mother as he spoke.

"Sir Gunthar! They will be upon us before nightfall! The woods are alive with them, and larger beasts too!"

"Slow down, lad, settle." Gunthar whistled, gaining the attention of the train's handlers. He made a circling gesture with his right fingertip in the air, and the peasants in charge of each contraption began to move them, much to the consternation of the men-at-arms that slept in the shade beneath them.

Jon rode to a halt beside Aramis, as the Knight of the Realm continued his lecture. "Exaggeration is for peasants. You are warriors and commanders-in-training. Speak in specific numbers, locations and facts, not the hearsay of panicking peasants."

Both Aramis and Jon opened their mouth, about to heatedly appraise Gunthar of the severity of what they had faced, as a mighty crash echoed through the woods to the south of them, a tree falling as the warhorns of chaos spread their broken, gutteral tones across the Bretonnian encampment by the riverside.

The three of them drew their weapons upon instinct, as the wagons shuddered to a halt behind them.

"Alright then," said Gunthar, softly as if he were worried the enemy would overhear them. "Let's go with "hundreds of the bastards" and work from there."

Jon shook his head as he walked towards the circle of wagons, where three dozen peasants immediately called for his attention.

Gunthar's eyes were darting from wagon to wagon, desperately running down his mental inventory of anything they could use. As Aramis watched a Yeoman lead both his and Jon's steeds to within the makeshift barricade, the older knight spoke to him again.

'Nail up a banner pole, and run all of our colours up on it."

"My colours, Sir knight? You mean my pennant?"

"Sir Aramis, I don't mind if it's your bloody grandmother's bloomers if either Agonold's scouts or the flying dung-generators beloved of Parravon get close enough to see them." He leaned in close to the knight Errant. "It's also about morale, m'lad. You're their heroes, and it shows everyone here that we won't be running. You and I know we'd be overrun if we tried, and that the enemy already knows where we are- the tracks lead right here. So we may as well claim something positive from it and say it's intentional."

Aramis looked towards Jon, who was beginning to issue orders to the men-at-arms detailed to defend the wagon train. It really should have been in Lyonesse yesterday, it's guardians drunk in the cheapest quarter of the capital of Bretonnia, but the Lady works in mysterious ways.

"Let's make the best of it, eh?", said Gunthar, clapping the younger knight on the shoulder as he walked towards his long-suffering apprentice, gently swinging the scarred morning-star that looked perfectly at home in his clenched fist in time with his out-of-tune whistling.

If Aramis didn't have a thousand other things running through his mind, regarding what exactly Wyndolen was and the nature of the challenges before him, he might have thought that Sir Gunthar was enjoying himself.

Mattias watched Agonold and the woman from the safety of the stable stall, eyeing them with particular unease. After their appearance the courtyard had become a frenzied fervour of martial action- knights and yeomen, all equipped for battle had been scuttling from place to place, organising themselves before reporting to the service of their masters.

The mare Mattias was seeing to snorted petulantly, and Mattias turned to look at it with disdain.

Filthy beast, he thought. why did I never invest in one of those mechanical horses? Those truely are marvels of industry, I could be proud to ride such a machine. Unlike the pony, which is dirty, which smells and seems insistent on ignoring its masters instructions.

Mattias tightened a strap viciously, before quickly loosening it again. I still need you though- I cannot be seen to carry my own bags. I'm too old for that. Too old, and too important.

Mattias turned away from the mare and glanced across the courtyard, counting the swords and lances which seemed to be emerging from every crevice. With a grimace, his hand rested on the grip of his pistol. He drew it, inspecting the action and the barrel both of which he knew were spotlessly clean. Mattias had never devoted the same amounts of time to weaponry that his colleagues had, but nonetheless he respected the Blackpowder pistol.

Truely a gentleman's weapon Mattias though, sliding the pistol back into its holster. These Bretonnians would probably think its magic, the philistines. No, this is the reason the Empire is superior to other kingdoms; science.