Dubhaine Family/Cathal/Roleplays/2008/July
July 8th - Alowca
Duke Cathal had been sequestered in the vault of the Temple since before dawn, his piercing eyes scanning the infinite void as he held solitary vigil.
Even now the Lady Aoifa would be marshalling the Templars, preparing them for a desperate and doubtless futile assault on the enemy encampment in Irdalni. The inner vision showed him brief glimpses of the knights taking up their positions, readying their infantry the charge and his senses swam with the taste of blood and the smell of horses, reminders of the simple soldier's life before destiny had fallen upon him in another dark vault, the prison pit of Oritolon.
"Cathal," a woman stood before him in the shadows, the outline of her body limned with a delicate yellow radiance.
"Cathal Dubhaine, arise. Your doom is upon you."
"Who are you?" Cathal's voice sounded sharp and harsh.
"Do you not recognise me?" the room was of a sudden filled with midsummer light, revealing a woman dressed in flowing yellow streaked with red tears of blood.
"My Lady!" his heart pounded in his throat as he gazed upon the Goddess in all her glory.
"The darkness must give way to the light," and once more he found himself looking down upon the lands of the south, watching the heathen armies streaming across the land like black storm clouds, levelling all in their path. Those who stood against them were utterly overthrown, whilst those who sought safety within their citadels starved and raved and bemoaned the fate which had dealt them such misery.
"Do you understand?"
"I understand," and his heart was filled with foreboding, for he knew his death must surely be upon him.
July 9th - Irdalni
Darkness had fallen by the time Cathal arrived at the Alowcan encampment, a cluster of hastily erected tents and limberless wagons huddled in the temple grounds. Here and there a ragged banner sported the mace motif of Alowca and the name of its company, the yellow cloth a stark contrast to the dark raiment of the Templars.
A few men looked up as he passed amongst their campfires, tired eyes bearing witness to the ferocity of that day's fighting, but most were deep in their own thoughts of friends lost and families longed for. They were a grim band, bound together by their faith and the love of their homeland, willing to lay down their lives to defend their beliefs.
These were the professional soldiers, sworn to the service of the Church Militant and equipped with some of the finest arms and armour in the Colonies. And yet as Cathal made his way to the temple gates he was all too aware of how few they were in number, the great bulk of the host being local peasants, armed with improvised weapons and risking their lives to defend their families and farmsteads.
"Who goes there!" the temple guards brought their halberds to the ready.
He cast back the hood of his black cloak, "I'm here to see my sister."
"Your eminence!" the guard who had challenged him took a step backwards, mouth gaping.
"My sister?"
The guard's companion had time to gather his wits, "Lady Aoifa is in the refectory my lord, along with the other wounded knights."
"And what of the other wounded?"
"They're being tended in the hospital dormitory. The physicians are hopeful that many of them will recover in the next day or two."
Cathal had half expected a charnel house given the brutality of the day's fighting but instead he found the hospital an oasis of tranquility clean scrubbed, sparsely furnished and leading onto a shaded cloister. Its stone floor was obscured by a thick carpet of sawdust made from local cedar wood, and the beds were dressed with fresh linen and warm blankets. Two dozen of these lined the walls, each occupied by one of the most severely wounded, men and women who even if they survived would be unlikely to ever again stand in battle.
The white-robed monks passed from one to another, tending them with cool compresses and herbal tinctures, relieving their pain and offering much-needed sleep. This was the leechcraft of Alowca.
"Your grace," Lady Aoifa's personal physician met him at the door to the operating theatre, a small well-lit room with two heavy wooden tables for performing amputations and riskier surgeries. He was dressed in a bloody apron and his eyes were deep shadowed sockets.
"Forget the formalities Tycho, how many of the men will pull through?" it was the same easy familiarity he'd used with his men when he was a knight.
"Maybe half, maybe more. We've done all that we can do and now it's in Alluran's hands as to which will live and which will die."
They made a circuit of the ward, the Duke listening to tales of courage from those who were awake and offering warm words of encouragement. His own scars were proof that he knew the pain they suffered.
"Now take me to my sister," his duty completed he was eager to check on his headstrong older sister, the fieriest of the three Dubhaine shieldmaidens.
