Lewinn Family/Roleplays/Thers

The Battle for Paisly

The D'Haran Guard attacking Paisly's Motte and Bailey.

Courage and Glory

Thers wiped the sweat from his brow – at least for a moment, the battle had subsided again. Tremors of adrenaline from the fighting had caused Thers’ armor to be thoroughly soaked from perspiration.

Whatever the young knight may have thought before, he now understood the truth about armed combat. Even in victory, the price paid in human flesh was horrific. Noble conflict was more than pomp and circumstance. It was also brutality and fear and uncertainty. The faces of dead men on the battlefield and ramparts confirmed that truth.

When the first flight of arrows from the D’Haran Guard struck the defending walls, Thers believed the battle would be short. The pride he felt in observing the best of D’Hara approaching the defending soldiers! After three violent altercations, that pride was now tempered by certain knowledge; a lesson that only experience could teach. Good men also die in combat.

Thers’ Black Arrows had survived and redeemed their mediocre performance at the fight’s commencement. The second pass by D’Hara – resulting in a solid victory had re-swelled Thers’ breast with that fledgling pride. The crude mockery of Medina’s local nobility had reinforced Thers’ belief that D’Haran action was needed. Cenarious, the Dragon King – his King – had called those persons true: base, cowardly and without honor.

His reflections turned to thoughts of home, and of recent times, easier and without the complications of killing. Those times are gone, in many ways, Thers realized. After a short time, the sergeant of the Black Arrows arrived with ill news – another man had died of his wounds. That man had been among the first Thers had recruited in Port Nebel. Another charge on the butcher’s bill. Another family to call upon with ill-tidings.

Now the forces of Medina were scattered. Thers stood and straightened himself. There were respects to be paid; orders to be received; soldiers to be marshaled. King and Country. Certainty and resolve. Courage and glory.

The Grove of Honor

Recruitment had gone better than expected. The deep pockets of Port Nebel and the House Lewinn allowed Thers to spend where others may have sworn off. Yes, his unit’s cohesive element would dip, but how could he avoid that? They’ll have to learn to get along, we have a war to win, thought Thers. With a third of his original troop now dead between Raviel and Paisly, the thought of protecting the feelings of his archers now seemed an asinine dream.

While his sergeant was busy with the task of finalizing contracts, Thers made a short trip back to Port Nebel. He avoided his family’s holdings – this visit was business only. His short jaunt to a local blacksmith had borne easy fruit; the elderly man knew what Thers was seeking soon as the young knight entered his shop. He left the smithy clutching a small sword. It was beautiful and intricate, although never destined for the rigor of combat.

Port Nebel’s Grove of Honor had unusual feature which scared Thers as a child. Hundreds of thin swords hung from the many branches of ancient trees which grew within the park. Their chiming in the wind was a haunting melody which carried over the wind. The memorials to the dead normally glinted in the sun, but the overcast clouds only added to the gloom of Thers’ task. Ten generations of dead men. Twenty? There are more stories here than found within a dozen libraries.

The death of Thers’ men in the battle for Paisly had affected him for several days. But losing three men to putrid infection on the voyage back to Port Raviel had added insult to injury. Madinan violence had a long reach and these last deaths had stung Thers’ heart as much as his pride.

Yet, the notion of prolonged combat against Medina excited Thers – the prospects for knightly distinction were never better than in times of war. And it will begin again soon, he thought. But it was also intimidating. Reimagining the wretched sights and sounds of fighting churned Thers’ stomach even as he pondered that recognition only victory could bring.

Thers found a branch with few of the steel memorials. Lashing the ceremonial blade to the tree, he then knelt and murmured a prayer for the D’Haran who perished as a result of Paisly. As he stood, Thers silently admired the lake at the center of the park. He knew he would return to this spot again.

The Wait For Medina

The heavy feel of a taunt longbow string was beginning to feel good in Thers’ hands. He admired the cause and effect nature of the thing, which he considered a tool as much as a weapon. It was loaded, pointed and unloaded. That the tool’s payload could rip a man’s arm off or puncture a breastplate was good for the business of war. It was not flashy like a long sword, but the cheap and reliable bow would be providing cover long after the infantry types had discovered new ways to abuse each other.

It was a day after the return trip from Port Raviel to Paisly. The Black Arrows had hit the shores running – they had arrived late and signals from shore indicated that the takeover of Paisly would be successful.

Surprising news had reached Thers soon after his return. His liege, Lord Mathias, had resigned his lordship over Port Nebel, effective immediately. Mathias’ intention to reclaim his former territory would create a new count or marquis within D’Haran society. Perhaps even a duke. Who will be chosen to lead Port Nebel to its full blossom? Thers pondered. He had no idea who would become his new lord or lady, and for the moment, the knights of Port Nebel were without direct command. Thankfully, the Dragon King’s authority was everlasting and eternal. At least some things are not subject to change.

The sight of friendly war camps positioned around the fortress walls was a welcome one. It seemed the whole of D’Haran military strength, and some (all?) of the Terran army was assembling together. The renewed fighting at Paisly was shaping into something that would be talked about for generations. But what nation’s children will be speaking ill of the days ahead? The young knight had read all of the limited information offered by the leadership. Reports and gossip spoke of massed Madinan soldiers making the slow winter voyage towards the embattled province.

As night crept upon the camp, Thers bedded down in his tent (a recent, tasteful thing acquired in Paisly’s newly re-opened bazaars). As he listened to the men of his company bandying over dice and rum, Thers considered their ages – he was younger than every man under his control. Perhaps it was his age that troubled his unit? Their cohesion was lacking despite his (and his sergeant’s) best effort to the contrary.

The clear night’s blaze of stars peeked in through the tent flap. They glittered like the memorials of honored D’Haran dead at the Grove on Honor. Later that evening, the sergeant of the Black Arrow Guard came with late reports. He found Thers twisted asleep in his regalia, clutching his sword and looking seventeen years young.

Jeckyl's Address

A member of the Black Arrow Guard prepares himself for the coming battle.

The events of the last several days had been mystifying to Thers Lewinn. The maddening wait for Madina’s attack had caused frustration and impatience to ripple through the allied war camp, and the Black Arrow Guard was not immune.

More troubling was the perverse manner in which Madina controlled, or failed to control, their forces. It seemed that one-by-one, the long wait at sea was causing their nobility to madly charge their men directly into the walls of Paisly. After one lopsided battle, a laughable skirmish and a Madinan defection, it was plain to all that D’Hara’s enemy had more soldiers than discipline. Still, Thers shuddered at the thought of being stuck in a ship for weeks at a time; it might be enough to drive any man insane.

Earlier that day, Thers had watched his Marshall approach the mainland from his trio of warships. The Black Arrow’s sergeant discretely pointed out the other vessel which had departed from the Duke’s vessels. The distance was great, but personal colors told the tale: Lady Eleanor had met with the Duke in private. What intrigue is she spinning? thought Thers. I have no similar talent for political maneuvers and it may be my undoing.

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Now Thers was listening to a speech by Duke Jeckyl. He appreciated the Duke’s powerful words and Thers’ chest swelled at the compliment of the D’Haran Guard. Although Thers could not place it precisely, the Duke’s last comment seemed eerily familiar. The D’Haran Guard’s assembly stood as silent testament to the strength of their country – although their island nation was smaller than most, none could question the martial ability of the Dragon King’s men.

The call to arms steadily beat through the camps; to the ramparts and then to battle, arriving hungry and soon.

The Oath

The night air was light and unimpeded by the humidity that periodically plagued the mainland of Dwilight. A cloudless moon hung in the sky, challenging Thers’ attempts at sleep. The Black Arrow Guard had broken their camp and moved within the confines of the motte which surrounded a portion of the city of Paisly. While the seventeen-year old knight enjoyed playing a bit of camp outside the city walls, attempting to sleep in a dignified fashion while cramped into the shaded corner of a building was beyond him. Stirring restlessly, Thers rose again (to the great chagrin of the Black Arrows’ weary sergeant) and began stalking the ramparts.

Thers rubbed his face, freshly cut from shaving. His attempts to grow a beard were fruitless; in his mind, a man of nobility should be able to sport a beard, even if he chose not to do so. At present, the young knight would merely have to wait. How waiting had begun to dominate his life!

He noticed that he was not alone on the walls. Other nobles, unidentifiable at the distance, were prowling the parapets, likely pondering the coming battle. Today, tomorrow, or some day soon the screams of men would replace the cool tranquility that had settled on Paisly in the past week.

Thers’ thoughts turned to his King: Cenarious, whose correspondence had just reached the assembled D’Harans en masse. The message had spoken of the prudence of waiting; the dignity of defending D’Haran soil; the reality that they were on the defensive for practical reasons. D’Haran nobility was hot for Medinan blood, but the practicalities of war and governance required that they continue their course, and indefinitely if required.

Thers reflected on Cenarious’ plight as Dragon King of D’Hara. A small kingdom already troubled by great conflict from within and without. The nation’s history already had more than its fair share of ne’er-do-wells, questionable loyalties and threats from outside its borders. How did the King manage those competing interests, when each could prove more deadly than the last? Thers returned to the small areas his men and sectioned off as their own and called for his sergeant. Paper, quill and the small writing desk Thers used for correspondence were requested.

Sitting silently for a moment, Thers reflected on his short time as a knight of D’Hara; as a member of the small nation's nobility. The victory of D’Hara culminating in the re-capture of Paisly. The triumphant return to Port Raviel and Port Nebel. His visit to the Grove of Honor and its meaningful silence. Raising his quill, Thers began to write:

I, Thers Lewinn, Knight of Port Nebel and son of D’Hara, son of Milors ab Lewinn, grandson of Cors Lewinn, and subject of Cenarious Stormage, Dragon King of the the Kingdom of D’Hara and all of its territories, do swear my undying fealty to my King.

I give this oath of my own free will, with the understanding that it is binding and everlasting. I will protect his body and territory, and will seek to do justice to all that I encounter in the name of my King. I will forever more seek to hold upright the ideals of D’Hara, the kingdom which I and my family call home, and will holdfast to our traditions, our beliefs and that which makes the Dragon Isles the greatest nation of the Western Continent.

I do swear this upon my honor, sword and soul this day of the eighth year of Dwilight.

Sir Thers Lewinn, Knight of Port Nebel, subject of D’Hara The oath was rough, but it was all that his learning would allow the quill to produce. Was it meaningful to his King? Thers decided not to decide on that issue. The knight called his sergeant to witness the oath and then sealed it with the wax of the small candle which provided the sole source of unnatural light. On a whim, Thers traced a small ‘L’ in the wax as it cooled. The sergeant promptly took the letter and hurried to the docks. If it made the nightly ship back to D’Hara, Cenarious would receive Thers’ vow before the week was finished.

It felt good to have made official what his original offer of service only suggested: he was D’Hara’s man. A small gesture in light of ongoing events? Perhaps, Thers wondered. But it was heartfelt and sincerely written. Thers returned to his former spot and fell asleep. The rest was better than it had been in weeks.