Briarwood Family/Gwendolyn/Night before the Slaughter

Roleplay from Gwendolyn Briarwood

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Gwendolyn: Night Before the Slaughter

Amidst the quiet embrace of night, a campfire blazed, its warm, flickering glow casting dancing shadows upon the faces gathered around. The Sallowtown Spearmen and the Blackshields, a melding of two disparate units, shared tales and laughter with a vibrant camaraderie. Their voices merged into a chorus of excitement, blending the anticipation of battle with the zest of newfound camaraderie. The crackling fire serenaded them with its soothing rhythm while the scent of roasting meat hung in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the surrounding forest.

Gwendolyn sat beside the fire, a study in contrast against the amber glow. Her long black hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing an expressionless face adorned with piercing sapphire eyes. Clad in black leather armour and a cloak with a purple lining.

By her side, Elvira, the unit captain, observed the soldiers' mirthful exchanges, her lips curving with a contented smile. A tankard of ale rested in her grasp, its contents sloshing gently as she savoured the moment.

Yet Gwendolyn remained an enigmatic figure amidst the revelry. Her gaze held an impassive veil, and Elvira's brow furrowed with concern and curiosity. She raised an inquisitive eyebrow, questioning Gwendolyn's distant demeanour. "Is something amiss, Lady Gwendolyn?"

Gwendolyn's response was as cryptic as ever, her voice flat and without inflection. "The joy of a soldier is but a coward's cloak," she remarked, her voice as flat and unyielding as stone.

Elvira's lips curved into a knowing smile, "And what of the ale? Does it not warm the heart and lighten the soul?"

Gwendolyn's gaze shifted, an almost imperceptible shake of her head. "Alcohol – poison veiled in sweetened deceit."

Elvira chuckled a deep and hearty sound. "A poison that takes its time, then. But fear not m'lady. The claws of monsters and the blades of foes will claim us before the poison's touch."

The lady's expression remained unchanged as she declined the proffered drink. Their conversation shifted to the strategy for the impending battle, the soldiers' chatter ebbing and flowing like flames. Elvira, a hint of scepticism in her voice, inquired about Gwendolyn's aggressive tactics. "Why push so hard, Gwendolyn? Defending could save lives."

"The beasts will strike hard, with or without defence," Gwendolyn stated, her voice devoid of inflection. "Violence meets violence. Kill before being killed."

Elvira countered, a touch of wisdom in her tone. "Yet aggression could cost more lives."

"True," Gwendolyn concurred, her agreement unexpected. A tense silence settled, a stillness that heightened Elvira's discomfort, the air growing slightly colder. And then Gwendolyn posed a riddle-like question. "Ciarin Tut. How many lives?"

Elvira shook her head, a silent admission of her ignorance. Gwendolyn exhaled, her breath melding with the night. "I do not know either," she confessed, eyes unseeing. "But safety remains a stranger to them until these beasts are ended. If I must wager my unit to ensure their demise, so be it."

Dawn approached, its light creeping over the horizon, and Gwendolyn's demeanour shifted. She rose, a bucket of water in hand, extinguishing the campfire with a decisive pour. Silence fell over the gathering as all eyes turned to her. With measured clarity, Gwendolyn addressed her assembled troops. "Sunrise nears. Fight with all you possess. Our purpose is to safeguard the people of Ciarin Tut."

And then came the words, a whispered invocation that rippled through the Blackshields, a chorus of unity. "May the winds of fate guide us to victory," Gwendolyn's voice was unwavering.

"May the winds of fate shield us in the wars to come," the Blackshields responded in solemn harmony. The Sallowtown Spearmen, though a touch uncertain, echoed their camaraderie in fragmented unison.

With her proclamation delivered, Gwendolyn retreated to her tent. The grey crystal case caught her gaze, but her hand did not reach for it. Instead, her sword – a shimmering masterpiece wreathed in metal vines and thorns – found her grasp. She examined it with a detached focus, her features impassive, before resheathing it with a nod of approval.

As she emerged from her tent, her soldiers stood assembled and ready. Gwendolyn's gaze swept over them, her voice devoid of sentiment as she issued her command. "To battle."

With Gwendolyn's command echoing in the brisk morning air, the march toward destiny began, a blend of eager spirits, determined hearts, and the intoxicating scent of impending conflict.