Her eyes fluttered open to the orange tinted sky above her, the stars obscured and the air itself heavy. A soldier loomed over her as she lay sprawled on the cold mud covered earth, the man's lips moved yet no sound came. She stared up at him, her brows knitting in concentration as she did her best to make sense of what the man was trying to communicate. Eventually the man stopped speaking to her, instead going to hoist her up from the muck. Her armour weighed her down, the plate was caked and loosely packed full of the earthen mess. The soldier waved another over as Yvonne could finally make some sense of her surroundings. The sky was not painted by any glorious or joyous source, but rather by the burning of pitch, tar, trebuchet shots that had torn apart her ranks. She looked to the man struggling to support her broad frame, his words she still could not discern but the pitch, that much she could hear. His voice, regardless of the words he spoke, was laden with fear and rage. Yvonne's eyes trailed to the bottom of the man's helm as blood trickled from under it in a steady stream. By the time her hearing had begun to return, the summoned soldier had almost arrived. The first sound she heard properly was the thudding of his body into the black mud, an arrow lodged in the gap between his helm and collar-piece.
The man supporting her gave a grunt of effort as he did his best to haul the woman despite their staggering difference in height and mass. He lugged her with all his might to an overturned supply cart too coated in mud to catch fire. He set her down with as much ease as he possibly could, though admittedly barely any. He took a step back from her before sounding a horn, what few surviving and capable troops there were hurriedly made their way back to the cart, forming a singular iron fist around their wounded general. The helmeted man turned to Yvonne as she sat slumped against the underside of the cart, offering a nod to her as he withdrew an all too familiar engraved blacksteel gladius, the green tassel at its pommel dancing in the strong winds. He hurriedly pulled a shield from one of those who had fallen about their position, haphazardly strapping it to his free arm before limping to the circle's fore.
A distant horn sounded from beyond the fist before silence overtook them. The silence lingered for several moments, the troops of the circle searching in vain for assaulting infantry. In the fourth moment the silence broke. Gently at first was the whistling on the winds but soon it droned to a breaking point when the first volley of arrows found its mark, felling those left without shields or ample cover. A handful of the arrows missed or struck near Yvonne as she lay incapacitated but now painfully aware of her situation. Once the volley ended, the helmeted warrior turned back, his eyes undoubtedly fixed upon her resting place as he checked her well-being from a distance, holding the line as it closed in; the fist tightening. A series of horn blasts came followed in quick succession by the thudding of boots against the mud, the enemy's infantry was upon them. The line did its best to hold back the tide but cracks in the defense began springing on all sides.
Yvonne grabbed onto one of the cart wheels above her head, using it to hoist herself to her feet, leveraging her weight against the cart as the first of the troops to break through the line neared her. Fortunately her hand found her sword still in its scabbard when she reached for it, though drawing it proved far more difficult. She reached roughly halfway up the blade before it caught in the scabbard, the mud perhaps preventing her from fully wielding the weapon. The first adversary's blade cleaved down towards her as she frantically jostled the blade, hoping to break it free. Her efforts were to be in vain, the blade budging only a few inches more as her efforts threw her back to the ground, her half-sheathed blade raised over her head in a last hope for defense. Her luck prevailed this time, the blade catching what would have been a fatal blow. Her instincts kicked in as the man paused, looking at his blade's resting position. Her plated boot thrust with as much force as she could muster into the man's unguarded knee, slamming his kneecap back and shattering it. He collapsed to the ground screaming as she pulled her own boot-knife, slamming it down into the man's throat as his blood painted her face.
The helmeted loyalist on the line pulled another man to close the gap he was about to make, breaking away and rushing for his general as a second aggressor's blade made its way towards her neck unbeknownst to her as she was recovering from her first near death encounter of the battle. The attacker's blade bent around the loyalist's dark blade before his jaw was snapped out of place by the loyalist's shield. Yvonne had only been made aware when their swords collided, turning in time to see the aggressor's body join many others in the muck. The loyalist came to her side once more, attempting to help her back to her feet. This time though there would be no standing for her, her right leg immediately collapsed under the weight of her body and her armour, an agonizing and piercing pain shooting through her body as she dropped back to the mud with a terrible scream. She looked down, her greave was shredded and blood red, the source of the wound was beyond recognition in the low light. The loyalist froze as he saw this, the fight seemingly going from him for what felt like minutes. The blank gaze of his helmet did little to ease her fears. Then he removed it.
Beneath the crude metal helm was a tragically familiar face, painted similarly to her own with blood, though it was his own. Henrik planted his sword in the ground, let his shield fall into the black earth and knelt beside his sister, his general. The clashing of steel echoed around them as he took her face in his now empty hands, a single tear visible on his face amidst the mud and blood. He said no words, merely putting his forehead to hers. A goodbye. He rose, drawing his blade from the sludge and gave her one final look before he rushed towards the gap where he once stood, his fellow soldiers lying dead or dying beside his former position. It wasn't long before a thrust from an unanticipated foe saw his throat sliced open, the blood pouring like a fountain down his chest as he dropped to his knees. Even in death he would not be robbed of his pride, looking up at his killers with vengeful eyes. His death came quickly. One fell swing of the blade and his body was discarded to the ground. Lifeless.
All around her, loyalist troops met similar brutal ends at the hands of the aggressing forces until only Yvonne remained. There she sat, face covered in blood, coated in mud and soaked in tears as they encircled her. There would be no escape, no second chance this time. She looked up at them as their darkened silhouettes loomed over her, waiting for her to rise and meet her end. The field had grown hauntingly silent as she wrestled with her sword still locked in its scabbard, finally ripping it free. Her free hand found the cart wheel once more, her teeth gritting in agony as her body burned with pain, her sword finding purchase in the earth to help her stand. She shifted her weight back against the cart and off of her shredded leg, raising her sword to the first figure before her. The man revealed his weapon, a large maul still coated in blood, dripping to the ground. She knew once she saw it that this was her end, she hadn't the strength or agility in her now to win this fight, let alone the countless ones after. All the same, her sword arm held. Until the last moment.
Her eyes flew open, the ceiling of her current dwelling above her for a mere moment before she jolted upright, her scream echoing through the empty house. Her hands flew to her neck, her leg, breathing ragged as reality crept back into frame for her. She was alive, Henrik was alive, they were safe for now. Yet her mind lingered, how much longer would they truly be safe for on this new course she had charted for them?
