(121-04-29) A Wild Crusade

The Searoad - The Westerlands

The sun dips low in the west, sinking until it's ever more fully extinguished in the distant waters of the horizon, throwing the long, last shadows of evening across the Searoad. Clouds threaten in the distance, but for the moment the evening's weather holds fair; breezy, but warm, with that robust chaos that precedes a shoreside storm. Over rolling hills towards the forested lands to the north, a plume of smoke is scarcely visible— perhaps more than one.

From that same direction, a lone rider in hardened leather rides a hardy, swift brown horse south, clearly moving to intersect the small host out of Oldtown. As he comes clearer, the livery of the armored man is clear: House Bolton.

The setting sun reflects upon Riderch Blackwood's brow as he eases his black courser over some rough terrain. The Riverlander's in full battle regalia now, his more coarse battlefield brigadine set upon his chest and shoulders, and his face bears black whorls circling his eyes and cheeks. The rest of his face is painted in a smear of angry crimson — it's a little bit 'un-knightly' but quite a bit unsettling. Maybe these wildlings will understand it when they face it. More civilized folk certainly would not.

Lady Angharad rides up alongside the archers, Lord Carolis and company, her bow across her knees. She lifts her chin at the smoke ahead and the man riding to meet them. "Gentlemen, I think we may have finally found them. And here I thought we were going to have to scale the Wall…"

Tameron Sand's armor is less impressive. A fine set of maile (some links recently repaired or replaced) with a surcoat of House Dayne over it. He rides his black mare among the contingent of men from Oldtown (or thereabout) follow Lady Maera, his sword at his side and an ax strapped to his saddle pack.

Maera rides in the front, leading the host towards the fires that burn in the distance. She rakes her heels lightly across her mount's flanks at the sight of a Bolton rider, and urges her horse onwards to meet him.

Dressed in his usual plate armor at the moment, Ludvik has kept himself somewhere around the middle of the group. Looking around at the terrain as they move, he pauses as he sees the Bolton man moving towards them. "Interesting," he remarks, to nobody in particular now.

There's a sidelong glance at the Lannister man now before the Bolton is spied by Riderch. "Was Maera just beating up every fucking knight in the Reach to get him to join this little party? Because it bloody looks like it." He utters this to no-one in particular. The man adjusts the spear on his back after checking the sword at his side. His round shield, painted with a personal sigil (because he's like that) of an defiant black Raven over a red background is affixed to his off-arm.

Andolin rides with the rest of the archers - his thick-boned blue roan northern-type horse is a solid, smooth-moving beast, if not as quick as some - and he rides easily but with a certain level of wrinkled-brow thought at the oncoming conflict.

Wyaar Blackmyre's armor is something of a mess. It's a full suit of brigadine that looks to have been cobbled together from several lesser sets and modified to fit. The metals are of various hues from time in the elements with flakes of lacquer from previous owners still evident here and there. It's functional, but not pretty. Much like the man that wears it. He rides along with the contingent on his courser with a spear resting on his stirrup I place of a lance and his axe at his side.

Derrioth rides along upon his destier, with the troops coming from Oldtown. Riding near the front with his charcoal black tinted armor, breastplate armguards and all, the sword resting in his scabbard at his side quietly clinks with the movements of his silver dapple as it maneuvers some of the terrain. Derrioth raises his right brow slightly as the glance over to notice the Bolton, prompting him to mutter something to himself in Dothraki before glaring about elsewhere in a watchful manner.

As the Bolton man spots the encroaching host, he digs his heels into his courser and bolts straight towards the front, and, incidentally, Maera as she pulls ahead of the rest. As he closes on the host, he saw the reigns through his weary mount's ride and pulls up a few feet ahead, "My lords! This way! The battle is joined! Our forces have engaged the wildlings and Lord Bolton requests your aid in taking them from the rear!" On closer inspection, the man certainly looks to have just come from the thick of battle, blood streams from a score of minor wounds and his boiled leather armor is practically torn to shreds.

Carolis's mount is a finer thing than Andolin's, but not by much. Quicker, but still a solid Northern beast. "I thought we might have to send out invitations," he replies, flashing Harry a crooked smile. Despite the levity in his tone, his attention is keenly focused. On the terrain, mostly. His little group isn't outfitted for diving headlong into things. His little group is outfitted for quick movement and silence. He adjusts the way his bow lies and says, "I'd prefer a few more trees, but I suppose we can make do."

"How many are there?" Maera calls out to the Bolton rider. Judging by the looks of the Bolton man, more than a few. She turns her head to call out, "Those of you on horseback stay there! They generally don't battle while mounted, and that will give us an advantage. Archers, you will dismount before we reach the battlefield, and take sniping position. Now ride!" That said, she urges her horse into a gallop.

Much further back from the those bearing swords, axes and bows and arrows at the front, situated with the provisions amidst guards, Lady Hellan nevertheless rides with the demeanour and accoutrements of a warrior and as regally as if she were leading alongside Maera. Simple but finely made battle-axe is at her side, more than an homage to her moniker from Bear Island, and a wicked-looking mace hangs near. She may no longer be considered a warrior for the frontlines, but her blood is her blood; she's prepared. Under the overhang of her Stark grey hood, eyes narrowed for the distance catch sight of the change in the atmosphere up ahead as if following a spark. Her expression is unchanged.

"I guess that answers all the questions." Riderch says, sighing as he hefts his long spear, bringing his horse to bear. "It's about bloody time." He didn't bring any men himself to this little shindig, but there was no real time. As it stands, the heir to Raventree Hall charges forth on Maera Mormon's word with a savage cry, almost like that of a bird.

Tellur is on an ugly-as-sin yellow horse - not a pony, but a raw-boned Northern thing with a white blaze and wall-eyes. On one shoulder is his raven, and like Carolis he has a bow. The idea of riding directly into battle - without shooting from cover - has the man looking slightly greenish. Tellur, though, looks to his Lord Commander, a silent, irritable-looking figure ready to obey.

"Off we go, boys!" Angharad leans in with her knees to her mount, taking off like a shot, nocking an arrow even as the hooves beneath her eat up the distance to battle.

Nodding as he listens now, Ludvik brings his horse forward rather quickly, keeping his visor up for now, since they haven't quite reached the battle yet.

The outrider leads the way up a small auxiliary to the main road that is little more than a worn wynd of packed dirt and stone: but it's wide enough for four or five horsemen to ride abreast, and stable passage aside from somewhat abrupt curves cut into the path to accomodate growing elevation. The smell of fire is more pronounced the closer one comes; as are the sounds of battle.

The occupied woodcutting village is little more than a sawmill, a large bunkhouse, and several other freestanding structures for notable citizens, important functions… or livestock. It's been infested and hastily fortified by a motley band of wildlings in scavenged arms and armor firing primitive bows at heavy infantry pushing in the opposite side of town. These men fly the greys, blacks, and whites of House Stark or the bloodiers colors of House Bolton, along with what local militias answered the hasty call in time.

From the south, the reinforcements have the advantage of a lightly wooded ridge, and the finest section of road (such as it is!) to accomodate their approach. It's hard to estimate a number with the raiders fortifying the simple buildings, but men pack into the streets holding back the better equipped Northern forces with long, sharp pikes and cruel traps.

Derrioth growls lightly, grinning as he brings his foot back and digs his heel into his horses side, prompting it to let out a low neigh before taking off forwards. His right hand reaches back as his left hand expertly steers the horse along as he rides, his right hand opening up a large rucksack like pouch at the horses side and pulling out a slightly dented barrel helmet, which he slides on. Reaching around and opening yet another pouch, he takes out a dothraki Arakh as he grins to himself behind his helmet taking off at a rather rather surprising speed, though just barely limiting himself so he may be guided by the outrider.

Tameron sucks in a deep breath and jabs his heels into Horse's sides, spurring her to pick up her pace and follow after those warriors using their blades to fight. One hand holds the reins, the other reaching for his sword as they approach the battle of northmen, Boltons, wildlings and… well, no. Hopefully that's everyone.

For being a sizable beast, Andolin's horse is a responsive thing; he knots the reins, loose, around the saddle, and guides the horse with his knees while he nocks the bow. The roan horse readily responds, following where he tells it, and he sits it easily; he does mark where Carolis is, though, and the rest of his party, but they're only given brief glances.

Wyaar takes a moment to check his axe to be sure it able to be drawn if needed and then digs his heels into his mount to sent it into a gallop with the others. He keeps his spear point high to avoid accidently poking anyone that is supposed to be on his side with the sharp part as they ride.

Though he prefers the ground, Gidion Stark rides hard with the rest of them, his steel bonnet pulled down, though it lacks visor and all a proper Southron would have, it serves. One hand remains on the reigns as spurs dig into horse flesh, egging the ragged thing on. Off in his free hand his sword is already loosed and held out. The look on his face is pure delight, after all this it's what Gidion lives for.

Carolis is going to take advantage of that ridge. He gives the order to head up and fan out in gestures, because belting out HEY GUYS LET'S SHOOT THEM FROM UP THERE isn't really how snipers work. He, Angharad, Andolin, Tellur, and whoever else was suckered into his command break for the cover of the trees.

Maera urges her mount on without pause. She draws Longclaw from it's sheath as she goes down the ridge on her horse, and swings the deadly Valyrian steel bastard sword back to strike down the first Wildling she runs across.

Tellur is wearing a simple setup of boiled leather and studded rings - not proper maille, but instead an archer's getup. The rings are mostly over wherever he could not afford to take an arrow, which leaves plenty of places to shoot the man and really make him angry. His shaggy, ugly horse has no barding at all, but there is a caparison of grey cloth with a rough-worked white direwolf on it, to show his allegiance. And for a leggy, knock-kneed beast that looks as though it would be better off pulling a dray? His horse moves like a dancer, weird blue eyes bright and intent, as gracious as any lady's pretty palomino, and his raven flies ahead towards the trees. While they go, Tellur is already pulling out a heavy-looking shortbow.

Gidion and Riderch may have something in common here. While an average-to-decent horseman, The heir to House Blackwood doesn't shy away from dangerous situations when he deems them necessary. Fortunately this is one of those cases. He tries to square his horse onto the flank of the older Stark Lord while hooting and cackling. And hopefully not being slow enough to be a Wilding's target.

As he rides and gets closer to the battle, Ludvik lowers his visor, draws his sword, and then charges in with the others. There's no cry or anything as he moves to swing the weapon at one of the wildlings.

Derrioth continues riding forward, sliding his Arakh into a sling behinds himself before he reaches over and draws his longsword. Steering his mount by the reigns, he smiles behind his helmet, chuckling to himself quietly. And when he begins nearing the enemy he raises his blade, while it's by no means anything as fancy or brutal as Maera's longclaw, it certainly looks like it'll make some head rolls as he swings it at the first poor wilding whom strays close to the man as he charges into the horde at a monstrous speed, roaring out in anticipation.

Already in the midst of battle, surrounded by his own men and a sparse showing of Stark men-at-arms, is Lord Bolton himself, hacking and slashing left and right, cutting down any wildling that comes across his path. After several tenses moments of pitched battle with one wearing the tattered remains of a shadowcat cloak, Vidomir dances his blade around the man's guard and opens him from navel to side.

As his opponent falls, Lord Bolton gets a moment of respite, just enough to see the incoming reinforcements and let out a call of "FORWARD!" to any soldiers of his close enough to hear, while plunging back into the fray, intent on holding their enemie's attention long enough for Maera's host to crash into their back.

As they bear in closer and closer, The Stark Lord brings his blade up and there, it comes. To the men and women of the North, it's a distinctive cry. Parts wolf howl, majority shrill yell. The Northern warcry rolls out before blade swings down, catching and hacking a man out of his way. Gidion's goal is to find an opening into the village and carry on, from there. Wild eyed as one crumples and is left for dead, Gidion looks for his next target.

And, suddenly, they are in the thick of it. tameron pulls his sword from its scabbard, holding it at the ready as he is among a teeming cluster of men (and women) firing arrows, jabbing spears and swinging swords. Likely not all three at once, though. Tameron leans his weight a little to the side and swings his own blade, letting it cut deep into the side of a wildling who screams as blood gushes out the wound.

Whooping and hooting, the warpainted Riderch Blackwood tears a groove in the earth with the hooves of his horse. "Are you with me? ARE YOU FUCKING WITH ME?!" trying to keep his horse in a wedge formation with Lord Stark. The Riverlander has no doubts about being at the vanguard of this fight. "Ththol Veryn Lost one!" How'd you like that? A Riverlander that knows enough of the Old Tongue to shout it at a Wildling. Its meaning is clear. 'Turn back.' Turn back, for there is nothing but death, here.

He hefts a long-bladed spear as he comes across a trio of Wildlings, armed with axes, long knives, and a wicked-looking mace but fortunately no spears. Riderch's spearpoint plunges into the shoulder of one as his horse crashes into another, sending the man sprawling backwards with a sickening crunch.

Angharad lifts her crossbow, picking off a wildling sniper atop one of the outlying buildings. The raggedy, pelt-covered man (or possibly woman) keels over with a Wilhelm's scream. She dismounts in a quick, smooth motion and climbs to position, unslinging her longbow once she's reached the roof.

Wyaar shifts his spear into an over-the-head grip as he steers his horse into a pair of wildings. He lets his mount hooves deal with one of them as they barrel the man over and trample him beneath and his spear darts out in a quick and practiced motion towards the remaining Wildings face. It's just like spear fishing really, but for eyes instead of trout.

Hellan and those in the rear ranks ride a distance and linger back, but there's an energy in every hoof-step that links them to the frontlines. Maile jangles against the woman's hips as she urges her horse further ahead and this way and that, shouting last-second advice to the last of the riding ambush. Her hand on her axe, there's an intense gleam in her eye as blood flows ahead and the warcry rings in her ears.

As the Southern host comes crashing into the back of the battle, the wildlings begin to fall in greater numbers then ever before. A few noticed the oncoming horde of steel and arrows, but most fell before they knew what was happening. Once in the thick of it, however, the wildlings are fierce combatants and few, if any, turn and run. Instead they fight back, battling the forces on both sides with increasing vigor. Even as their comrades sprout arrows from their throats and bodies, they never back down, not until death takes them.

Andolin dismounts from the horse as they near their position; the horse, well trained, trots off a good distance to separate itself from the fray. He asides a quick, "Shall we keep count?" to Carolis; an arrow, already nocked, is loosed and thuds solid into a wildling swordsman on the ground.

The hoofbeats of her mount beat in her head as she enters the fray. She brings her sword downwards in an arc to catch a fleeing Wildling on the back with the tip of the bastard sword. The steel cuts through the man's hides as if it were butter, and opens up a nasty slice on the Wildling's back.

Fwip! THUNK. Angharad's arrow from on-high takes out a wildling to Tellur and Carolis' right, dropping the flea-bitten wretch mid-charge. "Better hurry, boys, or there won't be any left to count!"

Carolis' perpetually angry henchman is an oddly good assassin, when there is cover. Tellur's raven, eerily quiet. The Stark battlecry has to be known to him, but he gives none of his own. Instead, using his knees to control his mount, he dances it around behind Angharad's as his raven spirals up, and then he nods and pulls back, and fires. The arrow takes a wildling towards the back of the forces in the eye, and the man dies silently. Tellur stays mounted, but then again, his horse is dancing about like an extension of him as he draws again, still looking to his betters in case they bid him move.

Carolis shoots another wildling off a roof, then hops off his horse, nocking another arrow. "If you like. I'm going to find Cregan and steal one of his kills." Then he hears the war cry, and his face lights up like a little kid with a new pony.

To their credit, it takes but a moment before the bandit snipers to realize the charge is underway from a new, and rather unexpected angle. Cruel arrows, some tipped in bone or stone, some in salvaged, aged metal hail downwards towards the reinforcements, seeking human or horse without discretion; even a few allied raiders are cut down in the hurried fire. After all, the sharp eyes and elevation of the southron warband's own archers is rapidly dwindling the Wildling positions. The scene on the ground is chaos; blood and mayhem.

As the arriving van cleaves into the rear of the wildling foot, and men fall screaming as limbs and lives are lost in a flurry, flames lick to the surface of the mill. They dance out onto its structure from the raging inferno within, and the battlefield seems to grow instantly hotter. War drums sound in the distance, growing closer; those of the North would know them as the rhythmic calls of a Stark advance.

Wildings alongside the odd, much better equipped raider back to back and execute an ordered retreat back towards the reinforced bunkhouse… perhaps simply a feint, as dozens of others surge into the open, charging forth from the surrounding structures to join the fray in a wild counter-thrust meant to open an escape path.

Nodding a little as he moves in for another of the enemies, and using the height of being on horseback to his advantage, Ludvik slashes again, before he tures his horse around again to move for some other enemies. Not really caring if he's delivered killing blows or not right now, just wanting to slow down the enemies quite a bit, even as he tries dodging an incoming attack.

Gidion breaks from Riderch as mad howling laughter erupts. Standing in the stirrups, Lord Stark turns his ragged courser right into a clump of Wildlings, sending some of the knot scurrying, and leaving one trampled, his wounded mewling lost in the din of battle. Wheeling around as the raiders try to regroup, Gidion leaps from his horse, crashing into them. The ragged Animal runs free, As Gidion recovers from a blow, that racks his curiass. However that poor bastard with club soon finds his throat spilled open, And Gidion hacking into another man. His blade singing up and splitting the man from groin to belly. Sword bearing round as now the men he's attacking snap to it.

More arrows fly and one finds its mark in Tameron's shoulder (probably it wasn't Andolin's). The young knight grits his teeth, lips curling in a snarl. He remains on his horse and his sword cuts down another wildling as he tries to push closer to the bunkhouse being used as a hidey hole.

Wyaar spots the wilding counter-thrust surging into the open and charges right for it. He lets go of the reins and uses his freed hand to pull his axe free of its holder with the other still holds the spear. Into the group of Wildings he goes like a man possessed, his spear thrust forward into the chest of one to be left in place to allow him to get a two handed trip on his axe. His horse turns in place, kicking men over with its bulk as its rider lays about him in a fury like a man possessed.

"Lord _Carol_!" hisses Tellur, shaking a fist at the man "Don't go looking for -" But of course, the Stark Lord is. And let us face it - look at the rest of them out there! As the Wildlings realise there are archers facing them, a fleet of barbed arrows comes flashing back, and though Tellur spins his horse Loathely about, there is a grunt and a _thwack_ as a shaft hits him in the thigh. Tellur's reaction, at least, proves his ancestry - with a silent sound of affront, he fires back, and takes the woman who shot at him in the belly.

Derrioth growls as he finishes tearing through a wildings throat with his longsword, a arrow flies through and strikes him in the left arm, prompting a roar from behind his helmet as it sinks into his flesh, however he clenches his fist around his blade and slams it into the arrow, snapping it and leaving only the head inside as he pulls back on the reigns lightly, bringing himself back from the fray before slamming his heel back into the horses side, growling as he raises his blade again for a swing, though with the pain of his left arm, the swing proves to be deflected by a wildling who falls back as the man comes charging by again on his horse, but when he spots the counter-thrust, he growls, pulling back once more as he grabs himself a short breather before preparing to charge back in once again.

Andolin pulls back the bow again - he gets an eye for something aimed his way, though, and looses the arrow a bit quick as he gets out of the way. The shot misses - fortunately it flies high, not hitting anything but air - and he avoids getting whacked by the arrow sent his way, but there's a tick of irritation anyway. Another arrow is pulled, notched.

It has to happen eventually — boldly as she perches, a sniper with no cover will eventually get hit. And Anhgarad does. A wildling arrow to her unarmored leg makes her cry out, a sound lost in the chaos of the battlefiend. She takes cover, then, sobbing at the pain. It takes several deep breaths before she can screw up the courage to break off the shaft. Then, pale and grim, she rolls to the right and takes aim again, taking down the first wildling she sees.

With the new warriors joining the fray, the Bolton men seem to find new life. Their blows are stronger and faster, their arrows finding their targets more and more as morale increases tenfold. Vidomir himself leads a small knot of mixed Bolton and Stark soldiers intent on cutting a path towards the reinforcements. During the fight, they lose two and a third is injured, but for the most part, the majority make it through to the other side of the battle. "Lady Mormont," Bolton bellows with his commander's voice into the ring of steel on steel, seeking to gain the attention of Maera, "What a fine day to chance upon you!" His scarred face pulls into a bloody grin that disappears as quick as it came. "The wildlings are preparing a retreat," here he gestures with his longsword to the massing counter-thrust and continues, "Will you aid me in breaking them before they can form up?" Obviously Bolton's know the value of bear cavalry.

Gripping the reins, Riderch tilts his horse to one side to avoid a small cluster of bowfire, one of the arrows bounces harmlessly against his shield as the painted-on raven stands defiantly against the Wildling's shaft. Unfortunately the remaining Wilding in the cluster of three he plowed through slams an axe blade into the maile covering his arm, ripping a hole in the chain. That's going to hurt. "For the undying tree!" He bellows, before wincing as the axe-blade knicks his armor. It doesn't stop him, but is annoying at the very least. "For the Raven Kings!" The spear comes down hard and sharp on the next column of Wildlings all the same as one takes a hit square in the chest. "For the silver Princess!" Wait — what? This man is clearly mad.

Blade swipes are traded as the Elder Stark remains afoot, his breathing labored, but he continues to hack forward, partying and kicking out when he can. In doing so he misses a for coming to his rear, and blow catches helm, scraping it off his head with wrenching momentum. "Fuck!" Gidion shouts ,before he wheels about his blade swings out, abd he lands a wound, biting info his arm, but not enough for a killing blow.

"I know what I'm doing," Carolis tells Tellur. He fires again, almost carelessly, and another wildling falls. Unfortunately it signals his position, and as he's darting to a new one, an arrow zips past, slicing open his arm with a nasty, jagged edge and lodging itself in a tree right about where his head was a second ago. "That's a bit rude," he says. It's a flesh wound, but still. It's the principle of the thing.

This shot goes smoother; Andolin takes out one of the archers shooting their way with a solid hit in the chest. The people getting hit around him are spared the swiftest of glances to make sure they still move — but that's all that can be spared. Another arrow's pulled. His features are hard in focus.

Maera ducks! An arrow that would have probably taken her in the eye goes whizzing past her with enough force to cause the tendrils fuzzing out of her braids to sway from the breeze. She leans in her saddle just in time to avoid a Wildling axe to the side, and lops the enemy's axe head off with Longclaw before shoving the sword into the Wildling's shoulder. "Lord Bolton!" She cries out in return, "it would be my pleasure!" She follows this up with a shout, "PURSUE THOSE THAT RETREAT AND RIDE THEM DOWN!"

The arrow sticking out of Tellur's leg is glanced at, and the man breaks it off - with a yell that says that _doing_ that is rather more agonising than the stories seem to indicate. Still, he breathes a thick word or two in Old Tongue, and knees his horse around. Loathely, as light footed as any pure bred charger, delicately dances up and over a band of rubble and onto the roof of a piggery, allowing Tellur to sight and fire down the line to hit the man who just shot Carolis. Puzzling what one does in the heat of battle. His ugly horse delicately sails off the stone roof and gambols her way back into cover. It is nearly obscene.

Derrioth growls loudly as he sends is foot back into his steeds side, taking off at a moderate speed as he clutches his blade, bringing it around overhead as he charges forwards towards the newly arrived wildlings, grunting slightly in pain before bellowing out in Dothraki, "Run! Run so I can run you down!", and that he does as his steed slams into a wildling, sending him flailing into a another as his sword carves into the side of a wildling as he seems intent on following the orders of lady Maera as he continues charging forwards intent on killing as many as wildmen as possible.

As he rides for one of the enemies, Ludvik takes a hit to his side, but lets the armor take most of the impact, although he grimaces a bit. His swing isn't as good as he hoped for, and only cuts into the enemy, not killing him, or her.

His axe cleared an area around him and Wyaar nudges his horse forward.. but the creature steps on a fallen, barbed arrow head and rears up in shock and pain. The crannogman is thrown back off his horse and crashes to the ground on his back, but manages to keep his wits about him enough to spread his arms out to help absorb the fall and keeps most of his breath in his lungs and his axe still in one hand. He makes his way to his feet as the battle moves forward with out him. "You stupid beast! I'd rather ride a lizard lion into the village!" he yells at his horse.

THWOK! Angharad ducks behind a crumbling chimney as a retreating wildling archer fires a parting insult. The Tyrell lady then whirls back out again to put an arrow of her own square between the coward's shoulderblades. The man falls face-forward and rises no more.

For having a bad leg, Andolin sure knows how to block it out when it counts: he takes cover as a couple arrows clatter off a stone where he just was, and moves back around to loose that arrow in the back of a retreating Wildling.

There, As blade raked back, Gidion catches his opening any hooks the man in the ribs. Boot follows as body is kicked away. Bootsteps sound his plodding through add retreating men nigh him are cut down from behind. Blood drips from blade and Gidion whistles, through the carnage.

"ON ME!" Riderch's sort of lost in the moment here even as he keeps his mount square with the Lord of House Stark. Whatever silly competitive exchange they had at the beginning clearly did not matter when it come to the art of war. He looks towards the older man and brings his horse to a fast gallop now, ducking his head down and his shield remains held up to absorb another volley of arrow fire. Oh those are some dents. "Turn…" the spear is raised once more as it does something clearly ridiculous, impaling another Wildling and a man behind him at the same time. Unfortunately it's lost at this point, as there's no way he can pull it free. The two-for-one kill is taken in stride as Riderch drops the spear-shaft and draws his longsword, continuing the charge, laughing all the while, invoking some ancient god of war.

Vidomir turns to regard his men as Maera rides off with her's. Though they look tired, their armor threadbare, and their weapons nicked all to hell, whatever he sees seems to earn his approval. With a quick gesture and a steady trot, he barrels forward back into the fight, hacking and slashing left and right. It's a good show, but even he knows when the battle has moved onwards out of range of footmen. It's a cavalry game now.

Carolis ducks… somewhere. Stark the Younger is just gone. Were anyone to really take the effort to notice (and who has time for that?), his bow is with his horse and his crossbow is not. A bolt zips out from somewhere. Just… somewhere. And hits a wildling between the eyes, sending him tumbling to the ground before it has a chance to bring a crude club down on the back of a Northman's head.

Running from horses seems to be a sport that the raiders know well— they dart around trees, double back and change directions, and generally dart about across the most difficult to traverse terrain in front of them through the narrow window they have to escape the ill-fated little hamlet. It might be called a fruitless attempt if it weren't for their own archers' ability to fire on the move, and the long spears jabbed business end first at the eyeballs and throats of approaching soldiers (to say nothing of their poor horses, downed in some number before the closest riders wise up).

Of course, the sacrifice of those numbers barricaded inside the bunkhouse doesn't hurt: the snipers on the second and third floors make it dangerous to be anywhere near the village, much less in its streets, and taking the building means fighting in cramped quarters against an entrenched force. In the ever-nearing distance, that drumbeat changes subtly, and a Northern horn bellows out a cry; a cry echoed by what has to be at least a dozen howling hounds.

Tellur swings his prancing darling around, and Loathely kicks hard with powerful legs, taking him closer to Carolis. He is mounted, at least, and his animal skids sideways through the mud and snap of tangled limbs on the ground as he tries to reach his Lord's side. His raven arcs, rising higher above the ground, and Tellur leans low, trying to spot his Lord. Unable to do so - the Shadowcat of Winterfell earned his name for a reason - Tellur finds himself obeying Riderch's command. The grey cloth shows the white direwolf on the front as Loathely merrily prances her way towards running down wildlings.

Derrioth continues charging into the heat of the battle, impaling a wildling with his blade and pulling it back from out of his chest before another arrow from a archer which was unnoticed by the man takes a shot at in, hitting him in the upper thigh, prompting him to let out a short lived yell of pain as he pulls back on the reigns, his horse neighing as a wildling that would be attempting to foolishly rush the beast from behind gets a hoof the face as Derrioth takes off to pull back and prepare to charge in once more, wheezing ever so slightly frmo behind his helmet.

Wyaar manages to grab hold of the reins of his horse, plant a foot in the stirrup and heave himself back into the saddle before galloping off towards the fray once again. His axe swings down to push away the probing spear of a wilding before the backswing drives the rear spike of the head into the man's chest and sends him sprawling. At the sight of the bunkhouse he stops his charge however and keeps his distance to survey the scene.

Reflexes saves Ludvik this time, as he manages to duck out of the way of an incoming arrow, although that brings him a little off his course as he tries attacking one of those enemies. But he still manages to stab the sword deep into his target, almost lifting the poor man up, but not quite succeeding with that little thing. Yanking his sword free again now.

Here Gidion proves his namesake, as boldly he takes for the village. His mad trot something of an art form as Arrows whiz by at incredibly and increasingly close shots land. One crude arrow clips into his pauldron and snaps as he makes for an open window. Slamming his body to the wall he waits for the archer to lean out before his free hand catches the bow and slams it wide. The redhaired woman inside is then met with a sword to her throat, before body is yanked out, and Gidion leaps in.

More arrows fly past Maera, but fail to find their mark. A rather enterprising Wildling gets the bright idea to shove a spear into her mount's chest, however. The beast screams and rears, launching it's rider off of it's back. Maera lands with a wince, hand still gripping Longclaw. She rolls quickly as a hammer comes down to smash into her head, and picks herself up to fend off two opponents. The first swings his hammer at her, and Maera ducks under to open the man's belly with Longclaw.

A wicked, vicious shortsword bites into the left leg of Riderch's maile as he grits his teeth while his charge continues. His black-hilted longsword swings to cut into his assailant's arm but the strike already connected. He manages to keep it all together, though, as his shield remains raised — the defiant Raven that has stood from the days before the arrival of Aegon the Conqueror, Harren the Black, or the Andals is lifted to block another arrow.

Andolin takes out another wildling as they flee; the distance is getting longer, so he takes a beat longer to aim. Thuk; the wildling tumbles. He's not moving from his relative safe spot, anyway.

The yellow horse that the Stark Bastard is on daintly kicks up her raw-boned heels and removes a wildling's teeth, jaw, and throat, in something like that order. Tellur has heard Riderch's call, and though he knows from the mysterious dropping dead that the Shadowcat is around, he is still mounted. So he brings his horse up with his knees, and joins the Riverlord at his flank. His heavy shortbow is nocked, drawn, and an arrow hits a man off to one side. Now Tellur's raven settles back on his shoulder, cawing loudly.

One of the archers throwing down cover fire for the wildlings flanking left takes an bolt to the chest. The wildling wheezes as the air leaves her lungs, and there is a gurgling from her blood-flecked lips as she slides off the roof of a villager's house and into the mud. She struggles to breathe, but not for long.

As he tries getting out of the way of an arrow, Ludvik doesn't quite succeed, and although the projectile doesn't penetrate his armor, it causes him to lose his balance on the horseback now, and he falls off the beast. Taking a few moments to gather himself a bit, he doesn't move too much now.

The remaining Wildling swings his sword at Maera's head, and she parries it with ease before planting her blade in the raider's throat. She pulls it out with ease, and walks away from the man before he falls to his knees and clutches his throat. Taking shelter behind the corner of a cottage near the bunkhouse, she sheathes Longclaw, and takes her bow off of her back. Next, she notches an arrow and quickly steps out of cover to take aim at one of the Wildlings in the bunkhouses' windows.

Though their Lord is stuck in the back and steadily making his way forward, Bolton men who have managed to keep hold of their horses throughout the battle join the charge towards the gathering wildling counter-attack. Meanwhile, Vidomir cuts his way slowly onwards, scoring a host of mostly minor wounds along the way, including an arrow that gets jammed in the shoulder joint of his armor and begins cutting into him every time he lifts his shield to block an attack.

Derrioth growls, roaring out in common as he charges forward on his horse, "Get back here!" However, when a arrow he had not seen coming strikes his horse in the eye, causing it to fall limp and forwards, Derrioth exhales sharply in surprise before he hits the ground with a thud. A wildling who had strayed behind slightly raises his hammer, taking a swing at him, he grunts, twisting around slightly on the ground to swing his blade at the mans wrist, cleaving his hand nearly off until it simply hangs by a bit of flesh and skin as he raises his left leg to kick aside the wildlings other hand so that his hammer may strike down just near his head, grunting as he brings his blade back around to impale the wildling in the gut, grunting as he pulls the blade out from the man and brings himself to his feet, rushing over towards the bunkhouse with a light limp as he glances towards his fallen steed, behind his helmet his face twists in anger as he looks back towards the bunkhouse, treading carefully as he moves in a slight zig-zag movement, occasionally bobbing behind any cover that may be there as he continues to gradually advance the building.

It's just you and me, bunkhouse. And you're not all that. Riderch guides his mount forth as he holds his shield aloft, body low and rides towards the target as his sword hews to and fro. "FOR THE SILVER PRINCESS!" He bellows again as his blade catches a fleeing wilding in the back. This guy has some serious issues to work through. Mostly about killing people.

The sudden appearance of one Gidion Stark in from the window surprises the three others barricaded in this lone sentry point across from the main bunkhouse. With a scream, Gidion moves into them , even as hands fumble for blades. One man is caught open mouthed, when the Starks bastard sword breaks through his skull and slides away chewing brain with. Matter and blood spray, catching Gidion in the face, as he cleaved quickly into the belly of a woman. Her burgled scream lost, as entrails hit dirt floor. A twist of the sword and lash of boot, free him of her, in time to cut the last one down as he tries to flee the hut. Body spilling out into the street.

Tellur is listening, waiting for his superior to bid him move, which means that his attention is on Riderch, rather than what is around him. The hissing and slicking sounds shifting past are only covering fire, not aimed with precision. Thus it is that the arrow hits the raven on Tellur's shoulder rather than Tellur himself. The Northman's eyes widen in sudden shock, and as his bird flutters and shrieks, Tellur falls sideways off his mount, hitting the ground heavily. He pulls half the saddle with him, dragging Loathely to one side, so she staggers and kicks nervously and the man remains tangled.

The time taken to aim proves worthy: Andolin Stark's next arrow takes a wildling straight in the temple, knocking the ragged man down flat without a sound. There's satisfaction in his face at the shot, but it's a grim sort of satisfaction; he's fallen into the archer's rote pull, nock, fire, repeat in a steady stream.

Maera's arrow strikes one of the bunkhouse archers in the shoulder. The man screams and crumples. She moves to duck back into her cover, but unfortunately she takes an arrow to the knee. "AH! FUCK!" Or maybe it's more like her shin? She ducks into her cover, and leans heavily against the wall. The shaft is snapped off with a gritting of the teeth, and with shaky hands she notches her arrow to shoot into the bunkhouse again.

Moving out the door, Gidion does not expect the hail of arrows sent his way. Blade up Gidion charges out into the street only to have one arrow sing into his backplate, turning to look, he misses the next shot which catches him in a slit through the armor and finds purchase through mail underneath. Wounded, Gidion shrieks, before he is wobbly pushing towards the bunkhouse.

Carolis seeks out Lord Stark, but it's a tradeoff between speed and going unseen. He picks the latter. The jagged cut on his arm is starting to ache. Would a clean wound have been too much to ask? He takes aim. The bolt out of nowhere seems to be coming from a building opposite the bunkhouse. The archer that arrowed Gidion falls a beat to late to spare the man his wound.

The first sighting of the force to which Vidomir and his band were attached comes in the charge of snarling, slavering hounds of rather alarming size and ferocity, which tear through from the deeper forests with none of the difficulty posed the horses. Wildling raiders are borne to the ground one after another, and faster still as the shadowy forms of skirmishers cloaked in greys and blacks close on the flanks, firing powerful longbows with frightful precision.

At the same moment, or one instants after, heavy riders fall in with the lightest points in the line as if from nowhere, raising heavy steel shields to deflect arrows from themselves and the wounded and closing off the ranks to ensure those within the village still… are thoroughly trapped. Bowmen concealed within the forest take aim at the windows, killing several snipers and severely limiting the capability of the wildlings within to fire out, lest they lose an eye— or throat.

The sounds from the forests beyond, animals snarling and flesh tearing, does little to reaffirm the morale of those barricaded inside the bunkhouse. The burning sawmill collapses inwards, a plume of flame and ash shooting upwards in a tremendous, angry spout.

Wyaar dismounts since his horse won't do very much good against a building and finds a suitable nearby wilding corpse to heft onto his shoulder as a sort of cover before charging towards the bunk house with the rest of the men from south of the Wall. Arrows thud into the body and glance of the rounded corners of armor, but he manages to continue his approach mostly unblooded.

The next volley of arrows unfortunately shatters the protection of the shield Riderch has been relying on for so long. And one of them hits him in the shoulder, pressing a quite uncomfortable pressure point between maile and flesh. His shield drops as he swings at another unfortunate Wildling, cutting him down and closing on the occupied bunkhouse with a mad rage.

Derrioth growls before letting out a loud warcry as he begins charging forwards towards the bunk house, moving to accompany the rest of the charging forces. A arrow strikes him in the shoulder, though his pauldron takes most of the force, prompting a pained grunt from the man as he continues pushing forwards. Raising his sword diagonally overhead, he takes a swing at a wildling who foolishly comes in for a strike at Derrioth and forces his blade through his throat as he continues forcing himself forwards, towards the bunk house.

Gidion makes his way to the door. His wounded side is thrown against it with no avail. Though a grunt is given. Once more. And nothing, but a moaned Fuck leaving the Northman. And theb he kicks the thing, which gives a shudder. "Godsdamned door.."

Loathely is fairly unhappy with the situation of dragging a non-responsive rider around, and attempts to kick and bite once or twice. Eventually, though, Tellur manages to come to his senses and start untangling himself. The man is absolutely white, though, face drained of blood, and he staggers, with an arm slung over Loathely's withers to keep himself upright. He mounts, with some difficulty, and notices Gidion's attempts. "Those fuckers killed my raven!" Tellur shrieks in rage, and then? He urges his horse _into that fucking door_. Loathely, horrified by this, kicks out with both feet, smashing it to splinters.

Tameron has fallen behind, and if he's killed his share of Wildlings, he's done so without any flash or fanfare, though the arrow jutting out of one shoulder man mark him to someone attempting to find him in a crowd. That or the white and purple. He follows the others into the bunkhouse once the door is smashed in. More slaughter, oh yeah!

Door goes SMASH and Gidion is in, followed or follows in from behind the Horse. Once inside the bunkhouse it's chaos. His first blue serves to knock a defender back, before Gidion, is cutting through him and following through into aNother man.

With the arrival of reinforcements that cause the Wildlings to cease their shooting, Maera limps out from behind her cover, and slings her bow back onto her back. Longclaw is drawn again. "I want prisoners taken!" She calls out to the men who rush into the bunkhouse.

With the wildlings all locked away in the bunkhouse, Andolin, still on the backend of the battlefield, just kneels down where he stands. An arrow stays nocked, but the bow isn't drawn; he allows muscles to rest and just keeps an eye out for latecomers, keeping sentry from his sniper position.

Spear is gone. Shield is gone. Maile is ripped. The warpainted Riderch Blackwood has cleared the land to the bunkhouse and slings himself off his horse as he grips his longsword with both hands. He looks winded and wounded, but fights on. The Riverlord bellows, "There is nowhere for you to go but /back/. You don't know where we will be."

Prisoners. Right. Maybe she'll accept survivors instead? Wyaar charges in through the splintered door with the others and barrels shoulder first into Wildling to send the other man sprawling. An axe follows him to the floor before Wyaar moves off.

Derrioth roars as he charges into the bunkhouse shortly after Gidion rushes in, screaming in Dothraki, "You killed my horse!". In a rage, his eyes are wide open and his teeth bared viciously behind his helmet as he grips his blade with both hands, swinging as he carves his way through a woman who shrieks and cries out as she falls back with one less leg, drawing his head back before before slamming his helmet into the forehead of a man, allowing him to fall back unconscious before Derrioth raises his right knee, kicks off the helmet of the man and slams his heel into the mans nose, allowing the bone to be sent back into his brain as he brings his blade around and charges into the fray once more, diving into hell.

Carolis, in the midst of his stealthing, has earned a wildling arrow lodged in his shoulder, just below his armor; someone else's near miss. He take a few moments to get his wits about him. This entails a lot of swearing. Then he readies another bolt, and he takes aim for any wildings who would rather not be prisoners and make a break for it. He approaches, thus, bleeding and trying to ignore the shaft pinned to him.

Prisoners means fewer fatal wounds. With a quick motion, Tameron sheaths his sword and dismounts. Horse turns away and gallops out of the bunkhouse, leaving her rider to his work. He grabs a man trying to charge him by the collar and slams his forehead into the wildling's. The wilding staggers back and gets a punch to the jaw that drops him.

Tellur could probably feel sympathy for Derrioth what with the animal slaughter. As it is, though, he seems to have gone a little mad "Magwyn!" he calls out as he vaults off Loathely's back, into the doorway. His horse draws back, shaking her head and whinying, as Tellur throws himself bodily on the first wildling he sees and…bites them. Bites, claws, spits, and snarls.

Sword catches a Wildling in the Leg, once Gidion is free of his previous kill. As the Man gotta down, Gidion's sword it's to his throat. "Yield!" The Stark yells, and the man, pauses in consideration.

Wyaar spots a Wilding alone near a wall and drops his axe to draw the dirk at his sid as he charges the uncivilized northerner. His empty hand goes to the mans collar to grab a fistfull of cloth and skin before bodily lifting the man off the ground and throwing him against the wall. The man's club rains down and lands few blows on Wyaar's armored shoulders, but they lose their strength once the dirk is plunged into the man's stomach hard enough to bite through flesh and into the wood behind. "Stay. You're a prisoner." Wyaar says before stepping away to retrieve his axe and look for some more mercy to give.

With a leap, Riderch has left his horse and lunges towards the bunkhouse, keeping his sword square with his shoulders and gripped with both hands. "TURN. BACK." The words are barked in the Old Tongue. "OR SUBMIT."

Tameron goes for another frantic Wildling, but this time he is a little slow, and the other man manages to jab him in the side with an edged blade. The dornishman grunts and manages to disarm the wildling before punching him in the gut.

"Raahg!" Roars out Derrioth as he twists around on a heel and sends his blade towards a wildling, though another takes a swipe at his hand, his pinkie being cut clean off. Derrioth yells out in a mixture of agony and rage, as he twists his wrist, hitting the wildling he had initially targeted across the face with the flat of his blade as he ducks down past another swipe from the one who had claimed his pinkie finger before raising his left knee and sending it out towards the wildling who cleverly steps back out of the way as the two make distance with each other, panting heavily before Derrioth charges forward, raising his blade with his right hand with a shrill warcry before the wildling simply drops his blade and falls back, frightened and too exhausted to fight as he submits defeat.

The raiders within the bunkhouse can't stand against the professional warriors once the doors are breached, though they give it a hell of a try. Trained by a dangerous lifestyle in a ragged homeland if not by castle masters at arms, the wildlings and their brethren are deadly indeed in close combat, and deadlier still backed into a corner: as they're overwhelmed, however, those with the chance to stand down do so. Some even try proactive surrender, in hopes that they'll be spared.

The apparent commander of this outing is a man in black cloaks and blacked mail, surprisingly well equipped; the true Northmen would recognize a Brother of the Night's Watch, like any number among the host arriving outside. Only this one swallows poison and chokes on his own foaming blood, falling over into a twitching heap, rather than go with his surrendering cadre. Outside, many of the wounded fare better: healers arrive with the Stark host, which brings both good news and bad news. The good, of course, being the reinforcements; the bad… that there are still perhaps several hundred wildlings unaccounted for, in full flight, being tracked by hunting hounds.

Gidion leans in on the blade. "Submit!" He howls, before he tanks the man up. "Damn you." But before life can be taken, the man drops his blade. Soon two others do as well, a jerk of the collar-And Gidion is spilling out with his Prisoner(s).

The man Tellur is brawling with is more than a little confused to be on the wrong side of the 'crazy animalistic bastard' equation, and so he stabs Tellur in the doorway with a puzzled expression on his face. Tellur goes down (it does hurt indeed to be stabbed in the doorway), and the wildling quickly rises with open hands. "See? No knife! I SURRENDER!" he says quickly.

Carolis makes his way to cover, his clothing perforated and muddy, face dirt-smudged, leaf litter in his hair. He's not looking too fancy just now. there's blood on his sleeve, a lot of blood on his other sleeve, blood seeping through his shirt at his side where he didn't even get hit. He's just about at a good point of cover when a Wildling hiding behind a building lunges out at him, yelling and bracing a spear to run him through. Carolis gets this look on his face. This look that says 'you cannot be serious.' Trip goes the trigger, thunk goes the bolt, gurgle goes the wildling and down the savage fellow goes, screaming and gripping at the shaft of wood coming out of his eye. As Carolis approaches the writhing wildling, he readies another bolt. This one is fired point blank between his eyes. He's not writhing anymore.

Horse left behind. Shield dropped. Spear dropped. Armor torn. The only thing left of Riderch Blackwood is the sheer, mad war-rage that drove him in here in the first place as another arrow tears into the shoulder of his armor. Still, he pushes himself on with the longsword clutched ini both hands, the red-faced demon kicks through a side door as he plunges inside. "Stop — I DO NOT WANT TO KILL YOU." It actually sounds legit.

Wyaar made his way up to the second floor and stumbled into a group of Wildings. The sound of calls for surrender has reached him and maybe even penetrated his helmet.. so the first Wildling is picked up and thrown out the window. Only the second story. He'll probably live. Wyaar, unfortunately, it not as young as he used to be and feels something twist in his back with the effort and staggers back to lean against the wall while looking at the remaining two wildings in front of him. He gestures towards the window. "Fucking surrender or jump out the window." They look to each other and drop their weapons.

The screams and trashing in the bunkhouse seems to dissipate a bit. After letting all the boys have all of the fun, Maera limps over to the structure. A broken arrow shaft still juts out of her shin just below her knee, and with each step she grits her teeth. She makes it halfway to the bunkhouse when a wildling is thrown from the window, and lands at her feet. Oh look. A prisoner! "WRAP IT UP BOYS!" She commands the men in the bunkhouse as she nudges the wildling with her foot. It groans. Still alive, even!"

The wilding gets an elbow to the jaw and goes falls to the floor, and Tameron manages to knock two others unconscious before pressing a hand to his side to start to staunch the blood. Really, whose idea was it to make white one of the Dayne colors? The number of surcoats he's had to go through…

Riderch's blade carves through a defender as he vaults upon a table and onto the floor, holding the next weapon to the next man's neck, howling. "SWORDS. DOWN.

This bit was in the Old Tongue, too. Riderch's seriously done with all this. Really.

Derrioth charges up the stairs to the second floor, gripping his blade tightly as he forces his way towards a trio of wildings, stabbing his longsword into ones heart, he yanks it out as he sends a kick towards the groin over another, twisting around on his heel as he swings the flat of the blade, slamming it against the side of the head of the third who falls down unconscious. The one wildling who the kick was sent towards moves out of the way and goes to swing his hammer towards Derrioth, only to find that the man moves out of the way and sends the pommel of his blade into the forehead of the wildling putting him down under as well, his face becoming rather pale behind his helmet as his breathes become harsher and more long drawn as he continues bleeding.

Gidion brings out a few more Wildlings, and tosses them down next to his wounded leader he drug out before. There's a look to Maera, before blade is stabbed into the ground. One hand moves to break off the shaft of the arrow in him, in order to make it more bareable. A grimace is given to his goodsister before he's spitting. "Did we bring a healer?"

Carolis, as things wind down and prisoners are being gathered, comes to poke Tellur with his foot. "Stop getting trampled, it makes us look bad," he tells him. "Come on, I want to get one myself." There's got to be a wounded wildling around here somewhere, even if the good ones are already taken. "Don't ever let Ser Malcolm say I didn't bring him back something nice."

The wildling who stabbed Tellur gives Carolis an uncertain look, but holds his hands up, showing them to be empty. Tellur is…pretty much unconscious, but at the nudge, he manages to sort of get up. A knife in the side is all the new rage. Tellur is very pale "…you got yourself injured," he says to Carolis, roughly "Moron." The respect and love for one's Lord.

Tameron steps back as Riderch bellows, taking a moment to catch his breath. Dornish don't speak the Old Tongue, of course, but perhaps one can simply intuit what short words screamed at the end of a battle likely mean.

"Just. Stop." Blackwood repeats. It's a pretty clear indicator. He's done with this whole enterprise. While looking blooded, bloody, and bloodthirsty, he doesn't appear particularly happy.

Carolis has a loaded crossbow, wildling. Never mind that the idea of lifting it makes his stomach churn, because ow. "I'll have you shot for insubordination," he tells Tellur. "Bring him," he says with a nod t the wildling." Pardon his curtness, but he's having an arrow-sticking-out-of-his-arm kind of day.

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