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1.4 Brak Whitbarrow-0-0-0-0-0-
The next day was overcast as Brak stepped off the rocking rowboat onto the makeshift pier. He turned and offered a hand to Trista. "Thank you Brak," she said as she stepped onto the dock. She brushed off her robes once she was on the steady dock and paused to finger a small hole in them where an arrow had pinned it to the boat. "I don't believe your father's men are too happy with our presence," she said.
He rolled his shoulder and adjusted the high neck of the clothes he'd been lent by the officers of the ship. "I'm surprised it took them this long to start shooting at the rowboats. This place is right beneath the castle," he replied as he looked up at the overhang of stone that was protecting them. The castle didn't sit right on the edge, but the tops of the walls had a fairly good view of the approach to the beach.
"It began early this morning," Sergeant Townend said as he heaved himself up onto the dock. His armour clanged loudly as it smacked against the dock. "Someone up top must have figured out that letting us do what we want without doing anything was stupid. Bit too late, but at least someone had a brain."
"Hard to say whom it might be. Father, possibly?" Brak said with a shake of his head. It was odd how unsurprising getting shot at by his father's men felt. He had never felt the most welcome in Whitbarrow Keep, and his long day of waiting for his father to arrange his death had given him a fatalistic acceptance of the issue.
"I don't think it really matters," Trista said, "Sergeant Townend it right, it's far too late." She nodded down the dock towards the camp. The camp was busier than it had been when he arrived. Along the beach large blocks of marines were waiting in blocks of straight lines. Hands holding their bulky 'rifles' to their shoulders.
More pressing, however, was the fact that the beautiful blonde sorceress who had talked to him the night before was waiting at the end of the dock for them. Flanking her on either side were more of the heavily armoured footmen who still surprised him. They were the exception, rather than the rule, for the forces gathered there. Most were the 'marines' according to Townend, but there had to be a few dozen footmen gathered. Dressed in heavy breastplates, full suits of chain mail, along with pauldrons, gauntlets and grieves they cut impressive figures. Certainly they were more armoured than anyone in the castle would be. Even his father didn't own plate armour.
What disturbed him more about the footmen, however, was how thick the plates were. He had gotten a good look at Townend's armour and the older man had to be wearing at least his own weight in metal, yet he moved like it was nothing. Either it wasn't the steel it appeared to be, or there was some form of sorcery at work. In fact, it very well might be both.
"Come on, let's not keep Lady Proudmoore waiting," the sergeant said, putting a hand on his shoulder.
Proudmoore. So that was her name. He had wondered, but couldn't find the nerve to ask. Every time he had looked at her all her could think about was the bolt of ice flying through the air towards him and his desperate twist to put his shield in place to block. That moment kept playing over and over again. Even then, after a day of being on the same ship as her, walking down the dock to her made him tense up. Magic scared him. It scared anyone sensible, or at least most of it did. Trista… He glanced at the young priestess and felt his shoulders untense just a bit. The Light she had… used? Channeled? He hadn't aske what she called it, but it felt warm and welcoming. Like it existed only to safeguard. It was strange and he didn't know what to think.
Trista caught his eye and smiled gently. "Ready Brak?" she asked.
"... I guess. Never thought I'd be on this end of this siege," he muttered. He was, apparently, just a little too loud for as they reached Lady Proudmoore the sorceress turned to him.
"It is rather odd," she agreed, "You'll be riding with me. Sergeant Townend and Initiate Trista will be joining us as well." He nodded. They would be there to keep an eye on him no doubt, not that he blamed her. His father would have done worse, more than likely.
"As you wish Milady, though my team…" Townend trailed off.
"Already folded into my escort for today," the Lady said, "Come along, we need to get moving. The opening assault will begin shortly." With that the sorceress turned on a heel and marched into the camp, her purple mantle swirled in her wake. Purple, that was another mystery to add to the list. Purple was a rare dye and expensive enough that those who had it were almost always the wealthiest and most influential individuals in a nation. Who was Lady Proudmoore?
They fell in with the group around Lady Proudmoore, a group which grew as they went. Commanders, only a few of whom appeared to be nobles, flocked to Lady Proudmoore as they marched to a large tent that had been set up. Banners with the swords, hammer, and shield of the Alliance on a blue field trimmed with gold flanked either side of the tent's entrance.
They came to a halt outside the tent. The sorceress stood in front of the tent and began to speak, "Gentlemen, ladies," Brak blinked as he realized several of the commanders from the marines were women, "are all the preparations complete?"
A man in the armour of the Kul Tiran Marines stepped forward. "Everyone is waiting for the command to move out, Lady Proudmoore. Just give the word," he said.
"Thank you Captain Belisar," she replied as she pushed back her hood and looked around at the group with her startling blue eyes. They almost seemed to glow. Even her hair seemed to shimmer in the morning light. "Brak Whitbarrow, step forward please."
Hesitantly he stepped forward out of the crowd of soldiers. Many eyes were watching him, judging, if he had to guess, whether or not he was an issue. A threat. Well, he didn't have a sword, and he certainly wasn't a sorcerer, but who knew what this strange group of people considered worthy of being a threat to them.
"Y-yes, Lady Proudmoore?" he answered. He met her eyes in an attempt to pretend to be braver than he was feeling and was surprised to find what appeared to be understanding in them.
"Will your father surrender if we surround his castle?" she asked.
Surrender? His father the reaver? "No, never," he replied.
"Never is a pretty long time lad," Captain Belisar said.
"Castle Whitbarrow has never been taken in siege since it was first built five hundred years ago," Brak explained. It was a fact that his father never shut up about. The supposed impregnability of their walls and the position it granted them as favoured bannermen of House Goodbrother.
"Impressive," one of the other officers said.
"Not really," he replied with a shake of his head, "My father isn't very good with history. Whitbarrow Keep has only been tested twice, and both times it was relieved within a month by House Goodbrother. We're northwest of the main islands, which puts us out of the way of anything important. You get a few ships taking the long way around the islands, but mostly our family's wealth has been built by generations of plunder that we've never had to defend. The Keep is just a Keep. We're nothing special by the standards of Westeros."
"I have to wonder what is," the Captain mused, "Because that is a large castle by our standards." He had a hard time believing that. Their ships were massive and they knew magic. The Captain was probably just being generous, though Brak did notice that Lady Proudmoore didn't correct him.
"So he'll wait for reinforcement," she said. She tapped her staff against the ground three times before saying, "And he will have sent it by Raven, I assume?"
"Yes, Lady Proudmoore."
She leaned against her staff for a moment before sighing heavily. It was like a heavy burden had suddenly fallen upon the young woman. "So be it," she said softly enough that Brak doubted most of the circle of officers even heard her. She stood straight and cast her gaze about the group, meeting their eyes one by one. "We've come a long way, everyone. A long way from war, but here, at our apparent destination, we have found… war. As much as I would like to simply sail away, where are we to go? We left our homes for a reason, we cannot go back even if we could find the path. This is now our place and we cannot let such aggression go unanswered, though it may mean war with their masters. Today we put an end to their raids. Tonight, we will bring down the walls of Whitbarrow Keep."
Men and women snapped into salutes around Brak. Lady Proudmoore looked around once more then nodded. "To your positions, men. We move out in ten minutes," she said and the group of officers dispersed in a hurry. She turned to look at him as Trista stepped up beside him.
"So… We find a new land, and the first thing we're doing is fighting someone?" Trista asked with a resigned note in her voice.
Lady Proudmoore sagged. "I'm not any happier than you are. I had hoped that we could avoid a battle, but in a new land we cannot appear to be an easy target, especially if men like this can operate with sanction," she said, "Brak, I will give your father one more chance once my reinforcements arrive, then the walls will come down."
"It's one more than he probably deserves," he found himself saying, "I- I won't stop you from killing him, but if you could spare Maester Justinian? He… He's been about the only friend I've had in the Keep."
"I had already planned to give orders to not harm him," she replied, "A learned man with knowledge about this land? The knowledge alone would be invaluable."
"... Well thank you, anyways, Lady Proudmoore," he said.
"For now, your group walks with me," she said. He followed as she walked to the gate of the fortifications. Hundreds of men were waiting for them, still holding the disciplined formations from earlier. Most were the lighter armoured marines with their rifles and swords, but there was a solid block of the heavily armoured footmen right in front of the gate.
Lady Proudmoore thrust her staff into the air as they came to a halt atop the palisade. "Men of the Alliance!" she shouted, drawing the attention to her, "Today we strike back at a den of pirates and cutthroats. But be careful with your blades, for not everyone on this island is here because they wish to be. Many are enslaved upon this island, and none of them will be wearing chains so plain to see with your eyes."
Looking down at the hundreds of men and women from the stairs, Brak could see their rapt attention. How they hung onto every word the Lady Proudmoore spoke. It was awe inspiring. His father never managed to get his men to quiet down even a little. There was always some smartass or irreverent bastard amongst their lot, but these soldiers… He could see it in their eyes. They held a respect for the sorceress that he could only dream of receiving from someone at some point.
"Today we are not just visiting justice upon a pirate, but also delivering liberation for a people. Go forth, men of the Alliance, and may the light be with you!" She thrust her staff into the air once again and the army below exploded into cheers and stomping feet as the gate swung open. Cries of 'For the Alliance' and 'For Lady Proudmoore!' rang out as the footmen led the way out of the encampment. As they left the shade of the cliff their armour glittered from every surface as they marched into the sun. It was impressive to Brak.
The Ironborn didn't care for pageantry. The tournaments of the greenlanders or the heavily barded warhorses had no place in place in the eyes of the Drowned God, to say nothing of the logistics of transporting horses via longship. Yet, he could not deny that it made a stirring sight to see so many men bedecked in gleaming plates marching in formation.
"Come," he looked up as Lady Proudmoore descended from the palisade. The last of the marines that were leaving had already marched out. He hurried to follow her with Trista and Townend at his heels.
Walking back up the slowly rising hill he had the odd feeling of being naked. He was perfectly clothed, yet he was walking towards battle without so much as a sword. If everything went fine he wouldn't be doing any fighting, but it made him nervous.
"Are you alright, Brak?" Trista asked.
"I'm fine," he replied. He was fine, just… nervous.
"You keep reaching for your belt," Townend said, "Nervous about the battle?"
"Well I was nearly killed on this hill a few days ago," he replied as they crested the rise. Off to the right, and up a much taller hill, was the Keep. Before them was the path that ran from the castle to the pier as it curved between the few groves of trees on the island. To the left he could see ships on the horizon and two of the 'smaller' Kul Tiran ships closing in on the pier and the docked longships.
A distant, and loud, series of bangs rang out from up the hill. He looked. The line of marines that was holding a cordon against the keep was wreathed in light smoke.
"So it begins," Townend said as their party came to a halt. A small group of men were scrambling their way back up to the Keep. Perhaps a party that had been on their way to the pier when the assault started. He wished he owned a Myrish spyglass, but the…
He blinked as Trista held up what was very clearly a spyglass. A brass tube with clear glass at either end. The Priestess of the light was watching the distant battle and grimacing. Beside her Townend had pulled out another spyglass. "Looks like a small patrol was in the wrong place," he said.
A glance about the party informed him that the two other priests, Lady Proudmoore, and all of the officers, had spyglasses out. Even a couple of other sergeants that were with the group had pulled out the precious devices.
"Is something wrong?" Trista asked, "You keep staring at us."
"I-sorry, Trista," he apologized, "It's just… How do so many people have spy glasses?"
"Spyglass? You mean these?" she waved the tube in her hands like it wasn't worth half the value of a longboat. Perhaps it wasn't to these people.
"Yes. I'm just surprised so many people own them," he said, "They're nearly impossible to get around here, You have to go to Myr and buy one from a master artisan."
"Sounds like you have terrible industry here," one of the officers said as he folded up his spyglass. A brown haired, thin gentleman wearing the armour of a Marine officer. He had a small mole by his right eye. "Lieutenant Commander James Brampton," he said as he offered his hand. Brak shook it as he sized up the man. The man was wearing a curved blade at his hip with a basket hilt of gold and brass. On the other was one of those 'pistols' he'd been introduced to. Between the weapons and the smirk, the man gave off the impression of a well-to-do scoundrel. A lord or rich merchant more than likely.
"Brak Whitbarrow," he introduced himself.
"So I heard. Quaint little island you have here," Commander Brampton said, "Not seeing much resistance from your father. Though looking at this place I'm not sure why he'd bother."
"He isn't a fool. You have too many people for him to try anything," Brak said, ignoring the digs against his place of birth. The fact was there wasn't much reason to defend Whitbarrow. It was little more than a rock large enough for a handful of farms and a keep. The village mostly lived off fish and the spoils of raids on merchant shipping.
"If he had any sense he'd surrender, but I suppose I shouldn't expect much from people who are so backwards," he said before patting Brak on the shoulder. "No offense. You certainly had better sense."
"Lieutenant-Commander Brampton!" Lady Proudmoore called.
Brampton glanced over his shoulder before giving Brak what the man must have thought was an ingratiating smile. "Duty calls. Enjoy the show," he said, tipping his hat to Trista who just scowled at him, before walking over to Lady Proudmoore. A moment later the sorceress
"Ass." Brak blinked as Trista hissed at the back of the man. "Enjoy the show? And how many people are going to die? Does that idiot not realize you probably know everyone being killed out there?"
"Not that any of them liked me, or really cared much," Brak said with his own grimace. Brampton had all the swagger of Calvert and his ilk, and it rubbed Brak the wrong way. There was a foul taste in his mouth as the man jogged down the slope with a group of footmen in the direction of the pier.
"Still…" Trista sighed.
"Sounds like there's fighting around the docks," Townend said as he walked over to them from a cluster of officers. "Few dozen ironborn that dug in around the docks have been making a fuss."
"We're moving out!" Captain Belisar shouted.
"Come on," Townend patted him and the shoulder and they fell in with the group as they walked down the path to the pier.
The pier was a bit more than just a pier, not that it stopped the people of Whitbarrow from just calling it 'the pier'. In truth it was two long piers made of stone and wood with a cluster of a dozen structures for handling the fish and the houses of the fishermen. It even had a tavern that he always avoided. His older brothers loved that place, it was where the crews of the various ships got together when they didn't have an invitation to the keep.
The smell was the first thing that hit him. He had been to the pier many times. It was almost a given of Ironborn life. Life revolved around the ships that sailed out for fishing, raiding, and trade. Normally it didn't stink, the scent of sea water overpowered everything. Now though, in the aftermath of battle? That sickly scent of voided bowels and blood was everywhere.
As they reached the edge of the buildings he could see what Townend had meant when he said 'making a fuss'. Makeshift barricades of carts, barrels, and crates had been set up between the buildings. Barricades that were being slowly cleared by Marines and Footmen as others were carrying the bodies out of the breach on the main street. The bodies were laid side by side in rows along the road into a small field of wildflowers. There weren't many. Just over two dozen men and women in leather, cloth, and chain mail. All laid out on the soft ground.
Trista stopped as they passed and he stopped with her. She was staring down at the nearest body with a conflicted frown on her face. "Is something wrong?" he asked. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Townend slowing to a stop. The footman was looking back at them.
"I had thought we'd leave this behind in Lordaeron," Trista said, holding her staff with both hands, "A bit naive I know, but… After the scourge I just hoped…" she sighed and leaned her head against the cross atop her staff. "War, always war, even during peace."
He placed a hand awkwardly on her shoulder. "Well… Here's one person you helped," he said, stamping a foot on the ground. A foot that he couldn't move only a couple of days before.
She cracked a smile. "Thank you, Brak. Sometimes it's hard to keep faith with the light, but then people like you remind me of how much good can be in the world," she said, before closing her eyes. "By the Holy Light may all those here find peace in the afterlife and know true rest," she intoned, tapping her staff on the ground once. A wave of light washed out from her, causing him to jump. He wasn't the only one. A few men jumped as the golden light washed over them. It lasted only a moment, but its effects lingered. The men on the ground were unchanged, but something in the air felt lighter, softer. Even he felt a bit better as the soothing warmth of the light washed over him. It sang, a warm whisper in his ear that seemed oddly muffled beyond legibility.
Shaking the effects off he smiled at Trista. "You good?" he asked the priestess who had saved his life. She nodded.
"I am, thank you. I'm sorry about the dramatics," she said with a sheepish smile. He chuckled and she politely covered her mouth as she giggled. It was a strange atmosphere, standing there laughing right beside a bunch of dead bodies.
"Are you both done over here?" Townend asked.
"We're good, Sergeant," Trista said, "My apologies for falling behind. I won't do-"
"Enemy in the woods!" As one the three turned towards the small grove that sat beside the road just a hundred feet away. Visible in the treeline was a single man with a bow pointed straight at them. There was a loud crack and a puff of smoke from a marine in the field and the man dropped, but not before he loosed the arrow.
Before Brak could do anything Trista intoned a single word and slammed her staff against the soft dirt of the roadside. A wave of golden light washed over him again, its warmth caressing him as a bubble of light snapped into existence around their group. The arrow clattered against it and fell to the ground harmlessly at the edge of the circle.
"Men! Secure the treeline!" Townend shouted as he drew his sword and charged the treeline, passing harmlessly through the golden barrier. Men around the field dropped what they were doing and followed him.
A golden light had started burning in the heart of the cross atop Trista's staff when she created the barrier and it was to that burning cross that she raised a hand and plucked from it a golden orb. With a whisper in a language he didn't understand she tossed it forwards. Another barrier sprang up around Townend and unlike the first one it continued to move with him, like a suit of armour.
"By the-" Brak cut off his invocation of the drowned god. It felt… inappropriate. He shook his head. "Thank you," he said instead. Trista smiled and brushed a few locks of her golden hair behind her ear.
"He was probably shooting at me," she said.
"Or me. Remember, my father wants me dead," he said with a frown.
"He most likely thinks you're dead," said Lady Proudmoore as she walked back to them, "Straying from the group in a warzone is a bad idea, you know." The rest of her entourage was with her.
"My apologies, Lady Proudmoore, I was… Mourning the loss of life," Trista said, glancing towards the dead bodies. The sorceress followed her gaze and merely nodded once.
"I understand," she said, resting a hand on Trista's shoulder, "This… We all hoped to be past this."
"Lady Proudmoore," Brak said after a moment's hesitation, "My father most likely knows I'm alive. Our rowboat took an arrow fire earlier. One nearly hit Trista. An Ironborn who can't recognize who is on the deck of a ship from a cliff, or on the cliff from a deck, isn't much of an Ironborn."
"More alike than we may wish to admit, Lady Proudmoore" Captain Belisar observed.
"I should have realized, Captain," Lady Proudmoore replied with chagrin, "Yes, it is certainly possible he knows of your survival, but ordering your death through his men means losing deniability. The attack was most likely a response to Trista's use of the Light. It is not unheard of for the truly uninformed to mistake priests for mages."
"Back home it is rather rare, but I doubt the locals would make much of a difference even if they knew," Trista said softly.
"No, I doubt they would. Now, here's the good Sergeant now," Lady Proudmoore nodded towards the treeline where Townend was coming back, sword sheathed and the golden aura gone.
"Just the one," he reported, "A scout or possibly survivor of the attack. Hard to say exactly."
"Not really a way to tell if he's dead," the Captain noted before turning to Lady Proudmoore, "Milady, the ships will be arriving momentarily, shall we?"
"Of course. Come along for now, it'll be safer for you with my group," Lady Proudmoore said as she turned and walked back towards the scattering of buildings. After exchanging a sheepish look with Trista, he followed the Priestess of the Light at his side.
The pier and the buildings around it had suffered a bit from the attack, but compared to even a light raid by Ironborn it may as well have been a summer breeze. Nothing was on fire, the majority of the population wasn't either dead, injured, or in chains, and no women appeared to be being carried off into dark corners for some bastard's sick amusements.
The population of the small gathering of structures that hadn't joined the ironborn warriors, and he could recognize enough of them to realize it couldn't have been more than a couple, were cooped up in a circle of footmen holding spears. A few gasped as they recognized him. One of the children waved and he waved back. None of them appeared to have been harmed so far, a good thing to see.
As the pier came into sight his eyes instinctively scanned the wood planks of the walkway. A couple were being pried out and replaced with spares by several marines. The scorched look of the old ones tossed to the side gave the reason why. He was surprised his father's men had had the guts to try and burn the pier. Still, a glance around showed that they hadn't had the nerve to do the same to the three beached longships.
One of the longship's advantages was that it could be beached and easily pushed back out to sea. The pier was only needed for the occasional trading boats that would stop by. After all, there were always a few things they couldn't just steal.
"There they are," Captain Belisar said loudly as they stepped out onto the dock, "Those ships right there." Five large vessels were approaching the docks. Only two of them had masts.
Townend raised his spyglass. "The two transports are flying the flag of the seventh legion," he said.
"Two? What's with the other three?" Brak asked, squinting into the distance. They were tall, but appeared to be basically floating slabs in shape. Like those river barges he'd seen a few times, only far larger and taller.
"Dwarven assault ships," Townend replied as he lowered his spyglass, "Lady Proudmoore is truly not pulling her punches."
"Dwarven? You mean like a dwarf? Like that stunted Lannister boy I heard about?" Brak asked, perplexed. Both Trista and Townend gave him a look he couldn't read before sharing another one just as inscrutable. Townend wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him over.
"Lad, they're short, but never call a dwarf stunted," he said quietly, "Not unless you want to lose all of your teeth and wake up three days later with a pounding headache." It was the sort of advice you couldn't tell whether it was from personal experience, or popular anecdote.
"I've heard of dwarfism in children before, Brak," Trista said, "But a Dwarf has nothing to do with human dwarfism. They're an entirely separate species. They live for a very long time and tend to be rather inventive."
"Here, take a look," Townend held out the spyglass. With careful hands Brak raised it to his eye and peered out at the ships. It wasn't the first time he had used one, but he had to admit that this example was of higher quality than the myrish spyglass his father owned.
The front two vessels were traditional sailing ships a little wider and larger than the average ship he'd observed the Alliance using. Men could be seen tending the sails and the ships began to align themselves to the pier. The other three vessels, or 'assault ships' as Townend had called them, were as far from traditional as a galley was from a rowboat. Each vessel shone in the light of the day from the waterline upwards. Walls of steel that rose tall enough to lose a tavern inside. With no masts, nor rowers visible he hadn't a clue how the vessels were keeping pace with the other two transports or their escorts. His only clue was the steady stream of dark smoke rising from behind each one. Since no one was panicking, he had to assume that was normal.
"What sort of sorcery lets those things move?" he asked as he peered at the lead ship. He could see small people on the top decks. Not men, no they didn't have the right builds to be men. Trista was right, these weren't human. Short like children, yet stocky and wide with heavy muscles visible on the few examples in sight. Most had long and thick beards that hung down their chests.
"Not sorcery lad. Science," Townend said, patting him on the shoulder as he took back the spyglass, "Those vessels harness the force of water like a watermill by turning it to steam in a boiler then using it to spin mechanical gears. It's all very complicated, but there's no more magic involved than there is with windmills." Brak nodded. He didn't get it at all. He had heard of windmills, but they were rare on the iron islands. Still, he would take their word on it for now.
Their group waited on the pier as the ships sailed it and as the two sailing transports slipped into port he realized the three iron-clad transports were headed for the beach. He stared as they slammed hard into the sand and gravel beside the longships. Longships which he had for his entire life viewed as large vessels, but which seemed to be but children in comparison.
A rumble of something coming from the ships slowly died down, until without warning it was replaced by the clatter of moving metal. It echoed out across the beach and cut through the sound of the arriving sailing vessels like an axe. Then, the ship started opening. The top half of the bow, where the symbol of the Alliance was painted larger than the longship beside it, split. The two halves slid sideways before swinging open. Then the lower half tipped forwards like a drawbridge just slowly enough that it lightly settled on the sandy beach. Behind the doors a thick metal ramp was lowered to the sand with the same care
In the relative quiet that followed for a moment he could make out a low rumbling growl that wafted out from the ships before three loud and piercing whistles were sounded and something came down the building sized ramps.
Metal behemoths larger than the local tavern emerged from the depths of each ship. Fronted with massive plows they pushed aside the sand easily as they ascended the beach. Each monster was pushed forward by four wheels twice his height made of the same metal as the main body and from pipes sticking out of the back came plumes of smoke. Perched atop each one was a massive cylinder reminiscent of the rifles the marines were so fond of. If someone had decided to make a rifle too big for a giant to comfortably fire.
And then a second one emerged from each ship and Brak could only stare in mute horror and fascination as lines of dwarves emerged from each ship carrying rifles and crates in the wake of the six monstrous machines.
"A full siege company," Townend mused, "I hate to say it, but that nice keep probably isn't going to last the rest of the day lad. Hope you didn't have too much attachment to it."
"Not much… no…" he said quietly, "What are those?" He could barely squeak the words.
"Steam Tanks. Self-propelled war machines that carry a massive cannon for use against fortifications and massed infantry," Townend replied with a pat on Brak's shoulder, "Relax, you aren't the one that they're after today.
"Yeah… yeah…" They were going for his father. Going to kill his father and probably drop his keep right on his head. At that moment he realized with slightly bitter irony that he, in a way, owed his father. By trying to have him killed, he'd made sure that Brak wouldn't have to fight one of those things. He had been inadvertently saved by his father's shortsightedness.
The irony was almost enough to do him in right then and there.
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A/N: Ello everyone~ Well, this is the last part of Mission One. The next bit is the end of mission 'Cinematic'. Not sure when that'll go up, but I'll get it done once my brain is less full of Ponies. Which means probably some time after the G5 movie premiere. Oh well. The good news there is that one of my older stories has finally got three updates waiting for final edit... Admittedly the third of those is waiting for preliminary edit on account of not having been finished, but I'm working on it. Those familiar with my account may know of The Long Path Home. It'll be making its way to SV and SB as soon as we feel like it's in a good place.
So for now a thank you, again, to my Patrons over on and the few people who have looked at my Ko-Fi account. To everyone else, remember you can always come and visit in the discord. Links for all three are in my signature.
Grounders10: *dusts off chapter* *coughs at dust* Oh god *hack sputter cough ded* okay don't forget to post a chapter for like a year. Really bad idea. It gets plotbunnies living with the dustbunnies.
Gekkou_Yoko: It's been a bit too long since this one was last given some cleaning dear. .;
Grounders10: We'll just have to add the cinematic to the list of projects to complete, fortunately it'll be a small one compared to the last few.
Gekkou_Yoko: At least we can crowdsource the cleaning to the fans.
Grounders10: *vigorous nodding that sends clouds of dust everywhere* PleasePleasePleasePleaseplzplzplzzz It's so dusty in here. *Crying Kitsune*
Gekkou_Yoko: My nose won't stop tingling Dx and my skin feels itchy.
Grounders10: To the showers!
Gekkou_Yoko: To the Baths! :'3 showers are less fun.