Danhadlen, Gryffudd, Khyus, and Morydd, assisted by the forgoil Burgweard, infiltrate a horse farm in the Stonedeans, assault its inhabitants, steal its horses, and ride for Fréasburg.
Gryffudd |They kept quiet, sliding across the bloated river on low, flat-bottomed boats, the only sound a rustling in the reeds. Each boat carried two or three, set to embark from different points along the Isen. If one were discovered, not all of them would be caught. At the meeting point Gryffudd and Danhadlen encountered the handful of other Eryr-lûth and the other boats bearing Khyus and his brethren of the Stag. Crouched, they hurried like hares through the thicket, until the windmill of the farmstead that was their target was in sight. “The strawhead said he’d hang a lantern from the storeroom door,” Gryffudd whispered as they slowed and took cover behind a feeding trough lying alone in the pasture. “Khyus,” he motioned to the younger prince as the face-painted man caught his gaze. The Stag nodded, and with his party hurried off to find a better vantage on the cluster of thatched cabins and huts.
Danhadlen kept as quiet as a lifetime of being a conniving little sister allowed, trailing along behind. She might be armed, and a woman of the clans, but she knew better than to want to pick any fights this evening.
Gryffudd might have a mind to tease her later for her silence, but right now the stakes didn’t allow it. They were in enemy territory, painted and dressed for war, ready to prick at the lion’s heel. He waited, alert as a man who’d done this a hundred times before. His heart beat like the steady drums of home. “There,” he whispered, motioning up the hill. Khyus had raised the pole to which they brought to stake the banner, a glass lantern swaying from its tip. “The bastard’s made it inside. Come.” They rounded the trough and bounded on light feet to the main farmhouse as the stag mirrored their approach and took position outside the stable doors, should any be sleeping inside.
Danhadlen followed close, keeping alert. She watched her footing as best she could. She didn't want to be the one to trip on a rake and raise the alarm.
Gryffudd |The eagles flanked the door, their knives dull in the dead of night. Gryff cupped his hand to muffle the noise, too close to the house for what should be heard circling the sky. The eagle call that every Eryr knew fluttered from his throat, signalling their sneak inside to unbar the door.
Within moments the soft groan of the wood sounded as the bar was lifted.
Burgweard | Inside was dimly lit. Straw and skin covered pallets lay about with sleeping figures on them. The large form of the Forgoil, his head half lit by a rushlight on it's last few inches, stood by the door. Suddenly one of the figures sat up. "Shut that bloody shutte..." He groaned, before his eyes went wide, mouth working like a fish upon a bank. In two strides the Forgoil was on him, punching him once, twice, three times even as his forearm went up to stiffle the man's cry. One of the sleepers shifted but did not wake as the farmer sank down, eyes unfocused into his bedding. "Shit..." Was all the attacker spoke, casting an eye toward the group at the door.
Danhadlen slipped inside, ducking low just in case, though mostly she was thinking to get out of the way of closing the door again, and not being outlined in the light. She observed the pummelling, but even trying to help seemed like she'd only be in the way, so she just looked around for any other sign of trouble.
Gryffudd froze, ready to jump on the next farmhand who woke, but they had avoided their first disaster. He quietly slipped the pre-cut ropes he’d worn as a bandolier over his head, handing a pair to Danhadlen and another couple to Burgweard. He motioned with his head to the sleepers on the cots, then stepped over them to the alcove where the slept the farmer and his wife.
Burgweard moved for the first of the sleeping figures, a woman whom received a hand roughly across her mouth, her eyes opening to bulge wide as she too was rudely awakened. Her gaze soon focused however, for his other hand held a knife that glinted all wicked in the flickering light. "Shhh..." He rasped, before slowly taking his hand away and holding up the ropes, flicking the blade's point toward her wrists, motioning them up. "Keep quiet, and you'll all live..." He muttered, his gaze briefly drifting to her two sleeping, pale haired children at the cot at the foot of her own pallet.
Danhadlen waited for the reaction, for just how to proceed would depend on whether there was an alarum, but she pulled a bit of cloth from her pouch, ready to gag as well as truss a child, since she expected reasoning with a suddenly-wakened tot to be much less effective than with the mother.
Gryffudd |A faint growling crept around the corner from the alcove as Gryffudd found himself facing not just a couple in a cot, but the bared teeth of a small, grey-spotted hound, favored for wrestling badgers out of their dens. “Easy,” he muttered, and pulled a scrap of jerky from his own meal out of his pocket. The woman shifted under her sheets, but didn’t wake as the hound’s snarl sizzled.
Burgweard attempted to catch Danhadlen's eye. If successful, he would motion toward the children's cot, eyes shifting to the coiled rope. This being achieved he would move to the second man who slept nearby.
Danhadlen nodded, catching up a child suitably. Having been a mother had some advantages, even though she hadn't been in the habit of gagging her children. She'd contemplated it often enough, and again, this seemed like a better time than waiting for a scream. Once she had them both, she spoke to them, voice very low, right by their ears. Her accent was thick, and she usually didn't admit to having any of their language, but there it was. 'Keep quiet, and nobody gets hurt. We just need you still and in one place.'
Gryffudd ‘s hand drifted to deliver the dried boar closer the hound’s snout to sniff. The thing inched forward with a curious huffing from his nose as the man sank to his knee. Out of sight was the knife, hidden against his thigh. When the mutt came close enough to take the offered treat, the blade sliced through the fur and flesh, cutting the whimper and squeal with the tendons and veins.
Burgweard paused, eyes briefly on the Brenin's son. A small nod and his hand found the sleeping farmer's mouth, knife tickling his chin a moment later. Thankfully the man was alert enough, quickly enough to assess the situation. His eyes rested on the children, then the woman before focusing once more on his betrayer, hatred burning in his eyes like coals in snow. "Don't, just don't." Burgweard softly hissed, the knife pricking blood from the man's chin. "Or I'll kill all of them." It was stated as fact rather than a threat, as if he were a customer promising not to give his business to a merchant rather than a killer with the lives of a family in his hands.
Danhadlen kept her position with the children for now, helping them make up their minds to be settled enough - besides somewhat reinforcing the forgoil's threat without making a big issue of it. Still, her dark-haired, dark-eyed face right there with the children would say what needed to be said.
Gryffudd stepped over the pulsing corpse as he made it to the bed. His knife, slick with the dog’s blood, pressed flatly into the farmer’s neck, its cutting edge bristling his chin. “Sweetheart,” he growled, his accent like the grog of sleep in their softer tongue. His free glove clamped over the farmer’s mouth as the woman blinked awake. “You hush,” he warned. She stared at face swimming in darkness, then what little she could of the haze of her husband’s. He dropped the ropes on the farmer’s chest, and the man was smart enough to stay still. “Ankles,” he rumbled, and after a moment to understand his command, the woman picked the rope up in her trembling hands and bound her husband’s feet. “Now hands.”
Burgweard was busy fastening the half-awake farmer he had beaten. "Stay down." He growled, frowning down at his bloodied and scraped knuckles. "And you might just see another harvest." The binding done, he slapped the man's face, none too gently. "Tie them too." He rasped across at Danhadlen.
Danhadlen offered another length of cloth for a gag, just in case, while looking to see who else needed their attention.
Gryffudd turned his knife on her. “Floor,” he ordered, and she scurried off the cot, but she froze when her feet hit the packed earth, not knowing if he meant to stand or kneel. He chose for her when he grabbed her yellow mop and forced her bodily to her knees. The jolt broke the stopper on her sobs. He gagged her with a scrap of rag and hastily bound her feet, leaving her kneeling at the encroaching pool of blood, then secured her husband’s bonds, just to be sure.
Burgweard rounded the doorway. "That's all of them." He spoke in his whispering tone, eyes glittering in candlelight. "I spent the day with the horses, shouldn't give us too much trouble."
Danhadlen nodded to what she heard, for all it wasn't directed at her. It was good to hear.
Gryffudd glared down at their wide blue eyes, terrified and wrathful, with a storm-brewed loathing. “Good.” He lingered for a moment, the knife dripping dogs-blood. Then he turned and stormed out of the house.
Danhadlen shrugged, but with another look, she decided they were done enough inside as far as she could tell. She followed him out.
Gryffudd was already halfway across the field to the barns where Khyus and his men kept their guard. “No one in there,” the stag-prince muttered as Gryffudd marched past them inside. He found a hammer among their tools and a sackful of nails. “Help Danhadlen and Burgweard round the horses up,” the older man ordered, then marched back to the house as their Caru-lûth allies readied the ropes.
Burgweard loped out after the pair. "You're sure you don't want any blood." He jerked his head back toward the house. "They all got a good look at us." His brow knitted a little as he watched the men make for the stables.
Danhadlen followed along. 'I was disappointed not to be burning the place behind us. Maybe on the way back. Don't really want that much alarm this soon otherwise, I suspect.' Of course, a good look at her didn't matter much, she figured, but she could see how the forgoil might care.
Gryffudd lumbered past him, picking out nails. “Could care less if they saw my face,” he growled, vaulting the steps to lay the first nail against the door at an angle. “I prefer it, actually.” He pounded the first in, and the mutterings and sobs growing louder inside cut a grin across his face.
Burgweard shrugged, lopsided grin on his face, pale hair swaying over it. "You're the chief." Was all he said, before turning on his heel and striding toward the stables.
Danhadlen moved along to help. All she really knew about this part of the operation was that horses were herd animals, and once gathered, should prefer to stick together. But the gathering, well, they were big and had big, sharp-edged feet. She'd have to be careful.
Gryffudd pounded a line of nails down the long edge of the door, securing it to the jam. Even if they did wriggle free, they’d have to claw their way through the thatch to get out. When he was finished he gave the handle a good hard tug, but it didn’t budge.
Burgweard moved from beast to beast, rubbing a nose here, patting a side there, uttering small words in Rohirric as he did. A complete constrast to the man who moments earlier had threatened the lives of a family whose only crime was being there.
Danhadlen hadn't even got any blood on her. She followed behind, treating the horses a bit like over-sized dogs, in some mimicry of the man's manner, letting them decide how to sniff her hand, or not, in making their acquaintance.
Morydd | Crouched on a jagged rock, her knees scraped from the surface already, Morydd had been waiting with a ragged hound lying in wait beside her. Having a mutual distaste for each other, and a newfound boredom after there were no runaways to chase from the farm, they were both restless, scratching and sniffing in a manner that was comically similar.
Gryffudd marched down from the door and stood looking out over the barren field. For all their luck only one life had been lost, but the ride ahead was more dangerous than the climb from the river. His hazel gaze scanned the blackness for some movement in the grass, then struck on the woman and her hound. He raised an empty hand as he approached.
Morydd lifted her chin in response, and steadied her hand on the hound's back between his shoulder blades, neither looking at the beast nor looking like she wanted it around in the first place. She took her eyes from Gryffudd to trace them lovingly over the farmhouse, her easily fading grin springing back to life with each wail from within.
Burgweard led two of the horses, tethered, toward two of the waiting tribesmen. "Wait here." He grunted, before loping off toward a low lying stand of hawthorn.
Danhadlen found herself trailing after more horses, since they were calm, and part of the herd had wandered off, and the gate was open. Joining the others was just what they did when not stopped.
Gryffudd wiped the blood from his knife and slid it home in it sheath. “Morydd,” he greeted, though his gaze glided past her shoulder for the brief hope she and the hound had not come alone, though that had been the plan.
Morydd unfolded her limbs and leapt off the rock, bare feet welcoming the unfamiliar soft earth and grasses of the Mark, and her toes curled in appreciation and bitter envy. The hound remained on the rock, winning their unspoken contest of laziness. "Gryffudd," she answered, using no other title, but her voice was as respectful as it gets. "I am enjoying the music you made," she said, using her chin again to point at the farmhouse. She caught his look past her shoulder, but not the meaning, and she used it as a chance to look him over, flicking her eyes and furrowing her brow over his garments. "Do we leave now?"
Danhadlen kept a lookout as the Stag-clansmen held the leads they'd been given, and tried not to look nervous in front of her about these over-sized beasts milling about them, finding snacks in the low growth on the ground - and discovering just how quickly it comes out the other end. At least one of them was going to need to clean his boots tonight.
Gryffudd watched her as he might an unnamed shadow at his bedside, spotted on waking from a dream. “Aye,” he said, and spared her only a glance. “You would have enjoyed the ballad our forgoil here would have made us compose.” He motioned to the only fair-haired among them who aided Danhadlen with the horses as they turned to join the other eagle and stag-kin securing their captives to leads. “Or Danhi. They would have had us light a fire to rain ash down on Cymru.”
Morydd tossed a sharp hiss at the dog over her shoulder as she began to follow Gryffudd to the stables. The dog stretched and took a generous amount of stalling before trotting after her with an abundance of reluctance. Morydd made no reply to the mention of fire, pinching and snapping the tops of grass as she passed her hand over them, releasing whatever disappointment she harboured.
Gryffudd ‘s face was grim with the sounds of the screaming children, somehow louder than the rest, but his tone was as steady as the hand that’d plunged the knife. “Ready?” he asked his sister, finding the strongest horse among them and taking it for his own.
Danhadlen tries to get the horses they have leads on moved a bit, so that whatever they do with them once the forgoil returns will work out with leading that pair in front. It takes her a bit of explaining until her brother finally takes one of them. 'The horses probably are more so than we are.'
Gryffudd guided the broad, grey destrier to where he could hitch a foot onto a low wall and vault onto the beast’s back, hoisting himself with the help of a hand on its mane. He urged it with his knees and heels, knowing better than to attempt commands in the Rohir’s tongue, having at least the bridle to turn it, though he needed no saddle. For his kind, he was skilled on horseback, the Eagle-clan one of only a few who took pride in riding the beasts into battle, and Gryffudd more agile than most.
Danhadlen has no idea how you're really supposed to get on one of these gargantuan beasts, but they have broad backs, and she's still pretty lithe. She makes sure her chosen victim is one that's she's sort of made friends with already, and that it sees her, and she vaults up onto its back, almost a belly-flop, and twists around to straddle it before it gets too spooked. It just wants to follow its leader, anyway, and that's now an option for it.
Gryffudd rode the beast once around the trampled grass that served as a road around the well, letting them both get used to each other. As long as their pace was steady and not too strenuous, they would get along just fine. “Cymry,” he called to the eagles and stags on horseback, a sight that brought a broader grin to his face than he meant to show. “We ride for Fréasburg! Squeeze your thighs and lean over the beast’s neck, but not too close. Hang on, and we’ll be at the city’s walls within hours of morning! Then imagine their faces...” He chuckled. “How long has it been since that city saw Wulf’s banner flying outside its gates? How long since it felt the reach of our spears? Two and a half *centuries*. That is too long to sleep peacefully with us on their doorstep. I say *too long*!” The last words he roared over the screams for help from the farmhouse, thrusting his fist into the air as if it already bore the black wolf and raven banner.
Danhadlen gave a feral answering grin, positioning herself as instructed, ready for the beast to follow her brother's.
