Post by Krieghelm Valdor on Oct 3, 2017 20:03:45 GMT -8
The banner of the Crimson Hand flew unfettered, hanging quiet and high as the windless day droned on. These flags were spread throughout the camp, their gold field and red palm a sign of hope for the small band within these lands. It had been a slow few months, after their last bit of work had died out the camp grew more and more anxious without work or action. The stray bandit group or two sated their hunger for battle, but truly only for a brief day or two. Men and women went about their work, carrying buckets of water or tanning hides, working in stations or lounging in the afternoon glow. Their numbers were down, only numbering seventy five infantry and twenty five cavalry, the infantry divided into pike and skirmishing columns. The rolling plains were one of the last places that Krieghelm wished they would camp, it left them sitting ducks, but to this land it seemed that all they would give him were accursed plains.
As the sun beat overhead the Commander stepped from his tent, the flap parting and then falling back into position, as a soldier falling back into rank and file. Scarred was his body, though hidden beneath the pomp and position that his clothes seemed to display, flashy colors and puffy sleeves galore. Long and slender, his build didn't seem to signify any sign of power but his men knew otherwise, having seen him cleave men on the field twain, they knew that facade was something he enjoyed putting off. Though he lacked wargear, he was not without his hat and blade. The wide-brimmed article of clothing stretched out, garnished with a red and gold feather tucked into it's side. The aforementioned weapon was resting on his shoulder, left hand cupping it's pommel and keeping it in place. The zweihander stretched high into the air, a solid foot taller than the warrior with a flambard-like blade, undulating steel with a grip of leather. Breathing in the fresh air, Krieghelm sighed and began his walks of the camp, inspiring confidence and providing comfort to the various working men and women in an attempt to run damage control. He knew they had no work, he knew there would be no work soon. They all would have to hold out, lest the Commander begin losing more men than he already had.
As the sun beat overhead the Commander stepped from his tent, the flap parting and then falling back into position, as a soldier falling back into rank and file. Scarred was his body, though hidden beneath the pomp and position that his clothes seemed to display, flashy colors and puffy sleeves galore. Long and slender, his build didn't seem to signify any sign of power but his men knew otherwise, having seen him cleave men on the field twain, they knew that facade was something he enjoyed putting off. Though he lacked wargear, he was not without his hat and blade. The wide-brimmed article of clothing stretched out, garnished with a red and gold feather tucked into it's side. The aforementioned weapon was resting on his shoulder, left hand cupping it's pommel and keeping it in place. The zweihander stretched high into the air, a solid foot taller than the warrior with a flambard-like blade, undulating steel with a grip of leather. Breathing in the fresh air, Krieghelm sighed and began his walks of the camp, inspiring confidence and providing comfort to the various working men and women in an attempt to run damage control. He knew they had no work, he knew there would be no work soon. They all would have to hold out, lest the Commander begin losing more men than he already had.