(LOG)The conclusion of Folvuf's riot

Eldmaen's ears filled with Folvuf's last words, somehow louder than the roar of the seething mob, and a howl was upon his lips as he punched the air with the spade his friend had been so furious with. "To the Castle! No more of these bloody bastards!" Or at least that was what he tried to say, his fury venting toward the looming dark lair of the Valenti family. Vile strings of their wrongs to the people poured from his lips as if they were no longer his own, things he'd heard from Folvuf, things he made up, but in that moment they were all true and those closest ate it up. The growl of the crowd shifted, though pitchforks and sticks still found aim against others of the mass. Boiling and screaming, with Eldmean booming at the front, direction became focus as they marched for the palace.

Allor had not come for a fight. He had come to speak to the Prince concerning his inheritance, his station in life. He had been ostracized, spat upon, beaten, and chased from his home, and no one seemed to want to do anything about it. Yet abruptly, all of these things took much less of a priority when the dull roar of rabble came a'pounding at the castle gates. He had been sitting in the courtyard at the time, thumbing through a parchment that explained his lineage. Now, however, he was on his feet, running to the gate as the soldiers along the battlements suddenly came to life. Apparently, the approach had been unexpected. The disinherited knight made a strange shout, not quite able to formulate words of any significance, and found himself drawing his blade from its scabbard with a rigid hiss.

Julius Descartes strolled the lower level of the castle with another guard, listening to his colleague rant about problems at home with the wife. Nodding from time to time, he pretended to care and eventually let his mind drift into a sort of haze. The blaring sound of multiple horns resounded through the grounds causing Julius to snap to attention, his focus now placed on the location of the alarm. Most likely a siege, but the rest of the castle would have heard news of an approaching army. Guards rushed out towards the front gate, shouting about a mob and the Crown Prince on the other side. Julius raced after them, putting two and two together and realizing it was the townspeople rioting. Following the others, he ducked into a weapons room and quickly removed a siege shield along with a spear. The plan in this kind of situation was simply to push the bastards into the moat or against the wall where they'd be slaughtered. The guards filed out towards the front, forming regiments as their superiors ordered them to prepare, putting the men shoulder to shoulder. He heard orders for them to reach the Crown Prince as soon as possible or else they'd have their heads shoved up their arses. Damn, these were people the guards saw everyday and it was all going to hell.

Eldmaen headed a thing that was no longer human. It was beastial, primaly, and its voice gutteral and wordless. Laughter rose with it as the men of the castle scrabbled to meet their might. Their cause was just[/b], they were right,[/i] and they would not be defeated![/b] God was on their side! Men bared their teeth as the thing lunged forward between the watch towers, the men at the flanks joining in unity once more to battle the the guards outside the walls, crawling over them in a mass that could not be stopped...until they abruptly were by the walled moat. They howled at the castle, charges of cowardice rising toward the guards in their high towers and behind their walls. "Fight like men!" Several grabbed hold of guards on the outside, throwing them into the moat to widen the crossing, but the current ripped them away...the crowd rippling to find a way to its prey.

Uhtred Valenti was riding with Garnett at his back. The smell of boot-tracked dirt was heavy in his nostrils, even through the wind. His sword was in his hand, held low to keep from slapping his wife with the blade. His pregnant wife. The fact was far from lost on him. His teeth were clenched as he paced his horse to a steady canter up until they broke the forest clearing that revealed the castle to them... a castle besieged. The beast skidded to a halt and the aetheling looked at the crest of peasants breaking upon the stone and water, the advance shuddering to a halt. His absence was known, which meant they would try to phalanx a route through the peasants. It was a dangerous task, however, as they would have to raise the gate.

Julius Descartes watched the feral men tearing and howling to get to the castle, wondering what could have caused such a madness. The guards atop the wall worked with the speed of panic, notching arrows and waiting for a comrade to light it. The weapons were let loose into the crowd, wounding individuals and setting fire to anything flammable in reach. The regiments crouched down behind a wall of shields, spears held above them simply to keep the mob at bay. Standing in front of the gate, they braced themselves for impact as the metalwork was cranked upwards. The volley of flaming arrows continued, but their comrades would soon have to stop or else risk losing their own. Julius stood at the third line, having arrived too late to be put at the forefront. He prayed silently in his head for the little miracles in life. The gate raised just enough for the mob to crawl under, which they attempted to at first until the first 10 or so men were stabbed to death by spearheads. Very difficult to defend yourself when you're bent over and scrambling about on your hands and knees. They moved forward, crouched down behind the wall of protection and shoulders pressed up against the back of their shields for better support. The mob roared like an infuriated bull, charging at the line in an attempt to break it. Fortunately, they were disorganized and many of them were simply pushed into the moat where they fell upon sharp rods placed on the bottom. The guards were terrified of the spectacle the townspeople were making and the placed their fear behind their shields to help them push forward.

Garnett could do little save hold on tightly to Uhtred. Weariness had set in, the pair riding far more than was healthy for the woman overly heavy for her pregnancy. Fingers tried to bore into her husband's stomach even though she told herself to loosen her hold, to stay out of his way. Wordlessly, she pulled his riding cloak up over her head, hiding who she was as best as possible, though at his back, it wouldn't take much of a guess. Blood crusted her clothing already, and her wide eyes peered from beneath the rough cloak, the need to draw her sword clutching at her. But she would be in his way..make herself as small as she could, absolutely silent as the world crumbled into chaos, lips moving in prayer as her stomach churned.

Eldmaen screamed as fire rained down on them, chaos rippling outward as the smell of burning flesh and the shrieks of burning men filled the air. They threatened to break, some of the number running as the terrible flames took men in the back, men in their faces, hair and clothing alight and spreading to those closest. This was not like the guardsmen in town, but still the farmer urged them forward. "GATE'S OPEN! THROUGH THE GATE!" And they charged the wall of shields and disciplined men mindlessly, men tumbling off the sides of the bridge with yells, the few that could swim aiming for the feet of the guards with whatever they had on hand, trying to drag the outermost with them as they slammed into the shields, the dead building only to be replaced by the surging living behind them, climbing over their comrades to get to the gate. It was all that mattered, no thought given to what might lie behind it.

Allor had somehow found himself in the first rank of the shield wall. It was not exactly what he'd had in mind, but the moment that he'd had a shield thrust upon him, he was apparently the victim of a press gang. He had no spear, but his sword was long and he thrust it onto a man when the gate first began to open. He twisted, but the blade nearly stuck anyhow when the body was pressed upon by a new tide of men. When the first crunch of men against shields came, he ducked his head underneath the rim and pressed, his feet sliding nearly impotently against the sudden, vicious tide of men. He felt something hit his shield so hard that it flung it over his head. There was a strange, terrifying moment when he was exposed to the whole world, but no one struck. The crash behind him drew the horrible conclusion that he'd just inadvertantly sent someone careening into the ranks behind him. Allor slapped his shield down, knocked it against that of his peers, and took the next man...

Julius Descartes cursed as he saw the men closest to the sides of the bridge dragged off into the moat. The water was turning into a thrashing river of blood, impaled men from both sides of the battle screaming in pain. The second line advanced, forming an arrowhead and absorbing the survivors of the first line. They jabbed furiously at whatever moved in front of them, trying to cross the bridge that had been just a simple walkway earlier that day. Julius stood at the center of the third line, marching forward and watching as the guards before him stabbed with no particular goal in mind but to reach the Crown Prince. They could retreat behind the walls after that and let the mob wreck havoc across the town. Safety was just one task away and any thought of desertion had been thrown out with the arrival of the idea that they were at the only secure location.

Sigmund Gottschalt arrived to the scenes with rest of the late ones who were mostly knights getting their personal weapons in combat. Sigmund himself had only grabbed a halberd from a stationary guard and sent him to armory to get new one. He and few knights with great weapons formed a so-called death squad. Since the meatwall was already established, Sigmund's group took the duty of swinging their weapons at anyone who were lucky enough to get past guard ranks. That, and they all shared one extra goal; to find a spot to break into the chaotic mass of disgruntled commoners, divide and create confusion amongst them. Anxiously, they waited for their chance to coat their weapons in blood.
Eldmaen's roiling mob had been pared down considerably, less than half the courageous men that had stormed toward the castle. Real resistance and bloody slaughter of their comrades sent men fleeing, while the fire took more and the water and guards bloodied them beyond recognition. Still the howls flew from them, but it was thinning, Eldmaen screaming at his men to stay, to press. But they turned on those fleeing, killing the cowards from the back as they tried to press through the guards. Each foot they lost was hard fought, but the well armed King's men were more than a match for the rabble. Those at the back caught sight of the prince with something at his back, the crowd rippling for a moment as if they would charge him .. but it took more than their dwindling courage to go after the legendary aetheling and leave the guards at their backs.

Julius Descartes stepped back to allow the knights through at the shouting orders of his superiors. The remains of the two lines felt a considerable weight lift from the shoulders at the arrival of the squadron to fight off what was still a considerably large mob. Several of the guards atop the wall had joined them, now forming a larger more reinforced third line to help make a pathway for Prince Uhtred and Princess Garnett. The second line continued to push forward, the arrowedhead piercing into the crowd and expanding as they finally reached the center of the bridge. Julius waited patiently, stabbing whoever managed to break through the second line and reach the third. [Blah. D:]

Eldmaen suddenly found himself at the front of the press, howling at his men to close in on the line of guards to keep them from making the route they tried to cut through them. His spade flew, bludgeoning shields and swords, headless as he flew at the lines before him. He pounded at the shields as his men forced him forward, suddenly finding himself face to face with the gruesome one eyed guardsman. Foul breath spilled from him as he took aim at his face, the farmer in the thick of it now. There would be no escape for him, the screams of men falling into the moat, their shrieks as they died suddenly clear to him. The madness fled at that instant, and he stared, horror clear in his face as the guards closed in.

Uhtred Valenti cringed when he saw the familiar signs of distraction. He had expected to be seen from so far away, much less to be recognized. Yet the signs were clear, and Uhtred tightened his grip on his weapon. "Hold on." There was nothing else for it. The phalanx had come, and now Uhtred must brave the tide. He would not have been so concerned, had it not been for the who metaphorically rode side saddle. His heels dug into his horse's flanks, and though this particular beast was not bred for war, it charged. His sword rose into the air and his feet rose his body from the saddle, and the first blow cracked a nose from a face, spewing blood and phlegm into the air. There was no time, though, for he had to twist to face the other side and plunge his sword there, too, where a man beat it off with a strike of his axe...

Sigmund Gottschalt joined the clashing ranks along with the fellow squads, enchancing the shield walls with highly trained greatweaponiers. Each knight brought their weapons down on their foes with all of their might, severing limbs and spilling guts. Sigmund saw a chance in midst of the chaos as he pulled the blade of his halberd out of some poor sap's skull. A chance to be truly gallant. He took a small step backwards to ensure enough safety for him to holler out an order, or more likely encouraging warcry. "Charge! For the king!" And with that said, the squadron of knights were more than ready as they bravely sprinted forwards, holding their polearms in front to run blades and spikes deep into any fool who desired to stand infront of charge of bloodthirsty knights. Some might call it an act of desperation, but it was to courage every guard and knight alike to push the mad mob away from the glorious castle.

Garnett's grip tightened obediently for she scarcely needed that prompting from Uhtred. She'd not be letting go for a damn long time if she had her way. Teeth clenched as she felt the horse head toward hell, and she wished she'd grabbed her swords. The Prince's shift in the saddle terrified her, hands clutching for a moment to grab hold of him, but he was up, and she held desperatly to the saddle. The blood of his kill flew into her face, stinging her eyes, the sight of the nose and Uhtred's sword burned into her mind. Unable to clutch at Uhtred now, her hands dove for her sword, tangling for a moment before she slammed it toward the axeman just a half second after Uhtred's swing, aiming for his throat with a strange fury in her green eyes. So much blood...

Julius Descartes heard the call for a charge and glanced at the picture of the King's men chasing awa the remains of the mob. His good eye suddenly darted to Eldmaen who stood before his shield, almost confused about what to do as the mob deserted him. A widening grin appeared on his face, the warnings of bloodthirst and insanity dancing across his horrifying face. "Through the gate, indeed," he growled as he tossed his spear to the ground and unsheathed his sword in a few fluid motions. Holding on to the siege shield with his left arm, he brought it upwards in a punch towards the man's face and exhaled sharpely with the exertion of power. Right elbow bent back, his sword was at the ready to duck underneath his shield and stab into his new opponent. His grin stretched from cheek to cheek, his pupil dialated, and the flow of adrenaline had suddenly kicked in.

Eldmaen's brave men surged for one final time as the Prince broke between them, this time trying to overwhelm the aetheling rather than the guards for their cause was lost. Hands grabbed at the horse and at the royals, axes swinging and hands clawing as the knights fell upon them. What was left was trapped, most bleeding and stumbling, sweat and blood stinging their eyes, all unused to such fighting. The man with the axe had a moment of surprise at the bundle against the Prince's back suddenly lunging a sword at him, eyes widening as he ducked away with only a graze to his cheek, his axe coming up again toward the whore behind the prince, distracted from him. "BITCH!" He spat. The farmer himself found the guard upon him, and it was on his lips to plead for mercy. Mercy..it had been insanity, but it was useless, the blow to his face reeling him back. Bloodied and terrified, he stumbled away from the sword, but the guard was quick..and trained, and he gurgled as the blade buried in his stomach.

Sigmund Gottschalt's sprint ended as the spike of his halberd sunk into a farmer's stomach, pushing the victim down on ground. He swiftly pulled out his halberd to cleave into another one's ribs, making a fatal blow right away. The knights had their charge slowed down and they advanced forward slower while swinging and thrusting their weapons at anyone opposing them. For a moment, it appeared like they were invincible messengers of death with their polished, heavy armour and large weapons. A terrifying impact to foes' morale, indeed, but out of sudden. A knight, donning the stereotypical silvery armor and wielding a decorated flamberge-style sword felt a pitchfork in his stomach. A blink of eye later, and the same knight fell down.. dead, thus destroying the image of immortality of those knights who suicidally make their way deeper and deeper into the shaking mob cut by cut.

Uhtred Valenti knew how to break ranks on a horse. They were turning to take him, and the slashes on his legs were turning unbearably painful. He kept his horse as pressed against the mass of bodies as he could so that it would bite and kick, and used his sword to keep the proverbial second ranks (those who could reach over the heads of others) at bay. Yet the horse would not survive long if he did not make a break for the other side. Neither would they, apparently. The man who attacked Garnett was not noticed by Uhtred, but he did cringe when he felt her shift behind him. The fool was not supposed to do that! His heels dug painfully into the steed he was on, who panicked and now tried to spring through the mass of men. Four more discombobulated ranks, it was all he needed...

Julius Descartes kicked into the back of Eldmaen's knee, knocking the man's leg out from underneath him and causing him to fall to the ground. "May God have mercy for your sins," he whispered harshly as his grin turned to a grimace of disgust. Julius jammed his blade into the crook between Eldmaen's neck and chin, almost separating the head from the body. With some effort, he pulled the sword from the sheathe of flesh and moved towards the stragglers trying to unseat the Princess from the horse. "Run if you can, you slimy bastards," he roared. The guards that had chose to stay back now formed one more line, marching forward to push the rest of the mob up against the wall in order to finish them off. Julius followed suit, pressing forward with his shoulder against his shield and slashing what members of the mob he could see. From time to time he chose to punch and kick the mob out of his way in order to clear a faster path to the Crown Prince's horse.

Eldmaen collapsed and knew it was the end, his arms unable to lift his weapon even once more, the last sounds to his ears that of the knights and guards taking down those who had not fled yet, most of them now fighting to get free of the ever tightening ring of weapons. Even those surging at the Prince found their backs attacked and the horse was left to to proceed as men clawed free, the mob broken, fights now small and for survival rather than teaching the royals a lesson. It was over .. this time. [Sorry, my peasant mob skills have died.]