The Siege of Castle Caldwell: The Long Night. (Defenders: IC)

[Hattish Thing]

The Long Night:

The First Night, 11:30 PM.

The sun went down hours ago, and the night that followed was a cold one, a dark one. Castle Caldwell stands proudly like a great sentinel of stone and wood, built atop the small island in the middle of the incredibly wide and bitterly cold River Shivershriek. Torches line the well-built ramparts atop the high walls, the only sources of warmth for many of the soldiers that stand at the ready, freezing away in the cold as they await what was to come. The full moon shines down unfeelingly, it's alien rays of dim light providing little comfort to the men below as they stand, or sit, or polish their weapons in anticipation.

Several hours ago, a messenger came by the Castle with grave news. Urdovan Longships, four of them, were to be heading down the riverway very soon, loaded with a very special kind of cargo. Men, armed men, by the hundreds, greatly outnumbering the men stationed at the castle. Their identity was of no question, as the billowing sails and proud flags that the ships flew boasted the sigil of their country, a fiery Urdovan symbol that meant war. Ravens were dispatched immediately by the leader of the Castibarian defenders, Lord Shawcross. However, no letters have been returned.

With no reinforcements on the way, the only thing left to do was to hold and brace for what was to come.

---

Leserfe, Athaleon, John Trimmack - The Great Hall:

The Great Hall was the largest building located in the castle, and although usually several long tables were located within it's walls, all have been removed to make space for what was to come. The windows within have been boarded up, and all but one entrance are barricaded quite firmly. Many soldiers are gathered here, clad in their battle gear with weapons at their hips. At the end of the hall, standing upon a small platform, one man stands. He's clad in full plate armor, with a bit of fur stitched into the collar-like area by the neck, to keep him warm. A longsword rests upon his belt, and a cloak of the darkest blue can be seen behind him, torn and old like the man who wears it.

Sir Gastly, for that was his name, was the military instructor here at the Castle, a man of impeccable talent but not one truly capable of much combat in his old age. For although he wears his heavy armor with relative ease, his thin arms don't look like they could swing that heavy blade of his for more than a brief bit of time. Still, the Commander speaks to the soldiers gathered before him, his voice hoarse, but strong. "In but an hours time, our enemy will be here, at our doors, screaming, and shouting, and spitting, frothing with rage as we know they will. They will try to break down our doors, they will try to scale our walls, they will try to take our lives."

"But they won't, will they?"

Behind him, Lord Shawcross, a rat-like little man with a small mustache takes a deep breath. Although he's the Lord of Castle Caldwell, he never was one for battle, or war. Sir Gastly continues however, conviction in his voice. "No. They won't. Do you want to know why?" He'll look towards everyone involved, raising a fist upwards before resuming his speech. "Because we will stop them, the savages will break before our stone walls, and we will push them back with everything we've got! Our steel is strong, our armor thick. We have what they don't, real strength." Sir Gastly gestures towards the crowd of soldiers.

"Will you fight with me? Fight for Castle Caldwell? WILL YOU FIGHT FOR YOUR RIGHT TO LIVE?!"

---

Miserly, Claudel - Ramparts:

As a fair amount of soldiers are being rallied by Sir Gastly within the Great Hall, the rest of the troops are out here, manning the walls in the bitter cold. For whatever reasons, you've all been stationed here. Maybe it was just bad luck, or maybe someone didn't particularly like you. Regardless, you were here now, looking out into the river, the deep black water still and silent, only the sound of crickets about.

Claudel and Miserly have been stationed fairly close, with a guard in between them. He's wearing light armor, and carries a longbow in his arms. He gazes over the beach silently before sighing loudly and speaking towards those nearby. His accent is thick, and somewhat annoying. Still, it's better than the nervous silence of earlier, it's somewhat comforting, even, in a way.

"Feels like we've been sitting 'ere fer hours. Still nuffin."

"Ya think tha' messenger was wrong?"

---

Spoiler: Sir Gastly

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[Mornings]

' The Forgotten Son ' - Claudel Maxwell

The night was cold... he'd seen many like it, pulling the lower bit of his cowl closer. The furs fought back the bitter cold, but they did nothing to contest the ebbing stillness of the night, the disquiet. He listened to the man speak, running a hand through his graying beard. He'd waited upon the ramparts for many years now... trained many men that now stood on guard now with him, to use the very bows they carried.

He knelt low, behind one of the stone rampart blocks. He slid his massive, heavy bow from his back. The weapon was aged well, and weathered from the rain, and the long years on the wall. It's massive polished steel plated wooden arms, were burnished, and gave no glare under the night's moon. Yet that did not distract from the elegance of the weapon. The face of the crossbow, a motif of a large cawing eagle. The bolt-track running through it's mouth, where death would strike those before him. He chuckled at the words. As he placed the front of the weapon to the cold stone, pulling his hood low, his gray hair partially obscuring his feature's, he issued a low chuckle in reply. " ...Do you hear that lad?" A long period of silence passed, only interrupted as the bowmen, drew back the heavy steel bolt of his weapon, revealing the magazine-well, and sliding a long iron block of bolts from his bandoleir on his chest. He hammered the magazine into the well, The bolt dropping and locking the case of glass-bolts in place. "....exactly." He pulled his loaded weapon close, crouching still, with one knee to the stone, looking out upon the silent and still darkness that shrouded the river and bay. "...To many years have I spent on this damned wall, and never had I had a night so still. The lap of the tide. The call of the wind or wild. Nothing. " He gazed out from the ramparts. His mind thinking. Racing. Perhaps this was the night he may find his redemption for his father. The Urdovan scum were coming...finally. He'd prepared for this every day. Trained himself, trained others. He only hoped it would be enough. "...They're comin' lad. They're comin'... My eyes might not be as keen as they were, but I can feel it... " He looked to Miserly. " ...As much as I'm comforted to be in the company of the "Knight of Mammon". We're on an island... We've four sides, one door, and no doubt, a horde of heathenistic bastards about to be upon said door... we got men in the Keep no doubt listening to Sir Gastly's drivel, when we should have men manning the Bastions. I doubt the fools can manage to sneak a trebuchet on the island with long boats, if that scout's words held any measure of accuracy... But we need eyes up their. " He turned to move. Peering out over the wall and into the darkness... He pat the lad on the back. Then looked back to the Knight. " ...I'm not going to tell you how to do your job, but if you sight the enemy. Sound a call... I'm going to climb the Bastion to cover our vantage. If the come. Call out the particular one's that catch your eye. We don't need any Urdovan shamans willing their fat-fingers, and making this any more difficult then it already will be. "

He nodded firmly at them both before turning to move, to climb the nearest Bastion. " Keep a weary eye gents, and i'll keep the daggers off your back "

Spoiler: Actions

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Perception from Ramparts: (1d20-1)[8]
Move to climb/enter nearest bastion for better vantage point
Load bow (Glass Bolts)

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[OrganicEvil]

The one who had taken the name Leserfe stifled a yawn. It's not that it was a bad speech, exactly, though she'd heard better. She'd have probably gone with the 'women and children' angle, herself. The fear of death could be a good motivator for a time, but once things started going badly, it gave rise to panic in the ranks. Women and children, though, men had an awful thing about protecting women and children, and this castle was the first line of defense for all these soldier's families. Leserfe laughed softly to herself. Cor, but I sound a right scholar! And, she admitted, a bit of a hypocrite as well. She would die in a heartbeat for Aalis or Melisende. She winced. Best not to think of Melisende. The princess had been so angry when she left, so angry she was going, though whether at her mother, Leserfe, or the world in general was hard to say. But Leserfe would survive, and she'd come back, and her Melisende would call her a great galumphing idiot again with tears in her eyes, and then... Best not to think on that. As inconspicuously as she could, she slipped out. She would wait up on the wall.

Outside, she was alone, and she was Ancelle. In front of the men, she had to be their Captain; she had to be a man too. But here, with her breath misting white in the night's chill, there were no eyes on her. She crossed the courtyard slowly, one step at a time, and slowly she climbed the stairs. Upon reaching the ramparts she straightened and rested one hand on the hilt of her nameless sword. "What cheer, men? Weather still fair out?" She didn't look at the troops as she spoke, instead staring out over the ramparts at the pitch-dark water below. Soon, it would be time. Then would come the screaming and the shouting, the burning and the dying; the waves would froth a red as deep as wine. Memory rose unbidden, a conversation with Melisende. It had been early days yet, then, awkward and unsure. The rightness she had felt, folded close in the heavy curtains of Melisende's canopied bed with the princess curled up in her arms, had revolted her. "Cor, my Lady," she had giggled. "If anyone finds this out, we could be hanged."

Melisende had sat up, doing her best to look prim. She pulled it off surprisingly well, for being naked and sweaty and her hair all a mess."You would be hanged, of course, but I am far too pretty to dance the wind," she had said, laying a hand on her chest. "Besides, even a backwoods bumpkin like you should know that royals are beheaded." She had smiled then; her smile was like the moon. "But that shan't happen; I have already lost the only head I care to." Then they had kissed. For another kiss like that, Leserfe would survive a thousand sieges.

"I am far too pretty to dance the wind," she muttered, staring off into the night.

Soon...

Spoiler: Actions

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Move to the wall.
Perception from ramparts: (1d20)[7]
GM: Assume that Leserfe took 10 on her Disguise check today to appear male.

[Junk Masterson]

John Trimmack

John double checks the saddle of his trusty mount. Once he is certain everything ready he mounts up. He says nothing as nothing needs to be said. His makes his way to the courtyard and prepares to defend the entryway should the door give way.

OOC: Sorry, my first post did not go through, and I didn't have a subscription here. So sorry.

[Athaleon]

"Aye!"

Kailis Varren led the men in cheering at the Commander's rousing speech. He was a veteran soldier (though not as old as Sir Gastly) plate-clad and straight-backed. He stood beside the old knight as the captain of the regulars garrisoning the castle. His men were well-drilled and he had the utmost confidence in them, but it still heartened him to have Knight-Captain Leserfe and his Imperial Guard present. The hired swords he was less sure about, but they brought unique skills and their reputations did precede them.

"Well said, Sir Gastly, well said." Turning to address his own men, he made his own short addition to the speech. "Think of the folks back home, and know that we are the first, best line of defense. Remember your training and watch each other's backs, and we'll see this rabble off. Now man your posts." With that, he departed for his own post atop the wall. Earlier, he had sent his familiar out to scout the area. That raven was uncanny-smart, could even talk, and it should have had enough time for a good look around by now.

Spoiler

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Familiar's Perception check:

(1d20+9)[24]

[Mathemagics]

The mercenary shrugged his shoulders, pulling the thin cloak around him in an attempt to fend off the cold. Even still, his breath continued to hang in a misty cloud in front of his as he gazed over the ramparts with a bored expression.

They'd better be paying me extra for this...

His features remained impassive, even apathetic, at the archer's use of one of his "titles"; if Leratt felt anything being addressed in such a manner, it failed to register on his face. As Claudel moved to depart and make his way up to the bastion, the knight's expression shifted to a mirthless smirk as he called out to his back.

"I charge a finder's fee for that you know. Fifty gold a head sounds about right to me."

Without waiting for a reply, Leratt let out a tired sigh and leaned back against the wall, eventually sinking down into a sitting position. Ignoring the glares of the others stationed on the wall, he pulled his cloak tighter around and let his head rest against the masonry; as his eyes closed, it seemed to all appearances that he was trying to take a nap. Even still, he must have had some way of noticing the irritation this provoked from those around him, as that same cheerless smile showed itself for a fleeting moment as he spoke to the surroundings at large.

"What? I'm being paid to fight, not stand around and pretend to watch for the enemy we all know is coming. They'll be here soon enough."