Intended to interleave with this:
Awakening: Gretel Maurer knew something was wrong, and she couldn’t pinpoint what it was. It had barely been a year since she had officially joined the efforts of Braganza’s Besiegers in building a Border Princedom that could control the Howling River and thereby grant Barak Varr dominance...
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Ruprecht Wulfhart Jr. had a thing for ambushes. It wasn't very knightly of him, he knew, but Ulric wasn't impressed by needless dying and so enemies got the axe by the safest route. This was what his father had drilled into him early. "Take care of your knights." Make sure they are fed, rested, equipped, loyal- they will fight for you like demons. And so he excused himself his gleeful whoop as the wolf between his legs he called Rimeruff lept off the top of a low cliff.
It really wasn't anything worth calling a cliff, he opined to himself in the brief moment of weightlessness at the top of his arc, since it was only about eight or ten feet high. A dry riverbed cut against a low rise, looking wonderfully innocent to the small band of orcs and goblins that Lumpin's crew had tipped them off to. But that little bit of hight was enough to obscure the approach of the wolfriders until the first orc was slammed down under a thousand pounds of canine.
Ruprecht was fourth over the cliff, possessed of a splendid view of the first kill and the dubious honor of the third. He made a mental note to give Ser Chiln a hard time for it later.
The battle did not last. The orcs recovered from their surprise before the heads and limbs of the first unfortunates hit the ground, and no one lived long underestimating a trapped goblin, but the battle did not last. Casualties were light- one in eight wounded, one in twenty wounded beyond the ability to ride. But that was the beauty of it to him, the grace of the wolf that hamstrung it's prey from the blind spot- blindspots being the sort of thing only experienced cavalry commanders knew how to look at a landscape and estimate timing for.
"Alright! Strip the corpses of metal, toss on oil and torches! You know the drill!"
He didn't want to call it unusual that he got to lead a warband these days, lest Ulric send a waaagh or something to test him, but it was a diversion from the masses of paperwork and meetings that held most of his attention these days. More than a year in, he thought to himself, and things were only now really settling down.
Watchtowers, supply depots, figuring out which patrol routes were fast and which were thorough, dealing with the interminable headache that was the locals- it added up to a Sir Ruprecht that had barely slept more than two-score hours a week. So much of it required his touch, his face- or rather, it didn't, but exactly, but he had studied the Viceroy Francisco, and how he had built up Karag Nar. Being the face, being seen to make the decisions and hand out justice- that was how you cemented control among allies. And how you made sure your own did their jobs.
Tomorrow he'd spend the night in the camp of his most credible rival, at least as he judged things- Lucas had signed with King Belegar well before the victory at Eightpeaks was compete, so he was trusted by the dwarves, and his unit has a commendable style. Of course, this wasn't high stakes, not really- he considered the man a friend and knew that they'd likely end up first and second in command, but who was going to be on top? That was the question that brought a small grin to his face.
And wasn't Gretel supposed to be there too? She was a friend of a sort, admittedly one he'd reached out to on Hubert's advice. Wizards were wizards, but Hubert was as solid as a dwarf and he'd had time enough on the expedition to learn a few things. So when he'd asked Hubert who among the Eightpeaks circle was most like the Lady Magister, he'd smirked and directed him to Gretel.
He still wasn't quite sure why, but she'd promised him a game of cards next they saw eachother. Perhaps it would be a chance to find out.
