Discretion is the better part of Valor

Muscles clench. Eyes widen. Skin prickles as a primal shock runs through your body in response to the deadly bolt of scales and hellfire shooting towards you. In a split second, instinct tells you everything you need to know:_ this is too strong for you. Run! It only takes a second before your conscious mind is convinced; recklessly yanking back on your reigns as you try to get this dumb animal to turn around, allowing your sword-arm to hang limply at your side. The horse lets out a loud neigh, suddenly tilted up towards the sky as your mouth rears back, flailing its front legs in an effort to keep balance. All of this might have looked impressive if the onlooker hadn't known what was going on; the sort of pose you might see in the portrait of a nobleman. Only their he was no doubt acting in triumph, rather than trying to escape._

The War-Lady disappeared from your view in the confusion, before you recover from the sudden rearing enough to look down. As you do, however, you notice her furious scream morphing: the focused glare of a warrior giving way to a a wider-eyed confusion as she slows her flapping; the momentum carrying her through the air directly into the rain of hammering hooves. The stallion bucks and shakes underneath you, reflexively dropping your sword so you can hold onto the reigns for dear life as it flails: the shallow cut it received across its stomach just making it more jumpy. Bouncing this way and that, armor chafing against your skin, its hard to keep a clear eye on Burtrexx, but from the glances you catch and the inhuman yelps and whimpers from below, you can tell your mount is bludgeoning her. You see the black steel blade fall from her grip, reaching up to press in her shoulder. Her wings fan out wide as she takes in a sharp breath, a blow to her chest having knocked the air out. Then... you don't see what happens, but a moment later she's going limp and collapsing like a discarded doll; a hard jerk to the right as you finally get your horse calm keeping her safe from any further damage. Every part of you feels tight as that chaos passes you by: knees locked as you take quick, deep breaths, a circle of knights rallying around your sparing grounds to keep the dragon-kin at bay.

Your sword is laying just out of your reach, but you don't dare dismount to pick it up. Not with your arms and knees locked tight around... well, what had actually kept you alive. Rather, you sit in the peaceful eye of the storm of battle: the organized charge having long ago dissolved into a mess of single combats; the dragon-kin fighting with the ferocity and prowess of of people who lived and died by ****. The air was thick with dirt, smoke, and kicked-up ash: making it hard to see much more then darting flashes of silver in the distance... but as become master of yourself once more, you can see it with a tactic's mind. Those knights who still had their horses were taking advantage of their speed; riding in circles around their enemy while darting in and out to prevent the raiders from locking them into melee. Others attacked two or three in a group: trying to lock weapons just long enough to give their companion's an opening. Perhaps you weren't a warrior-king, true... and a part of you feels shamed for trying to justify your cowardliness, but a tired smile forms as you realize you've survived your first brush with ****.

"Your Majesty!" You hear Duke Oliver's shout amongest the noise, galloping through a gap in the mob to reach your side: the state of his weapon and armor clearly showing he was no coward either. He's panting heavily, quickly turning to bring the broad side of his horse and his shield between you and the thick of the fighting. "Thank the Gods you're still standing. I hadn't thought your guard would be scattered so easily." You can't see his expression; both because its turned away and his visor hides it, but you certainly feel safe enough to loosen your ****-grip, finally sparing a glance to your defeated foe. Her crown was still on... why that one detail stuck into your memory, you don't know, sword mere inches from yours. It was a fierce, two handed thing; so much longer and thicker then your own, a few drops of your horse's blood staining the ground between them.

"... are you in pain, Your majesty?" Oliver asks with concern, looking over his shoulder. "I know a commander shoulder never show his injuries... but the day is already ours. You need not put the men's moral over your own safety." You manage to shake your head in response... the weight of real battle numbing without the exhilarating rush of glory, looking on with an empty gaze until the last dozen or so dragon-kin finally break: fleeing through the burning wreckage to guard their escape before climbing up the thin mountain ledges: disappearing over the tops and back into the crags.

With the threat gone, many of the men who'd lost their horses crawl to the edge of the village and collapse: putting pressure on their wounds with whatever they could while those who still had the energy paroled the battlefield for the wounded: disarming the dragon-kin and providing what they could to their comrades. Duke Oliver rides up next to you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder and nodding understandingly. "This is your first real battle, yes?" He asks knowingly, gently pressing your back in the direction of the hill. "All of us have gone through it before... don't think yourself weak for feeling this way. But, we all must learn to do our duty no?" He waves in a few of the men; directing them to head back up and establish a camp to rest and help the injured, but instead of directing you to follow the Duke places his sword in your hand, pointing down at the defeated Empress.

"And as the leader of this army, it is your duty to make arrangements for our noble captive. Regardless of the validity of her Imperial claims, she is still War-Lady of the Red Clutch. Diplomatic tact demands we don't deliver any harsh punishments without permission of her liege lord." Seeing your hands tremble, he lifts up his visor and gives you a jesting smile. "Unless, of course, you consider her a real Empress. Wouldn't that be silly?" He jests, trying to lighten the mood.

"I'll need help," you insist, slowly dismounting alongside Oliver. "I can't carry her alone." With one more comforting nod, Oliver stands at her feet as you walk around to her head.

"On three..." you instruct, looking into her **** face as you bend over to grab her shoulders. It was almost... uncanny how her eyes being closed and her muscles relaxed made her look so much less threatening. "One, two... three!" Both of you grunt as you hoist her up; her body a fair bit lighter than you'd thought she'd be (Though, an idle thought crossed your mind that those wings would be useless if she was too heavy) taking a step before turning back towards the ruins. It was painful to look but... considering how good a shape you were in, it felt _wrong _to just leave them here. They are your men after all... every wound taken to defend your land. But...

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