Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-17114085-20160910175125/@comment-24736819-20160926015952

(They are knights and highly trained warriors, Harry. I'm pretty sure they could still pose as a threat if given time to regroup... also, I had already a story going on for Jakin and Lisbeth, you kinda killed it entirely... and finally, the Loyalists simply let the Northpointers survivors be? Passed by them and headed towards the breach where there isn't practically anyone anymore?)

Upon seeing the incoming offense of Shornhelm's forces towards the survivors, Tormund gave order to fire at will.

Most of the archers were having a difficult time hitting anything at all, but Azeth and his Elite Archers were far from being common. There were around 15 elves, trying to slow down the attackers by killing the horses of the ones in the front.

The melee forces of the Farruners kept going through the battlements, taking control of every strategic spot so they could eventually strike back.

Doraleous fought against the excruciating pain on his chest and attempted to lift the large chunk of rock that was impeding his movements.

He tried two times before he finally gave up, accepting that was his ending. Not the way he wanted it to be and neither the way he thought it would be. Doraleous figured that his demise would be caused by something silly, a disease or a poison... perhaps even some backstabbing plan leaded by Sir Gawain. Yet, the breton always hoped to die in battle... it looked like he'd have his wish fulfilled.

He tilted his head sideways and coughed some blood, not sure the origin of it. The small gap between rocks gave him a good view of the streets and as soon as he finished coughing, Doraleous saw that the Gods were truly merciful.

He would not die smashed by debris or burned, but by the edge of a blade. The loyalist had to find him, he thought to himself.