A horrible commotion. What more was there to say about the scenes unfolding around the experienced soldier. Clinging blades, whistling arrows and the constant screaming of terror and pain. Again, he gave the order to fire another set of arrows, pulling his bow simultaneously with his soldiers, exhaling softly as he let the feathers leave his fingers, following the dirty arrow as it flew to find a target. Bellow him was men after men fighting in a hill of mud and blood. This battlefield was used more times than mother earth allowed, turning the usually sturdy ground into a slippery mess of sliding sand, stones and liquid. "Hold it!" Achard's voice sounded as his archers readied for their last set of controlled fire. The wind rousing with the raising of his voice, his elbow moving up, pulling back as his bow tilted backwards. It would be their last fire before throwing themselves into the battle happening down below. His skills were required on the bank alongside these archers, but his heart ached to fight among his men in the mud. Watch the life leave the eyes of his enemies as they succumbed to the edge of his sword. "Hold it!" the command repeated as the quivering energy of those surrounding him found its way to his beating heart. Letting the arrows fly one moment to early the wind would push them back, sending them into the necks of their friends rather than their foes. Gaze kept at the waving tree, there was but a small movement, invisible to an untrained eye, signalling of the pocket of still air that would soon move upon them. "Now!" and like that the arrows once again fired to find the vulnerable skin of their enemies. Empty of arrows, Achard let his bow fall, "Free fire!" was the last command as he rushed behind the lines of archers to find his waiting mount. Pulling himself into the saddle he was quick to urge his horse into a canter, heading down the hill and towards the chaos of battle.

Hooves thundered against the ground, mud sputtering, covering the white legs in grey and brown. It seemed no thing, living or dead, would escape the dirt following the worn battle ground. As if the mud was not enough, it seemed the weather too would be harsh with the fighting men. Dark clouds, brewing, seen building in the distance. Colours of grey, almost black, towering high up in the atmosphere as it approached the opening among the trees. Light fading, a distant rumble, sending shivers through earth and animal. As the first drop of water fell, Achard's horse slid to a halt, almost tumbling over. Mud splashing as heavy boots met the ground, slapping the rump of his horse he sent it running, far away from this hellish place. Heart thundering along the hoofbeats that sounded further and further away. A surging in his veins, building with the towering clouds, ready to spill over the battlefield any moment. They had one chance to finish the war. The outcome of todays struggle would determine the outcome of this very war. With a final inhale he turned to face the battle, the mud making it impossible to see which side was losing. In the fierceness of the moment, the experienced fighter realised there was no difference in these men before him besides the colour they choose to fight for. A colour disappearing beneath the destruction that usually would prosper in a golden colour, providing food for the families of these kingdoms. A golden colour, richer than that of the coin.

With a heartfelt roar he drew his sword, running to join the men battling for their kingdom. Battling for their lives. Still uninjured and with a body prospering in its best age, he jumped into the struggle with ease. Letting his sword slash into the flesh of the enemies. Dig into the tissues where the angle of the armour was weak. The sounds of jingling swords and wailing men blurred as he fought his way towards his minister. A report was needed on their current situation, but time after time he was distracted by fights regarding life and death. Dancing his way through the battlefield, one step right as his sword slashed. Left, turning to block to the sword of another. Another skilful fighter had entered the battlefield, and was there one thing that couldn't stop him, it was the slouchy moves of his foes. Rolling away from a sideway slash, sending mud into his face and hair, blinding him for a second to long as the point of a blade slashed across his cheek. A flash of warmth surging through the right side of his cheek, but not deep enough to set him out of the game. With a dirty sleeve he rubbed away as much mud as possible from his eyes, opening his eyes just in time to block another slash. The burning of his cheek, sending a newfound fire through his veins as he slayed yet another man. It seemed he had little time to think, for once again the enemy was upon him, pushing him further and further away from his target. But man would not keep him from his task, pushed backwards, a wave of reinforcement arrived upon him. Freeing him form the circle of fighting men that had pushed him away from his minister. Pushing his sword into the throat of another enemy soldier, gurgling as the blood filled his throat, blood spraying to spot his armour with red. Pulling his sword out of the fallen mans throat Achard could once again resume on his mission to report to his minister, but it seemed he would never come so far. Almost there, he lost sight of his leader for just a second as he once again was forced to fight an enemy force. Slicing the last man his gaze resumed to his minister.

It was as if nature cried, a silence falling upon the battlefield, the skies giving of a final, not so distant, rumble. Opening to bath the dirty bodies, living and death in a shower of rain. For there, on the small elevation in the battlefield stood his minister. Arrows in his back, a sword pushed through his stomach, a soundless scream leaving the man as he buckled over. It was as if all men on the field held their breath, a surge of energy flowing through them all as lighting rippled the clouds. Was the war over? Who was to keep order of such a grand army when the leader was fallen, and the King situated safely behind the walls of his castle? Following the sudden light of the sky was a thunderous sound, as if God himself was roaring. It hit him then, that this war was not yet over. They needed a leader, and Achard was quick to the task. "Fight!" his voice sounding across the battlefield as he once again made a run, pushing past the still standing men, long strides bringing him up the small elevation as he thrust his sword into the killer of his dear leader. His breath hitching in his throat, blood streaming down his cheek, rain leaving the dried mud slide down his face like a dirty river, movements dragged down by the mud seeping into clothes and armour. But the man showed no signs of defeat. Instead he turned to let his voice rage over the battlefield. "Our leader might be lost! But we still have a kingdom to defend! Raise your arms, raise your bows, find your strength as we slaughter our enemy! Pursue them as they flee!" his voice fed by the raising tension between heaven and earth. The battlefield still standing still, eyeing the newfound leader as he raised his sword. And so, the sound of battle resumed. However, screams of terror was turned into roars of courage, loudest of them all emerging from the depth of Achard's chest.

Words of fallen ministers travel quickly, but words of won battles travel quicker. Set out to travel, accompanied by his two sons, Dyland and Degan, was the King of Eldur. Riding on their spotless white horses, men emerging from their tents to see the commotion, bowing upon the sight of their King and his sons. But a bow not out of respect or honour, a bow of fear, scared what their ruler might bring upon them if they did not show their respect. The sight of a King should bring honour, happiness, a sense of pride. But his spotless horse and clothes, the thickness of his belly showed the prosperity he was living while they were drowning in mud. Their King belonged in the mud with them, beside his soldiers, fighting the war they started, but it seemed the royal family lost its respect with the passing of the Queen. Trotting through the rows of tents, the sour expression of the King seemed to subdue with the fading sound of soldiers in pain. His only focus now was to talk with his minister, figure the outcome of this war, what he had gained during this battle, what new land they now could seize. However, it seemed the King would be in for a surprise. Halting his horse, soldiers stood ready to hold the reins, but their dirty hands were rejected, and his own knights was replaced as horse holders. How could he possibly let these filthy men touch the shining coat of his, and his sons, mounts. Following his sturdy dismounts was his sons, following their father in silence, watching their surroundings with wider eyes than their father liked. Then again, muddied soldiers, to extent of the men surrounding them, was a rare sight. They had been drowning out there, mudslides appearing beneath the steps of the soldiers.

Brushing of his clothes, a taunt to the tired soldiers surrounding him, their King walked into the tent. What resembled a smile playing at his lips but twisted into a grin fuelled by lust for power. "Carac, ho-," his sentence died away upon discovering the man in the chair in front of him. This seemed not to be the man he had appointed the title of minister when this all started, a displeased expression following the death of his sentence. Eyes narrowing for a second, followed by a look telling of the bloodthirst within this man. Still in the process of being cleaned up Achard lifted his head upon hearing the sounds of someone entering the tent. Quick to his feet as he saw who had arrived. Pushing himself out of the chair a soft groan left him, an arrow stuck in his thigh revealing the cause for his pain. With a heavy limp he made his way to the front of the table, almost collapsing to his knees as he tried showing his resect to the King. Hands placed on the sword he had planted in the ground before him, head lowered, "My King," he started off, inhaling sharply afterwards. "It seems the news of Carac's death did not reach your ears," daring a small glance up he caught the figures of the two young princes. A playful shine in his eyes, disappearing as quickly as it appeared. Unknown to the boys, they brought great joy to the soul of the man currently kneeling in front of their father, a man they over the years would get to know. Not just as a knight, but also a storyteller. "Alas! You saw yourself fit to take his tent and title?" the words laced with poison. Achard's attention was once again brought to the King standing in front of him, "No, that was never of my intention My King. We..." the man so brave on the battlefield, able to think out the next move even before the first was finished had no words to explain why he was positioned in the minister's tent. A position only to be appointed by the King, and his court.

"After the fall of our leader there was chaos, it seemed our foe had won. However, I could not let it happen, thus I rose and slayed the man who killed Sir, Carac... My fellow soldiers were struck with confusion, and so was our foe. I took use of the confusion, ordering these men fighting by my side to strike, and so we defeater our enemy. I was brought here as these men, who fought so hard for these lands, went to search for a nurse," he explained once getting hold of his thoughts. Silence followed his words; the sound of a blade being sheeted following. It seemed his move of leadership would mean his end, but at least he led his men to victory. Closing his eyes, he accepted his faith, not regretting a single action but the last words to his wife. They should have been more delicate, filled with the love he now felt for her, but it seemed he could but accept what he had told her in a moment of great grief. Feeling the cold metal against the side of his neck his hands tightened around the pommel, but the faith he had accepted never arrived. "In the absence of court," the blade shifted side, "I promote you to minister of war..."