Leaving their tent, Brynja wasn't as frightened or nervous as she thought she'd feel. Instead, she was more concerned about how little she was feeling, actually... That would likely change once she was charging into battle, but for now, she just wanted an end to this....be it the necromancer's or hers. Her spirit knew that she could welcome either at this point. She was just so very ...very tired.

The camp was scattered with bonfires, their glow along with the remaining of the sun's dying light was sufficient for her to navigate to where foot soldiers waited with her mount and sword. It was a grim greeting to see only three each with a horse...one for every remaining Knight of Aramanna. The one injured last night must not have made it through the day.

Her two equals in arms met her while coming for their own mounts. Before they were handed their swords, the three Knights took a moment to grip each other's wrists firmly. Neither of them said a word. There was nothing to say at this point; just horrific things to do...

With the aid of one of the attending soldiers, Brynja mounted her dapple grey; Arhu. He was a magnificent animal, deep-chested, short backed, and nearly sixteen hands tall. As the Lord Knights rode out, the rest of the mounted knights and soldiers followed, with those on foot behind them.

A short ride from camp brought them to a sprawling field, hills of grass bathed in the light of the moon, now that the sun was absent from the sky. This is where they stopped and waited.

The leather beneath Brynja creaked as she shifted her weight, anxiety building in her stomach. Soon, amidst the occasional yellow streaks of a firefly, she spotted it; a white set of glowing circles in the distance. Her gloved hands gripped her reigns, and excitement poured into her chest.

The pair of white glowing eyes multiplied, as hundreds of them clawed their way up from beneath the ground, tearing grass, and turning soil. Once the army stood at its full strength, they stilled in complete silence. They were waiting for the command of their ghoulish master.

Brinja gave Arhu a light kick.

Her steed ambled forwards the first few steps alone, breaking away from the rest of the resistance.

She gave Arhu another reaffirming kick, signaling the animal to pick up speed. The two men who had been at her sides roused their mounts into pace with Brynja's. Within a matter of moments, the sound of one gelding's hoofbeats became three, then more, until their thunderous charge split the quiet fields with a roar that could only be rivaled by the heavens themselves.

As they neared the front line of undead, Arhu ran even faster toward them. Brynja had all of her weight in the balls of her feet, raised completely out of the saddle as she moved with him. At his fastest gait, Arhu lowered his head just seconds before he barreled through their front line, crushing enemies under the sheer force of the impact.

Brynja didn't think of herself as being a noble or fair fighter. Rules of engagement were for sport, not for battle. Fair, got you killed. Brynja wanted every advantage possible. And right now, that involved staying on her horse for as long as she could, to get as close as she could to her target.

It would mean the difference between only fighting ten creatures to get to the necromancer or never reaching him at all.

War wasn't something glorious to be romanticized by maidens or recreated by children with sticks. War wasn't honorable....war was filthy chaos that could transform anyone into a desperate, destructive beast...and it did.

From the moment she was on the ground, Brynja fought viciously. Her heart pounded rapidly within her chest, as she swayed back just enough for the tip of the necromancer's spear to etch an angry line across her breastplate. Just another scar along so many other dings, nicks, and gouges.

The three of them had managed to surround the necromancer, but only Brynja and one other were able to afford him their full attention. The third struggled along with other soldiers to keep the hoard of walking corpses off them.

They were wearing him down, and for a fleeting second, Brynja thought they had him, but an abrupt change of the direction of his spear brought the back end of it across her head. The contact with the ground had been so immediate that she was left completely stunned, her vision bursting with white.

As she struggled to her feet, a horrible cry drowned out the ambient grumble and clanking of the battle. The necromancer's spearhead had pierced through the other Knight's throat having gotten just under his helmet. He dropped his sword, blood gushing forth as he gripped the end of the spear fruitlessly while he choked.

Brynja launched herself forward with her sword above her head. Even with the added weight of her full suit of armor, her legs had propelled her off the ground slightly. Her blade plunged into the back of the Necromancer.

In that instant, she felt the resistance of his leather armor break, and pushed further, felt her sword meet bone, and still she pushed until only two fist lengths of her blade remained visible before the hilt.

Around her, everything grew still.

The undead began to crumble back to the ground that they'd emerged from hours before as the necromancer sunk to his knees, his head full of black glossy hair, lulling. But something was very wrong. Brynja's shaking hands released her grip on her sword. She stumbled back to watch the body it was lodged in fall to its side, no longer supported.

She felt sick. Her head was still ringing from having been hit, but this wasn't like any other injury she'd had. She tried, through her disorientation, to find the other Lord Knight amidst the dozens of faces watching her.

She was gonna be sick. By instinct alone, she did the unthinkable.

She ripped her helmet off her head, gasping as air hit her face, feeling cold against her skin. The hunk of metal that had hidden her identity for so long fell from her grip as she dropped to her hands and knees, vomiting.

No one moved. Instead, they stared at her, pinned in place by shock. They had never seen the face of one of their revered heroes before...and they'd certainly not expected to see Brynja's face.

Her round features and hairless chin made her appear far younger than any of them likely expected a man of her skill to be.

"I-I think he's part elf!" someone whispered harshly.

"He must be, right?" Another voice had agreed, trying to make sense of her apparent youth, and her boyish beauty.

She managed to lift her head, tears burning streaks down her face as she found the remaining Lord Knight. She couldn't speak. Her lips parted, but nothing came out. She was going to be ill again, and her vision was rapidly tunneling to blackness.

Her need must have been communicated by her expression because suddenly everyone was clamoring to pull her to her feet. The other Knight had one of her arms over his shoulder. She felt like she was going to die.

Cries trumpeted from the men swarming her. Different tongues and different dialects, but they were all calling for the same thing... 'Healer! We need a healer!'

She wanted to sleep. Her eyelids were so heavy.

"Lord Knight, stay awake!"

"Stay awake, dammit!"

"We're taking you to Lady Lilliana. It's not far, just stay awake."