Alicia
Otto, the Prince
Ruined village/Hideout

Otto laid on one of the four stone railings in the bell tower of the church. His back pressing against the wall and his right foot over his left. Early in the morning was one of the few times he truly had any time to reflect and think peacefully. Well, as peacefully as one in his position could get. Looking down upon the ruins of the village, he felt a skewed sense of pride for his men. Especially the peasants who had thrown down their tools to come and join him and his men. He watched them as they did their chores, his Sergeants barking orders and his most trusted lieutenants convening to each other just outside the tent closest to the church.

A majority of the dilapidated houses were converted into smaller but more robust cabins for those who were skilled enough. Most however spent their times in the various tents pressed together around fire pits. The Hounds as they were called were a mixture of veteran soldiers, peasants of various trades, and the occasional fence who wanted to buy some of their "Borrowed" Loot. The Hounds had a system. A system that so-far had worked well for them. Each member of the band of brigands were to apply their previous trades as well as they could. Carpenters working to improve the way of life and to provide decent defenses. Hunters to search for food, former soldiers to provide watch, and farmers to make trenches of soil and mud to prevent any sudden surprise attacks from their would-be enemies.

That was not to say however, that these men were not all killers and bastards. They were. But there was a sense of discipline that kept them in line, that often made them stand out among the various factions of bandits in the Southern Feyshore. However they were not the most powerful. Not yet. The Hounds could survive most attacks from their would be rivals, but the patrols of soldiers that often came around gave them plenty of trouble.

He wanted to avoid contact with most of the nobility in this fragmented country as much as possible. At least until he could grow his number of men from around 50 to something much higher and more probable. He also had to equip his men better. Otto and his lieutenants were the most armored; all of them having some form of half-plate and decent experience. His sergeants were often equipped with some form of chain mail, and the veteran soldiers as well. Those who weren't on the higher scale in the group often had to rely on gambesons and whatever tools they could acquire. Only 10 out of the 50 had horses, and even less could actually ride without much trouble. 

He eye'd out to the road that lead into the front of the village. It was mostly hidden with a thick coating of brush and tree's that they had allowed to grow, but also carefully maintained as to try and hide themselves from anyone passing by. Though occasionally some who were also embedded in the life of crime learned of the location of the village. Mostly for trade, sometimes for recruitment. He watched some of the hunters return with various small game wrapped over a belt-loop. Only one had come back with a deer.

Audibly exhaling, Otto chewed on the apple in his hand. He was their leader. A commander. The Prince. He wondered what the nobility would think whenever he marched a truly powerful army to their front door. One day - perhaps. For now, he was simply Otto, The Prince. A petty Warlord who still had to earn his keep. The other factions would either join him, or die. 

Throwing his feet onto the cobble-stone floor of the bell tower, he made his way down the winding steps and to his allocated room. After dressing himself in his usual garb and strapping his sword and dagger to his person - he made his way out and towards the tent of the lieutenants.

"I'm telling you, Jounas! We must strike in the dead of night. They won't be expecting us!"

"No. We run the risk of making far more noise than we intend. I agree, Henry, that we must surprise them... But we must do it at least where we can see where we are going!"

The two lieutenants argued to each other. Both, unlike Otto, almost always wore their armor even outside of combat. Cuirass, greaves, cussie, gauntlets, chainmail, etc. If it weren't for their bickering, their erratic movements and the clinking of the metal would have been loud enough to wake the dead.

"Jounas! You are a -" Henry stopped as he saw Otto finally make their way to them. 

"Have either of you come to a conclusion?" Otto said slowly, dragging his words as he looked between them. For all of their worth, all they ever did was bicker. 

"Well - uh. Yes, Otto. Mostly." Henry said solemnly. The two were the only men in the band who were allowed to call Otto by his name to his face. 

"We will take them from surprise as we usually do, though I propose that we do it by moonlight. Catch them off-guard." Henry continued.

"I still disagree. It would cause more noise than we intend!" Jounas exclaimed. 

"Enough." Otto scratched his chin with his gloved thumb. His other hand kneading the pommel of his longsword. He weighed both options. Attacking at night could prove useful, but Jounas was correct. Their armor alone in the deep thickets of the forest would cause an incredible amount of noise. But they could use that noise to their advantage. 

"We'll do it near early morning tomorrow. As they wake, they'll be used to the sound of armor. Though I doubt that Věnceslav would be with them. If we can attempt to assimilate some them, we would just have to focus on Věnceslav's and those who are increasingly loyal."

Otto eye'd at the two, still scratching his chin. Both Jounas and Henry gave a cautious look before both nodding. "Go and relay the orders to the Sergeants."

"Aye, Otto."
"Aye."

The preparations before battle always played on the nerves. It didn't matter if you were an experienced general or a lowly peasant. Battle was fucking terrifying. It was one of the few experiences in the world that could really bring out the worst in men; force men to enter situations were they would either break down or turn into sheer, unbridled machines of rage. It was always hazy. 

Otto had returned from the church in his armor as the night dragged on. He dawned his armor. He had replaced his jerkin with a lightly padded gambeson, little more then just added fabric. He wore his haubergeon(thigh length chainmail shirt) with his full cuirass(breastplate - front/back). His protection for his lower body consisted of his full cuisse and greaves(leg armor) with his sabatons(boots). 

His armor clinked with every step as he made his way to his awaiting and still prepping soldiers. His lieutenants Jounas and Henry were already awaiting with similar armor to Otto's. His sergeants were barking orders at the rest of the men who began to fall in line. Discipline went a long way with these men. Especially for those who were so used to war. They were a killing machine. Idly holding his helmet under his shoulder, Otto continued to observe the men as they finished prepping. 

Most of the normal men within The Hounds used polearms. A few had axes and one or two had swords, though there was the occasional crossbow with some of the hunters. The sergeants had arming swords and shields to mostly protect themselves. His lieutenants both carried maces and rondel daggers, similar to Otto himself. 
Giving a nod to Jounas and Henry - they set off. Choosing not to use horses this time as to try and keep as silent as possible. They were going to be moving through the woods and preparation was key. 

They marched.
June
Věnceslav
South Feyshore

The best thing about the Fall of Feyshore was that the woods had become entirely overgrown. Less need for wood meant more trees and underbrush. Many of the places in near the Southern bank of Lake Fey looked untouched by humans. There was a beauty to it, but also a tactical advantage to it. Hiding from some local lord was a lot easier in a dense forest, and after the last disasterous run-in with some men-at-arms they needed to lay low and figure what they were going to do now. They were sixty before that run-in, now they'd been reduced to forty-two. 

_Should've taken the fucking amnesty when King Storm was here._ He thought. _How could I have Lord Stafford was as much of a maniac as he is?_ 

The men were sore and down. The wine ran out a month ago, and the ale was out a week ago. Food wasn't quite scarce, the woods were still rather full of game. His Quatermaster Adalbert didn't have much issues getting rabbits and deer. They'd even managed to kill a bear the other day. Poor Arik got a nasty new scar after that one. 

Věnceslav saddled his horse and tightened the straps before mounting it, and beginning his nightly ride to the north to clear his head and figure out how he was going to get the fuck out of this godsforsaken country.
Alicia
Otto, The Prince
South Feyshore
Almost as if by a miracle, the man that was Věnceslav had left shortly before Otto and his men had arrived. The silence of the night was deafening to Otto. He looked out at the faint camp-fire lights. He knew that once he stepped out and over, he had to rely on his men to spring out the moment he gave the signal. 

Slowly raising his helmet to his head, he kept the visor up as he softly whispered to Jounas. Jounas in return turned to one of the five sergeants and whispered to him and the sergeant to the men. The men broke off into 5 sections of 25, lead by Jounas that attempted to do a semi-circle around the side of the camp. 20 where lead by Henry as the did the same on the opposite side. Left to right. Five men were with Otto himself, some of his most trusted and skilled veterans. It was time.

Slowly making his way through and out of the brush into the center of the camp, he stood there with his longsword resting against his shoulder. His armor clinking softly yet again with every step until he stopped. He spoke the moment he arrived and to the moment he stopped as to capitalize on his surprise arrival.

"You men are under the service of Věnceslav and that is an error of which you must fix. You are surrounded on all fronts by my men. Some of you may know me, especially those who I have met before in battle. I am The Prince, Otto." He said as he slowly began to pace back and forth, still watching the men. "I offer you two choices. You will surrender and turn in your arms, and I will give you a chance to correct your egregious mistake of joining an incompetent fool." He said as he spoke calmly but with command. Raising his voice but not shouting. "Or you will die. Do not allow your emotions to overtake your judgement, for I will have no quarter." 

He then stopped once more. Looking out at the rival men. "Now. If you are willing to die - I shall oblige you."
June
A bunch of criminals in a camp
South Feyshore

As Otto finished speaking, he'd see surprised and uncertain looks on the men in the camp. They were all standing now. Some looked uncertain, other had their cracked shields and swords. Others mallets and maces scavanged from a field. 

In a larger tent where the food was normally prepped, the Quartermaster Adalbert gritted is teeth and held his crossbow to his cheek and loosed a bolt from inside the tent. The bolt went wide, whizzing pass Ott's head and off into the forest. 

The large bellied Quartermaster walked out with a horn in one hand and a hammer in the other. 

"Otto you right roarin' fuckin' cunt!" He barked, blowing into the horn to let Věnceslav know to come back. There was a moment of tension in the air as some of the men looked between Adalbert and Otto. A man with a bandage on his left shoulder from a bear scratch whispered to another.

"You fuckin' what Arik!?" The man he whispered to exclaimed, and within a moment after that the man assumed to be Arik stabbed the other in the chest once, twice about to be a third before another stabbed him through the back. About six other men turned on their compatriots and attacked, their backs toward Otto. 

Věnceslav heard the horn, he wasn't too far off before he reared his horse and bolted back toward the camp. He drew his sword from the sheathe on the saddle and rode hard likely arriving in minutes.