Daria's shoulder was beginning to ache. It wasn't painful, just the dull ache that occurs when one overuses a part of their body. The repeated shocks of her lance striking into flesh were travelling up it's length and ending in the ball of her shoulder, the muscle absorbing the force admirably. Soon that kind of pain was going to match waht she felt in her bicep, constantly having to wrench the heavy shaft from it's previous victim and reset it before driving the point into the next. It was, quite frankly, tiring work, but she had trained for years to fight like this and she would be damned before she gave up due to a slight bit of pain.<br/><br/>The horde seemed endless, a black sea of hate that extended much further than they could conceivably advance without being held up and dragged from their mounts to their deaths. They would have to turn back at some point or run the risk of having every last man die out here, beyond the reach of the infantry to help. It had better be soon.<br/><br/>The inclement weather continued, twisting vortexes and lightning thinning the crowd ahead. Suddenly, entirely without warning, the tornado split into four, whipping the air between them into a brutal frenzy. Ice rained down in sheets, pieces large enough to kill. From here she could see the death toll mount. The violent natural display conjured up memories of harsh winters in the place of her birth, which she ruthlessly supressed to enter a void of focus. There would be time to sink into a depression later, but for now she needed all her faculties focused on the matter at hand.<br/><br/>She saw the spear as it was thrown, leaving the hand of it's Tutar master with a smoothness borne of competence. There was nothing she could do. At this range and this speed she would be dead before her shield was even in place, let alone correctly angled. She ignored it, instead looking to skewer another Tutar with perfect precision. If this was how she was to die, then she planned on doing so while being a damn good example. The blow still hadn't come, even after she tore the head of her lance from the skull of the Tutar she had just impaled. She lifted her eyes to look for it, wondering if she could have brought her shield to bear and save her life, when it hit. The head was wickedly sharp and barbed, filed down to a needle thing point. Perfect for piercing armour. So of course it struck her dead centre on the breastplate, right at the thickest, best angled point where it had not a hope in any hell that you cared to name of actually getting through. It didn't even knock her off balance. That kind of luck only came once in a lifetime. Or, if her suspicions were correct, about every five minutes, depending on who was in attendance.<br/><br/>Laughter rang in her ears, high pitched and slightly maniacal. An idle moment was wasted wondering who it was, floating across her conciousness in that oh so familiar way without actually being at the forefront of her mind, before the realisation struck her that her helmet was closed in the middle of a battle. The only person she would be able to hear laughing was herself. Without thinking she clamped down on it, refusing to show any emotion to anyone least of all herself. A few moments later, her breathing hitched. Then again. And then again. Disbelief flickered across her mind. Hiccups? Now? Shit. No option but to deal with it.<br/><br/>Ahead was a rare sight. A Tutar with a shield, more of a buckler really, strapped to it's arm. Idiot probably thought it was some kind of vambrace-axe, what with the way it had seemingly sharpened the edge. She had long ago, stopped questioning what made her able to see such detail. That was what battle was like. Of course the buckler presented a difficulty. The monster could theoretically knock her lance aside with it. So instead of aiming for the head, she dipped her most efficient killing implement slightly and rammed it through the creature's sternum and out of it's back in a gory fountain. The Tutar was dead, but her lance was lost. Her sword was in her hand without the need for any concious decision on her part, the worn leather shaped perfectly to fit her hand by use, the wire under wrapping providing a solid base for her hand to use for it's deadly task.<br/><br/>And then, nothing. Well, not for the next few yards. There was another Tutar, whom she swiftly ended with a slash across the back of the neck, but it's back was to her. The next was further on, again with it's back to her. They were running. Right when she had been about to order the retire, too. Again, fortune seemed to be smiling on them today. Time to end this.<br/><br/>"Kalim-nar! Valdar das kronne!" Without hesitation her lances obeyed, relaying the command down the line. Horses spread a few feet from one another and riders abandoned their lances in their next victim, drawing blades instead. Pursuit order, as it was known, allowed space for the riders to ride down and kill fleeing enemies in a way that close order did not. Daria fully intended to kill as many Tutar as possible before quitting the field. A dead foe here was one that didn't return to fight again another day.<br/><br/>The chase continued for a short while, not more than a minute, before she gave the command to halt. The horses were starting to flag, showing the signs of their wounds and aching muscles from the pell-mell charge across the plain. Heavily armoured as they were it would not be prudent to push them much further, lest they start collapsing. The lighter horsemen of Linden and Lebidan streamed past them, bloodlust in their eyes, clearly looking for vengeance against the enemy. But, for today at least, the Heart Guard would go no further into the fray. With a little fumbling Daria was able to lift her visor, letting cool air hit around her eyes for the first time in what felt like a very long time. She glanced at the steaming formation around her, seeing it for the first time since they began. It was smaller, very definitely so, but not as much as she had feared.<br/><br/>One of her Lance-Captains appeared at her side, like some kind of heavily armoured ghost, visor down, neatly concealing their identity. Right up until he opened his mouth. Brodyn was from the same part of Lebidan as she, but instead of denying his heritage, he had embraced it. A fact that was clearly evidenced in his accent, which was thick enough to float rocks on.<br/><br/>"By your command, First." He was ready for orders. Well, it was said that it gets lonely at the top, a leader's work is never done, shit like that. She would continue until she dropped.<br/><br/>"By thirds, Lance. One for the horses, one for our wounded and dead and one for those of the enemy that still draw breath. Get it done." Brodyn responded with a simple nod and set about his task, shouting orders at Lieutenants, who shouted at Sergeants, who shouted at Lancers. Two thirds of their remaining number dismounted, leaving their steeds in the care of their comrades. A few gurgled screams could already be heard as her troops began the grisly task of 'cleaning' the battlefield, wounded Tutar meeting their end at the point of a sword they couldn't have fought against. The last third sought out the wounded to be hurried back to where someone could do something for them, however minor the aid might be to their chances of survival.<br/><br/>Daria spent a moment surveying the field, taking in the carnage with dispassionate eyes. Dismounting was painful, her legs quivering as they were released from their state of constant tension. Kneeling in the muck, she offered up a short prayer to Rune in thanks for her continued time on Solunaar and then to The Lady of Flame for those who had died. She tried to rise, but her legs wouldn't work, so she stayed there, drinking in the sights and sounds of death. The first carrion eaters began to descend. With numb hands she removed her helmet and untied the leather cords that held her ventail closed.<br/><br/>Then she threw up.