Trubaldsome was numb with the shock of his first battle. His clothes were soaked with mud and a few stray licks of blood, his only armour a light mail hauberk beneath a long, green-dyed leather coat, and a simple cap of hardened leather beneath his wilted, battered hat. He had complained bitterly at this, as the cap was terribly unfashionable, and the hauberk felt like a lead weight on his shoulders, but Waery had been insistent.
Coming a short way away from the field of the recent battle, the sobs and cries of the wounded and dying still reaching his ears, the young Lord dropped down from his horse and staggered wearily over to a large rock jutting up from the ground, sitting heavily down on it with a thump. He exhaled slowly, then began to tremble as recollections of the day's battle washed over him. He went to wipe a hand through his sweat and wind-matted hair, but recoiled as he noticed the splatter of red blood across his skin. He remembered the man whose blood that was; he had watched him die.
It was, in truth, the only real fighting the young Lord had been involved in during the battle, but he remembered it clearly: The man had ran up the hill towards Trubaldsome's men, stationed on one end of the bridge with bows. He was one of the few of his regiment to survive the arrows and was plainly disoriented by the chaos of the storm, but when he saw Trubaldsome he raised his sword and rushed fowards with a yell.
Trubaldsome, already half-dazed from all the terrible bloodshed he had witnessed, couldn't bring himself to respond, his sword hanging limply by his side. "M'Lord! Look
out!" It was only Waery, shouting hoarsely as he tried to reach his Lord in time, that had jerked him out of his trance. More from startled reflex than anything, Trubaldsome raised his blade, and the wildly-charging soldier had more-or-less charged straight onto the point, eyes going wide with shock as blood sprayed from his chest, before he crumpled down into the mud beside Trubaldsome's horse.
Waery grabbed hold of the reins after that, and led Trubaldsome safely back as his regiment finished off those on the hill before them with another shower of arrows, and Trubaldsome had said not a word.
That was merely the most vivid memory of a whole slew of unpleasant images; it was not at all how Trubaldsome had envisioned a battle.
'Where were the fluttering pennants? The glorious charges, the cry of the horns?' He thought to himself, huddled against the biting wind as he wiped the palm of his hand against the rock he sat on, attempting to remove the blood without much success.
Waery approached, frowning as he proffered the small linen cloth he used for cleaning his sword. "Here, M'lord."
Trubaldsome wordlessly wiped the blood from his hand, nodding his thanks to the Captain before fumbling out his snuffbox for a much-needed, calming inhale.
"Come along, we'd best be gettin' back to camp, eh? Warm food'll fix yer right up, I be thinkin'. Plenny o' booty t' be had too, m'lord." Waery spoke to him like one might to a small, frightened child as he ushered him back up on his horse, before climbing onto his own, leading the tired young lord back across the corpse-strewn battlefield to the camp.
Find some hot food, and some calming mug of alchohol to help recover from the horrors of battle.
Waery, of course, keeps a close eye on Trubaldsome, watching how he's coping.((Sorry for rambling; This always happens at 1:30 AM...
Especially since I don't have much in the way of actions to post! ))