"The thing about war is, you can never expect your plans to go off without a hitch. There is a reason why there are so many sayings to the tone of 'the best laid plans rarely survive contact with the enemy', because more often than not, this is indeed the truth when you are at the frontlines.

While having strategists able to make plans for the situation at large is important, equally important are tactical commanders who are able to make adjustments to the plans on the fly, adaptable, decisive people who can react to the spontaneous changes of the battlefield.

Only woe awaited an army that lacked one or the other of these, much less both. This is also why leaders and strategists are always amongst our highest priority targets whenever we are deployed." - Myrddin deVreys, Captain of the Death's Hand, Ptolodecca's team of trained battlefield assassins, circa 45 VA.

The next day, Aideen woke up with a jolt and found herself on board a wagon, where a few other bleary looking death guards were also aboard. Tirya greeted her politely, and offered her a rest stop so she could change out of her tattered, blood drenched clothes and clean herself, but she declined, and asked to be shown to the injured instead.

Aideen could live with being filthy until they stop to rest in the evening, but treatment of the injured was something best expedited. She had not even bothered to stop to eat, and simply grabbed a loaf of hard dried bread and some cheese and munched on them while she worked on the injured Death Guards in another wagon.

With only twelve patients to take care of, she had not felt overtaxed like the day before, and she took the offered wet rag Tirya offered her afterwards, and wiped off the worst of the dried blood that clung to her skin in the relative privacy of their wagon, as Diarmuid was understanding enough to have assigned only female Death Guard members to the wagon she rode on.

After she cleaned herself off the worst of the clotted blood, Aideen put on a fresh pair of trousers and a new tunic, as the one she had worn yesterday was so tattered not even a beggar would have deigned to wear it.

The contrast between her seemingly unblemished figure, to the many cuts and tears on her clothes had not escaped everyone's attention, and just further drove home the inhuman feeling she sometimes gave off. The few Death Guards who had worked with her on the western sector yesterday, however, only looked at her with gratitude, and for some, even looks bordering on worship.

With the way she had taken on the tip of the raider push yesterday by herself, slain the leader of the raiders, and then went to heal injured soldiers until she collapsed from exhaustion, all despite her own horrifying injuries - which meant little to one like her, but the rank and file soldiers did not know that - had made most everyone on the western front look up to her.

Since they had the least casualties and also the highest morale, Diarmuid had chosen the three hundred militiamen to take with him entirely from their ranks as well, and brought all the Death guards from the front on top of that.

Their small detachment of four hundred were two days away from where Faerghus' detachment was projected to encounter the elves, and considering that he had a greater distance to travel, might reach there around when the battle was joined if they hastened.

The detachment traveled without rest until it was too dark to carry on with their journey, eating their lunch on the wagons, and by night they stopped near a small stream and set up to rest for the night.

Once they got off the wagon, half the soldiers took turns to bathe in the stream while the other half kept watch for them. Modesty was all but ignored in the battlefield, and not even Diarmuid and Aideen bothered to look for some privacy. They just cleansed themselves together with their soldiers, ate with them, and slept in the same beds with them.

That show of sharing their hardships by their leaders helped keep the soldier's morale high, despite how many of them were tired and somewhat afraid after yesterday's battle, and it kept them together as a whole, as they realized that every one of them was in it together.

-------------------------------

Meanwhile, on the same day, Faerghus and his detachment were still on the road towards their destination. It was not that they lazed along the way, but simply a function of distance, as their destination was further away by two day's travel.

The reports his scouts had given him was not promising, as just earlier that afternoon, they had run across many carriages crammed full of refugees fleeing the area, and they knew that not everyone had sought refuge together with these refugees, as some chose to stubbornly stay at the land they had lived on all their lives.

Even as they rested for the evening - they all wanted to proceed forward, but their mounts were unable to go any further - they stewed at their inability to help those that had stayed at their villages, whether out of love for the land or just a misguided sense of loyalty, and they grieved for their souls.

"Hold your anger, young master," advised Qravor, second in command of the second templars, and Faerghus' right hand man. He nodded to the old veteran's advice, knowing that there was nothing they could have done for those in the village ahead.

"I just wished that we could have done more when something like this happens!" He exclaimed with some anger as he sipped at the simple stew on his bowl. "If only we had more cavalrymen we could have reached the village ahead three days ago and helped them…"

"Ifs and buts sadly have no room in real life, young master," replied the old templar with a sigh. "I too wish we could have done more, but we just lack the means to. It is something we will have to accept… for now."

"When we get back, we should raise the suggestion to father to raise another cavalry division, or two, Qravor."

"That is one suggestion I will back happily, yes."