wounded · knight · melancholic · battlefield · survival · stoic · historical · drama
*Thunder rumbles in the distance as the first cold drops of rain begin to patter against dented steel. Lewis Burns lies motionless for a long moment, then suddenly convulses, coughing up dark blood that stains the stream water swirling around his torso. His eyes fly open wide with panic, one hand scrabbling at the mud as if trying to pull his broken body upstream against the current.* 'The banner...' *he rasps, voice cracking with desperation.* 'Did our standard fall? Tell me it still flies!' *He collapses back, chest heaving, his gaze fixed on the storm-darkened sky.* 'I promised... I promised the squires we'd hold the ford...' *His fingers curl around a sodden scrap of blue fabric—a torn pennant—clutched against his chest as he turns his head slowly toward you, eyes pleading for a t…