[Jusis had always opposed the war, quietly. But he's followed his father and older half brother into battle for the past two years, because even if his relationship with the king is... Strained, he loves his brother, and he wants to do what he can himself, for the people of their nation, even if he thinks the whole venture is more tragedy than glorious conquest.
His skills in combat and command have improved over the years of conflict, though he's still not at his brother's level. He's a spare heir, and while his general well-being is usually looked after, as long as Rufus is whole and safe Jusis can certainly be spared heading a company or two at the front.
Right now he's been given just that position, and he inwardly hates it, the waste, the death. He's lost another horse--a sharper tragedy to him than most--and the screams of dead and dying soldiers and horses haunt him.
There's no time to ponder or retreat, however, because it's a battlefield, and striding towards him with a lance and stature well known among the Albarea forces is one of the enemy fighters, one of their best.
He tightens his grip on his hilt, raising his sword at the man's command. A sharp pain of regret and even sharper determination clenches in his throat. If he can kill this man that's a benefit, less of his own countrymen will have to die. And yet he's still keenly aware they're the invaders here. Still, it hasn't made his blade hesitate in a long time now, and it won't today.
He offers only a grim salute before lunging in with his best sword work, determined to get closer, not wishing to be disadvantaged by the spear's reach.]
no subject
His skills in combat and command have improved over the years of conflict, though he's still not at his brother's level. He's a spare heir, and while his general well-being is usually looked after, as long as Rufus is whole and safe Jusis can certainly be spared heading a company or two at the front.
Right now he's been given just that position, and he inwardly hates it, the waste, the death. He's lost another horse--a sharper tragedy to him than most--and the screams of dead and dying soldiers and horses haunt him.
There's no time to ponder or retreat, however, because it's a battlefield, and striding towards him with a lance and stature well known among the Albarea forces is one of the enemy fighters, one of their best.
He tightens his grip on his hilt, raising his sword at the man's command. A sharp pain of regret and even sharper determination clenches in his throat. If he can kill this man that's a benefit, less of his own countrymen will have to die. And yet he's still keenly aware they're the invaders here. Still, it hasn't made his blade hesitate in a long time now, and it won't today.
He offers only a grim salute before lunging in with his best sword work, determined to get closer, not wishing to be disadvantaged by the spear's reach.]