The scent was the first thing Rolayn would notice, the foul stench all to familiar to the man who'd spent his life in battle against the walking dead. Indeed, even with the salt breeze of the sea washing over him, the waterlogged forms of the dead, even now crawling up from the tide and wreckage, would be the prime source of focus for those mortals that had come to their domain. Gritting his teeth, the man would reach out a hand to stroke the mane of his noble steed, DeLoria's tempers already rising at the sight of their shared enemy. Bred for war, and raised in the dark shadow of Mousillon, he knew his horse would be just as eager as he to stomp down these wretched corpses. Now, the time to join battle had come, and as he watched the dwarf lumber forth, he'd speak towards his companion, his faithful retainer staring towards the undead with the same fear he'd known for most of his life. "Lorin." The knight's voice would shake the grip upon him, as the big burly man would turn towards his liege, giving a curt nod, awaiting orders. Rolayn would reach down to his saddle bags, to remove his plumed helm, placing it upon his head, before swiftly rechecking the straps upon his armour. Prepared, he'd turn his armoured gaze down upon his servant. "Corseque." Rolayn would extend his open hand, as Lorin would reach out, and pass over the long polearm he'd been carrying for the Bretonnia noble. Gripping the shaft of the weapon tightly, he'd lower the weapon down, as he gave a cry, pulled at the reins, and would charge forward into the fray. Breaking out into a gallop, DeLoria would rush towards the undead horde, Rolayn's corseque leveled at their rotted frames. Letting loose a curse at the foe, Rolayn would thrust out with weapon, ready to tear the horde apart, creature by creature. OOC: Balanced Attack On Undead Horde, Defence on Self.