So the party were resting in camp about half way to Grimhold, enjoying a hearty breakfast of pork sausage and local mushrooms. Frater Sandro and Wilbert had taken Lenore, still recovering from her wounds, to see a local healer (convenient eh?). It was then that the Mano Rosso struck. They had been creeping up on the camp with the proverbial cat-like tread.
(In a Defensive Battle scenario like this, the enemy get to try and sneak up on us, and each time one moves we get a chance to spot them. I guess the party were simply too engrossed in their breakfast to realise the danger, because they were almost upon us before they had an inkling anything was afoot.)
One bold brigand had made it almost to the camp fire before they were noticed, and the rest weren't far behind. Most of the Exiles darted to the nearby hedge, hoping to hold off the foe and prevent them from crossing that obstacle. Sir Godfrey and Wicklow would have to deal with the lone interloper.
Arrows spat out from the hedgerow, finding their mark and staining the road with bandit blood, but not felling any of the foe. They surged forward with a ragged war cry.
The brigands charged the hedge, slashing and thrusting with their blades, forcing Brom and Neville to give ground
(You can't see Neville in this pic, I think he's behind that tree 
). The way was open for the bandits on our right to cross the hedge.
On the left flank in front of the camp things were still worse. Four of the enemy were already over the hedge and hurtling towards Sir Godfrey and Wicklow (and two of those were tough-looking brutes). If they could be dealt with the rogues would be able to turn and take the others from behind (
snigger). Once more things seemed to be turning against the Exiles, and the two players controlling them were starting to panic.
But Sir Godfey is made of sterner stuff than the cravens controlling his fate. Soon his flashing blade was wreaking havoc. These poor uncultured wretches were no match for years of noble training with a fencing sword. Godfrey darted among them with the grace of a dancer, and their numbers began to thin a little.
For his part Wicklow conjured a spell of frightening, hoping to break their nerve and make them flee. He hurriedly muttered his incantations in the Old Imperial Tongue and hoped for the best (silently cursing all the time spent at the local wine-houses rather than in class when he was a student at the Magic Academy in Chrysanthium).
Not to be outdone, Iago sighed and after whispering a silent prayer to Our Lady of the Veils, laid into the bandits with his mighty bastard sword.
"Victory to Heaven! By the Monad and all the Aeons thou shalt pay, ye dogs!"A holy rage was upon him, and his blade drank deep of bandit blood. Things had turned around very quickly indeed.
By this point, Wicklow's spell had taken effect, and most of those thugs that could still move had begun to quit the field.
A couple of hardened desperadoes stood their ground, but the poor fools did not stand a chance. Wicklow breathed a long sigh of relief as he watched the last of the bandits fleeing into the distance.
"How rude, I hadn't even had a single bite of my breakfast. It is sure to be cold by now" he said, sadly looking at his sausage as he picked it up. Iago strode over to him and snatched his plate away.
"No time for that, gather your things. We must pursue and punish these curs." Wicklow frowned.
"Can't we just have our breakfast? Let them go, I'm hungry."
"Never! A plague upon them, the pack of villains. Their survival is an insult to Heaven, and we shall pursue them to the ends of the Earth! Hopefully they will lead us to more of their fellows, and we can dispense righteous judgement upon them. It is no more than they deserve, the
damnèd heathens! Unbelievers! Recusants! "
Wicklow rolled his eyes and looked towards Neville.
"There he goes, bringing religion into everything again. They are only bandits, Iago, not heretics."
"What? Did not the great Sanctus Pallus himself write, in er... his Second Epistle to the Kardashians, that
every soul is subject to the earthly powers, for were not those powers ordained by Heaven? They that resist shall receive Damnation! And today, dear Wicklow, we are the instruments that shall be delivering it. Come on, get your things."
Iago turned and set off at a pace after the fleeing banditti.
"He truly has the spirit upon him," mused Sir Godfrey.
"He's a bloody loony, you mean" said Wicklow, and reluctantly set off after his friend.
To be continued...This was heaps of fun, though we were a little nervous to begin with as all those bandits were bearing down on us and we hadn't got a proper defensive line together. Godfrey and Iago were just unstoppable this time. I think their accumulated experience gains are beginning to bear fruit.
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April 29, 2024, 08:09:41 AM
February 04, 2008, 09:15:08 AM