[IC] Warhammer Fantasy: The Guild of Esteemed Sellswords - An adventure in the Warhammer Fantasy world! [REBOOTED] [FULL]

[Jb]

(@Andreyich@Dusty@Lucian@POOHEAD189)

Severo did not like this one bit, oh no, not one bit! His Mama had always told him to keep good company, to remain inside the law, and to never deal with shifty characters. Well, if he knew his Mama at all – and he did – she would be severely disappointed in him right now.

“Joder,” he inwardly cursed, hoping that those who had volunteered to act essentially as his bodyguards were not far behind him. He did not dare twist about and look back though, keeping his eyes fixed on the path through the bushes ahead, and letting out a small grunt of annoyance as his eyes took in the scene before him.

“Eet ith alright, may as well bring everyone in here. Pollas en vinagre!”

Stepping softly around the first corpse in the clearing, obviously the hired guard that had ran the furthest - limbs stuck rigid and stiff from both rigour mortis and the developing drop in temperature – the Estalian recruiter took in a number of things; at the centre of it all was the burning wreckage of a previously thatched round-hut, the stacked stone walls being the only thing left of it now, numerous bodies of thuggish looking men and their bodily liquids (brains, innards...piss) each laying where they had died.

The clearing was surrounded on all sides by trees and brush, no true path leading to the witches location, and to be perfectly honest the attackers – whosoever they were, though it appeared they had not remained for long after fulfilling their purpose – could very well have come from any or every direction, singularly or at the same time.

“No tracks...no bodies...” muttered the Estalian, edging his way toward the still smouldering hut with intent in his eyes, “why? Who?”

(@BangoSkank@Chicken@ClocktowerEchos)

There was a sudden shuddering on undergrowth to his right, Severo turning in a half-crouch and whipping a dagger and rapier from below his cloak, much quicker than one may have expected from the other innocuous looking southerner.

“Show yourself!”

[Chicken]

Those words echoed for a moment. Show yourself! Silence filled their work. Then, the whistle of an arrow flew through the air, stabbing itself in a tree just to the Estalian's right. The arrow quivered in place.

"Less demands," warned an older warrior's voice, "or your throat's next."

Hidden behind the rubble of a well and a couple fortunately placed trees, Dirk nocked another arrow onto his bow. He held three arrows in that hand, the better to fire a little faster; he reckoned he'd need that speed in a moment. The huntsman couldn't see the details of the crew ahead, but they outnumbered him. That much he could tell.

Of course, they didn't know that.

"Got a good half dozen archers, we do," growled the poacher in a cold tone. "You might clear the open, but half of you will die first. Be smart. Let's talk."

It was, of course, a blatant lie. Sweat dripped along the archer's dirty blond scalp and down his forehead. He wasn't sure who the strangers were, but they looked like foreigners, and they were clearly on edge. Given the look of them, they were the type that would cut Dirk in half if he walked into the open. Foreign folk were fools like that. That's why they needed threatening.

Dirk kept his stare aimed forward. He'd seen that halfling and that barbarian earlier, but when he took his position he'd lost track of them both. He only hoped he could force peace talks out of the large band ahead before something stupid happened.

[ClocktowerEchos]

Loheir leaned on his sword, his nostrels flaired at the scent of burnt flesh and ash. It was an odor he was far too familiar with and one which still tugged at his being. The voices of Holoheim haunted the very back of his mind, their cries blowing in the distant winds. Although none of them knew and many would rather him not, Loheir remembered all of them by name and face. There was Wilburg the Butcher who'd give him raw scraps of venisons on occasoin, Brunida the Innkeeper who gave him the cold bed and an even colder stew, little Dietsar who-

Emotion dragged the Bretonnian's heart down as he lost himself to his memories. Years of "questing" had taken a toil on him for all the comrades he watched die, all the innocents he failed to save, all the vows he couldn't up hold. He sniffled spat out a wad of spit on the ground; had he been younger he would have likely started to weep right then and there. But he had since long cried all his tears out and just like him, his eyes had no more tears to sacrifice.

The knight's mind shifted to a memory of a distant battle on the Bretonnian-Imperial border against a mob of vile Orks. Loheir remembered how he cried out for a surgeon, an apothocary, a priest, anyone to save his dying friends. But no one came and he watched them all die one by one in his arms. A voice rang in the distand winds, just barely louder than the shrill cries of help that paused for a second, "You watched them as they fell. You held their hands tight as they died, hoping they'd drag you down with them."

Through gritted teeth, Loheir banished the voice from his mind and forced himself back into reality. The voice was getting louder everyday it seemed but the man only allowed a fraction of his mind to wonder what it really meant; he dare not focus his entire mind and truly ponder its implications. Still in the recovery period, his veteran senses forced him to duck the second he heard the "thwunk" of an arrow embedding itself somewhere. By whatever was still out there in the heavens, Loheir hoped that it was either that halfing or that hunter and wasn't someone trying to add him to the number of bodies in front of him. At least not yet.

[BangoSkank]

While Loheir stood amidst the slaughter, seeming to be lost in thought, Shel used the protection his presence offered to search about the bodies for anything useful. Coins or gear that could be salvaged, and who knows perhaps there was a cultured man amongst this rabble. Perhaps he might find something tucked away he could use to cook supper later. Many would judge an adventurer for looting still smoldering bodies, but the reality of the matter was that at some point someone was going to come upon the bodies and search them. Might as well be little old Shel.

It took him longer than he would have liked, as a Halfling rolling a human body over was difficult but it was always best to be thorough. Folk around here often didn't have much so every little bit counted. Shel didn't believe in wasting any part of the animal and he applied that philosophy to the dead as well. Not in that way of course, but a careful search helped him get what little treats the world might offer. In this case the time was all but completely wasted.

"Just a facking potato? A potato?" Shel asked the still smoking corpse, "All that and that was all you gave me?"

Shel gave the body a light kick and turned back to his guardian to see if he shared Shel's outrage but found him lost in thought. Nostrils flared and jaw tensed, Loheir probably wasn't upset about the potato. Whatever it was he was thinking about Loheir wasn't so lost in his brooding that he didn't immediately process the sound of an arrow burying itself in a tree somewhere nearby and duck to avoid it.

"Shit," Shel stammered while scampering away from the body and toward the large menacing figure of Loheir and tucked the potato into a small bag hanging from his belt.

"Let's flush them out eh?" he asked as he took a small sling off his shoulder and slipped a well formed octagonal projectile into it. Spinning up the sling until the strap whistled lightly through the air he loosed it into a tree on the opposite side of the clearing, generating a loud thud and a slight crack.

"Come on," he comments under his breath, "take the bait."

[Lucian]

Galadred's nose curled as soon as the party entered the clearing, the smell of old fires and rotting flesh mixed to make a stomach-churning bouquet that reminded him too much of his vile kin and their raids on the shores of Ulthuan. This put him instantly on-edge. Obviously, somethinbg was wrong here, and the Estalian's reaction to the visual evidence further perturbed the elf. Even before the thudding of the arrow, Galadred had raised Argent Roar, resting the enchanted battleaxe on his broad shoulder, ready for what may come next. Still, prepared as he was, the arrow finding its home in the tree next to his charge surprised him. For a split second, he thought the unseen archer may have missed, and he moved to cover the Estalian with the bulk of his thick fur cloak, which made decent protection against projectiles.

However, in the brief moment of surprise after the arrow struck the tree, the shooter revealed that they had indeed hit their mark. A warning shot. Perhaps they were not the perpetrators of the massacre? The unseen archer claimed that they had the party outnumbered. It may have been true, though even with Galadred's keen Asur eye, he was having trouble seeing anyone at all in the underbrush. Shortly after the archer spoke, there was a slight whistle and a crack from another direction in the woods. It seemed that they were indeed surrounded and outnumbered. Talking their way out was the only recourse, but Galadred wasn't quite as confident in his silver tongue as he was his Ithilmar axe.

The tall elf turned his head toward the Estalian behind him, and raised an eyebrow.

"Well, Severo. What do you think? Should we talk, or let the stunted one charge in to distract them?" He asked slyly, only half joking.

[Andreyich]

The Kislevite followed Severo, not particularly caring about the grim sight before him. It was a tragedy that so many had died, but from their appearance it was most likely they lived by the sword, and now died by it - there was no mourning to be done here. No, he instead reveled in the ecstasy of the winds of magic, aetheric dust going down his nostrils in great gulps of air. Vlad couldn't help but smile, perhaps looking just a bit insane from the wide grin on him in spite of the carnage about him and the potential death in front of him.

With the magic going through him he could think faster, more freely, passion and reason beautifully commingled. Waldemar let those present say their part, before he cheerfully raised his hand and shouted "Hello!" Carefully, and not too quickly but neither slowly he started to saunter over to the man with the bow. "That's a fine weapon you have there, my suspiciously sweaty friend!" He exclaimed after a few steps, giving a cheery smile with a short pause in speech. "But you see, I think you're lying. If you did have us surrounded and were in this situation, I and my friends would be full of wood, steel and flint by now. Yet here I stand, and I'm still walking aren't I?" He asked, now starting to slowly draw his szabla as he did so.

"Of course, I might be a great idiot, by some chance wrong. But I tell you this I'm not one. Even if there are that many of you, you may well have a wizard in your company and of him I beg you ask, how are the winds of magic. I am of the wind of Death, yet yours may well be a Bright or Light wizard but they too will confirm the winds of magic are strong and as a result, today you shouldn't try to trifle with us." By now (provided he wasn't shot or otherwise stopped along the way) he would be quite close and giving a few playful twirls of his sword continued: "If you do have anyone with you, I recommend they step out now; all of you. It's not particularly nice to try and have a chat with the threat of an arrow through the skull. Come out, we'll speak civilized, maybe we'll all come out of this with all the bits we came with but by Volans don't make any twitches or anything of the sort."

[Chicken]

_{(Written with input from Andreyich.)}

Dirk was not an educated man.

When the fur-clad fop said he was of the Wind of Death, the most death-like thing that came to the old poacher's mind was necromancers. Nothing was more death-like than necromancers. He saw the strange, cheerful fellow before him, and he imagined himself prostrating upon the ground before that peacock only to have his throat slit and his body raised as a minion for the foul necromancer. The warriors behind him... How many were zombies? And it'd be typical of foreigners to align themselves with the raisers of the dead.

It didn't help that the man was dressed in dark clothes. Dark clothes clearly meant he was a necromancer.

Now, Dirk was not a very patriotic man, and the idea of taking flight did occur to him. But he thought of his daughter back home, of his wife and his son, and he wondered, passingly, if they might be one of the necromancer's prey eventually.

And so, Dirk did what any good fellow would do when faced by a pompous necromancer: he raised his bow quick as a snake and loosed two arrows in rapid succession, shouting, "Get the bloody bastards!" as loud as he could. "They've got a necromancer!"

And so the ill-conceived battle began, a battle born of bluffs, counter-bluffs, and misconstrued information. Dirk's arrows flew true toward their target. The first met its mark, smacking the dark wizard in his chest, right where his lung would be. The either was due to find its way into the shocked man's skull-

And then a block of ice burst forth from the ground and blocked the arrow.

"Two wizards?!" cursed the poacher to himself. "That's not even fair!"

[Andreyich]

Smugly walking forth with his sword drawn, Vlad suddenly stopped what with feeling a rather painful impact. He coughed blood and looked down to see an arrow in him. "Oh shit." he muttered as he dropped to his knees. Already the bastard would be knocking another arrow in that nasty bow of his. Dazed, there was still enough awareness in Vlad to know he had to act fast and so he did. A blue glow in his eyes foreshadowed the thick chunk of ice that would rise in front of him to rest and cower behind.

Then the Cryomancer looked down to the immediate issue, and gave a quiet gasp in pain. That was soon followed by a vicious roar as he pulled the arrow out, and then pressed a fist to the affected area to quickly freeze the wound shut as a stop-gap.

A short moment of rest followed, to restore bearings and think of what to do next.

"Alright!" The Kislevite called out. "You listen to me you idiot!" The words were screamed, furious. "That arrow came alone, so now you've shown me that you ain't got half a dozen, you might even be alone!" There came another brief pause, before he continued. "But, now, I'm going to make you hurt."

With that he stood, sword upraised. It was almost as if he was striking a heroic pose for a painting or a man chiselling a statue, but not quite. While his left hand thrust the blade into the sky the right was moving, wafting aetheric particles to him. The sky would shift, and quite suddenly there would be some climate change. Thousands of razor sharp pellets would fall like arrows from the sky, fast and even given an attempt at direction, though to the Halfling's luck he wasn't aware of him and he was out of the worst of the cone of pain. To the luck of the trio of newcomers the Ice Mage was in an emotional state of fury, had already used some power, lost blood and had an open injury. Relentlessly the ice would fall, shearing off any exposed flesh and then melting with a small amount of salt to make wounds all the more painful. However, any clothing and armour it touched would save them from most harm save that of budget, tattering cloth and leather while making tiny dents and chinks in steel. With that he'd run forth again to hide in the cover of the vegetation, inching along with his sword in hopes of vengeance.

[Dusty]

There would be no fouler way to meet death then that by a peasant’s bow. Frans Vou stood in rapt attention, his booted feet spread ready to spring at a moment’s notice, his blood eyes darting from bush to tree in a vain attempt to spot one of these “bandits” disguised amongst the foliage. The Breton knight was no woodsman, and his untrained gaze could spot neither hide nor hair of any individual. Whether that be due to his inexperience or the actual lack of foemen Frans Vou did not know. Shrugging his shoulders the knight errant took his heater shield in hand, bracing it before his chest to guard his bulk from the woodsman’s shafts, his other hand resting on his sword hilt. Frans Vou wished he’d worn his plate and chain, the steel might’ve guaranteed his protection from the arrows, and he could press forward and engage this threat face to face, but alas the gambeson he donned then, though a decent protection against a slashing blade would fare little better than linen against a longbow. No, battle would not aid them this day, if there were truly a horde of peasants hiding in the trees diplomatic words would save any bloodshed.

Of course his companions and the bandits did not seem to share this understanding, and conflict arose in a flurry of arrows and ice. The Breton gasped at the seep and ferocity in which the ice-mage and bandit attacked, and braced himself to feel arrows thunk heavy against his shield, and yet none came. Eyes hardening Frans Vou drew his blade in a steely hiss, pointing the longsword towards the hail-pattered tree from which the arrow emerged. “Montjoie brigand, zee knows not what zee sayiz! Zere be nomagicien de la mort amongst our ranks. Zy acts are zat of a coward an’ fool. Surrender lest we charge ye an’ smite zee where ye stand foul denizen of zee forest.”

Casting his gaze to his left Frans Vou ensured his companions would indeed support his advance forward should the man not surrender himself forthwith. He was quite confident at this stage that their attacker was indeed alone, perhaps some brigand hoping to loot the corpses of the dead. Whatever his purpose the Breton knew swift action would be required to placate him. Frans Vou knew well that the man was skilled with the bow, evidenced by the swift succession of arrows he’d loosed. Even the skilled longbow sergeants his father employed for the Bluspereaux garrison couldn’t draw and shoot with such accuracy and speed. If he wished to see another dawn he would have to press in close to where the longbow would be useless even in the hands of the most skilled archer.

Taking a single step forward Frans Vou readied himself for the charge, laying the flat of his blade against his shield, the battle-hardened edge readying to sing and taste blood if need be.

[Jb]

"Well, Severo. What do you think? Should we talk, or let the stunted one charge in to distract them?"

The Estalian mused for a moment - a moment he knew he didn't really have - and ignored the obvious and overt jab at the Dwarfs, as any serious man would have done. Silently he watched the exchange between the cocksure Kislevite and the unseen bowman, only starting forward once one of two arrows took the dolt in his chest, not even caring as one of the few male ice mages (and not even a trained one at that) slashed the 'enemies' position.

"Balgrim...Vargni..." he espied the Middenlander and gestured for him as well, making his words as loud as possible, "and Meinhardt, comb these woods and flush them out."

Now they would see exactly what the unseen foe were made of, the two Dwarfs and the one man fanning out and soon heading toward the trees...

[POOHEAD189]

From within the brush, Balgrim grimaced and gazed thoughtfully at the current conflict occurring in front of him. Bloody manling concerns for bloody manlings. He grinded his teeth along a slim, torn off branch he had gotten himself a mile back. It was no rock, or Grungi forbid a good drink, but it calmed his nerves as he thought to himself. He nearly chocked when he saw the arrows flying out of the brush, and had to keep himself from charging forward.

Instead, he did as was suggested to him. He moved to the right, his axe and shield at the ready. Though he was bulky and broad, long years traveling the Old World and traversing tunnels where the slightest wrong step could mean death, he knew how to step lightly and quietly. There was barely a brush of leaves that marked the veteran's passing as he made his way round. Of course, he was no friend to wizards or witchery. But by Grimnir's axe, gold was gold! And he had made an oath to be a stalwart teammate. Dwarfs did not take such things lightly.

Grumbling to himself quietly, he took the long way around a stout oak and then began to move slower, axe held in the air as high as he dared as the Dawi crept forward. The Longbeard was glad he had tucked his beard into his belt, or it would be brushing the ground. Merely paces away, he heard breathing and the scruff of movement. At the acknowledgement, he accidentally stepped on a twig. Damn! "Alright, hold it there or I'll gut you!" he cried, leaping out of the brush and hefting his weapon menacingly, his shield up just in case they attempted anything funny.

[BangoSkank]

Jagged ice shards had rained down upon the party and though Shel was entirely untouched by the Kislevite's spell he moved quickly to get himself into more effective cover. On his tiny little legs Shel dashed through the trees and brush. To flank the Ice Wizard of course, it was a very tactical decision. Move about unseen, circle around the these would be bandits, figure out what to do if he actually manages to sneak up on them when he actually manages to sneak up on them.

Shel felt more at home in such a situation anyway. Open fields were not the Halflings friend in combat, better to have things to hide behind or to climb. It was quieter in the thicket, but as Shel didn't wear heavy armor and didn't weigh much of anything himself he was able to move quite quickly while making near to no sound at all. It was how he had survived so long, it was how he acquired the nickname "Surefoot." Yes, he felt quite safe for the moment, in his element, untouchab-

Shel's awareness hadn't extended to the short bow across his back. It had caught on a low hanging branch, not quite knocking him off his feet but causing him to slip and kick up a gathering of leaves on the forest floor. Though he quickly regained his balance the sound of a snapping twig nearby indicated he had likely been noticed.

A gruff voice called out from the quiet, "Alright, hold it there or I'll gut you!" and Shel turned to see a particularly unwelcome sight, a momentarily airborne Dawi. Not just some every day Dawi either, this particular Dawi was clad in steel armor and holding a shield and axe at the ready. None of his equipment appeared to be new, and the Dawi himself didn't appear to be new either. Grey hair, scarred leathery skin, this was an experienced Dawi. Not good indicators for the Halfling's chances of survival.

"Gahhh," the Halfing retorted, quickly retreating several steps and drawing his dirk. Holding it as a man would a shortsword he gathered his thoughts, "Hold it right there or I'll I'll I'll gut you."

Shel didn't like his chances, and so he endeavored to improve them. Taking slight steps back and trying to circle around the Dawi Shel was really just stalling for time, hoping for some opportunity to open itself up. It was exactly the right plan. As fate would have it walking backward while also trying to circle an armed and angry thoroughly terrifying Dawi is a great way to create an opportunity, for the Dawi.

Keeping his eyes locked on the dangerous Dawi in what he imagined to be a quite intimidating death glare Shel stepped on some particularly wet leaves and soon found himself on his back and disarmed. Though he quickly got his barings back he found himself to be in a very sticky situation. His dirk had bounced off to the side near the trunk of a thick grey tree, but the blade was now between him and the Dawi who seemed to have mastered the intimidating death glare.

"You, uh," he stammered as he backed away on hands and knees from the armed and armored Dawi, "You're awfully quiet for a Dawi."

[Jb]

@Andreyich@Dusty@Lucian@POOHEAD189@BangoSkank@Chicken@ClocktowerEchos

Thump...thump-thump...thump...thump-thump...

Something was coming.

Severo let his ears, which were honestly not as acute as they had once been, pick up the sound of something (or some things) moving toward their current position at a rhythmic pace but certainly at speed. There were, he decided, two options here; either those were drums, hooves, or most likely both.

"No necessito això ara mateix!" He burst out with in his native Estalian, although a very specific dialect if anyone cared, whipping his cloak back over his shoulder and drawing forth a rapier and shorter dagger from his waist, his entire body taking the half-hunched but relaxed stance of a duellist, "prepare yourselves, look to the treeline."

They did not have to wait all that long for the first horned adversary to appear, the pug-nosed face of an Ungor - the lesser threat of all Beastmen bands - emerging from one side of the clearing alongside a cohort of his compatriots, a skirmishing party of two dozen or so at most, but by the Gods there would undoubtedly be more coming soon.

[Andreyich]

Vlad was furious. The Kislevite had his sword drawn and now they had a quite clear drop upon their foes. He gave his sword a few experimental waves, and licked it childishly as if in a theatre production. He was preparing to cast another spell, perhaps another ice wall... but spikey so as to impale his foe, yes! It would go in from below, and out the other side through their face.

It was not long after this thought that the beastmen emerged. "Bloody hell...." he muttered, his train of thoughts derailed by the metaphorical equivalent of a volcanoe spontaneously appearing. In the North, Beastmen were a rarity. Northmen were the servants of Chaos there, but when Beastmen did come over it was often because a plan was devised with the aid of the Norsca folk. But here... well there was no real explanation save for a Chaos cult. They were fighting bloody chaos cultists who had called upon their furry friends to raise hell. It explained the winds of magic being powerful here, and the sadistic thoughts he had moments ago.

"Sir!" he called out to Severo, standing up and breaking into a run. "Everyone! We have to bloody run, these bastards are a Chaos cult and we won't beat them, lets get out with our hides!" The shouts were frantic, but comprehensible enough. Their horses were hopefully not too far off and with good luck the enemy hadn't flanked them to eat the beasties beforehand. If they could make it to them, there was yet hope of survival of this business.

[Dusty]

The tumultuous approach of this new foe put Frans Vou on edge. The young knight turned his head towards the sound, keeping his shield up and facing towards the yet unseen marksman hidden amongst the trees. Where they to be surrounded and outflanked by this unknown enemy? What bandit might have set such a trap for their arrival? Was it so common that companies of ragtag mercenaries stopped by this lonesome witch’s hunt in the forest, therein justifying the creation of this flanking maneuver? Perhaps this was indeed the case, and the corpses already littering the ground like so many fallen leaves were a testament to this fact. Frans Vou did not know for sure, neither did he care, upon his mind alone was his immediate survival. He recalled only moments before the dawi slipping into the tree line to deal with their hidden sniper, if fortune would have it he would be successful in his endeavors and allow for the remainder of the Esteemed Company to face this new threat head-on without fear of an arrow piercing their unprotected backs. Frans Vou did not know the dwarf well enough to be assured the small one would bring down the aggressor, but as fate would have it he had little choice in the matter. Balgrim had proven himself a determined and experienced campaigner if nothing else. And Frans Vou saw no other option but to entrust the dwarf with his life.

Wheeling on his toes the knight Errant set himself with good posture beside his Estalian employer, sword and shield raised in preparation for battle, prepared to face vile men and bandits when a foe he could never have expected burst from the trees.

Frans Vou wasn’t sure what to make of this creature. It was about as lofty as Frans Vou himself from its head to its hooves, though if it’s curving horns were added to its height it might have stood nearly eight feet tall. It was loosely garbed and covered mostly in mangy brown fur that stank of mud and mildew. The ungor, for that was what it was, could have been best described as a goat with the body and face of man. He disgusted Frans Vou to no end, and the high classed Breton curled his lip at the untasteful miscreant wishing nothing more than to shove his sword betwixt the thing’s hideous face. Frans Vou had never seen one himself before, but one of his elder brothers had been slain by a stray one while out hunting back when he had been but a lad of thirteen. Frans Vou’s father and a hundred yeomen had hunted the beast down in vengeance and brought back its horns which even to this day hung over the mantle in the Bluspereaux estate.

The first of the beastmen was soon joined by over a score more. They filled the local woods with the sound of their pounding hooves and baleful grunts while waving a variety of malicious weaponry over their heads. They appeared unperturbed by the stalwart defense presented to them by Frans Vou and Severo, perhaps because the fight was currently seven to one in their eyes, or maybe the untimely retreat of the ice mage who fled like a women from the fight. “Stand zee ground boursiers” Frans Vou yelled over the oncoming foe. “Zer is no honor in running away! We shall die ze death of heroes!” Of course death was the farthest thing from Frans Vou’s intentions. Raising a bone whistle which had been hidden under his collar he blew thrice upon it, sending up a shrill cry that echoed throughout the trees, he made as if to blow a fourth time when the leading ungor set upon him, swinging a club to crush the Breton’s skull.

The whistle fell forgotten at Frans Vou’s feet, to be crushed by a hoof a moment later. The man’s fullest attention was upon not being slain by the beast standing a hairsbreadth away. Bringing his shield into play Frans Vou smashed the snarling face eliciting a sharp pained cry from the ungor. But before Frans Vou could slay the beast outright a second one pressed in close jabbing at the knight’s stomach with his spear. The dull blade turned on the gambeson and Frans hacked open the opportunistic beastman’s face, his sword blade clanging off the creature’s horns. Once again it crossed Frans Vou’s mind how fortunate it would have been to have dressed in full armor, but there was nothing for it but to continue the fight as was.

Armor or no Frans Vou was in full form now. His years of professional training in the battleschools of Bretonnia brought out the almost instinctive acts of a deadly warrior as he stepped over the two wounded ungor and slew another, stabbing his sword through its beating heart and leaving it to bleed out upon the forest floor. There was no mercy in the knight Errant’s heart and he dispatched the first two permanently, with a series of quick thrusts until they lay motionless. The ungor, although not slowed in their charge eyed the young knight with a new respect, of fighters not wishing to share the fate of those who had faced him first. One of their number, a massive ungor wielding a machete-like sword stepped forth exchanging a series of furious blows with the Breton and even forcing him to step back and rejoin Severo. Their confidence restored by this display of skill from one of their own the beastmen sought to outflank surround the battling mercenaries, but doing so far more cautiously than before.

[POOHEAD189]

The Dwarf stood there, eyes stern and beard bristling with barely suppressed violence. Even with his armor on, he had managed to get the jump on a few of them. Now whether or not he would need to cleave them into bits was their choice, though in truth the Dawi did not think he would need to hold back from the way things had been shaking up. He noticed a halfling practically pissing himself shuddering and stepping to the side. It would be comical to the halfling's companion, because the Dawi would be eyeing his every move as he sidestepped, clearly trying to gain a sneaking advantage that seemed an exercise in futility.

The violence the Dwarf had predicted did erupt, but not in the way he had expected. A braying noise filled the woods, and the familiar sound of grunting and hoofbeats reverberated off the trees. "Grimnir's wrath," Balgrim cursed, giving his previous foes a glare before yelling a warcry and practically pummeling his way out of the roots and brush to enter the fray. The first Ungor out of the remaining 10 did not see his demise, only felt a terrible ripping in its collarbone as Balgrim eviscerated the beast of chaos.

The young Brettonian looked like he had made a good accounting for himself so far. It seemed some manlings did have skill and honor, as the histories had stated. Two of the beasts lay dead with precise cuts in their bodies, and the squireling's blade was bloodied. A beastman leaped at Balgrim, but the thickly muscled Dwarf grabbed it by the throat before it even landed. The Longbeard then began to squeeze, and the air and life began to leave the Ungor as it kicked futilely. A second attacked Balgrim as he crushed the windpipe of this spawn of Chaos.

Its axe hacked at the Dwarf's armor, barely penetrating and nearly bouncing off the Dwarf. "Ye think ye can get the jump on me, ye sorry excuse fer cattle!?" Balgrim headbutted the thing, bloodying its snout as he began to cleave into its stomach, intoning prayers to Grimnir as he continued, a veritable armored tank, fueled by booze rather than steam.

[Dusty]

The timely arrival of the dwarf seemed in incite the remaining ungor on to new efforts, their blades humming as they threw themselves headlong upon the harried defenders. The three gave as good as they got and more, and already the dead were piling at their feet, and the metallic tang of blood was thick in the air. However the sounds of reinforcements for the mercenaries were nonexistent, and fresh ungor were pouring from the trees even as the first were put low.

Frans Vou grinned like a wild thing, the battle joy coursing through his veins as the blood of his noble ancestors flowed and burned hot inside him. His face, arms, and blade were splattered in gore, and despite a few ragged kinks in his gambeson he was untouched. The machete wielding ungor before him now was proving to be a more dangerous foe than the ones who came before and assisted by two other spear wielding ungor he pressed on Frans Vou’s defenses, seeking an opportunity to deliver the death blow. Frans Vou stood in the center, between the dawi and Estallian keeping their three man, or two-man one dwarf formation intact. Should he fall the ungor would flow through like water and surround the infuriating warriors who’d already reeved so many of their herd brethren down. The two warriors pummeled each other, neither giving nor asking quarter, their feet and hooves set, one of them would move from this spot, the other it was ensured would fall.

Momentarily gaining the upper hand the ungor warrior raised his sword two handed lifting the marked weapon high over his head, bringing it down, one, twice, thrice upon Frans Vou’s upraised sword. The Breton could only weather the onslaught, this ungor did not seem to tire, and it was faster, and stronger than any of the others Frans Vou had slain. Already the man’s arms were starting to feel too heavy and sweat stung at his eyes. Spears jabbed at his stomach, turned only by the now worn gambeson but each blow made him wince and left a bruise. This fight needed to be ended quickly, and he needed space. His arming sword was long, meant for thrusts, and the ungor seemed to know that, pressing close. If he wanted to bring the sword into play properly he would have to backpedal, leaving his allies to be surrounded. Coming to a decision Frans Vou shifted his feet raising his sword to parry at an awkward angle, an opportunity he knew an experienced killer wouldn’t miss. The ungor brayed in victory swinging wide and knocking the sword from the Frans Vou’s weakened grasp, and then ultimately gurgled as the Breton’s sharpened shield-edge smashed into his throat, taking advantage of the beast’s opened guard, crushing the windpipe and severing vital arties to the brain.

The ungor’s allies, presumably its friends seethed in rage doubling their assault on the now weaponless, but still dangerous Breton. One’s lance snaked forward, slicing off a good portion of Frans Vou’s ear eliciting a cry of pain, the other’s spear punched into the shield near piercing it. “Aid, aid!” Frans Vou cried as a mace whistled past his head crunched into his shoulder driving him to his knees. “Give aid I beseech zee!”

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