LeeRoy
NytefallAs far as I'm aware I interacted (or at least commented on, which is still a form of interaction) everything I actually could. No one else has posted yet.
MelonHead
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Well, I came up with a reason for Banaari moving forward and being in the camp, seemed reasonable enough.
MARCHING ORDERS; CAMP - 17TH DAY, 20TH HOUR
The baggage line meandered through the forest like the tail of some ungodly serpent, plodding in the wake of those before it. It was as dark closed in one night in that wooded death trap that Banaari’s acute sense of self-preservation began to kick in. Out in the open, organised battle lines and a hardy front of spears and arrow fodder tended to leave one in a good position if they dragged their feet a little. In other words, the baggage train was the safest place he could be, out in the open at least. But things had changed, battle lines were a thing of the past as the army haphazardly ploughed through the forest paths, and suddenly being sequestered between green boys, camp followers and a fair number of mules no longer felt like such a good idea. When the attacks came, and they would, the men up front would at least have hardy men at their side. But back here, with only a basic guard that hadn’t been properly reinforced, praise be the leaders of this army, things weren’t looking so good.
So, Banaari had done what was only natural. He had jumped on his mule, and annoyed a third of the army by slowly pushing his way forward. He didn’t want to go too far, somewhere in the middle would probably serve his purposes just fine, and that was roughly where he stopped. When the men around him started looking a bit meaner, carrying a little more steel at their hip and over their chests, that was when he was satisfied. He slid off his mule, wincing as his old bones cracked, and made a curt introduction. Little did he know, he had run into quite the assortment of warriors and magi, but then if he had not would his story have been worth telling?
His eyes glanced over one of the dark type in the camp, devoted to their gods, perhaps one of death considering his activity. He was casting bones to tell the future. The Elf’s rational mind turned away from such nonsense, better to look outside if you want to guess the weather, or so he thought. He turned to anyone who seemed to be listening as they sat dicing and cooking and watching the fire and nodded his head, his wrinkled Elven face caught in the orange glow.
“I’m Banaari, thought ta’ stand with wit’ othas for a while if ye be catchin’ me mind.” He walked over to the group by the fire. “Don’t suppose you’d be willin’ ta part wit’ some cheese would’ye?”
M A R C H I N G O R D E R S ; R O A D T O N U B I N A - 1 9 T H D A Y , D U S K
The forest was as sick as the world in the parts the army marched to, and Banaari was acutely aware of it. Never one of the most ‘elfy’ of elves, even he was oddly affected by the twisted roots and ugly trunks that marked the blighted land. He wondered if the forest would ever heal itself. Perhaps if they were lucky enough to survive this mad campaign and reach Aith Anur they could seal it again, and maybe then the world would remember what it was like not to be slowly dying from corruption. That would be quite something. Old memories of the time before Aith Anur’s fall flittered through the Elf’s tired mind, memories of the city itself, shining and beautiful beyond belief, they stirred his heart, steeling him.
Just in time too, as the call rang out. Ambush, it was always destined to happen, but now that it had come it was time to work out if he was likely to live through it. One weary glance across the forest, where the dead pulled themselves from shallow graves, and the Elf was inclined to think that perhaps this could be the end. They had such numbers, and surprise was on their side. His hand clutched at the reins of his mule as it began to shy away from him. He looked over the top of the beast, holding it as cover from arrows as they began to spit into camp.
“Might be wantin’ ta take cover lads.” His old voice creaked, barely a fraction of the old bellow of command he used to be able to muster in that warning.
Then, the first of the sprinters were upon them. Ghouls, rending and biting, skittering quickly past arrow fire. Many still went down, there were enough wild elves scattered around to make pin-cushions out of even the fastest of undead, but some still got through, diving over pike lines and hammering at shields. Lucky then that their own speed betrayed them, as they reached the lines unsupported and each faced two or three men, stabbing them into the earth with frightful thrusts, hammering them into nothingness with that wild cut that signified a betrayal of one’s training and the reversion back to primitives. No matter, it got the job done. Banaari hunkered behind his mule as the fight raged on, watching the dark one cast his spells, dragging the undead into a writhing mass. Perhaps someone with the skill could exploit their immobility, he had seen magi cast fire from their fingertips before, and figured that would probably be useful now.
Then, the old fear gripped him. What ability he had to look on the fight was hindered by a near uncontrollable shaking, his fingers loosened, he probably would have pissed himself if he needed to go. The shambling dead had broken through the front line and approached the main group, some grabbing for the dark one, probably even in their state recognising the threat he posed. He conjured more darkness to slay them, but alone he would be overwhelmed. The Elf felt a tug at the reins, the mule’s eyes were wild with fear as the shambling dead reached it, bony hands clutched at its fur, scored vicious grooves down its flanks. It kicked out wildly, and Banaari pulled it back from the creatures, narrowly avoiding being crushed himself by a heavy hoof.
“Come on ye dim witted beast!” He yelled, panic gripped his voice as he yanked at the reins, and out of instinct his hand went to the hilt of the at his back. He knew he couldn’t draw it, even if he wanted to, but for a moment the convulsions let him feel the handle of a weapon he knew so well, and focused him. He pulled one more time, and the mule kicked away the two undead clawing at it before skipping clear, two armed warriors filling the gap and engaging the creatures. Banaari’s breath came in ragged gasps as he looked on.
The baggage line meandered through the forest like the tail of some ungodly serpent, plodding in the wake of those before it. It was as dark closed in one night in that wooded death trap that Banaari’s acute sense of self-preservation began to kick in. Out in the open, organised battle lines and a hardy front of spears and arrow fodder tended to leave one in a good position if they dragged their feet a little. In other words, the baggage train was the safest place he could be, out in the open at least. But things had changed, battle lines were a thing of the past as the army haphazardly ploughed through the forest paths, and suddenly being sequestered between green boys, camp followers and a fair number of mules no longer felt like such a good idea. When the attacks came, and they would, the men up front would at least have hardy men at their side. But back here, with only a basic guard that hadn’t been properly reinforced, praise be the leaders of this army, things weren’t looking so good.
So, Banaari had done what was only natural. He had jumped on his mule, and annoyed a third of the army by slowly pushing his way forward. He didn’t want to go too far, somewhere in the middle would probably serve his purposes just fine, and that was roughly where he stopped. When the men around him started looking a bit meaner, carrying a little more steel at their hip and over their chests, that was when he was satisfied. He slid off his mule, wincing as his old bones cracked, and made a curt introduction. Little did he know, he had run into quite the assortment of warriors and magi, but then if he had not would his story have been worth telling?
His eyes glanced over one of the dark type in the camp, devoted to their gods, perhaps one of death considering his activity. He was casting bones to tell the future. The Elf’s rational mind turned away from such nonsense, better to look outside if you want to guess the weather, or so he thought. He turned to anyone who seemed to be listening as they sat dicing and cooking and watching the fire and nodded his head, his wrinkled Elven face caught in the orange glow.
“I’m Banaari, thought ta’ stand with wit’ othas for a while if ye be catchin’ me mind.” He walked over to the group by the fire. “Don’t suppose you’d be willin’ ta part wit’ some cheese would’ye?”
M A R C H I N G O R D E R S ; R O A D T O N U B I N A - 1 9 T H D A Y , D U S K
The forest was as sick as the world in the parts the army marched to, and Banaari was acutely aware of it. Never one of the most ‘elfy’ of elves, even he was oddly affected by the twisted roots and ugly trunks that marked the blighted land. He wondered if the forest would ever heal itself. Perhaps if they were lucky enough to survive this mad campaign and reach Aith Anur they could seal it again, and maybe then the world would remember what it was like not to be slowly dying from corruption. That would be quite something. Old memories of the time before Aith Anur’s fall flittered through the Elf’s tired mind, memories of the city itself, shining and beautiful beyond belief, they stirred his heart, steeling him.
Just in time too, as the call rang out. Ambush, it was always destined to happen, but now that it had come it was time to work out if he was likely to live through it. One weary glance across the forest, where the dead pulled themselves from shallow graves, and the Elf was inclined to think that perhaps this could be the end. They had such numbers, and surprise was on their side. His hand clutched at the reins of his mule as it began to shy away from him. He looked over the top of the beast, holding it as cover from arrows as they began to spit into camp.
“Might be wantin’ ta take cover lads.” His old voice creaked, barely a fraction of the old bellow of command he used to be able to muster in that warning.
Then, the first of the sprinters were upon them. Ghouls, rending and biting, skittering quickly past arrow fire. Many still went down, there were enough wild elves scattered around to make pin-cushions out of even the fastest of undead, but some still got through, diving over pike lines and hammering at shields. Lucky then that their own speed betrayed them, as they reached the lines unsupported and each faced two or three men, stabbing them into the earth with frightful thrusts, hammering them into nothingness with that wild cut that signified a betrayal of one’s training and the reversion back to primitives. No matter, it got the job done. Banaari hunkered behind his mule as the fight raged on, watching the dark one cast his spells, dragging the undead into a writhing mass. Perhaps someone with the skill could exploit their immobility, he had seen magi cast fire from their fingertips before, and figured that would probably be useful now.
Then, the old fear gripped him. What ability he had to look on the fight was hindered by a near uncontrollable shaking, his fingers loosened, he probably would have pissed himself if he needed to go. The shambling dead had broken through the front line and approached the main group, some grabbing for the dark one, probably even in their state recognising the threat he posed. He conjured more darkness to slay them, but alone he would be overwhelmed. The Elf felt a tug at the reins, the mule’s eyes were wild with fear as the shambling dead reached it, bony hands clutched at its fur, scored vicious grooves down its flanks. It kicked out wildly, and Banaari pulled it back from the creatures, narrowly avoiding being crushed himself by a heavy hoof.
“Come on ye dim witted beast!” He yelled, panic gripped his voice as he yanked at the reins, and out of instinct his hand went to the hilt of the at his back. He knew he couldn’t draw it, even if he wanted to, but for a moment the convulsions let him feel the handle of a weapon he knew so well, and focused him. He pulled one more time, and the mule kicked away the two undead clawing at it before skipping clear, two armed warriors filling the gap and engaging the creatures. Banaari’s breath came in ragged gasps as he looked on.
In
Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)
→
8 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Negotiation
The Ambassador wanted it all, everything she could use against the woman she undoubtedly bore some personal grudge against. So, Silence would do his job properly, as distasteful as it may be. He looked at the replica firearm in his hands, turning it over familiarly, it would serve for what he had in mind. It was just beginning to turn dark, and he found himself crouching in a bush just off to the side of a porch in the suburbs of Jamestown. There were a couple of sticks nestled in the small of his back, poking him every time he shifted his weight, luckily he was wearing quite bulky clothes to hide his body shape. In the same way, he wore a neckerchief and coloured glasses, with a backwards baseball cap. His face shape was completely lost in all the assorted clothing, taking no chances. He was about to kick down an anthill, the last thing he wanted was any of them getting his scent and following him back to Lost Haven. He had enough enemies.
Finally, after almost an hour of anticipation, the sound of an approaching car reached his ears. Lekh’s eyes turned to it as the vehicle pulled in, a black sedan, how cliché. The woman inside stepped out, her hair was greying and she had put on some weight, but she matched the picture he had seen of one ‘Doctor Short’ a geneticist at the correctional facility where Michael Garth met his fate. He knew more than that about her, he knew everything he needed to twist the thumbscrews without having to get his hands dirty. Just the way he liked it.
She fumbled for her keys, her cumbersome fingers tired by a full day at work doing god knows what. Silence made his move as the handle turned, propelling himself silently out of the bush, he was behind her before she could step through the threshold, his gun at her side, pressing through her coat. She cried out in surprise as one gloved hand wrapped around her mouth.
“Quiet now, lady, or you’re going to get hurt.” His accent was noticeably American, pitch-perfect for the local area in fact. She couldn’t do much, only quiver against his body as he pushed her through the door with a suggestive press of the gun at her hip. She almost stumbled going in, and he pushed the door closed with a flick of his foot, prompting another cry from the hostage at his mercy. Her imagination was probably going wild right about now, it usually did, which suited him just fine. Let her imagine what terrible things he could or would do to her next, it saved him having to do anything.
He kicked her feet out from under her and dropped her onto a sofa in the living room as he went toward the window and drew the curtains. She was crying behind him. Her trousers were wet.
“Wha-what do you want!” She cried, her voice raising a whole octave as she struggled to overcome her panic.
“Calm down, Doctor Short.” His use of her name quieted her, what had she gotten herself into? This wasn’t a robbery was it…
“Michael Garth.” Silence stood over her. “You know that name, don’t you?”
“No.”
“You’re lying to me Doctor.” He slapped her in the face, trying to cut through what small measure of defiance she held, he didn’t want any notions of protecting her livelihood to butt into his purpose, or things could get messy.
“No I’m not I don’t know a Michael Garth, please you must believe me, I’m just a prison doctor!”
“We both know you’re more than that, Doctor Short, you wrote your PHD on experimental genetic research, delivered a speech at a national conference, do you expect me to believe you settled for a job patching up prisoners?”
“I don’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about, please.”
“Doctor Short, you conducted research on Michael Garth, didn’t you, probably others as well? What were you doing, what did you find out, who else is involved, where is the facility?” He hit her with another slap as she pretended to not follow his line of questioning. “Answer from the top, where are you based.” He hit her with his aura this time.
“The facility… it’s a mile out of town, I can show you on a map, but please, don’t kill me.”
“Who else is involved?”
“I… I don’t know, I work with a man called Merit, everything is controlled, we’re government funded I think.”
“Good, what were you doing, what did you find out?”
“We were doing a form of genetic experimentation on individuals with a specific genome that we now associate with the sudden upsurge in meta-humans. We were hoping to activate the genome, to understand how it affects the human body, to replicate it if necessary. It was probably funded by the military.” The words were tumbling out of her mouth now, quite literally tumbling as she almost seemed to slur.
“And Michael Garth, he had this genome I take it?”
“Yes, he was one of the first we discovered, a dangerous sociopath. We activated the gene, the results were… unexpected.”
“What do you mean?”
“He could change his body at a molecular and structural level at accelerated speed, he seemed to take on the form of animals, people lost their lives.”
“Tell me everything, Doctor, we’re going to be here a while.”
@Shoryu Magami I should point out, I at no point said I was an advocate for stats or number systems in Arena. I only said that using dice rolls to determine the success of an action (which arguably replicates real life factors, such as people not being able to perform physical moves to the optimum level all of the time, particularly in marksmanship) would still allow the participants to write in a creative manner. When the success of your attack is determined by your opponent, things sometimes get bogged down with revisionist posts and meta-snark, no one can particularly complain about a dice roll.
Oh, by the way, the ranking system is completely manual. Marking the fight as ranked only means you want it to be judged as such, but only Rilla can actually carry out that judgement and adjust win - losses. If you just mention him and say 'don't count this as ranked' provided he ever shows up it won't be added to your win / loss.
Oh, by the way, the ranking system is completely manual. Marking the fight as ranked only means you want it to be judged as such, but only Rilla can actually carry out that judgement and adjust win - losses. If you just mention him and say 'don't count this as ranked' provided he ever shows up it won't be added to your win / loss.
It actually probably wouldn't be considered an Arena roleplay, ironically. Arena is sort of a catch-all term for RP based around player vs player combat in a play by post medium. You could still run this here, but people prefer one shots rather than lengthy narratives for the most part.
If you were just planning to roleplay fights between superhuman teenagers then you might garner some interest here, but if you want to tell what is essentially a slave rebellion/Spartacus narrative, you might be better off in free or casual.
If you were just planning to roleplay fights between superhuman teenagers then you might garner some interest here, but if you want to tell what is essentially a slave rebellion/Spartacus narrative, you might be better off in free or casual.
I noticed you lurking too, actually.
A good portion of the previous discussion that was just referred to focused on emphasizing inherent problems that relying on dice during combat could bring to the table during a role-play. I don't plan to go into every detail I brought to up there, but the abridged of my side of the debate revolved around the idea that quality of writing would actually be stifled (creatively and competitively) and made less compelling (strategically and realistically) if dice or video game stats were implemented as the primary deciding factor for everything; there's plenty of ways to prevent the negative problems of free-form role-play - problems usually fostered by bad sportsmanship or poorly established groundwork - without dumbing things down like that.
I've only recently got into DnD, while I have been an active (and successful) participant in the Arena here for about four years. My assertion is that DnD dice rolls are a method of establishing outcome in a world where nothing is certain, as of yet, I have not seen dice rolls stifle creativity. The plans of action, the description of the intention, these things do not change with dice rolls. What dice rolls can sometimes do however, is have your plan fall flat. Your arrow misses the mark, you fumble with your pocket sand, your sword glances off armour. There is, to my mind, no loss of creativity in describing the effect of a success or a failure based off dice rolls.
What you are right about is that dice rolls do significantly reduce individual agency, and therefore the competitive nature, in the game. They put the game entirely in the hands of luck, which is fickle at best, and hardly indicative of which character has really employed the most successful strategy. In real life, it is better to be lucky than skilled, but in a fantasy world, I think I'd rather see the latter.
As for preventing the negative problems of free-form play, I have yet to see any one successful method employed between two genuinely competitive individuals. If two people want to win, there will be a point of contention at some point in the fight. The best thing to do is just to employ an impartial judge to mediate on these points of contention, but they will never be eliminated entirely aside from in circumstances where one or both players are not competitive or particularly assertive.
Albeit, this is anecdotal evidence, but it's based off extensive experience on this forum, and experience on others as well.
Anyway, I'll be interested to see how this goes. I'm only interested in potentially joining this fight to experience the dice rolls, I have fought more than enough times in free-form (and am still fighting) for that to not be a significant enough draw alone.
I'm interested to see how this goes, perhaps I'll even try it out. Dice rolls are not really what I 'want' out of Arena combat, or what I think the Arena as a concept should be about, but that doesn't mean I don't think it will produce something worth reading. In fact, it will probably produce something better, from an outsider perspective, but I think the Arena is about more than just writing the most pleasing story.
So for now, I'll lurk, if you don't mind. Maybe make comments here and there, if welcome.
So for now, I'll lurk, if you don't mind. Maybe make comments here and there, if welcome.
Adrenaline flooded the boy’s body as he began to visibly shake… with excitement.
“Now we will fight you and I, beast, know that it will be Aegis who slays you!” He yelled, as much to satisfy his own sense of heroic endeavour as to communicate any idea with a creature that probably couldn’t understand him. His spear had drawn blood, but not enough, this was not to be an easy fight, and now it bore down on him with hunger and madness in its metaphorical eyes (it didn't seem to have any). Its roar was strange, fearsome for it though. The sound of a monster was often overlooked but Aegis had fought plenty, and it was the noises they made that distinguished them to him over any ordinary animal. Something from another world, something out of myth and legend, and now he would face it and slay it and make it part of his own story!
Or so he hoped, seizing another rocky spear in hand and twizzling it experimentally as the beast not only reached him but seemed to circle him like a hound. It was not the approach he expected, it did not leap at him blindly but seemed to be looking for a weak-spot. He wouldn’t present one easily. His eyes tracked it as he circled with it, shield out, though its use against such a great beast was yet to be seen. They were both waiting for a mistake, perhaps Aegis was the one to make it.
“So be it then, to battle!” He yelled, announcing his purpose as he swapped grips on his spear by first throwing it up and then catching it over-arm. In the same breath, he pulled back and let loose, tracking the beast’s movement, striving to aim where it will be rather than where it was. The rocky projectile cut through the air, unerringly aimed for the beast’s flank. By the time it had left his hand he was already moving for his real weapon, where it stood plunged into the earth.
“Now we will fight you and I, beast, know that it will be Aegis who slays you!” He yelled, as much to satisfy his own sense of heroic endeavour as to communicate any idea with a creature that probably couldn’t understand him. His spear had drawn blood, but not enough, this was not to be an easy fight, and now it bore down on him with hunger and madness in its metaphorical eyes (it didn't seem to have any). Its roar was strange, fearsome for it though. The sound of a monster was often overlooked but Aegis had fought plenty, and it was the noises they made that distinguished them to him over any ordinary animal. Something from another world, something out of myth and legend, and now he would face it and slay it and make it part of his own story!
Or so he hoped, seizing another rocky spear in hand and twizzling it experimentally as the beast not only reached him but seemed to circle him like a hound. It was not the approach he expected, it did not leap at him blindly but seemed to be looking for a weak-spot. He wouldn’t present one easily. His eyes tracked it as he circled with it, shield out, though its use against such a great beast was yet to be seen. They were both waiting for a mistake, perhaps Aegis was the one to make it.
“So be it then, to battle!” He yelled, announcing his purpose as he swapped grips on his spear by first throwing it up and then catching it over-arm. In the same breath, he pulled back and let loose, tracking the beast’s movement, striving to aim where it will be rather than where it was. The rocky projectile cut through the air, unerringly aimed for the beast’s flank. By the time it had left his hand he was already moving for his real weapon, where it stood plunged into the earth.
Banaari
“Aye, and when we die we’ll come crawlin’ back and then we’ll ‘ave to die again, though naught before’ll kill a couple other lads, and they’ll kill a couple more, and that’s how we’ll all end up fucking corpses.” Banaari was not inspired, there was nothing in him left to fill, not with fiery words or good intentions. Speeches washed over him like freezing rain, leaving him cold and tired and no better off for the experience. Not that anyone heard his harsh words over the general din of cheering and yelling, men too eager to go to war, many more who had forgotten the face of battle for just a moment. Later, when they slept and the euphoria left them, the old memories would remain. Only those who had yet to fight, the green squires and farmers, would dream of heroism and glory. The rest would hardly sleep at all.
15th day, 8th hour, Marching Orders. Road to Nubina.
Banaari led his mule, Arion, down a dirt track trudged into muck by a thousand feet before him. He could hardly move a step in either direction, and frequently did he brush his eyes over his packs as they lay draped over the creature’s back, watching for the deft hand of a thief. There was many flitting about the army, as there was wherever a great mass of bodies gathered, parasites one and all. Still, he did not begrudge them their living, not until they tried to rob him at least. Besides that, there was little for him to see hemmed in as he was by man, woman and child alike. He was in the baggage train, where the camp followers and the lesser men could be found. He supposed that’s what he was, a lesser man, fit for guarding the supplies and naught else. It was tough going at the back, the ground was a mire by the time he reached it, but at least he’d be far down the line if they ran into any trouble.
Unless the Undying had any Liches or Necromancers within their forces, because if they did, the unnatural intelligence of those creatures could quite often see them employ some rudimentary tactics. While the shambling horde would run directly into a line of pikes, smashing like the waves into hard rock, the Necromancers would direct their forces around to the flanks, even lay ambush if the terrain allowed it. They were the real dangerous ones, because then the numbers of the Undying began to tell in battle. He had seen it before; he saw it now in his mind’s eye. Line of pikes, arrow fly, easy going. Then, the battle shifts, the left flank crumbles as the right finds itself devoid of enemy, the front is held by a token force, the left breaks, the slaughter begins. The battle is lost, and the Undying grow in number. A simple strategy, in truth, but one difficult to combat when the enemy outnumbers you, and becomes ever stronger as you weaken.
Whispers and rumour pass through a line of men and women like they do through a small town. That was how Banaari learned of the fields of pikes and corpses, despite not quite being able to see any such thing himself. A man turned to him, fear written on his pale face, a leatherworker if his tools betrayed him accurately.
“Elf, you’ve seen this sorta thing before, what does it mean?”
“Arl say it true, I reckon it means there’s a bunch’ar poor fuckers on spikes, and naught much else.” Banaari replied, rather unhelpfully. The man turned away from the Elf in disgust, wondering how someone could make light of a situation so horrendous. The Elf would have told him that he wasn’t making light of anything, he had just learned that sometimes things were as they were, and that it was a cruel world indeed.
“Aye, and when we die we’ll come crawlin’ back and then we’ll ‘ave to die again, though naught before’ll kill a couple other lads, and they’ll kill a couple more, and that’s how we’ll all end up fucking corpses.” Banaari was not inspired, there was nothing in him left to fill, not with fiery words or good intentions. Speeches washed over him like freezing rain, leaving him cold and tired and no better off for the experience. Not that anyone heard his harsh words over the general din of cheering and yelling, men too eager to go to war, many more who had forgotten the face of battle for just a moment. Later, when they slept and the euphoria left them, the old memories would remain. Only those who had yet to fight, the green squires and farmers, would dream of heroism and glory. The rest would hardly sleep at all.
15th day, 8th hour, Marching Orders. Road to Nubina.
Banaari led his mule, Arion, down a dirt track trudged into muck by a thousand feet before him. He could hardly move a step in either direction, and frequently did he brush his eyes over his packs as they lay draped over the creature’s back, watching for the deft hand of a thief. There was many flitting about the army, as there was wherever a great mass of bodies gathered, parasites one and all. Still, he did not begrudge them their living, not until they tried to rob him at least. Besides that, there was little for him to see hemmed in as he was by man, woman and child alike. He was in the baggage train, where the camp followers and the lesser men could be found. He supposed that’s what he was, a lesser man, fit for guarding the supplies and naught else. It was tough going at the back, the ground was a mire by the time he reached it, but at least he’d be far down the line if they ran into any trouble.
Unless the Undying had any Liches or Necromancers within their forces, because if they did, the unnatural intelligence of those creatures could quite often see them employ some rudimentary tactics. While the shambling horde would run directly into a line of pikes, smashing like the waves into hard rock, the Necromancers would direct their forces around to the flanks, even lay ambush if the terrain allowed it. They were the real dangerous ones, because then the numbers of the Undying began to tell in battle. He had seen it before; he saw it now in his mind’s eye. Line of pikes, arrow fly, easy going. Then, the battle shifts, the left flank crumbles as the right finds itself devoid of enemy, the front is held by a token force, the left breaks, the slaughter begins. The battle is lost, and the Undying grow in number. A simple strategy, in truth, but one difficult to combat when the enemy outnumbers you, and becomes ever stronger as you weaken.
Whispers and rumour pass through a line of men and women like they do through a small town. That was how Banaari learned of the fields of pikes and corpses, despite not quite being able to see any such thing himself. A man turned to him, fear written on his pale face, a leatherworker if his tools betrayed him accurately.
“Elf, you’ve seen this sorta thing before, what does it mean?”
“Arl say it true, I reckon it means there’s a bunch’ar poor fuckers on spikes, and naught much else.” Banaari replied, rather unhelpfully. The man turned away from the Elf in disgust, wondering how someone could make light of a situation so horrendous. The Elf would have told him that he wasn’t making light of anything, he had just learned that sometimes things were as they were, and that it was a cruel world indeed.
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