Twenty seventh turn!
England; the Dark Ages; the village of Stafford; five to the hour of the swallow.As
Sir Keardwall finishes battering the Son of the Eel of Stafford’s evil and cunning brains out upon a nearby rock, he wobbles for the briefest of seconds, and grunts in pain as he looks down upon his mangled limb.
"I think..." he mutters, mostly to himself, "I think that I shall need not one, but
two new jars..."
He places his lower leg down on the watery mud by the riverside, sheaths his sword, and kneels to pray.
… … … … … …
"Dear Lord above, I thank thee for granting me the strength to slay this beast, thus saving this long-suffering village from its clutches! Leg or no leg, I shall take this as a sign that I am to continue on this Holy Quest in thy name, and no matter how many limbs it may cost me, I shall have success! Amen!" Just as he is about to rise, his companion
Conchobar approaches from behind, and heartily slaps him on the back, nearly heartily enough to knock the one and a half legged knight to the floor! But not quite [5]!
"Well done, Keardwall! That feat has surely redeemed you in the eyes of all!"
"Keardwall, EXCELLENT work!” concurs the smiling
Sir Feyman, “At this rate, your full title will be a four-scroll masterpiece spoken of by legends when we're done with our adventure!”
"Aye, 'twould seem likely,” modestly admits
Keardwall, “Though I do hope I shall have truly
earnt such a grand title. Let us hope that these villagers shall remember me as a hero delivering them from evil, and not a monster just as bad as that I have slain this day!"
Gritting his teeth to hide the pain of keeping his balance and of standing up, Keardwall rises to his feet, only to fall flat on his face in the mud [1]. He decides he will have to resort to misusing his blade, and props himself up with it as he gathers his lower leg and spleen in his left hand, keeping himself up with the sword in his right. He decides to head back to the village.
… … … … … …
"I must find a jar or two, it seems. Then we shall continue onwards," says
Keardwall to his companions, before turning to the old man and the hundreds of other villagers present,
"I can only hope that the death of this foul creature has redeemed me somewhat in your eyes. But hear this," he declares, wearing his most impressive, powerful expression and looking off over the horizon,
"from this day I shall not rest until I and my noble companions have recovered the Holy Grail, restoring the great King Arthur's power and extending his benevolent, God-Given rule to enhance the lives of all good villagefolk such as thyselves! I swear it!"He has barely hopped two steps back towards the village when
Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne interrupts his painful march.
"Knight Keardwall, stay thine course for a moment! Before we continue, let Godewine have a look at your wound. He is a scholar of many things, surely he can come up with a treatment."
"Yes... I suppose such could be a could idea,” admits Keardwall, “if I am to effectively continue on this quest. 'Tis not as important perhaps as mine swordarm, but still, a missing leg could cause problems."
As
Feyman and
Conchobar head with great haste towards the village inn with the olde man, Beadocáf ‘s faithful friend
Godewine of Norwhyiche kneels down in the dirt beside Sir Keardwall, and examines his bloody knee while Keardwall holds his Holy Spleen at the ready, so as to be able to bash him about the head with it should any funny business occur. Godewine is able to staunch the bleeding, but it is beyond his surgical skill to replace the severed lower leg – although he tells a tale of
a man he once knewe, who did replace his fallen limb with one made of woode and did march about upon it! Perhaps, Sir Keardwall, this could be considered if a suitable piece of woode doth be found in the future?
“Come, Keardwall,” speaks once more Beadocáf the Rotund, “Let us rejoin our companions, who are undoubtedly in the village tavern toasting your success. Let us join them and cheer up your stony visage! ‘Tis but a leg, after all!”
… … … … … …
In the tavern of the village of Stafford,
Keardwall enters with
Beadocáf and sees
Conchobar and
Feyman chatting eagerly with the old man at the bar.
“Drinks for every villager present!” declares Keardwall, “Today we mourn not just a lower leg, but a noble peasant who I have unjustly slain. I hope in ridding yon village of this terrible evil, the Son of the Eel of Stafford, that I have in some small measure made up for this unchivalrous error.”
When he is done speaking, Conchobar turns to him and Beadocáf, his face slightly grey and his voice surprisingly low.
“Brothers,” he gruesomely whispers, “drink your fill this night, for on the morrow we must set forth.
We must travel to the Cave of Caerbannog: and first we must cross the Wood of Doom! Whilst ye have been doctoring the olde man hath been regaling us with many a tale of the knights who have entered these foul woods, and who have never come out…”
… … … … … …
England; the Dark Ages; the village of Stafford; the next day.After a joyous evening, during which both the spleen and the lower leg of the valiant
Keardwall found their way into well made jars of pickling ingredients, the brave four knights awaken to the sound of crowing cockerels and bustling villagers going about their daily business free from the terror of the tyrannical eel. Mud is being farmed at an astonishing speed; peasants are singing as they work. Somewhere in a doorway lies an innocent but now forgotten corpse – for the life of a peasant is cheap – and somewhere in the village sounds a large and ancient drum, beaten upon to give the harvesters their traditional spring rhythm to work to. The morning sun shines, the sky is free of clouds: all is as a new beginning for the once oppressed village.
The magnificent four set forth to the honeyed sound of Crannock’s pleasant voice.
… … … … … …
Sir Keardwall he did lose a limb,
But at least the Eel did not vanquish him,
He strove, he fought, he wrestled, he diced,
The Eel flew at him but then he sliced,
Oh brave, brave, brave, brave Sir Keardwall!
The undead fiend did bite off his knee,
Or at least it has been told thusly to me:
I could not watch nor steal a glance,
I could not bear to risk the chance,
Of seeing such a gruesome sight,
Lest I bring back up my meal from last night;
Oh brave, brave, brave, brave Sir Keardwall!
He freed a village from being oppressed,
And has every right to feel slightly depressed:
He lost his spleen first to the French,
And then gave his castle to an ungrateful wench,
He lost his leg to a terrible eel,
But never once did his fear he reveal;
Oh brave, brave, brave, brave Sir Keardwall!… … … … … …
England; the Dark Ages; the Wood of Doom; later the same day.Not for the first time in their Holy Quest, the four knights find themselves travelling on foot along the sinewy paths that crisscross a dark and foreboding forest. ‘Tis the Wood of Doom in which they march, a Wood which has claimed many a life of many a knight! Shafts of sunlight pierce the dense canopy of tightly packed trees and the path wends first this way and then that, squelching slightly underfoot in the damp ground beneath.
Crannock the Minstrel has long since fallen silent, the oppressive atmosphere and the mouldy air sapping his will to express the joy of life through the medium of song. He hums miserably and quietly to himself, hoping for some new questly event to come along for him to turn into legend. Suddenly…
“HALT!”The Dreaded Three-Headed Knight, the fiercest creature for yards about, hath spoken! It towers above yon Knights of the Round Table!Name: Sir Keardwall the Exteriorly Spleened, Stony Defeater of Bandits, Destroyer of the Son of the Eel of Stafford, Terror of the West.
Bio: So named for his rather unyielding demeanour towards his foes, and those of God and the King, Sir Keardwall the Stony was a natural choice for such a quest as this. Bearing a near-permanent frown, stout forehead and a square, manly beard, not to mention his well-kept armour, Sir Keardwell is the very picture of courage and skill-at-arms.
Enjoys fighting for King and Country, feasting heartily, and glaring stonily at those who cross him. Apart from his lance he wields a broadsword and a shield, upon which is displayed his family's crest, which involves a castle on a mountain guarded by a red dragon. He would never dream of refusing such a mission from his Lord, but of course the sorry state of his financial affairs offered an extra incentive to set out on this grand journey. After all, what born warrior would wish to be cooped up in a castle all day, counting tithes and taxes when he could be out doing great deeds?!
Traits Fearsome frown of fierceness, loud voice.
Retinue Member: Standard Bearer, Gertad Brownfoot. Old fellow who faithfully follows Sir Keardwall on his travels on a small pony, bearing the noble Knight's coat-of-arms for all to see. Always glad to recite a few of his Lord's deeds for any audience, he speaks sweeter still when his tongue is greased with alcohol. Gertad is currently away.
Chivalry: 4.
Arm Wrestles Won: 0/1.
Inventory: A spleen in a jar of pickled eggs, a lower leg in a jar of gherkins.
Wounds: No lower left leg.
Name: Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight.
Bio: Sir Feyman gladly accepts his role in any quests, but is always suspicious of the motives of his fellow questers. He likes to play music, but doesn't have the opportunity very often. He fights with swords, but doesn't get too attached to his equipment.
Retinue Members: Crannock the Minstrel; Melga the Possible Witch.
Deceased Retinue Members: Maine the shy Minstrel. He usually followed Feyman around, blindly agreeing with him, even though he taught Feyman many things, including how to play music; Eric the Lutist, who bravely followed Sir Feyman for over an hour, only to be sliced in twain by the Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh
Chivalry: 4.
Duels Won: 1/1.
Arms: 1/2.
Minstrels: 1/3.
Name: Sir Conchobar the Gruesome, Potless Insulter of Mothers and Piercer of the Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh.
Bio: The stuff of legends, Conchobar is feared throughout the world. Not because of his deeds mind you, but because of his legendary ugliness. He is said to be so ugly that the heads of lesser men have shattered in his presence. It is also notable that his favored weapon is a man wearing spiked armor named Fiddles.
Traits: Unimaginably intimidating. Ridiculously ugly.
Retinue members: Fiddles the man club; Kenneth, Shielder of Yon Face For the Protection of Others.
Chivalry: 4.
Arm Wrestles Won: 1/1.
Inventory: The Holy Crossbow of Beersheba, Renowned Slayer of the Green Dragon, Bolt Foot.
Name: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Rotund
Bio: A large man, both tall and wide, with long reddish hair and beard. As the shape of his body might give away, Beadocáf enjoys a good meal. And a good drink. And anything feast-related, really. Despite this affection, Beadocáf is also a rather pious man, spending a lot of his money on building churches on his land, and prefers to spare his fighting skills for when God calls upon them. His colours are red and gold, and his crest is an eagle carrying a cross. His weapon of choice is a long-shafted, knobbed mace, inscribed with the words Nutu Dei. Sometimes also called the Boar, or possible the Bore, Beadocáf is never quite sure which one people mean by it.
Retinue Members: Godewine of Norwhyiche, an old friend and monk scholar witnessing his quest for chronicling purposes; Hagley the Squire.
Chivalry: 1.
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Topic: Roll to Seek the Grail! (Read 50814 times)