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Spooky Mittens

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  1. She was agile as well as fast, with a good deal of physical strength to boot. So far Unity was performing right along specifications, and the telemetric data her "benefactors" collected would prove more that satisfactory. She wasn't in their world right now, however. Now she was in the home of her little optical gremlin friend. Shimmy along she did, following the trail. It wouldn't be too hard since the drone left small scratches on every surface it touched, but it could traverse these ducts several times more swiftly than Unity could. It would be several minutes before she would catch sight of it again. She would round a bend in the ventilation shaft, where the actual ducts opened up to the size a person could reasonably expect to stand in. Ahead of her was a hub. It split off into five directions. One could go forward, left, right, or backwards, but also down. The gremlin drone was on the side opposite to Unity across the gap in the middle of the ventilation hub. It's options were splayed and fanned out into a matrix, each tiny camera locked into Unity with interest. It let out a noise, a garbled series of beebs and static, but if Unity listened close enough she might pick up the faint sound of a child's laughter. @Sigil Warden
  2. To say that Unity was fast was woefully inadequate. She was like a blur, a sudden crackling wind, tearing through the shadows with razor sharp precision. One, two, and through and through; Unity embodied this piece of poetry as her knives cut through the metal and plastic shell of the drone. While she took a moment to assess her kill, the data streaming across her implants and feeding positive reinforcement to her brain, something peculiar began to stir within the tiny observation unit that lay in pieces before her. Within it's framework, it's sinister origins sought to make themselves known. The drones solid pieces started to go limp. Not like melting, or dissolving, but limp like a piece of meat or something quite soft. Its parts started to slither, splitting into a hundred different segments, snaking their way like worms away from the blades that had just cleaved them. In the blink of an eye the drone was gone, transformed, and then suddenly reborn several feet away. This new form it took was akin to some kind of humanoid, though again it was only about the size of a house cat. It looked a bit like a cartoon gremlin with fins sticking out of it's optic bundle, while it's tiny "hands" seemed comprised entirely of blades. This time it made nary a sound, except the noise of metal scraping metal as it turned and started to flee towards a ventilation duct. @Sigil Warden
  3. Thanks for the tag @supernal. I'll be focusing my attention into Absalom moving forward.
  4. It was well known that the disparity between the "haves" and the "have nots" in Absalom was just about the worst in all the land. Nowhere in Absalom was this more apparent than in the nether city that existed inside the sinkhole where the entrances to The Sarcophagus existed. Scraptown, also referred to as Gutter City, or the Trash Pit. Whatever you call it, it had no official title. This sinkhole was neutral ground due to the myriad of hazards that made permanent occupation unprofitable. The refuse of Absalom above was cast into this put on a regular basis, and yet despite being a fixed and known depth, it never seemed to fill up. No matter how much trash, human waste, or actual humans you tossed down there, it all seemed to vanish just as soon as you weren't looking. It was no wonder such a place served as the last refuge of the indebted or the escaped. So few bounty hunters and debt collectors would dare to delve it's depths. Unity, on the other hand, was a unique case. It wasn't entirely uncommon for high tech soldiers to come down into The Sarcophagus looking for live combat data. Testing high tech implants and prosthetics didn't require this kind of danger, but it still happened once or twice a year. At least, that's what the news said. Unity charged through the dark, chasing a beacon of light from ages long past. She made her way in near silence, save the energetic thrumming that filled the very walls around her. A moment may have passed, or maybe several thousand, for time in this raided tomb seemed to stretch and contract on a whim. She rounded a corner, and there it was spotted, the source of her beacon. A tiny drone, no larger than a house cat, comprised of some amorphic metal and plastic. It sifted and searched, an array of sensors serving as it's face. Pieces of tech, bits of bone, pools of blood, all of these things it scanned, until the buxom spelunker became visible. The drone halted, cocking it's sensor piece high, locking a few dozen miniature cameras onto Unity. It emitted a high pitched beep, just a single piercing blip of noise, at an interval of one tenth of a second. Then it waited. @Sigil Warden
  5. Nah, I've made 0 points about you personally. I'm talking about pretty general ideas. Whether these thoughts apply to you in particular or not is irrelevant. So, about those sticks; yes they have hand guards. Those particular hand guards were popular in the 17th century because the swordplay of the day was broadsword/backsword. Those kinds of swords had basket hilts, so to train in their use you need something there to restrict your hand. Whether the leather cup actually did anything to protect your fingers or not is secondary to the muscle memory function. Earlier periods didn't use hand guards, but singlestick was still a practice that goes back to Rome.
  6. Ah, I gotcha now. Basically that's just the really safe version of single stick. It's a tradition as old as swordplay. So, I say it's as valid as anything else for beginners.
  7. Hey, take it from a poolboy. Pool noodles are the Pinnacle of melee weaponry.
  8. Few people have that resource lol @Garion That plays into what I was saying about the difference between a journeyman and a layman. You and your brother have a baseline, you have had instruction, so these concepts aren't just theoretical to you or your sibling. They're practical. You understand how they are supposed to work, so you can spot when they don't. Few players have practical skills in fighting, they have theoretical skills instead. So if they try to apply it in practice they have no idea if it's right or wrong.
  9. The only problem with getting up and going through the motions in private is that you lack an outside eye. Someone who has never had any instruction before isn't going to know that their movement is improper or that their technique is weak unless they have someone there to tell them. The other problem inherent in that is finding someone with an instructor-level knowledge base to help you work out your pretend fights on the internet. So, might be useful for a journeyman but definitely not for a layman.
  10. Mmmmm, half-dragonnnnnn. Boi, I need you for a plottttt
  11. I'll hit you up later in a PM about these sick Halberd plays - for now I monster hunter
  12. Well, the raw numbers are there but they're a bit out of order perhaps? You mention starting from a position only 8 feet away. Then you take a three foot step. That puts your body only five feet from Dauner, so one has to wonder exactly what kind of reach advantage this is? Dauner can strike you from that range just as easily, so this first play should have been a double KO. Tangential to this, as I understand it you're fairly new to Halberd plays?
  13. Just to add onto what Shize is saying here: As someone who has been an active practitioner of HEMA in my real life, I tend or incorporate what I have learned from those 18~ish years of experience into my RP fights, and I find there are two good ways to do that. The first is to use real life concepts. When you're actually fighting in person you're not a measuring tape. You don't know the difference between ten feet and nine feet, so you just have to estimate. It's more about feeling the distance out and going off of your experience to know where your measure is. So this translates into rather vague terms in RP. "I take a half-stride forward and deliver a blow intending to strike at the most distal point of percussion" Of course without knowing the terminology that simple sentence turns into two paragraphs, but it's a bit easier to digest. The other method is to actually use precice measurements. This is really quite boring to read and write though, and it feels robotic. "I am six feet tall and my strike is four feet. I take a two foot half stride forward. Bending at my waist gives me an extra foot, and my arms are roughly two feet long. I strike with a sword that has a three foot blade, but I have to aim six inches from the tip and so my blow reaches seven and a half feet from my starting position, but my head and arms are only three to five feet away from my opponent." Personally I prefer writing the former. Just my 2ยข
  14. A sword with a blade length of an arming sword, so, roughly 26-30~ inches, but with a two handed hilt assembly, is just a really short longsword (or in other words it's a bastard sword). To break down how these terms are used: Arming Sword refers to any type of cruciform double edged sword from Europe meant for use with one hand. Longsword refers to any cruciform double edged sword from Europe designed for use in two hands. Bastard sword refers to swords that have the characteristics of a longsword, but which are of a length closer to the arming sword. Ah, specifically, Europeans did break down swords with different names, but they cared less about the actual length or whether it was one or two handed. Any sword shaped like a cross but with two edges was called "sword". If it was the same shape but only had one edge, it was a Falchion instead. (Please don't make me go into super great detail about Falchions I'll be here all week T ^T) Claymore is a fun one. Claymore is really a misnomer as it is used to refer to a number of different swords from Scotland. Most famously is the Scottish greatsword, but less known is the basket hilted broadsword. It's use really depends on when you ask, rather than who. Zweihander is German, and it's not really the name of a type of sword, because they would have still just called it schwert. It's more of a modern term as well, so Zweihander in function is more of an adjective than a noun. Of course adjectives are alien to german because they just turn everything in a compound word, so Zweihander should read more like zweihanderschwert, which means "two handed sword" in English. ๐Ÿ˜„
  15. So on the subject of swords, the terms arming sword, longsword, and bastard sword are modern, and they aren't necessarily interchangeable. Arming swords are always one handed, that's their defining trait, so it's never gonna be a two handed arming sword. That's where the simplicity ends though, because longswords cover the swords of a similar shape, but for two handed use. Bastard swords are a sub classification for longswords, so they could be various sizes and the defining term is much less useful than arming sword. Historical people just called them all sword though, they didn't bother much with categories and labels. Ewart Oakeshott actually has a very useful typology chart about the swords of Europe and I'd recommend it as a reference https://www.albion-swords.com/articles/oakeshott-typology.htm
  16. @Die Shize Scimitar is an English word derived from French. It's more akin to the word "Bread" in use - by which I mean it's broadly applicable. The word itself just means "a curved sword of the orient", but in practice it means "curved sword from the region of Turkey all the way across to Sri Lanka". So a Shamshir is a scimitar ๐Ÿ˜„ So the term Scimitar doesn't reference a specific sword, but rather a region and a trend. ๐Ÿ˜„
  17. The second cutlass above is a work of fantasy based on older styles like this scimitar here It's highly stylized, meant as a work of novelty more than a depiction of historical fact. They're sometimes called Arabian cutlasses but again, they're fiction. It is good that you pointed out that cutlasses are almost short sabres, in fact that's closer to the truth than you might expect. Cutlasses are contemporary to the military sabre in Western Europe and they are designed for the tight quarters of ship combat. What you'll find in antique examples of cutlasses is that they weight just about the same as a cavalry Sabre but are significantly shorter with stockier blades. You'll also find that they have metal grips and fittings, as well as metal scabbards because of how fast wood and leather rot from salt air. This has been your daily sword lesson from a huge sword dork.
  18. "Heh beh beh. Heh beh beh. Heh beh beh." The small, squeaky chirping came from aside the arena. A little leafy greens creature, flapping his fibrous frills to and fro. Two beady little black eyes sat inside the pale flesh of his stalks. Cabbage, the cabbage, faithful companion to Arthur. He had planted himself in a clay pot near the edge of the arena. He wore a suit of armor himself, though it was actually just painted onto the planter pot. Cabbage sprouted several spindly appendages that resembled roots, sporting a vibrant bloom of hibiscus flowers at the end of each one which he shook and waved about like pompoms. "BEHHHH!" The leshen shouted to encourage his companion.
  19. She spoke of things that Cabbage really didn't understand. Then again, his crunchy cabbage brain wasn't exactly the best suited thing to think with. He didn't pay much heed to the doll or the magic, but she did say that she needed more light to assess Cabbage's wares. So he stayed quiet for a few moments, concentrating the sugars in his leaves into his core. There, he used his own kind of magic, transmuting the sugars into a phosphorescent compound which flowed into the berries and caused them to shine like fireflies. "Hebeh, beh beh." He finally peeped as the flesh wench finished speaking. If she glanced over she would see three glowing green baubles swinging about in front of Cabbage. @Akako Akari @Voldemort @Fierach
  20. Cabbage was a simple creature. He enjoyed the finer things in life, such as nice damp soil, properly pH balanced nutrients, and the *sun*, which seemed to be wholly absent in this forsaken landscape. He conserved his energy by simply planting himself wherever his companion plopped him down, burying his tiny root arms and legs deep into the ground and taking what any onlooker might mistake for a nap. He bundled himself up in his own leaves, actually mimicking the tent structure that Arthur had made. When his companion spoke Cabbage barely stirred, but he replied all the same. "Eh behbeh, ebeh". A simple creature indeed. His language was, for all intents and purposes, vocalized emotive beeps. He didn't speak a language per se, but he spoke in feelings and sensations. After some time with the creature, Arthur would probably be able to suss out that what Cabbage meant was As long as you don't carve me into anything, who cares? Again, simple creature. It wouldn't be until the arrival of a third entity that Cabbage acted. She poked her head into the tent, and Cabbage immediately started shifting his leaves about, forming a canopy of leavy greens that made him look like a little merchant setting his wares out on a blanket. In fact, one leaf laid out in front of him, and he opened his unassuming slotted cabbage mouth. Three tiny stalks stuck out with three huge berries, one for each stalk, and plopped onto the leaf. Cabbage then went "Beh HEH". Arthur would understand this to mean he wanted Flesh Wench to buy one of his berries. Even though Cabbage really had no concept of money. @Voldemort @Akako Akari
  21. It didn't take any time at all for Tirkas to find some townfolk. They were within sight of the rundown old church after all, so he just toddled on over with Silus atop his shoulders. His ears were really quite good at hearing things, especially quiet things at a distance. In particular, he overheard the murmurings of the three brothers who say out in front of their building; something about other locals, probably some kind of warlord or other. To be certain Tirkas could not say one way or the other that their lot would not be accosted but he had to try and do something all the same. "Hail good fellows!" Tirkas called once he was within just a dozen yards or so of the men in question. "I'm looking for some information, and I wondered if you wouldn't be obliged to help me. You see, we come from Coth to the south. Our band travels in search of our prophet, Constans, but we have come to a bit of an impasse. Your town was the closest, and so we came here, but what a sorry state I find you lot in." As Tirkas spoke, he searched his belt for a coin purse and extracted a handful of gold pieces. It was easy for Tirkas to accumulate money, as he rarely ever needed to spend any of it on his own needs. What little money he did come by was often saved for moments such as this when people needed lubricating. "There's honest pay in it, if you would lend me your services." Even if these three weren't craftsmen of any sort, Tirkas would pay them all the same for information or just a few extra bodies to carry things. Back at the church, the people in Tirkas' lance had started to filter into the decrepit building to find a small bit of shelter and set up a base camp of sorts. They brought their carriages around to the front of the building and began to unload their kits. The first few men inside were men at arms that Tirkas trusted. The first was a man who simply went my the name Lummox. He had been given that name by his adopted father at the age seven, and since he didn't know his real parents he had just kept it. Even after he learned that it basically meant idiot, the offensive title didn't seem to bother him any. He was a huge man to say the least though, standing a full head higher than average. His build was fairly stocky too, like a tightly wound bundle of muscle. He was equipped in humble gear. A gambeson protected his upper body, a kettle helm protected his head, and thick padded breeches his legs. He wore greaves, but no sabatons, as well as some rather plain looking metal gauntlets. Lummox carried a poleaxe and a type 5c falchion as his backup. The next two were bothers, friends of Lummox and equally as trusted by Tirkas. One brother was an archer, and his name was Ash. He was a tad shorter than Lummox, but he was also very well muscled, specifically where it counted most for archery. Ash boasted often that he could fire a two hundred pound bow for an entire quiver and still have enough fight left in him to carry on with a sword. He carried one such bow, a thick longbow, with a quiver of arrows to hand. He carried a type 14 arming sword, and his armor was very similar to Lummox's. The other brother, shortest of the group, was also the eldest among them. He carried himself in a well fitted brigandine jack and he wore more complete metal armor on his legs and arms. His name was Fredrick, and though he carried no weapons he had an aura of confidence surrounding his every move. It would be these three that would find the man in the church cellar, calling out for help. A combination of Fredrick's healthy curiosity and Ash's exceptional hearing. They heard his cries and hurried below. They approached his cell all together, and Fredrick stood the most prominent. His salt and pepper hair could be seen in the barely lit confines. He didn't know a lick about the man imprisoned here, or why a church would have such a holding cell, but he placed his hand against the bars all the same. "Wot's yer name, son?" His voice came across like a crackling fire, hoarse with age and from shouting orders all day. @Better Than Gore @Witches Brew
  22. [The Church On The Hill : Monday Morning] It began as a day like any other. Cool, only slightly overcast, with the sun just now creeping over the treetops in the distance. Tirkas "awoke" like any other. Since the warband departed he had taken to living in the basement of the old Church ruins, just in case the closeness to the place of Constans' awakening afforded Tirkas some kind of vision from god. No such vision ever came. He heard the people approaching the church. He had instructed them to do so a few days prior. The people grew restless and Tirkas could not say that he didn't understand. He wanted answers as much as anyone else, so he formed his own warband, a Lance of forty men and women, craftsmen and warriors alike. He could not address them as he was now, a nude elf with funny green veins on his arms and legs. He whistled quietly in the murk of the old Church and along scampered his newest companion. A Page, a boy named Silus, who had lost both of his parents to the Lizardmen. Tirkas found him cowered in the corner of his family domicile with a kitchen knife clutched to his chest. The knife had blood on it, and not his own, but that of one of the lizardfolk that snatched the boy's father and killed his mother. He had fire in his heart, and Tirkas took to him because of it. The boy would learn the ways of Knighthood, and as such he started with the lowliest of tasks. In this case, he was to assist Tirkas in donning his arms and armor. The boy couldn't have been older than six winters. He was a small thing with raven black hair and brilliant blue eyes. Tirkas quite enjoyed looking at the boy's eyes as he carried over some freshly washed robes and Tirkas' faithful boots. The elf ruffled the boy's hair as he took his garments and got to his feet to dress himself. While he did, Silas ran off for the next thing. He wasn't yet strong enough to carry all of Tirkas' armor, but he could manage the sword and the dagger spear. He helped Tirkas tighten the various straps and latches of his armor, from the sides of his brigandine, so the latches of his greaves and sabatons. The boy was especially useful when it came to the vambraces since those were always a pain to buckle one handed. When he was all set to head out, he took some dried fruits and a bit of cheese from a table and shoved it into the boy's hands. "Eat, boy, we've a long day ahead of us." Tirkas demanded as he took up a small clay jug of water and took a big gulp from it. He then put that too in Silas's arms. On their way out of the basement, Tirkas collected a few small things. A pigeon that he had helped Silas kill last night with a sling and a wreath of lilies, blackened with charcoal. He carried these things up with him and entered the sunlight for the people he had requested to finally see him. He stood in silence for a few moments while his page toddled up behind him. It had been too long now since the town had heard from Constans. Not one of their number had returned, not even Lady Ioreth who had been so charmed with God's light that she had seemed an angel in the flesh. It wasn't just Tirkas who assumed the worst, and he wasn't the only one wearing armaments this day. Among the crowd gathered was a Lance to accompany him to the north. A group of forty or so, consisting of men at arms and craftsmen. Among their rank were riders as well as wagons, and they were set to depart the village for the northern reaches. Silas took the offerings that Tirkas held, placing the pigeon upon a small flat stone in front of the church ruins. Tirkas placed the lily wreath around it and as he did Silas set the offering ablaze. No one spoke while it burned. Everyone held their breath hoping the flames would turn green but they stayed orange, as one might expect. Tirkas sighed. "God gifts us with many things." He began to address the crowd as he walked to his horse. "He once brought us safety, and he empowers you all to rule your own lives. However." He paused as he mounted a white mare while his page climbed onto the back along with him. "He will not do everything for us. We have to make the most of today, in this world we are given. His holiness, Father Constans, rode into the north. You all heard the stories, about what a catastrophe occurred there. We go, today, to see for ourselves." The crowd didn't exactly cheer at this. Their task was somber to say the least. Only Silas, among their group, seemed to retain the wonder of his youth long enough to whisper at Tirkas' feet. "He's with daddy now, I bet. Watching over us." [North of Coth : Wednesday Dusk] The warband had traveled for two and a half days now, and as the sun was beginning to set over the western hills, they laid eyes on the rumored site. A battlefield where a great cataclysm was supposed to have happened, only the sight they saw this evening was wholly different from what they had expected. To the warriors of the band, the tell tale signs of battle formations were clearly present. The ground was torn up and while there were some corpses strewn about it was and eerily barren battlefield. There were weapons, there was armor, shields, pavise; everything that might lead one to believe that there were once people here and that they planned on fighting each other in vicious battle. But. . . "Sir Tirkas? Where is everyone?" Silas asked his master from the back of the horse. Tirkas wracked his brain for an answer but it kept coming back blank. He was silent as he let himself off his horse and looked into the boy's wondering eyes. "I. I don't know Silas. Wait here." He motioned for some of the trackers in the group to follow him into the field at the foothills of the mountain. He needed to know, he had to search. Constans wore very unique robes, and his traveling companions were also similarly unique. If they were here, like all of these clothes and arms, then theirs should be within as well. The elf went over it in his head repeatedly as he searched, well into the evening with the sun retreating wholly below the horizon. Most of the warband had taken to helping in the search, carrying torches and reflectors. Tirkas needed no such assistance, and his eyes glowed a bright green in the dark. It had been long enough that all of the scents in the field had mingled, so he couldn't rely on his bear-like sense of smell. He relied on his eyes alone. Hours of scouring, hours of deep thought, and Tirkas had formed a thesis in his mind of what took place here. He could tell how the troops moved based on how the ground was tamped. He could guess their formations based on how their armor and weapons lay. Their bodies had vanished, leaving behind all of their earthly possessions. Apart from those who had clearly been slain and who's bodies remained where they lay there wasn't a speck of blood to be seen anywhere. He was just about ready to give it up when he came upon a familiar sight. He recognized that helmet. It belonged to Viscerex. A man whom Tirkas detested, but who had also been blessed by god. Tirkas ran over to the object in question, and laying nearby as Tirkas had hoped it would, a dark and flowing robe. He froze in place for a moment. He had hoped against hope that he would not find those robes. His lip began to quiver for the first time since his first night in Coth village. He could feel the emotions within welling up to the surface and he scrambled over to it. He dropped to his knees beside the empty garment, his quacking hands scooping it up as his vision went blurry. He is with god now, he's gone to a better place. He thought to make himself feel better, but it didn't stop the tears flowing down his face. The sadness that took him would be lasting and heavy, and once the others noticed they too gathered around to mourn, for this seemed to all to be confirmation that Constans was truly gone forever from their lot. Tirkas gathered the Robes of Constans, the Helm of Viscerex, and the Gown of Ioreth. The wanted to make sure these things were preserved, so that the people would remember where they came from. "A chest. The best one we have." [Temple City: Thursday Afternoon] Tirkas and his Cothite warband decided to make way for Temple City the next morning. It was, after all, much closer than Coth and many had never been before, including Tirkas. They all knew of the road that lead from Coth to the Temple City though. In fact, among Tirkas' Lance were a few of the honored Knights who lived in Coth. The warband had high hopes for this excursion, but they would quickly find their dreams dashed upon reaching the city limits. Chaos had befallen the region, it seemed, and the streets were largely empty. Asking about to some of the locals, it seemed that the leadership of the Temple just up and vanished one day. The people, left to their own devices, devolved into a state of anarchy. While the populace eventually got themselves into a controlled state (controlled enough that it wasn't an open riot) there were still signs of the previous state of unrest. A church, in one of the blocks near the south edge of town, seemed to call out to Tirkas in his wandering about the streets. Even Silas noticed it, which was promising. A broken stained glass window which had previously depicted Gaia had been smashed out, leaving behind only what looked like a green pair of eyes that the light shone through. "This wont do. If we leave them like this for long they're bound to upset the whole region." Tirkas mused to his fellows. It was a lesser chapel compared to the grand stone temple carved into the side of the cliffs off in the distance, but it was large enough and in well enough condition that Tirkas thought it would serve as a nice hub. He hatched a plan in his head on how to utilize the place, and he set about searching through the town for any skilled workers he could find. Masons, glass workers, silversmiths, and tailors would all be needed to achieve what he wanted to achieve. "We'll be staying for a while, everyone, so go ahead in and get comfortable." After all, they aren't using it anymore. Tirkas, in the meantime, took to his search with Silas in tow. The boy, weary from the day's travel and being young as he was, rode atop Tirkas' shoulders. Their first stop was to be at a masonry, which lucky for them was only a few short minutes away. @Witches Brew @Better Than Gore
  23. [ CoTH: Village Outskirts] As a microcosm of battle unfolded near poor Dale Thimmick's farm, a platoon of twenty Lizardfolk made their way across the fields. They were good at sneaking, the Scalebois, with their clay painted bodies and their human skin cloaks. Not all of them had such cloaks of course, as they didn't allow one to wear a skin unless it was their own kill, and what with their lizard frames being so large, it took an awful lot of skin to cover. So some of them just wore human skin scarves. Their lot was mixed, arranged as one might a Lance. Five of their rank were ranged specialists, equipped with rope slings around each wrist and thrown implements. A few crude javelins with antler tips, throwing knives of knapped shale, and satchels of smooth stone pellets. Five more were the sort of monsters that mothers tell their children about to scare them into acting right. They had the attributes of crocodiles with the size of their muscles and the silence with which they moved. Their arms were outfitted with bands of sinew with sharpened bone slivers laced into them so that if they got their big burly arms around some poor victim the bone shards would slice up their skin in no time. These larger warriors carried heavy spears and short hafted axes. The remaining ten were snatchers; lanky, stealthy, but strong as a bear. Rather, it was five pairs of snatchers, as hauling people was a two lizard job. These ones were equipped with heavy weighted nets designed for catching prey, or in this case villagers, and crude battle forks. They lurked in the grass, slithering low, to and fro. They could see the village from where they rested and started to hatch their plans. "We takes the big ones only. More skins for makes the goods." Said one of the snatchers to his fellows. He wore the largest skin cloak of the bunch, so clearly he knew the best way to make one and they listened to him. "We find Conshans first!" Peeped one of the rangers at the back of their line, a little too loudly. He caught a lump for being too loud and several quiet hisses to shush him up. "Yess, whelp, Conshans. We finds him, buts we gets the skins or he no likes us." The largest in the group persuaded. "We gets the skins of peoples he likes, so he likes us bests." The first snatcher added. They were done talking, and they prepared. There were only a few scant moments more before the Aldermen would pass again, so they had to make their move now. They burst fourth from the brush and sprinted for the village across the short grass at it's outskirts. Their main goal was to snatch as many men as they could and escape, but there was an ulterior motive to this attack. They had been convinced that this was the best course of action, but really Zanzarog had needed a distraction to make it easier for him to slip in and out of town in broad daylight. So here they were, about to unleash as much mayhem as they could. Twenty strong, they were quickly spotted when they came out of hiding. It would do no good though, as these lizardmen could scamper across the earth at several times the speed of a man over short distance. The pounced like wild animals on the few towns folk who were unfortunate enough to be lingering about. The Scalebois were vicious and a wave of shrieks washed over the area as several were slain . It only took ten minutes or so for the alarm to be raised. @Opaquely Translucent @Better Than Gore @Witches Brew @Revvys
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