Back to Rob's campaign
Imagine the scene. King Broyan and the leaders of Whitewall know that Whitewall must not fall. Not yet. However, the Crimson Bat, dread avatar of the poison moon is reported to be approaching. Using information gathered from a Heortling scholar who specialises in Chaos lore they devise a plan. But when one enters combat with a chaos demon such as the Crimson Bat, the very soul is in peril. All who accept the mission to teleport on the Bat know that should they even hear its scream they will probably die. Only the hurricane summoned by the Stormwalkers protects their ears. Tarosea, the Mastakos Disciple of Tarthcaer and her Godyr is charged with the ritual to teleport the band of Orlanthi onto the Bat.
They can see the Bat approaching. Even the stoutest hearts quail at the prospect of final and utter destruction of their very souls should they fail. Broyan finds words to galvanise his warriors. Straight from the bard himself, Mr Shakespear....
In game this is a rolled augment, which crticaled and gave each player a +9 throughout the battle. Their magic is already running at x 1.5 due to the presence of Orlanth above the city.
K. Broyan. (Striding backwards and forwards, looking deep into each warriors eyes.)
WE cannot live? WE cannot defeat this Chaos? Would Orlanth say such things? Would he at least try? Come then brothers and sisters one last time into battle. One more time for our Gods and our kin!
Dear friends, once more, when the blast of war blows in our ears imitate the action of the Alynx; stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage;
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit to his full height!
Fight this evil creature, sons and daughters of the righteous storm! Your blood that is fet from fathers of war-proof; fathers that, like so many Vingkots and Heorts, have in these parts from morn till evening fought, and sheath’d their swords for lack of argument!
Come, dishonour not your mothers!!! (laugh)
And you, good Carls and Thanes, whose limbs were made in Heortland and Sartar, show us here the mettle of your pasture and let us swear that you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not; for there is none of you so mean and base that hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you, straining upon the start - The game’s afoot! Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge Cry ‘Broyan for Whitewall! Heortland and ORLANTH!’