Badass Dragoons of the Highlands - turn 2 results

[David_Falkayn]

I thank Mr. Shemp for communicating his recollection of our journey. Every event, large and small, encompasses numerous points of view; the more these are recorded, the greater our collective understanding.

I enjoyed traveling with Mr. Shemp. While I admit that his ferrous-based methods of persuasion were occasionally effective within small groups, his approach does not scale. If one wants to influence a larger group, one must use words, and words in the language of the intended recipient.

Our long journey afforded ample opportunity to inculcate our selves with the great Lentiion our prospective Iberian hosts’ speech had undergone, albeit unknowingly. And the only way to do so is practice, practice, practice.

I must confess, I found Mr. Shemp’s study habits unsatisfying. He could not even be bothered to make his geminate sonorants and obstruents voiceless! His ability to “speak” was barely adequate for a Tercio.

Upon arrival in Aragon I was appalled to discover the “Inquiry of knowledge” was subjecting books to “trial by fire”

These literate men claimed to be civilized beings? Clearly, their betrayal of the people of Granada was not an aberration!

So I set about recording all I could. Learned books, llearned men, and learned women were being destroyed at such a prodigious pace I could do little more than make sums of the carnage. There wasn’t even time for summaries. Perhaps these were the “calculations” Mr. Shemp alluded to.

We immortals, of course, are essentially invulnerable to steel which is why I do not encumber myself with a sword or any other weapon. As we generally try to conceal this aspect of our persons, I did not initially grasp that Mr Shemp was attacking me, thereby allowing him to strike me twice. In fact, Mr Shemp was so hors de contrôle that he struck himself as well.

After some time I tired of dodging his wild swings – and watching him hurt himself yet again – so I walked away. As I did so, he literally stabbed me in the back.

I presume Mr. Shremp’s frustrations were linguistic. Mr. Shremp grasped neither the imperfect nor the imperfect subjunctive. Indeed, he never really seem to progress beyond the imperative voice.

This may have been why he took my suggestion, which doesn’t really translate into English but can be rendered roughly as “would you please stop making a scene, these benighted locals might misinterpret this tomfoolery as sorcery which could create difficulties so please desist at your earliest convenience” as some sort of “plea for mercy.”

Our immortality allows us such capacity to convey Knowledge from one generation to the next. Why do so many of us limit our horizons to wreaking mayhem?

Yours in Truth,

• Mr Collins

[Eve]

Well, I decided to go see what this thing in France was about and god the French are annoying. They seemed to think the English didn’t show up with enough men cuz they didn’t count the seven thousand longbowmen. It was all a bit messy for someone on foot. And I didn’t have to clean a bit of it! Which was good because my feet were sore though it would have been nice to eat more than every other day but you can’t have everything. I won’t bore you with the middle bits. There was a lot of them. Eventually we did get to the fighting after the talking had gone on for basically ever. That Henry guy sure can talk … and talk and talk. Next time someone tells me to stop talking too much I’ll just say 'em they can go talk to Henry if they don’t like my talking.

It took the French a few minutes to figure out seven thousand longbow don’t count for nothing. It would of have been funny but for the horses. Around the time we started gathering up prisoners and it felt like there were more prisoners than we had men … kind of worrying that though what happened to them was not at all nice but I only found out about it after because I started to have this sort of ache in my skull. Someone was after me. Not just the French though.

Another of the undying sort. How many of us are there? Seems like we’d get noticed more though I guess hauling around this ridiculous sword made by a smartarse doesn’t help me blend in at all.

So she finds me or I find her. I’m a bit unclear on what happened. Oh. Ha. I managed to find myself on the French end of the field and felt like I was being followed. I swung around and accidentally hit Evelyn. We fell to fighting and I got a few hits in. Then things started to go a little less well for me. Things nearly got out of hand! I know you’re wondering but no I managed not to die. I’m sure Evelyn helped a bit there.

And I didn’t kill anyone. Well, no, that’s not true.

But Evelyn and I did have beer after which was nice.

[manwich]

[A brief missive found tucked between stones in a Belgrade wall]

… I’ve often ended up fighting for the Ottomans; perhaps it is their penchant for “recruiting” from whatever random work camps they march past.

After years on the sea, I had wearied of drowning, shark attacks and exposure. I yearned for dry and simple deaths on land. While working in a lumber camp near Zrenjanin, I was pressed into service as a siege engineer.

While adjusting the staves of a mangonel, I sensed a change in the battle around me. Some minor breakthrough was occurring; a misnumbered footnote on a battle soon forgotten. I didn’t even bother looking up from my work until I saw my compatriots staring in awe. It was the Immortal I had battled in the previous century, approaching proudly in shining armor as his filthy charges died around him. This was no coincidence. He must have followed me here. Was he working for the Kurgan? Perhaps a lackey for the degenerate Archivist?

He again attempted conversation. Perhaps next century, when I collect his head, he’ll finally realize the folly in that. I ignored his idiocy and the battle was joined.

His second blow, a massive two-handed swing, sundered my cedar board in two. Aromatic splinters lanced deep into my flesh. For the first time in hundreds of years, I was unarmed. Stumbling backwards, I grasped around in the confusion. My hand fell upon a heavy yet flexible piece of yew from Brittania; an arm off of a ruined ballista. It was still warm and scorched from where the fire had touched it.

Emboldened and rearmed, I joined the battle fully. Like our first contest, we each landed and absorbed several heavy blows in the hours that followed. Eventually, the tides turned in the battle and we were forced to retire.

He’s following me, I know that now. Next time he’ll fall into my trap.

[durhamindurham]

A brief writing on the same Belgrade wall:

Groß Wilhelm Were Here

[Nightflyer]

I remember… after the strangeness during my last fight with YOwOL, I wanted to get as far away from Beijing as possible. I eventually wound up in England, apprenticed to an armorer. I learned much about the making of swords and armor, which I figured might come in handy, and it helped keep me in fine shape.

Of course, a job like that will inevitably drag you into battle. My employer and I wound up following the English army to Agincourt, where repairs to weapons and gear were keeping us very busy indeed. We were so busy that the French lines began to encroach on our position. I felt the presence of another Immortal, but in the surge of forces I couldn’t quite locate them… until I found myself unexpectedly under attack. I countered automatically, and the duel was on.

I was amazed to find myself battling a woman wielding what looked for all the world like a giant pen. (What is it with all the weird weapons my opponents have?) And I couldn’t quite put my finger on her style of fighting. It bore a resemblance to the Drunken Master style of martial arts, in that there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the attacks, appearing a little ungraceful-- ~wincing~ --but it was certainly effective. We fought each other into the ground. I’m not sure who would have won in the end. Fortunately, we had to break off our battle to defend ourselves-- and each other-- from a wave of French infantry. Once we were clear, there seemed no point in continuing our own private war… so we found the nearest tankard of ale to refresh ourselves, and swapped stories long into the night.

Oh, I know, I know. “In the end, there can be only one.” But I’m hoping Aeaba and I won’t be crossing swords again. It’s nice to feel like I have a friend, when the Game pits each of us against a world of enemies.