Here we have another article I have dredged up from the dark ages of 2006 - the days before iPhones ruled the world and Hellpit Abominations were just part of some games designer's bad dream (if only they had stayed that way)...
Martin de Carcasonne, knight of Bretonnia, raised his grime-splattered visor and surveyed the carnage before him. The field was littered with dead and dying, both Bretonnians and foul Orcs, their bodies strewn up and down both sides of valley in which they were fighting. The valorous deeds of his unit had gradually taken their toll - he was the sole survivor. The brave knights who had taken the field with him had fallen one by one; dragged from their saddles by the savage green beasts they were fighting, their noble steeds beaten and chopped down with crude clubs and axes. Three had fallen at the hand of one particularly large brute, wielding a massive axe nearly twice its own height. Martin himself had eventually delivered the killing blow to the fiend, driving his blade through its warty throat.
And now the battle was nearing a critical juncture. Few warriors remained alive from either side; the casualties had been horrific. Even now the shambling remnant of a mob of greenskins was heading his way. Martin could see his lord's tattered and mud-smeared standard in the vile clutches of one of the brutes. Tears filled his eyes at the thought of returning home without Lord Louis; of recounting to the fair Lady Genevieve the tale of her husband's fall.
The thought of doing so without being able to at least lay his lord's banner at her feet did not bear consideration. Looking at the score or so Orcs guarding the precious banner, Martin offered a brief prayer to the Lady. Lowering his visor once more and drawing his sword, he prepared to charge - and then whimpered in dismay as he was shuffled sideways, out of the charge arc of the Orcs, and safe from having his valuable Victory Points plundered in the last turn of the game...
Martin de Carcasonne, knight of Bretonnia, raised his grime-splattered visor and surveyed the carnage before him. The field was littered with dead and dying, both Bretonnians and foul Orcs, their bodies strewn up and down both sides of valley in which they were fighting. The valorous deeds of his unit had gradually taken their toll - he was the sole survivor. The brave knights who had taken the field with him had fallen one by one; dragged from their saddles by the savage green beasts they were fighting, their noble steeds beaten and chopped down with crude clubs and axes. Three had fallen at the hand of one particularly large brute, wielding a massive axe nearly twice its own height. Martin himself had eventually delivered the killing blow to the fiend, driving his blade through its warty throat.
And now the battle was nearing a critical juncture. Few warriors remained alive from either side; the casualties had been horrific. Even now the shambling remnant of a mob of greenskins was heading his way. Martin could see his lord's tattered and mud-smeared standard in the vile clutches of one of the brutes. Tears filled his eyes at the thought of returning home without Lord Louis; of recounting to the fair Lady Genevieve the tale of her husband's fall.
The thought of doing so without being able to at least lay his lord's banner at her feet did not bear consideration. Looking at the score or so Orcs guarding the precious banner, Martin offered a brief prayer to the Lady. Lowering his visor once more and drawing his sword, he prepared to charge - and then whimpered in dismay as he was shuffled sideways, out of the charge arc of the Orcs, and safe from having his valuable Victory Points plundered in the last turn of the game...