Spin your yarn here! Tales of Valor and...errr...Courage!

Captured Joe

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I've bragged about this battle countless times already, but well, this is a tavern.
It's set in the world of the mod tEatRC.

Anno Domini 1501
The village of Calisia, Grand Duchy territory

"The Swadians are coming! Hear me, everybody! Swadians are coming!" Jancu, the village lookout, ran into the village shouting his warning. Harald, the village Elder, leaning on his stick, came out of his house. "What Swadians?" Jancu ran up to him, followed by about half the village population. "I've seen a column of Swadians coming from the north. 34 of them, Doppelsoeldners and a few Camp followers." Harald looked shocked. "We cannot fight that many soldiers. we must flee and hide until they're gone." "Perhaps they'll pass our village without attacking us" opted a villager. All villagers turned to Jancu. "They are coming to the village, with weapons drawn. They will fight, or they will loot and burn." The hope in the villagers hearts vanished. The Swadians came to take their goods and their women, and would fight for it. Most of them took their families and some food and fled from the village, but some, including the Elder, decided to stay, hiding in their houses and praying that the Swadians would go away.

Jancu turned around and looked back at the village. Screams and curses were heard, and little figures were running around between the houses, some with torchs in their hands. The looting had begun, and he didn't think there would be anything left from the village after it. Suddenly, he saw a cloud of dust on the horizon, with little metal spots gleaming in the sun: another group of warriors was approaching.

Lord Vytautas watched the village from his saddle, while his troops were unmounting from their horses. At last, he had trapped the Swadian dogs in a hopeless position. His troops, reinforced by a patrol Karaite horse-archers and the peasants which were eager to avenge their village, unmounted and advanced towards the village, still unnoticed by the Swadians. Vytautas himself climbed from the saddle too. His magnificent Winged Hussars couldn't charge mounted due to the buildings, but they would show the bastards that they weren't afraid of fighting afoot.

Jancu ran with about 60 other villagers towards the village, armed with a knife, and looked around him. Most other peasants were young to mid-age men, but some peasant women could be seen too, helping their saviours against the raiders. The next moment, they came from the cover of the buildings, and approached the Swadians. Jancu smiled as he saw the shock on the faces of them, but they quickly dropped their loot and, although scattered, formed small groups and counter-attacked the peasants and the Ducal Lord's soldiers. They drew their great Zweihanders and started hacking around into the enemy masses and their slashes created bloody holes in the mob.

Jancu spotted a short, one-eyed Swadian, with his Flamberge resting on his shoulder, shouting commands and walking around directing the Doppelsoldners in battle. 'That's their Captain' he thought, and he jumped forward, his knife raised above his head. The Swadian, however, stept aside, and instantly swung his weapon. The next moment Jancu felt the terribly hit of the weapon and saw its curved blade sticking between his ribs. Sinking on his knees, he saw the Swadian withdrawing his great sword from his body, and attacking his next opponent, a Nirdamese Longbowman. The world seemed to turn aside, and everyone kept fighting seemingly ignoring the weird fact that they were standing turned aside, with the ground standing vertically like a wall. Jancu grinned, and his smile froze on his face.

After the peasant had fallen, his face on its side on the ground, the captain killed the Nirdamese archer with a single swing of his flamberge, and then engaged the Ducal Lord in combat. Vytautas slashed at the Captain with his saber, hoping to win time while his troops would butcher the other Doppelsoldners. He gazed around quickly, but to his horror he saw the Swadians hacking around in the masses of peasants and Ducal soldiers, inflicting heavy casualties while staying alive themselves. Immediately, his head was struck by his opponents' weapon, with only his helmet saved him from intand death. Stumbling back, he mumrered "What are you?" "I am Hauptmann Joseph of the Victorious Fähnlein!" the Swadian Captain shouted. He rammed his blade into the ribs of Lord Vytautas. Heavily injured, the last thing he saw before he fell unconscious was the Doppelsoldners hacking apart his army, breaking its formation and scattering its remnants.

After the battle, Vytautas was dragged away by some loyal soldiers, while the Swadians were looting and burning the village, which was littered by dead bodies and weapons.
This would be Hauptmann Josephs greatest victory, in which his company of 34 men defeated the combined Ducal forces of 158 men, thus proving it worthy bearing the Honorational title granted by Emperor Sigismund Augustus himself, the 'Victorious Fähnlein'.


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Having joined the Nords and Rhodoks in their war against the Swadians as a Nordic mercenary, a wandering barbarian fighting under the name of Fireheart led his army of 95 loyal soldiers and companions into the heart of the Swadian kingdom to pillage the enemy supply caravans.

Loaded down with loot and prisoners after the pillaging a forth caravan Fireheart made his way to Praven and after leaving a trio of guards dreaming on the ground sold off his loot and prisoners for a fair price. Seeking to further humiliate the Swadians the barbarian proceeded to enter the tournament currently being held and win, knocking King Harlaus himself from the saddle to claim victory...and then running very quickly when a spectating lord recognized him.

Fireheart's army was marching for the border of the Vaegir lands with the intention of resting among the peaceful lands there when a cry went up from the trees and a quartet of Swadian lords emerged from the trees, each with an army of his own with which to bring the barbarian to justice.

Leading the slightly slower enemy armies on a long chase towards the Vaegir border, Fireheart thanked the gods that he had sold the prisoners, knowing that the captured Swadian soldiers would have dragged their feet and allowed them to be caught.

Safety was within sight when Borcha came running back, reporting a vast horde of the Bear Tribe approaching, cutting them off from the border, leaving their options few: face the 400 angry Swadians at their backs or the 500 bloodthirsty Bear Tribe warriors in front of them. Knowing that neither choice gave good odds for survival Fireheart ordered the army to instead turn East and continue running in the hopes that the two armies would fight each other.

The plan nearly worked, two lords diverting their forces to meet the incoming barbarian horde while the remaining pair continued their pursuit, now faster with the smaller numbers. Seeing this, Fireheart knew they would have to fight and ordered his men into battle positions as the lords led the first wave of the attack down on the outnumbered mercenaries.

With a stroke of pure luck and his massive two handed sword Fireheart separated both lords from their horses, leaving them to the mercy of the Nordic Berserkers while the Rangers of Reyvadin sent arrows streaking across the field to fell the slow moving infantry.

Men fell along the mercenary shield wall as the Rangers fired their last shots and drew steel for the real fight. As the armies finally clashed Fireheart split off from his force, charging the Swadian Sharpshooters and silencing each one with a strike from his sword before charging the enemy flanks and decimating the soldiers with brutal swings to their less protected backs.

More and more Swadians charged the mercenary line and fell beneath the swords and axes of the Nord and Vaegir troops while Borcha, Alayen and Marnid shouted encouragement and Fireheart scythed through anyone that made the mistake of coming near his sword.

At last the field of battle fell silent, the bloodied mercenaries slowly lowering their shields and weapons as they gazed over the carnage. Swadians and horses lay unmoving across the field, nearly carpeting the ground in places.

The odds had been greatly against them both in numbers and skill but the results were astounding. 240 Swadians lay dead with another 20 wounded and taken prisoner though the lords had managed to slink away during the fighting. Only 14 of Fireheart's men had been killed though almost half the survivors were too badly wounded to fight again soon. Fortune seemed to smile on them though as the battered and bloodied company managed to reach safety in Vaegir lands where they made camp...

This was my most awesome battle yet. I was sure I was going to lose but I got the good position in each round: a flat meadow, one side of a river with very steep banks and a small hill.

Plus my Rangers (about a dozen normal and a couple Veterans) completely decimated the Swadian infantry while they struggled to reach us. I personally killed 73 enemies across all 3 rounds.  :mrgreen:


Sergeant Knight
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PW Mod, it was some sweet ****.

Belgian, a Brother in the Knights Templar of Antioch, exited the armory for a stroll around town when a man calls out to him.

"Oho look at this tin can." He laughed. "Hey fatass" he said.

Belgian turned to this man who was surrounded by two of his friends, ugly looking oafs the lot of them, but they were armed with armor piercing weapons.

"What did you say to me heathen?" Belgian said, staring the man down.

"You heard me," said the ugly beak-nosed man, stepping forward to get in Belgian's face. "I called you a fatass, gotta problem?"

Belgian slammed the butt of his glaive into the pavement and challenged the man.

"You wanna go heretic?" Staring harder into the mans eyes, he could see fear rooting in his soul.

Just then McWilly, a lord in the Knights Templar of Antioch, rode up and saw the situation.

"Do you need help Belgian?" He said.

"Against this fool? No. But make sure his friends don't try anything funny after I kill their heathen friend."

The man looked at Belgian in his gleaming plate armor and said.

"That plate armor can't protect you from everything fat man."

They went to the arena and took up their positions on each side, at the signal they advanced, Belgian with his glaive in plate armor, the heathen with his short military scythe in vaegir styled lamellar armor. It was a short fight, Belgian shocked the man with his impressive speed and dexterity in plate armor, the heathen struck Belgian once but the strike was poorly aimed and glanced off of Belgian's armor. Belgian landed 3 well place blows, an overhead that caught him in the head, a thrust to the body and a final cut across the jaw. After such a display, the heathen's friends backed off and disappeared into the city.

Captured Joe

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Just played a bit AoB: Europe 1805 (WotTC). It crashed, but before that, I fought a really sweet battle. Here's my tale:

Spring 1806
Anatolian Plains
Somewhere between Ankara and Constantinople

A cloud of dust emerged on the horizon, the end of the dry plains of this cursed lands. As troops became visible and the sun spread her radiance over gleaming points of steel, veterans and mercenaries cursed. More enemies, flocking to their helpless pry, a small lone caravan in the countryside. Its guards, Wuerttemberger infantry and hired horsemen, had formed a circle around their packmules, and desperately held their ground against the repeated assaults of the eighty-or-so steppe bandits, who rode around them firing their arms and waving with sabres. Some Wuerttembergers watched as the cloud drew nearer, and when white uniforms and yellow helmcrests became visible, the bandits quickly retreated and reformed. The caravan had received help, at last.

The newcomers, a small group of Austrian infantry with some Italian mercenaries, reached the besieged caravan, and dispensed into their defensive circle. Their leader, a small infantry officer dressed in a black overcoat covered with dust, barked orders to the horsemen, ordering them to dismount and join the footmen. The Wuerttembergers became worried as they saw they were still heavily outnumbered, as their allies had few soldiers on their own too, but the sight of the tall bearskins and hardened faces of a portion of the Austrians gave them some much-needed courage: it was a company of the feared and impressive Bohemian Grenadiers who had reinforced them, and stood now side by side with them, awaiting the nomads' renewed assault.

The small officer, Major Linkmann, paced to and fro in front of his men, brandishing a pair of new heavy pistols, drawn from behind his golden sash. From between the few trees, the horde bandits hoved into view, riding fast on their Bashkir ponies and Arabian steeds, firing their pistols and raising their Yagatans. "Ready! Present!" the Major shouted. With a smash, the wooden shafts of the Austrian muskets, the best in Europe, landed on raised hands, and their barrels and bayonets rose, and formed a thin, gleaming silver band around the group of warriors. The Grenadiers, veterans renowned and feared throughout Europe, aimed at the approaching horsemen with calm, steady eyes.


The row of muskets vanished behind a grey curtain, as the blackpowder created thick clouds. Horses went down, and fierce men fell from the saddle. "Fire at will!" Quickly the soldiers brought their muskets down and began the series of movements, needed to fire another shot. Some horsemen attacked them headlong, but others kept circling the formation, firing their pistols at them. Major Linkmann fired both his heavy pistols, and managed to shot one enemy out the saddle before the man's lance could reach his men. Holding his ground, he loaded his second gun while around him shadowy creatures passed by, dark spots in the smoke.

A small group of nomads had penetrated the circle, and hacked a way through the footmen. Having loaded one of his guns, the Major killed one of the horsemen with it, and drew his sabre, a heavy broadsword. The next moment he ran between the enemies, hacking around with his blade, slaying horses and killing their riders. The remnants of this group of enemies rode off fast, joining their comrades who were still riding around, picking off soldiers who scattered in the chaos. Linkmann pushed his men into formation again, and shot another bandit who was about to kill one of his men. His Grenadiers fought silently, driving their bayonets into bellies without a sound, and calmly loading their muskets while bullets filled the air. These giants, holding their ground against the fiercest assaults, impressed the nomads, and whenever they wounded or killed one of these veterans, they howled and cheered at each other like animals.

Linkmann, finding himself isolated outside the circle, ran to his chest, and grabbed two loaded pistols from it, ready to shoot anyone foolish enough to assault him. Now he ran around, picking off some scattered and dehorsed horsemen, instead of being picked off himself. It was a risky business, and he took a sabre stroke at his head, deflected only by his copper helmet. But he held on to the few metres of earth he defended, and brought down many enemies.

Was it an hour, two hours, thirty minutes? They didn't know, but after some time, Linkmann and his mauled group found themselves bewildered listening to the silence, seeing all their enemies killed or fled. With his last shot, the Major killed a wounded nomad lying screaming on the ground. Then he led the survivors to the enemy camp. They freed fifteen peasants, and about the same number of peasant women and girls, who were held prisoner by the bandits. As the dark-eyed Anatolian girls greeted their saviours, the small Major returned to his camp. Tomorrow he would lead his men to bloody battles again, fighting the godless Sansculottes and their minions on the battlefield that was Europe. But for now, he allowed his men to enjoy and celebrate their victory with the freed prisoners and his allies.


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It was just another match on Napoleonic Wars. People shooting an dying. I was playing as the French as a Grenider. While playing i had made a buddy and me and him were able to drive the enemy back to there spawn the only problem was that there spawn was on a hill and it was fortifed cannons and all. My freind charged up and started a melle fight only to be killed by the general. When i saw that i went into a rage and started slaughtering the team. the general tried to escape and surrender but i still put a bayonet in his face. and thats why people shouldnt make me mad beacaus ewhen im mad im actually good. also i never that guy again.


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As the young hero leads his band of musket soldiers to battle to punish looters, he looks with satisfaction at his infantry line while reloading. Then he feels a sharp pain and the world goes black. (hero is hit by stray bullet)


This tale is spun so many times. The enemy isn't even aiming for you, but their damn weapons are so inaccurate, probably the only safe place is directly in front of them. I'm half surprised noone shot himself yet. While aiming at an enemy right in front of him, the hero in fact killed someone taking aim some way back. The enemy was quickly finished with good, decent, reliable hand to hand weapons


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Story I posted last year around the release of WFaS.
Scully said:
This here is the story of one Herman_von_SCHNEIDER, a prussian mercenary wanting to prove his worth.

herman_von_SCHNEIDER first saw combat in the battle of Albertsgrad (I made that up, i can't remember the map name).
There he joined the swedes as a mercenary fighting against some polish peasants.
He was kicking ass chewing bubblegum but all out of gum, with 5-0 kill death ratio.
He found himself alone on the battlefield, his swedish allies dead all around him, with
the enemy hidden in a nearby building. He took out his pistol and charged into the house
like a madman. No less than 3 riflemen, hiding behind a table, suddenly stood up and fired
their rifles. Herman dodged with incredible skill and fired his handgun right into the head
of the first unfortunate sodd. No time to reload he took out his gigantic great sword,
dripping the blood of previous victims. He held the sword above his head ready to strike,
the polish peasants cringing with fear closed their eyes waiting for the finishing blows.

The blow never came. Hermans gigantic sword had gotten stuck in the roof of the house.
Needless to say, Herman is dead now. Bludgeoned to death by riflebutts.

(This is a true WFaS multiplayer story)
The sword was too big for the room, so I couldn't swing and got ganged up on  :lol:

Amman d Stazia

Master Knight
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Aurora grinned at the big, smelly axeman.  He paused, and she knew why - only confident people or the insane grin when faced by big, axe-wielding barbarians.
Right now, she was one of the insane, but the smelly bastard didn't need to know that.

She held her hunting knife loosely in her left hand, and her last arrow in her right.  The arrow was now useless - the bowstring had broken - but if nothing else she might be able to distract him with it for a half-second.

There was nobody else around - the fight outside in the village was just a vague background murmer.  A sensation of heat behind her reminded Aurora that she was inside a burning building.  She kept trying to circle round to the right, trying to put herself closer to the stone fireplace.  Her adversary didn't know, but concealed in the shadows of the fireplace was a heavy coal rake.  Longer than her arm, and with a stylised trident head, the iron bar would make a nice weapon.

But the barbarian didn't want her to go anywhere - he grunted and snarled, and stepped threateningly forward, and she was forced to duck as the axe twirled, a grey streak in the dim room.  The swing was half-hearted, little more than a feint to interrupt her movement, and it had worked.  She started again, drawing him left, then ducking right.
This time, she got past his guard, aided by a jab of the arrow towards his eyes.  He flinched - he hadn't expected the arrow to be used as a weapon at all - and Aurora found herself with her booted right foot on the edge of the fireplace flagstones.

The axe came round again, and she realised as she flung herself back and down, that she had just trapped herself in a corner.  She grabbed the coal rake - thank ****! she thought - the handle was heavily counterbalanced, so that raking the coals was easily done one-handed.  The axe screamed like a banshee as it scraped down the stones of the fireplace, inches from her arm.

Now though, her adversary had finally committed himself to a full blow, and it was all the opening she needed:  She slapped the coal rake down on his knuckles, it was not her strongest blow, but it was enough to let her put everything else into a left-handed thrust.  The axeman had released his grip on the axe with his right hand, the knuckles stinging painfully, and he was able to pull back, but Aurora kept coming forward, her feet getting a firm purchase on the stone of the fireplace, and the long heavy knifeblade sank through the bear pelt and into the soft corner between collarbone and shoulder.

The man spat curses in his foul language and tried to hammer the axe onto her skull with his left hand, but his grip was wrong and only the wooden haft came crashing down behind her ear.  She could see the blade out of the corner of her left eye and the barbarian's right arm twitched and jerked as he tried to grab his weapon, refusing to believe that the knife in his shoulder had completely disabled the limb.

Aurora twisted as the man changed tactics, using his muscular left arm to trap her in a vice-like bearhug.  She was trapped, and they collapsed together on the dirty floor.  She lost hold of her knife as the big man landed on top of her, but she also heard the crack of bone breaking beneath her - she felt no pain herself, and was struck with the realisation that the barbarian's left arm or hand had been broken in the fall.  His filthy animal skin cloak scoured across her chest and face as he tried to suffocate her with his weight and bulk.  She jabbed her fists into his kidneys, but it was like punching a treetrunk.  Breathing became painful as the man's powerful chest forced the filthy bearskin into her mouth and nose.  Reaching up with her fingers she tried to jab at his eyes, but he had worked his left arm free now, and whatever was broken, it didn't stop him from trapping one of her arms with it.  Her left arm knocked against the hilt of her knife, and she felt the involuntary twitch as the blade ground into the barbarian's collarbone.

Heaving with her feet and left arm, she tried to throw him off, but he was too heavy.  She did, however, gain some respite: The greasy animal hide, mingled with the sweat from her bare skin, was enough lubrication for her to slip sideways a little.  She heaved air into her lungs, but sudden pain made her cough it all back out again.  Somehow, he had twisted his hips enough to bring his knee up, and although it had missed the intended target of her groin, the blow was heavy enough to half-numb her left thigh.

Almost in reflex, she tried the same blow, her left knee coming up and across, aiming for the fragile testicles.  She made enough contact that the barbarian released a muted squeal, and she felt his weight shift again.  Her left arm, still scrabbling for some chance to inflict damage on the enemy, suddenly grasped the hilt of her own knife.  It was slick with blood, and the angle was awkward - she could only grip around the ball of the hilt - but she shook it and ground it into her opponent, and this time she knew she had scored a killing hit - his cry of rage was drowned in a froth of pink bubbles as blood filled his lungs.

Suddenly weakened, he couldn't counter Aurora's next moves, and in a few heartbeats she was out from underneath him, ripping the knife free.  Blood washed over the floor.  She wasn't taking any chances though, and rammed the blade down into the base of his neck.

She stood, shakily.  Her back and thigh ached, and she was filthy - the man had spewed blood in her hair, and the grease and dirt of his furs had mixed with her own sweat and lastly his blood to paint a hideous pattern across her throat and breasts.  She heaved deep breaths, just glad to be alive.  The sounds of the battle outside roared back into her consciousness, and the heat from the fire suddenly battered her from behind.  She staggered, feeling the tiny hairs on her back suddenly singe into nothingness.  She half-turned just in time to see the black and red horror of the roof beginning to cave in as the fire raced up the wall in greedy white-yellow serpents.

She forced her legs to move, a wordless scream of defiance on her lips as the pain stabbed up her leg with every step.  Smoke and flames seemed to reach for her with murderous fingers, but somehow she reached the doorway....


Llandy was here
Grandmaster Knight
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I always thought this and Armagan's thread were never in the right board. I mean this is off-topic still and these are very on-topic threads.


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*Warning* I am re-awakening the ghosts of Christmas past!

The day was coming to an end, the sun slowly fading over the horizon. As the last waves of light diminished behind that golden line, night fell and the stars themselves began to appear from out of the sky's blackness. Khussan watched as his men positioned themselves atop of the hill overlooking the Swadian caravan. The glow of their campfires stretched far over the plains like a candle in a dark room. Yet beyond that glow's reach lied utter darkness. In that darkness Khussan's men laid hidden, ready to pounce on their unsuspecting prey. As ordered by nightfall, his men charged, releasing from their bows arrows strong enough to pierce the thickest of steel. The Swadians fell quickly, the few to react slain as they searched helplessly for the enemy, for arrows from every direction out of the black night came to them. Khussan's men charged, setting fire to tents and already inspecting the goods they planned to make off with. Meanwhile, the merchants barricaded themselves in their own tent as those who had sworn to guard them were already dead; arrows sticking out of the bodies like thorns in a rose bush. The merchants stood their ground as Khussan's men ripped the cloth of the tent, allowing him entry to his newly acquired prisoners. They cursed and resisted as Khussan's men shackled and chained them all together, but to no avail. It was yet another victory, one Khussan would latter celebrate at the drinking halls of Narra.


Sergeant Knight at Arms
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AAR for something that happened in a game several months ago, so I'm a mite fuzzy on the details. I also decided to have a try at writing Bunduk, and stroke my ego a bit in the process. :p

Graeghan only had himself to blame, he knew. He was pushing his troop hard, not scouting ahead properly in a rush to get... whatever it was, it didn't seem that important compared to a 300-strong band of sea raider which was coming at them right now. Bunduk was muttering behind him, either praying or cursing his commander for a fool, and Graeghan knew both were warranted. He drew his bow and notched the first arrow, determined to get at least few shots in before the inevitable press of bodies would drive him into the river.

The river...

An idea came to him then.

He looked to where his horse archers stood and nodded to their captain, Palatinus Nadia. Without a word passing between them, she knew what she had to do. She waved at her men, and they went off at a gallop. They will harass the raiders, hopefully slowing them down long enough for Graeghan to avert the disaster his stupidity brough upon them.

"Everyone, follow me," he shouted and spurred his horse into the water.


Graeghan reached to his quiver and found it was empty. The ground and the river were littered with bodies, most of them enemy corpses spiked with arrows. Graeghan's marksmen, mounted and on foot, earned their wages ten times over that day; the few raiders who made it across were ruthlessly cut down when they ran into the shieldwall his footmen were holding on the bank. The ones who got through regardless, were ridden down by cavalry holding the flanks.

It's all going well, considering.

Graeghan slung his bow across his back and drew his sword. It was a marvellous blade he'd purchased at Yalen - ostensibly a greatsword, it was so well balanced it could be wielded with one hand, while losing none of its reach and killing power. His companions cautioned Graeghan that in a tight press of bodies it would be the death of him - Graeghan acknowledged the merits of their argument but could not bear to part with the weapon.

He dismounted and went on to join the shield wall.


It was all over.

Just like that.

The sea raiders were dead or routed. Each of his men killed at least five of the enemy; Graeghan himself slaughtered a dozen, dancing and pivoting across the riverbank one instant, standing firm in the shield wall the next. Katrin and Jeremus worked miracles - of the score or so gravely wounded only a handful couldn't be saved. How his troops cheered when it was all over! How they rejoiced at the loot they collected!

Much later, at a tavern in Tihr, Bunduk laughed at something the tavern girl told him, whispered something in her ear that made her giggle, pressed a few denars into her palm, and sent her off with a wink. Ever the ladies' man, old Bunduk. Ugly, covered in scars, but a ladies' man nonetheless.

"I thought you and Katrin had a thing going," Graeghan remarked.

"We're both old enough to play by ourselves from time to time," Bunduk answered with a broad grin.

"What did she say to you?"

"That my face could serve for a checkers board."

"And what did you say to her?"

"That she's not seen the half of it," Bunduk's grin broadened even more.

Graeghan took a sip of his ale and stared into the fire.

"Something bothering you, brother?" Bunduk asked.

"We came close today," Graeghan said gloomily. "Too damned close for my liking."

Bunduk nodded. "Aye, that we did. But it turned out well, didn't it?"

"Through no fault of mine though."

"You do yourself a disservice. The best army in the world is nothing without a good leader," said Bunduk sagely. "You made a blunder today, aye. But you kept a cool head, improvised, led from the front, and gave us victory. Even good leaders make mistakes, brother. And you are good; and you care for the troops you lead."

Graeghan took another sip of ale. It seemed to taste better this time.

"But the next time you decide to face three hundred sea raiders with seventy men give me some warning," Bunduk continued. " and I'll bring a spare pair of breeches."

Graeghan laughed despite himself.


So I am playing in Prophesy of Pendor very good and huge mod for Warband.
So I am mid - late game, I have the best equipment around and the best troops.
My favorite weapon is the Sapphire Two Handed, and I am running around on my Noldor Goldleaf, and I run into a mystmountain army. For those who don't know, it consists of mystmountain warriors, they're basically huge warriors, high damage, high health, and decent armor. But I have better troops, problem is, I have 300, they have around 1000, this mod isn't easy. But I can take them on, so I do, I charge into battle.

Now all my troops charge them and I might have forgot to mention, the mystmountains have steppe horses. So all my men are charging and are doing better, around 5/1 kd ratio. But I like standing out and picking everyone off, the Sapphire sword I have does 75c damage and has a 137 speed rating, best sword in the game, not joking.
So I am slicing their heads off when their reinforcements show up...right now to me, they all turn, and block my horse then kill it. So after cutting my way out they run off to the fight, but their infantry show a liking to me, so I have a conga line of atleast 30 of these bearclaw berserkers, high damage, but I am blocking them, so I am running backwards just within reach to one hit them.
Just the image of my character jogging backwards as a swarm of nordic long axes swinging at me, should be enough.
Luckily I ended up winning and I actually killed them all, no clue how, but I survived to the end, when I checked, my kill count was 50 - 75.