C
casbardh_deroos
Guest
The Bowman licked the flights on his first arrow, placed it between his fingers, and drew his bow. Narrowing his eyes he took aim and peered down the slope at the shambling, rag covered shape that moved up the slope towards him.
Another Suicide he thought, why do they come all this way to Albions only piece of territory in Midgard just to get killed? He really didn't understand.
With a twang and a whistle the arrow left his bow and it flew through the air, closing on the rag covered figure. The streaking arrow hit the ground and skipped innefectively past the oncoming creature, careering and sliding across the icy ground into the distance.
Now, in some sort of of mad, desperate war cry, muffled shouts came from the advancing beast.
Tutting, the bowman took another arrow and drew it, taking a better and more careful bead. Beside him, an armsman colleague stood, arms crossed watching.
Again he loosed his shot, and again, he missed. Cursing his luck and ignoring the sarcastic comments of his mate, he grabbed his third arrow. Several other archers now joined the target practice.
The third batch of shots missed the creature, as it had desperately thrown itself and crashed onto the icey floor in a bid to avoid becoming an impromtu pincushion. With the creature writhing on the ground, the bowman dropped their aim. Had they hit it????
The creature haltingly, stood up. Throwing its arm over its head and removing the rags that obscured it, a Briton was revealed, not a troll like face at all.
A yell came across the frigid air "THAT'S THE FIRST TIME AND LAST TIME IM DRESSING UP AS A TROLL WASHERWOMEN TO ESCAPE!".
With bemusement and a slight hint of guilt, they went down the hill to meet the escapee.
Another Suicide he thought, why do they come all this way to Albions only piece of territory in Midgard just to get killed? He really didn't understand.
With a twang and a whistle the arrow left his bow and it flew through the air, closing on the rag covered figure. The streaking arrow hit the ground and skipped innefectively past the oncoming creature, careering and sliding across the icy ground into the distance.
Now, in some sort of of mad, desperate war cry, muffled shouts came from the advancing beast.
Tutting, the bowman took another arrow and drew it, taking a better and more careful bead. Beside him, an armsman colleague stood, arms crossed watching.
Again he loosed his shot, and again, he missed. Cursing his luck and ignoring the sarcastic comments of his mate, he grabbed his third arrow. Several other archers now joined the target practice.
The third batch of shots missed the creature, as it had desperately thrown itself and crashed onto the icey floor in a bid to avoid becoming an impromtu pincushion. With the creature writhing on the ground, the bowman dropped their aim. Had they hit it????
The creature haltingly, stood up. Throwing its arm over its head and removing the rags that obscured it, a Briton was revealed, not a troll like face at all.
A yell came across the frigid air "THAT'S THE FIRST TIME AND LAST TIME IM DRESSING UP AS A TROLL WASHERWOMEN TO ESCAPE!".
With bemusement and a slight hint of guilt, they went down the hill to meet the escapee.