The Knyght's Tayel - a Halloween Warcry Game

Once, as in olde stories played to crowde,

There was a grayt Kyng named Mudshroud;

Of wudland he, was protector and lord,

A conqueror he, lyved by the sword.

That grayter under Hysh was noone,

Fulle many battels he had won;

What with he's wisdom and he's chivalrey,

He wedded the Queene Mordgrave, you see.

He broght her hom with him to he's countrey

Withe much glorey and great solemnitey.

And thus with victorey and with songe

(from Moldforth; a jester, you'll meet ere long)

This nobel Kyng to Scarred-lande ryde,

With alle his hoste-in-arms, him besyde.

~ ~ ~

And surely, if it were not so longe to hear,

If the hourglass sands end wern't quite so neare,

I would telle een full howe his reygn began;

The gloreys of he's long life's span;

But alle that matter I must nowe forgo.

Of the storme aheed, they could not knowe;

The remnant of this tayel is longe enough,

The patha befoer theem: fraught and roughe.

So not to wonder offe the tayel I bringe,

And where I lefte, I will againe begyn.

~ ~ ~

The Kyng, of whom I telle this story,

His proud processioun; fulle of glorey.

Then came to gather fruite and meat,

(And othern thyngs for alle to eat)

In alle hys prosperitey and alle his pryde,

He yet grewn wary: caste eye aside,

He there beheld: that barred their waey

A companey of bandyts, yellen "Stay!"

Eache after other alle, clothed but halfe;

And such a dreadful noise their laugh.

That in this worlde no creeture lyving

Could wytness such without mysgiving;

And alle their revelrey did instantly ende,

When Queene Mordgrave killed a grot; theirn friend.

The bandyt cheef was aback-taken,

He decryed the Kyng fore stealyng hys bacoun.

"What righte have yoon, in mine own encampe

To robbe my feast, my grot's head to stampe?"

Quoth the Kyng "Have you no respecte?

By mine glorey, yourn hoomes I protecte

I stope incursiouns frome wythout

Yet swuch as you do moan and shoute!

Whom couldst we have so offended?

You tellen me, nought but a grot is ended!"

Whyle he spake with deadley cheer,

He's pylgrims hurryed farre and near.

They gathered up the fruits and the meats,

That the bandyts longe had saved up (to eats)

While pylgrims took onione and sayge,

Quoth loude the bandyts bothe, in rayge,

"While spake you so, of honour and glorey,

Your pylgrims' looting tells a differente storey!"

The pylgrims cryed in sorrowe and fear,

"No drop of pitey, for alle us here?

Poor wretched pylgrims that you blayme,

We onley dide as you dide same!

We thanked Fortune and her false wheel,

But nowe your axe, on head we feel!"

"But wretch, who weep and wayl thus,

We came for harvest, not for fusse!"

The Queene tryed to reasoun with bandyt-secound,

But withe he's great hounger she had not reckouned.

Fulle filled of ire and of iniquitey,

The Kyng stoode talle agaynst tyranny.

The first bandyt turned, and axes felle,

The Kyng, was slaine; dropp'd een a well.

T'other bandyt strucke the Queene, fulle-force,

And laugh'd aloude as she fellen frome horse.

While the lumbering wudland hoodes

Touk backe alle theyr stoulen goodes,

The laste three pylgrims fourght hard and longe,

Bothe warbands sang a bitter songe.

The tyde did turne and a pylgrim felle,

But soon did grot droppe dead as well.

The bandyts sought to ende this storey,

Of slaughtered Kyng and fallen glorey.

They rushed and wrourght in full-borne rayge,

Whych soon crossed pylgrims offe the payge.

When at laste onley Moldforth survived,

(I mencioned heem, when first arryved)

The bandyts boasted loude and oft,

They helde bits of half-eaten foe aloft.

All pageantrey and glorey ended

The court's injureys could not be mended.

Withe brouken heart, he heared them spake,

It seemed to heem he's heart would break.

So desperate last ploye Moldforth hadde,

He stolen their lunch, to mayke them sadde.

And wythout a word, wythout more delay,

The Jester did runne: he got away.

+++

(Apologies to Geoffrey Chaucer)

Viktor was back in Manchester for a week over Halloween, so we met up in a cafe near my office and played our nearly-traditional Halloween themed game. We played Scattered Spoils, from the first introduction of Bladeborn to Warcry in White Dwarf 477. The 3 Battleplans in that issue are designed for small warbands, of around 500 to 600 points. Perfect for a game squeezed into a short time!

It was a lot of fun! Even if I was completely slaughtered by a combination of picking a terrible list and Viktor's amazing attack rolls.