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.

The Court of Spades, part 9

Thornwing, the Knyght

A KNYGHT ther was, and that a worthy man,

That fro the tyme that he first bigan

To riden out, he loved chivalrie,

Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisie.

Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre,

And therto hadde he riden, no man ferre

Spleenford, the Squier

With hym ther was his sone, a yong SQUIER,

A lovyere and a lusty bacheler;

With lokkes crulle, as they were leyd in presse.

Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse.

Of his stature he was of evene lengthe,

And wonderly delyvere, and of greet strengthe.

+++

Gloomston, the Pardoner (WIP)

With hym ther rood a gentil PARDONER

Of Gloomston, his freend and his compeer,

That streight was comen fro the court of spades.

His walet lay biforn hym in his lappe

Bretful of pardoun come from Kyng al hoot.

A voys he hadde as smal as hath a goot.

Ne was ther swich another pardoner;

For in his male he hadde a pilwe-beer,

Which that he seyde was Oure Lady veyl:

He seyde he hadde a gobet of the seyl

That a seint hadde, whan that he wente

Upon the see, til Lord Nagash hym hente.

He hadde a bagge of latoun ful of stones,

And in a glas he hadde pigges bones.

But with thise relikes, whan that he fond

A povre persoun dwellyng upon lond,

Upon a day he gat hym moore moneye

Than that the person gat in monthes tweye.

Update: 27th June 2020

Gloomston is finished.

So, for now at least, is the Court of Spades!

The Court of Spades, part 8

The Wortbad Tales

Whan that Ignus with his shoures soote,

The droghte of Huntygn hath perced to the roote,

And bathed every veyne in swich licóur

Of which vertú engendred is the flour;

Whan Hysh eek with his swete breeth

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth

The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne

Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,

And smale foweles maken melodye,

That slepen al the nyght with open ye,

So priketh hem Natúre in hir corages,

Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,

And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,

To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;

And specially, from every shires ende

Of the Harrowmark, to Wortbad they wende,

The hooly blisful martir for to seke,

That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

Bifil that in that seson on a day,

In Gallowmire at the Gryph-hound as I lay,

Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage

To Wortbad with ful devout corage,

At nyght were come into that hostelrye

Wel nyne and twenty in a compaignye

Of sondry folk, by áventure y-falle

In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle,

That toward Wortbad wolden ryde.

The chambres and the stables weren wyde,

And wel we weren esed atte beste.

And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste,

So hadde I spoken with hem everychon,

That I was of hir felaweshipe anon,

And made forward erly for to ryse,

To take oure wey, ther as I yow devyse.

~ ~ ~

(Apologies to Geoffrey Chaucer)

The Grymwatch are such a characterful band of Crypt Ghouls I couldn't resist them. I wanted to make them blend in with the rest of the Grail Pilgrims so they all got greenstuffed rotting fabric robes - some more than others. The paint job was fairly rapid and loose and there a few things I need to tidy up but I'm happy enough with them.

This world nys but a thurghfare ful of wo,

And we been pilgrymes, passynge to and fro;

But deeth nys not the ende of every worldly soore.