Welcome to the Round Table of Bretonnia!

The words of the tale came naturally, as Jean-Luc carefully struck each cord in tune to the song. All the while, his eyes travelled over the gathering, as he tried to get a feel of the atmosphere. All tales could change ever so slightly to fit the current mood of the audience. The Men-at-arms listened with a look of remembrance of battles past in their eyes, the peasants always eager to hear tales of heroism and knights listened like children to his words. The wenches seemed to spend more time looking at him and dreaming of what to come. Once again, did he offer himself a proud smile, he knew he did his work well and he hoped that the Lady would approve of his telling of her heroes.

It did seem that the poetic song told were a given success tonight, for all listened, all but one.

Jean-Luc’s eyes focused on that lone hooded figure who sat near the fireplace at the far end of the tavern. The minstrel’s sharp eyes for details quickly picked out the small things, like the untended goblet of wine on the strangers table, the large sword and its intricate design of its scabbard. The glimmer of chain mail under his hooded cloak and the armoured gauntlets that covered his hands, truth be told Jean-Luc could not see a single piece of skin on the figure, nor make out any details of the mans face.

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”Any losses Maurice?” Ferran asked as he looked out over the battlefield. The mist had dispersed, to reveal the remains of the vineyards, now filled with those whom had fallen. Beyond lay the burned down remains of Ville de raisin, now as dead as the enemy host he had just defeated. With a glance down at the withered carcasses of the fallen foe, he realized from where the necromancer had gathered his troops. Now the villagers would have peace at least. The archers wandered around, searching for anything valuable, and even if this alone was to ensure the future for themselves and their families, the act itself brought a frown upon Sir Ferrans face.

”We lost Louie DeCastone and Jean DeGuile. Vile magic withered the flesh from their bones. No armour could have saved them my lord.”  The fellow knight explained as he stood before Ferran and Lady Lucille. Ferran sighed deeply and gave a slight nod towards Maurice; he had known the man for ten years now and knew that the loss of two members of his lance would be hard on the man especially the loss of, young Jean, his brother. Once again, his attention drifted out over the battlefield to count the archers, it was common praxis only to count the dear knights after a battle. Once he was satisfied that none of his own archers had died in the skirmish, he spared himself a moment to look back and learn from what had transpired.

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Back from the grave the enemy stood.
A howl that caused fear emerged from the wood.
Acting as one, the knights they rode forth.
Lances down, as they charged from the north.
Peasants, alone fired their bows.
Upon the fell bats to save them from blows.
From the woods the howl of the Wight.
Brought down one of our beloved Sir Knight
Swinging their blades to save their kin.
The Lady herself ensured them to win.

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