Rolled 11, 12, 1 - 1 = 23 (3d20 - 1)
Amusing as this afternoon has been, your work is not yet done – you must intervene once more to enforce the wishes of the gods. Fortunately, you have just the idea!
You leap nimbly down from the rocky outcrop on the ridge, from which you’d observed the battle. Your movements are noted immediately – as a giant, with a triple-tiered snowy crest, you naturally catch the eye. You make a show of planting your spear into a loose patch of dirt – you use the arm-brackets of your shield to hang it from the now-planted shield, and furthermore, place your helm on top of the assembly. You have little to fear from these idiot Phocians, and so this partial disarmament is without risk. Of course, you retain your bronze blade – sheathed in your war-belt – and your stunners, dangling within a leather bag attached to the same.
Unarmed and unhelmeted, with your black beard flowing freely across your chestplate, you stand some thirty paces from Sabas and salute him:
“Hail Sabas, king of Siciunt!” you roar, playing to the audience of soldiers. Sabas – clearly eager to take advantage of this recognition, beats a fist against his chest and returns your salute. You jog closer to Sabas’ position, in no particular hurry, as Sabas’ men continue to vaunt their victory – Hyperenor’s troops, on the other side of the ridge, have drawn together, shields raised – clearly, they are unsure of how this new king might treat them.
You note that Sabas bends low to collect Hyperenor’s kopis – he waves it high in the air and it shines brilliantly, catching the light of the setting sun – a flame of legitimate greed ignites in your core. You can honestly say that in your years as a soldier, you have never come across a blade of divine manufacture – the stuff of legends!
<span class="mu-i">To leave such a weapon in the hands of hillmen would be a crime unto itself,</span> you think, as you approach Sabas.
Sabas is not a fool; he has clearly not forgotten his earlier rage. You note that he keeps the kopis in his right hand; you plaster a broad grin across your bare face.
“Sabas – well done!” you begin in warm tones, as you slow your pace to a walk, just a few strides distant. Your eyes flicker over his face – sweaty, drawn - and to the point of the kopis, floating in your direction.
“Hundreds here have seen your deeds - none can question that you earned the kingship! And even better – none can question that Hyperenor’s accusations of kinslaying are entirely without merit – the gods of Olympus have decided that you win the day! And what conduct in the fight itself – two decisive strikes were enough to send your treasonous cousin to the realm of the Lord of Many!" You glance down-ridge Hyperenor's men are still huddled - some forty paces distant.
You keep up your blather - with luck, the man will be too glory-blind to see the danger...
>roll me THREE dice+1d20+3 for Hippo's deception attempt!
>I'll be rolling for Sabas at a -1 context penalty