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Spear in hand once more, you proceed to slay another two men – neither of them prepared for your spear’s reach or the expert skill in which you wield it. The first dies badly – your spear smashes apart his jaws and throat, leaving a mangled mess behind – a slow end. The second dies better – your spear penetrates his lower gut, and withdrawing, you set loose a great torrent of his life’s blood – such men die so quickly as to nearly avoid the pain of it. With a passing strike of your spear-butt, a third Tegean is brained – he falls senselessly to the ground, although whether he lives still is unclear to you.
You glance to your men and find that to the immediate south, your men are making steady work of the Tegeans – no acts of brilliance from them, they are succeeding once again through cautious and consistent spearwork. The Tegeans, by comparison, are visibly fraying – alternating between rage and terror, they stumble forwards to make uncoordinated spear-thrusts and then stumble back with every counter-stroke. Your honorguard makes excellent use of their limited numbers – constantly picking apart the Tegean line by luring individual soldiers out of position and then bringing them down before they can rejoin their squadron. They make quick work of the enemy in this fashion – another fifteen or so Tegeans are cut down in a matter of a few heartbeats, as you watch.
When the Tegeans break, they attempt to flee in nearly all directions – annoying of them, as they scream and shout their prayers to the Olympians. The racket causes you to wince - perhaps eleven of them are still unwounded enough to run properly, while another four Tegeans hobble, crawl and scrabble away into the grasses like undignified beasts. You cannot let them escape, of course.
<span class="mu-i">”Dorians, cast spears!”</span>, you cry.
Your men quickly oblige, while you gather a few Tegean spears for yourself – you plan to take any who escape, but it ends up not being necessary – your honorguard pick their targets well, and run down the victims who survive their first wounding. Stashing the bodies in the copse off the trail, where you had hidden the horses, is another hurried affair. The blood on the trail will be discovered by sunrise, but the night has only just begun – you still have many hours until Helios Ὑπεριων’s chariot takes flight above the disc of the world once more.
As you make your way southwest, you listen carefully - still, there is the repeating of horns from the various patrols as they head to Pronax's location, but no change in their patterns - you suspect that Pronax has either hidden himself well, or has fled his position, making all speed to the eastern herds. You set your mind to the task of steathily approaching the next watch-tower - your men ride single-file once more, borne upon the backs of Argive stallions...
>okay, /qst/ - I need ONE roll of dice+1d20 - we're taking a spin on the Homeric Happenings table, good luck!
