Quoted By:
Your expectations are inverted the following morning - it is you who intercepts! The dusty trail you had been riding upon becomes hard-packed, tramped down recently by the feet of many men. A soldier’s march, beyond any doubt. Passing over a fold in the rolling hills, you come across the source:
Two camps of soldiers sit at opposite ends of a narrow and steep ridge; the closer one with banners of gray and the farther one with banners of green. Your general’s eye reveals poor discipline, even at this distance - the layout of each camp are disorganized, and campfires and men dot each the camps in no particular arrangement. You note that each camp has a single larger tent of better construction - by your estimate, the gray-bannered force has some six hundred men, and the green-bannered one slightly more, perhaps seven hundred. You note that at least some of the soldiers in each camp are without spears or bows - making them slingers, in all likelihood. These have mostly fallen out of favor in the Peloponnese, given their lack of effectiveness against men in good linothorax and hide shields, but represent a significant threat to an unarmored force.
You see the issue at once - the ridge itself is so narrow that men could only cross perhaps twenty abreast, effectively a land-bridge. It would be a bloody process to batter through, and ranged troops on either side would be firing on the struggle as well – given the poor equipment on both sides, the slingers would likely wreak havoc. Given that neither force appears to be terribly disciplined, the outcome of the battle would be unclear at best. You expect that the stand-off might persist for days, until one of the commanders decides to risk it, or flee the field entirely.
Your presence, a giant in gleaming bronze (complete with white crest!) astride a chariot, atop the overlook, does not go unnoticed - shouts of alarm are raised in the gray-bannered camp, mirrored by those in their counterpart. In a few seconds more, you note a pair of messengers flying up the trail to your location - the one from the green-bannered camp holding aloft a branch aloft and sprinting through the gray bannered-camp without resistance (proving, at least for now, that these two warring groups are capable of honest conduct).
The two Phocians arrive nearly simultaneously, and breathlessly inquire as to your identity with their drawled accents, which you share to their mutual shock. You garner from your brief discussion with them that you have stumbled across one of the petty wars that plague Phocis - two quarreling cousins, Sabas and Hyperenor, who have each claimed the same minor throne – Siciunt, to the east. Suffice it to say – you’ve never heard of the place.
>cont
see scenario map - the red line is the trail that Hippomedon was planning on following.
