>>5919723 >>5919736 >>5919739 >>5919749 >>5919769 >>5919921 >>5919941 >>5920207>You pick up a weapon and join the frayThe blind rush of men about you emboldens you once more and you seek madly for a weapon so that you may join them. Your eye catches the glint of steel: the sword of the horsemen whom you fell, half-buried in the dust. You dash towards it and seize it by the hilt. It's far lighter than you expected, nor all that sharp, but it is wonderfully well-balanced. You grip the blade in both hands, bringing the pommel toward your stomach, the blade pointing outward, and you run full-speed at the enemy.
The movement of the horses have summoned great clouds of dust which now obscure everything, friend and foe alike. The enemy cavalry, unused to the loss of liberty (of any kind), quickly descend into panic. Those who manage to escape the dust are quickly chased down by the Baron's cavalry and tilted. A few are so turned around that they find themselves again in the midst of the mercenaries, who, working in small groups of three and four, succeed in pulling them down from their horses and battering them into submission.
One of these unlucky equestrians manages to squeeze himself from under the pile only to come face to face with you. He lifts his visor briefly to wipe sweat from his eyes, revealing a cherubic countenance not yet lined by the furrows of battle or years. He must be a squire recently knighted, perhaps a nephew or cousin of the opposing baron. Whatever he is, he will not yield without a fight, and draws a sword of his own.
>Roll 2d6 