Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)Mathias Wolfbane, a warrior from Nesme and fairly well-known sword-for-hire, found himself in what was no doubt the most embaressing situation he could imagine. His life was endangered by goblins, of all things. Three days ago, he had hired on with a small caravan of wagons making the long journey to the southern villages, transporting supplies and other items to sell to the isolated communities found there. It was hardly heroic work, true, nothing that would get his name in any songs, but at the same time it provided food and coin for a man who was in sore need of both. Truly exciting work was few and far between these days, even for a skilled swordsman such as himself, and often these minor tasks were the only thing that put food in his belly. So he had settled to the prospect of a dull, uneventful journey, perhaps broken only by the occasional highwayman.
But ten minutes ago, his wagon had stumbled upon a nest of goblins... a rather sizable one, at that, as the little bastards seemed to pour from almost every crevice in sight, bearing crude spears, clubs and stone hatchets. Almost immediately, Mathias and the other four guards had fallen into a defensive circle near the wagon, well-trained and enough of a threat to cut through the crowd like a hot knife through butter. But there always seemed to be more goblins, and even after the wretched things were filling the narrow trail with their corpses, the others just kept on coming.
"C'mon, men, let's not let these gobs think they're a step above vermin!" Mathias called, deflecting a clumsy club swing with his curved sword and countering with his dagger, tearing the goblin's throat open with the backhand. Even as that one fell with a gurgling cry, however, two more were ready to take its place, and despite the warrior's confident words, he was beginning to slow down; his arms ached with the effort of constant battle, and his arms were covered in small scrapes and gouges from where a lucky spear or hatched got through. Under his chainmail, half of his body felt bruised from the constant thud of clubs, and many times it was his training alone that fended off their numbers. His hair, brown and cropped close to his head, glistened with beads of sweat as his blue eyes blinked rapidly, trying to keep any of that persperation from blinding him. With every passing moment, things seemed to be growing all the more dire.
There was still a chance, however; his was only the first wagon of the caravan. The other was supposed to be mere minutes away, having been delayed by a stuck wheel, and with that second wagon were more guards, soldiers who would (gods willing,) be fresh and ready to help dispatch of the rest.
But ten minutes ago, his wagon had stumbled upon a nest of goblins... a rather sizable one, at that, as the little bastards seemed to pour from almost every crevice in sight, bearing crude spears, clubs and stone hatchets. Almost immediately, Mathias and the other four guards had fallen into a defensive circle near the wagon, well-trained and enough of a threat to cut through the crowd like a hot knife through butter. But there always seemed to be more goblins, and even after the wretched things were filling the narrow trail with their corpses, the others just kept on coming.
"C'mon, men, let's not let these gobs think they're a step above vermin!" Mathias called, deflecting a clumsy club swing with his curved sword and countering with his dagger, tearing the goblin's throat open with the backhand. Even as that one fell with a gurgling cry, however, two more were ready to take its place, and despite the warrior's confident words, he was beginning to slow down; his arms ached with the effort of constant battle, and his arms were covered in small scrapes and gouges from where a lucky spear or hatched got through. Under his chainmail, half of his body felt bruised from the constant thud of clubs, and many times it was his training alone that fended off their numbers. His hair, brown and cropped close to his head, glistened with beads of sweat as his blue eyes blinked rapidly, trying to keep any of that persperation from blinding him. With every passing moment, things seemed to be growing all the more dire.
There was still a chance, however; his was only the first wagon of the caravan. The other was supposed to be mere minutes away, having been delayed by a stuck wheel, and with that second wagon were more guards, soldiers who would (gods willing,) be fresh and ready to help dispatch of the rest.
