On Wings of Terror
Seventeenth of Olweje-hamba (Olweje Descendent), 1349 A. L. (After Landfall)
The charge is a sudden savage thing filling the air with howls and screeches, blind in their rush to the snap of arrows and the raising of spears. It perhaps not blind to judge from the way the arrows snap against hide and fur. But they are not beyond the touch of sorcery subtle and sure. Inge reaches out her hand and from it spin strands of bon white webbing. One wolf, then another is snared in it... but another three rush on from the front, two from the left and one lone wolf from the right. Fire roars around them and one more is snared in f web of flame but the last of the pair charge you.
The first one barrels through Silver's legs, tripping him, and the second one leaps on you, trying to hurl you from the saddle... A stumbling charge is still a charge and between the two of you Durendal's blade hisses through the air and finds the back of the lead wolf, cutting through fur, sinew and flesh, scoring bone.
For his part Wanderer does not bother with the weapon. He grabs hold of the wolf with all the stout strength of his kindred and
hurls them back into the burning tar where they stick firm.
That still leaves the wolves on your left flank where men have to hold them off with naught but spears and courage, but Tom is there, shouting advice and encouragement to the men as well as some of the most prodigious swearing you heard in your life at the wolves.
"Hold them! Hold them fast!" Again and again the call goes out. Against the snapping jaws and fury of the two skins it's only the leverage of the spears and the heft of the shields that holds firm.
Still hold they do, long enough at least for you to wheel in from the side. You do not have the time to be anything but swift with your sword, swift and deadly. One of the wolves is practically split in two by blow after blow from Durendal and Wanderer's warclub alike.
As howls of fury turn to barks of pain, perhaps of fear you dare to hope that the pack might break soon, but then on the wind you hear a long screech unlike that of any beast you had seen or heard of. A blackness passes before the face of the moon, a tattered thing that should not be... and yet it is. Though its head is that of a wolf, no different from the ones you faced, its had a body
twisted onto that of a bat grown monstrously huge.
Diving low the thing opens its mouth though not to bite and tear but to scream. The sound seems to pierce the ear and strike the heart, driving many of the men of Hengo's party which before had been if not bold than at least willing to let you do the fighting, into a mad panic, scattering hither and yon across from the hill and onto the plains.
The men of the Fellowship, you note with the moment's pride you can afford to take, had not bee overcome, but now the question is upon you, do you try to rally or continue to fight where it seems Durendal is the most feared weapon on the field.
What do you do?
[] Try to break the remaining wolves
[] Try to rally the scattered riders
[] Write in
OOC: Well Wanderer certainly earned that level up this update. It is not often that a barbarian in the middle of a rage is clever about how they fight, but he was this time around.