It stomped its hooves and ripped at Christof’s chest, tusks inches from Christof’s face. The beast snarled a blast of hot, foul breath in frustration as it realised that it had charged, open-mouthed, right into the tent spike.
The boar toppled Christof and gored his right shoulder. He faced the beast and lowered the toward its onrushing jaws. Christof crouched low, planted the butt end of the spike in the ground and braced against it. The boar snorted with rage, stomped the grass and charged Christof, determined to punish this act of defiance. Satisfied that Christof no longer defied him, the boar returned his attention to the squalling child.Ĭhristof grabbed a sharpened tent pole from the hut and approached the child. Christof quickly stepped sideways, toward a hut, narrowly evading the creature. It charged in Christof’s direction, testing the lone, impudent creature who did not fly from his wrath. Then it noticed Christof, now very alone on the green. It snorted with satisfaction and lowered its yellowed tusks to charge the screaming child again. The massive pig wheeled to survey the damage it had done. But the crimson cross across the chest was still as bright and proud as the day he first wore it. The white cloth over his mail hauberk was torn in many places and streaked with dull, brown dried blood. His armour was battered and in need of repair. He rubbed his eyes with a mailed fist, wiping away rust and sweat mingled with the grit of the road.
The cold night air lashed his long, brown hair, which was matted and dripping wet. He pulled off his heavy, battered helmet and let it clatter to the ground. All was quiet, except for a few unarmoured serfs who scurried about the camp, hauling sacks of grain, digging a shallow cesspit and preparing for the morning meal.įor the first time that day, Christof felt safe. Even some of the watch dozed fitfully at their posts. Most of the Crusaders slumbered, bone-weary from the day’s forced march. A dozen watch-fires glowed reassuringly around the perimeter, warding off the terrors of the night. From his perch he could see the entire Crusader camp etched in cold moonlight. But there were no private chambers in the wastelands of Moravia, so the desolate, windswept hilltop would have to suffice.Ĭhristof paused at the peak of the hill and looked down. The Saviour had decreed that Christians pray alone, in their private chambers, and Christof had diligently followed that stricture every day since childhood. Friar Bertrand’s energetic orations against the barbarians were stirring, but his perfunctory prayers gave little consolation to the eighteen-year-old Crusader. Sir Cuthbert had reluctantly allowed them to stop only when nightfall made further travel impossible.Īfter pitching their tents, the Crusaders gratefully collapsed onto their straw mats. The Crusaders of the Order of the Swordbrethren had been on a forced march since dawn, chasing the faster, lighterarmoured barbarians. But he had not prayed all day and would not let his body collapse until he had done so. His limbs ached as they never had before and cried out for rest. The night wind cut through his battered armour, chilling his overheated body. Ī sliver of moon broke through the grey clouds as Christof reached the top of the hill. Storytelling a Multiplayer Game.Ĭ HAPTER S IX: T HE W ORLD OF. The Haven and Character Creation.Ĭreating A New Character. E QUIPMENTĮnemies.Įquipment and Treasure. Installing Vampire: The Masquerade Redemption.