Confessions of Childerbert Ingoberger - Session 78
The following account is by Bert; an IC summary of the session played 2020/08/25. I give +1 character point (XP) for those players who submit a summary for me to post here on the blog.
The usual disclaimer about the intelligibility of Bert's regional accent applies.
The usual disclaimer about the intelligibility of Bert's regional accent applies.
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Confessions of Childerbert Ingoberger, the Survivor
So thar oi lay, flat on moi back 'neath the noon day sun, sprawled out fer the crows loike a corpse feast. Oi kept moi oiyes closed, feigning death in the sloight ope that the vulgar wouldn’t slay moi on the ground. But oi opened moi ears, and, through the pain o’ moi wound (oi reckon the starb term oi back muta just grazed along twin the rib, not strikin’ ‘ome none ter any organs none) oi felt ‘sif oi rose out o’ moisel’, an’ floated o’er the battlefield, seeing it all much as loike reckon the Lady does, ‘ole (oi says ole, coz twere at a queer angle tha’ ne’er changed, an’ oi were at the opposite corner o’ the field fram whar oi lay: an’ as the actors skittered across the field twas’ if they moved faster an’ slower, sometoimes obscuring moi view, an sometoimes not.
Oi reckont moi toime war up, our foe war ruthless an’ savage, these vulgars’d razed kingdoms. Oi knew a passing one would test’s sword on moi in’n ‘eartbeat. But, oi didn’t never not regret none moi fate: thoi needed ter be fought, an’ ‘ere, at the Battle o’ the Gianter’s Field thoi’d larn what Ioscans united ‘gin tham could do. Whan it comes ter the Vulgers, if you tolderate this, then your children will be next, will be next will be next! An’ if oi can sling conies, oi can sling vulgars.
So loike some lantern show at the seeside, oi saw Darvin lifting the prostrate form o’ Sailor wi’s spooky, Miaoee shootin’ inter th’air and Whyfore as solid as a statue, still an’ waitin’ fer the next charge. Jankins narrowly avoided being struck, as ‘e found isself, loike me, isolated an’surrounded: lucky boi ‘ee is. With great precision, Whyfore and Miaoee each added to the awful rollcall o’ thar victims, thar swords loike sewing needles, drawing out the awful death rattles o’ thar enemies, Whyfore adding ter the growing pile o’ corpses at’s feet, a bloodsoaked statue of steel, ‘I sword dripping ichor as he remorselessly killed each vulgar as it approached.
The cavalry circled round us, an’ the poor gianter – we ne’er learnt the poor doomed soul’s noime – bemoaned’s fate declaring it ‘opeless as vulgar after vulgar ‘acked at ‘im. Oi think the despair musta touched Miaoee’s sould “Whyfore, soive moi friends!” Soi croid as she flew straight inter the ‘eart o’ the squadron, desperately an’ squarely seeking oot the be’orned leader on’s wicked looking cheval. Oi wuz ‘eart sick at this despair, woi’d come seeking fortune an’ glory and what woi larnt wuz culture sucks down words, oitemise loathing and feed yourself smiles, organoise your safe tribal war, ‘urt maim kill and ensloive the ghetto, each day living out a lie, loife sold cheaply forever, ever, ever, under neon loneliness sedan chair emptiness.
Darvin war flinging out’soice shards, but missed an’ so failed ter save Jenkins. Whyfore kept slaying, but wuz becoming surrounded, adding a mountain o’ foes around ‘im ter the mountain o’ foes on the floor. The leader, loike the cur ‘ee were, troid ter ‘scape the justice o’ Miaowee’s steeled stabbings, but shoi persued ‘im, stabbing as ‘ee rode. Oi ‘eard the thuds o’ ‘er sword strikin’ – and piercing’s armour toime arter toime, till ‘ee gave an unearthly groan, it seemed term oi, an’ slumped in’s saddle no longer in control o’s ‘orse, which skittered round the battlefield till ‘ee fell off quoite dead.
The unnamed gianter doid. Oi don’t want ter say more o that, but must. In’s passin’ ‘ee fell an’ crushed one o’ the cavalrymen and’s ‘orse. Woi failed, as a pack o’ vulgers began ter butcher ‘im on the floor. Twas loike the sound o’ woodcutters at thar work, ‘acking and a thwacking, as’ thoi laid remorselessly inter’s form o the ground.
Our wizard war still tryin’ ter ‘elp’s companions: ‘is oice struck a vulgar intent upon slayin’ Worrying on the floor. But at this point Jenkin’s luck ran oot, an’ ‘ee took a grievous wound which sent ‘im ter the floor, anotherone o’ ours on the ground fer the butchers ter work ‘pon. In the melee, a vulgar came close ter coup de gracing Worrying, but Darvin used’s spooky ter move ‘im ter safety, at great cost, oi ‘eard the pain that caused ‘im as ‘ee used’s ow loife blood ter fuel the margick. ‘Ee than avenged ‘isself on Jenkins’ attacker wi’ ice shard.
Whyfore thrust wi’ speed an’ precision, bringing one o’s foes down fram’s ‘orses, and then stepped wi’ dread resolution ‘tween ‘is foes, foighting wi’out fear nor reserve, ‘acking one down than ‘nother. ‘Is armour repeatedly saved ‘is loife as ‘ee war surrounded an’ ‘acked fram all soides. But the result o’ the foes foul treachery war just more bodies on the poile an’ more smell o’ blood an’ opened bowels: ichor an’ shit is the smell o’ Whyfore’s warld. “For Tuscany” ‘ee cried, in that way o’s as ‘ee slew.
Miaowee ‘erself war surrounded boi ‘orsesmen, a’ shoi bravely flew a slashin’ a a stabbin’ betwixt ‘em. It wuz intevitable that one would get ‘is spear inter ‘er soide. Oi ‘eard the impact, an’ oi felt ‘er pain, but she fought on, wi’ greater resolution, till all the rider’s round ‘er came crashing wi’ sickening loifeless thuds ter the ground as thoi lost thar mounts and thar loives.
Oi opened moi oiyes, one war coming ter polishmoi off. Oi remembered moi training, an’ waited tell the last second ter adopt the open guard, use moi foe being off balance ter attack a target on the ground, but the pain in moi ribs meant oi couldn’t evade’s blow properly ter mount moi counter attack: agony passed through moi as the blade o’ axe bit inter moi shoulder. Oi stared up, dumb, expecting a second blow, but all oisaw wuz a sword spearing through’s foot from behind, followed boi one that went straight through’s torso. Miaowee’d flown across the field ter save moi. The bastard gurgled as ‘ee slumped ter the floor.
Oi thought, this is the Lady’s doing. Oh, moi Lady, you loves us. You love us. You love us. You love us. You love us. You love.
The cavalry war retreating, an’ all the footmen slain. Oi lay in a stupor on the ground o’ the Battler o’ the Gianters Field, as the crows circled o’er the cadaver strewn floor ter be rewarded fer thar patience this day. Darvin chucked bomsb an’ ice shards at the fleeing cowards on thar ‘orses.
Miaowee war desparate, an’ shoi ran off ter recover Worrying an’ Jenkins: both sorely wounded, like moi, but yet living. Whyfore ‘ad barely taken a scratch, an’ barely seemed ter ‘ave worked up a sweat. ‘Ee persduaded Miaowee ter run ter the last farm we’d parsed ter fetch ‘elp (oi feared the escaped cavalrymen would go fer reinforcements, woi’d not escape a second battle). She war reluctant ter leave us, but ‘ventually ‘greed ter go, and scarpered orff.
Whoile she war gone, arfter resting a whoiles, Whyfore began the grim task of despatching the wounded o’ our foes. A grim task, oi, woll, oi know thoi’d a’ slain moi on the ground, but we shouldn’t not oughtn’t not bain’t not loike thoi. Mercy, the Lady loves mercy, an’ the Lady loves what shoi loives an’ so she should: loike cony kits an’ thar does. Oi wept a little, as much as fer moi as fer tham: loives snuffed out fer what and could ‘a done what? The vulgar don’t ‘ave ter be vulgar.
Than Darvin an’ ‘ee laid out the gianter, respectful loike, an than began ter search the corpses o’ the fallen foes (very inexpertly, if’n ye arsk moi). What thoi did foind wuz that the Vulgar ‘ad these tattoos o’ speary stars wi’ eight points on ‘em, but the tattooes varied, as did the design o’ thar ‘elmuts. Darvin theorised thoi belonged to different but allied troibes.
Oi wuz powerful ‘ungry an’ thirsty, an’ wondered if’n thoi ‘ad any food nor drink.
‘Ventually, Miaowee returned wi’ a couple o villagers wi’ ox carts ter ‘elp those of us oo couldn’t stand (that is, most o’ us) ter the nearest inn. Miaowee’d dickered wi’em fer them ter ‘ave the loot fram the field – bunch o’ stor crows that thoi war, demanding fee ter ‘elp those’d gi’en loife’s blood protecting thar larnd.
So, woi left the Gianters Field, littered wi’ carrion an’ corbies. A place whar eight’d stood ‘gainst one an’ alf score fiersome warriors and ‘orsemen an’ prevailed. But at what cost, oi wondered. Whut wuz the Gianters secret, whoi ‘ad thoi lost the battle boi concentrating all thar forces on killin’ ‘im?
Woi need ter think, and decide what ter do next. Is field arfter field of murders o’ corbies the coming fate of Ioscany? Still, the Lady wants us ter live. Oi try to walk in a straight loine, an imitation of dignity, fram despair to whar? Fram despair to whar?
Oi reckont moi toime war up, our foe war ruthless an’ savage, these vulgars’d razed kingdoms. Oi knew a passing one would test’s sword on moi in’n ‘eartbeat. But, oi didn’t never not regret none moi fate: thoi needed ter be fought, an’ ‘ere, at the Battle o’ the Gianter’s Field thoi’d larn what Ioscans united ‘gin tham could do. Whan it comes ter the Vulgers, if you tolderate this, then your children will be next, will be next will be next! An’ if oi can sling conies, oi can sling vulgars.
So loike some lantern show at the seeside, oi saw Darvin lifting the prostrate form o’ Sailor wi’s spooky, Miaoee shootin’ inter th’air and Whyfore as solid as a statue, still an’ waitin’ fer the next charge. Jankins narrowly avoided being struck, as ‘e found isself, loike me, isolated an’surrounded: lucky boi ‘ee is. With great precision, Whyfore and Miaoee each added to the awful rollcall o’ thar victims, thar swords loike sewing needles, drawing out the awful death rattles o’ thar enemies, Whyfore adding ter the growing pile o’ corpses at’s feet, a bloodsoaked statue of steel, ‘I sword dripping ichor as he remorselessly killed each vulgar as it approached.
The cavalry circled round us, an’ the poor gianter – we ne’er learnt the poor doomed soul’s noime – bemoaned’s fate declaring it ‘opeless as vulgar after vulgar ‘acked at ‘im. Oi think the despair musta touched Miaoee’s sould “Whyfore, soive moi friends!” Soi croid as she flew straight inter the ‘eart o’ the squadron, desperately an’ squarely seeking oot the be’orned leader on’s wicked looking cheval. Oi wuz ‘eart sick at this despair, woi’d come seeking fortune an’ glory and what woi larnt wuz culture sucks down words, oitemise loathing and feed yourself smiles, organoise your safe tribal war, ‘urt maim kill and ensloive the ghetto, each day living out a lie, loife sold cheaply forever, ever, ever, under neon loneliness sedan chair emptiness.
Darvin war flinging out’soice shards, but missed an’ so failed ter save Jenkins. Whyfore kept slaying, but wuz becoming surrounded, adding a mountain o’ foes around ‘im ter the mountain o’ foes on the floor. The leader, loike the cur ‘ee were, troid ter ‘scape the justice o’ Miaowee’s steeled stabbings, but shoi persued ‘im, stabbing as ‘ee rode. Oi ‘eard the thuds o’ ‘er sword strikin’ – and piercing’s armour toime arter toime, till ‘ee gave an unearthly groan, it seemed term oi, an’ slumped in’s saddle no longer in control o’s ‘orse, which skittered round the battlefield till ‘ee fell off quoite dead.
The unnamed gianter doid. Oi don’t want ter say more o that, but must. In’s passin’ ‘ee fell an’ crushed one o’ the cavalrymen and’s ‘orse. Woi failed, as a pack o’ vulgers began ter butcher ‘im on the floor. Twas loike the sound o’ woodcutters at thar work, ‘acking and a thwacking, as’ thoi laid remorselessly inter’s form o the ground.
Our wizard war still tryin’ ter ‘elp’s companions: ‘is oice struck a vulgar intent upon slayin’ Worrying on the floor. But at this point Jenkin’s luck ran oot, an’ ‘ee took a grievous wound which sent ‘im ter the floor, anotherone o’ ours on the ground fer the butchers ter work ‘pon. In the melee, a vulgar came close ter coup de gracing Worrying, but Darvin used’s spooky ter move ‘im ter safety, at great cost, oi ‘eard the pain that caused ‘im as ‘ee used’s ow loife blood ter fuel the margick. ‘Ee than avenged ‘isself on Jenkins’ attacker wi’ ice shard.
Whyfore thrust wi’ speed an’ precision, bringing one o’s foes down fram’s ‘orses, and then stepped wi’ dread resolution ‘tween ‘is foes, foighting wi’out fear nor reserve, ‘acking one down than ‘nother. ‘Is armour repeatedly saved ‘is loife as ‘ee war surrounded an’ ‘acked fram all soides. But the result o’ the foes foul treachery war just more bodies on the poile an’ more smell o’ blood an’ opened bowels: ichor an’ shit is the smell o’ Whyfore’s warld. “For Tuscany” ‘ee cried, in that way o’s as ‘ee slew.
Miaowee ‘erself war surrounded boi ‘orsesmen, a’ shoi bravely flew a slashin’ a a stabbin’ betwixt ‘em. It wuz intevitable that one would get ‘is spear inter ‘er soide. Oi ‘eard the impact, an’ oi felt ‘er pain, but she fought on, wi’ greater resolution, till all the rider’s round ‘er came crashing wi’ sickening loifeless thuds ter the ground as thoi lost thar mounts and thar loives.
Oi opened moi oiyes, one war coming ter polishmoi off. Oi remembered moi training, an’ waited tell the last second ter adopt the open guard, use moi foe being off balance ter attack a target on the ground, but the pain in moi ribs meant oi couldn’t evade’s blow properly ter mount moi counter attack: agony passed through moi as the blade o’ axe bit inter moi shoulder. Oi stared up, dumb, expecting a second blow, but all oisaw wuz a sword spearing through’s foot from behind, followed boi one that went straight through’s torso. Miaowee’d flown across the field ter save moi. The bastard gurgled as ‘ee slumped ter the floor.
Oi thought, this is the Lady’s doing. Oh, moi Lady, you loves us. You love us. You love us. You love us. You love us. You love.
The cavalry war retreating, an’ all the footmen slain. Oi lay in a stupor on the ground o’ the Battler o’ the Gianters Field, as the crows circled o’er the cadaver strewn floor ter be rewarded fer thar patience this day. Darvin chucked bomsb an’ ice shards at the fleeing cowards on thar ‘orses.
Miaowee war desparate, an’ shoi ran off ter recover Worrying an’ Jenkins: both sorely wounded, like moi, but yet living. Whyfore ‘ad barely taken a scratch, an’ barely seemed ter ‘ave worked up a sweat. ‘Ee persduaded Miaowee ter run ter the last farm we’d parsed ter fetch ‘elp (oi feared the escaped cavalrymen would go fer reinforcements, woi’d not escape a second battle). She war reluctant ter leave us, but ‘ventually ‘greed ter go, and scarpered orff.
Whoile she war gone, arfter resting a whoiles, Whyfore began the grim task of despatching the wounded o’ our foes. A grim task, oi, woll, oi know thoi’d a’ slain moi on the ground, but we shouldn’t not oughtn’t not bain’t not loike thoi. Mercy, the Lady loves mercy, an’ the Lady loves what shoi loives an’ so she should: loike cony kits an’ thar does. Oi wept a little, as much as fer moi as fer tham: loives snuffed out fer what and could ‘a done what? The vulgar don’t ‘ave ter be vulgar.
Than Darvin an’ ‘ee laid out the gianter, respectful loike, an than began ter search the corpses o’ the fallen foes (very inexpertly, if’n ye arsk moi). What thoi did foind wuz that the Vulgar ‘ad these tattoos o’ speary stars wi’ eight points on ‘em, but the tattooes varied, as did the design o’ thar ‘elmuts. Darvin theorised thoi belonged to different but allied troibes.
Oi wuz powerful ‘ungry an’ thirsty, an’ wondered if’n thoi ‘ad any food nor drink.
‘Ventually, Miaowee returned wi’ a couple o villagers wi’ ox carts ter ‘elp those of us oo couldn’t stand (that is, most o’ us) ter the nearest inn. Miaowee’d dickered wi’em fer them ter ‘ave the loot fram the field – bunch o’ stor crows that thoi war, demanding fee ter ‘elp those’d gi’en loife’s blood protecting thar larnd.
So, woi left the Gianters Field, littered wi’ carrion an’ corbies. A place whar eight’d stood ‘gainst one an’ alf score fiersome warriors and ‘orsemen an’ prevailed. But at what cost, oi wondered. Whut wuz the Gianters secret, whoi ‘ad thoi lost the battle boi concentrating all thar forces on killin’ ‘im?
Woi need ter think, and decide what ter do next. Is field arfter field of murders o’ corbies the coming fate of Ioscany? Still, the Lady wants us ter live. Oi try to walk in a straight loine, an imitation of dignity, fram despair to whar? Fram despair to whar?
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