Chapter One: In Which Tragedy Strikes

Beastmen brayed in their hundreds, roaring in triumph as they devoured

their kill. The smaller ungors, goat headed abominations of man, consumed the least,
leaving the best pickings to the larger gors. The slain peasants were being consumed,
blood flowing freely as the twisted parodies of men gorged on the fallen. Thatched roofs
and cheaply made wooden walls burnt in the night.
The charge of the ungors had gone well. They had overrun the petty defenses of
the small village quickly. Small knots of men-at-arms were slaughtered where they
stood, the beastmen hacking them down with a savage joy. A group of archers had
managed a last ditch defense though. They rained steel-tipped death down on the
beastmen, killing scores with each volley. Even with this pace, it was impossible for the
defenders to claim victory. For every ungor killed, ten charged to take its place. Soon all
the defenders had been slain. Every peasant in the village was gathered up and killed
for the glory of the Chaos gods. With the slaying done, the beastmen turned to eating
their foes.
All was not lost though. With his last breath, a dying archer lit a signal fire. Soon,
a regiment of the Knights of the Realm backed by two regiments of Knights Errant
arrived on the outskirts of the village. The veteran Knights of the Realm, recognized the
beastmens savagery in the burnt farmsteads and sacrificed farm animals. The village
proper came into view after the group crested a hill. The sight they saw turned
stomachs and made blood chill in the noble knights veins. It was a senseless slaughter,
one that would be avenged.
The Bretonnian soldiers lined up in ranks. The unwashed peasant masses
formed their battle lines, greasy hands clutching halberds shakingly. Behind them stood
the archers. Though thought little of and cowardly by the knights, the noble warriors
knew their steel rain would be important. As the line was made, yeoman shouted orders
and ensured the low-born militia would stand its ground. Or, at least as long as the
nobles needed them too.
The beastmen were still lounging in an orgy of blood and bodies when the
peasants fired their bows. Arrows arced high into the air, hidden from view by the sun.
Soon, their arc took them to the center of town where they slew dozens of the foul
mutants. Braying in surprise and panic, the ungors seemed ready to break. However,
the stern glare and menacing howls of the gors kept them in line. In moments the
beasts had readied themselves and found the source of the attack.
With their loping strides, the beastmen charged towards the archers. Again and
again the archers fired, killing or wounding many of the beasts. Finally, when the gors
were getting too close, the archers withdrew, allowing the men-at-arms to stand in front.

The gors roared in fury and charged at the regiments of men-at-arms, running
into a wall of halberds and being cut to pieces on the blades. Many made it through
though, and the slaughter began in earnest. Muscular, cloven bodies with ram heads cut
down the men-at-arms, bestial fury more than a match for fragile, malnourished militia.
The slaughter was wearing the men-at-arms down and soon a retreat was sounded. A
sound that couldve been laughter followed the fleeing men as the beastmen followed
them, cutting down those too slow or injured to flee. It was going to be another great
victory for them and their gods.
After the men-at-arms had fled, their less than honorable souls bringing them no
shame in the retreat. Many of them fell in combat with the beastmen before the retreat
began, but that mattered little. There would be more to take their place when it was all
over, and besides, the plan had worked.
The beastmen had massed near the top of the hill, readying themselves to
charge into what they thought was the fleeing men-at-arms. Instead of the cowardly and
ill-equipped men they had fought before, they were met with a wall of Bretonnian
nobility.
Knights Errant charged from the top of the hill, smashing into beastmen like
lightning. Their impetus was not lost after the initial contact, sending the eager knights
straight through the mutants and to the other side. Their weapons and armor were slick
with gore as they wheeled around for another strike. This second charge was helped by
the more experienced knights of the Realm. The older and wiser knights smashed into
the side of the regiments, hacking and slashing them to pieces. Hundreds of the foul
beasts fell to the onslaught, shining Bretonnian death flashing in their midst as they
killed their foe.
As the knights errant waded into combat once more, one knight stood out. He
was the cavalier of the regiment, champion of his comrades. His long, rune etched
sword flashed like blue lighting as he slaughtered the mutants with an almost casual
ease. Dozens fell to his blade, several were run through with his lance, and many had
been crushed under his horses mighty hooves. He killed for honor and for Bretonnia,
and his name was Cecil Falkner.
The leader of the beastmen, a mighty minotaur, saw the carnage being inflicted
by Cecil. Though the beast knew nothing of tactics or the subtlety of war, he knew that
this armored knight had to fall. With a roar of challenge that parted the gors in front of
him, he charged at the knight. As he got close, Cecils attention was elsewhere, parrying
a blow with his sword. The minotaur, known among the now deceased peasants as
Daemonbull, rammed Cecils steed and threw him from it.

Instead of the sluggish response Deamonbull expected from a man so armored,

he was met with Cecils lightning reflexes. In only a heartbeat Cecil was back on his
feet, sword slashing through beastmen as he searched for the minotaur that had
attacked him in so dishonorable a manner. Deamonbull roared again and caught Cecils
attention. He whipped around and the massive minotaur charged.
Deamonbulls horns passed by a hairs breadth of Cecils armor, catching on his
tunic and tearing it from his body. The breastplate underneath was exposed, revealing
potent runes of defense and protection. Again it charged, this time his ax held high as
he ran at his foe. Deamonbull brought the ax down in a brutal slash, the massive blade
being driven by his inhuman might. Cecil brought his sword up in a flash, catching the
ax along its length. Instead of the blade snapping like a twig it held firm. The blow had
dislocated his shoulder and staggering pain made lights dance in front of his eyes, but
he held his ground. Under his breath he cursed the minotaur and readied himself to
strike back.
With a flash of movement that couldnt be followed by the beasts eye, whipped
his sword at the beast. The clumsy minotaur brought his ax up in time, but the thick
wood sheared under the blade. The haft fell in two pieces as Deamonbull fell to his
knees. A river of blood flowed from the chest of the beast and out from his claws as he
tried to stop it with his hands. Cecil pulled his helmet off and stood beside the dying
minotaur.
Deamonbull knew he was dying. The man-thing had a cursed blade and the
wound wouldnt stop bleeding. It was so small an injury, yet it seemed to drain him of his
strength. The man-thing stood at Deamonbulls side and said something in its strange,
flowery language. He roared out a challenge as the last of his breath poured from his
snout.
Die knowing that Cecil Falkner cut you down like the filth you are. Cecil said as
he brought his blade up. With a casual flick of his wounded arm, he decapitated the
minotaur, the eldritch blade carving easily through its neck. Only after the foe had been
killed did he snap his shoulder back into place, grunting with pain as the stars
reappeared.
As he mounted his injured horse to once again to join the fray, he noticed that
during his fight with the massive minotaur the rest of his regiment had slaughtered the
other beastmen. Those that were not ridden down or shot with the peasants bows fled
into the forests.
The Paladin that lead the group rode up to Cecil and lifted his helmet. His
gnarled yet regal features spoke of hundreds of campaigns in the service of the Lady,
goddess of Bretonnia, and he was a man to be respected.

Youve earned your title of Cavalier today young Cecil. You shouldnt have taken
on that minotaur on your own, but good job on slaying it. Such a beast is never easy to
slay and Ill see to it the chroniclers of Bretonnia add it to your standard. It wont be long
before you make it to knight of the realm, mark my words. He said with a gravelly voice.
Thank you my lord, I only wished to avenge the good people of this village.
Though they be of low birth, they dont deserve the horrible death caused by these
beasts. Cecil replied.
The pair rode in silence until they rejoined their groups. Many patted Cecil on the
shoulder and praised him for his prowess in combat. The rank of paladin was surely his
before too long. He took this in stride, gently making his horse walk back towards the
manor he and his family called home. It would be a long nights ride before he made it
back.