„I loved a girl from Guisoreux, her smile was bright as daaaay, she had a pair of sisters though, and they were pale and graaayy!“
Scraps of the peasants‘ marching song were carried over to Gaulthier, the towering Knight Thrower walking second to last in the gaggle of noblemen leading the Bretonnian travel party. The men were in good spirits, he thought, and the days of relative rest had helped to heal up most bruises and cuts from the beating that their match against the White Isle Orcs had turned into … most.
Roland de Taurebourg winced as his improvised wheeled seat jumped over a field stone poking out from the trail the group was following. The gap between him and the other five nobles grew a few steps and his hands, holding the great Horn of Urus on his lap, balled into fists.
The lush meadows left and right of them swayed in the warm breeze and Henry was pushing him uphill tirelessly. The handles of the chair resembled those of a plow, he thought. Henry had been pushing plows all his life. But Blunt Ball? A game of the mind and fist. A game befitting his liege, not him. Also, the ball wasn‘t blunt at all, it was spiky. Spike Ball is what they should‘ve named it.
They reached the top of the hill and could see that from here on, the trail snaked lazily downwards to a rectangular field with white markings set in between the rolling hills. These places seemed to be strewn all over the White Isle, the grass meticulously scythed down to a thumb‘s length.
„Seems like we‘re early.“ Lyebault shaded his eyes from the sun and searched for movement in the endless sea of grass while Beau de Boeuf headed down towards the pitch markings, followed by a row of knights and squires who now crossed the brow of the hill and started shouting at once at the sight of the white rectangle.
„As big as the maiden shrine in Saint Vidas!“ Perette excitedly piped up and had to hold her hard leather cap to keep it from slipping off her red mane while Guiot claimed his turnip field to be of similar dimensions.
The knights and their entourage gathered at the sideline of the field and started putting on their gear and armour when thundering steps made the Gallants turn their heads. On the hill on the opposite side of the pitch, a dented red helmet atop a broad, brutish face appeared. It was followed by a set of imhumanly large shoulders and beneath them, more red helmets began appearing on the crest of the hill.
„They‘ve tamed an Ogre, Mylord!“ Their opponents, the Humanistas, made their way towards the playing field in a loose group already geared up in bright red jerseys and peculiar looking Helmets. Round and open at the face safe a metal bar ... they weren‘t made for battle, Guy d‘Erguy assessed. The locals seemed to pride themselves in this game and the L‘Anguille Gallants were keen to see how their kind, island dwellers or not, played this game.
~
Lastly, the familiar Orc rule warden rode in on a striped boar. Coin was tossed and the Humanistas took the first offense. After the last commands were yelled, both teams faced off in brooding, tense silence. On the Sideline, something else was brooding: Roland de Taurebourg in his wheeled chair.
His broken hip might‘ve cost his sleep, but being forced to sit still and watch his brethren fight for glory in the Lady‘s name was too much.
„L‘Anguille Gallants brave the Storm!“ He yelled and blew the ancient Horn of Urus. The booming sound travelled across the grassy hills and the Gallants lurched forward as if one. The referee tried interfering with the premature kick off. The ball soared over the equally blindsided Humanistas‘ heads and the referees shouts were swallowed by the noise of the ensuing brawl.
Their hasty advance carried the Gallants‘ counter offense deep into their opponents‘ territory, where a fearful Thrower called for his team mates to fall back. But the Gallants had abstained from riding their horses for days and it showed in their speed. A knightly fist cleared the path towards the ball and seconds later, the latter was headed towards the end zone in the hands of Beau de Boeuf. But they had underestimated the island dwellers, as one latched onto the Grail Knight and a red-helmed Blitzer crashed into him a moment later - the Humanistas had closed in on the Bretonnian ball hawks and a brutal melee broke out.
The tackled Beau fumbled the ball and for a few moments, it bounced off of helmets and shoulder pads, landing right in front of … Henry‘s feet. „Praise be! … Take it, man!“ The giant Gaulthier gasped in disbelief, barely holding off two red shirted linemen, but the peasant looked around nervously, waiting for a knight to fetch the ball and score. „Pick it uup!“ Gaulthier howled as he went down. De Boeuf was wrestling the crimson Blitzer on the ground and others were already reaching for the leather. It was lost … until it suddenly wasn‘t anymore!
A figure broke out of the scuffle, jumping over kicking legs, dodging grabbing hands: Henry stumbled forwards, the ball tightly wedged under his arm. The Humanistas‘ Safety slid in for what would be a brutal sliding tackle but the peasant leapt up to hurdle over his last adversary. He missed his mark though, instead clomping over the latter with his cleated clogs.
Touchdown! The lowborn Henry had scored the Gallants‘ first ever Touchdown!
„Hurdler! Hurdler! Hurdler!“ the peasants started chanting and huddled tightly around him, while his hapless victim was carried off on a stretcher. For the remainder of the first half, L‘Anguille managed to defend it‘s lead successfully. Wine flowed freely in this merriest of half-time breaks and Henry was chosen as the team's new kicker to honor his deed.
But the sun rose high and started burning down mercilessly on the field.
When the Gallants returned to the pitch after the break however, the Humanistas were already lined up and waiting for them. Now on Offense, the Bretonnian host awaited the kick, when the referee blew the starting whistle, their opponents kicked the ball high and immediately pressed forward. In the backfield, Guy and Gaulthier could hardly see the soaring ball against the sun and when they looked down, four opposing players had already crossed the distance and separated them from the rest of their team. On the line of scrimmage, the Ogre proved to be a worthy opponent for the anointed knights, grabbing them by their capes and hurling them through the air. Perette and Gilbert were smashed together and went to the ground shortly thereafter. The island dwellers beat the Bretonnians in their own game and showed what their peculiar armour was suited for: their quick counter offense successfully captured the ball before the Throwers of L‘Anguille could get ahold of it. A few moments later, the referee‘s whistle had the Gallants turn their head in disbelief.
Touchdown! The islanders loudly celebrated their quick-footed sackers and with that, the score was even again.
„M-Mylord, Perette and Gilbert still haven‘t regained consciousness … and Bernard‘s b-boiled...“
„Boiled?“ Lyebault de L‘Anguille‘s sullen expression turned slightly perplexed as he fully turned his head to the bringer of bad news: Evrart, who nervously wrung his wetted felt cap.
„B-boiled, Mylord, yes. The Sun“ Evrart superfluously pointed upwards. „cooked him good.“
„The Sun! Of course!“ Lyebault snapped as he pushed himself out of his chair. Frustratred he threw his hands in the air and marched onto the field. Admittedly, he felt it too and regretted celebrating the score with wine. They had to buy time … but how? The Gallants lined up, spread dangerously thin now.
The ball was kicked and Beau de Boeuf fetched it off the ground, immediately seeking protection in a tight cage. They pressed forward but were stopped in their tracks when the Ogre smashed paunch-first into their reigns. The islanders encircled them and a desparate fight for the ball ensued. The Bretonnians fought valiantly, but were hopelessly outnumbered and ultimately, the ball was pried from Beau de Boeufs Hands and a red-jerseyed Blitzer handed if off to his fellow Catcher.
The latter jogged into the endzone, holding the Ball high over his head as if offering it to the mercyless, burning sun.
Touchdown!
The referee ended the game with a last whistle. The opposing teams shook hands and parted ways amicably, but inside Lyebault de L‘Anguille was … boiling.
Two losses! Unbelievable! Undue! Un- „Lang-Git ...“ the Orc referee‘s jibe pulled him out of his thoughts. He held out a scroll with a broken seal to Lyebault, who snatched it from his hand with a sour expression. „Stop reading my correspondence!“
He read the names on the paper and looked up to the slyly grinning rule warden. They said it at once.
„Greenskins ...“
