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6/19/2025, 11:39:23 PM
Few are the titles more impressive than that of Giantslayer. In the olden days, before the advent of crossbows or gunpowder, it was one reserved for the mightiest. Indeed, one of the very highest nobles of Segoma, Don Salazar, hailed from a family who bore such a grace: the Matagigantes.
You, however - you're not Giantslayer. You're no great warrior. These giants would trample you underfoot as though you were a child. But you are a commander still, and a commander must not despair in the face of a great foe. You have an idea.
"Order the Arquebusiers to hold! Have them hold until they're about to launch the weapons! They must wait until the greandes are lit!" you bellow, quickly ordering a man to tranmsit the orders. All around the valleyside, your men continue to advance, knights galloping through the flank, your arquebusiers marching as swiftly as they can to join the Gray Band in their firing line.
You almost forget to notice the whistling.
A loud crack that almost deafens you, a cloud of smoke and light in the very front of your eyes, a sharp yet luckily light pain as you feel a jagged piece of metal bounce off your plate armor. By a few meters alone, a few seconds of movement, you were saved from an early grave. Many more of your men, you see, were not so luckily. Yet you cannot spare a thought for them when the time for your stratagem glows closer. You stare, rapt, as your arquebusiers hold their guns aloft, waiting for the go. If the enemy notices their wait, it does not stop them.
You, however - you're not Giantslayer. You're no great warrior. These giants would trample you underfoot as though you were a child. But you are a commander still, and a commander must not despair in the face of a great foe. You have an idea.
"Order the Arquebusiers to hold! Have them hold until they're about to launch the weapons! They must wait until the greandes are lit!" you bellow, quickly ordering a man to tranmsit the orders. All around the valleyside, your men continue to advance, knights galloping through the flank, your arquebusiers marching as swiftly as they can to join the Gray Band in their firing line.
You almost forget to notice the whistling.
A loud crack that almost deafens you, a cloud of smoke and light in the very front of your eyes, a sharp yet luckily light pain as you feel a jagged piece of metal bounce off your plate armor. By a few meters alone, a few seconds of movement, you were saved from an early grave. Many more of your men, you see, were not so luckily. Yet you cannot spare a thought for them when the time for your stratagem glows closer. You stare, rapt, as your arquebusiers hold their guns aloft, waiting for the go. If the enemy notices their wait, it does not stop them.
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