Bastard vs Wankel

During the first four days of the long camel-trek back through the desert and despite the Hag’s unscheduled and unwelcome visits, everyone tries to make good use of the blisteringly hot but idle ‘daytime’ rest periods. Rifkin continues, somewhat pointlessly now, to study Grimcrack Thin-Needle’s diary, while Liga Bur, Fortu and Arowe are mostly occupied with their own thoughts and concerns.

Thanks to the recent-ish execution of their prisoner; the Wizard Moody though and the mid-journey discovery of the rocky oasis, the Party now have more than enough water to spare for brief outdoor exertions beneath the hot suns and Henshaw and (the recently cured) Doberman use some of their free time to spar, using their newly acquired Bastard sword and Wankel shield.

Blond Henshaw, considering his profession, is an oddly cautious man by nature, but reckless Doberman’s enthusiasm for violence necessitates Barbella’s presence as referee/murder preventer. This time though, Liga Bur sits beside the bearded stabber-for-hire, just to make his own personal assessment of how much recent experiences have sharpened their combat skills. He’s been suspicious of them ever since Rifkin (out of concern for Fortu) pleaded with Estrid for their lives. They have appeared loyal since then, but the Halfling’s very aware, that if they ever did decide to cross them, it’d be three verses three, as he’s yet to see the Bard even draw a weapon. Although confident in Arowe and Fortu’s combat prowess, Liga Bur has lamented his own limitations of late. Next to the Elf’s remarkable bowmanship and the Human’s phenomenal one-handed skill with, what should definitely be a two-handed sword, he finds himself noticeably overshadowed.

Henshaw and Doberman have practiced this duel many times now with both combatants using their blades wrapped to prevent serious injury but Doberman has a lifetime habit of getting carried away and forgetting that one condition. This particular clash follows their now established pattern, with the bulky Doberman using Fortu’s generously donated hand-and-a-half bastard sword, two-handedly, as if it were a lumberjack’s axe, to rain down shuddering blows onto Henshaw’s magical wankel shield.

Although only minor magical items in the grand scheme of things, both of the men are amazed at their power and resilience. Despite being battered by Doberman’s near monstrous blows, Henshaw’s large, heavy shield remains without a ding. As is Doberman’s sword. Though not forged of the same indestructible metal of Fortu’s new flamberge, it’s enchantment still protects and maintains the blade’s sharp edge.

This time though, while still holding his awkward looking, crablike defensive stance, Henshaw manages to jab his Masterwork cold-iron longsword into Doberman’s large and exposed belly. There’s no real force behind the thrust and Doberman’s chainmail armour protects him from any potential harm, but the laughing Barbella calls the fight in Henshaw’s favour.

The lanky, straw mopped Henshaw, although surprised, grins in response and caws.

"Hah; that'll teach you Doberman! Nobody beats a Henshaw seventeen times in a row!"