Knights in White Satin

Still breathing deeply after the exertion of the battle, Khalil; leader of the eight desert horsemen, leans across on his finely decorated, traditional, tribal saddle and gently admonishes the adjacent Wizard Moody.

"You said that they didn't have any Magicians but the one that got away was clearly a Bard."

Moody sneers.

"Bards don't count."

Nostrils' flaring slightly, Khalil risks annoying his employer.

"He summoned a Centaur!"

The seasoned Khalil had cautioned Moody against this attack. He'd considered the Party of adventurers too big. Nine men against seven wasn't good enough odds, even with their well trained horses and home/desert advantage. The flint-eyed Enchanter had insisted though. He'd been furious about the death of his falcon and was going to take his revenge on the Elf regardless.

Fortune though, had smiled upon them. Only three of their opponents had attacked at range and all of them had targeted the magically protected Moody, rather than his riders. All but the Bard and the Halfling had arranged themselves in a single spread out line and, with the exception of the Halfling Dog-rider, they'd just waited to be attacked. They didn't organise themselves into human barriers to prevent horse barges or jumps. They even failed to exploit the three large, dozing camels to break up direct charges.

Only one of the group surprised them. The Halfling, riding the big dog, broke to the side and rushed up their flank, avoiding his men and horses and taking the fight direct to the Wizard. It was fortunate for Moody that he came alone and chose arrows rather than sword.

Ultimately though, their well practiced tactics had been successful, with Moody's charms sending all but the Elves to sleep. The Bard conjured a very powerful looking Centaur and managed to escape over the dunes but the Archer was snared in a net, dragged across the sand and hoof-stomped to unconsciousness.

Khalil had considered giving chase to the Bard but ironically, for their intended entertainment, his type weren't much in demand.

Looking down at the beaten and bloody Elf who'd killed his falcon, Moody considers taking his revenge there and then, but after a brief moment, shakes his head.

"You're worth nothing to me dead and I doubt you'll survive three bouts in the arena."

Moody's Blues

The azure clad Wizard's scream is a cry of rage rather than pain. Moody's falcon spirit familiar has been brought down while spying upon her potential targets.

"By the gods of all three suns, I swear to you Tan-hew-mon, we shall have our revenge!"

Having initially been summoned by the indigenous desert nomads, their magical red mist flare, streaming back to the Slaver's guild in Valdez, they'd encountered a lone camel rider in the desert, who pointed him in the right direction. A strange, armoured man who possessed a hawk similar to his own.

Finally, after four days hunting, Tan-hew-mon found them enjoying the hospitality of a travelling merchant in an oasis a mere two days from the city. No need to risk an unnecessary confrontation with the vendor and his guards though.

Unfortunately, early next morning, the Elven archer in the group, spotted the predatory bird circling high above them. High but not high enough. Moody, while gazing through the eyes of his falcon, saw the arrow fly straight towards him/Tan-hew-mon. He felt his familiar bank to the left in panic but it was too late!

Pierced through its heart, the dead raptor spiralled down and, even as their spirit connection was severed, Moody felt a pang in the centre of his very being. Much worse than mere grief, a sliver of his soul was lost. But that pain quickly transformed into anger.

Leaving the caged wagon and its riders behind, the dark eyed Wizard leads his eight horsemen on an intercept course with the accursed group. They travel at speed now atop their beautiful desert horses, making no attempt at stealth, with the hot sand kicked up high in the arid air behind them.

As soon as they're within sight however, Moody signals the leader of his riders to slow down.

"Khalil, you know the drill. I'll prepare our defences and when you're ready, take out the elven archer and the armoured man first... Prioritise the peacock Elf!"

At about a hundred feet distant, standing on opposing rising dunes, the two groups stop and a whisper floats over into Fortu's ear.

"Greetings stranger. Are there any Wizards in your group? Any Priests? Any Elves?"

Initially confused by the subtle murmur, the tall Human looks around to see where the voice is coming from but on realising that he's alone in hearing it, tentatively responds.

"No, no and yes. What's it got to do with you though?"

Moody doesn't bother responding. He already knew the answers, he was just wasting time while he prepares his second spell and Khalil marshals his highly trained horsemen.

Conjuring up a powerful wind to whip up the sand in front of them, Moody's unsurprised when the Elf fires an arrow directly at him. It's a perfect shot but rather than flinch, the Wizard smiles bitterly. Every Wizard knows that a clever archer will always target them and therefore every Wizard quickly learns to defend against them. His 'Wall of wind' is a simple but effective defence from this vantage point.

Moody smiles again as he watches his eight mounted guards race down the gentle slope before charging up the sandy incline. Their exquisite, small horses bred for this very purpose, split up and race in two perfectly spaced lines, thundering toward their designated targets...