As he stood on the far tower, overlooking the ships and the nearest seahexes, he suddenly felt deeply pained..
Lord Figaro, very much unlike his appearance, felt a bitter sadness coming over him. Only a few turns ago a messenger from their ally had arrived with a call for help. A full stack of his finest knights had ridden off at his side, riding the gwasshoppas that had once made the side thrive, countless as desert sand, taking away all sunlight.
In a valley, the enemy had ambushed them, together with Wocky VII, the seven elite warlords of overlord Wocky.
At great cost Figaro was able to escape with some units, but the enemy found their tracks every turn and kept pursuing.
All cities he passed were severely weakened, attacked my their former ally Wocky, who had units in most of them. Knowing they could not stand against an attack here he burned down the cities and took all of his units to his capital, a huge level 7 built on an island just off the coast, destroying the bridge. Many friends had seen their last battle today, many more were still around him. He couldn't tell who were the luckier ones. The clouds in the sky were grey, and moving in their usual patterns, and in his mind he saw his old friends as they were when they had just popped. The florist Marley Wastaman with his strange herbs that improved troop morale when burnt, and would make enemies not used to the fumes lose their rations, the hippymancer, Len Non, who bravely made fun of every warlord but cried over every single casualty... He couldn't understand him.. He was a Clauwn.. A proud royal.. His father taught him everything he knew, military history, etiquette, tactics, politics,
but the one lesson he couldn't stop thinking about was the first and last thing his fathers first and last words to him; you are a Clauwn, and a Clauwn does not cry... On the edge of the rampart, he suddenly spotted something long forgotten.. Scratched with a knife into the stone, was the poem his old friend had made, making him laugh at the time..
Neverending war, a day at the beach
The waves of Tide
Those endless warriors
Line after line
A violent Thunder
The shout of Victory
The hopeless fight
White heads of Despair
A fighting retreat
Foe and Friend alike
Run over by the Next line
Joining the useless Struggle
As he stood there, he was shocked..
He realized, he was Figaro,
the crying Clauwn
Last edited by CaesarVH on Wed Jul 07, 2010 6:30 am, edited 2 times in total.