Sword & Thistle
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Mood: Earth churned up in the throes of battle, the shouts of men fighting for home and freedom, and the bite of blade and thorn.
Smells Like: grassy pastures trodden by booted feet, the distant smoke of battle and misty rain.
In the gray dawn, mist creeps across the pastures before the quiet village. Shapes move in the trees, ominous shadows, stalking, waiting, plotting. The villagers rest in their thatch-roofed homes, unaware of the danger that lurks nearby.
The first rays of sun glint on drawn blades as the raiders slither towards their prey. A narrow moat and a frail wall are all that protect the clutch of homes from the approaching doom. Snickering among themselves, the invaders prepare to wade across the moat. They step down but find not water but sharp, needling foliage! Thorns and prickles pierce exposed skin. A surprised fighter cries out in shock and pain.
The alarm is raised. Villagers spring from their beds, grabbing weapons, tools, anything sharp to ward off the attackers.
The advantage of surprise lost, the raiders struggle briefly before fleeing in defeat. The town is saved. A bouquet of purple thistles is raised high like a standard. Victory is theirs this day!