And I thought
I was under the die roll curse . . .
Artaigne lunged with his spear, but it slid out of his fingers to fall upon the grassy sward. Biting back a curse, he draws his sword . . . only to have it slip out of his grasp and whirl harmlessly over his foe's head.
The Saxon faltered in his charge, his spear checked in mid-lunge, amazed at his opponent's actions. Was the man that unlucky, or was this some sort of clever ruse?
Artaigne's face flushed a livid red, and he howled out a string of curses as he ripped his helmet from his head and threw it with murderous intent at the bemused Saxon in front of him. The helm struck the Saxon on the forehead with a loud CLOOOONG!, and the man's eyes rolled back into his head as he nervelessly slipped off he back of his horse to crumple down on the ground.
His teeth bared, Artaigne tore his water skin from his belt and cocked it to throw. "WHO'S NEXT?"