Building weapons out of weapons.
A finger rises to the goggles on Phils face, switching on his night-vision. Now’s as good a time as ever to see if they help.
With the added range, the nightvision, and a full sack of arrows, Philip’s feeling indestructable. He shifts back occassionally to keep his opponents at range, but illequipped as they are with only sticks and stones, the worst he needs to fear is the occassional pebble that plinks harmlessly off his hide armour.
Arrows don’t always find their mark, but those that do hobble the group. One’s leg is cripple, another gets scratched and battered by a nasty Volley, and none feel confident enough to leave the safety of the meagre cover afforded by the ruined buildings.
One, suddenly braze and bold, breaks towards Philip, running full pelt. He’s a good 20 paces away, so with a smug smirk Phil draws an arrow to find it mark.
Stunned for a moment, and with a stinging bruise forming over his left eye, Phil looks surprised at the broken line from the stick he holds, that was once his bow.
“Shit!” he exclaims, instantly regretting it and hoping the darkness will disguise his predicament.
“His bow snapped, get ‘im lads!”
a hail of pebbles begins pouring around the site as the trio begins marching, and in some cases limping, forward. Phil’s forced to vault over a burned-out husk, leaving his sack of arrows behind.
One, the healthiest, comes to the spot where Phil will no doubt be hiding, and slides a few arrows from the sack, holding them in hand like a knife.
He creeps around the corner, arrows in hand, reading to strike down, but stops abruptly.
The other two, 10 paces behind, creep forward too. “You okay, bruv?”
The cause of the stopping becomes instantly apparent, as the leader crumples off the thrust spear. Phil steps round, shifts the spear into an underhand grip and stabs down hard.
“Wait, what?! You didn’t have a spear! This is bullshit!”
Phils grin can be seen even through the darkness. Menancing.
“It was the body of my bow” he says, extracting it from their fallen comrade’s body with a sickening sucking sound.
“oh, and this was the string!”
His other hand swings forward, and a hail of pebbles is released from a sling, battering the vocal member and quickly subduing him.
Phil leaps forward, spear in hand, to end the unconcious guys life.
The last remaining member, the one with a crippled leg, turns and quickly begins hobbling.
Phil extracts the spear, raises it high, and expertly sends it flying at the fleeing man. It finds its mark. He crumples.
Some time later, with the corpses torched and their meagre possessions added to Phil’s discarded boxcart, he whistles and muses.
“Sure is a good thing I build my weapons out of weapons…”