The War in the Willows

It has been a while since I have managed to get a game in, thanks to shift work, but it has not stopped me from getting a few bits painted.

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Sanders clawed at his missing feathers, a habitual gesture, as he scanned the road ahead. “Kentucky, keep your eyes peeled. We’ve got a job to do.”

Kentucky, a sprightly Rooster with a gleam in his eye, nodded, his comb bobbing. “Aye, Colonel, sir!”

Sanders shot him a stern glance. “Sergeant, Kentucky. Just Sergeant. That was a past life, a different war. Don’t get stuck in the past, lad.”

Kentucky looked sheepish, his feathers ruffling. “Sorry, Sarge.”

Sanders grunted, his expression softening. “Just keep your wits about you, Kentucky. We’ve got a job to do.”

Kentucky nodded, his eyes scanning the trees. “Aye, Sarge. You were saying something about the Necromouser…?”

Sanders’ expression turned serious. “I was saying don’t dismiss it, lad. I’ve seen things you’d not believe in my time. And it’s not just the ale talking.”

Kentucky opened his mouth to reply, but Sanders cut him off with a raised claw. “Listen.”

The two Roosters stood in silence. The only sound was the rustling of leaves and the distant call of a bird.

Kentucky frowned. “I don’t hear anything, Sarge.”

Sanders‘ eyes narrowed. “Exactly. It’s too quiet.”

Barry scratched at his whiskers; his beady eyes fixed on the dusty old armour hanging on the wall of his burrow. The dented helmet, adorned with its large spike, seemed to gaze back at him with a knowing gleam. He nodded to himself, muttering, “Aye, solid oak and steel that club.  Dealt many a savage blow…”

The other creatures in Cedarwood might think him mad, but Barry knew better. He’d commanded armies, led charges, and outmanoeuvred foes both real and imaginary. His experience with miniature soldiers and dice rolls had prepared him for this moment – the moment he would face the Necromouser.

As he polished the rusty breastplate, Barry’s mind wandered back to his glory days. “Ah, the Battle of the Red Sands… my mousketeers were taking heavy casualties, but I rolled an 11 on my morale check… outflanked the enemy, I did…” He chuckled to himself, lost in the thrill of the game.

But the memories were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Mrs Rabbit, the local baker. “Barry, dear, don’t you think it’s time to put away the toys? You’re a respected elder in this community, after all.”

Barry’s eyes narrowed. “Toys? These are the tools of a seasoned warrior, madam! I’ve fought battles, led campaigns… my strategic prowess is unmatched!”

Mrs Rabbit sighed, her ears drooping. “Barry, dear, it’s just a game. The Necromouser is just a myth, a story to scare the young ones.”

Barry’s expression turned grim. “You don’t understand, Mrs Rabbit. I’ve seen the green mists, I’ve heard the whispers in the night… It’s real, and I’m the only one who can stop it.” He tapped his helmet. “Trust me, I’ve got the experience.”

Mrs Rabbit shook her head, muttering something about “hamsters and their games” as she departed.

Barry watched her go, his eyes cloudy with determination. He knew what he had to do. He donned his armour, grabbed his trusty dice, and set off into the woods, muttering, “Time to roll some dice and show the Necromouser who’s boss… 10… ah, yes, that’s a solid initiative roll…”