One Man and His Phalanx

Our little band of incompetence is joined by another adventurer. Well, I say joined, but it's more that he is driven in to the village in his own carriage. Great, a posh twerp on his gap year thinking that adventuring is all fun and games.

'Don't take it the wrong way, chaps. Mother and father spent a lot of gold getting me trained and ready for this. And those two fabulous beasts at the head of my carriage are combat-trained ponies', the halfling fighter tells us.

'Combat-trained ponies?', says Davor, being somewhat incredulous of this claim.

'Yes. They're about as effective as a combat-trained halfling', I say.

Thamir, our new companion, doesn't find this terribly amusing for some reason, but ignores the jab and sizes up the group he wants to join. 'So you're a barbarian, I would say. You with the lance and riding the wolf must be a cavalier, and you look to be a barbarian/rogueish type. And you're a straight gnome rogue, right?'

'Well, I have been boffing the goblin barmaid, if that's what you mean.' But it wasn't.

'I'm glad to meet you all. I am trained as a phalanx fighter myself.'

'But isn't a phalanx composed of many fighters?'

'Yes, but I've trained in using a shield and polearm together, bracing against frontal attacks, so that's what I do.'

'It's a very small phalanx', says Davor. That's a rumour I'll be happy to spread.

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