Zombies are pressing round us. Lightning strafes the island.
And to make things even less pleasant, that scream which pursued us from Reidy’s
Reef is getting louder, that scream as chill as the pelting rain, that scream as
shrill as a wife who has just discovered spilt paint on the carpet, is climbing
the atoll towards us.
In the face of that piercing horror, at once the ghouls shrink aside, melting back into the darkness.
They know when they’ve met their match.
For it’s the Lady Sarah. Her dress is less than shevelled, her
hair is anything but kempt, her makeup far from maculate, for she has swum from
reef to atoll screaming at us to stop and help her. She is crying
out one word: “vampire,
vampire!" And, in the shadows, we see a bloodless figure clambering from the broken waves close behind
her.
I don’t believe she’s happy. She wants us to defend her, but
after our desperate swim the only weapons we have left are pointed remarks.
Shaking her head in disbelief, she turns to face the hissing creature, raises her foot, and stamps. I'm not sure if the atoll is trembling with the waves or with her annoyance. Either way, I don’t think she’s actually
afraid. I think she’s cross.
And, of course, vampires fear the cross. He backs away. She stamps
again, scowling, as a glimmer of dawn breaks through at the edge of night
and he lifts his hand over his face. From somewhere there’s a faint smell of
burning.
She grabs one of my men by the scruff of his petard.
“Aren't you big, strong warriors supposed to protect innocent maidens from the depredations of the ungodly?” she hisses through tight lips.
Fortunately the poor man has not the intelligence to see the seventeen possible ripostes he could make to this question.
"Who are you, anyway?" she snaps.
The man, who has an unfortunate speech impediment (though he refers to it as his moustache), tries
our usual boast, intending to say we are “Reavers of the Waves” (which was our
band name on the good ship Marie Celeste).
“Weavers of the Raves,” he says.
“How lucky is that,” she says, “Great - all of you, gather up seaweed
and weave. Weave like you’ve never weaved before.”
“And you look like a windbag who's fond of hot air,” she says
to me. “Quickly, breathe into this.”
I’m about to sulk, when she raises that foot again. Clearly she’s not noticed I’ve a very nervous disposition
but I suspect it’s not the right time to produce my doctor’s note.
I summon every atom of my manly being, and blow deeply
into the flap of linen she gave me. It makes a rather distressing noise.
As dawn breaks over the atoll, with all the golden fury of a
sodden firework, and the waves wash away a pile of smoking ash on the shore, we
attach the balloon to the newly woven basket and clamber in. Once we have all our
legs in one basket, Lady Sarah makes an appropriate gesture, we cast off,
trusting now to the fragrant airs of the isle to waft us somewhere a little calmer.
---
This is, of course, an utter work of fiction. Any similarities between the characters in this story and
any real person, living, dead or undead are entirely coincidental. As you can
see the figure below (by Wargames Foundry, I think) bears no relation to any real Lady
Sarah, and I’m sure that there is not now, nor has there ever been, a real Lady
Sarah who was bad tempered, petulant or inclined to order “heroes” around. (ed - careful now!)
The vampire figure is from Alternative Armies, a free promotional
figure acquired over Christmas.
I used to have quite a large collection of vampires (please don’t psychoanalyse that) but fangs aren’t what they used to be, so this one is my Curtgeld.
The score, I think, is: 10 for 2 x 28mm figs, 25 for Curtgeld and 30
for the balloon trip = 65 points.
From DaveD. I really like your colour choice here - good job! - 65 points to good
