Lopo the merciless...
So there he was, camped out in his fortress stationed in Granada, carrying out a Portuguese tradition of being hard to exterminate. With this man eliminated, all of the Spanish might and power could be focused on an ever increasing war in the most tempestuous of places.
The Spanish military was divided, fighting a two front war. Europe was a catastrophe, with Germany and France allied against a new rising power with a yellow banner, who's only chance of survival was to dash the waves of the Reich against the rock that is Angers. The constant German offering of a "humble vassalage" in service to an ever expanding empire of black was rejected, as it rightly should be. The pride that characterizes the lords of Spain would only accept a vassalage if the last resident of Toledo was a migrant Portuguese fisherman. Hope was not lost though, never lost. I digress...
A general named after El Cid Campeador himself was leading a fresh batch of soldiers recruited from Toledo. We marched towards the ungodless fools locked away in their stone walls. Granada would fall, a matter of time, not chance. Hiding away in his Fortress, Lopo the merciless, the last glimpse of a Portuguese empire was about to succumb to the end of all men; the sword. El Cid's scouts reported a forward observer, the nephew of Lopo and a band of rabble... No doubt the illegitimate sons of that bastard Lopo, clamoring for their rightful place as Prince of Fishermen.
The battle horns sounded as Spanish cavalry charged, bolts and javelins singing overhead with the sound of a heavenly orchestra. The resounding hoofbeats were a foreshadow of the mashing of bones and flesh that was about to come. The nephew of Lopo runs along with his brothers to the woods, no doubt scared by true men, his hired whores in armor dead around our horse's feet.
Interrupting our celebrations of victory are the cries of hired mercenaries around us, men who's eyes are trained far keener than any known back home. Upon the horizon rides the fool himself, the man of the hour, hoping for death at the hand of Spanish steel. The men are troubled, if only for an instant, while recalling the horrific stories of his appearance. Scarred so drastically is he, that Lopo is told to be the son of Achilles, without a faulty heel. No matter, a Javelin displaces the thickest of armor and flesh.
Lopo rides down the hillside at the lead of his bodyguards, begging his horse for more than any animal can give. He and his men ride closer, the crossbows ring with triumph, the javelins make sweet music, and we are amazed at the sight around us. Some of the strongest bulls of the Spanish army, who walk on foot due to the immense weight of their steel armor, are reduced to piles of metal on the ground. Lopo rides off, broken lance in hand. We were shocked, even God himself must have been amazed, and Europe held it's breath.
Well that bastard doesn't understand the resounding effects of a Trebuchet bullet, so let him hide behind those walls.
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Originally Posted by pevergreen
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