Ralf and the man-at-arms screamed as they tumbled in an abyss of colour, different shades of purple morphing into different hues of green and red. The colour display twisted and twirled, making the archer's stomach turn. Unable to take anymore of this, he blacked out.
"Hey."
Ralf slowly slid open his eyes, adjusting to the darkness rather quickly. He inhaled, wondering what had happened. Turning to his left, he saw the man-at-arms sitting beside a small fire he had made, the flames giving the forest floor a flickering unstable glow.
"Get up, archer, you've been out for nearly two hours."
He sat up, looking at the man-at-arms.
"What in God's name happened?"
"I do not know, the details elude me." Replied the man-at-arms softly, removing his helmet and wiping the glistening sweat off his brow. "It seems we're in some forest, archer." He went on, "I've made a little fire to signal Henry's army when they're done taking Harfleur. We may be whipped for this but it beats being stuck in Normandy with no easy way back." He poked at the fire with a stick.
"What's your name, archer?" asked the man-at-arms, trying to strike up a conversation.
"Ralf Hunt. What's yours?"
"Terence of the Dale." He answered with pride.
Ralf sat cross-legged near the fire, him being armored in only a mail coat and the surcoat bearing the standard of Sir Slayton and the Cross of Saint George allowing him to do so comfortably, while Terence's greased leather under the steel plate armor he wore squeaked with every movement he made. Wanting to carry on the conversation, Ralf spoke up.
"Who do you serve?"
"Sir Geoffrey. See?" Terence pointed at his green and red surcoat, emblazoned with the picture of a single lion surrounded by oak branches. Saint George's Cross was also sown on the top left corner of the coat.
"Oh, I'm under Sir Slayton."
"At least you have SLAYTON leading you, Geoffrey is n-" He stopped mid sentence.
"Ya hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"Roaring."
"You don't scare me."
Terence irritably looked at Ralf. "I hear it, honestly, the roaring. It sounds as if it's coming closer!"
Ralf held up a hand for silence. He could hear a rumbling growl, getting closer and closer. He began to strung his bow, bending the yew stave downward while Terence drew his broad-bladed sword, a small buckler clipped to his left vambrace.
"GRRRROOOOAAAWWRRRGHHHHH!!!" A manticore burst out of the bushes, snapping several branches in its wake. Ralf finished up stringing his bow, and laid a broadhead across the stave. A broadhead, he knew, was an arrow designed to deliver a wide cutting edge so as to kill as quickly as possible by cleanly cutting major blood vessels via the sharp blades that can cause massive bleeding in the unfortunate soul it hit. Without hesitation he hauled the bowcord and released. At less than twenty yards the broadhead slapped into the savage manticore's deep blue fur covered thigh, the arrow's stained head protruding from the back of its wounded leg. Terence stepped forward, raising his sword and bringing it down on the manticore's head. The tempered steel blade chopped into its snarling face, earning Terence a violent swat which saw the man-at-arms reeling off to the side. The manticore gave a pained howl before charging at Ralf, causing the archer to fling his bow aside and draw his archer's dagger. The beast reared on its hind legs, causing more dark red blood to pump out of the mishapen leg. Ralf plunged his dagger into the manticore's gut, sliding the dagger across its tough furry yet leathery skin. Intestines slithered out like wet eels from a slit sack, blood wetting Ralf's arms to the elbow. The manticore gave a soft mewing noise before collapsing onto Ralf, who pushed the carcass away and got up to dust himself off. The pair stood over the monstrous body, sweating heavily and panting.
"What sort of an animal was that?"
"I don't think we're in Normandy." Observed Ralf.
"Nor the world we were in."