Farmer's Scythe
Description
It was a League Bravo who first dubbed one of these weapons a farmer's scythe, intending to start a fight with the Marcher yeoman
Rules
- Form: Pole-arm. Despite the name any pole-arm may be a farmer's scythe.
- Effect: Once per day you can spend a hero point to call STRIKEDOWN with this weapon.
- Materials: Crafting a farmer's scythe requires no special materials. It takes two months to make one of these items.
"Look boys!" the leader crowed. "A bunch of farmers! Sitting at our table!"
She nudged one of her companions who, on cue, laughed derisively. One of the Marchers looked up from his conversation, stared at the woman who had spoken for a few moments with a blank, unreadable expression, then turned back to his drink and his quiet talk. She did not like being ignored. She spotted the pole-arms leaning against the wall next to the table and tried again.
"Farmers, lads! Tracking mud into our nice clean tavern from their dirty fields! And look, they've brought their scythes inside with them!"
She struck a pose that somehow managed to combine the traditional stance of a reaper with the ribald suggestiveness of a bawdyhouse. The Marchers stopped talking. The fellow who had looked up took a long pull on his mug, and stood. He was not a tall man, but he was wiry and tanned, a stark contrast to the brightly-dressed bravos who clustered insolently around his table. He looked the trio over again, but this time didn't bother to hide his contempt.
"An' what would youse know about farming, city boys?"
One of the other bravos repeated his derisory laugh. It sounded the same, almost as if he practiced it in front of a mirror. "I know that when we get mud on our shoes we clean it off before we come inside. Were you born in a cowshed, farmer?"
He stepped up, and would have been nose to nose with the yeoman - if the Marcher had been a head taller.
"Aye, as it happens I was." said the shorter man. "Want to make summat of it?"
Confident in the confined space, the bravo stared deep into the Marcher's eyes and took a breath to say something witty. Without any further warning, the entire tavern flipped over and the cocky bravo was staring at the ceiling. He might have tried to stand up but for the insistent pressure of the yeoman's muddy boot on his throat. The two Marchers at the table stood up behind their friend, both now holding their long, vicious bills, cradling them with practiced ease and expert control.
"You want to bugger off and bother someone else," drawled the one who had so effortlessly swept the legs out from under the young man on the floor. "We're busy right now, and don't have time to play."