And a bottle of rum…

Bugger me an actual game rather than me whining on about how crap I feel. 

I know right.

In my previous post I pitted three bold Captains against each other in a bid to prove who was the bestest pirate in the Indian Ocean. The winner would be whoever came back first from Danger Island with the largest share of buried treasure.

Here are the ships that will be headed to glory or disgrace:

The Mardy Mare whose Captain Black Taff Llewelyn has a fearsome all female crew.

The good ship Spatchcock with its Captain Handsome Jack and his Bosun (who is also his mom) Big Nell.

The Cutty Wren Captained by the insomniac ornithophobe - Richard Tully.

Our game starts as the three ships arrive at Danger Island from conveniently different directions.

Danger Island. The Cutty Wren is in the foreground, the Mardy Mare the top right and the Spatchcock is unhelpfully out of shot on the left. The red arrow indicates the wind direction. Board area is roughly 3ft square, the ships are Peter Pig 1:450 and the tiles and islands are Hexon. Rules are Galleys and Galleons - converted to hexes.

Setting the scene:

Big Nell was not in a great mood. Her son Neville, Captain of the Spatchcock, had got all caught up in some hare brained hunt for gold, and the crew, sensing impending danger, had seemingly now gone off their vittals. Snatching up a tray of week old macaroons and a large plum duff the doughty Bosun made her way up the companion way to the deck with a view to tossing the whole lot overboard.

On the Cutty Wren, Tully’s crew watched anxiously as their Captain took pot shots at a following albatross. “Sail ho!” Cried the look out, just in time to throw off his aim. Tully cursed the occupants of the crows nest and gave up shooting to focus his perspective glass on the horizon. A twin masted brigantine struggling against the wind was ploughing through the swell towards their shared destination…Danger Island!

Brigantine on the horizon. Ship ho!

Broad reaching, several leagues to Starboard, the Mardy Mare sliced like an arrow through the sea. The ship was going fast. Far too fast! Désirée the first mate had the con and it was obvious from the set of her shoulders that she was in a right strop over something Black Taff Llewelyn had said or done earlier, (though he was buggered if he knew what it was exactly). Downcast he watched Danger Island draw closer…we’ll he hoped it was Danger Island anyway. Truth was he’d become lost shortly after leaving port but he’d be damned if he was going to ask any of the vessels they’d passed for directions.

The game:

Turn 1. The Spatchcock fires at the Cutty Wren but the range is long and the shots go wide.

Turn 2. Coming about just in front of the Island the Cutty Wren fires back at the Spatchcock and Tully grunts in satisfaction as his shot strikes home in a vital area. (The Cutty Wren rolled a six which gave them a hit on the hull plus an extra roll on the critical damage table. Given its importance to the Spatchcock’s crew we’ll assume it was the galley that’s been destroyed! Thank goodness Big Nell had gone up on deck eh). Meanwhile, in the lea of the secondary islet the Mardy Mare does a handbrake turn lowers sails and drops anchor in the shallows just off the beach. The vessels shallow draught means there is little chance of grounding and Black Taff, with a sigh of relief, gets to keep his no claims bonus for another day.

Turn 3. The Spatchcock needs it’s full action allowance this turn to attempt to repair some of the damage it had suffered. Water had begun pouring in through a hole in the hull caused by the Cutty Wren’s cannon but disaster is averted when Big Nell plugs the leak with her unwanted plum duff (ooh err missus).  Unaware of the damage he’d caused Tully coasts over the shallows drops anchor and sends a search party ashore to look for the treasure. Still unhelpfully out of camera shot the Mardy Mare’s crew take an age to do their hair and get their make up on before going ashore to search. 

Turn 4. The Cutty Wren search party are first ashore but the snaking dotted line on their vellum treasure map leads to an X in the centre of a cannibal village. After ten minutes all that is left of them are their buckets and spades on the beach. (They had three search attempts this turn needing a 5 or 6 to discover some loot. A roll of 1 means they fall prey to head hunting cannibals. In a freak set of die rolls the first search parties from the other two ships all suffer the same fate this turn and no one finds any treasure).

Turn 5. A second search party sent from the Spatchcock deploys a number of party size sherry trifles to keep the cannibals at bay (true fact - cannibals hate trifle) and as a reward for this cunning stratagem they stumble across a massive chest full of doubloons and such like. Bingo. Hurriedly they head back to the ship. All the Spatchcock crew have to do now is raise anchor and sail off board. Discovering nothing but abandoned buckets and spades and a large collection of (strangely familiar) shrunken heads, the new shore party from the Cutty Wren give up and head back to the beach assailed by shouts of triumph from the Spatchcock crew just around the coast. When they get back to their jolly boat empty handed they find Tully has abandoned them - having sailed off to seize the prize now being loaded onboard the nearby brigantine. The Mardy Mare’s second all girl shore party decides to actually throw a party - on the beach. After consuming way above the legal limit of Babycham the hitherto hostile natives end up showing the girls where the second smaller treasure is buried. Making the international hand signal for “call me” the giggling laydeez re embark with the goods.

Turn 7. The Spatchcock’s brigantine sails mean she makes slow progress in turning to escape with her prize, since the wind has unhelpfully changed direction. The Cutty Wren races up the channel between the two islets with Tully using his brutal trait to get extra action points and a cheeky shot at the retreating vessel. The shot hits but the damage is insufficient to slow his opponent down (we assume the plum duff held!). Meanwhile with no one to impede their progress the Mardy Mare sets off in the opposite direction. With the smaller of the two available treasure troves Black Taff will not be able to win - but coming second will be good enough.

Turn 8. Desperate times mean desperate measures. The Spatchcock limps towards the board edge hindered again by a capricious wind. Tully on the Cutty Wren uses his brutal trait a second time, executing some of his crew for increased efficiency and another damage dice. The extra action points he gets for this allows his speedy pinace to close on the Spatchcock and throw grappling irons aboard. Sadly all of Tully’s brutality would be to no avail. As his desperate men readied themselves to leap across and seize the treasure through force of arms they were met by a hail of stale macaroons that bought the defenders just enough time to cut themselves free and slip away. 

So there we have it. The bestest pirate in the Indian Ocean is officially Handsome Jack, second is Black Taff Llewelyn and last and definitely least is Richard Tully.

Altogether now… (Don’t forget to slap your thigh and twirl your moustache). Huzzah!

Conclusions:

Galleys and Galleons delivered another fun game - and could have seen the win stolen by Tully at the very last minute. In actual fact I used the wrong tactics for the Cutty Wren, she had deadly close range falconettes and better boarding modifiers than the others. In hindsight the pinace would have been better served keeping close to one of the other ships and pouncing on them when they’d found something.

Hey ho.

Toodle ooh for now.

 

Yarrr!

Right ho then, the Wiglaf dark age painting is continuing at my normal glacial pace, ensuring that the two armies will finally be ready when the figure manufacturer in question is no longer in business or the period has been done to death by everyone else. In the interim I’ve decided to resurrect my old East Indies pirate ships for a quick game.

The fluff.

Let’s pop into a very seedy dive in Nanorabas, Indonesia,  where three “gentlemen of the coast” are having a rum fuelled argument about who is the bestest pirate. Unsurprisingly things have become a little bit heated.

To save the “discussion” turning into a hostelry wrecking brawl, the worried tavern keeper suggests the three of them take part in a competition to sort it out.

After a bit of yarring and waving of grog filled tankards the three of them agree. I mean...what could possibly go wrong?

The terms of the competition are simple. The Captain who comes back from Danger Island with the most loot will have “bestest captain on the high seas” bragging rights for 1 whole year.

Allow me to introduce you to them. 

First up is...

Black Taff Llewelyn, aka, the man they couldn’t hang. An unlikely coupling of a beautiful African Nubian princess and a tailors apprentice from Neath (who ran away to sea to avoid some unpleasantness over a shipment of lace - if you need to know) which produced young Taff. He turned out a little different to his pa, (who was 5ft 2 inches tall with a receding chin and a cod eye) ...as you can see.

Taff is Captain of the Mardy Mare and his all female crew are feared throughout the Indian Ocean. Legend has it that they once laid alongside a potential prize and nagged its crew into submission, without a shot being fired.

Sitting opposite to him is an old friend from 1642andallthat.blogspot.com Captain Richard Tully now of the Cutty Wren. Tully has a wooden arm, terrible insomnia and a morbid fear of seagulls. A nasty piece of work, he is greatly feared by his crew, who’d turn on him in a flash if it wasn’t for his four permanently primed pistols and the fact that he never seems to sleep.

Now then who else, ah yes...

Handsome Jack of the good ship Spatchcock.

Obviously, no one calls him Handsome Jack apart from his mother, who also happens to be the ships Bosun. His real name is Neville by the way...

The crew are used to slim pickings on the loot front since Neville’s mom isn’t keen on things that might put her lad in harms way, but there’s always plenty of grub on board which serves to keep the lads happy.

Here are the requisite ship data cards I’ve made to use alongside the Galleys and Galleons rules - converted to hexes. Once printed out I usually fold them in half and laminate them. 

Danger island is actually two small rocky outcrops, the hexes around them being counted as shallows. Once a boarding party has put ashore they may roll 1D6, needing 6, then 5 or 6 and so on until treasure is discovered. Once located the value of the treasure is determined by a further roll. Treasure falls into two categories and is either, “a night on the town and your bus fare home” or “a kings ransom”. There is one large treasure and one small treasure available in total. 

Oh yes, did I mention that the island is infested by cannibals? If a crew searching for treasure rolls a 1 then they’ve been added to the menu.

Since my iPads running out of juice, I’ll post the game itself in a day or so, when I’ve found another 50p to put in the leccy.

Toodle ooh

Not dead, just resting

Had a few problems with the old noggin of late and gaming interest has been virtually zero. In the space of the last four weeks I’ve only managed to produce the twenty four figures shown below - which is about as many as Lee would do in an afternoon I reckon. Lol. 

Penda, centre of right front stand and Raedwald centre of middle left hand stand. Only another 15 stands to go to complete the two armies. Should be done by mid 2025 at this rate.

Being nuts is not easy but as a musical representation of the condition I’ve gone from this…(don’t click on it, it contains cuss words!)

…to this in just three weeks! 

Apart from being full time bonkers I’ve been dabbling in Victorian submarine warfare a bit, (possibly more on that when I’ve finished the models) and looking to using Norm’s Tigers at Minsk rules for my own VBCW project set in a post general strike Britain, circa 1926. (With Pendraken 10mm forces). It’s been interesting researching the pre Mosley fascist groups from the 20´s and how they managed to infiltrate the governments volunteer strike breaking force. This « lady » and her group were certainly new to me.

Rotha Linton-Orman, leader of the British Fascisti…

…when Oswald was still pretending to be a socialist.

I like the published AVBCW thirties stuff a lot, but I’m not keen on some of the more outlandish factions or its general « war’s a bit of a lark » theme. I’ll be pitching it as a straight up communist / fascist struggle I think. Again more on that when the models arrive.

Since I’ve labelled this post as «blether » it’s probably about time I swerved off on a tangent, so here goes.

On a visit last summer one of my grandchildren remarked that the sign for the nearby Preseli hills actually looked like it said the Presley hills. Naturally I’ve been attempting to exploit their naïveté (I’m a very bad Grampa) and I’ve been trying to convince them since that Elvis (who was actually Welsh and not from Memphis) is still alive and scampering around up on the high moorland as a sort of feral character clad only in a rhinestone encrusted loin cloth. I’ve now got pictorial proof that he’s also been secretly canonised… as per this sign on the Pembrokeshire coastal path.

If you squint a bit at the sign you’ll see it’s not a stairway to heaven but a pathway to St Elvis. The truth is out there! Follow the money…erm…and so on. 

On the old blog I documented my very own « operation dynamo » in which the wife and I packed up and moved back from France - for a more certain post Brexit life. I’ve now given it two years in Wales but there’s not a day goes by that I don’t regret the move and so the initial planning has now begun on our version of « Overlord ». 

Even as I type The Current Mrs Broom is busy crocheting a massive net for us to go house hunting in Finistère, Cote d’Amor or Manche. We’ve booked a ferry etc for mid September so we’ll see what happens. Thank God for her Irish roots (and passport). Hopefully at some point next year, or even the one after, I’ll be wading ashore on Gold beach with all our worldly goods. Lol.

Wales eh?!

I’m not saying it’s backward out here…but we’ve still got a Spud U Like. 

Case closed.

Toodle ooh

An itch I keep on having to scratch

No, no not that itch, I’ve got an ointment for that.

I’m referring of course to my continual Dark Age and ECW fixations. 

I’ve owned and built ECW armies in 2, 6, 15, 18 and 28mm over the years, from bendy 6mm pikes to Wofun flats and everything in between. Despite my general (and perhaps unfair) dislike of Warlord Games I’m pretty sure I’ll be elbowing my way to the front of the queue if they ever do the period in their new Epic range. 

The other genre on which I seem fixated is the dark ages in Britain. The number of armies I’ve owned in  this era is smaller but I think it’s fair to say they’ve seen the most action. Eventually, as part of “operation generate more hobby cash” I flogged the last of them on eBay recently and resolved never to go there again. 

Of course within a week of shipping them off I discovered these...

Age of Penda - Wiglaf Miniatures. 18mm. Get ‘em from Northstar.

...and I came all over weak at the knees. 

I posted about them a while back but Northstar have finally begun stocking them and my initial order arrived on Friday. 

Now I hate painting, but these minis are so lovely that I jumped right in and had a go. They’re not up to Lee’s standard of course but I’m fairly pleased with the outcome. 

Penda and a couple of nobles from the leaders pack

Same lads - from the back

Helping to ease me into a painting vibe was this jolly “anarcho folk” tune favourite which I've decided to share, cos I'm good like that. If your feet don't tap - you might want to check you've still got a pulse.

I’ve spared you my recent discovery of the Cherokee Death Cats (best band name ever) since I think it’ll be too rich for your blood (with the possible exception of nundanket and Elenderil) mayhap.

Toodle ooh.

Crossroads motel… In spaaaaaace!

I’m not sure if Crossroads was a  “thing” outside of the West Midlands ATV region but it formed an unfortunately essential part of late evening viewing in the 60’s 70’s and 80’s. Famed for its wooden acting, frequently forgotten lines and most importantly it’s wobbly sets it is still fondly remembered in some quarters as the only show where Brummies were able to hear themselves on TV. It brought us memorable characters like Benny the woolly hat wearing simpleton and the gorgeous Miss Diane. 

I’ve just discovered there was even a board game - though I think bored game would be a better term.

Anywhoo the thing to focus on here is the wobbly sets aspect because a few nights ago I knocked up a few of my own. The Trekhulk test game I conducted recently has been quite a success but I felt a bit restricted by its parent Space Hulks single width corridors and overall lack of a 3D feel. 

While getting ready to set up my next VSF game I noticed I had a large amount of foam board in stock, some wide blue masking tape and a lot of unused mdf bases in various shapes and sizes. A little light bulb went on in my head and by 2am in the morning I’d mocked up this load of cobblers  - VSF game totally forgotten.

Rear of the bridge with turbo lift access. Foam board sticky blue tape and some unused mdf bases. The doors were made out of MS Word shapes and the LCARS terminals were resized off the inter web and printed out.

Front view of the bridge showing helm, navigation and the ships viewscreen. I’d been wondering what to do with that big oval base for ages!

Main engineering with its upturned yoghurt pot and doohickey warp core. The corridors and rooms are all separate and can be repositioned into different layouts.

Transporter room 1.

You can never have enough corridors going nowhere!

Same stuff - different angle

Now it ain’t pretty and to be honest it’s as rough as a bears arse, but as semi disposable 3D Star Trek terrain it’ll do for test purposes. I took the decision from the off that new rules without hexes or squares would be required, placing my new Tactical Trek in proper skirmish territory. 

I’ll let you know how I get on, when I’ve finished the shuttle bay and run a game.

Toodle ooh.

Cowboys and Indians

Sadly this post is not an exposé of rogue builders or even call centre workers in Mumbai. Nope, This load of old nonsense is yet another tale (yawn) from my life in France - unexpectedly dragged to the fore by my discovery of Baccus’ excellent 6mm Pony Wars range.  Hopefully it’ll give you a chuckle even though it’s (as usual) at my own expense.

Now then. It’s well known in my family that I've been mad since I was a teenager, though these days it’s known as chronic depression and anxiety. It wasn't talked about much back in the day since it carried a stigma second only to being born in Birmingham (which I was). Times change of course; fashions come and go. Lately; depression and anxiety seems have become the new rock n roll - and, like being born in Birmingham, has developed a sort of strange caché all of its own. (What do you mean you haven't watched the Peaky Blinders?) Anyway - let’s get it out there, I was both nuts and social distancing way before it was cool. A trail blazing trendsetter, if you will.

The inevitable outcome of such a diagnosis was that I'd been on meds of one sort or another for a good long time, and probably would be still if it hadn't been for a strange confluence of events that followed our move out to France in late 2014. 

The Département we moved to was entirely agricultural and very sparsely populated, (since anyone with youth, brains, or talent had left for the big city at some point during the 1960's). 

The farmers that remain in the area are all tighter than a gnats chuff and while a doctors appointment to discuss mental health problems would cost 25 euros, a length of rope to hang themselves in an empty barn would only cost them 15. For a true Cruesois that's a total no brainer.

Wow, that got dark real quick didn’t it! *

Unsurprisingly my new doctor had lots of experience sorting out hip replacements but not a lot in ministering to the partially deranged. When I left his Cabinet de Médecin I had a prescription whose daily dose of tablets looked not unlike a Woolworths pick 'n' mix. The side effects listed on the boxes were daunting and included diarrhoea, breathlessness, migraine, hallucination, heart arrhythmia, etc etc. 

The plus side seemed to be that I would no longer be in the clutches of an existential crisis, the minus that I might have to pay for that inner calm by having a heart attack, a blinding headache, or s***ting myself to death. Maybe even all at once! Choices, choices.

I've already chronicled some of the early domestic disasters that followed in the wake of our move out there on my old blog, but suffice it to say they went someway to diverting my attention from any "issues" for a while, (being permanently frozen, suddenly penniless, isolated, and faced with a massive building project you are singly ill equipped to deal with can do that it seems). Faced with a barrage of problems I had to put being nuts on the back burner, however the first small period of calm in the Summer of '16 brought all of my ongoing mentalism straight back to the fore.

I'd nipped into the village of Crocq (pronounced crow - if you were struggling with it) to pick up some groceries when the sudden desire to sample a fly trodden eclair from the ville's sole boulangerie popped into my head. Sadly the old crone who owned the joint was never in a rush to respond to the tinkling bell and I was forced to wait impatiently for her to contemplate abandoning Belle and Sebastian on her black and white TV out back. (Nothing and no one ever moves quickly in the Creuse).

The boulangerie in Crocq. Sorry about the crowds. It’s not always as busy as this.

The aforementioned meds helped numb any irritation I might have felt and for some perverse reason the longer she kept me standing by the counter the more I became resolved to passive aggressively wait her out. The otherwise empty shop was as quiet as the grave, apart I gradually realised, from a faint clip clop clip clop coming from the street outside. Naturally I turned to see what it was and through the large plate glass window I saw this...

Yee hah.

Yeah. A ruddy cowboy. Rifle in saddle holster, neckerchief, coiled lassoo, the works. 

I stood and watched as he continued slowly past the window, then suddenly heard... "Monsieur?!"

The crone had parted the beaded fly curtain to see what I was after. Adding to my confusion she showed no sign of having seen anything unusual. Making my excuses (incidentally I suspect the same éclaire may still be awaiting purchase - six years on) I hurried outside to find the street was empty.

Whoa. 

There were no smelly deposits for the roses, no bits of straw. Nothing. No sign he had ever been there. I was totally non plussed.

About a week later I was standing in the builders merchants at Giat when it happened again. The shop was empty and the assistant had gone out the back to look for some pipe fittings I'd had on order. He was rummaging around in the stock room when the main door opened and in walked...

Hold on tharr Bald Eagle.

Yup. A full on Native American Indian. Feathers, war paint, moccasins, you name it. He nodded in acknowledgement then went off around the ailes and out of sight…just as the assistant came back with my pipe fittings. 

I gestured towards the shelves and tried to mime wearing a feathered headdress but assuming I was unhappy somehow with what he'd turned up with the assistant went back to check he'd picked up the right parcel. 

Which was when old Indian chops reappeared, of course. 

Apparently unable to find a wigwam or whatever native Americans want in a builders merchants he swanned back off outside with nary a bye your leave. 

There was of course no sign of the bugger when I left.

Greatly troubled I recalled the potential hallucinatory side effects of my tablets and immediately gave them the elbow. After a long and harrowing cold turkey period I eventually settled into my current new (non) normal.

Three years later, in the summer of 2019 I was clearing out the attic prior to our move back to the UK when I found a bundle of local freebie newspapers I'd been keeping to use as fire lighters. Mostly full of adverts they never got read but the one on the top was from 2016 and on the front page were two chaps I had no problem recognising. 

It turns out that the Cheyenne Bar and Restaurant in Aubusson had been having a promotion of some sort and had hired actors to tour the local area in order to stimulate interest.

The Cheyenne bar and restaurant in Aubusson. Source of all my woes. We’ll some of them at any rate.

My how I laughed.

Not.

Toodle ooh

* Mental health problems are of course a serious issue. I use humour as a weapon in my fight against it and no offence is intended to other sufferers by my flippancy. These days I try to ameliorate the problem with exercise sunlight and music. 

Sometimes it works.

Sometimes.

This hauntingly beautiful track helped to take the edge off recently. Close your eyes, (not if your driving for Gods sake) and give it a listen.

Over to you Sophie.

The curse of the flamingo

I had a very quick go at the first scenario in the Paleo Diet rule book last week so I thought I’d share it here seeing as it was an actual game and whatnot.

You’ll note from the previous post that I created a bit of background fluff for my main protagonists though that’s mostly for my own amusement since there’ll only be the odd game of it on here, (when the blog “content well” runs a bit dry for instance) rather than a structured campaign.

The scenario has four hunters who are trying to kill a single giant grazing animal. The hunters win if they can kill the beast with at least three of them left alive at the end to share the spoils. The only changes to the rules I’ve made are the conversion of the games set distances into hex approximations.

My Neanderthal group of six has a selection of different weapons and abilities but with the four I’m allowed in this scenario my strategy was to leave out the bow and simply set a fire that would drive the giant grazer into the path of a pre-prepared ambush. 

The hunt begins! Agg and Dave set off cautiously, trying not to spook Munches the most grass (for tis he) as they endeavour to reach an upwind position. Off on the right Igg and Egg sneak around the rear of the monster in the hope of finding a decent ambush site.

Agg and Dave manage to get upwind of their prey (red triangle shows wind direction) and Agg spots a combustible looking piece of scrub between the rocks.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, Igg and Egg set up an ambush on either side of the mammoths likely path of escape. Munches the most grass raises his trunk to sniff the air, sensing either the first wisps of smoke from Agg’s burning brand, or the explosive unpleasantness of Egg’s troublesome breakfast.*  

The scrubland catches fire immediately and Agg dances in orgiastic delight. He really does like seeing things burn. Dave watches on… more than a little troubled by his compadres unhealthy excitement.

The breeze carries the billows of smoke straight towards the mammoth. Munches the most grass panics and immediately stampedes away from the danger. (I rolled a 6 on the animal reaction table - which was the most extreme outcome possible). Recalling the shameful encounter he had with the Cromagnon depicted Auroch, Igg readies his new sedimentary cryptochrystalline chert tipped hunting stick and clasps his meaty hands tight around its trademark bark textured grip.

Munches bellowed as he rushed headlong towards Igg. (After mulling it over he'd settled on bellowing rather than trumpeting for this game by the way). Igg tensed, spear at the ready. 

As the oncoming beasts thundering feet shook the very air in his chest Igg suddenly caught a glimpse of a large pink bird with very long legs flying overhead… (yup you're going to have to go back a post and look at that cave painting again).

Wham… Munches trampled over the poor distracted Neanderthal just as the Auroch had done to him the season before. 

(I consider entering the same hex to be the equivalent of the games base to base contact. There was a dice roll to see if the hunter gets to jump out of the way or gets trampled. Igg rolled a 1 so got a mammoth tusk in the goolies for his trouble). Lol. 

Seeing his mate go down under the mammoth's powerful feet, Egg rushes out from between the rocks waving his club wildly. Munches veers sharply to one side and heads off around the trees.

Cradling his nuts** Igg scrambles to his feet and manages to stab the retreating backside of his massive assailant. Another two strikes like this would be needed to secure a kill by the way. 

Observing the trampling debacle and with the fire continuing to spread Dave runs back to the trees in the hopes of heading off the fleeing mammoth. Agg just wants to watch the fire of course, but reluctantly follows in Dave’s wake.

Dave came haring around the corner of the wood to find Munches heading straight towards him, with Igg and Egg in hot pursuit. The sudden appearance of enemies both fore and aft was too much for the fire crazed mammoth who switched from flight to fight in an instant.

This time Dave got the horn*** (well technically the tusk I s’pose, but you get where I’m coming from). Munches turned tail and shouldered the Neanderthals behind him out of the way before thundering off the board to safety.

And here they are. Not so much the wild bunch as the sorry looking bunch. As a result of being the most useless of the hunting party Igg got to role on the negative traits table and came up with "timid". For the next hunt he will suffer a -1 die modifier to any attacks he makes at short range. I suspect that once the Cromagnons get to hear of it there'll be another addition to that cave painting as well.

Having read the rule book through 300 times I still forgot most of the basics when it came to putting lead on the table. Although the rule book is logically laid out narrative wise, from an "in game" perspective there seemed to be a lot of unnecessary flicking back and forth. On the plus side the game took a mere 30 minutes to play through and looks like it'll be a good entry point for my grandchildren, if they can get over the killing animals thing. Ruddy woke kids of today with their rock 'n' roll and their winkle pickers...

Anywhoo, I'd best wrap this post up - my scratch built version of main engineering for the USS Cousteau isn't going to finish itself. 

We'll be off to north Germany for the next game by the way, so it's a good job I made all those bloomin' pine trees recently!

Toodle ooh

Disclaimer: No plastic animals were harmed in the making of this post.

*Yes, I’m doing fart gags now. I know right.

**Apologies, I’m feeling very low brow today. 

*** And inevitably I lower the tone yet further. Breeding will out in the end I suppose.