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- Type: Took
$ 17.00 - $ 19.13
(6) 28mm figures
Sculpted by: Aaron Brown
Min'go was beginning to suspect they were in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.
The aut-cees - dra, aliens, rats, whatever you cared to call them - had attacked in the middle of the night, all hoods and howls and flashing blades. Most of the navvies had died in their blankets; the sentries hadn't fared much better. The militia-to'ok had made a slightly better accounting for themselves, if only because they hadn't all been slaughtered. Min'go, his nephew Kur'ra, and a handful of others had gotten clear of the massacre, but now found themselves lost deep in the woods. Dawn was still hours away, and worse, the aut-cees were still hunting them.
Min'go's pet pokauau snuffled nervously and rooted at the hard packed dirt of the game trail they were trying to follow. Min'go scratched between its ears, grateful the animal had first alerted him to the encroaching marauders in time to do something about it. The 'barking pig' was probably the only reason they'd gotten away at all. He checked his pistol for the hundredth time; the cap was still dry, thankfully, and he'd grabbed the leather pouch of spare caps and shot before fleeing his tent.
Kur'ra plodded along behind his uncle, his trademark red feather still jauntily protruding from his worker's cap. He'd taken a sharp edge to his thigh during the fighting but seemed to be handling it well. He was punctuating every third step with an angry slap of his pick against his gloved palm. Min'go considered telling him to cut it out but figured the blood running down his leg was more likely to give them away than some mumbled curses and slapping noises.
Further back, the gunto'ok and pan'gos made up the rest of their meager column. He had no idea if the four gunners had ammunition for their caplocks. He hoped they did - by the sound of things, the rats were getting closer, and the breech-loading guns made poor clubs. At least the pan'gos - the scrappers - had taken their weapons with them. B'ho was shirtless and oozing blood from a half-dozen wounds, but seemed more angry at Min'go for holding him back than actually hurt. Like the rest of the smithy, foundry and Shipworkers, the pan'gos seemed to enjoy fighting more than working. More than once Min'go had had to forcibly separate them from each other or the other to'ok in the work party. Tonight, though, they had certainly proved their worth; the captain doubted any of them would have survived were it not for the scrappers.
The militia captain thought he'd led his greatly-reduced contingent away from their camp but back in the direction of Master of Arms Guul and the main camp of soldiers, militia, and workers, but now he wasn't so sure. It was impossible to tell how far they'd gone, but it seemed far enough that they should have stumbled across a picket by now. Until the sun actually rose, they were lost. This was nothing like they'd been promised back home, when Guul and Lord Me'a'molo had ridden into the town square looking for volunteers. Min'go cursed them now, and cursed himself for being a damned fool.