Iknow5/Text_Adventures huggingface dataset:
The Normans advance, neat and orderly. Their armaments are very similar to that of their riders. Most wear mailshirts, and those bizarre conical helmets. Some carry axes, most carry swords, but all heft the customary Norman blue kite shield. That, at least, is some consolation. Whereas you English fight as a cohesive team, the Norman's tend to fight as individuals, because the kite shield, although effective, cannot interlock with that of a neighbor's. Despite your weakened state, a lone Norman is still a dead one.


You crouch low behind the horse corpse and wait. The familiar jingle of mailshirts heralds their arrival. Beside you, Orvyn bristles, but you put a cautionary hand on his shoulder. You want them close.


You wait a moment more, then leap out. Your longsword snakes forward, lashing out at a Norman's face. He raises his kite shield to deflect the blow, but as he does one of the men on your right sweeps his blade down and cuts into the Norman's ankle. The man screams and drops to one knee, Orvyn's axe crushes his jaw.


You press into the gap and push the Normans towards Harold's Housecarls, whose bloody Daneaxes make short work of the thin kite shields. Ducking under a Norman sword thrust, you stab forwards and gut the man. Kicking him aside, you search for your next opponent...


And find no one. The Normans are retreating. To your left, you notice King Harold. He waves madly with his axe, and men are surging forward alongside him. With a sudden shock you realize he is trying to rally the men and charge downhill, towards William's retreating infantry.

You stay back

Some of your men are beginning to join this mad charge. Waving frantically, you call them back to your position. Most capitulate, somewhat reluctantly.


With your men beside you, you pause to get a better look at the retreating Normans. There is something very wrong here. This retreat is far too organized, too simultaneous. The Norman foot soldiers are increasing the distance between themselves and the beleaguered English soldiers, the pounding of their feet grows fainter, but another pounding grows louder. Horse hooves.


You stare with horror, Harold has thrown off his battered shield and carries only a Daneaxe, which he wields two-handed. He is completely out in the open.


Instinctively, you turn and race towards him.
Orvyn meets you at the edge of camp. A priest and a warrior, an Eriu and a Christian, Orvyn has been your stalwart follower and friend for nearly two decades.


You both clasp hands firmly and grin, filled with pre-battle adrenaline. Although Orvyn is not technically in command of your men, you have left your normal commander, Garyn, back at home to guard your wife and children with a skeleton crew.


With Garyn away, Orvyn is stepping in. He is a good commander for battles; he is amicable and courageous, but also capable and firm. In peacetime he would lack the rigid authoritarianism necessary for drilling the men, but right now they need a man to keep them confident. Orvyn inspires confidence; he isn't especially tall, but he is solidly built and a force to be reckoned with.


His beard and hair are both jet black, and both are kept in place by various bone rings. That, and his sparkling green eyes, give him a look of mad fanaticism that men are all too happy to follow.


You provide the encouragement, and Orvyn provides the fire. Together you are a killing force. Orvyn fingers the axe at his belt restlessly.


"Should we go to the shieldline?"


There is still probably an hour or more before the two armies actually meet, as men are ever reluctant to face a shieldwall, but being early couldn't hurt.

You have some time, let's talk

You shrug


"We still have some time."


You find a moist log and sit down. Orvyn follows your lead and seats himself on a campstool taken from a nearby firepit. He cracks his knuckles


"So?"


You stretch, mailshirt shimmering


"I just wanted to talk"


"About?"


"The weather of course"


Orvyn looks at you quizically, and you roll your eyes


"I meant the battle. I wanted to talk about the battle"


Orvyn touches the hilt of his axe


"Mm. I might have preferred a conversation on the weather"


You spread your palms


"Sorry, just this; do you think that we can win?"


Orvyn shrugs


"Do you?"


For a while you sit in silence. Neither one of you is willing to speak. You grit your teeth angrily


"I was hoping for some encouragement. This is definitely not helping either of us. Come on, let's go to the front."


Orvyn nods, and helps you up from your log


"Alright, let's go then"
Gently, you place your hand on his shoulder and speak softly


"I'm sorry for your loss. I cannot imagine the pain of losing a son, but I am sure he looks down on you from heaven."


Acwellen's gaze remains fixed on the burning town, and his face is still set in a mask of stone, but his cheeks are streaked.


"Thank you"


He exhales shakily, opens his mouth to say something else, then closes it and remains silent, yet the words are plainly on his mind, trying to slip free like hounds on a leash. At last he speaks, grim and quiet, little more than a whisper.


"Can we win this battle?"


The question hangs there for an eternity, all the fear and anxiety of the English army expressed in the musings of one broken man.

No

Hidden by the dense screen of trees, twelve thousand Norman warriors wait. Each one is battle ready, and battle hardened; professional killers. Within your camp waits fewer than eight thousand men, but of those eight thousand only three thousand can be trusted. The rest are just farmers, weary and ill-disciplined. Even with the high ground, these numbers are far too slanted.


You know it with a dull certainty; only death awaits you here.


Acwellen is still looking at you, waiting for a response. Your mouth moves of its own accord, the words escaping in a wisp of breath.


"No."
Gently, you place your hand on his shoulder and speak softly


"I'm sorry for your loss. I cannot imagine the pain of losing a son, but I am sure he looks down on you from heaven."


Acwellen's gaze remains fixed on the burning town, and his face is still set in a mask of stone, but his cheeks are streaked.


"Thank you"


He exhales shakily, opens his mouth to say something else, then closes it and remains silent, yet the words are plainly on his mind, trying to slip free like hounds on a leash. At last he speaks, grim and quiet, little more than a whisper.


"Can we win this battle?"


The question hangs there for an eternity, all the fear and anxiety of the English army expressed in the musings of one broken man.

You don't know

Hidden by the dense screen of trees, twelve thousand Norman warriors wait. Each one is battle ready, and battle hardened; professional killers. Within your camp waits fewer than eight thousand men, but of those eight thousand only three thousand can be trusted. The rest are just farmers, weary and ill-disciplined. These are long odds, and even with the high ground, this will be no easy victory. Acwellen is still looking at you, waiting for a response. You shrug grimly.


"I don't know Acwellen. I don't know."


Behind the screen of trees the town of Hastings roils with flames and the Norman William's horde assembles.
All around you is the smell of warfare. Acrid smoke from the campfires, piss and refuse from the latrines, sweat from the men.


And fear. You smell that too.


These men have reason to be afraid. You have spent the last few months fighting King Harold's enemies, only to march double-time to confront his most dangerous yet; William of Normandy. His army is camped below, twelve thousand men strong, in comparison to your eight thousand. There is reason to be afraid. Are you afraid? No, you affirm decisively in your mind. You are not afraid. You are Lord Aethelwulf, The Lord In The North, King Harold's most trusted advisor, and the veteran of a hundred battles. Why should you be afraid of an army of ragtag Normans who come to die on your sword?


Shaking such doubts from your mind, you stride purposefully through the bustle of the camp, intent on checking on the forward defenses. A pair of giggling urchins weave nimbly around you and a staggering drunk lurches out in front of you, notices your sparkling chainmail armor and backs away, apologizing profusely. Striding onward towards the edge of the English camp you pass the watchful gaze of the sentries unchallenged and stand at the upper slope of the hill.


You are not alone. Another man sits on the hill, wreathed in the shadow of the setting sun. Drawing closer you recognize him as Acwellen, a minor lord, but stalwart fighter. His face is stone, his jaw grimly set and his eyes staring out at the horizon. Looking over his shoulder you see the black smoke smearing the red evening sky. In the distance the town of Hastings burns. In the blurry uncertainty of the setting sun, you cannot tell if the glisten at his eyes is tears or just the sparkle of dying sunlight. Acwellen's son, you remember, was put in command of Hasting's garrison.


Above the treeline you can just make out the crackle of flames. Hastings burns.

You remind him his son could be alive

Adamantly, you grip him by the shoulder and turn him to face you. Kneeling, you look him in the eyes, grasping his shoulders with sudden ferocity.


"Listen to me Acwellen! Your son may not be dead. Every hour men from the garrison at Hastings enter our camp. There are survivors. Do not give up hope so soon"


Acwellen sighs raggedly, and seems about to disagree, but instead nods fiercely.


"Yes. You're right. I cannot give up hope, my son... my son could still be out there"


His conviction appears slight, but at least you have gotten his attention away from the blaze of Hastings' buildings. Acwellen exhales shakily, opens his mouth to say something else, then closes it and remains silent, yet the words are plainly on his mind, trying to slip free like hounds on a leash. At last he speaks, grim and quiet, little more than a whisper.


"Can we win this battle?"


The question hangs there for an eternity, all the fear and anxiety of the English army expressed in the musings of one broken man.
All around you is the smell of warfare. Acrid smoke from the campfires, piss and refuse from the latrines, sweat from the men.


And fear. You smell that too.


These men have reason to be afraid. You have spent the last few months fighting King Harold's enemies, only to march double-time to confront his most dangerous yet; William of Normandy. His army is camped below, twelve thousand men strong, in comparison to your eight thousand. There is reason to be afraid. Are you afraid? No, you affirm decisively in your mind. You are not afraid. You are Lord Aethelwulf, The Lord In The North, King Harold's most trusted advisor, and the veteran of a hundred battles. Why should you be afraid of an army of ragtag Normans who come to die on your sword?


Shaking such doubts from your mind, you stride purposefully through the bustle of the camp, intent on checking on the forward defenses. A pair of giggling urchins weave nimbly around you and a staggering drunk lurches out in front of you, notices your sparkling chainmail armor and backs away, apologizing profusely. Striding onward towards the edge of the English camp you pass the watchful gaze of the sentries unchallenged and stand at the upper slope of the hill.


You are not alone. Another man sits on the hill, wreathed in the shadow of the setting sun. Drawing closer you recognize him as Acwellen, a minor lord, but stalwart fighter. His face is stone, his jaw grimly set and his eyes staring out at the horizon. Looking over his shoulder you see the black smoke smearing the red evening sky. In the distance the town of Hastings burns. In the blurry uncertainty of the setting sun, you cannot tell if the glisten at his eyes is tears or just the sparkle of dying sunlight. Acwellen's son, you remember, was put in command of Hasting's garrison.


Above the treeline you can just make out the crackle of flames. Hastings burns.

You say "..."

You have no words. Perhaps Acwellen's son is alive, even now rallying survivors and waiting for the cover of night to slip into the safety of the English camp, yet more likely he is dead, cleaved open by a Norman axe, or gutted by a Norman blade, or shot by a Norman arrow. Lying there, consumed by the inferno that lights the evening sky in the distance. You cannot offer false consolation. Instead you stand by him, silently sharing in his grief. Acwellen exhales shakily, opens his mouth to say something, then closes it and remains silent, yet the words are plainly on his mind, trying to slip free like hounds on a leash. At last he speaks, grim and quiet, little more than a whisper.


"Can we win this battle?"


The question hangs there for an eternity, all the fear and anxiety of the English army expressed in the musings of one broken man.
By the 1890's as you enter your fifties it seems that you have put your outlaw past behind you and become a respectable citizen. You have little touch with your former fellow Outlaws: Jesse James, John Younger, Clell Miller, John Jarette, Charlie Pitts, Wood Hite, Bill Chadwell, Oll Shepherd, Little Arch Clement, Bud McDaniels and Tom McDaniels are all dead. Bob Younger and Clarence Hite are dead too, claimed by tuberculosis while Charley Ford has shot himself, overwhelmed by guilt for his role in Jesse's death. Tom Webb, Bill Ryan, Tucker Bassham and Hoobs Kerry all vanished after their release from prison while Cole Younger and Jim Younger are still incarcerated. That leaves just yourself, Frank James, George Shepherd and Dick Liddil alive on the outside, and naturally you have little contact with the last two.


You do see the face of an enemy one summer day when you are in a little town called Creede in Colorado to transact some business. Bob Ford, the man who murdered your friend Jesse, owns a saloon in town and you recognize him in the street. Hatred fills you and you strongly consider killing the man who killed your friend. Doing so would of course put you back outside the law again but it would be a fitting revenge after he betrayed and murdered Jesse James.


You carefully consider what to do.

You let him be

You manage to control yourself and turn your back on your outlaw life once and for all, riding out of Creede without exacting any vengeance. It doesn't matter: soon after you read in the newspapers that Bob Ford has been killed by a man called Ed O'Kelley who had a general dislike of him. Growing old gracefully you move into the Twentieth Century.
Frank is in shock when you join him in Tennessee: like you he finds it impossible to believe that Jesse James, America's greatest bank robber and survivor of so many gunfights and robberies, is dead. As you spend the summer hiding out in Tennessee Frank grows increasingly pessimistic.


"They'll kill us next you know Bill," he tells you one day. "I'm going back to Missouri to surrender. I figure if I surrender myself they might go easy on me, it's either that or keep running until they catch or kill me. I've got no choice. What are you going to do Bill? I suppose you could make a run down to Mexico or up to Canada or some place where the law ain't got no jurisdiction. But I reckon they'll still get you in the end, just like they got Jesse."


You carefully mull over what to do.

You try your chances in fleeing south to Mexico

Parting ways with Frank you head south, cross the Rio Grande and join numerous American fugitives from justice in hiding out in Mexico. You spend three years living in Mexico, reading in papers as Frank is miraculously acquitted in trial after trial despite the mountain of evidence against him. Finally in 1885 all charges against him are dismissed and you receive word that all charges against you have been dismissed as well. A free and safe man for the first time in nearly twenty-five years, since the start of the American Civil War, you finally return to America.
Five years to the day since the James-Younger Gang was destroyed at Northfield you and the rest of the James Gang rob a train at Blue Cut, Missouri. Together with the wary Frank and gregarious Jesse you halt the train with lanterns and climb aboard. "I'm Jesse James," Jesse declares to the frightened passengers. "You might have read about me in the papers. Stay calm and no one will get hurt." Making your way to the Express Carriage you empty the safe of a small amount of money and hastily disembark. Escaping on horses you find that you have made away with $1,000, which split seven ways makes your share $100.


"We need to split up boys," Jesse declares. "Wood, Dick and Charley, you go and hide out at Charley's sister's place near Kansas City. Clarence, I want you to hole up in Adairville and get some medical treatment. I'm going to rent my own place in Kansas City. What are you going to do Frank?"


"I reckon anywhere near Missouri is too dangerous at the moment," Frank says. "I'm going back to my farm in Tennessee."


Jesse glances at you. "What are you going to do Bill?"

You go with Clarence to Adairville

You accompany Clarence to Adairville but your companion is so sick with his terminal tuberculosis that mostly he keeps to his room. One afternoon you are both eating dinner in the hotel's restaurant when several Deputy Sheriffs enter the room and immediately walk towards you. Immediately you know they are here to arrest you and a quick glance around reveals a door to the kitchen just a few feet from you. You could try to make a break for it but as all the Deputies are armed with guns it could be dangerous.

You make a break for it

Springing to your feet you race towards the door, shoulder-barge through it and hurtle through the kitchen, past the stunned cooks and kitchen staff. The lawmen are in hot pursuit but bursting through a backed door you make it out into the street and spring onto the back of a nearby horse. Spurring it into life you gallop out of town as the Deputies fire their pistols at you. One bullet whizzes past your left ear, another knocks your hat from your head but miraculously you make it out of town unhurt and ride hard for Missouri where you spend the spring in hiding.


During your time hiding the James Gang is destroyed. After killing Wood Hite in Missouri Dick Liddil and Charley Ford surrender to the law. Clarence Hite is imprisoned. Soon after Charley's younger brother Bob Ford shoots Jesse James in the back of the head while your friend hangs a picture on the wall. Stunned to hear of your legendary friend's death you ride for Tennessee where the other remaining survivor of the James Gang, Frank James, is living in hiding.
You accompany Clarence to Adairville but your companion is so sick with his terminal tuberculosis that mostly he keeps to his room. One afternoon you are both eating dinner in the hotel's restaurant when several Deputy Sheriffs enter the room and immediately walk towards you. Immediately you know they are here to arrest you and a quick glance around reveals a door to the kitchen just a few feet from you. You could try to make a break for it but as all the Deputies are armed with guns it could be dangerous.

You surrender

Like Clarence you raise your hands in surrender and allow the lawmen to take you into custody. Imprisoned in Adairville you soon learn that Dick Liddil and Charley Ford have surrendered to the law after killing Wood Hite in a gunfight. Soon after Charley's younger brother Bob shoots Jesse James in the back of the head while your friend has a picture on the wall. In order to avoid his brother's fate Frank James surrenders to the law in Missouri, finally bringing the James Gang to an end.


You and Frank go to court together in a remarkable series of trials that see Dick, Charley and Clarence all testify against you. In a remarkable series of trials that go on for three years you defeat all the charges against you both through lack of evidence, aggressive cross-examination and outright perjury. Finally in the spring of 1885 you are both released and for the first time in nearly twenty years you finally succeed in putting your outlaw life behind you.
Five years to the day since the James-Younger Gang was destroyed at Northfield you and the rest of the James Gang rob a train at Blue Cut, Missouri. Together with the wary Frank and gregarious Jesse you halt the train with lanterns and climb aboard. "I'm Jesse James," Jesse declares to the frightened passengers. "You might have read about me in the papers. Stay calm and no one will get hurt." Making your way to the Express Carriage you empty the safe of a small amount of money and hastily disembark. Escaping on horses you find that you have made away with $1,000, which split seven ways makes your share $100.


"We need to split up boys," Jesse declares. "Wood, Dick and Charley, you go and hide out at Charley's sister's place near Kansas City. Clarence, I want you to hole up in Adairville and get some medical treatment. I'm going to rent my own place in Kansas City. What are you going to do Frank?"


"I reckon anywhere near Missouri is too dangerous at the moment," Frank says. "I'm going back to my farm in Tennessee."


Jesse glances at you. "What are you going to do Bill?"

You go with Jesse to Kansas City

You and Jesse take a small house in Kansas City where you hide out for a time. In the spring of 1882 you learn that Clarence Hite has been arrested in Kentucky and Jesse invites the gang's newest recruit Charley Ford and his younger brother, a nervous youth called Bob Ford, to live with the pair of you. He is planning another bank robbery in Platte City, Missouri and wants you and the Ford brothers to take part in it.


One spring morning you are all sitting to breakfast while Jesse reads the day's newspaper and gives a cry of surprise. "It says here that Dick Liddil has been arrested," he announces and you all glance at each other. "Well, I suppose they'll get all of us in the end," Jesse says thoughtfully. Rising from the table he goes into the living room and later when you follow him you find he has taken off his gun belt and is standing on a chair, straightening a picture on the wall.


Suddenly a deafening gunshot next to you makes you jump. The bullet hits Jesse in the back of the head, slamming his face into the picture and he falls off the chair. Turning you find Charley Ford's kid brother Bob standing next to you, a smoking pistol in his hand. As you glance at each other he hastily re-cocks his pistol.

You draw your own pistol and shoot the man who murdered your friend

You draw your own pistol but you are too slow: Bob Ford finishes re-cocking his pistol and shoots you in the right eye. Without a sound you fall to the ground dead, slain just feet from your famous friend, the cold hand of justice having finally extinguished your criminal life at last.