War in the Woods Game 3: Fire in the Garden
In the dim hours just before the sun rises high enough to illuminate the forest floor, the group of French colonial troops sit dejectedly in their camp, licking their wounds. A few of them gnaw at pieces of pork in the gunmetal light, cutting from the sow they'd hauled away from Little Eden the evening before and roasted. Their sergeant broods, honing his tomahawk impotently with a stone. Moccasined feet approach from where their Huron allies had been gathered smoking nearby. At their head, the French leader spies his native counterpart. The older indian looks big and beefy even draped in his red blanket. Hardheart tugs his knife from the sheath around his neck and hacks off a hunk of pork, biting it fiercely and swallowing. "Today. We take more from them," he says flatly. The Frenchman hardly hears him at first. "We should wait for new instructions, we've done our bit," the sergeant grouses, running his thumb along the blade of his hatchet. He doesn't t...