Kill the Bledders (warning: kind of violent)

Brickyard pizza with banana peppers, beer, later night cereal

My group and I are hiding out in the mountains, in a place of gorges and cliffs and dense deciduous forrest and forgotten buildings. We're on the run from the nasty forces of doom or something. We have to keep moving, ferrying across gorges, setting up camps. But at some point they've caught up with us. Someone calls out, "Bledders!" [the first vowel rhymes with "instead".] On the path, approaching us, are 3 or 4 men in uniforms carrying flat silver headed shovels, their vicious weapons that they can use as deftly as a sword. The others get moving, I create distractions and catch up later. But they're onto us, and at the next camp we again are approached, this time by a column of "soldiers" in plate-mail [def. cf to the Bodikka vs the Romans prog we watched last night]. They're led by an old wizardy man in white, and there are more Bledders in the area. On the chase. At some point an obviously underskilled Bledder catches up with me, but I'm able to get his shovel away, and I jab him in the gut with it. He goes down, but is still alive. In his wierd, fanatical, possibly drug addled Bledder haze, he continues to blabber on, spewing rhetoric. But he's a broken figure now, pitiable. I know the pain must be overwhelming. I strike him again, but only jaggedly gouge his neck. His suffering is apparent. I strike again, this time driving down through his throat, severing it open. The meat of his body is the color of, and his flesh becomes shiny and puffy like, cheap sausages. I move on.