BLOOD SOAKED SNOW, 1776

[Trenchist 864]

BLOOD SOAKED SNOW

THE HEUSSEN REGIMENT

7th of Harren’s Folley, 1776

 

 

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“3rd of The Grand Harvest, 1774,

Officer Cairbre Saeval, Ivae’Fenn. Topmost priority. 

To Heuschloss, Heusstandarte Regiment;

 

An unthreatening band of vagabond orcs have set camp not far from the Northeastern gateway of Talu’lareh. Thereupon, the following morn, reconnoitering troops reported the fraternity of greenskin doubled in number. By the hour, the band amassed raiding forces and by the day of saturn a whole clan had accumulated.

 

This dusk, the greenskins have set out to skirmish with our outpost in an effort to buy time for the construction of fortifications and a forward siege camp at the foot of our outpost. Interception efforts were carried out but to no avail. Additional orcish siegecrafts are in the midst of construction, and the affair proves to be but a matter of time before the gate is breached.

 

An immediate reinforcement troop of the Heusstandarte Kompanie is requested to relieve the siege and dispel the orcish threat.”

 

 

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The tranquil current of the sky-blue stream, flowing through a steeply-carved ravine was interrupted by throbbing ripples in the water. Heavy thudding grew closer, the ripples expanding. Four hooves rushed through the ford, with haste, water thrown spurting all around. Following in the stallion’s track were a trio of riders, clad from head to toe in full, sombre-tinted plate. Adorning their suitably black steeds were identical yellow-black pattern caparisons. They slowed down upon a narrow path, jaggedly winding between cliffside and river. Finally, the foremost rider lifted his hand, ordering a halt by a cliffside. An agape cave hid some steps up the rock. The four dismounted, vigilant, and equipped their tackle.

 

“Sergeant de Reden, Corporal de Langford.” the first called, lifting his visor with a metalic rasp. He was a middle-aged yet extremely well-groomed man with a curious accent, reminiscent of the guttural Kaedreni dialect. SGM Dniester Chauvin was already planning his retirement, but futily. He came expecting to be outmatched in an ensuing duel against an Orcish brute, to die with sword and by the sword. He’d be sorely disappointed were his death foretold to him then. “Up stream, there is a camp. Unidentified. Scout it with extreme caution, engage if necessary and report back. Myself and Corporal Laxenburg will secure the cave in preparation for the main troop.” With a crisp nod, the De-duo complied and hastily set out upstream.

 

A red tent. Fishing equipment. A rustle. People talking? The duo exchanged glances, before making their way, slowly and discreetly, towards the tent.

 

 

Just barely concealed by the red linen, the two - swords drawn - had already picked up on a pair of thieves ransacking the tent for all it has. No, not thieves - goblins. “HUMIEZ!” one suddenly screeched like a piglet, dropping a clay pot, smashing it on the plank floor. The second readily equipped his club, and a fight ensued in the blink of an eye. Langford’s blade met a second pot sent flying towards Reden in a panic. A clumsy swing of the clubbed Goblin caught Langford offguard and sent him against the wooden support beam. Reden cut sideways, and slashed the closest goblin’s hip. Another hurtled piece of furniture, and another clash of arms. Within less than a minute, the two goblins laid bleeding and lifeless on the ground. Before even drawing breath and confirming their kills, a sickly, silver-haired elf extended a shaky hand from a pile of rags tucked in the tent’s corner. “Help..!” he managed to mumble, a dark crimson stain marked by his abdomen. De Langford kneeled beside him, bandage already in hand, but it was visibly too late. 

 

 

“The red one.. In his wounds, he is most vulnerable..” he coughed in stingy pain, face tightening. “The red one? What do you mean, elf? Explain yourself!” Demanded de Reden, goggling the helplessly dying elf. He began choking on his words in his attempt to elucidate, twitching and cringing over his wound. “Damn it, I druther finish him, t’is needless suffering.” The knight concluded, offering de Langford a glance before, reluctantly, he shoved a knife in the elf, a stifled moan leaving him. “Red one, he said? What’s that mean?” then enquired de Langford, almost as if oblivious to the dead elf. He’s seen plenty and learned to share little sympathy. De Reden shrugged, and after gleaning about the tent, the two made their way back to the cave, along the jagged path.

 

 

“Laxenburg und Hans.” Commanded an imposing man with a tight ruff over the larger troop which had arrived by the time the pair returned. Captain Johannes Betzler. “Climb up, carefully, und inspect zhe surroundings at zhe other side. Everyone else, double-check joor bandage satchels. Ah! de Langford, de Reden.” he took note of their appearnce, drawling on the Sparrow’s name in an almost comical Waldenian accent. “Vhat did joo find?” he frowned, as always. They explained.

 

 

“Scheisse..” muttered Hans, son of the company horse-trainer. Eager, God-fearing yet impoverished and young. He’d dreamed of becoming a Sergeant and forever herald discipline, in fashion of his fabled foreuncles in the Order of Saint Lucien. Futily, however, as his tale would prove shortlived and cruel fated. He emerged from the narrow hatch at the other end of the cave, blinding sun light piercing his eyes, “Did ve make it all zhe way to zhe top of zhe ravine?”

“It seems so, now quiet.” ordered Cpl. Laxenburg hoarsely, but silently, squinting. “Two sentries, to the right, near the watchtower, looking away. Do you spy? And a palisade, tent behind. Firecamp. Orcs.” he surmised, shuffling in the snow by the hatchet. “Very well, let’s report back.”

 

With a silent nod to Laxenburg, Betzler lifted his sword sky-high, “Utter your prayers, kameraden. Los gehts, schnell!” he called. The whole troop organized, stood at formation, and one-by-one ascended the cave. They all climbed out, and professionally reformed, closely. At the order; Arthur Hamzus, Toni Talhoffer, Joseph Stahlherz and Louis de Laxenburg equipped their bows, took aim, and let loose. The two sentries were hit, shifted, and fell down the prodigious precipice.

 

The troop proceeded to the encampment, prepared and uniformly descended on the forward camp. The Heussites charged, yelling. The Orcs, puzzled, rise from the firecamp, roar and pick their arms. An abrupt, cruel clash of steel and wood. Howls. Hounds - war hounds - leaped from their pen and plunged into the rear of the formation. Some men toppled, but the orcs are cut down. A Goblin turned on his heel, racing away - Toni’s halberd hooks his leg. He fell on his face, screeching, terrified. A whimpering cry, de Langford cuts down a war hound. A monstrous grunt - Stahlherz and Hamzus bring down an orc. Corporal Laxenburg struggles on the ground, blood gushing from his neck - devilish, yellow canine teeth digging at his collar. Betzler cuts the dog down. Hans, swinging down at the pinned Goblin - suddenly stands, afeared, before a behemoth of an Orc emerging from a tent. Toni stabs the Orc in the neck. The Sparrow cuts his knee. He collapses, full weight, on Hans, toppling the warhounds’ pen with both. Hans yells, Betzler pushes the monster off of him. Hamzus tends to the bleeding Laxenburg.

 

 

The night silence is interrupted only by the heavy panting of the men and the harsh gale. Hans crawls from under the orc, bruised by still apt. Laxenburg is treated in one of the tents, under all the blood it turned out he had only suffered scratches to the lower neck. The group takes some time and reorganizes. A warhorn is heard. The company assembled behind a hill, and peers over. Before them is unveiled a bustling warcamp. Shouts, chants, clinking of steel and heavy thudding. The scent of blood, metal and smoke fills their nostrils. The Greenskins down below make ready for war. 

 

 

We can waste no time. The gatehouse could be breached any moment, an assault has just been called, reckoned Captain Betzler. They are oblivious to us. We descend and intercept the attack. The Captain was not dilatory. He bruskly barked orders to his officers, shot gestures and marked directions. The Company split. Two formations would go on to manuever down the cliff, and with a charge, they clashed with the orcs. 

 

 

Step by step, the Heussens pushed the unsuspecting Orcish flank further and further in the camp. Crossbow bolts bounced off their shields and armor. A hastily organized line of Spear-orcs suddenly assembled to block the Heussites’ advance. They exchanged blows and jabs. Toni was jumped from behind by a roguish goblin, pounding his helmet with fists. He suffers a concussion, falling. The goblin’s companion, a berzerker Orc, sustains Luxenburg’s spear to the thigh and is sent leaping forward, in a fit of rage. Hans cleaves him in the skull, but it’s too late. He is crushed under the orc’s weight, for the second time, this time mortally. Betzler opens his eyes wide. He sees a short crossbow bolt hanging from his breastplate, “Shitty ******* smiths…” he mumbles in awe, collapsing behind a tent. de Reden and de Langford are overwhelmed by two armoured Orcish sergeants at the other flank. Arthur Hamzus is nowhere to be seen. A warhorhn sounds, a different one. It is the Snow Elven one, signaling triumph. They repelled the assault on the gatehouse. SGM Chauvin rushes to Captain Betzler, treats him, and expresses urgent advice. Retreat. 

 

 

Captain Betzler calls a general retreat. The company pulls their wounded from the front and begins losing ground. Before long they’d climb the stones back the way they came and depart through the cave, bruised and beaten, unsuccessful.

 

 

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“Officer’s Log, Sun's Smile, 1774,

Hauptmann Johannes Betzler;

The assault on the orcish warcamp proved disastrous. Almost all soldiers present are injured, and three casualties are counted. Commandant Martin Heusmann is gravely displeased and demands the head of the Orcish warchief.”

 

 

 

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The following moon, the men assembled anew. 

 

 

“We shall split to two.” spoke Oberhauptmann Liamme aep Vlandenburg to the formation. A experienced cavalry officer in spite of his young age. His fate would prove most damned. “Cpl. Laxenburg, Cpl. de Langford and myself shall set out mounted and disrupt the edges of the camp. The main formation, supported by the Fennic auxiliary, shall be led by Captain Betzler.” The soldiers saluted, and set to march. This time, reinforcing from the side of the gatehouse, the first company, numbering nine including the Elven auxiliary, descended the stone stairway into a hill-side encampment, hugging the Fennic side of the gatehouse. A sight too familiar was before them; an ongoing battle. The Orcs have pushed through the gate and were now putting the encampment to torch, clashing with the little Snow Elven border guard that remained. “To arms! Double Rank! Marche!” ordered Betzler, sword in hand, visor rustling down.

 

The Company descended on the ongoing fray and cut through the first greenskins in sight. Sgt Toni stanned with a halberd, Dilbert Strobl sent a swing. Lucien de Reden twisted his knee in the close melee and Betzler toppled over him. Hamzus kept the orcs ahead at bay as the pair recovered, and Stahlherz gashed at them from the flank. If there was one way to describe Corporal Joseph Stahlherz, it would be his namesake, Steel hearted. Valiant and fierce in combat, he could not foresee the mortal blow struck from behind him. A misplaced throwing axe tossed over by a recruit as unstable as a one-legged stool. He died instantly, skull fractured from behind. The unruly recruit would meet the same fate two saint’s hours after, gutted by Lt. Benjarno Sadre following the battle. There was no time gawk at Stahlherz, the whole formation had been climbing over eachother in a chaotic defense of the narrow gateway.

 

De Reden parried, but was too late. His right hand was smashed by a hammer’s stroke, crushing the bone. Betzler received a nasty scar as he fell by an orc’s sword, but the bottleneck was pushed through. The company emerged at the other end of the gatehouse. Before then was an enclosed palisade wall. To the right, a healing tent. Do orcs even heal? I reckon they fight to the death, considered Arthur Hamzus as the small bailey was cleared. He didn’t enter, but Lucien, Betzler and Toni did. They put all to the sword.

 

A large rope flung. Heavy wooden beams creak, and the counterweight trebuchet’s arm swung with speed. A large stone hit the center of the bailey, rubble and rocks spreading all around. None were at its mark, but Toni was struck in his helmet, fell, and with him Arthur. “Artillerie!” yelled someone from the top of their lungs, and before long, another boulder came flying - this time colliding with the palisade gate and breaking it to bits. Wasting no time at risk of another stone, Betzler rallied with him the weary men and climbed the wreckage of wood and stone. The camp now stood before them, greenskins at the ready. “Push to zhe hill, to zhe right! Seize zhe artillerie!” he commanded, and a push towards the hill was made.

 

The two armored berserkers blocking their path were cut down with surprising ease by Betzler and de Reden. Following them were the rest, exchanging blows with spearorcs. Just as they made it to the hill, slowly outnumbered by orcs from the camp, came to view Liamme aep Vlandenburg, Lieberman de Langford and Louis de Laxenburg from atop a hill. They descended and cut down the unyielding goblins who manned the artillery piece.

 

 

The regrouped troop held in defense and began unloading bolts into the Orcish formation down below. A pair of horses, Laxenburg and Langford’s, fell to enemy bolts. SGM Dniester Chauvin made it through to the troop and dug his shield deep in the dirt, facing enemy arrows. Alongside him stood Dilbert Strobl and Arthur Hamzus. Behind them, the men were returning fire from their crossbows. All besides one. Oberhauptmann Liamme aep Vlandenburg stood atop his horse, his countenance inert. He was unmoving. The men waited for orders, stood their group and sustained damage, but Liamme aep Vlandenburg remained dumbstruck, staring down at the camp. In this lingering, disastrous inaction, SGM Dniester Chauvin turned his head - he looked at the Oberhauptmann, his face begging for action. He froze, came to realization the commander. Why is he still staring at me?

 

It didn’t take long for him to discover. Dniester Chauvin, in his well-groomed physiognomy, fell over under his shield. From his temple, protruded a bolt. He perished by Vlandenburg’s incompetence, and were he to continue, more will fall. “Retreat!” he barked, goggling. “Retreat! Immediately! Up the hill!” The men falled back, shields in hand. A stone thrown across hit Luxenburg in the head. He fell, unconscious, between the line and the orcs. De Langford, too, was struck by a slingshot and dropped. They were carried, but none had the time to think over hauling Chauvin. His armor and face, in their glamour, were crushed beneath pursuing orcs.

 

 

They made it to the forward camp, where they, a moon ago, first encountered the orcs. They stopped to heal, to treat themselves, but orcs were still on their trail. A devilish, towering orc emerged from a hill overlooking the encampment. He was surrounded by a pack of veteran orcs. Their scars, however, were trifle in comparison of his own. Open, gaping, greenish-rotting wounds dotted him, in his protruding ribcage to his arm and leg. The men retreated in a frenzy, unable to face the warchief in their state. Vlandenburg was last, having exchanged gazes with the devilish orc.

 

 

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“Officer’s Log, Sun's Smile, 1775,

Hauptmann Johannes Betzler;

Another loss. Four casualties in total, counted after Oberhauptmann Vlandenburg’s hanging and the execution of Recuit Crim. The Commandant’s message was clear; failure shall be met with failure. If I do not succeed in our next attack, I am likely to meet Vlandenburg’s fate, on the noose. Gott mit uns.

 

 

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“Sorcery is not arbitrary, Sir Betzler. Logic and reason reign supreme in the arcane.” Edulicated the sorcerer, a decorated papakha, or kolpik in his dialect, sat steadily on his head.”

 

“Ich have mein doubts.” Surmised the Captain, a distasteful grimace set on the scarred sorcerer. He shared the frown.

 

“You’ve naught to fear, we are all Canonists. I am acquaintance to Lt. Benjarno and distant relative to Thomas Fitzgerald, they vouch for me.” he replied.

 

Unimpressed, Betzler replied, “We’ll have our fair share of discussions, Herr Bucephalus. For the moment, I must depart. My nose was injured in yesterweek’s fight, it must be checked. Farewell.” he promptly departed.

 

What a pity, to stoop to the help of sorcerers.

 

 

“Make ready! We set out, the orcs have encroached to our doorstep! Today, we put an end to that scourge, to their leader. Employ your Betzler concoctions, they are flammable. Arthur Hamzus, you are assigned to Bucephalus’ side. Stir clear of his way when he casts. The rest, double rank!” Ordered the commander. The formation was ready, and the men made their way out and advanced, boot atop last night’s blanket of snow.

 

 

They advanced, shields knit together. They overcame the first crossbow-goblins, and before long, a whole conflagration had ranged in the forward camp of the orcs. Lieutenant Faust Goethe’s concoction went ablanze in arms, but the other’s were tossed over the palisade successfully. Bucephalus’ blast of fire helped scatter the orc formation inside, and the camp was overwhelmed with relative ease. Exchanging bolts and arrows with the forces below from the newly captured battlements, the company was forced to defend against a rather fierce counter-attack mounted by the orcs. Successful, yet wounded, Hamzus, Reden, Laxenburg and Clio Amaretti defended valiantly. Arthur Hendrick’s crossbow bolts found their four marks with great success. Betzler’s own cocktail, the Betzler Special, highly flammable, was flung over the palisade. In retaliation, the same cocktail was thrown back from the camp and combusted in Betzler’s face. Hamzus would have burst in a laughter were it not his Captain concerned. The group healed, organized and descended the hillside camp in calculated steps to met all thrown at them.

 

 

Before long, they have secured the majority of the center camp. Tattered and bloodied corpses littered the surface, while some crossbow-orcs still let loose their bolts on the soldiers. Bucephalus was preparing a spell as a vanguard of Heussen sergeants advanced to meet them. The company has failed to notice, however, a heap of war slaves looming above. Some ten discolored, disgruntled and frightened humans and elves, with knives and pitchforks, descended on the occupied formation’s right flank in a frenzy. De Langford was first to fall, following was Arthur Hendrick and eventually Bucephalus. 

 

 

He was forced to smack his staff across at some encroaching slave’s head. He panicked and fell back, jumping inside a tent where he found Laxenburg bleeding profusely, “Defend me, boors! Defend me!” he yelled. More soldiers joined him in the tent, not thanks to his wail, however. They, too, were outnumbered and damaged, and came to seek shelter. Almost the whole troop has surrounded the tent and its entrance, desperately holding off the cannonfodder charge, which proved especially brutal. But they held. The rear of the slave mob realised their goblinish oppressors, the slave-drivers, were no longer behind them. Thus, they decided to flee, but in the wrong direction. They were picked off by orcish crossbows, meeting their freedom only in death. The troop healed, reorganized, and turned to ascend the next hill and to put an end to the greenskin scourge.

 

 

They climbed the foothill, striking the opposition with difficulty. Some time later, they had finally made it to top ground; to the warchief’s tent. A towering Orc emerges from the tent, devilish eyes trailing those standing before him. In a furious rage, he roars, shaking the dirt beneath and peeling further off some of his dangling, green rotten flesh. While some troops were clashing with some orcs to the opposite corner of the hill, it was down to Captain Betlzer, Sergeant de Reden, Corporal de Langford, Soldaten Arthur Hendrick, Clio Amaretti and Arthur Hamzus to face the devilish chief. Above them, Bucephalus of Flodts discharged a spell, a whirling sphere of fire. Some five feed infront of the beast, with a simple swing of his sword, the sorcery was cast aside, deflected, and raced towards the unsuspecting tent wherein Jan, Toni and Laxenburg were battling. In awe of the spectacle, Bucephalus lost his breath and collapsed in exhaustion, staff shattering at his side, dragged by Hamzus to a secure corner under the hill-side wall.

 

De Langford was struck in the knee, impaired. Betzler and de Reden jabbed, endlessly, at the orc’s gaping wounds, recalling the dead elf’s prophecy. The soldiers all slashed. So did the monstrous orc. Chief Zislag’s large weapon, however, a war cleaver, proved inapt against the Heussites. He cut off the head of his first Lieutenant, who was standing right besides him, battling it out with Hendrick and Clio. Then, when he prepared a second whirling swing, he decapitated his bodyguard to the left, only scraping the plates of the armor-clad mercenaries.

 

 

After a prolonged duel, he was cut down. Betzler’s slice to the side brought the behemoth to one knee. Hendrick stabbed his ribcage, sending a bone flying out, the Orc fell on second knee. Then, finally, having been rendered defendless, Sergeant de Reden sent a two-handed, horizontal flourish. The orc’s neck had been slit, and he collapsed head-on on the ill-fortuned de Langford, who was struggling to crawl away with a wounded knee.

 

The men dragged Langford from under the beast and into safety. They breathed, at last, victorious, to the sounds of whimpering goblins taking flight as they spectate the extermination of their warchief. “Victory.” celebrated Bucephalus, Hamzus’ vodka in his hand, emerging from his corner.

 

 

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Ave Heusmann

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GOTT MIT UNS!

 

 

RECRUITMENT

Should any able bodied man seek enlistment in the company, they ought to further a notice to the company’s address. In advance, however, it is recommended to ensure one’s eligibility or face rejection. Personnel learned in medicine are in exceptional demand. 

 

https://www.lordofthecraft.net/forums/topic/192686-heusstandarte-1772/

[Mazok 19]

Jan covered in a dozen bandages soaked with blood lifted his long-sword upwords, his eyes flashed under his winged helmet "Gott mit uns, gott mit uns!" he chanted again and again alongside with his men

[Lord of Boars 556]

Upon reading of the glorious battles Faust Johann Wolfgang das Goethe would make a standarte salute and exclaim, "Heil Heusmann!" 

[Comrade Lafayette 256]

Nice to see the victory post up! Good work everyone

[Jagdkatzchen 99]

Toni shuffles across the camp with the aid of his cane, his broken left shin bound and secured.
“A hard-fought battle, but a victory nonetheless,” he mutters, casting his gaze to the stars. “If only we could have all made it out alive... But i suppose this is simply the nature of war. Shame.”

[Aiscool9 12]

Arthur Hamzus looks back on the experiences, the good and the bad, that he’d gained from the orc invasion. Knowing that he’d finally gotten a taste of combat and strutted close with death in a deadly dance multiple times proving himself worthy of combat, felt satisfactory to say the least. All the new knowledge he’d gained would surely help him in years to come. Arthur stands up grimacing at the healing hip wound which was bound to leave a scar as well as  the many other injuries he’d sustained. He raises his trusty pole-arm and with a throaty roar he shouts “Heil Heusmann”

[Balthasar 2497]

Heinrich Nessel frowned. He had not been allowed to participate in the battle, by orders of the Kommandant. He had been put to work in the quartermastery. He would however do his best to see that the Heussites were all clad in the best armor and weaponry. In case a Betzler event should occur once again!

[N1ck 16]

Liberman de Langford sat in his tent as he was cleaning his blade of the blood of the greenskins. Thinking about his fallen comrades, a faint smile rose. He was delighted about avenging them.