Tuesday, 28 January 2014

The Battle of Phar Hill 

(Warning: This report from the Albion commander contains violent language of a graphic nature and some gruesome hyperbole that some readers may find hilarious distressing.)

So the inevitable has come to pass.  The Gods demand blood.  Blood and always more blood.  Together they have manoeuvred us petty minded mortals to wage war in order to slake their thirst.  When the Gods have a thirst, to gain their favour Albion must be at the fore in providing it!  The ranks of her glorious infantry carrying their bayonets to the bellies of her enemies.
On a hill in the distance stood our objective.  The malignant carcass of the treacherous wretch Baron Jim Von Dastardly of Scratchpole. There he stood, cowering behind the arrayed ranks of Vulgaria, exuding his conniving, malignant stench. 
The enemy was arrayed with its infantry and guns in the centre. Woods, marsh and ploughed farmland protected their left flank.  On their right was their horse, more numerous and gaudy than our own.  Their flamboyant attire no doubt an attempt to compensate for their small, shrivelled vulgar manhoods.

The opening of battle was announced by a devastating barrage from our artillery.  Our gunners professionally handling their ordinance and smashing two battalions of elite vulgarian infantry milling around in disarray left of the enemy centre.

The massed circus of peacocks on the enemy’s right advanced and started a deadly waltz with our cavalry.  Lord Effingham issued the command for a general advance and the “LINES and LINES and LINES” of Albion’s professional infantry began their steady and remorseless cadence towards the action the Gods demanded. With bayonets levelled our ranks advanced steadily into volley after volley of the foes excellent musketry.
Many fell. Our recently hired mercenary battalion from the staunch and righteous Order of Saint Elmo pushed on till destruction, clearing the path for the following battalions to close with and over run four enemy gun batteries. So efficiently and smoothly did the Vulgarian gunners man their pieces that they seemed, at times, to be invisible!  Their blood spilt, their glorious deaths certainly a fitting tribute to any Gods thirst.
On pushed the advance, irresistible to the heroic and valiant defence of the Vulgarian infantry. Battalion after Battalion sacrificing their blood to greedy Gods. The stage was set for a great victory.  The enemies cannon taken, battalions smashed, Albion’s elite Guard battalions could see the target and little stood between them and Von Dastardly!

Damn those ungrateful Gods! For all the blood sacrifice of Albion’s flower.  For all the gore offered to them from the work of our most revered bayonets.  Escape was granted to the Vulgarians and their accursed charge Von Dastardly of Scratchpole. The very ground itself, irrigated by bloody tribute turned to an impassable mire stopping our Lord Effingham’s glorious host at the point of total victory!  War is hell and the Gods ungrateful.  Battle will be re-joined in due course. 

                                       The gallant Vulgarian cavalry                                                        see off the sub-standard Albion horse.

Ever the gentleman, Baron Bomburst grants his Albion opponent the Honours of War 
whilst claiming victory on the field.

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