Major Mistake of the Queen’s Own Hussars speaking. We were having a simply splendid time on manouevres in Austria at the invitation of the Hapsburgs. Really, awfully nice of them. When a polite request was passed to us from the Empress herself, seeking our assistance with a spot of wolf extirpation, then it seemed such a suitable way to recompense them for their time and trouble. Besides, always fancied myself as Wilhemina Tell. Bit of huntin’ and shootin’ . Marvellous. Tally Ho!
Consulted with some locals as regards the location of the wolves’ den. Well, “consulting” is probably over egging it. Terribly greasy items, these peasants, with hardly a brain cell between them. No wonder Frankenstein is always tearing his hair out. They seemed unaccountably nervous, gibbering and gesticulating. Though why was beyond me. After all, wolves are just overgrown corgis really. The yokels also seemed incapable of speaking English. Hell’s teeth, the education system is going to the dogs. What do they teach ‘em around here? I was tempted to take a damn whip to ‘em but suddenly Captain Catastrophe piped up with the opinion that they were indicating the grove over yonder. It was intimated that she should go and look for her ****** self then. Nobody loves a smart ****, you know.
As we watched the intrepid Captain sauntering towards the tress, I suddenly noticed that we didn’t seem to be alone. Far off behind the trees, a large group of astoundingly attired refugees from good taste were running towards us and the wood. Actually, observing more closely, their method of locomotion was most peculiar. Unless my eyes were deceiving me, then their feet did not seem to be making contact with the ground. I could have sworn they were floating along. It must have been a trick of the light. Either that or I’ll have to knock off the firewater. I reached for my flask to test this theory and took a swig. Nope. Still looked as if they would not be acceptable in polite company. Still looked like they were gliding. I looked at the flask appreciatively. This could be a three swig problem.
’Struth! Three wolves bounded out of the thicket, eyes down for a tummy full of Captain Catastrophe. Well, I say “wolves” but they evidently make them a little more substantial in these foreign parts. These were taller than my brick ****house, were definitely not house trained and had more teeth than the entire Royal Family. Which considering she’s got eighteen brats, is quite a total. The fact that their eyes seemed to glow like hot coals was also disconcerting. Still, have to support the troops. Calling Private Parts to me, we went to Catastrophe’s aid while Corporal Punishment drew the Hussars into a firing line. A few red eyes aren’t going to frighten us. I’ve got two of my own. Besides we had the support of our captured Martian Heat Ray, womanned by Bombardiers Bountiful and Buxom. Maravellous piece of kit, the Heat Ray. Like having a flame thrower but with three times the range. Capital!
Wolves nil; hussars two. Looked like we’d be feasting tonight. Or it did before our Bohemian guests arrived. At a hell of a pace too and obscured by smoke. By Jove, this looked damn odd. I checked the flask again. Nope. Definitely the right stuff. Nevertheless, we broke off pursued by the remaining doggy. After all, there’s no need to outstay your welcome. The peculiar cloud followed us as we blazed away at the shadows within with no observable effect. Must be something they put in the water around here. At this rate, I am going to be in need of an even larger gin. And then the cloud went out and a very large gentleman waving an extremely large axe came out of the murk headed straight for me. Make that a giant gin. Dubious doxies began blazing away while advancing towards the girls and, with a sweep of exotic skirts, some made for the Heat Ray. Foreigners, if you ask me.
Technology is a wonderful thing. Those Martians certainly know a thing or two! Those remarkable skirts may have been fast but not fast enough. Those hussies may have been hot but they were scorched before they could make contact. Buxom and Bountiful gave the old thumbs up. With equal confidence, I watched the rest of our fine chapesses while parrying the axe. Our rifles against their pistols. It hardly seemed fair. Unfortunately, it was. Casualties were just about even. As firing lines went, ours seemed to lack the concept of “line” anymore. That did it. If I was going to be back in time for tiffin then we were in need of the big push! Casually slicing through axe and man before me, I called over Bombardier Buxom and we set about the remaining strange people.
It was a brief, vicious engagement. I have to give it to these damn foreigners; they were no pushover. Several of our gals got the chop. Bombardier Buxom and Private Parts join the Pantheon of our Heroines but, by Heavens, we socked it to them in the end. It was a curious thing though. Instead of lying still as decently deceased young women should do, these seemed to evaporate into a black mist rising into the air and drifting back in the direction from whence they came. Even the few survivors dematerialised in the same ghostly fashion. Hell’s teeth, I don’t know what they put in the gin around here but make mine a triple. Preferably now. And forget the tonic. Tonic’s for wussies.
Major Mistake of Her Majesty’s Own Hussars.
Somewhere in Transylvania.
This scenario:
Each side has an equal number of points. eg 250.
The defender has a further force of fauna, eg 30. These are hidden in a feature in the centre of the table. They move as a pack, so even if only one of them is within activation distance of the enemy, they all move at the same time as if they were one figure. It is the owning player’s choice when this happens in the sequence.
Each side gets 2 points for each enemy soldier and 5 points for each enemy leader taken out. The defender gets the points for any fauna remaining at the end of the game; the attacker gets the points for any fauna he takes out during the game.
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