The Huixtlan Campaign - Chapter One - Surprise Encounter

For the first campaign we want to share with you we're going both across the World Pond and back in time, to the mysterious jungles of Lustria and the 6th edition campaign book thereof:

Here be dinosaurs! Raargh!

But the first game is actually the Surprise Encounter scenario from the Old World rulebook, as Empire and High Elf expeditions stumble across each other amidst the jungle. Before that however, let's meet the main characters of our story...

Before the Battle

Findol, Prince of the High Elves, raised his sword and prepared for death. The raid on the Dark Elf outpost in Lustria had been a disaster. Now Findol was the only one left, his back to the wall of one of the monolithic native temples, a ring of dead Dark Elves around his feet. A short distance away the remaining Dark Elves barked orders in their foul tongue, and from the jungle more emerged, bearing crossbows loaded with barbed bolts. So, he was to be denied even an honourable death in hand-to-hand combat. Well, he would not meekly stand and wait, at least. He tensed, preparing for a last, hopeless charge.

Suddenly, from above a hail of darts descended on the Dark Elves. Those hit blackened and swelled within seconds as poison coursed through them. With a roar, reptilian warriors sprang from the undergrowth. The rest of the Dark Elves fled.

Findol looked across the Lizardmen, unsure if he had been saved or simply traded one doom for another. Their ranks parted and a smaller figure passed through, leaning on a golden staff and wrapped in a cloak of brightly coloured feathers.

“You musst aid uss,” it hissed in a rough imitation of the Elven tongue. “Not now, but in many yearss time. There will be a ssign, and you or your heirss musst return.”

“Gladly,” replied Findol, before adding, “Although, for your sake I hope it is I you get. My son is of little use to anyone...”

* * *

Feriath stepped out into the warm twilight and stretched out his arms luxuriously. It was good to be the Prince! He wondered what diversion he would attend to tonight – perhaps he would see a show, or sample a few fine wines, or perhaps simply sit and appreciate the beauty of the gloaming and the fact that there was nothing in the world he needed to do.

The thought of the approaching evening reminded him there was, in fact, one small thing he did need to do, and he turned his gaze westward to where the last few glimmers of sunlight were disappearing behind the islands of Tor Anroc. His father’s last request was easy enough to fulfil, and it was the least he could do for the old stiffneck in exchange for the comfort he had inherited.

The last rim of light faded. Another day gone, and still no sign. But wait – was that a glow beginning to grow again on the horizon? It seemed as though the sky bled as a deep red light began to build, climbing higher and higher, narrowing and brightening, a pyramid of fire coming out of the west! Feriath had always expected that when this day came he would feel a dread at the loss of his life of ease, but instead he felt an answering spark kindle in his heart. He had always had happiness, but now he had purpose, and the thrill of it was like nothing he had ever known.

He could hear cries of alarm and excitement from the manor behind him, and he turned to see stepping through the doorway old Maeven Swordsong, his attendant and his father’s before him.

“Ready the ships!” Feriath cried. “We sail in the morning – for Lustria!”

They were eating the last of the cattle and Drakon looked with disgust at his plate. "Boy, take this to the men, I will fast in my chambers instead", he spat. The grizzled priest was unsettled to say the least. Nearly two weeks becalmed. The fleet had been at a standstill, and the blasted mages had been no use, no doubt this weather was punishment for bringing them along but the General was not to be dissuaded. Drakon mused on the man as he made his way to his spartan cabin, he had barely got the measure of him during the voyage, so much time did he spend tending to his precious griffon. Von Oranje was arrogant as any noble Drakon had met, and seemed to brush off the impending starvation of the ship bound army with irritating ease. Well if no wind came he'd soon be eating his mount along with the knight's horses thought the priest. Later he knelt and intoned, "Sigmar, deliver us.…"

With a start Drakon jolted awake, eyes bulging as he clutched his war hammer. A sign! A vision from his god. In his dream there had been a beach, and on it a great altar to the might of Sigmar himself. They would survive to make land and raise hell upon whoever they found. There was something there, something powerful, and Sigmar had shown him the way. As he rushed above deck to send a message to the flagship he felt a gust hit him. The wind had returned by the grace of Sigmar, and they would all be riding it to war on unknown shores.

* * *

The old priest has gotten himself lost Petunia, the young general thought to his Griffon. Despite what others may say Von Oranje wasn't quite so eccentric as to actually talk to his mount. Still he gave the beast a sardonic smile as he stroked her feathers with a gauntleted fist. Yes and lost almost half the fleet too, he mused to himself. It had all gone rather pear shaped for the old faithful after that supposed vision of his. Well if Sigmar had sent him a message it was an odd one thought the Count, seeing he and the wizard Bartosz were here and Drakon was nowhere to be found even on griffon back.

Von Oranje hadn't flown too far alone mind, even one with his confidence knew the stories told of the new world. Petunia let out a piercing squawk as someone appeared on the rear deck and entered her pen. "Good evening count", the man said.

"Evening Bart", Oranje said with an easy smile. "I was just thinking about the stories, Piazzo's lost legion and all that, and I dare say we better get a move on if we are to find some treasure to make this little trip worthwhile, priest or no priest."

"I wouldn't mock him Count, despite his distaste for my ilk, that Drakon has keen insights. There is some magic at play here even a master such as myself may not understand, we would be wise to wait for him".

"Wait?!" Von Oranje was incredulous. "But I thought you'd been told man. We set out in column to find him tomorrow while the fleet restocks and repairs here in the bay. Once we find our holy friend we can head inland for the real prize". Despite the horrified look on the wizard's face Von Oranje stifled a smile. They are all the same these learned types Petunia, he thought, too cautious by half and not ready to do anything that wasn't written in a book first, holy or arcane.

"Sir with the utmost respect..." Bartosz began.

"Quiet dear man, I know you are shocked but neither Petunia nor I can sit here whilst half the fleet is missing! We must act soon, lest another storm blow in and leave us trapped here." It was cruel to bring up such matters, the heavenly wizard had failed to predict the unusual winds they had experienced, though he had guided their portion of the fleet through them well enough. However, he still needed to know his place, nobleborn or not, a wizard is a wizard and the men would not follow one into unknown country.

"Yes sir, of course, I am ever your servant." Bartosz frowned and swallowed a more crass remark as he left the maddening young general and his griffon alone once more.

"That one is more similar to Drakon than he realises Petunia", whispered Von Oranje, as he tossed the great creature a fish.

The Battle

The heavenly Wizard Bartosz and sailors (free company) protect the arriving Empire artillery in the centre of the battlefield.

Demigryph knights find themselves outflanked by elven infantry and cavalry however they will make short work of the mounted elves with a counter charge, and be supported by the arrival of further Empire cavalry. 

Elf noble Feriath and his Seaguard find themselves surrounded by various Empire infantry as well as the mighty griffon Petunia, and her rider Von Oranje. 

Luckily for the elves Swordmasters and cavalry arrive to grab the human's attention. Von Oranje must decide which is the greater threat as the state troops reposition to receive the charge of the elite elves.

Butchery on both sides! The Greatswords cripple the Seaguard as Swordmasters do the same in kind to the halberdiers - capturing the Empire battle standard. Petunia flies in to steady the ship and between her and Von Oranje the Swordmasters lose their momentum.

On the far flank of the battlefield a somewhat lost Captain Melanie tries to capture a bolt thrower, only to be captured herself as the crew prove very accurate versus single targets and wound her.

The Greatswords add to the butcher's bill by seeing off the elven cavalry led by Maeven, whose battle standard did little to improve morale. Bartosz and his sailors charge to keep the elves fleeing.

As the battle draws to a close Von Oranje gets overexcited. Having already defeated Feriath in a challenge the previous turn he charges the depleted Swordmasters again. Alas he is clearly tired, failing to do much damage and losing combat due to the elves' musician. He and Petunia flee but are not caught and the elves retire the field in defeat.

 

After the Battle

"Return the enemy commander, are you insane?!" Bartosz's mouth gaped in disbelief. In all his years serving men like Von Oranje he had never heard something so ridiculous.

"Bart my dear man, you'll spook Petunia with that ghastly shouting. She's already delicate after that bizarre elven trumpet. Not to mention running into that battalion of theirs." The bird, again, Bartosz couldn't believe it but he was actually missing that firebrand Drakon. Von Oranje needed balance. The man is detached from reality! As the wizard pondered the battle, the count twittered on for long seconds until his tone changed. Bartosz frowned as he tuned into what he was saying, and to his surprise there was steel in the man's eyes.

"The way I see it we bloodied those elves damn good, I'll speak to that prince of theirs but I'm pretty sure he'll be convinced that it was just a misunderstanding hmm. Given his Wizard friend was slain and Petunia's wingless siblings are picking elf and horse out of their claws today," Von Oranje said as he let out a sardonic chuckle.

The general had the old wizard's full attention now, it was amazing how the man could switch from pompous fool to cool-headed warrior. Mind he had proven that on the battlefield too. Sword arm flashing as his ornate armour deflected blows, then preening his mount just minutes later.

"As I was saying my good chap," Oranje continued, "that standard we lost is a family heirloom, and uncle Friedrich will be awfully upset if I let the elves keep cousin Willie. So I better go speak to our prisoner." With a swoosh of his cape the count strode out the tent and towards the holding pit. As Bartosz followed clutching his staff he saw the three survivors of their halberdier regiment, the grim faces reminding him it didn't cost them nothing to see off the elves. How many was Von Oranje willing to lose in his quest for gold and glory? As he pondered this the wizard looked out into the jungle, but only the hum of insects and glow of the moon were there to comfort him.

* * *

From the bottom of the pit, Feriath watched the Human guards pacing round the edge above, sweat pouring down their faces from the heat of the jungle sun. At least down here he was in the shade, he thought philosophically. The Elf prince sat cross-legged, wearing only his mud- and blood-stained arming robe. He did not stir when the Human leader, Oranje, appeared at the rim of the pit. If his enemy had come to mock him, he did not intend to give him the satisfaction of a response.

“Awfully sorry about this, old chap,” Oranje began. “To my mind, it's all been a terrible misunderstanding. You fellows saw us looting that old temple and felt you ought to stop us. Quite understandable. But that's the way of the world, you know – the old weaken, and the young inherit whatever spoils they're strong enough to take.”

At this point Feriath noticed Oranje was twirling something in his hand that gleamed in the sunlight, and involuntarily he tensed with rage as he realised it was his family's ancestral sword. But Oranje gave no sign of noticing. He seemed to be talking to himself as much as Feriath. His words were running through Feriath's mind, although perhaps not in the way in the way Oranje had intended. He knew the Human was wrong. It was the young who were weaker than the old – his father would never have been defeated by the likes of this Oranje. Was he, and perhaps the entire Elven people, doomed to be a pale shadow of the generations that had come before, unable to hold at bay the forces of evil as they had done? Instinctively he rejected the thought. Perhaps he had been weak up until now, but he had in him the same strength as his ancestors, he knew it.

“Now our relative positions of power have been aptly demonstrated to you,” Oranje went on. “I'm willing to let bygones be bygones and let you free, in exchange for my standard your people have – oh, and my relatives, of course – and your word as a gentleman that you won't try to interfere further with my business here in Lustria. What do you say?”

Feriath took a long time to reply. What if stopping these Humans was what he had been called here to do, and he would have to choose between keeping this oath and the one he had made to his father? He saw Oranje grow frustrated and was tempted to remain silent simply to spite him. But this was no time for pride. Whether the Human was the reason he was here in Lustria or not, he could do nothing to fulfil his oath to his father here in this pit. Finally he looked up at Oranje.

“You have my word,” he said, but his expression was unreadable.

 

 

Next time: Here be dinosaurs! Lots and lots of dinosaurs...