Night of the Living Lead Battle Report: Breakshit means Breakshit

(Being a battle report on the Halloween action at the Wargames Foundry. With the latest of Warlord Paul's Albion adventures coming up at the weekend, I realised that if I didn't post about the last one now, I never would. Problem is, a lot of my recollections of a most enjoyable day are a bit hazy. So this is an extremely partial reconstruction based mostly on the least blurry photos of my toy soldiers as they plod around the battlefield.)

What lurks under Albion's skin? Peel back Albion's flesh, cut through its muscle and sinew, and what horrors do you reveal? The embittered hatred of many centuries. The tarry black heart of greed. Swollen spleen of malice. Infected kidneys of evil. Cirrhotic Liver of... well, you get the picture. Lots of not nice stuff.

Lifetimes ago, a demon was vanquished. Or at least, so the people thought. In fact, it was merely buried. Or, more accurately, as the scribes tell us, "imprisoned beneath a henge of enchanted stones wrapped about with sealing spells and wards."

But now a new dawn approaches. The demon threatens to break free, from the bowels of the earth comes the insistent rumblings of the demon's desire to leave.


And today, the cultists gather around, an unholy alliance, calling the demon forth, urging him out. And so the prophecy has come to pass: "All must take sides for there can be no middle path, all must stand for or against the daemon called, BREAKSHIT!"


From the highlands come the clansmen, determined to bring sober reason to the proceedings and to stop Breakshit in its tracks. In their midst are the zombies of the Highland cult of Indyref, risen from their graves.

They take their place in the alliance moving toward the henge, determined to stop, or at least amend, the invocation of the ritual summoning Breakshit.

Yet the ancients, the walking dead of Albion, seek a return to the glory days of past ages and will fight to ensure the ritual is performed, believing that Breakshit will allow them to take back control.



Attempts to toss the caber into their number fail miserably.


And as the forces clash, even liquid courage is not enough to withstand the horror.


The cultists succeed in opening the protective seals and a roar swells from the ground: "BREAKSHIT MEANS BREAKSHIT!"


The surviving allies who had hoped that the power would remain captive make their way to the graveyard and enter the catacombs in the hope that if they can at least mount an appeal to stop a Hard Breakshit.


The highlanders bust their way past the venomous serpents who serve Breakshit...


And join a coalition who manage to make a few amendments...



This is fantasy, remember?

Battle Report: The Last Stand of Antonius De Blare

IT BEING CHARGED that he misled the poor of these lands with cruel illusions, deceptions, and frauds; FURTHER, that he waged war for the sake of his own vanity; FURTHER, that he plundered lands and left them barren; FURTHER, that he has entered into pacts with foul devils and daemons; be it known that ANTONIUS DE BLARE is wanted in all four corners of this isle, and is to be brought to justice and punished for his evil crimes.


A couple of weekends ago, Warlord Paul gathered together the finest that Albion has to offer - well, those of us with time on our hands anyway - and called us to Slayer Gaming at Mansfield for a 3rd ed scenario. Bridgend Steve, Nik, Ashley, Orlygg, and myself answered the call. (Incidentally, thanks to Orlygg for the vast majority of the pictures used in this battle report) n.b. I'm telling the story here primarily from the perspective of my own warband, with other events to make sense of the action thrown in - there are many other stories that could be told and I hope others write up accounts from their own perspective, but I'll leave the overarching account to Warlord Paul as it's his game.

The premise of the game: there are rumours of vile goings-on at Murdock Keep, said to be harbouring the war criminal Antonius de Blare and the rogue Aleck MacSolomon. A call has gone out to local adventurers to investigate and put a stop to the chaos that threatens to engulf the borderlands of Albion.

I brought a selection of my highlanders from East of Albion:
Robert the Grim, serjeant at arms and sadistic bastard, level 15 hero (represented by a clansman of Lamedon from one of the current GW LotR range)
Preacher Knox, priest and temperance advocate, level 10 magic user (represented by a figure from Reaper miniatures)
Tetli, dwarf brewmaster, last seen left behind in "A Dwarf With No Beer" (represented by a figure from Oathsworn miniatures)
Wee Eck, blackguard and drunkard (represented by one of the arrant scum from Warlord Games' Pike and Shotte range)

Last time we saw these warriors, they were hiding out having made the strategic decision to withdraw from a battle that wasn't quite going their way. Now they need to do something singularly noteworthy to restore their honour and return home with pride intact. Something like bringing De Blare to justice...

They had a choice: they could take the high road, or the low road. And so they found themselves on the high road towards Murdock Keep, along with some snooty peace-loving elves, and a barbarian known as Bryon Anvil who was accompanied by his formidable and somewhat outspoken family.

Confronting them on the road was a crossbow armed drow, and a wolf. Turning their attention away from the nagging tones of Bryon Anvil's wife ("well, are you just going to stand there and let him point that thing at us, Bryon? Bryon? Are you listening to me, Bryon?"), the arrant highlanders saw a troll chained to a crumbling pillar. The chaotic milking stool of stools next to the troll revealed the true horror of the creature: this was Malky the Milk Troll, one of De Blare's vile chaotic experimentations. Wee Eck was heard to mutter, "I think I've seen yon udders on page 3 of one of Murdock's pamphlets..."


Raising aloft a barrel of Tetli's beer (in spite of the protestations of Preacher Knox), the highlanders offered an unlimited supply of strong ale to the troll in return for its loyal service. Now, loyalty is not typically something at the uppermost of a troll's mind. Nevertheless, the thought of escaping cruel and perverse servitude (not to mention the promise of beer) was persuasion enough for this most simple of creatures. All that was needed was for the warriors of the highlanders to smash the chains with their great weapons...

...which did not go so well. It took several attempts each before the priest finally showed his embarassed looking companions how to break the chain. ("Well I loosened it for you", growled a flushed looking Tetli.)


Meanwhile, the pretentious elves had rendered the crossbow weilding drow unconscious, but refused to kill him. "Violence never solved anything", one of them was heard to lisp. Robert the Grim was sorely tempted to continue what the elves had started, with a good old-fashioned disembollocking and a few well-placed boots to the head. However, there were more pressing priorities. Some of Murdocks's hackerz, yelling their warcry of "GOTCHA!", burst out of the shack where the propagandist printing presses were kept.


The first batch of hackerz were easily cut down, but Murdock himself and his amoral henchmen the editorz would prove a sterner test.

Trading blow for blow, it was the recruitment of Malky the Milk Troll, driven to hate of the Murdock, the Editorz, and Hackerz by years of exploitation, that gave the highlanders the advantage in spite of Murdock's sneers and smears. Murdock himself found his skull crushed under Robert the Grim's sword. Yet this advantage was not without a price; The Reverend Knox was wounded, and Wee Eck was brought down, caught off guard as he tried to take a sip from his tankard during the fight. "Ach, I'd only come along because I was following yon beer barrel", he groaned as he bled on the floor.

Reverend Knox offered his opinion with a sigh and a shake of the head: "Another victim of the demon drink". He prepared to cast a healing spell on himself, but was left with no time to intone the words before a bolt plunged into his chest.

It had come from the crossbow of the drow, who had now awoken from his unconscious state. Malky the Milk Troll charged over to cut down the perpetrator, though it was too late for Preacher Knox, the second highlander casualty of the action.


As soon as the last of the Hackerz was out of the way, the highlanders took refuge in the shack where the printing presses were kept, not liking the look of the Chimera proceeding in their direction. Some other adventurers had pretty much the same idea: Lucky Jack the Swift flew in through the window after casting a levitation spell, and was followed by some of his companions taking a more conventional route through the door.

Entering into an orgy of destruction, the highlanders smashed the printing presses responsible for so many poisonous lies (as a native of Liverpool, I have to admit this gave me a certain satisfaction); then admist the shattered machinery they found a trapdoor that had been covered up by the press. Surely this would lead them to De Blare's crypt and the dark secrets concealed there?


The passageways had an oppressive feel, dank air thick with the screams of those led to their death by De Blare's lies. Around each corner was evidence of his foul experiments, demanding the austere remedy of a thousand cuts.


Yet the prancing elves had got to De Blare first! Enchanting him with songs of love and peace, they implored him to leave this place and "have a good long think about what you've done". Placing the illusion in his mind that he was in truth an Envoy of Peace to Araby, they set De Blare free. Would the Elves be complicit in allowing De Blare to escape justice?


But they had reckoned without Bryon Anvil and his nagging wife. "DO SOMETHING BRYON!" shrieked the missus.

The surviving highlanders, along with the other adventuring parties, charged down the passageway. All around them echoed the sound of a man finally losing his patience:

"WILL... YOU... SHUT... UP! JUST SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUUUT UUP!" yelled Bryon, who had apparently had a long day and could take no more. He took out all the the rage of a henpecked man on De Blare, bludgeoning the wanted war criminal to death. "THERE! I'VE DONE IT! NOW WILL YOU NOW PLEEEEEASE JUST SHUUUUT UP!"

Bryon looked down at the dead body of De Blare. "Who was that anyway?" he asked, while his wife rolled her eyes.

Battle Report: A Dwarf With No Beer

"There's nothing so tragic, so sad or so drear
Than the pathetic sight of a dwarf with no beer..." - Ancient Gnomish ballad

(Being the report of a 3rd edition scenario of my devising fought at the Scythe and Teacup in Liverpool, featuring VanLoon's dwarves and my gnomes, as well as some of my other minis)

It's time to toast the dwarven new year. A cartload of ale for the festival was due to arrive at the dwarf settlement two days ago. Now the townsfolk are growing anxious that the new year's festivities will be dry: a terrible omen for the year ahead. Suspicions inevitably fall on the gnomish village half a day to the south. A militia has been dispatched to investigate. Will they find the beer and save the new year?


Gnorman let the door of the latrine swing shut behind him. "I'd leave it for half an hour if I were you..." The guards to the Gnomish village of Thingwall weren't listening. They'd just caught sight of something even more disturbing - a gang of dwarves appearing from beyond the hills, and these dwarves seemed to be in a foul mood.

"We best go and warn the others..." The guards sound the alarm, and the Duchess emerges with her companions of honour. Seeing Gnorman, she asks him for a report of the situation:
"I hear word of warning. What is the situation?"
"Well yes ma'am, like I said, I'd give it a while before heading in there"
"No, no, I mean..."

Her words were rudely interrupted as a wild eyed red haired pot bellied maniac of a dwarf ran ahead of the rest of his kind, screaming something that sounded like "GIVEUZBACKOURBEERYOUBASTARDS".

"What on earth is that dwarf saying?" Luckily, the Duchess was a trained diplomat and shrieked towards the advancing mob: "Now listen here you... erm... you little people, you have no business here. Return to your hovels at once. We have our new year's celebrations to prepare, and a fresh batch of beer to imbibe..."

This was too much for the wild haired dwarf beserker (known to his kin as Lorek Deathfast) to take, and, spying a stack of barrels he charged towards one of the gnomes standing nearby, cutting him down instantly.


The village was in danger of becoming a bloodbath. The gnomish jester leaps forward to try and break the tension with a joke. "So, a halfling, a dwarf, and a gnome walk into a bar..."

Somehow, it works: the dwarf crossbowmen shoulder their weapons and watch the act in bewilderment. Meanwhile the Dwarf Captain Garrick Craghammer negotiates with the Gnomish Duchess. Eventually they come to an agreement: the dwarves can search any part of the village except the warehouse. Garrick Craghammer makes a show of accepting these conditions; all the while, however, dwarf sappers led by Uther 'Bomber' Arris are edging their way around the back of the warehouse trying to find a way in.

While the sappers try and pick the lock of the sidedoor to the warehouse, Bomber Arris bounds forward and cracks open one of the barrels to see what's inside. A foamy liquid pours forth.

"IT'S THE BEER!" roared the beserker Deathfist, charging into combat once again, this time only to be cut down.
But had he jumped to entirely the wrong conclusion? Bomber Arris' face twisted into a picture of pure disgust as he realised, all too late, that this was no dwarven beer, but a weak gnomish brew. But the damage was done: the gnomish crossbowmen shoot dead the sappers trying to force the lock to the warehouse, and the Jester's attempts to cool things once again proved a miserable failure.

"Errr, have you heard the one about the dwarf, the gnome, and the halfling?"
"Don't you know any other jokes, gnome?" growled one of the dwarf crossbowmen, before despatching the jester with a bolt to the chest.

Finally, the Duchess screams out: "So, you wanted to know what was in the warehouse? Fine. Show them what we keep in the warehouse, boys!"

The chugging of an engine was followed by a crash, as a Gnomish tank burst through the crates blockading the entrance to the warehouse, and then by a loud explosion as the steam cannon mounted at the front of the tank ripped a hole through the ranks of the dwarven warriors and crossbowmen.

Hostilities had now well and truly commenced. The gnomish and dwarven warriors clashed, the Dutchess' Dog Fido bounded forward at the crossbowmen, and Garrick Craghammer tried to bring his hammer down on the Dutchess' head while Bomber Arris tossed a badly aimed grenade into the mix: the blast took life from both sides.


The battle raged on, the numbers of dead growing on each side, when a Gnome Wizard who had been standing and silently guarding the village's mushroom patch in advance of the New Year's Rituals, decided it was time to intervene, and cast a spell to paralyse the Dwarf Captain Craghammer - yet the Dutchess declined to deliver the killing blow:
"Dwarf, you have done enough damage. The dead are already too many. I am holding back my weapon: Why would I do that unless we spoke the truth? You have seen what we were trying to keep secret in our warehouse, and it was not your beer. We do not have what you seek. Begone."

The Dwarf crossbowmen were quick enough to take her advice, fleeing from the slobbering dog Fido.


But Craghammer could not bear to fail in his mission. "Then what became of our ale? The brewer should have arrived with his cart two days ago." Further enquiries meet with a crucial piece of information that had been missed in the rush to violence: one of the gnomes had seen a carthorse wandering freely but a day ago in the direction of the woods.

Garrick Craghammer sets off again, with his now severely depleted force; he calls for gnomish volunteers to join him: "Gnomes, before today there has never been trouble between our peoples." Unsurprisingly, very few heed his call, though three do go along at the urging of their Dutchess to maintain the uneasy truce in the hopes that the alliance might be rebuilt.


As they approach the woods, they see the upended cart, and two of the barrels of their ale. "But surely there should be more?"


Nearby is the slumped body of the brewer Tetli; alive, but only just.
"Tetli, who has done this to you?" roars Craghammer.
Tetli opens his mouth as if to answer, only to violently vomit over himself instead.

"He's not injured at all" spits Craghammer, "he's just bloody drunk!"

Futher into the woods are the sure signs of a party; including barrels of beer smashed open. There, standing around with flagons of ale, are a band of highlanders from East Albion: mercenaries who, having deserted from a recent battle, were hiding out in the woods to bide their time.


"Give us back our beer. All of it," ordered Craghammer.

"Awa' and bile yer heid ya bawbag, that's our beer. Yon wee fella was only too happy to share it with us. Disnae seem tae be able tae handle it though." The other kilted drunks roared with laughter.

Craghammer had had enough. Many of his own had died, and all because of the drunken antics of an idiot brewer and some men in skirts. Challenging the leader of the band, he found the warrior a match for him even though obviously unbalanced by the strength of the dwarven beer. Both dwarf and man were wounded; until at last the highlander, fatigued, collapsed on the ground. Craghammer raised his hammer high above his head ready to bring it down.

"The beer. All of it. And you owe us in the future."

The band of humans readily agreed.

The dwarves set off with their beer. But they left the brewer Tetli, who had caused so much trouble, behind. The festivities had been saved, but at a grave price. There would be fewer dwarves to call in the new year; and the women and the children left behind would pledge bitter vengence.



And the moral of the story: don't drink and drive.

One tartan to rule them all?

So I was about to start painting the highlanders that I've got ready for Whiskey Priest's Oldhammer challenge, when suddenly I was paralysed with angst and self-doubt.

Not so much an existentialist crisis as an example of the kind of annoying niggles that crop up everytime I need to make a big painting decision. And the big question causing all the hesitation was this:
Should I paint the kilts of the clansmen all in one tartan, or should I go for a load of different tartans?


An incident in the rebellion of 1746, by David Morier - note the highlanders are wearing several different tartans.

If I was an historic gamer, there might be a somewhat definitive answer to that: if I was wargaming the Jacobite uprising, say, the evidence would point to the fact that the warriors wore a whole gaggle of tartans. Certainly the idea of everyone wearing a common "clan tartan" is a much later development, and in terms of battle dress has more to do with the raising of the Highland Regiments in the 18th century, when each regiment was dressed in a uniform tartan. It's only really with the highly dubious claims of Vestiarium Scoticum of 1842 (largely a historical fabrication - FABRICation, geddit? eh? HAHAHAHAHA oh forget it) that we derive the idea that there was such a thing as historic tartans associated with particular clans, taken up by the Highland Society of London... and kiltmakers have been trading on that ever since. So it's kind of a 19th century fantasy of how Scottish highlanders used to dress. But then, what we're wargaming here is fantasy.

The Albion clansman designed for McDeath, all decked out in their highland dress, inhabit a romantic dream, born of Sir Walter Scott's "Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,/ Land of the mountain and the flood", but in the hands of the Games Workshop designers it's a dream cut through with 1980s British cynicism... competitors at the Highland games become rival football hooligans armed with broken bottles facing off over the playing field. (Incidentally, the Warlord Games "arrant scum" selection of beer swilling highlanders captures this mixture of romance and hooliganism quite nicely.) High fantasy with a vein of snide humour.

Such is the nature of fantasy - the past as it is imagined, and as we use it to tell stories about the present, not than the past as it was lived. So ultimately, the question is which fantasy I want to depict when I come to paint these wee fellows: the fiercely independent highlander banding together with his fellows, or the loyal men tied to kin and territory through unbreakable bonds of blood.

Highlanders for the Oldhammer Challenge; or, Albion as a campaign setting

(Arthur Rackham's illustration of the Scots Ballad Twa Corbies)

So I've loads of different projects on the go right now, trying to get things ready for games in the near future. But as I said in my last post, I've been inspired by Whiskey Priest's Oldhammer Challenge. In his words:
"Let's do something to show that it's all about the game and camaraderie rather than the rules and the figures. We each make a warband - a tiny army - a posse, based in the Warhammer world. A maximum of 21 figures. Two units of 10 and a hero or any similar configuration. You are entirely free to do what you want! The figures must be either a) insultingly cheap from ebay or b) easily bought from current manufacturer."

Preach on, Whiskey Priest! And I've been so inspired by this that I've decided it's time to paint these guys:


I can imagine people clucking their tongues and rolling their eyes. "Are you completely thick? Did you not read what Whiskey Priest wrote? Are you just trying to contradict him and prove that oldhammer IS elitist and exclusionary and about wasting money on ebay? Are you just trying to spit in his face and kick him in the bollocks, &c. &c.?"

Well, ok, hear me out. So yes, these are the clansmen from McDeath. They're oop, and although I didn't pay stupid money for them on ebay, they don't fall into the "insultingly cheap" category. So what relevance does this possibly have to Whiskey Priest's challenge? The thing is, for Christmas I was given a bunch of the Warlord Games Highland Clansmen from their Pike and Shotte range. There are some very characterful minis in this range - especially in their "Highlander Arrant Scum" selection. The obvious thing to do? To use these to supplement the expensive and hard to find Citadel McDeath highlanders and show how you can put together an East of Albion force using minis that out there at the moment, alongside just a small handful of oop masterpieces to satisfy the inner archaeogamer.

So this is the start of my warband: 4 Citadel McDeath highlanders; 7 Warlord Games highlanders; and 1 Black Tree Design "Jamie McCrimmon" from the Doctor Who range, who I've given a sickle from S&D models (a company that makes railway scenery accessories).


And to summarise, my reasons for choosing these for the challenge:
1) I already own them, so this is a chance to paint stuff from the leadpile rather than buy new minis.
2) It demonstrates how one can combine old and new minis to do even something as "old school" as McDeath.
3) It feeds into my current fascination, which is using Albion as a campaign setting. And the rest of this post will be about that.


Albion as a campaign setting

In GW's official material, Albion has shapeshifted a lot. Here's the depiction that oldhammerheads know and love from the 1986 campaign pack "The Tragedy of McDeath":

McDeath deals with just one chunk of Albion - East Albion, which, inspired by Macbeth mixed with a heavy dose of the cultural stereotyping that gives shape to the Warhammer world, is a land inhabited by clan-based kilt-wearing porridge-eating caber-tossing highlanders, living alongside militant trade unionist dwarf miners, mercenary orcs, treemen, and others. This is the Albion that inspires my warband.

Then fastforward to 1991 and the Warhammer novel Storm Warriors by Brian Craig:


Here, the map is a clear approximation of the British Isles, but Albion is divided into 4 separate islands, Great Albion, Albany, Morien, and Aeryn, meaning that England, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland each get their own individual island (thus allowing for further stereotyping - just non-comedic in form - by the GW stereotype factory.) From the extracts I've read, the culture described is a predominantly celt-inspired one, and the source of tension in the novel is the arrival of an "alien culture" of sinister immigrant sea elves.

The "Albion as multiple islands" model from Storm Warrior is also used in the following map, which Zhu Bajie has traced back to the (now defunct) Warhammer FRP site "Critical Hit"; bit of Anglo-Saxon thrown in here for good measure:



It's the pre-Roman celtic flavour predominates in the release of the "Giants of Albion", along with druid, as part of the Dogs of War army in the 5th edition era; Albion is the land of ancient Ogham stones and ancient magical forces; mysterious land of myth - at least, until the arrival of the Tilean "Curious Gesar". Then came the 2001 "Dark Shadows" campaign, in which Albion was a single misty, rainy, blighted isle to which Truthsayers (good druids) and Dark Emissaries (naughty druids) summoned great forces; Albion became a battlefield between order and chaos, ripping the land apart.

Here's the map from the start of that campaign:




Now the fact that there's so much variety in the background is a really good thing for the oldhammer gamer, in my opinion, because it leaves Albion open for our own creative imaginations. Let's strip it down to basics.

Deep History
The idea that Albion is home to an older civilisation - as evidenced by the Ogham stones - I think gives a deep rooted mystery to the landscape. I've always found interesting the idea that when the Romans left Britain, they left behind structures that nobody knew how to repair; similarly, I feel that Albion should be full of unsettling reminders that there was something here before, and it's something that we don't understand. Druidic and bardic religious knowledge tries to piece together these mysteries and interpret the landscape.

Topography
The key dynamic of any campaigning land is its landscape and in Albion, we have a land of highlands and lowlands; mountains and marshes, hills and mires. The highland clans of the East of Albion (as per McDeath), then, might be distinct from the more town-minded lowlanders, who trade with the Empire and are therefore far more cosmopolitan in their outlook. Yet the lowlanders are surrounded by the sinister bogs and fens where the Fimir dwell; and attempts to drain the marshes to create fertile farmland and increase the wealth of the kingdoms have led to increasing numbers of Fimir raids.

The sea, the sea
As a land surrounded by sea, Albion would have a history of settlement, trading, and raiding. Norse from the west and Sea Elves from the east would send ships to the shore; their motives sometimes peaceful, oftentimes not.

I'll probably type up more of my thoughts at a a later date, but I'm deliberately keeping this to bare bones, because I think the storytelling should come through gaming. Anyway, I hope it gives you the sense that when I'm painting up this bunch of guys in kilts, it's not just about the figures, the nostalgia, or the ruleset - it's about the story, and thinking about the world they inhabit and the way they link up with the other forces I have is all part of that process of storybuilding.

What do other people think about Albion as a campaign setting? Have I missed any key essentials out? Anyone else want to play a game there?