Von Högge

The battle had been going on all night. The men of the Grendelwurzel Grenadiers, their ranks depleted and their spirits low, had sought refuge at an old palisade fort against the horde of cultists that had harried them for days. Though waterlogged, the fort was secure enough, for the fungus cultists had no black powder, and while protected behind the worm-eaten parapet the Grenadiers could rain lead upon them. Their musket fire had scythed through the ranks of their foes like a great wave, dropping dozens of the overgrown creatures. Their success was their undoing however. As more of the enemy fell, their corpses formed mounds that they used like barricades, and before long, the cultists were at the gates. They used grappling hooks of bone to drag parts of the wall down, while cultists on stilts dragged themselves onto the battlement screaming bloody murder. Once the wall was breached, the order to fix bayonets was given.

With the battle turned to swirling melee, the men of Grendelwurzel were at a disadvantage, for their rusted bayonets were ineffective against the writhing mycelial forests that grew on their foes like coats of armour. Thrusts that would impale a man ran straight through them causing no apparent anguish, or shattered against tough, woody stems. Before long, the grenadiers were pushed back, their prized muskets relegated to clumsy wooden clubs that ran slick with gore. Their lungs were filled with choking spores, their tired limbs sluggish where the cultists were and driven by the madness that possessed them. All appeared to be lost for the Grendelwurzel Grenadiers, when, at the dim and feeble dawn, a bellow echoed across the valley, grating and bestial, followed by a man astride a noble steed. Field Marshal von Högge, at the head of his regiment of Rough Riders, had arrived. With the rising sun at their back, the black-and-white clad mercenaries looked like angels sent from the gods. With another squeal, the riders levelled their lances, spurred their swine, and charged down the hill, decimating the ranks of mushroom cultists and saving the lives of the few ragged grenadiers who lived to see dawn.

- From “An Hystorie of Cist” by Ilya Longtemps