Schnappleberg

The Old World - Year 2517 IC

The village of Shnappleberg was no stranger to raiding marauders. It was an unfortunate consequence from a combination of being only a small village, that was placed in just the wrong spot for protection from larger settlements—Wissenheim being just far enough that any aid would typically arrive too late to be of any real help. The Wissenheim militia would arrive, chase away those who were trying to loot the dredges, and then claim credit for saving the town, never mind the damage already caused by their delayed arrival.

As a consequence, the people of Schnappleberg tended to pool together a community pot dedicated to paying any bands of sellswords that might be passing through the area for protection. It gave the people of Schnappleberg a sense of protection, the sellswords got paid and enjoyed free lodging on top, everybody was happy. Except for whichever marauding raiders had decided to pick on the village at that particular time.

The one downside, there was a dependency on there actually being travelling bands of sellswords to hire. There was hardly a set routine that said 'this time of the year a band of mercenaries will be travelling within one thousand leagues of our quaint little village.' It had actually become the full-time job of a quartet of Schnappleberg's youths to be scouting around the village for both signs of an impending raid, and for sellswords who could be hired to deter said raid.

Snchappleberg could confidently claim that one such band of sellswords had begun their rise to fame with such a contract. But alas, it had been a long time since they'd last heard tell of the Grudgebringers in these parts. They had long since moved on to more lucrative ventures, far from Schappleberg.

Unfortunately, for some months now there had been no sign of any sellswords or mercenary companies. As if the fates were having a jest at Schnappleberg's expense, it appeared that a warband was on the approach, the kind of warband that the elders dreaded ever having to hear of. Not orcs, not this time. Worse still, standards were seen, standards which bore the eight-pointed star.

There was a rumour that a few days travel away there was a large force of mercenaries making camp. A little further travel than Wissenheim, but also more likely to start moving toward Schnappleberg before the raid hit, rather than waiting because they didn't want leave their home unguarded.

It was with fear of what might happen if they didn't at least try to confirm the rumour of a mercenary company that one of the youths who acted as the eyes of the village—a young lad of no more than fourteen summers—was given the community pot, all of the coinage saved, and was tasked with seeking these rumoured sellswords.

That had been a week ago.

Much of the village believed the young lad to be dead, to have run afoul of either bandits or creatures. A small minority had come to the conclusion that he had instead abandoned them in favour of going to Wissenheim with the coin meant to pay for Schnappleberg's protection.

Whatever the truth of it, the threat hadn't ceased its approach. It had occasionally paused, roughly where other small villages and hamlets lay. All that the people of Schnappleberg could do now was wait fearfully, even as they armed themselves with whatever was on hand. Pitchforks, farming scythes, and in one case a homemade bow usually used to hunt for game, now being readied to protect home and family from something far more dangerous.

Those chaos aligned marauders arrived, and with them came fire and death.

They cared not for the cries, for the pleas of mercy, if anything there was a sick, twisted pleasure in hearing their victims beg for their lives. Those who had taken arms against them were cut down mercilessly, no matter how effective such weapons may be. It was as though the mere thought of trying was simply motivation enough to cull those who dared. It mattered not that a broken bottle was all one man held in a frantic fearful frenzy. It could feasibly be used as a weapon, therefore the penalty was death.

One mother huddled in the corner of her home, infant held in tight embrace, eyes shut while tears leaked between lashes as she awaited the inevitable. They were rounding up the villagers, those who hadn't raised arms, the mothers and the children. What they planned, she knew not and she dreaded to think.

Her door splintered as a large hulking man in armour inscribed with runes that were sickening to gaze upon entered. The mother wept silently, even whilst she prayed for salvation. If not for her, then for her infant.

The armoured man approached her, footsteps loud reverberations upon the wooden floor. He sniggered, clearly enjoyed her fear—enjoyed her misery.

The remnants of her door connected with the wall as somebody else entered. Their footfalls were not nearly so loud, naught but soft pattering, a sound similar to her child slapping his palms upon the floor in a rhythmic pattern. The loud footsteps paused. Against her will, her eyes opened.

At first, she assumed the newcomer to be a daemon of some variety. It was short, small of stature, and so very clearly not of the race of man, neither were they elf nor dwarf. It had a vibrant green hue to its flesh, while its eyes were bulged out as though trying to escape from the skull of the creature. She was almost startled to glimpse a slender tail.

But then she noted something different about this creature. The first was that it was garbed in clothing. She'd almost missed that detail for the fact that it wore a green jacket and breeches, and while the green was a different, darker hue from the flesh, it had still momentarily confused her sight. Then she took note of what this creature held.

Is it normal, she wondered, for daemon's to carry muskets?

For it was true, this diminutive creature held in its hands a musket, the like that Empire statesmen might be issued. There were no eldritch runes marring this musket either. It truly looked like something that might have come out of the Empire.

The marauder hesitated at the sight of the diminutive being, and though his face was hidden beneath a helmet, he was very clearly projecting a sense of confusion.

'What?' The question was whispered with utmost confusion.

Another pair burst through the broken door, likewise armed with muskets, pointed to the marauder. One of them was a sandy yellow-brown, and wore a similar garb as the first, whilst the third was a vibrant blue, and it too wore the green clothing. With the three standing close to each other, it gave the sense that their garments were a uniform of some variety.

The Chaos worshipper started forward, jagged blade rising up with no question as to the intent. But as though it had been awaiting the excuse, the first of small creatures to have appeared pulled the trigger of its musket. The chaos marauder stumbled back with blood spewing from his neck, where the bullet had pierced through. He gargled, a hand reached for the open wound as though to block the escape of the red liquid.

The gunshot seemed to echo endlessly, though the mother knew deep down that such wasn't the case. The echo had ended almost instantly, yet rang repeatedly. It was later that she would realise that it wasn't an echo she heard, but of other muskets in the village being fired.

One of the creatures, the sandy yellow/brown one, lunged forward, jabbed the muzzle of its musket, where a blade affixed to the end of the weapon's length punctured into the chest of the marauder, about where the heart should lay beneath. The blade managed to puncture the armour, and it was then twisted as though to make certain that it had done the job before being ripped out.

The creatures chittered while the green one fished around at a pouch on its person, then started to reload the musket with the spoils of its search. The yellowish one turned, so that one of those large bulging eyes was affixed to the mother, its head tilted as it took in her appearance, and gave a slight hiss as its eye lowered enough to see the infant held in her arms.

'Are you alright, missus?'

The mother started in surprise at the Reikspiel that exited the creature's mouth. It wasn't a perfect example of the imperial tongue, there was a slight accent that she could not identify, but it was close enough that if she hadn't seen the one speaking, she would have assumed the words to have come from a human with a sore throat.

'Missus? Are you well?' The creature repeated the question. It even had the right inflections to its voice that it was clearly concerned. Or mimicking concern so perfectly that, again, without seeing the source, she would have honestly believed a human from one of the Empire's provinces to be expressing concern.

The question finally registered. Whatever her misgivings of the creatures, they had just killed the marauder that was coming for her.

'I'm fine.' The words were stuttered, shock was starting to set in.

The creature nodded and patted itself until it eventually found a waterskin, which it held out for her. While it was doing that, it had twisted its head so that the eye on the opposite side of its head was better able to look at the other two.

'Happy, Mizki, to that window. The other regiment will be here soon, let's keep these Chaos swine from noticing, ey?'

'Ya got it, boss,' the original, the green one, said with a firm nod and then moved to the nearby window and propped the musket against the frame.

The other one chittered and moved to position itself next to the green one. The yellow one turned back to the mother after she unconsciously accepted the offered waterskin.

'My name is Major Sharpe'tus, head of the skirmishers.'

'We're Sharpe's Chosen, we are,' the green one said with a tone that would convey good humour in a human.

'Muzzle it, Happy,' Sharpe'tus snapped. 'Start shooting.'

"Happy" didn't answer verbally, but did angle its musket and pull the trigger.

'What... are you?' the mother asked, though she wasn't certain if she'd meant to or not.

'Skirmishers for the Legion,' Sharpe'tus reiterated his previous comment. Then seemed to acknowledge what she had actually meant by the question. 'We are what your kind refers to as lizardmen.'

'I've not heard of such.'

'Not surprising that,' Happy commented offhandedly as he reloaded his musket. 'It doesn't help that we're rather... off... from the usual mould.'

The mother didn't know what he meant by that, didn't deign to ask. Sharpe'tus accepted back his waterskin after she absently took a sip from it, still too out of it to tell herself that it was a bad idea to accept a drink from a creature that might still be a daemon pulling a trick on her. It tasted of plain old water, but who was to really say?

The two "lizardmen" at the window took turns firing their muskets, followed by a swift reload. Now that she thought about it, the mother realised that she could hear the barking retorts of more than just the two rifles.

'How many of you...?'

'I led the entirety of the skirmishers,' Sharpe'tus said as though that would answer everything. 'We went ahead of the rest of the legion, to try to minimize the damage that the Chaos worshippers could cause in the meantime. I'm sorry we weren't fast enough to fend off the raid entirely, we only got word two days ago.'

'Got... word?'

Sharpe'tus tilted his head. 'You sent a boy to recruit us. Luitwin Fric.'

The name seemed to clear the fog from the mother's mind, and a feeling of relief swelled within her until it inflated her chest. Her eldest son was alive! 'You are the mercenary company we heard rumours of? He found you?'

She couldn't be certain but she got the impression that Sharpe'tus was smiling. 'That's us. Mind you, young Luitwin was a little concerned that we were lying to him about who we are.'

'Prob'ly weren't expecting big lizards, major, on account of us not being locals an' all.' The other skirmisher at the window—Mizki, the mother absently recalled—snorted in sarcastic derision.

Sharpe'tus turned to fully face the skirmisher in question, but any word he might have had was lost as both of the other lizardmen flinched away from the window in time to avoid an arrow, which instead embedded itself into the opposite wall.

'Daemon-humping bastard,' Mizki sounded so offended at the notion that it was almost comical.

'Who was it?' Happy asked.

'By the bridge.'

Happy nodded and angled around so that his musket could point toward the bridge at the western end of the village. Two seconds later, he pulled the trigger, the flint hammer slammed down and the weapon barked. Another second passed, and then Happy gave a firm nod to Mizki.

'I have avenged you,' Happy said in a dry tone.

Somewhere outside, in the distance, a horn was sounded. Sharpe'tus tilted his head and listened. Shortly after the horn had finished, the beating of drums took its place.

'Ah, sounds like the Primus Regiment has arrived. Have no fear, sounds like the marshal sent the best.' He paused, tilted his head briefly in that way that some people did when about to make a contrarian or joking comment. 'Well, second best.'

Happy gave a loud snort, fired his musket and then fully turned to face Sharpe'tus whilst he reloaded. 'Oh, don't let Mort hear ya disrespectin' his regiment there, Sharpe. Gets all defensive like, that fellow does.'

'He can kiss my cloaca, the blowhard-' The final word of the comment was drowned out when Mizki chose that moment to fire at that some unseen target. Whether the comment was simply banter between two personalities, or an actual feud, the mother couldn't tell, Sharpe'tus didn't let anything into his tone as he uttered where this Mort could kiss. He checked his musket and after seeing everything was in order, gave Happy a pat on the shoulder and then moved out the door, musket at his shoulder.

The rest of the battle, if it could be called that, was short, brutal. The Chaos worshippers were wiped out to the last man. During the confusion caused by the skirmishers, who had hidden themselves within nearly every building in Schnappleberg, firing at them, a regiment of more lizardmen, these one far larger than the skirmishers had led the townsfolk to believe, had arrived in the form of two battalions. One battalion had approached from the north, and when the Chaos raiders had seen the large reptilian warriors with gleaming armour, heavy shields and keen blades, they had realised how outmatched they were. With that knowledge firmly in mind, they had tried to withdraw across the bridge to the west.

Maybe they had hoped to use the bridge as a bottleneck—though the lizardmen warriors of the Primus Regiment were the worst choice to try such a maneuver against, not that the raiders could have known that—or maybe they had hoped that it would simply slow down the lizards enough to be able to escape.

They hit a problem when they encountered the second battalion doing a very accurate impression of an unbreakable wall at the other end of the bridge, a wall that was apparently not above jabbing spears through the gaps between their linked shields. The fate of the chaos worshippers was akin to that of an insect caught between two hands clapped together.

In the aftermath, the reptilian warriors gathered the dead, found any and all items that belonged to the raiders and made a point of putting them in the same pile as the now deceased Chaos worshippers—separate from the sons and fathers who had died defending their home—before then putting the Chaos pile to the torch, leaving behind naught but ash.

Then, a large figure appeared, one of the lizardmen but one who had size that managed to dwarf even the warriors of Primus Regiment. This new reptile had pale green and yellow scales and gleaming, intelligent eyes. It was garbed simply, unlike the uniforms of either of the other two types of lizardmen. It wore a simple blue frock coat, though it must have been tailored specifically for its size.

At its side was a smaller example of the strange creatures, more alike the skirmishers than the warriors. However, this one's eyes were different from those of the skirmishes, they weren't bulging out and they didn't seem to move independently as those of the skirmishers did, and it had a fin atop its head. This smaller one had light purple scales wore clothing fit for nobility, though still simple enough for travel, and most amusingly wore a woolen flat cap, seemingly ignorant of how it didn't quite sit right atop its head due in no small part to the fin.

The large reptile met the Schnappleberg's representative, towered over the poor fellow before snorting and dropping down so that it was sat cross-legged on the ground. It was still taller than the human, but the difference wasn't quite so intimidating.

The rest of the village was unable to hear the conversation, but after roughly fifteen minutes, the two lizardmen handed the representative a full coin purse and then departed. With them followed all the other reptilian warriors.

When asked, Hasso Eicher, the chosen representative—who also, it turned out, was aware of the existence of the lizardmen, though his understanding was that they were nothing like those that Schnappleberg had encountered, which he would later rationalize as "maybe these ones were to those what I'd heard of, what Bretonnia is to the Empire"—told that the fee had never been coin. Instead they had asked for, in order of preference: knowledge of events, even if only in the form of rumours; raw materials and supplies; and the facilities to craft those materials.

Eicher would go on to mention that he had heard a rumour the last time he had been in Wissenheim, two weeks prior. The rumour in question would send them up north and east, toward Averland, where an orcish warband had supposedly been sighted. That rumour had apparently been exactly the sort that they had been interested in, and so, by all accounts, that would be where they would be travelling.

The following day a Free Company of Wissenheim arrived. Once again they were too late to have been of help for the actual problem, but this time they were also too late to even help with the cleanup. The man in charge dismounted his steed even as his eyes scanned the damage, took in the burials for deceased family in progress, and glowered in annoyance.

'What happened here?' he asked in a sharp tone.

He was told quickly that 'A mercenary company managed to get here in time to save us.'

'What mercenary company?' he followed up with.

'They called themselves the Outland Legion,' he was answered. 'They were odd ones they were.'

That marked the extent that Bertrand Graebner and his men were able to learn that was factual. But as to the absurd number of claims that this Outland Legion was made entirely of what sounded eerily like the tales that came from Lustria, but with black powder weapons? Well, never let it be said that the peasantry out in the middle of nowhere didn't have an imagination. Blatant falsehood but imaginative.