Schloss Tanvaund!

Schloss Tanvaund: hunting lodge of the Prince of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, Rupprecht. Built in the mists of time - so, about 12 years ago - the lodge was originally constructed by Rupprecht's predecessor as Prince Palatine, his brother Heinrich ('The Wise and Able'). Rupprecht, 'The One in the Attic', doesn't generally spend much time here, the hunting of animals being for him, like most things, rather too much effort. Rupprecht's philosophy, which to be fair is one shared by many members of the aristocracy, is that it doesn't make sense to go through all of the exertions of doing or getting something, especially animals, when there are plenty of people around him that can be ordered to do it on his behalf and that have to pretend to enjoy it.

Rupprecht's presence here is an enforced one, his palace having been damaged by fire. How it got damaged began with the arrival in Pfeildorf of a box of strange fruit sent by Rupprecht's notional ally, the Burgrave of Nabstria, and a conversation between Rupprecht and his Grand Chamberlain, Leopold Von Fecklenburg, that went something like this:

'Fecklenburg - what are these objects?'
'I think, sir, that the note said that they are exotic produce - mangoes to be precise'.
'What's a mango, Fecklenburg - should I be insulted?'
'I don't know what they are, my lord. They are from overseas, like tobacco. So, perhaps one should smoke them?'
'Yes, Fecklenburg: that sounds like fun. I mean, what could go wrong?'

This being Mittelheim, the answer to this question of course, is 'more than one might think'. Difficulties in lighting the mangoes led to some unwise experimentation with accelerents, experiments that resulted in getting the mangoes lit only because they were in a building that was also on fire. Rupprecht was surprisngly philosophical, always having been told that smoking was bad for him.

Rupprecht has been here for a week. Not much hunting or riding actually goes on. The only hunting is the prince's hunt for his slippers and for accomodating chamber maids. The only riding here happens when he's managed to find both of the aforementioned.

In the hallway to Rupprecht's chambers stands Fecklenburg himself, along with the commander of the Palatinate's army, General Graf Redmond von Barry-Eylund. The latter has been summoned here for an interview with the prince. It is likely to be an uncomfortable one, something that Fecklenburg clearly doesn't mind at all.

'The prince is very angry', says the chamberlain with some relish.
'That must make a nice change', replies Barry-Eylund.
'What?' says Fecklenburg, surprised.
'Well', continues the general, 'the only two expressions I've ever previously seen him have were the floppy, corpse like look when he's sleeping or trying to think; or the look of gluttonous lust on his face when he sees a sausage or a shapely pig. Or, especially, a pig shaped like a sausage. So anger must be a nice bit of variety'.
Fecklenburg seems annoyed at the general's lack of concern. 'The prince intends to take you to task for the immoderate evisceration of our army!'
'So, he used the words "evisceration" and "immoderate", did he?'
'Well, no - not exactly. I think his actual words were something like "buggered up"'
The general nods. 'I thought so. Anyway, Fecklenburg, I have devised a sure way to avoid any princely sanctions. Look at this ...'

'Look at what?' says the chamberlain, mystified.
'The sausage, here in my trousers - look at it'.
'General, I ... I'm not sure that I ...'
'No, look, Fecklenburg. I have an actual sausage in my breeches'.
'I don't doubt it, general, but I don't think I need to see any of that sort of thing ...'
'What, no - look. for Beelzebub's sake - feel the weight: it's a quality bratwurst'.
'I .. uh ... I have no reason to doubt the quality, sir but I'm still not ...'
'Look. Forget it. Just wait until we get to the prince, and then you can see what I'm going to do with it'.
Fecklenburg stands back, his eyes narrowing. 'This isn't some obscene Fenwickian thing is it?'

Cowering Inferno!

Finally, the battle reaches its denouement. This isn't somethng that would be recognised in Mittelheim, the low understanding of foreign languages meaning that most would think that a denouement was probably some kind of French cake or pastry; possibly one with patisserie cream and some glace fruit. The phrase 'reaches its climax' would no doubt be more easily comprehended; but of course it would be impossible to say this in circumstances, like this one, where many of the participants were from Grand Fenwick and in which the uttering of such a phrase would inevitably lead to some combination of arrest, imprsionment, and a beating with a rudely shaped butternut squash. Besides which, the notion of this encounter having reached some kind of peak would also imply some sense of accompanying excitement or interest. But this is a Mittelheim battle: so it would be better to say that, overall, this encounter has dragged on for a sufficiently long time that its termination is surely due.

(Above) The Vulgarian native allies realise that they are in danger of being caught between a hammer and an anvil: or at least, a hot, flamey warehouse and dour, red-coated Gelderland infantrymen. Rushing from the warehouse, they attempt to fight their way through the Nabstrian rangers. Alas for them, the fight goes badly and they are soon sent to the Great Hunting Ground in the sky - or somewhere that sports a similar line of ancestral gods and small, easily obtainable wildlife.

(Below, bottom left). As one of the Gelderland civilians menacingly waves his rake, the one remaining group of Vulgarian allied Indians has crept to the back of the house. Faced with a range of possible follow-on activities, such as cleaning the windows, repairing some of the woodwork, or beginning to lay out a small but attractive ornamental garden, the Indians decide to stick with what they know best, and instead set it on fire.

(Below) In a vain attempt to save themselves, the remaining civilians try and escape the house. Alas, their slow movement, and the complex intellectual challenges posed by the doorhandle, mean that only one additional worker, a middle-aged matron named Wanda, manages to exit the house. In the nearby wood, the noble Fenwickian trappers, firm believers in the principle of "women and children first" begin to take pot shots at her.

(Above) The fire takes hold on the house, and it begins to collapse! The remainder of the civilians are unable to escape and conclude the battle, as it were, as potatoes in the great baking oven of fate.

(Below) Lustily cheering themselves, the brave Fenwickian irregulars gun down the fleeing Wanda. They congratulate themselves on having dealt with a dangerous looking enemy fighter, whose mop might have posed a serious threat to the integrity of the Nabstrian forces. This discussion is notable for its reference to the concept of integrity, something that rarely challenges the vocabulary of Fenwickian soldiers.

Continuing the heroics, (below) the remaining allied Indian force leaps from behind onto the rake wielding civilian . This seems to the natives to be the safest bet. A rake doean't really seem to them to be the most effective piece of military equipment to wield in a fight - but you've got to respect the kind of loon who thinks that it is. Using the old 'tap on the shoulder, tomahawk in the face' routine, the Wappesdoo braves despatch the worker, dodging in the meantime stray rounds from the Fenwickian trappers who are really beginning to get into the swing of things.

With the death of this worker, the thirtieth out of the thirty two that were employed at the trading post, the forces of the Vulgarian Convention decide to call it a day. Out of time, and also running out of men, the troops begin to retire from the flaming remains of the buildings here.

(Above) With the advantage of a really good telescope, it is just possible to continue to watch Freud und Slepp's advance, which has taken himself and his provincial troops relentlessly further away from the fighting. The colonel watches with interest as the smoke from the blazing remains of the trading post rises lazily into the afternoon sky.
'Well', he says to no one in particular, 'that really looked quite a dangerous enterprise. Thank goodness I have the professional military training and experience to let someone else do all the work ... I mean,' he says hastily, correcting himself, 'I mean, to maintain an effective reserve'.

As the forces of the Vulgarian Convention fall back to lick their wounds, and whatever else takes their fancy, thoughts turn to the task of assessing who has won and who has lost; or, as is more likely here, who has lost the least. (Above) Herr Plugholl, standing at the foot of the stairs, certainly, is philosophical about the results. On the one hand, his trading post is now almost entirely burnt to the ground, and all but one of his employees has been killed. But on the other hand, he is still alive. So, 'Yay'. Overall, it turns out that the Nabtsrians under Major Schwim und der Vasser are the winners: the Vulgarian Convention failed to kill all of the civilians, and his personal goal was also to avoid having them all killed. Colonel Freud und Slepp comes second - though he has failed in his main task to kill all of the civilians, he has achieved his secondary goal of surviving the battle. For Captain Blofeldt and Colonel Fuhrporer, their early exit from the battle leaves them as losers, with an extra helping of being bottom of the whole world.

As the houses continue to burn merrily, the forces of the Vulgarian Convention halt their withdrawal for a rest and to assess their pillage and their prisoners. The latter includes none other than Colonel Richter Furpohrer:  knocked unconscious early in the battle, his supine body was dragged to the rear by some enterprising Wappesdoo indians who recognised the prospect of a profitable prisoner swap. The colonel sits morosely with another prisoner - a Nabstrian ranger. They are guarded by a fierce looking Wappesdoo brave. The native then says something.

'What?' replies Fuhrporer suspicously. 'Speak German, you uncivilised savage!'
The native repeats himself.
The colonel waves dismissively. 'No. Speako. Nativo.' he says loudly and slowly.
The ranger sighs. 'He says, sir, that he is very pleased to see us'.
'I don't care what he thinks', replies Fuhrporer.
The native says something else. The colonel blows his cheeks loudly. 'What did he say now? This just can't get any worse'.
'He says', translates the ranger, 'that you have a pretty mouth'.

Northwest Ravage!

The Gelderland civilians in the remaining, and suprisingly unlit, building of the ravaged trading post are, it is fair to say, not quite as confident as to the safety of their position as they were at the beginning of this military fracas (or brouhaha). The battle, for example, has featured rather more screaming than any of them had imagined that a military encounter would involve; and also a lot more hacking, cutting, severing, and arterially spurting. All in all, warfare seems to the Gelderland workers like something that is really quite dangerous and, all things taken into account, quite a significant undertaking - an apt conclusion given the numbers of bodies that will have to be buried.

Never let it be said, however, that a Gelderlander isn't willing in extremis to do the right thing by his king and his country. Of course, such a thing often is said and usually with good reason; the difference in Gelderland between loyalty and disloyalty being related, unsurprisingly, to the difference between the chances of being caught and not caught. Still, one has to admire the bravery of the last group of civilians as they decide, manfully, that it is time to take the fight to the enemy. (Below) With a loud shout they begin to exit the building.

An indication of the likely military utility of this act can perhaps be judged by the fact that the lead civilian is armed with a rake (above). There are reasons why most infantry of the Age of Enlightenment are armed with muskets and not rakes, whisks, mangles, or broad beans; and the reasons for this are likely to be taught to the Gelderlanders repeatedly and terminally, by the Fenwickian trappers that line the edge of a nearby small wood, and the Vulgarian natives that are rushing forwards, tomahawks and torches in hand.

As this is happening, other events of a violent nature are elsewhere also taking place. (Above) The remains of the Vulgarian marines decide to test their mettle against the remnants of Glosgau's Rangers. Their mettle, as it turns out, is really quite bendy, and after the rangers give it a further pull, it snaps. Reduced to a single survivor, this man, faced with the choice of either death or dishonour, makes the choice to act like a man: a Mittelheim man;  which is more or less like a rabbit or small vole in any other country. Before one can say "Flee! Flee! Run for your life!", he flees and runs for his life.

(Above) Major Schwim und der Vasser reforms the rangers and they turn to face the Vulgarian natives that still stand in the burning warehouse admiring their sooty handiwork. He prepares to get them to charge the natives, but notices an air of reluctance around them; the faint of whiff of disinclination leavened with the distinct smell of vacillation and a noseful of "bugger right off". The major stands at the head of his men and berates them.
'Come on, my fellows - just one more push and we'll drive these heathens from the battlefield!'
'But sir', pipes up one of the rangers, 'there aren't many of us left! Can't we leave the remains of the fighting to those approaching red-coated Gelderland provincials over there, and instead remain here, in safety, at the back, undertaking a more, ah, supervisory function?'
The major scowls and then gesticulates. 'No! No! No! We're all men here! We've all faced death, or worse! We've all fought on this frontier! We've all massacred women and children with a blunt hatchet and a billiard cue after drinking heavily and mistaking them for beavers; and then ended up confused when no one would buy the pelts! And after that we've all descended into a drink and opiate-related nightmare, the worst of which wasn't the time we sold ourselves to bearded sailors on the docks of New York; in the process contracting painful afflications that could only be cured by burning our dangley bits with lighted tar!'
The rangers stare at him.
'Hmm', says the major philosophically. 'So - only me then'.

As the horrified rangers content themselves with loosing a volley into the native indians, the Gelderland troops begin to make their presence felt. (Above) on the hill, the platoon of light infantry test their bravery by shooting some fleeing Vulagarians in the back. The provincials themselves approach in two columns, bayonets fixed. They then ready themselves to attack the Indians. By the steps to the warehouse, Herr Plugholl can be seen. With the collapse of the warehouse surely imminent, he has taken it upon himself to exit the building first to ensure that the way is clear for his employees to follow. He seeks to sustain the morale of his civilians with a hearty "Thank God I'm out of that warehouse - everyone behind me is surely going to die'.

(Above) Some way from the trading post and also, not really coincidentally, the fighting, Colonel Freud und Slepp continues to hold his platoon of troops in reserve.
'Have I told you how much I hate New Mittelheim' he says to his subaltern.
'Yes sir', the Lieutenant replies. 'A lot'.
'The cold, and then the heat', continues the colonel, 'The dirt; the danger; the lack of glory; the low pay; the pancakes'.
'So,' replies the subaltern cheerlily, 'the pancakes!'
'I hate this place'.
'Sir - might it be better for your equilibrium if you took a more positive atttitude?'
The colonel nods. 'Well, how about this - I'm positive that I hate this place'.
Taking his telescope, Freud und Slepp then peers towards the sounds of the battle. 'Oooh,' he comments, 'that's not good ...'