Northwest Savage!

As the forces of the Spasmodic Sanction deploy, an activity that looks suspiciously similar to what others might call "eating breakfast", their adversaries begin to arrive in the vicinity of the trading post. First to make themselves known is a force of Fenwickian troops under the command of one Colonel Jorg Walter von Freud und Slepp. The colonel isn't well known as a fighting officer, not least because the only thing that he has fought in his short time in America has been a nasty cough. Freud und Slepp actually is better known for his habit under pressure of uttering strangely relevant malapropisms.

(Below) The colonel's force is as mixed a bag of soldiery as one is ever likely to see outside of a manufacturer of assorted bags for soldiers. To the rear, the largest contingent of troops in this company is a platoon of provincial infantry drawn from the garrison of New Fort Pippin. These troops can at least form line, even if not always a straight one or one that faces the right direction. They do at least also have weapons and uniforms. In front of these, and not uniformed but mercifully at least  clothed, is a small force of volunteer frontiersmen.

These frontiersmen make their living from trapping: local animals, usually, but sometimes their own legs. Technically, they would elsewhere be called 'beaver hunters', except that such a name is impossible to say in any of the lands of Grand Fenwick. For a time, therefore, these men were known as 'thingy hunters', until it was pointed out that, in it's own way, this might be just as bad. So, 'trappers' is how these men must be referred to under Grand Fenwick's New Mittelheim codes for public morality. In the very front of Freud und Slepp's contingent of troops is a party of native American allies drawn from the Wappesdoo tribe.

Arriving to the left of Freud und Slepp's force is an allied contingent in the pay of Vulgaria. This allied force is under the command of Sea Captain Viktor von Blofeldt. Mad, sad, and bad, the captain has only not been labelled as a psychopath because the word hasn't yet been invented; and because, even if it had, it doesn't rhyme with 'mad'. Blofeldt, it's fair to say, would not be at the top of anyone's list of those likely to be invited for a quick pint down at the tavern. On the other hand, if he were invited, one would always be likely to get a seat however busy the local hostelry, given the savage captain's propensity for wielding broken bottles, threatening drinkers in the immediate vicinity, and, by way of attendant small talk, threatening them that, even if they killed him, he would return from the dead to chew off their faces and "shove their cat right up their dog".

The captain has with him a platoon of blue-clad Vulgarian marines from his ship (above right). Use of the term "marine" might normally conjure images of troops that were disciplined, elite even. But one must be aware that these are Vulgarian marines and as like to normal marines as a honey badger is to a pyjama case. Indeed, these troops probably have more in common with sea lice than with sea soldiers, and are about as welcome an addition to any sane military expedition. The rest of the Vulgarian force is comprised of three groups of Wapesdoo Indian allies. In signing up to support the Vulgarians, it's not that the natives are exactly gullible; it's just that they are over-optimistic, trusting that, since Europeans have lied so often about  'unbreakable guarantees" and "the protection of the law", by the law of averages, it must surely be likely that this time they are telling the truth.

(Above) The forces of the Vulgarian Convention begin to advance. Overall, their objective is to find every civilian that might be hiding in the trading post and to give them a painful and permanent early retirement. That should put an end to Gelderland aspirations in this part of New Mittelheim. At a more personal level, Colonel Freud und Slepp's main objective in this regrettably dangerous mission is simply to survive. Captain Blofeldt, being nuttier than a family of workaholic squirrels, is looking forward to the prospect of personally slaying, as messily as possible, at least six of the enemy. It's always good in life to have goals.