The Dwarves 42eme Legion de Nain (L'Ostaire) - Von Trapp's Grenadiers

The following is taken from Christian Ceullo's blog (he of Ludwig von Barkhoven infamy) and is about his own Dwarven Flintloque force.  You can find the full article HERE.  Well done and if you have a blog post about Flintloque or any of our games send me a link and I might just put it here in glory.

GBS

The Hills are Alive!

Private Rorc scratched a flea out from behind his left ear, got ya he thought to himself and grinned.

It was late afternoon, and Rorc had been placed on sentry duty. He turned to see the rest of his section making camp and getting ready for a brisk evening in the green, rolling Ostarian hills. His sergeant’s warning fumbled its way through his brain, as his eyes flicked around the general area… “the ‘ills are alive.” Rorc spun around and brought his musket to bear in front of him. “Who izzit?” he asked the empty field infront of him. He swore he had heard something… and not the kind of noise a forest makes. He squinted, and in the afternoon light he could make out some figures in the distance. A series of ululating notes drifted their way down the valley to his pointed ears. Was that… singing? Not like he’d heard… definitely not during last night’s bout in town. What he wouldn’t do for some of that Dwarven ale… blimey, he’d even settle for some of that Dogmen brew that tasted like p-

“Oi, Rorc!” Sergeant Andorcson bellowed “Quit yer day-dreamin’, you’re on watch!”

“But I’ve seen sumfin’, sir!”

“You what?”

“I’ve seen sumfin’, sir, high… on the hills!”

The Sergeant grabbed a spying glass from a nearby trunk.

“Looks like a goat’erd”.

“A goat’erd?”

“Yer, on his own, too. A lonely goat’erd.”

“Ley-yodel-ley-yodel-ley…” the sound of the goatherd’s singing reached the small camp.

“’Cept for ‘is goats, that is” added Rorc.

“Good job, Rorc” said the Sergeant derisively.

Deflated, Rorc resumed his watch, and his scratching. Bloody dwarf, he thought as he squinted up at the hills again, maybe he’s got some grog?

***

Gustav von Trapp peered down to the campsite below, clutching his hooded cloak over his uniform, and his crook for effect. Although he had lost an eye his vision was still sharp, and his wits sharper. He and his brothers had been on the trail of these Orcs for some time now, and it posed little challenge the experienced woodsmen. He knelt down and patted his dog. The pug looked up at him expectantly “Not much of a guard dog” he said, chuckling.

“Gustav! How much longer to ve haff to stay here?”

“Be patient, Werner, and don’t move around so much. You are a goat, remember?” he chuckled. He was enjoying this, and there was little he enjoyed these days. A good draught, a good sing, and a chance to beat the Orcs back to Albion where they belonged. Or preferably back under whatever rock they came from. The simple life he lived had been taken away from him and his brothers, and he blamed the Orcs and the Grand Alliance… bah, he spat, there was nothing grand about it. Looters, pilferers, thieves, vagabonds, and worse. He had not been keen on the Elves, either. But, the enemy of my enemy…  He seethed into silence before signalling to his fur-draped brothers that it was time to move. Gustav lead his band as they scampered down the hill towards cover on all fours, their disguise was working it seemed.

Night was coming. The trap was set.

As they moved Gustav softly hummed their marching song, his single eye glinting in the twilight.