Scrapbook of Ruud von Histelrooy, Imperial Researcher.
[Battle Report: High Elves vs Ogre Kingdoms. 2ooo pts]
It has been three days since the marauding ogres have sacked Haffenburg. They've been in the village eating every morsel of food, from cats, dogs, dead bodies to the old and sickly who didn't get away in time. Mostly they've been gathering around a huge cauldron, boiling and bubbling for three days nonstop. Two huge bloated figures have been seen pouring chunks of meat in, stirring and cooking, and then dividing the chops to the hungry ogres gathered around. Interesting. They seem to have no fear of any human reprisals, since unlike any other army, they seem to place no pickets or to chase after the remnants of the Empire army. Perhaps they are truly hungry.
On the morning of the fourth day, the ogres left. I presume, after emptying the village of everything worth eating. Those little grey creatures though, have been busy too. They scavenge and harvest all the trinkets and gold from all the houses and bodies (before being eaten of course).
There are two main roads leading away from Haffenburg, the first is the Imperial Highway that leads to the heart of the empire, and the other is the Old Turnpike Road that winds along the borders of the Empire. The ogres have taken the second road. Why? I do not know. But it would have been worse if they walked straight through the Empire. Still, I must admit, maybe there was some wisdom in such a move... the ogres would have been easily cut off by the armies of the various Elector Counts and be destroyed.
Nonetheless, within half a day, the ogres encountered a patrolling force of High Elves, still protecting the borders and hunting down vagrant bands of beastmen [Gorthmaw's Warhost perhaps?] since the vile Storm of Chaos. Marko's spyglass reveals that it is none other than Lord Ithilien's High Elf Patrol. Since the Storm of Chaos, Lord Ithilien has been restless against the forces of disorder.
When most High Elf Lords have since retreated back to their island of Ulthuan, Ithilien believes that the threat isn't over, as such he has been hunting down bands of Beastmen and marauders. Of note is the Battle of Darkswood, where Gorthmaw Childtaker, an infamous Beastlord of great cunning had been raiding many Imperial hamlets. Despite the many attempts to take him (dead or alive) he seems to avoid capture or death in battle. It is said that he drinks the blood of his victims to slake his thirst and boost his strength (although is is mainly folklore). At Darkswood, Ithilien had cornered the beaste, and his cavalry had ridden down the beast herds, but of Gorthmaw, there is no news. Thus till this day, Ithilien waits and waits for Gorthmaw to place a wrong move, and he will pounce.
That is till the ogres came...
* * * * *
It is hard to describe the feeling when you witness so much carnage and death.
It makes me feel numb (with fear and also from crouching too long) and reluctant to move a muscle.
Even the normally hardedged Marko had an ashen look on his face.
When the Ogres were gone, surprisingly they did not stay as long, Marko hefted his heavy crossbow and stalked onto the battlefield.
The battlefield was a mess, here and there you could see a dead ogre, like the one just beside me now; with Bolt thrower arrows sticking out everywhere. But more gruesome was the pile of Swordmasters, their silver armour glinting red with blood, their own blood. Further along the battlefield was an even bigger pile of dead Elven Spearmen, their bodies broken and stomped to pieces as they turned and fled from the carnage, only for the Ironguts to catch them... With Marko's spyglass I could see the other side of the battlefield, laden with broken horse carcasses, the odd mare skittering riderless.
Suddenly, I could hear hoove beats heading towards our direction... For a moment, my heart stopped as I thought it could be the ogres coming back. It was the Lord Ithilien! We were searching for his noble body (not to steal, really!) but there he was alive. He deigned to even look at me, instead spoke to Marko... which i wrote down.
"The Ogres have left, milord," Marko said.
"Yes, indeed they have. Vile creatures."
"Your wounded need care, and your numbers are few."
Ithilien looked at Marko and smiled a thin smile, "our numbers have always been few. This day has cost much in Elven blood."
"Hmmm... Well, I can get some help from that place over there," Marko replied, thumbing toward a small hamlet in the distance, "we could get some water up..."
"Yes, it seems that is the only recourse we have."
In the distance, a horn sounded, its deep cry echoing eerily on the darkening battlefield. A mist was slowly enveloping the grounds, making the dead bodies seem as if they were moving ever so slightly.
Marko, ever the ranger, raised his head to the horn blast. "Don't think ogres use horns."
"You are correct," Ithilien replied, "that was no ogre horn. But a Beast horn!"
Without delay, Ithilien turned and conferred with his horsemen who were waiting behind him. The Elves talked in low tones and finally after a couple of minutes, they nodded in agreement. Ithilien wheeled his horse around and said, "We must leave, you as well, if you value your lives."
"What?" Marko looked at him incredulously.
"Something stalks us, and he has the upperhand." Ithilien gathered his reins and prepared to ride, "We will go to the hamlet, we have spare horses. They would normally prefer not to take a human rider, but the need is dire."
"But what about your wounded? Why??" Marko could not understand.
Ithilien sighed. "I grieve at the loss, but the Hunt has begun. If we stay, our losses this day will be greater. Come we ride!"
At this point, the Elves handed us a great warhorse, still clad in heavy barding. Its eyes shone with power and pride, but it also gave us a look of disdain (haughty gits!). Pushing me up into the saddle, Marko couldn't help but cry out to the passing Elven Prince. "Who then strikes such fear in you?"
Upon hearing that, I could see Ithilien clench his fist tightly on the reins. I thought he'd just ride on, but instead he turned around to face Marko, a cold glint in his eyes...
"If you really must know, I recognise the horn signature... It's Gorthmaw Childtaker, and he hunts tonight.
Ithilien sighed again, "I, on the otherhand, am powerless to stop him."
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