Forces:
Rosmalen Swordsmen (49): The remnants of Rosmalen's once mercenary company that settled down when their captain took on a permanent contract with Prince Izek. Prior to the siege, they acted as guards and police for Meissen. Training: Professional (+10 to combat rolls) Morale: Broken-Routing-Panicking-Wary-
Steady-Stalwart-Dauntless-Unbreakable Loyalty: Rosmalen. Equipment: Chainmail, Standard Quality Estoc.
Messien Militia (332): Conscripted, able-bodied adults. Though Messien lacked the weapons to equip its people fully, there was enough ramshackle equipment to put together a small army. Shame that it's up against a large army. Training: Untrained (-5 to combat rolls). Morale: Broken-Routing-Panicking-Wary-
Steady-Stalwart-Dauntless-Unbreakable. Loyalty: Themselves. Equipment: Makeshift weapons
Messien Fanatic Militia (100): Conscripted able-bodied adults. Though Messien lacked the weapons to equip its people fully, there was enough ramshackle equipment to put together a small army. Shame that it's up against a large army. You have personally incited a deep fanaticism in these troops, breaking down their personalities until they stopped fearing death and only feared disappointing the gods. Training: Untrained (-5 to combat rolls). Morale:
Broken (Fanatic)-Routing-Panicking-Wary-Steady-Stalwart-Dauntless-Unbreakable. Loyalty: The Gods. Equipment: Makeshift weapons
Messien Hunters (31): Though Messien has sustained itself on the vast fields of farmland around it, many hunters still exist in and around the town. Both dealing with pest animals ruining crops and for their own sustenance. Training: Untrained (-10 to combat rolls) Morale: Broken-Routing-Panicking-
Wary-Steady-Stalwart-Dauntless-Unbreakable Loyalty: Themselves. Equipment: Assortment of various quality Bows
Known Enemy Forces:
Southern Dead-Dogs (200+): While they had nothing on the hulking beasts you grew up around, these packs of mangy dead were deadly enough to rip a man apart in seconds, and fast enough to rip apart any riders that you had sent out for help. Currently they rove about in the southern fields using the unharvested crops as cover.
Roving Beast: For the past three nights a massive creature has rattled the wall with terribly powerful blows. Each night it grew closer and closer to breaking down the wall, however it would always flee long before the first light of dawn. Unfortunately no one had laid eyes on it yet, so you had no idea what you were dealing with, and all you could do was hope it was only one creature, and not many.
Rattlers (700+): The rattlers form the core of the sieging forces, often nothing more than decrepit bones with thin strips of leathery skin still hanging off of them. The rattlers were hardier than they looked, often requiring their bones to be fully snapped before whatever was animating them gave up.
Rotters (1000+): The meat, ha, of the sieging forces. The rotters in a very real way, meatshields for the rest of the enemies forces. Slow and clumsy sure, but able to take a distressing amount of punishment. While a single Militiaman could deal with one of the creatures, they usually found themselves faltering under the sheer number, or worse leaving themselves open to the faster rattlers.
-
"The rattlers have been probing at our northeastern walls, and the dead-dogs have pushed up to the very edge of the south fields." You watch as Egbert adjusts the war map, an upside-down teacup representing the bulk of the undead forces, a fork representing the rattlers at the walls, and a spoon representing the dead-dogs. "The main bulk of the undead has yet to commit to any action, but I expect they are planning to press us in both the east and west."
"A potential attack on all fronts," Misha mutters as he gathers up more cutlery to represent the split horde.
"Simple but effective. It means they will not be able to create a single point to smash through but pressure us on every point to find a weak spot." Egbert glances over to Herminia, then flicks his eye to where Izek sits, only half aware. Whatever he was about to say stills awkwardly in his mouth. "How… went the repairs?"
"All of the smaller breaches have been patched over no tha-..." She pauses and takes a deep breath. "and major breaches have been… reinforced, and we've done everything we can for the gate." The sheer exertion it took for Herminia to get through her entire sentence without insulting Egbert seemed to be beyond mortal ken. You were honestly worried that something important in her head was about to pop.
"Then we fight with the appearance of walls. Just like Mironia then." The Tilean mutters for a moment, his eyes growing distant as he imagines some battle he fought in Tilea years ago.
"Appearance of walls? Yo-" Izek stirs slightly, and Herminia curbs her tongue. "I can assure you that I oversaw good work."
"You could have a legion of dwarfs, and a day's patchwork will only be the appearance of a wall. But war can be fought on appearances." He leans forward over the map, eyes scanning along the map. "But what will they take from that appearance… What do they want."
"They want to make us hopeless." Two sets of eyes flick to you as Egbert just slowly nods. "The fields in the south, what do the dead have use for them? Burn them all away and free up your dogs to overwhelm a position or punch straight past our defences. They keep the fields out there, teeming with their dogs, because it is a mockery. Our own good harvest turned into a field of death."
"Then they will try to instil fear in us.." Egbert finishes for you, and you give the Tilean his own nod. "If we spread out along the walls, it will be like an ocean of rot clawing at us."
"And if we concentrate our forces, they will try to crush them in one single battle of annihilation." Imperial tactics, twisted for fear rather than efficiency, but Imperial nonetheless. If you had two boats and two crews with bellies full of fire and slaughter, you would pull the leader of the dead in a thousand different directions until he tore himself apart. If you had two dozen horsemen and enough grog to get a giant drunk, you would run rings around him, taunting him with his own goals.
If if if…
But instead of having two boats, or two dozen horsemen, you had shy of four hundred men and one hundred once-men.
"If we had pike and shot, we could bleed from them a dozen bodies a street." The Tilean openly laments, hand briefly tracing over the empty gun holster by his side. "If we had the wood, I could set up firetraps… I should have ripped the outer houses apart. I'm a damned fool, and we're out of time."
The scowl that twists his face is hot and hateful; for once, it was not pointed at the other councillors.
"Then burn the houses," Misha speaks up, and you give him a surprised side-eye. You had thought his fathers' condemnation had set him permanently mute. "Collapse the houses onto the streets and douse them in oil. Or just set them alight out right."
"Messien might not take that. The outer residential districts are where most of the town resides, and you don't have time." Herminia warns, her mouth pressed into a thin line as she scans the map. "This battle of annihilation… it would draw most of the dead, right?"
"You want them to give them what they want?" Rosmalen's voice is thoughtful as he rubs at his chin. "They would take such a battle because they would believe they would win it."
"Then we prepare the battlefield so they can't." You trace a finger across the map of Meissen before it finishes on the large north gate of the town. The first part of the wall that fell, and it has been a constant pain point since. "Misha is right; if we collapse the houses, we can use them for traps or if that fails, then section off the undead with walls of fire. But Herminia is also right; we do not have the time or the goodwill to do the entire outer districts."
"The rest of the walls will need to be held, they might want fear, but no man will give up a chance to stroll past an enemy's defences uncontested." Rosmalen reached towards the gold pieces that were meant to roughly represent your own forces before pausing and glancing up at you. "Your…"
He hesitates on the word, and you do not rush to give it to him. You were sure the other three were well aware of what you had done, and you were also sure they realised what it meant.
Fanatics were a staple everywhere in the old world, and there was no doubt that you held their leash.
Your eyes turn to the map as you consider what should be done with them. There was a part of you that thought just throwing them where the battle was the thickest would be the most effective measure. You knew the maddened heights of fanaticism that gripped them and knew that they would struggle endlessly against the undead to expel their shame and self-hate with no regard for if they would survive the night.
But… that might not be the hand you needed here, and knowing that the walls would not break and leave your forces encircled…
[] Deploy the Fanatic Militia to the North Gate, where you hoped to draw the undead into a decisive battle. (150 normal militia is deployed to defend the rest of the walls)
[] Have the Fanatic Militia deployed elsewhere, holding the wall against attempts to breach the walls elsewhere from the battle of annihilation.
[] Have the Fanatic Militia held in reserves, to be unleashed whenever they are needed (Note that unless you stay in the backlines, you will not have control over when they are unleashed.)
The Tilean quickly moves on. "My men will be held in reserve. They'll set up the traps when the undead force has overcommitted or elsewhere falters, then I'll have them move to give the militia space to pull back behind the traps." Your lips twitch downwards at that; that would leave the untrained militia to deal with the brunt of a fighting retreat. But it was difficult to argue that you could risk Rosmalen's swordsmen, especially since they would only listen to the man himself.
"Herminia coordinates with the non-combatants to ensure the hunters are resupplied through the night. They'll have plenty of targets once the undead commits, and even shoddy arrows will find a target." The woman nods, watching as the Tilean places two silver pieces near the north gate. "Misha, your father, paid for healer lessons; by the end of this, we'll have a great many wounded. Prepare to deal with them."
The gangly teen glances towards his father, who looks like he is moments away from slipping back into one of his deep sleeps, and then nods. He orders one of the guards to follow him and disappears deeper into the manor.
"Now Norscan…" He trails off for a moment. "Now Asavar." He tries instead, and you arch an eyebrow at him. That might be the first time he has ever used your name. "You're as capable a commander as they come, but…." You're also a six-foot-something behemoth of muscle and brutal warfare he leaves unsaid.
[] You would stay here and coordinate the battlefield alongside the Tilean, the plan was not the most complex in the world, but it paid to have two pair of eyes watching it
[] You would head out to the North Gate, someone had to put steel in the militia's spine.
[] You would patrol the walls, and deal with any attempts to flank around and outmanoeuvre the battle
I have adjusted the Morale tags for more clarity.
