Battle Proseis a diary of Nic’s exploits in emergent turn-based tactics gameBattle Brothers.
It was always going to end badly for Thillmann The Braggart.
30 gold, he told the brigands.
Whether Thillmann actually had the coin on him, they never found out.
Death comes quickly in the turn-based tactics and open-world merc work ofBattle Brothers, and victory comes hard.
I can only apologise for adding to the bastard’s delusions.
Then there was Rumjugs the Younger.
There had, as much as any of us knew, never been a senior Rumjugs.
‘The Merciless’, everyone called Terry.
Our first destination was the barbers, to give Terry a stupid haircut as punishment for that Yeti story.
Makes it harder to pluck the arrows out of a dead man’s arse if you know his name.
But, for the sake of posterity, here’s the gaggle of hopefuls we added to the gang.
Excellent Log the Ragged, a miserable beggar with a fear of wolves.
Ten of us in total then, including myself.
I couldn’t get involved in the battles, naturally.
Someone would need to tell our story once the band became crow food.
O’er forest and marsh we passed on our way to the brigands.
On the way, we made camp, and swore an oath to make as many mates as possible.
A paltry five bastards met us on the field of battle.
‘Weaponless’ Rick Nipples was the first to charge in, flailing his arms and grinning all the while.
The first brigand to move took half of Rick Nipples’s face off with a flail.
Ah well, won’t be missed.
Rumjugs moved to the flank, eager to get his axe in.
Soon, they were upon us.
Excellent Log moved up to support Dietmar, swinging his club uselessly.
Wolfgang turned out to be equally useless with his pitchfork.
One of the bastards got straight into our back line and flailed Terry to giblets!
You deserved pain, Terry.
But you didn’t deserve this.
All hell immediately broke lose.
The men may have never as well heard the name Bodo.
Then, when our boiling blood simmered down, we saw something miraculous.
Terry had survived, despite several bits of him previously firmly attached now hanging from stringy tendons.
I made a mental note to buy him a pint later.
That should fix it.
He’d live, but he’d never grin again in his miserable life.
Now, to get paid…
