'Mootland's Revenge'

Mootland's Revenge

Upon hearing the fate of their kin in Mousillon, now fallen to ruination from some foul curse - the halflings of Mootland wept as one. Ancestors that left for the opportunities that awaited in fair Mousillon, led lives of happiness and prosperity under the rule of Sir Landuin the Fair. Yet, no sooner had Castle Mousillon fallen to some foreign invaders known only as 'The Saviours' did a handful of desperate survivors make their way back to their original homeland. Of that handful, two actually survived the entire journey... two, one of which was entirely unable or unwilling to communicate in any way, shape or form. The one who could talk, spoke through trembling lips, eyes gaunt and skin pale... he spoke of exotic warriors, men and women who came in the dead of night and laid seige to Castle Mousillon. He spoke of brave knights and scores of men-at-arms battling with valour and desperation as these demon-like crimson clad invaders bested the elite troops of the garrison. He spoke of ultimate defeat, executions of all survivors... minus a handful, he had no idea why those ones were spared, and the children... all of the children were led away together, human and halfling alike. When the elders of The Moot heard about this genocide of their people, with the exception of the youngest halflings - they made an immediate decision. Although it would take time to organise and fund, 'The Saviours' would be made to pay for their heinous treatment of a gentle and peaceful people. Almost twenty years since that pair of halflings staggered into The Moot to deliver their grim account, 'Mootland's Revenge', the expedition put together to avenge their kin and save the young halflings that might still be trapped within those castle walls is finally almost at their destination. However, what they are certainly not prepared for, is the look of distain on the faces of the very halflings that they have come to liberate...

Number of units available for roster = 26

Oxtail Sue: Kathleen Soup Tank * [1]{12} // The Imperial college of engineering are still as flabagasted today as they were, when it was first discovered that the single steam tank gifted to the region was instantly modified to fire both incindiary shells AND boiling hot soup. When questioned about the decision, the Halfling who passed as the steam tank commander (Ernul Herringbone) simply shrugged before cheerfully stating; 'I don't fancy carrying that many hot suppers, do you?'.

The Kitchen Sink: Halfling War Wagon (Cannon / Mortar) * [1]{12} // Due to the hill-rich Mootish moorland, war wagons have never been an especially practical war machine for the area. However, an entrepreneur halfling (Dabble Threepenny) who came across the carcass of such a contraption was able to successfully adjust the mechanics with the help of a few pals to become an all-terrain personnel carrier. The wagon became so famous, that a semi-respected Halfling engineer (Milton Bargo) volunteered his services to deck out the tower piece with both mortar and cannon! A one of a kind marvel, 'The Kitchen Sink' as it is affectionately known - was pressed into what is most probably her last campaign. If any terrain can break her, it will be the cursed Dukedom of Mousillon.

Gilmoor's Cock Jockeys & Master Flambeaux: Rooster Cavalry / Halfling Bright Battle Mage (Mounted) * [4]{2}/[1]{4} // Master Flambeaux began his career as a glorified hedge wizard, grilling steak and toasting loaves without the need of casting a glance at heat exuding from his very fingers. Chance ensured his talents were honed and duly nurtured by a travelling Imperial collegiate of the Mages Guild who took the young halfling under his wing after the two struck up a fast friendship over cards and ale on one fine summer's eve. Flambeaux was suddenly taken very seriously as his trickery transformed into potent and formidable magics with explosive potential. Quick to capitalise, a veteran rooster cavalry unit hired the mage as their personal escort - to equip them with the arcane fires that are so renown for repelling the walking dead that still haunt the borders of The Moot.

Knights of The Zealous Cock: Rooster Heavy Cavalry * [4]{3} // The Zealous Cocks are heroes of great renown throughout Mootland. Trained by actual Reiksguard knights of the empire as a diplomatic gift, these short-statured knights are unwavering in their duty to their homeland and everything that halflings hold dear. Known for taking on enemies of any size, these veterans have studied fauna of every known species alongside halfling mages in an effort to understand and exploit individual weaknesses, so that they might overcome odds in the most dire scenarios. Besting mournghuls and basilisks are mere footnotes on the legendary deeds that these knights have accomplished since their inception. Abandoning ponies for heavily armoured roosters due to their lack of self-preservation, the Knights of The Zealous Cock in recent years have prepared themselves for combat with that most dangerous and cruel of all monsters... The beings known simply as 'vampires'.

M. Bargo's Blackshot Blunderbustiers: Halfling Blunderbuss Gunners * [12]{1} // The Bargo's have had strong ties with the City of Nuln since it's very inception. Halfling equivalents of engineers more often than not have the Bargo family name and Marrowsun Bargo is known as the finest producer of blunderbusses in the civilised old world. His blunderbustiers, mostly extended family members or those with the knick-knackery to maintain and optimise such wonderfully brutal devices are spoken about with great pride to anyone carrying an (inferior) firearm. Due to the short range capabilities of such powerful ballistics, the blunderbustiers tend to be even more adept at stealth than the average halfling, so that they can get within range of a would-be target without suffering losses. Indeed, rumours circulate and persist in taverns further abroad than just Mootland that the Bargo's are also investors and operatives in the 'non-existent' Thieves Guild.  

Clattershuck's Lollygaggers: Halfling Free Company Militia * [12]{1} // Mayor Clattershuck has always executed the unorthodox laws and bylaws of Mootland with an iron fist. Work ethic is not always the first phrase that comes to mind when one thinks of a halfling, though skilled in a variety of ways there is a good percentage of them that might be considered lazy and a further percentage that reason why work for something if one can simply take it. The crime of 'lollygagging' or rather, 'not working when one should be' is not immediately of serious consequence unlike some, but should the tally marks add up enough, then a halfling might find themselves in considerable trouble. Clattershuck was ever-vigilent in his village and in less than a year he had over a dozen bone-idol citizens facing judicial wrath. The alternative to punishment is of course tenure in the Mootland standing army, and so those that follow their despised Mayor to battle do so with the knowledge that their success is the key to paying off debts owed, or at the very least they might get the opportunity to see their judge, jury and executioner get his comeuppance.

Hookcrook's (Champion) Piggerbackers: Halfling Duellists * [6]{2} // The art of piggyback duelling is as old as the relationship between halfling and human. The coalition of the two races has always been fortified with the best food and drink in the old world. The latter is no doubt to blame for the occassional tavern disagreement between halfling and man - when not settled in a traditional brawl, on occassion a 'friendly' duel would settle the matter. At first the humans scoffed in amusement at the audacity of their diminutive opponent, until they discovered the Mootish way of evening the odds in such a scenario. The halfling would sit upon the shoulders of his best mate, uncle or other random ally in close proximity and battle as a cohesive unit. With unnatural synchronised ability the pair would wield not one but two weapons and their tandem offense is more often than not, enough to best all but the finest swordsmen that the empire can offer. Indeed, the best of the best among these duellists compete to become reigning champions of their respective villages and towns. In times of great need the champions will call a meeting to form an elite unit, using their baffling offensive skills to overcome less skilled enemies.

Coralee's Cockblockers: Halfling Swordsmen * [12]{1} // The Cockblockers made their name for themselves as trainers for the giant war roosters that the halflings have famously domesticated and bred since first settling in Mootland. Using saucepans, bar stools, barrel lids or a kitchen sink - the Cock Blockers soon learn to become adept at parrying angry beaks and mule kicks from sharp talons. With experience, although the occassional injury may be suffered - a good cock blocker can become worth his weight in gold (or pies) for rearing an unruly youngster or breaking in a newly acquired bloodline as these beasts are considered huge assets to the Mootland's standing army. The finest birds are of course reserved for an extortionate sum or else strike up a frenzied bidding war at the bi-monthly livestock auction fayres.

Captain Benjarson's Irregulars: Human Free Company Militia * [12]{1} // Unlike most of his fellow Captains, Benjarson was Mootland born and bred. True enough humans were a minority race in The Moot, but there had been humans taking up residence alongside halflings and ogres since the area was first gifted to the little people. Benjarson's fellow native humans were stereotyped as 'pot-bellied', 'food obsessed', 'sluggish' and worse by the majority of imperial troops garrisoned in Mootland temporarily. Though they were obliged to wear Mootland colours and hold the Mootland standard whilst serving its people, the men would openly belittle the halflings, their culture and ways of life. Bragging about superior blackpowder from Nuln or greatswords from Reikland, rarely was a kind word ever said about the very place these troops were being paid to serve and defend. Benjarson did not have the large gut or round face of many fellow native Mootland men, nor did he have the laid-back, relatively easy going nature that humans who lived alongside the halflings tended to embrace. Unassuming, yet fiercely patriotic, Captain Benjarson tolerated no ill word against his homeland nor its denizens. His temper when sparked was truly volcanic and he became infamous for challenging any offenders to a fistfight. His pugilism skills coupled with his passion to defend his homeland's honour ensured that he (almost) never lost, and so in time - the human soldiers serving the Mootland became a lot more respectful. Captain Benjarson and his hand-picked local heroes were among the first to volunteer when news broke of the campaign, each and every one, true men of The Moot and ready to sacrifice their lives to right a great wrong done to her people.

Captain Kokido's Thrumpers 'n Krumpers: Ogre Free Company Militia * [4]{3} // Captain Kokido is a homebody - Mootland through and through. He and his lads that each share a passion for their homeland, take up arms and abandon their every day professions in order to go and beat up whatever imminent threat has arisen (and then drag it back to the butcher's shop for pie makin'). Kokido was once dispatched all the way to Grand Cathay on a trade mission of utmost importance (at least that's what the elders told him) and was to be one of their chief bodyguards (he later found out that all ogres present had been made chief bodyguards). Despite treacherous seas and even a skirmish with rogue zombie pirates, the Mootland expedition made it and oh what sights he saw, things beyond his imagination, things that expanded his simple mind. That's where he picked up the new name 'Kokido' and he decided to keep it (it sounded much fancier than his birth name of 'Flug'). From the moment he had left Mootland to the second he had miraculously returned... he had yearned for his true home, the fields, the pubs, the little people who made food like no other, even a fire by his feet of an evening. Well, now that he was back... he would never leave again, never... until the elders once again summoned him that is. 'Mousillon? That can't be far? Right? RIGHT!?'.

Perryglug's Home-Guard: Ogre Halberdiers / Spearmen * [4]{3} // The problem with ogres is... They tend not to like being told what to do. From a practical point of view, this makes their assimilation into regular Mootland guard units somewhat challenging. It is not unheard of for the odd comparably placid ogre to be drafted into service among halflings, and on occassion - even men! However, the need to eat, drink and fight near constantly means that standing around for any amount of time is an unrealistic expectation for most of their kind. Muscle in a Mootland army is a welcome addition and so, rather than rock the apple cart as they say, the elders of The Moot realised it was far better to let fractious ogre guardsmen 'patrol' with their mates when bored or peckish to satisfy their natural desire to consume huge amounts or perhaps just break something (hopefully unimportant). These gatherings turn into secondary ogre only units, that although unofficial are no less effective when unexpected trouble visits the Moot. When not cow-tipping, scrumping or gambling in taverns - these militia can bundle into almost any situation, entirely unprepared and probably quite drunk and somehow still turn the tide of battle favourably. Perryglug; an infamously drunk, in debt and above all unreliable ogre, is somehow now in charge of his own neredowell gang of absconding guards.

Sherryblossom's Tab-Runners: Human Mixed Marksmen * [12]{1} // The various laws and bylaws that halflings are accountable for in The Moot, are equally enforced on the modest human contingent of troops garrisoned in the province as the standing military reinforcements provided by the empire. Many of these men were even born in Mootland and their loyalty to the lands of the halflings is for the most part, unflinching. Being accustomed to halfling lifestyles, many of these men grow fat or are perpetually drunk and due to fines levied by officers and captains, sometimes find themselves in a spot of bother. Sometimes a motley collection of these troops that are proving to be in less than peak condition are summoned by a halfling lord on behalf of an imperial power and given instruction to retrain (on docked pay) to inspire a fresh appreciation of their responsibilities. One such outfit is known as Sherry-Blossom's Tab-Runners, their namesake given for each owing the landlady of a tavern favoured by military sorts a large sum of coin, and not one being able (or willing) to pay it off. Their natural affinity for the dartboard in the pub has been augmented for retraining in various firearms, each tailored to the specific strengths of the drunkard who now finds themselves literally risking their lives for a pittance. Once the enemy body count is sufficient to impress their halfling overseers - then the debt will be considered paid and perhaps they can once again return to drinking heavily between the occassional watch-tower snooze.

The Fancymen: Human Heavy Cavalry * [4]{3} // The Fancymen are a contingent of freelance knights who appreciate the finer things in life. The finest silk clothes, the most ostentatious hats, ornate armour crafted from precious metals and of course only the most gourmet of foods. What started as a nobility club for extremely wealthy foodies who liked the idea of being a knight proper, developed over time into a semi-proper unit of like-minded mercenaries. Not needing the coin but being horrified at the prospect of their favourite cuisine being lost with the murder of the world's greatest cooks and slaughter of its most renown restaurateurs, these men band together in the name of conserving delicacies only fitting for their bloodlines. In response to 'The Fancymen' joining the campaign, the halflings provide these arrogant yet well-meaning humans with 'table service' at meal times, their preferred menu choices from amongst the finest rations available, including a steady flow of rare and vintage tipples to help ensure the longevity of their support.

Master Longshadow & The Brotherhood of The Vine: Halfling Jade Battle Mage (on foot) / 'Old Friend' / Halfling Monks * [1][1][4]{4}{4}{1} // Longshadow had been a recluse from a tender age, after being bullied terribly by other children for his thin and gaunt appearance. He opted for solitude whenever possible. Perpetually lonely, he took solace in talking to the squirrels, birds and other critters that would frequent his family's land. In time, he realised it wasn't normal for these creatures to speak back to him - he understood them, their needs, wants and hopes. The day he was set upon by a group of bullies with sticks and stones was the day his path to wizardry began when he unintentionally summoned a flock of razor-crows who swooped down from the darkened skies to rip flesh and rake eyes with beak and talon. The bullies never touched him again, but he was now hated and feared by the village itself, not just his peers. Longshadow left his parent's home as an adolescent and chose to live alone in a dilapidated abode, primarily built within a huge, hollowed-out willow tree, adjoining a lake that provided most of the sustenance he would need. He only visited the village out of necessity and when he did, all those that could shunned him - even his parents avoided him as if he was tainted by chaos. Despite his rejection by his own people, Longshadow found harmony with nature as he honed his ability to harness and use the winds of magic. One day, he was suddenly called upon by some very strange religious types. They claimed that they were on a mission from Sigmar and that their holy duty was to ensure no faithful servant of his was to ever go thirsty, they took one look at Longshadow and proclaimed he was wasting away... that they were here to nourish his body and soul. What followed was several hours of rhetoric all with the intention of getting him drunk on vast quantities of wine. Entirely confused, unused to any manner of kindness in his life to date, Longshadow resisted the temptation to set a swarm of blood bugs upon them instantly and forced himself to listen to their zealous preachings. Their sincerity and acceptance of his alternative lifestyle was like a medicine for a disease he had carried his entire life. When they asked him if he would like to join them and go on an adventure to help others truly in need, something good and pure deep down inside of him called out... before he could stop himself, he had uttered a single word... 'yes'. Longshadow quickly followed up by asking if an old friend could join them, the monks cheerily agreed with no probing detail requests at all, proclaiming the more help the better, but when no other halfling emerged from the treehouse, their baffled expressions were responded to with a wry smile. 'She'll meet us there' he told them confidently.

The Flame: Warrior Priests / Light Wizard / Acolyte * [3][1][1]{3}{2}{1} // 'The Flame' is a chapter of warrior priests, dedicated to routing out undead corruption in all of its forms within the Old World. With a history dating back to The Church of Sigmar inception itself, 'The Flame' study, train and hone their martial skills constantly so that they might survive longer, and in doing so, purge more of the unliving from The Empire before their respective lives come to an end. Known for painting their skin and armour in pale blue or white dyes before battle, 'The Flame' have studied undeath in every harrowing detail, to better understand the terror inducing monsters of the mortal world. Priests are specially trained to work in a small, cohesive unit in order to combat the masses of reanimated bodies that will inevitably be sent against them. Once destroyed, the foul necromancer or dread vampire can ultimately be quarried, cornered and executed with Sigmar guiding their combined righteous fury. Warrior priests of 'The Flame' are renown for seemingly having no fear, even by standards set by their own brothers. They often employ light wizards and their acolytes from the imperial college as support in missions deemed especially dangerous. The additional magic from the wind of Hysh is a hugely potent weapon when used against the foul abominations that hide in the darkest and most forgotten recesses of the world.

Dusk's Embrace: Flagellants * [12]{1} // The warrior priests of Sigmar are not known for embracing the insane fanaticism that comes with bands of flagellants who inevitably seek them out during their heroic careers. However, 'The Flame' have been known to actively work with zealots, prophets and flagellants and even provide them with rations and supplies to bolster their longevity for upcoming battles. If an individual flagellant survives long enough to prove useful, he might be marked out by the flame to instil in him righteous belief in his own abilities and to give him new confidence in the part he might play in the final battle between good and evil. These marked flagellants are allowed to use the same dyes on their faces and clothes which give 'The Flame' their ghoulish appearance in battle. Banding together as an elite group of chosen brothers, they defend the warrior priests and their entourage with a wreck less faith that can in no way be directed but is hugely useful nethertheless due to the desperate self-sacrifice these poor wretches wish to enact to serve a greater power. With those marked out now calling themselves 'Dusk's Embrace' as they await their own glorious demise, each battle survived is a bitter-sweet feeling - elated that they will live to see the true last day of The Empire but also deeply depressed that their fallen brothers were found worthy of sacrifice for humanities last incarnation.

The Black Cloud: Witch Hunter Captain / Witch Hunters / Hounds / Ogre Mercenary * [1][2][2][1]{3}{2}{1}{3} // Solumnus Parch; even by witch hunter standards... is grim. He embraces prolonged periods of silence, staring intensely, owl-like out into the darkness. Looking past the blasphemers, the neredowells, the lost, the forsaken... past their damned souls and into the pitch where real monsters move as shadows upon shadows. Parch almost lost his voice completely in what was very nearly his last hunt, throat near-slit by the claws of a former General of The Empire that his outfit had been contracted to rescue. Perhaps the endless silence was so that he didn't have to hear the raspy evidence of his failure. It was so obvious in retrospect, the General and his men were already puppets performing a well orchestrated play. The seige of the fortified manor house was the lure; he had obliged like a moth dancing into an open flame. Had it not have been for the hounds smelling out the taint and making that racket once the survivors were rescued, he would have led them straight to their next target. The second the first dog barked he felt the claw rip into his throat, his split-second jerk reaction just enough to avoid certain death although the wound was still grievous. It was the boys he had saved from the orphanage, his hunters who saved his life that night, though Nedd never spoke of it, not even once. It was the only thing the boy didn't ramble on about, the gossiping foul-mouthed oaf. Parch was fond of those boys though; if he had the capacity to feel guilty for anything in his life, then he suspected it would be about the one who never left that manor house. It was put to the torch with the lad trapped inside. Of his original outfit, only he and Nedd (no longer quite a youth) remained... oh and that accursed hound. Ancient bloody nuisance. He kept that around purely for memories sake, lest he start to forget... lest he ever become complacent again. No. He could not feel guilt; only seething, bitter anger which no tonic nor tincture could alleviate. His new outfit were renown as the most miserable, depressing and solumn gang taking coin for services rendered... the singular fact which bought him any kind of contentment at all.

Garzo's Gastrogres: Imperial Ogres * [4]{3} // Garzo is a head chef first and a fighter second. Ogre chefs are rare, usually acting as butchers and heavy labour for the famed halfling chefs of Mootland. Rare exceptions crop up from time-to-time and Garzo is a perfect example of this. Born in Bretonnia, Garzo was outcast, just like the malformed peasants who found and raised him. They knew he was of ogre blood and looked to use his brawn to lighten their own backbreaking toils. For a while this worked an absolute treat, but ogres grow fast and all too soon the men-at-arms came asking difficult questions. To his surprise, he did not get punished in the same highly unpleasant ways that his 'family' did for harbouring his person, in fact his lot in life was about to improve significantly. The lord of the land on which Garzo was born had a rather unusual fascination with things of a non-human nature. His halls were adorned with trophies, objects and treasures from around the Old World: lizard heads and stuffed giant birds, crude armours of orcs and goblins and even what he claimed was a horn from an actual unicorn! The lord, for whatever reason was kind to Garzo - he was allowed to help maintain and clean the busy kitchens and in time, was tasked the preparation of vegetables and then even shown how to properly prepare meat and fish. As a servant to a famous Bretonnian chef, Garzo became more and more cultured every day and began to imitate the rotund moustached human in his mannerisms. As weeks turned to months and months turned to years, Garzo even picked up a thick Bretonnian accent, he was now allowed to prepare dishes alongside his teacher and although at first his ambition was not at all appreciated, the human had eventually accepted the brute as his protege... of sorts. However, when the lord's castle was attacked in the dead of night and laid seige to, Garzo found it interesting how the peasants were left to starve whilst the nobles continued to eat until their hearts were content. When the kitchens became cut off from the rest of the castle due to a wall collapse, he found it more interesting still when he overheard the chefs plotting to murder him through fear of his appetite diminishing all of the food supplies. He also found it interesting how relatively easy it was to substitute pork and veal for flesh of a more treacherous kind when cooking his favourite dishes. On the thirteenth day of entrapment, a hunk of trebuchet masonry miraculously created an escape opportunity for Chef Garzo who fled all the way to Mootland, where he was heralded as a gastronomic hero and soon formed a cult following of like-minded ogre cooks and would be chefs who protect him in battle as some kind of international celebrity.

  

Cobba's 'eavies: Ogre Mercenaries * [4]{3} // When it comes to scrappin', Cobba has a very simple philosophy, and that is... 'eavy is best'. This can clearly be seen in both Cobba and his companions. They wear the heftiest of armours, carry the largest, most cumbersome weapons that their muscled bulks can lift and even advocate the addition of a crushingly heavy shield to top off the ensemble. Cobba and his band of 'eavies are famed for wading into where battle is thickest, somehow not only surviving but usually suffering zero losses within their seemingly impenetrable 'formation' and then bursting out elsewhere in the carnage only to repeat the feat. Cobba is also known for his rather dark sense of humour. Once, a member of his unit fell into a deep lake and, being essentially encased in thick metal, sank straight to the bottom like a stone. Cobba laughed manically non-stop for almost a fortnight, collecting himself just long enough to wheeze 'Iz name was Bunmus-Floatswell!' before resuming his raucous laughter for several more days. Other interesting amusements observed by Cobba include: dressing-up defeated skeleton warriors in various colourful outfits, attempting unconvincing works of taxidermy from various slain exotic beasts to add to his 'menargee' ('menagerie') and forcing his prisoners of war to play Kislev roulette until only one survives... true to his word, he lets that one go every time. Cobba may be many things, but he's honest and he's also a worshipper of Ranald which may explain why he and his unit do seem to be blessed by good luck (with the odd watery exception).

The Meat Makers (formerly known as 'The Butcher's Guild'): Giant Ogres * [3]{4} // Making a living in the Moot as an ogre is usually a simple affair with choices typically being limited to bouncer, bodyguard, bailiff (all essentially hired thugs) or, on rarer occassion... butcher. The combined appetite of a land populated majoritively by halflings and ogres is immense. As a result, the portions needed to run such a province on a daily basis is fairly monumental. Farms and fields as far as the eye can see raise livestock with a constant view to breed, raise, butcher and eat on a much grander and skilled level than any other worldly place. Ogre butchers are prized workers, what they lack in finesse and presentation, they more than make up for in terms of industrial scale productivity and enthusiasm. Ogre butchers normally ask for their pay in meat, and usually eat their pay on the job. Tag teams of halfling cooks and ogre butchers have created some of the finest dishes ever created and it is not unheard of for a halfling to even ask an ogre for his culinary opinion during the recipe forming process! Halflings never go to war without a few butchers in their ranks, firstly because an army marches on its stomach, but secondly, when a battle does break out, there is none more skilled at 'disarming' an enemy in three seconds flat.

The Supper CLUB: Giant Ogres * [3]{4} // The Supper CLUB was formed by four seperate ogre outfits who originally met when hired to crush a small dwarf clan inhabiting a rather lucrative gem mine. The mercenaries separated into four corners of a large chamber to check over their share of the loot and meat. As the ogres greedily eyed-up their own cut, a stubborn mortally wounded miner suddenly managed to detonate the contingency explosive charges. The mine collapse was devastating and although most of the ogres were crushed to death, a source of air was still somewhat present and the survivors of each clan sustained themselves on dawi flesh... for a time. When the food ran out, it wasn't long before each group of former mates turned on one another. Arguments escalated into brawls and brawls into full-on fights to the death. The border prince who had hired these brutes to eliminate the nuisance dwarfs decided to pay for the excavation of the mine, purely to get to the immensely valuable gem seams within, secretly rather pleased he had avoided a rather hefty fee packet imposed by the dogs of war. However, he was gob-smacked when four filthy, bloated giant ogres emerged from the boulders covered in a grotesquely ornate mixture of gore and jewels. Three of the remnant ogres formed the club, boasting how many of their former allies they had managed to murder and consume in their time as underground prisoners - the fourth, insistent that he had eaten more ogre flesh than any of his peers rudely declined the invitation. He reasoned that his appetite was so vast, that he would form his own exclusive supper club with just a single table setting. Tension between the two clubs remains strong but thus far, no further deaths have been recorded.

Nobburt's Protection 'Guild': Giant Ogres * [3]{4} // Nobburt is quite the entrepreneur. It was he who came to the conclusion that bouncers, bodyguards and private 'eavies were 'All paid different like!'. This may be due to the average ogre taking less than a second to compare meals with a comrade before realising that 'Yours is bigger!' ...or 'juicier', 'yummsier', 'gravier' and so on. Nobburt persuaded, bribed, coerced or intimidated the largest of the 'professional' giant ogres to join his 'guild'. The Protection Guild set out standard wages and tariffs for services rendered, so that no ogre was ever short changed when it came time to sit down and eat a wage packet. Of course, as he had assembled the most formidable ogres in all of Mootland... there was surprisingly little resistance to the new 'roolz' that the halflings were expected to abide by when hiring their members.

The Emporium of Wonder: Mercenary Payment & Trade Cart / Merchants & Bodyguards * [1][9]{3}{1} // Originally a paymaster wagon from the Kingdoms of Ind, The Emporium of Wonder expanded to become a caravan buying, selling and trading items of temptation. Those items changed dramatically depending on the region they found themselves in. When travelling alongside ogre tribes, the caravan was weighed down with near extinct animal carcasses so that fighters could brag about the rarity of their meal. When escorting Bretonnian nobility through Carcassonne, the treasure chests were filled to the brim with statues of The Lady, made from solid gold and their acquisition was a welcome distraction for the young knights, who jousted in impromptu tourneys, generating a healthy betting purse so that their champion's prizes could be offered up. When the Emporium ended up in Mootland for trade, it just so happened that the expedition heading out were in need of an experienced paymaster and better still, the addition of a mobile shop would be a huge asset to an army that takes the expression 'marches on its stomach' to a new level. The cunning merchants ensured that their stocks of delights, fancies, spices and jerkies were supplemented with non-perishable foods that the halflings would yearn for when homesickness fully set in, to ensure maximum price-gouging. The exotic collection of caravan guards that have survived the exploits of the Emporium are hardened veterans and each has proven their considerable worth many times over, protecting their very well-payed position.

Mirriam: Guardian Dragon [1]{12} // Guardian dragons are unorthodox in almost every aspect. Although by no means common, they have been studied in great detail thanks to their long-standing relationship with the various 'intelligent races' that sequentially began to inhabit the Old World. Guardian dragons have protected beings of order, destruction and death since they first came into existence. Yet, despite clearly having two heads... scholars have concluded that they seem to reject anything or anyone afflicted with the taint of chaos. Guardian dragons are now usually seen in the lands of Nippon and Grand Cathay. They are the only species of dragon known that actively seek out mortals to offer up their services as protectorates of precious things. This offer is, as one might expect... loaded with alterior motive. A guardian dragon is known to be among the most obsessive of their kind in regards to the accumulation of gold, trinkets, baubles and treasures. The price to be paid for anyone who employs one of these dragons is heavy indeed... for the dragon, inexplicably has the ability to know or at least sense fairness, and, without fail, will expect exactly half of everything material that it's new 'master' owns. Half of their coffers filled with gleaming jewels, half of their ostentatious silken robes, half of their finest dates and sugar plums and candies... half. Even one coin too few and the dragon's protection will not only be lifted, but its temper will quickly be lost, leading to very probable catestrophic results. Worse yet, a guardian dragon's high maintenance becomes near ludicrous with their expectation to be fed, watered and played music to near constantly. It requires a small army of servants to placate the dragon who languishes on its share of the horde so one head can sleep while the other watches out with an unnatural ability for any and all threats to its master and, more importantly... its master's assets. Due to the impractical nature of appeasing such a being, the dragons are usually only accepted by (and thus approach) beings of such ridiculous wealth that they can afford the equally insane demands placed upon them by the creature. For their lot in life, the ambitious individual who agrees to the partnership becomes near immortal, for not even the assassins of Clan Eshin have been known to find a way around a loyal guardian dragon unscathed. It must be noted of course, that should a master ever choose to dismiss a guardian dragon from their service... the severance pay is even worse than half, despite being significantly smaller... just the head, more often than not.

Cumulo & Nimbus: Mercenary Cloud Giants * [2]{6} // The average cloud giant is an aloof, reclusive and secretive being. However, as with all mortal beings, exceptions are made to any general rule. Nimbus the brooding deep-thinker and his twin brother Cumilous who is as quick-tempered as he is stubborn, have protected one another since their birth. In their own small community, they were considered quite abnormal, which led to both philosophical and heated words from the duo on a daily basis with their more typical kin - one day, they simply left their mountaintop village behind - which, for a cloud giant, is almost unheard of. Cloud giants are not indiscriminate killers, they choose hunters within their tribe to visit 'the lowlands' and destroy any being that threatens their own survival. Cloud giants take severe umbrage with any entity that disrespects the purity of water, which is the key to their own longevity and essential for their deep connection with the winds of magic. Indeed, some say that cloud giants exist only to protect water in all of its pure forms, the sullying of which is a proclamation of war against this rare but powerful subspecies of giant. A goblin may have a favourite puddle to urinate in, Nurgle's minions may laugh manically as they pour vials of black pox into mountain streams and Clan Pestilens may even create lakes of liquid plague, but all will one day be visited by the guardians of the clouds, in their own sweet time of course. Self-appointed champions of their kind, Cumilous and Nimbus will not rest until the impurities of the world are washed away before them, their heroic deeds celebrated on every mountain top the world over.

The West Cragsworthy Company: Dwarf Miners / Treasure Hunters * [12]{1} // Garanir Cragsworthy and his brother Thormgold became prospectors at a young age. It didn't take long before their intuition and brotherly synergy earned them a fine reputation; as a result, they started their own prospectors company. The company thrived for over one and a half decades and their nose for opportunity eventually led them into the heart of Mootland. What was presumed to be a simple trade for unlimited dwarven beer turned into a bartering session of legendary scale, the outcome of which established a permanent working relationship between the elders of The Moot and The Cragsworthy Company. The Company agreed to unearth a glut of gemstones that studded the unassuming Mootish fens and in return the brothers would get to keep a clean-cut 1.7% of all wealth generated. This long-term partnership thrived until, one dark summer the now immensely wealthy brothers had their characters tested when legions of undead surged into Mootland to consume all living things. The cautious Garanir demanded that they defend the much safer eastern mining operations for the undead had managed to take the west of Mootland by unlikely surprise. However, Thormgold insisted that they could repel the living dead and not lose a single western asset. The ensuing argument was so heated that the company was divided into the east and west branches, with each brother swearing to never work alongside the other again. Though Thormgold (barely) survived the horror of those brutal undead incursions, he begrudgingly realised the geographic vulnerability of his soul assets, which were poorly guarded by the local standing army. So, when opportunity arose, Thormgold grasped it tightly and joined up with the campaign destined for Mousillon. He and his loyal dawi would sniff out great wealth in new distant lands. Not only would they fund the expedition, but they would return even wealthier than during the company's heyday and the look on his brothers face would be truly... priceless.