Editing Britbongsteros (section)

===The Harrowing of Harrogate===
As the party do our best to lick our wounds aboard the Dreadnowt, Blackadder fresh from his new (self) promotion lays out our new mission. We are to generally cause as much havoc to the invading undead as we can, but additionally the Alchemists (who are playing both sides and it is in their interests to have the war continue as long as possible) will not sell us the designs of those repeating rifles. We are to acquire a quantity of them by any means necessary.
:"Why us?"
:"Three reasons. One you're still alive, you're still alive when our best problem solvers are all dead, and lastly, you can do your duty to your country, or all be shot."

It's rather hard to argue with the last point and as our little band of ne'er do wells have been forged in combat and tempered by victory, we for once (aside from the fresh bruises, broken ribs, stab wounds, and need of a bath) feel almost keen to pitch in. Maybe we can make a difference.

The voyage back up the east coast (away from the big scary monsters) and down the west is mostly uneventful, sort of. There are reports from ratings of a stowaway. Searches of the vessel and reduction of rum rations do little to prevent these reports, in fact they increase. Nonetheless we steam for Liverpool and the new front in the war against undeath.

When we arrive in Liverpool the news from the front is not good. Although the Undead advance has slowed, it definitely has not stopped. The Dorfs have dug in and dug in hard. They've made a maginot line out of Yorkshire and Lancaster but won't do anything beyond that.

Someone (us) is going to have to try to get them to March north, hopefully in the north we will also encounter some alchemists and be able to get some of those rifles by beating them up.
:>Wut about all the Alchemists you killed before?
Either they died in enemy territory or the stately home we visited was recaptured/reclaimed by the Alchemists. 

The worst part is there are detachments of them acting within the country who are helping us. It has been noted that they have stopped carrying rifles and we can't (the country) throw them all in the tower of London quite yet.

We have already talked a little about Dorfs. I'm one, and they have popped up elsewhere, the essential things to note is that they are Yorkshiremen first then Dorfs second (Britons third). For one thing in their view there should be a Dorf on the throne and they still have not forgotten the outcome of the War of the Roses.

If geography were different they'd be quite happy chilling out near their mills and drinking beer while everyone else got slaughtered. Unfortunately (or fortunately) they are between the Undead and a whole lot of the rest of our island home.

The dorfs (we discover mostly through spending some time in the pub) don't really see any of this as their problem, taking the approach that it's nothing to do with them, they feel that certain concessions, particularly on trade and taxes along with more representation down south might assist. The issue being of course that down south in Lannndan, no one gives a shit

We decide to take in a bit more local colour first in Liverpool and then closer to home for me in the center of Dorf-shire (Leeds). It also is where my (the dwarf) family home is - Harrogate.

The major political players in the area are the House of York and the Lancastrians. Now dwarves are dwarves but these two houses hate each other, the only thing they hate more than each other is people who get in the way of them hating each other.

The house of York is lead by the famously promiscuous Henry the 8th (not being the 8th anything except one famously having eight mistresses in one night), the other is the puritanical Duke of Lancaster, Dick (or Richard) Dawkins.

There are also rumours of bad goings on on Ilkley moor which we think may bear investigation.

So to summarize:
*Ilkley
*Get dwarves on board and moving
*Obtain guns

Additionally there is a further consideration for me as a character. The trip back to Harrogate involves a little backstory which I'll go into in more detail shortly, but essentially I left under a bit of a cloud.

What we have heard about Ilkley relates to strange lights and decapitated (and also hatless) corpses. It sounds like something we may wish to have a look into. Now though the first thing the DM mentions as we travel by road to Harrogate is the distinct (and by now very familiar feeling) of being watched.

Travelling from Liverpool to Harrogate, Ilkley moor is on the way, we take our time, the lights are seen at night and so it seems prudent that we arrive about then too. The moor is misty and the moon is full. We still feel eerily under observation but if Coliunn is still alive, well more power to him, he's taken everything the world can throw at him, including us. Thinking back on it, aside from our first fight, he has not been overtly hostile particularly, but he has followed us across the country tenaciously

For once as we wait for midnight near Ilkley we are on properly friendly territory. Our visit to the pub goes to plan though the locals all look into their pints when we say what we are here for. It seems everyone there has lost a son or an aunt, a cousin or a husband. The village is a close knit community and they don't seem too keen to talk to outsiders beyond that. Even the reports of headless/hatless corpses came from a traveling government official who later went mad and accidentally killed himself while cleaning his fully loaded revolver with the back of his head. While sleeping.

We might be murderhobos but it makes us feel we are doing the right and proper thing.

For once...

We should notice and do something about the fact that the pub slowly empties as evening goes on until by closing time we are the only ones there and have been for a while.

Our first hint that something may or may not be right in the land of Yorkshire is that something appears to have happened to our truck. It was parked outside and appears to be suffering slightly from critical existence failure. It's simply gone.
:"Thieves?"
:"Wouldn't we have heard it start?"
:"Possibly, it was loud in the pub..."
:"Strong thieves who picked it up and carried it?"
:"That's just stupid bard."

Despite our missing vehicle we decide that we are here already and might as well be useful. We are meant to be (notionally anyway) problem solvers and servants of the crown (whatever that means), if we are going to do anything we should do the right thing (again whatever that is).

Aside from the hatless corpses we haven't heard or know of anything particularly weird in this area.

We head out onto the misty and blasted heath. The moon provides scant illumination beyond making the mist seem silver. We have to watch our step carefully.

The contrast of warm cozy pub and dewsoaked chill of the midnight moor puts us on edge. This feels like the all too familiar set up of small town and big weird magic problem.

We watch the mist carefully expecting skeletons or some supernatural horror. We are taken entirely by surprise as an enormous hoof steps between the party, then rises and disappears into the mist. The Kilburn white horse is nearby, maybe this is it out for a walk or a visitor. As it passes over head Angus is pleased to report it is definitely a stallion. He can "tell by the way it walks" apparently. The horse itself does not seem very threatening aside from being enormous. We continue on into the mist.

One of the reasons Yorkshire is famous for Dorfs is it's one of the places with actual mythology about Duregar (Dorf), which means I should really be knowing what's going on here, but as I stare into the mist I can make about as much sense of what we find as the others. [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hill_figure Hill Figure]

We see the shape of a man, but find it to be only the crudely constructed body of a green man, we approach other figures and find the same. A great shape looms from the mist, and as we disturb a flock of dozing grouse (to their near immolation) we realize we at least have a bearing. We have found the cow and calf (famous big rock and smaller rock). It's about now that we start to hear singing.

Something the innkeeper said comes back to us
:"No one goes on the moor at night willingly."
Well we aren't here willingly, we also aren't wearing hats (aside from the bard).

The haunting lyrics of [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/On_Ilkla_Moor_Baht_'at Ilkley moor] are sung in the distance, it seems like just one lilting soft voice. From previous experience this (Fuck you DM) is going to mean combat. The party ready themselves and tighten our formation.

The moor itself is known for ancient pagan megaliths and other odd goings on. Something is starting to feel very wrong indeed.

We pause at the edge of one of the many pools of still water on the moor. Looking in we can only see reflected moonlight. Then the stillness of the water breaks as something lands within it. We look up and around, no idea what or where that came from. It was a fairly decent splash. As the song continues the wizard coaxes the object from the water by dint of pushing it along with an iron bar. The severed head has its mouth open in a silent scream. The wizard visibly gulps. The rest of us take a knee, expecting a rush of slathering feral space jaguars at any second.

As the song continues (again and again, endlessly repeating) the head opens its eyes. They glow with an inner fire, it too starts to sing. The wizard (quite reasonably) freaks out and drops the thing in the pond.

We can hear more voices now. More singing. A choir entirely out of tune with each other but all singing that song and all a few lines out of step with each other. We are starting to feel distinctly panicky now. We are slightly lost and totally surrounded. We do our best to remember that severed heads probably can't hurt us as we watch the glowing eyes of the thing bob on the water. The Navvie reminds us
:"Missing heads don't hurt but whatever cut them off might..."

Alone on this strange and isolated heath surrounded by a cacophony of voices in the mist we decide (again quite reasonably I think):
:"Fuck this. Leg it. 
:"Where?"
:"Err..."
:"We're lost aren't we?"
:"Maybe but, oh balls what is that?"

What is definitely magical fire sparks and whips around the Neolithic carvings in the stones around us and across the moor. The voices rise in volume. We start to wish we had stayed home or at least made more of an effort with the villagers. This is now totally beyond our skillset.

The mist begins to swirl as the wind gets up. Imagine being inside a snowglobe as its shook and wearing headphones blaring white noise. That is the kind of situation we are in here. A shape begins to coalesce out of the mist.

We are sort of relieved (kind of) as the very familiar shape of our truck lands in the pond behind us.
:"Hello Coliunn."

Something zings over coliunn's shoulders (or where his head would be) and he turns in surprise. We can't make out what it was, but clearly there's more than just Coliunn out there. You might almost feel sorry for the big lump. He only seems to want to beat us up and every time he does, something else intervenes.

Two more somethings zip over Coliunn. They are big almost bat like things. If we weren't mistaken they might be large enough to be humanoid. The party hit the deck as they make the return trip. We decide to leave Coliunn to it and hopefully he'll distract whatever those are.

This goes slightly wrong and we realize it does about the doubler stones. As I finally pass a lore check, we realize those things up there are witches. (The doublers being a popular mythological hangout for them).
:"Witches?"
:"Come on DM that's boring."
:...
:"Dude... no..."

Coliunn catches up with us about here. It's then that something peculiar happens. One of the witches (think bat/stingray/crow/harpy) goes for the wizard. Coliunn interposes himself between witch and wizard.
:"Friend?"
Coliunn then thumps the wizard hard enough to knock him over one of the stones (Coliunn thumping the wizard made the most delightful sort of "poffff" noise).
:"Oh, he wants to kill us himself..."

There's still singing and plenty magical fire, so things are well lit enough for ranged combat. As Coliunn is distracted with the witches, of which their only seem to be three, those of us who can fire indiscriminately on the lot of them. Meanwhile the Navvie, rather than charge into that lot, goes to find the wizard and generally attempt to scrape up the mess.

The wizard seems mostly fine. As the Navvie bends over him to try and help him to his feet, something snatches him from behind. The fourth witch. Talons dig into his shirt and the meat of his shoulders as he's lift from the ground and into the air.

Meanwhile Coliunn is having trouble with the witches. There are some large bits of him missing and his wounds are making him slower. The party find it much easier to shoot him than the fast hard to hit witches (though one is now on fire). As the Navvie disappears into the sky, the wizard joins the rest of the party and we are somewhat more successful with his help in bringing down one witch then another. Coliunn is a known quantity, these things are not...

Several hundred feet up the Navvie is not enjoying himself. His hammer is down near where he found the wizard and this creature is showing no signs of doing anything helpful. He is fortunate in having one arm free. He considers stabbing it, then realizes it's a very long way down.

Hanging onto a talon with his free hand he manages the extremely painful process of pulling his shoulder free. The pain is excruciating but he now has both arms free. The witch however is very aware its cargo is not playing along. The witch begins losing height, struggling to drop the Navvie, he hangs on for dear life, the thing also tries to get its beak/tendrils/maw engaged, but the Navvie is fortunate in getting his hand round its throat.

Struck between either being strangled or falling out of the sky while ripping its erstwhile prey to shreds with its talons, the witch decides on the latter. The Navvie can see ground now and it's coming up fast.

Back on the ground Coliunn falls onto his back. Wounds wreathed in magical flame. He doesn't seem to be getting any better. The witches however seem plenty fine. The ones we have brought down stay dead but there seem to be more and more. Taking cover behind the rocks, we keep firing and ducking decapitating swoops.

The Navvie shifts his weight to the thing's neck. Those talons tear great strips from his back but the witch is also now pointing directly at the ground. Seizing his moment the Navvie, seeing moonlit water below, punches it in the side of the head and let's go. The Navvie hits the water and comes up angry. The witch hits the bank and very shortly afterwards a large man comes up to it and caves its skull in with a stone.

The rest of the party can see that the numbers of the witches are starting to thin. They begin to retreat. Several of their number are on fire and we are able to track their flight to a nearby rise as the mist serendipitously (cheers DM) clears a little. As we prepare to wipe out the nest, the Navvie rejoins us.
:"What happened to you?"
:"Fuck off Angus."
The wizard hands him his hammer back and away we go.

The nest/eyrie/cave thing is a short climb but it's then that we realize.
:>Coliunn 
We are totally unsurprised when the big bastard isn't where he fell. We are a little surprised when we discover he has only dragged himself a few feet and then collapsed again. We feel almost sorry for him as Angus torches him. He makes long plaintive moans like a bull in distress. Angus keeps throwing fire until long after they stop. We feel oddly sorry for Coliunn having grown somewhat fond of him.

As we climb the hill, the wizard looks back, a small, coliunn shaped figure rises from the ashes and slopes off into the night.
:>I am groot. 
The nest itself contains a number of witches and a whole lot of eggs. The decision to toss explosives in and then burn everything is unanimous.

We decide to spend the rest of the night on the moor (without hats - by the way the hats were being used to line the nest). The locals seem almost nonplussed when we report their troubles are over. We can't help noticing that (as we hitch a ride on a mail coach) the butcher, the stable-boy, and the local priest can all be heard whistling Ilkley moor. It's only as we leave town that we notice the steeplecock on the church sure does look a lot like one of the witches...

We decide fuck it and try to get some rest. Meanwhile I am more than a bit concerned that, muddied, bloodied, and entirely grumpy we will shortly be entering my hometown.

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PptHWHfnCnY Iron Maiden - "Seventh Son of a Seventh Son"]

The party travel to Harrogate aboard our new conveyance. There are plenty of other dorfs around and indeed it seems like there are a number of them in the livery of both noble houses (i.e. Duke of York and Duke of Lancaster). I (Aldous) haven't been in Harrogate for at least forty years, but Dorfs have long memories. The town does not seem to have changed much since I left, it does, in fact, seem to have gotten quite a lot worse. Interestingly, there's a new weather-vane above the church, it looks a lot like a witch.

I am fairly sure a number of people have recognized their erstwhile lord.

Younger Aldous and I had never really gotten on (according to my backstory) and as the third son (middle son having been killed in his time in the army) he had joined the priesthood. The last I heard was he had given up his vows to return to Harrogate and clear the family name. I'm a little surprised to see him in a very richly decorated cassock (priest gown) as he comes down the steps of the town hall with the Duke of York and Duke of Lancaster on either side. On his chest is a very big medallion. And on that medallion is a very shiny witch like symbol.

Little bro what have you been up to...

We roll past the town hall without him spotting us thankfully, but we are starting to wonder if I might not want to be wearing a disguise or something as we are fairly sure little bro is not going to be keen to see me.

We do have our Royal Charter, which technically entitles us to anything we want, but will only actually work if we have either a very patriotic request or happen to be standing in front of an army. It's unlikely to be much protection.

Something very familiar and very witch like lands on the steeple of the church.

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2X_2IdybTV0 Kansas - Carry On Wayward Son]

The party considers responding as we generally do to this sort of thing (with diplomacy and tact), but decide it's probably best to relax and see how things pan out.

We note that the town square has a number of gibbety looking things on it, which are full. The gibbets are definitely full of headless corpses (bad). The local population being subdued makes even more sense now.

I think a crudely drawn map is in order.
[[Image:Britbongsteros_map_4.jpg|thumb|150px]]

The white arrows are where the undead have gotten to so far. The purple lines are where defenses still hold. The Undead's plan is pretty clear. Make for London, kill everyone and the country can be mopped up afterwards. It's a lot like Bonnie Prince Charlie's plan during the rebellion and umpteen other Scottish Invasions.

Harrogate is smack dab in the middle of the route those Skellies will be taking, sitting as it does between the Yorkshire Dales and the North moors. If the Dorfs are getting involved, it's going to be here. We have a feeling little-bro is not going to want that.

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wJVpihgwE18 The Animals - We Gotta Get Out Of This Place]

Trailing along behind little-bro is someone else. Someone I should definitely recognize.

My. Ex. Wife.

[It's never simple is it DM?]

The party beat a tactical retreat to the most obvious place of safety (after thanking the wagon-driver), the Old-Dragon's Balls hasn't changed a bit. Neither have the staff. Including Neville the bar-keep who recognizes me and performs what is very clearly meant to be a bow.
:"My Lord, you still have a..." He reaches under the bar and blows dust off something. "A tab to clear up."
:The bard titters, "Friend of yours Aldous?"

I'm fortunate in that we do have a small slush fund. I dump my share on the bar. There's a depressingly small amount left by the time Neville is finished counting. He asks me why I'm back, and who my friends are. We decide not to show him our letters, and instead explain it's a new business venture
:"Traveling circus my Lord?"
It's about this time the DM is tactfully reminded that he is on his fifth of my actual beers and he hasn't ponied up for drinks in a very long time. Suddenly (and clearly unrelated) the plot-train pulls into the station.

What sweeps into the Dragon's Balls is my Ex-wife, who really hasn't changed a bit. Punching out Henry the Bouncer, and swilling down a flagon of ale that Neville proffers to her. We can see a big shiny gold witchy symbol sitting on the sizable shelf of her decolletage.
:"Aldous!" (Cruella had great fun doing the voices again).
:"Hello..."
The party, as my true friends and compatriots, decide to stay the fuck away and sit back watch the show. 
:"So you're here... I hope this isn't some foolish attempt to patch things up. It's been four decades and you should know I've remarried anyway. (It had to be... 3... 2... 1...) Yes little bro and I are very happy. Especially since he converted to the new church."
She arm wrestles the Navvie as she continues talking (the Navvie loses to his -pick a word beginning with "a"-)
:"So would this be something to do with these symbols we keep seeing around the place?"
:"Yes it would. It's also why (the DM sneaks another beer) we are going to make sure the dukes see sense. Now you're not here to ask for money or something are you? I have missed you, you know, but it was never the same after Talula died (Cruella who is doing the girly voices dissolves into laughter and the DM continues, she takes some time to recover). Well I suppose I'll be off. Try not to overstay your welcome."
The party look to me, mostly stunned at the way the ex just swept in and out with all of the poise, grace, and total irresistible force of a battleship (similar build too). The alchemists who have drifted in following her arrival suddenly all look into their beers as she departs.

Well it certainly seems we have our objectives laid out.
:>Little bro must be dealt with, then something must be done about the army. If possible. Finally, rifles.
As I say, here does not seem the place to discuss the matter. We are hesitant to start a fight with alchemists who may or may not be allies (who are we kidding, they're all dicks but they are as far as the crown is concerned double agents, additionally they provided apparatus that heats Queenie's bath so we can't slaughter them indiscriminately).

The decision is made to repair for a pie. There was and still is an excellent bakers around the corner. Neville waves goodbye, clearly pleased his practice of never clearing slates has worked.

It's a little later in the day now and there are a number of witches perched on the eaves of buildings now. They seem to follow our movements as we walk. The townsfolk seem to accept them as a fact of life.

While tucking into one of Mrs. Miggins something and something else pies we plot. We need to speak to the Dukes. The Dukes are meant to hate each other, but little bro seems to have found some common ground. Given that Henry has the reputation as a whoremonger, we figure if we (as is unanimously accepted) visit the town brothel we will bump into him. The matter is met with enthusiasm (except the bard who the Navvie just picks up).

The Axe Wound (Yorkshire and Dwarves do not make for complicated names) is pretty much as I remember it. I'd not be too surprised if some of the girls are as well. Henry is upstairs. Some of his bondsmen along with a human are drinking in the common room. At the moment we look like smelly adventuring hobos (we are). We can't just walk up and start shouting.

The human we decide is our target. We don't recognize the musclebound shaven headed and scarred Percy Bryce Shelley, but maybe we should. The human is most likely to be something to do with the privy council.

We inveigle ourselves through a number of consume alcohol tests and get involved in a game of cards with the bondsmen. Percy watches while the wizard chats. It is established that Percy is indeed our man, and that he is indeed an agent of the crown keeping an eye on Henry. The letters of Marque which we show him are enough to get us an audience on the promise we bathe first. A good brothel has such facilities and a short while later we are ushered into the presence of Henry

Henry is very much nouveau riche and is also one for conspicuous consumption. He seems dismissive of us at first, but Percy persuades him to hear us out and indeed usher the gaggle of whores out. We establish Henry is not terribly keen on little bro, or the new-fangled religion he is espousing, he is mostly here because he doesn't want Lancaster getting his nose into something that he isn't involved in either.

The present administration (Queenie) isn't, as far as Henry is concerned, all that great but is better than nothing. So as long as we "don't let that bastard Lancaster get a leg up, we'll smash these undead bastards our bastarding selves" Little bro it seems has been mediating in the centuries long dispute between the two houses and Henry is quite happy to be rid of "I'm and 'is fookin bastard birds"

That seemed easy... too easy...

Deciding we are done adventuring for the night, we spend an uneventful but very pleasant evening in the axe-wound generally causing mayhem and blowing off steam.

The next morning with sore heads and consideration given to bacon and fried eggs, we prepare to consider Lancaster. Henry offers us one final consideration before leaving us.
:"I won't be doing anything while that bastard still draws breath..."
So he wants Lancaster dead. We are unsure how we feel about this. The two Dukes lead sizable armies, but the two will need to work together or at last stand in the same place to hold off the undead until they run out of momentum.

Lancaster is very much the spartan hairshirted opposite of Henry. He swims in the frigid waters of the Oak Beck most mornings and then when not negotiating spends the day in contemplation at the fountains Abbey (very pretty building I should add). The monks (yes there are still monks in Britbongsteros, the dissolution never quite came about with all the magical weirdness) will at the very least see us repentant sinners and from there we might just get to speak to Lancaster.

We set off with plenty of those witch things flying over head. There must be at least thirty odd that we have seen so far. Little bro is up to some weird magics we think.

Things go surprisingly smoothly with the monks and Lancaster agrees to see us.
:"ARE YOU HERE TO ROOT OUT THIS HERESY?"
:"Hi?"
:"THE HERESY. THE NEW CHURCH. THE BLIGHTED UNGODLY HARPIES (he means witches) THEN YOU MAY ENTER."
Once we recover from this, we present our letters of Marque. Lancaster seems pleased.
:"ROOT THIS OUT AND THEN WE MAY TALK ABOUT WHAT TO DO WITH THE DUKE OF YORK."
Clearly Lancaster is a bit of a nutter, but he's also on the right track.

We return to Henry and establish that he is also not astoundingly keen on Little bro. Our next task, little bro must die.

:>Does Little bro have to die?
Fuck yes. For a whole variety of reasons. If nothing else what is going on with these Witch things? It seems most un-dwarfy and definitely not something we want flapping around the countryside. Whatever it is, it's probably alchemical in nature and therefore double bad.
:>Where is little bro?
He's in my house for one thing.
:>Does the party like little bro?
Meh
:>Do I like little-bro?
Nah, he seems like he's gone off the deep end.
:>What's the plan then? 
Convince the Dorfs to march to meet the Undead together.

Local reconnaissance (pub) [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f55CqLc6IR0 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f55CqLc6IR0] followed by a scouting mission led by the least pissed member of the party (the Navvie) results in the following information:
*No one has really gone near the castle recently without a very good reason to be there. Apparently strange lights are often seen around it at night. The servants have either taken to wearing masks or just up and left the area (or not been seen...)
*Little bro has been leading congregations at the local churches and gained an awful lot of followers, the most devout moving in around the Castle.

:>What's the this cult about?
No one but the followers seem to have an idea. It seems to involve giving little bro lots of money and has gained a huge following among the local dorfs and some nascent adherents/satellite churches around Yorkshire, this is why the Dukes are paying attention to little bro, their people are starting to follow him, they may not like him but as a representative of the third estate, he's got a very big say.

N.b. the result of giving little bro lots of money is "induction into the deeper mysteries" of the cult. If this sounds at all like a contemporary religion this is entirely coincidence.

What the deeper mysteries seem to involve we don't know, but according to gossip there's a lot of speaking in tongues
:>Likely: sacrificing
:>Also likely: Orgies and what have you?
Certainly not, we're British. 

We think given the events of Scotland, we could quite easily just kick in the doors of my Dorf Fortress and kill everyone inside. Then we actually consider that. We do want rid of the cult, but is slaughtering a load of people necessarily a good way to carry out our mission? Maybe we should get a bit closer, heavens we could even talk to little bro and get his side of things.

After giving the matter appropriate thought, we get a bit closer to the castle, getting within the grounds. The DM has us all rolling perception checks. It's about this stage the DM reminds us that our characters are all more than a little pissed. I blame this for what happened next.

We come across a group of a dozen or so cultists of varying shapes and sizes. It seems there's some sort of ceremony going on in the castle and they're on their way in. Although they're unarmed and as surprised as we are when we blunder out of a bush into them, without establishing anything beyond the fact that they are wearing silly costumes (think KKK) the party as one charge them and start knocking people out then getting them naked. Shortly afterwards we are disguised.

Disguised as best as we can be, bearing in mind that the cultists (for want of a better term) are all dwarves... we approach the entrance to the great hall. As a reminder, I am the shortest member of the party at a tall-for-a-dwarf 5'3. The lankiest being the wizard and bard who are well above 6'.
:DM: "What did you chucklefucks decide to do with all your weapons as you approach the doors?"
:Party: "Errrrrrrrrrrrrr" [extremely perceptive anons may have noticed that in later stories the party got much better at going incognito, this is why]
:DM: "It's too late now..."
The Cultist at the front door has had a couple of drinks himself.
:"Aren't you a little tall for a dwarf? What are those things you're carrying?"
As the dwarfiest party member I get shoved forwards.
:"The Church is a multicultural organization and these others have as much a right to be here as anyone."
The guard thinks about this.
:"And what's all that stuff?"
A flight of witches passes over head, cawing and barrel rolling around each other against the night sky.
:"Those are... those are props..."
:DM: "Roll for it."
The guard pokes at the "hunch" created by the fuel tank of Angus's flamethrower.
:"What's this?"
:"Err... definitely a hunch, he's very sensitive about it, do you mind?"
(Angus for once cottons on to something and shies away)
:"What's this thing then?"
:Navvie: "This? Definitely a walking stick."
:"And what has this lanky thing got under his robes Is that a skirt?" (He means the bard)
The Bards player does possibly the most worryingly good falsetto we've ever heard.
:He squeals "Get away from me you beast! Unhand me! This dwarf is trying to steal my virtue! He is assaulting a lady!"
Heads are starting to turn. The guard is making placating gestures.
:"You can never tell with humans..."

The DM, clearly slightly amazed by what just happened, decides that the guard lets us in. The session ended there, so sorry for the retardation of the above, but staying true to the source etc.

The next session begins as we enter the hall.

There's quite a ceremony going on, lots of candles on a great big chandelier, little bro is on an altar at the end of the great hall speaking gibberish (so at least that bit was right) and up in the rafters there's plenty witches.

We smuggle ourselves into the back of the crowd. Angus, Wizard, Bard, and Navvie all stand out like sore thumbs among the shorter folks. It does mean however that we are there in time for the show. From fonts positioned strategically around the hall skulls slowly rise, eye sockets glowing and they sing along slightly out of tune with little bro.
:>This looks familiar.
The witches up above start to caw and crow as though they are either unsettled or very happy about the proceedings.

The ceremony continues with lots of singing (we don't know the words or language but do our best) and then little bro delivers what actually sounds like rather a nice sermon. Love thy fellow man, pay no heed to lords and ladies and most of all, pay no heed to the Queen or country, accept the "golden coin" (which we assume is the symbol he and wifey wear and everyone else has on) and donate your worldly goods for true wealth. Most importantly the church offers protection from undeath, allowing you to go to a better place at a time of your choosing and not rise again.
:>This sounds less good.
Indeed from what we know of the Anglicans (English religious sect who in actual Britain are all about tea and jumpers) they would burn the place down, then crucify the ashes, then burn those, then salt the earth, burn the salt, and then burn the ocean for producing the salt based on what we just heard.

The long and the short of it, is we listen to the rest of the ceremony then decide to have a chat with little bro. A very serious chat indeed.

This should have the air of some final showdown, lots of manly stares, of fingers twitching over holsters, a battle of wits and nerves. The Bard speaks first (seriously he wanted to, we rolled for initiative and everything).
:"So this cult, what's it all about?"

Little bro at this stage has no idea who the bard is, or that I'm present, all he knows is that some weird looking people have turned up dressed as members of his church. His eyebrows crash together as he processes the bards question.
:"Who the fuck are you?"

Now the following is from Vox-DM as it were. As the party had left the last session in a completely retarded way some railroading was in order. We apparently should be grateful we were not just executed on the spot.

As I hope I have made clear, we recognized just how dim we had been and so when little bro, in front of the entire congregation who are milling about in the church, gestures to a number of his retainers, who we were all apparently too stupid to notice look decidedly shifty, and bids us be taken down to the dungeons (I used to live here and I didn't know we had dungeons) we have to balance our desire to remain free against our desire not to kill the still very likely mostly innocent congregation.

The long and the short of it is that we are (without a great deal of fuss) disarmed and frogmarched to the "dungeons" (actually the old root cellar). We are manacled and left alone in the darkness except for the four of those retainers outside the door. The retainers we note don't talk, they also smell funny, slightly spicy but also like rotting meat.

The manacles themselves the wizard can resolve fairly easily. Getting the door open isn't too hard for the wizard either (mastery of metal is amazing as powers go). However fighting hand to hand is going to be interesting.

Acknowledging we have been fucking stupid and that we are very lucky to be alive, we decide to (very quietly) make a plan.

We have all seen enough war movies to know that we should all wait behind the door then wait for the guards to rush in to the room when one of us feigns illness. As the least useful of the combat characters, this is the bard's job.
:"Go on bard. Perform."
:"Ow. I am sick. My tummy hurts."
Nothing happens.
:"Ow oh noes please open the door!"
Nothing.

The DM kind of jerks his head at me and the Navvie. The Navvie kicks the bard in the balls and I do the same a moment later. The yelp of pain is convincing enough that we hear tumblers turning in the door.

The retainers open the door. A shaft of light lancing into the room. One half steps in, looking at the bard. It has something which projects light in its hand. That something looks a lot like a soul cube. It shines the blue light to where we should be. It emits a hiss of alarm as it realizes we are not where we should be.
:>Shit. 
What follows is a very undignified fight. We get a shock when the hood of one of the retainers falls back, revealing a half rotted skull. Black teeth wet with stinking slather as it bites for the Navvie. As we beat the hell out of them (mostly assisted by surprise and the wizard extremely helpfully summoning nice weighty crowbars) we realize the stink of death is all over these things.

Now little bro in his sermon said fuck all about necromancery, but these things are clearly the work of some kind of corpse-fucker. We prioritize regaining our weaponry, which thanks to my knowledge of the place and indeed logic, we find in a nearby storeroom.

As far as we know the alarm has not been raised. As we proceed through a (new) tunnel we hear footsteps. Ducking into a passage we hear and see little bro and some retainers leading about a dozen members of the congregation past. Little bro is explaining (we hear as they pass and as we follow) that as they have donated all their worldly goods, they are ready for the next level of the church.

We come into an entirely new room. It's not astonishingly well lit so we follow the group, hiding in the shadows as best we can.

Little bro has each of the supplicants kneel. The retainers move behind them. Behind little bro is a big... thing... like an ornate mirror frame without the mirror. He bids each of the supplicants open their palms with a knife. They oblige (mostly) without hesitation, each then making a bloody hand print in the book little bro offers them. Little bro then speaks some very odd words and the "mirror" shimmers as where before there was nothing there is now a tiny tightly bound ball of blackness. It bursts outward, slipping tendrils around the frame.

In the mirror a necromancer appears. One who will become extremely familiar (this is Frank's boss).

The supplicants are starting to look woozy. Their palms glow with light. They look very ill. Bowels evacuate and eyes burst.

The necromancer speaks.
:"Hello little bro. What news do you bring me?"
:"The Dukes remain too busy loathing one another. Lancaster is obsessed with my "heresy" and amasses forces in what he believes to be secrecy. York will not commit himself unless he is sure Lancaster is not amassing those forces to attack him. Both must treat with me as they fear popular revolt. The plan has succeeded my liege (liche?)."
:"Excellent. You are using the last of my experiments to good effect?"
:"The witches breed well here, and are powerful allies my Lord, and the ghouls (retainers) are loyal and fearsome in my defense. All is well."
:"Then a reward. Take these six as ghouls and a further six of the skulls to nurture into witches."
Half a dozen of the supplicants just straight up die. Decaying and mortifying before our eyes. The other six scream as the light from their hands pulses upwards, imagine if your skull suddenly became incredibly hot, like lava hot, and then just burnt through your skin. All the while emitting incandescent light.
:"My Lord, I go now to commence the ritual. The congregation has grown to number in the thousands. They fill the great hall and the lands of the estate. With your permission I shall prepare and slaughter them. May they swell the ranks of your forces. For the route to London is clear."
:"Very well."
Little bro looks pleased and bows before "hanging up" the call.

Now we know what those skull things are about. Also we decide now is definitely the time to initiate some combat.
:>Why didn't you do it earlier and save those people?
It took us some time to get to grips with what was happening and by then everyone was dead. Also we know exposition when we see it.

As little bro has the ghouls collect the skulls and beckons them upstairs we engage. The violence itself is quick and very messy. My weapons make the most noise so I elect to follow the Navvie, stabbing things rather than alert the entire building.

Little bro definitely recognizes me in between pieced back together ghouls. Indeed little bro seems to have learnt an awful lot from his master. We have to fight step by step as bits of ghoul knit back together and go for us. We are very slowly making for little bro and he can see we are getting there.

He is clearly thinking about running. Those floating skulls are doing a merry little orbit around him. He bolts. We can't make for him but I'm fast enough to quick draw and get a bead on his running back. It's then I think about what I'm doing. After all, little bro is little-bro. By the time I get over my thoughts (and roll) he's nearly out the room. The wizard, having no qualms, flings a harpoon at him and misses. My shot wings him. Making him stumble.

Underground the shot is incredibly loud. Little bro has been hit but keeps going. Setting in motion whatever inexorable process will come next to serve his master.

The ghouls are still getting back up, but now each time they are slower, as little bro's attention shifts they grow weaker. It's not long before we are able to follow in his footsteps.

Angus torches the twitching pile of bodies that the ghouls have now become to ensure they won't be following us.

We make for the stairs. The trail of blood from little bro makes it clear we are heading in the right direction. As we get back to ground level we can hear the screaming and cawing of witches, but otherwise things seem "normal" That is until a cultist runs past us, panting from exertion as a witch follows him, ready to decapitate him. The wizard puts paid to the witch.

The cultist (once we calm him down) says that a minute or two ago there was a sound like a gunshot and the witches went insane, not wantonly slaughtering, but methodically tearing apart people. Limb from limb. Collecting bits and piling them up. Also hats. Apparently the ex-wife was the first so that's something
:>Single gunshot
:>Couple minutes ago
:>Aaw shit.

We get into the main hall and the scene is as described. The remaining ghouls rush us as do those witches still within. The combat is desperate. We are all injured and very very damaged by the time the last one drops.

We start hunting for little bro. He doesn't seem to be in the pile of bodies, but it's hard to tell. Outside, the rest of the cultists are still being hunted. As the search for little bro is proving fruitless, we decide it's best to save lives and head outside, hunting witches through the night.

By morning the witches are all dead, as are a large chunk of the local population. We still haven't found little bro.

In the distance from both southeast and southwest we can hear drums. The drums of both Lancaster and York's armies. They're both marching toward us. Clearly having heard of the events of the night.

Little bro is still awol. Which is bad. Lancaster and York are lining up their forces on the field outside the castle. There are bodies and bits of witch everywhere. As the party shyly approach the two armies. Who are about three hundred yards apart we can see cannons and other dwarven artillery being unlimbered. This is gonna be a bloodbath. Lancaster and York can be herd arguing with each other in the center of the field. We decide we need to make an entrance and however we make that entrance, it'd better be good.

The castle itself wasn't too smashed by the night's fighting but there's still some smoke billowing across the field. The haggard remnants of the followers of the church are gathered in small, stunned clumps. While we did manage to save a few, there are not very many (think XCOM terror mission with "poor" in every category).

Lancaster can be heard haranguing York.
:"YOU FILTHY LAZY SOD. THIS WOULD NEVER HAVE HAPPENED IF YOU WERE NOT HERE. I WOULD HAVE WIPED THIS STAIN CLEAN."
Before York gets his reply in, the bard hops up onto a bullet marked wall as the party walk forwards the bard pipes.

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8JXJ12_j9lo Sabaton - Unbreakable (Starcraft videoclip) HD]

It does exactly what we want it to, we definitely have everybody's attention.

From one of the little knots of refugees, some of which are dotted between the armies, a voice rises to conflict with the pipes.
:"YOU! YOU DID THIS! YOU STARTED THIS!"
Hello Ex-wife.
:>I thought she was dead?

:>Apparently the ex-wife was the first [to die] so that's something
:>Apparently

Lancaster and York do not react very well to this. The party and Ex-wife meet in the center of the field with Lancaster and York. The argument is loud if not particularly articulate.
:"They started this, they shot Little bro! They are the reason all these people are dead!"
York seems to believe her (she is technically correct), Lancaster takes the slightly more sensible tack of asking us
:"Did you do this?"
:"Wellllllllll yes sort of..."
:"Those flying things were you?"
:"No. That wasn't us."
:"Them killing everyone was?"
:"No..."
:"Why did they kill everybody?"
:"Because Little bro was shot!" (screams ex-wife)
:"Because Little bro was in league with the necromancers!" (we shout)
Neither of the Dukes look convinced and they are clearly looking for an excuse to disagree with one another.
:"Don't believe anything my ex-husband says!"
:"Your ex-husband? You're that Aldous?"
...fuck.
:"Why should we believe the drunk?"
The Navvie and Wizard speak up or try to. (thanks guys)
:"Shush you ceiling scrapers, this is dwarf business (fuck you DM)."
:York asks "What have you done with Little bro? The de-facto lord of this manor? You said you shot him didn't you?"
Lancaster is starting to realize that although there's not many followers of Little bro around, York might be choosing a side, if York is choosing a side, Lancaster is damned if he isn't going to be on the opposite side. He bristles.
:"Clearly there was some taint here... they have wiped it out, as I ordered."
:>Shit.
Technically, Lancaster is correct, he did ask us to do this (sort of). The dumb bastard is also spoiling for a fight. York's normally big smiling face goes stone cold.
:"As. You. Ordered."
Ex-wife is pretty good at turning a situation to her advantage, standing by York now, she takes his hand in hers,
:"YES! THEY DID THIS!"
We have one chance before this turns into a total complete and utter mess, the armies here could very easily wipe each other out pointlessly, then there goes London and there goes Britbongsteros. We really are not qualified for this.

York turns on his heel. Ex-wife is very careful to make sure she stays exactly in step with him (no flies on her) Lancaster mirrors the motion.
:"Argh fuck fuck fuck quick do something!"
The DM gives us all a moment. We all talk over each other.
:"Ok lads, whoever rolls highest gets a go to save the situation."
Dice are rolled. Angus gets the highest roll.

The fate of the nation hangs by a thread.
:"Angus quick, do something!"
:"Fuck errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr"
:DM: "Hurry up Angus..."
:"Oh cock..."
:DM: "Hmm? Did you say that?"
:"Oh cock, oh fuck, no yes what? Ahem I mean..."
:"If you stick your cock in an arsehole, makes sure it's wiped first."
Lancaster turns first.
:"SODOMY? WHAT? WHERE?"
York turns back,
"That is...that is actually quite good advice..."
Angus you glorious green bastard

I won't go into enormous detail on the social stuff that followed, but we were able to convince the two Dukes that if they were going to fight, they should have a nation to fight over first. If the Undead took London, then they were next anyway, the two aren't very happy with each other's existence, but they do agree to march to meet the undead together.

The issue remains, where the fuck has little bro gone?

We have a little party conference and it is decided that it's probably best not to let the two Dukes march together without the party as mediating influence, especially with ex-wife around. It will however take a few hours to get both armies ready for the longer march, and (hopefully) they can be trusted to do that themselves.

The hunt for little bro is on.

We descend into the tunnels of the castle again and pick up the blood trail easily enough (there's not much actual blood down in the lower level - plenty upstairs). We follow the congealed blood to a door, the Navvie "opens" said door and we come into a small store-room. Again I should remember this being here. I don't.

The blood trail stops in the center of the room. Examination of the room shows a lack of secret passages or revolving fireplaces. The boxes and shelved items do not indicate an obvious hiding place. We theorize he may have stopped here to try to bind the wound and at least staunch the flow of blood. We don't know if he would have died without medical attention but he is also some sort of necromancer's pet. So it's also possible he was mostly dead anyway.

This still clearly begs the question of where the fuck has he gone?

Further investigation doesn't turn up shredded clothing or similar indicators of first aid. We have learnt our lesson and looked up as soon as we got into the room sooooo... Where is he?

We decide to get some light on the situation. With the lantern lit we start to notice the ants. Ants are ok right? Little tiny things. Harmless in the UK so who cares? There's a little trail of them going from the blood to a eeeeny little hole in the wall. The bard, who is interested entomology, has a closer look.
:"Those aren't ants."

Well if they aren't ants what are they? Beetles? We have learnt that anything even slightly weird is generally to be construed as a bad sign. We hear a vague tapping sound from behind the wall. The bricks shift and strain. We get the sensation of a cocoon or seeing a pregnant belly move.

There comes what I like to think of as a defining moment for the party.

We back out of the room. The Navvie still has a couple sticks of TNT. With assistance from Angus he lights one and rolls it in. As we retreat to a safe distance we can hear masonry fall. We were being watched. We cover our ears as the blast rocks the building. Entirely deafening in the closed quarters. Angus doesn't look into the room he just torches it. Playing fire across the smoking wreckage. When we finally look into the room a vaguely animated skeleton takes half a step toward us then falls to the floor. It's wearing a medallion. The medallion seems to have spread tendrils of gold through the chest of the wearer. Like a second nervous system almost.

The DM seems rather annoyed that we just took off and nuked the site from orbit rather than stuck around. I take a moment to pay my respects, crushing the skull with my boot to make sure he stays down.

So with an end to little bro, we rejoin the armies. York and Lancaster have already argued twice but haven't gotten into any fights yet.

The party are careful to stay between the two of them on the march north. We avoid any real confrontation mostly by dint of keeping Lancaster amused by Angus and the Wizard's antics. York is a bit more bothersome as ex-wife is hanging around like a bad smell. She has however worked out that York is too much of a womanizer to tame and is looking for her next victim. The only eligible bachelor as such amongst the party is Angus. So she doesn't really bother us either.

Through several arguments it is decided we will meet the undead between Thirsk and Snape (yes it's a real place). Our objective is simple survival. To re-dead as many corpses as we can. This won't be a conflict of manoeuvre and guile, this will be standing and holding the line against the wave of bodies coming from the north. The more we put down, the more likely it is to weaken the necromancer and make this push on London fail. If that happens it'll be enough to buy time for a counter-assault or at least to shore up defenses.

Fortunately this is the sort of warfare the dwarves excel at. York deploys on the left of the valley and Lancaster the right. If Lancaster didn't insist on calling the marching undead "Yorkshireans" we might feel good about things.

We entirely expect the two to double cross each other.

:A little note on Dorf military forces:

:Much like Warhammer really. Staunch ranged infantry who are not bad in melee either. Heavily armoured and armed with rifles, pistols, heavy cutlasses, there are a large number of grenadiers. The most potent things are their gatling guns, spigot mortars and rifled cannons and the rest of the artillery train. The elite of the army are very heavy infantry who practice a weird form of the highland charge. They have heavy tower shield which will more than stop a bullet. The shield has a device like a claymore mine on the front. A regiment will advance behind these, at a set distance ignite the mine, causing an enormous and hugely deadly spray of musket balls, then charge from behind those shield with greataxes. It's a dated form of war but a nice touch I thought.

[[Image:Britbongsteros_map_6.jpg|thumb|150px]]
Ok this isn't the exact valley but it's Yorkshire and close enough.

Triangles are artillery, squares are line infantry, diamonds are elite infantry, white and red is York, and red and white is Lancaster, the purple blob is us.

The big white arrow is the dead.

:>What is actually in the undead army?
We have no real idea, necromancers are limited by their own imagination (and to a lesser extent resources). If they want to make a giant magic bone based tank, then they can. It's often more useful though (and easier to control) loads of skellies. They will however definitely have giants. Fortunately we have dwarven artillery.

On this scale (and at the level) the party are not able to just cleave through an entire battle line however, so our role will be as problem solvers. Perhaps to shore up the line where it waves, or to take out anything particularly big and nasty (again that thing about being woefully under qualified...)

We have had the luxury of the day to entrench our positions, but we know full well that the undead needing neither sleep or light will come with the darkness.

A peaceful late summer evening becomes a late-summer night, clouds roll lazily across a harvest moon.

We (or the dwarves anyway) have set up a killing field and we've filled ditches with tar out across that field to provide illumination and further funnel the undead. Zombies and skeletons are not smart, necromancers however are, and we full expect some sort of ruse or surprise attack, anything to break our lines or give those skeletons the advantage.

There are enough scouts that the troops are able to sleep in shifts, dozing in their armour where they lie. The mood is one of determination not jubiliation. We are here to stop them, not to conquer, not to plunder, but to stand firm, a bulwark against which the tide of bodies will wash. The fate of the land and the ungrateful, uncaring nobility, the mass of downtrodden peasantry, this wonderful weird land hangs in the balance. Victory here will not end the war, it will not even greatly weaken the undead, but it will stop the advance for now.

Lancaster has been seen sermonizing, speaking out against sin, debauchery and other veniality which (according to him) lead to undeath. He has whipped his followers into a frenzy several times. He has not however been doing anything greatly useful, like siting his guns. This task was left to us.

York, in response to Lancaster, proceeded to get steadily more and more drunk. It doesn't seem to have impaired him but so have his troops. He and they are more obstreperous than usual. We do our best to sit between the two camps and break up fights before they turn too serious.

The Undead have (according to scouts) advanced slowly during the day, but with the night have increased in speed significantly. The first real notice we have of their approach is a swarm of beasts of the field, live rats, mice, hedgehogs, even some deer, they scuttle through the grass and heather, birds fly over head as though escaping a wildfire.

What follows are those creatures that were too small to turn to the necromancer's will but which have still reanimated, tiny crushed and broken bodies, crawling and yet still driven by the imperative to flee in their decaying minds, in this wave also come those refugees who fell by the wayside, those who were too broken in body to fight with the skeletons, and yet still convinced that they are alive. The first task as our forces muster is to put down the old, the sick, and the young. We do not check too closely for signs of injury, knowing what is coming.

[https://youtu.be/Dp3BlFZWJNA Penderecki: Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima]

These are all things we had expected, but it puts the mind on edge. Fear is one of the greatest advantages of the undead. They have none and the living have plenty reason to be afraid.

There is a scent... or maybe a taste to the air.

For everyone it is different.

The scent of the cakes grandmother used to make before the illness. The way your father's hands used to hold you before the accident. The way your little brother laughed before the horse kicked him in the head. The way your best friend always would smile before you killed him in a drunken rage.

The way your wife was so happy before your little girl was taken away.

We can feel it ourselves, the troops can feel it too. For everyone a private sadness, the sort of thoughts that come to a man when he confronts the cosmic infinite in his own bed, knowing that every act, every small moment of happiness ripped and hoarded from the great darkness will run through his fingers like sand. All good things must fade. No happiness is eternal. The sweetest flower will wilt, the most beautiful of women will die, and all is dust.

Think anon of yourself, you for all the comfortable certainties of your life, you yourself will one day die. That is the cosmic inevitability, we all will. We tell ourselves that Tuesday follows Monday, but for you, the ultimate reality is it will not. Think of each and every man on that field confronting that with none of the warm reassuring thoughts of home, of those things we tell ourselves will make the night seem less cold.

Feel that creeping knowledge that every heart beat in your chest is entropy, ticking down to a death that is all the more certain with every passing second.

It saps morale, men look into the darkness and there, just as the tar-pits are lit, can be seen ranks of the undead stretching into the horizon. Look into that anon, and see death and try to cling to the tiny bead of light that you are in the uncaring darkness of the universe.

Now is clearly the right time for some sort of inspiration. Lancaster is praying all the harder, York is staring into a tankard. Well... looks like our job.

The party stands in front of the two armies and turn to them. They know fine well who we are and why we're here. We have some small reputation now and maybe we are worth listening to.

The bard does his best to perform, and kicks into a song. It's not quite the roll we hoped for.

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TNKttMFgaf0 Black Sabbath N.I.B]

but it's good enough.

:DM: "Whoever wants to speak, get rolling."

We split, deciding two different speeches are probably better than one.

The wizard speaks to Lancaster's troops.
:"You follow a God who will usher you into the light when the time comes, until then, what you do on this mortal earth is what will count in the final reckoning. Make it count."

The Navvie is a man of few words but when he speaks, they generally follow one another in a logical fashion and carry some weight to them. The cosmos and the human condition are not for him.
:"The dead are dead. That's all they are. One day you will be too. It's what you do before that happens that counts, and between now and then I'm going to fuck as many fat arsed girls as I can, and I'll slaughter any bony fuck that stands between me and them."
This goes over surprisingly well with York's forces.

It's not long after this that the guns on the hills start to roar. Mortars spitting flame and fire into the darkness, cannons firing more slowly, tracking and trying to target the giants that can be seen amongst the ranks of the undead.

The undead meet the line infantry in the center of the field. The Dwarves make them pay for every step before they meet their lines with shot and shell, but when the two forces do meet it becomes a slow meat grinder of a combat, the two lines press, ebbing and flowing, neither army will break and neither will give quarter.

The party have taken up position between Lancaster and York as the two watch from behind the lines, about fifty odd yards apart. The Undead press hardest on Lancaster's troops. Orders are taken from this command post (that we are at) to reserves or gun batteries, each of the Dukes commanding forces that are thrown into the general melee. The death toll is enormous but the Dwarves hold.

Lancaster commits his heavy infantry in a flank charge that twists the undead line back. It's about now that we see the undead creatures (ghouls maybe?) scaling the cliff toward Lancaster's now unprotected guns. York orders some of his reserves to engage, to protect and retake the guns if necessary. The men begin to slog up the hill, as it evens out breaking into a run. The undead have not just taken the guns, but turned them. York's force charge straight into the teeth of the guns and the few that make it fall to the ghouls atop the rise. The loss of the guns not only reduces our firepower but as the ghouls turn the guns on Yorks across the valley, we are in a lot of trouble.

The party are volun-told to do something about them.

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tRqCOIsTx8M Metallica - Disposable Heroes (Studio Version)]

Whatever we do it has to be fast. We plan as we run for the guns.

The Wizard is able to smooth our ascent with summoned pitons and then as we scale the rise, we engage the ghouls at close range. The fighting is extremely messy indeed. The ghouls are tenacious and there are a lot more of them than we expected. The rest of York and Lancaster's reserves are meant to follow us up once we distract the gunners and by god do we make enough noise and raise enough hell to do that. The Navvie tosses TNT, the Wizard is able to man an organ gun, Angus and I run inference with shot and flame. The bard is the bard as usual. We form a knot of resistance in the gun battery. They are still getting some shells off but we suppress, distract and ensure they are focused entirely on us.

We steal a glance back down the hill. The reserves have been engaged by what look like cavalry. We are cut off. Outnumbered. Alone.

So basically, we are boned.

Down the valley the dorfs don't seem to be doing too well either. Our immediate issue is ghouls. The more havoc we cause the better. We don't know if we should be spiking the guns, but we settle for doing what we do best: Kill everything.

Of course indiscriminately tossing explosives about and using a flamethrower in an artillery battery is extremely unwise. We realize this shortly after the enormous explosion which knocks us off our feet. Fortunately we are unharmed. Mostly.

We didn't set off the ammo dump but we did take out a fair number of the guns and of course lots of ghouls. Which is good.

Shortly after we are starting to thin their numbers. Looking down into the valley things look very warhammer as dorfs and skeletons fight, the necromancer can be seen hovering over the ranks of his troops, sucking souls from those stupid enough to face him. The undead giants plough into units of dorfs.

We could man a gun or two, which might help, or... we could help the reserves.

Manning a gatling gun (an orc handling) toward the melee slightly down the hill, we are able to assist somewhat. Though indiscriminate fire into a melee does lead to some friendly fire...

The dead dorfs however are starting to rise. The undead horsemen don't seem to be staying dead either.

It's DM decision time.
:Ok. If that lot get up here, we are dead.
:Can we save the dorfs?
:>maybe
:How?
:Err... We could charge down there...
:>there's five of you...
:We could...
:>tick tock
:Hmm...
:>sixty odd dorfs left, couple hundred skellies... they're right below you...
There is a hint here, an obvious one. Question is, are we going to go for it...
:>Can we/should we kill the dwarves to save ourselves? 
We don't want to but... We are gonna have to...

We are all complicit as we prepare kegs of gunpowder with fuses, lighting and rolling them off the cliff face and down. The series of large explosions brings very little room for screaming but we can definitely smell something like bacon.
:Bard: "Is anyone else hungry? Lets get pizza."

We concentrate now on spiking the guns. If we can't have them, neither should the enemy. The battle proper seems to be about even. We think a little cannon fire might assist there. We leave one of the the most accurate and modern looking weapons untouched.

Several minutes of ooc discussion about pizza interrupt things. Giving the DM more than enough time to plot. N.b. he's a vegetarian. Not terribly relevant, but I think it somehow goes to the root of his bastardry.

Looking down over the field with a crew served weapon and aiming over open sights, we reckon we must be able to pick off some high value targets. We start sniping giants which actually goes reasonably well as even a miss sends bits of skeletons everywhere. The necromancer doesn't take long to notice however. The first bolt of lightning is a near miss. The second we think probably won't be. We aim carefully and... entirely fucking miss.

We get off another shot at him which crosses paths with the actinic bolt of lightning that arcs toward us. We dive for cover as the shell explodes below. Looking down, we seem to have very definitely pissed him off.
:>Excellent.
He starts to float up the hill toward us.
:>Less good.

On further consideration of this issue... We notice the DM has actually written out an actual speech. A real, live, BBEG speech.

Perfect.

We pile up some shells and powder. Angus and the wizard light a fuse. We obscure the whole lot with a tarp just as our new necromancer friend pops over the edge of the cliff. We retreat back into the and turn to face him. The DM is a bit miffed that the necromancer fails to notice our trap as he levitates nearby to it.
:"And now is the winter of your discontent!"
The sky darkens as the necromancer flings his arms wide. We can see the fuse is just about to hit the kegs.
:"Now is the end of the world of the living. I shall allow you mortals to fight me, to make one last effort in the face of the inevitable."
As we collectively jump backwards into the shellhole we have at our backs. It can only be one last statement.
:"Get fucked you bony bast..."
The munitions go off and once earth stops falling and we can hear again. We peek over the lip of the crater.
:"He's... gone?"
:>DM: "I have got to stop giving you cunts explosives."

We look down into the valley, the battle still rages but the dwarves are regrouping and seem to be turning the tide. The necromancer isn't dead, but seems to be at the very least retreating. He is also on fire.

It seems we have accidentally broken another campaign. We feel oddly pleased about this.

As regards to the rest of the battle, there's not much else to note in detail. We get stuck in, but without the necromancer nearby to micromanage, the skeletons are weaker and soon the field is ours. This is excellent. Casualties have been extremely heavy however. The victory is pyrrhic for the dwarves.

We on the other hand have "saved" London and gotten the attention of the Queen.

The necromancer has returned to Edinburgh to lick his wounds. So for now the invasion is off.