Carolean Witches Quest

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There’s a shift in the snow blowing in front of you, and you pick your head up out of your shoulders, look off to the right, where the King is leading the other column of the left wing. In front of him stands his trump card. They don’t look like much, you decide. From this angle, you can see two girls. They’re standing in the snow, shivering in coats a size too big and breeches that they don’t look used to wearing. The witches. Most armies used them as healers and reconnaisance. Sweden’s witches were different- Charles had pressed some of them into the Army, given them all commissions as Colonels or Majors, after he had learned they could make shields that resisted musket balls. ’You will be my secret weapon,’ he had said. And so they were- he had kept them hidden for the fight in Denmark, at Humlebæk. In front of the witches stand the witch companies- the biggest, meanest grenadiers, the smartest skirmishers. Their job is to protect the witches, to die to a man if the King or their witches ask it of them.


He’s formed them up to help lead a breakthrough of the Russian line, punch a hole in it, that your men, the regular infantry, can exploit. There’s eight witches with both wings of the army, and more in the reserve with the guns. You turn your head to the right and spit, and it freezes mid-air before it’s even half to the ground. The King is astride his horse with the witches, and you can barely see him in the snow. His head turns to look in this direction, and you think he’s looking at you. Instead, you scoff to yourself. He’s got bigger things to worry about than an aging Lieutenant that can’t afford a Captaincy. He draws his sword, and waves it forward.


”Up and at ’em, you dozy sods!” The sergeants begin in, and off to your rear, a chaplain has started exhorting the men to kill a Russian and save their immortal souls. You hesitate for the briefest of seconds. There’s fixing to be a maelstrom of shot and shell headed your way, simply by virtue of your battalion being the first in the column. You draw your sword, take another step forward. The snow is blowing against your back, into the eyes of the Russians now, and with a lightheartedness you don’t really feel, you begin to run.

(2/3)

”Gott mit uns,” you shout, and the men behind you pick it up as well. This is the might of Charles XII made manifest, all his fury and anger at the perfidy of the Northern Alliance. Eight thousand angry Swedes and Finns supported by thirty-seven guns. The guns being firing, one at a time, a great rolling thunder that roars across the land, Sweden’s anger come to life. Somewhere ahead, the witches are following the grenadiers, waiting for the Russians to expose a weakness in the line. And it doesn’t matter. Here, now, there is only the charge. The snow shifts again, and there, two hundred yards away, red and green coated Russian strelsy. One of them fires out of pure shock at the sight of a horde of blue coated Swedes bearing down on him, and it whistles past you harmlessly. ”Oh Lord,” you hear from behind you. You turn your head, and there, lying in the snow, blood pooling from his head, is the Captain of the company. That means quite suddenly you’re in charge of the lead company bearing down on thousands of Rus.


There’s a nice little dip in the landscape off to your right, where the King won’t be able to see, and if you die, well, how are you supposed to enjoy life or any riches plundered?

[ ] Continue the advance
[ ] They just killed your captain, charge.
[ ] Hide in the defilade.

>>484512
>[ ] Continue the advance
We keep up the steady advance until 100 yards. Can't have the men get tired out before we charge in. Learn from Caesar's victory over Pompey at Pharsalus.

>>484512

[z] Continue the advance

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>>484512
>[ ] Continue the advance
Nice to see you again Tang.

>>484512
NOVEL WHEN
>They just killed your captain, charge.

>another military witches quest
this is a joke right

>>484543
Only in your heart.

>>484512
>[x] Continue the advance

>>484512
>[ ] Continue the advance

>>484512
>[ ] Continue the advance

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>>484543

>>484610

HAW!

>>484610
10/10

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[x]Continue the advance

The strength of Charles’ army lies in the attack. With daring and elan, courage and steel, the strength of Charles’ lies in the advance. The slow, steady advance in the face of enemy gunfire. That first man, whoever he is, killed the Captain. But now they’ve got you to reckon with. What the army’s doing is attacking. And it’s good on the attack. You cock the tricorne on your head back, to better see, and you get a flurry of snow in the face for your troubles.

You smear it out of your face with your coat sleeve and swear. Behind you, the chaplains have worked themselves into a froth and are extolling the virtues of the Lord Christ Almighty and entreating him to smite down the Russians, the better that His chosen vicar on Earth, Charles XII, might chastise their foul heretic nation. You don’t much care what the chaplains are doing, as long as it’s not getting your men killed. You step forward through the snow, wishing the Lord had seen fit to send the snowstorm a little later in the day or something.

A cannonball whizzes by overhead, and it’s all you can do to think about what you had overheard one of the sergeants saying. ’Three shots from one gun for ’em to get sighted in, and then they like to send up the measurements down the line, the better to kill us, see?’ Two shots left. One hundred seventy-five yards.

There’s a couple of more loose shots from the Russian line, but their officers seem to have gotten them under control. They’re waiting to deliver that first, deadly volley at about a hundred yards’ range. They think it’s going to be a gunnery exchange, the two lines slugging it out. They’re wrong.

If there’s any volley from Charles’ army, it’s going to be close. Fifty yards or so. Or closer, knowing the King. The second ball goes by overhead, and now you know it’s tighter. You can feel your balls trying to shrivel up into you, trying to hide. The blood is pounding in your ears, and you try not to think about home. Instead, you glance to the side, to where the witches are riding their brooms low to the ground, the better to hide among the companies designated to protect them. They’re armed with a brace of pistols and swords, the better to take advantage of their ability to enhance strength and their shields.

From behind you, a scream wails punily into the darkness of the midday snow storm. The ball must have come down on a man. And then, suddenly, the world roars as the Swedish cannon open up, the gunners going to work somewhere behind you and to your right. The shot screams by, and then the Russian guns open up. A ball passes fifteen yards to your left, and suddenly you want to curl up and scream. That could have been your death.

(1/2)

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Ninety yards. ”Make ready!” You scream. Behind you, the men drag rags from their flintlocks and check the powder in the pans. The Russian volley hammers in, kicking up puffs of dirt and smoke from in front of you, where the muskets were aimed too low. Someone starts screaming, and a sergeant screams for the men to ignore him, the musicians will get him, keep moving. You’re operating on instinct, now. Behind you, the drums have fallen silent, Charles trusting his officers.

Fifty yards. You halt, and the men behind you do as well.

”Aim!” You yell, and behind you, forty-five muskets have their hammers dragged back. You step back one step, and the line closes around you. ”Fire,” you almost whisper. Forty-three muskets spit smoke and flame and death at the Russians, and the men take off running before you do, knowing what to do better than you can order them to do it.

”Gott mit uns!” The next thirty yards go by in a flash at a run, and the rear two ranks take up their positions at the front. They fire as soon as a Sergeant can gasp out the order, and now your men are drawing their swords. You’re in among the Russians in a heartbeat, and you hack at one man with a huge bristling mustache. He blocks your blade with his musket, and the steel lodges in his wood. He tries to step back, but you shove the pistol into his gut and pull the trigger.

It fires, much to your surprise, and the man goes limp. You jerk your sword out of his musket and drive it into the throat of the new man in front of you. Dropping the pistol, you draw a long, single-edged knife and jam it into the gut of the red-coated strelsy to your left. Ahead of you, dancing in the snow, a Russian national flag and a regimental flag.

[ ] Go for the colors.
[ ] Keep killing Russians.

>>484762
>[x] Go for the colors.

>>484762
>[ ] Go for the colors.
A big blow to the already shaky Russian morale and further disorganizes them.

>>484762

>[z] Go for the colors.

BRING YOUR COLORS TO THE FLOOR!

>>484762
>[x] Go for the colors.

Best way to win glory and draw attention to ourselves

>[X] Go for the colors.

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Sorry, had to eat dinner, writing now~

Have a Prussia

>Witches actually on broomsticks
yessss

You want that banner. You want that yellow-gold silken flag fluttering in the wind with the doubleheaded Imperial Russian Eagle embroided on it. You want to see it trampled in the dirt beneath der Lowe aus Mitternacht’s paws. More importantly, you want the recognition, the honor and glory, that a set of Imperial colors will bring. There are rewards for capturing a set of colors. Men fight and bleed and die beneath the colors, because they’re the colors. Something about them can drive a man to madness, to insanity.

You can feel it, almost. But then a musket stock almost takes your head off, and you have no time to wax poetic. You hack at a Russian with a scraggly goatee and he thrusts forward with a dagger that takes you in the left arm. It jars off bone, and your arm goes numb. Swearing, you headbutt him in the nose. It crunches nastily, and he reels backwards, only to be gutted by a sword coming from your right. You’re in among them good, now, and your men at hacking at them with all the fury of your Viking forbearers.

One man swings at you with a shortened pike or spear, and you side step it. You stumble over a body, fall sideways. A hand reaches down and picks you up, and it’s the sergeant, Kortkul. ”Up you come, sir,” he says. He fends off a swinging musket stock with his sword, drives his sword forward into the man’s neck. You half turn to dodge a swinging sword, and see a chaplain out of the corner of your eye.

”Lieutenant!” He calls cheerfully. ”Kill them in the name of Christ and King!” He’s wearing the black coat and breeches of the chaplains, but he’s happily swinging a mace with no shield. Crazy goddamned priests, you think. You turn and notice that your men are getting bogged down, and then there’s a roar as something girl-and-broom shaped goes by over head. A couple of Russians turn into mist, and you wince.

”Keep going, soldiers of Sweden!” A high-pitched voice calls, and you look up. It’s another witch, waving her sword wildly. You bull your way back to the front of your men, to the crush against the Russian line. You’re almost at the colors, now, closer than you were before. You kick one Russian that’s groaning in his nose, and he falls silent. You hack an officer down, beating your sword past his, and cut into the shoulder between neck and arm. He falls screaming unhappily, and you stab downwards into his throat to silence him. Now the Tsar’s banner is falling, falling, tumbling down. You pluck it from the air before it hits the bloody snow, and a huge Russian sergeant without a hat thrusts at you with his spontoon to try and take it back. You bat at it with the flag and it catches in the silk, tearing it. You lunge forward and slip your sword between two ribs, catching him in the heart. You turn and shove the flag into the hands of one of the men in a blue coat behind you, and then something catches you in the back, and you know no more.

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(sorry that took so long, but I couldn't get it juuuuust right, and I'm still not sure I'm satisfied with the fight. >:C)

When you wake, there are two things in your hands- your sword, and an Imperial Russian banner. You run your fingers over the silk, marvelling at the fact you can still move your fingers and that you’re alive. You clench the hand in the banner, unwilling to let go of it. You open your eyes, and a blonde woman wearing a look of concern is hovering over you. Next to her is a redhead, and judging from the ornate gold thread and gorgets they’re wearing, plus the breeches, they’re witches. In a chair, because you’re in a tent, there’s a Lieutenant lounging behind a book, either sleeping or reading.

”Lieutenant Bielke,” the blonde one says. ”Captain Järnadler is awake, and probably hungry. If you could fetch some soup and bread, for him, and then let the King know, I would appreciate it.” He startles, drops his book, and snaps to attention.

”Right away, sir,” he blurts out, and then he takes off like a shot.

[ ] ”Where am I?”
[ ]”Did we win?”
[ ] ”How are my men?”

>>485073
>[x] ”How are my men?”
>[x]”Did we win?”

>>485073
>[ ] ”How are my men?”
then
[ ] ”Where am I?”

>>485073
>[ ] ”How are my men?”

>>485073
[x] ”How are my men?”

>>485073
>Captain?

>>485073
First
>[ ] ”How are my men?”
Then
>[ ]”Did we win?”

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”How are my men?” They’re not really your men, you’re not the captain, you were just a Lieutenant in the wrong place? At the time right time. Point is, it was a fight, and fights in wars bring promotions. Fast promotions. Even if they’re overturned later.

”Your men are well, Captain,” the witch said. Her green eyes seem to disapprove of something, but you ignore it. ”Out of ninety men you brought to the fight after the loss of your company’s captain, ten were injured and three were killed. Comparatively light, compared to the rest of the regiment, even with your company at the front. Well done, Captain.”

”Oh,” you say. Then you flush red, and change the subjet. ”Captain?” You ask. That bothers you. In an ideal world, you would be a Captain, but you’re not sure if you can afford the price. If you have to purchase it to keep it, rather than it being a royal writ or battlefield promotiion, then, well, you can’t afford it, even with the reward from capturing an Imperial banner.

”The King has confirmed a field promotion for you from lieutenant to captain, Captain Järnadler. He was very impressed by your stupidity,” the witch sniffed. ”The cavalry and your wing of the infantry were able to roll up the Russians from both sides, and we routed them. Your company cracked a Russian grenadier strelsy company. Good job, I suppose.”

”Well thank you,” you respond automatically. ”Er, sorry, did you say we cracked a grenader company?”

”Yes, I did.” Whatever else she’s going to say is interrupted by the young Lieutenant returning with a tin bowl of soup and a hunk of bread. He hands it to you, and then stands at attention, saluting. You’re unable to return it and let him relax, because as soon as you get your hands on it, you realize how hungry you are. You dig in with gusto.

”So where am I?” You ask between bites, using the spoon as a pointer to encompass all the tent.

”One of the generals, Carl Gustav Rehnskiöld, told the King he would let you borrow his tent while you recovered, so now he’s sharing with Vellingk. I’m sure your speedy recovery will be a blessing to him, he’s been complaining about Vellingk snoring.”

You almost spit out and swallow your food at the same time, so instead it’s a sort of half-choked gurgle. You don’t belong in a bloody general’s tent. The witch looks amused. ”Don’t choke,” she warns. You grimace, swallow your food, and set the bowl in your lap.

”His Majesty is busy,” the Lieutenant chimes in, ”but he wishes Captain Järnadler well in his new slot in Third Company, First Witches’ Battalion.”

(1/2)

”Oh, yes, I forgot,” the witch adds. ”The Captain for Third Company died during the fight, unfortunately, but the King seems to think that any man that can capture an Imperial banner will do well leading men with the witches.”

[ ] ”So is that the company you’re in?”
[ ] ”I can’t lead a witch’s company, I don’t know the first thing about it.”
[ ] ”I can’t leave my men.”

>>485160
>[ ] ”I can’t lead a witch’s company, I don’t know the first thing about it.”

>>485160
>[ ] ”I can’t lead a witch’s company, I don’t know the first thing about it.”
Something tells me the answer is between 'attack and 'charge'

>>485160
>[ ] ”I can’t lead a witch’s company, I don’t know the first thing about it.”

>>485160
>[x] ”I can’t lead a witch’s company, I don’t know the first thing about it.”

>>485160
>[z] ”So is that the company you’re in?”

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”I can’t lead a witch company,” you protest. ”I don’t know the first thing about it!” And you don’t really. You honestly don’t know that much about leading a regular company either, and it doesn’t look like you’ll get the chance to put any of what you think you know into practice, either.

”It’s easy,” the redhead finally chimes in. ”All you do is listen to us and attack when we say so, and defend when we say so!”

Reassuring, you don’t tell her. ”I’m Margareta,” the blonde says, ”and the redhead is Sofia. She’s, erm, dramatizing, I assure you. The officers in command of the units that work with witches do actually lead them, it’s just that because they were designed from the ground up by the King to support us, there’s a lot of regular soldiers following what we do.”

”Oh,” you say. ”So if that’s the case, what kind of things does the King have you do?” Margareta shrugs, then shoots a wink at you.

”He rotates us. The first group supports one flank of the battle, then the next, then we get the reserve. We support the regular line infantry, try to exploit any breakthroughs that you make, help stiffen the line if the King thinks it’s going to break.”

You bristle at the thought that the King would believe his vaunted Caroleans could break. ”Easy, Captain,” Margareta says. ”It’s okay, it hasn’t happened yet and I’m not sure it will. And then we heal, of course, though that’s usually after the battle, and sometimes we’ll do reconnaissance, if the King wants it fast and doesn’t want to detach the hakkapellita for it.”

[ ] ”So how do your commissions work? Do we take orders from you or are you seperate force like the Navy, and can only merely suggest?”
[ ] ”How do you feel about the King’s use of witches in the military?”
[ ] >Other, write in.

>>485276
>[ ] ”So how do your commissions work? Do we take orders from you or are you seperate force like the Navy, and can only merely suggest?”
[ ] >Other, write in
"What about my previous company?"

>>485276
>>485281

>>485276
>[ ] ”So how do your commissions work? Do we take orders from you or are you seperate force like the Navy, and can only merely suggest?”

>>485276
>>485281
this

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”So how do your commissions work? Are you Army officers? Should I be saluting and calling you ’sir’?”

”Er, the King’s staff is still working on that, but for now, we’re in an independent unit attached to the Witch’s Regiment. I’m Major Margareta von Falkenberg, Independent Witch Company, and this is Sofia Porse, a Captain.” You shrug, and notice that you’re not in your coat or waistcoat, just a shirt. You blush and glance around the tent, looking for it.

”Er, Margareta, where’s my coat?”

”Ruined,” she says cheefully. ”Great huge bloodstain all across the back, as though you’d been laid open from shoulder to flank!” She seems to relish her job of healing, so you don’t say anything. Scrambling for a polite topic, you finally sieze upon your previous company.

”What about my last company? I thought that most promotions on the field stayed in the same company or regiment.”

”The King selected you personally, I’m afraid,” Sofia chimes in. ”He ordered one of the lieutenants that were promoted to Captain in the fight to take your place. I’m sorry, captain.” Her voice is soft, to try to ease the blow. But it still hurts. Your men, the men you had been beside at Humlebæk, and six months before that, not yours anymore. Ripped away by the whims of your King. You close your eyes for a moment, and hope that someone thought to find your dirk and pistol. They were gifts from your sisters.

”Alright,” you say finally. ”When am I allowed out of bed?” There’s things to do, if you’re going to be taking command of a new company in a new regiment fighting a new way of war. Men to review and familiarize yourself with, paperwork to do, muskets to make sure are all the same caliber, endless lists of things to do.

”In a bit,” Margareta takes over. ”We had orders to make sure you’re fully healed, and we want to observe you for a while to make sure there’s no internal damage. A big Russian caught you on the back with a huge axe of some kind, one of the men that brought you in said. All that’s left is a scar.” Then she says something to Sofia in French, which you don’t speak. Sofia responds quietly, and they both giggle. Ignoring it, you set the now empty bowl on a low table next to the cot you’re on, check to make sure you’re wearing breeches and stockings, and then toss the blanket aside. You swing your legs off to the side, and stand. You bend your knees a couple of times, make sure you still have a full range of motion in your chest and back.

You pick up your sword and work through a few exercises, and the witches watch, chattering quietly in French. You lunge forward, and something in your back twists painfully, and you let out a strangled gargle and drop the sword.

In a heartbeat, the witches are on you, poking and prodding. There’s a flash of blue light, and suddenly they’re both sporting animal ears and tails. Margareta’s ears are a canine or feline’s of some sort, a soft gray color, while Sofia’s are a couple of feathered tufts. You avert your eyes, entirely positive that you’re unfit to have one, let alone two, of God’s blessings on Sweden working to heal you.

”It looks like he’s got an injured nerve somewhere. Can you feel it?”

”Yes, it’s under the scar. I think we didn’t get far enough down in him to feel it the first time.”

”You’re right,” and then there’s a swift count to three. You feel a fierce tingling, an itching, inside your back, and you want to try to claw it out. Instinctively one of your arms goes up, but then there’s a witch holding it down and shoving a leather gag into your mouth. ”Bite down on this if you have to scream,” she tells you, and then your back has been opened up again. Then it’s over, and you can feel your flesh knitting together. You want to scream, swear, something, and then it’s over for good. They get off of you, and you spit out the gag.

You lay there panting for a moment, unwilling to try to stand, when a pair of boots comes into your view. The witches shoot to stand up, and your head follows the boots up to a pair of cream colored breeches up to a blue coat with blue facings and a Colonel’s rank markings.

”In this army,” a grim voice says, ”it is customary for inferiors to salute their superiors.” You push yourself up and into a stiff posture of attention, with a crisp, worthy of a parade ground salute. You know Colonel Kagg only by reputation, but it’s not a very good one.

[ ] ”Apologies, sir!”
[ ] ”As far as I knew, sir, it’s not customary for superior officers to harass healing subordinates, sir?”
[] >Other

>>485389
>[ ] ”Apologies, sir!”

>>485389
>[ ] ”Apologies, sir!”
results before smug

>>485389
>[ ] ”Apologies, sir!”

I'm actually going to call it for tonight, I haven't done this in quite a while, haha. I'll post on my twitter the day of the next thread, and we'll pick it up from here. Sorry, mates.

https://twitter.com/LoverofTang

>>485450
Thanks for running!

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>>485450
Cheers

>>485389
>[ ] ”As far as I knew, sir, it’s not customary for superior officers to harass healing subordinates, sir?”
not picking the smart ass one

>>485372
thanks for the read