The Hurtshog has been humbled by being included into a new order of heroes.
The honor which has been extended to us by Katzenstein will be fondly remembered.
We are barbecuing some beef now to celebrate.
The Hurtshog Stanken Fhartz von Frankfurter ....
Monday, October 25, 2010
Enter the Holy Man
Autumn
(I apologize for the bad German in my posts. Forty odd years ago, I could read and mumble a bit of Deutsche along with some others ... all that burned away in a high fever about 1968 or 69. So I’m using dim memories of phrases common around the house .... in hopes of someday reviving access to those memories).
Father Umlaut, a cheerful, portly priest was putting up the buckets and brooms in the sacristy of St. Griselda’s. As usual, he’d had to clean up after the morning Mass. There were few Papists in his parish, and the episcopal directive that paid positions such as sexton (and except for musicians) had to be given to the “true Faithful” rather restricted the available pool of talent for sextons and such. No matter, he needed the little exercise it gave him, and the extra prayer time before the Eucharist. He was grateful for the good nature of the villagers. His Altar Sodality was mostly Protestant (and the reason that his main altar cloths were quilts). He finished locking up the chalice and rinsing out the cruet (most churches used two, one for water and one for wine ... since he tended to pour straight from the bottle which was shared with folks after Mass .... it being always donated by one of the local vintners .... he only needed one cruet).
He went out into the Sanctuary again, genuflected, and happily turned towards the doors and their enticing view of Bruderhansen beer garden across the road. Abruptly, a shadow detached itself from the stairs to the choir loft. “Eine Moment, mein Vater,” it whispered.
“Certainly, mein Herr ....?” Fr. Umlaut responded.
“Herr Schwartzmann, Vater,” the man whispered.
“You need Confession?” The priest asked the stranger.
“Nein. Ich nichts hier bin, Verstehe?” it whispered back.
“Ah,” the normally cheerful cleric was saddened. More difficulties, and now in his parish. “Sigh”.
“Kommen Sie vor dem Hurtshog.”
“The Hurtshog!?!” Father Umlaut quickly lowered his voice. There’d been rumors of a wound and an infection in the battle at the Gallian Depot. Were Last Rites needed for their patriotic ruler? “I’ll get my anointing kit,” he whispered to the stranger and turned back to the sacristy.
“Nein, nein,” the dark man responded. “Aber, Kommen Sie schnell, bitte.” The man tugged at Fr. Umlaut’s cassock urgently, so they went outside together. Father saw a tinker’s cart waiting beside the church and clambered aboard with Schwartzmann. They soon plodded out of town, but as soon as the road curved behind the first hill, Schwartzmann shouted and the horse broke into a swift trot. Startled, Father Umlaut looked more closely at the mane, tail, and rump rushing ahead of him. This was no tinker’s horse!
After they’d jounced down the road for about a half an hour, the cart turned onto a faint trace which Umlaut knew led to a dilapidated estate which had been an hunting lodge in a previous century. No sooner had the cart passed through the tree line, however, two dragoons rode quickly out of cover and challenged them. Schwartamann simply stood up in his seat and lifted the huge,, floppy hat. The troopers saluted and turned back to their hiding places.
Seconds later, the cart came into view of a very refurbished mansion. Fr Umlaut swept his eyes around quickly and spotted mounted Cuirassiers of the Lieb Garde posted about the park. Once again, the good priest worried for the safety of Frankszonia. As they drove through the gates, he noted that the sentry boxes were filled with Jaegers who stood guard with the crispness of Grenadiers. Two civilians came out to help the priest down.
“Herr Schwartzman,” one of the men said quietly to the priest’s companion.
“Herr Badmann,” the tinker replied.
“We’ve got some hot Frankfurters boiling.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Schwartamann completed what was obviously a ritual. “He seemed familiar?” he asked about the other civilian who was leading the cart and its horse away.
“Von Mack,” Baddmann grinned.
“Ah,” Schwartzmann nodded his acknowledgment.
As the party entered the gloomy hall, Fr. Umlaut heard a baby crying somewhere nearby. A door opened and a Russian hussar and a Turkish officer stepped towards them warily. “Well, Mackie,” the Turk asked in the local German dialect, “is this your little saint?”
“Prince Allbrick?” Fr Umlaut burst excitedly.
“Nein, Nein,” Schwartzmann interrupted, “Er ist der Pasha Pastrami!”
“Right,” the priest winked at the “Turk” who then introduced his friend, SomeRussian Guyovitch. They apologized for their unfamiliarity with local customs as they led the priest into a chamber where two ladies were soothing a cradle and a group of officers were clustered near the fireplace. Hottotrot and Beauphaup were seated with another lady beside a wounded officer lying on a chaise. Then, the Hurtshog rose somewhat stiffly from the cluster of officers.
“Benjamin,” the portly noble greeted Fr Umlaut. “I’d take you by the hand, but they’ve got it tapped to my side,” he chuckled. “Your Highness,” he called to the women by the cradle, “If you and your brother would be so good as to join us?” One of the ladies rose and joined with Guyovitch and the Pasha. Umlaut recognized the Duchess v. Kern.
“This is a pleasure!” the priest hugged her jovially. “We were all afraid that you’d been killed in one of Stanken’s mad schemes.”
“Unfortunately,” one of the officers responded grimly, “the order knows we’re all alive too.”
“The order?” Umlaut was shocked. “That was suppressed!”
“Yeah, right,” the “Pasha” responded. “I had to shoot my way through them at Aschenberg.”
“And,” Guyovitch added, “since they’re suppressed, they can’t possible be combining with von Pederastein from Stagonia, right?”
“That’s sickening,” Umlaut agreed.
“We’ve thought of a way of spotting them, however, before they strike,” a tall, dark officer volunteered in an heavy accent. “They will be hunted even as they stalk us.”
“And that,” the Hurtshog chimed in cheerfully, “is where you and your empty church come into the game.”
(I apologize for the bad German in my posts. Forty odd years ago, I could read and mumble a bit of Deutsche along with some others ... all that burned away in a high fever about 1968 or 69. So I’m using dim memories of phrases common around the house .... in hopes of someday reviving access to those memories).
Father Umlaut, a cheerful, portly priest was putting up the buckets and brooms in the sacristy of St. Griselda’s. As usual, he’d had to clean up after the morning Mass. There were few Papists in his parish, and the episcopal directive that paid positions such as sexton (and except for musicians) had to be given to the “true Faithful” rather restricted the available pool of talent for sextons and such. No matter, he needed the little exercise it gave him, and the extra prayer time before the Eucharist. He was grateful for the good nature of the villagers. His Altar Sodality was mostly Protestant (and the reason that his main altar cloths were quilts). He finished locking up the chalice and rinsing out the cruet (most churches used two, one for water and one for wine ... since he tended to pour straight from the bottle which was shared with folks after Mass .... it being always donated by one of the local vintners .... he only needed one cruet).
He went out into the Sanctuary again, genuflected, and happily turned towards the doors and their enticing view of Bruderhansen beer garden across the road. Abruptly, a shadow detached itself from the stairs to the choir loft. “Eine Moment, mein Vater,” it whispered.
“Certainly, mein Herr ....?” Fr. Umlaut responded.
“Herr Schwartzmann, Vater,” the man whispered.
“You need Confession?” The priest asked the stranger.
“Nein. Ich nichts hier bin, Verstehe?” it whispered back.
“Ah,” the normally cheerful cleric was saddened. More difficulties, and now in his parish. “Sigh”.
“Kommen Sie vor dem Hurtshog.”
“The Hurtshog!?!” Father Umlaut quickly lowered his voice. There’d been rumors of a wound and an infection in the battle at the Gallian Depot. Were Last Rites needed for their patriotic ruler? “I’ll get my anointing kit,” he whispered to the stranger and turned back to the sacristy.
“Nein, nein,” the dark man responded. “Aber, Kommen Sie schnell, bitte.” The man tugged at Fr. Umlaut’s cassock urgently, so they went outside together. Father saw a tinker’s cart waiting beside the church and clambered aboard with Schwartzmann. They soon plodded out of town, but as soon as the road curved behind the first hill, Schwartzmann shouted and the horse broke into a swift trot. Startled, Father Umlaut looked more closely at the mane, tail, and rump rushing ahead of him. This was no tinker’s horse!
After they’d jounced down the road for about a half an hour, the cart turned onto a faint trace which Umlaut knew led to a dilapidated estate which had been an hunting lodge in a previous century. No sooner had the cart passed through the tree line, however, two dragoons rode quickly out of cover and challenged them. Schwartamann simply stood up in his seat and lifted the huge,, floppy hat. The troopers saluted and turned back to their hiding places.
Seconds later, the cart came into view of a very refurbished mansion. Fr Umlaut swept his eyes around quickly and spotted mounted Cuirassiers of the Lieb Garde posted about the park. Once again, the good priest worried for the safety of Frankszonia. As they drove through the gates, he noted that the sentry boxes were filled with Jaegers who stood guard with the crispness of Grenadiers. Two civilians came out to help the priest down.
“Herr Schwartzman,” one of the men said quietly to the priest’s companion.
“Herr Badmann,” the tinker replied.
“We’ve got some hot Frankfurters boiling.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Schwartamann completed what was obviously a ritual. “He seemed familiar?” he asked about the other civilian who was leading the cart and its horse away.
“Von Mack,” Baddmann grinned.
“Ah,” Schwartzmann nodded his acknowledgment.
As the party entered the gloomy hall, Fr. Umlaut heard a baby crying somewhere nearby. A door opened and a Russian hussar and a Turkish officer stepped towards them warily. “Well, Mackie,” the Turk asked in the local German dialect, “is this your little saint?”
“Prince Allbrick?” Fr Umlaut burst excitedly.
“Nein, Nein,” Schwartzmann interrupted, “Er ist der Pasha Pastrami!”
“Right,” the priest winked at the “Turk” who then introduced his friend, SomeRussian Guyovitch. They apologized for their unfamiliarity with local customs as they led the priest into a chamber where two ladies were soothing a cradle and a group of officers were clustered near the fireplace. Hottotrot and Beauphaup were seated with another lady beside a wounded officer lying on a chaise. Then, the Hurtshog rose somewhat stiffly from the cluster of officers.
“Benjamin,” the portly noble greeted Fr Umlaut. “I’d take you by the hand, but they’ve got it tapped to my side,” he chuckled. “Your Highness,” he called to the women by the cradle, “If you and your brother would be so good as to join us?” One of the ladies rose and joined with Guyovitch and the Pasha. Umlaut recognized the Duchess v. Kern.
“This is a pleasure!” the priest hugged her jovially. “We were all afraid that you’d been killed in one of Stanken’s mad schemes.”
“Unfortunately,” one of the officers responded grimly, “the order knows we’re all alive too.”
“The order?” Umlaut was shocked. “That was suppressed!”
“Yeah, right,” the “Pasha” responded. “I had to shoot my way through them at Aschenberg.”
“And,” Guyovitch added, “since they’re suppressed, they can’t possible be combining with von Pederastein from Stagonia, right?”
“That’s sickening,” Umlaut agreed.
“We’ve thought of a way of spotting them, however, before they strike,” a tall, dark officer volunteered in an heavy accent. “They will be hunted even as they stalk us.”
“And that,” the Hurtshog chimed in cheerfully, “is where you and your empty church come into the game.”
Monday, August 30, 2010
some cheery thoughts
Last night, at our evening prayers, Edie and I got a bit of an insight.
Our bodies have been scaring us a lot lately ... serious pains, heart trouble, blood clots, etc. etc.
for years, we've counted on the prayer support of our friends to carry us over the crisis.
We were wondering why all these prayers were getting such partial results when we realized ...
for some years, our living conditions had been really horrible ... and every attempt to improve them proved either beyond our reach or suddenly evaporated.
In the last few months, however, several of these problems have suddenly found real solutions which may be developing into a sustainable situation.
It seems obvious to us now that God saw that healing our bodies would be non-productive as long as the conditions which seemed to create our troubles continued ... and the healing began with things like getting our yard bull dozed clean.
Praise and Thanksgiving !
Our bodies have been scaring us a lot lately ... serious pains, heart trouble, blood clots, etc. etc.
for years, we've counted on the prayer support of our friends to carry us over the crisis.
We were wondering why all these prayers were getting such partial results when we realized ...
for some years, our living conditions had been really horrible ... and every attempt to improve them proved either beyond our reach or suddenly evaporated.
In the last few months, however, several of these problems have suddenly found real solutions which may be developing into a sustainable situation.
It seems obvious to us now that God saw that healing our bodies would be non-productive as long as the conditions which seemed to create our troubles continued ... and the healing began with things like getting our yard bull dozed clean.
Praise and Thanksgiving !
Friday, August 27, 2010
just an update
First of all, I thank you all for your kind wishes.
The recovery continues apace ... unfortunately at a very slow, pre-Frederick pace!
As one problem improves, another is unmasked. If things continue, I'll be able to start new therapy September which will be a major improvement all around.
Unfortunately, until then, between the zombie impact of the medications and the time to lie very quietly with my legs up ... there's less than an hour out of every four. I'm hoping that I'll be able to undertake a speaking engagement in September which doesn't leave me any time to paint figures, push lead, or really write fun events.
This has led to a major hiatus with the Margrafin and Mr. Mack ... for whom I'd planned a dizzying set of dances, parties, and intrigues (a couple of my officers being classic ... uh ... romantics? .... ) I'm tempted to say that they had to be put into quarantine for their protection ... but as a lovely adventure seems about to be written for them on another blog ... :)
On the good side, the wife came across a couple of scenario maps and wants to play one of the games, so a good game is now scheduled for the day after the new therapy starts! Of course, given that she'll be involved, there should be some good pictures too. Hope springs eternal!
The recovery continues apace ... unfortunately at a very slow, pre-Frederick pace!
As one problem improves, another is unmasked. If things continue, I'll be able to start new therapy September which will be a major improvement all around.
Unfortunately, until then, between the zombie impact of the medications and the time to lie very quietly with my legs up ... there's less than an hour out of every four. I'm hoping that I'll be able to undertake a speaking engagement in September which doesn't leave me any time to paint figures, push lead, or really write fun events.
This has led to a major hiatus with the Margrafin and Mr. Mack ... for whom I'd planned a dizzying set of dances, parties, and intrigues (a couple of my officers being classic ... uh ... romantics? .... ) I'm tempted to say that they had to be put into quarantine for their protection ... but as a lovely adventure seems about to be written for them on another blog ... :)
On the good side, the wife came across a couple of scenario maps and wants to play one of the games, so a good game is now scheduled for the day after the new therapy starts! Of course, given that she'll be involved, there should be some good pictures too. Hope springs eternal!
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Ground Round ...
Just a quick hello ...
I've been laid up, but the infections seem to be receding and the deep vein thrombosis may be in control ... but alas, it limits the time I'm allowed to sit up and type!
I did manage to sneak a small game in anyway ... no pictures again, alas.
Report afterwards.
I've been laid up, but the infections seem to be receding and the deep vein thrombosis may be in control ... but alas, it limits the time I'm allowed to sit up and type!
I did manage to sneak a small game in anyway ... no pictures again, alas.
Report afterwards.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
swords are crossed
Giblet already knew that his own goose was cooked, but he gallantly attempted to fight. First he sent gallopers into the depot to bring warning. Then he called his scattered troopers to rally south of Friedburgerwart. Even as his detachments came rushing towards him, however, the Gallian officer saw the hostile dragoons dash through the village and wheel their sections into line. Knowing that his squadrons would never be able make a regular formation in time, Giblet gambled and ordered them to dash, helter skelter, into the foe.
Surprisingly, most of his troopers did charge, but many seemed to shout, “get stuffed!” and flee back towards the depot.
The foe made a short counter charge, but their mass and formation easily pushed aside the confused Gallians. Major Giblet had his hat shorn away and the epaulet on his right shoulder sliced in half. A Gallian dragoon grabbed the stunned Major’s reins and led him out of the melee onto a grassy knoll.
As the depressed and shaken officer tried to gather his faculties, he rejoiced to see the Oullette Hussars hurring up the road. Then his spirits were dashed again, as a couple squadorns of hostile dragoons caught the hussars still in march column and scattered them as well. Giblet observed that a particular officer, dressed in glowing white, seemed to be the spark behind the rapid reaction and energy of the enemy force.
Then, the alarm cannon and drums roared from the depot. “Finally,” Giblet told the few troopers who were gathering around him. “Let’s see if we can rejoin the cordon in time. Perhaps we delayed them long enough for Broglie to wake up and wave his hands at somebody to take care of the problem!”
They road back towards camp, and saw the other squadrons of their regiment formed up covering some infantry battalions deploying. The Gallians, however, made no attempt to advance to the site of the skirmish, where a huge, reverse colored Frankszonian flag marked the center of a reforming, and still growing, force.
Surprisingly, most of his troopers did charge, but many seemed to shout, “get stuffed!” and flee back towards the depot.
The foe made a short counter charge, but their mass and formation easily pushed aside the confused Gallians. Major Giblet had his hat shorn away and the epaulet on his right shoulder sliced in half. A Gallian dragoon grabbed the stunned Major’s reins and led him out of the melee onto a grassy knoll.
As the depressed and shaken officer tried to gather his faculties, he rejoiced to see the Oullette Hussars hurring up the road. Then his spirits were dashed again, as a couple squadorns of hostile dragoons caught the hussars still in march column and scattered them as well. Giblet observed that a particular officer, dressed in glowing white, seemed to be the spark behind the rapid reaction and energy of the enemy force.
Then, the alarm cannon and drums roared from the depot. “Finally,” Giblet told the few troopers who were gathering around him. “Let’s see if we can rejoin the cordon in time. Perhaps we delayed them long enough for Broglie to wake up and wave his hands at somebody to take care of the problem!”
They road back towards camp, and saw the other squadrons of their regiment formed up covering some infantry battalions deploying. The Gallians, however, made no attempt to advance to the site of the skirmish, where a huge, reverse colored Frankszonian flag marked the center of a reforming, and still growing, force.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
The raiders close in at last!!
(Used a lot of graph paper and dice ... heavens! I miss my miniatures! May be September before they're excavated {something about not letting me heave around tubs filled with lead ... Pfui!})
Major Giblet was worriedly riding his squadron's post at Friedburgerwart just inside the Frankfurter close. The major Gallian supply dumps lay just south of him inside the Frankfurter Gebeit (which is surrounded by tree lined ditch and dyke). Word had already reached him that the expected Resistance raid on the depot had begun. There had been intense fighting to the west, and the smoke rising from the echoes of cannon fire were not as exhilirating as distant fireworks.
The Major ordered his detachment to spread out in skirmishing order towards the west in case any of the foe got by the Frankszonians who were trying to stem the assault for themselves.
He had a good unit. Drawn from the Queen's Garden, l' Tampon Azure had acquired a reputation for plugging many a bloody hole in the line. He was confident that their ability to soak up the pressure would give time for the depot to deploy its defense.
Suddenly, one of his troopers came dashing down the line from the dyke. "There's a large force advancing from the Justice De Burgerwart, M'seur!" the man shouted. Major Giblet raced to the dyke to discover a large cavalry force of several squadrons deploying less than a mile away behind him in the east! (A couple of lucky initiative rolls had forced the Gallian unit to guess at the angle of the attack ... they goofed and Parsleigh had force marched into position).
More to follow in a few hours, I"m not supposed to be up right now, LOL
Major Giblet was worriedly riding his squadron's post at Friedburgerwart just inside the Frankfurter close. The major Gallian supply dumps lay just south of him inside the Frankfurter Gebeit (which is surrounded by tree lined ditch and dyke). Word had already reached him that the expected Resistance raid on the depot had begun. There had been intense fighting to the west, and the smoke rising from the echoes of cannon fire were not as exhilirating as distant fireworks.
The Major ordered his detachment to spread out in skirmishing order towards the west in case any of the foe got by the Frankszonians who were trying to stem the assault for themselves.
He had a good unit. Drawn from the Queen's Garden, l' Tampon Azure had acquired a reputation for plugging many a bloody hole in the line. He was confident that their ability to soak up the pressure would give time for the depot to deploy its defense.
Suddenly, one of his troopers came dashing down the line from the dyke. "There's a large force advancing from the Justice De Burgerwart, M'seur!" the man shouted. Major Giblet raced to the dyke to discover a large cavalry force of several squadrons deploying less than a mile away behind him in the east! (A couple of lucky initiative rolls had forced the Gallian unit to guess at the angle of the attack ... they goofed and Parsleigh had force marched into position).
More to follow in a few hours, I"m not supposed to be up right now, LOL
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