It's reet grim oop north! (a guide to the people and places of proud Fossestershire).

     When looking at Fossestershires fauna, floura, folk and, well, anything really you have to remember that to the good people of the very land you are looking into you are a bastard. Once you understand that you you can begin to understand your subject. The word Bastard  is not just a word for a child of illegitimate birth in Fossestershire, it is also an insult, a term of endearment, an expression of frustration and a hundred other things. Indeed, the words meaning changes subtly with the infraction of the tone in which it is spoken, a social mind-field for the uninitiated but second nature to the people of the north. If a man from Fossestershire does not call you a 'reet bloody bastard' within five minutes of meeting you it can be assumed he does not like you. If he does call you a bastard it may of course also mean he wants to kill you.....
               Taken from 'The many shades of Bastard; a study into the language of the uneducated north'
                                     By Creelish Brenton-Browne, professor of linguistics, Crivens university.

Chargin' t'soft southern BASTARDS!!!!

 Fossestershire is technically the oldest shire in Olde Albilande. It is rather unique in its make up being that rather than consisting of a single entity it is made up of four smaller shires, three having been subjugated by the forth over three hundred years ago but still retaining a degree of their own identity and autonomy, this is mainly due to the sheer bloody minded stubbornness of northerners!. The ruling shire is indeed Fossestershire, the seat of the earl of the county as recognized by the crown. It nominally rules the north and holds political sway over all the lands of the four combined shires, who allow this situation to continue grudgingly to say the least!. The subjugated shires are Divertonshire , the most northern shire being situated on the northern coast, its rugged people are mostly fishermen and sailors, some of the royal navy are docked in the shire and it is said that the king recruites most of the navy's troops from among the Diverts. Lummoxshire, the smallest of the shires it suffers from 'Scrappy Do', or so called 'short man' syndrome, its people often resorting to a ruddy good headbutting at the slightest provocation, constantly attempting to justify the importance and political clout of their shire  More wars and uprisings have been caused by the 'gentle' folk of Lummoxshire than all the other shires of Olde Albilande put together!. And lastly Wazzockshire, the richest of the four shires of Fossestershire due to their border with Offenhammeshire and subsequent dealings with its 'merchants', a fact that leads it to be the subject of much distrust and jealousy from the rest of the north. The map below shows where they are situated:

Four shires of ruddy bastards.

  The people of each shire recognize themselves as hailing from their home shire first and foremost and from Fossestershire as a whole secondly and only when addressing someone from one of the other 3 main shires. Therefore if you ask a man of the northern shires where he comes from he may say 'eee well lad, i'm a proud Lummoxman born an' raised' or 'I'm a Divert, me dad were a Divert an' is dad before ee.....ya bastard'. Each of the four shires believes itself to be the superior to the point of violence....which when men of the separate shires meet is more often than not the case!. However the current Earl, Sir Osewrenne Cobbenhamme, 19th Earl of Fossestershire has managed to focus the hostility to unite the shires in a common cause, that is to stop the young upstart down in Crivenshire from getting his grubby boys mitts on the crown!. The current political situation can be followed here and here but suffice to say the north agrees that 't were 'bout time t' crown were in t' 'ands o' a proud northman not another soft southern jessie bastard!!'.

A bunch of Wazzocks guard the river.

   The other shires often see the people of the north as uneducated ruffians, owing to the fact that it has no truck with the great universities and schools of the south, or the class structures and general social pressures of the other shires. Each boy can be expected to be apprenticed into a trade of his fathers choosing at a young age and experience a life of hard work and long hours at the bottom of the heap to 'toughen them up' and 'make a man' out of them. The upshot of this is that not only do the finest craftsmen tend to come from Fossestershire (produce from the shires craft folk is unfussy and often unadorned with 'poncey' decoration but will last a lifetime) but the men of Fossestershire are used to hardship and difficulty, able to suppress sorrow and sadness into a tiny fist and bury it deep inside. The average northman is not rich but is as rugged as the northern mountains and as unforgiving as the cold north seas......proper 'ard bastards!!!!.


 The armys' of Fossestershire are no nonsense violence machines!, they hold little truck with 'skulking about like a bunch of soft southern bastards' so have fewer skirmishers riters, preferring troops to get stuck in where the fightings thickest!. They were also the last shire to adopt the musket, seeing them as 'new fangled faddy rubbish' although this may have been to 'encourage' the kings armoury to purchase a stock of them for them rather than shell out themselves!. Their traditional way of fighting being with the bill, a name for any blade on a pole that can remove a mans arm while you look him in the eye and tell him hes a total bas...well you get the point. Because of this Swordsmen units in Fossestershire armies tend to be armed with bills but follow all the rules for swordsmen on the field. It is also common for a small number of Jarkin to march with the billmen, their great bulk and strength making them ideal line breakers (northern Jarkin tend to work alongside tradesmen, grafting with the rest of the men and being treated far more equally than in the other shires, they are considered to be bastards). Irregular companies tend to be raised by patriotic social leaders from each shire and maintained by the shire from which they are raised. Because of this they tend to march proudly under the banner of the shire, not the banner of Fossestershire or their patron.

 Armies of Fossestershire may choose freely between the six unit types mentioned in the rules for One hour in Olde Albilande but may never have more Skirmisher units than it has units of infantry. It may never have more units of reiters than it has units of Knights.

     The shire is famous for certain special units, these are listed below:

     Just like in the other shires garrisons of Kings Regulars are stationed in the shires of Fossestershire. These regiments are the paid core of troops that swear loyalty to the crown and protect the land from invasion as well as policing it in times of peace. However, the Kings Regulars are more often than not recruited from the local population and as such also have a loyalty to their home shire. Therefore the Kings Regulars in Fossestershire, having no king or successor to take orders from have chosen to swear allegiance to the Earl of Fossestershire, as he should of course be king in the interim anyway. Thus the Kings Regulars of Fossestershire march with the shires forces.

 Kings Regulars in 'one hour in olde Albilande:
The Kings Regulars count as infantry and may add +2 when taking a morale test.
Kings Regulars are class 3.

   The Lummoxshire Red is a curious beast. Hailing only from the southern slopes of the T'feccinbigg mountains It is the only known species of Goat that is carnivorous. They also live and hunt in packs just like wild dogs. These packs can vary wildly in size but some of over forty beasts have been observed. They are also famous for their size, being twice as large as your average Goat and for their much sort after flame red pelt. They are known for their single mindedness and their exceptionally foul temper, just like the men of Lummoxshire themselves. The natives have used them for years as beasts of war, to ride a Red is the ultimate mark of manliness in Lummoxshire. Boys are often given them as Kids to grow with and eventually break in to the saddle. This is considered by many learned men to be the highest contributing factor in the exceptionally high mortality rate among the under tens in the shire. On the battle field the Red Riders are rightly feared, the men of the regiments sole job being to attempt to point their mounts in roughly the right direction and then hold on for dear life while the beasts get enveloped in a blood lust the like of which would make even the toughest bloke  soil his draws!.

Lummoxshire Red Riders in 'one hour in olde Albilande:
 Lummoxshire Reds count as Knights. They suffer no penalty when fighting Infantry.
 Lummoxshire red riders MUST move towards the closest enemy unit they can see in their move phase. They must charge into combat against them if they can reach them, if not they must move their maximum distance towards them.
Lummoxshire Red Riders are Class 3.

Brute Hounds and Red Riders charge home against some Offenhammeshire Bastards of some sort!.

    The Brute hound could only be from Fossestershire. It is without a doubt the strongest, most humorless, obtuse and downright nastiest breed of dog native to any nation in the Known world. Originally hunting dogs they have become popular as pets in Fossestershire due to their strictly no nonsense approach to life. Throw a Brute hound a bone and it will chew it in half with a look of contempt on its face, attempt to pet one and you will definitely loose an arm!. They are black tempered death on legs, just the way the locals like them!.
   Some of the meanest examples are trained for war, running the battlefield in packs, lead by their pack master who lives alongside his dogs day and night to earn their trust. They are unleashed on the foe without mercy, directed by the pack master from horseback, often ignoring his pleas and commands to plough into the foe!.

Brute Hound Packs in 'one hour in olde Albilande:
 Brute Hounds count as Swordsmen.
Brute Hounds may move 12'' on any turn they wish to charge into hand to hand contact providing the move will bring them into contact with an enemy unit.
 If any enemy troops are within 9'' at the start of the Brute Hounds move phase roll 1d6. If the result is a 1 or 2 the Brute hounds MUST charge the closest enemy unit.
Brute Hound Packs are Class 2.

    The Top predators of the northmost cliffs of Olde Albilande, the Diverton Kestrel-eagle-sparrow is without a doubt the largest and most ferocious species of bird in the northern hemisphere. Living in vast nests perched precariously on the most inaccessible cliff edges the K.E.S survey their domain knowing they are the undisputed kings of their world. They are so large they can  carry off one of the species of large highland cow that populate the northern farmlands with ease and often do. They are, as ever for Fossestershire, grumpy beasts, so grumpy that they have been observed attacking shipping for coming too close to the cliffs and carrying poor fishermen off to their nests. Like all wild and vicious beasts of a reasonable size the men of the shire delight in breaking them to the saddle, rearing them from chicks and using them as riding beasts mainly for racing along the cliffs, a sport beloved of Diverts everywhere. Some men train their mounts in the art of war (so far as 'climb, dive and chew the bastards to bits' can be considered to be art!). Utilizing their mounts as fast attack and crack scouting beasts.

Diverton K.E.S riders in 'one hour in olde Albilande:
- K.E.S riders count as knights.
- K.E.S riders can fly.
- K.E.S riders are class 3.

K.E.S riders prepare to dive!!.

   In smokey bard free taverns they gather, same seats as always, same tepid ale. They moan about the youth, the new fangled 'advances'. They discuss politics and how the ruling classes are clueless and how much better they could do. They spit bile at foreigners, other cultures and other age groups. And women, they especially whinge about their women. They are the real men of the shires of Fossestershire, the workers, the men on which the nation was built, who's blood, sweat and toil alone made the place great!. This is part of the backbone of the land, men are expected to drink together, bond together, sing, fight and laugh together. But sometimes it goes too far, some men get lost in it all. This comes to the fore most of all in their middle years, when they have lived long enough to have lost their youthful  hope and energy, when they know this is all there is...same pokey home, same wife, same job, disrespectful kids and same lost dreams. Most of the men of Fossestershire go through this, most know to count their blessings and come out the other side, but for some.....

 The priests of G.A.M.M.A.N.S prey on such men. The cults, founded on their core mantra of Geezers Against Modern Methodology And New Stuff are the home of men trapped in the cycle of working class rage fulled by the miss-information fermented by the cults leaders. Their back alley churches masquerade as 'real mens' pubs where the leaders spew forth on the subjects of workers rights, the feckless youth, the useless rulers and the common sense only they can see. Most locals see these men as harmless, known to wind them up by getting them to open up on such subjects they know will show their indoctrinated ignorance. To the rest they are figures of fun. But no more!. The death of the royal line has galvanized the ranks of the cults. Why cant this great shire hold sway?, maybe then they could actually make some changes round here!, control their own borders, finally be free of the perceived rulers from outside the shire. The cults leaders have spoken and driven by years of repressed emotion and cheep beer the cults have risen, ranks of angry topless middle aged men spurred on by pure unadulterated rage and dreaming dreams of things done properly and on bloody time for once!. Up and down the length and breath of the north these groups are joining the forces of Fossestershire, old soldiers and weekend warriors side by side to bring about a long needed change!. Drunk, angry about everything and listening to no one, the cults troops bring death and distruction in their wake, all the time chanting for common sense, the will of the north and making things right....oh and death to those who dare to disagree!!!!!.

Cults of G.A.M.M.A.N.S in 'one hour in Olde Albilande:
  -The Cults count as Swordsmen.
  -The cults of G.A.M.M.A.N. may re-roll their attack dice on any turn they charge.
  -If any enemy troops are within 9'' at the start of the Cults move phase roll 1d6. If the result is a 1,2 or 3 the Cult MUST charge the closest enemy unit.
  -Cults of G.A.M.M.A.N.S are class 2.

Cult of G.A.M.M.A.N.S. troops insist on leading the charge!!!.

     The great Skinchangers were kings of the northern mountains, their tribes of men and women able to change form to wild beasts at will were the final indigenous species to resist the old invaders at the dawning of the shires. The great Skinchangers were revered by the northeners, held up as gods among men, a new level of evolution greater than all that had come before. And not just for their ability to change form, for they had other talents, they could bend magic to their every whim, creating blessings and curses at will. Then the S.T.P.W.T were formed.
   The S.T.P.W.T were zealous in their hunting and persecution of all magic users not licensed and registered to them. With the kings help they hunted and killed witches, warlocks, druids and mages until only a scattered few survived in secret. But the Skinchanger tribes of the north stood firm, refusing to bow to this new pressure, sending back every witch hunter that tried their luck in a box to S.T.P.W.T headquarters!. This went down rather badly with the organization who took drastic steps to eradicate the foe. The S.T.P.W.T begged the king to launch a full scale invasion of the Skinchangers lands, to wipe them out for good, but this was not all, they also sent one man, a respected ranger into the mountains with a single spell scroll to unleash hell on the 'changers and soften them up for the death blow. That man was revered survivalist and ranger goode and fayre: 'Wyldeman' Filton Greeves.
   His mission, while the tribes marched to war was to follow unnoticed behind them to the battle using his knowledge of the local area and of tracking and all ranging and stuff like that. Follow he did. On the eve of the great battle of the plain of burning pelts, as the Skinchangers battle line was drawing together he struck. He could see the army of the crown gathered and arrayed, the Skinchangers bellowing insults and preparing their curses to be flung at the enemy before they changed into beasts for the charge. Greeves sprung from his hiding place behind enemy lines, whipped out the scroll and read.....
......As one the skin changers howled and thrashed on the ground, great magical fire dancing around them. Writhing in pain the greatest and strongest in their ranks surveyed Filton, boring their hate filled eyes into his very soul, lips moving as they did. Unknown to the ranger the 'changers were issuing the greatest curse they could muster, one they had been saving for the enemy all along. As the fire consumed them the curse took hold of Greeves and he dropped to his knees, wracked with pain. He stared in amazement as black fur sprung from his skin, great claws pushed from his fingertips as his lythe and subtle hands became clumsy paws. His nose and mouth formed a muzzle as he sunk further to the ground. Where the tracker had stood was a giant black bear roaring in pain and confusion. His intelligence dulled Greeves fled from the field into the mountains, now one of the very folk he came to wipe out!. As he ran, with his dying breath the chief of the skin changers finished the curse, the final spiteful twist to the fate of the killer of his people.
  The Skinchangers died that day and with them the legends and knowledge of their folk. They are now no more than a shadow of the past, an old wives tale to scare children into behaving. But one remains. Skilled at evading discovery an elderly man still roams the mountains, driven half mad by his curse. For the curse given to him that day was not just to become one of the Skinchangers, oh no, the final part of the cruel curse was so fiendish, so wicked in its detail it has gnawed at its victim for years on end. Filton Greeves is not only the last Skinchanger, able to turn into a giant bear at will, he also has a chronic fur allergy, one so bad that his own pelt brings him out in an angry, itchy, infuriating rash!. His eyes water, he sneezes so violently he is unable to control his form, literally sneezing himself from bear to man to bear again when a sneezing fit takes hold!. Ashamed and shunned he roams, using what little magic still clings to him to assist him in surviving in such forbidding terrain, his tattered clothes little protection from the elements. But redemption could be at hand. News of the war for the crown has reached him, and the plan of the Earl to take power. Maybe, just maybe he can earn a pardon, earn a way back into society, maybe rather than hunt him the S.T.P.W.T will remember his deeds and cure him.....maybe.....
'Wyldeman' Filton Greeves in one hour in olde Albilande:
Filton has two forms, man and Giant Bear. At the start of the battle he is always in the form of a man.

Man form: In this form he is classed as a Skirmisher, however he is not able to perform ranged attacks.
In this form he is an unlicensed magic user using natural magic, some abilities he has from the latent magic surrounding him from the scroll and the curses all those years ago. He may use one per turn while in man form. They are:

CURSE: Cast on one enemy unit within 10'' during your movement phase. The player may re-roll any one attack dice, either for shooting or in hand to hand against this unit this turn. The re-roll always stands. If no dice are rolled against them this turn the curse has no effect.

BLESS: Cast on one friendly unit within 6'' during your movement phase. That unit can insist any one attack dice during your opponents next turn, either shooting or hand to hand is re-rolled. The re-roll always stands.

He may not use magic if engaged in combat.

The forces of Offenhammeshire have 'The Wyldeman' cornered!.

Giant Bear form: In this form he is classed as swordsmen but suffers no combat penalties vs cavalry or riters.
 Enemy units within 4'' of Filton in this form that are forced to take a morale test do so with a -2 penalty to the dice roll. 

Changing form: At the start of Filtons move phase the player controlling him may decide to change his form. This is always declared before any other actions are carried out. If they decide to change his form this happens immediately, swap the miniature representing him to one that represents his other form. At the end of his move, just before the player moves on to the next unit roll 1d6. On a roll of 1 he will be struck with a violent sneezing fit and will immediately change form!.

'Wyldeman' Filton Greeves is class 3 and is unique, you may only have one Filton!.

     ATCHOOOO!!! The forces of Offenhammeshire wish they no longer had him cornered!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.

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