Just a little story I wrote a while back to augment the character I was drafting for the TWC game KuE, thought I'd share it with everyone for fun.

Sebästian sneered at the sight of pitch-forked bumpkins jeering at 70,000 of Prussia’s finest. Held in reserve for most of the battle, Sebästian’s platoon finally saw action when the fighting was bogged down on the right flank, his platoon was to move up to supplement the final push right to break the serfs' flank and cave in their position.

Sebästian was addicted to the sharp, tang of cordite snapping in the air, breaching his nostrils with their acrid odor, giving him a rush unlike any opiate. In a sudden fit of passion, Sebästian drew his sword and charged at the Polish line. He sprinted for 100 yards clear of any one, friend or foe, all were too stunned to see this mad hatter of a mere boy charge half a million Poles. Then in a ripple of blue, his platoon followed, then, the entire Prussian flank charged, their roars accentuated by the devilish cry of Sebästian’s.

With gusto he lit into the ill-trained Poles, slashing, feinting, thrusting, riposting and killing ever so efficiently, smiling ever so slightly as each Pole he faced fell, throat cut, hamstring torn, intestines gutted, thus earning him the nickname Bäst (ard). Effortlessly, the Prussians sliced through the Poles, crumpling their flank in a manner akin to parchment strewn by a frustrated writer. Waving his sword adorned with blood and gore, Sebästian howled his victory to the gleaming Prussian moon.

Suddenly, a counter-attack! Russian mercenaries; aiding the foul Poles; galloped towards the cheering Prussians at full speed, hell-bent on instant retribution before they can flee towards Moscow in the dark. The Russians slammed into the Prussians like an iron fist, slaughtering dozens upon dozens men and boys who nigh on a minute earlier had been formulating their letters back to their family.

With a howl of rage Sebästian flung himself upon the marauding Russians, hacking and cleaving at horses and men alike, attempting to vent his terrible rage and anguish alike at seeing his friends hewed down in front of his eyes. Then, a thunderous noise formed behind Sebästian. Hooves. A boorish, stubbled Russian face appeared before Sebästian as he turned, swinging his saber as he fled. The Russian in a stroke of cruel luck had caught Sebästian in the shoulder joint, cutting deep into the skin, leaving bone exposed. Sebästian collapsed as Prussian cavalry reinforcements charged past him, mowing down the fleeing Polish peasants.

He was rushed to a field hospital where doctors attempted to staunch the bleeding, in that they succeeded. But they had used dirty, filthy bandages. Sebästian body revolted against the foreign germs. Gangrene flexed its poisonous claws upon Sebästian’s arm. There was no choice. Amputation was the only course. But they had no poppies left. Sebästian’s vision swam and his mind roamed. Time and time again, his memory was returned to echoing sound of the hooves and the tobacco stained teeth of that damned Russian.

By the time the amputation was over, Sebästian was changed. He was severely damaged emotionally and his mental views had been seriously skewed. He was sent home immediately. When the king heard of his plight, he immediately gave him a position in the Royal Court itself, making him the Enlistment Marshall, for surely, a military mind as bright as his would be able to handle the responsibilities of a Marshall. Alas, as the saying goes, the best wenches do not always make the best wives, so it goes for soldiers and Marshalls.