This is something I drew inspiration from after watching Zulu. I know this has probably been done a thousand times over, but not be me
here's part one, hopefully it will be ten parts in total detailing the battle in full:
Cragged Heart was neither a enjoyable or welcoming place to be detailed. The owners were old and malicious, and as crippled as their compounds. The primary house was situated upon a small rise which had its back to a rocky cliff. The only way too the frontal entrance was a trio prong of steps, with a pair to the right and left, and a wider set along the centre. It consisted of eighteen rooms of varying size and function, with a small open area at the centre and spiraling wooden steps leading a bell tower infused with the cliff.
The bell was long immobile however, its hinges far too rusted for it to be used. Below the main home is a large rectangular garden filled with agricultural pits that are roughly waist high on a standard human. The weeds were long overgrown and dead, bundled tightly together so that the entire area was impassable and jagged. Too the left of this rested four large barns, each filled with metallic milk containers and unused pens. Behind these buildings was a sharp decline of sharp rocks and debris, leading down into a small forestry area roughly fifty metres wide and a hundred and thirty long.
Towards the right of the garden was a former servants quarters. A two story building which provided little heat from the cold, it overlooked a vast field which stretched into the horizon. The front of the garden, facing towards the hospitable north, was surrounded by a U-shaped riverbed which had dried up centuries before. The walls of this were angled upwards, and the outermost, furthest from Cragged Heart itself, was laced with razor wire. Adjacent to the primary house was a small ravine which led around too the rear of the small forest, although this was only used by the once young children of Old Ma and Pa Cragged Heart.
For seventy years the Cragged Heart dynasty had nurtured on the supplies of the forest and the former river, now however, they were all but starved by the Chaotic Incursion which had enthralled the world of Illixia. Pa Cragged Heart slowly pushed his wheelchair towards the porch, nibbling on his sore and dry lips. His teeth were black nubs in his mouth, long defiled by alcohol and other beverages which had rotted him from the inside out. He was not senile although. At least not yet. The creaking of his spindly wheels was loud and earsplitting,
He had once served in the Illixian Militia as a drum boy, however that was an eon ago and now he was nothing more than a cripple, his legs snapped in a perilous fall. His wife was little better, her body ridden with arthritis. She was dying slowly, bed ridden with such pain. Pa Cragged Heart tended to her whenever he could however those times were little. He could barely crawl up the stairs, something which the servants would have once carried the burden of. The Chaotic forces of Lord Iscarion now ruled Illixia, and while the Cragged Hearts had been left alone to their lonely corner of the world, they both knew that their children and friends were long dead.
The old heart of Pa Cragged Heart grew tight in his chest. A tear rolled down his withered cheek, slipping between rivets from his flesh. Age had grown on him, his once handsome features marred with wrinkles and liver spots. His hair was receding so that a cap of baldness now stood out, the odd strands of hair still managing to poke up from pores. Both his eyes had turned milky white from an exposure to the once pure sun of Illixia but he still managed to gain some form of sight from them. Sometimes though he wished he could just close them and never wake up, for his soul to be lost on the Great Tide.
The pounding at his doors grew more frantic. Old Pa Cragged Heart could hear up to a dozen voices now, each talking in some hideous and guttural language. What they were saying he could not comprehend, but it was definitely hostile. Instead of opening the doors he swerved at the last moment, nearly knocking down a small door hold shaped into the visage of a hound and pushed himself into the dirty living room. The furniture were each draped in white sheets, which had grown grey-black from the dust which had fallen on them in a ten year long span. He couldn’t maintain the beige carpet, and now it was torn and battered, the once complicated designs spread across the wood beneath in ragged strands.
His windows were laced in a cobweb like pattern of cracks. It cast a beautiful image on his suited form as he spun around, leaning over onto the windowsill and looking through one of the small side panels. Standing across his porch, was some eighteen scarlet uniformed men. Each wore a high black furred helm, which looked rather uncomfortable from what Pa Cragged Heart could make out. Golden braiding was weaved into their red greatcoats, along the centre where the polished buttons rested and across the lips of deep pockets. Their shoulders were held high, proud and vigorously energized. At least half sported handlebar moustaches and long sideburns, and all bore the same angled nose and broad chin.
Again their guttural language burst out ‘Im Namen des Kaisers! Erschließen Sie diese Tür! Oder stellen Sie seinen Zorn gegenüber!’
Pa Cragged Heart saw the speaker this time. He was a giant of a man with a plump stomach and well muscled arms. His chest protruded unnaturally, clearly the affects of a combat drug. His lower face was hidden beneath a brown beard which turned grey towards the edges, and his harsh eyes scanned every corner of Cragged Heart House for an opening. Unsatisfied that there was none, he stepped back from the door and unfastened a archaic weapon from his side. Bolt Pistol….
The owner of the home knew this type from his days in the Militia, when the officers would beat their truanting or inappropriately behaved men with them. Pa Cragged Heart himself had been battered by one, and a small scar was stretched across his right eyebrow. The man was now lowering it at the handles of the door. Pa Cragged Heart raced back towards the door. He drew near when it was thrown inwards, and a dozen red uniformed men charged inwards with Las-Weapons shouldered. One sighted Pa Cragged Heart, his face youthful and flourished and the last thing the old man witnessed was the butt of a weapon striking his face. He did however, hear the crunch of bones and the splatter of blood….