I deliberately let my least favorite Battle Brother get mutilated, and I couldn’t be happier.

It was always going to end badly for Thillmann The Braggart. 30 gold, he told the brigands. He’d pay them 30 gold each if they could knock up a stew so disgusting that even he – Kobmanhaven’s most famous glutton – couldn’t keep it down. Whether Thillmann actually had the coin on him, they never found out. Seconds after he raised the first reeking spoon of what he suspected was mostly reindeer shit to his lips, he projectile vomited straight in the face of their leader, and they jumped him.

Death comes quickly in the turn-based tactics and open-world merc work of Battle Brothers, and victory comes hard. Really, it’s the stories of the mercs you hire, and their emergent traits and peccadilloes, that make the game what it is. Still, Thillman was possessed of the sort of cocksure spirit that makes a man far less cognisant of sharp objects than he should be, although you couldn’t fault his reasoning: he was still alive, so as far as fate had proven to him up until now, nothing could kill him. I can only apologise for adding to the bastard’s delusions. The boys and I happened to be passing by at just the right time to save him from those brigands, and he’s been with us ever since.

Then there was Rumjugs the Younger. There had, as much as any of us knew, never been a senior Rumjugs. The way he told it, the name lend him an air of boyish mystique whilst out wenching, although this was undermined somewhat by his ownership of a face that looked like someone had carved sunken eyes into an antique potato before blanching it in orc piss. Still, he was very handy with that axe, and swifter than anyone carrying an axe of that size should be.

‘The Merciless’, everyone called Terry. Not for his habit of loosing crossbow bolts in the back of brown-trousered escapees – admittedly one of his more endearing traits – but because the campfire songs he insisted on singing were widely considered a form of torture. Still, Terry did have two admirable character quirks: firstly, he owned a very nice crossbow, and secondly, he still owned most of the really important fingers.

Four days we’d been tramping around the icy mountains north of Kobmanhaven on the hunt for a rare wolf that local legends told shat Tropical Skittles every full moon. I say local legends. Truthfully it was a local drunk with more teeth than sense and a truly shocking lack of teeth besides. It’d been one night of cold sleep and colder porridge too many, and we’d decided to call it quits. Also, Terry said a Yeti snuck up in the night and tried to lick his feet before he frightened it off with a battle song. Either way, we were done. Back to town it was.

I believe Kobmanhaven is old germanic for “having a cob, man” – a reference to the steamed corn delicacy that was so popular at the time that it become colloquialism for any sort of leisure activity, as befitted the bustling town’s reputation as a popular festival retreat. Our first destination was the barbers, to give Terry a stupid haircut as punishment for that Yeti story. We indulged in a few pints, stocked up on fish, and then it was time to fill out our little band for the contracts ahead.

My usual rule is not to learn what a new hire’s called until they’ve been with us for at least one contract. Makes it harder to pluck the arrows out of a dead man’s arse if you know his name. But, for the sake of posterity, here’s the gaggle of hopefuls we added to the gang. There was Eunuch Dietmar the Geldling – unnaturally swift, he said, on account of missing the previously gargantuan balls he’d learned to compensate for the heft of. Excellent Log the Ragged, a miserable beggar with a fear of wolves. Wolfgang Silkworm, a ex-tailor who’d resorted to mercenary work after Jason Of Stathingham – an angry, ginger moustache bastard – had run him out of business. Jason himself had to close shop after the town fell on hard times and no-one wanted to buy artisan scarves anymore, even ones made with Jason’s legendary technique of threatening to headbutt the wool until it knitted itself.

There was Fritz, a man deeply obsessed with peas in ways that unnerved the rest of the company so much we stuck him at the back and told him to be quiet. Finally, we had destitute gambler Rick Nipples, a man whose grin offended me so much I refused to give him a weapon.

Ten of us in total then, including myself. I couldn’t get involved in the battles, naturally. Someone would need to tell our story once the band became crow food. Our first job sounded simple enough: head south west to bring some of that legendary Kobmanhaven justice to a gang of brigands who’d murdered a well-liked local chap named Bodo, alongside his the rest of his family.

“For Bodo” we roared as we marched out of town, despite never having heard of the poor bastard ten minutes earlier. O’er forest and marsh we passed on our way to the brigands. Fuck knows why we went o’er that forest instead of just passing through it like normal, but too late now. On the way, we made camp, and swore an oath to make as many mates as possible. The boys were in fine spirits – chiefly due to glugging markedly less fine spirits – and we rose bright and early to smash in some skulls. For Bodo!

A paltry five bastards met us on the field of battle. ‘Weaponless’ Rick Nipples was the first to charge in, flailing his arms and grinning all the while. The rest of us left him to it, choosing to hang back while Terry and Dietmar peppered our foes with bolts and arrows. We formed a defensive perimeter around Terry, left Dietmar to his own devices, and waited for their approach.

The first brigand to move took half of Rick Nipples’s face off with a flail. Ah well, won’t be missed. Rumjugs moved to the flank, eager to get his axe in. Soon, they were upon us. Excellent Log moved up to support Dietmar, swinging his club uselessly. Wolfgang turned out to be equally useless with his pitchfork.

After an agonising time spent with nothing but glancing blows on either side, Rumjugs drew first blood by splitting a brigand clean in half with his axe. Then, disaster! One of the bastards got straight into our back line and flailed Terry to giblets! You deserved pain, Terry. But you didn’t deserve this.

All hell immediately broke lose. The men may have never as well heard the name Bodo. “For Terry” they roared, despite most of them swearing they’d kill him themselves on four seperate occasions. Jason and Excellent Log went on a clubbing spree, felling two more, and Fritz and Rumjugs did for the rest.

Then, when our boiling blood simmered down, we saw something miraculous. Terry had survived, despite several bits of him previously firmly attached now hanging from stringy tendons. I made a mental note to buy him a pint later. That should fix it. Then, as if we’d been graced by golden providence, we noticed Rick Nipples’ face was now truly fucked forever. He’d live, but he’d never grin again in his miserable life. Absolute result! Now, to get paid…