The European Serin On Tour - Part 4
Open Period ADLG at The Worlds in Spain 2025
Khurasanian vs Wars of the Roses Lancastrian
Game 1 Khurasanian vs Ghaznavid
Game 2 Khurasanian vs Ottoman Empire
Game 3 Khurasanian vs Mongol Empire
Game 4 Khurasanian vs Wars of the Roses
Game 5 Khurasanian vs Mongol Empire
Game 6 Khurasanian vs French Ordonnance
Or, for our many foreign readers ..
** Game 1 Khurasanian vs Ghaznavid - In Spanish! **
** Game 2 Khurasanian vs Ottoman Empire - In German! **
** Game 3 Khurasanian vs Mongol Empire - In Portuguese! **
** Game 4 Khurasanian vs War of The Roses - In Spanish! **
** Game 4 Khurasanian vs Mongol Empire - In Spanish! **
** Game 4 Khurasanian vs French Ordonnance - In Australian! **
Deep into Day 2 and with European Serin tweeting their approval in the beer garden of the bar opposite the venue, it was time to digest that lunchtime's meal and head back to the table for a matchup against the Spanish Fallen Maestro, Iniaki !
The army of the House of Lancaster during the Wars of the Roses (1455-1487) was a potent and often motley force, drawn together from loyal northern territories and bolstered by foreign allies.
Its structure reflected the feudal loyalties and regional quirks of the time, combining military pragmatism with no small dose of local colour.
Iniaki had opted to bring what I think may have been a new army for him, the WotR Lancastrians, a potentially motley medieval force. In the real world this would almost certainly mean a shed-load of longbowmen and some foot knights all waiting to blunt, and then absorb the charge of anything attacking them, especially if it was possessed of four legs rather than just the usual pedestrian two.
The Wars of the Roses is a list with many sub-options, but it seems to be the Lancastrians that win out and appear most often, I suspect because they can take more of the options than most other sub-lists.
The magic trick in the list is the wide variety of Longbowmen that can be fielded - allowing the commander to bulk up the shooting power without having to fork out the cost of all of the longbowmen being the same top-notch quality.
For Lancaster, this means a mix of Longbow, Longbow Elite, Longbow Sword, Longbow Mediocre, and even Longbow-using Welshmen (if that's your particular fetish I guess).
What it does lack is decent Knights, with only 1 (yes one) Impact Knight in the Royal Retinue and a couple of Impact=free clunky Knights who chances are will appear on foot.
Some Medium, heavy and Light cavalry with lances make a good baggage-hunting pocket-sized force should the enemy get overly-enmeshed in attacking you frontally, and the Irish Kerns give enough Light Foot javelinmen to defend a lot of difficult terrain to secure your flanks as well.
So, with the man from the north of Spain taking the helm of an army from the North of England, it was now time to test my Khurasanian army composition which I believed had been tweaked specifically to better take on exactly such a longbow-tastic army as the one I now would face in the 4th game of the event.
The lists for the Khurasanian and Wars of the Roses from this game, as well as all the other lists from the games at The Worlds in Spain can be seen here in the L'Art de la Guerre Wiki.
With my army invading, the terrain had fallen pretty well for the Lancastrians to set up a defensive position, with fields and a plantation-covered hill defending their flanks as they set out a long line of archers, foot knights, crappy pikemen and other nonsense to await the arrival of what on paper might well be a very mounted army
Even with only a handful of Knights in the opposing army, I still wanted to take full advantage of the rough terrain, and so dropped the Dailami on the right and the main CinC's elephant command on the left to drive through both areas of uneven, and knight-repellent ground towards contact with the enemy line.
This left the Cavalry + Spearmen command floating in the centre, most likely ready to refuse to fight, but poised to strike should the Lancastrians swing out to both flanks and leave their middle thinly held.
At the core of the armies of the House of Lancaster were noble retinues, raised by staunch Lancastrian lords such as the Duke of Somerset and the Earl of Northumberland.
These retinues, bound by oaths of loyalty and a generous supply of liveried jackets emblazoned with the red rose, formed the professional backbone of the army.
Supplementing them were levy troops, commoners mustered from the hills and dales of Lancashire and Yorkshire. These men came bearing bills, bows, and, occasionally, pots of stew.
Indeed, Lancashire hot pot became something of a staple ration for the troops.
Soldiers were known to lug great cauldrons of the hearty dish - lamb, onions, and potatoes slow-cooked into a pungent, morale-boosting mush - on wooden carts from camp to camp.
One Yorkist chronicler complained bitterly of "the foul steam of rebel kitchens" drifting across the battlefield, and jesters of the time joked that the Lancastrians "fought with pike and pot alike."
As the starting gun fired the entire Khurasani army lurched forward, with both wings almost into the terrain before the Northern Englishmen had time even to put down their tea and start up their engines
The theory of chasing down longbowmen with fast moving hard hitting infantry advancing behind a skirmish screen would be sorely tested in this game, especially for this one chap with the Dailami who seemed to have been given rather a lot of arrow-catching to do all on his own!
In addition to their fearsome cuisine, the Lancastrians allegedly employed an elite force of war whippets, trained to dart between formations and harass the flanks.
Though modern historians tend to scoff, popular ballads tell of a particularly valorous whippet named Red Rose Ripper, who unseated a Yorkist scout near Towton and was later "knighted with a bone and a biscuit."
The tale persists in northern folklore and is commemorated each year in an obscure village fete involving whippet races and dramatic re-enactments of canine chivalry.
The Dailami however had no qualms about their task, and forgoing any pretence at subtlety simply raced forward at full speed and ploughed right into the waiting line of Lancastrian longbowmen at the earlies possible opportunity.
Even the Kurdish lancer, almost-hero of the first game was getting involved as the entire right wing of my army took it upon itself to minimise shooting by charging into hand to hand combat, even at the expense of giving up a few overlaps along the way and trusting instead to the ferocity and quality of these Iranian hill warriors to do the business
Lancastrian forces also frequently included foreign mercenaries, particularly Scots and Frenchmen, whose presence added much-needed muscle - and some linguistic confusion - to the field. These mercenaries were often billeted alongside northern levies, resulting in lively evenings of ale-fueled song, heated dice games, and the occasional misunderstanding involving a goose.
On the opposite flank the fields were again alive with the sound of Khurasani medium infantry.
Oh, and elephants as well.
In fact, there were so many compelling and attractive targets in the static Lancastrian army that the Crazed Ghazis had been sent off on their own private killing spree, wading into the end of a line of close-packed Feudal English infantryman even as the elephants and Dailami hogged all of the skirmish screen of Light Foot to help them close in on another line of hapless future victims elsewhere
10 minute WoTR
By now, the wild, falafel-fuelled fury of the Dailami had hurled them deep into the perfumed bosom of the English archer line, their curved blades singing like a muezzin at dawn as they carved a joyous and entirely unsanctioned path through the bow-wielding sons of Lancashire.
The ferocity of their assault, like a camel souk after payday, had torn great rents in the enemy's composure - but in doing so, had also left their own sides flapping in the desert winds.
This, of course, had not gone unnoticed. With the subtlety of a pie-filled ambush at a tavern in York, the unoccupied remnants of the Lancastrian host now began to sidle and creep, oozing around the exposed flanks of the noble Turkic horde like gravy around an upturned dish of couscous.
Sensing the shifting sands beneath their scimitar-slippered feet, and knowing full well that a gaggle of pudding-footed pikemen without so much as a fig leaf of skirmish cover made for a delicious target the Khurasani centre surged forward with theatrical precision.
Elite horse archers, perfumed with oud and righteousness, advanced in disciplined elegance, loosing volleys of arrows with the harmony of a well-rehearsed oud orchestra at a wedding in Nishapur.
The air turned thick with feathered vengeance. Arrows flew like blessings from a particularly irritable imam, each one seeking out gaps in the enemy line with all the enthusiasm of a tax collector in a silk bazaar. The pikemen, so stoic and starchy in their stolid wall of pointy sticks, now found themselves staring up at the sky like confused date vendors caught in a sandstorm of fire.
Perhaps most curiously, some accounts suggest that the Lancastrian command, led by Queen Margaret of Anjou, held "strategic retreats" in the coastal village of Blackpool - though at the time it was little more than sand dunes and seaweed.
Local legend insists that Margaret once convened a war council on the beach, laying out battle plans with a stick in the sand while a minstrel troupe performed a puppet show lampooning the Duke of York.
Though historians dispute the historical basis of this tale, it remains a favourite among Lancashire schoolchildren.
Aided by the ferocity of the Kurdish lancers, the Dailami soon broke through the line of Lancastrian archers on the right, and found themselves almost bereft of opponents.
The disordering effect of freshly ploughed field also gave even the Dailami archers the confidence to step forward and threaten some Lancastrian Foot Knights, although the harshly barked commands of the Dailami general demanding his flank be secured also had something to do with it too.
The other flank was another alley of Lancastrian skittles, with the Crazed Ghazis blatting away their opponents so swiftly that they were able to arrive in time to join in the carnage as the Dailami and Elephants prepared to charge home
Surely the end was now night for this Plantagenet shambles, as the Khurasanians and Dailami ran amok at will all over the tabletop?
The archers and billmen of Lancaster, hardened by years of local feuding and sheep theft, brought a rugged edge to every engagement. Fiercely loyal, they fought not just for crown and cause but for regional pride, a hot meal, and a decent chance to humiliate the soft southern Yorkists.
With the battle nearly done, the last act took place in the centre of the field, as poor quality Tudor pikemen decided that being shot up by Arabianized horse archery was not as much fun as they had been promised back in barracks.
The haphazard medieval foot charged in, and the incredulous and near-victorious Cavalry and spearmen of the Khurasanian centre stood firm.
After a brief round or two of argy-bargy, the curtain fell - the extra casualties the Lancastrians had suffered here had tipped them over the edge into utter defeat, leaving the Khurasani army masters of the battlefield, and rightful Kings of Tudor England !
In short, the historical Lancastrian army (but not this shambolic parody of it) was a mixture of the grimly determined and the gloriously eccentric.
Its strength lay not only in its numbers or noble command, but in its unshakable sense of identity, rooted in red roses, loyal dogs, pungent stew, and the unbreakable spirit of the North.
The Result is an 86-24 victory to the Khurasanians
Click here for the report of the next game in this competition, or read on for the post match summaries from the Khurasani Commander, Sheikh Yabouti, delivered reclining on a richly embroidered divan, under a fluttering canopy of silks, flanked by incense wafting acolytes and a man inexplicably playing a sitar, as well as another episode of legendary expert analysis from Hannibal
Post Match Summary from the Khurasanian Commander
Brothers of the ever-expanding groove of destiny! Once more, the sands of fate have shifted - and look, look upon the soggy fields of defeat where the proud red rose of Lancaster has wilted into a puddle of disappointment and damp socks.
We came, we saw, and we vibed our way to victory. No flanking, no subtlety - just righteous, soulful frontal aggression, the kind that flows from a clean gut, open chakras, and an organic sense of inevitable triumph, man
Now, let the record show - the English stood there in rows, like overcooked asparagus in a foggy buffet. Archers looking confused that their arrows didn't work against sheer belief. Pikemen who held their sticks like they were worried they might accidentally do some gardening.
They were brave, yes, but tragically underfed and emotionally unhydrated. My warriors? My beautiful sun-kissed children of the dunes? They advanced with the grace of a solar eclipse and the confidence of a man who's just discovered a forgotten tub of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food in the palace freezer.
People ask, "Oh Sheikh Yabouti, what was the secret of your tactical brilliance?" - and I say unto them: it was not tactics. It was vibes. And possibly the quinoa. You see, while the Lancastrian lords were gnawing on something called 'hotpot' - a dish apparently designed to punish the concept of digestion - my lads were dining on slow-roasted lamb, honeyed couscous, and ethically-sourced herbal infusions. One must nourish the soul before one nourishes the spear.
And let us speak plainly of climate. My troops train beneath skies of endless azure, their muscles kissed by a sun that whispers encouragement. In contrast, the English train in conditions resembling the inside of a wet sock left on a moor for a week.
Rain that falls sideways. Winds that sound like they're judging your haircut. No wonder they couldn't hold a line - they're perpetually two drizzles away from existential despair.
So rejoice, oh glorious army of Yabouti! We have reminded the world that good sandals, fresh fruit, spiritual hydration, and the ability to chant "make love, not defensive formations" are still mightier than any heraldic banner or lineage of gouty kings.
Tomorrow, we possibly nap. And then - onwards, to wherever the sun shines and the ice cream flows!
Hannibal's Post Match Analysis
Ah, Yabouti - thou sand-drenched whirlwind of overconfidence, thou minstrel of mayhem - once again thou returnest from the field crowing like a rooster in a hash den, claiming some grand and mystic triumph over the House of Lancaster, led by the husk of one who was once a general of merit.
Let us not mince words, my turban-swirling troubadour: this was not a battle, it was a shambling re-enactment of a battle. Your foe, poor old Iniaki, once a titan upon the field, now lumbers about like a gout-ridden mammoth in search of his former dignity. His dice fall with all the menace of autumn leaves, and his strategy, if one may even still call it that, is now more memory than method. Once he rolled thunder - now he drops pebbles.
To beat him now, O Sheikh of Sensory Overload, is as worthy of praise as winning a footrace against a drunken goat. And yet here you are, waving banners, lighting incense, and declaring cosmic insight.
But let us turn to the cost of your "glory." Yes, you won - after charging across the field with all the subtlety of a caravan caught in a sandstorm. Your army, like a stampede of half-baked kebabs, flung itself into battle with no thought of grace or preservation. The Dailami were still chewing breakfast when you sounded the advance.
Your Arab cavalry were still tightening their saddles. And yet forward you surged - not with Hannibalic cunning, but with the breathless impatience of a man trying to finish before the Ben & Jerry's melts.
The result? Victory, yes - but one soaked in unnecessary blood. Your men paid for your haste with limbs and lives that need not have been spent. A more careful general, one with patience and poise, might have wrapped up the foe like a merchant wraps dates: neatly, without bruising. But you? You upended the market stall and danced in the mess.
Thou are a commander who thinks with his sandals. Thou warreth with all the strategy of a sleepwalking juggler. Thy victories leave the taste of burnt falafel - technically cooked, but only just.
And so I say this: congratulations, O Sheikh of the Hastily Done. You have bested an old lion already halfway into the grave, and in so doing, battered your own house more than his. May thy next battle be slower, wiser - and for heaven's sake, may it involve less yelling about "divine rhythm" and "cosmic flow states."
Now go - wash thy hands, tend thy wounded, and take up something less harmful than leadership… like interpretive dance, and we will see you again in thenext game.
Click here for the report of the next game in this competition
Game 1 Khurasanian vs Ghaznavid
Game 2 Khurasanian vs Ottoman Empire
Game 3 Khurasanian vs Mongol Empire
Game 4 Khurasanian vs Wars of the Roses
Game 5 Khurasanian vs Mongol Empire
Game 6 Khurasanian vs French Ordonnance
Or, for our many foreign readers ..
** Game 1 Khurasanian vs Ghaznavid - In Spanish! **
** Game 2 Khurasanian vs Ottoman Empire - In German! **
** Game 3 Khurasanian vs Mongol Empire - In Portuguese! **
** Game 4 Khurasanian vs War of The Roses - In Spanish! **
** Game 4 Khurasanian vs Mongol Empire - In Spanish! **
** Game 4 Khurasanian vs French Ordonnance - In Australian! **
You may also like....
View My Stats for My Match Reports Pages
