The European Serin On Tour - Part 6
Open Period ADLG at The Worlds in Spain 2025
Khurasanian vs French Ordonnance - In Australian
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! **
The Khurasani mob’s never-endin’ saunter through the crusty ol’ corners of history — from ancient times to the tail-end of medieval punch-ups — was finally wrappin’ up, thank the footy gods! Just in time too, ‘cause the pub across the road was starting to panic about whether they had enough cold ones for the weekend rush.
With three bonzer wins, a cheeky draw and one stinker of a loss, I reckon I was sittin’ pretty — right in that sweet spot where a final round win might've nabbed me a podium nod. But not high enough that I'd have to lug some gaudy trophy home in me carry-on, only to get barked at back home: "That hideous thing’s not goin’ anywhere near the mantel, ya muppet!"
Final round, right? Up walks a Medieval army led by none other than ol’ mate Shaun Drummond — legend of the Antipodes, hailing from either Straya or Kiwi-land (look, mate, we can’t tell the diff either, they all say “bro” and love a meat pie).
Turns out Shaun's army was the same French Ordonnance setup he probably, maybe, definitely used to win this shindig last time. Everyone knew the drill: a big, chunky wall of blokes with crossbows, pokey sticks, and a couple of armoured galahs on horseback who just sat there, soaked up the punches, and somehow still came out smilin’ like Alf from *Home and Away* after a pub lunch.
The French Ordonnance-era army, cooked up during the tail-end of the Hundred Years’ Pub Brawl and locked in by old King Charles the Lucky Sevvie back in the 1440s, was basically Europe’s first crack at a pro footy team with swords.
Out went the backyard feudal slugfests, in came the Compagnies d’Ordonnance — proper knightly units, kept sharp and paid well (unless the royal piggy bank was tied up building another oversized church or buying wheels of cheese bigger than a dingo’s ego).
Backin’ ‘em up were the francs-archers — part-time blokes drafted from the provinces. They were meant to be elite, but mostly they just turned red in the sun and ducked out for cheeky wine breaks like extras from *Neighbours* on strike.
So here I was, staring down a Medieval army that was basically built to say “oi, cavalry — not today, champ.” And funnily enough, that’s exactly what my lot was trained to deal with. So I was feelin’ cautiously chuffed, despite bein’ more worn out than a pair of thongs in a heatwave after six games and four nights on the sauce.
If you’re keen to peek at the full lists for both the Khurasani and the Froggy Ordonnance gang from this barney, or check out every other mob at The Worlds in España, have a stickybeak here on the L'Art de la Guerre Wiki.
The terrain draw? Mate, it was rougher than a roo’s backside. The Australo-French pulled a coastline onto me left flank, tightening the pitch like someone tryin’ to squeeze into last year’s budgie smugglers. And then — strewth — they plonked a swamp right in front of my deployment zone, makin’ it harder to get goin’ than a tradie on Monday morning.
To make matters worse, Shaun had chucked in a beefy Swiss ally smack bang in the middle of his line. Way tougher than the dodgy mob of average pikemen, longbow larrikins, and wannabe knights flappin’ about on either wing.
Now, look — some obscure scrolls (mostly written by bored monks or blokes who’d had too many meads) reckon the French army went pro ‘cause of one chaotic run-in with a bunch of loony diplomats from this far-off land called “Australie.”
Legend says these red-faced weirdos rocked up in Marseille, hats full of corks, and immediately challenged the local garrison to a punch-up, a frothy-drinking contest, and a BBQ showdown — prawns and all. No hello, no bonjour, just, “Oi mate, reckon you can out-wrestle me after I burn this shrimp?”
The poor Frenchies didn’t know what hit ‘em — these blokes rode in on kangaroos, called every officer “cobber,” and insisted on cookin’ seafood mid-battle like it was MasterChef: Gaul Edition. And that, apparently, inspired the French to professionalise. Fair dinkum.
Faced with a right dog's breakfast of a battlefield layout, I figured the best way forward was to send me Elephants and the good ol’ cavalry/spearmen combo legging it down the open right flank, while the Dailami – tough as a roo's kneecap – hoofed it across the paddocks by the coast.
Reckon they'd end up punchin’ on with some Longbow Sheilas, which seemed like a fair go.
Only trouble was, that massive marsh in the middle of the park turned the whole thing into a logistical nightmare, mate – like tryin’ to herd dingoes through a drive-thru. Napoleon himself would've thrown in the towel and demanded a set of traffic lights and a lollipop man just to sort it out.
To spice things up, I sent the Crazy Ghazis on a scenic route out to the flank – hopefully to link up with the cav and give the Frogs a good pasting.
Meanwhile, the Dailami and the trunk-wielding big fellas were left to nibble away at one end of the Swiss cheese block in the middle to keep ‘em busy, like Alf Stewart babysitting a bunch of rowdy schoolies in Summer Bay.
But the cheeky baguette-munchers weren’t just gonna sit back and admire my plan like it was Margot Robbie rockin’ up with a pavlova.
Nah, the slippery so-and-sos started shuffling their Longbowmen, Knights, and those second-rate Pikemen around like they were playin’ two-up at the RSL on Anzac Day.
Next thing you know, me Crazy Ghazis – who thought they’d signed up for a bit of light spearwork and bow-dodgin’ – were staring down a wall of Knights with more attitude than Paul Robinson after three Negronis.
Over on the other side, the Dailami were makin’ progress slower than Harold Bishop on a treadmill.
Reckon they were still a bit narky about being sent headlong into cannon fire in the last game, and now they were stuck trudging through coastal farmland like extras in *McLeod’s Daughters*.
To make matters worse, the Frogs had pulled a sneaky one and shifted their units around – the cheeky Gallic galahs – so instead of lining up to cop a hiding, they’d cleverly positioned their best troops somewhere less smashable. If that ain’t unsporting I dunno what is, mate.
Now, in a bit of historical trivia ignored by most sober historians, it’s said Charles VII saw this Aussie-style chaos and was dead impressed. Inspired by blokes who could wrestle a croc, crack a cold one and still shout “ya flamin’ drongo!” mid-charge, he rejigged his whole army.
What he got was cavalry who hit like a tonne of bricks and knew exactly how long to grill a shrimp before flipping it. Bonzer innovation, that.
Realising my army looked like someone had dropped a salad out of a moving ute, the Swiss and their fromage-loving pals decided to make hay while the sun shone. They moved in quick, giving me mob no time to pull themselves together.
Somehow I’d ended up with all the worst matchups since Scott and Charlene’s wedding playlist. And me mighty Elephant & Dailami death star was still on the drawing board, cobber! You know how this flick ends – spoiler: Alderaan doesn’t make it.
Out by the coast, the Dailami were stranded like Neighbours extras after the network pulled the plug – stuck in farmland, copping longbow fire and not game to step out onto open ground for fear of being flattened by some Ordonnance bloke on a shiny horse.
The French handgunners had started sledging ‘em from across the field – real cheeky-like. Trouble was, the Dailami didn’t speak baguette, so all the cutting insults probably just sounded like someone trying to gargle cheese.
Some units even trialled special helmets with dangly corks – supposed to keep flies outta their wine, but really just made ‘em bop each other in the noggin during drill.
French siege blokes started begging for Castlemain XXXX in the field, but all they got was wine that tasted like eucalyptus and homesickness.
With about as much room to manoeuvre as a surfboard in a bathtub, it was finally time to throw hands. The Khurasani boss told the Elephants and the Dailami to have a go, ya mug – even if they were only overlapped on one side, that was a win in this trainwreck.
And so, with a battle cry of “strewth, let’s just get stuck in!”, the Elephants charged, the zupins flew, and the tactics were tossed in the bin like last night’s fish and chips.
No finesse, no frills – just pure, flamin’ biff.
Companies d'Ordonnance
So, the first skirmishes were a bit of a mixed bag—Swiss copped a fair floggin’ from the Dailami’s thunderous charge, but the elephants got bounced back by a solid wall of Swiss pikes, like a roo hitting a barbed wire fence.
Meanwhile, the Khurasani spearmen jumped headfirst into the fray against some pretty average French pikemen and Francs archers, but it was mostly a spit and polish affair—markers popped up showing they copped a pasting early on.
The Khurasani horse mobs were just circling like lost flies, itching to get stuck in but waiting on their mates—infantry and elephants—to bust open some holes for ‘em to slip through and kick up a stink.
Sniffing a bit of daylight in the French line — which was about as straight as a drunken emu’s waltz — waves of Arabized Iranian cavalry suddenly charged forward to help their footy mates by creating some gaps and overlaps where they could.
Out on the wing, light horsemen who’d learnt their tricks out in the dusty desert sands were dancing rings around the French Noble blokes, giving ‘em the ol’ razzle-dazzle with fancy moves and bow-and-arrow antics that, fair dinkum, were more bark than bite. So long as those Knights stayed outta reach, the cavalry reckon they’d done their job right.
The Francs-Archers, who were a bit iffy about all this at first, quickly warmed up after discovering their secret weapon: kangaroos! Turns out those jumpers could kick siege doors clean off their hinges and were way less hassle than horses.
True, saddling ‘em was a nightmare and they loved a good scrap with their riders, but they added a fair bit of bounce to the French battle plan.
But the real action came from the Khurasani Spearmen—the unsung battlers, the rock-solid blokes everyone leaned on who suddenly had a crack at landing the first big hit… and copped a stinker right back.
A chunk of the spearmen surged forward to bash the French Francs Archers on the right flank, but the rest of the mob went belly-up under the pressure of the French mercenary pikemen. Those pikemen had a secret weapon: (checks notes) “longer sticks than us.” Fancy that! And with that, the tough-as-nails Arabized spearmen folded and legged it.
Still, with clouds of horsemen now hovering near the front lines and more Francs archers in the sights of the classic “Medium Foot vs Mounted in the Open” showdown, it was looking like there might be a real chance for a cavalry breakthrough right into the guts of the Franco-Swiss mob!
And so, while the Ordonnance mob’s legacy is all about military discipline, centralisation, and early pro moves, you can’t rule out the fair dinkum chance they were influenced by a proper Aussie way of thinking: never go fightin’ on an empty belly, always chuck on a hat, and if the other bloke’s got a bigger lance, just hop away and sling a boomerang at his captain.
But that breakthrough was gonna depend on the rest of the Swiss crew staying busy, distracted by the Dailami and the elephants the Khurasani boss had sent out.
Sadly, this was the exact moment when all those units, supposedly the best pike killers on the block, threw in the towel, wiped out by sheer exhaustion after completely failing to break the spirit of a pike formation the likes of which they’d never seen, and sure as heck didn’t expect to meet today.
Keen to show that they—the Allied Dailami—were braver and nobler than their money-grabbing cousins, these zupin-waving warriors finally cracked the code past the French Knights and burst out of the fields to smash the right end of the Swiss line!
They’d learnt their lesson from the middle and teamed up with their own skirmishers, moving together like a pack, ditching their usual hit-and-run routine to start hassling the flanks and really muck in with the main fight on that flank.
Out on the far-flung flank, where the sun hung low and looked as dodgy as a kebab at midnight, the Khurasani cavalry squinted through the dust and the chaos to spot the looming doom: the Swiss.
A pikemen wall so thick it could stop a ray of light, like a forest full of cranky clockmakers, grim as a roo in a snake pit, now free from their earlier scrap and clanking toward the main action faster than tax day rolling in.
Realising their chance was running out quicker than a scared goat on a tin roof, the Noble Ghulams—paragons of style, turbans all askew from excitement and moustaches sharp as a tack—threw themselves into the shrinking gap in the French line.
Ahead of them, like a startled pheasant in a vineyard, sat a lone bunch of English longbowmen: isolated, looking lost, still deciding whether to shoot arrows or ask for directions.
Now was the time.
The Ghulams charged—hooves pounding, silk banners flapping like the gods’ washing on a windy day, war cries ringing out in seven dialects and at least two tunes—deadset on smashing the fragile English knot before the Swiss pike hedgehog could shut the door for good on this ripper patch of chaos.
If they pulled it off, crikey, the back end of the French mob—full of cooks, clerks, and bored junior heralds—would be left wide open to the Khurasani horsemen, who reckon "causing havoc" is basically in their DNA. There’d be plunder, panic, and maybe even some poetry thrown in for good measure.
But it was a race: noble horses versus ticking Swiss precision. Glory or getting skewered—no mucking about, no room for slip-ups, and zero patience for baguette-wielding resistance.
But the tough-as-nails French archers had other plans—same goes for the rest of the French mob too.
Standing their ground, those longbow blokes gave the Khurasani Ghulams a fair dinkum wallop when they tried to charge with their lances.
Meanwhile, the relentless Swiss kept up their grim work, smashing everything the Dailami and Khurasanis chucked at ’em.
The messy attacks, made worse by the tricky battlefield terrain, and multiplied by the unexpected toughness of the Swiss centre in the French line, proved just too much for the knackered Khurasanis and Dailami. They copped a second drubbing in the tourney, no two ways about it.
The final score? A crunchy defeat, which, if the tables had turned, might’ve seen me sneak into a tidy 4th place overall. Ah well, ho hum…
Click here for the post-match yarns from Sheikh Yabouti, coming to you live from a Psychedelic Beanbag near a Burned-Out Incense Brazier. Picture the Sheikh swaddled in tie-dye robes, rocking mirrored sunnies and a battered tambourine, lounging sideways under a fluttering banner of the All-Seeing Eye of Cosmic Logistics, while behind him a scruffy sitar quartet mournfully riffs on Tubular Bells.
Plus, there’s another ripper episode of legendary expert analysis from ol’ Hannibal himself.
Post Match Summary from the Khurasanian Commander, Sheikh Yabouti
Brothers and sisters, groovy kids of the sun and steppe—today we’re not celebrating a win, nah, it’s what the French call a moment de merde. Yeah, yeah—the battle didn’t swing our way. But before you start pointing fingers at your humble Sheikh, ask yourself: was it me? Or was it that bloody marsh?
Have you seen that marsh? Seriously, who plonks a swamp smack-bang in the middle of the battlefield? That wasn’t terrain, mate—that was a bloody energy sinkhole. I rolled out the troops with vision, with groove, a celestial plan cooked up while spinning a lost Tangerine Dream tape.
But that stinky little bog, that dodgy salad bowl of reeds and misery, busted the flow of my formations. My cavalry couldn’t even gallop—they just squelched around like wet laundry on a line. And don’t get me started on the Dailami—they’ve officially filed a complaint with the cosmos.
And let’s not forget the ultimate betrayal: the French bringing in Swiss mercs. Swiss! No heads-up, no warning note, not even a psychic whisper to say we’d be facing a block of uncannily efficient blokes who fight like cuckoo clocks full of knives. You can’t prepare for that kind of cold-blooded punctuality. My mystical groove — powered by Cherry Garcia and a loop of Yes’s Close to the Edge — had zero warning. Just trees, horses, and one very unhelpful baguette.
Now I know what some of you are thinking: ‘Oi, Sheikh Yabouti, didn’t you just charge headfirst into a defensive line built to soak up frontal assaults, without trying to suss out the flanks?’ And to that I say: mate, it was a bloody long morning. I hadn’t done me breathing exercises. My aura was as cloudy as a Melbourne winter.
And their army? Deadset boring! All shields and halberds just standing still. That’s not fighting—that’s architectural stubbornness. I hoped to outmanoeuvre ’em with groove and flair, but truth be told, I kinda hoped they’d get bored and wander off. Turns out the Swiss don’t wander off. They dig in and multiply.
So yeah, the day was lost. But not the spirit. Though we got out-organised, out-defended, and out-catered (those cheese carts were downright intimidating), we’re not out-funked. From the ashes of this square defeat, we’ll rise again—refreshed, rehydrated, and maybe packing gear that’s not allergic to wetlands.
Meanwhile: meditate, hydrate, recalibrate. And if anyone spots the camel I rode in on, tell it I didn’t mean to yell. The mushrooms were kicking in at the wrong time.
The Sheikh leans back, pulls a kazoo from his sleeve, and starts a solemn rendition of "Shine On You Crazy Pikeman" as the troops try not to notice the French carting off their banners.
Hannibal's Post Match Analysis
O Sheikh Yabouti, you perfumed juggler of half-baked plans, you sherbet-sipping sage of sideways glances and dodgy manoeuvres! Again you give me a battlefield not strewn with your enemies’ corpses, but your own shattered overthinking.
This French defeat was a self-inflicted corker. Your army—crafted (surprisingly well for once) to smash slow-moving foot sloggers like the Ordonnance—ended up exactly where it didn’t want to be: opposite pike-wielding hay-balers and their smug Swiss bean counters. And what did you do? Unleash the fury of your Dailami? Trust your Arab horsemen to skirmish ’em into the dirt?
Nope. You stared at a marsh—a bog, a puddle, a watery pain—and decided to outwit not your foe, but yourself. You split your force like a bloke sawing through his own saddle. You redeployed like a cat trying to repark a camel. You confused your troops, your enemy, and probably the gods, with your corkscrew logic and jazz-inspired moves.
Result? Predictable. Defeat, not by enemy genius, but by your own internal combustion of overthinking. You were beaten in detail, like a shopping list forgotten aisle by aisle.
Had I, Hannibal, been in charge—and the gods weep I was not—I’d have marched the Dailami through that marsh, heads high, boots soggy, spirit on fire! Boldly, or maybe sent a flank march with the calm that an army of foot soldiers can’t split thinner than a Swiss ham slice. Boldness, Sheikh. Simplicity. You confuse it with recklessness ’cause you can’t tell elegant force from chaotic flailing.
And now, as this woeful campaign ends, I ask: what made you bring an army built for cutting spearmen and pikemen to a shindig where almost everyone else was mounted and mobile? Read the enemy list backwards? Trying for irony?
Your two losses—both born not of better generals but your own missteps—could’ve been wins. But you drowned ’em in a syrup of ambition and bad calls, like ruining good couscous with Ben & Jerry’s ice cream.
So I’ll take my leave, Sheikh of the Sandblasted Synapse. Next time you seek greatness, find clarity first. Sometimes the straight road wins, while the winding one leads only to humiliation—and a marsh.
Six foes faced. Two battles lost by your own hand, like a chef burning soup. The rest won—but few truly worthy of the prize. Next time, Sheikh of Sunglasses and Self-Sabotage, bring an army for the opponents you expect. And maybe leave the Ben & Jerry’s in the baggage train—clarity, not caramel, is the first ingredient of conquest!
Hannibal's Rating of the 6 Opponents in this Campaign
1. The Mongol Khan (First Encounter)
"He who fights by shooting and scooting."
Fair go, credit where it’s due — the bloke’s cavalry never really got stuck in, just galloped around like roo on a hot tin roof with longbows. The Khan’s still kept the ancient Mongol art of not actually fighting but somehow (almost) winning. It’s like trying to chase a croc by yelling at it to bugger off. That Yabouti’s dreamt-up game plan mucked him about? More luck than smarts, mate.
Hannibal’s Verdict: A shadow from the past — still quick as a whip, still scared of a proper scrap.
Rating: ★★★★☆
2. The Ottoman Trickster
"Hill-hugger. Ambush-recycler. Tactical one-trick pony."
This fella’s been hiding behind hills and jumping out on folks since before the Sheikh even grew his first bushy beard. But like a kangaroo with short-term memory loss, Yabouti still got caught napping. The Ottomans earn points for sticking to their guns, but honestly, it’s more about their opponent’s blind spots than any cleverness on their part.
Hannibal’s Verdict: As fresh as a rerun of ‘Waltzing Matilda’ at the local pub — but it works, no worries.
Rating: ★★★★☆
3. The Mongol Khan (Second Encounter)
"Now with even fewer actual soldiers!"
This wasn’t a battle so much as a bizarre bush doof. The Khan sent out hostages, prisoners, maybe even the bloke who runs the barbie — all while keeping his cavalry well clear of the fray. The Sheikh claims a win, but against what? A bunch of scared captives and some horsemen looking like extras from a dodgy Aussie Western? Winning here’s like beating a galah in a staring contest.
Hannibal’s Verdict: Not so much a fight as a masterclass in ghosting the action.
Rating: ★★★☆☆
4. The French Ordonnance with Swiss Attachments
"Now with more Swiss! And more marsh!"
A capable but dull opponent — a big square of pikemen, a grumpy hill, and a boggy mess right in the middle. Yabouti outsmarted himself and led his mob straight into the French grinder, sliced and diced like a cheap snag roll. But the enemy? They weren’t doing much beyond standing there, all Gallic grumbles and stiff upper lips, while the Sheikh’s lot tangled themselves up in knots.
Hannibal’s Verdict: Like a stale meat pie left out in the sun — tough and not worth the fuss.
Rating: ★★☆☆☆
5. The Ghaznavid General
"Cautious to a fault, and to several minor inconveniences."
This bloke wouldn’t cross a creek without at least three blokes doing risk assessments and a quick squiz at the weather. Leaned on the terrain like it was his mum’s doona, and got completely thrown when the Dailami showed some fight. Yabouti’s win here? About as impressive as a flat stubby at a BBQ.
Hannibal’s Verdict: Mistakes standing still for being unbreakable — rookie error.
Rating: ★★☆☆☆
6. Iniaki of Pamplona (Fallen Star Edition)
"The once-great, now dice-cursed."
A proper tragedy down under the Iberian sun. Iniaki was once a top bloke — now he’s just sighing at bad dice rolls and watching his archers get mowed down by Khurasani enthusiasm. Smacking him now’s like winning a footrace against a sleepy wombat. Yabouti’s crowing about it is a bit like bragging you caught a yabbie in a dried-up creek.
Hannibal’s Verdict: Once a lion, now a wet galah caught in the rain.
Rating: ★☆☆☆☆
That's the end - so why not go back to the Match Reports Index and read some more reports?
You may also like....
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! **
View My Stats for My Match Reports Pages
