Clash in the Greatwood: A simple Warhost Battle Report

A 650-point Skirmish at Sarission Precision

Saturday at Sarission Precision, we set the table for an introductory battle of Warhost, the fantasy cousin of The Barons’ War. What began as a simple rules demo quickly turned into a ferocious clash between two determined warhosts, one orc, one elven, each led by a mounted commander eager to prove their supremacy beneath the boughs of an ancient woodland.

This is the tale of that battle.

Armies on the March

The Orc Warhost

The orc commander arrived astride a giant mountain wolf, its paws sinking into the loam with quiet menace. At his heels padded a pack of wolf-mounted raiders, lupine eyes gleaming in anticipation of the hunt. His ground troops were no less fearsome:

• A block of armoured warriors, shields battered but unbowed
• A snarling mob of orc spears
• A band of crude yet effective orc archers
• A hulking mountain troll, towering above the treeline
• And finally, an orc shaman accompanied by a group of loyal bodyguards, muttering half-remembered incantations

The Elven Warhost

Opposing them rode the elven commander upon a heavily armoured war-steed, its barding etched with curling script. His own mounted retinue followed closely, poised and elegant even in battle array. His warband consisted of:

• Two disciplined line of elven spears
• Elven archers, bows curved like crescents of polished moonlight
• A mage and his personal guard, confident in their arcane arts
• And an air elemental, drifting above the ranks like a silent stormcloud, awaiting its master’s commands

Both forces met in a broad, tree-choked stretch of the Greatwood a place where visibility was fleeting, but the opportunity for close-quarters carnage was plentiful.

Round One: Into the Woods

The battle began without the slightest hint of hesitation. Both commanders ordered an immediate advance, driving their troops straight into the thick of the forest. Branches snapped, birds scattered, and a tense hush fell as the two armies converged in the tangled undergrowth.

It didn’t take long for steel to ring on steel. Orc spears clashed with elven shields, wolf riders tore through brush to harry the flanks, and the troll bellowed a challenge that startled even the stoic elven horses.

Magic should have shaped the early moments of this engagement, but instead, it betrayed both sides. The elven mage muttered incantations that fizzled to mist, while the orc shaman’s attempts produced little more than a puff of green smoke and a sheepish cough. The forest, it seemed, was unimpressed by their theatrics.

Round Two: A Sudden Collapse

The second round saw the first meaningful shift. With a brutal twist of fate, the elven mage fell in the melee, overwhelmed before he could land a single reliable spell. His guard fought bravely to avenge him, but the magical backbone of the elven force was gone in an instant.

At the same time, chaos erupted along the lines. One group on each side was reduced to a single survivor, broken, bleeding, and ready to flee. Yet the struggle in the centre became the true focus: the two mounted commanders finally found each other.

The orc warlord and his mountain wolf crashed into the elven commander and his barded steed with explosive force. They traded blow for blow beneath the canopy, their duel becoming the swirling heart of the battle.

Elsewhere, the mountain troll stood firm against a full unit of elven spears. Its towering presence alone kept the elves at bay, each of its roars shaking leaves from the branches.

The air elemental drifted ominously, waiting for the moment to strike.

Round Three: The Troll’s Doom

The elves, rallying their courage, surged forward. Though several of their spear-fighters lay dead or dying before the troll’s reach, discipline triumphed over terror. Step by determined step, they pushed through the creature’s mighty swings until it finally toppled, shaking the earth as it fell.

This was a significant blow to the orc warhost, but not a fatal one.

In the centre, the duel between the two commanders ground on. Neither could gain the advantage. The orc warlord’s wolf snapped at the elven steed’s legs, while the champion of the elves landed precise, measured blows against his opponent. Blood was drawn, but still they fought on, defiant.

Meanwhile, the air elemental, answering to no mortal fatigue, swept down upon the armoured orcs and halted their advance completely. They hacked at it uselessly, blades passing through swirling winds.

Magic finally sparked to life at this point, but far too late to change the course of the grind.

Round Four: The Last Survivors

By now, the battlefield was scarcely recognisable. Warriors from both sides lay strewn across the clearing, and the forest floor was churned into mud beneath fallen bodies. Only a few broken units remained, watching as their leaders fought out the final moments of the battle.

The two commanders, exhausted and wounded, circled each other amidst the carnage. Their remaining riders were down, their units shattered, their strength nearly spent.

One last exchange of blows, one last rally of defiance and then both leaders paused, weapons lowered ever so slightly. They looked around at the ruin of their forces and silently acknowledged the truth: There could be no victor today.

With mutual respect, and perhaps a measure of relief, the commanders stepped back, each signalling a withdrawal. The battle ended not with a final triumphant charge but with a weary, honourable stalemate.

The soldiers who survived limped away into the woods. The air settled. Magic had finally worked just in time to be irrelevant.

Conclusion

For what was meant to be an introductory skirmish, the clash became a memorable bloodbath. Both players learned the rhythm of Warhost quickly, discovering just how brutal and close the system can be when forces collide head-on.

A draw felt like the perfect ending: dramatic, hard-fought, and leaving both armies thirsting for a rematch.

Epilogue I: The Orc Warlord

The giant mountain wolf padded silently through the underbrush, its massive shoulders rising and falling beneath the orc warlord as they made their retreat. Behind them, the remnants of the warhost trudged in a ragged line, fewer than half who had marched into the fight.

The warlord kept a tight grip on the wolf’s fur, his arm still bleeding where the elven commander’s blade had found its mark. He replayed that duel again and again in his mind. Never had an elf stood toe-to-toe with him for so long. Never had one survived it.

He looked back at the battlefield one last time before the forest swallowed it from view. The troll’s fallen shape still loomed in his memory; the beast had fought well, but it had not been immortal. Nothing was.

A growl rumbled in his throat. This battle had proven something: the elves were not untouchable, and he was not yet beaten. His shaman muttered that the flow of magic had failed them, but the warlord dismissed the excuse. Magic was a tool. Strength was truth.

They would return. Next time with more wolves, more steel and a grudge sharpened to a killing edge. In the whispering dark beneath the trees, the orc warlord began to plan his revenge.

Epilogue II: The Elven Commander

The elven commander rode in silence, his gleaming steed picking its way carefully along a moonlit forest trail. Few of his riders remained at his side. The loss of the mage weighed heavily on him; the young spellcaster had been promising, perhaps even brilliant. His absence was a wound deeper than any blade had delivered that day.

He exhaled slowly, scanning the shadows. Somewhere behind them, the orcs were retreating as well, but he knew this was no victory. It was a reprieve, one granted by mutual exhaustion rather than triumph. The duel with the orc warlord had been a harsh lesson: brutish though the creature was, it possessed cunning and raw prowess that few enemies could match.

Still, the commander did not despair. The elves had stood their ground. The air elemental had shielded them. The spears had brought down a troll that would have shattered lesser warriors. Even in death, his troops had proven their resilience in the Greatwood.

As they reached the outskirts of the woodland glade, the commander paused and looked toward the distant mountains, to the Gate from which the orcs had come.

“This is not over,” he whispered, though whether as a promise or a warning even he did not know.

He would gather scouts. He would speak with the elders. He would train harder, sharpen his blade, and study the warlord’s style until he could picture each brutal stroke as clearly as the memory of his own.

Underneath the trees he had survived this day. He intended to ensure he would survive their next encounter.