Dogs Backstory...

Or fluff as it has come to be know (what a terrible term).  For the Yorkshire Open Tournament, background text to support the army was recommneded, points are awarded for it, so I put fingers to keys and typed the following:

Allesandro Pannini looked plaintive and aghast at his Liege.



“But sire, surely you can offer more than this handful of men?!”
 The Grande Vecchio di Montefollonico, Picked over the array of foods before him, a gargantuan feast to befit his bloated, corpulent belly. “I don’t believe you understand me Allesandro.”


“What is not to understand sir? You offer me a troop of Duellists and a cannon and expect me to secure your borders, and against who? If not every foe under the sun!”


Allesandro tossed the map, that Montefollonico had thus far assiduously waived viewing across the decadent banquet. It unfurled to show the hopeless position of the state of Foccacia, beset on all sides by both the hostile interests of border princes and the encroaching kingdoms of Dwarves and Wood Elves, not to mention stranger threats of the walking dead and tribal raiders said to be more horse than man.


Montefollonico gave the map a cursory glance. “You disappoint me boy; whatever talents you may have as a general you lack a businessman’s mind.” He stood up, with some difficulty, smearing chicken grease on his silk robes as he rose. Servants rushed to aid him, whilst others cleared the meat dishes, with avaricious eyes.


Allesandro recoiled a little as Montefollonico approached him, the smell of sweat, the sight of his bulk shifting awkwardly, the sound of his rasping breath as it struggled to escape his pitifully inadequate lungs.
 “When I say I will not permit more of my citizens to die, for the marginal profits of war, I think I am quite clear.” Montefollonico swung an arm around Allesandro, a sudden, brutal weight on his shoulder. “My citizens make me my money by being, alive. By trade, by the pen and the scales, not the sword and the shield.”
 “And how long will that be the case? With a handful of men?” Allesandro retorted.


“A long time.” The Grande Vecchio smiled warmly, in a way that bemused the young prince. He snapped his fingers to a servant and Allesandro found himself presented with a clinking bag.


“You see, it is very simple. Two thousand gold Ducats should suffice. And ensure you keep good accounts.” With surprising power to Allesandro, Montefollonico drew him close to his food stained face. His eyes narrowed. “Don’t find me enemies to fight. Hire them to fight for me.”


He let Allesandro go, and sucked in a gulp of air, along with some of the finest wine in the old world.

“Let my people live. Let my enemies die for my money, hire them.” Montefollonico returned to the table, and picked over the selection of fruits from the Orient.



“Win or lose, there will be less of them to threaten me.”