Hex24 Bonus - The Winged Hobelars

Sergeant Baldwin was astride his flying mount Pneumatophore, leading a squadron of four troopers in a reconnaissance flight over the broken lands beyond the frontier, when he heard the voice in his head. Smoother than any voice could be if it spoke out loud.

Reprobates. Northeast. Two and a half leagues. Eleven hundred fathoms. Two flyers. Six Elves. Eleven Captives.

Reprobates being a pet name for an enemy formation, more dangerous than Poltroons, less so than Brigands. Leagues being the distance from his position. Fathoms the altitude. The two flyers would be the pteranodons the squadron was tracking. They were fierce reptiles but they couldn't take prey in the air. Couldn't fight an attack from above. The Elves on board would have Sleep memorized, a powerful disabler in ground combat but useless in a high altitude duel, where the wind and the shock of high-G turns would quickly wake a man who dozed off.

But how to rescue the captives? That was the real question, and probably why the slavers felt safe operating in the area when they must have known the Hobelars were near. They smugly assumed the presence of hostages would dissuade the squadron from engaging them in the air.

No. They wouldn't get away this time. He had a plan for that too. 

He thought hard about the Gnome, telepathically calling out the ranges of the minds glowing at the edge of her perception. Hidden in a surface camp to minimize the odds of being spotted, suspended in the harness that kept the weight of her head from bending her spine and crushing her internal organs.

He thought a message for her.

Going forth.

The wind blew through the face of his wooden sallet, freezing the drool that leaked around his tusks at the thought of battle. He ran his enormous tongue over his lips and squinted, looking for the promised foe.

There.

Baldwin raised his fist and the Squadron ascended.

The legendary adventurer Marrow Bone had the idea for a legion of warriors mounted on Pegasuses after he witnessed the Dainty Maids in action, an all-female band of virgin cataphracts who rode unicorns (still active in the Baronies to this day). He was too heavy to ride a flying horse and would have struggled to maintain a good alignment. He gave the job to Saladin the Cave Elf, former mercenary and leader of the rebellion's conventional forces during the downfall of the Hanged King. 

The Winged Hobelars are good aligned, mettle tested on enlistment. Their mounts will not accept anything else. They literally inspire aspiring recruits to be better people. What kid doesn't want to be a flying knight? It also means they refuse to participate in many of the Commonwealth's colonial wars, fighting only for causes that won't tarnish their souls. The Genius Loci considers them dangerous and unreliable because they follow their own moral compass rather than the will of the State. They are trusted with sensitive missions because they are unlikely to betray the Commonwealth for their own advantage.

Saladin stopped contesting elections for the big seat after catching several stress related illnesses. The current leader is the Kobold Foliol, a coward who leads from the rear. He hates being boss because now he feels guilty when people die to protect him. The Hobelars elected him (over his objections) because his plans rarely fail, and he always has a backup if they do.

The weight conscious troopers of the Winged Hobelars wear armor of druid-sculpted fogwood, treated with enchanted algae that fireproofs and hardens it until it stops arrows and bullets like a suit of plates. They clad their horses similarly, in lightweight bardings that protect the underbelly (but not the limbs or wings, which are impossible to armor). Beast and rider alike are outfitted with belts and bits of featherfall, though there are never enough to go around. An unwinged Pegasus may yet be returned to flight with healing magic, or else retained as a stud/dam.

Though popularly depicted as lancers, the Hobelars do most of their fighting with wands, flaming hand bombs and rifles, fighting dismounted as often as from the air. If they have to fight in close quarters they do it like fighter pilots: attack from above with the sun behind you, kill the enemy quickly and get the fuck out fast. Don't get bogged down in a dogfight or you're dead.

Also similar to fighter pilots, AWACS is provided by the Rat King Lazaret, a hydrocephalic Gnome phocomelos. Crippled victims of the Old King's magical experiments, the Rat Kings are powerful psychics. Lazaret can sense the mind of any creature within miles, and telepathically relay the position of enemy forces to squadron leaders across the battlefield. She rides in a flying chariot, pulled by a Pegasus and buoyed with a flying disc, which also carries her driver Chashu the Goblin and her personal doctor Ed, Cleric of the Tree of Life.

The Illusionist Gordy leads the handful of mages in the Hobelars, though the casters are commonly broken up to provide Squadron level magical support. He weaves illusions to distract, hypnotize or disable enemy formations, creating openings for the fighters in the group to attack. The Hobelars are good aligned but that doesn't mean they play fair. The important part of fighting injustice is to actually fight it.

 

Artillery has little role in airborne operations, but is essential in a combined arms fight. The Hobelars maintain a handful of falconets, manufactured by Giff weaponeers from the swamps beyond Isle of Sweat. These lightweight muzzleloading guns can be disassembled for transport and reassembled quickly, screwed together and brought into action for ground operations. The crews stay in the reserve, flying out to the front line to reinforce conventional foot troops who need urgent close range firepower. The Hobelars are ill-liked by the common soldiery, who are left to do the dirty and morally questionable work the flying knights refuse to tarnish themselves with. The artillerymen of the Flying Column and Gnoll battery commander Onesimus have singlehandedly rehabilitated the legion's repuation. His bellowing "pull up your ſockf!" indicates that help has arrived, and friendly troops had better lie down unless they want to be blown away by a prismatic spray of spellwrought grapeshot. 

 

Is there a risk to outsourcing your moral compass to a bunch of flying horses, basing good and evil on how they judge the character of their riders? Cities have burned because the Pegasuses refused to sally forth in their defense. Men suddenly thrown and trampled to death by mounts who deemed them unworthy. Kills that weren't clean, but the troop accepted when the horses turned a blind eye.