[ WP ] All guns and explosives have been banned . People have now resorted to wearing Armour and using melee weaponry or bows .

*Whatever happens, we have got* 
 *The Maxim gun, and they have not* 
 
 -- - 
 
 The din of gunfire filled the early summer air, the whipcrack sound of their passage helping turning the narrow sunken road into a symphony of Hell. Officers shouted orders to the sergeants who then yelled at the corporals who blared them at the poor privates busy pouring on a fusillade at the onrushing foe. Ammunition carriers and stretcher bearers were busy, the two groups taking part in both tasks in an effort to keep up. A pair of ancient machine guns fired like maddened woodpeckers, the guns firing short bursts. ***Brrrrah! Brrrah! *** 
 
 Before their thin line was a field of dead, cut down as if by Death's hand. Trampling over the fallen was another wave of foes, their armor rusting and ugly, their weapons terribly deadly. Above them was raised a foul banner, a totem of sorts to their dark gods. The rotting, limbless corpse of a man hung from a rusted hook, antlers made of iron crudely hammered into his skull. Other skulls dangling from its cross brace some human, some not, others animals'. 
 
 Three times they charge up towards that sunken lane, three times they were repulsed and forced a hideous price in blood. Those in the ranks, twisted feral things, grew fearful, watching hundreds of their fellows be torn apart by the invisible arrows, by *rifles* and *machine guns. * But their leaders, cruel wicked monsters every one grew more confidant. They counted the enemy's guns, watched as the lethal hail of gunfire grew more slow as men conserved precious ammunition. They grew confidant that the next attack would push through and engage the enemy, their greater armor and melee weapons tearing through them like a boar through a naked man. All they needed was one final push. 
 
 Taskmasters reorganized their tattered groups, relying on their reputation and whip to get their charges in line. Already a few thralls had to be made examples of for the others. Their entrails had made excellent food for the warband's wargs. 
 
 -- 
 
 Captain Benjamin Carter, leaning against a worn fence post with his left arm crudely bandaged raised his Pre-Arrival binoculars to his eyes, silently cursing as recalled what the quartermaster had said. 
 
 *Twenty rounds left for each and then they're shooting air. * 
 
 Sure enough, the bastards were working themselves up for a fourth charge, *literally* whipping themselves up into a frenzy. He had just shy of two hundred men in his company, a fifth already dead or wounded by those black fletched arrows of theirs. His boys did him proud but they were farmers, not soldiers. They would evaporate in the face of six hundred orcs. 
 
 `` Lieutenant Peters,'' shouted Carter, `` Get the grievously wounded and the medicos out of here on the double. Walking wounded and support are to head to the line. We're gon na need every bayonet and every man able to use one.'' 

