Path to glory, Narrative play

[Imrillion]

Gday guys! Long time lurker, first time poster. My fiancé and I are starting a path to glory campaign. My eldest daughter decided to have a crack as well and we are logging it all down as a narrative. We've had the first round so far (3 games, one engagement each) we hope you guys enjoy! 

The path to glory has begun... (TLDR skip to the bottom for the results) The free people's of Wilhelm Von Deuterich faced off against the very forrest its self... our campaign story is set in the realm of life. Wilhelm (free guild general)  has consulted an aged seer who has told him of a great alter deep within the forrest, there he may find the answer to his wife's strange illness. (Alters of the gods battle). Wilhelm marshals his forces (10 freeguild crossbowmen with hardened veteran ability) and together with his warrior priest and faithful in tow (10 flagellants) they set off into the woods.

 

Strange whispers and wild forrest creatures made their trek difficult. The crazed mutterings and insane ramblings of the flagellants were a constant nuisance. After 14 days march the party made their way into a large clearing. There they beheld  a dilapidated church to Sigmar, fortified with a tower and 4 strange alters, which were spread out at the very edges of the clearing.

 

Wilhelm and his men had started to make for the church, and the closest alter, that of Resilience, when a thundering crash was heard from the other side of the clearing... a great oak, Amorpha Evergrowth, (tree woman ancient) towered into the air... letting out an other worldly roar, fearsome tree spirits (10 Dryads) tore their way into the clearing! Amorpha and her daughters charged across the field, eager to feed the earth with the warm blooded bodies of their foes! 

 

Wilhelm and his men ran for all they were worth. The priest and flagellants making for the church, Wilhelm and his crossbowmen for the alter. The The Treewoman motioned her staff toward the interlopers, tendrils shot from it, tearing the flagellants apart and moistening the earth with their blood!

 

Wilhelm reached the alter... a strange and twisted thicket surrounded it. On its green and slime encrusted surface rested a sheet of parchment, with no time to read it Wilhelm snatched it on the fly as he and his men made for the tower.

 

Meanwhile the dryads screamed as they threw themselves at the church, the Priest chanted litanies to Sigmar, prayers for safety and protection... the dryads killed yet more flagellants. Try as they might none could wound the blasted spirits, their thick bark turning away even the most determined blows, as the forrest spirits themselves reaped a heavy toll on the stalwart defenders. 

 

Amorpha attempted to join the battle herself but a strange energy kept her at bay... the sickening sweet scent of rot and decay was thick in the air, almost repelling the powerful forrest spirit. She drew on her magic and shielded her daughters as they fought. 

 

From atop the tower Willhelm directed his men to fire on the dryads. He himself felled one with is pistol. The stricken priest and flagellants were in dire need of aid. Hefting his mighty Warhammer, Willhelm dove from atop the tower, landing on the roof of the church, he set of at a sprint, making for an overhang, where the dryads were gathered below, determined to throw himself into the swirling melee, his commanding voice boomed and he ordered the battle priest to make his way to the safety of the tower. 

 

Amorpha found it difficult in the miasma of rot, her magic faltered and her daughters were without her shield. She screamed in anguish as the Brutish human lord fell amongst them, swinging his enormous weapons in deadly arcs. He reeked of contagion and her daughters withered and fell, everywhere his hammer struck. When only 4 of her daughters remained she bade them flee, as the ground opened up and took their boughs back to safety. 

 

Willhelm had purchased a reprieve for he and his men. He had exerted himself and a wet, hacking cough over took him. The flagellants tended to their wounded as Willhelm made his way inside the church. The twang and snap of crossbow bolts could be heard. Launching their deadly payload they gouged deep into ancient wood as the veterans attempted to keep the great beastly oak at bay. 

 

Amorpha slowly made her way back into the woods, occasionally turning to tear the men from the battlements of the tower with her tendril staff. She had failed in her task,

to keep intruders away from the alters and while only one was plundered, Amorpha could not help but feel, with deepening dread, that this was not the last she would see of the interlopers. 

 

As per the rules of the scenario, we ended with a draw. No one was wiped out by turn 6 and neither of us held 3 alters. It was a hard fight and the only thing that kept my men from dying in droves was the fact they hid in the church and wouldn't come out! My general reaped a heavy toll on the dryads and took 4 of them down himself, using his two handed hammer, together with the casualties they had from the flagellants that round they failed their battle shock and all ran. The treelord ancient tried to charge the church 3 times and failed each time, the final charge requiring a 3... Emma (my fiancé) rolled a 2! By which point the dryads were wiped out and Emma decided to try for a draw, instead of risking her tree lord. The last two turns consisted of her shooting and arcane bolting my crossbowmen, whittling them down and them returning fire and wounding her with their bolts. All in all a really fun game! We both got a glory point and a roll on our respective tables. My general got the inspiring presence special rule and Emma's dryads got the deadly special rule. Both of which were very apt, with the toll the dryads took on the flagellants (killing 6 of them) and Willhelm heroically diving in and killing 4 dryads by himself and turning the tide. 

 

[Imrillion]

Second battle in the Path to Glory! (TLDR: Scroll to the bottom) takes place on a fairly sparse board. The set up was two hills, creating a valley on one side, in the beast claw deployment zone, with a realm gate at the center. Other than that we had rolled very poorly for the scenery and that was it...a sparse featureless plane. 

 

The Huskard stroked the matted fur of his stone horn. Four sabers lopped alongside as the massive beast made its way out of the foot hills. Dauðans Kalt (Huskard on Stone Horn) had tracked a mighty beast for weeks, hunting the great behemoth. A female Thunder Tusk of breeding age; she was pregnant and Dauðans was to have her calf for his own. Thunder tusks made for Great War beasts. Her tracks had led him from the great heights of the Draco Teeth mountains, down to the foot hills and valleys below. A strange place for the beast to nest for sure, but as the mighty Dauðans exited the vale he saw why. Stretching out before him was a great plane, where upon it stood a megalithic realm gate. It's crackling eldritch energies warping the very ground around it, flattening it, driving the very life from the area. No trees, grass, or animals. Not even weeds dared to grow in the shadow of the damned, cyclopean, monolith.  There, under its tumultuous energy flows, the Cow had recently given birth. This boded well for the lord of the cold; she would be weak and easy pickings. He removed the hood from his blood vulture, and throwing his arm skyward the mighty avian soared away. To his surprise she didn't dive to attack the cow. For a moment he worried the damnable buzzard had attacked the calf, but what she carried in her talons was far too small. His keen hunters gaze focused for just a second before he realised...she was to dine on man flesh...there were men of Sigmar here. It looked as though his hunt wasn't to be so simple a task after all...

 

Willhelm and his priest had spent days trying to discern the esoteric scrawling upon the decaying parchment. The runes blazed with an all too unsettling green light. Whether this be a recipe for some kind of cure-all, or a tincture for the mind, none could say. Anguish overtook the lord as it did all the men. The thrice cursed forest spores had stricken he and his men with a fever they could not shake. Sore eyes, coughs, weakness and insomnia plagued his band of brothers. They had set up camp far from the edge of the cursed forest, in an attempt to rest and try to discern the meaning of the cracked and crumbling scroll.  On the seventh night, after first making camp, upon the seventh man lapsing into a fever sleep, Willhelm believed all was lost. That was until, with the dawn of the eighth day, his priest came bursting into his tent. 

"My lord, quickly! Come quickly! The men, they awaken...all have seen it my lord! ALL HAVE SEEN IT! Their...their fevers have broken and Praise be to Sigmar they have deciphered the parchment!"

 

Willhelm felt renewed. The fever dreams of his men had set them back on their path. A great arch way, beneath which the blood of a rare beast could be found. This was the first ingredient in the cure for his beloved. 

They marched hard for 7 days and 7 nights. The verdant grasslands, rich with game and fresh water eventually gave way to a blasted and barren plane. In the middle of which stood a realm gate. Reality seemed to buck and twist in flux. He and his men pressed forward. Their pace slow. The forest sickness had taken its toll, though past now it had weakened them. His mighty Warhammer, heavy and leaden in his grasp. He bade his men form up, and directed his priest to do what he could with his faithful... their usual inane ramblings silenced now in the aftermath of the fever. 

 

A shadow passed over head - a great bird of prey swooped down and snatched up the holy man! Unable to fully lift his weight in full plate, the bird still tried to make off with its prey. A talon had pierced his shoulder and the Priest cried out. Willhelm's marksman released a shot from his crossbow, the bolt buried itself deep in the buzzards side. With a shriek, the monstrous avian released the older man.

 

"Father! Are you hurt?" Willhelm's voice came clipped and just a little strained still.

 

"Nay lord, Sigmar's protection blesses me this day!" 

 

The beasts talons were the size of swords. Truly, this servant of faith was blessed to have such a minor flesh wound. 

 

"Form up men, we aren't alone!"

 

The free people formed up and began a desperate run toward the gate.

 

Dauðans dug his great heels into his beasts side, urging it forward, a juggernaut of fat, fur and muscle. His sabre pride took off across the plane. The scent of man pulling them forward. With a bellow he launched his chaintrap at the cow; her cry of pain and terror spoke of a terrible wound, rent in her flank. The mighty lords mount smashed its thick, stony horns into the stricken mother, shattering bone and rupturing internal organs. Dauðans rained blows down upon the cows head, kicking his boot into her rent side. The mother made an attempt to fight off her attacker. Her calf mewling, sensing the terror of the vicious onslaught, even if unable to see it with its new eyes. Her great tusks were unable to fight off the stone horn. Her life's blood was flowing from her in great torrents, weakening her with every second. 

 

"RUN DAMN YOU, RUN!" 

 

Willhelm's orders were hoarse as his men tried to close the gap. The wounded priest and his faithful were desperately charging - nay, flailing - and falling over themselves in an attempt to get to the giant cats, lest they attack their lords flank. Willhelm's crossbowmen let lose their payload, to no avail. The thick hide of the gigantic beasts shrugging off their attacks, mere gnat bites by comparison to the blows being struck in their current battle. 

 

The stone horn reared onto its back legs, its two mighty fore hooves crashed down with full force onto the head of the sluggish mother. With a sickening pop her skull pan was opened and her grey matter mixed with the browns of the barren soil. 

Dauðans bellow of triumph chilled the blood of all who heard it. The sabres broke off from their hunt and ran to the carcass, eager to gorge themselves on the flesh of the ruined cow. The mighty Huskard slid down from his mound, eying the pitiful men only yards away. 

 

"This Dauðans Kill! No touch!"

 

The Ogre lord grasped the big calf and threw it across his shoulders. Mounting his warbeast he simply turned and headed back for his mountain home. 

 

Willhelm cursed. It had been hours and still the cats fed. His men were far too tired to try and fell the four beasts. All they could hope for now was that there would be enough blood left over, after the cats had had their feast...

 

***

 

We decided on "Beast Lair" for our scenario. The game lasted all of 2 rounds. Willhelm and the boys set out at a run, rolling 1's and 2's for my run move. With some amazing rolls from Brigette, her charge doing a full 6 mortal wounds on the thunder tusk and her chain trap doing 3 wounds, the game was pretty much over before it began. Second turn saw my Free company attempt to shoot into the fight but doing no wounds. Second round of combat, Brig finished off the beast and fulfilled  all conditions for a major victory! Poor old Wilhelm and the boys never got a look in! It is almost like the altar of Nurgle is truly having a very real world effect on the free company! 

 

 

 

 

[Thundercake]

pictures pictures!

[Imrillion]

Third battle in the Path to Glory campaign was “The Monolith”. The battle was fought between Emma’s Sylvaneth and Brigette's Beast claw Raiders. Amorpha Evergrowth and her daughters faced off against Dauðans Kalt and his raiders. 

 

Dauðans had earlier taken a thunder tusk calf and had been raising it for use in his army. From this mighty victory the Huskards warband had elected to raise a great statue in his honor! 

 

***

 

Ólafur tightened the tension on his harpoon launcher. The warband had come to the edge of the great wood to erect a statue in honor of their  Huskard. The forest was known for its danger, but the lure of its exotic hard woods was too great. Agnar yanked on the reins of the unruly young tusk . The two brothers, Ólafur and Agnar (thunder tusk beast riders) had been tasked with guarding the construction of the monolith. Their mount was young and brash, eager to assert its dominance. 

 

“Control the damn thing Agnar!” Ólafur snorted at his younger brother.

“How am I to hit anything on such an unruly beast!”

 

“I am trying.” was Agnars retort, his attention fully on set on muscling the unruly adolescent into some semblance of control. 

 

“See how you fare trying to tame such an ornery-"

 

A stirring on the edge of the forest made Ólafur hiss his brother to silence. There, at the edge of the glade, the very trees themselves were moving, tearing their roots from the ground, they lurched forward in a parody of bipedal movement. Their jerky, skittish locomotion belying their great speed. Fearsome forest spirits, comprising wood, darkness, hatred and vengeance, each of which was etched upon their bark in what looked to be a leering humanoid face. 

 

“TO WAR MY HUSKAR! TO WAR!” boomed Ólafur. Agnar kicked his boots into the sides of their young mount, urging him forward. The ornery mastodon grunted and trotted forward, unsure of the foe and even less sure of how to deal with them. Before the beast could decide however the forest spirits had disappeared. The very undergrowth itself embracing them as they melted from site. From the thicket, however, an even mightier threat emerged. A forest lord roared out a challenge to the brothers and raised her staff. Vines shot forward strangling their beast, the tough vegetation tightened in coils around the juvenile thunder tusk, popping joints and breaking bones. Ólafur let loose a shot with his harpoon at the rampaging oak, the tough bark turning aside the deadly spear as though it were a mere twig, thrown by a child. The wood beast let out a deafening roar as it charged and the last thing Ólafur remembered was a sharp pain across his overly vast bulk and then, weightlessness, a strange sensation for an ogre and one possibly never ever to be experienced again. Just as the thought dawned on him... blackness.

 

Amorpha’s daughters emerged from their forest path right on top of the interlopers, those who would despoil their home, those who would take and never give. Upsetting natures balance was a crime punishable by death in Allariels wood, to take so much of the forest and use it to create ugly dead idols was so much worse. These ugly fleshy beasts would pay in pain before their life force rejoined the realm of Ghyran, pain and blood. Salivating cat beasts stalked the edge of the wild wood, where the daughters had emerged. Instinct, a powerful tool, held the cats at bay, unwilling to brave the deadly magics. Amorpha’s daughters could see the great flesh beast working quickly. Huge lumps of stone and hard wood were being stacked in some kind of strange asymmetrical pile. The daughters screamed and charged the beastly thing, anger and vitriol expunging reason, they burst from the undergrowth, with preternatural speed. Half of them clawing and savaging the beast creating the anathema the other half trying to tear down the hideous idol. 

 

Dauðans head snapped around as he heard Ólafur's warning. The tree spirits were angry. The wood was a potent material, strong and full of writhing, twisting life energy. A fitting material with which to erect his idol. 

Dauðans kept working, his stone horn shook its great shaggy head, snorting, sensing the anxiety on the wind. A great crash from behind him heralded the arrival of tree spirits, intent on blood. Their other worldly screams announcing their intent as if they spoke his mother tongue fluently. They were on he and his beast before they could react. Their claws tore deeply into his flesh, renting furrows down to the bone. Everywhere the spirits tore and slashed, Dauðans' blood flowed. His beast snorted and bellowed in rage and pain as one of the daughters tore out one of its eyes, with both hands. The stone horns hooves smashed down, shattering no less than three of the dryads, its mighty horns bisecting 2 more. Dauðans felt a creature on his back, as a sharp wooden appendage burst through his shoulder from his back. The pain was excruciating and the Huskar reached up and grabbed the assailant in his thick meaty hand and tore it free. Taking its legs in one hand and its head in the other, the mystical creature screamed as he began smashing it across his knee, over and over as though she were nothing more than kindling. 

 

Amorpha Evergrowth felt each pull, each tug, each hit her daughters endured. Their rage over the desecrators had turned to panic, yet still they fought. They knew they were no match for such a beast but pressed the attack, praying their mother would come. Amorpha moved her wooden limbs, praying to Allariel for even half the haste of her daughters. The interlopers had smashed and damaged so much. The forest paths that would've ferried her to her daughters in but an instant could not sustain her vast size. Slowly, so painfully slowly, the thicket matriarch ran forward. Her vast bulk crashing into the shaggy beast she had tried to despatch earlier, the rotten fleshy ball of hair screamed as yet more of its sloppy innards spilled onto the ground, nurturing her glade. With a mighty sweep of her hard wood arm she knocked the two riders far into the undergrowth. Without so much as breaking stride she pushed on. Her babies. Half now their original number. Each branch, each leaf, each splinter, she could feel as it was torn from her beautiful delicate daughters. Amorphas face streaked with dew as she hurried, hurried to her daughters rescue. 

 

The wood beasts had been dealt with. Or so 

Dauðans thought. Turning back to his idol, he was infuriated. More of the damned things crawled all over his masterpiece, trying to tear it down. Picking up rocks and logs, he began to crush the tree things against the idol. Their sap sprayed out, acting as glue, helping rather than hindering his work. Two of them sprang for him. One bit deeply into his neck, the other on his back, clawing his eyes. He bellowed for his vulture but the stupid buzzard had flown off, other prey of more importance to its avian tastes.

 

Dauðans tore the dryad from his face, using everything he had, he swung her by the legs, her head smashing against the idol, her sap splattering, her bark shattering. A scream issued from her mid air, cut short with the impact. The neck biter went back for another chunk and her wooden teeth sunk deeply, cutting into his wind pipe. Dauðans thought he was done for, his last moments would be spent gasping for breath, drowning in his warriors blood. Then, a reprieve. His sabres pounced on the dryad, pulling her free from his flesh. The pack animals rent and tore the forest spirit limb from limb. First one leg, then two, the Alpha picked the dryad up by her arm and violently shook her. With a sickening snap her torso and remaining limb flew off and out of site.  

 

Dauðans breathing was ragged. His throat torn open, bleeding from a dozen wounds that would've killed a human twice over, wounds that would almost kill him. Rising, shakily to his feet, he clutched in his mighty hands a huge bolder. With a guttural roar he slammed  the last stone atop the idol, completing his work. Using his beast for support he half limped, half dragged himself away from the forest. The cursed place far more trouble than it was worth. 

 

Amorpha collapsed. Her head rent asunder, her life giving, golden sap, her very life's blood smeared across a dirty rock. Her daughter, her sweet sweet eldest daughter, life snuffed out without even a care, a thought. These barbarians. These despoilers who would come to her home. Rend, tear and destroy, who would then murder and maim her beautiful children. A flying thing, with the stink of those /things/ attempted a feeble attack on her ancient bark. Amorpha hardly noticed. Her essence magically repairing the slight amount of damage sustained from the birds impotent attack. 

 

In her mothers grief she almost didn't feel her daughter, clawing her way to her. Amorpha's anguished cry was a sullen, sad symphony, a tortured soundtrack to the site before her. Her youngest, Thera, body broken as torn, left to her only a single arm and half a head jerkily pulled what was left of her to her mother, terror stricken and afraid. Her mother bent down and picked her up, gently in her massive arms. Dew flowed from her eyes. Her daughters terror was gone in an instant. Replaced with relief and feelings of life, love and protection. No semblance of the spiteful avenging forest spirit remains. Just a scared child, nestled in her mothers arms. Amorpha drew her daughter up and returned to her forest home. All thought of the effigy forgotten, and a seed of hatred planted deep within her breast. She would wipe the flesh things from the face of Ghyran. Her vengeance would know no rest. This she swore in Allarielle's name. 

 

***

 

This was an INSANELY anxious battle. First turn Brig rolled well on her idol roll and got a 7, completing a full third of her idol in one turn.  The dryads used the forest paths to get in range to charge the Huskar General. Emma hadn't thought to use the forest paths to move her tree lord and was focused on trying to kill the infant thunder tusk (who started the game with two wounds, in line with the rules from the last scenario). She shot the infant for one wound. First round combat saw her dryads charge the Huskar and do a massive 6 wounds for 4 in return. Emma failed her battle shock by 1 and so lost half of her unit. Turn two Emma's Dryads tried to roll a 4 plus to destroy the idol but ended up rolling a 1. Brig rolled her idol construction roll and rolled a 6, completing almost another third. During the shooting phase of round two the Huskar tried to attack the dryads with his vulture but rolled poorly and Emma took the wound on her tree lord. Emma charged the thunder tusk with Amorpha and dealt the last wound. The remaining 5 dryads rolled well again and took the Huskar down to one wound. In return he and his mount killed 4. The remaining dryad was killed by a sabre that had charged earlier in the turn.

Turn three opened and Brig rolled an 8 for her build roll and completed her idol. Winning the game with another MAJOR victory!  

 

 

[Imrillion]

4 hours ago, Thundercake said:

pictures pictures!

We are painting our warbands up as we go, there isn't  /much/ to look at but we'll try and get some good shots.

[Imrillion]

Here are the daughters of Amorpha, with one of their Sakura wild woods

[Thundercake]

looking great!

[Imrillion]

Fourth game in our path to glory campaign, TLDR SKIP TO THE END, once again a very quick one. We played "Cornered" with Emma's Sylvaneth the attacker and My free people the defender. 

The master of coin snatched up the purse on his desk. Weighing it in his hand with a precision born of his blood, the Druarden could tell there was more coin than first agreed. 

 

"And ye say ye needing it by mornin?" the dwarf said from the side of his mouth. Chewing on a pipe, thin wisps of blue smoke rose like mournful  spirits from the burning tabac. His craggy complexion seemed to dance and ooze in the candle light. Willhelm had come to the engineers school in the city of Vités Grove. After his run-in with the raiders, he was able to obtain a good amount of coagulated blood from the dead beast. Once again, 7 days and nights of fever dreams followed for he and his men. A  revelation was their gift, upon their fevers breaking, the next component, in the tincture that would heal his beloved, the essence of a forest spirit. Life is a cycle and a rebirth needed a death to fuel it, cycle and balance. In this case, it would be the death of one of the goddess Alariell's children. It was a grave undertaking and not one Willhelm was able to undertake lightly. However his beloved was getting weaker by the day and he would do anything to save her. 

 

The Druarden slipped the silk pouch into his pocket. 

 

"Well bargained and done Son of Sigmar, come dawn, we'll have our best hellblaster and three men to crew her, ready and waiting." The master of coin felt the weight of the coin bag in his breast pocket.

 

"If ye be needing a shire horse to draw your new weapon, we can supply one of those too, for a price of course!" The dwarf’s mouth cracked wide open in the dancing candle light, a parody of both smile and mountain fissure.

 

Willhelm coughed a ball of phlegm into his handkerchief. With a nod he threw another, slightly smaller purse onto the dwarf’s desk and left the office. 

 

"My lord don't DO this!" Father Himler beseeched Willhelm, stress in his voice, worry and exhaustion creasing his drawn features. 

Father Himler had been the Von Deuterich family priest in both war and peace for many years; old when Willhelm's father and uncles were just lads, time hadn't dulled the old priests wits nor stolen the vitality from his wizened frame. 

"We are in service to our lady, her children are holy. We live in a realm filled with life, we praise her and mighty Sigmar with our acts of valour and compassion. To take the life of one of Allariel's children is heresy! I will have no part in it! Nor will the faithful who follow me!” Father Himler's hollowed eyes burned with bale fire. Willhelm stared into them, the priests eyes now nothing more than  black orbs flickering with hatred and malice. Green flames began to lick out from the sockets. The smell of burning rot and putrescence hit Willhelm and he recoiled.  The stateroom of the Local lord, given over to Willhelm for his stay, began to grow hot and moist. Willhelm couldn't breathe; Father Himlers mouth gaped wide, his teeth began to move, each independent of the other, falling from his head. Maggots rained from the holes in his gums, hitting the floor with a wet tap-tap-tap,  writhing and wiggling, slick with pus and blood. Willhelm covered his face, as the sickly green flames from the priests hollow eyes shot higher even and grew in intensity...

His breath caught in his throat and he began to choke, coughing and drowning in phlegm and bile. He closed his eyes against the hideous scene and felt Father Himler firmly patting his back, fear and love evident in his kindly words and actions. He spoke earnestly, softly.

 

"My lord Willhelm, I fear for us, this undertaking, it will not end well. The lady would be better served were you to be at her side. She needs your love, your strength. She doesn't need you chasing fever visions from one side of the realm to the other."

 

Willhelm shuddered, pulling a ragged breath into his tortured lungs. His visions had grown in intensity. The rotten mockery of his war priest was no more - looking now, he simply saw an old man, fearful for a boy he had raised from birth and loved like a son. Finishing off his warm brandy, he pulled the fur closer around his shoulders.

 

"Then I dismiss you from my service, Father. Head back to the citadel and inform my beloved I shall end her suffering soon. If you lack the fortitude to do what must be done Father I hold it not against you. I and my loyal men however must push on, no matter the cost."

 

The slight against both his honour and loyalty were not lost on the war priest. Without further discussion he left the stateroom. Fresh air washing the filth of rot and corruption from his nostrils. 

 

***

 

Amorpha snapped pieces of herself away. Each broken limb sent shockwaves of pain through her ancient body. Where her sap hit the ground, she planted a piece of herself. Where each piece was planted, her golden life energies flowed into it. Pain and suffering, life to pay for life. That was the way of things. A beautiful daughter stood now, gazing up at her mother, a daughter full of life and growth. Amorpha had been growing daughters this way for an age. It had never gotten easier. One would imagine that after millennia, Amorpha would be accustomed to the pain, that it would fade, become familiar the more she did it. The reality was each time she undertook the sacred act of life and renewal, it was like the first. Her limbs would break and tear. Her sap would flow and pain would wrack her oaken frame. Life, perfect life, flows and flourishes, nurtured by growth and the lady Alariell's blessing. Nature is life, both hold a duality, a balance. The growth and life are the light. The pain and sacrifice the darkness. Her beautiful daughters, the product of her love and growth, stand in stark contrast to her sons. In the shadows they dance and stalk. Each one full of malice and spite. Each one barely containing their darkness; restraining, with great difficulty, their madness and desire to rend and tear.  Drawn to the grove, attracted to Amorpha's  hatred and vengeful song, the spite revenants wait and watch. Eager to feel the life blood of their enemies flow, feeding them and the forest both! 

 

Leaves were thrown about as the denizens of the forest scattered. Amorpha could sense the encroaching blight upon her woodland home. The corruption was seeping into the ground with each fetid step the desecrators took. Cold lifeless iron and brittle dead wood rolled along on her fertile soil, a heavy loadstone upon the most sacred of ground. Reaching out through the spirit paths she could see the fleshy corrupt lumps as they made their way to one of their constructs. A cold dark cave, jutting from the ground like a tooth; its stone, iron and brass a direct and ugly contrast to the soft warmth of the nature surrounding it. The flesh beasts, those of Sigmar were a usual annoyance, traveling regularly to and from the cave. These ones were different though. These were the same flesh beasts that had been corrupted by the altar, deep in her wood. The dark place where not even spite revenants frequented. Amorpha's daughters sensed their mothers disquiet. The spite revenants’ maddened excitement suddenly reached a fever pitch. Amorpha opened the spirit paths and together mother and children raced to excise the rot.  

 

***

 

Willhelm and his men set up behind the fences of the church. A church devoted to Sigmar, in a grove devoted to the Lady. This place was the holiest of holy. Willhelm should've felt at home here. Instead, the air seemed too dry. The ground felt hot and burning; through his boots he felt it as an ache and discomfort. Birds sang and deer grazed not too distant from the men. His crossbowmen seemed to have regained some of their vigor with their brief stop in Vieté's Grove city. Many of them wore posey and wooden fetishes around their necks in an attempt to call unto themselves the lady's blessing. A superstitious lot, Willhelm had not told them what they were here to do. For all the men knew they were here to test their lord’s latest acquisition! A Hellblaster Volly Gun! A rare and expensive weapon, requiring three skilled men to properly operate it. Willhelm was delighted when he saw the first volley of shots slam into the wood. Trees shattered and animals disappeared in a shower of splinters and pink mist! Willhelm laughed wet and mirthlessly. 

 

"Very good Heir Geweermeister, very good indeed! And you simply turn the crank and you can do that again?"

 

"That is correct my Lord." 

 

The gun master accepted the praise of his patron, all the while uneasy about causing such destruction in this holy place. 

 

"Then crank away Heir Geweermeister and reload!" 

 

The forest erupted. The tree spirits sang a song of violence. All around, whispers of carnage and torture filled the ears of the free people in a tongue none could understand. Von Deuterich bellowed out the command to hold the line! The men of the hellblaster dialled in their bearing and elevation, they primed their mighty weapon and prepared to fire. A giant oak emerged from the tortured woodlands they had blasted apart with their previous salvo. Crossbowmen, veterans of many battles, loaded their bolts and looked out into the trees. Fearsome spirit things leered back. Maddening, jerking movements, like some kind of nightmare marionettes. A blur of movement and they sank from sight. Another maddening blur and they appeared closer, almost driving the sanity from their minds. Five in all, some kind of fusion between spirit and willow. 

 

"Steady men!" was all the marksman could choke out, his voice wavering in the face of such terror. 

 

Amorpha called up the power of her natural realm. Unleashing it in a bolt of magical energy she hit the leader of the putrid flesh things, sending him flying off into the distance. Using the spirit paths she melted away, only to reemerge  mere yards  from the wounded rot bag. Her sons traversed the paths too, attempting to box in the human from the other side.

 

 

Willhelm rose, unsteady to his feet, half blind and feeling as though his chest had just been smashed open like a ripe corpse. He set off at a shuffling run, trying to evade his assailants. 

Amorpha's daughters, still untested and unsure, moved cautiously through the woodland, shielding themselves in the forest from the monstrosity of iron and dead wood. 

 

"AIM... FIRE!!!!" the gun masters voice boomed. Loud as it was, it was drowned out by the crack and boom of the hellblaster. Three barrels fired lethal lead shot, obliterating 4 of the 5 brothers. Their vengeful spirits dissipated as their wooden bodies were torn asunder.

 

"CRANK!" came the cry of the gunmaster. 

 

The great oaken beast burst forth from the undergrowth, only yards away from their lord. The crossbowmen, buoyed by the slaughter of the mad spirits, aimed their bolts at the Treelord. Losing their payload at the giant target, a full half of their number found their mark. The thick bark of the great daughter of Alariell, hard as stone, easily turned aside the lethal shots. 

 

Willhelm staggered and tried to run. The blast had gained him some time but his wounds and the infection in his chest conspired to hold him back. He dropped his heavy two handed hammer and drew his pistol. He ran, wounded and sick. He didn't even notice as his body begin to heal itself; unnatural energies knitting together bones and repairing his sickly mottled tissues.

 

Amorpha hardly noticed the gnats as they threw their impotent splinters against her ancient armour. What she did note, however, was the way her sons had been obliterated. Cold hard lead balls, tore into them, snuffing out their spark with brutal swiftness. Drawing again on her power, she unleashed her venom and spite upon the human leader once more. Flying through the air he landed heavily on the ground. To Amorpha's amazement the putrid rot thing began to rise. Its unnatural vitality and refusal to die meant that it had truly been marked out as a favoured play thing of the vile god of disease...

 

As the bodies of the revenants were rent asunder, Amorpha's daughters panicked. Fleeing to the spirit paths they sought their mother and in the ensuing panic and confusion they became lost, turned about in the haze and fog of the magical conveyance. Eventually their mothers light shone through and they were able to claw their way to her side.

 

"AIM!" cried the Gun master.

 

Amorpha now knew what that monstrosity was capable of. Unable to see it clearly, she /felt/ it's barrels being levelled at her daughters. 

Not again would she feel the terror and panic of her children's deaths. Not again would she feel the torture of having her little ones snatched away so brutally. Reaching out with her vine staff, she grabbed the rotten man thing. Nature’s tendrils wrapped themselves around him, holding him fast and drawing him to her. Amorpha made good her escaper, signalling her children to break off the attack. Taking to the spirit paths they retreated back to their woodland home. They had the pox marked human leader and that was enough, for now...

 

***

 

A great game! Ending in a win for the Sylvaneth. As was the rules all I had to do was get Willhelm to the table edge. Unfortunately, due to some good rolls, Emma's Tree Lord managed 4 wounds in one turn with her magic and a further 2 wounds with her staff of vines. (For the campaign we are calling the Phoenix stone a "gift of nurgle"  resulting in regen abilities) Using the spirit paths she managed to block my general in and take victory. One really cool part though was where I almost destroyed her entire unit of spite revenants in one salvo from my Hellblaster. 

[Imrillion]

I was finaly able to kitbash a proper Willhelm for our campaign.  

 

I present Willhelm vonDeuterich, Count of the free people, Lord of Vités Grove, and Marshal of the order of the green leaf.