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Found 8 results

  1. I have officially completed the first Efengie Campaign Book! This is the culmination of about six months of running themed Age of Sigmar events at my FLGS. It came about because I was creating battleplans for the monthly Age of Sigmar Game Day (like a tournament, but more casual) at my FLGS. In order to establish a narrative and give the events fun story-oriented stakes, I decided I would write a fluff piece after each event to describe what happened, and slowly flesh out the ongoing story of our not-quite-campaign. Efengie was the old tongue-in-cheek setting for my local store's Warhammer Fantasy campaigns, which we ran on a regular basis for roughly 10 years before Age of Sigmar was released. The store owner drew the original map (I drew this one myself) based on the layout of the store, which resulted in us having locations like Fort Snack, and Mount Cola. The Port City of Bludor was literally a blue door that was adjacent to a particularly flood prone area of the back storage area. Some, like the Trade City of Register or the cities of North Couch and South Couch didn't make the cut because they were a little too silly. I have given that setting a makeover to find it a home in Ghyran. This book includes five battleplans built on the framework of Warhammer World's Clash of Empires. It includes two new Time of War rules representing the Vale of Efengie as well as the Gates of Eucebium, a ring of ancient Realmgates erected by the Wanderers. It has plenty of fluff and photography from the events to round it out, and also includes a Map Campaign for use with the General's Handbook map campaign rules. Enjoy!
  2. This is the same story posted earlier but I can not seem to edit mistakes I caught on subsequent proof readings. So here is an edited version with some grammer and readability improvements. Alarik stepped out of the realmgate onto the soil of Ulgu, his retinue close in step. Having so recently been among the purifying light of Sigmar's kingdom, the sudden and complete blackness of Ulgu blinded him. His eyes desperately grasping for light as they struggled to adjust. After a few moments he could make out some blurry shapes within the small halo of ghostly violet light emitted by the realmgate. The blasphemous realm immediately wore on his nerves. The shimmering white and gold armor of Alarik's host had so often seemed to him a radiant manifestation of Sigmar's fury. In the deep darkness of the shadows realm however the glittering armor and shimmer of storm infused magic of Alarik's host seemed little more than a dim candle in a vast, uncaring night. As Lord Relictor Balhoth stepped from the realmgate Alarik's eyes had adjusted as much as could be expected in such a place, and he peered back to meet Balhoth's gaze. Balhoth looked somehow more powerful in this domain. In a realm that so drained Alarik with its hidden and wretched nature, Balhoth seemed to emit an aura of hidden arcane potency just out of tangible sight. "How fitting for a dark and brooding land to welcome such a dark and brooding man, how dramatic." Alarik scoffed to himself. Despite Alarik's distrust and subtle mockery of the macabre nature of the Relictor, Alarik could not deny the power of his presence. Like most Lord Relictors, Balhoth was adorned from head to toe in dark Sigmarite armor, adorned with bones and sinister looking charms. Grandiosely segmented into gold trimmed plates forming a formidable aegis around each limb of Balhoth's towering figure. The suit of armor was crowned with a menacing skull masked helm the expression of which seemed to both embrace and mock the threat of death. For a moment Balhoth's pale, skull visaged helmet appeared to glow with an ethereal light which defied reason in so dark a place. In contrast to the ghostly countenance of his helmet The Lord Relictor's black armor plates seemed darker and reason was betrayed once more by Balhoth's appearance as tendrils of black mist appeared to leap chaotically around Balhoth's silhouette. A disturbing aura of death and night that licked hungrily at the darkness that enveloped the Stormcasts. The dark and deathly aspect Balthoth had been possessed by frightened Alarik. A feeling he had all but forgotten since his reforging. Alarik feared he was about to witness the betrayal of the Lord Relictor at the hands of some terrible gift of power and madness granted by Ulgu itself. Alarik squinted, focusing more intently on the Lord Relictor. Alarik hoped to will Balhoth into a less blasphemous form of existence. As equal measures of fear and anger grew in Alarik, his attempt to focus on Balhoth and center his thoughts seemed to work. To Alarik's surprise and relief the shadow tendrils and ghostly glow of Balhoth's mask began to disappear and Alarik immediately began to distrust his senses in this world. "What a wretched place." Alarik cursed aloud, still facing Balhoth. "I met no resistance coming through the gate Balhoth and it worries me." "I expect frontal assault is not the way of this realms denizens." Balhoth offered in reply."I know little of this realm Alarik but I fear we may miss the brutal honesty found in the frontal assault of a Khornate horde." Balhoth continued grim but resolute."None have returned from this realm, it is unlikely our rescue mission will end in anything but death." Alarik frowned inside his helmet, glad the rigid facial features forged in the mask of the his helm hid his repulsion at the sad truth of Balhoth's declaration. Why did he ever hope to find comfort in the words of the Lord Relictor? Balhoth was seldom wrong but even more seldom was the Lord Relictor comforting. Cold, tactical truth was his fluency. A fact which Alarik almost hated as much as he valued it. "Pleasant thought Balhoth." Alarik returned." If I get frightened I will dream of the bloodied platues of Aqshy." Despite the forced levity in his words Alarik knew the chances of finding Halvir were slim but why had the God King created him if not to venture into such places and bring hope to those in opposition to the dark pantheon. He knew it was not a mission forged in the cold, calculating reason that so endeared his Lord Relictor to him, but a need to find his lost comrade that burned within Alarik. Some memory from a forgotten life, just out of reach that drove Alarik's desperate foray into Ulgu. Ulgu hid it's secrets as if sentient and maniacal, adding the fate of any who dared tread its paths to its many secrets. As Balhoth had so poignantly stated, those that had entered Ulgu had never returned from its insidious clutches, but his brother in war would not be left alone in this cursed place to die or worse. The Stormcasts had arrived. Just as Lord Grufflz told Rulk they would. "He is so smart smart he is." Rulk thought to himself. The skaven commander known as Grufflz had seen one of the stormcasts dragged off into the darkness by a dark figure the skaven forces only knew as the broody one. Grufflz did not know much about the broody one but he had been seen sporadically in the region lately. Up to no good Grufflz was sure of, which made Grufflz respect the broody one. it takes brains to scheme and made things so much more interesting. Rulk drooled and snorted in excitement , whispering to himself. "Storm bullies so dumb dumb getting caught by broody one. Lord Grufflz will skewer them. So glorious." Rulk could see the Stormcasts adjusting to the darkness. They seemed so slow to move and adapt to him. He wondered how they ever had success fighting when they moved so slow. Remembering his duties Rulk let out a low hiss to signal to his troops nearby it was time to draw the Stormcasts into the darkness. To prepare for Sigmar's intrusion on Lord Grufflz bounty. The broody one after all was know to attract warpstone some how. Expecting the Stormcast to arrive in search for their kidnapped companion Lord Grufflz had cunning had his force hedge up the foliage in some areas. The terrain was chocked with this wooden vines. With some manipulation by Rulks men the only clearing in the vines would decide the path of the Stormcasts without them knowing it. "It needs to look natural, and smooth smooth. We need to give them a path without them knowing we doing it." Grufflz had explained. The next part of the plan was Rulk's favorite. He grew giddy as he remember Grufflz commands. "Remembers cunning ones, stay low low and hidden. Push their feet so softly. Bring them to us. If they wander nudge them here and nudge them there. The are large and blunt, they will not notice you." Such an exciting command to sneakily force the path of the Stormbrutes. Nudge them ever so slightly off course without them noticing. Rulk reveled " So much fun can be had in the dark. So much tricky tricks." Rulk wondered to himself why Lord Grufflz had passed on participating in such an exciting sneaky challenge."Other things he need be doing. So smart, so important." Rulk of course did not realize he had been sent on what could likely turn out to be a suicide mission. If Alaraki did notice the skaven skulking in the darkness he would end them as he sought to end all followers of the chaos pantheon. To Be Continued..... (I will update a narrative version of the battle report when I get a chance)
  3. Here is the latest entry leading up to our first game. The Pass of Hidden Hands Alarik stepped out of the realmgate onto the soil of Ulgu, his retinue close in step. Having so recently been among the purifying light of Sigmar's kingdom, the sudden and complete blackness of Ulgu blinded him. His eyes desperately grasping for light as they struggled to adjust. After a few moments he could make out some blurry shapes within the small halo of ghostly violet light emitted by the realmgate. The blasphemous realm immediately wore on his nerves. The shimmering white and gold armor of Alarik's host had so often seemed to him a radiant manifestation of Sigmar's fury. In the deep, uncaring darkness of the shadows realm however the glittering armor and shimmer of storm infused magic of Alarik's host seemed little more than a dim candle in a vast, uncaring night. As Lord Relictor Balhoth stepped from the realmgate Alarik's eyes had adjusted as much as could be expected in such a place, and he peered back to meet Balhoth's gaze. Balhoth looked somehow more powerful in this domain. In a realm that so drained Alarik with its hidden and wretched nature, Balhoth seemed to emit an aura of hidden arcane potency just out of tangible sight. "How fitting for a dark and brooding land to welcome such a dark and brooding man, how dramatic." Alarik scoffed to himself. Despite Alarik's distrust and subtle mockery of the macabre nature of the Relictor, Alarik could not deny the power of his presence. Like most Lord Relictors, Balhoth was adorned from head to toe in dark Sigmarite armor. Grandiosely segmented into gold trimmed plates forming around each limb of Balhoth's towering figure. The suit of armor crowned with a menacing skull masked helm. For and moment Balhoth's pale, skull visaged helmet appeared to glow with a ghostly light which defied reason in so dark a place. The Lord Relictor's black armor plates seemed to come to life, licking at the air in ethereal, black tendrils. Disturbed by the dark and deathly aura around Balthoth Alarik squinted,focusing more intently on the Lord Relictor, hoping to reason the sight out of existence. Doing so seemd to work and caused the shadow tendrils and ghostly glow of Balhoth's mask to disappear and Alarik immediately began to distrust his senses in this world. "What a wretched place." Alarik cursed aloud, still facing Balhoth. "I met no resistance coming through the gate Balhoth and it worries me." "I expect frontal assault is not the way of this realms denizens." Balhoth offered in reply."I know little of this realm Alarik but I fear we may miss the brutal honesty found in the frontal assault of a Khornate horde." Balhoth continued."None have returned from this realm, it is unlikely our rescue mission will end well." Alarik frowned inside his helmet, glad the rigid facial features forged in his the mask fo the helm hid his repulsion at the sad truth of Balhoth's declaration. Why did he ever hope to find comfort in the words of the Lord Relictor? Balhoth was seldom wrong but even more seldom was the Lord Relictor comforting. Cold, tactical truth was his fluency. A fact which Alarik almost hated as much as he valued it. "Pleasant thought Balhoth. If I get frightened I will dream of the bloodied platues of Aqshy." The Stormcasts had arrived. Just as Lord Grufflz told Rulk they would. "He is so smart smart he is." Rulk thought to himself. The skaven commander known as Grufflz had seen one of the stormcasts dragged off into the darkness by a dark figure the skaven forces only knew as the broody one. Grufflz did not know much about the broody one but he had been seen sporadically in the region lately. Up to no good Grufflz was sure of, which made Grufflz respect the broody one. it takes brains to scheme and made things so much more interesting. Rulk drooled and snorted in excited as whispered to himself. "Storm bullies so dumb dumb getting caught by broody one. Lord Grufflz will skewer them. So glorious." Rulk could see the Stormcasts adjusting to the darkness. They seemed so slow to move and adapt to him. He wondered how they ever had success fighting when they moved so slow. Remembering his duties Rulk let out a low hiss to signal to his troops nearby it was time to draw the Stormcasts into the darkness. To prepare for Sigmar's intrusion on Lord Grufflz bounty. The broody one after all was know to attract warpstone some how. Expecting the Stormcast to arrive in search for their kidnapped companion Lord Grufflz had cunning had his force hedge up the foliage in some areas. The terrain was chocked with this wooden vines. With some manipulation by Rulks men the only clearing the the vines would decide the path of the Stormcasts without them know it. "It needs to look natural, and smooth smooth. We need to give them a path without them knowing we doing it." Grufflz had explained. The next part of the plan was Rulk's favorite. He grew giddy as he remember Grufflz commands. "Remembers cunning ones, stay low low and hidden. Push their feet so softly. Bring them to us. If they wander nudge them here and nudge them there. The are large and blunt, they will not notice you." Such an exciting command to sneakily force the path of the Stormbrutes. Nudge them ever so slightly off course without them noticing. Rulk reveled " So much fun can be had in the dark. So much tricky tricks." Rulk wondered to himself why Lord Grufflz had passed on participating in such an exciting sneaky challenge."Other things he need be doing. So smart, so important." Rulk of course did not realize he had been sent on what could likely turn out to be a suicide mission. If Alaraki did notice the skaven skulking in the darkness he would end them as he sought to end all followers of the chaos pantheon. To Be Continued..... (I will update a narrative version of the battle report when I get a chance)
  4. Version 1.0.1

    29 downloads

    The first book of the Efengie Campaign series contains 5 Battleplans based on Warhammer World's Clash of Empires framework. It also includes 2 Time of War rules for battling in the Vale of Efengie and at the Gates of Eucebium. But that's not all, each battleplan includes a fluff piece storying the event at which it was originally run, and there's even a map campaign for use with the General's Handbook map campaign rules!
  5. They call Lady Sabine “The Black Widow of Betone” because she has lost so many husbands to the sands; but in Shyish, everyone knows death. Eobard’s mother told him that the desert kings have a saying; “Show me one more reliable than death, and I will lie at their doorstep”. Something might have been lost in translation, but she said that it meant if you can find someone to trust, hold onto them forever. And so when Duke Eobard met Lady Sabine, they were wed not long after. Now Eobard waited in the desert for his new wife’s trader friends to arrive. She had been sparse with the details, but demanded that he take a full ten-strong lance of his house knights with him to “be safe. The deathrattles have been bold of late.” She was quite a worrier his Sabine. With his Lady’s blessing, surely no harm would befall them. But who would deny a widow her worries? His knights chatted quietly behind him. They watched the traders’ faded black banner move closer across the blowing sands. He counted about twenty riders on horseback. Their fluttering black banner and robes made an elegant silhouette against the blood red of the setting sun. As they approached the ruins where he had made his camp, he hailed them with an exaggerated wave, but they made no form of reply. Maybe the strange foreigners didn’t hold to the same traditions as those of Betone. Though still, it was odd that they should pay no heed. “Paulo, Florence, please go welcome our guests,” he commanded with a smile. The two mounted their thoroughbred warhorses and rode off to greet the trading party. Eobard felt a soft hand on his face. He turned, startled. His mind raced searching for an explanation. How was this possible? His beloved stood behind him. She should have been miles away, safe in their manor, yet here she was. And her hand; her hand was chill on his cheek where it should have been warm. Unable to speak, he searched her face for a sign, an explanation, but she offered none. The soft caress of her hand turned into a firm grip, unbefitting for a Lady. She turned his head back to the desert; back to the black riders. He watched in a trance. His knights Paulo and Florence reached the black riders, but the riders showed no signs of slowing. Paulo and Florence looked at one another and drew their swords. They turned nervously to flank the riders and guide them into camp. Paulo tapped his shield with his sword to signal distress. These riders were not who they appeared to be. As they neared, Eobard inspected their livery, searching for any sign of their origin. They wore black tabards and dirty clothes torn from age. As the cloth moved with the breeze, he could see flashes of what appeared to be bone beneath the tears. “What is this?” Eobard asked, trembling. He felt a sinking despair. He tried to shift, to move, but her unnatural grip on him was overpowering. “I need more knights for my honor guard,” she whispered into his ear. “You were a promising lover, but will make a better lieutenant.” She pushed her fingernails up against his hauberk. There was a grating sound as they pushed through the finest mail money could buy. He felt her cold fingers puncture his flesh and crack through his ribcage. His eight remaining knights, alerted by Paulo’s signal, scrambled into their saddles. Disordered and unprepared for an attack, they lowered their lances and made their charge. While the knights screamed curses and battle cries as they charged, the score of black riders made no sound. Wood splintered against bone and flesh. Eobard watched as Sir Florence fell upon the riders from the flank with her sword. She smashed apart a skeleton rider’s arm bones and splintered its skull, but the rider continued undeterred. Her comrades fell around her. Eobard stared on unable to act. Lady Sabine’s grip on her husband became a push, leverage to rip his heart, still beating, from his chest. She sank her pearly fangs into it and drank deep. Then, raising it above her head, she began to chant in an ancient tongue. Her words conjured swirling mists of dark magic to the battlefield, decaying everything they touched, until everything was still and silent. The flesh sloughed away from Eobard’s bones. His knights lay dead on the ground. “Arise, my minions.” The clean, white skeleton that was once Sir Florence climbed onto her undead steed. Duke Eobard stood and turned his dead gaze to his new master. None spoke, but they obeyed.
  6. The serpent queen sat silent upon her golden throne, her mind lost to reverie and distant visions. In her thoughts she saw a place she'd long thought gone forever, and it was just as she remembered it. Great streets and promenades, market stalls and grand temples, once so busy and full of life, now empty and desolate. This was not the Lahmia she had known. The facade looked the same of course, every minute detail down to cracks in the flagstones was there, but this was merely an elaborate copy, a work of fastidious obsession from a mind inhuman and wild with longing for the glory days of the distant past. This replica of the great city - the work of hundreds of years of tireless undead labour - existed for no other reason than to satisfy the ego of an ancient adversary. "Neferata", hissed Khalida as she brought herself back to consciousness. The tomb queen's eyes flicked open behind her golden death mask and undead servants, sensing the will of their mistress, scurried forward to dote upon her. Khalida paid them little heed, they were merely handmaidens that saw the world as it was so long ago, when they had still been alive and were serving their queen in life. She idly watched as the skeletal maidens fussed about her, anointing her worn bandages with fine lotions and perfumes as though they were caressing the smoothest skin, manicuring her nails with honed precision though they had long since rotted away. After the fall of the golden age her people had been risen up from death against their wills. Whole dynasties of tomb kings and princes coughing back onto the mortal coil to fight and bicker amongst themselves once more. Only the strongest among them truly knew that they were dead, the others just carried on as they did in life, oblivious to the eternal rest that had been so cruelly robbed from them. This was the vile unlife that the great usurper had forced upon them so many aeons ago, his revenge against a land that had dared to stand up against him. With a mote of anguish Khalida remembered when she had first awoken into undeath, her final memory of life burned into her mind. Had those been crocodile tears dripping down Neferata's face that fateful day? Had that truly been sorrow in those eyes as she'd thrust in that bronze blade and forced upon her that cold vampiric kiss? Only the blessings of the great asp goddess had spared Khalida from the same cursed fate as her cousin and granted her a natural death… for as long as it had lasted. Where once there had been a great love between the two cousins, now there was only hatred, the self-styled queen of new Lahmia was a blight upon the mortal realms and she and Khalida had long been destined to destroy one another. There had been a time, at the end of all things as they had watched the old world fall, that she had thought it possible to reconcile with her estranged cousin. Then when she had eventually re-awoken into the mortal realms, the hatred had returned with a newfound fury. It burned within her mummified form, giving her strength, it gnawed at her very being, it defined her and she could never forgive or forget. Wordlessly Khalida found herself muttering a prayer to Asaph for strength and began to wonder, in this new land beneath the shadow of Shyish, could the old gods truly still exist? Since the fall of the world that was the liche priests had continued the rituals and traditions of old, praying to their lost pantheon of gods that may well have fallen alongside their old land of Nehekhara. In cruel irony it had come to pass that the only god they truly served now was the great usurper himself, deposer of Usirian as ruler of their underworld, Nagash had brought them back from oblivion yet again for his own malevolent amusement. Khalida felt her ancient lips curl and crack at the mere thought of the great necromancer. While she had a debt of blood to repay her cousin Neferata, her entire civilisation had a debt of the deepest destruction to repay Nagash himself. Now was not yet the time however. They would have their revenge, but better to play the willing slave for a few centuries more until the time was ripe for the asp to strike. Closing her eyes once more Khalida’s thoughts as always drifted back to the monster that had once been her cousin. There she sat in a perfect replica of her throne room from ages past, in a perfect replica of the great city she had defiled with the vile soulblight curse she'd brought into the old world. Bone cracked and ancient bandage dissolved into mere smoke as the mighty queen Khalida clenched her bony fist with quivering rage. Then she calmed. Such anger was unbecoming for royalty such as herself, and she had endless time to prepare her revenge, there was no need to rush this final justice. Behind her death mask High Queen Khalida smiled, Neferata might think herself at last beyond the reach of death... but Khalida had legions of it yet to wield.
  7. Sand. Anyone who is familiar with sand (that is to say the true Sand and not the false sand of peasants) can tell you that it is as pernicious as it is indestructible. It is carried on the Winds of Time, and with it the dreams and memories of bygone eras are drawn from the realms and consumed into oblivion… yet some of these relics and treasures of the past are carried on the winds and sands through the Stormwall of Regret and find themselves in the Sour Sea, and as often as not wash up on the beaches of the Endless Deserts where the tides inevitably return the sands. Most of these will be buried in the sand forever, almost forgotten, but not quite. As long as these relics exist there will be those that hunger for their return, pine for their loss, or are inspired by their memory. Druchii Corsairs who find the work of Privateering to be too… restrictive for their temperament will sign on with Captains and Fleetmasters of Realm Reaving Black Arks who will, if desperate enough, ply their trade on the Sour Sea. Most will troll the shallows for lost treasures that have not quite reached the shore, or hunt some of the juvenile leviathans and beasts that might be found in those waters. The truly desperate will risk a landing party into the desert proper, where the potential reward is magnified nearly as much as the risk. The lucky Captain will be the one with guaranteed coin in hand for very little risk – those who offer passage for those desperate individuals who would travel to the Endless Deserts for the chance of recovering that which was lost, be it a memory, a secret, an heirloom, or lost soul… The city of Bétone is home to a few of these pilgrims, but the small port of Desert’s End is as far as most of these wretches get and therein eke out an existence in misery as they search the desert until they are consumed by it. Orias Bloodthorn, Captain of the Wicked Mistress and Fleetmaster of the Blood Tithe found himself on just such a mission, ferrying a passenger to the Endless Deserts, to likely never be seen again. There were easier and cheaper ways to end your life, Orias thought, but shrugged as it offered him the excuse to wallow in his own indulgences. In truth, this task was beneath his station, but the majority of his black arks and corsairs were under contract to the Order Serpentis chapter that was controlled by his daughter Euryale, and he was unwilling to see her again under terms where he would be required to accept her command. His lieutenants could deal with her pettiness and spiteful nature. But as he looked out over the bow and across the roiling Sour Sea he knew the real reason he was drawn to these waters again and again was the weight of his own regrets and losses… It had been quite a while though since he had the opportunity to provide passage to the Endless Deserts, and he found the man to be of an odious nature and a strong will, quite unlike most of the desperate fools he had taken before. He remembered the man arriving abruptly at his table in a rundown saloon in some forsaken shantytown where his fleet had anchored for supplies. “Dreadlord Bloodthorn, I have business with you, “ the dark clad stranger spoke, in a low voice, but one that was clear and firm even in the noisy saloon. The use of the archaic honorific caught the Druchii’s attention and ire and he disdainfully shoved the wench in his lap onto the floor allowing him quick access to his weapons should they be needed. Satisfied for a moment that he had not stumbled into a trap, he looked the man in the eye and replied “Fleetmaster is the word you are looking for. The fact that you recognize my flag marks you only as a well-informed spy. Take your information to Nemeth my spymaster and he will see that you are paid for whatever information you…” The man cut him off, “You misunderstand me, Fleetmaster. I am no spy, merely a traveler seeking passage across the Realms. Allow me to more properly introduce myself. I am Chairophon the go-between, and I am required to travel to a very dangerous place where very few have gone, and even fewer return, and I believe you know exactly of where I speak…” Orias indeed knew exactly where this Chairophon needed to go, and agreed to the passage. But there was still something unsettling and nagging at the back of his mind that something here was not quite right, and maybe even something he couldn’t remember… Regardless, he shook off the sensation of rising dread and roused himself from the foul humor by barking insults and orders to the elves on deck, and shouted to a nearby officer as he strode back toward the bridge, “Ready the passenger, we’ll make harbor by nightfall, and we may as well take a troll the north shallows for our troubles…”
  8. I'll post AoS specific shows here but Combat Phase weekly wargaming podcast has had two BL authors on to discuss their various pieces of fiction out so far, and what's coming. David Annandale on ep 138 and David Guymer ep 135. Also ep 128 Contemporary AoS had guests from two podcasts: Heelahammer and Mortal Realms. Guy Haley will be back on the show in May to discuss his AoS fic. You can listen to the show at www.combatphase.com or also on iTunes.