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Found 37 results

  1. Hi all While we have a "Let's Chat" KO thread, which is great for army building ideas & tactics, I thought it might be a good idea to start a separate thread for narrative/fluff discussion for the faction. Specifically so that it doesn't clutter up the great tactical discussion going on in there. Mods, please feel free to move/alter as you see fit if this is in the wrong place. I'll go first, although I'm only starting to work this out myself. Fleet: The Black Iron Charter Port: Barak-Gazul Admiral/Flagship: Jhasson Grundvengryn/Unbakit A smaller sky-port located in Shyish, the realm of death, Barak-Gazul began as a small joint venture between the dour traditionalists of Barak-Thryng & the pragmatic militarists of Barak-Zon. The port was named after the ancient Duardin god of the dead at the suggestion of the founders from Barak-Thryng as an intent to honour their ancestors. However, over time it has taken on a darkly humorous tone as its inhabitants encounter more and more of the undead that populate the land below them. The Black Iron Charter is a highly effective military fleet based at Barak-Gazul. The fleet has a remit to conduct search & destroy missions against perceived threats against the port, and as such has been granted considerable lee-way as to how it conducts its operations with respect to the Kharadron Code. The current admiral, Jhasson Grundvengryn, has spent a considerable part of his career as both a Thunderer in the employ of the Grundcorps, and a Skywarden prior to promotion to his first captaincy and subsequent elevation to the Admiralty. He is a grizzled veteran not given to many words, and commands the respect of his crew through his actions (and his custom Aethershock Bludgeon). Code: Artycle - Settle The Grudges Amendment - Prosecute Wars With All Haste Footnote - These Are Just Guidelines
  2. Admiral Skyrock had bearly returned from the siege of Barak-Nar, when she received the news of Elgroz´s failing health and no medical treatment of the Overlords seemed to work. Without even stopping to restock her fleet, she quickly gave the order to set course to Lake Rurbedas where a Realmgate to Ghyran could be found on the lake´s bottom. Once in the Realm of Life, Skyrock hoped she would find a solution to Elgroz illness. Ignoring the safe route to Rurbedas, a journey normally taking 6-7 days she braved monster filled jungles and canyons for a risky shortcut. After being under constant attacks from the predators preying there, Skyrock´s fleet reach the shores of Rurbedas after mere 3 days. Killing the endrins of her ship in mid-flight, Skyrock and her crew plunged through the Realmgate at the lake floor. On the other side of the gate, the small fleet´s vessels float to the surface of Rurbedas twin lake in Ghyran. Not bothering cleaning of the seaweed, they took to the skies once more. Soon after the fleets arrival to the vibrant realm, they came across the Sylvaneths of the Shimmerbark grove. There she made a deal with the Treelord Direroot (after a long complaint from Yllrud about the lack of Sylvaneth clothing) to help the tree folk vanquish a conclave of filth ridden rat men which poisoned the life-giving waterfalls. In exchange of a remedy for Elgroz, Skyrock´s fleet´s cannons brought brutal retribution upon the vermin folk. After receiving the sought prize, the essences of a life pod, and quickly establishing a future trade contract, Skyrock set course home. Back in Elgi-Bar she literally jumped from her ship in flight down to the sky-city to quickly deliver the medication to Elgroz. The jellyfish was brought back from the brink of death, and that´s how Admiral Yllrud Skyrock became the much-praised Admiral she now is.
  3. Somewhat of a celebrity in Elgi-Bar, Admiral Yllrud Skyrock is an obstinate commander of the crews under her command. A veteran from Brokk Grungsson´s counterattack on the siege of Barak-Nar and saviour of Elgroz´s life, she has earned her place as Lord-commander of Elgi-Bar´s sky-fleet. Her most striking trait is however her known dislike to seeing bare flesh. She is considered uncommonly prude among a folk rumoured being savages. This is normally not a problem since most Kharadron Overlords wear covering body armour, but her interactions with the tempered Fyreslayers across the mortal realms have been uncomfortable ones for all included. Some say it is this aversion of undressed folk is the driving force for the expeditions she makes for the Rerekfjiord corporation, rumours which she does not comment on. Aside from this prudish quirk, Yllrud is like all Kharadron Admirals a driven, cunning sky captain and deadly combatant. Her distain of unarmoured foes has made her an expert marksman with her aetheric volley gun Dhurn (slayer), firing them swiftly down before they can reach her. Those that does engage her in melee are mercilessly crushed under her heavy skalfhammer.
  4. While becoming more modern since regaining contact with rest of the Kharadron society and agreeing to the terms to the Code, there is still one grudge every duardin of Elgi-Bar still carries within them. Even though millennia have passed since the age of Chaos began and now recently the stormhost from Azyr have start driven the ruinous powers from the Mortal realms, the Overlords of Elgi-Bar have not forgiven the god king Sigmar for abandoning their ancestors, taking their creator god Grungni with him and fooling the duardin warrior god Grimnir to his death. Even though the Code allows them to do business with other races, the merchant lords of Elgi-Bar have been known to double the prices many fold of their wares and services when encountering inhabitants from Azyrheim and Sigmars armies, or straight out refused to aid them in their need. Emissaries from Sigmars court have been send to try make amends to the rulers of Elgi-Bar, but have only been met with propositions to contracts demanding outrageous prices like the god kings sacred hammer Ghal Maraz and that Sigmar himself should swab the decks on every sky vessel for many generations.
  5. Characterized by the wildlife of Ghur, the Kharadron Overlords of Elgi-Bar are considered poorer and not as civilized as the other major sky-ports and is somewhat looked down upon. It is true some members of the arkanaut companies of Elgi-Bar still uses the same armour their ancestors bore the days when they left their mountain holds, and the city´s technology is not as advanced as others (many foreign admirals often comment this to the fact that the inhabitants of Elgi-Bar still haven´t been able to extract the Aether-gold from the giant jellyfish). The reason some of the companies still uses ancient armours is because that discovering ore-veins in Ghur is a hard task, since the land itself is most of the part animal to. So, the metal they manage to mine and flay of the hides from the metal-beasts at Adamant peaks is often used to build new sky vessels, repair damaged ones and bolstering the defences of Elgroz. What the sky folk of Elgi-Bar makes up for said shortcomings is that they are better at caring for their equipment (it is said that that their fleets flagship “Karak-Dahendra” the everlasting thunders weapons never have malfunctioned even now it is reaching its 500 birthday) and they are the best hunters ever taking to the clouds. Surviving so long in the beast filled landscapes of Ghur have given the crews on the sky ships a deep intuition on how beasts behave and use it to their advantage. This can either be in the form on how to best avoid the winged hydras that nests in cloud-caves or where to fire at a feral preyton´s weakest spots. This alone makes the mercenary companies of Elgi-Bar good choices for escort jobs through monster filled lands, even over the renowned Grundstock corporation’s artillery. What the Overlords of Elgi-Bar undeniable chare with their sky faring kin is their sense of business and inventive entrepreneurship, like having monopoly of trading live basilisks and skywyrm jackets. No grudgebound contract is too dangerous for the fleets hailing from Elgi-Bar, which in the eyes of their richer peers is considered equally admirable and foolhardy. Never less, the beast riding city Elgi-Bar is a rising civilisation and economy in the Age of Sigmar.
  6. It was under the great exodus during the age of Chaos, where the ancestors to today’s Kharadron Overlords fled to the skies, a castaway fleet of frigates in search of a sanctum came across the giant Elgroz. Filled with the well coveted substance “Aether-gold” the refugees first tried to extract it from this sky leviathan, but at the time their tools where not suited to even pierce the transparent skin of Elgroz. Fearing to lose it (and it´s valuable gas) the fleeing duardins decided to settle upon it until they could claim the Aether-gold. This was the start of an unintentional symbiosis. Elgroz unaware of its new inhabitant living upon it, proved to be both a safe home and a mighty guardian. Even due to the call of Aether-gold, many of the lethal beasts of Ghur avoided Elgroz, fearing its mile-long unescapable paralyzing tendrils. Those foes who tried assaults from above were met with fierce resistance from the great cannons of the duardins, utterly devoted not to let their gas formed treasure get lost. As a bi-product of the increasing cityscape on its body, Elgroz was after many years covered with a thick layer of armour making it into the heavenly bulwark it is now. The duardins accustomed to their new way of life and proud of their unique sky-port have giving up on the thoughts of mining Elgroz of its Aether-gold. Instead they see to it with reverence and care, knowing without each other they are nought.
  7. The sky fortress Elgi-Bar in the wild beast realm of Ghur is a peculiar one for the society of the sky faring Kharadron Overlords. In contrast to the fully mechanical city-ports commonly populated by their kin, this metropole is built upon a humongous gas filled jellyfish, named “Elgroz” which in the local tongue translates to “soft skinned giant”, which drifts with the sky torrents.
  8. I finally realized what I love most about the 'regular humans' armies in 40k and AoS. I get to name them! I've named every single Catachan Guardsman (and woman) in my IG army and intend to name every member of my growing Free Peoples force. I've just named my General on Warhorse "Johann Gambolputty von Hautkopft of Ulm". Its a Monty Python reference, and I know his real name is much longer but it wouldn't fit on the underside of a 60x35mm oval base. My General on foot is name "Apple-banger Horowitz" and my General with the banner will be christened "Burstein von Knackerthrasher". Amongst my Catachan Imperial Guard some of my favorites are Butch Deadlift, Bolt Vanderhuge, Buff Drinklots, Smitty McNotakroot, Lil' Hotness, and 'Your Mom! OOOOOHHHH!'. So how many people out there like to name their little plastic dude-man-bros? Do you go for thematic in-world names or just what you think would be funny? I think you can all see what I prefer but I'm curious.
  9. Hi I'm writing a short story for a campaign, which involves a village and a realmgate. The realmgate is one of the key ingredients in the story, but I have run into a problem. Maybe this has been discussed elsewhere (if so... sorry). The thing is: how does a realmgate "work"? Is it controlled by some "mechanic"? By magic? How can one know where the gate takes you? Can this be manipulated? In that case; what requires such manipulation? I haven't found any information about this... if someone could point me in the right direction, I would be very grateful! Thanks in advance! :-)
  10. Im trying to make a background city for my joint Free People/Aelf army and I've decided I want them to be in a recently reclaimed ancient city deep within snowy and dense forests, ala Winterfell. The humans, high aelves, and dwarfs will be inhabiting the main city and the wood aelves will be proliferating in the nearby forests. The background will be loosely based on ancestors of Middenland who venerate Ulric. I am having trouble visualizing a realm that this would fit best. Currently the only thing that remotely fits (or probably even has snow!) is Ghur, which would also tie in a nice wolf theme. What do you guys think? Maybe Shyish or Hysh? Also this way I can be lazy and paint them all the same color scheme to keep it all tied to a central theme =P.
  11. Introduction One of the things I really like about the latest Warhammer 40,000 releases for 'The Gathering Storm' is the idea of a Triumvirate. This was a word I had not heard before and as well as sounding very cool I also liked the meaning behind it: I have also recently been thinking about backstory writing for my Age of Sigmar mixed Order army, and as I recently finished my third centre-piece model for the army (A Freeguild General on Griffon), it seemed the perfect chance to add my own "Triumvirate" into my army. The Roots of the Story: When Age of Sigmar first came out, I put together a backstory for my army called 'Siegfried's Desperados'. I had a blog on Dakkadakka which was quite popular at the time, perhaps because it was one of the safe havens away from the heat the game was getting from some disgruntled veterans (especially on Dakkadakka). You can check out the thread here if you are interested: https://www.dakkadakka.com/dakkaforum/posts/list/663727.page To summerise, the initial background I created for my army was that they were a mercenary outfit (called the 'Desperados') operating out of Azyrheim. I wanted to add a bit more grey and a bit more low fantasy into the backstory (as it was something Age of Sigmar didn't really have at the time), so I came up with some hooks and ideas of the dark side of aelven society in Azyrheim (lots of intrigue and assassinations among the nobles), the ideas of slums in the city, and that a mercenary outfit might employ a necromancer in their ranks. This was also an excuse to add in Aelves, Duardin and even Death into my army which was all a lot of fun to play with before the General's Handbook came out. But since the General's Handbook came out the narrative and story behind my army has taken the backseat. I have been focusing a lot more on Matched play and my narrative outlet has been with Hinterlands. As the recently finished Freeguild General on Griffon was meant to be Siegfried Stormhart once more, I thought it would be fun to update the story of the Desperados, and so the Triumvirate was born. The Triumvirate of Mistmire; Master Geppetto, Siegfried Stormhart and the alchemist, Massym Al-Izzar Creating a Triumvirate: I want to throw out the question to all of you, what cool Triumvirates could you add into your collection? All you would need are the following: 1. 3 Cool Models 2. A Cool Story that connects them For me, I had my 3 Centrepieces. The Griffon, the Steamtank and the Hurricanum. I wanted them to have some sort of purpose other than being in an army together, so I decided to bring back the old Necromancer I used to run in the Desperados pre-GHB. He goes by the name 'Cornacaprious'. I decided that he has since betrayed the Desperados, and has resurrected an ancient vampire (with the title of the "Blood Queen"). This gives me a reason to finally paint my Neferata model and also gives the triumvirate a goal to accomplish (they of course seek to kill both the Necromancer and the Blood Queen). So with the scene set, I put together a 4 pages as if they were from a campaign book and detailed my Triumvirate of Mistmire. I would love to hear what you think, but more importantly I hope this inspires you all to go off and create a Triumvirate for one of your armies too. My Triumvirate:
  12. Not sure where exactly I should post this to get good responses but here is what I have thought up so far: Dagan had once been a mighty lord of slannesh, a scion of the perfection and glory gleaming and radiant in the darkness of the filthy world. But now Slannesh has disappeared and the soft, enticing voice that had guided him in his head has gone silent. At first the prideful prince of perfection had wallowed in despair at the loss of his great patron and master. But then a sudden vision struck him and woke him from his melancholy, a vision of himself lounged upon a magnificent amethyst throne and before him knelt hundreds of thousands of adoring subjects all eager to attend his every bidding. Instantly Lord Dagan found himself revitalized, if Slannesh had abandoned him he would make himself into a new god. The Legionaries (Chaos Warriors) Marble Statues brought to an unnatural life by the will of their dread lord, their eyes pulsate with a haunting purple glow. These constructs move with a precision not found in living beings. Most disturbing about them is that certain amongst the marble ranks have begun to show signs of free thought and personalities as Dagan gives them names and converses with the voiceless beings. The Handmaidens (daemonettes) Lord Dagan has gathered so much power that even some of Slannesh's own creatures have abandoned the search for their creator to follow in wonder and serve the majestic hubris of Lord Dagan's quest for Godhood. The Handmaidens dance and sing before their new master's throne entrancing those who come to treat with the tyrant lord. Supplicants (Marauders of Chaos) As Dagon's Legion makes its leisurely way to war often tribes of Marauders are drawn to his service, intoxicated by the perfumes that surround the magnificent host. Thousands have bent the knee in supplication to their new soon to be god. Pledging their lives and eternal souls to his vainglorious cause. Pacemakers (Hellstriders of Slaanesh) The Hellstriders of Dagan use their viscous scourges to keep the massive horde of supplicants in line and in pace with the legion. Dagon's company does not perhaps move with blinding speed, but the stone warriors of the legionnaires' tireless legs seldom cease. Dagan's Doggos (Chaos Warhounds) A great pack of massive warhounds stalk before Dagan's host, the symphony of their howls heralding his advance. Fiends of Dagon (Fiends of Slaanesh) The nightmares of the amethyst tyrant made flesh, these vile creatures radiate the crippling feelings of worthlessness, despair, and self loathing Dagan felt after the disappearance of his former patron. Paragon of Perfection (Daemon Prince) A strange entity that appears at the behest of Dagon and wrecks beautiful ruin across the battlefield. The Amethyst Throne (Warshrine of Chaos) The mighty throne of Dagon, carried aloft by gigantic beasts of burden it exudes an intoxicating majesty even absent its lord High Priest of Dagon (Sorcerer Lord of Chaos) Every new faith needs a clergy, the high priest of Dagon is a mighty sorcerer drawn by the charisma and power of Dagon, he serves his the divinely motivated Lord with unfaltering faith. For now. The Dragon Galborax (Warpfire Dragon) Such is the force of Dagan's Will that he sought out and bound the mighty Galborax, scourge of the purple mountains, and has bound him to his service, above the ceaselessly marching horde Galborax flies with an alien grace.
  13. Part 2 I made up some new stuff like who leads such a horde. Still nameless but it is a Tomb King with a fashion sense. I have lots of parts laying around for the original army idea. My idea was to fill front lines with Empire looking troops and less dressed skeletons in the back. The best of the unit survived the end of the world so the army will look like a weird butchered empire battlegroup. I will paint them like they are from different units. Also made a quest for them. Freeing the controlled undead from necromancers and vampires. Should not be a suprise they were not on friendly terms with necromancers. The Age of Sigmar It was a long long time they felt hope. Their endless torment could end. A final rest was in sight. The world falling apart was that spark of hope..no.. death they were interested in. All this joking around the last centuries would come to an end. They were a lost civilization. Cursed, controlled and used. No future for them and it finally looks like no future for the rest. They waited for the end. But it never came. The sun rose again but it looked different in the distance. They were still in the same town. Still wearing the same.. heads. Count Trollebloed looked at the sky. The vampire lived ages but was unsuccessful in negotiating terms with his this new Boney King of Nowhere. "There There, I quite like this town, let us settle down here." Everything else was destroyed the night before. A little realm for them alone, to torment forever and nowhere to go. The Joke Realm Golden Soldiers entered the realm with a lot of light and thunder. Suspecting Empire survivors they approached the Captain without slamming their hammers in his two faces. "By Sigmar! You smell like you slayed a thousand!" The deception did not hold. How could they fight these Golden Soldiers? Like them they are cursed to fight. The Captain spoke to them. "We are alike." "You are more a force of bad luck." Answered the Lord-Relictor. " You are not bound to Nagash or Chaos nor do you deserve to fight for Sigmar." "No, we will not fight you." Captain Party This is it for now. I have some converted knights somewhere. Maybe make another crazy character out of it. Right now I have the Tomb+Wight King and the two-faced Greatsword Captain.
  14. Just an old crazy army idea. Inspiration from Necron Flayed Ones. Bringing back to life for AoS28. A quick draft and still a bit of a mess. You may notice that english is not my primary language. Cursed in Khemri Those enslaved by necromancy obeyed their masters. No minds of their own, moved from desert to the lands they were ordered. Left behind were the minds slowly turning insane. These dead bodies wanted to die but could not. The cruel joke of immortality turned them fearless and mocking life. How would they like to be flesh and blood again. Eventually they moved from the desert like the others. Skeletons with a mind of their own. Centuries of combat experience. No rest needed. Not even communication. The most horrifying tactic? The will to live. To feel whole again. To be alive again. Lack of respect for the living even less respect for the dead. Wearing the bodies of the defeated, they mock and joke. Like a bad practical joke wearing the most cruel disguise. From a distance they look like allies a Captain says to his group. The missing party has not been found yet. Hounds are barking, must be the smell. Not all wear fresh suits you know. Ambushing always was easy when they started burying themselves in the desert. But now? Just walking through plains straight into towns meeting no resistance. The world ended and they are still not dead. So this is all before they enter the Age of Sigmar.
  15. First chapter of a series I'm going to be running based on my warband for hinterlands, all critiques and feedback welcome, hope you enjoy it. Chapter 1 - Dead man walking Tornburgh is a border town. A lawless settlement where money can buy you happiness or a dagger to the kidneys, depending on who you flash your coin at. It straddles the coastal edge of the swamp kingdom of Drang, yet owes no allegiance to the citadel. Its streets are full of merchants flogging smuggled goods, Slaves being auctioned to the highest bidder, unrecognisable food stalls and pleasure houses offering companionship for coin. None of this interested Wjolnir however as he fought his way through the midday crowds toward his destination. He pulled his hooded cloak tight to his chest as he darted into one of the many winding side alleys and made his way towards an unassuming timber building. He banged a fist against the door four times before the viewing panel was slid aside by a portly figure. "Your alive then! Who would have thought you would last this long" The large man cackled. The sound of sliding bolts was heard and the door was opened inwards and Wjolnir was beckoned in. The room he entered had a tiled floor and was lined with shelves filled with countless bottles and flasks. The most impressive thing however was the assortment of strange glass tubes and vials all connected by pipes and arranged on the rooms desk. Inside these tubes a substance was bubbling away and acrid smoke could be smelt. "This way" motioned the portly gentleman as he directed Wjolnir to a dimly lit room with a fireplace and a wooden bed. "Its spreading James, it wont stop bloody spreading" Wjolnir spat as the door was closed behind him. " Well best you take off your cloak and show me then so I know what we are dealing with." Wjolnir nodded and began to remove his cloak and shirt. Beneath his travelling shirt stained bandages were wrapped around his chest and left shoulder. As he unravelled the bandages the putrid smell of decay permeated the air, a forewarning of his supernatural ailment. The large man wrinkled his nose in disgust and clamped a perfumed rag to his mouth as he watched. Beneath the filthy bandages Wjolnir's skin was purple, mottled and strewn with boils and open sores. The wounds weeped thick pus and distorted with the rise and fall of his chest. "Gods be damned Wally, you should be 6 feet under by now!" Cursed the alchemist. " I feel like I already am" Wjolnir replied as the man began to investigate his wounds all while inhaling deeply through his sweet smelling handkerchief. " Can we quit the freak show and get to business already" Wjolnir snapped. " I don't think you understand, Salves wont help you, and magic wont help you. Your path is predetermined. The fact that you have lasted this long is the blessings of Sigmar but I fear that your luck can only last so long before you fall to this. No one survives Nurgle's Rot and even your coin cant buy you out of this one Wally. In simple terms, you are a dead man walking." Wjolnir left the alchemists with little of the enthusiasm he had arrived with. He pulled his hood up over his balding head and headed for the nearest tavern. If his destiny was to succumb to disease he would at least get blind drunk before hand...
  16. Chapter 4 – The hull of the boat cut effortlessly through the glistening water as it carried Wjolnir further along the coast line. On the horizon, the sun was beginning to rise and was soaking everything it touched with a peach glow. Any other time this would have lifted his spirits and brought back memories of his childhood summers, spent fishing for small trout in the villages river. Today however it just irritated him. It was a painful reminder of a pleasure he would soon have taken from him by his impending death. The only escape from the plague was death and anything else was just delaying the inevitable. That was if the Tornburgh mercenaries didn’t catch up with him first and put him to the sword. Despondency crept in and he considered putting himself out of his misery while he still had control of his destiny. The thought was a brief fleeting one that held no real bearing on him. He was far too much of a coward to make such a bold move. No, he would wait out his fate and spend his final days lamenting his luck and the cruel humour of the gods. No doubt when the time came for him to shuffle off this mortal coil he would cry and soil himself, making sure he had no dignity to take with him to the beyond. An unexpected giggle burst from his throat as the ridiculous image flashed through his mind’s eye. He idly wiped away tears that had been forming in his tired eyes with the back of his rough filthy hand and let a small grin escape from his chapped lips. He gripped the wheel and pulled it hard toward land. Along the shore was a coniferous forest that dominated the landscape. The great green expanse was thickly packed and would allow him to travel inland without being seen. He knew of several small hamlets where he could live out his days in relative comfort on the coin he had saved throughout his career in the black market, keeping him in wine and women until he eventually succumbed to the rot in his body. He ran the boat at a relative speed into the shallows and the bottom of the vessel ran aground in the rocks, screeching to a halt. Usually this would have angered Wjolnir however he would never captain the boat again and resented the idea of it serving anyone else after him. A fickle thought perhaps but he had spent so long aboard the ship in his years that it felt like part of his very being, to have anyone else at the wheel would feel like adultery. Opening the thick framed timber door to the cabin he began to collect any belongings he thought he may need. Into a small leather knap sack he carefully packed a thick blanket, dried meats, his ancient tinder kit, a change of clothes and the remainder of his coin. He slid out of his fur jacket, carelessly dropping it in a pile at his feet. Over the top of his hauberk he buttoned up a white travelling shirt and slid a heavy woollen, hooded poncho over his head. The oversized hood covered his face and gave him the appearance of a peasant, a look that he hoped would prevent anyone attempting to relieve him of his belongings. He slung the knapsack over his good shoulder and stooped to pick up a rough iron axe with a hickory handle. The axe head was ground heavier on one side to allow the axe to be used for carving timber, however this would not hinder its use in felling a tree or scaring off would be attackers. With his belongings in check he sighed and made his way off his beloved boat. He vaulted the hull and landed with a splash in waist deep water. The shock of the cold water stole his breath and for a moment he could do nothing but exhale in short, sharp breaths as his body adjusted to the temperature. As his breath returned he started to wade toward the forest. His feet sank gently into the sandy, gravel strewn shore, making the walk harder than he had anticipated. By the time he had reached the boundary of the wood he felt drained. The forest looked far more imposing than it had done from the beach and he was beginning to question if entering it was such a good idea. After a small pause to get his breath back he threw caution to the wind and strode into the woodland as confidently as he could. What seemed like hours had passed as he stumbled over fallen trees and forced himself through tightly packed gorse hedges. He had managed to scratch himself on the short thorns above his eyes and the sweat from his brow was stinging as it mingled with the wounds. He paused for a moment to take a pull from his flask and felt a sense of tranquillity wash over him as he soaked in the natural atmosphere. Little light made it through the thick canopy and it lent the forest a supernatural quality. He slid the heavy knapsack from his shoulder to the floor and sat down with his back against a great pine tree. He laid his hand axe by his side and helped himself to a strip of the dried beef from his provisions. Its texture was that of rough leather however he was used to the less than pleasurable rations he had carried with him on his travels. He sat in the dim light chewing the meat and scanning the surrounding area for any movement. A thick layer of moss covered the floor here and he could hear nothing but the evening bird song and the occasional rustle of the forests denizens. He rested his eyes and allowed himself to drift off, planning to continue his journey after a small nap. In his dream, he was running from an unknown assailant through a boggy marsh, each step propelling him through the damp darkness toward a clearing ahead. A droning buzzing noise filled his ears overwhelming his senses, blocking out all other noise. It felt as if it was coming from within his mind instead of around him. Swarms of flies encircled him and darted at his face. He wildly flailed his arms trying to swot them away as he ran. The clearing was closer. He was almost there. He broke through the tree line and the swarm of flies dissipated in the light. He turned his head to see his attacker and saw a wave of shadow rushing toward him. Everything the shadow touched within the marsh shrivelled into an empty husk of itself. Trees collapsed under their own weight as rotten timber gave way, animals and birds decomposed in an instant and the very earth became logged with mould and fungal growth. His foot gave way underneath him as he slipped in the clearing and he fell face first into the wet moss. He panicked and tried to raise himself from the wet floor but found mould and filth growing at an alarming rate over his limbs, pinning him to the ground. He looked up in desperation and saw the ground before him erupt, earth and filth showered over him as a gargantuan figure rose from the crater. The figure was comprised of a huge mound of blubbery flesh that rose higher than the highest tree. The sheer bulk of the creature was impossible to comprehend and it moved in a way that didn’t seem physically possible. Its skin was mottled with pus filled boils, scars wounds and open sores that created a mosaic of pain. Its face was comprised of a long grinning mouth beneath dark pitted eyes that pierced into his very soul and showed a flicker of evil sentience that no man should ever see. Its sour breath reeked of death, decay and faecal matter. The creatures great gut split open and swarms of giggling creatures burst forth dancing and frolicking in the beast’s entrails and bodily fluids, gnawing on his flesh and tearing through his milky yellow fat. Wjolnir retched and spilled the contents of his stomach into the dirt. The great being’s mouth parted revealing worm filled teeth etched with dark lines and stained as brown as earth. It spoke a single word and Wjolnir’s bladder failed him. “SERVE” He awoke with a start and reached instinctively for his axe. He was dripping with sweat and his trousers were soaked with bitter smelling urine. The realisation that it had been a dream crept in and he began to relax as the shame of his ‘accident’ settled in. He reached into his knapsack for a change of clothes and cursed under his breath, was there no end to the torment he must endure? As he was rummaging through his belongings he caught site of a figure out of the corner of his eye. He rose sharply and raised his axe at the unknown person. In front of him, sitting cross legged on mound of moss was a tiny humanoid figure, draped in old torn robes giggling to itself. The face was obscured from his view by the things hood however the skin that was exposed was pitted, pale and translucent. The thin frame of the creature was withered and feeble. It altogether seemed sickly and weak however something primal within him screamed to turn and flee. “Explain yourself or I will sever your head from your body!” he shouted at the thing. It began giggling in a gurgling manner and pointed a thin emaciated finger at him, its hood slipping, exposing a sunken warped face that resembled skin stretched too loosely over a large drum. It spoke with a voice that seemed to come from within rather than from the creature’s mouth. “You have been chosen Master Wjolnir, I have come to aid your transcendence on behalf of the father”. The creatures gurgling laughter reached a crescendo of madness and Wjolnir’s blood ran cold.
  17. Chapter 3 – Escape He trembled with rage and his breath came in short angry bursts. His shirt had been ripped off in the confrontation and he was now squatted, bare chested, over the corpse of the headless man. The small alley resembled a slaughterhouse, blood had pooled beneath the dead body and bits of brain and skull littered the area. Wjolnir had not avoided the bodily debris and was covered in what was left of the bandit’s face. His fists throbbed and ached from pummelling the bloody mass of flesh underneath him and as the adrenaline left his system he became more aware of that pain. His hands darted to his infected shoulder as he remembered his stab wound, however when he inspected it he could only feel mottled flesh and the tumorous tissue of his affliction. He had not imagined the wound, for blood and milky pus still clotted and dried on his chest. He thought that the infection had spread further up his neck but couldn’t be sure without a mirror. Gods, what had come over him! He had never considered himself a violent man and this, this was far outside of his morale capabilities. A sudden sense of shame overwhelmed him and he scrambled to his feet off the desecrated body. A cloying sense of fear creeped in like a cold breeze and his head swam with the realisation of how fucked he really was. He couldn’t stay in the settlement now, someone would have heard the commotion and the thugs that passed for the town guard were probably already alerted. True, these bandits probably wouldn’t be missed by many but no one wants a killer around while they sleep. Wjolnir bent down and retrieved his coin purse from the first bandit’s fingers. They were colder than fingers ought to be and had already begun to stiffen. He pocketed his coin and fled toward the docks. Wjolnir fumbled with the knots that bound his vessel to the mooring post, his usually deft fingers failing him in his panic. His vessel was nothing more than a small sailing boat with a cabin on the rear of its deck. It had no name painted into the hull and no fancy etching or paint work. In the smuggling trade, it had paid to be inconspicuous when travelling and he thanked the gods for that foresight now. Gripping a long wooden pole from within the boat he pushed away from the dock and began to punt the boat towards the flow of the water way. The sail raised easily in the steady evening breeze and began to carry him away from the town. He left the boat to its own devices momentarily while he nipped into the cabin and retrieved a flask of fresh water, a chainmail hauberk and a fur lined coat. He rinsed the filth of the attack from himself with the water and took a long gulp from the flask. The water was cool and made his teeth ache intensely for a moment before dulling away. The chainmail hauberk proved far colder than the water however its metallic rings felt almost soothing against the rotting flesh of his tainted shoulder. Finally, he slipped the coat around his aching body and stepped back on to the deck and the glistening moonlight. The boat had veered toward the bank slightly so he grabbed the wheel behind the mast and corrected its course. From the deck of the boat he could see torchlight at the docks behind him. Judging by the number of torches he could see it appeared that this was not the early rising fishermen attending their vessels. Pulling a tightly would cord above him he dropped the main sail fully and aimed for the ocean. He had no location in mind, however anywhere but here sounded fine to him at that moment.
  18. Chapter 3 – Escape He trembled with rage and his breath came in short angry bursts. His shirt had been ripped off in the confrontation and he was now squatted, bare chested, over the corpse of the headless man. The small alley resembled a slaughterhouse, blood had pooled beneath the dead body and bits of brain and skull littered the area. Wjolnir had not avoided the bodily debris and was covered in what was left of the bandit’s face. His fists throbbed and ached from pummelling the bloody mass of flesh underneath him and as the adrenaline left his system he became more aware of that pain. His hands darted to his infected shoulder as he remembered his stab wound, however when he inspected it he could only feel mottled flesh and the tumorous tissue of his affliction. He had not imagined the wound, for blood and milky pus still clotted and dried on his chest. He thought that the infection had spread further up his neck but couldn’t be sure without a mirror. Gods, what had come over him! He had never considered himself a violent man and this, this was far outside of his morale capabilities. A sudden sense of shame overwhelmed him and he scrambled to his feet off the desecrated body. A cloying sense of fear creeped in like a cold breeze and his head swam with the realisation of how fucked he really was. He couldn’t stay in the settlement now, someone would have heard the commotion and the thugs that passed for the town guard were probably already alerted. True, these bandits probably wouldn’t be missed by many but no one wants a killer around while they sleep. Wjolnir bent down and retrieved his coin purse from the first bandit’s fingers. They were colder than fingers ought to be and had already begun to stiffen. He pocketed his coin and fled toward the docks. Wjolnir fumbled with the knots that bound his vessel to the mooring post, his usually deft fingers failing him in his panic. His vessel was nothing more than a small sailing boat with a cabin on the rear of its deck. It had no name painted into the hull and no fancy etching or paint work. In the smuggling trade, it had paid to be inconspicuous when travelling and he thanked the gods for that foresight now. Gripping a long wooden pole from within the boat he pushed away from the dock and began to punt the boat towards the flow of the water way. The sail raised easily in the steady evening breeze and began to carry him away from the town. He left the boat to its own devices momentarily while he nipped into the cabin and retrieved a flask of fresh water, a chainmail hauberk and a fur lined coat. He rinsed the filth of the attack from himself with the water and took a long gulp from the flask. The water was cool and made his teeth ache intensely for a moment before dulling away. The chainmail hauberk proved far colder than the water however its metallic rings felt almost soothing against the rotting flesh of his tainted shoulder. Finally, he slipped the coat around his aching body and stepped back on to the deck and the glistening moonlight. The boat had veered toward the bank slightly so he grabbed the wheel behind the mast and corrected its course. From the deck of the boat he could see torchlight at the docks behind him. Judging by the number of torches he could see it appeared that this was not the early rising fishermen attending their vessels. Pulling a tightly wrapped cord above him, he dropped the main sail fully and aimed for the ocean. He had no location in mind, however anywhere but here sounded fine to him at that moment.
  19. Chapter 2 – Headache The liquor tasted like roasted almonds and burned as it slid down his throat. Wjolnir had barely touched the bottle in front of him however he had already begun perspiring and his head was swimming. He was seated in a dark corner of a dive bar called ‘The Boars Nipple’ minding his own business and considering his options. Nothing brings clarity to a man’s thoughts like his impending death. He swirled the amber liquid in his tumbler while taking a strong drag of smoke from his pipe, exhaling billowy clouds from his nostrils. On one hand, he could stay here and drink away the coin he had saved over the years and on the other he could leave to ‘see the sites’ as he had often heard it called. In truth, he knew that he only had one option. As soon as people caught wind of his affliction he would be cast out of the settlement before he even had a chance to collect his belongings. That of course was if he wasn’t burned alive to cleanse his diseased body first. He shuddered at the thought and drained the spirit in his glass. He rose from his seat and dropped four coins on the bar, nodded to the owner and left. The streets were mostly abandoned this time of night, only the most committed of prostitutes were still working. Rain beat down against his face as he staggered down a deserted side street that lead to the docks. Behind him he heard footsteps ringing out on the cobble stones. As he turned to fuel his curiosity he was caught with a savage blow from a sword pommel across his face. Pain shot through Wjolnir’s temples as he hit the filthy floor. Cold hands pinned him down and his cloak was ripped away from him. He forced open his heavy eyelids and saw two grizzly faces bearing down upon him. Struggling he tried to force himself up and felt the blade of a sword pressed against his chest. “Don’t facking move, or I’ll cut yer bollocks off” grunted one of the thieves through yellow teeth. The other bandit grabbed for his coin pouch and he instinctively grabbed at the mans wrist. Pain shot through his shoulder as the first bandit thrust the short sword into his flesh. Wjolnir screamed in pain as the cold metal pierced his skin and muscle. The smell of rotting flesh erupted from the wound and a loud hissing sound could be heard. “What the ******!” yelled the bandit as he pulled his sword loose and stared at the bubbling blade. Wjolnir took full advantage of the bandits distraction and grabbed his wrist and forced the decaying blade through his partners neck. His throat erupted in a scarlet flare as he choked on his own bile, while the other man was left still holding on to the swords handle. He stumbled back in shock and tripped over his own feet. In a flash Wjolnir was on top of him, grabbing handfuls of his hair and slamming his head on the flagstones. Bone cracked with each impact as the base of his skull was scattered across the floor. The bandit feebly clawed at Wjolnir for mere moments before his hands laid twitching in the congealing blood around him as his head was smashed again and again until Wjolnir’s fists were smashing wet pulp and bone fragments into stone
  20. Tornburgh is a border town. A lawless settlement where money can buy you happiness or a dagger to the kidneys, depending on who you flash your coin at. It straddles the coastal edge of the swamp kingdom of Drang, yet owes no allegiance to the citadel. Its streets are full of merchants flogging smuggled goods, Slaves being auctioned to the highest bidder, unrecognisable food stalls and ****** houses offering companionship for coin. None of this interested Wjolnir however as he fought his way through the midday crowds toward his destination. He pulled his hooded cloak tight to his chest as he darted into one of the many winding side alleys and made his way towards an unassuming timber building. He banged a fist against the door four times before the viewing panel was slid aside by a portly figure. "Your alive then! Who would have thought you would last this long" The large man cackled. The sound of sliding bolts was heard and the door was opened inwards and Wjolnir was beckoned in. The room he entered had a tiled floor and was lined with shelves filled with countless bottles and flasks. The most impressive thing however was the assortment of strange glass tubes and vials all connected by pipes and arranged on the rooms desk. Inside these tubes a substance was bubbling away and acrid smoke could be smelt. "This way" motioned the portly gentleman as he directed Wjolnir to a dimly lit room with a fireplace and a wooden bed. "Its spreading James, it wont stop bloody spreading" Wjolnir spat as the door was closed behind him. " Well best you take off your cloak and show me then so I know what we are dealing with." Wjolnir nodded and began to remove his cloak and shirt. Beneath his travelling shirt stained bandages were wrapped around his chest and left shoulder. As he unravelled the bandages the putrid smell of decay permeated the air, a forewarning of his supernatural ailment. The large man wrinkled his nose in disgust and clamped a perfumed rag to his mouth as he watched. Beneath the filthy bandages Wjolnir's skin was purple, mottled and strewn with boils and open sores. The wounds weeped thick pus and distorted with the rise and fall of his chest. "Gods be damned Wally, you should be 6 feet under by now!" Cursed the alchemist. " I feel like I already am" Wjolnir replied as the man began to investigate his wounds all while inhaling deeply through his sweet smelling handkerchief. " Can we quit the freak show and get to business already" Wjolnir snapped. " I don't think you understand, Salves wont help you, and magic wont help you. Your path is predetermined. The fact that you have lasted this long is the blessings of Sigmar but I fear that your luck can only last so long before you fall to this. No one survives Nurgle's Rot and even your coin cant buy you out of this one Wally. In simple terms, you are a dead man walking." Wjolnir left the alchemists with little of the enthusiasm he had arrived with. He pulled his hood up over his balding head and headed for the nearest tavern. If his destiny was to succumb to disease he would at least get blind drunk before hand...
  21. Chapter 2 – Headache The liquor tasted like roasted almonds and burned as it slid down his throat. Wjolnir had barely touched the bottle in front of him however he had already begun perspiring and his head was swimming. He was seated in a dark corner of a dive bar called ‘The Boars Nipple’ minding his own business and considering his options. Nothing brings clarity to a man’s thoughts like his impending death. He swirled the amber liquid in his tumbler while taking a strong drag of smoke from his pipe, exhaling billowy clouds from his nostrils. On one hand, he could stay here and drink away the coin he had saved over the years and on the other he could leave to ‘see the sites’ as he had often heard it called. In truth, he knew that he only had one option. As soon as people caught wind of his affliction he would be cast out of the settlement before he even had a chance to collect his belongings. That of course was if he wasn’t burned alive to cleanse his diseased body first. He shuddered at the thought and drained the spirit in his glass. He rose from his seat and dropped four coins on the bar, nodded to the owner and left. The streets were mostly abandoned this time of night, only the most committed of prostitutes were still working. Rain beat down against his face as he staggered down a deserted side street that lead to the docks. Behind him he heard footsteps ringing out on the cobble stones. As he turned to fuel his curiosity he was caught with a savage blow from a sword pommel across his face. Pain shot through Wjolnir’s temples as he hit the filthy floor. Cold hands pinned him down and his cloak was ripped away from him. He forced open his heavy eyelids and saw two grizzly faces bearing down upon him. Struggling he tried to force himself up and felt the blade of a sword pressed against his chest. “Don’t facking move, or I’ll cut yer bollocks off” grunted one of the thieves through yellow teeth. The other bandit grabbed for his coin pouch and he instinctively grabbed at the mans wrist. Pain shot through his shoulder as the first bandit thrust the short sword into his flesh. Wjolnir screamed in pain as the cold metal pierced his skin and muscle. The smell of rotting flesh erupted from the wound and a loud hissing sound could be heard. “What the ******!” yelled the bandit as he pulled his sword loose and stared at the bubbling blade. Wjolnir took full advantage of the bandits distraction and grabbed his wrist and forced the decaying blade through his partners neck. His throat erupted in a scarlet flare as he choked on his own bile, while the other man was left still holding on to the swords handle. He stumbled back in shock and tripped over his own feet. In a flash Wjolnir was on top of him, grabbing handfuls of his hair and slamming his head on the flagstones. Bone cracked with each impact as the base of his skull was scattered across the floor. The bandit feebly clawed at Wjolnir for mere moments before his hands laid twitching in the congealing blood around him as his head was smashed again and again until Wjolnir’s fists were smashing wet pulp and bone fragments into stone
  22. 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)
  23. For someone who hasn't read any story novels, can someone tell me who took Gordrakks eye? If it hasn't been mentioned, anyone have any good ideas? I definitely think its something a warlord of his stature would want some kind of revenge on.
  24. After a restless 2 days march, Arabor's legion of the dead reached their old capitol - Horehuson. Once a proud city of around 10.000 inhabitants, you could now only see some remains of fortified buildings made of stone, which endured the attack of the bloodhound during the Age of Chaos. Those inhabitants, who could not escape the initial, surprising attack had faced a cruel fate, with their flesh teared from their bones alive, and then all of the remains being fed to the Juggernauts and Korgoraths. With these grim memories in his mind, Arabor speeded up the approach to the city. Soon the bloodhound had realised their appearance and horns gave alarming sounds, ordering the troops to defend their new home. Surprisingly Arabor could only identify some regular battleline troops taking position in the outer defence ring of the city, but he could not see any elite units bolstering the defenders strength. Additionally the overall defence seemed to be organised by a blood stoker, also not the highest of the bloodhound officers. Nevertheless, with nothing else then revenge in mind, Arabor ordered a charge on all flanks, with fierce close combats starting around the central gate and the remains of the city walls, soon. Skeleton sword & spearmen faced Bloodreavers and Warriors, the center was attacked by Arabor and his personal grave guard. Slowly the deathrattle horde was pushing back the enemy step by step, ready to establish a first beachhead within the outer defence line of the city, when suddenly new horns could be heard! Surprisingly, they did not sound from within the city but from the death rattle's back, where no one paid attention to during the charge. A raiding party of Skullcrushsers, Horsemen and Korgoraths was returning to the city and now charing the death rattle in its back. No panic could be triggered within the undead ranks but being now outnumbered and surrounded, the skeleton ranks slowly started to crumble. Arabor tried to sense if he could find urgently needed reinforcements within the grounds of Horehuson, but no dead bodies could be found - all victims of the bloodhound in the past were fed to the beasts of the horde. But there was something else - not within the ground which Arabor scanned up until now. Within the dark shadow of the city ruins, a lurking dark presence was watching the battle. At night, when clouds would cover the stars and moon above the silent valleys it had haunted careless Bloodreavers who dared to roam the streets of Horehuson alone, causing terror in their bloodthirsty souls. The more Arabor focused on this presence, the more familiar it appeared to him, until suddenly painful memories from the past filled his mind, when he realised whom he had discovered. Quickly he strengthened his control over Worm and with the united witchcraft of the two wizards, he pulled the dark presence completely into this reality. Out of the sudden, creatures of green and white light materialised within the old royal tower, their eyes filled with fire of lust for total revenge. Arabor had summoned the spirits of the slain inhabitants of Horehuson and now as they were unleashed, they charged with loud screams into the battle against their tormentors from the past. The Nighthaunt charge was led by Athelwyn, Arabors beloved wife, who became one of the first casualties, when she organised the defence of the capitol against the surprising attack of the Bloodhound cavalry. Also of her, no bones remained but her spirit refused to leave this place and her husband and now she has returned in form of a Banshee. The ethereal creatures easily passed walls, enemies and friendly troops and attacked the bloodhound cavalry, which slowly grinded through the back ranks of the death rattle horde. Spectral scythes and daggers penetrated the thick armour of the juggernauts and within minutes the tide was turned towards the armies of the dead, erasing the remaining bloodhound quickly. Athelwyn took care of the Bloodstoker on her own. Remembering how he tortured her in her previous life, her dagger took care that his end now was as slowly and painful as hers had been. Within half an hour, the Bloodhound was butchered in all parts of the city, but Arabor realised quickly, that this was not the main body of the army. From Athelwyn he learned that the main army had moved out 2 weeks ago for a big raid in another region. They had headed towards the realm gate of Aremberg, which was also the most important escape route of the free people of the singing valley, when their exodus after the Bloodhound invasion started in the Age of Chaos. With hate and revenge being the dominant feelings which endured over the centuries, Arabaor and Athelwyn had not much to talk about when they met after the battle. Too many feelings and memories where simply lost during their stay in the in-between-world so they quickly ordered their joined forces towards the road to Aremberg, determined to hunt down the Bloodhound so their souls can finally find some peace.
  25. Hi all! My name is Doug and I manage a page called 2+Tough. We have loads of cool hobby content and videos. If you like what you see, be sure to connect with us on facebook, youtube and head over to the blog for some awesome articles! No ads, just good content Facebook: Youtube: Blog: