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  1. 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...
  2. 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.
  3. 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.
  4. 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.
  5. 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
  6. 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...
  7. 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
  8. 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! :-)
  9. 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.
  10. 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)
  11. 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.
  12. 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.
  13. 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:
  14. With the help of Worm, Arabor could quickly summoned a small warband as the ground of the Silent Valley was full of the remains of his people. Even though many were missing their skull, here and there they resurrected warriors of their past with their head still on their shoulder, carrying their rusted but still sharp weapons in their bony hands. But Arabor knew, if he wanted to bring his revenge to the heart of the Bloodbound, which still roamed the lands around the hidden valley, his simple warriors and horsemen where not enough. The armor of the blood warriors, skullreapers and Juggernauts was made of excellent steel, not easily pierced by normal blades and lances. His troops were good acting as an anvil, which could stop the enemy charge but he needed an hammer with sufficient rend as well, smashing the enemy to pieces. Therefore they marched back to the place where Arabor's people met their doom, a centuries ago. Near the bridge over the Wipper, he had met the bloodbound on the field of battle, and here it was, were Sigmar struck down his Hearthguard with a single lightning bolt, which was aimed at Arabor, in order to claim his soul. The place where that happened was marked later on by a monument, erected by the last free people before they fled towards Azyr. Worm shambled mindlessly behind the skeleton troops, completely under the control of the Wight King. When the small Deathrattle warband approached the site, they discovered some Bloodreaver camping there. Arabor dispatched his few riders to an instant charge, making sure none of the Khorne Warriors could escape and alert other parties. The reavers had no chance against the cavalry charge on open ground and were quickly destroyed. Arabor and Worm approached the monument, which was defiled by Khorne already soon after its erection, and his hand touched the ground. Thanks to the black arts he could feel the bravest and most loyal comrades buried below his feet, impatient to continue their duty from which they were prevented by Sigmar's intervention. The two wizards initiated a joint ritual and soon one body after the other breached the muddy ground and reveled warriors still in their fine armor, carrying shields in the color of Arabor's household and dangerously glowing blades in their hands. But it were not only the warriors Arabor was looking for, they also brought a mighty relict back to the surface: Arabor's personal standard, which was protected by his Hearthguard in each battle, was also hurried together with them, and now they could hand it over to their master again. The years in the earth between the angry and restless warriors had saturated it with magic and the runes now glowed balefully. With his guard at his side and his totem reclaimed, Arabor fealed confident to be able to face the main body of the bloodbound soon. He ordered his troops to march to the ruins of the old capitol, were he expected to find the headquarter of the bloodbound. On their way the next days, they would have gathered enough resurrected warriors to turn the war and into a Legion of Death. And so they marched, with the ruins of Horehuson as their next goal...
  15. With the dawn of a new age - the Age of Sigmar, Chaos needed to face new enemies at many frontline. Nagash recovered slowly and was on his way back to old strength, while his legions gained more and more control over their old territories in the realm of Shyish, which they had lost to Chaos after the victory of Archaon in the Age of Chaos. An inquisitive Necromancer heard legends about a forgotten realmgate connecting Shyish with a valley in Chamon, where a restless soul of great power from the past was wandering around. By bringing that one back to the mortal realms and binding it to his power, it would enable him to raise the ancient armies from the dead, providing him an efective tool in his struggle to power with the rivaling death mages. After long researches he found an old map, showing him the way to the realmgate and the location of Arabors Grave within the Silent Valley. He instantely started his journey and one week later he arrived at his goal, finding the grave in good shape. He did not hesitate long and initated a bloody ritual by sacrificing a slave he brought with him, to force back Arabor's soul to the world of the living, so he would rise again in the form of a Wight King and get bound to the will of the Necromancer. The sky blackened and the earth trembled and out of the grave, the remains of Arabor rose up, until he stood in full amor, his ritual crown on his head and his magical runeblade in his hand on top of it, facing the pleased necromancer. That one did not hesitate long and initated in a dark and unknowen language a spell to bind to wight king to his service, but once he was finished, Arabor unbinded it quickly with single harsh command, leaving the necromancer speechless and surpised "How do you dare???" screamed the death mage, "my name is Zal..-" "I DO NOT CARE WHO YOU ARE AND WHAT YOUR NAME IS" interrupeted Arabor in an unresistable way. "I AM ARABOR - THE DENIER! I REFUSED THE SERVIE OF THE GOD KING - DO YOU REALLY THINK YOU CAN BREAK ME THAT EASILY? DID YOU NOT KNOW THAT I AM A MASTER OF THE BLACK ARTS, TOO? YOU WANT TO SUBORDINATE ME ? YOU ARE A SIMPLE WORM, BUT YOU WILL HELP ME INSTEAD TO BRING BACK MY PEOPLE SO WE CAN DELIVER REVENGE AND RUIN TO THOSE, WHO RUINED OUR LIFES AND THOSE OF OUR BELOVED ONES! Arabor casted a spell on his own, breaking the will of the confused necromancer easily and tying him whith magical chains to his service Arabor knew that he could not perform his task all alone, so he touched the ground and directly felt some of his men were burried closely around his grave. With the help of his subdued Necromancer which he simpliy continued to call 'Worm', he rose their bones easily and soon the small group headed away into the Silent Valley to bring back the war to those, who ruined their beloved home centuries ago
  16. When the pale messenger spoke the words, all hope and reason fell of Arabor in a second. What they have met on the battlefield today, was only a part of Khorne's army. Their fastest troops on horse and Juggernaut-back were able to pass the free people's flank unseen last night and had already sacked the capitol. The royal family and their whole household were not simply slaughtered but their flesh was torn from their bones while they were still alive, while their bones were fed to the demonic juggernauts. Seeing all of his future being razed to ruins and all of his beloved ones gone, an anger raised in Arabor, matching easily the wrath the bloodbound he was fighting. With a rallying cry he called his hearthguard to him and let them form a pigs head. Inspired by the wrath of their leader, the hearthguard gathered as ordered and formed the triangle, ready to strike deep into the enemy lines with this suicidal mission. Arabor led his hearthguard straight to the center of the Bloodbound. With the future of the free people already lying in ashes some miles behind them, he wanted to bring as much ruin to the enemy as possible, before he would join his beloved family in Death. His aim was the aspiring Deathbringer, maybe cutting of the head of the snake could at least slow down the crusade ofthe bloodbound into the singing valley. Deeper and deeper the fine steel of the singing valley cut it's way through the mass of bodies and Arabor prepared to shout out a furios challenge to the Deathbringer, who was now close by. Above him the storm and the sheet lightnings seem to intensive with the increasing anger, hate and thirst for revenge! Just when he formed the first insults in his mouth, his hidden magical senses sounded an alarm and by pure instinct he casted a protective mystical shield above him, to save him from the lightning, which struck down from dark stormy clouds above him. With an ear-deafening sound the lightning exploded at the mystical shield and struck down the surrounding hearthguard and blood warriors, leaving Arabor alone to face the remaining bloodbound. The Deathbringer only shortly hesitated and then laughed out loudly, ordering his own hearthguard of Skullreapers to charge the isolated leader in order to benefit from this surprising situation. Far from above Sigmar was stunned for a second as well, as he had not recognized the hidden magical power when he wanted to claim the doomed Arabor for his growing number of stormcasts. But now he felt offended by the refusal of Arabor and also in general he did not trust the magical powers - too easily they could be manipulated by the dark gods. Therefore he cursed the defiant Arabor that if he cannot have his soul, it should also not wander to the hidden underworlds beyond the realms of Shyish! Arabor did not directly take notice of this grudge against him as he was busy defending himself against the five skull reapers. Blow after Blow he was able to parry, until the Aspiring Deathbringer joined the fight himself. Time was running out for him, as the free people's cavalry started a desperate attempt to relieve their leader But seconds before they arrived, their brave leader was struck down by the merciless blows of the bloodreaver. The last hope of the singing valley had fallen, but his men were at least able to claim his body before the galloped with him from the battlefield so his skull could not be sacrificed to Khorne. With their leader gone, the remaining free people also fled but most of where struck down by the pursuing bloodbound. Arabor received the traditional funeral in his full ceremonial insignia, how all of his forefathers had done before but closely after the last remaining free people started the exodus out of the singing valley. Not many could make it to Azyr before Sigmar sealed the last realm gates. The bloodbound razed down the cities of the singing valley to ruins and slaugthered those, who were to slow or weak to escape. So the hammer works, which had sung their songs for centuries, came to an rest, and the singing valley lost it's name. Over the years it's past got forgotten and the few wanderers who passed it during the later age of Chaos only refered to this devasted landscape as - The Silent Valley But all of them passed it as fast as they could - even though no one lived there beside small groups of ravaging bloodreavers, the wanderers always had the feeling as if they were not alone, but always a somehow restless shadow from the past following them, thirsting to return to this world, thirsting for revenge!
  17. It was wise of the rulers of the singing valley to hide themselves from the megalomaniac wizards which created countless miracles within Chamon. When the Age of Chaos dawned, Tzeentch turned his eyes to Chamon, its wizards and magicians were prone to his promises and ensnarements and quickly swore their allegiance to him or were overrun by his growing legions. But his attention was not drawn to the Singing Valley, where life went on as usual - at least it appeared to be so.... But even this hideout from the ruinous crusade of chaos could not remain for ever without being troubled, but it started from a direction the scouts of the free people have not considered nor guarded. Due to Nagash's defeat by Archaon, Chaos rampaged unchallenged through the lands of Shyish. An especially frenzied Bloodbound warband overran the tribes which have traded for centuries with the people of the singing valley over night, so no warning could be send through the realm gate. Not soon after, the Bloodbound passed the realm gate with full strength and started to invade the singing valley of Chamon, eagerly looking for slaves, skulls and the attention and pleasure of Khorne. They were led by an ambitious and aspiring Deathbringer called Vexnar the Reaper, who pushed his warband merciless forward to a restless charge, knowing he would catch the people on this side of the realmgate by surprise The current ruler of the Valley, Arabor gathered his hearth guard and send message to the lords and ladies, to gather all men and women, which were able to carry weapons, from knights to hearth guard to the fyrd, in order to push the enemy back through the realm gate. 3 days later, the united banners of the whole valley were marching to meet the enemy near the river Wipper. Never before you could have seen so many people gathering in one place of the valley, and birds must have had a beautiful view on all the different banners and weapons, armors and shields made of bronze and steel. The people themselves had less time to enjoy, as soon the first and most furious units of the bloodbound where crashing into their lines, with the main body of the enemy following close behind. But for the moment the shield wall of the free people could resist the many attacks of the blood-frenzied warriors. Suddenly a messenger appeared on the edge of the battlefield, clearing his path to Arabor, who lead the defense of the center just 5 or 6 bodies behind the deadly malstroms of the shield wall. Behind himthe messenger dark clouds turned up, announcing a heavy thunderstorm no one paid attention to - at least for now... To be continued....
  18. The singing valley of Chamon was known since the Age of Myth. It received it's name by the countless hammer mills build into the valley's flanks, which were power by small water streams. Day and night they were working to create fine blades and tools, with countless hammers hitting the anvils, never getting tired thanks to the waterpower. That constant smiting caused the sound the inhabitants of the valley proudly considered to be their song. Whereas other regions in Chamon created spectacular wonders by the power of constantly increasing magic, the inhabitants of the singing valley disregarded that possession, but focused instead on further perfecting their blacksmith skills, maybe a relict of their contacts with the duardin ancestors in the past, who also seemed to have taught them a lot about the art of smiting. Most of the common people of the valley did not know, that the ruling family itself had magic abilities, which were passed on from one generation to it's next. But it was tradition and unspoken law, that those magic powers remain secret and were only used to hide the valley from the other regions of Chamon, as their magic experiments and megalomania were watched with growing concerns. Despite its increasing isolation within Chamon, the singing valley was not completely cut of from trade and exchange, as a small and mostly unknown realm gate connected it with Shyish, the Realm of Death. The human tribes living on the other side where trustworthy and honest, so a good trading relationship was established, from which both sides benefited for years and years, with the world not noticing this hidden place. Not much else is preserved from that time, only one handwritten map, drawn with much haste but little efforts, showing the old capitol and some important other landmarks
  19. Prologue: Dust and Water As a scholar of the Freeguild's of Azyr, the opportunity presented to me was something unlike any other had yet had the chance to do. This could land me in the history books, my published work in libraries among the Mortal Realms. Alternatively, this could lead to a swift return to Sigmar's embrace. I, Gerber Lichter, have been charged by my betters in the colleges with research of a most peculiar and unknown facet of one of the most terrifying races known to man. In short, I am to discover the intricacies of Greenskin society, their economic systems and those of hierarchy. An astronomically reckless task, all told. Despite what you might think, the college had, through contacts in Sigmar's cities of Ghur, actually discovered a large tribe of the creatures who maintain trade with other species of the Realm of Beasts. So it came to be that I am here, travelling towards the city of the Bloody Fang. Even the name compounds the enormity of this task. After travelling through the gate to the realm of Ghur, me and my apprentice scribe, Nicolai, were introduced to our guides to the city. They were hulking men, of dark skin and piercing eyes. They wore skins, though I saw they also carried talismans of the twin-tailed comet of Sigmar. Despite my protests, they would allow no guards from the freeguilds to join us. I reluctantly agreed after they stated simply that the presence of any more outsiders may cause a stir in the Greenskins, and if that were to happen they would leave us to our fate as fast as they could. We mounted our steeds and joined them, making our way out into the wilds of the plane of Beasts. What struck me first and foremost was the emptiness. Azyr is a golden wonder, with spires and bastions everywhere, thoroughfares and places of learning. Ghur, or at least this part of the realm, was dusty and empty. The land was of sand and stone, all a dusty yellow. Bushes pocked the landscape alongside pitiful trees and boulders. Our guides stated simply that we follow the wide, fast river that flowed near the city of Sigmar, and it would take us to their city – apparently named “The Bonefall Ruins”. I would tell you all the varied creatures we saw, but that is not the purpose of this account and much better scholars than eye have covered the animals of the realm than I. The first sign of the settlement was on the horizon, when a colossal mountain rose out of the plains. It was of similar dusty stone, with veins of darker oranges, browns, and greys. The plateau had more green than I had seen so far, though it was only with squinting it was visible. When I could hear the roar did I realise that the “fall” part of the name was quite literal – something common among greenskins. The river must have fallen from the top of this wide mountaintop, which explained why it was so much more vibrant up there. It was at this point I saw my first true orruk. One of our guides grunted, and gestured to a figure partially obscured by bushes a mile or so away. It was a humanoid figure atop a large, tough, vicious looking boar. I couldn't make out much else, for it soon dug in it's heels and the boar darted away. Approaching the city, I could feel eyes watching us from the brush at all times since our encounter with the orruk. The closer we got, the more I could make out. The mountain's cliffs stretched to both sides of the horizon, a huge natural wall, a rift in the land. This jutted inwards where the river had clearly carved it's way into the stone over time. The waterfall was spectacular. All manner of colours darted in the constant spray. It landed atop a shelf some forty feet above the city. Now the city's name made even more sense. The bones of a gigantic creature laid splayed atop this shelf. It lay as if it had fallen, the skull upside down, with ribs stabbing into the sky. I made out pieces of vertebrae in the falls themselves, creating the spray. One claw curled into the cliff's, as if meekly attempting to climb back to where it fell. It was only nearer that I spotted a second river, which fell also from atop the mountain to the left of the city. I surmised it must disappear into the ground close to the city, as it did not make an appearance whilst we travelled. The city itself was hard to describe. It was of stone and wood, all dusty and unkempt. The stone buildings were often low, or otherwise had been built up further in wood. The stonework was seemingly too uniform, too precise for such creatures to construct. It did not seem like anything I had seen created by the artificers and masons of Sigmar. The woodwork was chaotic. Planks and panels were everywhere, often shaped into fangs or other brutal shapes. Spikes were common. There were tents, flags, and other more grisly trophies. These spread away from the ruins, and as we drew closer and closer I saw so many things I thought I would only read of. There were other men, camped further from other beings, some nodding at our guides. We saw darting, small figures in long, dusty, sand-coloured robes. I caught sight of one's face, and saw a long, hooked nose, and a vicious fanged mouth. It had cunning, mean eyes that seemed to glow red. I knew from my studies that this creature was known as a grot – one of the smaller, diminutive greenskin species. We also saw more orruks. Closer, I could see that they seemed to have different groups. Some wore even less than our guides, more paint than clothing. They carried rough stone tools and weapons. There orruks in leather and metal. These ranged in size greatly, from the same as their unclothed cousins, to huge beasts as large as the next group of creatures we saw. Like the grot, these had skin coloured green, a rich deep colour, like that of grass. All orruks were impossibly muscular, and the implications of strength were terrifying. There was one group of large humanoid figures, all gathered around one massive horned beast. They were Ogors. Their skin matched our guides, though seemed to have tinges of grey, reminding us of their differences with us. As if their size wasn't enough. We made our way into the streets of the city. I say streets, but truly it was madness. Brutish figures walked all around us, carrying anything from lumps of metal to raw flesh. A common motif I spotted was two red fangs, no doubt the tribe's sigil. The smell, of the smell. It assaulted you constantly, worse than any sewer. We drew some attention, and before long our guides stopped us inside an ancient square surrounded by ruined stone buildings, crowded in greenskin woodwork. A figure approached us. Chapter 1: The Beast in the Skull Our guides had bid us farewell with little more than a nod and a shove at the grot who approached us. He also wore a sand coloured robe, but it's hood was red. It had a few bags and a vicious knife at it's belt, and carried a staff of gnarled wood, topped with a skull. An evidently human skull. It was not the first we saw in the city, or the last. It seemed that our visit had been somehow arranged, that somehow the greenskins wanted us here. It was impossible to comprehend. The creature looked us over, snorted, and beckoned with one clawed finger that we should follow. It led us through a building, which was full of all manner of scraps of a real society. Through a broken wall, we came into a tunnel which led uphill. The air was stuffy and torches sputtered from the walls. Before I could work out where we were, we came out into the open. The sun blinded me for a moment before I spotted it. The upside down skull of the great creature which had crashed from above. The roar of the waterfall was so much louder than it had been in the streets below, and made the air cooler. We walked a little, the grot giving us no time to observe the city from this vantage. Bridges of rough-hewn wood carried us over the many rivulets that ran from the waterfalls and continued to flow to the side of the city. There were skulls of all creatures mounted on poles as we approached, stacks of ruined, rusty weapons. Offerings. The grot stopped, and cleared it's throat, before pointing his staff at the red cloth covered the opening of the rough wooden structure created in the giant monster's skull. We stepped between the front fangs of this great beast into the darkness of the tent. Inside, there were so many things. Dried herbs and meats hung from the ceiling. Braziers burned everywhere. Cloths covered the floors and walls, a riot of colours dulled with dust and sand. There was rough furniture of wood and bone, and what could be called a bed – furs and straw atop a frame of wood. There was a step, and we were led by the grot onto a platform further up. We faced an orruk. For it sat on something like a throne, low to the floor, with many bones and tusks jutting from behind. To the left a staff balanced against it. It seemed to be made of wood and bone, with a large, heavy-browed skull topping it. Light poured in through a hole in the wall, and I realised the throne sat in front of the orbit of the giant skull the tent was made inside. For the first time, the grot spoke. “Dis is Grukk, da Dominata, da link to Gorkamorka!” The grot's voice was high-pitched and gravely, like it had spent it's life screaming and shouting. The orruk shifted as it's title was listed to us, and my eyes adjusted to the room. It seemed to be wearing a large hooded robe of black fabric, and a brown skirt. The black robe had red flames painted upon it, and many human skull and shards of metal and stone were attached to it's edges. Two long curved horns were tied next to the creature's face. It looked at us with beady red eyes that seemed to glow with some fell magic, and finally said something. It had felt like we were waiting staring at each other for minutes. “Welcum to da city, humies.” I felt it only proper that we show respect and I bowed. It grunted something of a laugh and continued. “It's da will of Gorkamorka dat you stinkin' weaklings know da troof of the strength of our boyz. I shall show you da tribe, and what strength we 'ave. I iz da great shaman of da god, and I tell dem what he finks. Der are two uvas: Wugnot tells da wild boyz wot gorkamorka finks, and Gitter” he pointed at the grot “tells dem grots what sneaky stuff dey should do. My boyz are the toughest, strongest, and meanest.” I knew that these are recorded as referring to themselves as “Ironjawz”, due to the tendency for their armour to have jaw-like plates. This meant Grukk was not only possessing strange greenskin magic, but he also had the natural strength that came with his size. “Follow me humie, I'll show you da city and da boyz. Den you can run back to ya stinking shiney city and tell 'em 'ow tuff we are!” He roared the last bit and laughed as we quivered. He grabbed the staff, and stomped to the tent entrance. So there we go, an introduction to my destruction forces, the clans of tribe Bloody Fang. They are spiritually led by a triumvirate of shamans. Today I finally finished the first - Grukk da Dominata. So named for the weird look people get when they look into his eyes. Often shortly before head's pop. Somewhat special as he is a gift from my better half for my birthday, so really wanted to get him done. Helps that the model is really beautiful! Unfortunately it is currently not a good time of day for light but I'll give you some photographs anyway. I am very pleased with it, and the base too (which has since been given the final coat on the edge). i will take pictures in better light tomorrow, unfortunately a lot seems to wash out in these, so if you have any questions on the process for any colours don't hesitate! C&C is always welcome, and I hope you enjoy.
  20. With this entry, I'll talk a bit about the fluff I have in mind for my army, as well as potential color schemes. I've been eyeing the different Bloodbound warbands and their color schemes in the battletome, and there are a few I'm pretty fond of. I think a mix of color is more interesting than the solid red and brass of the Goretide, which is a pretty classic depiction of Khorne-aligned armies. The Iron Horde is a radical departure from the usual red/black/brass, and the 'Eavy Metal team has done a great job of making them different, but still recognizably bloodthirsty Khorne worshipers. I also like the Skullfiend Tribe; the predominately black armor, with red helmets and accents, is striking. However, I want to build my own army, with my own fluff, so any scheme I come up with will be a derivative of these, instead of a copy. The basis for my warband is as follows: The Paladins of Kharneth are something of an oddity among Bloodbound warbands. Whereas the Goretide and Skullfiend Tribe may gnash their teeth and throw themselves at the enemy with reckless abandon, the Paladins of Kharneth carry themselves with a grim restraint. When they march, they do so in ordered drill, with seldom an utterance, save for the commands of their champions and Bloodstokers. Although Khorne demands blood from his followers, their way is not that of wanton slaughter. On the eve of battle, the Paladins of Kharneth muster in silence. As they stare down their enemies, their Bloodsecrators chant liturgies of hate and their Slaughterpriests execute prisoners in bloody rituals to discern the tide of battle. They march forth in organized ranks, baring down on their foes, a wall of brass and steel. Only when the battle lines are joined do the Paladins bellow their contempt, and tear their axes into flesh. To an onlooker, the Paladins of Kharneth appear to be well-disciplined and restrained; especially for Bloodbound. In truth, every warrior harbors the same callous fury as his counterpart in another warband. The Paladins burn with the urge to kill, maim and slaughter the same as all others who pledge allegiance to Khorne. However, it is their way to suppress these compulsions until the very last moment. The Paladins lock away their rage until they clash with the enemy, and unleash their hate tenfold. Theirs is a grueling lifestyle, in which the rigors of suppressing their anger fill their minds with images of violence and their vision turns red. The Paladins of Kharneth are not led by a singular lord, although they do follow a similar Gorechosen hierarchy as other Bloodbound. Instead, they follow the word of Mel'kanor, a Bloodthirster of the Third Host. Much like the Paladins themselves, he is an enigmatic Bloodthirster, embodying more so the spirit of martial prowess, guile and generalship than mindless bloodletting. Nevertheless, he is still a greater daemon of Khorne, and his wrath is infectious, stirring the Paladins to greater heights of butchery. Mel'kanor's sponsorship of the Paladins comes both as a source of gratification and irritation to the Blood God: There is no doubt that their many campaigns have contributed to Khorne's mountain of skulls and rivers of blood, but the methods of the greater daemon and his mortal "project" are unorthodox. Mel'kanor has a habit of evading his master's fury, only to reappear with offerings and deeds so great they are impossible not to reward. Therefore, his place among the hierarchy of Khorne's Bloodthirsters is assured. Whereas the Axes of Skarbrand tear after their fallen patron's leftovers, the Paladins of Kharneth slaughter with a purpose, doing the Blood God's will as Mel'kanor's clergymen. The origins of the Paladins of Kharneth can be traced to the warband known as Lord Khuldrak's Reapers. They were once one in the same, however a division in leadership saw the warband tear itself in two. Proud and self-assured, Lord Khuldrak refused to fight under the command of the Everchosen. Furious, Archaon sent riders of the Varanguard to punish his insolence and make an example of the warband. Ezdas, Exalted Deathbringer of Lord Khuldrak's Gorechosen, thought it unwise to disobey Archaon; he had conferred with the warband's Slaughterpriests, who saw it as Khorne's will to join the Everchosen's assault on the Realms. When the Varanguard came to reap vengeance, Ezdas and a cadre of loyal warriors turned on their lord. Broken and near death at the end of the battle, Khuldrak was dragged back to Archaon, his warband divided. Ezdas fell in the slaughter, leaving his remnants leaderless. They fought under the Everchosen for a number of campaigns, before they were claimed by Mel'kanor, seeking a foothold in the Mortal Realms. Under his leadership and doctrine, the Reapers forged themselves anew. The Paladins of Kharneth retain the colors of their old warband, donning blackened plate, trimmed in bronze. Their numbers swell as they conquer weaker Bloodbound, and many variations of their colors can be seen. All Paladins, however, have the icon of the warband branded or tattooed somewhere on their body. This rune resembles a primitive depiction of a Bloodthirster; no doubt an homage to the greater daemon that commands them.
  21. Hi, I'm running a 'Tribal Warfare' competition this month with the chance to win a brand new box of Destruction minis To enter, please share some info about your Destruction tribe over at the Stronghold's tribes page before the end of the month: http://www.the-stronghold.com/index.php?/tribes/ You can read more about it here: http://www.the-stronghold.com/index.php?/blogs/entry/60-tribal-warfare-competition-win-a-battleline-unit/ Cheers!
  22. I have an idea on some background fluff for the Deathrattle army I'm considering making. Here's are the very basics. There is a human tribe, somewhere in Ghyran. They are fairly primitive, or at least very ignorant, and little connection to the realms at large. In fact, they are completely unaware that there are any other realms than where they live. However, they have some major strength, I'm leaning towards the idea their rulers are natural casters, or perhaps they are great craftsmen. They are a tribe full of vibrant ritual and dress. Colors, dies, beads, and such are prized, and there isn't a season which goes by without a celebration... They are all too aware of their mortality, to not celebrate their lives. Their territory is near an ancient ruin, set within a canyon. Deep within the ruin is a very powerful realm gate to Shyish. The ruins mean very little to them, and they avoid the place except during certain rituals, as in their culture, it is (very literally) a gate to the underworld. The power of the gate within the ruins, causes the area around them to be abnormally cold, and dark. When the sun shines it appears dim and distant, and the moon(s) hang low and overlarge in the sky. (If you look closely, you may even notice the skull like mien that the patterns of that celestial body take on. Colors seem faded, and anyone who enters the ruins is drained of emotion during their stay. To stay too long in the ruins, is to loose the will to exist. Little seems to grow here, and what does is sickly, and dies quickly. There is a legend. That long ago, this tribe, was pressed hard by foes, diseases, and natural disasters. They were a failing people, doomed to be removed from the face of the realms and even from the memory of their conquerors. Their priests and wise men beseeched their gods, to no avail. Finally, their king, turned to the most enigmatic of the their gods, (Insert name of underworld deity here ). He traveled to the ruins, and through the realm gate contained within. What happened there is unknown. What is known, is that when he returned, it was at the head of a column of skeletal infantry and cavalry, supported by towering gargant skeletons, and two unknown creatures, that radiated an aura of death, their wings crackling with undeath magic. But, most disturbingly, he was accompanied by a silent sorcerer, clad in blue raiment and a golden, faceless mask, graven with strange symbols. The sorcerer never said a word, and though his mask had no eyes, his gaze chilled the villagers to their bones. The army of undead quickly and wordlessly defeated the tribes enemies, and at the end of the battle, the masked figure wordlessly commanded the dead of both armies to rise and follow him, and they did. Soon after, the diseases that had plagued this community lifted. After this, the army of dead marched back through the ruins and into the underworld. The King remained. He explained the nature of the deal which had been struck with their god of undeath. That the the villagers would never again need to worry about invasion, as their god had heard their call, and had mercy on them. However, he required a sacrifice of them in turn. Their dead must be delivered to the gates of the underworld (perhaps even through), and under certain conditions or times, the lords they now owed their fealty to, would require of them a live offering. Someone to come through the gates of their own will. They must not be forced, but they must be of good health, or superior skill or trade. Then the king turned and left for the underworld, becoming the first such sacrifice. This is where things get a little tricky story wise. So I was listening to the Mortal Realms Blog about the Nagash/undead/shyish based audio drama series, and it sounds like my idea may be somewhat similar to a plot point in that story. Something about a city of humans in Shyish, owing a clan/brotherhood of vamps fealty for saving them. Unfortunately, having not heard the story myself, I'm not sure exactly how close my idea is to what they did there. I think the biggest differences here, that I can see, is that my human tribe has no idea what they've been wed too. Heck I'm not even 100% sure who they are serving. But they are likely terrified of it. I know the king has submitted himself to another power, and that the necromancer/lich (Nyarlathotep in my head, for those of you who know.) in the golden mask is only an agent of this power. I know that he has been given land and a hold to protect the valuable realm gate on the Shyish side, and in return for his services he is allowed to commit a certain portion of his power to defending his descendants. Those descendants then in turn provide him and his lord with the raw materials (their dead and possibly trade goods of some sort. Must be something in Ghyran that they need in Shyish...) to continue to grow their forces in Shyish. What the living are used for, I don't rightly know yet. Perhaps, if the King, who is certainly now a wight, is serving a vampire lord, they are to be his progeny. I don't think enough come through the gate to be his food source though. Also, they could also be used for other things. Such as armorers, or laborers. Or, they could be used for any one of these things, depending on some sort of evaluation. My reason for them needing to come of their own will, is because the lord (again whoever that is) wants their fear to keep them in line, but doesn't want to use force, as it could lead to a counterproductive uprising, and an end to the resources he has access too through the realmgate. In the MR podcast, it sounded more like the people delivering themselves into the arms of the vamps were paying a debt of honor, and were proud to do so. I'm more interesting in contrasting life and death in my story. At some point, I think I'd like to flesh out an army to represent the mortal side of this equation as well, but for now, I'll be focusing mainly on the deathrattle side. Ok, this post is getting super long at this point. Please share thoughts if you are so inclined. And, at some point, if I can come up with a story for the TK version of the army, I'll share that here too. Assuming I don't just decide to get carried away with this idea. Also, I plan to add some pics eventually. I'm working on a test batch of skellies and a necromancer/lich to see how he comes out.
  23. The aim of this WIP thread will basically be to keep me going. I love the hobby, never really a gamer, but always loved the fluff and that's what keeps me collecting and painting. This thread will be updated painting progress on my Stormcast Chamber The Knights Ardent, and, because every so often I get the creative urge, the occasional spot of fluffy bits to go with it.
  24. I just thought I would add this in here as it is hidden away in the blog title page. I will be documenting the progress of this army here and will post WIP pictures more regularly on Twitter via @Bishmeister1. This army was commenced early last year but enthusiasm for it waned when Age of Sigmar was released and round bases became standard. After much deliberation I began to rebase the army and now love the round base aesthetic and its potential for more base embellishment. Beware this is a long introduction. Background/Fluff Located in the Realm of Life DBMFFB inhabit the deepest darkest depths in the fantastical forests of the Realm of Life. This band of Forest Moonclan Grots spends most of their existence in perpetual darkness due to the thickness of the tree canopy. Light rarely permeates to their dingy domain; this darkness is compounded by the eerily enveloping mists that saturate everything in the forest during the warmth and closeness of the day giving it a dank, dingy, dreary atmosphere that drips from every leaf, bough and lichen. This dark and damp atmosphere combined with the continuous cycle of rot and growth is the perfect environment for the grots main source of sustenance, fungi. The Bloo Moon Fungus The fungus of the forest grows everywhere and the DBMFFB are fungus connoisseurs without rival; from brewing potent blue death cap tea to stewing the popular ten plus one toadstool hotpot. DBMFFB take their name from the unusual bloo moon fungus. The mighty mushroom is a giant of the forest and is worshiped as a deity. This mushroom appears seldom, once in a blue moon in fact, but grows to gigantic proportions compared to the other fungi. It is light blue in colour and has a luminous quality to it making it appear as if it is glowing. When discovered these are treated with great reverence and shamans will carry out necessary sacrificial rituals to extend the existence of this fabulous fungi. As like all fungi its life is limited but this can be extended by feeding it rotting flesh, this is usually the flesh of victims which is placed around the mighty mushroom where it will feed the soil and sustain the fungus. The main stem of the mushroom is as thick as a large tree and the ground around it is covered with smaller bloo fungus spawning from the main plant. The appearance of these terrific toadstools seems to coincide with the appearance of the bloo moon which in rare circumstances permeates to the forest floor. This usually occurs through glimpses in the canopy within the tribe’s shamanic burial grounds where the forest vegetation thins and struggles to grow. Shamans The shamans particularly covet the bloo moon fungus as consuming its flesh enhances their magical potential. The shamans harvest the offshoots of the main fungus to produce their hallucinogenic homebrews and thus preserving the dominant blue fungus. Consuming this fungus would be fatal for any other Moonclan grot but the shamans have built up a resistance to the toadstools toxins over many years of regular consumption. This long and often fatal path of the shaman begins with fermenting the bloo moon fungus to brew potent ale. This is same ale given to fanatics although in much larger quantities where the fanatics are encouraged to ‘skull’ a five pints. Over time the shaman will increase his consumption brewing all manner of fungus ales and eating regular helpings of the half life hot pot towards the end of his shamanic journey. This hot pot so named as shamans lives tend to be cut very short soon afterwards. The shamans begin to turn blue as they gradually succumb to the fungi's finger of death. The shamans consider this terminal transformation as a ritual self-sacrifice which guarantees them the elevation to a deity. In consuming the bloo moon fungi the shaman is able to tap into the collective knowledge, experience and sometimes powers of the previous shamans that have been assimilated by the fungus in its perpetual cycle of consumption. Shamans will often go mad before they are overcome by the fungi's finger of death due to the crazed and incessant rambling murmurs of the assimilated shamans. Only the strongest willed and most powerful shamans survive to experience deity hood. Eventually the shaman’s body will be more fungus than grot and the shaman’s body will stop responding to his commands. The shamans mind and soul become locked into the fungi and has to compete to be heard with all the other locked in shamanic souls. At this point the shaman is buried in the shamanic burial grounds where the fungus will lay dormant until it is charmed out of the ground by a future bloo moon. Squigs DBMFFB fascination with everything fungi has led them to keep a disproportionate number of squigs in their army. From the tiny squiglings to the giant forest squigs, squigs are everywhere. Many regiments see the squiglings as good luck charms and actively encourage them to join their regiment by feeding them fungi. This can be dangerous as some squiglings can increase in size very rapidly if given too many fungi and end rampaging through the regiments' ranks causing havoc. DBMFFB will harvest all the blue squigs as they consider them to be the most ferocious and distantly related to the blue moon fungus, therefore prized and sacred. Fellwater Troggoths DBMFFB also have a disproportionate number of Fellwater Troggoths which tend to avoid running water with a preference for the dark, dank, stinking bogs of the forest. These Fellwater Troggoths prey on the unfortunate creatures that fall into or stray too close to the forest bogs. They will often eat grots although they find them stringy and tasteless. Like DBMFFB the Fellwater Troggoths covet the blue moon fungus, not in a sacred way but the fungus enhances their metabolism enabling them to grow larger and regenerate quicker. Fellwater Troggoths are able to snuffle out the bloo moon fungus through their amazing sense of smell. The Fellwater Troggoths have light blue skin which is probably caused by their consumption of the bloo moon fungus and the fact that they spend most of their time in perpetual darkness. They have scales of varying shades of green and dark lank hair. DBMFFB believe the Fellwater Troggoths to be the physical manifestation of the bloo moon fungus' anger and malice and see them as a gift, albeit reluctant, from the fungus deity for their army. The Fellwater Troggoths are reluctant participants in the army of DBMFFB and have to be carolled from their bogs by the brave and the stupid; the stupid use fishing rods, hooks and nets whilst the brave use tempting treats, such a bloo fungus ale, long spears, and the stupid to temp the Fellwater Troggoths out of their bogs and into the army. The Fellwater Troggoths will often join regiments of grots as they are attracted by the smell of fungus ale. This can often have adverse effects causing the regiments to break down into a seething pit of animosity as the Fellwater Troggoths makes a beeline for any fanatics in the regiment that have consumed the bloo moon fungus ale. The shamans of the army are particularly wary of the Fellwater Troggoths and will not join any regiments containing Fellwater Troggoths for fear of being devoured. Bog Momma Bog Momma is an exceedingly large female Fellwater Troggoths. It is thought that she has managed to grow so large as she is very long lived and by consuming vast quantities of bloo moon fungus and other male Fellwater Troggoths who are attracted to her because of her magnificently pungent body odour. She is a less reluctant member of the army as she has the wit to understand the feast which ensues following a battle which goes some way to sating her gargantuan appetite. She is continuously eating and is never without her net hand bag which is stuffed full of tasty titbits. Whilst being a formidable monster she is easily distracted by the opportunity of an easy meal, fungi or pretty wild flowers. These distractions along with compliments are often used by the Moonclan Grots to guide her to the enemy. Forest Spiders The forest has many creepy crawlies and DBMFFB make extensive use of the forest spiders within their army. These are mainly used as scouts due to their ability to travel silently though the forest canopy and their ability to use webs to ensnare enemies. DBMFFB will use spiders of all varieties and sizes within their army, the largest being the mighty Araknarok spider. Creepy Crawlies & Beasts Distributed throughout all of DBMFFB ranks are various creepy crawlies and beasts, including boars, wolves, spiders, sprites, squigs, bats and rats. Some of these are not really part of the army but end up getting caught up amongst the commotion. Iconography, Equipment & ‘Ethics’ The emblem of the blue snarling moon and or forest fungus are used extensively throughout the army. DBMFB wear the traditional black garb of the Moonclan grots but decorate their hoods with bloo moon fungus patterns on the rims although these patterns are usually white as light blue cloth is extremely rare to the Moonclan grots. The army struggles to make any metal weapons as they do not have access to the raw materials required so they have a preference for wooden spears and clubs. If a grot is lucky enough he will have scavenged a metal weapon from a dead enemy. Metal weapons are considered a status symbol within the army, although some grots, particularly the not so clever ones, take this to the extreme and believe the larger the weapon the greater the status. This doesn't always work so well in battle when the owner of the giant weapons cannot fight effectively and is easily slain by their opponent. However there are always plenty of stupid grots ready to pry these weapons from their dead comrades’ hands in the pursuit of elevated status in the form of a big choppa. The grot bosses are usually the most intelligent grots and do not fall into this 'arms race' so are usually modestly armed. The grots are natural scavengers and are armed and equipped in a rather eclectic fashion with little uniformity. DBMFFB have no qualms in using the weapons and equipment of other races and do not favour any particular races weapons but generally end up with the weapons of the foes they come into contact with the most, these being Men, Beastmen and Duardin. DBMFFB are particularly spiteful and relish the chance to vanquish a foe with a weapon from that race, particularly if it’s a Duardin. DBMFFB will not however have anything to do with any form of Aelven equipment or weapons seeing them as dirty, tricksy baubles that stink of Aelven malediction. The Army (eventually) Grot Warboss (Skarnik and Gnobbla) 3 x Grot Warboss on Great Cave Squiq 2 x Grot Big Boss on Gigantic Spider Lots of Grot Shamans Forest Moonclan Grot hordes 4 x Grot Units (32)(128) 3 x Archer Grots (32)(96) 2 x Sqiug Herders (32)(64) 2 x Units of squig hoppers (18)(36) 2 x Cave Squig Units (32)(64) 6 x units of spider riders (10)(60) 2 x Squig Gobbers 1 x Mangler Squig 12 x Fellwater Troggoths 1 x Colossal Cave Squig 1 x Giant Fellwater Troggoth (Bog Momma) 1 x Araknarok spider 1 x Giant This army is missing big chunks of units i.e. artillery, I have yet to decide on how to model these as I don’t want to use the current models. Initial army project will be centred on the squig units with accompanying Fellwater Troggoths The Squig Battalion Grot Warboss (Skarnik and Gnobbla) 2 x Grot Warbosses on Great Cave Squiqs Lots of shamans 1 x Grot Unit (32) 1 x Archer Unit (32) 1 x Unit of Squig Hoppers (18) 1 x Unit of Squig Herders (32) 1 x Unit of Cave Squigs (32) 2 x Squig Gobbers 10 x Fellwater Troggoths 1 x Colossal Cave Squig 1 x Giant Fellwater Troggoth (Bog Momma) The Plan for the Moonclan Grots Army To create units that appears animated with lots going on. Moonclan Grots will be at different angles and heights using landscaped bases to give the impression of a disorganised rabble. Bases Each model will have homemade sculpted forest bases with additional toadstools, trees and shrubbery. Each unit will be mounted on a magnetised scenic regiment base. This base will contain lots of scenic features to enhance the forest/jungle theme. This will be integrated with the models round bases to give a seamless effect and the regiment base will be recessed into the final display board. Conversions & Kit-bashes Fanatic models will be used with squigs, Fellwater Troggoths to give the impression of grots being dragged along and generally abused. I will kit-bash and sculpt to create different arm positions, poses and use different weapons for the grots and trolls to create an eclectic look to the army. I would like each grot model to appear to be an individual with no other model the same. Bog Momma will be chasing a Squig Hopper carrying flowers. Painting The Boyz The Moonclan Grots will be painted in the classic colour scheme of black cowls and green skin. All Moonclan Grot models with have freehand toadstools painted on their cowls. The moon emblem on shields and banners will be painted light blue. I have chosen blue as I want it to be different from the majority of Moonclan Grot armies out there. The Beasts The squigs and Fellwater Troggoths will be painted in light blue, this will match the blue on the banners and shields. I chose blue to tie in with the Moonclan Grots but also as I wanted to paint the squigs and trolls in a non-traditional colour scheme. The blue on both the squigs and Fellwater Troggoths will graduate from almost white to dark blue from top to bottom. The Fellwater Troggoths have scales and hair which will be painted green to match the colours of the Moonclan Grots. I have yet to decide on the colour of the spiders and other creepy crawlies and beasts. This section will be updated in the future. Painting Recipes Moonclan Grots Black Cloth: (base) mechanicus standard grey, (wash) nuln oil + lhamian medium, (h1) MSG, (h2) base + dawnstone, (h3) dawnstone. Skin: (base) Scorpion green x2 coats, (wash) Biel-tan + lhamian medium, (h1) goblin green + scorpion green + bleached bone, (h2) h1 + more bleached bone, (h3) bleached bone, thinned red ink for nose. Leather: (base) Baneblade brown, (wash) agrax earthshade, (h1) baneblade brown, (h2) base + rakarth flesh. Wood: (base) mournfang brown, (wash) agrax earthshade, (h1) base, (h2) baneblade brown. Shield: (background) Necron abyss, (Moon) (base) ice blue, (wash) drakenhof nightshade, (h1) base, (h2) base + white scar 50:50, (h3) base + white scar 25:75, (h4) white scar. Metal: (base) boltgun metal, (wash) agrax, (h1) base, (h2, edge) Mithril silver. Squigs (base) ice blue, (wash underside) drakenhof nightshade, (h1) base, (h2) base + white scar 50:50, (h3) base + white scar 25:75, (h4) white scar. Fellwater Troggoths Same as for squigs although their hair, ears, spines and scales are given a biel-tan green wash instead of drakenhof nightshade but still highlighted with blues. I undercoat and base coat all my models with an airbrush. For highlighting I pre mix paints in spare pots to achieve consistency and to save time. I always thin paints for highlighting and tend to build up the highlights using several thin layers of the same paint wet blending where needed. Inspiration Inspiration for this army has come from many sources. Firstly I love Moonclan Grot models and have models from all eras of the Games Workshop releases. I intend to incorporate all of these models within the army although I will be mostly using the Moonclan Grot models from The Battle of Skull Pass range. I have hundreds of Moonclan grot models and have been itching to start a project with them. There are some really amazing Moonclan Grot armies which can be easily found on the internet. Special mention must go to Ricky Fischer’s Moonclan Grots which was the army that really convinced me that I should have a go at Moonclan Grots. I love the overall look that he has achieved and the consistency in his painting style. These can be viewed here: http://flickrhivemind.net/User/revolution8/Interesting and Mousekiller’s Moonclan Grot army is full of great conversions http://www.warseer.com/forums/showthread.php?113993-Moonclan-Grot-Army&s=72d3f731b1d93b8742fa608b02488abb
  25. Hey there. So on the painting front, I have nearly completely finished the banner bearer's body, and will get on with his weapon and pole so I can get him assembled. Then I'll worry about the banner. But for now I have had lots and lots of fluff for the tribe and where they live and hierarchy whirling around my head with one major flaw; I have no idea what to name the tribe. I therefore also have no idea what there clan symbol would be, and that's holding up painting the banner. So any suggestions are more than welcome, on both accounts! I'm using a predominantly dark scheme, with spot colours in reds and the odd purple. Narratively, they live in a ruined city built by noone really know, that sits between two rivers. These fall from a tabletop mountain that stretches wide in each direction. One is a bright, crisp, blue. the other stinking orangey brown. At the base of the clean water lies a colossal skeleton of a great beast, lying on it's back, having fallen during some titanic struggle from above. It's lower half sits on a small shelf 20 metres or so up from the cliff floor, and the water finishes it's cascade in a series of smaller waterfalls over the bones of the great creature. In, around, and on the ribs, spine, and skull, greenskins have expanded the ruined city to incorporate it, and the upside-down skull is now home to the shaman of the resident ironjaw orcs. That's just a small idea of it. I have a lot I'd like to share and expand the background with each unit I create. But I would like to give them a unifying tribal group. The plan is to incorporate three main forces - Ironjawz, savage orcs, and grots (predominantly Night goblins, used as the cave dwellers, builders, city scum, and general desert grots) with a nice contingent of beasties, mainly river trolls, spiders, and a mawkrusha. I will now hurry up and keep painting so I can give you guys some more cool photos. Sneak peek: up next after the forgeworld banner bearer will be the ironjawz weirdnob!