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Realms at War - Legends 18th-20th November PLAYERS EMAILED CHECK YOUR INBOX


Mitzy

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Thanks to those people who have paid already. We would be really grateful if those who haven't paid yet, do so as soon as possible. As well as there being upfront costs that the EATMingsFoote team are paying out of our own pocket, the nature of this event means there is a lot of player specific detail that needs to be written and things to be built so the sooner we have definite numbers, the better!

cheers

jimbo

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Had another idea for my hero that offers better story and model diversity. It only leaves me one (big) model to paint so can focus on doing a good job...

Stormvermin Champ -> Warlord -> Queek -> Warlord on Brood Horror.

Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

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Am all paid and just booked the hotel room, just need to sort the army out!. I will bringing order in some shape or form.

if anyone is looking for a hotel room to share I have space in the travel lodge if you want, I don't touch unless asked and am a lovely spooner.

will be driving up from Newbury (J13 M4) so if anyone lives in-between there and Cambridge and wants a lift on the Friday afternoon and return Sunday let me know. 

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On 18 August 2016 at 10:42 AM, tricky_ricardo said:

Hey, so I'd love to bring along five massively drunk Aleguzzler Gargants using the Sons of Behemet formation.

How many points is this gonna set me back? It doesn't appear to be in the GHB :(

@tricky_ricardo We'll have a think about this and get back to you ASAP.  

Jimbo

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The sun beat down on the two men, as they toiled down the rutted road, pulling their cart of embalmed supplicants. When they had left Armerion the path had been paved; Duardin work of high quality and workmanship, but after three days it had given out. They had pulled the cart of bodies over ragged stone, then hard, impacted dirt nonetheless. Or one of them had at any rate.

The taller figure was young, a boy really, though strong and built like an orruk. He lowered the cart onto its rests and flexed his meaty arms.

“Forgive me, master. I must ask a question.” he mumbled.

The old man turned, leant on his staff and sighed.

“You are wondering where the Well is. We are not far now I think.” he replied.

The boy scratched an armpit and frowned.

“To be honest, I was wondering if I could have a turn not pulling the cart?”

The old man gave no indication of having heard him. Wheezing, he stooped over the ground and teased out a handful of dust. He ground it into his palm and licked it, working his jaw, trying to rustle up enough saliva despite the chilly, dessicating wind. He spat on the dirt track and watched as the muck writhed and reformed like a nest of graveworms before settling into a shape. He nodded as in in approval.

 

He heaved himself back up, the boy fancied he could hear the joints as they scraped together. “You may, indeed have a rest. When you can find another oaf stupid enough to want to be your apprentice. I was the same, and my master, and his master before him and if I’d paid more attention to the portents then I’d have found another oaf like you all the sooner. You’d do well to pay more attention, you’ll have to do this some day, and the Well is never where you leave it.”

By the evening of the fourth day, they found it. As they turned around a shoulder of rock over a low ridge they saw the Well, rising from the plain, its black stone walls flanked by sepulchural statues, dark against the dusk sky. They parked the cart at its foot, by a set of obsidian steps. The old man moved about, lighting dark-iron torches in sconces on the wall which burned with a repulsive tallow stink, and tracing protective runes into the ground around the cart while the boy built a camp fire at the base of the steps. The second sun dipped below the horizon, the wind blowing even more chill and causing the round the campfire.  

They warmed themselves as best they could, while the dead lay silent in their embalmed cocoons. As his head began to nod, he felt a gust a wind and a sound almost like laughter, a childish, girl-like laugh. He sat up, looked around. A dust devil span and collapsed on itself on the edges of the fire’s light. Sinking back onto his elbows, he resolved to stay awake, until exhaustion took him and he sank into an oblivious sleep.

***

They started early in the morning, hauling the cart to the lip of the well and looking down into its inky depths. The boy unclipped the rear gate. By mid morning the corpses were lined along the edge of the well. The boy washed his hands and arms with water from a leather canteen on the back of the cart and wiped his face with a dirty rag. Despite runes of preservation carved into the cart, many of the families of the  poorer supplicants had been unable to provide much in the way of embalming cloths and winding sheets and some putrefaction was inevitable.
 

“Who is this benevolent supplicant, who gives of his body that we might prosper?” boomed the old man in his best ceremonial voice. The boy inspected the stamped silver rune plate on the body.


“Johnnes Kepler” he said. “36 moons. A cloth merchant by trade.”

“May he prove a worthy gift.” replied the old man as the boy tumbled the body into the depths. They bowed their heads, before walking to the next body.

 

***

They were moving the bodies off the cart. Was he dead? He was nearly dead. Hemmed in by bodies stiff with rigor mortis. They would uncover him and he would die and he would never remember his name.

He came round again, in pain this time. They were removing the bodies above him and the release of pressure made his ribs blossom with pain. There was a voice by his ear, soothing him. Sweet. Too sweet, like honey that has been spread over butchers meat to hide its spoil.“Rest, for now little magpie” it said. Then pain, a stabbing, biting pain at his wrist. He was hallucinating again. There was nothing. He couldn’t move.

He heard the voices, the young boy and the old man as they came back around the edge of the well.
 

“Will it be enough master?” the boy asked. “To stave the blood-men off? To hold them back?”

“We pray it will. The Blood God is strong, but this is Shyish. It is not his to claim.” The first voice was weary, angry. But he could sense the lie. He could tell that the speaker was in denial.

The voices were close now, almost by his side. If only he could move! He screamed silently, but his muscles refused to obey. Surely they could tell he was alive!

“Who is this benevolent supplicant, who gives of his body that we may prosper” the old man asked in a weary voice, the solemnity gone with the afternoons toil. It had been a long line of supplicants.

“Karleas Ash’m Garaer Mohaime” said the second voice, it tripped over the unfamiliar words.

“Who was he?”
“A foreigner. From Ashqy, found by the docks”

“Get his name right boy.”
They bickered for a while before turning the body over the edge.

A shadow fell across his face, blocking the sunlight that blinded him in his remaining eye. They were here!

“Who is this benevolent.. The old man stopped. He looked into the weather beaten face. He saw the old mans cracked lips move silently in surprise. The Magpie King he mouthed. He saw the recognition in the old man’s eyes.

The Magpie King! That was what they had called him. With every fibre of his being, he willed himself to speak, to cry out. A last breath escaped his lips and his vision dimmed with the effort.

If they heard it, they gave no sign of it, or caring. Perhaps they thought the effort of hauling him onto the edge of the well had forced air from a dead mans lungs. It happened, and worse. But the Well would have its due.

“Throw him in anyway” he heard the old man say.

The Well of Silence. That was what it was called. The well of Death. He tumbled, end over end, legs flailing weakly. The dim sun flashed past him, and then all was blackness.

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