Melcavuk

Cheers, I'm sure I'll end up using the Khorne model at some stage for a different model, for now Colour gives context for the current WIP: SCALE SHOTS:

WIP Surt'Ar, First Prophet of the Suneater Tribes Known Names: The First (Also known as First Prophet) - Surt'ar is often referred to both as The First and The First Prophet, in terms of the Suneaters both are equally true. When he climbed back through the mighty Jaws of the Suneater he was born again as the very first member of the Suneater tribes, he was also gifted a sliver of the divine power that he pulled from the god that rebirthed him becoming the first ever Volsungr of the tribes Forsworn of Vulcatrix - In part Surt’ar owes his unnatural longevity and might to the powers instilled in the life’s blood of Vulcatrix. When the great godbeast was shattered by the puny Duardin god little regard was given to where shards of her form fell. In each of these craters great volcanos blossomed to life pulsing with the scorching heat of every drop of her blood. Robbed of the fight Gorkamorka was not one to turn down a free meal, scouring the realms he found the still beating heart of the great salamander, in one mighty gulp he swallowed it whole. Legend says this heart still lurks within the gods stomach, pulsing undeterred, and from this the First Prophet drank deep of the blood of a Godbeast to sustain him in his long stay in his gods gullet. Exalted of the Suneater - Every Volsungr to follow in the Great Prophets footsteps is at best a poor imitation of his power, whilst each stands taller and stronger than any other Ogors they cannot match the sheer potency that came with the First. In this way he is considered the Exalted of their God, the first of his kind and without comparison. Surt’ar - The Last Chief of the Iron Klaw clan, and founder of the Burning Klaws this once mortal creature answered to the name Surt'ar before his ascension. Ruler Over All - Suneaters despise the cities of order encroaching upon their lands, none more so than Surt'ar whose tribe was butchered by this relentless invasion of order upon the realms. By divine law Surt'ar asserts dominion over all that the light of the Sun touches, by right of his gods power. Description: His once mundane Ogor form has long since given way to the unrelenting heat of the Suneater, the very blood in his veins boiled his skin until it sloughed away from a mighty molten form. With age and mastery of the winds of Aqshy Surt'ar has resculpted himself a form, sinews shaped from living flows of magma, the pulsing heart of the volcano fuelling his power and every footstep rendering dirt to glass beneath his feet. In this way he stands at over twice the height of any Ogor, more gargant now than his flesh and blood kin, but he has never entered the long sleep of the Exalted, never had his flesh given way to the stone that slows the muscles and brains of his most favoured disciples. In many Ogor tribes his smaller stature than the Exalted would render him secondary to them in the chain of command, yet none contest his rule over all of the tribes, within his heart pulses the very power of their god, his every word revered as divine law, on the field of battle none match his sheer destructive force, his unrelenting will and fury beyond ages. In battle he wields two relics of his power (though some contest these had previously been stolen from other tribes): Pok'Gar - The Tongue of Vulcatrix is a whip wrought from the living flames of Aqshy, whilst unlikely to have been formed out of the literal tongue of the godbeast (as such a thing would dwarf even the great drakes of the realms) it is an exquisite weapon of destruction, coursing with a life of its own feeding on the very winds of flame that surge throughout the realms. Savar - This heavy magma drenched mace is said to have been formed from crowns taken from conquered kingdoms, each king is said to have burnt alive with all his finery, the great Gothi priests sculpting the bone meal and precious metals with the spark of divine power of their forges into the weapon Savar, butcher of Kingdoms. Lost in Ice and Flame: The First Prophet disappeared from the tribes millennia ago, stories circulate around his exact reasons why but no Ogor could truly speak to what filled the mind of such a mighty champion of the Suneater. Most assumed he marched forth to the first Pyre, much in the same way the other ancient prophets have done that they might prepare for the final battle at the side of their mighty God, though none returning from the Pyre speak of the First Prophet. In truth his rampage outgrew even the mighty tribes of the Suneaters, he was stronger and faster than any of his kin, his hunger for battle outlasted any of the savage soldiers who fought at his side, he could march for days when lesser mortals had to stop to rest. One by one his migration fell out of step with the great Prophet, they were left to wage war in his wake and decimate those civilizations too small to face the wrath of the mighty one. It was an alliance of Aelves and Sylvaneth who stunted this rampage, though the battle waged long into the winter seasons it was as the weather began to grow cold and the great flames of his forms waged war with the icy elements that the alliance of Order began to gain the upper hand. Grew flocks of the frostheart Phoenix flew high above the Magma drenched gargant, a swirling tempest of lashing ice and snow caged him in. Great war beasts of the Aelven empire dragged mighty chains forth, raised high by the Arcane powers of their masters to lock onto the rampaging Prophets limbs, inch by inch his volatile form was dragged forth, his feet digging deep into the battle worn fields as he lashed out at his would-be captors with massive blows of his flame wreathed weaponry. It was with a final roar of contempt that the Prophet was pulled from the field of battle, sent tumbling down into a darkened chasm with even the brilliant light of his form disappearing into the darkness of the depths. Yet the Aelven empires knew that such a creature could not truly be killed by such trivial means, at best they could cage him until a weapon could be forged to slay the great beast, and for this their greatest sorcerers set to work shaping the very landscape around them to become a cage hewn from nature. Three great rivers were rerouted through the realm, the dirt roiling upwards and great tracts carved through the hillside, sending their murky waters tumbling into the great chasm to quench the flames of the Prophets rage, hissing gouts of steam spitting upwards into the skies above. Time has long since forgotten the battle, and the prisoner since caged, pilgrims even starting to reverse the geyser of Ghyran as a holy site of Alarielle interpreting its hissing as divinations of their gods will. And with ages these volatile days became something of myth, eventually lost to history in the Age of Chaos as all things are in the death of civilisations. Hidden at the foot of the Arboreal Mountains in Ghyran lay the nameless city, its new denizens dubbed it the Phoenicium and so content were they in their own victory in liberating this ancient stonehewn marvel that they asked not what it had been called before, nor why its echoing halls bore the arcane symbols of magics long since lost. In the years since the War for Ghyran and the liberation of the Phoenicium the architects of Azyr are still finding new marvels lurking within the expansive labyrinth that runs beneath the mountainrange, their arcane historians tracing back runes and wardings to some of the oldest civilizations in the realms all focusing power throughout the complex as though a lightning rod to the very heart of Ghyran. Yet still they have not found the chamber of whispering, long since hidden from the prying eyes from mortals yet the voices within carry out into the echoing tunnels that form the Labyrinth. In the dead of night the young say they can hear the soft murmurings of lost voices, as though a lullaby reverberating through the stone itself, at once echoeing from every wall and none at all. This hidden chamber lay within the very heart of the city, no windows or doors piercing its marble walls, there was afterall no surface untouched by the wardings erected by its architects, the height of the chamber seemingly pierces high into the mountaintops, no ceiling visible to the naked eye and no light able to pierce such lingering darkness. At the heart of this rounded chamber lay the Altar, a roaring flame hovering above ground level, shifting and warping as though tugging at some invisible bonds that refuse to release their grasp. Around it three Oracles kneel in constant prayer in flowing waters of the restorative fount of Ghyran, their ancient skin showing no sign of age beyond a few decades though their eyes, blinded to the physical world, seem yet to carry wisdom that kings would never truly achieve. Here they have remained, their ward and duty demanding their every attention since the inception of this great work, it was the oracles who ensured neither man nor aelf would pierce the great stone walls of the Nameless city in the age of chaos, it was they who ensured the cage would not be broken by mortal hands. Each oracle courses and sways as though the very rivers of Ghyran themselves, the waters around them raising and falling with every motion, rushing toward the altar in crashing waves before receeding to the very edges of the chamber, their lips moving in constant prayer, soft lullabies seemingly to soothe the restless flame thatlurks at the chambers heart. Here they would have remained undeterred till realms end... but Nagash's great work was ignorant to their very existance let alone their purpose, he did not think of the repercussions when he sent his wave of malicious energies coursing through every vein in the realms. most villages merely felt the briefest of tremor, soon forgotten with the arrival of the restless dead urging more to join the ranks. The Whispering Chamber however, this great conduit of arcane power to the very heart of Ghyran was shaken by the convergence, even ignorant to the chambers existance the populace of the Phoenicium felt as every stone heaved and twisted in the impact of volatile magics, within the chamber itself the oracles screamed out as one in piercing agony, their heads flung back and sightless eyes burning bright with the same radiance as the flame, all water in the chamber bucking and recoiling from the flame as the oracles were riddled with torment. Nagashes powers flooded the chamber, rising through the arcane sigils across the walls, every inch it crawled higher fresh fissures began to form within the ancient marbling of the chamber, ageless symbols broken unable to contain the shockwave of magic that had been unleashed upon the realms. One by one the Oracles slumped forward, the heat of their body sending great clouds of steam racing skyward as the waters of Ghyran evaporated, tendrils of the flame inching their now lifeless forms toward the rooms central altar. Deep within the lost forests of Ghyran there is more worrisome news, the water levels of three rivers that forged a winding path through the hills of the Realm have dropped, with every passing day less water reaches the chasmic prison of the Prophet. And those Pilgrims who visit the site no longer hear the whispers of Alarielle from the Geyser, instead they speak of a roar of endless rage and the clanging of chains... Destroyer of Civilizations: Had Surt’ars rampage not been cut short in the Age of Myth there is no telling the damage he could have dealt to the growing expanse of order, indeed the Suneater Tribes claim that they would have better held the tide of chaos than any Order alliance had their Prophet been at the head of the Migration. Yet imprisoned he was, for an Age he was alone, cursed with his rage and the burning fury of his god, subject to the unrelenting torrents of the great Falls of Ghyran in a prison of water and arcane sorcery. All that time did nothing to lessen his hatred for the Aelves and their kind, the constant torment honing his blunt anger into a weapon of precise destruction. Now freed unwittingly by Nagash and his Necroquake this titan of destruction has clawed his way out of the pit for the second time in his life, ready to seek out his kin and see what has become of his legacy. Once more at the head of the great Migrations of the tribe it will not be long until he steers it into the very heart of Sigmars cities, that true destruction might reign in the realms once more. On the Battlefield: Surt’ar is one of the few mid-sized heroes within the Suneater tribes, where as his lesser Volsungr seek out the power of the Magmadrake to lend to their own in the heat of battle, and the mighty Exalted are entombed in the volcanic rock that an Age of rest has rendered upon their forms Surt’ar represents the ideal his kin strive for. This makes him unique in the alliance, whilst large he is not fully considered a monster, toeing the fine line between monstrous infantry and the larger beasts in your army. Surt’ar is at his very heart a combat berserker, designed to charge into the very heart of your enemies forces and carve down their heroes, yet with his smaller stature he lacks the resilience of some of your larger heroes and for this reason is ideally supported by Gothi Priests who will further enhance his combat potential either with vital healing prayers to keep him in the fight longer, lending Volcanic blows to enhance his weapons to sunder even the toughest armour into dust or choking his victims in ash so that they might not fight back. Utilising Surt’ar alongside the powers from Pyres allegiance ability will be a furious assault upon your opponents defences, coupling his ability to increase the attacks characteristic of a nearby unit along with the Pyres ability to run and charge in the same turn can turn a unit of Fyreborn Fanatics into a blender of flame and beaten steel. Unlike most named characters Surt’ar does not show affinity to any particular Tribe within the Suneaters, each of them has been birthed from his own Burning Klaws and it is his energy the powers the Volsungr in every migration. With rumours of his return spreading throughout the tribes Gothi priests can be heard wailing into the mighty Volcanoes of the realms, that he might hear their cry and emerge from the roiling molten rock to lead their tribe into war. Model Inspiration: I had a few concepts in mind for when modelling Surt’ar and in my eagerness I explained each in turn to my partner, whilst perfect at humouring my creativity she can often see things in the design stages that escape my notice due to enthusiasm. In this case it was simple “So its another big monster?”, yes… yes it was, every model I have made for this faction so far has been the constant strive to go bigger, go tougher, but The First isn’t about size its about power and rage, adding another monstrous miniature to the battlefield would make the force unwieldy, whats more it does little to differentiate what makes him different from the rest of his kind. For this reason, we’ve actually opted to go SMALLER (ironic that’s in bigger text, right?), currently Surt’ar stands only at twice the height of an Ogor, indeed even with his own trophies adding to height he is smaller than both the Volsungr on Magma Drake and stands just over half the height of the Exalted Volsungr. This is nice for a couple of reasons, firstly he stands it in an army of “bigger” by being unique and midsized, secondly it means I can lop off the behemoth requirement for him and am considering removing the monster keyword too.

Known Names: The First (Also known as First Prophet) - Surt'ar is often referred to both as The First and The First Prophet, in terms of the Suneaters both are equally true. When he climbed back through the mighty Jaws of the Suneater he was born again as the very first member of the Suneater tribes, he was also gifted a sliver of the divine power that he pulled from the god that rebirthed him becoming the first ever Volsungr of the tribes Forsworn of Vulcatrix - In part Surt’ar owes his unnatural longevity and might to the powers instilled in the life’s blood of Vulcatrix. When the great godbeast was shattered by the puny Duardin god little regard was given to where shards of her form fell. In each of these craters great volcanos blossomed to life pulsing with the scorching heat of every drop of her blood. Robbed of the fight Gorkamorka was not one to turn down a free meal, scouring the realms he found the still beating heart of the great salamander, in one mighty gulp he swallowed it whole. Legend says this heart still lurks within the gods stomach, pulsing undeterred, and from this the First Prophet drank deep of the blood of a Godbeast to sustain him in his long stay in his gods gullet. Exalted of the Suneater - Every Volsungr to follow in the Great Prophets footsteps is at best a poor imitation of his power, whilst each stands taller and stronger than any other Ogors they cannot match the sheer potency that came with the First. In this way he is considered the Exalted of their God, the first of his kind and without comparison. Surt’ar - The Last Chief of the Iron Klaw clan, and founder of the Burning Klaws this once mortal creature answered to the name Surt'ar before his ascension. Ruler Over All - Suneaters despise the cities of order encroaching upon their lands, none more so than Surt'ar whose tribe was butchered by this relentless invasion of order upon the realms. By divine law Surt'ar asserts dominion over all that the light of the Sun touches, by right of his gods power. Description: His once mundane Ogor form has long since given way to the unrelenting heat of the Suneater, the very blood in his veins boiled his skin until it sloughed away from a mighty molten form. With age and mastery of the winds of Aqshy Surt'ar has resculpted himself a form, sinews shaped from living flows of magma, the pulsing heart of the volcano fuelling his power and every footstep rendering dirt to glass beneath his feet. In this way he stands at over twice the height of any Ogor, more gargant now than his flesh and blood kin, but he has never entered the long sleep of the Exalted, never had his flesh given way to the stone that slows the muscles and brains of his most favoured disciples. In many Ogor tribes his smaller stature than the Exalted would render him secondary to them in the chain of command, yet none contest his rule over all of the tribes, within his heart pulses the very power of their god, his every word revered as divine law, on the field of battle none match his sheer destructive force, his unrelenting will and fury beyond ages. In battle he wields two relics of his power (though some contest these had previously been stolen from other tribes): Pok'Gar - The Tongue of Vulcatrix is a whip wrought from the living flames of Aqshy, whilst unlikely to have been formed out of the literal tongue of the godbeast (as such a thing would dwarf even the great drakes of the realms) it is an exquisite weapon of destruction, coursing with a life of its own feeding on the very winds of flame that surge throughout the realms. Savar - This heavy magma drenched mace is said to have been formed from crowns taken from conquered kingdoms, each king is said to have burnt alive with all his finery, the great Gothi priests sculpting the bone meal and precious metals with the spark of divine power of their forges into the weapon Savar, butcher of Kingdoms. Destroyer of Civilizations: Had Surt’ars rampage not been cut short in the Age of Myth there is no telling the damage he could have dealt to the growing expanse of order, indeed the Suneater claim that they would have better held the tide of chaos than any Order alliance had their Prophet been at the head of the Migration. Yet imprisoned he was, for an Age he was alone, cursed with his rage and the burning fury of his god, subject to the unrelenting torrents of the great Falls of Ghyran in a prison of water and arcane sorcery. All that time did nothing to lessen his hatred for the Aelves and their kind, the constant torment honing his blunt anger into a weapon of precise destruction. Now freed unwittingly by Nagash and his Necroquake this titan of destruction has clawed his way out of the pit for the second time in his life, ready to seek out his kin and see what has become of his legacy. Once more at the head of the great Migrations of the tribe it will not be long until he steers it into the very heart of Sigmars cities, that true destruction might reign in the realms once more. On the Battlefield: Surt’ar is one of the few mid-sized heroes within the Suneater tribes, where as his lesser Volsungr seek out the power of the Magmadrake to lend to their own in the heat of battle, and the mighty Exalted are entombed in the volcanic rock that an Age of rest has rendered upon their forms Surt’ar represents the ideal his kin strive for. This makes him unique in the alliance, whilst large he is not fully considered a monster, toeing the fine line between monstrous infantry and the larger beasts in your army. Surt’ar is at his very heart a combat berserker, designed to charge into the very heart of your enemies forces and carve down their heroes, yet with his smaller stature he lacks the resilience of some of your larger heroes and for this reason is ideally supported by Gothi Priests who will further enhance his combat potential either with vital healing prayers to keep him in the fight longer, lending Volcanic blows to enhance his weapons to sunder even the toughest armour into dust or choking his victims in ash so that they might not fight back. Utilising Surt’ar alongside the powers from Pyres allegiance ability will be a furious assault upon your opponents defences, coupling his ability to increase the attacks characteristic of a nearby unit along with the Pyres ability to run and charge in the same turn can turn a unit of Fyreborn Fanatics into a blender of flame and beaten steel. Unlike most named characters Surt’ar does not show affinity to any particular Tribe within the Suneaters, each of them has been birthed from his own Burning Klaws and it is his energy the powers the Volsungr in every migration. With rumours of his return spreading throughout the tribes Gothi priests can be heard wailing into the mighty Volcanoes of the realms, that he might hear their cry and emerge from the roiling molten rock to lead their tribe into war. Model Inspiration: I had a few concepts in mind for when modelling Surt’ar and in my eagerness I explained each in turn to my partner, whilst perfect at humouring my creativity she can often see things in the design stages that escape my notice due to enthusiasm. In this case it was simple “So its another big monster?”, yes… yes it was, every model I have made for this faction so far has been the constant strive to go bigger, go tougher, but The First isn’t about size its about power and rage, adding another monstrous miniature to the battlefield would make the force unwieldy, whats more it does little to differentiate what makes him different from the rest of his kind. For this reason, we’ve actually opted to go SMALLER (ironic that’s in bigger text, right?), currently Surt’ar stands only at twice the height of an Ogor, indeed even with his own trophies adding to height he is smaller than both the Volsungr on Magma Drake and stands just over half the height of the Exalted Volsungr. This is nice for a couple of reasons, firstly he stands it in an army of “bigger” by being unique and midsized, secondly it means I can lop off the behemoth requirement for him and am considering removing the monster keyword too. MODEL UNVEILING TOMORROW!

Exalted Volsungr will never be the first, his resurgence might spark other Ogors to think they can one day become like him but the First Prophet is unique, whilst every Volsungr since has gained a glimmer of the power of the Suneater what they manifest is largely a watered down version. Every generation of Volsungr will likely get weaker than those before, one variant of the fluff I am working on is that each Volsungr sires a large number of children but only one survives to maturity. The strongest of the litter kills and consumes the rest in order to purify the blood that gives them their powers, even this savagery can only delay the dilution of their abilities, they may even reach a day where Volsungr can no longer ascend to the Exalted forms. It is this very fear that can lead to some... cannibalistic tendancies within the tribes, eat the heart to gain the power, a weak volsungr may covet the heart of a stronger one, or simply try to kill and consume their young in order to replenish their power. Best way to think of it is that the Exalted are champions of legend but the First is a demi-god in this regard, the exact circumstances of his inception are impossible to replicate these days unless Vulcatrix is reborn at some stage. He drank deep from the blood of a Godbeast, and bears the Spark of the Suneater, to hold the power of those two iconic embodiments of destruction made him what he is today. That said I like to think if you chip away some of the rocks on the Exalted their forms look similar, but they will always be second where he is first amongst his kind.

Cheers, I wanted the first prophet to be suitably hefty in terms of the Lore around him, I can envision art of his cell being a rocky chasm, vast torrents of steam pouring upwards as three waterfalls descend on him, all illuminated by the undying glow of his gods power eminating from within him. Aelves literally used a Realm to keep him locked in place, resculpting a whole valley just to tether him down. Unfortunately the Age of Chaos meant they never made the god killing weapon to finish him off, his resurgence will be destruction on a whole new level and brings the faction full circle to wage war on Order as they were first concieved. In terms of wounds and save he's the least resilient of Monster heroes but his damage output is lethal, which fits to my mind what an Avatar of destruction is all about, essentially a Beserker who fights without regard for personal safety.

Nomads will be getting their Spell lore done soon (they have no priests so that saves me a degree of writing there) as they stand they need a heavy hitter in terms of melee so the current plan is to look into smaller elemental birds (2 to a unit rather than the monsterous phoenix models) something to do with the wind (Cyclone, hurricane etc) with an area of effect shooting attack if they dont move and a strong charge mechanic.

Completely different model, the first prophet is unique in having drunk deep in the blood of Vulcatrix, he has also never gone into the long rest to await the final battle so his form hasnt entirely shifted to stone. Instead he is very much awake and very angry. Base model: Head: Weapon: The shield will be formed from the Rogue Idol mask, and then armour converted to more Ogoroid armour.

Work in progress for the emergence of the first Suneaters Named Character, the first champion and prophet who drank deep from the lifes blood of Vulcatrix, the founder of the Suneater Tribes and true son of the Suneater. The First Prophet disappeared from the tribes millennia ago, stories circulate around his exact reasons why but no Ogor could truly speak to what filled the mind of such a mighty champion of the Suneater. Most assumed he marched forth to the first Pyre, much in the same way the other ancient prophets have done that they might prepare for the final battle at the side of their mighty God, though none returning from the Pyre speak of the First Prophet. In truth his rampage outgrew even the mighty tribes of the Suneaters, he was stronger and faster than any of his kin, his hunger for battle outlasted any of the savage soldiers who fought at his side, he could march for days when lesser mortals had to stop to rest. One by one his migration fell out of step with the great Prophet, they were left to wage war in his wake and decimate those civilizations too small to face the wrath of the mighty one. It was an alliance of Aelves and Sylvaneth who stunted this rampage, though the battle waged long into the winter seasons it was as the weather began to grow cold and the great flames of his forms waged war with the icy elements that the alliance of Order began to gain the upper hand. Grew flocks of the frostheart Phoenix flew high above the Magma drenched gargant, a swirling tempest of lashing ice and snow caged him in. Great war beasts of the Aelven empire dragged mighty chains forth, raised high by the Arcane powers of their masters to lock onto the rampaging Prophets limbs, inch by inch his volatile form was dragged forth, his feet digging deep into the battle worn fields as he lashed out at his would-be captors with massive blows of his flame wreathed weaponry. It was with a final roar of contempt that the Prophet was pulled from the field of battle, sent tumbling down into a darkened chasm with even the brilliant light of his form disappearing into the darkness of the depths. Yet the Aelven empires knew that such a creature could not truly be killed by such trivial means, at best they could cage him until a weapon could be forged to slay the great beast, and for this their greatest sorcerers set to work shaping the very landscape around them to become a cage hewn from nature. Three great rivers were rerouted through the realm, the dirt roiling upwards and great tracts carved through the hillside, sending their murky waters tumbling into the great chasm to quench the flames of the Prophets rage, hissing gouts of steam spitting upwards into the skies above. Time has long since forgotten the battle, and the prisoner since caged, pilgrims even starting to reverse the geyser of Ghyran as a holy site of Alarielle interpreting its hissing as divinations of their gods will. And with ages these volatile days became something of myth, eventually lost to history in the Age of Chaos as all things are in the death of civilisations. Hidden at the foot of the Arboreal Mountains in Ghyran lay the nameless city, its new denizens dubbed it the Phoenicium and so content were they in their own victory in liberating this ancient stonehewn marvel that they asked not what it had been called before, nor why its echoing halls bore the arcane symbols of magics long since lost. In the years since the War for Ghyran and the liberation of the Phoenicium the architects of Azyr are still finding new marvels lurking within the expansive labyrinth that runs beneath the mountainrange, their arcane historians tracing back runes and wardings to some of the oldest civilizations in the realms all focusing power throughout the complex as though a lightning rod to the very heart of Ghyran. Yet still they have not found the chamber of whispering, long since hidden from the prying eyes from mortals yet the voices within carry out into the echoing tunnels that form the Labyrinth. In the dead of night the young say they can hear the soft murmurings of lost voices, as though a lullaby reverberating through the stone itself, at once echoeing from every wall and none at all. This hidden chamber lay within the very heart of the city, no windows or doors piercing its marble walls, there was afterall no surface untouched by the wardings erected by its architects, the height of the chamber seemingly pierces high into the mountaintops, no ceiling visible to the naked eye and no light able to pierce such lingering darkness. At the heart of this rounded chamber lay the Altar, a roaring flame hovering above ground level, shifting and warping as though tugging at some invisible bonds that refuse to release their grasp. Around it three Oracles kneel in constant prayer in flowing waters of the restorative fount of Ghyran, their ancient skin showing no sign of age beyond a few decades though their eyes, blinded to the physical world, seem yet to carry wisdom that kings would never truly achieve. Here they have remained, their ward and duty demanding their every attention since the inception of this great work, it was the oracles who ensured neither man nor aelf would pierce the great stone walls of the Nameless city in the age of chaos, it was they who ensured the cage would not be broken by mortal hands. Each oracle courses and sways as though the very rivers of Ghyran themselves, the waters around them raising and falling with every motion, rushing toward the altar in crashing waves before receeding to the very edges of the chamber, their lips moving in constant prayer, soft lullabies seemingly to soothe the restless flame thatlurks at the chambers heart. Here they would have remained undeterred till realms end... but Nagash's great work was ignorant to their very existance let alone their purpose, he did not think of the repercussions when he sent his wave of malicious energies coursing through every vein in the realms. most villages merely felt the briefest of tremor, soon forgotten with the arrival of the restless dead urging more to join the ranks. The Whispering Chamber however, this great conduit of arcane power to the very heart of Ghyran was shaken by the convergence, even ignorant to the chambers existance the populace of the Phoenicium felt as every stone heaved and twisted in the impact of volatile magics, within the chamber itself the oracles screamed out as one in piercing agony, their heads flung back and sightless eyes burning bright with the same radiance as the flame, all water in the chamber bucking and recoiling from the flame as the oracles were riddled with torment. Nagashes powers flooded the chamber, rising through the arcane sigils across the walls, every inch it crawled higher fresh fissures began to form within the ancient marbling of the chamber, ageless symbols broken unable to contain the shockwave of magic that had been unleashed upon the realms. One by one the Oracles slumped forward, the heat of their body sending great clouds of steam racing skyward as the waters of Ghyran evaporated, tendrils of the flame inching their now lifeless forms toward the rooms central altar. Deep within the lost forests of Ghyran there is more worrisome news, the water levels of three rivers that forged a winding path through the hills of the Realm have dropped, with every passing day less water reaches the chasmic prison of the Prophet. And those Pilgrims who visit the site no longer hear the whispers of Alarielle from the Geyser, instead they speak of a roar of endless rage and the clanging of chains... WARSCROLL Contemplating giving him the DAEMON keyword as he is now technically an incorporeal living Avatar of a Gods will, in that regard he does match up pretty well with what it would take to be a Daemon (And a daemon of destruction would be a nice first)

WIP for the first 4 mournfang!

Those beastclaw the join up with a Suneaters migration do not escape the blistering heat and blidning light of the glory of their gods attention, even the icy blood in their veins slowly transforms to the roaring magma flow of his divine lifes blood. Their forms riddled with this coarsing volcanic energy slowly begin to unravel, piercing light tearing through rough hide to unveil the destruction brewing within: WIP STONEHORN

Cheers, the exalted handler is particularly short tempered and irritable, he's a grot that has had the luxury of growing old without dying but that hasnt made him any more positive or patient. Plus his ride got wrecked by an aelf on griffon, not a good day for him.

Cheers, I'll look to see what I can do between painting and writing. The Volsungr holds alot more sway because he's got alot more going up in his mind, the Exalteds ascension to warrior of stone is not just external, they're still "waking" currently, slow witted but massively destructive entities that embody the wrath of the Suneater but lack tactical accumen.

Anyone who read my battle summary would have seen that tragically the Exalted Volsungr got a bit beaten up by a Griffon and a Chariot, tragic ofcourse but it does beg the question what happens when an immortal warrior of the Suneater is felled in battle? Can such a creature ever really die? What role does the Gothi accompanying them play in such a situation and how exactly are they "healed" if the can be? Well here's how, part two of the battle summary, Rebuilding a God as the now mountless Gothi seeks to rectify what went wrong: “Stupid Aelves….” His voice shrill with irritation as his thin wrinkled lips curling back to revel a rack of yellowed yet wickedly sharp teeth as he spat into the dirt “Stupid skin and bone Aelfkin, broke him they did…” Irritated, old and wizened yet remarkably fat for his kin the Gothi priest balled his fists and slammed one into his rocky mount, a piercing scream of agony punctuating the idiocy of such a move for a frail and feeble creature to undertake. Worse yet as realisation overtook him the priests began to caress the rock, murmuring softly back to it “But we’ll fix him up, feed him up food, feed him on the Aelves and their pathetic little souls and yes….”. Within a moment all trace of softness vanished from his voice “FASTER! HE’S HUUUUUUNGRY!” he barked forward to the scarred and blistered backs of two Ogors in front of him, swaying with every step of their rippling scaled mounts, the stench of the pair was almost unbearable, a putrid combination of the muds of this rain sodden field combined with Ogor sweat and the unmistakable odours of faeces made the frustrated priest miss the isolation and dry cracked earth of his former refuge. He could not tell if the response came from Ogor or Draken, but it sounded enough like an irritated huff of compliance to assure the old Gothi of compliance, turning his attention back to the boulderous skull of his former master and mount he was sat upon, great chains wrapped around its mighty horns to drag it behind the giant Draken mounts of the Aldin bodyguard. There was little by way of conversation as the two mounted Ogors dragged their precious cargo up the hill toward the sweltering heat and night piercing glow of the great pyre, it afforded the Gothi time to nail down precisely what had gone wrong in the battle. They had been sent ahead of the great migration of the Burnin Klaw, Great Prophet Fyrebite had demanded it of course… why would someone chosen by the gods ask when he could demand after all. They were to forge the path to the Maw Gates whilst the rest of the migration gathered slaves to sustain them on the long haul back to Aqshy and the blistering heats of home. This land was meant to be the quite place, once fortress to the puny fanatics of the pretender god Khorne and their pathetic little rituals, the very thought brought a furrowing of the brow and yet more spitting of distain from the Gothi priest. Those pretenders had taken the land from the fool-man Sigmars pets, and before them it was the wildlands… now it was to be the Scorch, one finger of the mighty fist of the Suneater as he pummelled this realm into submission. But this quiet place wasn’t good quiet… no it was Aelf quiet, the quiet that bites on the wind and runs like a coward, the quiet that isn’t a good fight but like rats in the night. Stupid raingod thought he could quench the great Pyres of the Suneater, but the Suneater pummelled raingod and the Pyres rose high, puny Aelves thought they could stick the Gothi good with their beelike arrows stinging all round but the Gothi were too smart, hiding behind Ogorkin whose big backs could take many arrows and small brains might not feel them. Stick bird thing though… stick bird pecked at the mighty Gor-da, Exalted Prophet of the tribe, mighty Gor-da who had shaken whole realms and walked as mountain of flame and stone, Gor-da who now was just a dull rock starving slowly in the night… stupid Stick-bird broke him good. “Bring it!” the Gothi priests shrill cry pierced the night once more as his two escorts unceremoniously dumped their chains into the dirt by the pyre, only the thick mud of the hill stopping the great stone skull from rolling back down to its starting point once more. The maniacal laughter of his attendants at least brought a shifting evil grin to the older gothis face, each shuffling into view from behind to glow of the pyre with a barbed chain lashed around the face of a bruised and beaten Aelf. Every tug of the chains elicited a pained yelp from their captive, much to the riotous laughter of his jailors, inch by inch forcing their new toy closer to the giant skull. “Make it kneeeeeell!” he cried into the night, an attendant delivering a bone crunching wallop to the feeble boned Aelf to drop it to its knees. Even the laughter of the attendants died out at the Gothi raised his hands to the nights sky, the beasts of Ghur falling silent in anticipation. The older Gothi begun to utter guttural prayers, low… rumbling noises of the volcanic wastelands he had for so long called home, his hands arching and curling through the air as bony pale fingers beckoned to the great pyre before him. Serpentine the flames leapt higher, leaping and twisting as they moved toward their summoner, at times they reeled back as though some wild beast resisting the will of their master but each time he called out shrill into the night and they came back to compliance. Each tendril wrapped around the broken Aelf, at first inching around limbs, the smell of singed Aelf flesh sweet in the night sky, the flames rose through the Aelven form as though through dried wood, wreathing the creatures whole form into flame. The priests prayers reached a climax, now so shrill they’d passed beyond the hearing of most mortal creatures, his fingers outstretched toward the burning Aelfs form he balled up fists and slammed them once more down into the Rocks skull that formed his stage. With this final movement the flames leapt from Aelf, burning into the eyes of the stone-hewn mask, the roar of the Volcano punctuating the rituals completion with great gouts of flame emanating from eyes and mouth of the fallen Idol of the Suneaters. The spark once more lit the Gothi caressed his fallen masters skull, beady eyes staring out into the crowd of gathered Ogors and Grots “More Aelves… He’s hungry… and bring rocks... big rocks.”

Cheers and yes I believe it’s the original base, the horn overhang matches the photo on the gw site. I don’t tend to keep my bases organised but it matches the base for the stonehorn I made today out of my various excess sprues (2 behemoths out of my bits box isn’t bad for a weekend work)

Cheers, its a good hobby for us to do together as we have very different tastes, my Brutish and destrutive Ogors against the Nimble Aelves (with a truly abusive number of bows). Next conversion up is a tame one for me, Huskard on Thundertusk for a batallion to join my Suneaters. Minor conversion for me but all pomp and grandeur stripped off of the model but he's gained a hunting horn and a weapon with long enough reach instead of his embarassing arms reach. He's carrying supplies from a long hunt to join the Suneaters migration, and has the compulsary grot companion that fleshes out the major parts of my Suneaters.

Looking good

Today saw the most recent clash between the Aeloran Nomads and my Suneater Tribe Ogors, the first in our narrative series to shape the factions place within the Realms. We decided to use the Open War card in order to generate a decent narrative for the battle beyond the normal objective based clash, it was our first time using the card and the variation in deployment made for an interesting start. The Suneaters tribe came straight down the middle of the field, a roiling unrelenting steamroller of muscle and flame, meanwhile the Nomads scattered to the edges of the field, emerging from two of the nearby forests in a pincer move to surround and envelop the slower and more cumbersome foe. Generating the Torrential Rain card was a nice touch, adding a real sense of atmosphere to the battle whilst our objective was to each take out the opponents messenger (for us these were the people carrying warning back to the rest of their faction of the oncoming war). TACTICAL OVERLAY As this was the first time in testing out many of the Aelven units I played soft with the Ogors, rather than deleting units I knew to be potent I wanted to see how potent each of the units were, however this couldnt always be the case (closest target, blocking my way etc). Poor deployment made the gladeshards easy prey to even the weaker flying hero of my force, they were initially too far out of range to hit and with a 16 inch move the carrion drake moved from outside their shooting range to in combat with them in a single turn so they didnt hold up too well. The Longstriders survived an onslaught of Bal Kasta, Aldin Draken, Grots and catapults, very resilient and putting out a few wounds of their own in return but the Pyre ability (-1 to hit for shooting) and the rain (-1 to hit for shooting) really didnt help the Aelves in this encounter, often making even their normal infantry hit on 6's at range which is just unplesant to far. It also stunted both the Bal Kasta and Aldin Draken shooting however, the former I forgot to use most of their abilities and the latter did reasonably but would be better utilised against a force with more monsters in it. The Apex predator rule on the Wyld Runner chariot was fantastic, holding my general in place whilst both the chariot and griffon savaged him and brought him down was a great victory for Charlotte at this point in the battle (I had been systematically deleting units, the centaurs got stood on by the volcanic idol). The battle really went on for about 6 turns, even then both our messengers were on full health (my grot hid in a cave, he's a grot) as time wasnt on our side and the battle was balanced we diced off and Charlotte came away with a well fought win. Narratively as more aelves had died the Ogors dominated the village and took the land but the Aelves filled their mission of getting a messenger through the Suneaters lines to rouse the rest of the Hunt to this new threat. STORY The Aeloran scout crouched low in the lashing rain, her boots sinking into the deluge of mud beneath her and the once life Aelven cloak that shielded her form now sodden with rain hung heavily on her back. Her party had been ordered to take up position in a small copse of trees at the edge of what must have once been a man-kin village, from here she saw her first glimpse of the devastation wrought upon the world when her kind had abandoned it to the tide of chaos. Once mighty stone structures had been shattered as though by the hands of gods themselves, mighty carved pathways through the village now broken and shoddy reclaimed once more by the wilderness, there were no signs of the populace of this once burgeoning settlement, no laughter of children, no ringing of the dinner bells… it lay hollow and empty much like the Aeloran themselves. Though it must have been nearing midday the heavy clouds had long since drowned out any memory of the sun, darkness swarmed across the battlefield and visibility was rapidly becoming an insurmountable challenge. Yet even through this wall of rain she could see the flickering lights of their quarry, hundreds of torches somehow enduring the outpour as though fuelled by some arcane means, the very rain tasted of the smoke and ash their foe sent out into the wilds. More worrisome was the thunderous footfalls of the beasts that formed their preys procession, at the head of their column lumbered some monolithic creature, the glowing embers of its mask making its haunting visage visible leering in the darkness, with every slam of its heavy feet the trees itself seems to wince and lean away from its advance. As the last of the enemy procession cleared the treeline, the low drone of a hunting horn spurred the young Huntress from her thoughts, all distraction fading from her mind she felt the doe-kin spirit that shared her form spark into life. The energy of her blended soul coursed and rippled through her form, every muscle twitching with renewed vigour, leaping out of her crouched position her fingers curled tightly around the ironbark bow as her party joined the hunt. Silent save for the last reverberations of the horn still resonating through the treeline the Aelves advanced rapidly, leaping deftly over broken branches and ruin alike, the nearer the came to the enemy force the more they could hear the shrieking riotous laughter of the madness tinted grots still hidden from view, screeching in their primitive tongue to whatever gods they had sworn allegiance to. Notching an arrow, the Hunter took up her position amongst dozens of other archers, even Aelven eyes straining to pick out their quarry through the rain. As the enemy advance came into view she could feel the ripple of shock resonate through those around her, each doing their best to mask it, but a discernible wince seemed to flood through the battle line. Standing well over twenty aelves in height came the enemy leader, a giant hewn of stone, its every coursing vein glowing with volcanic heat, a savage mask offering only a leering grin of distain to all that lay beneath it. Every step it took seemingly scorching the very earth upon which it stood, on its shoulder stood the screeching maddening grotkin they had heard on their advance, large and bloated for its kind she could not help but feel disgusted at its very form. With this massive monstrosity came lumbering Ogor cavalry, massive even for their kin and clad is heavy beaten iron armour, sat atop fat wingless drakes whose scales glimmered and rippled in the glow of their volcanic master. Behind them came crude metal contraptions, lumbering and creaking with every step mounting crude weapons beneath each arm, what foul monstrosities they were she could not tell but only hope it was not first hand that she would find out. With every moment yet more horrors came into focus, poorly constructed wooden frames carrying massive rock totems to their god, siege engines carrying burning pay loads, dozens more Ogors and hundreds of screeching Grots… yet it was of little consequence. The hunting horn sounded once more, as one the archers rose from their positions and loosed their arrows, wood slick from rain what would have once been a seamless barrage rapidly descended into madness yet enough seemed to find their mark, Ironbark tips piercing even the rock hide of the monstrous creature at the head of the Ogor column. No cheer went up yet there was a sense of smug satisfaction as the Volcanic entity reeled backwards, short lived however was any joy the Aelves derives at its low rumbling laughter shook the very trees around them, followed shortly by the same lumbering footfall as before, they had done little more than amuse it. As the rain broke momentarily the Huntress could spy the second pincer of the hunt closing on the enemy across the shattered remains of the village, dozens of stags leaping over low walls as their riders filled the sky with a torrent of arrows instead. The satisfying screech of impales grots punctuated every loosed arrow, Kurnoth hunters from the realm of the forest loosed massive spear like arrows of their own, yet even their mighty blows seemed to do little to the monster at the head of the column. Through the midst of the Ogor ranks she could spy crude bonfires being rapidly assembled by the enemy priests, every bonfire lit beginning to fill the clearing with a heavy smoke that threatened to choke the air around them. Even without the rain this smoke made it hard to place arrow to their quarry, wiping the sweat from her ash stained face the huntress paused for a moment. A sound resonated through her acute hearing even over the clamour of the battle, the strain of wood… a low growl, too late she realised the source of her distraction as the agonising sensation of a crude bolt ripped through her shoulder, the very strength of the shot carrying her forwards as the bolt embedded in a broken wall in front of her. The impact slammed her head to stone, coursing agony flowing through her every thought, blood beginning to blur her vision as she glanced backwards to her attacker. A second party of the giant lizard riding Ogors had approached from their rear… had they been the ones being hunted? Such delirious thoughts had little time to take root however as consciousness began to flee her beleaguered mind and darkness resumed. Flickers of consciousness… merest glimpses of the battle found their way to the Aelfs mind, she could only watch helpless as her sisters valiantly tried to fight off the lizard riding hunters to no avail, soundlessly whimper as the bloated beasts feasted on their entrails. She could utter no warning as the heavy metal clad Ogors with their crude weaponry seemingly walked from the mighty pyres their priests had erected, belching gouts of molten metal that turned the once peerless gryph chargers of the nobles into screeching piles of singed flesh and molten slag. She saw, with at least some satisfaction, her noble king fighting the volcanic beast that led the enemy assault, as his great chariot impaled the beast in a fearless head-on charge, a noble griffon descended on the stone-beasts back, the pair clashing and ripping the beast apart stone by stone even against the screeching protest of its Grot passenger. She saw too the hammer blow that shattered her kings chariot… though held out hope he had survived the assault to hunt once more, the spear like bolt that laid low the griffon even over the smouldering wreckage of the volcanic idol. Great Wyldshard brambles had begun to flood the battlefield, every drop of noble blood that touched this accursed dirt sunk deep into the rain sodden mud. Wickedly sharp brambles erupted forth, they moved with carnivorous intent as they coursed and flowed across the battlefield, a living wall of vine and thorn that sought to stunt the Ogors advance. As consciousness fled once more her final vision was of the fleeting form of the Wyldmare racing past her, a smile filling her blood-stained lips. The messenger had broken through the Ogor lines, help was coming.

Cheers, the aim was as much to have tangible benefits of modelling uniquely as for rules. Aspect of the Scorpion wyldrunner may look hewn from carapace with a mighty tail pulled by beetles. Aspect of the stag would be sleek and nature like whistle aspect of the lion would look more akin to the old white lions

RELICS OF THE HUNT 1 – Preyton Horn Carven from the cruel Preytons that lure travellers to their doom this horn still contains some trace of the magic that kept its original host alive. If your hero is a WIZARD you may add 1 to all casting and unbinding rolls for this model 2 – Pelt of the Moorbeast It is said that a blackened beast made of shadow and claw lurks in the moor of Ulgu, savaging those who dare encroach on its territory without mercy. To wear the pelt of the Moorbeast is to become one with the shadow itself. Shooting attacks that target this model subtract 1 to all hit rolls, if this model is wholly in terrain they instead subtract 2 from all hit rolls. 3 – Toxins of the Steel Heart There are plants at worlds edge that fill the user with vigor and strength all the whilst draining them of their lifeforce. Desperate Aeloran heroes can in their final moments drink the Steel Heart toxin as their life begins to fail, lashing out one last time as though unwounded. If this model loses their last would whilst in combat you may immediately attack with one of their weapons (But not their mount) before you remove the model as slain. 4 – Wyldshard Flute The coursing, unstoppable infestation of Wyldshard brambles has beset the Aelorans for generations, some heroes carry with them flutes hewn from the brambles themselves that when blown can lure the infestation in their direction. If in your hero phase you elect to use the Wyldshard flute you may move all Wyldshard Brambles on the battlefield 6 inches directly toward this model instead of their normal move. 5 – Last Blossom of Ghyran When the Nomads fled Ghyran so many centuries ago they took with them seeds that they might grow a forest anew in their new homes. However the lands at worlds edge as savage and such simple plants were pretty to the Wyld carnivorous fauna that dominated the region. Still some blossoms grew, their life giving energies still radiating. Once per battle in your hero phase this hero may drain the life from their Blossom, restore D6 wound lost earlier in the battle to this model. 6 – Bramblehewn Shield There are those nobles who carry mighty shields carved from the brambles that lesserkin fear, these great bulwarks rebuff those who would charge them impaling them on the arcane shifting thorns. When enemy units charge this model roll a D6 for every model that ends its charge within 1 inch. On a roll of 5 or more the unit suffers a mortal wound as their momentum carries them onto the shield.

Thanks, its still heavily work in progress as i also complete my own Suneaters Ogors tome, the fun thing is that the recent history and unit choices for both will be decided in a narrative game between myself and my other half as the Shatterhawk Nomads have found themselves in the way of the Burnin Klaw Ogor migration, both being native to ghur the ensueing war is where both subfactions have been locked in the aftermath of the Necroquake, with every falling Nomad hero causing Wyldshard plants to erupt from the barren earth beneath their feet the Suneater Ogors are struggling to summon enough flame to keep the forest at bay. With two such opposite schools of thought between the armies it lets us flesh out, play out and evolve both armies plus we get the playtesting of the rules done in the process to balance the warscrolls When finished both tomes will have wargears, spell, prayer and trait cards to be used in battle along with properly made tomes (when I find a decent artist)

By current fluff (from my recollection) the faction dubbed the Wanderers are those that actually entered Azyrheim in the age of chaos, since the opening of the gates they have since well... wandered. The Nomads are those who believed in Alarielle enough that they chose not to flee at first, but when their faith came to be tested they were found wanting and disappeared too late to escape the Azyrheim (gates sealed). The two factions (Nomads vs Wanderers) are two halves of the same coin, each abandoned alarielle at different stages and each are likely burdened with that guilt, for that reason they are natural allies and would likely work together more often than apart. Though such alliances will likely be short lived and somewhat cold, the Nomads curse of the wyld runs rampant through their kind and Wanderers would likely fear contamination from too long spent in proximity, whats more Nomads would likely only tolerate the burden of their cousins pity for so long before their paths diverged. To summarise: Same Origin, Different factions, Would Ally, but awkward family reunion.

So as a projects with my partner and as a natural enemy to my Suneater tribes Ogors we have started work on a new Aelven Battletome inspired by the Wood Elves/Wanderers of old but with a darker and more Age of Sigmar magical lean. Below is what we have so far for comments and critique: Some call them Wanderers, Nomads, Forest Aelves, it is said within the borders of Ghyran their name has been struck from every record in that woodland realm. Those that call them wanderers know little of the reason why, of the darkness that took root in the very souls of these forgotten Aelves in times long since past, over the disease of the Wyld that now lurks in every drop of blood coursing through their every changing forms. It is said that these Nomads travel ever onward not because they wish to, but because they must, every footprint seeds the nightmarish plants of the Wyld land, a curse that travels with them wherever they go. Born once long ago to the Goddess Alarielle when all of her Aelven kin sought to take their share from the gullet of Slaanesh, they were her loyal huntsmen within Ghyran. Children of Kurnoth and Alarielle both, these Woodland Aelves found the forests of Ghyran their sanctuary, stalking beasts that upset the natural order of their home and enforcing the will of their Goddess upon all who strayed within her sacred borders. Their lives were full, peaceful and safe in the knowledge that their Goddesses powers within the walls of the forest were absolute, it was this knowledge that led them to rebuke Sigmars offer of sanctuary when the tides of Chaos first began to encroach upon the realms. It is said that these Wanderkin stood as Alarielles sentinels on the very edge of her forest kingdom, keeping watchful gaze across the horizons for any sign of the tide of chaos. Few know what shook the faith of these Aelven hunters, perhaps the sanctuary they had become accustomed to had softened them, perhaps they knew not the true savageries of war, whatever their reason when their faith was tested it was found wanting. In the dead of night these Nomads abandoned their posts at the edge of the forest, fleeing with all speed from the tide of darkness that had drowned the horizon and blotted out the stars themselves. The wrath of their Goddess would send tremors throughout every root within the Realm, every tree shook with her rage, her children had forsaken her. These accursed Wanderers fled, the tide of chaos ever at their heel as the forests they once knew as sanctuary became drowned in an onslaught of flame and axe. Finding all gates to Azyr sealed to them they took the only route that had been left open, travelling through the Primal Gates of Ghur they fled beyond the very edges of the mapped world, into the swirling madness of the Maelstrom at realms edge. Here, amidts the shifting Wyld winds that ravage the very distant corners of Ghur they found sanctuary… for a time. AELORAN NOMADS When the Realms fell to chao those Wanderers who found themselves abandoned by their volatile and spiteful goddess fled across the realms, the tide of chaos ever biting at their heels as they sought a place to call their own. Yet godless and without allies every door became closed to them, even the mighty gates of Azyr were found sealed by the time their beleaguered populace came unto it. It was then that they were driven onwards, ever further out from their cities in the heart of Ghur towards the volatile and unknowable forests at worlds edge that they might endure the elements longer that they could the blades of their foes. Their hidden refuge at realms edge has, for the longest time kept the nomads hidden from the wars that ravaged the Realms, but the very magics that have shielded them have taken a heavy toll upon their bodies and souls. An intelligent and deeply invasive bestial wind called the Wyld at the edge of Ghur has seeped into the very fibres of every muscle, the primal drum beat that forms the very pulse of the realm now resides within the souls of every Aelf in their ranks threatening to overwhelm reason or logic with every beat of the endless rhythm. As the Wyld seeks to claim their souls the desperate Nomads sought ways to stave off their final bestial forms, that they might retain their Aelven grace and nobility for few millenia longer. Through many trials that claimed more and more of their population with every passing year eventually a symbiosis was found, the strongest souls within their ranks could merge their souls with the savage beasts of the realm, burying their own soul within that of the mighty beasts to hide it from the Wyld that sought to snuff them out. Such an act would preserve the Aelven soul but the toll it took on their partnered beast was heavy, no such beast could endure more than a few years of the merge before the Wyld claimed it entirely. It has then come to pass that the eldest amongst the Aeloran populace have formed such a bond with hundreds of beasts, each becoming inclined to merge with a beast that matches their personality beyond all others. At first such pairings seemed solely matched by personality, the most vigilant paired with the mighty raptors that claimed the skies of world edge, the fleet of foot would pair with the mighty stags that leapt deftly through the forest and the greatest hunters would merge with packs of the savage wolves that hunters in the darkest corners of their realm. As the years have worn on however the Aelorans features have begun to shift and alter to match that of the beasts whose souls have touched their own, the Birdkind develop accute vision, their bone structure lightening as though able to drift on the wind instead of falling. The Doekind develop extraordinary muscle structures allowing them to dance across the very tree tops with every deft leap, and the Wolfkin become hunters beyond compare. The Aeloran carry with the Wyld wherever they travel, it has become a disease that spread like wildfire throughout their populace and even the blending of souls can only delay it so long. They have become blighted, never able to settle for long lest the carnivorous plants of the Wyld itself spawn in their very footprints, beset at all times by the predators within and without they lead nomadic lives, ever in pursuit of the great hunt that they might find a beast able to endure the blend long enough to hold their degradation entirely. AN EMPIRE OF NOMADS On the following pages you will find rules and abilities for your Aeloran Nomad army. These include powerful allegiance abilities and items, new battle plans, and war scrolls and battalions that describe the hidden empires of Aeloran Nomads in games of Warhammer Age of Sigmar ALLEGIANCE ABILITIES From potent enchantments to bestial traits there are many benefits to the Aeloran Tribe allegiece. These can be found below: ALLEGIANCE Every unit and warscroll battalion in Warhammer Age of Sigmar owes allegiance to one of the Grand Alliances – either ORDER, CHAOS, DEATH or DESTRUCTION. Many units and warscroll battalions also have more specific allegiances – for example AELORAN NOMAD or CENTAURID. If all the staring units and warscroll battalions in your army are from AELORAN NOMADS, then it has the AELOAN NOMADS allegiance. An army with the AELORAN NOMADS allegiance – sometimes known as a AELORAN NOMAD army – can use the potent allegiance abilities found in the following pages. When your army qualifies for more than one allegiance – e.g. all of the units are AELORAN NOMAD and ORDER – you must choose which allegiance your army will use before each game. These restrictions aside, you can use allegiance abilities whenever you play games of Warhammer Age of Sigmar. Battle Traits: An allied army fights with units and cohesion, granting it additional boons. See opposite for the battle traits available for Aeloran Nomad armies. Command Trait: Each leader has their own style of command. See opposite for the command traits available to Aeloran Nomad generals. Relics of the Hunt: These arcana trophies are claimed by the mightiest of warriors within the Nomadic Empires. See pages XX-XX for the magical trophies Heroes from your army can possess. Wyldform Magicks: Those skilled in the Arcane Arts or with a primordial link to the Wyld are capable of bringing its magic to bear in the heat of battle. See page XX for Wyld-based spells available to Wizards from your army. BATTLEPLANS The Aeloran Nomads have their own evasive and savage methods of destruction and waging war across the mortal realms unlike any other. The battle plans on pages XX-XX allow you to wage was just as the Aeloran Nomads do. PATH TO GLORY On pages XX-XX you will find rules for player a Path to Glory campaign. These enable you to field your Aeloran Nomad miniatures as a formidable war band and fight an immersive campaign in which your forces grow stronger with each victory. Included are war band tables to help you collect your army, as well as rewards tables for your champion and their followers WARSCROLL BATALLIONS This section describes formations made up of several units that combine their strengths to gain powerful new abilities. By fielding these formations, you can muster your own Tribe on the table top. There are rules for fielding some of the most notable empires of Aeloran Nomads, each possessing its own strengths and distinct character. WARSCROLLS This section describes the characteristic and abilities of the individual Aeloran Nomad models and units. ALLEGIANCE ABILITIES The Aeloran Nomads lead savage lives, beset on all sides by the primal beasts from the maelstrom at the very edge of the known realms. Every fibre of their being has been infected with the ravenous energies that fuel the realm of beasts, threatening the burst forth from their unwilling hosts should they fall in battle BATTLE TRAITS An army with the AELORAN NOMAD allegiance gain the following abilities. The Savage Heart – To survive the Wyld is to understands ones place within the food chain, the Hunter must consume the prey, and the prey must be consumed. Roll a dice for every enemy model that flees due to battleshock whilst their unit is within 3 inches of an AELORAN unit, for every roll of a 4 or more the AELORAN unit regains a wound, if there are no wounded models in that unit you may instead restore a number of models to the unit lost earlier in the battle with a number of wounds upto the wounds restored. Wyldform – The eldest of the Aeloran populace have begun their final descent into the Wyldform, every drop of their blood carrying the changing taint from world edge with them into battle. Should a precious drop of this blood hit the ground it bears the spores of the predatory plants of Ghur, erupting forth to reclaim the lands. At the end of any turn in which an AELORAN NOBLE is wounded but not slain, roll a D6 for every AELORAN NOBLE that was wounded adding the number of wounds lost. You may add one base of WYLDSHARD BRAMBLES within 3 inches of that model for every roll of a 5 or more. In addition is an AELORAN NOBLE model is slain, immediately replace the model with a base of WYLDSHARD BRAMBLES. COMMAND TRAITS In addition to their command abilities, if they are a Hero, the general of a AELORAN NOMAD army can have a command trait from the list below. Pick the trait that best suits your generals’ personality. Alternatively, you can roll a dice to randomly determine a trait. If, for whatever reason, you must select a new general during the battle, immediately generate a trait for them. D6 Command Trait 1 Aspect of the Scorpion – Your hero channels the poisonous nature of the monolithic scorpions at world edge. Pick one of your heroes weapons (this cannot belong to their mount), if your hero wounds but does not kill an enemy model with this weapon that model suffers an additional mortal wound at the end of that phase. 2 Aspect of the Stag – This hero channels the grace and speed of the great stags of the forest. Add 3 to this models move characteristic. 3 Aspect of the Raptor – Channelling the great raptors that claim the skies of Ghur these heroes descend on wounded prey with unrelenting speed. You may reroll failed charges for this model if the charge move will end within 3 inches of a model already wounded that turn. 4 Aspect of the Lion – The nails and teeth of this hero have sharpened to the needlike points of the feline predators of their homelands. In the combat phase you may add one to the rend of and attacks that roll a 6 to hit. 5 Aspect of the Hydra – This hero has gained a sliver of the mighty regeneration power of the Hydra, seemingly regrowing lost limbs in the heat of battle. In each of your hero phases you may regain 1 wound on this model lost earlier in the battle. 6 Aspect of the Ironhide – Channelling the tough hide of the Ironhide Rhinos of the Ghur mountains this heroes skin has toughened to deflect blades. Roll a dice whenever a wound or mortal wound is allocated to this model, on a roll of a 6 that wound is ignored. PITCHED BATTLE PROFILES The table below provides points, minimum and maximum unit sizes and battlefield roles for the Warscroll and Warscroll battalions in this book, for use in Pitched Battles. Used alongside the rules for Pitched Battles in the Generals Handbook, this provides you with everything you need to field your army of Aeloran Nomads against any opponent AELORAN NOMADS UNIT SIZE POINTS BATTLEFIELD ROLE NOTES UNIT MIN MAX Aeloran Noble on Wyldrunner Chariot 1 1 220 LEADER Aeloran Wyldshaper on Griffin 1 1 260 LEADER, BEHEMOTH Aeloran Lord on Wyldmare 1 1 220 LEADER Aeloran Huntmaster 1 1 80 LEADER Aeloran Gladeshards 10 30 160/420 - BATTLELINE if AELORAN NOMAD Allegiance and your general is an AELORAN NOBLE Aeloran Reavers 5 20 140/500 BATTLELINE Aeloran Forest Shades 10 30 160 BATTLELINE Aeloran Chargers 3 12 200 - Centaurid Hunters 3 9 120 - BATTLELINE if AELORAN NOMAD Allegiance and your general is a CENTAURID Centaurid Stargazer 1 1 100 LEADER Centaurid Gladiatori 3 9 150 - Avari Sunrakers 3 6 200 - Avari Starcaster 1 1 100 LEADER Shard of the Wyldhart 1 1 360 BEHEMOTH

Anyone who has seen my conversions (if you havent then treat yourself and look) will know I'm really passionate about my hobby, but whats more impressive is the support from my partner in joining my in pursueing my hobby (if you want to know how supportive just tally up the rough cost of all my conversion bits :P). In joining my in gaming with my custom Suneaters my partner asked that I work on putting together a custom battletome for her own nature Aelves so together we've been working on the background whilst I cobble together conversions on the condition that when I build them she paints them. As someone to whom painting doesnt come naturally the commitment she shows seeing it through is really impressive, so here's the first painting units dubbed the Aeloran Gladeshards (central model painted by myself, the rest my partner copying the scheme). Along with a handful of other conversions we are working on for her unique faction And whilst I wait for the Dracoline mounts to release for my Aldin Draken Models they are temporarily pinned on Mournfangs so I can get some test games in: