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In which a storm in Ghur drives a traveler off his path and into the sanctuary of a far-flung church of Sigmar... The sound of thunder rattled the windows of the small church. Outside, rain relentlessly lashed its exterior, spattering off the old stones like bullets from a Freeguilder’s musket. Kneeling in prayer at the altar, the priest did his best to shut out the noise of the storm. He muttered his catcheisms as flashes of lightning illuminated the interior of the sacred space. As far as temples to Sigmar went, it was hardly the largest or the most illustrious, but its robust stonework had kept it standing out here in the wilds for long enough, and its simple construction and lack of adornment belied the faith it nurtured among the few who passed through its doors. A loud banging, different from the raging noise of the storm, shook the priest from his faithful reverie. The old man narrowed his eyes as the thumping on the front door of the chapel paused for a moment then continued again. He rose wearily to his feet, trying to ignore the pain in his back and the popping in his knees. In truth, he was probably too old for a role like this, a missionary priest in the hinterlands tending to the few faithful, but where else was he to go? With a grunt, he stood fully and began moving cautiously down the aisle, stalking past the rough-hewn wooden pews to the door. It did not do to rush. Even here, in the areas of Ghur purportedly under the control of Sigmar and his mortal allies, there were untold dangers that abounded on the lonely roads, and not all of them were beasts. The banging continued incessentantly as the priest finally reached the door. He paused for a moment, breathing deeply, and listened, trying to ignore the raging storm without. “Open up! In the name of Sigmar open the door please,” a muffled voice rang through the wood, “I’m fit to drown out here!” The priest paused for a second. It sounded human enough. That was no clear indicator of intention, mind. He hesitated a moment more then shook his head. Was he not a priest? Was this not his duty? To tend to the needy and tired that walked these roads. He could not turn his back on that through simple fear. With a weary sigh, he unlatched the bar that held the heavy door shut and swung it open. The rain and wind surged in, driving the priest back a step. A flash of lightning and once more the rumble of thunder quickly followed, and, as if urged on by the noise, a man tumbled through, sodden and panting. His long leather coat was soaked from the rain and the hat he wore was drooped low, though not enough to hide a narrow, weather-beaten face and a pair of piercing green eyes. “My thanks, father.” The stranger’s voice, while undoubtedly that of a Ghurite, was cultured and lacked the more guttural tone so common among the denizens of this realm. “The storms of Ghur are no laughing matter I must say.” The old priest struggled the door back close, shutting out the wrath of the weather and bringing a modicum of peace back to the chapel. He turned then and cast an appraising eye over the newcomer soaking the rough stone floor of his chapel. The stranger was a tall, handsome man, with noble, dark-skinned features bearing the telltale cast of a native of Ghur. Though his coat and clothes were worn, it was clear, even in the soft candlelight illuminating the chapel, that they were well-made, expensive even. An unadorned sword hilt emerged from the fold of the coat, matching in general the well-made yet functional attire of the man. The priest narrowed his eyes a bit at the sight of the weapon, but he made no move one way or another. In truth, if the storm-tossed stranger had wanted to hurt him, he would’ve been dead the moment he opened the door. Few thieves and murderers in Ghur were subtle creatures. The man looked at him, noticing the appraisal. “I’m sorry father, my apologies. Pieter van Detler, at your service.” The well-dressed man doffed his hat, spilling some water on the floor and he grimaced, “Again, my apologies. In truth, you are a lifesaver this fine night.” The priest smiled. “It is no problem, my friend. What is any church of Sigmar for, if not to provide succor for those in need?” The priest’s voice was thin and weary, though there was an undercurrent of steel there, the will of the faithful, that was impossible to avoid. It was easy for Pieter to imagine the old man, despite his wrinkled appearance and rough-spun robes, extolling the praises of Sigmar in some sermon. “A fine attitude father and one I wished more of us faithful shared. It was a stroke of good fortune that I stumbled upon your chapel. I had not realized there was much call for the word of Sigmar in these parts.” “Oh,” the priest replied, almost bashfully, “it’s about what you would expect these days. But there is a need. The light of Sigmar shines where it will.” He began to move back down the aisle towards the altar as he talked, exposing his back to Pieter for a moment. The old man waited to feel the shock of the blade driven into his back, but it did not come. He smiled. A decent man then, that was lucky. The newcomer cast his eye across the chapel. Simple pews, carved from thick, dark wood, stood in neat rows down the length of the building, leading up to the altar stone at the front. Iron sconces held a plethora of lit candles that brought their dim illumination to the room. Pieter looked at the priest, who had a simple, rugged air that matched the building itself. He was an observant man and he noted, rather offhandedly, that the priest moved with a strength and poise that his old frame hid well. A warrior-priest then. At least once. “What brings you to “these parts” then, my friend? Surely you have a good reason to be abroad on a night like this.” The priest settled into a pew, gazing forward at the altar in front of him. “Of course, father. Of course.” Pieter sidled down the aisle after the priest, still dripping water. With a quiet squelch, he lowered himself into the opposite pew, taking a moment to make the sign of the hammer as he looked at the altar as well. Much like the rest of the temple, it was a relatively rough thing, as would be expected, with a hammer and lightning bolt made of fine wood sitting atop a rough block of stone. Candles were lit around it, casting everything in a soft light. There was an undoubtable rustic charm to it all that Pieter could appreciate, even drenched and cold from the still raging storm. Could do without the shadows though, he thought idly, always better for these temples to be lit, especially on a lonely, weather-beaten road such as this. Still, any port in a storm. He looked over at the wizened features of the chapel’s attendant. “I am on a mission from Sigmar, as it were.” “Is that so, my friend?” The priest said, turning his head to face his guest. “A mighty claim, if ever there was one. It is good to know that I am not the only servant of Sigmar at work in this region.” He chuckled softly. Pieter smiled in return and flipped back one of the folds of his coat, revealing a small gold pin that gleamed in the candle glow. Lightning flashed, briefly casting the priest’s concerned face in stark light. “The Order of the Azyr?” The old man’s voice was hushed. The truly mortal templars of Sigmar were a rare breed and, even though they worked for the God-King, their presence rarely boded well, for it meant great evil was afoot. “Indeed,” said Pieter, almost wearily, “the Order of the Azyr.” He saw the concern in the priest’s face and raised a gloved hand in a calming gesture. “Nothing to worry you, father, or any of the faithful of Sigmar.” “That is good, my friend,” the priest said, though the tension was not completely gone from his voice, “though undoubtedly your purpose in this region is a dark one.” “I’m afraid so,” Pieter said, frowning for the first time since he entered the chapel. Nothing more was forthcoming as he looked back to the altar. Thunder rumbled and lightning flared once more, illuminating the altar. The candles in the church flickered for a second, as if caught in a draft. The priest looked back at the door, but it was firmly sealed. A draft. Unsurprising. As old as it was, the temple itself wasn’t completely weatherproof. He turned to face the templar again. The younger man was still staring at the altar contemplatively. Silence filled the church, broken only by the noise of the storm continuing to batter at the walls. “Father,” said Pieter softly, breaking the relative quiet, “do you ever have doubts?” “Doubts?” “Yes, doubts. In Sigmar. In his purpose, the mission, the ability to actually reunite the disparate peoples of the mortal realms.” “No, I do not,” the priest smiled wanly. “I served in the armies of Sigmar’s faithful, many years ago. I saw the passion there. The hope. I saw the Stormcasts. You cannot doubt Sigmar’s purpose when those warriors fight alongside you.” “That’s fair, father,” Pieter straightened up, “it’s just so much sometimes. How can one man, one god as it were, handle all of this?” He swept his hand out and though he only gestured around the temple, the meaning was clear. “His reach is far, friend. You know that as well as I do. Even here his light shines upon us.” It was a bland turn of phrase, but a common and comforting one. The priest smiled, evidently pleased with his ministrations, and leaned back into the pew. “Indeed,” Pieter replied, “after all, you are here are you not? It’s a bold posting, though perhaps not surprising for a man of your years and experience, Father Reichenbold.” The priest tensed a little, but did not move much. “You know my name?” Reichenbold’s voice was slightly softer now, more cautious. “Father, please,” Pieter shrugged, “did you honestly expect that the Order of the Azyr would send one of its own abroad without letting them know the name of a potential ally in the area? That being said, it was fortune that led me to your door, I was completely lost in that storm.” “Ah well, that does make sense, my friend.” Reichenbold rolled his shoulders and looked up at the altar. “It is a rough place, to be sure, but I find it fulfilling. In many ways, it feels simpler out here, easier to connect with the people than it does back in Azyr.” “I can only imagine,” the witch hunter said cheerfully, “I’ve never stayed overlong in Azyr, though I dearly wished to. Loved the stars.” He sighed before continuing, “Native of Ghur myself, that’s why the Order sent me here for this.” There was another pause, letting the noise of the storm filter in. “And what is this, my friend?” the priest inquired after a moment. The younger man said nothing for a moment, fixing his gaze on the altar. “Murders, father, foul murders. A large number too,” Pieter’s voice was free of any levity, cold and severe. Gone was the more salubrious behavior of only a few moments before. “Travelers missing and some pilgrims gone. They’re what got the eye of my superiors. Protecting Sigmar’s faithful is always our priority, even out here.” “I’ve heard of no murders?” There was genuine concern in Reichenbold’s voice. “Ah, that is the problem. They’ve been quiet, subtle, extremely dangerous. We would never have known were it not for the fact that one of those pilgrims happened to be an old friend of the Grand Theogonist herself. When she failed to arrive in the Azyr two weeks ago, higher powers took notice. I’ve been on the hunt ever since.” “Terrible,” Reichenbold said, “It’s hard enough out here without some foul cult at work. If I had only known, I would’ve tried to do something.” “A cult, yes,” the templar said absentmindedly. He shook his head and continued, “Not surprising you would want to help, father, considering your service. One of the heroes of Mountenbach Ford, are you not? The Astral Templars themselves honored your fellows and you after that battle, if I don’t miss my mark. High praise, the Stormcast give it to us regular mortals so rarely.” “That was a long time ago, my friend.” “A long time ago, but I bet you could still swing your hammer with skill if need be? Pity that these murderers only have to face me, rather than your wrath, even in your retirement.” The priest chuckled. “You’re too kind. Though I could still swing the hammer, I will admit. A necessary skill in Ghur, even in... retirement.” “Of course,” said Peiter, sitting up. “Tell me father, what were they like? The Astral Templars, that is. I’ve not had the chance to meet one yet.” The priest nodded. His eyes lit up and he gestured excitedly with his hands. “Amazing, my friend. Stunning. The God-King’s will made manifest, clad in gold and full of the storm’s fury.” The thunder rumbled outside and lightning flared again, as if in acknowledgement. Pieter whistled, easing back in the pew and staring up at the ceiling of the chapel. “Imagine that.” The two men sat in silence for a while longer, Pieter looking up at the rafters, Father Reichenbold looking ahead at the altar, occasionally casting furtive glances at his guest. “The Astral Templars are clad in purple.” The witch hunter’s voice was cold and severe again. The priest grunted in response. “Ah, of course they are. My old mind forgets these things. They were indeed giants in purple armor.” “And the battle where they honored Father Reichenbold was Turtleshell Ford. There is no such place as Mountenbach.” The priest was silent. Thunder rumbled. “Are you going to lie about forgetting that too?” “Father Reichenbold” rose to his feet, his knees popping, though the look on his face betrayed little pain. Pieter rose as well and the two men faced one another in front of the altar. “No, I think there’s no point in that petty indulgence.” Gone was any genial tone in the priest’s voice, replaced instead by that underlying steel. “Good. I dislike pretences, despite my profession.” Pieter’s hand drifted to his sword. “And where is the real Father Reichenbold?” The priest chuckled darkly, shifting his hands within the flow of his rough robes. “Dead for months. I drained his body of blood and buried him behind the chapel.” The priest gestured lazily past the altar. “If it makes you feel any better, he was a fighter to the end. I appreciated that. So did my god.” “Did you honestly think no one would notice?” Pieter’s voice was calm, his hand now firmly upon the hilt of his sword, though he did not draw the blade. “Honestly?” The priest responded, “I really did not. Your Sigmar is weak, templar. He betrayed these realms, cast them aside and sealed himself away and let the darkness take us all. Even now, even with his vaunted heroes and his “devoted” servants, his light falters. It has no place here, that much is for sure.” “And yet here I am, a Ghurite, fighting for Sigmar.” “You are twice a traitor then,” the old man shrieked, “to serve the coward-god that betrayed your people!” “Sigmar saved my people, murderer.” The priest snorted derisively. “Saved them? By tying them to his yoke? Placing them under the lash of his pampered Azyrites that rode out the hell of Chaos invasions in luxury? Some salvation. This is what you sacrifice your heritage for?” Pieter said nothing and the priest continued, filling the void with words, his voice becoming more and more zealous with each venomous utterance. “I serve an older master, one that did not abandon these lands like your foolish God-King. One that nurtured the people of these hinterlands, protected them from the foulness that threatened them all. What has Sigmar done here that equals that? Where was he, when the servants of the Dark Gods were baying at our borders? Your Father Reichenbold, the hero! The fool more like! He thought he could push Sigmar on us, as your priests always do. He was wrong. His blood was like wine on the lips of Onholt. Each of those travelers died screaming. All of their blood nourished my god, renewed our pacts, guaranteed our continued safety from all that would threaten us.” The priest smiled, drawing a wicked looking sickle with a jagged edge from the folds of his robes. There was madness in his eyes as he stalked towards the witch-hunter. “And the best part, lackey of the coward-god? Onholt is always thirsty.” The priest lunged forward with a yell, swinging his sickle downwards. Pieter’s thin blade, thrice blessed by the Grand Theogonist herself, emerged from its scabbard in the blink of an eye to intercept the vicious weapon. The templar lunged into a riposte, but, as he suspected, the priest was far from the frail old man he appeared, rolling backwards on his heels and smacking the thrust aside. His robes fluttered and flapped like the wings of some ragged vulture as he struck again and again, and Pieter was hard-pressed to knock the brutal slashes askew. As the priest’s robes fluttered, Pieter glimpsed the sinuous tattoos that decorated the old man’s arms, drawn in what appeared to be long-dried blood. Undoubtedly they were responsible for the unnatural strength and vigor the fanatic displayed. It was supernatural, the unsavory gift of whatever petty godling had chosen this man as its champion. In the abstract part of his mind that was not immediately occupied with fighting for his life, Pieter pitied Father Reichenbold for having to face an opponent like this. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled once more as the two figures danced back and forth in front of the altar. Their blades skittered and clanged off one another, each man showing superb skill in the duel, but it was the priest of Onholt that seemed to be gaining the upper hand. Each strong blow drove Pieter back towards the wall of the small chapel, rattling the steel of his sword and threatening the sturdiness of his guard. Every couple of strikes, the sickle’s jagged blade nicked the witch hunter’s body, drawing small amounts of blood, sapping his strength with each slice. “I will offer up every last drop of your blood to Onholt,” the old man shrieked, cutting low with his sickle and forcing Pieter back once more, “He will drink it all!” Like a great cat of the Ghurlands, the priest pounced forward, throwing himself bodily into the templar, his weapon hooking the blessed blade out of the way. Pieter stumbled backwards and fell, cracking his head against the wall even as the sickle opened up a wide gash across his front. On his back, groggy from the blow, the templar struggled as a wrinkled foot in a grimy sandal slammed down on his chest to pin him in place with that same, unnatural strength. He grunted as the priest pressed down on the wound. “You were foolish to come here alone, lackey of the coward-god,” the old man drew back his sickle for a killing blow, and a flash of lightning backlit his hideous silhouette in Pieter’s eyes. Defiant despite the pounding in his head, the witch hunter spat his words up at the fanatic poised to execute him. “The servants of Sigmar are never alone, heretic.” There was a loud snap crack followed by a flash, like that of lightning, and the tang of ozone filled the room. The priest of Onholt wheezed violently as a bolt of light plucked him off his feet and sent his wizened form smashing with bone-crushing force into the stonework of the temple’s back wall. With the pressure lifted off his chest, Pieter rose unsteadily to his feet, just in time to see the large form sliding out of the shadows by the door of the chapel. The mighty figure cast back his cloak of woven black beast-fur as he strolled down the aisle towards the witch hunter, revealing the purple armor of the Astral Templars underneath. “Brother Tarkus, I was beginning to wonder if you were here at all.” Pieter said, touching the swelling bump on the back of his head gingerly before bending to retrieve his sword. “That took you long enough.” “I could say the same to you, van Detler.” Tarkus’ voice echoed from within his helm, and though it was well-spoken, it bound the roiling power of the storm in its words. “I had to be sure,” the witch hunter said, walking over to the corpse of the zealot. A look of surprise was still plastered on the old man’s face, though the appearance of shock hardly detracted from the spectacle of the dinner plate sized hole in the fanatic’s chest where the bolt had impacted. “Again,” Tarkus rumbled, “I could say the same.” Pieter looked up at the Stormcast, struggling to keep the vague sense of annoyance off his face. “You almost sound disappointed, Brother Tarkus.” “I am, van Detler. I expected him to be a demon. Or a magus of the Dark Gods at the very least.” “No,” Pieter said, kneeling down next to the corpse and lifting up an icon on a chain around the man’s neck. It depicted a sickle and a drop of liquid, undoubtedly blood. “It is sad to say, my noble hunter, but the evils of the mortal realms are just as likely to be rooted in mere men as they are to be the work of the Dark Gods and their ilk.” “But he was ensorcelled in some way?” “Oh yes,” Pieter said, holding the icon up to the light and examining it closer. Crude characters in the tongue of Ghur decorated its outside. “A follower of Onholt, an old god obsessed with sacrifice and blood. Perfect for Ghur, in so many ways. The Order thought his followers had long died out, but clearly that is not the case.” The witch hunter stashed the icon away inside a pouch at his waist. “They call Onholt “The Drinker”. Pleasant title, seems fitting.” “Not the Blood God then?” Tarkus seemed doubtful. “No, not the Blood God. Similar perhaps, but not the same.” The Stormcast shrugged slightly in response. “One evil seems much like another.” “If only that were the case, it would make the Order’s job much easier.” The cuts Pieter had suffered were not deep, even the one on his chest, but he winced in pain as he stood. “I’ll need to investigate his quarters. There may be more of his cult hereabouts, helping him commit his sacrifices. We might also give Father Reichenbold a proper funeral, if we can find him. He deserves far better than a shallow grave in the hinterlands of this realm. Probably need to tend to my wounds too, we don’t all bleed starlight.” The man began to move towards the door at the side of the chapel leading to the priest’s personal abode. “I don’t bleed starlight,” Tarkus said almost petulantly, calmly reloading the crossbow in his hands as he looked down at the crumpled form of the zealot. “Was it true what you said, van Detler? About the doubts?” Pieter paused and turned back to the Stormcast. The armored giant, veritably charged with the power of the Azyr now that his presence was revealed, was intimidating, especially when it came to questions of faith. Wild as they were, the Astral Templars were no less devoted to the God-King than any other Stormhost. “Yes, Brother Tarkus. It is true,” Pieter sighed, “Was that what stayed your hand for so long?” “No,” the Stormcast replied firmly, “I told you I was waiting.” “It is natural for men to doubt, Brother Tarkus. To fear. I feel that this man,” he gestured towards the ragged form of the zealot, “was driven towards Onholt by his doubts more than anything else. The difference between him and I though, is that my doubts give me purpose. For what is doubt if not the trappings of hope? One does not exist without the other. I believe in Sigmar, in his will, and his mission. That I worry it can be achieved at times only drives me harder to assure that those doubts do not become a reality.” The Stormcast said nothing, but nodded slowly. Thunder rumbled again outside, rattling the church’s windows, as if in affirmation of the witch hunter’s statement. “Now, I think that’s enough matters of the spirit for the day, don’t you?” Pieter said, continuing his walk towards the quarter’s door. “We have work to do.”

I’ve been reading though the cool new mini-campaign/solo rules for AoS that were released, and I would like to adapt the contents to suit either Chaos or FEC enemies. https://www.warhammer-community.com/2020/04/09/solo-warhammer-troggoth-slayersgw-homepage-post-1/ 3 Rockgut Troggoths (160pts) - 50mm bases 3 Fellwater Troggoths (160pts) - 50mm bases Dankhold Troggoth (220pts) - 60mm base Dankhold Troggboss (300pts) - 60mm base I could always just use a different model to repesent the same warscrolls I guess, but I'd love to figure out some equivalents. The big wrench in the mix IMO is how important the Regeneration rules likely are to this setup. I could toss regen on whatever other models, which is one solution.

Hi there everyone! I've been wargaming since I was a kid in the early 90's. Mostly Warhammer (currently AoS), 40k & Necromunda. Returned to the hobby after a long hiatus a few years ago, and started a blog last year. I really like to see what other people are up with their hobby projects, and would also like to share some of my stuff here. So sharing of inspiration is a big thing for me. Here's a few pics from the most recent projects from this year.

Hi, I have been looking for quite a while for players in Hamburg, there has to be some. I am not too interested in playing in the GW store. Anyway if you are interested in playing some games please let me know. Phil

Onslaught Returns 2020 This will be a 2-day Age of Sigmar event running on Saturday 25th & Sunday 26th July 2020 This tournament will be held at Common Ground Games, Stirling (@CommonGroundSco) Tickets 40 tickets are available across both days. Cost will be £35. This covers your games and lunch (and it's lovely at CGG). some very nice trophies and cool swag on arrival. These are on sale Right Now Please send £35 via PayPal Friends Payment to M.28_rennie@yahoo.co.uk with names of those bought for. Purchase of a ticket will confirm your place on the Entrants list. Names will stay on the Reserve list until payment is made. Refunds of tickets are only available until Fri 3rd July 2020. Accomodation Obvious and convenient choices are Premier Inn and Travelodge very close to Common Ground Games and the train station.There are also local B&Bs close to Common Ground. Attendees Mark Roberts Scott Smith James Chalmers Jack Carruthers Alan Mandelson Leigh Martin David Jack John Connelly John Baylis Stefan Craig

Hello, as some might know I am running a Shapeways Page for bits (mostly but also Miniatures) and I am currently testing new Barbarian Shields which are meant to be universally usable, meaning for Chaos, Cities of Sigmar etc. I would love to hear some Feedback on the Designs on my page (thx in advance!) Click me Latest Addition:

Just thought I'd set up a page for the Shardsfall Ruleset. So you can post up warbands, let me know what you think of the rules which were very inspired the Hinterlands rules by bottle, and the Mordheim rules of old. Im currently working on an expanded exploration chart, as well as warbands like the old Mordheim warbands (mainly due to the massive changes to Warhammer/AoS) though these may not neccessarily be needed. Hope you all enjoy the rules, let me know if you have any suggestions! Useful Links My thanks to bottle for the Shardsfall Banner

Epilogue Three days later, the vanguard of the army left the city under the command of Sheriff Albertus, Freeguild General of the Free Army of Montalban. With him he had the Greatswords, the Handgunners, the Demygryph Knights and some regiments of Halberdiers. A detachment of pistoliers from the mercenary company of Nimyard rode ahead of them, scouting the road. Albertus knew Captain Nimyard from the days way back and Nimyard owed Albertus a favour. Three days after the vanguard, Stadthouder Adriaanus Manstien would march out with the main body of the army. Manstien would take to the field on his War Griffon in full ornate battle plate. More regiments of Halberdiers would accompany him as well as the city's Hellblaster artillery train. Also going with him was Bert. Bert was pulling his Rex Diem float, on top of which they had placed the Hurricanum and the Luminark. Nostro, who was recalled as Battle Mage of the Free Army of Montalban, was standing on the float relishing his new position and polishing up his beloved machines. In front of the army column, soldiers carried the relics of Holy Michael the Hermit, patron saint and saviour of the City of Montalban.

Hello Everyone! My name is Henin and I hail from the lands of the Tomb Kings! If you have not heard, there is an incredible project going on for tomb kings where the TK are getting their own fan-made, unofficial Battletome, complete with artwork and lore as well as some unofficial additional rules put together by the community to play for fun with friends: http://theendlessdeserts.blogspot.com/p/what-are-endless-deserts_8.html I have come to love the new world of AoS thanks to this project (personally). I may not be completely happy with the lore but I enjoy the game and love the dynamics and creative encouragement it has. With that said, I keep hoping to see a similar event from the Bretonnian community, but have yet to see this. (based on my research, I could be wrong and if I am please point me in that direction [seriously do please]) My brother and I started playing and collecting warhammer models some time before the End Times began. When they began the changes, me and my brother were hit hard since we had barely just finished getting the hang of the game and then suddenly it does a 180. All our efforts were crushed especially since both our armies seemed to be thrown out by GW (Him playing Brets and me playing TK). For me it is not simple to remember and learn such a complicated game as it was in warhammer 8th edition. Though, eventually I gave AoS a chance and came to love it, but honestly it was thanks to the efforts in the TK community that I now came to love it. I really want to somehow do the same for my brother and the Brets. I want to try to put together some kind of team and put effort into creating something like what the TK have for their own game for fun! To support the community. Put together an AoS Bretonnian Battletome with all kinds of fun stuff for all to use and enjoy~ So please, if this is something you are hoping to see, and/or have something to offer such as artistic skills, game knowledge, photography skills with epic models and anything at all that can help get this project in motion, please comment or message me. I want to see what the community has to say and if their is any desire for this to happen. Thoughts? Opinions? Ideas? (be sincere please) Best, -Henin

Details Date: 27th October 2019 Army: Legions of Grief with Grimghast buff-train focus Opponent: Regan O'Halloran - Legion of Night with Nightfall Pack Game Type: Matched Play 2000pts Scenario: Border War (rolled at random) Few pictures were taken for this report as at the time I wasn't planning on spontaneously starting a hobby blog, the future ones will be LITTERED with them. Setup Regan and I were both playing an allegiance that utilizes Gravesites, and despite my army not being from Legions of Nagash technically it still allows Regan to use mine just as much as he allows me to use his. Naturally there was a lot of umming and ahhing about how to place these without helping the opponent too much, but with us both being relatively inexperienced we largely placed them around areas we wanted to make plays happen. The table scenery was absolutely LITTERED with Inspiring and Damned, with a single piece of Commanding terrain on Regan's side (he explicitly chose to deploy on it despite being less reliant on CP, knowing how desperate my army is for extra CP and denying me it would be a good path to victory). With neither of us having clunky terrain pieces we moved into deployment. Regan was easily able to outdrop me (most armies can) and deployed all of forces on the table except 6 Vargheists, who opted to lay in ambush. I deployed the majority of my army, performing my now staple "stashing Myrmourn in a Gravesite" mindgame. Thoroughly outdropping me, Regan elected to take first. Battle Round 1 - Drop Claws on 'Em Regan began his hero phase by promptly summoning a Balewind Vortex and making use of his Necromancer's artefact of power, Morbheg's Claw. This little diamond in the rough allows the bearer to declare they won't move in exchange for giving all friendly wizards within 12" +2 to cast. He then cast up a storm of buffs and moved forward very conservatively, just enough to take the two side objectives. Content, he passed the turn to me. I began by attempting to cast Vanhel's Dance Macabre and failing, an ominous sign. Deciding to not try anything too fancy, I moved up gently enough to take the two side objectives back off Regan and score myself 5 points to equalize the score. My army was kept tight enough that in the event Regan got the priority I would be able to make use of my wholly within start of combat phase abilities, and ended my turn. I won the priority, and elected to take the turn. Battle Round 2 - The Part Where it All Went Terribly Wrong I opened by not bothering to cast Vanhel's and instead summoned a Prismatic Palisade near Regan's 3 Vargheists and min unit of Skeletons to make the right-hand objective a pillow fight. My Dreadblade Harrow general warped forward towards the right-hand objective (remember this, it's important) and then pushed my Chainrasp units forward to tangle his army up before it could move freely. My army abandoned my board edge largely, moving forward aggressively and leaving the support heroes up the back with open board behind them, and confident in my choices and assured I was the tactical mastermind the voices tell me I am, I magnanimously handed over to Regan's turn. Regan promptly shored up all the buffs under the sun and ambushed my arrogant ass immediately. A unit of 6 Vargheists swooped in from the table edge and immediately made a charge into my back line of Grimghast Reapers while another unit of 3 used their flying move to vault directly over my Chainrasp Horde and throw themselves into the now horribly exposed Dreadblade Harrow. Meanwhile on the left-hand side of the table, a unit of Grave Guard sitting roughly around Super Saiyan Level 4 slammed into 40 Chainrasps. I wasn't terribly concerned as my Chainrasps have survived worse. Battle round 2 ended with a Dreadblade Harrow barely clinging to life and surrounded by monstrous vampire creatures, half of my Reapers torn to shreds by another unit of beasts. The Reapers retaliated and slaughtered 4 of the 6 monsters but they had done their job. The Reapers were tied to them and unable to head forward to assist my army, and the Dreadblade was sitting on 1 wound with any number of heroes able to Arcane Bolt him the moment Regan's next turn began. The 40 Chainrasps were basically turned to mist instantly by the Grave Guard. Summed up, going into priority roll 2, things could have been going better for me. I won the roll, saving the game from an early end. I opted to go first obviously. Battle Round 3 - How the Turntables Turn Beaten, battered, and wondering whether it was too late to cancel the sale of my Slaanesh army, i began rebuilding my defenses. The Grimghast Reapers managed to receive the benefit of no less than 5 Gravesites and a Deathly Invocation, restoring the unit to fighting strength. The Dreadblade, denied his warping ability due to being in combat, opted to simply flee as far as possible to the other side of the table from the bat monsters. The Grimghasts received Vanhel's, while the Myrmourn emerged and began advancing towards the enemy ranks as kites and to stop the enemy Necromancer having free reign of his board side, while the Dreadscythe Harridans moved up to clear out the skeleton chaff denying me objective control. The combat phase was one for me, with only the Myrmourn under-performing against the Grave Guard. The Vargheists were swept aside by scythes and the Grimghast were now free to move in their next turn. Bringing the score closer to equal, I passed the turn back to Regan. Regan behaved unexpectedly, matching my wanton aggression with EVEN MORE AGGRESSION. Mannfred von Carstein grew bored of watching from the sidelines and heeled Ashigaroth forward to flank my Grimghast Reapers on their left side, simultaneously baiting me, supporting his nascent Grave Guard and genuinely threatening my Reapers all at once. Mannfred destroyed the Dreadblade Harrow with contemptuous ease, taking away my ability to return destroyed units. Keeping away from the Reapers, Mannfred as ever made sure there would be minimal consequences for maximum dickery. I won another priority roll, clinging on for dear life. Battle Round 4 - Go Not Gentle into that Good Night Regan, having considerately relived me of my casting heroes and general, streamlined my turn rather effectively. With no spells to sling, speeches to give or gotcha moments to pull out, I kept things simple. I moved forward with everything, and made one hell of a charge. The Dreadscythes swamped the Vampire Lord hiding in cover in Regan's back line while the Reapers got 15 into reach of the skeleton bomb defending his home objective, and 8 within range of Mannfred. Scythes started swinging and hook hands a-slashing, and when the dust cleared i had evened the odds across the table. Mannfred was bloodied and bruised, and the Skeletons standing between me and my chance at clawing victory from defeat where obliterated. Sadly Regan promptly reminded me that while Mannfred is known as a traitor, a schemer and unlikely to win beauty competitions, he's also a pretty good Necromancer. The Skeletons I had swept aside like corn reemerged and swamped the rear objective, while Mannfred simply tagged my Reapers to keep them locked in place. With a lead of several points, Regan ended his turn. Regan won the priority roll, whereupon we called the game as all he needed to do was pass his turn. Conclusion - What went well Dreadscythes are really good and I need two run two units Grimghast Reapers are gross, and don't need much support to do well Dreadblade teleportation is amazing when done right What went poorly Dreadblade teleportation is awful if you behave aggressively against things that will just one-shot him Be mindful of blocking off board edges for ambush units Ethereal Saves aren't actually a free pass and anything with enough attacks will slice through them Over all i was pleased with the army itself, if not the outcome. Everything that went badly on my end was due to me misplaying or making bad judgement calls, rather than inherit weaknesses in the army. It didn't help that Regan is a strong opponent and also knows me well enough to know when I'm getting too cocky. Looking forward to seeing his army when it's fully painted as he's also the Valley's resident commission painter and he does great work. Regan's twitter: @PaintPyrow My Twitter: @ThreeTwoPrince