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  1. 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.”
  2. Hi everyone! I'm new here. I've painted for a huge part of my life, and one of my favourite things is following people's project logs and getting inspired by what others have done. Here's my attempt at a project log for a freeguild army. Hopefully I can keep adding to it, as well as inspiring others! First some fluff. The Realm of Ghur. Eastern Reaches. From the writings of Herr Jaeger. Towards the east of Ghur lies a region of deserts. They are greatly affected by the unstable magic of other realms, an effect I termed Realm-Bleed during my travels. The northerly desert is an icy, stone-strewn tundra where little thrives. The magic of Shyish bleeds into the northernmost edge of this tundra, ensuring that which does survive the sparse wilderness is truly hardy and fearsome to face in combat. The southern desert is a sandy region where waves of dunes ripple across the horizon. This desert is hot, and the further south one travels, the greater the effects of Aqshy Realm-Bleed. The two deserts are split by a strip where, against all odds, life thrives. This tropical oasis features a vast lake and rivers that feed farmlands before reaching the Eastern Sea. To the north and south of the bountiful lands are the Twin Jewels of the Deserts - Kislavia and Ajier. Kislavia is the city that lies to the north of the oasis. Its people are rugged and used to fighting the cold. They are experienced hunters and have tamed a number of the fearsome beasts that inhabit the northern tundra. While the majority of the population live in the city of Kislavia, there are a number of nomadic tribes that roam the wasteland for food, as well as dangers in the form of monsters and enemies. The tribes can be distinguished by the colours of the tassels their carry. Some tribes specialise in archery, others in trade, while a rare few focus on taming the wild creatures of the tundra. In times of war the tribes will band together to protect Kislavia. These occasions see a formidable force of spearmen, archers, handgunners and beast-riders marching in unison. These dangerous times even see marble-clad remnants of Sigmar's Stormcast and the reclusive Rieklings, or Ice Goblins, join the tribes of Korgoria to protect their lands. This army came from a desire to come back to Warhammer Fantasy. I wanted to create a freeguild army that decended from the empire. I searched my miniatures for suitable candidates and came across a number of miniatures I had bought to one day create a Kislevite Army. The miniatures are plastic Steppe Warriors from Fireforge. They are detailed and include a range of weapon options which covers the spearmen and archer needs for my army, The first miniatures I finished were five test archers, five test spearmen and a converted model to represent a general. What's that you say? Enough with the text? Ok then. No more rambling and onto the pictures! The Freeguild Guard fend off enemies with their shields. The Freeguild General preparing to draw his blade! The Freeguild Archers let off a volley! The Archer Champion surveys his men. 'Not bad,' he thinks. "They are overrunning us!" screams his second. Test scheme for marble-clad stormcast. Quite happy with it, and it was not terribly time-consuming! Win-win! Next up I'm finishing off the remaining archers and their pet hawk! Things to look forward to in the future include bear-ish riders and the elusive Rieklings! Hope you like them!
  3. Quick question if you give the artefact Ghyrstrike from Ghyran or Amberglaive from Ghur to a demon prince of Khorne which gets +1 to hit, does that make his hit rating stay at 2+ or does it become auto hit (1+)? I am just not seeing any stipulation in RAW with the artefacts but I'm looking on a wiki not the official book.
  4. I've been lurking awhile on this forum and have got plenty of good advice and inspirattion from everyone else, so I thought I'd post up my latest force, a new Ironjawz force that I'm doing as being from Ghur, Realm of Beasts. It started with the Underworld warband I got and enjoyed painting them, so ended up using them as the start for a small Ironjaws army. So starting with the Ironskull's Boyz that kicked it all off I then completed two units of Brutes, firstly with choppas The second unit with gore-hackas, led by a boss (big boss when running Ironfist) kitbashed from the warchanter. The idea being that i'll expand these to a unit of 10 in the future. The spare brute body was then used to make a standard bearer, which if I ever play with them may get used as an allied warboss with great Waaagh! banner Currently led by a Megaboss on foot And all of them together I've got some other bits that i'm working on, but only want to post up painted stuff to keep my motivation going.
  5. Hey everyone! New here to the TGA forums and I'm looking for some thematic advice for my Sylvaneth! Fluff wise, my wargrove fled to the savage lands of Ghur at the height of Nurgle's invasion of Ghyran, and I have modeling ideas to reflect this (skulls and bones, green stuff feathers, spite heads for revenants etc.) But what I'm really struggling with is finding a good colour and basing scheme to reflect the realm of Ghur they inhabit. Any experienced painters and sylvaneth players have some ideas? Thanks!!
  6. So, I had an idea for an army, basically it's just as many monsters as I can get. I'm gonna use all sorts of monsters from multiple grand alliances (meaning it's mostly an open play army) but it's gonna mostly be an Order army. The main idea is that it's a bunch of Empire soldier deserters who have decided to go hunt big game in the wilds of Ghur. So i'll be replacing all the riders/passengers with some wild looking Empire dudes There's a bit of backstory and character in my head, just have to try to put it into words... Another part will be painting all the animals like Australian animals, it's something I haven't seen before and as an Aussie I thought it would be a fun idea, also it'll teach me how to paint colours I don't normally use. So anyway onto the pictures (Sorry for the average pictures, these are the first one I've taken with my new phone) Some gryphhounds Kookaburra, Magpie, Cockatoo. These guys were my test/proof of concept models. A Stegadon Still needs quite a bit of GS to de-Seraphon the markings on the howdah. He's gonna be painted like a frill-necked lizard. I also made a test passenger for it. There's obviously going to be a lot of 'counts-as' in this army, His gun will count as a skink spear Also the start of a spider Probably gonna use an empire cannon as a web flinger on this guy, still need to figure out how though. He's gonna be painted like a red=backed spider So, That's what I have so far... Thoughts?
  7. Hello! And welcome to my review of the novel Warbeast by Gav Thorpe. I'd like to start off explaining why I have decided to write this review about two years after having read it. My interest in the Age of Sigmar universe was restored after the release of 2.0 and I immediately began digging into the wikis' and lexicanum to absorb all I had missed, especially everything pertaining to my lead faction : the Stormcast. I was thrilled to read all the Malign Portents shorts and to read about characters like Hamiclar Bear-Eater and Balthus Arum while being sad that the most famous named character from my host Thostos Bladestorm is perma-dead. To top it all off in all the list of all the characters with lore entries I read none of the awesome characters I read about in Realmgate Wars: Warbeast had entries. I have decided I cannot let this stand so I am here to regale you with the tales of Arkas Warbeast and Theuderis Silverhand. Ok so I am not going to drop the entire story here but I'm going to give a brief summary and then in a separate paragraph I will list a few spoilers that I feel are really interesting or at least they were at the time. The novel picks up right away with the instant striking of a lone Stormcast (Arkas Warbeast) a Lord Celestant of the Celestial Vindicators (the choppy ones) into Ghur in the middle of a tribe of bloodbound reavers who he proceeds to butcher. Whats interesting is Arkas has been sent to not just his home realm of Ghur but to the very lands he failed to defend from the Skaven (especially a certain Verminlord) centuries ago. The setting is Usungorod, a clear allegory to dark age Russia. The land is a frozen tundra and you can imagine the brillant colors of turquoise and red clashing among the white snow. You learn that The Warbeast chamber has been sent to reclaim a realmgate that leads to the realm of life. You also learn that they are only one half of the force meant to retake the gate which is held by the skaven who are attempting to use it to their own evil ends. The other half is a force led by Theuderis Silverhand of the Knights Excelsior stormhost. Theuderis is interesting in that he is formerly of the realm of metal and was a king who successfully repelled the chaos forces that attempted conquer his lands. Both these characters clash as do the tactics of their stormhosts ( it seems the Knights Excelsior have been retconned into brutal purists rather than strict disciplined by the book types). However they both have serious personal questions about their purpose and the wisdom and intent of their God-King Sigmar not least of which is motivated by their policy on discovered survivors. There are brutal, visceral fights, but the real heart of this book is the incredibly human depictions of the Stormcast especially Arkas himself. I love this novel and absolutely recommend you read it if you're able. It almost seems nostalgic to look back at a time before the building of the great cities or the assault on the allgates. Have you read this book? If so how did you like it? Lets have a discussion! Spoilers!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! The Frost Queen of Kislev makes an appearance with some interesting revelations. The story takes place in a region of Ghur with particularly potent magic influence and the characters struggle against its influence on their minds. It is revealed that the Warbeast purpose are to die, confronting the overwhelming Skaven alone and sell their lives dearly as the more regimented Knights Excelsior coast on to the realmgate with the bulk of the Skaven drawn away. My favorite: Arkas used to be a Were-Bear when he was mortal. Whats more he still is. he thought his reforging had removed the "flaw" but he will live with the bear spirit inside him forever and he must learn to become one with the beast.
  8. Version 4.00.01


    Decided on in which realm your game is taking place? Pull out these cards and have everything ready: from realmscapes to spells, these cards have you covered instead of wasting your time looking up rules in the Core Book and in Malign Sorcery. All cards are available as print files with 3mm bleed and cutting marks, as a 'web' version (for viewing on smartphones/tablets), US letter and DIN A4 printing sheet. each set contains: cover / card backside, Realmscape rules, Command Abilities, Realmsphere Magic spells and additional rules for this realm card size is 63 x 88 mm (same as Pokemon, Magic, 40k Datacards, etc.) language: English I tried to keep the original wording, but sometimes I had to abbreviate it to fit on the card without scaling down the font size. The rule intentions should still be clear. 'Dice' was continuously replaced with D3 or D6, 'wound roll' with 'To-Wound roll' (same for hit), 'Mortal Wounds' sometimes with 'MW' each set can be stored in a faction specific card box, with contents listed on the back (instructions) If you find any errors or have suggestions, please let me know. I had fun creating these cards and hope people will find them useful and have fun using them in their games. All rules, artwork and the Age of Sigmar logo © Games Workshop PLC These cards are for personal use only and you should always keep your Core Book, General's Handbook , Battletome and Malign Sorcery nearby to solve any conflicts from bad wording on the cards. These cards are only a playing aid and never could nor should replace an official publication. Please let me know if I have used anything you would like to be removed. Overview and changes
  9. In the realm of Ghur, there is a ruined castle called Yarbrough, often shrouded in fog and rain. Nothing lives there anymore save the creatures of fen and moor, finding shelter from the elements within the ancient stone. When the wind blows, though, it carries the sounds of ancient horns with it, and when the sun shines it illuminates an inscription hidden in the walls- HmIAFD- that is, Hugh Macintosh and the Black Watch. Centuries ago, when the Age of Myth came crashing down, Tam Yarbrough was lord over Castle Yarbrough. His house had ruled the lands fairly and well for uncounted years, and he was rich and strong and well-loved. When news came of a marauding army of Orruks rampaging through the region, he wasted no time in rallying his retainers to war, marching proudly forth to the sound of drums and trumpets. A glittering host they were, a legion resplendent in the sun, going out to hold back the Greenskin storm just as their ancestors had held back the storms of Ghur. But this is not their story, nor is it Tam's. At the place known as Loch Haverforth the proud Yarbrough host met their match in the Orruk Warboss known as Tarlen the Evermighty, and it's said that the flowers on the lakeshore still grow red in their memory. Hugh MacIntosh was a strong, proud man, but no loyal soldier of Yarbrough was he. He was a bandit chief, having raided the rich and the poor of that land for many years and accomplished deeds of infamy before he found himself in Lord Tam's dungeons, awaiting the hangman's noose. When news came of Lord Tam's defeat, Castle Yarbrough was thrown into a panic. The Orruk host was marching inexorably towards them, and there was not enough strength to hold the walls against them. Tam's loyal retainers, the men he had left behind to defend the castle, lost heart and fled to meet their ends like fugitives or hunted animals. Hugh found himself a free man, released from his cell once again. He could have fled, or avenged himself upon the castle and its inhabitants for his imprisonment. Instead, he looked out upon the column of refugees that would fall victim to the Orruks, and his heart was strangely moved to pity. Gathering his boon companions around him, he declared that the end of the world had come upon them, and it was time for all true sons of Ghur to make their stand. Give him his pipes and a blade, he promised, and he would buy time for the women and children to escape. Wicked and dishonorable men they might be, but even the black-hearted must take their watch when it was demanded of them. Seven of them barricaded themselves in the keep and made ready for their doom. The Orruks were not long in coming, falling on the castle with a vengeance. Equal to their fury, though, were Hugh and his men, driving back the brutes with their two-handed swords every time they tried the tower. Still, it was not enough. One by one, Hugh's companions fell, until at the midnight hour only Hugh stood in the innermost keep, holding the last door. In the darkness, he played his pipes, their ghostly sounds echoing over the massed Orruk warhost and filling them with a primal dread. Had Boss Tarlen not been there, the horde might have abandoned their siege altogether. He bullied the Boyz into attacking, and as first light came they fell upon "da Lady from Hell" again. Hugh was filled with heavenly rage, and could not be moved- still, he was only one man, and he tired. And then came Boss Tarlen, twice the height of a man, armored in the stolen finery of the Realms. Hugh gave a final cry and leaped forth- and there his story ends. Only the Orruks remember his final stand, and what became of him. Still, it is telling that when Boss Tarlen was next seen, he boasted a scar from forehead to chin, and that he and his horde were forevermore afraid of the sound of pipes. ------ The storytellers call Hugh MacIntosh the Black Watchman, Warden of the Storm, the Lady from Hell, the Herald of Cacophony, Orruk-bane, the Seventeenth.
  10. Brother Paulus The Vale of Illyria, now a blasted ruin on the face of Ghur, was once the heartland of a vast and thriving civilization, ruling for a thousand years with honor and justice over many peoples and many cities scattered across three Mortal Realms. Its strength and prosperity came from its laws, its liberty, and the unmatched steel of its legions. Drawn from the citizenry itself, these swore unending faithfulness to Illyria's glorious Consuls, its Senate, and its people. During the last war against Chaos, though, Illyria was sore pressed, as its provinces fell into ruin and its great works were torn down until only the Vale itself remained unconquered. Here the last of the great Legions, the Ninth, made its stand under the command of their general Horatio Paulus. He defended the Eagle Pass, the only route that an army of any size could take through the forbidding mountains. For three long months Paulus and his troops held off countless sorties by the armies of the Dark Gods in one brilliant tactical victory after another, forming an unbreachable bulwark against their advances. When they fell it was not to spears or arrows but basest treachery. A cult to the Dark Gods had long festered unseen in the depths of Illyria, and now it rose, setting brother against sister, Senator against Senator, Consul against Consul. In the confusion, someone poisoned the Ninth Legion's supply trains. In a night, the Legion fell victim to Nurglish rot. Only Paulus, the Valorous, who had been warned in a dream, was able to escape the fast-spreading contagion. There is a place where the Eagle Pass reaches its highest, where the walls of the pass grow so thin that only one or two men can walk abreast. Here Paulus made his stand, swearing to die in defense of his people and his beliefs. As the sun rose higher in the sky, he slew first the raised corpses of his comrades, then the foot soldiers of the Enemy, then rank upon rank of demons, standing atop a growing pile of bodies. Finally the great demon Kalathraxx came forth. He praised Paulus' bravery and his skill at arms, offering him an eternity in Khorne's legions if he would but bend the knee. Paulus only laughed. It was better to die as a citizen of Illyria than live a thousand years as a slave to the Dark Gods, he said, and challenged Kalathraxx to come forwards and know the measure of a true soldier and a true Citizen. The demon struck, blindingly fast and unthinkably strong, and Paulus was mortally wounded- yet even as he died he gouged Kalathraxx's left eye from its socket. Thus did the last Centurion of Illyria die, in defense of a city and a people already all but destroyed. For his devotion to duty and his faith in his cause Sigmar took his soul and reforged him into a shining exemplar of his will. He was bestowed upon Steelios and the Death Watch, for Sigmar knew that while the Lord Castellant had wrath and righteousness in equal measure the purest alloy was made when these were tempered by duty and valor. From above, he rains death and destruction on the enemies of the God-King, and brings hope to the oppressed who find themselves beneath the shadow of his mighty wings. ------ The storytellers call Brother Paulus the Victor, the Centurion, the Elder Soldier, the Avenger, the Eagle of Illyria, Sigmar's Lightning, the Angel of Blood, the Faithful Servant, the Prosecutor of Justice, the Falling Star, the Fourth, the Valorous, the Dutiful Warrior, the Marauder’s Bane, the Rewarded.
  11. Hi! I was Reading the realmscapes tables and Just loved the Ghur one with the Roaming Beasts! But I think the rules for it are not very clear... If I roll a 5 or 6 can I bring a monster from ANY alliance, or Just from mine? And if I choose this realm, and my opponent does not have/brought any monster, can only me deploy mine? It sounds really fun to have a table full of monsters! Very "ghurish"! Cheers AJ
  12. I am preparing an Age of Sigmar Narrative campaign that will hopefully kick off later this year and I have decided to set it in Ghur. So far I have read City of Secrets and Spear of Shadows and am very inspired by this amazing setting. The main players will be my brother and myself. The plan is to have four battles per season, with three seasons being played over three years. I have used this format before and it works well for us. Between us we have four legacy collections: a large Bretonnian army, a large Beastmen army, a medium sized Empire army and a large Ogre Kingdoms army. I also have painted up the adversaries from Silver Tower and am working on expanding this into a Disciples of Tzeentch force. The main story will be about Tzeentch's counter attack in the Amber Steppes with the campaign starting as Tzeentch launches the attack on Excelsis. Rather than focus on Excelsis, the battles will be focused on the Barony of Black marsh, the Mountains of Maraz and the Ghurland plains. So, the first thing I wanted to do was understand the geography. I've knocked up a quick sketch of the Amber Steppes and surrounds based on fragments from Spear of Shadows and some stuff I found on the net. I did this before I finished Spear of Shadows and I remember thinking at least one thing was wrong as I was reading the book. Do we have any lore experts who might be able to provide corrections or suggestions? (Please note that Hautefort is a Black Marsh city of my own creation.) I hope everyone is good.
  13. Gaius Publius had served in the Sixth Legion for almost three decades when the end came. He was known to his comrades as the Wolf, and it was rumored that in his infancy he had suckled at the breast of a she-wolf and raised himself out in the bitter hinterlands of Illyria. Certainly, he bore the pelt of a massive grey beast he'd slain with his bare hands during the Ghur campaigns, thus proving himself worthy and winning the honor of carrying the Legion's standard into battle. Hard bit and unflinching, he was the best scout and tracker in the Sixth, and he would boast in all the Legions. Thus, he was out on patrol when the end finally came. Unsurpassed he might have been, but even he could not have eyes everywhere, and those who might have been able to see the Ungors creeping through the forest failed in their sworn duty. The first he learned of the Sixth's plight was when he heard the desperate rallying cries of its horns, and saw the smoke rising over its encampment. Hurrying back, he found the Legion already destroyed, taken completely by surprise and slaughtered in its tents. There was nothing he could do but watch as beasts and cultists picked among the ruins. Worst was when he saw the Legion's precious standard clutched in the unclean hands of a Bray-Shaman, a trophy of victory. When at last the herd moved on to new targets he ventured into the field of ashes that remained- only to stumble over a relic of the Legion, a golden horn stamped with a VI and an image of an eagle in flight. This was a sign, he decided, a directive from the gods. The standard of the Sixth would fly again, and this trumpet would sound in victory before he would abandon his war against the beasts of the forest. For four long years he stalked the horned ones across the forests and fields of Ghur. He became known to them as the Hunting Wolf, the Red Hunger, for he fought with a cruel savagery and the bravery of a man who has nothing left to lose. As he fought he saw the provinces and cities of Illyria falling into ruin before the onrushing tide of Chaos, but this did not dissuade him. His honor was greater than to one people or empire- he had sworn himself before the heavens themselves, and he would die before he would lay down his sword. This faith kept his mind safe from the whispering temptations of the Dark Gods, but his body still suffered as the taint that was overcoming the Realms overtook him. His once-mighty limbs began to wither and tremble, and his eyes grew dimmer as he suffered from plague and malnutrition. If he could not fulfill his oath soon, he would die with honor unsatisfied, and though he did not fear the end he was afraid of that shame. Thus it was that he prepared his last desperate assault against the herd that had massacred the Sixth so long ago, now swollen to immense size. He knew where the Shaman kept his tent and his trophies- all he had to do was live to liberate them. In the dark of the night, he prepared his tools- fire and confusion. The tinder-dry forest was prepared to burn, and he waited until the wind had shifted towards the camp before he struck a flame. Almost faster than thought the new inferno spread, burning brands soaring to land among the bray-herd. As the beasts panicked he blew the old horn of the Sixth, three blasts loud enough to wake the dead. Many among the enemy believed they were under attack, and in their alarm slew one another, even as the forest burned around them- and into this confusion strode the Wolf. Slaying all in his path, he cut his way to the trophy-tent, seizing the standard and planting it defiantly before him. This done, he called out a challenge to the shaman to come and face the wrath of the Sixth Legion, the blood of ancient Herculia. The enemy answered, swollen by the power of his fell magics into a great three-headed chimeric beast, but Gaius Publius only laughed. He had slain a wolf once, to win his honor, and that had been with his bare hands. Now he had a sword, honor redoubled, and no fear of death. He danced with the beast beneath a fiery sky, parrying and weaving and biding his time- and he soon saw his moment. His enemy feared to be slain, and flinched when the fire grew too close- but he had long consigned himself to an honorable death of his own making. He set the wolf-pelt on his back alight, and plunged towards the shaman, a blazing wraith of legend- and it flinched back, afraid to strike, and in that moment its end was upon it. He struck again and again, Illyrian steel drawing tainted blood, until it fell dead at his feet, a mere wretch of a creature once more. And as the flames grew closer he laughed in his victory, and just as he was about to be consumed he sounded the horn of the Sixth again, to let heaven know of Gaius Publius' approach so that they might open their gates for the Wolf of Illyria. ------ The storytellers call Brother Gaius the Hunter, the Wolf-Skinned, the Untiring, the Survivor, the Sixth, the Wolf in the Night, the Flame of Wrath, the Sword of Vengeance, the Herald, the Sworn Companion, the Beast of Illyria, the Last Legionary, the Oathbound, the Shadow.
  14. This one is a twofer- look for an earlier post with the fate of Teodoric's line and the end of the Bogomils. ------ Austrasia and Illyria, like the other great empires of old, were ruined under the onslaught of Chaos, but elsewhere folk remained free of the taint of the Dark Gods by virtue of their mobility. Across the wide plains of Ghur, the horse-folk of the Ogatai had never settled the way their cousins the Bogomils had, and so when the end came they could simply ride away with their mounts and herds, leading the Marauders and daemons on a merry chase across the realm. For decades, they persisted in this way, proudly defiant and taking a fearsome toll in enemy skulls. Thus it was in the day of Radek Ogotai, known as the White Horse, whose word was his bond and who was marked by the Great Stallion those people worship with a pale crescent in the shape of a hoof. It was he who came to rule over the Ogotai upon the death of his father, even as the settled Chaos Lords of the Realms swore to destroy the ever-evasive nomads. On the night after he had drunk the mare milk and stallion blood that marked his ascent as chieftain, he had a dream. In it he saw his people chased by four horses- one red, one pale, one white and one bone. Where the horses caught a man, they would trample and bite and tear at him, and in this way they were on the verge of destroying every Ogotai who still lived. In his dream, Radek saw another horse, greater and prouder than the four, rising from the earth itself, and he took the beast's reins and tried to flee on its back- but it bucked and stomped, and carried him towards the marauding beasts. Clinging to the steed's neck, he rode it against the four horses, lashing out with his sword and his steed's hooves until they were broken and in flight. Waking, he understood. The horses were the Dark Gods, and though he had the power to save his people from their rampage victory did not lie in flight, but in attack. Calling his warriors together, he lay out a new plan- to turn around and strike at their enemies, to win wars in the Great Stallion's name. Their horses that had stood them so well in the chase now became fierce coursers, and their hunting bows were deadly weapons against men. The lords of Chaos, long accustomed to pursuing, were utterly surprised when the tables turned, and routed wherever the Ogotai came upon them. Across three Realms the nomads carved a path of destruction, purifying the taint of the Dark Gods with fire and the sword. Indeed, so great was their disruption to the Dark Gods' continued conquests that other slaves to darkness began to gain hope, rising against their daemonic masters. This would not do. A mighty army of mortals, beasts and terrifying creatures from beyond the realms of sanity was called together to crush the Ogotai in an iron band. Though Radek won victory after victory, he was slowly being encircled and trapped by the numberless legions of Chaos. At last, confronted with the inevitable end of his people, he cried out to the Great Stallion for deliverance. The Horse-Who-Is-God granted him another dream, of numberless eyes watching Radek and his people- yet as he moved, the eyes followed him, not the multitude around him. He woke and knew what he must do. On the morn, battle was joined against a great horde of Chaos, and though his warriors struck and retreated again and again the iron tide did not stop in coming. Taking his bosom companions with him, Radek led another charge into the heart of the Marauder ranks, driving them back on themselves for a brief span. Then, as the charge began to stall and the Marauders rallied, he signaled to his soldiers to retreat- and with his closest friends continued to ride. Seeing their greatest enemy fleeing in a different direction, the champions of man, beast and God gave chase, leaving the rank and file confused. As the enemy formation began to scatter apart bereft of leadership, the surviving warriors of the Ogotai broke a hole, making their escape into the wilderness again. For his part, Radek was brought to bear by no less than seven Lords of Chaos, who slew his steed from under him. Crippled and dying, he began to laugh- his enemies might have killed him, but they had failed entirely to best his people. The Ogotai would never die. Centuries later, when Sigmar's golden legions fell on the Mortal Realms, they found men and women of the Ogotai still riding the plains, still proudly defiant of all the Gods of Chaos and their corruption. For his part, though, Radek was taken up in Sigmarite- a laughing storm, a bearer of thunder, a divine messenger once again bearing hope to the slaves of the Enemy. ------ Brother Radek is called the Laughing Storm, the Bearer of Thunder, Hope's Champion, the White Scar, the Stallion’s Hooves, the Fourteenth.
  15. Sameul and Yoan are Fides Pressors, a type of warrior monk, hunters through faith. Their eyesight and those of other Fides Pressors, has been taken, in battle say some, by the god, Kurnath, say others, and even others say Sigmar took their eyes as punishment for being unfaithful. While the truth lies buried in the past, the brother's abilities do not. With the loss of their eyes, came new talents. The brothers now track and hunt those tainted by chaos and given over to senseless destruction through senses many do not understand. Priests of Rahagra and commanders of the Kurnath Militant (the military arm of the Rahagraian faith) say their faith gives them direction and guidance. Without the brothers or other Fides Pressors speaking to the contrary, this is what most people have come to believe. Those that hold the rank Fides Pressors are treated as captains within the Kurnath Militant, often times given bands of Blind Brothers or other groups of Kurnath Militant to carry out the will of Scions of Rahagra or to pursue their own silent agendas. Other times, bands of followers form around Fides Pressors, who are seen as crusaders against the darkness and destruction that lies outside the walls of Chracerocca. These guys are made from a combination of 40k Electro Priest bodies, white lion capes and shoulder pads, and axes from the Gor kit. I struggled for a while to decide on the axes. At first I was going to use white lion axes but wanted a more worn, rugged, used look.
  16. "Walking through the streets of Chraceroca the rhythmic chanties sung by the Ritus Squadras as they perform the work to keep the city safe and supplied, echo off the walls and mix with the sounds of passing carts and people's chatter. Built upon a spur of rock that rises out of the Spotted Plains and juts above the treetops of the bordering Great Rustlewood, Chracerooca imposes itself on the surrounding land. There are endless pulley systems, winches, and cranks, that lift supplies to the city, pump water upwards, and raise and lower the gates, manned by the Ritus Squadras. In these chanties Samuele and his brother, Yoan, found comfort as they headed towards Kanonroest. They were Fides Pressors and served the Kurnath Militant. Though they no longer saw through their mortal eyes, the brothers did not stumble on their way, deftly traversing the windswept warrens that made up the Windedge District. " This is the first bit of text that will go with the first two models of my warband. The city of Chracerocca lies within the realm of Ghur and is made up of those that resemble free people from the world that was. Founded by the Scions of Rahagra during the Age of Myth, the city is ancient. The Spotted Plains and the Great Rustlewood are deadly to all who try to scratch out a living, threatened by nature and the beasts that call these lands home. However, the Rahagraians have persisted and are seen as a safe haven for travelers in the region. A rock among the storms. My ideas for the setting and city came from my desire to incorporate bits of the White Lions into my models. Through reading up on Chrace and White Lions, an idea on naming/setting/environment emerged. Lions live on the plains, I needed somewhere that has wild and powerful beasts. I also wanted a dry and somewhat barren place. Below are some images that have helped me draw Chracerocca in my mind. The city is Ronda, in Spain. Google map it and do the street view option, it is awesome. In my mind, Chracerocca and the Spotted Plain are dry and golden in color, sparse of trees, and often cast in a warm or hot light. The architecture of the city is more like what is below than the actual city of Rhonda. But built with more sandstone, crumbling a little more, and with less round roofs These images help to build on that idea. In the end a mix between the hammerhale art and these images is what i am going for. To me, the city and surrounding area is important. It helps ground me when thinking of how I wanted to build my minis. For example, i originally went with White Lion axes but after thinking of where Samuele and Yoan came from, those axes didn't feel right. Now I am in search of some beastmen gor and bestigor axes, at which point I will be able to finish the first two models.
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