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Found 23 results

  1. Version 1.0.0

    7 downloads

    The armies of Efengie have been drawn into a war between the neighboring nation-states of Kytos and Lamellia; a war fought on both land and sea! This book includes a 2-player Narrative Linked-battles Campaign, 3 custom Allegiance abilities to represent the nation-states of Kytos, Lamellia, and Efengie, 5 Narrative Battleplans, 6 Legendary Artefacts of Efengie, and 1 rules expansion to add naval warfare to your Age of Sigmar battles. Plus, lots of fiction and pictures chronicling five months of narrative events! This is the fifth book in this series, you don't need the others (in fact, there's a fluff recap page at the beginning of this one), but if you enjoy this one, you may also enjoy the rest. Book 1 Book 2 Book 3 Book 4
  2. Version 1.0.0

    17 downloads

    The sages of Efengie have interpreted malign portents ahead. Follow the Efengie campaign through Malign Portents, Coalescence: the Desolation of Eristrat, and the rise of a horrible new daemonic queen! This book contains 5 narrative battleplans with a linked battles campaign framework, Regions of War rules for battling in the Vale of Efengie, and lots of pictures and stories from the past year of Age of Sigmar Game Days. This is book 4. Books 1-3 aren't necessary to enjoy the battleplans or storyline, but if you like this, you might like these others too! Book 1 Book 2 Book 3
  3. Version 1.0.0

    70 downloads

    This campaign book includes 5 battleplans, Artefacts, Spells, Prayers, and more to help bring your Warhammer Skirmish battles into the Dark Age of Sigmar. Explore a ruined city with Rewards of Battle tables that tell the story of warbands exploring a ruined city. Follow the Shepherds of Rot as they traverse the Ruins of Hammerstadt in Ghyran. Also, the book includes three Quests for your warband to pursue as they battle and explore.
  4. Hans Sturm was an armsman in the service of House Reike-Woerlitz, long before the present day- back when the Horse and Rivers still flew proudly over Ghyran, more than five centuries ago. He struggled long and hard in the service of his patrons, rising to be second-in-command of the Household Guard, the elite musketeers tasked with the family's defense. These were the waning years of a time of peace, though there was always a brushfire conflict flaring up somewhere- be it a nest of bandits that needed to be cleared out or feral raiders from the deeper, darker corners of the Realm. Thus when the end came neither Hans nor the Household Guard were caught entirely unprepared. It wasn't enough, though. It was never enough. Hordes of invaders smashed the towns and keeps of the Horse and Rivers, and themselves, bloody, sending waves of refugees fleeing somewhere, anywhere, looking for safety. By and large, these desperate souls collected at the fortress of Eisenstulpe, ancient refuge of the Woerlitz clan and one of the few points with an intact port capable of transporting the desperate fleeing masses to Azyr. Hot on their heels came the legions of the enemy- marauders, cultists, demons, and a vast, choking wave of those who'd fallen before. Marching at the invaders' head was Fritz Grauber, formerly first in command of the Household Guard, fallen in the opening battles of the war and raised again as Nurgle's pestilential servant. They encircled the fortress, trapping thousands inside its iron chambers with a rapidly dwindling supply of food. Among those trapped were Hans, the Household Guard, and their lord, Frederick Reike-Woerlitz. Fortunately, there was good news- a relief flotilla was sailing its way up towards Eisenstulpe, one capable of transporting all the refugees to safety. The fortress was carved into a mountain, with the majority buried underground. Only two ways in or out existed- one, the River Gate, which had been sealed and flooded at the beginning of the war. Even if Nurgle's servants could swim, they couldn't pierce through and enter. Two, the High Gate, which was set halfway up the mountain, at the top of a winding road, defended by a bastion. It was here that the armies of the Plague God directed their scabrous attentions first. Again and again, the defenders beat them back with ranged-in artillery, until they ran out of shells to fire. When that happened, they lobbed barrels of flaming oil in a crude catapult, until it was destroyed by vile Nurglish sorcery. Then the Household Guard proved their worth, standing their ground for three whole days and defending themselves nearly constantly with nothing but powder, shot and faith in Sigmar. Finally, though, their supplies of ammunition began to run low. Worse, in the final attack, Lord Frederick was badly wounded. Hans ordered him withdrawn inside the fortress, and took on the burden of keeping up the men's morale himself. Traveling constantly up and down the lines, never stopping to rest, he encouraged them to stand just a little longer, saying that the relief fleet couldn't be more than a few hours or a day away. In the last attack, when the Guard finally ran out of bullets, he was at the front and had to be dragged by his men back inside the High Gate proper when the walls of the bastion were breached. Even there, he could be found in the thick of the hand-to-hand fighting, turning the tide wherever it seemed that the elite soldiers might be giving ground. At last, the poxy swarms fell back, giving the Guard a moment to breathe. It was not to be enough, he realized. Faith and valor had carried the Guard this far, but only at the expense of two-thirds of their number and all of their bullets. And there were still legions upon legions of the enemy massing for their next strike. There was one more barrel of powder left, and Hans knew what must be done. Ordering the rest of the Guard to retreat inside the fortress itself and to hold until death, he sat down at the narrowest point of the High Gate passage and played his fife. It was not long before the awful clatter of the demon-horde approaching reached his ears, and his old commander came walking up at the head of a parade of plaguebearers. "So confident?" Fritz's face had mostly sloughed away, and his remaining flesh was riddled with decay. "Or have you finally known what despair is? No matter. You will know the Plaguefather's touch when he crushes your people beneath him." "I did not come here to despair, nor to be defeated." Hans drew a pistol from his belt. "Today I will show you what it means to be a true Freisoldat." At that moment Fritz saw the barrel of explosive powder set up against a support column, but before he could do or say anything Hans had fired. The explosion shook the chamber, but not so much as the tons of rock that fell from the collapsing ceiling. The dull Nurglish daemons barely had time to comprehend their doom before it was upon them, and they were buried under the vengeful mountain. It was not long afterwards that the Reike-Woerlitz flotilla reached the River Gate, and by means of secret signs made itself known to the defenders. The refugees were saved, snatched out of the claws of the Poxed God by the bravery of one man. Today, there is a statue of him standing in front of the Reike-Woerlitz estate in Azyr. More than this, though, he has been reforged and reborn- a truly noble spirit, an iron warrior of Sigmar. ------ The storytellers call Brother Hans the Iron Warrior, the Unflinching, the Defiant, the Hero of Eisenstulpe, the Venerated, the Resolute, the Exemplar.
  5. Version 4.01.00

    380 downloads

    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
  6. Skaddi's Own Haakon hadn't consumed any Blue-shroom Brew since he finished the last keg a week ago. And his newest batch, though potent as he expected it to be, was just beginning to ferment. Haakon grinned as would a child who knew he had gotten away with a particularly risky prank, thinking of his banned homebrew warming him from the inside out. It would be a welcome relief from the icy winds that swirled around him as he drove his sled through the night. His uncle’s jaw was as stone and his chest ever-full, but in his eyes there had been a look few had ever seen in the revered ruler. They were slightly wider than usual, unblinking and fixed directly on the object of their attention as though they could hold it tightly in place. Haakon noticed. “I will not be alone, Uncle. My pledge-kin will join me, and the goddess will watch over us. Haggrax the Rememberer is to come along as well,” he had tried to assure his worried mentor. And so off they had charged towards the Horn of Endruul, Haakon riding ahead of the march so as to hopefully intercede before any desecration. The beastherds should be starving on the Ice’s Teeth by now, but when they set themselves to a purpose, they were far swifter than the dwarves. “They will still be many, and there is no shortage of wild thing for them to enslave in that harsh range. Keep your wits,” the elder had cautioned. Their warrior’s embrace would hopefully not be the last they'd share, but if it was, that was the cost of Haakon’s connection to the goddess. The war dogs strained against their bonds, whining and yipping with excitement; all but the lead pair, his alphas. Closer to domesticated wolves than pets or working stock, these creatures had served the Undissons for generations. But it was Haakon who first taught them to pull a sled. It was Haakon who trained them to respond to his subtle shifts of weight, rather than the harsh command of the whip. Behind him, the smell of the first night’s fire had faded, but Haakon did not notice. All he could hear was the slicing of runner through ice as his sled raced down the trampled track of the herd. By morning, he’d have reached them and could begin choosing targets. The pack alphas, driving the sled of Haakon the Mad His fellow Oathsworn would be on the trail before sun-up. Heavily-muscled and thick of bone, they wouldn’t travel fast, but by evening his campfire would again smell of bloodbrew, weapon-polish and dreamer’s chew. Haakon’s heart pounded in his chest with the excitement of leading his comrades on the hunt. So many sacred lands had been defiled, it was time these grudges were settled and peaks cleansed. Hakkon’s blood surged in an unusually persceptable pulse through his body, his hands tightening on the reigns. He noticed the edges of his vision blurring rapidly and forced his eyes wider. He inhaled the cold mountain air in a sharp pull, flooding his consciousness back into control and using this brief moment of clarity to pull his sled to a rest in a drift not 3 feet off of the trail. As he released the clasps that confined his team, a dark-furred head presumptuously if half-heartedly snapped at his hand, only to be bowled over and pinned by a growling alpha. Remembering the teachings of Master Haggrax, Haakon lowered himself into a deep squat. He sunk from a spring-loaded crouch into relaxing balance. Haakon measured his breathing, finding a steady rhythm that soon faded into the background as his vision took over. Bloody tracks, first scattered but getting more dense until they culminated in steaming puddles of mud and gore… A spear of gleaming blue ice with gruesome offerings heaped at its base or tied round its shining surface… Heavy bodies stomped about on cloven feet, guttural utterings in the place of speech… Closest to the stone were several hooded figures, each taller than a man but not thick like the goat men… There was a melodious nature to their chanting and he could feel himself drawn to it… The enemy were too, as the gors began to walk towards the stone, many shedding their armor as they went. They began to rock forward and back, breathing in the thickening purplish fog that had begun to creep all about them, rising in snaking tendrils from their ankles until it slithered into their nostrils. His vision began to shimmer. He was losing hold. The beasts moaned both in pleasure and pain as armored scales sprouted across their shoulders. Just then, one of the hooded figures turned towards Hakkon and loosed an awful screech from its avian beak. The vision quaked violently before dissolving. … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … The pack strained silently, but maintained their discipline, poised to attack just outside the ring of brush that surrounded the camp. Haakon’s eyes darted from furred hulk to cloven foot to horned mantle until he caught a glimpse of his prey. Unnaturally iridescent feathers, seemingly shifting from the green of the deep jungle to the teal of a glassy sea to a mystical pink, most comparable to the scales of a young summer wyrm, with every step of the cloaked form. The lithe figure was not touched or approached, but every beastman it passed watched it intently. Haakon unstrapped the twin hammers from his back, drew in a deep breath, and let out a high whistle. The pack alphas of Haakon the Mad War cries surrounded the camp as fur-clad duardin emerged from behind boulders and out of dense cover. Weapons were slammed into the earth in a challenge that was soon met by hungry growls and horned charges. With the slavering herd spreading out to meet the directionless attack, Haakon’s pack charged through an opening, lunging for the soft throats of even the newly scale-plated bestigors. All manner of death cry could be heard, but none took root in the mind of Skaddi’s champion. Though his visions were so often embedded within spells of dizziness and crippling pain, Haakon knew the lesser-goddess empowered her chosen alpha. Nothing distracted the predator as he strode through the fracas. The war dogs of Haakon the Mad … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … He wore scant armor and no boots, great plumage and a single high ridge affixed to an otherwise plain iron skullcap. His ruddy pink skin was not aglow with runic tattoo or mystical fire… Could this truly be the challenger who interrupted his transformation ritual? That was clearly a hero. His eyes had glowed with power. A furious heat had radiated from his densely muscled figure. No, this could not be the immortal he had seen. Xcryx’trynct the Temptor threw back the hood from his head and shook out his locks, allowing them to untangle from his crown of curled horns. He let the rest of the shoddy woolen cloak drop from his broad shoulders, admiring his gloriousness as the morning sunlight stabbed through the snow clouds to shine off of his multicolored feathers. The vain shaman hardly noticed his warband being cut down all about, for he was already imagining the taste of this upstart’s blood. Drawing a scimitar in his right hand while leveling his staff with his left, the Temptor gave a clicking chortle, taunting his foe. … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … Haakon had never seen such a beast. Frenzied half-men of all shades adorned with claws, fangs, bony growths or even hooves were the norm. Some, more blessed by the dark powers were more goat or bull than man and had the might to tear through a city guard. The creatures his pack had surprised were even larger and possessed odd scales and bulky growths, mutations that seemed more design than organic… And now this bird-man, glowing with an eery light… But there were many things the champion wished he could unsee in Ghyran since the arrival of the plague bringers. These were just more of the same. As the creature pranced and whirled, it made hissing and clicking sounds that had an oddly self-assured tone. Haakon sank his toes into the trampled snow, making sure each step had full traction and the push could be felt from the extension of his ankle through to his hip. Bounding from side to side with each stride, he noticed the widening of his prey’s eyes. Just outside the range of a staff’s swing, Haakon shortened his step right, hopped, and then gave a full push off. While feeling the air flow from the scimitar stab where the creature expected him to be, the sneering dwarf unloaded a hammer blow that crunched into the underside of the serrated beak. His second hammer strike shattered the staff hand, causing the weapon to fall into the snow and quickly lose its glow. With a roll and wheel, Haakon squared himself to the reeling enemy. A block and counter swing was all it took to drop his foe. Stepping closer to stand over the fallen defiler and examine it one final time before he finished his work, Haakon was annoyed to hear it begin to cackle again. Before he could strike down, it's body burst into a flutter of tiny birds, each scrambling into the sky with their misshapen wings. He tried to kill them, but only was able to fell a few which quickly turned to shapeless pulp. Letting out a roar of frustration, Haakon was answered by cheers. It appeared his comrades had finished their work and were satisfied that there would be no further defiling of this holy ground… ... Haakon suspected this was just the beginning of the atrocities he would see. Haakon the Mad's sled being pulled through mud and snow by his pack of war dogs. _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ The Trap is Sprung Their whining had stopped and paw-strikes gone silent. The hunting dogs strained into their harnesses, working in tight coordination with their alpha’s example. Soon the pungent musk of the herd was noticeable, it's accompaniment by the stench of decay, a sign that this herd had earned favor of the grotesque one and would likely be more formidable than the last. If they traveled with knights, Haakon feared they might be beyond his prowess. He could feel the beating of his own heart, faster and faster, but he forced it to steady. There was no time for a dream now. Bursting from a brush line and joining a trail, Haakon's team was confronted with gruesome signposts made of dismembered limbs. Hands forced to point in conflicting directions were crudely nailed to stripped thigh bones and topped with decapitated heads, the edges of their mouths sawed into gory smiles. The effigies lined the way in both directions but seemed to extend more densely to the right, so instinctively he prompted the team to turn in that direction, only to come face to face with the stuff of nightmares. He pulled in the reigns hard, tipping the sled and rolling out from under it as it tumbled to a halt and the team attempted to keep free of the weight. Blocking the path were the bodies of his fellow hunters. Their limbs, where still attached, were broken into sharp angles. Cracked ribs protruded from their sides and guts were slashed open to reveal torn entrails. The bodies hung limply by nooses braided from the hair of their shorn beards. Haakon roared in fury. When it's echoes faded, he heard the cackling. The Oathsworn lashed out with his twin warhammers, striking out in wide circles to the left and then right, but the enemy could not be seen. Sinking to his knees, the warrior-priest’s growls gave way to sobs. How could he not have seen the perils facing his brothers earlier? The defilers and their bestial followers had spoiled yet another prestige wilderness, this time fouling it with an offense made from his own brethren. Haakon preparing to strike with his twin hammers. Gathering himself, Haakon bowed his head in prayer to Skaddi. He asked forgiveness for allowing such an insult to her kin. He vowed to settle this grudge or be destroyed in the attempt. But most of all, Haakon pleaded with Skaddi that she might accept these Oathsworn into the ranks of her mountains’ protectors. He begged her to see the purity of their hearts and to bestow upon them the honor of pledging their souls to her spirit-guard. Silence. Haakon sat in the complete silence only a practiced devotee could manage, waiting for a gust of icy wind to dry his tears, the howl of a wolf to guide his hunt… Any sign the goddess might send him. But for an agonizingly long time, there was nothing. And so he sat. Haakon would not entertain the thought that they could have been abandoned; not by Skaddi. When Grungni had pointed his children to refuge in the thunder-king’s heavens it was Skaddi who had denounced his cowardice. It was Skaddi who had sent the storms and the beasts to aide the Undissons in defense of their homes. And most recently, it was Skaddi who had sent her blessed out to secure the sacred sites within these ranges. She would never turn her back on her little brothers and sisters. Just then, an unseasonably warm rain began to fall. Though the air felt still, thunderheads moved overhead with force, blocking out the light save for their own electric flashes. Haakon felt no dizziness or dream-state coming, rather his benefactor simply appeared to him from within the storm as though she had walked out from the brush in plain day. Pale of skin and emanating a blue glow as she was in constant communion with the spirits who lived alongside the duardin of these icy mountains, Skaddi looked down upon her tiny warrior-priest as rivulets of pain flowed from eyes as pure as fresh snow-cover. “I was deceived little brother, and now I have lead you astray. A trickster sent forth by the dark gods drew my attention towards the Horn of Endruul and the kinstone sheltered within. Your wise teacher Haggrax the Rememberer has removed the stone from it's icy armor and carries it from the reaches of the defilers.” “But goddess, surely the stone will be safer in hiding with Haggrax than undefended as the bringers of sickness continue to befoul the mountains?” “That would be true little brother, but several of the players have only recently shown themselves. In the shadows they have managed to gain advantage that I fear we cannot recover from.” Haakon was stunned. His clan had worshipped Skaddi since the Age of Myth when she alone spoke to the connection between the mountains and the spirits of their ancestors. It was Skaddi who had helped them to settle the icy heights of Ghyran all those centuries ago, and who had taught them to use the natural energies coursing through ice and stone to commune with their predecessors. To this day, Skaddi spoke loudest to the Undissons, more clearly than to any other clan in Realm of Life. She had resolutely called Haakon and his brother Oathsworn to arms just the other night, sending them forth to preserve these sacred lands. He simply could not fathom the demi-goddess of mountain blizzards leading them astray. “In my suffering at all our losses, I was too hasty to try and prevent further corruption. The Mountainsson Grove ceased it's song. When I saw the twisted husks of the young tree-kin, I thought they had died of disease, but now I know they were bathed in warpfire…” “Warpfire?” Repeated Haakon in confusion. “That does not sound like the work of the plague-carriers or the beast herds.” “No, in fact it was not. It was simply a ploy to disarm the holy mountains, for the mature war groves are entangled in battle, and the few children of the wood that managed to survive have had to be ushered into hiding, or risk the extinction of their line.” Skaddi paused, gathering herself under the weight of her shame. “So too was there a ploy to spur Haggrax’s removal of the kinstone inside Endruul’s horn, thus dampening the communication between devoted and ancestor. The purple lightning that shattered the prayer-ledge of little brother Draketongue was not of Sigmar nor my creation. Dorbus the Shepherd even went about burying his totems for fear of what they could be used for if desecrated. Alas young priest, all these attempts have done is tear apart the webs of power that course through my once majestic ranges…” Haakon was beginning to understand, and the truth was far more grim than he had imagined. “You have not spoken of befoulment…” “For this was not the plague demon’s doing,” replied the glowing goddess sadly. “Then who?” Wondered Haakon aloud. “The god of lies and deceit has played his first hand. The trickster has manipulated me into severing the ties in our network of power. This has left my devoted, such as your clan’s Oathsworn, isolated and vulnerable. The secret-trader could prey on any of you he chooses now, and I would hardly see it at its peak, let alone in time to intervene.” “We did not pledge ourselves blindly great sister,” Haakon insisted. “If we fall, you will reshape us into blessed beasts to continue fighting alongside our brothers, in the service of our mountain temples.” “I wish it was still so…” Skaddi’s voice trailed off. After a pause, she gathered pulled her mind back from whatever was haunting her thoughts. “Another threat has been growing, and it's vile mechanations have begun to take hold. Nagash, ruler of the dead, has called to claim the souls of the fallen and his power has swelled as the tides of war have swept in. Though the ancestors are firmly rooted in stone still, your newly fallen brothers are beyond my reach.” Haakon of clan Undisson, driven mad in his hunt for the souls of kin “But you taught that sacrifice for the clan would bring the reward of ascension to the mountain’s pantheon of defenders. The other teachers and myself, our own teachers… We have preached this to those we trained since they were babes…” “It appears the treacherous one knew of Nagash’s growing reach and sought to take advantage. We thought we only fought against one evil, but cultists and bird-faced abominations have harried our flanks and forced us to stretch beyond our limits.” Blood filled his muscular frame as Haakon’s entire body tensed. The blizzard queen saw the fury in the warrior-priest’s eyes, the white of the storm flashing in her own as a warning to him. But he was no longer concerned with the demigoddess’ powers. She who had once taught them how to navigate to safety seemed to have lead them to their doom. The plague god’s minions corrupted once pristine wilds. The god of deception was slowly undermining their defenses, with what foul purpose he did not want to imagine. And now the god of the dead sought to enslave his clan for his own devices. There was only one question left to ask. “And who will protect our clan while I hunt the great necromancer?” “You know that answer already.” “She’s not ready, especially as fever overruns the range.” “And that is why the princess is leaving, your whole clan in fact,” replied Skaddi in a measured way, as though gauging the warrior priest’s reaction to each word as she spoke it. “Your uncle will of course remain king, but he has spent his strength protecting these lands. His daughter, however, has a yet unrevealed strength about her. She will join with a renegade king from Azyr and establish a new home range, one where the ancestors can once again find peace under the mountains.” “And I am to trust this upstart from another realm?” “No sweet brother, you are not. You have a different purpose…” Haakon the Mad of Clan Undisson, crackling with ancestral fury _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Riding into Darkness: Tattered leather coverings flapped furiously as the opac wind raced alongside them. Haakon ranted and muttered to himself but could not collect his thoughts. It had been a week since the he entered the shadowlands, the longest he had gone without communing with Skaddi since she had first reached out to him as a beardling. He was delirious, haunted by grinning skulls in his dreams and taunted by the echoes of cackling birds when awake. She had entrusted Haakon with the greatest of missions, so grand in scope that Haakon assumed he would meet his doom in the attempt. First he had caught up with Haggrax, tracking him by the feigntest of scent trails. The ruffian had ceased his cursing when Haakon’s panicked words registered. Equally disturbed by the demi-goddess having been lead astray and his greatest pupil’s sputtering tale of massacre and conspiracy, the old master had reached out a gnarled hand and placed it on his pupil’s shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. The Rememberer then revealed a plan to reunite long lost brothers under common banners. If he survived, Haggrax said with a wild-eyed grin, he'd meet Haakon in the clan’s new halls. Next he sought out Brother Draketongue. The feral duardin had sacrificed any semblance of a normal or traditional life long ago, even by Undisson standards. But it was a price he'd happily pay again for the ability to commune so fluently with generations of long-dead ancestors. They gave him the strength to accomplish feats that had made him famous from mountain temple to Ironwood keep. But even as he nodded in agreement with Haakon’s strategy to send the hermit into Shysh first to chart a path and set a rallying point for their forces while Haakon rode into Uglu to bring the clan’s most potent weapon into their plans, Draketongue knew they likely all would fall under the shambling hordes long before they could assemble for the battle they sought. Afterwards, Haakon had hunted down Eliriya Tree-sister and Dorbus the Shepherd. The mystics each had taken note of the way his eyes flashed with lightning and he voice seemed to roar as thunder. He might have only recently reached teaching-status in the priesthood, but this Haakon was quite obviously the instrument of Skaddi herself. And he was now emerging as the herald of great things to come, despite rumors that a madness had taken hold of him. Finally, he had traversed peak to valley, gathering the scattered questing knights of the Undissons. Rebellious and determined the lot, they had eventually agreed to his demand that they ride into Shysh when they heard that Elendor the Scarred would be meeting them at the portal. The legendary warrior-priestess had honored the gods time and again with her heroic deeds, and these babes were filled with pride at being invited to fight alongside her, no matter how grave the odds. Following a woodland trail through a darkness that no starlight nor fog-covered sun could penetrate, Haakon had completely lost his sense of time, but he was still acutely aware that something watched he and his team. What, or who, he could not tell. But Haakon the Mad knew one other thing with equal certainty - Even if Draketongue was able to assemble their band of heroes tomorrow night under the lone ironwood standing in the Garden of the Fallen, they would likely fall as the last of the Undisson mountain guardians to have defended Ghyran, if not simply the end of their clan’s line entirely. And so Haakon the Mad plunged deeper into the bewitching fog, following the invisible trail of spirit-power. His dogs’ surging legs never tired, for they had been hardened to the mountain’s strength. His blazing purple eye noticed what could not be seen because they had been blessed with the blizzard’s sharpness. With these gifts he had a chance to find the mother of bears and her duardin companion. ...But the real question was how to prevent the creature from tearing him apart on sight.
  7. This follows almost immediately on the heels of Brother Teodoric, below. Reading that one first will help to illuminate what is happening here. ------ Emperor Teodoric's death did not mean the end of Austrasia per se, but it did mark the end of his line of warrior-kings. With the marauding soldiers of the Dark Gods sweeping towards the capital of Aix-la-Donau, his queen had a set of difficult decisions to make. There were not enough soldiers in all the realm to man the ramparts of the capital, and the very splendor and beauty of the city made it a tempting prize for the greedy soldiers. To stay would likely mean to die. To flee would mean that they were well and truly broken. She fled all the same. In the years to come she would travel from castle to castle throughout the realm, fostering her children with various lords to strengthen their power and the family's chances of surviving now that their line was dispersed. The capital was sacked and burned to the ground, but the warriors of the Dark Gods were but men. Having taken their plunder, the horde largely dispersed, becoming more manageable bands of marauders. Austrasia held, but with Callisto aging and no clear leader among her children the realm faced another problem- succession. Fortunately, there was an answer in the Lex Teodoric, the corpus of law compiled by the old Emperor before his death. He had proclaimed that in the absence of a clear heir the counts would vote upon the next holder of the Iron Crown. Thus was civil war averted and a new ruler chosen to lead the continuing fight against Austrasia's great enemy. Decades passed, and through good Emperors and bad the realm carried on, though it lost ground to the marauders with each passing year. Almost two hundred years after Teodoric's death, Austrasia was only a fraction of it once had been, a small island of flickering light in a sea of darkness. In the wake of the death of the old Empress there was to be a new election to decide on her successor- but almost from the beginning there was only one true winner. His name was Clovis, called Clovis the Wise, and he traveled from castle to castle speaking of a resurgence of power and a rebirth for the old kingdom. Many among the great and the powerful flocked to his banner, and many who might have doubted him were cowed. His appointment to the Throne was near-unanimous, and he was given the Iron Crown to great acclaim and adulation. That night there was a feast. Almost all the lords and ladies of Austrasia attended to do homage to their new leader and to hear his plans for the future. All watched with rapt attention as he rose, pledging himself to bring them all glory, and oversee a changing of ways. As these last words left his lips, a hush fell across the room, and then the screams began as the flesh of the nobles and their retinues twisted and deformed. Some tried to escape, and were cut down by flickering horrors manifesting from the walls. Others saw what had happened and moved to attack the new Emperor- but with a wave of his hand and a burst of foul sorcery, these became nothing but mindless Spawn. Still others did him homage twice, and rose as his lieutenants and the minions of Tzeentch, the Silver Tyrant, the Feathered Serpent. That night Austrasia became the nucleus of a new Empire- one of Chaos and change, founded on betrayal. ------ Callie came of age cleaving to and cloven from her heritage. The ****** daughter of a nobleman, she grew up subsisting off of what she could forage out of his woods. Her mother had died when she was young, and it was some time before she learned enough to understand the significance of the one possession she'd been left- a bow, carved with the shape of a dragon at both ends and with runes forged into its surface. By the time she was seventeen years of age, she was a wild beauty, athletic and cunning and wise in the ways of the woods. She idolized her father, and dreamed one day of coming into his household. She heard the news of the election of a new Emperor who promised to restore Austrasia to its former greatness, and wondered what this would mean for him- what it would mean for her. She watched her father leave to the Election feast with bated breath, apprehensive and excited about the future and perhaps her chance of claiming a place in his armies and his court during the great offensive against Chaos. When he did not return for a week, she was curious. When he did not return for two, she was afraid. But when a man in skin-forged armor, glowing with painful green light returned, claiming to be him ascended, she was shocked and furious. She knew that Chaos was the great enemy, to whom no quarter could be given and no parley asked. To be betrayed like this... that night, after her tears of frustration had faded, she set out, scaling the walls of his keep in darkness. She found him in his study, alone, looking through ancient texts of malefic magic. He did not look up when she entered through the window, but only spoke. "I was expecting you, daughter. You have many questions. I will answer them for you... but shed your weapon. Do not be afraid. Let me love you." In that moment a great part of her wanted to kneel to him, to accept the love she had always been denied- but then her eyes were opened, and she saw the betrayer he had always been. Drawing her bow, the runes grew warm to the touch and the dragons' eyes glowed- and when she loosed the arrow it screamed its vengeance aloud. Her father fell, broken, and she realized a very great thing about herself and her weapon. The runes read "Callisto", and she had always thought that this meant herself- but now she realized it was the name of the great warrior queen, unmatched in archery. And if she could wield the bow as well... the blood of Iosephus Bogomil must flow through her veins. If what she feared was true, she was last of his line, his vengeance against his fallen descendants. Callie fled, but not far. Clad in deep forest greens, she searched out each of the traitors who had survived Clovis' remaking of the Empire, hunting the fallen implacably- a dark angel of vengeance. No succor would they receive from the hands of their kinswoman, no terms would she offer or accept. Striking seemingly from nowhere, she cut and cut across Austrasia, destroying what she would and leaving the rest for the crows. In the end only one enemy remained- the arch-traitor Clovis himself, the architect of betrayal, now crackling with the power of the Changer of Ways. Here was a foe that far outranked her in power, against which she had no chance of victory, let alone survival- and yet to accede to his rule would be the greater dishonor. On the eve of the final battle she clad herself in a pale bone funerary shroud, transforming into a winged avatar of death. Within the brightly lit and shifting patterns of Clovis' maze-like palace, this would be her best disguise. She slipped among the ruins of Teodoric's old capital, treading lightly and moving like a shadow, like a ghost on the wind. No mortal eye could have tracked her, and no mortal ear heard her approach. Yet for all of this when she entered the sorcerer's throne room she was trapped- ensnared by a spell she could neither have anticipated nor evaded. Bowing like a courtier, Clovis welcomed her into his presence. He hailed her resourcefulness and her cunning, proclaiming her a worthy heir to Callisto just as he was a worthy heir to Teodoric before him. She need only bend her knee to the Changer and Clovis would make her his bride, to rule by his side forever. Otherwise, she would die- and he would become the last bearer of the blood of Bogomil, just as he had long planned. It was her decision which fate would come to pass. But even as these words left his lips, he felt his sorcerous power suddenly falter- and what emerged from his arcane cage was not the woman he had entrapped, but a shining wraith. Her eyes blazed with malice, and the air around her was filled with a heavy presence, even as a multitude of voices screamed for vengeance and justice against Teodoric's traitor heir. When she spoke, her mortal voice was doubled and trebled by an undying chorus, and he was sorely afraid. "You are no worthy heir of Teodoric, Clovis Kinslayer. I who knew him better than any know that he would never have bent the knee to the Bringers of Ruin as you have, and he is ashamed that you bear his blood. Let our line be broken. Let the name of Bogomil and the name of Austrasia and the name of Clovis be blotted from the record of the world, now and forever to come-- so say I, Callisto Ironflight, the Undefeated, the Seeking Shaft of God!" At that she walked towards him, and where his sorcery met her spirit he had to give way, until she stood before him in her splendor untouched. "Let this empire and this people meet their end at last- and let our names be erased forever." At once her light leapt to envelop them both, and then the entire palace besides- and when it cleared away nothing remained in its wake but a shattered crown of iron. The immortal spirits of the Bogomils then returned to Nagash's realm, but Sigmar cradled her bruised soul in his mighty hands. As a father, he drew her up to Azyr, and there she rests and there she will serve beside him forever. ------ Sister Callie is called the Dark Angel, the Deathwing, the Voice of the Host, Heir to Callisto, Last of the Bogomils, the Seeking Shaft of God, the Iron Flight, the Eighth, the Faithful Daughter, the Blood of Queens.
  8. I've finished the third Efengie Campaign book. These books are put together from the battleplans I use for the Age of Sigmar Game Days that I run more-or-less monthly at my FLGS. In this one (as with the other two below) we've got five battleplans, a campaign system, and some fun little stories about what went down. In the aftermath of the Coalescence War of the Ring, Sigmar's followers have been convinced of Efengie's strategic value. Follow the story of Sigmar's invasion, interlopers from the grim darkness beyond the Eye of Terror, and an epic power struggle with Colossal Red, the Queen of the Monsters. In this book, I made some changes to the Clash of Empires battleplan framework. The biggest change for anyone playing through the campaign book is that each battleplan now has two different battlefields with different secondary objectives. This fits in really nicely with the campaign system since now the winner of each battle gets to choose the battlefield for the next one. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy the book! Also, here are links to the first two books if you want to get the whole story so far.
  9. Version 2.0

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    The first book of the Efengie Campaign series contains 5 Battleplans based on Warhammer World's Clash of Empires framework. It also includes Time of War rules for battling in the Vale of Efengie. But that's not all, each battleplan includes a fluff piece storying the event at which it was originally run, and there are also 2-player narrative campaign rules, and a map campaign for use with the General's Handbook map campaign rules! There are now 3 Efengie Campaign books! Book 2 - Through the Deathgate Book 3 - Coalescence Aftermath
  10. Version 1.0.0

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    In the aftermath of the Coalescence War of the Ring, Sigmar's followers have been convinced of Efengie's strategic value. Follow the story of Sigmar's invasion, interlopers from the grim darkness beyond the Eye of Terror, and an epic power struggle with Colossal Red, the Queen of the Monsters. Play through the action in a five battleplan two player narrative campaign. Book 1 Book 2
  11. A change- not a brother or sister of the Death Watch, but a family of Freeguild. This is the chronicle of their most ancient history- in time, they will reappear in other stories. ------ Long ago- before the Gates of Heaven were shut, before the Gods were disunited, before the taint of Chaos reappeared in the world, deep in the Age of Myth when the world still lay verdant and untrampled, there were two men. One, Lars of the Duns, was a refugee from far Arcadia, fleeing political violence in that ancient land. He led hundreds of his followers with him to a new home in the forest, under the flag of the sturdy steeds that had taken them thus far. There, he founded a new realm- the Empire of the Green Horse, whose kings traveled from one steading to another carrying their court with them. For many centuries they flourished, creating art and architecture both primitive and beautiful. They were the Green Kings, and under their tutelage the hills bloomed and flourished, and the valleys prospered and grew verdant. But they came to an end, as all things must. No one is quite sure of what brought the Kingdom of the Green Horse to its finish. Stories are told of wandering Gargants, Orruk invasions, pacts with malevolent sorcerers, or a waking dragon living under the hills. Only the Knights of the Last Flower, who claim descent from that land, can say for sure, and they keep that knowledge locked away for reasons fathomable only to them. When the kingdom fell, though, the survivors fled away from those hills, leaving them to become wildlands and impenetrable forests. The refugees reached a land between two rivers instead- there, they met the descendants of the second man. Not so far away, in the marshes and wetlands that dot and snake through that land, Connor Marsh made his home. A fisherman, an explorer and a hunter, he plied his trade across the waters, spreading his nets and feeding his family and friends off their bounty. As his reach expanded, he led them to drive out the grots, troggoths and waking dead that also claimed that land. Sometimes, he would make war on other families and villages as well. More often, he would trade and ally, marrying his daughters to their sons and his sons to their daughters. By this, he became not only patriarch but lord, chief over a growing sphere of influence stretching across not just the marshes but the twin rivers that formed their borders. In time, his family and his domain would be named after the greater of these two rivers. They would become known as the Reiks. The first meeting between the people of the rivers and the survivors of the Green Horse was not salubrious. The refugees foraged on lands long claimed by the Reiks, and when confronted refused to bow before the local powers. Again and again, the Reiks would confront the newcomers, and soon blood was shed throughout the region. The locals had the ground and their boats, but the men and women of the Green Horse brought weapons of bronze, and their steeds besides. As the battle between the two grew more pitched, one man- Gunter Worlitzer- emerged as leader among the survivors, pushing deeper and deeper into Reik territory as the seasons turned. It was only with their backs to the river that gave them their name that the defenders were able to make a firm stand against his army, using a blend of what they knew and what they had learned throughout the long years of subjugation. Over the centuries, successive generations of Reiks and Worlitzers would cycle between bitter, wary truce and total war. Many were the times that the twin rivers ran red with the blood spilled by their shores. Only rarely were the two families- the two peoples- willing to set aside their hatreds of one another, when both were threatened by a greater outside enemy. The greatest of such incidents came with the advent of Warboss Goomba da Bonecrusha, known as the Mad Dok and whispered by some to be Boss of Bosses. He led a Waaagh! almost fifty thousand strong into the land between the rivers, slaughtering all he came across and setting what he could alight. Only after three weeks of smoke, fire, confusion and sacrifice, and the eleventh-hour arrival of the Knights of the Last Flower on the field, was the Mad Dok foiled at last. Part of the blood-cost paid included most of the leadership of both families, leaving each in new, inexperienced hands. For a time it looked like these would retreat to their fastnesses, to plot and plan the resumption of the war between them- until the Grandmaster of the Last Flower came forth. He scolded the survivors for their lack of empathy towards one another, for their willingness to see the rest of their families and their lands destroyed for the sake of an ancient grudge. It was, he hinted, exactly this sort of infighting that had brought about the fall of the Green Horse so many years ago. He would not stand to see it again. With his guidance a union was arranged between the de facto leaders of both families, overseen by the Knights. No longer would there be two factions between the rivers- forevermore it would be Reike-Woerlitz together. ------ The ancient heraldry of House Reike-Woerlitz is the Horse and Rivers, and its motto is "We Prevail."
  12. Brother Apollyon In the ancient city of Eistenpolis, greatest metropolis of all the fractured, squabbling principalities of the now-dead realm of Arcadia, Apollyon plied his trades as a humble smith and part-time soldier. He lived, laughed and loved, earning a respected place in his community and raising a large, happy family. He was proud of his children, his neighbors, his people and his gods. When the trouble began, he was a voice of calm and an advocate for fidelity to Arcadia's pantheon and loyalty to Eistenpolis' citizens. He did not see the corruption slowly taking root among his friends and his neighbors, turning them against him. When the hordes of Chaos reached Arcadia, the city-states allied and drew up a massive army resplendent in their bronze and leather, many thousands of spears strong. Apollyon stood in the front rank, closest to the enemy. Just before battle was joined, though, half the army turned on their brothers in arms, slaughtering them by surprise. The Battle of the Crimson Fields, as it would come to be called, was a complete and total rout, and Arcadia would be utterly destroyed save for the fallen. Its people, its culture, and even its tongue would be lost to the sands of time, existing only as whispers on the wind and a now-barren blight on the face of Ghyran. Apollyon was one of the first to die. His soul was taken up by Sigmar, who reforged him into a Stormcast of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer to make war against his enemies. Still-grieving, Apollyon found what he thought was camaraderie and solace among the shared pain of the Anvils. He fought loyally and well in the titanic battles that marked Sigmar's return to the Mortal Realms, rejoicing in his ability to avenge himself on the enemies of the God-King. This came to an abrupt conclusion during the campaigns against the Children of Sigmar. In one battle, Apollyon's entire Chamber was slaughtered- all save he, who managed to fight his way free from an encirclement with a hammer in each hand. Recalled to Azyrheim, he found to his horror that his brethren did not await him. He was told the awful secrets of the Reclamation Engine, of the legions swayed to Nagash's service, armies that now counted his former comrades in their ranks. Twice-betrayed, Apollyon swore to never rest until he had made every one of the betrayers pay ten times over for their treachery. Painting his armor black, he donned a ferocious horned helmet to put fear into his foes' hearts when they saw him. Now, he is Brother Steelios' left hand, the Ninth, the Betrayed, the Black Legionary, the Heart of Darkness. Where other Stormcast go into battle singing praises to Sigmar, his battle-cry is always "Smite! Kill! Burn!" He exists not for victory, it seems, but for battle. Countless reforgings brought on by his manic pursuit of vengeance have left him a shell of the man he once was- the father and the smith are now all but dead, and all that remains is the berserker. Fortunately for him, the Mortal Realms are vast, and enemies worthy of his mettle are always in supply... The storytellers call Brother Apollyon the Black Legionary, the Heart of Darkness, the Ninth, the Twice-Betrayed, the Lash, the True, the Empty, the Father, the Smith, the Voice of Arcadia. (The Children of Sigmar and the Reclamation Engines are not my creations. I took them from here: https://descentintochaos.wordpress.com/2016/04/19/children-of-sigmar/)
  13. By the time of the End, the Bogomil line had ruled over Austrasia and its surroundings for almost four centuries. A family of ferocious warriors, they had carved out their own domain in Ghyran by fire and by blood, ruling over their conquered and annexed territories with an iron sword. By the time of Iosephus Bogomil, late in the line, the Kingdom of Austrasia was large and rich, and had a dozen tributary states sending a count's ransom in gold and steel every year. Iosephus was a hard man, and during his reign he waged a dozen wars on every one of his borders, leaving any rival warrior-kings slaves or refugees. He built a royal capital of magnificence and splendor he boasted could not be found outside of Azyr itself, bringing in Duardin and Aelf artisans from all across the Mortal Realms to adorn his palace. To reinforce his family's future, he sired thirty sons and countless daughters with his mistresses and concubines, watching and testing each in turn to see who would prove themselves worthy of his crown of iron. A sickly infant and a feeble-hearted boy, nobody expected Teodoric, his youngest, to amount to much. Perhaps, if he was lucky, one of his half-brothers or sisters would keep him as a court attendant and eunuch, once they ascended to Iosephus' throne. Even as he grew in poverty and fear, though, a stubborn fire burned in Teodoric's heart. He was crafty, ruthless and long-sighted, and by the time he was a man he was strong as well. One by one, his siblings underestimated him and paid the ultimate price, until he and his half-sister Callisto faced one another across the field of battle, even as their father watched from the ramparts of his castle. Callisto was a noted archer, and Teodoric knew that her pride in her skill with a bow was unlimited. He also knew that to face her in pitched battle would be to lose- she had three times his number in followers, and was like to carry the day in a test of arms. Instead, he challenged her to a test of shooting. The target was the Bogomil family crest, suspended from a window of the highest tower of Iosephus' palace. Standing not too far below the wall, they would have to arc an arrow so that it flew over the ramparts to a target they could barely see. Callisto shot first. One of her arrows only tore the fringes of the crest, but two buried themselves in the dead center. She turned and bowed, smirking, to Teodoric, knowing that he would be hard-pressed to do any better. He nodded and drew his bow back, aiming at the sky... and then shot three times in rapid succession. One arrow buried itself in Iosephus' throat, one in his eye and one in his chest. The dead king slumped over the side of the ramparts and the iron crown tumbled from his head to the ground far below. In the face of the stunned crowd Teodoric simply walked over, placing his father's crown on his head and proclaiming himself the winner of the test. Then, before both armies, he bent his knee and asked Callisto to be his queen and rule beside him. They were wed that night, and enthroned the next morning. For forty years after that, he ruled even more fiercely and benevolently than his father, and the kingdom flourished like never before. In his twenty-first year, he decided that 'king' was too unworthy a title and 'kingdom' too paltry for his realm. Henceforth, he would rule over the Austrasian Empire, and be known as Emperor and Law-Giver. His prowess in battle and unflinching rule lead to his being known as Teodoric, the Fist of Empire. It was only in his thirty-eighth year of rule that the troubles really began. The borders of Austrasia had been almost at peace since Iosephus' campaigns- but now a horde of the peoples he had conquered, tens of thousands strong, appeared, lead by an impossibly gaunt man calling himself the Withered King. At first, Teodoric treated this threat just as any other barbarian invader, but this was to be his undoing. The fell magics of the Plague God ruined armies with a wave of the hand and reduced castles to ruins overnight. Within weeks, the Withered King had campaigned to the borders of Austrasia proper, and Teodoric found himself hard-pressed. He called upon his counts and his stewards and raised an army equal in bravery if not in size to the enemy. He met them at a place called Verden, beneath the boughs of trees just beginning to turn gold. There, the Withered King met him in parley. Surrender to the Plague God, he promised, and Teodoric could keep Austrasia and whatever else he could conquer besides. But the warrior king only laughed. He would never truckle to another, he proclaimed, be it man or god. He was a warrior, the bearer of the Iron Crown, and he would rule or he would die. So be it, said his foe. As his army formed on the other side of the field, though, Teodoric noted that it was not made of the barbarian warriors he had expected but poxy, bloated corpses. At that moment the Withered King turned. "All is rot and all is ruin", he intoned, and the flesh fell from the enemy's bones, replaced by clouds of stinging, biting flesh flies. Teodoric's warriors were caught utterly unprepared. Enemies of sword and sinew they were masters of, and their priests had prepared to defend them against conjured plagues- but they had no defense against such a swarm. They could only panic, and die- all but their leader. Protected by the ancient magics of the Iron Crown and fueled by the same stubborn determination that had gained it for him, he pressed forwards through the storm, weathering a dozen pestilential bites. In the heart of the black cloud, he met the Withered King in battle, striking out with his ancient spirit-sword Joyful, said to have been forged with a Seraphon bound inside and immune to the rust and rot of the Plague God. The King's shields of filth and excrement were like smoke against his fearsome blade, and he pressed on to cleave his foe right in twain. At the moment he did so, an inky-black miasma enveloped them both- and when it cleared, both were gone. In their wake was left nothing of the army of the Dark Gods, and only a few of Teodoric's mortal soldiers- and Joyful, still shimmering fiercely in the light of a dying sun. Victory was short-lived. Behind the horde of the Plague God came thousands upon thousands of marauders, ready to do with blade and bow what had not been done with rust and rot. But Teodoric's act had given his people time, time to prepare and time to fight back. Austrasia would fall, but not until almost two whole centuries more of fighting and bleeding and dying had come to a close. For his obvious strength at arms and courage of spirit, the warrior king was taken up by Sigmar from the pits of the Plague God, and reforged into a shining Stormcast for his eventual return to the Realms below... ------ The storytellers call Brother Teodoric the Fist of Empire, the Warrior King, Ruler of Austrasia, the Rising Emperor, the Unlikely, the Unifier, the Seventh, Bearer of the Iron Crown, Wielder of Joyous, the Withered King's Bane, the Law-Giver.
  14. I have officially completed the first Efengie Campaign Book! This is the culmination of about six months of running themed Age of Sigmar events at my FLGS. It came about because I was creating battleplans for the monthly Age of Sigmar Game Day (like a tournament, but more casual) at my FLGS. In order to establish a narrative and give the events fun story-oriented stakes, I decided I would write a fluff piece after each event to describe what happened, and slowly flesh out the ongoing story of our not-quite-campaign. Efengie was the old tongue-in-cheek setting for my local store's Warhammer Fantasy campaigns, which we ran on a regular basis for roughly 10 years before Age of Sigmar was released. The store owner drew the original map (I drew this one myself) based on the layout of the store, which resulted in us having locations like Fort Snack, and Mount Cola. The Port City of Bludor was literally a blue door that was adjacent to a particularly flood prone area of the back storage area. Some, like the Trade City of Register or the cities of North Couch and South Couch didn't make the cut because they were a little too silly. I have given that setting a makeover to find it a home in Ghyran. This book includes five battleplans built on the framework of Warhammer World's Clash of Empires. It includes two new Time of War rules representing the Vale of Efengie as well as the Gates of Eucebium, a ring of ancient Realmgates erected by the Wanderers. It has plenty of fluff and photography from the events to round it out, and also includes a Map Campaign for use with the General's Handbook map campaign rules. Enjoy!
  15. ~ Chapter One ~ Athos looked upon the field of battle. Around him, his forces made ready for first-contact with the enemy. Across the broken landscape, dotted with withered trees, long drained of life by the recent incursion of Nurgle’s corruption, were gathered a multitude of orruks. Bonesplitterz, these particular brutes named themselves, though Athos cared little what names they chose for themselves. He cared not the name of his enemy – only their death concerned him. War-horns blared to life from within the rudimentary formations of the orruks, dozens all at once. The horde started to chant and roar broken-speech challenges to their opponents, taunting them to action. Throughout their midst, Athos could see the shapes of hulking warlords barking orders at the smaller brethren that surrounded them. There were others as well – sorcerers – judging by their dress; all feathers and special ornaments of bone and wood that the orruks reserved only for their shamans. They’ll prove a more difficult challenge, Athos thought. A far greater one than all the rest of their ilk combined. The Stormcast were the greatest warriors of Sigmar’s hosts, each and every one of their kind a warrior of unparalleled skill, stamina, and strength…but strength of arms could only do so much against a foe who wielded the chaotic power of raw magic, the ability to rip chunks of Earth from the ground, or else twist the fabric of nature to their destructive will. “The orruks are out in number this morning.” It was Calanius, the Lord-Relictor of their force. He had come to stand beside Athos to survey the enemy before battle was joined. In his right hand, the Relictor carried his prized banner, decorated with gothic depictions of a Stormcast soul’s returning to their God-King's embrace. “They’ll die all the same, few or many, it matters not,” Athos replied. “It’s their sorcerers that worry me. I count a dozen at least, though there’s almost surely more of them skulking about.” “We’ll handle it,” Calanius told him matter of factly. “We always do.” We do, Athos merely thought, because we cannot die. If we fail, we’ll merely come back again. That is our gift, and in other ways, our curse. Though not all resented the immortality bestowed upon the Stormcast by their God, some were…less enthusiastic. Athos had had a family once, a loving wife and daughter, though he could remember little of them now. Their faces were blurry images in his mind's eye, and their voices were muffled echoes. Athos wondered how much longer it would be before those lingering thoughts faded as well. How much longer would it be before he forgot them entirely? He wondered if he would ever see them again. A lifetime ago, death had offered the promise of reunion, no matter what came, but now… “The orruks are moving, Lord-Castellant." Calanius's voice, calling him back to the present. “We should begin," the Lord-Relictor then told him as Athos returned to the present. He saw the orruks then, a seething tide of green flesh and bone-weapons, and all of it pouring directly towards the forward lines of the Stormcast formations. Athos clenched one steel gauntlet around the hilt of the warhammer he carried. He pulled the weapon loose from the bonds on his back and raised it high for all around him to see. The weapon's steel-head glinted with the sunlight of the new morning. “Aye,” Athos spoke. “By Sigmar’s grace, let us bring swift death to these foul beasts.” **** A cold intelligence watched the storm of battle rage. Over a burning fire, the Gaunt-Summoner, One of the Nine, chanted eldritch words of power. The words of his God. His prayers were answered, and foul power poured from the flames. His minions danced and flayed their limbs about the ritual, chanting in a variety of alien tongues. Their devotion, their energy, their very life-force, gave power to the ritual. From far away, the Gaunt-Summonder heard the warhorns of the orruks, and he knew the time had come. From within his robing he produced an old book, wrapped in the skin of flayed man. As his elongated fingers opened it, the cries of a thousand damned souls screamed from within its pages. He cackled, knowing each of the voice's many names. In his freehand, the Seventh of the Nine raised a dagger, its twin-faces etched with ancient runes chiseled by the talon of Tzeentch itself. The wailing of the damned grew louder. The Gaunt-Summoner hissed through multiple rows of fanged teeth, and then he plunged the dagger down, directly into the pages of the book. The world shuddered. It was begun. The starting locations for the Stormcast and Bonesplitterz forces. Meanwhile, the Gaunt-Summoner and his cult perform an unholy ritual, unbeknownst to either force. The Stormcast forces advance, splitting their forces into three prongs. Priority switches to the savage orruks, who gleefully bellow as they surge forward. The orruks rush forward and charge headlong into their hated foes. After a fierce round of combat, the smaller unit of Liberators are wiped out to a man by the Bonesplitterz boar riders. All across the front, bodies begin to pile. In the heavens above, the sky trembles. Just as it appears the Stormcast will be overrun, the surrounding woods break, and a swarm of Sylvaneth pour forth from the shadows of Ghyran's foliage - directly into the already engaged Bonesplitterz!
  16. Overview – The Jotenbergs’, mountain-heralds of the coming of season in Ghyran, are being corrupted by the forces of the Chaos God Nurgle. Rarely seen and few in number, most have been defiled by Rotbringers, however, some still remain. From Azyr, the Celestial Realm, Sigmar sends the lithe host of Virion the Cleanser, and the stalwart ‘Stone-Hearts’ Warrior Chamber of the Lions of Sigmar to ensure no more of these beings fall, or the Realm of Life would surely suffer. Awaiting them is the dark Grublethrex the Vile, the Fly-blown Prophet of Nurgle and his plague-ridden forces. Indeed, the battles ahead of them are to decide the fate of the Jade Kingdoms and beyond. ‘Stone-Hearts’ Warrior Chamber, Lions of Sigmar – Marius Stone-Heart – Lord-Celestant Surdak – Dracoth Jarin Duskwalker – Lord-Relictor Volker Witch-Bane – Lord-Veritant Marmidex – Gryph-Hound Artus – Liberator-Prime Litian – Liberator-Prime Jurgan – Retributor-Prime Kyras – Prosecutor-Prime Karlas – Judicator-Prime Lurdof’s Ironweld Company – Lurdof – Steam Tank Commander Virion’s Unseen Host – Virion the Cleanser – Skywarden Zortan – Shadow-Walker Ebac – Shadow-Walker Sorhec – Shadow-Walker Grublethrex’s Rotbringers – Grublethrex the Vile, Fly-blown Prophet of Nurgle – Lord of Plagues Bubex the Rotten – Blightlord Globule – Aspiring Champion Urgal the Disgusting - Sorcerer
  17. Hi All, Here is the next part of the Knights of Azyr's story all based on the game I played against Kev a few weeks ago on the awesome new board at Warhammer World. Deep into Ghyran mighty Sigmar sent the Knights of Azyr with the task of bringing the Fyerslayers of the Beal-For Lodge onto the side of Order. Sigmar looked down as the mighty vaults of Sigmarion were emptied of every last scrap of gold as Sigmar know that the Fyerslayers would be absorbed by their addiction to it. The Auric Runemaster Kalforge sensed the presence of the Ur-gold and contained within his lost ancestor god, from many leagues away well before the Hammerstrike’s knew they were close to their quarry, at the same time Auric Runesmiter Belforge was stirring the spirit of Grimnir resting within the lodge's warrior. With glowing Ur-gold and flexing muscles the Lodge emptied the spirit of the long lost ancestor god Grimnir burning within each of them as with white knuckles the gripped the fyersteel of their axes. The Drakesworn Temple Annihulus was the first to take the field, not only on the wings of Great Stardrakes but also and for the first time in this already long war, on the backs of lightning wreathed Dracoths. Hard did the warriors of the the Extremis Chamber hit with both Storm Breath and Lightning Hammer. Many Beal-For warriors shrugged of wounds that would kill most of the inhabitants of the realm but these Fyerslayers fought on, there Ur-gold runes glowing brighter and brighter with every new wave of attacks. The mighty Drake Clasicx was lost in a blur of Fyersteel axes, his mighty body exploding into a thousand celestial bolds and returning to the Great Drake himself. The Helmgart Lliberators found the very ground that were holding to be fraught with fire, every footfall braking the thin surface and sending plumes of lava flowing all over them. Even the iron hard Sigmarite armour they all were wearing wasn't enough to protect them and many of their number were consumed by fire and flame. It was only the immovable fire of the Judicators that could slow the rune drenched Fyerslayers, it was at this point that the calming words, that somehow as if aided by Sigmar himself spread through the Fyerslayer ranks like a calming zeffer, of Lord-Castelant Roth Lightborne hit home and the fighting ceased. An uneasy truce was made that day, built on a mutual respect and a large quantity of gold.
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