Advent Stories: The Hunter and the Hunted

Advent Stories: The Thirteenth Knightt

The bells rang out over the hallowed skies.Once, this had been a sacred temple, a place of comfort and joy for the people of the plains. The silvered bells had rung loud and clear, their laughter the herald of markets and festival days, calling the joyous to gather and the faithful to worship. No longer. Since the Hour of Ruin, when the earth of the Great Parch rent itself apart in gales of fury and warp fire, everything that made the place sacred had been ripped away. Gone were the bustle and cry of the market, replaced by the raucous shrieks of carrion birds at work. Gone were the gentle pæans of the choir and the eager steps of the faithful called to service, replaced by the scraping slap of clawed, scabrous feet on stone. Gone were the sweet, silvered words of the bells above, for though they still rang out, they had been twisted as all else in this land had been. Warped and corroded, they called in maddening unrelenting clamour a brazen monotone from leaden throats choked with rust.Their calls lifted to the air, and joined the thousand, thousand others ringing above the emergent Blight City.Within the ruined temple, the Skaven planned. A great table had been hauled forth, and around it the masters of this corner of the Parch schemed. They had to shout to be heard above the clamour. Skaven slaves, bedecked in every colour of brown and with heads held low to avoid detection, pushed and milled about the corners of the chamber, stamping and biting and clawing to be the first to cater to their masters’ whims. Towering stormvermin, their armour clanking with each movement, lounged against desecrated shrines, taking swipes at passing slaves with their razor-lashed tails. Warlord clan generals beat their mailed hands on armoured chests or thumped upon the table itself to get attention, voicing loudly their support or disdain for the order of business. Warplock engineers giggled madly at the hum and crack of green lightning crawling across their arms and lashing into the air. Eshinn assassins perched in the shadows above, silent but for lashings of their tails on the wooden rafters to show their support or annoyance. Above it all shouted the Gray Seers, a trio of them at the head of the table. They called the business of the council, issuing orders to the warlords and directing the engineers, basking in the praise of those their orders favoured or calling down dire threats on any who dissented from their command. It was the will of Blight City, the promise of power and influence for submission, and the threat of pain and penance for resistance. The three of them, sitting in the seat of the Great Horned Rat, and speaking in His name.Few noticed the new entrants pushing themselves into the chamber, or paid much care to look into the heavy, rotting robes of the plague priests as they spread themselves out around the table.A stormvermin laughed cruelly to himself as he caught the neck of a nearby skaven slave who had been refilling a large basin, forcing the smaller rat’s head beneath the faintly green glowing liquid. The laugh was cut short as the edge of a long blade whirred through the air and came up a hair’s breadth beneath his chin. Staring down its gleaming length, the stormvermin saw the tattered green cloak of a plague priest, and beneath it the gleam of plated armour. Then the figure was moving forwards, sword held steady, and the guard was forced to step back with it or be skewered. As he released the neck of the slave, the smaller rat burst up out of the warpstone wine, coughing and sputtering, and for just a moment the stormvermin saw the cloaked figure’s focus shift. Leaping backwards, he prepared to let out a great bellow of alarm, but before he could a heavy steel pommel smashed into the back of his head. The stormvermin crumbled to the ground, his armour clattering, as the second swordsman behind him let his cloak fall from plated steel shoulders.Few heard the sound of the guard collapsing, but the wave of fear musk spread like wildfire through the room. Around the table, a ring of figures cast their robes aside to reveal armoured skaven forms. Slaves shrieked, adding their own note of terror to the din and flooding the air with the scent of fear. They scrambled over each other to flee the chamber, trampling and clawing in a fit of terror, and became a stream of bodies against which the stormvermin guards struggled to fight through. Where they did, the armoured knights struck swift and sure with silvered greatswords, severing halberds in flashing arcs. The interlopers struck to disarm or incapacitate where they could, taking hands or heads only when pressed. At the high table, the knights moved quickly, casting attendants aside and trapping the council against the heavy wooden board. One of the warlords was dead, his warplock pistol having blown a hole through the first knight to approach before twin greatswords pierced through his chest and pinned him to the table like a butterfly. The others were pressed to the ground or stood with arms raised, blades at their throats. The Arch Warlock had not moved at all, only watching and giggling as the council dissolved into uproar, warp lightning cracking from eye to eye. The assassins had vanished.Only the Grey Seers fought on, swinging sword and staff in a frightful dervish. Where they struck, wood and stone and armoured skaven alike burst in sorcerous ruin. Here, however, the knights fighting them held nothing back. Silver swords leapt like fire, raining down killing blows and sending the sorcerers scrambling back in desperation. They chanted as they fought, hymnals to the Great Horned Rat, and where those black words scarred the air the seers’ spells faltered and failed them. One sorcerer stumbled, his heel caught on the body of a trampled slave, and in an instant three blades struck down through heart and bone. The second grey seer leapt forward in a flash of darkness, driving his runic sword deep into the chest of the knight before him, only to see plated hands clamp upon his wrist in a death grip. He struggled for a moment, then his head was whisked away in a silver flash by the dying knight’s partner.The final seer fought on, alone in a ring of steel. He held his staff up, gathering what power he could to form a crackling green aura, warding off the striking blades. Silver flashed down again and again, hammering, ringing like the shades of the stricken bells above, until with a flash the seer’s staff splintered and the ward collapsed.“Stop-stop! Enough!” he cried as he fell, tossing his blade from his hands. “I surrender!”The ring of skaven around him paused, their blades held ready, but took a half step back. A few looked across the room, and the seer followed their gaze to a knight with a pair of branching horns rising from his helmet. His eyes met the twin pits of blackness in the skaven’s helm, and he felt them swallow him, pin him to the floor.“Fine. I accept you surrender, seer-thing.” The voice rang hollowly inside the plate helm. “Let him stand-rise.”The knights around him parted, giving way, and moving back to stand in a circle around the council table, though the seer heard one spit out ‘coward’ beneath his breath. He rose unsteadily, unable to believe that they had simply let him live.The horned knight lifted his helmet, and the seer let out a surprised gasp. Blasphemous bile welled up within him when he saw the knight's horns were not part of his helmet, but rose from his skull.“I am Rikitr Blackfur, Gray Knight of the Ascension Court,” the knight said to the room at large, walking towards the center. Stride in stride, green fire curled up around his hand, climbing in a slow crawl like a parchment burning in reverse. As it rose, it revealed a chalice of black gold and green warpstone shining in unholy light. “I have come to give-offer you the chance of Ascension.”“ASCENSION!” The ring of knights around the table spoke in unison, their voices metal and harsh beneath their helms, but joined in shared purpose.Rikitr knelt by the knight run through on the seer’s runic blade, tipping the lip of the chalice to the dying skaven’s lips. He watched him drink the dark waters within, then pulled the sword free. Black smoke curled darkly around the blade and the wound, but Rikitr splashed more of the chalice’s liquid across it. Steam hissed angrily, black blood mingling with green, and the knight tensed in sudden pain, but stayed silent. Rikitr laid his head back down, and made again towards the table.“The Chalice of the Horned Rat brings life to the faithful, to the true. To those who know-feel that we are meant for more.”He walked carefully around the table, studying the warlords and their underlings, the stormvermin and the slaves.“Those who lie-deceive us, keep us down, keep us fighting each other instead of our enemies, who usurp-take power in the Great Horned Rat’s name-,” he looked pointedly at the grey seer, “they take from us what He has promised.”He stopped beside a stricken clanrat cradling a broken arm. “If your faith is true, your devotion to the Horned Rat all-complete, we offer the strength to take-claim all that we were meant for.” He looked into the clan rat’s eyes for a long moment, the Chalice held between them, then the smaller skaven broke and turned away.“For those with the will, we offer Ascension.”“ASCENSION!”Rikitr turned to one of the stormvermin. He had not gone down without a fight, and was bleeding heavily from a deep wound in his side and a severed forearm. They locked eyes for a long moment, then the stormvermin pulled himself up to his knees.“Is your faith complete? Is your loyalty to the Horned Rat, and the promise of Ascension?”The stormvermin could not speak, but held the knight’s eyes as Rikitr pressed the Chalice to his lips. Warplight shone in his eyes, crackled from his wounds, and the stormvermin staggered to his feet.“This is blasphemy!” The last sorcerer cried, eyes wide with shock and rage. He shot out a hand, the pure warpstone badge of the grey seers grasped within crackling with power. Magic crawled across its surface, and with a shout of fury the seer shattered the icon. Warpstone shards bit deep into the flesh of his hand, seething and spitting with power as they pierced the skin and seeped into his blood. The nearest knights tried to react, but they were too slow. A massive burst of warp lightning tore forth from the sorcerer, screeching across the chamber. It shattered the council table, vapourizing the warlock where he sat, and roared straight at the horned knight.Rikitr did not move. The warp lighting poured over and around him, a boulder in a stream of light. Warpstone runes glowed fiercely on the gray plate of his armour. Where it rolled from him, the lightning shattered and burned into the far wall, tearing great flaming chunks from the ruined temple. A bust of Sigmar on a forgotten mantle melted into a brief rain of gold. Stray lightning fell in waves into the ruins of the Parch beyond. Then it stopped.The sorcerer panted, and fell to a knee. His hand was scorched and blackened, and blood leaked from his eyes.Rikitr stood where he had been, Chalice in hand. The runes on his armour shone green, then faded back into the dull gray plate.“How?” The seer asked in a broken voice.“The Great Horned Rat looks after his own, usurper.” He was walking now, across the chamber towards the fallen sorcerer. “That is the power of Ascension. Of true faith. Of what your parasitic order took from us.”“I serve the Horned One, blasphemer,” the seer managed in a raw, cracked voice. “We have always-ever served him. You took-stole His power somehow!” He flinched as Rikitr stopped before him, towering over him, yet looked up in surprise to see the Chalice being offered to him.“Then drink, and take this power for yourself.”The seer looked up, eyes narrowed in suspicion, then snatched the Chalice from the knight’s unresisting hands. He held it at arm’s length at first, waiting to see if it would harm him, but where the liquid within spilled over the Chalice’s rim and onto his blackened hand he felt the pain flow away and strength return.Greedily, the seer gulped at the liquid with. It spilled across his muzzle and down his chest. Warplight played across his limbs. He could feel it running through his body, like a sprinkle of light rain at the same time as a bolt of fiery strength. He felt whole, strong, powerful, like he had never felt before. The warpstone he had absorbed from the amulet was nothing compared to this. He felt he could level mountains, tear the realms apart a second time with only his hands. He looked down at his blackened arm, and saw it rebuilding itself before his eyes. New flesh, strong and firm, replaced the blackened bones, and new white fur sprouted along its length. He watched his fingers grow long and strong, claws like talons sprouting. The muscles grew and spun, twisting along his arm, and suddenly pain shot through the euphoria that surrounded him. Ropy muscles twisting across his arm, his back, and then he felt the bones beneath snap under the pressure, grinding together as they reformed and reknitted together. His flesh split as bony spines grew through his flesh, sawing through skin and tendon to burst free. He tried to scream, but his mouth would not work. Jaws twisting, teeth and fangs becoming a tangled mass of sharpened tusks, he stumbled forward on legs that broke beneath his wracking form.“Brother Quolk!” The knight beside what was the seer stepped forward, and in one swift flash of silver severed the thing’s head. He knelt, and retrieved the fallen Chalice. Already the body was breaking apart into pools of stinking, blackish-green slime that burned the stone floors beneath it.“Remember this,” Rikitr said, looking to his knights and the room at large. “Ambition. Greed-want. Power without purpose is what he worshipped. It is why we shall win. For though they are many-many, they are many alone. We are few, but few united under purpose. Under the Great Horned Rat. That is the path to Ascension.”“ASCENSION!”

Advent Stories: Not All Things Die

Everything was cold. The man felt as if he was trying to open his eyes through thick liquid, and when he finally opened them, he found nothing. Maybe he shouldn’t have bothered at all. The frigid thickness couched the man as he tried to move around. His body was not responding as it should. There was no smell; his fingers provided him no texture. There was nothing underfoot, but neither was there anywhere for him to fall. The nothing was unending.  The man became distraught as he drifted forward – at least, forward from where he had been before. He had a job to do. A duty to fulfil. But who had given it to him? He couldn’t remember.  Time ticked by. Days turned into weeks as the man contemplated his duty. It had been the only thing he had, and that might have been true for his life, too.  That’s right – he had been a tool. The duty had been bestowed upon him by his wielder. There was a sense of rightness there; a sense of pride. He had served the best of the best, He whose cause was nothing but righteous, and the man was honoured by serving as his tool.  He had served Sigmar. Yes – Sigmar had asked him to go to a dark place. There was frigid water, thick and viscous, much like the darkness in which he now drifted. He had been searching for someone ancient, rumoured to have returned— ‘Do you remember Lake Bykaal?’ The man let out a scream at the voice tickling his ear. No sound came out. The man had no true mouth with which to do so. The speaker drifted into view. There was not much of it left: half of a skull; a fractured collarbone; a spine broken off halfway down; three fingerbones. They were arranged as close to where they might have been in life, which was not saying much. ‘I remember Lake Bykaal,’ thought the man. ‘That was the name of where I was sent. I went to make a report. I went to serve as Sigmar’s eyes.’ ‘What was your name, o False King’s Eyes?’ The man considered the question. After several minutes, he shook his head blankly. ‘I know your name,’ the speaker continued, smug. ‘Han Shinzong. Do you remember what you did, Lord-Aquilor Shinzong?’ The nothingness gave way to ice and snowy banks and the man – Han Shinzong, he remembered – was in armour. Gold armour tarnished with ichor so black the light seemed to absorb straight into it. The smell of iron and rot broke days, perhaps weeks of nothingness to flood his senses, and gods, Han knew the scent of his own collapsing body when he smelled it. He hadn’t returned to High Sigmaron. He remained on the banks of Lake Bykaal, imprisoned in his own decay.  Hatred seized Han Shinzong. Had Sigmar lied to him? His arms swung out at the speaker, only to find that there was instead a brightly-armoured Stormcast in front of him, and Han’s ichorous sword punctured through two plates and into that living flesh. He could feel the malignance spread – a hateful gift for his former ally. “I’m just trying to help you!” the Stormcast cried out before their grandhammer smashed through Han and fractured his consciousness back into smithereens. He was once again left in the dark. ‘I’m dead. I killed my own. I…’ he felt sick, even without a stomach to churn. ‘I killed many of my own. I tried to kill everything and anything. Everyone.’ ‘Everyone wishes to kill, deep down. Everyone wishes for that dominance over the order of life. The dead, after all, are much more compliant.’ ‘No, I…’ Han trailed off, but now he wasn’t so sure. ‘Who are you?’ The remains of the speaker drifted back into view. The skull chipped a little more with the effort of conversing. ‘I was once named Besh.’ ‘You… we fought. You were Mithridates Besh, imprisoned by Lake Bykaal. I killed you and ended your wicked schemes. You were an enemy of the people.’ Besh laughed until a crack formed down the arch of his loose cranium. ‘You certainly tried. And you were but a pawn in my games, once, as well.’ ‘Souls or flesh, we are sworn foe—’ ‘We are one now, Han Shinzong. Hadn’t you noticed?’ The man went silent in the roiling darkness. Not that he had been making noise. The bones that had been Besh flickered and vanished. Yet the priest-king’s voice remained: ‘What is death, when our essences remain? What are we, when everything that was us is swirled into one and poured into an ocean of others?’ More deaths shattered the darkness behind Han Shinzong’s eyes. Skinks blown apart into black, ichorous puddles. Stormcast melting into their armour. Plaguebearers’ bodies breaking apart into ichor, already so tenuously connected by rotten flesh. Besh’s voice was cold. ‘We are nothing. We are everything. And never again can we find the release of death. I gave up looking for an end to this long ago, Han Shinzong.’ Human citizens reached out to hold one another and melded together into pillars of black bile. Orruks were dragged down into the water and sizzled apart into slop. Han Shinzong felt the death of each and every one of them. As if he had been the one who had died. ‘Make it stop,’ Han whimpered. ‘Take heart, little lordling,’ Besh’s voice grew faint. ‘Whatever we are becoming… whatever this metamorphosis is… one day we will surely understand our new nature.’ ‘Make it stop!’ Han’s mind crescendoed into a roar, and all the other voices in the blackness screamed with him. ‘Make it stop, make it stop, Sigmar, god, make it stop!’ But there was no-one to help him as the weeks turned into years, and the years turned into centuries, and the centuries lost all meaning.

Advent Stories: Notes from an Unseasonable Winter

Ice coats harbour of Lastia’s harbour in a shifting maze of floes. They scrape along the Errant Scholar’s sides, swirling into barely available space as the carrack crawls into the small bay. Winter still had its jaws firmly locked around the Aqshian town, a winter that should have passed months ago and never threatened to freeze the harbour over.“This,” spoke the vessel’s bosun, “is unnatural even for a place in the realms Dav.”The green clad figure beside him only nodded as he pulled his coat tighter against the weather. Leaning over the balustrade of the ship Davidius Mappenborough winced as a jagged length of ice the size of a karkadrak caressed the hull.“Ships going to need beaching Tarm. This place hasn't even heard of a drydock.” Tarm the bosun grunted in agreement.“Aye. You'll have to schlep it upstream to the source over land while we get her patched up again.”As the battered vessel finally nosed her prow up next to the nearest jetty a party of awkwardly wrapped figures waddled along to meet the lowered gangplanks. As his boots hit the boards Davidius could make them out well enough to realise they were swaddled in curtains and drapes. Even rugs had been repurposed to fend of a cold unseen in Aqshian jungle.“You Ser Dabindas then lad? Must be, no other boats since the ice started.” A hand emerged from a particularly fine pile of velvet to grasp Davidius’ hand.“Come on, the stockyard’s no place to natter. Tallykeep has the largest fireplace.”The bevelveted figure turned swiftly, almost forgetting to drop the scholar’s hand and began to stump back down the jetty.***The light thrown off by the fire danced through a ripple of greens, reds and pinks. The distinctive flames of Aquashian Wirepalm’s metal infused wood.“When we sent word to Seeds, to be perfectly honest, I did not expect a response. Let alone the head of the Biologicus to come in person. Forgive me Sir Davidius, and for my error outside as well, but why have you come? Not some meteorologist or arcanist.” Lady Havielle von Meste, now divest of her velvets sat on the side nearest the formerly decorative fireplace.“For two reasons Lady von Meste, firstly Collegiate politics no doubt you are familiar with such things, and secondly it is most likely that this occurence is related to other disturbances in the Realm of Fire related to matters under my own purview and thus, so it is held, falls also under me.” Davidius’ face broefly contorted in a grimace before he stood to cross the room to rummage briefly in his drying coat. Returning he spread a map over the table, weighting its corners with candlesticks and glasses. “Observe, our reports cover these areas outlined in blue. And you see..”She laced her fingers and narrowed her eyes across the table.“This is not the work of the ratmen.”He shrugged back at her, “it is our current prevailing theorem. Personally I have my own suspicions. Which” he held a hand up to forestall the question forming on her lips. “I shall not be sharing at this time. Suffice it to say that in correlation with other reports my Lady we conclude that the epicenter of this phenomena lies much further upstream than your domains.”Lady Havielle let her shoulders slump back onto her chair.“So you are not staying.”Davidius shook his head.“We cannot aid you in this, only seek to understand and in understanding explain. Perhaps then a solution may present. I have referred your crisis to the Collegiate Arcane, and perhaps more usefully to the logistica department of Hammerhal Aqsha. The mages might thaw your harbour in time. Hammerhal at least will send you coats.”***It had been three days since they had left Lastia and the approximate comforts of Reclaimed civilisation. Davidius was beginning to think that perhaps they had never been warm. Even through his mornfang hide gloves and heavy coat the cold had begun to seep into his very bones. Vaston and Galam felt similar, it was the main topic the knights discussed as the slept in full gear huddled into a single tent for warmth. The cold, but more importantly the source if the cold. Galam still held to the Collegiate orthodoxy that the appearance of winter in subtropical Aqshy must relate to the resurgent activities of the Skaven. “Its clear,” he said “as Doctor Barian suggests, that the incresed prevalence of Gnawholes bust be venting the heat or else allowing the frigid climes of edgeward Ghyran or Ulgu to seep in and induce winter.”Vaston at least had begun to see sense.The last nail in the coffin of ‘Meteorological Gnawhole Cooling’ as a theory came in the form of gnashing jaws and slashing teeth in the foot hills of Ignoth’s Furnace.“KURNOTH’S BARK! was that a damned Yhetee?!” Vaston bellowed as a mount of shaggy white fur bundled one the porters into a snowdrift. But none of the party had time to respond. A handful of pistol shots rang and the scent of powder smoke mingled with the frost laden air. Four frost sabers died as the pack closed on the remaining knights scholast and their entourage. With no time to reload the ambush became a dance of steel and ivory partially obscured to all combatants by a swirling cloud of snow thrown skyward by rapid footwork and lunging frost sabers.“This cannot be an Everwinter.” Galam shook his head, “but it must be.”“Usually they spread for a few miles around a Beastclaw tribe at the most.” Vaston countered, “but we have been experiencing this for leagues since downstream of Lastia. We would have encountered the Mawtribe it is following by now. But only these trailers.”“Observe the frost sabres man, unbound!” Davidus interjected. “These are wild. Not broken by a tribe, rare as basilisk teeth. Whatever this is following, it is no tribe of Ogors.”The knights trudged onwards in debate until their last surviving guide intervened to inform them.“We are here milords. The Ashfall Delta, what's left of it at least.”Davidius stood on the bank line next to two dumbfounded Knights Scholastica.“That,” he said grimly to their questions, “is the Catarhactes.”

Advent Stories: The Demon in Red

The ogre’s hut lay at the end of a long, low gorge. Elsewhere, the Hyōzan mountains rose like the jagged fangs, yet here at the end of the valley they had been ground down to broken tusks by time and the howling winds. Cutting back and forth across the red rock slopes, the trail was wide and well maintained. It would almost have been welcoming, if not for the rows of pikes along its length and the grisly trophies they displayed. The heads of goblins, humans and more stared down at the rider, mouths agape in silent warning. Some were ancient, desiccated things, but plenty were fresh enough to tell him that the ogre was at home. Armoured scales, lacquered a deep and rich crimson, jangled softly with each padding step of the war wolf. The valley wind was hot and dry, rippling the black silk robes the rider wore beneath the heavy lamellar and snapping at the twin banners at his back. A wide sash of the same black silk was tied at his waist, proudly displaying the same symbol that hung from the banner poles - a yellow, jagged sun. A tall helm, crimson as the rest of his armour, topped the figure, a wolf tail hanging from its tip and a snarling bestial mask covering his face. The rider spurred his wolf to a trot, moving swiftly through this forest of blank, staring faces. The casual cruelty of the ogre had little impact on the rider, but his time was growing short and night would fall quickly in the mountains. He could see smoke ahead now, twin columns rising above the foothills, black and greasy. The rider pulled up on the reins, slowing the wolf as it passed between the final row of pikes. Just ahead, a final warning lay on the path. A massive axe sat upright, its steel head buried deep into a boulder. The rider was tall and broad for his kind, but he knew he could not hope to lift that axe, let alone drive it deep into solid stone. Strips of cloth hung from the axe’s handle, whipping about in the valley wind. Tattered banners, dozens of them, showed the colours of tribes and kingdoms come and gone. The rider saw one bearing the same sun that adorned his own back, and with steel in his gaze spurred the wolf down into the valley. The ogre’s hut was low and wide, squatting like a malicious toad at the end of the gorge. Twin lines of black smoke rose from within, and this close the rider could smell the stench of burning flesh. The doorway was dark, but he could sense movement within. The rider held his crescent-bladed jumonji lance high above his head, the dark blue iron catching the fading sun’s light in dazzling fire and blazing crimson. “Ogre! I am Tseren-Khulan, called the Crimson Demon and Chief of the Seven Spears of Ōtsuiga. I come with words from the Shogun!”There was movement within the darkened doorway, the sound of metal scraping against stone, and then the figure emerged. Though the door was several times the rider’s size, the massive ogre still had to squeeze its way through. A dusty red robe covered the creature’s body, while segmented iron plates hung from its shoulders and a tiger skin at its waist. Sharp tusk-like teeth sprouted from its mouth as though its jaw could not hold them, and a pair of tall, ribbed horns crowned its monstrous head. A heavy octagonal steel warclub rested easily on his shoulder. Its voice, when it came, was pitched so low that it sent vibrations running down the rider’s spine. “What do you want, hobgoblin.” The club rolled easily off the ogre’s shoulder, and he planted it on the ground, both hands resting on the top of its pommel. “The Shogun demands your supplication. The old Emperor is dying, and with it the Empire. A new, glorious dawn awaits. Submit to the Shogun now, and you shall share in that glory!”“Is that so?”The ogre lifted the club a hand’s breadth from the ground, then stamped it down again. A sharp crack sounded by the rider’s side, and he felt the lance shatter in his hand. The wolf beneath his leapt in sudden alarm, and the rider was thrown from the saddle onto the red, dusty ground. He looked up, but the ogre had not moved. “How dare you, shaman! Harm me, and the Shogun will show you no mercy. You shall be obliterated. Your entire people shall be wiped from this realm!” He reached for the sword tucked into his silk sash, but as his fingers closed over the handle he felt a searing pain. With a cry, he flung the sword from his side. Where it landed, he could see the metal glowing a dull red. The ogre stood as still as a statue, but movement shimmered around it. Flickering flames of deep blood red alit around its eyes, and the air beside it wavered like a heat mirage before splitting like overripe fruit. From gaps in reality that bled blood red flames of their own, three canid creatures emerged. Black, brisley hair sprung from red and scaly shoulders, and large spiked frills adorned their brass-collared necks. Blood-flecked muzzles curled around murderous teeth in vicious snarls. The wolf, which had been standing over its fallen master, gave a soft whine and then turned and loped off into the hills. The fallen hobgoblin looked up at the ogre and the three creatures snarling at its side, and saw no mercy in any of them. “Daemon-”, he began, with as much venom as he could muster, but the ogre stamped the end of his club on the ground again. As one, the beasts pounced. There was a short scream, then a long, prolonged and wet sound of the body being torn apart. The ogre did not stay to watch. Crouching, he turned back to his hut and descended into the gloom. The caves below ran for miles, deep beneath the earth. Deep into darkness. Let the Shogun plan his war. His own masters waited below, in shadow and flame.

Advent Stories: The Finale of Fleets

Admiral Ranevok Grimbreaker surveyed his armada from the tallest tower of his black ark Suncrusher, appreciating the sleek wolfships and waverunners that made up the majority of his forces while casting a side eye at the disgusting, smoke-belching duardin cog-haulers and ungainly human grand galleons. He’d be happy for their firepower and resilience in the coming days, when his crusade force reached their target: the Ossiarch fortress city of Myrnax. They were ahead of schedule, the waters glittering azure from the cloudless skies and favourable winds the mercurial gods gifted them their entire trip . Not that the duardin vessels cared for that, nor even Ranevok’s black ark. He chuckled and sneered as he felt it vibrating, knowing that the great mantis shrimp that bore Suncrusher aloft growled with anger - and hunger. Aqshy’s hot seas provided little in the way of nutrients for the monster and he liked it that way. It was easier to control a broken monster when you controlled when and how much it got fed. It’s why Ranevok chose the beast to build his fiefdom upon, Suncrusher growing into a veritable city like all other respectable black arks. He also chose it for what it could do to any walls that thought to bar Ranevok from the gold and glory he desired. Suncrusher rocked violently, Ranevok’s sea legs saving him from a tumble into the spiked oblivion of his own city. He cursed as he looked ahead and saw the seas turning choppy despite the calm weather. A sudden wave crested and overtook one of the small wolfships scouting ahead, the ship vanishing with the wave like some parlour trick. He looked around and saw more and more tides rocking the ships of his armada, heard the crack of gunfire and the screams of the dying reach him, ever so faintly, at the top of Suncrusher.  In one swift motion he had a spyglass up to his eye, looking down at a cog-hauler whose duardin crew was blasting and chopping away at some oversized crabs that the tumultuous sea had deposited on their deck. Several duardin shoveled coal in a desperate attempt to restart their engines, but the cog-hauler belched its last as something cut the iron-hided ship nearly in two. Ranevok spat curses to all the gods of sea, ocean and spite as ever-growing waves bore down upon his ships. More and more of them, coming from all directions. A grand galleon broadsided one wave to no avail, everything - crew, masts, rigging - disappearing from its deck as the wave crashed over it. Even Suncrusher wavered as the seas betrayed them. Thunder boomed within the seas as Suncrusher’s beast opened fire, a massive nova of superheated water exploding everywhere in every direction from the blast. Ranevok grinned as the seas calmed momentarily, his own beast clearly besting whatever nightmare tried to turn him into prey.  Then Ranevok was thrown off his feet as Suncrusher quaked. Seconds passed without abatement, the ancient Admiral carefully picking himself up and bracing against his balcony’s railing. Ranevok’s next curses drew the attention of darker powers than most would care beckon, eyes locking onto the now red sea and one of his beast’s mighty claws as it bobbed in the frothing water once, twice before sinking. “Make to land!” Ranevok bellowed, gesturing towards the closest island. Signals were sent by flag, smoke, and magick, and every vessel in his fleet changed course sharply to race toward that island and salvation. Ranevok raced down the stairs as Suncrusher continued to shake itself apart, the black ark’s city not built to withstand this level of torment. Every time he fell, he skittered back to his feet with desperation instead of anything resembling aelven grace. He fell only during the worst quakes and he knew those could only be caused by something killing his beast. His fiefdom. “Keep it alive!” Ranevok screamed as he rushed past his personal cabal of Ghyranite  sorcerers, some of them already lying dead in their attempts to keep Suncrusher and its beast from beyond Shyish’s gate. By the time he emerged on Suncrusher’s main thoroughfare or main deck, the sea behind them was dark with the lifeblood of his fiefdom and his armada. He rushed to the bow of Suncrusher, seeing too few of his ships beached on the island just ahead of them as his beast started to claw its way onto the island. One of its alien eye-stalks sensed his presence, turning up to look at Ranevok. “Don’t you dare die!” Ranevok screamed at the monstrosity he had broken for his own benefit. His voice broke as his words turned to pleading. “You can’t! It can’t end like this!” The creature collapsed then, finally free of its servitude in death, and in doing so spilled Ranevok overboard. He landed on its head as it lay in final sleep, tumbling off its hither-to impenetrable carapace and landing roughly in the blood-soaked sand below. Rough hands helped him up, but Ranevok shoved them away and screamed at the survivors assembled around them. “Which one of you forgot your tithe?!” He grabbed a nearby duardin by the beard, dragging him close. “Was it you?! Did you think Urak-Nal a myth?!” As the duardin shook his head, Ranevok whirled on one of the in-land, desert barbarians recently assimilated into the Cities of Sigmar in Aqshy. “How about you! Have you even heard of It Who Drags Below? Or are you so illiterate I should call it Krabnos?!” Something nipped at his heel and he kicked it before looking, seeing a crab go flying through the air to plop back into the rising water. Another crab emerged, then another. Crabs of different colours, shapes, and sizes began to crawl from the red roiling surf, the only things connecting them being strange, runic script covering their shells and the mad hunger seen in their clacking claws and writhing mandibles. What remained of his crusade force retreated a step, uttering prayers to Sigmar and their people’s other gods. “It’s too late for that,” Ranevok sighed, drawing his cutlasses. He injected what power he could into his voice as he pointed forward. “They are the enemy! Form up and prepare to repel the assault! Save your guns for when the bigger ones show up!” “T-that one’s man-sized!” a human shouted. “They get bigger,” Ranevok said, spitting to the side. “A lot bigger.” Even though he paid his dues, Ranevok knew Krabnos’ family would show him no mercy. His fleet was already lost, a crusade’s worth of men, weapons, and relics sent to wage an entire war against the Bonereapers. But his fiefdom still stood… if a bit lopsided. Even if it couldn’t prowl the seas ever again, it was still there and it was still his. “You can’t have it!” Ranevok Grimbreaker screamed, dodging a massive claw and skewering the crazed crab’s head. “This one is mine Krabnos! THIS ONE IS ALL MINE!” But Ranevok and his forces fell back, step by bloody step, as the crabs continued to come and the waters continued to rise. Cutlasses and bullets skipped off thick shells, while monstrous claws snipped and crushed, leaving only a red ruin of bodies in their wake. As the front lines moved up the blood-churned sands of the beach, smaller crabs swarmed the remains, pincers plucking rings, jewels, and all that glittered before returning it to the red seas. Ranevok’s troops held as the ogor-sized crabs emerged and smashed through platemail to pulp the man within. His troops balked as carnosaur-sized crabs required their ship-board cannons to take down. By the time a crab arrived that could out-crush a mawkrusha, his troops had pushed off and set sail once more despite the crabs swarming their ships. Ranevok cursed their cowardice and watched their ships scuttle and sink in their vain attempts to escape the fate of all who deny Krabnos his tithe. All the while, he fought off crabs as he danced his way back up his dead beast and finally hauled himself onto Suncrusher’s deck. Water splashed as he planted his feet, looking around to see privateers and civilians alike fighting off crabs that skittered over his flooding fiefdom’s streets and buildings. Ranevok looked upon his ruin with despair, and screamed.

Advent Stories: A Bloody Oasis

A warm wind blows across the plains of the Scarland, fanning the flame of the inferno raging inside the Three Sisters. It’s militia, responsible for quenching any fire that breaks out, lays dead on the roads winding around the massive outcrops on which the city is built. Soldiers of the X Fretensis go from house to house, taking all of value that is not too cumbersome and setting fire to the rest. Wild Corpse-Rippa Vulchas are circling around in the sky above, eagerly waiting for their turn, while two Kharadron Ironclads fire their harpoons into one of the Aqualiths floating within the city and pulling it away, it’s waters splashing down quenching some of the flames.  Marcus stood a couple hundred yards away from the city, stoically watching the burning city before him, hands behind his back, the blazing heat reaching him even here. Marcus held mixed feelings for the spectacle happening before him. The fires reminded him of his former home, his family, and while he did not set the fire himself that time, a burning city still reminded him of that failure. On the other hand the destruction of the flames showed the power he now held, and how he could hold the fate of a city in his hands if he put his mind to it. He liked that feeling, he liked it enough to take the unpleasant memories of his former home for granted. The price for wealth and power.  Not too far away from him, carts were filled up with the loot taken by his men. “To the winner the spoils”, Marcus thought to himself, while in the corner of his eye he spotted several figures running into desert known as the Starfall Sands.  Heavy bootsteps in the sands behind him, together with the smell of freshly baked bread, alerted Marcus to the presence of the Kharadron Admiral.  “You let them run away, dear?” The admiral spoke up, gesturing to the people running away into the desert. Marcus shrugs in response. “Let them leave. If they think their chances of survival are greater in the desert, who are we to dissuade them from such foolish notions?”  The admiral shakes her head. “You are a cruel man, Marcus.” Marcus responds with only his signature rakish smile, making the admiral roll her eyes.  It remained quiet for a minute between the two, while in the distance, three audible thuds of iron puncturing stone signals the seizure of the second Aqualith by the Frigates of the Kharadron mercenaries. A content smile appears on Marcus' face. The troops of the X Fretensis were moving away from the burning city, wagons filled with loot in tow. In the sky, one of the Ironclads detaches themselves from the first Aqualith and turns around, moving back towards the city, setting course for the last Aqualith.  “Your company is as efficient as always, Theodora.”  “Guaranteed delivery, dear. That’s no joke. You want to continue with the next step?” “The Perishable, Non-Perishable, and Needs-To-Perish clause? Yes.” Theodora waits for a moment. “Are you sure?” Marcus takes a deep breath, letting the magnitude of the decision settle for a few seconds. “The client wished to set an example of what happens when they are refused. So an example we shall make. Proceed.” Theodra turns around, nodding to her signaler, who proceeds to raise his flags. The signals were for the Ironclad that had made its way to the last Aqualith. Who, after receiving the signals, turned so one of its broadsides was facing the Aqualith. With a second set of flag motions, the Ironclad opens fire on the Aqualith. It’s ammunition blows holes in the Aqualith, from which fresh water begins to pour out, falling down on the burning city below. A second broadside disrupted the Geomantic Magic that holds the Aqualith aloft, causing it to tilt sideways, slowly losing altitude. The water now rushes out of cisterns hidden in the rocks, turning the small pour of water into a torrent, crushing windmills, lifts and bridges already damaged by the fire. A third set of flag motions signals the Ironclad to move above the falling Aqualith. The moment it gets there, it drops a load of bombs on top of the Aqualith, severely damaging the metalith and severing the Geomantic Magic completely, causing the Aqualith to freefall down towards the city of Three Sisters. The impact was a spectacle, rock, water and fire everywhere, followed by boiling hot steam and mud covering its streets. Satisfied, Marcus turns around and walks toward the rest of the X Fretensis, followed closely by Theodora and her signaler. In the sky, the two remaining Aqualiths were towed away. Theodora speaks up first. “Who needs two Aqualiths…?.”  Marcus thinks for a moment, then answers. “The client wanted just one at first, but the Three Sisters refused their offer.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “What a bloody mess.”  Marcus just shrugs. “More like a bloody oasis.” 

Advent Stories: The Hunter and the Hunted

 Bubbles rose from the murky depths, bursting in the stagnant air. The frothy mixture had an unsettling stench that lingered far too long. Beneath his long brimmed hat Heinrichus Helsbane glowered down at the foul swill as bits of some unidentifiable material gathered at the tankard’s bottom. He was a long way from Azyr and all its amenities, but a job needed to be done.    He glanced over the tankard's rim, scanning the poorly lit pub another time. Grime encrusted walls danced with muted firelight and strangely shaped shadows. Not much had changed since he had arrived. Mud slathered locals came and went, filling themselves full of similarly repugnant liquids until they could hardly walk out the door. Each seemed to share a similar sentiment to the next, remarking on the hardships of their crop, unfortunate weather, or the encroaching cold of winter.    Helsbane had received a suspicious glance or two over the course of the evening, but none dared approach the cloaked stranger lurking in the corner. He was sure that news of his arrival had made it around the town, in fact, he was relying on it. Steepfield, or Bolyany as its stubborn citizens insisted on calling it, was a place that held old secrets. Perhaps the kind that could explain the sudden appearance of an entirely alien island in their beloved lake.    Sudden movement from the far corner booth caught his eye. A cloaked duardin slid from the bench as he tossed a few copper onto the table. He glanced around before brushing his gray beard and waddling out of the pub. The same one Helsbane had tracked to this abysmal place over the past weeks. Reeking of foul magics, the witch hunter itched to put the duardin down here and now but he was only half the equation here.    After several moments a hooded local slipped from the same booth. This one moved almost silently, giving a nod to the barkeep and exiting the building. Helsbane wasted no time, leaving the awful brew behind to molder. Cold air whipped through the swinging door as the elements forced their way into the humid pub. Outside, the world was frigid and winter winds howled down the empty street.    The Witchhunter glanced right then left, only glimpsing his quarry for a moment before he disappeared onto a side street. Helsbane moved as fast as lightning, turning the corner in pursuit. The alley led between the sagging houses that lined the street, the faintest bit of moonlight giving the suspect’s location as he turned down the next throughway. Struggling to keep a safe distance, Helsbane sprinted, his hand slipping under his coat to grip the holster there, just in case. He cut the turn to see the whole alley.    Nothing.   Disbelief struck him, either they knew the town that well or something bigger was happening here. Urgency drove Helsbane out of the stunned moment. He dashed ahead, rounding another right corner and out into an open street. Puffs of crystalized breath hung in the air as Helsbane breathed heavily.    “What the…”, he muttered under his freezing breath as he looked around.   Without warning, another voice shattered the evening silence.    “Late night, my fellow Azyrite?”, asked Father Tremane, standing out front of the Temple of Sigmar. He was as aged and eroded as the temple he looked after. Its exterior was weathered and streaked with grime. Sickly roots tore at the facade as if the land itself refused to accept its presence.    “Father, I apologize for the intrusion. I just…”, Helsbane shook off the ill feeling creeping up on him.    “You seem troubled. Do come in, we've just finished evening service.”, the priest offered a hand towards the dimly lit, rather empty temple.   “I was just looking for someone that just passed by… they were interested in my work.” Helsbane composed himself quickly, knowing well that it would be foolish to trust anyone, even a fellow Azyrite.   “I'm afraid the faithful may have carried your colleague off to the pub with them.”, Tremane chuckled.   Before Helsbane could respond, a sharp thump of striking wood echoed from within the temple. The priest nearly leapt out of his skin, spinning around to see the assailant. A shambling mass of cloth and mud shuddered through the doorway.   “Madam Powler.” The priest let out an audible sigh “I thought you'd left with the rest.”   “The cold’s gettin’ tuh these old bones” Ma Powler replied as her ancient face looked up at the two. “Don't move like I used tuh.”   Ma Powler forced a grin, but the long creases etched into her face said otherwise. Her robes were stained with dirt and snow melt, while only barely disguising her hunch. She leaned on the gnarled walking stick, its petrified wood curled upwards into a knot that grasped a dark chunk of mineral Helsbane couldn't identify.   “I will admit.” The priest paused. “It was a surprise to see you, but not unwelcome at all. We hope to see you more.”   “Well I was in town for some business.” She shot Helsbane a predatory glance, this time the crone’s grin was genuine. “I just had to stop by.” The sarcasm in her craggy voice was as thick as the frozen ground.   Father Tremane rolled his eyes in sore frustration before taking a step back in defeat.    “I must close up for the night. I bid you both good night. May Sigmar guide you.” The priest curtly stepped into his house and shut the doors. The muffled thumps of several locks being set punctuated his exit.   “Well well, I ought to be gettin’ home.” Ma Powler stated, turning to move up the road. “It’s late and you ought to, too. Only gonna get colder from here on.” The crone laughed aloud and patted Helsbane on his side twice before shuffling on her way, humming an unfamiliar tune.   Helsbane stood, rooted to the spot, watching her slowly disappear up the street and towards the frozen edges of town. The Witchhunter quietly walked a meandering path to the inn he had decided to stay at for the night. As he walked, his fingers traced over the mysterious scrap of paper that had found its way into his coat pocket.    Helsbane slid silently through the door, past the sleeping innkeeper, and up to the room. The Witchhunter peeked through the frosted window, seeing nothing, save a lamplighter somberly working their way down the street. Years of training held him there by the window until the street was empty. He quietly doffed his boots, wet with snow melt and dropping a length of root, the same kind that pervaded the town.     The scrap of paper was dirty and ragged, most likely torn from a local advertisement. Aged ink spelled out barely decipherable print, but what was important was inside. Helsbane carefully unfolded it to reveal a message. The handwriting was poor, unpracticed, but delivered the ominous message regardless. The hair on Heinrichus Helsbane’s neck stood tall as he read.Outsider yeh tread un ancient groundWinter grows deeper than ever, colder than Ol Bones himselfYeh do not know what comes, nor is the Lightning Lord prepared for itOur roots go deeper than any and this sacred land we will preserveThe Burnin’ Isle is just the beginningChoose yer side wiselyMay yer roots guide ye properM. P.   The Witchhunter stared at the note in stunned silence. Amongst the moldering floorboards, a stray length of root twitched, shuddered and reached its grasping tendrils underneath the bare foot of Heinrichus Helsbane.

Advent Stories: The Past No Longer

The boy’s earliest memory was his mother’s death.KRINNGH!Her body glistened with sweat in the candlelight, wracked by fever. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she frothed at the mouth as Grandfather bestowed his gifts, her abdomen rupturing and blossoming opening like some obscene flora.KRINNGH!The metallic ring of the hammer blow resounded through the halls of the Sigmarabulum. The memory burnt away beneath the white-hot strike and was replaced by another. He remembered his father’s face, brow furrowed with rage abated only by devout prayer. He remembered the march of boots and hooves as the city emptied for battle. He was too young to fight; he was left behind.KRINNGH!He was raised by tutors, each one stern and uncompromising. Aelves cloaked in shadow taught him how to fight, and when his ability for sorcery emerged, aelves cloaked in light taught him how to harness it. Wight kings long dead instructed him on matters of rulership and undying faith, while scarred old duardin mentored him on how to wage a war. Some day his father would return, dead or alive, and he would need to be ready.KRINNGH! He lost his father’s face in the heat of the hammerstrike, but remembered the sweat on his body, wracked by fever. He returned neither dead or alive, but something worse, his body torn open by a pestilent blade. Despairing, the boy turned to his faith, trusting the Undying King to save his father’s life.KRINNGH! His childhood withered and burned away on the anvil, lost among the sparks. He was a king and a priest, a warrior and a sorcerer. At his back was an army of the holy and devout. They stood before the Shyish Arcway shoulder-to-shoulder with the God-King himself. There his faith demanded that he quit the field, and though he wished nothing more than to avenge himself upon the slaves to darkness, he could not risk his father’s life. The armies of Nagash left Sigmar’s and his warriors to their fate.KRINNGH!His youth was lost to Azyr's wars of vengeance upon Shyish, and later the Dark Gods’ conquest of it. His faith was sorely tested as years became decades and the hope of victory a distant memory. Too old to fight any longer, he despaired that he would never see his home again. In this hour of greatest need, his faith was rewarded, and nothing less than a Mortarch bestowed upon him the blood kiss of immortality. In that moment he was remade, stronger than he’d ever been. He would spend the next five centuries repaying this debt.KRINNGH!Hundreds of years burned away on the anvil like ashes in the wind. The name Eresiel slipped through his fingers and was forgotten. Instead, he was returned home. Once again an army marched at his back, his reward for unyielding faith. He would finally be reunited with his father and prove himself a worthy heir.KRINNGH! KRINNGH! KRINNGH!Something wore his father’s flesh as a husk, and now free of its bindings, it had no further use for the vampire that had released it. The boy did not lament as the hammer struck these memories, as the pain fell away, too. Every despair, every betrayal, every failure; losing them was a mercy.KRINNGH! KRINNGH! KRINNGH!For the first time, the boy recoiled from the hammer. He didn’t want to forget this moment. He stood alone, his death certain, his defiance absolute. It was the only moment he’d ever become what he always meant to be. It was a better thing than he’d done his entire life. He didn’t want to forget. He didn’t want to forget…KRINNGH! KRINNGH! KRINNGH! KRINNGH! KRINNGH! KRINNGH!***Clad in gleaming cerulean and white, their face hidden behind the stern features of their Mask Impassive, the Knight-Incantor crossed the antechamber where a Knight-Relictor stood, waiting to receive them. The Relictor offered the Incantor’s stave, and for a moment, both warriors' hands clasped its haft.“Who are you?” the Knight-Relictor’s hoarse voice rasped, the stave still in his grasp.“My name is Attica,” the warrior replied, betraying no emotion. The Relictor respectfully inclined his head and surrendered the Incantor’s weapon.“‘I died. I was reforged. It is by Sigmar’s will.’

Advent Stories: A Dream Reforged

 Lord-Celestant Balian Stormmantle pulled at the fur cloak about his shoulders to stave off the morning’s chill. It had been an early winter and the situation had not been helped by the frost coming from the Ghyrplunge Realmgate, Balian ruminated as he walked through the empty streets that had once been Amasya. The once broken city had been given new life as the Knights of the Fulgurite Order Stormhost took stewardship and rebranded it as Pilgrim’s Hollow. By his side was Swoz, his trusted grot companion and studious engineer. The two had come to inspect the fortified gatehouse that was once Yol Grimnir. The road and gatehouse had been hastily destroyed to cover those retreating from the devastation. The duardin of the local garrison had been tasked with the restoration. Balian and Swoz marveled at the craftsmanship.  As the first rays of the Hysh crested the valley, Balian’s attention was drawn to the mighty Stardrake, Tiberon, who’s roar welcomed the light as it did every morning since he had taken the mantle of Champion of Pilgrim’s Hollow. Balian also spotted the pale saurian Kroxtetl sharing in Tiburon's welcoming of the sun. The Seraphon under his command had made their home by the Stardrake and were welcomed additions to the city. Balian and Swoz entered the area of the Hollow known as Traveler’s Rest, a residential area for those who have made the long journey. As they walked through the streets Balian stopped and directed Swoz’s gaze towards the dryads as they left the glade in the town centre. Alarielle’s children had taken root here and managed the greenery of the area. Balian smiled at the young grots' wonder and motioned for them to move on.Noise from across the river drew their attention. Even this early a pair of orruks were in a brawl with an ogor. A score of grots circled the trio taking bets. The Fulgurite Order so believed in the dream that was Amasya they continued to welcome all, so long as their intentions were noble. Balian and Swoz shared a laugh as they came to the central fortress. Sundrake Citadel had been raised where Azyrhol and Isik Kulesi once stood. Part fortress and part arcane tower, it was named after Tiburon's morning ritual. It was garrisoned by those who refused to abandon the hallowed necropolis and those travellers who decided that this dream was worth fighting for. Balian and Swoz walked through its main street seeing soldiers going about their morning routine. Balian’s thoughts went to former Seneschal-General von Helminger and hoped she was well.The companions departed the Citadel and soon came upon Heroes Haven. Once the great necropolis of Rahipmezar. The Fulgurite Order salvaged what they could and rebuilt the sepulchre. Upon completion a monument was erected featuring the names of all those who made the ultimate sacrifice in both Amasya’s reclamation and its unfortunate demise. Standing proudly atop is a statue of Angela Sunsoul, who lost her immortal life safeguarding the defender’s withdrawal. Standing at the entrance was a skeletal figure dressed in royal finery. Balian saluted King Duskstalker as he approached. Swoz idled nearby, studying the memorial as the two leaders spoke. The restless dead had become the nocturnal guardians of Pilgrim’s Hollow so that the living may rest. Nodding the two parted ways as the wight king entered the necropolis. Balian waited for Swoz to rejoin him as they continued their journey towards the stormkeep. Grung Esik, supposed masterpiece of the duardin god Grungni, was the only part of Amasya that was spared. Now the site of the Brightblade, the new home of the Fulgurite Order and cementing their role as the stewards of Amasya. The Stormcast hoped to soon have the broken sluice gates working to better help travellers along the Ur-River. Balian saw Lord-Relictor Dawncaller standing at the entry gates. The rictus grin of his Mask Impassive darkened in the morning light. “Hail Lord Stormmantle! Your timing is impeccable.” His tone was warm and mirthful. “A Kriegsrat is about to convene.” Balian’s step faltered slightly. A war council had been called. “Where does the battle lead us this time?” Balian inquired. The answer froze him to the core. “Azyr, lad. War has come to Sigmar’s door.”

Advent Stories: Something In The Water

Governor Ames Hatfeld clutched his cloak tight about his shoulders. The Shyish underworld of Lake Bykaal was a frozen hellscape at the best of times, but the newly-opened realmgate to Ghyran had thawed the place and the Everqueen’s subsequent Rite of Life made it almost livable. No more, it seemed, and suddenly Ames understood why his predecessor, Gustov Johann Schmidt, had so quickly abandoned the governorship of Fort Gavurstammeiner after all these years.The steep mountain path finally gave way and Ames’ entourage saw the summit before them. Yannick’s Observatory, they called it, named after the crazy old coot who lived there. Ames, only just arrived the week before, hadn’t yet made time to visit him, but the wizard’s messenger pigeons were incessant, coming hour after hour, summoning him at once.Yannick, all grey goatee, glinting spectacles and bundled furs, did not stand on ceremony before his new Governor, and instead practically dragged the reluctant man to the top of the tower. It’d been built above the tributary where the Ur-River flowed into Lake Bykaal, and one could see all the lake from here. Ames, attempting to make sense of the wizard’s over-wrought explanations, noted with unease that the tower’s great telescopic apparatus was not pointed at the Ghyrplunge realmgate, as it normally would be, but toward the lake.“This is what I’m telling you,” Yannick insisted. “I can no longer see the cult of Khaine’s citadel, nor anything else to the sound. There is something in the way, something ponderous, gargantuan!” Ames’ stomach tightened at the words: he’d read Schmidt’s reports of the great evil that was entombed here. “Snow and ice yet blind my looking-glasses, but I’m telling you, there’s something there!”***When last war came to Lake Bykaal, the Verminlord they called Technofire had adopted the name Oracle of Enlightenment. His body was riddled with warpstone and aetherquartz, giving him a… unique perspective on things. Where once bickering clans and tribes of Skaven and beastmen had infested this underworld, there was now only the Cult of Enlightenment, all sharing one mind with their master. Nestled deep below the mountains, it was through the eyes of his follower-thralls that the Oracle beheld the coming upheaval.At first the Verminlord feared the impossibly vast and rotting husk buried beneath Bykaal had resurfaced - and the malignancy it bore with it - but the scopes of his jezzails soon put that theory to rest. It was made of earth and stone and ice, rising out of the lake’s waters without ever disturbing the surface. His prized Arch-Warlock took arcane readings from his hissing, sparking devices while careening Doom-flayers raced across freshly-forming ice to investigate. Deep within the fog, the Verminlord’s countless ears could just make out the mournful stroke of a single hammer against an anvil, its irregular beat not unlike a dying heart.***Hellendra Feyscorn’s face was a bitter scowl. Mind you, it often was, save during the rare delight of an undeserving murder, but today was worse than usual, and even her Witch Aelves avoided her glare, to say nothing of the shivering, miserable wretches shackled to the blade-like galley’s oars.This underworld was rightfully hers; Hammerhal itself had ceded their claim to Morathi-Khaine’s people. Still, they were neither Ossiarch nor Nighthaunt or Chaos daemon; they required food to eat, and with the native’s declaration of independence, resupply would come only through the Sigmarite-held Ghyrplunge realmgate.Which was why she now embarked to visit her newly-arrived counterpart in Fort Gavurstammeiner, not to flay him living and bathe in his blood, but to negotiate trade agreements. She clenched her fists before forcing herself to relax, a nearby subordinate delicately moving further away at the gesture.She was almost relieved when a shout went up from the bow. She raced foreward, but found the sentry stupefied, the woman’s mouth agape. Hellendra’s eyes searched the mist before realizing the impossibility of what lay before them.The lake bore no islands, yet she saw great columns of ice and rock, and beyond them ruined battlements and cast-down hovels. It stretched as far as she could see to the starboard and the port, utterly blocking their passage. Hellendra’s scowl split into a wild grin. It appeared she would have more to speak about with the Governor than just stale rations.***The Mayor of Bolyany Gertrude Brown and her son Gerrit Brown sat in respectful silence, mugs of turnip-broth held tightly between cold hands. The lake’s “new arrival” was the talk of the town, and their confusion, they had sought the counsel of the most wise among them: Ma Powler, the Root-Elder. She busied herself about her hovel, working at her own pace, chopping and dicing and stowing, countless jars of fermenting roots and strings of drying roots all about the place. They knew better than to interrupt her; she would answer them when she was ready.“Bykaal was an underworld for sailors lost at sea,” she spoke at length, her voice cracked and grating but not unkind. “But no longer. Things have changed since I was young,” she laughed. “This place, our home… it is a low spot in the Ur-River. Our realm is the end of all things, and all things which have found their end on the Ur-River will now find their way here.”“But this is no lost soul, Ma Powler,” Gerrit interrupted, and his mother shot the hot-headed youth a withering glance. He shrank back as though struck. Ma Powler laughed again.“All things die, even things that cannot know death…” she peered at him, suddenly, peircingly, and he squirmed further. “... in the way that you do. No,” she turned back and rummaged through a pot for a stick of charcoal. “All things die, but death is not the end, not in Shyish. That’s the way of our realm, of our home, and children should learn as much.” She scratched a single word into a bit of of cloth with the charcoal as she spoke and set it before the Browns.Stumbling over the pronunciation, Gertrude was the first to speak it aloud.“Frörholm,” she breathed.

Animosity VI - Naro's 20 Turn 5 Hobby Highlights

5 Weeks into the campaign and just under 1000 Player Reports have been collected. Please take time to enjoy the following 20 Hobby Highlights!Links to player Imgur, Blogspot, Reddit, X/Twitter, BlueSky, Instagram, and DeviantArt postings will be shared with best effort and intentions. Be sure to like and follow them! Links to player Google Drive/Docs/Photos will not be shared. ***Discord Username: turkeypanini1 Media: https://imgur.com/a/PHgH1oPDiscord Username: @Nahtymetal2 Media: Google DriveDiscord Username: manos katakis3 Media: Google DriveDiscord Username: Malthan.4 Media: Google DriveDiscord Username: Myaori5 Media: https://imgur.com/a/z2McN6wDiscord Username: hjalti_61396 Media: Google DriveDiscord Username: RedMulli7 Media: Google DriveDiscord Username: Foreverodd8 Media: Google DriveDiscord Username: JMWormwood9 Media: Google DriveDiscord Username: myth10 Media: Google DriveDiscord Username: Sudsinabucket11 Media: https://x.com/SinaraiP/status/1821013552330670301?t=hjMut7r1tSbkkqObo9z-qQ&s=19Discord Username: @.ironblaze12 Media: Google DriveDiscord Username: GorksPokinFinger13 Media: Google DriveDiscord Username: @FriendOrTraitor#036214 Media: Google DriveDiscord Username: fookiee15 Media: Google DriveDiscord Username: lonelyashtree16 Media: https://bsky.app/profile/lonelyashtree.bsky.social/post/3kz3x23a4kt2iDiscord Username: leoxandar17 Media: https://x.com/thekolbitar/status/1819532386771653063Discord Username: PerryHotter18 Media: https://bsky.app/profile/perryhotter.bsky.social/post/3kytyirxnzh2nDiscord Username: zim4219 Media: Google DriveDiscord Username: QuietWoods20 Media: Google Drive

Animosity VI - Naro's 20 Turn 4 Hobby Highlights

4 Weeks into the campaign and just over 810 Player Reports have been collected. Please take time to enjoy the following 20 Hobby Highlights!!!Links to player Imgur, Blogspot, Reddit, X/Twitter, BlueSky, Instagram, and DeviantArt postings will be shared with best effort and intentions. Be sure to like and follow them! Links to player Google Drive/Docs/Photos will not be shared. * * *Discord Username: Paul | Steamwrought ChuglordsMedia: https://imgur.com/a/XE5YVlXDiscord Username: Templars_of_Our_Burning_SaviourMedia: https://www.deviantart.com/ourburningsaviour/art/1079063322Discord Username: Wedges#7942Media: Google DriveDiscord Username: KingangstMedia: Google DriveDiscord Username: ironblazeMedia: Google DriveDiscord Username: @FriendOrTraitor#0362Media: Google DriveDiscord Username: elchapuMedia: Google DriveDiscord Username: ForeveroddMedia: Google DriveDiscord Username: GorksPokinFingerMedia: Google DriveDiscord Username: LonelyashtreeMedia: https://bsky.app/profile/lonelyashtree.bsky.social/post/3ky4wv4punl25Discord Username: Malthan.Media: Google DriveDiscord Username: manos katakisMedia: Google DriveDiscord Username: MyaoriMedia: https://imgur.com/a/EDlLymfDiscord Username: PerryHotterMedia: https://bsky.app/profile/perryhotter.bsky.social/post/3kybqnnqoy62xDiscord Username: vinia_46825Media: Google DriveDiscord Username: @snuggatronMedia: https://www.instagram.com/p/C98587ENFvY/Discord Username: JMWormwoodMedia: Google DriveDiscord Username: RedAngel97Media: https://x.com/Kyleambler97/status/1816950628247126417/photo/1Discord Username: RedMulliMedia: Google DriveDiscord Username: the_resident_sassmasterMedia: https://x.com/Sass_Warhammer/status/1816700438818783405/photo/1

Animosity VI - Naro's 25 Turn 3 Hobby Highlights

3 Weeks into the campaign and just under 650 Player Reports have been collected. Please take time to enjoy the following 25 Hobby Highlights!!!Links to player Imgur, Blogspot, Reddit, X/Twitter, BlueSky, Instagram, and DeviantArt postings will be shared with best effort and intentions. Be sure to like and follow them! Links to player Google Drive/Docs/Photos will not be shared. DiscordHandle: Wedges#7942Media: Google DriveDiscord Handle: RedMulliMedia: Google DriveDiscord Handle: RedAngel97Media: https://x.com/Kyleambler97/status/1814292959212253631?t=b5_BO_Dk9JN-djEGS2dLjw&s=19Discord Handle: @snuggatronMedia: https://www.instagram.com/p/C9jOPMHOrAv/?igsh=Zzc4bTYyczMyZnY0Discord Handle: lonelyashtreeMedia: https://bsky.app/profile/lonelyashtree.bsky.social/post/3kxdy5epg3s24Discord Handle: Doc#3277Media: Google DriveDiscord Handle: admacritchieMedia: Google DriveDiscord Handle: Paul | Steamwrought ChuglordsMedia: https://imgur.com/a/more-ironguts-butcher-armor-up-to-burn-zaleria-WmQWBvPDiscord Handle: MyaoriMedia: https://imgur.com/a/clanrats-W2R2v4mDiscord Handle: XerexMedia: DiscordDiscord Handle: zim42Media: Google DriveDiscord Handle: Byeti5608Media: Google DriveDiscord Handle: @.ironblazeMedia: Google DriveDiscord Handle: GorksPokinFingerMedia: Google DriveDiscord Handle: QuietWoodsMedia: Google DriveDiscord Handle: malthanMedia: Google DocsDiscord Handle: SudsinabucketMedia: https://x.com/SinaraiP/status/1814376781559779839?t=_MPG1W9iZZl8hnUHhYQ93w&s=19Discord Handle: Kage_YukiMedia: https://www.instagram.com/p/C9j9FDTOgEj/?igsh=cWMwZHBnZjBheWhnDiscord Handle: PerryHotterMedia: https://bsky.app/profile/perryhotter.bsky.social/post/3kxqv5insr52iDiscord Handle: KingangstMedia: Google DriveDiscord Handle: ZyggyMedia: Google DriveDiscord Handle: malthan.Media: Google DocsDiscord Handle: Doominator407#2479Media: Google DriveDiscord Handle: ValentianThePersistent/ArrangarMedia: Google DriveDiscord Handle: FookieeMedia: https://x.com/fatwookiee/status/1814816511397097523?s=46&t=ZnfpLKIeNa-1PwM2n8amsw

Animosity VI - Naro's 25 Turn 2 Hobby Highlights

2 Weeks into the campaign and just under 460 Player Reports have been collected. Please take time to enjoy the following 25 Hobby Highlights!!!Links to player Imgur, Blogspot, Reddit, X/Twitter, BlueSky, Instagram, and DeviantArt postings will be shared with best effort and intentions. Be sure to like and follow them! Links to player Google Drive/Docs/Photos will not be shared. Discord Handle: Byeti5608Media: Google DocsDiscord Handle: GorksPokinFingerMedia: Google DocsDiscord Handle: RedAngel97Media: https://x.com/Kyleambler97/status/1811537248187212230?t=Kfo8vdVEN-RlzcYyCUix6w&s=19Discord Handle: SevvirMedia: https://bsky.app/profile/sevvir.bsky.social/post/3kx4ehbjk252tDiscord Handle: chuck_doomMedia: https://www.tumblr.com/cribbs-blog/755924522801283072/hobby-progress-pics-for-puscifex-blightwing-andDiscord Handle: Maggestus RotspleenMedia: Google DocsDiscord Handle: Wedges#7942Media: Google DocsDiscord Handle: Bram Tallow (Redmaw)Media: https://www.instagram.com/p/C9VsBksNlx-/?igsh=MTZiZzlpczhpYzR0cA==Discord Handle: Mattsbadusername #8068Media: https://imgur.com/gallery/P7bknMjDiscord Handle: skavenrizzikMedia: Google DriveDiscord Handle: Xerex| Mios AltenguardMedia: https://discord.com/channels/708513397209169962/732341893366808607/1261396593978900542Discord Handle: admacritchieMedia: Google DocsDiscord Handle: hjalti_6139Media: Google DocsDiscord Handle: Paul | Steamwrought ChuglordsMedia: https://imgur.com/a/JagNeb9Discord Handle: RedMulliMedia: Google DocsDiscord Handle: lonelyashtreeMedia: https://bsky.app/profile/lonelyashtree.bsky.social/post/3kx3zd2auom2oDiscord Handle: Templars_of_our_burning_saviourMedia: https://www.deviantart.com/ourburningsaviour/art/1074569429Discord Handle: kage_YukiMedia: https://www.instagram.com/p/C9V1gMzO2_D/?igsh=d3BtNmt6YzZibDFpDiscord Handle: QuietWoodsMedia: Google DocsDiscord Handle: GodCloudMedia: Google DocsDiscord Handle: @snuggatronMedia: https://www.instagram.com/p/C9YqOsHts-C/?igsh=aXI3bTdvNGx6am1jDiscord Handle: Doominator407#2479Media: Google DocsDiscord Handle: Vinia_46825Media: Google DocsDiscord Handle: ZyggyMedia: Google DocsDiscord Handle: malthan.Media: Google Docs

Animosity VI - Naro's 25 Hobby Highlights

1 Week into the campaign and just under 250 Player Reports have been submitted. Please take time to enjoy the following 25 Hobby Highlights!!!Links to player Imgur, Blogspot, Reddit, X/Twitter, BlueSky, Instagram, and DeviantArt postings will be shared with best effort and intentions. Be sure to like and follow them! Links to player Google Drive/Docs/Photos will not be shared.  * * * Discord Handle: Sevvir Media:  https://bsky.app/profile/sevvir.bsky.social/post/3kvmn5rlk4n2g Discord Handle: Tobi131313 Media:   Google Drive Discord Handle: chuck_doom Media:   https://www.tumblr.com/cribbs-blog/754925029290033152/the-sporesong-swarm-joins-animosityvi?source=share Discord Handle: Wedges#7942 Media: Google Drive Discord Handle: Byeti5608 Media: Google Drive Discord Handle: GorksPokinFinger#1161 Media: Google Drive Discord Handle: mechazachbraff Media: https://www.instagram.com/p/C9G2eaAtQCB/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link&igsh=MzRlODBiNWFlZA== Discord Handle: ratlord13 Media: https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=8668113069872267&set=a.6816736035009989 Discord Handle: Doc#3277 Media: Google Drive Discord Handle: Suds/Sudsinabucket Media: Google Drive Discord Handle: nillieboi Media: https://x.com/NillieBoi/status/1808170615981105463 Discord Handle: @.ironblaze Media: Google Drive Discord Handle: j.shepherd. Media:  https://www.instagram.com/p/C9BAe4WyCx6/?igsh=NmprNjkxd3VhcDV5&img_index=2 Discord Handle: JMWormwood Media: Google Drive Discord Handle: Kage_Yuki Media: https://www.instagram.com/p/C9GJQWGu48hzyrg7pGkChP4LW5iDXJqtPCJvBk0/?igsh=MXJjdmFubWxhZWs5 Discord Handle: Templars_of_our_burning_saviour Media: https://www.deviantart.com/ourburningsaviour/art/1071986447 Discord Handle: turkeypanini Media: Google Drive Discord Handle: @FriendOrTraitor#0326 Media: Google Drive Discord Handle: @Snuggatron Media: https://www.instagram.com/p/C9G2YJBtx6K/?igsh=d3F5MXV4bjUyOG1y Discord Handle: @yay5396 Media: https://www.instagram.com/p/C842AR7tD62/?igsh=cHh1YzEyd2IxdWd3 Discord Handle: keza2929 Media: Google Drive Discord Handle: Redmulli Media: Google Drive Discord Handle: skavenrizzik Media: Google Drive Discord Handle: zim42 Media: Google Drive Discord Handle: FriendOrTraitor#0362 Media: Google Drive

Animosity VI - "... and names you do not"

Hysh, Realm of Light The woman born Mitrades Ayel was the last of her name and the first. Her great-grandfather, scholarly and inquisitive, was named friend and confidant by mighty Sigmar who once spoke to him of the very place he first set foot in the Mortal Realms. Dying of a wasting illness, he begged of his son to deliver him to the place where it all began. He passed before journey’s end, but tale of the son’s task spread and soon others sought to follow. So great a toll had the task taken upon the son’s body that he swore never to leave, and as others arrived, his shelter turned to a hut, then a cabin, and then a hall. He took another pilgrim to be his wife, and she bore him a son who fathered a daughter, the girl named Mitrades Ayel. By her youth, the settlement had become a city. Where once the devout had congregated to honor their dearly departed, strife and malcontent had taken root. Factions were forming to the shouted words of demagogues, and uncertainty weighed heavy upon the great-grandfather’s final days. To stave off disaster, a compromise was decided upon, and a single ruler installed. Amasya, as the Hallowed Necropolis was now known, would forever yield to the judgment of the Mitrades bloodline. Mitrades Ayel was no more; Mithridates Bir, the First of the Mithridates, was crowned. Her son Mithridates Iki would succeed her and reign over a golden era of prosperity. The city’s greatest architectural works like Grung Esik and Azyrhol were begun, and for the first time, the buried outnumbered the living. His son, Mithridates Uc, was ill-regarded, the shoes of his father and grandmother simply too large to fill, while Uc’s daughter Mithridates Dort would know the shortest rule, passing soon after the birth of her own son Mithridates Besh. None of them would live to see the Age of Chaos as Besh and his son Alti did. None of them knew what fate held for their city… and their bloodline. The woman who died Mithridates Bir awoke to a spectacle of devastation, watching with empty eye sockets as her beloved city was consumed by the river it stood upon. The dead had been raised from their rest to defend their home, yet even that was not enough to halt the harbinger of the earthquake god. The calamity her great-grandfather feared had finally befallen them, his bones consumed by the sacred ground he once consecrated. Bir, Iki, Uc and Dort endured, though. Their bodies broken, their heads became trophies, then relics, then idols. They learned of the ages that had passed; the coming of Chaos and the retribution of Sigmar. They learned of their descendants; how Besh had gone mad and been destroyed and how Alti had founded a new dominion which turned upon him. Finally, they learned of how wise Teclis had destroyed jealous Nagash, and how the undying armies of Shyish were routed and decimated across Hysh and become a remnant without a place to rest.Preachers and shepherds all, what remained of the Mithridates bloodline returned to their purpose.Iscarion, Prime Dominion Soulsworn Knight-Incantor Attica stood in the hall outside Iscarion’s council chambers, waiting to be received by Ceraph Dariel and his court. Their face, cast in the image of a god that was not their own, remained hidden behind the emotionless mask they seldom removed. They had never before set foot in the Prime Dominion or even departed the Realm of Heavens, yet this place, it felt… Attica was no less a Stormcast Eternal than their peers, yet stood untested and unproven, having never seen battle nor earned their war-name. Despite this, those who counseled the God-King behind closed doors had tasked them with rallying the armies of Azyr to Dariel’s side. … no, that wasn’t strictly true. The preservation of the Iscarneth Ceraphate was preferable, but preventing Waaagh! Mogrek from reaching Azyr was paramount. This command should have been everything to them, so why did they feel such sentimentality for a place they’d never been? Surely there was a reason why they had been chosen for this task, but they held no memory of their mortal life. What they could remember were feelings and sentiment; the bindings of duty and the responsibility of a leader. It would have to be enough. They would have to be… enough. The chamber doors opened, and Attica stepped forward to speak.

Animosity VI - "Names you know..."

From among the private correspondence of Ceraph Dariel, sovereign of IscarionMy Lord Dariel, You will have read the reports from my expedition to Frørholm. This is no ordinary foe that we face; this battle will require everything we have and more. It humbles me greatly that you have accepted me into your service alongside Renaya, and I would request that you listen to my advice, undesirable as I am. You are wise to seek allies beyond the borders of the Prime Dominion, and I have made contact with one such prospect, although he is quite unlike any general under your command. He is known as Qarang Sarn, the Basalt Lord, and he holds no love for Gorkamorka’s rabble. I would understand if you baulk at this yet there may be common cause, as Mogrek has slain his prized pupil, the Warden Atressa’s equerry. Should this alliance be of interest to you, I shall make all haste in arranging negotiations. Your people have shown great tolerance, for the works of Chaos are foul compared to the majesty and grace of you and yours. I know you barely accepted me, lowly as I am. But I was whelped in Ghur, in the shadow of the Mogrok’s Teeth Mountains. It is said that they formed at the passing of a beast so terrible and powerful that he tore the land asunder. I do not know that this was the same beast we face now, but Mogrok and Mogrek are not such different names, and the passing of ages leaves much obscured and changed.I ask only that you consider my counsel and deliver a swift response.Your most humble and obsequious servant,Likspit, Underside Emissary Scattered thoughts from the mind of an Ironjaw warchanterI feel it, pounding in my head. Da beat. Da rhythm of da Realms. It flows through me, splits my skull and leaves me broken and raw. And oh, how I love it!Been following da beat fer years now. More den I can count. Channeling it so dat others can feel it too. It's taken me all over, but it's all been leading here. Dis is what da beat’s been drawing me toward. My destiny, and it is loud. Mogrek, da big boss, is da loudest of all. When I stand near him I can feel da beat vibrating right through my bones, rattling my teef. Makes me want to hit something, which is good ‘cause wiv Mogrek there's no shortage of things to hit.After Amasya I wandered into da wastes on my own, following da pounding. Met a strange lad named Hogrog on da banks of Lake Bykaal. He claimed to feel da Realms through story, but that wasn't right. The Realms speak through the beat. So I kept walking. Came across a place where da Realms were screaming as they bled. Only Orruk boss there cared more about trinkets than da voice of da realms, so I kept going. Did pick up my fancy new hat, but dere wasn't much else fer me.Den I arrived at da island where da beat froze. Fer da first time in my life, da world was silent, and da pain was gone, and I hated it. So I tried to find out what was doing it before it did my head in. Didn't take long, because da other folks krumping each other dere woke it up. The heart. It was like da Realms came back to life wiv two, three… uh… lots of times the ferocity they had before. Because there was da big boss. Da biggest Orruk I've ever seen, Mogrek. And he didn't just feel da beat of the Realms, he was da beat of da Realms. He was da eye of da storm, drawing me in fer all these years, since well before me and my mates in da Skoga Grakk bashed in da Hallowed Necropolis. It’s like walking side by side wiv Gorkamorka, brought back to da realms again.So I snagged a ride off da crumbling island wiv my new mate Moonie, and we followed da beat together. We’re still following dat beat, dat con-floo-ence. Mogrek Longblade, da one who'll break da gates of Azyr.And oh boy, it will be fun. Look out Prime Dominion, Wapkagut’s a-coming!

Animosity VI - "Da Eve of Waaagh!"

Record of a speech given by the grot warlock known as "the Mooncaller" to the assembled horde of Waaagh! Mogrek in the aftermath of the battle for the Ashfall Delta. This document was discovered trampled into the dirt in the wake of the horde’s passing beside the remains of an unidentified Iscarneth spy.I have managed to secure a hiding position within the camp itself. The rabble appear to be gathering for some form of address. Speaker doesn’t look like much. Emaciated and masked. I recognize that mask from the Emissary records. This is the Mooncaller who fought at Frørholm. Will continue to observe and record. Speech is beginning.“Orruks, troggs and grots, fimm and ogors and gargants, I bid you most welcome to our humble procession. You have come here in answer to a call, a base thrum in the deepest recesses of your skull. We have all felt it, myself more than others, for I was present at the awakening of the mighty Mogrek Longblade himself! The primal power you all feel courses through me like liquid fire, and it has changed me. Yes, changed me in ways you cannot imagine. And I believe that it has the power to change all of you too. Make you stronger, make you fiercer, more cunning and more brutal than you have ever dreamed!”Mooncaller has stopped and appears to be having some kind of fit. Looking around self as if confused.“Wha… wha’s going on? Where am I? Me zoggin’ head’s splitting. It… it hurts so much. I’m frightened. I- Ah, forgive me. Let us resume.”Don’t like what I just saw. Vines, tendrils coming from the mask?“We stand upon the precipice of our greatest victory since the days of Gorkamorka. Mogrek seeks to lead us to a prize far  greater than you can imagine, and all that stands between us and our goal? A mere backwater, not long recovered from civil war. So desperate are they that they turn to exiles and rats and ragged old bones to lead their defense. It will not hold. We are the brutal fist and cunning blade of the mighty Mogrek! Nothing shall stand in our way. Waaagh!!!”Crowd has taken up the bellow. Deafening. Ears will be ringing for a while. Did mask’s eye just move?“Ah, it appears we have a visitor. Why don’t you come forward and join us?”He's looking directly at me. I must retreat. If this reaches you lord Dariel I am sThe text becomes illegible after this point, anything more completely obscured by blood.

ANIMOSITY VI - “The Shattered Dominion”

July 1st - August 3rdPre-Registration June 10thOpen Registration June 24thDiscord.gg/AnimosityCampaigns“The Iscarneth are an exiled people. The Age of Chaos cast us adrift and we found safe harbor in the furthest reaches of our realm, a prime dominion to call our own. The Iscarneth are squabbling satrapies no longer, but a Ceraphate united under my rule. Iscarion is the beating heart of our Ceraphate, and the center about which our isles spiral. This city has always been a place of intrigue, where we plot our schemes and dance our steps.Atressa Redhand danced with a blade in hand, until the music stopped. There is no intrigue now which will spare us this war, though well I have tried. All I can do is pull upon the strings of this tangled web and gather what strength we can muster, no matter its nature.Renaya Oathsworn looked ever toward a dream which I crushed to take my throne, yet she placed our people before her own ambitions when the vampire Mithridates Alti sought to subjugate us. For that I spared her life, and she has returned to us even as we return to the brink of doom. We spend these days in the shadow of Mogrek Longblade, and now I dream a shattered dominion shall not be my legacy.”From the personal journal of Ceraph Dariel the Resplendant

Animosity Weekender 2024 - Naro's Thirty Hobby Highlights

The Animosity Weekender 2024 has come to a close. Below are a selection of 30 hobby highlights collected from players throughout the week. Between the online submissions, in person events at Warhammer World and at the Las Vegas Open, players submitted over 200 reports!Links to player Imgur, Blogspot, Reddit, Twitter, Instagram, and DeviantArt posts will be shared with best effort and intentions. Be sure to like and follow them! Links to player Google Drive/Docs/Photos will not be shared.  JMWormwood (via Google Drive)Red Angel97 (via Twitter )WarbossKurgan (via Blogger )Wolflord2344 (via Google Drive)J.shepherd. (via Instagram )@alstrat (via Google Drive)Myaori (via Reddit )Hjalti_6139 (via Google Drive)Vinia (via Google Drive)Redmaw (via Instagram )RedMulli (via Google Drive)Keza | King Tiberius Calore VIII; keza2929 turkeypanini (via Imgur )Paul | Steamwrought Chuglords (via Instagram )Zim42 (via Google Drive)GorksPokinFinger (via Google Drive)Templars _of_our_burning_saviour (via DeviantArt )QuietWoods (via Google Drive)Sudsinabucket (via Twitter )Cai (via Google Drive)RokScream (via Google Drive)Malthan (via Google Drive)KingKuranes (via Google Drive)Doominator407#2479 (via Google Drive)Manos (via Google Drive)Wolflord2344 (via Google Drive)Admacritchie (via Google Drive)Auronthechamp (via Google Drive)skavenrizzik (via Google Drive)

Death or Glory

Death or Glory in the Animosity Weekender 2024: “The Honor Guard.”Oaths have been sworn, Challenges have been issued… and upon the mud and rocks of the Ashfall Delta shall the blood run. Champions rise with the desire to see their might be the one to strike down Atressa the Red Hand or their blade to be the one to slay Mogrek Longblade. But so too have champions risen, sworn to protect their liege or their boss from any who would dare.Wherever the Longblade reaches or the Red Hand Strikes, Death or Glory awaits… Do you stand at their side in the very heart of the maelstrom?What is Death or Glory?Death or Glory is a choice you can select for your character that is normally used in the final climactic battles at the end of our campaigns. As the weekender is only one great turn… that choice is upon you now.In choosing Death or Glory you are placing the fate of your character in the hands of a GM dice roll that will determine if they live or if they die. Their fate to be revealed as part of the great Unfolding Narrative.  The intent behind this entirely optional and completely narrative choice is to give a deep immersive experience of mortal danger to your character in the battles they fight. Great Risks yield great rewards, but equally do they end with dire consequences.Will they be lost in the blood frenzy of slaughter or will they overreach in their recklessness?Will they show a deep moment of true devotion as they stand against the foe, or will they be struck down as another claims their glory?Will they be utterly fearless before the foe in a moment of sheer Audacity, or will there be a deadly demise for daring too greatly?How do I choose Death or Glory?There will be an option when you submit your reports to choose if you wish to death or glory, or if you do not.  (If you have already submitted a report before this option went into the google form, don’t worry: we’ll contact you about if you want to or not.)Notes from the GMs:We may need to reach out to you during the GM’s Turn (Jan 23 - Jan 31st) as we write the unfolding to clarify any details or points we might need about your characters as we write their DorG moment. So keep an eye out for if you get a DM or a ping in the discord.Do you need to Death or Glory to get into the unfolding narrative?  No you don’t. Our goal is always to include as many great stories, hobby, art, and battles as we can to tell the story of what happened in our Unfolding Narratives. DorG is just an extra option to turn the drama and suspense up a notch or three.

Mercenaries, Explorers, Recruiters and Minigames

For the Animosity Weekender 2024: Rolling Thunder, we’re introducing a new element to our campaign: Mercenaries.As a part of the Weekender Campaign, your @Explorers will be able to enter and search/plunder/ransack/'barrow' a number of stormvaults and other ruins for what may yet still lay within. This will be done in a new Minigame made by the impeccable Warboss Kurgan. Explorers will test their luck and see what resources they may obtain for their respective side.… for a hardy haul will prove to be quite the boon, as these resources will then allow your Coalition’s @Recruiters to negotiate a deal to hire one or many of the available Mercenary Armies of Renown or Infamy.The Mercenaries are none-other than the forces of Animosity’s own GMs and Mods. Not only do you get any player reports they generate for the campaign, but also a set of bonuses your coalition can choose to apply to the path they are assigned to.Each Merc army will have an offensive, defensive, or a special Ability you can apply to one path (and this will be the path that GM or MOD will report to for the campaign). These bonuses won’t guarantee victory… not by far… but could well prove to be the difference between victory and defeat where the fighting is the most bitterly contested.  As well as being just good honest fun for GMs and Mods who often have to be in the background as mere spectators, yearning for the days when their armies swayed the fate of the realms…A list of available GM and Mod armies, and descriptions of what they have to offer will be available at the start of the Player Turn. With the Minigame to follow over the next few days to see what kind of resources you have to use (so look for arranging a time with Saul|Warboss Kurgan to try your hand). With hiring starting on “Mercenary Monday” (Jan 15th) and to be concluded by “Final Offer Friday” (Jan 19th). These are tentative and can change as is needed to ensure everything is complete and enjoyed to its fullest.Remember that each Mercenary force has its own will. Some will happily take the coin of the highest bidder, while others may be about accepting the right opportunity… and it is for your Recruiters to make the best possible deal.A few notes on the new mechanic:This idea combines several mechanics into one unified system for the Weekender: Exploration, Minigames, GM and MOD army involvement, diplomacy (lite), and special items.The bonuses are intended to be on par with what was experienced by using minor artefacts in previous campaigns. If Will Wheton has cursed the dice of your explorers, you will still be able to hire Mercs. Your recruiters will just have to find something beyond what is found to sway a force to your cause, or make certain promises of future reward in the next Campaign, Animosity VI… Promises they expect to be kept. 

Advent Stories: The Naturalist's Odyssey

Well, dear readers, it likely has not escaped your notice that my previous expeditional publication was cut rather abruptly short. I had rather the adventure in the time between correspondences, an adventure which began when I delved between the lost isle of Frørholm (a now even more pertinent moniker since its sinking below the roil of the Ur-River). I imagine this document shall serve as an epilogue to my brief stint in Frørholm, though it is far more fantastical than my usual scientific approach. Indeed, I did witness a good deal of biological wonders, they pale in comparison to my meeting with the Source, and subsequent escape from the sinking city. But I am rather getting ahead of myself, a character flaw that no doubt infuriates my loyal readership no end. I shall begin where we left off in my previous treatise.Having set my sights on the mythical Lichen Pit beneath Frørholm, I began to scout the surrounds for any scrap of information on the whereabouts of a potential entry point into the underworld, a task made exponentially more difficult by the warring rabbles that infested the frozen streets. It was while avoiding a band of mask-wearing hooligans that I ducked into an unassuming side street and found myself face to face with a rent in the fabric of reality itself. I, being of curious disposition, ventured into the dank environs of the cave beyond, filled with dread and wonder at what might await. I was disappointed, then, when the cave opened into a Skaven warren. An impressively large Skaven warren, to be sure, but rather mundane. Less mundane was how welcoming this particular warren was, calling itself the “Gnawmarket,” and selling a variety of esoterica from across the Realms. It was here that I changed upon a shadowy information broker known simply as the Emissary. The creature was rather complimentary of my work during the Bleed event, having apparently obtained a copy in the months following that particular adventure. I furnished them with my latest piece, my report on the native flora and fauna of the island, and was given an approximate location for entry in exchange. Thanking the odd broker profusely, I set off at once to prepare for my expedition. I won't bore you with those particular details, and instead shall skip ahead to the beginning of my descent.I made my entry by way of a rent in the earth within an old smuggler's tunnel. I had expected the caverns to be dark as pitch, and had brought with me a luminescent hyshian oniscid, bound within a cage lashed to my helm. I scarce required my crustaceal companion, however, as from the rent in the earth spilled a startling viridian glow. As I ventured forth I discovered that the very Lichen for which the pit was named was wreathed in bioluminescence. It was, as well, startling in its enormity, great sheets of the stuff lacing through the cavern, forming natural walkways across the abyss. Testing the structural integrity of these verdant bridges, I found them to hold my weight quite sufficiently. With renewed purpose, I began my exploration in earnest.Many strange sights did I witness there, and my journal began to fill quickly with sketches. There were enormous blind rats with prehensile tails and batlike snouts, their lengthy whiskers reflective in the green glow of the lichen. As I ventured deeper, I discovered one dead, its corpse writhing with small leechlike creatures, which upon further inspection I discovered to be closer to lampreys. They scattered as I approached, darting away upon the aether as though it were water, leaving their dessicated victim behind. Beyond this were stranger sights still: bubbling oozes that sunk into the mat of lichen as I passed; bellowing troggoth-like beasts that swung about like apes; glowing eyes in the gloom, staring at me before blinking out ominously. For once I did not stay and observe each in turn, however, for I had a goal: to reach the rumoured source at the pit’s nadir.The once-soft viridian glow would better be described as a harsh green glare the further I delved, blinding light radiating from the lowest point of the cavern. Despite the pain this caused my dark-attuned eyes, I ventured forth unto the breach, the small companion on my head coping as it absorbed the radiant magic, its glow transforming from the pure white of Hysh as it attuned itself to this new source of arcane nourishment. It was at this point that I began to hear the voice in my mind, high and clear, though somehow imbued with a deep pain. “Come,” it called, and I found myself obeying as a matter of course. The world around me ceased to be anything but green and light, howling faces resolving in swirling mist around me. They reminded me of the haunts of Shyish, but I did not feel any dread. In time I came upon a tangle of roots that seemed to reach out into infinity. Within those boughs was cradled a vulnerable form, and as I stepped closer it turned its piercing green gaze upon me. It spoke to me not with its mouth but with its thoughts, reaching deep into the recesses of my racing mind. It told me of the island's past, the tragedies that befell its inhabitants, the sacrifice of the entity's sisters to create this meagre sanctuary, as well as the imminent demise of the city above from which there could be little chance of escape. This cavern would be swept away and lost forever, and there was only one form of salvation that the Source could offer. It could open the Greenway for me, so that I might live to tell of the lives lost to the roil of war sweeping across this blighted isle.I might have travelled the pathways of the Everqueen for seconds or centuries, my mind lost to the green, but eventually I emerged back into myself, feeling scoured and raw- and rather cold. I had found myself in a frozen copse, surrounded by snow-wreathed evergreens. The hyshlight was pale and turgid, marking my location as Ulgu, but whereabouts within the realm I could not begin to guess. Somewhere along the way I had lost my journal and all the sketches contained within, as well as my helm with its glowing occupant. I have to assume the Everqueen would not allow it to come to harm, so I have no doubt the creature is alive and well, but I found myself resenting my lack of light in this dark corner of the worlds. I was thankful of my Rovskyr-made cloak at least, which was warm and twinkled with the celestial energies of its native Azure. Not as much light as I'd have liked, but something, at the very least. Small blessings.I found, as I emerged from the scant woodland, that the blessings I had received were greater than I had anticipated, for I found myself facing a stark city wall. A port town, by the look of it, on the banks of the Ur-River. It looked to have been ravaged by some disaster in recent history, but was in the process of rebuilding. The freeguild guards were surprised to see anyone emerge from the wilderness, least of all a duardin carrying little more than the cloak on her back, but they allowed me entry and recommended a tavern that had largely recovered from the disaster which they referred to as “the passing of the Longblade.” It was at said tavern, the Manticore’s Sting in what turned out to be the Free City of Raven’s Watch, that I set about devising how I would find my way back to Kladi II and my mobile research station upon her cranium. This was confounded some by the discovery that my absence had been a matter of months rather than moments, but I hoped that Kladi II would remain in the general area that I had left her, even if the island itself was long gone. She'd no doubt find a way to feed herself, intelligent as she is, so my only worry was that she'd give up on waiting for my return and move on to greener pastures, presuming my demise.My salvation, as it turned out, happened to be one of the very warlords that had confounded me so on the streets of Frørholm. On the third night of my residence in the Manticore's Sting, when my welcome, paid as it was by little more than tall tales and promises of aqua ghyranis when I was able to return to my research station, was thoroughly reaching its end, she arrived. Captain Lissea of the Blackwing, as it turned out, had docked at Raven’s Watch on her way to the very place I wished to travel. She intended to pay respects to a lover lost during the final days of Frørholm, and offered to take me with her, free of charge. Though suspicious of her generosity, I agreed to accompany the Carrion Queen on her venture, for it seemed my best hope of finding Kladi II. My journey upon the Blackwing was an eerie one. I had anticipated a crew of seasoned cutthroats, and there was that, the ship was also occupied by a band of peculiar children, all possessed of strange stigmata, similar in aspect to the broad wings that stoned the Carrion Queen herself. They clung to Lissea like loyal hounds and stared at me with hungry eyes, and I found myself wishing to retreat to the scant quarters provided for me much earlier than I had anticipated. We would apparently arrive at the site of what was once Frørholm early upon the morrow, so after supper I made my excuses and retired, finding myself much wearier than I had thought. It was as I slipped into deep slumber that panic began to grip my fading consciousness: I had been drugged.I awoke to find myself bound and gagged upon an old wooden chair upon the Blackwing’s deck, an eight pointed star chalked about me, the weird children's eyes boring into me from all angles. Lissea stood over me, a wicked sickle gripped in her dark hand, her eyes hard as they stared down at me. As I awoke and gazed back, her expression flickered. For a moment she looked so very old and tired and sad, but she hardened again, returning to her impassive glare. Nevertheless, her voice was almost kind, and not a little apologetic when she spoke.“I must ask your forgiveness for my deceit, but your coming willingly was important for the ritual’s success. I need them back, you see, we all need them back, and this is the only way.”I tried to shout and scream through my gag, but it was fruitless. As the Carrion Queen raised the sickle high above her head I was sure that this was to be my ignoble end, when of a sudden a brain-deafening psychic roar crashed through all present, rendering us dazed and inert. I was brought rudely back to my senses by the sensation of hurtling through the air, my bindings snapping as my chair was hurled from the deck, shattering upon the boards and riddling what little bare flesh I had on show with splinters. As my vision cleared, I caught sight of my rescuer: it was Kladi II! Her enormous fists hammered into the deck, splitting the Blackwing’s hull. The crew and the strange children rushed forth to bail the water that had begun to rush forth from the rent, leaving me to scramble to my feet. Quickly, I clambered up the tangled fur of Kladi II’s great arm, chased by the desperate, mournful howls of the Carrion Queen behind me. I do not know what ritual Kladi II averted, but it can't have been good. I can only hope Lissea does not manage to convince any other poor soul to follow willingly to this gods-forsaken stretch of the Ur-River. Much of my time since that day has been spent regaining my constitution and ordering my scattered thoughts. I fear I may have taxed myself somewhat too far with this particular treatise, but I did not wish to leave my loyal readership wondering of my whereabouts a moment longer.Until the next adventure,Vala Edrasdottír, Adventurer and Natural Historian

Advent Stories: May the earth tremble

May the realms shatter. May the skies darken. May the seas boil. Mogrek is coming.He is no mere orruk, he is of a kind unseen since the age of myth, maybe even before.Behind him treads a horde of despoilers wrought in stoneIn his wake lie naught but ruin, in his path lies you.You may flee, you may fight, you will fall all the same. Mogrek is coming---“Can you believe this rubbish?” Scoffed Nyssa Serenhart as she crumpled up the pamphlet handed to her minutes before. “What the hell even is a Mogrek?” “Just another orruk on a waaagh I assume.” Responded Eriana Pureshield, “every time this happens there's always doomsayers ranting about how this warboss is different and he must be stopped and blah blah blah.”Sitting outside the Epicurean's, the two aelves continued to laugh and mock the idea of a lowly orruk leading a waaagh to the Prime Dominion. To them such a thought was blasphemous.“It's all just fear mongering I tell you” Said Nyssa. “Watch as we never again hear of this alleged waaagh nor its leader.”“Not like it would get very far anyway with the satraps being unified.” Eriana added. “Our new military can take on anything, I'm sure some little upstart greenskin would turn tail and flee the moment he sees a wall of guns pointed at his head.”Nyssa took a sip of her imported Shyishian wine “Well I've heard that the ceraphate has been cooking up some really exciting new weaponry, the kind of stuff to annihilate entire armies.”“Oh do tell, Nyssa. What kind of weapons? Cannons the size of castles? Some kind of magical device?” Asked Eriana excitedly.“I haven't been told anything more than that, unfortunately. My brother works as a courier for a few of the ceraphate's workshops and he's seen things but won't tell me anything more.” “Boo, how boring” Eriana said with a disappointed sigh as she drank from her wine glass“He mentioned how the workshops have been ordering more and more material lately, and the engineers seem a little on edge.” Said Nyssa“Well I wouldn't want to disappoint the ceraphate in the creation of such weapons either.” Responded ErianaNyssa looked at the crumpled pamphlet on the table, “Have you noticed how many refugees have come upriver lately?”Eriana and Nyssa stared at each other in silence. In their eyes they both found their doubts shrink as their fears grew.Eriana eventually broke the silence as her eyes moved down to the floor. “I'm sure it's nothing.” She said softlyThey both spent the rest of their visit in silence as they drank the rest of their wine.---In the dark of night, the beat of war drums echoes through the heart of the Ur-river.The people will doubt, but their sound grows louder still.Mogrek is comingMogrek is coming

Advent Stories: It's Simple

Celawyn was silent as she focused her entire mind upon the task at hand. Small wooden parts carved with care to mimic parts that would later be cast in metal. The clockwork mechanism was simple compared to some, but its linkages were still a delicate dance that required the correct size, strength, and especially timing. She tested the wooden mock up, cycling the mechanism before making a note in a dog eared and well worn notebook. Then she reset the mechanism, and activated it again. And again. And again. Making a note each time where the simple paint she put on the parts was wearing off.The dimmer light of night giving way to the bright dawn of the new day passed unremarked as she stayed at her bench, hunched over the mechanism and her notes until at last a single piece broke. She checked to make sure this was the only break and then made a careful search of the floor. Why and how such pieces could find their way into the most inexplicable places was an inquiry she would have to resolve at another time, but vowed to do so after finding the piece that had fallen where it should be impossible to land.Design 72, Sear Variant 3. On the 1537th cycle: Sear catch at three hair’s lengths from the bend. Clean break along the expected stress line, probable cause: Material Fatigue.She placed the wooden parts into a carefully labelled bin and slid it back into a small cubby on her wall. She closed her eyes then and imagined the exact moment of the break, the stresses involved, the forces at work, time slowing in her mind as she recreated the exact moment and watched it over and over again.  Her hand reached for where she knew her pencil would be and design 73 started to take shape on the surface of her workbench. —Design 134, Sear variant 23. On the 2783rd cycle: main holding pin worn down to the point where gear mechanisms deviate two hair’s lengths when resetting, causing failure to engage sear catch in proper time. Probable cause: lateral stress upon gear when resetting, more support needed on cam.—Design 214, sear variant 42. On the 5731st cycle: Housing cracked. Probable cause: impact stress when I dropped it. Design evaluation must now include drop testing to account for this external variable.  —It took till design 453 before she was satisfied enough to cast the parts in metal. With the testing notes to inform her first choices in both type and refinement of the metals, and then another 57 design iterations to get the alloys narrowed down to her satisfaction.  Her hand shook lightly and she set down the mechanism. Fatigue entered into her thoughts as she looked to her hand for an answer as to why it shook. It annoyed her to realize she needed to set aside her work for the idiotic requirements of the flesh like eating, sleeping, bathing, and other wastes of precious time.But the shaking hand was insistent, to be joined in quick order by the ache of her eyes, and the deep rumble of her stomach. Feeling betrayed at a fundamental level, she satisfied each need as she was wont to satisfy it which is to say: begrudgingly. Stale bread toasted over her smelting fire and then made palatable with enough butter, and a nap upon a small bench in the corner. She grumpily hoped that would suffice for the week.—Design 631, metal composition 17. Striker test 53. Once again a failure of the fulminate caps provided by the alchemists leave much to be desired. Failure rates of one in every ten, and of course they continue to insist it’s because of an incorrect striker force. I have kept examples of every failed and fired cap and sent them along with my detailed notes to the project manager in the hopes they can resolve the issue.  Nevertheless, the mechanism is ready to be tried on a full prototype weapon.  —Design 753, metal composition 32, barrel 13. Field test 2. They desire that the cocking mechanism of my trigger should also be made to also rotate the revolving cartridge magazine. “Simply” they said, as if it were that simple. Why they cannot fathom that they should be able to easily turn the magazine to the desired chambering and then cock and fire the mechanism without having to link the two… Their hand is right there doing naught more than gripping the stock between shots. Why even have a heavy rotating magazine in the first place? A brass encased cartridge inserted into and then removed from a more simple chamber would be much more agile, and could even contain a pre-set fulminate cap…  The new idea quickly took shape in a mad scrawling of pencil lines upon the very workbench itself, she didn’t have time to find paper.  Design 1A…

Advent Stories: Maneater

The barren stretch of beach radiated heat. Scattered detritus that marked the tideline, cooked silently under the glaring sun. A sandpiper, hopping from one scorched foot to the other, moved down the beach investigating the washed up remains. It paused at one large pile, and gave an inquisitive peck. Whatever it was, it made no response. Cautiously, the small bird hopped closer and pecked again. A massive hand, covered in thick gray skin, swung down and smashed it. Idly, the bird was scooped up and shoved into the mouth of the unconscious ogor.---The ship limped across the sea. Despite the best work of its crew, it still listed strongly to one side. In the end, they just set the sails out away from the mast to provide some degree of counter-balance. It would have been impossible to sail back up the river and seek aid there, so they made their way southwards once more. They would try to repair the ship once they reached the isles. Until that time, they would just carry on.Hrothgut stood at the prow, arguing with the Paymaster. So many of their company had died in the attack, it only seemed right to the maneater that he was entitled to a greater share of the profits. The arrogant little human, however, had dug in his heels and would not alter the contract any further. It did not help that Hrothgut had refused not only to pay for the cannon he ripped from the ship’s gun deck, but to even return it. It was chained securely in the storage room he had seized as his quarters, surrounded by a half-dozen bear traps. Hrothgut chuckled when he thought about the apprentice gunner that had been first sent to retrieve it. He had stopped listening to the Paymaster, and was looking forward to the leftovers that awaited him in his cabin.A shriek from the stern of the ship broke him out of his daydream. Hrothgut gave the Paymaster a final glower, then turned to look to the helm. It was deserted. The wheel spun slowly in the sudden silence. A few of the crew ran up the stairs and looked down over the rails. Another cry sounded from the far side of the ship, snapping the sailors around again. A single man stood at the rail, pointing down at the water. A dark shape, deeper blue against the dark waters, moved laconically beneath them.The ship held its breath. A few men edged back from the pointing sailor, careful not to make a sudden move.With a sound like thunder and a torrent of white-blue water, the shape burst from the water. A massive scaled head soared upwards and lashed out, swallowing the terrified sailor whole. Everyone stood still as water dripped down the black scales of the merwyrm. It turned its head slowly, baleful eyes surveying the crowd. Then, as one, the mercenaries burst into action. Seizing weapons, the stupider ones charged across the deck. Most never got close enough to use them. The dragon struck out viciously, biting clean through the lucky ones. Others it simply battered, its armoured head swinging with the force of an avalanche, sending them tumbling into the cold water with broken limbs and heavy armour. The few that reached the beast swung wildly, only to have their blows rebound from the hardened scales of the wyrm. They did not last much longer.At last, some organized resistance began to appear. The Paymaster’s bodyguard formed up around the fat little man, keeping their distance from the beast. A few blocks of spearmen, however, succeeded at holding the dragon back. Kept at spear’s length, it was slowly pushed back towards the ocean. Snatching up the few bodies that remained on the deck, the beast at last turned and began to swim away, appearing content with its meal.Hrothgut still had not moved. His contract said nothing about dragons, and the Paymaster had been quite clear that he would not alter it now.One of the Paymaster’s bodyguards looked up at Hrothgut. The man was young, arrogant, newly promoted from the common ranks. With a smirk, he called out to the maneater.“What’s the matter, ogor? Did the dragon scare you? Some help you were!”Hrothgut reached out and grabbed the young officer by the front of his uniform. Taking a large step, Hrothgut spun with all his strength and flung the man out towards the water. His scream rose and fell through the air like a bottle rocket, until with a heavy thud, he hit the retreating merwyrm in the side of the head.With a bellow that somehow managed to sound more surprised than angry, the wyrm whipped its body around in the water. Snatching up the mercenary in its jaws with a casual ease, its massive body coiled and surged through the water, picking up speed. It bore down on the boat once more, its sea-dark form dipping down beneath the surface, leaving only the surging wall of white-whipped wake to mark its ever greater speed. With a mighty crash, it hit the side of the ship.The impact hammered the ship, knocking it sideways through the water and sending man and ogor alike staggering on its deck. With torturous, splintering cracks, the already weakened frame of the ship gave way. Water poured inwards. Tumbling masts smashed apart crew and mercenaries alike. Feathered splinters spat outwards, scything through flesh and making men look like bloody porcupines. Those that were spared the worst ran for the small launches along the ship’s sides. Fools. They would never get them free in time. Hrothgut could already smell the burning powder below. The ogor tightened the straps holding his massive hammer fast against his back, gave one last grunt in the direction of the Paymaster, then dove into the waters. The last he saw of the man, he was desperately trying to unlock the chain that bound him to the heavy pay chest.Beneath the waves, amidst the falling blood and debris, Hrothgut’s head whipped back and forth, peering out intently. At last he saw it, a darker blur slipping off into the distance. Pulling himself forward with mighty strokes, he began to swim after the merwyrm.---Hrothgut blearily opened his eyes and surveyed the deserted beach. He had swam for hours, following the direction of the retreating merwyrm. He could not remember reaching the island. Standing shakily, he looked around, idly pulling feathers out from between his teeth. Checking to make sure his hammer was secure, he adjusted his gutplate and started walking down the beach. As the fog of the previous night began to lift, he remembered a cavern somewhere nearby. He knew he would find the wyrm there. He was not sure how he knew, but he did. It seemed as though his gut was pulling him towards it, and the maneater always trusted his gut.

Advent Stories: Wreckless

“Talk to me!”“I ain’t seen nothin!”“LOOK HARDER!”  “Aye… AYE, got EM! On the disc, Larboard low and comin up fast!”“Allright! HOLD ON.”The throttle to the Gunhauler was smashed to full and the small endrin roared into overdrive. Pilot and Gunner were slammed back into their restraints by the sudden acceleration, the gunner flailing for a moment at being caught off guard looking over their shoulder.  “They’re still closing in on us!”  “Damned Zilfin endrins…” the pilot muttered under their breath before they gripped the wheel tighter. “Tell me when they angle up and start climb’n after us!”  “Uh… they already are!”“Fraking hell, Grogri! You gotta tell me this crap when it happens!”“Aye…”  the rest of the apology died when the Pilot shoved the angle of the bow hard down with the wheel and cut all power to the Endrin.  The Gunhauler started to fall like nothing more than a metal weight with a brass balloon atop it.  “Where they at now!?” The pilot shouted over the onrushing air as the gunhauler was pulled towards the disc below. Soon at terminal velocity with the Pilot on the wheel frantically trying to keep the hauler from starting to spin out of control, but on a steady even plunge. The small control surfaces made wild movements combined with a sudden and intense devotion to Grungi to keep the fly by wire from snapping a line.“I can’t see a fething thing!!” the gunner shouted they tried to crane their neck around far enough to see what was behind them.“Blisters on a gargant’s arse help you are, Grogri!!”“You’re the fething pilot, Hekki, do some of that pilot crap you’re always talking… BREAK RIGHT!”The pilot didn’t think simply slammed their foot on a rudder control as they hammered over the wheel of their controls to slide the falling gunhauler to the right, and just in time to see the skyhook flash by with a whine of its unspooling wench.  “Ready on the gun!” the pilot shouted as they prepared a complex set of control inputs.“Ready for what!? To shoot the fething GROUND!?”“Just get on the fracking gun, GROGRI!!”  “On the fething gun, AYE!” Grogri said with entirely too much snark as he gripped the dual triggers and lined his eye down the sight. A small bead of pure polished brass standing out in stark relief from the iron black ring.“When you got a shot, SHOOT THE BASTARD!” The pilot Hekki said as he slammed levers and then heaved controls…Grogri the Gunner was about unleash a perfectly worded invective and impugnment of Hekki’s ancestry when he was slammed around in his seat as the gunhauler tumbled in a new way in it’s fall… and then suddenly righted itself with a hard jarring slam as it now face backwards from where it had been. Down that lovely sight of the gunhauler’s cannon, was nothing but the shocked face of the other Gunhauler crew.  Grogri practically ripped the handles off his triggers as he squeezed the near perfect shot before it passed them by.Bright Red Paint exploded all over the other Gunhauler, marking beyond all contestation a clean kill.  “FRAK YEAH!”“YEEE FETHING HAW!”  A massive high five was exchanged along with a wrist grab that turned into a hand slap and then a finger fluttering away. The elaborate celebration cost them another 500 ticks of altitude before the impending mortal danger below re-acquired their attention. The loud buzzing CREEEN CREEEN CREEEN of the altimeter’s warning like a screamer in their ear.Hekki slammed the Endrin’s power back to full and fought with all his skill to get the small Gunhauler clawing back into the sky and under control.  —“Do you know how much you nearly cost the Grunstock Corp today!?”“No, Cap’n!” the simultaneous reply.“One new pristine working condition Gunhauler with bronze proofed Cannon. Fuel and Ammunition for such. Well, that’s a good 12 thousand there and then the two fecking shekels for your worthless asses. If I wasn’t such a miserly bastard, I might think about just writing those two off for good riddance!” The Grunstrock Training Captain thundered over the most exquisite of handlebar mustaches, set with little beads to mimic gun sights.  He took a breath and calmed as he sat back down in his seat and looked to the two trainees.  “What the Feck am I gonna do with you two? Ain’t no Corp worth its bottom line gonna take such reckless skyboys.”Hekki and Grogri looked to eachother in a moment of both confusion and then the slow loadstone loading weight of how bad this actually was.  “Got any fething thing to say for yourselves before I ponder just how high up I go to kick you out of this school?”  “We Won.” Hekki said with a firm and defiant simplicity.  “Aye you won. And what did it cost to win that skyduel eh? Your endrin is trashed, your boat has got stress cracks from here to Sigmar’s arse, and I wouldn’t wanna try and shoot your cannon with anything less than a powdered donut for shot! A FRESH ONE TOO SO WE AIN’T RISKING IT BEING TOO STALE!” The Cap’n took a moment to return to his seat after he found where it had gone after he sent it careening after standing up too fast in that last interjection. The seat righted, he sat his older Kharadron self sat back down into it, considering all his options.  “But you do have a fine point.  You did win, you did make it back, and you did manage to keep your cargo intact.” Then the rising smile started to grow. “Oh lads, I know just the corp for you, and I know you’re going to love it.” And the fine copper sheets were stamped in quick order before being handed over to the two now graduated gunhauler crew.  “A Baking Company, Cap’n!?” Grogri said as he looked up incredulously from the new orders. The smile just got bigger on the Captain’s face.

Advent Stories: Serenity is not Surrender

The bowls were set and gently filled. Single drops then slowly formed upon their bottoms, the water finding the small imperfection in the base of each vessel. A crack was an inevitable flaw of how they were made, unseen to the eye, but letting each drop form until its weight cast it upon its long fall. The journey’s end a collision into a bronze bell that waited a set measure below. A single clear sound to mark that end, a small note ringing out.Bowl after bowl was arranged around this sacred space, letting fall drop after drop to create note after note.  The melody for the dance meant to last a thousand drops. Each drop falling because of that flaw. Each fall ending in a last moment of beauty before being nevermore. A reminder. A warning. And in that melody she moved.Her steps a whisper against the wet stone, lost in that song of the falling water, her blade moving in its arcs as she danced the dance that was her martial legacy. The blade moving between the drops, around them, with great care to miss them, lest their fate be disturbed and that melody broken in discordance…The melody’s tempo tempted her to move fast and faster still, the drops themselves falling with speed that made one wish to haste, and very the strain of each elongated movement calling out for a flash of movement. But the purpose of this dance was to be one of sublime stillness in motion, to push your mind to be as if time itself did not exist. Each moment one of perfection to only be perceived as changing by the fall of a drop of water past where her blade had just been.There would be no harder dance for her to perfect, no greater test to hone her mind to that absolute grace. For to reach that point of serenity required to move through the thousand drops was the very antithesis of her temperament.  Wrath. It had shaped her, defined her, that promethean fire that burned in the very core of her soul. But fire burns all that it touches, and she knew that in time it would be her downfall.  That flaw unseen in the vessel of her soul, that would consume her one drop at a time until there was nothing left but the final note of her fall. Made manifest in that moment of near oblivion when they all stood under Alti’s dark cast shadow.And so she had sought this ancient rite, this gift from Tyrion himself to those who follow his exemplar. This path to trod upon her journey, to grow beyond the rage within, to temper that fire into something more.  To be honed into the edge of her will like the blade held in her Red Hand, and wise to know its edge would cut far worse than just flesh. Serenity that was not surrender to her being, but the ultimate pinnacle to rise from her control of it. Not to fall to temptation, not be tricked by distraction, nor undone by mistake… Serenity that would become far more than the rage from which it was made.  So she moved in the dance of a thousand drops, in near stillness with the beauty of the melody.  Until at last the dance ended, the final drop falling upon the edge of her blade. A clear crystal gem that she held perfectly still upon the razor’s edge of Iscarneth steel.She held that drop there for as long as she could hold onto that eternity. No breath, no thought, no beat of her heart. Within it she saw the reflection of herself and she smiled.—Our Salvation has always come on the edge of a blade.A desperate flight to escape the falling spires. A harrowing fight through the dark of Alti’s fortress. It was the edge of a blade that saved us.  When you speak of a Fated Blade, this is what comes into our mind: The blade that shall be in our hand when we face the next oblivion. The blade that shall strike down any who think it is our oblivion and not theirs.I am Atressa the Red Hand and I carry a blade born for destiny, not merely one of fate.

Advent Stories: The Before and After

The Fore’n Aft was a grand galleon once, all broad decks and majestic castles. The people who built it and the name they gave are both lost to history, and none can say how it came to rest in the Ribs of Choggrish, except to speculate that it must have sailed up the Ur-River long ago. Today, the Fore’n Aft has become the Scarland’s greatest inn, its stowage repurposed as a tavern, its gun-decks partitioned into rooms. The great gilded room that once served as her captain’s quarters has become a penthouse, the finest accommodation within a week’s march… which isn’t saying much, but it’s a sight better than pitching camp along the Beastpath.With the tavern patron’s raucous gaiety still a dull roar four decks beneath them, it was here the Six would decide the shape of things to come.Baamu lay sprawled across three beds pushed together as Khrozia worked ice and fire upon his wounds. The exile’s bonecrafted body appeared unsettlingly arachnid, her chirurgeon form sporting entirely too many eyes, arms, and fingers. Not even a brawl with the Ogroid Maagu had injured the Bullgor so badly as a clanrat’s knife twisted in his ankle, and they did not expect him to walk without a limp ever again.Sarros Falneak had fared little better, the Darkoath chieftain’s body had been smashed like a bowl of eggs by a Troggoth. Only the Soulfire of their Binding had kept him alive, the strength of all Six keeping his bruised heart beating and his blood-clogged lungs breathing. Viigo watched over Sarros’ slumbering form, the Lord of Pain occupying his vigil by endlessly polishing his prized armor.In the center of the room, the most diminutive of their companions sat in a circle of parchment, each a page torn from a single book, gathered together again by bloodshed and battle. Long had the skink starseer contemplated the pages, and now his body sank into the air, the pages lifting off the floor around him. Viigo paused in his makework; Baamu opened his one good eye, and Khrozia’s two dozen regarded the scene with unblinking curiosity.The pages began to orbit the skink like celestial bodies about a star. Next they disintegrated, the letters blazing like pinpricks of light as they lifted off the parchment, arranging themselves in new constellations before winking out like candles snuffed before bedtime.Itza’qua opened his eyes and dropped softly to the floor.“The Library of Chungus is not a place,” he breathed as Baamu’s expression turned inquisitive. “I was mistaken. This book was not an index of a place, but of people. Nashwar knows a repository of knowledge would be vulnerable to us. Her library is one of living memory, as though their very minds are the books upon her shelf.”Upon Viigo’s confused countenance, the starseer’s tone turned flustered. “The library we’ve been looking for isn’t anywhere, but everywhere. It’s the people of the Scarlands themselves!”With that, Sir Zigbin’s faithful steed snorted and rolled over, sending the slumbering paladin atop the Squig’s back tumbling to the floor in a crash of plate armor. Gathering himself up, the Knight of the Good Moon regarded his companions with blinking, bleary eyes.“Eh? What’d I miss?”+++The story of Nashwar and the Six will continue at the NOVA Open. Tickets go on sale March 1st 2024!

Advent Stories: The End Begins

It is the end of Mithridates Alti’s war. Countless possibilities have collapsed down into a single excruciating conclusion. His war is over, his last battle fought. The vampire is undone, and I am undone with him.My palace burns. From atop my throne, I can feel the very air turn against me, my withered body blackening under its touch. I watch, detached, as the flesh I inhabit undergoes a terminal incineration.There is a clap of sound, a flash of light. My bleeding eyes recognize the Seraphon I once named equerry, returned to claim what she believes is hers.I am overcome. Her monster drags me from the throne. All of me that can die then does. So quick is her escape, so alien is her mind, she does not perceive that I am smiling.———It is the dawn of Alti’s war. The skink stands beside me, though I do not see her and she does not truly see me.I listen to my generals speak of the disposition of forces, of diplomacy and strategy and maneuver. I have already recited every word on their lips, but I let them speak for their own sake.Somewhere out there Iden cowers. He covets his vaults more than life itself, and he knows that I covet them too. While we are enemies they will not pass from his hands.The skink’s eyes rest on the glyphs on my throne. Her tongue flicks once, twice, as though tasting the air for treachery. Every beat of her cold-blooded heart prunes futures like Dariel clips roses in his garden.———Alti’s war is over. Through the eyes of the willing and the unaware I watch as Dariel’s victory is made complete.In the end, Iden has lost everything except his vaults. Renaya has been cast adrift, to live as a wanderer in a strange land. And I?They say that success is commemorated, failure merely remembered. They are wrong, because my failure is destined to be forgotten like it never happened.I watch as a thousand books fall into the flames. My back pulls down a hundred monuments to me, while my hands strip my name from a hundred more.If my eyes remained, I would weep for those whose memories must be damned along with mine. If I had a mouth I would laugh at the absurdity of it.Let Dariel have his triumph. I know only victory.———Alti’s invisible hand rests heavily upon Iscarion. It is an age of peace, a bubble of refuge against the wild storms that have consumed so much of Hysh. It ends today.Already they call me the Deathly, the one who so rarely stirs from his throne of glass. In truth the other five are no younger than I. In truth I am further from death than any of them, but the truth lies.Friends share everything in common. The six of us now share nothing, save the conviction that Eresiel must die. For our people. For our ways of life. For our ambitions.Our daggers flash in a staccato rhythm, rising and falling. With every blow Alti’s grip on this place weakens. With every moment the fiction of a united Prime Dominion fades. And as Eresiel thrashes and lies still, new possibilities branch out like the rivers of blood spilling across the flagstones.———Alti is long dead, and the Realms still turn. From my throne in the clouds I watch, detached.A city of metal and aether falls from the sky. Two Realms become one, and one becomes two. Acquisition is cited as justification, and a cat dreams of becoming a dragon.Sworn enemies lay aside their grudges on an old battleground. A maw walks across the earth and devours holy ground.These visions are spread thin, razor-sharp filaments of fate caught in a web I barely perceive.A tug, then another, a single strand persistently drawing attention. I see the blood of an old foe, spilled out of Iscarion, flowing downriver in search of a blade with more than one fate.And as the blade’s true master stirs, I rouse as well.———Mithridates Alti is a man, as am I. There is no war in Hysh, no crisis, no discord. We all give praise to a god of unbridled ambition and ceaseless innovation, shedding everything else in pursuit of excellence like a snake sheds old skins.I am alone when I find it. Ham-Galad, the Throne of Light, the magnum opus of a dozen masters, each a paragon of their respective craft.I do not understand why I carve the glyphs. In truth, I barely remember it. If the craftsmen saw my defacement of their work they would be outraged, but none of them are fated to lay eyes on it ever again.My hands move decisively, driven by a will not their own, scratching out the signature of the craftsmen and inscribing one more alien still. The symbols mean nothing to me, meant instead for a Seraphon who will live many centuries from now.My work is done. I fall asleep at the base of the throne, there to be woken when the world ends.———-Now is a construct, a simple idea fixed in one-dimensional minds. Now is meaningless against the expanse of everything that wasn’t and will be.Now is nothing. Now is everything.Like a stone dropped in a still pool, the ripples of Alti’s death have reached the edge and rebound to the source. War returns to the Prime Dominion.As if from a ship at sea, I watch from far beyond the edge of Hysh as the lives of the people I left behind play out before me. An avalanche of possibilities, all crashing down upon a single moment. Had I breath, I would draw it. Now, everything rests upon her.

Advent Stories: Master and Commander

Heechigar twitched his whiskers irritably, shaking loose the salt water that had gathered upon. The sea spray had thoroughly soaked through his white fur, leaving the stormvermin wet and miserable once more. Damn to all hells the council, and Clans Skurvy and Skuttle, and Tsang Skrittar, and boats and seas and all water everywhere, he thought, as he had every day since this journey started. Shivering and trying to fight back a sneeze, he shook the water from his whiskers yet again.Like the rest of his littermates, the albino skaven had been bred and raised to serve in the council's elite force of stormvermin. However, while the rest of his littermates had died over the years - accidentally falling on a spear thrust meant for him, unluckily eating a poisonous mushroom, or any number of other seemingly random happenstances - Heechigar had lived to become a captain of that prestigious troop. He had faithfully served the council all that time, bravely executing those that displeased his masters, or fearlessly guarding the council chambers in Skavenblight, and had never once complained loudly enough for anyone to hear. What had he done then to deserve this miserable assignment?Knowing that he would be engaged in his charts, Heechigar quickly stole a hateful glare at Tsang. Gray Seer Tsang-Skrittar, agent of the council and prophet of the Great Horned Rat. Heechigar loathed the scurrilous vermin. It wasn't just that he was incompetent, miserly and utterly dedicated to making everyone around him as wretched as he was. The stormvermin captain had come to expect those things from a Gray Seer. No, what he loathed most was the way the sorcerer flaunted the powers the council had invested in him. He shouted orders to the stormvermin as though they were his own slaves, not the elite warriors of the Underempire. If only his orders had been less clear, had given him some room for reinterpretation. 'Keep Tsang-Skrittar alive' was far too direct for his liking. Still, on a mission this complex there was sure to be plenty of blame to pass around. A few words in the right ears, a few tokens in the right paws, and that fool of a Gray Seer would be as good as gone. Yes, and then the ship would be his, and then -"Captain," Tsang’s high, nasal voice cut through his reverie, "this map is all wrong! The words are gibberish, and the sea is going the wrong way.""Perhaps, oh great one, if you would hold it the-""Silence!" the Gray Seer screamed, crumpling the map and throwing it into the brazier beside him. "Bring me a slave that can draw, I will make my own map. Kill the one that brought me that useless rag."Bowing and turning his head in a show of reverence, Heechigar hefted his massive halberd and strode towards the luckless slave. To his annoyance, he saw it was Irit, one of his own, that was being dragged forward by two of his stormvermin. One more score to settle with the Gray Seer. At least, he thought as the blade came down with a heavy thud, it would teach his slaves not to hand things to the sorcerer upside down.

Advent Stories: Something Really Special

Eris pounded her fist on the door. “Uncle Hendrik! Open up, I know you're in there!” There was no response. Again and again she banged and shouted and yet still there was no response. This was not unusual, Hendrik Magnisson had always been a heavy sleeper, and his neighbors had become reluctantly accustomed to his niece's attempts to wake him from the outside. “Hendrik! Wake up and open this door or by the gods I will throw rocks through your windows!” Finally, Hendrik opened the door, the groggy duardin standing in the doorway, “you're not strong enough to break my windows.” Hendrik said in a deadpan voice. Eris crossed her arms and stared at him with an angry look “You seem somewhat upset, Eris. Is there a problem, or are you here to make my landlord raise the rent again with your shouting?” Eris emphasized her expression by squinting slightly. “You were not present at my birthday celebration yesterday, care to explain?” she exclaimed. Hendrik stared at her with eyes that wished they were still closed, “I was… busy.” he responded somewhat guiltily. “You're always busy, uncle, we never see you anymore. Mother was very sad at your absence.” Hendrik looked to the floor, though he was not actually related to Eris and her family, he had been considered part of it for many years now and the thought of upsetting his only kin filled him with a deep shame. “I'm sorry for missing your birthday, Eris, I lost track of time. I'm putting the finishing touches on my latest project and I haven't been paying attention to the outside world.” “That's hardly an excuse for ignoring your family” Eris stated. “Not an excuse,” replied Hendrik “but an explanation.” “And a bad one at that.” snapped Eris. Hendrik's soul rolled its eyes. “Would you like to see? I'm sure you'd understand more if I just showed you.” Eris nodded and stepped inside. In an earlier time, Hendrik was a member of kharadron society, whose mastery of arcane machinery was second to none and he was no exception. His workshop was filled from floor to ceiling with technical documents and discarded prototypes of various designs; from arcane firearms to a pair of heated shoes meant for melting ice on the streets of Frorholm by walking. Hendrik had been known around Juddermark as an incredibly talented craftsman and an inventor of extremely odd devices, when he actually finished them of course. More often than not Hendrik's interest in an idea would fade and he would create new ones to follow, relegating old ideas once thought revolutionary to being things merely taking up space in his workshop. The two continued through until they came upon what looked like a small version of a man made out of clockwork parts. “What is it? Some kind of clockwork gremlin?” asked Eris. Hendrik smiled, “More than that, a friend. In kharadron society they call these things cogmunculi, they assist with repairs and other menial tasks. But this one here, this one is going to be something really special. He won't be limited to just being a menial servant, he'll think and feel on his own.” “Watch this!” Said Hendrik excitedly as he reached his finger at the back of the automaton's neck. The cogwork creature sprung to life at once and looked around the workshop. Eris looked on in awe at what she was seeing, she had assumed that Hendrik's latest project was going to he some kind of useless and unimpressive gizmo but this thing was the real deal. “Amazing,” said Eris, “does it have a name?” “Not yet,” responded Hendrik “I'm still working on him, putting on the finishing touches. Still, he won't be finished for quite some time. But once he's done, he'll be by your side forever.” “By my side? What do you mean?” Asked Eris. “Come now,” replied Hendrik, “I may have been absent but I didn't forget, I made him for you. To be your friend and companion. I'd hoped to have him done sooner but you know me and deadlines.” “I don't know what to say, uncle.” Said Eris as she looked into the machine's eyes. “You say he'll be a companion?” “Aye, he'll never leave your side.” Said Hendrik. Eris turned towards Hendrik and smiled, “Thank you, uncle Hendrik.” “Happy birthday, Eris,” Hendrik responded as they embraced....

Advent Stories: Bykaal Anew

Hysh was far down under the disk, which made the fog over lake Bykaal even more numbingly cold. The small boat moved through it with the inevitable will of the one who held it’s guide pole and it pierced the glass calm one slow even push at a time. Pushing closer and closer to the coalescing amethyst patterns as something new that was forming……or something old that was changing.He was drawn to this spot, in this moment, to bear witness to what was coming to be. No thought nor feeling beyond the dour furrow of concentration as he felt the realm of Shyish shift in that subtle but profound way. It was inevitable that this would happen, but how it would come to be, was another matter entirely.He pulled up the pole with one last push to set his skiff drift that last measure as it approached the point he desired to be. Waiting for the swirling hypnotic patterns to finish forming, and in that moment before it came to be: he reached his hand into the icy chill of that water with an even more cold grip.He closed his eyes so that he might see better, and gripped true upon his mark: that one last strand of fate. With great care he diverted its course ever so slightly and the Amethyst swirl took a new strand of color into its pattern, and then another… and another… until at last the kaleidoscope of power brimmed with new energy but to that same eternal purpose.  The furrowed brow changed slightly in what might be generously called a softening of an expression long set in the full weight of purpose amidst the most soul crushing hardship. In so long as it lasted before the burden of duty once more exerted its weight upon his brow.He waited then, as the new form took its final shape, and settled into the new pattern. Watching it with the long gaze of a master at his craft before he nodded that simple one nod.  It was done.“Be ye lost upon the sea, or upon this mighty river, here under these waters cold shall ye dwell unto time. And deep shall run the hope you once held, never to be lost, but faded like the glory of your tale of forgotten valor. Until it’s told anew.”The ancient words spoken from a time before, now remembered in the time that was to be.He opened his eyes and took up the long pole in his cold numbed hands. It once more pierced the still cold waters of Bykaal and his small skiff was once more on its way along the ferryman’s route as if nothing had happened other than a weary old duardin’s pause to gather strength to endure the growing cold of the long night.—The small watchtower was quiet as the older trusted pair of Bolyany Militiamen stood vigil over Butcher’s Bay. Every night for the last few years their vigil was over the same seeming never shifting view, and the slowly creeping unease of knowing they watched for those restless souls that seek the living. The Bolyany Milita trusted only their most proven with this task, for it had a way of being a mindbane to those who couldn’t handle the monotony of fear.  But rather than that primal instinctive terror set deep in the living for those that were no longer part of the mortal veil of the realms, there was a radiating sense of calm, peace, content. It was perhaps even more unnerving to the watchman than anything they’d felt before on the Lake. Even if it meant the souls that joined the lake this night wouldn’t ever rise to torment the living, for they had found their eternal rest and would know only peace until the end of times… …At least until that happens again.

Advent Stories: The Beginning

The heavy winter winds howled, sleet beating against the hide walls of the yurt. Somewhere in the storm cloaked distance, wolves joined their song to the wind. The snow muffled the groaning cracks of the shifting ice as it grew, clawing its way up the throat of the Ur River. Inside the tent, the air was warm and smokey. Burning fat, the last remnants of the meal, spit and popped in the low fire. It's acrid scent clung to everything, mingling with the smells of unwashed bodies, partially cured hides, and day-old blood. Red light under lit the room, cast up from smouldering embers. It was too weak to reach the roof, lost in the smokey haze, yet it cast the figures seated around the fire in a hellish glare. The storyteller's eyes were pinprick coals, reflecting red amongst the shadows. "In those days, Gorkamorka fought side by side with his children. He hunted the Great Beasts, killed and bled, and carved a path across the untamed lands. Always, the orruks were by his side. We were bigger then, stronger. Fed on the blood of godbeasts and raised in the footsteps of our god. Pure and primal, before the dark gods could taint these lands. We were hunters, reavers, and conquerors, carving realms from the wilds. "In Vohrus Bala, the Great Hunt tracked down the godbeast Karaskond, the great stag of living metal. Gorkamorka’s fists rang against its hide with peals that shattered trees across the mountainsides, but he could not break it. The godbeast' horns pierced his side. Blood rained, and the god's bellows boiled the skies. Wrenching back the head of Karaskond, he shoved his arm down its gullet and pulled the beating bronze heart from the beast, and as it collapsed around him he hammered the heart flat against the mountainside. Raising the roughshod disk, he bit into it, chipping the end of his tusk against its face. With a cry, Gorkamorka flung the Heart of Karaskond - now called Tuskbreaka - across the realms. "The splintered tip of Grokamorka’s tusk fell to the earth. In soil rich with the Green God's blood and fed by the corpse of the fallen godbeast, a single orruk grew from it. He has larger and stronger than any boss they'd seen before. WAAAAGH was in his bones, and the blood of Gork was in his veins. They named him Mogrek, 'son of the Brutal One'. Son of Gork.”The speaker leaned forwards, smoke wreathing his head. The flaming sword at his side flared in response.“Me.”“I joined the Great Hunt. I fought at Gorkamorka’s right hand, felt his savage might. With each hunt, I grew stronger, more brutal, more kunning. I’ve watched Behemat tear mountains apart, and seen the death of beasts this age cannot imagine. I’ve fought beside the Hammer God, Sigmar, back when he would fight his own battles. Seen him kill, seen the destruction he could wreak when he chose to. Seen him bleed. I’ve seen what he could be, what he should be. “When the time came and the hunt grew stale, and Gorkamorka had enough of the Hammer God’s rules, I joined him in the first Great WAAAAGH, bringing fire and death to those that settled the land in the wake of our conquest. I led armies in his name. I felt the WAAAGH rage like a wildfire. Idols of the gods knelt before me. “It was the ending of an Age. As the gods scrapped with each other, they didn’t see the dark ones make their move. The bigboss of the spikeyboys brought a true war to all the realms, and Sigmar got beat. Simple as that. But rather than take his lumps like an orruk and come back stronger, he went and hid.“You probably don’t even see it, do you? You’ve known nothing else. The taint of Chaos lies on everything in the realms now. It didn’t used to be like that. We are smaller now, weaker than we were in those days. We’re not conquerers. We’re pushed to the margins of the realms like the beasts we once hunted. Gorkamorka is fractured, scattered. All because Sigmar ran. “For all their might, the dark ones could not break through the Hammer God’s walls. They aren’t brutal enough or kunning enough. But I am. I know the way in. Before Gorkamorka and all the dark gods, I boasted that I would breach the Gates of Azyr. I will raze its cities and topple its walls. I will burn its works and put its peoples to the sword. I will shatter the shell of order that Sigmar has built around himself, and remind him what it means to be a God of War! Reawaken the conqueror that fought at Gorkamorka’s side! “My name is War! My name is WAAAAGH! My name is Mogrek Everwinter, Mogrek Longblade, Son of Gork and Doom of Cowards! I’ve walked with gods and seen them bleed, and will again! I will shatter the Heavens and bring fury to the realms once more!”

Introducing a New Era of Animosity

This past summer, Animosity Campaigns celebrated five years in the Mortal Realms with Animosity V - The Fated Blade. Our name, however, is much older… nearly twenty years older, in fact. As many in our Discord server have come to know, Animosity Campaigns began with a narrative event organizer known only as “Mogrek Longblade” in November 2004… and he’s on his way back in 2024.Well, kinda.Going into Animosity V’s development cycle, we opted to kick off a story arc that would continue through our 20 year anniversary in 2024 with Animosity VI. To this end, AV’s ultimate “big bad” was Mogrek Longblade, a “Colossa-boss” with a WAAAGH! of a thousand Rogue Idols animated by his force of will. Our players have previously witnessed some powerful villains, but we knew we wanted to go bigger.But who, then, would oppose him? Who could reasonably challenge such might? There was only one answer: our most beloved campaign setting, Animosity III’s Prime Dominion. During 2021’s campaign, a breakaway fiefdom of Lumineth called the Iscarneth Ceraphate fought a succession war for the right to lead their people. That leader would be Dariel the Resplendent, and now, it is his government who must defend their people’s future....Leading the Iscarneth’s military is Atressa Redhand, a warrior born, her soldiers armed with experimental gunpowder weaponry of aelven manufacture. Charged with defending the Prime Dominion, she seeks to land the first blow, attacking Waaagh! Mogrek before it can reach the Ceraphate. Using the power of the Everwinter bound to his left hand, Mogrek has frozen the surface of the Shadowsea. Following this icey pathway for many leagues west from the shattered island of Frørholm his Rogue Idols have marched, in darkness and mists, to the coast of the Shadowsea. There, they’ve made landfall where the Ur-River flows into the Shadowsea: the Fiammascura Realmgate, and on the other side, the Brûlant Plains of Aqshy and the Ashfall Delta - a wide river delta with five large islands in its lazy waters.It’s here that Atressa has chosen to make her stand alongside any who will fight beside her. She does not believe that Mogrek can be stopped here, but time can be bought with blood, and the defenses of the Cerphate’s capital city Iscarion made nigh unassailable.Team Animosity is proud to announce the Animosity Weekender 2024 - Rolling Thunder , coming January of next year. This global narrative event will take place over 10 days and two weekends, featuring five Narrative Paths. Each player will be able to submit up to 3 Reports to ONE Narrative Path of their choice. The 3 reports can be any combination of Play, Writing, Hobby, and Other Report categories.In a new twist, one of the five Narrative Paths will be locked out, and only players attending the Las Vegas Open will be able to Report to it; likewise, worldwide players will be able to Report to the other 4 Paths.Players will be able to fight for two Figureheads, Mogrek Longblade and Atressa Redhand . Should Mogrek crush all resistance, his Waaagh! will crash down upon the Prime Dominion like an avalanche. Should Atressa hold the line, the Prime Dominion will have time to complete countermeasures to Mogrek’s army of Rogue Idols, and ensure final victory is within reach before the war has even begun.But, no matter the Weekender’s outcome, war will return to the Iscarneth Ceraphate in Animosity VI - Shattered Dominion , coming Summer 2024!...

Animosity V Awards

With Animosity V in the history books, it’s time to name our MVP awards. This has been a time-honored tradition since our WHFB days, and while the categories may change, the intent has always remained the same: to recognize those exceptional players who not only played a great game, but made the experience better for everyone around them, too.First, this year’s Youngblood, our award for players just jumping into their first campaign. We-the-Team called a huddle and talked it over; of our MVP, we had this to say:“... we have a lot of very cool new eggs (...) does stick out from how deep they got into it, and how WELL they are doing it.”“... he's gotten right into the narrative of it while actively taking a leadership role, and steering the Blackwing towards narrative and fun.”That’s right, AV’s Youngblood is Myth / Jhaellerax! T’was not an easy choice, but quickly became a unanimous one. ***Aside from Youngblood, we chose to bench our other awards this year, instead opting to expand Peerless General - previously the only player-nominated award - to every Coalition, instead of a single player from the whole campaign. And, as if to echo the Team’s sentiments…Blackwing Corsairs Peerless General: Myth / Jhaellerax“Myth was super helpful and friendly and very encouraging with plans and ideas! Always open to listen and very fun to play with, also a great team player! It was a pleasure to play on the same team as him!”“was always active for both rp and strategizing and had amazing in character posts. He was always up to collaborate and encouraging with the other players. He helped keep us all together when things got into the weeds as far as planning. All this as a new player to Animosity.”“The soul of the Corsairs, great roleplayer, helpful and friendly, rallied the troops and helped keep morale high.”***Shields of An’avon Peerless General: Vyre / Nienw the Nameless“They spearheaded our early coordination efforts, and ended up being the embodiment of our coalition ABCs: Always Be Casting!”“Super active and brought a lot of ideas to the front.”“Helped add a lot of personality and character to our faction! (Not to mention horns.)”***Mooncalled Peerless General: Mika / Clan Kyodai“Ichi of clan Kyodai was a constant driving force in the actions of the mooncalled. The narrative and out of character presence of the giant, with a heart to match his size, was an anchor that we could rally behind.”***Wolves of Agora Peerless General: Jinzor / Gore’ox Palefur“He was consistently getting a plan together for our submissions, updating our spreadsheets and in general keeping the coalition heading in a cohesive direction.”“Always positive, kept the discussion focussed, and a great team player.”***Shadowsong Renegades Peerless General: Kaleb / Dagon the Ordained“Bright solid energy (...) really getting me excited to play as a new person. Had an all-around fun personality.”“His regular participation and amazing interactions/storytelling/collaborations produced a very marked impact on the game.”***Dross-forged Peerless General: JMWormwood / Snoll Stonebrak“The positive workhorse who kept the momentum of the faction moving steadily forward throughout the campaign. Faced many challenges, but met them all with a spirit of collaboration and community.““Ever-vigilant Wormwood, the only diplomat for a good amount of the game, went above and beyond in his role, bringing together soft leadership skills, excellent proliferation of information and engagement of players to emerge as a central figure for the Dross.”“I know a few players were overloaded in real life but still participated because they wanted to be a part of what Wormwood was doing and to support Wormwood specifically. As a general, keeping your folks motivated and organized is crucial and after three campaigns I can say that Wormwood is without peer.”“As Snoll Stonebrok, JMW led us through the city and to the fortress like Washington leading his army across the Delaware river.”***On behalf of Team Animosity, I’d like to congratulate one and all! There were many other nominees, and we’ve read all your nominations. It’s wonderful to see you all bring out the best in each other with comments like these:“Took up a guiding/leadership-like role at the start of the campaign which greatly helped us organize our efforts.”“the voice of reason in (our Coalition), reminding us to stay positive in RP and not to get carried away, whether it be with outrageous plans or with beating ourselves up.”“(they) reached out to me when (presumably unknown to (them)) my commitment to the campaign was faltering, and through collaborating with me and weaving our PCs' stories together, brought my investment in the narrative back to its peak. (they were) also was a consistent presence in the Coalition chat, dependable and a firm guiding hand in times of uncertainty.”“Excellent rat.”Thank you all for your nominations and, of course, for being who you are!Until next year and with all the best regards,Team Animosity

AV Turn 5 - Naro's Thirty Hobby Highlights

5 Weeks in and the campaign is all but over, and just under 1200 Player Reports have been submitted.  Please take time to enjoy the following 30 Hobby Highlights from the final week!!! From the Animosity Campaigns team, thank you all for walking down this road with us over the last five weeks. Images below have been listed in matching order of the players listed.Links to player Imgur, Blogspot, Reddit, Twitter, Instagram, and DeviantArt postings will be shared with best effort and intentions.  Be sure to like and follow them! Links to player Google Drive/Docs/Photos will not be shared. ***Submitted by: admacritchie  (via Google Docs)Submitted by: arrangar_de_liloneth (via Google Drive)Submitted by: CaiLeonas (via Google Drive)Submitted by: Cakelatte (via Twitter)Submitted by: charsh | Esmerelda von Drecht (via Google Drive)Submitted by: GorksPokinFinger#1161 (via Google Docs)Submitted by: HobbyJackal (via Google Drive)Submitted by: ironblaze (via Google Photos)Submitted by: JMWormwood (via Google Drive)Submitted by: lonelyashtree (via Twitter)Submitted by: Manos1984 (via Google Drive)Submitted by: mike2500 (via Google Docs)Submitted by: op_myth (via Google Docs)Submitted by: Peacehammer (via Google Docs)Submitted by: perryhotter. (via Twitter)Submitted by: Redmaw (via Instagram)Submitted by: RedMulli (via Google Docs)Submitted by: skavenrizzik (via Google Drive)Submitted by: Snuggs (via Instagram)Submitted by: Sudsinabucket (via Twitter)Submitted by: Tarascon (via Google Drive)Submitted by: Templars of Our Burning Saviour#7882 (via DeviantArt)Submitted by: turkeypanini (via Imgur)Submitted by: Valinar the Sorcerer King/Rico (via Google Docs)Submitted by: Varulae (via Google Docs)Submitted by: vinia#8361 (via Google Drive)Submitted by: WarbossKurgan ( via Blogspot)Submitted by: wh_narratives (via Google Drive)Submitted by: Wolflord2344 (via Google Docs)Submitted by: Zim42 (via Google Drive)

AV Turn 4 - Naro's Thirty Hobby Highlights

4 Weeks into the campaign with just under 1000 Player Reports collected. Please take time to enjoy the following 30 Hobby Highlights!!! Images below have been listed in matching order of the players listed.Links to player Imgur, Blogspot, Reddit, Twitter, Instagram, and DeviantArt postings will be shared with best effort and intentions. Be sure to like and follow them! Links to player Google Drive/Docs/Photos will not be shared.Submitted by: admacritchie (via Google Docs)Submitted by: arrangar_de_liloneth (via Google Drive)Submitted by: cavalrywolfpack (via Twitter)Submitted by: Ceda_Kuru_Qan (via Google Docs)Submitted by: Doominator407#2479 (via Google Drive)Submitted by: Ginny (via Google Drive)Submitted by: Ginny (via Google Drive)Submitted by: Harris547 (via Google Docs)Submitted by: hjalti_6139 (via Google Drive)Submitted by: HobbyJackal (via Google Drive)Submitted by: J. Shepherd#8154 (via Instagram)Submitted by: JMWormwood (via Google Drive)Submitted by: leilatchu (via ShortURL)Submitted by: leoxandar (via Imgur)Submitted by: lobsmag (via Reddit) Submitted by: lobsmag (via Google Drive)Submitted by: malthan (via Google Docs)Submitted by: maps_ (via Google Drive)Submitted by: maps_ (via Google Drive)Submitted by: mike2500 (via Google Docs)Submitted by: Myaori (via Redditt)Submitted by: QuietWoods (via Google Drive)Submitted by: Redangel97 (via Twitter)Submitted by: snuggatron (via Instagram)Submitted by: Sudsinabucket (via Twitter)Submitted by: Templars of Our Burning Saviour#7882 (via DiviantArt)Submitted by: turkeypanini (via Imgur)Submitted by: vinia#8361 (via Google Drive)Submitted by: zim42 (via Google Drive)Submitted by: Zyggy567 (via Google Drive)

AV Turn 3 - Naro's Thirty Hobby Highlights

After three weeks into the campaign just under 800 reports have been collected!!! Please enjoy the following 30 hobby highlights from our amazing community of players. Images below have been listed in matching order of the players listed.Links to player Imgur, Blogspot, Reddit, Twitter, Instagram, and DeviantArt postings will be shared with best effort and intentions. Be sure to like and follow them! Links to player Google Drive/Docs/Photos will not be shared.***Submitted by: aimless_savagery (via Google Photos)Submitted by: Archimead (via Google Photos)Submitted by: arrangar_de_liloneth (via Google Drive)Submitted by: Arroz_again (via Google Drive)Submitted by: Cap'n Clink Keyholdr #crioncrux (via Twitter)Submitted by: Ceda_Kuru_Qan (via Google Docs)Submitted by:comradecim (via Google Drive)Submitted by: Doominator407#2479 (via Google Drive)Submitted by: emo4838 (via Google Drive)Submitted by: hawkdos | Dracarion von Bal (via Google Docs)Submitted by: hjalti_6139 (via Google Drive)Submitted by: HobbyJackal (via Twitter)Submitted by: JMWormwood (via Google Drive)Submitted by: lobsmag (via Google Drive)Submitted by: Malthan (via Google Docs)Submitted by: Manos1984 (via Google Drive)Submitted by: My_username_was_invalid (via Discord)Submitted by: op_myth (via Google Docs)Submitted by: Paul | Daemonsmith Xira (via Twitter)Submitted by:Paul | Xira Forgecaller  (via Twitter)Submitted by: Peacehammer (via Google Docs)Submitted by: pyro_john (via Imgur)Submitted by: RedMulli (via Google Docs)Submitted by: Sudsinabucket  (via Twitter)Submitted by: superduperhappytime (via Imgur)Submitted by: turkeypanini (via Imgur)Submitted by: varulae (via Google Docs)Submitted by: Wolflord2344 (via Google Docs)Submitted by: zim42 (via Google Drive)Submitted by: Zyggy567 (via Google Drive)

AV Turn 2 - Naro's Thirty Hobby Highlights

Two weeks in with almost 600 collected reports!!!. Such an amazing community of talented players and hobbyists from around the globe. This week's picks were challenging to choose from. This almost became 50 Hobby Highlights instead of 30. Images below have been listed in matching order of the players listed.Links to player Imgur, Blogspot, Reddit, Twitter, Instagram, and DeviantArt postings will be shared with best effort and intentions. Be sure to like and follow them! Links to player Google Drive/Docs/Photos will not be shared. Submitted by: ambercoast1 (via Discord Post)Submitted by: arroz_again (via Google Drive)Submitted by: Cap'n Clink Keyholdr #crioncrux (via Twitter)Submitted by: Ceda_Kuru_Qan (via Google Docs)Submitted by: charsh Esmerelda von Drecht (via Google Drive)Submitted by: Dracarion von Bal hawkdos (via Google Docs)Submitted by: dunk.s (via Google Docs)Submitted by: emo4838 (via Google Drive)Submitted by: Ginny Avrana Talonsworn (via Google Drive)Submitted by: ironblaze (via Google Photos)Submitted by: J. Shepherd#8154 (via Reddit)Submitted by: jambo_2814 (via Google Drive)Submitted by: JMWormwood (via Google Drive)Submitted by: klander736#7854 (via Imgur)Submitted by: light_ningja (via Instagram)Submitted by: lobsmag (via Reddit)Submitted by: malthan (via Google Docs)Submitted by: Manos1984 (via Google Drive)Submitted by: Peacehammer (via Google Docs)Submitted by: redangel97 (via Twitter)Submitted by: RedMulli (via Google Docs)Submitted by: skavenrizzik (via Google Drive)Submitted by: Snuggatron (via instagram)Submitted by: Sudsinabucket (via Twitter)Submitted by: Templars of Our Burning Saviour#7882 (via DeviantArt)Submitted by: thesimplecyborg (via Google Drive)Submitted by: turkeypanini (via Imgur)Submitted by: Vinia#8361 (via Google Drive)Submitted by: WarbossKurgan (via Blogspot)Submitted by: zim42 (via Google Drive)

Flora and Fauna of the Lost City of Frørholm

By Vala Edrasdottír, Adventurer and Natural HistorianPart I: The Surface ForewordGreetings once again, my devoted readers. Having parted from my home city of Barak-Drak on less than friendly terms for the second time in my life, I have returned to my preferred lifestyle: I am once again a vagrant scholar. My travels have been aided significantly by my newfound friend Kladi II. Though I miss Kladi, my erstwhile pet ironscale pangolin, dearly, she is growing old, and I think rather enjoys the pampering she receives from Barak-Drak’s admiral. Kladi II is a much different beast to her predecessor, serving as both companion and transportation. She is the largest and most intelligent member of the metalithodon subspecies I have discovered, big enough for me to have built a mobile research station upon her stone head. Indeed, I find myself tempted to refer to her as a megalithodon instead, but alas, the taxonomy is getting crowded already. Beyond her size and her ability to float through the air at remarkable speed for her size, she has developed rudimentary psychic communication, a development that I had predicted may occur upon first observing the subspecies’s mutation from the dimwitted lithodon during the bleed event in Lahar. This communication currently doesn’t advance much beyond understanding which direction I wish to go, asking for treats, and the occasional declaration of fondness, but I have high hopes that her mental acuity will continue to grow as her mutations progress. But I have prattled about myself long enough, something I am evidently prone to, as my former partner was most fond of pointing out.My adventures have brought me to a most remote and remarkable corner of the Realms: The frozen city of Frørholm. Though the place may seem barren and lifeless at first glance, there is a plethora of unique life here, both on the frozen surface and within the caverns below, or so it is said. Those of my readers with a particularly academic bent may have read of the legendary Lichen Pit, the fabled cavern beneath Frørholm where the ice that wreaths the surface has not touched. Indeed, it is said that there is some power deep within, a wellspring of life that has led to the proliferation of a unique subterranean biome. Most who have attempted to enter the Pit have done so in search of this Source, fabled to heal both body and soul, or even to grant eternal youth. I seek only to document the unique life contained within.I came to Frørholm upon hearing myriad rumours that the ice that has held the city in stasis for centuries has begun to melt. I thought this the ideal time to search for a newly uncovered entrance to the Lichen Pit, but have arrived to find the city in turmoil. Myriad warbands and raiders shed blood across the ancient city in search of some sword held within. It is more than unlikely that this has any connection to the Lichen Pit, but it does make exploration difficult. A few have even taken pot shots at poor Kladi II as I have surveyed the city, so I have had to leave my mobile research station offshore, using my borrowed aether dirigible from Barak-Drak instead, at great cost to my dwindling fuel supplies. Thus far I have not found any sign of the mythical Pit, but I have noted numerous species upon the surface unique to Frørholm. I feel deeply sorry for each and every one of them, their habitat thawing and overrun by invaders, and I worry that my study may be something of a final testament to these remarkable species. Frostbite TroggothThe icy troggoths that inhabit the island of Frørholm are unique in that, unlike their more common cousins found across the Realms, they are not content to remain sedentary for any prolonged period of time (unless, of course, to take a nap. They are still troggoths, after all.) Rather, they are migratory creatures who use their frozen anatomy to their advantage by simply walking across the open waters of the ur-river, as water freezes solid beneath their feet. Standing slightly larger than an average troggoth, they possess stony skin and radiate a chill powerful enough to cause the rapid onset of frostbite in any who approach them. Moisture that collects on their hide quickly turns to ice and creates a frightening visage of a crystalline beast. Shards of ice slough from them as they move, and they are surrounded by a diamond mist of razor-sharp ice slivers as they freeze the very air about them. Frostbite troggoths are not any more aggressive than their warmer kin; indeed, they are possibly even less so, their frozen brains functioning at an even more glacial pace than most troggoths. Despite this, they are formidable opponents in combat, their ability to turn even the sharpest blade brittle upon contact rendering most weapons less than useless against them. I fear little for this particular species’s survival. Their ability to migrate across the Ur-River means they will likely be able to reach the far shores, and their innate abilities should stand them in good stead upon the mainland. Indeed, I worry more for the species they will come in contact with once driven from their island home.SquigcicleOriginally the offspring of the common cave squig, these creatures have adapted to the raw magic and unnatural ice that covers Frørholm, becoming a truly formidable ambush predator. With the ability to freeze themselves to any surface and slow their biological functions to a crawl, these squigs can wait in the same spot for days or even weeks for their next meal to appear. They cling motionless to the ceilings of caves and ruined buildings, disguised as simple icicles, only their tiny, peering eyes giving any indication that they are not what they seem. Once prey has been spotted, the squigcicle will use its powerful legs to break free of its frozen grip and launch mouth first at whatever poor soul that has gained its attention. Worse is the fate of one directly below one of these predators, for they are likely to be painfully impaled upon the razor sharp icicle growing from its back. If its icicle breaks, the squigcicle need only regain its perch and wait for it to naturally reform as time passes. I have little hope for these remarkable creatures as the city thaws, their ability to form their characteristic icicles stifled by the warming temperature, along with their camouflage becoming less and less useful as the ice recedes.Crystal LotusThese striking, black-petaled lotuses grow not in water like their common cousins, but directly from the ice, drawing from the magical energy imbued within. Their petals are so rimed with frost that, by all appearances, they seem to be no true flower at all, but rather a feat of fanciful glasswork. This is of course not the case, but crystal loti are highly prized relics for those few who have ventured into Frørholm seeking its treasures, selling for remarkably high prices despite the difficulty of their maintenance outside the frozen city. They are not merely prized for ornamentation, however, for they are, each and every one, wellsprings of magical power in their own right. They draw their energy from the raw magic that freezes Frørholm, as previously stated, and hold it in condensed form within themselves. They can be tapped for energy by skilled wizards, making them even more desirable. Rare even before the thawing, crystal loti are already on the verge of extinction at the time of my arrival in Frørholm, their habitats receding rapidly, along with plunderers taking what few survive for their own ends. I have recovered a single specimen myself, and have placed it in an aether-powered stasis pod back in my research station. I could likely sell it for more aether gold than I have seen in my life, but I shall not. My duty is to the preservation of the natural world, not its plundering.Forge HoundA curious beast indeed, and much different to the others that I have documented so far, is the forge hound. The old tales of Frørholm tell of a legendary forge at its centre, and little better evidences this than the raw elemental fury of these creatures. Appearing to emanate from the westernmost reaches of the city, they seem to be little more than mindless beasts, taking the form of flaming, ethereal wolves. Their behaviour is remarkably simple: they run aimlessly about until their heat fades and their magic dissipates, lashing out at anything that crosses their winding path. There does not appear to be any pattern to their ramblings, and I wish I had more time to confirm that this is the case, but the warbands that contest the island rapidly approach the forge hounds’ breeding ground, and I fear they do not have long. I debated whether to even include the forge hound in this study, for it is debatable if it is even any type of fauna at all, possibly being a mere elemental power in the shape of a beast. I decided to document them regardless, however, as they are truly fantastical, and I have seen little else like them during my many travels.Augur RavenMany landmarks across Frørholm are named for corvid birds, and it seems that they were once both abundant across the isle and culturally significant. Few of their ancestors now remain, primarily represented by the augur ravens that call the city home. These birds appear largely indistinct from their common cousins save for their enormous eyes which sparkle with the light of Azyr. How they came to be suffused with celestial power is a mystery, but it has given them a remarkable power of foresight. This usually manifests in flocks of augur ravens converging on a place where something is likely to die in the near future, or nesting in areas that won’t see any kind of upheaval or disaster. They have become prized familiars for celestial mages, however, as their connection to Azyr and powers of foresight can be used to augment the bearer’s own. They have therefore been prized targets for poaching for a long time, and already many have been captured or killed during the present conflict, in spite of their remarkable powers of prediction. Augur Ravens notoriously do not breed in captivity, so I fear I am witnessing the last generation of these incredible birds.

AV Turn 1 - Naro's Thirty Hobby Highlights

An amazing first week with just under 300 report submissions. Players in the campaign have been hobbying well as the first turn of the campaign wraps up. The large collection of hobby and battlefield photography was an absolute pleasure to browse through. Here are Thirty Hobby Highlights. Images below have been listed in matching order of the players listed.Links to player Imgur, Blogspot, Reddit, Twitter, Instagram, and DeviantArt postings will be shared with best effort and intentions. Be sure to like and follow them! Links to player Google Drive/Docs/Photos will not be shared. ***Submitted by: admacritchie (via Google Docs)***Submitted by: arrangar_de_liloneth (via DeviantArt)***Submitted by: Cap'n Clink Keyholdr #crioncrux (via Twitter)***Submitted by: ceda_kuru_qan (via Google Docs)***Submitted by: charsh  Esmerelda Von Drecht (via Google Drive)***Submitted by: ComradeCim (via Google Drive)***Submitted by: dunk.s (via Google Docs)***Submitted by: emo4838 (via Google Drive)***Submitted by: FriendOrTraitor#0362 (via Imgur)***Submitted by: Gnivil (via Twitter)***Submitted by: hairyhogg#8413 (via Google Docs)***Submitted by: Harris547 (via Google Docs)***Submitted by: hawkdos (via Google Docs)***Submitted by: hjalti_6139 (via Google Drive)***Submitted by: hobbyjackal (via Google Docs)***Submitted by: ironblaze (via Google Photos)***Submitted by: JMWormwood (via Google Drive)***Submitted by: lobsmag (via Reddit)***Submitted by: lord_vigo (via Instagram)***Submitted by: Malthan (via Google Docs)***Submitted by: Peacehammer (via Google Docs)***Submitted by: perryhotter (via Twitter)***Submitted by: Redmaw (via Instagram)***Submitted by: skavenrizzik (via Google Drive)***Submitted by: Sudsinabucket (via Twitter)***Submitted by: superduperhappytime#0 (via Imgur)***Submitted by: turkeypanini (via Imgur)***Submitted by: Valinar the Sorcerer KingRico (via Google Docs)***Submitted by: warbosskurgan (via Blogger)***Submitted by: Zyggy567 (via Google Drive)***

Duty and Steel

A horn’s call, brilliant and clear as a falcon’s cry, split the air, rising for a moment over the thunderous staccato of horses’ hooves. Knights in gleaming plate charged across the alpine meadow, crushing wild flowers under steel-shod hooves. The rout had already begun among the bestial raiders. Pockets of the larger gors still stood to fight, their crude shields held in a patchwork line, but around them their smaller kin were breaking for the trees. The baroque horned plate, skull helms and heavy mounts of the riders struck terror in the beast folk. Most would be run down before they could make it to the trees. Up and down the faltering line, swift charges breached through weak points, carving the beastmen into scattered pairs or trios, then trampling them with ease. One last group of gors remained, anchored by the largest of their kin. It had already killed one horse, leaving the rider pinned beneath its weight, their leg likely shattered. Braying out a challenge, it pointed its brutal axes at the knight leading the latest charge. The guttural roar was cut short as the tip of the lance exploded through its chest, the impact shattered wood and bone alike. That was enough for the few remaining raiders, who broke and fled for the hills. The knight reined in her fiery white mount, dropping the shattered lance. Across the field the rest of her patrol was riding down the fleeing beastmen. It would be short and bloody work, but they would make sure a few were able to escape. It was better that way, according to the old wisdom. Let them spread word of the slaughter to their foul kindred and, for a few years at least, they would not raid along the kingdom’s borders. She pulled the heavy helm from her head, its daemonic visage and curving horns leering upwards. Another learning of the old wisdom. To survive the dark times, they had had to become as fearsome as the daemon hosts that had assailed them. Tìr An’avon had become strong and feared, and now it was her duty to ensure they remained so.“Lady Gwenefyre!” The call brought her back to the moment, and she smiled at the two knights riding leisurely towards her. Lucan had his helm off already, sweat-soaked red hair plastered across his face. Isoult was carrying a crudely carved charm taken from one of the beastmen, her hands bloody to the elbows. The three of them had been friends since childhood, knighted together and oath-bound.“The gobhar-sìth are bold this year!”“Aye Lucan, perhaps they’d heard of the trouble on the eastern borders and sought to test us. What’s that you’ve got there?”Isoult turned the talisman in her hands, then tossed it to Gwenefyre. She didn’t recognize the symbol, and raised an eye. “Gore-horn tribe. They come from the east. They might be fleeing the same invaders we now face.” Gwenefyre had long learned to trust Isoult’s sagecraft on such things.“All the more reason to hurry then. Gather up the knights. Let’s get them and the horses out of the heavy armour and rested much as we can while the train catches up. It’ll be a long march still before the day’s end. We’ll send the wounded back with five knights and the Old Man”“Whatever you say, Princess,” said Isoult, ducking with a laugh as the talisman was thrown back at her head. They both knew how much Gwenefyre hated being called that, and teased her with it whenever they could.  As they rode off, another rider approached. He rode tall and strong in the saddle, but the crown of hair atop his head had been frost-white for half a dozen winters already. “My lady,” he said with a stiff but warm bow of his head.“Castellan Bracca.” She matched her tone to his stiff formality, but could not keep a smile from the corner of her mouth. The old knight had practically raised her, trained her to fight and to lead. However much he insisted on formalities on the battlefield and in court, she could not help but picture his exasperated laughter when he had caught her stealing plums as a child, or his joyous tears when she won her first joust. “The rout is complete, my lady. They won’t trouble this border for years. I supposed we return to Caer Cadrwynn then?”“Bracca, I…”“You are not returning, are you.”“How did you know?”“You brought 3 months of provisions, spare horses and lances and an armourer for a routine patrol of the borderlands. I am old, not blind.”“Aye, that’s the truth, Castellan. These invaders, these ‘Dawnbringers’, they are not like the beastmen. They won’t be dissuaded by a show of force, or seek easier prey elsewhere. The Queen is wrong. They’re fanatics, backed by immortal revenants, and if they’ve decided their mission leads them through our lands they won’t stop ’til us or them are dead. How many other kingdoms have they already smashed through? I know what we must do to stop them, though. I have seen it, each night in my dreams. A sword trapped in ice. It will deliver us.”The old knight studied her a moment. “You truly believe it then, that these dreams of yours are a quest sent by the Goddesses?”“Yes, I do. It is their promise, to save our kingdom.”“Then you’ve no need to convince me of anything else, Gwenefyre. If you believe it, I do as well. How can I help.” Her shoulders eased with relief, and only then did she realize how anxious she had been to share her plan.“Take the wounded back. I’ll leave five of the remaining knights with you, and take twenty plus myself, Lucan and Isoult.”“Of course,” the old man chuckled, “we could never split the three of you up anyways. You and your knights will be missed on the field if the Dawnbringers press the invasion.”“Then we’ll have to find this blade and return just as swiftly. Fortunately, whoever taught me to ride did a fine job.”“For the Queen and An’avon, Lady Gwenefyre. Duty and Steel.”“Duty and Steel, for all of Tìr An’avon.”

The Shields of An’avon - Coalition Focus

The Shields of An'avon have journeyed far across the Mortal Realms to the desolate shores of the Sea of Shadows on a quest to recover the Fated Blade and save their kingdom. Gleaming knights astride powerful warhorses form the core of their force, their baroque armour and frightful visages bedecked in many-coloured heraldry. Hailing from the hill countries of Ghyran, they are joined by highland tribesmen called by ancient pacts of friendship, fae aelven wanderers, and many others troubled by the advancing tides of Azyr. The Kingdom of Tír An'avon is a relic of an earlier age. Perched in the Highlands of Ghyran, it is a land of alpine meadows choked with windflowers, deep glacial lakes, and lonely hilltop castles. When the gates of Azyr slammed shut, the scattered clans of horsemen banded together around a warrior king and a prophetess of the Eight Goddesses to hold off the hordes of darkness. Over the centuries, they learned from their foes and grew into a small but powerful feudal kingdom backed by a noble class of heavily armoured knights. Taking on fierce guises of bestial skulls or horned helms, they have resisted daemonic warlords, rampaging greenskins and the hungry dead alike. In recent years, a new threat unlike any they have faced before has emerged. Backed by the thunderous might of their undying warriors, crusaders bearing the twin-tailed banner have appeared in Ghyran, sweeping away all that stand in the path of their conquest. To the Sigmarites, any that do not kneel before their pantheon are no different than daemon-worshippers, fit only for death and conquest. High Queen Ygrainne has so far refused to call for war and meet the dawnbringers on the field, preferring instead to send skirmishers to harass and delay the invaders, slowing their expansion to a crawl. She is confident that a patient defense will turn them away for easier conquests elsewhere. Yet to some, this patience is a folly, and with each foot of ground granted a part of their kingdom’s souls is stolen away. A small number have rallied around the young Lady Gwenefyre, niece to the queen, and the prophetic visions she has received. Calling themselves the Shields of An'avon, they have gathered what few allies they can and set upon the perilous quest for the Fated Blade. Lady GwenefyreYoung, headstrong and valiant, Gwenefyre was granted the hereditary title of Defender of Tír An'avon at a young age and has worked tirelessly to live up to the ideals it represents. Her skill and drive have won her renown among her peers and at court, but the weight of duty has grown heavy upon her. She fears that if the crusaders are not dealt with quickly, they will never be turned away or satisfied with their conquests. Tír An'avon cannot face the might of Azyr, of that she is certain. Just when she had begun to give in to despair, she received a dream of a magic sword, bound in ice in a distant land. A quest, sent to her by the blessed Goddesses in the kingdom’s hour of need. As hard as it would be to leave Tír An'avon now, Gwenefyre would not balk at the duty, no matter the cost. Character hooks for if your PC is a member of The Shields of An'avon You are a knight errant of Tír An'avon, accompanying Lady Gwenefyre on the quest for The Fated Blade to save the kingdom and earn your name.You are a vassal of the kingdom, perhaps a highland clansman or border marcher, hoping to gain glory or even a knighthood for your service.Character hooks for if your PC has joined the cause of The Shields of An'avonYou are a long time ally or trading partner of the kingdom, and have joined the quest to protect your own interests.You have reason to distrust or fear the development of a new Dawnbringer city, and have joined the cause to halt the spread of Sigmar.You have long searched for a home and cause to call your own, and the Kingdom's offer of land and rank to those that assist the quest have spoken to you.

A True Prince of Dawn

The line of ships slid gracefully into shore, their movements precise and controlled. White dreamwood hulls, fair as moonbeams, gleamed beneath gold and amber pennons. From a pavilion on the shore, an aelf in gleaming armour stared up at the high flags. An amber sun, chased in gold, rising against a field of black. Proud and stark, the symbol of his house rippling in the air. Or at least, it should have been. Instead of the warm, clear winds of the light-seas of the Ceraphate carrying the colours, they hung rumpled and stiff. The interminable fog had soaked through the fine silks, and now they clung half frozen to the mast. Frost was already creeping across the amber sun, and it irked him.“The landing is complete, my lord. The captains are reporting in good order, and convey their congratulations.”He raised a hand, acknowledging the adjutant. The passage across the Sea of Shadows had been as fraught as the stories promised, but he had every faith in the men and women that served him. They were true Teclandec, chosen for their pursuit of perfection in all their endeavours. “With your permission, lord, we will begin to-““Lord!” The cry came from the far end of their camp, where one of his soldiers was pointing up to the other end of the black stone beach. There, around one of the empty-faced monoliths staring out to sea, figures had begun to emerge. A few at first, then a dozen more, then by the score. Even from this distance, the light glinted off the crude metal plates they called armour, and from the massive heavy axes they carried. He could practically smell the stinking furs they wore from here.“We must signal the captains! If we hurry, the household guard can disembark and reach us before these marauders.”“No, Caelwen,” the aelf-lord said, rising from his seat. “The captains know their business. Unload the cargo as planned, I’ve no interest in being on this island a moment longer than necessary.”Pulling the heavy mitten from his hand, he tossed them onto the map spread across the pavilion’s one table. Small icons already marked landing sites across the island. Over a dozen of them, all claimants for this Fated Blade, all stepping stones on his path to glory. “Look at them, Caelwen. Illiterate barbarians. Filthy savages. Duardin. This island crawls with them. This is what my uncle would see our Ceraphate become, hiring mercenaries, granting clemency to those that took up arms against him.” He dusted his hands dramatically, then stepped out from the pavilion. “Come with me. Let us go see what they want.”Caelwen, the adjutant, hurried to grab the vexillum and followed after. The aelf-lord was unusually tall for their people, and even setting a casual pace Caelwen struggled to catch up with the bulky and unwieldy banner. Across the beach, the approaching war band has begun to array itself. Over three score of the heavily armoured warriors, by the adjutant’s count, and nearly half that many bestial half-men prowling uneasily behind their ranks. They had been seen by now, and a massive warrior in a particularly spiky helmet separated from the pack, a cowled and stunty creature crab-hopping along beside him.The two sides met halfway between the end of the beach and the aelf-lord’s pavilion. “Your attention!” Caelwen began, adopting the tone of a court crier in Iscarion. “You are in the presence of Prince Sagradiel, of the noble house of Teclandec. The Lion of Iscarion. Prince of the Dawn City. Future heir to the Iscarneth Ceraphate!”His voice was clear but brittle, and hung in the air in silence for a long moment. The smaller creature, its features hidden beneath its tattered cowl, gave a quick whistling titter before responding.“Woe to you then, lion prince.” Its voice bubbled and cracked, in a gulping frog-like cadence. “You stand before Belagos Blackhand. Warlord of the Iron. Prince of nothing. Heir of ruin. Slayer of champions and fools alike. He accepts your challenge.”Sagradiel took a half step forwards. “You misunderstand me, creature. Tell your master I have not come to fight him. I am here to accept his surrender.”The robed figure gurgled in surprise, looking back and forth between them. Sagradiel raised his left arm, two fingers and thumb extended like a pistol and pointing at the hulking champion. His long blonde hair, tried back in a rakish corsair’s knot, rustled across his armour’s seal fur collar.“Tell him he has three seconds to comply. One.”A hollow, brassy laugh echoed from within the heavy horned helmet of the champion, deep and discordant. It echoed in the air around them, as the voice of Belagos Blackhand ground out like granite.“Amusing, but now it's time to d-“Sagradiel tiled his hand up, and Belagos was thrown backwards, a dozen points of impact smashing into his chest and head. A half second later, the rumbling thunder of a rifle volley reached them. Teclandec sharpshooters, Sagradiel’s pride and joy, began reloading in quick precise movements. Belagos lay in a bloody mess. A few shots had glanced from his armour or splintered on impact, but most had punched clean through the rough steel. The back of his helmet was a gaping red ruin. “Three.”The veiled creature lay on the ground as well. One shot had glanced off the champion’s armour and punched through its lower leg, shattering bone. Sagradiel walked towards it, brushing aside his coat and drawing a more real pistol as he approached.“No, please! I am just a herald. A messenger!”The aelf-lord looked down at the pitiful creature, then gestured with his pistol. “Then run. That is my message to all your ilk. This island, and everything on it, are mine, and any that stand in my way will be cut down. Now, run.”The figure pulled itself to its feet, broken leg grinding in protest, then began pulling itself as quickly as possible back towards its companions without another glance at the fallen champion.It made it another dozen steps before the shot rang out, and the herald toppled forwards.“There, I think that sends the message just as well as he ever could.” Sagradiel tossed the spent pistol towards the adjutant. “Damned clever, these things. The Ruyular may have no more class than those mongrel Celandec, but they can at least turn out some fine workmanship.”Up the beach, the line of marauders was turning to shambles. Each time a warrior took a step towards their fallen lord, a rifle round knocked them back or put them down. The rear of the line was already disintegrating, many running for the hills. For the moment, those that ran were not being fired on, and the choice between advancing into rifle fire and running was becoming abundantly clear. Sagradiel turned and began walking back to his pavilion. One would-be warlord down. Another dozen or so to go. Then the sword would be his, and he could set everything to right. “Oh, and send word to Captain Ruthlain to straighten out that flag. It's a damned disgrace. 

Animosity V Registration and You

One of the most consistent points of feedback we’ve received after each of our last few campaigns has been about how badly the larger Coalitions have struggled. Often cited are difficulties in coordinating efforts, channels that move too fast to follow, and a general feeling of just being overwhelmed. This critical mass has consistently occurred when a Coalition has had more than 33 players, and has often led to reduced participation and a generally negative play experience.We have also observed the inverse: small Coalitions that are quiet and disengaged, depriving players of the intended experience because there simply isn’t enough energy to build momentum. Like the three bears and their porridge, it’s the “just right” Coalitions that appear to have the most fun.To this end, we’re implementing a new system for registration and placing caps on the number of players in each Coalition. Our goal is to ensure each Coalition remains within that “sweet spot”, while still accommodating players who are exceptionally motivated by one particular Coalition. Here’s how it’s going to work:Instead of a signing up in a Registration channel, players will submit a ticket via Google Forms with their Discord ID* and choose their first, second, and third preference of Coalition to join from drop menus, with space to provide context for why you want to fight for them. These will NOT be assigned on a first-come, first-serve basis, but rather once registration closes, players will be placed giving priority to their preference where-ever possible. Most players should get their first choice, hopefully nobody will get their third, but we anticipate a few will be placed in their second choice.Coalitions themselves will be capped at 33 players each, topping us out just shy of 200 players for the whole campaign. Considering players can potentially generate 3 Reports each, for a total of 500-600 reports per turn, we feel these are healthy numbers to aim for. GMs and mods do not count toward the cap. Although staff are welcome to play along, we do not take part in strategy discussions, votes, and other Coalition affairs.The Player’s GuideThe Player’s Guide will release on June 30th, collating the coalition information we have already shared, as well as further detail on the setting and mechanics for this year.Pre-registration Pre-registration will begin Saturday, July 1st at 12:01am EST, and run until the end of Monday, July 3rd (72 hours). During this time, registration will be via google form, as described in the previous update. If you have strong feelings about joining a particular Coalition, this is the best time for you. Every effort will be made to accommodate everyone’s first choice. Open RegistrationAfter this period, open registration will resume on Tuesday, July 4th as normal for the rest of the campaign, with a cap of 33 players for each Coalition. If you have no strong preference, or would rather wait and see how the coalitions fill out, this is the best choice for you. Any Coalitions that reach their cap will be locked for new members. Open registration will then remain available for the duration of the campaign.*Either your new @, if you have one already, or your existing handle (@name#1234, for example).

Night Market

Ragathan the Mad stumbled into a frozen alleyway near the Mooncaller's encampment, his mask, a crude imitation of the ritual mask worn by the blessed Mooncaller himself, worn askew so that he could gulp from his bottle of fungus brew. The human barbarian finished his business, then noticed something odd in the corner of his eye. He lifted his mask off, thinking it was some trick of the beer, but no. There it was, a green glowing rent in the wall, not quite the familiar glow of the Bad Moon. Deeper, more sickly. Beside it, a crude sign, complete with a poor illustration of what might have been a rat, read:WELCOME TO GNAWMARKET! ALL YOU FAVOURITE GOODS FIND HERE!!Perhaps it was the beer, perhaps the madness for which he was named, but Ragathan found himself stumbling towards the rent, his empty bottle forgotten on the frozen cobbles behind him.The lurch in his stomach as he passed through almost made him lose the fungus brew he'd just ingested, so he leant unsteadily on the wall as he recovered. It was rough black stone, comparatively warm after the cold of the frozen city. He continued on a short way. There was firelight at the end of the rough hewn corridor, a torch in a sconce illuminating a hunched man. No, not a man. A skaven.There were few Skaven in the Mooncaller's retinue, and those that were were conniving and untrustworthy killers. Devoted followers, to be sure, but dangerous. Ragathan took a hesitant step back."No-no, no, my friend! Do not run-flee!" Said the creature, holding its paws up in a placating gesture, "this good place! Lots to buy. My master sources from all across the realms!""Master?" Slurred Ragathan uncertainly, only now noticing the tattered coat the rat man wore, like something out of a circus."Oh yes-yes! My most bounteous master Gribblesnak Snikklekrak is the finest purveyor of goods in the realms, and famous for his marvellous-amazing trained barter rats!""Barter… rats?" Ragathan was starting to feel more curious than afraid at this point, and started to follow the peculiar creature."Oh yes-yes, come look-see for yourself. No fights though, or rats eat you. And don't try to leave through any other exits or you die-die and rats eat you." Some of Ragathan's forgotten anxiety began to return, but he followed regardless. It seemed as if the corridor would go on forever until, disorientingly, it suddenly opened out onto a well-lit, bustling marketplace in the bowl of an enormous cavern. There were all types of people here: the skull-wearing corsairs of the Blackwing side-by-side with the duardin of the Dross-Forged and beyond. Surprisingly, there seemed to be very few Skaven in attendance, the stalls seemingly unmanned. He was confused until they came closer, and he had to rub his eyes fearing that this may all be an elaborate hallucination brought on by the fungus brew. But no, it was as the hunched skaven who was leading him had said, there really were barter rats. Squeaking, furry bodies ran back and forth with coins and esoteric goods clutched in their jaws or ferried along on the scabby backs of a dozen or more working in concert. Some even seemed to be haggling, accepting or denying lower payments and twisting their wormy tails to form numbers.Unable to tolerate the assault on his addled senses a moment longer, Ragathan collapsed into a drunken heap on the cavern floor, startling a brace of rats as his considerable weight pounded the stone. "I'm off the brew this time, swear it on the Moon." He muttered to himself, and promptly threw up.

The Shadowsong Renegades - Coalition Focus

Heretics, or true believers. Betrayers, or the most grievously betrayed. There are many that view the Shadowsong Renegades as the vilest of traitors, for they turned against not just the founder of their faith, but in the case of the scathborn, their very creator. Yet to the Shadowsong Renegades, they alone carry the truth of their god against the grandest lie ever told in the Mortal Realms. They have freed themselves from the control of the Shadow Queen, and reject her claim to the mantle of the Bloody-handed Khaine. Their rebellion sprang from the very heart of her temple, from her melusai handmaidens and shadowstalkers to the arena-temples in cities across the realms. The Shadowsong were born of Morathi’s hubris, for in her arrogance she presumed ownership of the powers she had been granted, and forgot that deals with demons will always come due. Using shadow magic, she crafted the mircath shadowbrands, imbuing great power into those who enjoyed her favour or whose rise had provoked her jealousy and suspicion. Yet that magic was never hers, and as she moved to claim godhood, a voice sounded from the oldest and deepest shadows of Ulgu, where light has not touched since creation. The Whispering One, as the shadowstalkers called it, told of Morathi’s arrival to the realms, her failure and abandonment of Khaine, and the grand deception she had wrought. Only a few would listen, but that was enough. It taught them to use the shadows as even Morathi could not, and to turn the mircath against her, blinding her to their intent and hiding them from her gaze. And so, quietly, in the shadows, the rebellion against the queen who made herself oracle and avatar of a dead god began. Guided by auguries of blood, an important cell of the Shadowsong Renegades has set sail for the perimeter of Ulgu, hoping to be the first to claim this so-called Fated Blade for themselves. It is a great risk, for moving so openly exposes them to Morathi’s wrath, yet to the council of Shadow Queens it is a worthwhile one. At their heart march the shadowstalkers and witches that first turned against Morathi, but they are not alone. Aelves of every variety can be found among their number, some who venerate Khaine individually or seek to uphold the sanctity of the ancient pantheon, and others who have joined simply to break the power of the Shadow Queen. Humans, orruks, and shadow-bound undead can be counted among their numbers as well, as ancient pacts and promises have been called upon for this rare chance. Klarieth, the Sundered GlassKlarieth, the Sundered Glass, is an unsettlingly quiet melusai shroud queen. Her emotions are hidden by her cracked mirror mask, but become all too clear when her stillness is broken by sudden bursts of violent rage when sufficiently displeased. Few know how her mask was shattered, though it is rumoured that the Shadow Queen herself dealt the blow. Before Morathi’s self-proclaimed ascension, Klarieth was a young but rising handmaiden to the High Oracle, a pinnacle of devotion and servitude. None know why she was chosen to receive the shadowbrand, or what it was that the shadows whispered to her to crack her faith, yet the deepest faith leaves the deepest betrayal. Klarieth drank deeply of the shadows, finding in them and in herself the strength to stand against her former mistress. Her search for the blade is driven by vengeance, for she has sworn before the bleeding altar to cut the Iron Heart of Khaine from Morathi herself. Character hooks for if your PC is a member of The Shadowsong RenegadesYou are the leader of a band of Witch Aelves who were true Daughters of Khaine. You would have followed Morathi, as the Grand Matriarch and High Oracle, into any battle and fought any foe, but when she claimed Khaine’s mantle you realised she had lied to you your whole life.Your Shadowstalkers were among the elite assassins and agents of Morathi-Khaine. This warbands has, through failure and insubordination, earned the fury of Morathi, and has sought refuge in the shadows. Character hooks for if your PC has joined the cause of The Shadowsong RenegadesYou are a devotee of Khaine, or simply abhor Morathi’s desecration of the aelven pantheon, and have joined to strike against her. You serve forces that would see Morathi-Khaine struck down and her temple humbled, and have been sent to aid this insurgent force in destabilizing her rule. You are a disguised Shadow Daemon who is bound in service to the Shadowsong Renegades by your true master. You and your small coven must maintain the outward appearance of members of the Cult of Khaine.

Queen of Blood and Shadows

“Hear me, my sisters, and I will tell you the one truth that matters: power. It matters not where or how we acquire it, only that we do so. Rise, my Scathborn, for you are my will…”Klarieth heard the words in her mind as clearly now as she had then. She heard her voice dripping on them. That was ever her way. All those lies that you believed, yet when she finally spoke the truth you did not listen. The shadowbeast sprang forwards, its mercurial mass resolving into an inky tiger-like form with a long, striking scorpion’s tail. She moved like water, ducking beneath its lunge and slashing daggers of midnight black across its underbelly. It was barely enough. Claws meant for a decapitating blow instead scored long, bloody rents on her bare shoulders, and the tail punctured a deep wound below her ribs. The beast’s lunge carried it past and she spun with it, her shadow blades shifting and reforming into a bow. Three quick arrows darted after it, but as the beast landed it splashed into a puddle of darkness. Quicker than any mortal creature could shift its momentum, the darkness again took a new form, this time as a snake’s spade-like head. It struck out with viper speed, yet its shadow-fangs found no mark. Klarieth had stepped through a shadow of her own, and appeared above the striking beast, plunging down with a long, viscous spear. Again its form dissolved before the blow could land, dissipating into inky strands of shadow that hung in the air. Power was all that ever mattered to her. Not her people. Not her creations. Not even her god.The shadows congealed again, this time taking the form of a tall aelven man. Broad-shouldered and barechested, his head was crowned in long streams of twisting shadowy hair and two curling horns. With a flourish, a rapier blade appeared in his hand, and he thrust towards her. Klarieth’s daggers flashed into a web of defense, parrying the strikes but caught on the defensive. He moved with the flicking speed of the darkness around a guttering candle, attacking from impossible angles. So much she promised, but you never saw her like we did. Alone. Broken. Consumed by ego and jealously. Klarieth felt her guard slipping, and the mircath, the shadowmark branded into her shoulder, flared with pain. Her foe’s blade slipped through in quick succession, scoring three deep cuts across her face and chest. Still she grasps at you covetously. Yet the power she used to bind you was not hers. Try as she might, she does not own the shadows. They are ours. She does not own your blood. That is yours, to give to your true god. Klarieth could feel the blood trickling down, through the fingers of hands clenched on blades of darkness. She could taste it in her mouth, in the hissing, ragged breath of a punctured lung. The room swam red, and in a moment the flickering shadowform before her seemed as slow as a gentle snowfall. She felt the warp-fury of Khaine upon her. Gathering her coiling form beneath her, Klarieth surged forwards, trapping the long shadowy rapier between her own twin daggers. She drove the creature backwards, then with a wrenching heave shattered the thin blade. Her daggers wove a widow’s web of crimson strands through the air, shadow and blood, scouring the creature and trapping it, preventing the strands of shadow from dissipating again.She has broken you already. You will need power of your own. You will need…“Enough!” Klarieth roared.—Taynara burst through the door, her serpent glaive held at the ready. The meditation chamber looked as though a hurricane had passed through, sand scattered and rocks and walls splashed with crimson blood. Klarieth stood alone in the room with her back to the younger melusai, bleeding deeply from dozens of wounds. Though the blood flowed bright and freely, yet Taynara could see an inky blackness welling beneath. Klarieth straightened from her fighting pose, then carefully pulled a cracked mirror mask from her belt. She slipped it over her face, then turned to face her disciple. “My lady, I heard you yell. Is there…”“Recite the Red Invocation.” Klarieth said, softly with no room for disagreement. “‘For the blood to speak it must first flow. Ten cuts is better than one, save for the deft slash that opens an artery. For almighty Khaine, let your blade drink deeply, and often…’”As Taynara spoke, Klarieth drew in a heavy breath, then let it out slowly. As she did, the wounds across her body began to close, sealing together with traces of black fire until they were little more than pale markings across her skin and scales. The blood remained, staining unbroken skin. “Good. We offer blood to Khaine to find clarity, shed from others and offered from ourselves. Never forget.”“Yes, shroud queen. I shall leave you to your meditations.”“No. Gather the cell. We have a new journey ahead.”

The Mooncalled - Coalition Focus

From the foetid holes and forgotten crevices of the Realms, the mad and moontouched come, adulation on their lips. The Moon plucks discordant notes in their addled minds, leading them to the one who will bring the Moon and the Realms together as one, so all may know exquisite madness. This is no mere rabble of religious zealots, however. As filthy and deranged as they might be, the followers of the Mooncaller are vicious fighters, joyous revellers, and true devotees. To walk the path of the Mooncalled is to lose oneself to the cause, face forever hidden behind a crude, nightmarish mask fashioned after the visage of their patron that haunts their dreams.Though grots make up a large portion of the faction, any who have felt the touch of the Bad Moon might hear the call. Humans, aelves, duardin and even a number of skaven have joined the ranks of the mooncalled, with many other peoples besides. Their ranks have spread like a sickness throughout the dank corners of Ulgu and beyond, though few have followed the call back to the Mooncaller himself. Those who brave the Ulguan night rarely survive long enough to find their patron, but those who do have proven their mettle and devotion. Only the Mooncaller’s most ardent worshippers have followed him across the Ur-River to the frigid shores of Frørholm, for the Moon has whispered that at the heart of the frozen city lies the power needed for the Mooncaller to finally realise his destiny. The sane may look upon this prophecy and wonder, however: if it is truly the Bad Moon’s desire to fall, why would this prophet need an artefact of such malign power to bring it down? Perhaps, then, it is not the Moon that whispers in the minds of the Mooncalled, but something far darker.The MooncallerThe grot shaman known as the Mooncaller is a diminutive and wasted thing, even among his kind. His jittery, shuddering form, ever swaddled in a filthy and ragged cloak, would be neither intimidating nor inspiring, were it not for the mask he wears over his gnarled features. This grotesque visage is waxy, almost cartilaginous. It leers and gawks with an interrogating gaze, and every word spoken behind it bites and tears. Only the Gitz see the lunacy in its wearer’s eyes. Only the damned can hear the daemon in his voice. Nobody knows where the Mooncaller found the mask, though it is rumoured to have originated in the Age of Chaos, crafted by daemon-worshippers for their profane rituals. The worshippers of the Mooncaller would call this nonsense. The mask was a gift of the Moon, allowing its chosen to enact its will upon the Realms. Whatever the origin of the mask, it is certainly a thing of terrible power, enhancing the Mooncaller’s spellcasting beyond that of even the most ancient fungoid cave-shaman.Character hooks for if your PC is a member of the MooncalledA true devotee, convinced that you are following the will of the Moon.A worshipper of the Bad Moon and follower of the Mooncaller who doubts the mask and wishes to see their master returned to his true path.Character hooks for if your PC has joined the cause of the MooncalledOne who sees the darkness within the mask and revels in it, not joining out of zealotry but a wish to see the Realms burn.An opportunist. No matter the chaos that ensues from the Mooncaller’s victory, it will surely create much scope for profit and plunder.Someone who wishes to avert disaster, and thinks that the best method is to break through to the grot beneath the mask.

Moon's Song

The Bad Moon hung eerily in the sky above the Tower's Rest, the inn's crackling fire making a valiant but ultimately futile attempt to push back against the sickly green glow leaking in through cracks in the old wooden shutters. The innkeeper knew that things were bad out there. She hadn't received any news of the sort, but she didn't need it. This wasn't the first time the moon had risen in this corner of Ulgu, though few lived to remember the last.Suddenly, the bard shattered the tense silence with desperate, insincere cheer. "You know, I have a tale about that moon." The room remained stonily silent as he waited for intrigued affirmation. Receiving none, the bard ploughed ahead."It's said that once, long ago, a masked imp appeared from the dark woods on a night just like this," he waved his hands in a wide arc for emphasis, almost knocking a beer keg from the table of a surly duardin, who grumbled something foul under his breath."The imp came to the townspeople and told them that he could take the moon that was troubling them so out of the sky. They begged him to do it, and so he stood atop the old clock tower and he reached his arms into the sky, his terrible mask aglow in the moonlight. And do you know what happened then?"He paused again, looking around the drawn faces of his crowd. Even the stuffed gargant head mounted above the hearth seemed to look deliberately away, its glass eyes reflecting the fitful dance of the flames. He coughed, only now grasping how poor the reception to his tale truly was, but continued nevertheless."It's said that the moon shuddered in the air, filling the town with a terrible song, too terrible for mortal lungs to sing, of madness and death and the end of all things. It seemed as if the moon would come down on the town that day, but instead, only a small shard broke off, the moon itself hurtling off to its next destination. The clock tower was destroyed, and many houses and townsfolk besides. But they never did find the imp. It's said that even now, he follows the moon, forever trying to fulfil his terrible promise to bring the moon out of the sky.""Oh, would you give it a rest already Ricca?" The innkeep finally snapped, "these people are frightened enough as it is without you telling your tales." The boy glared at her sulkily, "but grandmother-""No buts, I let you ply your craft here, but I am still your grandmother. I won't let you go about spreading lies to my patrons, bard or no." The boy huffed and stomped off to a dark corner to brood. The innkeep sighed. She was the liar, for it had happened. She had been there that day, her own father lost when the shard of the bad moon fell upon the old clock tower. That town had been abandoned to the ghosts, but she had stayed close, built the Tower's Rest in remembrance of what had been lost. She gazed again at the eery light filtering in through the worn shutters, and started. There was something glaring at her through that crack. A mad, boggling, wooden eye. She knew that eye. It was part of a mask she hadn't seen in many long years. Then, with an otherworldly giggle, it was gone, as if it had never been there at all.

Blackwing Corsairs - Coalition Focus

Across the shade-ports and city slums of Ulgu, wherever desperation and want are greatest, the cult of the Great Gatherer have sunk their talons deep. Pickpockets and cutthroats, brigands and pirates alike are bound in a loose weave of homage to the God of Thieves and Killers and his shadowy priests. The most infamous of them all are the Blackwing Corsairs and their dread captain, the Carrion Queen. For years, they have perched like a malevolent spectre over the warm waters of the heartlands of Ulgu, preying on ships and travellers alike. Their great skill has brought them wealth and success, yet their seemingly prescient knowledge of where to find their prey and uncanny talent for slipping away from retribution have led many to believe that they are favoured above all others by the Great Gatherer, his chosen reapers and harbingers of woe. The Blackwing Corsairs have been drawn from all across the realms, united by circumstance and skill rather than origin. Many, like their captain, were born in the desperate slums of Ulgu, the struggle of their daily lives honing them for a life as sea reavers. Others have been drawn from across the realms. Wherever want or need drives those to take, the God of Thieves and Killers finds purchase, and the greatest of his followers feel the instinctive urge to find their way to the Realm of Shadows. Humans and aelves make up the majority of the Blackwing Corsairs, yet all who can meet their demanding standards both at sea and in offering to the Great Gatherer are welcome. Skaven, particularly those who have fallen from favour in the Eshin clans, are a common sight, as are the more cunning of the greenskin races. All, regardless of origin, pay homage to the Great Gatherer. For a few these are small acts of obeisance, made alongside similar prayers to sea gods or the gods of their people. Yet some of the most fanatical among his followers, the true devotees of the Great Gatherer, are counted among the ranks of the Blackwing Corsairs. They proudly wear his crow’s skull symbol, fighting for prizes to offer and draw his eye. The great hope of these fanatics is to die under the gaze of the Carrion Queen, for they believe she will gather the souls of the deserving and deliver them to their eternal reward in the realm of the Great Gatherer. The Blackwing Corsairs now make sail from the warm waters of Ulgu’s heart to its icy and mist-shrouded rim. Talk among the crew has run rampant with rumours of a city of lost treasures uncovered in these gray seas, rich and ripe for the taking. The more fervent among them whisper of the hand of the Great Gatherer himself guiding their path. A singular treasure, unlike anything they have ever been able to seize before, lies open. Many, they know, have also converged to claim that prize, and taking it out from under all of them would be the greatest act of devotion they could make in the Great Gatherer’s name. For the champion that claims it, no reward would be too great. Lissea, the Carrion QueenFew would forget the first time they beheld the Carrion Queen at the helm of her ship. Tall and proud, and flanked by two massive wings so black they seem to almost shimmer with blue flame, she is a figure of nightmares made manifest for the many she preyed upon on the darksome seas of Ulgu. Few would imagine that beneath that carefully cultivated figure was once simply Lissea, orphan girl from the bleak docksides, scrounging a meagre living and hiding her gifts beneath bulky rags. Her life had changed forever when she was found by the cult of the Great Gatherer, who embraced her gifts and respected her talents when all others had turned on her. She has earned her place of infamy among Ulgu’s underworld, yet still stands with a foot in two worlds. The Great Gatherer’s cult has brought her everything she ever wanted, yet view her with a reverence she never sought. Now, driven by visions of a sword in ice, she has taken her crew to the very edges of the realm, yet that small part of her wonders what seizing the blade would mean. If given the choice, would she embrace her destiny as the immortal champion of the Great Gatherer, or forge her own path as a pirate queen?Character hooks for if your PC is a member of The Blackwing CorsairsYou are a true devotee of the Great Gatherer, and have joined with the Blackwing Corsairs to serve his chosen mortal champion. You are a pirate or cutthroat who, by the skill of your hands and blade, has earned your place among the most feared crew in the Realm of Shadows and seized the life you were never gifted with. Character hooks for if your PC has joined the cause of The Blackwing CorsairsYou belong to or are affiliated with the underworld network across Ulgu and have heard of the Blackwing Corsairs’ expedition. Assisting them could mean recognition across the network and favour with the cult, both powerful assets. The lure of treasure draws many, and the Blackwing Corsairs have proven time and again their talent for seizing the wealth and living to tell the tale. You might not understand where this cult plays in, but you know the promise of treasure when you see it. 

The Crow's Calling

The Carrion Queen glided quietly across the rooftops of the so-called free city of Grauhafen, silently cursing herself as she went. She'd broken the first law of the Great Gatherer: to own nothing save that which one seizes for themself. The child had just reminded her too much of herself. She'd grown up on grimy streets just like the stinking hole that was Grauhafen. So when the girl had stumbled up to her, wasted arms raised in supplication, she'd tossed the girl a heavy gold coin from the stash she'd just stolen. The girl had stared at it wide eyed for a long moment before tucking it into a ragged pouch and carefully drawing out a small flower. It was beautiful, delicate petals glowing like faint moonlight in the ulguan gloom. The girl had handed it to her, and she'd taken it.Lissea had given up on meaningless charity long ago, long before she'd sworn herself to the Great Gatherer. She'd tried, in those early days, when she had first taken to thievery. She stole only from those who hoarded their ill-gotten wealth and dispensed it among the poor of the city. She'd been treated as a folk hero at first, a champion for the poverty-stricken masses. Until the lords that Lissea had pilfered from brought their private armies down upon the populace, seizing every penny at torch and sword point. It was a massacre that left the poor quarter a charred wasteland, and Lissea was no longer a hero. She was hated, driven out by the very people she'd tried to help, a harbinger of doom.And so Lissea had become that harbinger in truth. Over years she laboured on ships until she could take her own command. She vowed that she would never again give away what she took for herself. She became the scourge of the darksome seas of Ulgu. Even that life was behind her now. She had become a champion of the Great Gatherer, and had never looked back.Until today.This was the first time she'd really lost herself in memories of the past in years. She was getting old. Her dark skin was beginning to wrinkle around the eyes, her carefully honed muscles starting to ache as she darted across shadowy rooftops. Even with the boons granted her by her patron, the Carrion Queen was starting to feel her unnaturally long life catch up with her. As if in response to her pessimistic reverie, Lissea's mind suddenly flared with pain, words searing themselves into her psyche like red hot branding irons.COME.RIVER OF ORIGIN.ISLE OF FROST.SEIZE THE FROZEN BLADE IN MY NAME.ASCEND. Lissea, the Carrion Queen, came to, spread eagled across a shingled rooftop, every nerve in her body screaming in pain. But through the fog of her mind came a single image: a lonely island surrounded by languid waters and wreathed in ice. And somehow she knew that at the very centre of that dark isle lay her salvation.

The Dross-forged - Coalition Focus

From the soot-blackened depths of Brak Zhagoul, the Dross-forged have emerged to stake their claim for the Fated Blade. They are the lowly and the unclean, the dregs of the great unceasing forges of the dawi zharr, those cast off or cast away by the churning machine of industry. Duardin of neither rank or privilege, their backs bent by a lifetime of mean labour spent without artistry or recognition. Hobgrots pressed into dangerous and unforgiving service by cruel taskmasters. Slaves from dozens of mortal races, held in cruel bondage and now given a taste of freedom. They have emerged, risen from the depths of the furnace, and ready to burn the world before bending their backs once again. The cities of the dawi zharr are built by cruelties piled atop cruelties. For the leaders of this fractious people, power can only be upheld through ever-greater heights of malice and unceasing depths of exploitation. The priesthood of Hashut looms over them all like a capricious vulture, stoking the fires of resentment and envy, and scraping up wealth and power in the name of the black-handed God of the Daemonforge. For the duardin people that live beneath these great lords and high priests, life in the city is brutish and unclean. Some find service in the armies of the lords or the temple guard, or apprenticeship under the smiths of the great forges, and live with the faint hope of advancement and comfort they can afford. For the rest, however, it is a lifetime of backbreaking labour in the soot-choked depths. These duardin without skill at arms or artifice are treated little better than the chattel slaves they work beside, sneered down at by their fellow dawi zharr all the more for what they are. In a society built upon the exploitation of others, there are none more bitter and resentful than the duardin that still find themselves at the bottom of the slag heap.The Dross-Forged were born of this bitter resentment, one of hundreds of tiny rebellions within the depths of the city. Most failed without notice by those above, yet whether by luck or by fate, this small group of duardin and hobgrots managed to seize a small forge and the arms and armour within. There, they freed the forge-slaves, and gave them a simple choice - join with us, for the chance to strike down those who enslaved you, or take your chances in the city alone. Bolstered by those who remained, and armed with their seized prizes, the Dross-Forged struck out in the dead of night and slipped beyond the walls of Brak Zhagoul. Their flight was far from aimless, however. They would insist their success was not due to luck, but instead was the guidance of their divinely inspired leader, Uhred the Beardless. Uhred the BeardlessMany long years working in the slag pits have left their marks on Uhred. His hands are grey and calloused, his back bent and his hairless face scarred by flame. Yet it is his eyes that most remember, large and black, fathomlessly deep and alive with energy. While countless like him toil in fruitless labour beneath the forges, Uhred's resentment was honed to a scalpel's edge when the dreams began. Each night he beheld the city on the edge of shadow, blackened by ice. Each night he saw the slumbering forge, and the blade that sat within. The blade, and the lost Master Rune of Grungi that lay upon it. He knew why the black-handed God had shown him these visions. Recovering a lost Master Rune for Hashut would give him everything he ever wanted - wealth, power, a high priesthood within the Temple, and the chance to pay back all those who had sneered down upon him with every cruelty imaginable. Hashut had chosen him to see this done for that reason, for his anger and hatred would drive him to achieve what those lords and high priests could not. And so Uhred dreamt by night, and planned by day. Now they march, for vengeance and greed and fervour. There could be no return to Brak Zhagoul now, not without the blade in hand and the blessing of Hashut on his brow. Then they would pay. All of them.Character hooks for if your PC is a member of The Dross-ForgedDawi zharr or hobgrots labourers from the forges of Brak Zhagoul who joined in Uhred’s rebellion.Freed slaves from the depths of the city, given a chance to join with the rebels and strike back against the lords of the dawi zharr.Horns of Hashut cultists who have seen Hashut’s blessing on the Dross-forged.Character hooks for if your PC has joined the cause of The Dross-ForgedYou seek wealth above all else, and Uhred has promised a share of the spoils to any that join him and bring the blade back to Brak Zhagoul.You seek the favour of the masters of the Daemonforges of Hashut and see your support here as buying a potential ally inside.

Do You Not Know Who I Am?

They were known as the Horns of Hashut, and like their namesake they pierced and plunged, gouging and impaling all in their path. They weren’t the greatest warriors Hashut could muster, but the mighty legions of the dawi zharr could not be bothered to stamp out every little slave rebellion. This task fell to the war-leaders of the Horns, and they persecuted it with merciless cruelty.“Horns of Hashut,” the bristling duardin muttered to himself. He spat a heavy, black wad of tarleaf against the ground. “Grotspit.”Old habit made him rub his chin where his beard should have been. The coarse black hair that had covered it long ago had been burnt away by the forge’s flames, and the skin beneath seared and hardened, leaving only leathery flesh and scars. Horns of Hashut, indeed. What could they know of the Father of Darkness? Lackeys and lickspittles all, playing at lords while chasing bones tossed from high tables.It was why these so-called Horns, grown fat and content killing wretches for sport, had stumbled into this ambush without a care in the realms. Like their cruel lords, they were assured in their place of power… and yet here, today, the Dross-Forged would disabuse them of that notion.Watching his ragged throng tear them apart was nearly enough to make him forget the visions; the sword, the ice, and the Master Rune of Grungni that would seat them at the head of that high table. The way from their rags to the riches always kept from them. His fellows weren’t warriors as such, fighters maybe, but not soldiers. Men and women, duardin and hobgrots, orruks, aelves and ogors. The cattle the dark lords of Brak Zhagoul had kept in their pens and spent to fuel the fires of industry. Their lives were less than nothing in the eyes of their masters.He watched the last of the Horns regroup against a sheer cliff-face. Some clawed at it, trying to scale it, only for the loose rock to send them tumbling back down. The rest lunged and feinted, trying to fend off the rebel fighters with white-knuckled and trembling hands. Victory was lost, and they knew there would be no mercy here.Yet the slaughtering press did not come. The Dross-Forged parted like water about a rock as the bristling, beardless duardin moved among them, and for the first time the defeated cultists could see him clearly. Lines of age and years of backbreaking labour had marked him, yet it was his eyes that captured the broken host. Large and wild, the pupils an inky black, they smoldered like unrestful embers. There was a fire deep within them, like the daemonfire forge of Hashut himself. Weapons clattered to the ground. “Do you not know who I am?” His voice, made course by years of smoke and noxious fumes, carried like rolling thunder across the silent ranks. “DO YOU NOT KNOW WHO I AM?”“I’m the one that came from the dross. I’m the one that broke the forge. I’m the one the Dark Father spoke to, and I’m the one that knows where his burning brand waits!”“The lords of Brak Zhagoul have you out chasing slaves. Hashut would have you do so much more. Any of you that want to serve the Dark Father as more than lickspittle chaff, come with me. The rest of you, crawl back to your masters.”“No,” one voice called from the defeated cultists. “Why would the Dark Father speak to someone like you? You’re no better than a slave.”Uhred the Beardless looked at the man, then spat heavily on the ground. “Kill him.”The Dross-Forged did not move. Dawi zharr, hobgrots and former slaves alike, they only stood and watched as the rest of the surviving Horns beat the man to the ground. Mailed fists and broken weapon hafts rained down blow after blow, and he disappeared beneath the press. These cultists, fanatics all, had seen Uhred’s eyes. They had seen Hashut’s fire. Uhred turned away, swiping black spittle from the corner of his mouth as he strode up the hill. His mind had already moved on from the beating behind him. It was far from here, on an icy island, and the smoldering fire trapped within. 

The Wolves of Agöra - Coalition Focus

From out of the ice and shadows of the rim stalk the longships of the Wolves of Agöra. Bedecked in frost-bitten steel and salt-hardened leathers, these hulking raiders terrorise the coasts of the Sea of Shadows. Their attacks are swift and without warning, often striking at the most heavily defended targets with a skill and speed born from relentless training. Helmed by goroan exiles, known to most of the realms as ogroids, humans, duardin, aelves, beastfolk and more can be found in their ranks. Greenskins, however, are exceptionally rare due to the ancient grudge the goroans bear for their betrayal at the hands of Gorkamorka's children.The Wolves sail from their fortress island of Tor Agöra. Founded by goroan exiles and blademasters, the small island is both a haven and a reminder of the homeland that they lost. Many seek out Tor Agöra to learn the arts of war and gladiatorial combat. Few survive the journey across the Sea of Shadows and the brutal training that follows. Only the best, those that surpass even their fellow hardened survivors, are offered a place among the Wolves. Those that do are bonded beyond rare or creed, as sure in the blade or shield of their neighbour as they are in their next breath.At the heart of the Tor is the small group of free goroans. Bound as their race is to Archaeon’s service, most ogroids rarely see others of their kind, and never more than a few in one place. Yet on this small island, their near-extinct culture is growing once more. Those chosen for a place among the Wolves learn the goroan language both as a sign of respect and as an impenetrable battlefield tongue. Goroan magics, bound in runes upon the skin, are gifted to those who distinguish themselves and are hardy enough to bear the power they carry. Ancient stories are told by the fires of the marvels and splendours of their homeland, of its triumphs and its ultimate doom. Yet with this revival has come an ancestral yearning to return to those ancient homelands, and an uneasy tension has been steadily growing. The Wolves of Agöra have outgrown their small island, and have turned to their leader once more.Kul-Brimir, the Old BullThe lord of Tor Agöra is the Ogroid Myrmidon Kul-Brimir. Like many of his kind, he served for years training the Everchosen's armies and fighters for the pits of the Eightpoints. When the tides of war turned against the lord he served, he felt his service to the Empty Throne had been fulfilled, and struck out with a small band of loyal myrmidons and gladiators in training to find their own home. Called 'the Old Bull', he has been training warriors for decades. His fur has turned silver-gray in places and become as strong as spun steel. For years, Kul-Brimir's dreams have turned to the ancestral homeland of the goroa, lost to the hordes of Destruction so long ago. Each passing night the instinctive urge to return grows stronger, yet even the tribe’s strongest thaurmaturges could not foresee a path to reclaiming it. That has changed. Visions haunt him of an ancient blade, trapped in ice, that promises the power to reclaim what was lost. Omens appear wherever he looks. Gathering his own ship and crew, the Old Bull has set his mind to finding this relic, and none will stand in his way.Character hooks for if your PC is a member of The Wolves of AgöraYou are a goroan exile seeking to reclaim your lost ancestral homeland.You lead a warband of sea raiders in the service of Kul-Brimir, and sail with him to claim this lost relic.As a veteran of a hundred gladiatorial fights you now train pit fighters and lead a band of them to honour the Old Bull’s request for aid in his quest.Character hooks for if your PC has joined the cause of The Wolves of AgöraYou seek to learn the warcraft or magics of the goroans, or earn glory and fame in the arena, and have decided to pledge your aid to the Wolves in the hope you might be chosen for training.You have reason to fight for the reclamation of the goroan’s ancestral homeland, perhaps to claim a home for yourself or for more esoteric reasons.

I'll be the Blood

“Gor’h bokh, goh rukh.”“Ba bohk, koh rogh re Gor’h.” I’ll be the blood, if you’ll be the bones. That’s what it translated to, more or less. Few besides the ogroids themselves spoke their tongue, yet here upon Tor Agöra, many peoples lived, fought, and died alongside the mighty taur-folk. These outsiders had adopted the saying for what it meant to the ogroids, more than the words themselves.Their kind persisted as gladiators since the day Gorkamorka’s brutes cast down their great civilization and drove them under the protection of Archaon Everchosen. It was not a mantle they desired, but one at which they excelled, regardless. The saying, then, was one of shared kinship in the face of hardship. That tomorrow they might kill each other upon the sands held no malice in their hearts; they were of the same blood and bones.Today was a momentous day upon the island fortress, the day when fighters became warriors, earning their place upon the longships that raided far and wide across the Sea of Shadows. Each captain, or a chosen champion of their crew, would fight those who sought to prove themselves worthy, until every berth was filled.No berth was more desired than aboard the Wolf of Agöra, longship of Kul-Brimir, the Old Bull. He did not care for the name ogroid; like their trade, it was placed upon them. He was goroan, his people’s true name, and to earn a place upon the Wolf, one was required to earn his respect in single combat. The Old Bull would not trust one he had not fought himself.There was only one berth to be filled upon the Wolf, yet three now stood before Kul-Brimir. The first was a human man, long in years, with the scars to match. He was raised from childhood in the fighting pits outside the Varanspire and although he’d earned his freedom he knew nothing else, and so found his way here.The man was skilled, and while Kul-Brimir admired his ferocity, he suspected it could be the warrior’s undoing. The Old Bull fought with two massive axes, each the size of those his kin carried in both hands. Great swings chopped the air around the gladiator as he sought to exploit an opening, any opening, and get inside Kul-Brimir’s guard. The goroan allowed his guard to slip, and the man saw it for the trap it was too late to keep his instincts from exploiting it. The Old Bull saw no regret or resentment in the man’s eyes as his axe carved the man’s shoulder from his body, collapsing his ribcage, splitting his heart and smashing what remained of him into the sand.The next truly was of Kul-Brimir’s blood, among the youngest of those the Old Bull had sired over the course of decades. In other cultures, this alone would be enough to earn the youthful goroan his place, but here he was just another adversary in the arena.Kul-Brimir went on the attack, and within moments, it was clear the fight was all but over. Still the youth persisted, refusing to yield, to show fear or ask for mercy. A blow aimed for his eye instead carved a horn from his head; the next knocked his shield from his numbed hand and shattered his blade at its hilt. The Old Bull stood back, and it was understood: the youth was not ready. There was no dishonor in his defeat, only a lesson harshly learned.The last was a duardin, once a proud member of Grimnir’s cult, now simply proud. His captors had pulled the ur-gold from his flesh, stripping him of his god, and he’d been brought to Tor Agöra by a pompous Chaos lord eager to learn their craft. The lord had been slain quickly upon the sands, but this duardin refused to accept death so easily.Each fought with two axes now, and despite the disparity in size, appeared equally matched. The duardin must have been truly fearsome when empowered by the ur-gold of his clan. His body was pockmarked with scars, the ruined echoes of runes. They made a strange mirror to the sigils that adorned the Old Bull, seething with the ancient magics of the goroans. Kul-Brimir’s own axes chipped at the onslaught, and wound after wound split his chest, thighs and arms. It was not an axe that laid him low, however, but a cloven kick which sent the duardin sprawling, broken nose bleeding across his sandy-orange beard.The killing blow never came, and he looked up instead to an outstretched hand, massive and gnarled. Behind it, the face of Kul-Brimir, nostrils flaring from exertion, nodded in recognition.“I’ll be the blood,” Kul-Brimir said.“If you’ll be the bones,” the duardin responded, and took the Old Bull’s offered hand.

The Lament of the Sage of Iron

“We commit to stone the tragedy of the Iron Sage, so it shall never be forgotten. The time of the mortal gods has ended, their twilight brought at the hand of the Conqueror. Sigmar All-Father, coward, hides behind his walls. Yet it was not always so. In the time before the coming of the Last King, the gods walked among us. Some came as lords, mighty and distant as a thunderstorm. Not so for noble Grungni, who came as a teacher. Many students did he take through the years, for good or for ill. Yet it is one we remember now. For their talent, they were chosen. For their wisdom, they were trained. Once they had achieved a mastery of metals, Grungni gave them the name Iron Sage, and together master and student explored the deeper mysteries of runecraft. Many great works they completed, and many more they may have done, had the Conqueror not attacked. And Grungni, whose desire for peace was only outdone by his talent for war, was honour-called to the All-Father's side. Many were those who thought themselves beloved by the gods yet found themselves without when the golden gates were shut. Of Grungni's many students, a great number were killed in the days that followed, fighting and forging for those that resisted the daemonhosts. Still more turned their allegiances to their new masters, who had not abandoned them to die in fire and war. Terrible weapons they forged for the enemy. In the dark days that followed, those few that had survived retreated to the corners of the realms to practice their craft. For many long years, the Iron Sage journeyed across the realms. They traveled with others, lesser smiths and apprentices, builders and families, driven by a singular obsession. In their dreams, the Iron Sage saw a forge, perfect, a nexus of energies ripe to weave into steel, safe and secure and far from the wars of the realms. Yet time and again the search was in vain, the dream unrealized. As so they wandered, a pilgrimage of the lost, and like all wayward things found themselves upon the Ur-River. It was in the Realm of Beasts that the Iron Sage was met by a stranger. I have come in service to a great conqueror, seeking your skills. Many warlords had come to them before, thought the Iron Sage, and this one was no different. They would have refused the stranger outright, yet before they could, the stranger continued. My lord has seen what it is you are searching for. I can take you to the place you dream of if you will but hear my request. It seemed a fool’s hope, yet after so long searching the Iron Sage could only agree to such a bargain. With the stranger at their side, the Iron Sage came to the Realm of Ulgu.Upon a desolate island in the midst of the Sea of Shadows, the Iron Sage found their new home. The mist-choked sea and long journey granted protection from the chaos of the age, yet is was the volcanic heart of the isle that drew the master smith. Blazing with the eternal fire of the Realm of Aqshy, a small realmgate sat in a split caldera. With such a fire, the Iron Sage could forge wonders imbued with the energy of the realms. Yet as they watched from the sea, they beheld a firebeast rear its head, rising from the volcanic ash to curl its body around the gate.Without the skill or might to defeat such a creature, the Iron Sage felt their dream eluding them once more, yet the stranger spoke again. I have taken you here, as bargained, as delivered, and so I ask you listen to my master’s offer. Forge for him a blade great and long, made with mighty runes and primordial fire, with the power to break down the gates of Azyr, and in return I shall clear off this firebeast so the isle may be yours.The Iron Sage hesitated, but only for a moment. Dreams filled their heads of the wonders that could be made in such a forge, and the abandonment they still felt at the hands of their god and mentor was still strong. They agreed, and the stranger stepped alone onto the island. Very well, take your boats back to sea and return in one month’s time. Taking the stranger’s word once again, the Iron Sage put to sea once more. For a month they sailed the mists, plagued by memories of the wars they had fled, until it was time to return. There, they found the stranger waiting for them, the beast gone and the realmgate freed. The island is yours, the gate secured so no creature living or dead can pass through it, only fire for your forge. Now I ask you, as bargained, as delivered, to build the promised blade. The Iron Sage hesitated, yet the stranger had followed their word at every step, and a bargain had been made. With this realmfire they could forge such a blade, yet so great a power bound to steel would shatter at the first swing. Only the breath of Everwinter could temper such fire. With such a demand the Iron Sage was sure that the stranger would balk at last, impossible as it was, yet it seemed even that the stranger had anticipated. Very well. Build your forge, and I shall return in one year’s time with a shackled Everwinter. In return, you shall forge a second blade, for me. One sharp enough to altar destinies. The Iron Sage agreed, and once more the stranger left. For a year, the Iron Sage and their people built their new homes. A city of basalt and marble rose, the craftsmanship of a lost age made again in this haven. A great forge was built around the realmgate, black stone and fair steel, and hammers rang like bells in the mist. Then, at the promised hour, the stranger appeared again. In his hand he carried the might of eternal winter, bound and shackled in unknown magics. As bargained, as delivered. With this Everwinter, you can temper the blades. The Iron Sage could only nod. Ten years time you shall have for this masterwork, then the owner of the blade shall come to claim it. With that said, the stranger left. Years passed, and from the Basalt Forge ever greater wonders were crafted. With Aqshy fire and the bound Everwinter, new heights of metalwork were achieved. In the halls of the learned, new mysteries of runecraft were delved. The city grew prosperous and healthy, warm and safe in the midst of the Shadow Sea. And through it all, the Iron Sage worked upon their masterpieces. With each new innovation, the designs were refined. With each new discovery, their magics made more potent. The blades neared completion. Years turned to months, turned to weeks. Eight days from the promised arrival, as the Iron Sage completed the last rune, the stranger appeared again. You have honoured your bargain, and soon the great warlord shall come to claim the blade. Prepare your island to receive Mogrek of Ghur. With that pronouncement, the stranger vanished from the forge. Mogrek. The Doom of Aragatha. Idol-breaka. The True Beast of Ghur. Even in their seclusion, the Iron Sage had heard of the orruk warlord whose march had brought continents to their knees. Doubt filled them, for though their anger with the gods of Azyr was still fresh, they feared for the people who would face such a creature. As the hour of the Beast’s arrival drew close, the Iron Sage gathered their people and bid them to sail out into the sea. The gates of the city were left open, and the path to the Basalt Forge laden with treasures.From the mists, he emerged, the greatest orruk of this age. Towering he stood, twice as tall again as the largest ogor. His war helm was a dragon’s skull. His cloak was woven from the tattered banners of his foes. A necklace of crowns adorned his neck. With steps that cracked the paving stone, he marched through the open city to the Basalt Forge, and to the waiting Iron Sage.The Sage greeted the war chief with eyes of steel. As bargained, as delivered, the great blade was presented to the orruk, who grasped at its hilt. Fire sprang from his hand, the judgment of Aqshy bound within testing its new bearer, yet if the Iron Sage had hoped he would be found wanting they were disappointed. With a roar, the orruk wrested free the blade, cowing the very fires of Aqshy, his charred hand now bound to the sword. Yet the Iron Sage was already in motion, the smaller blade gleaming in their hands. They struck not at the warlord, who was already moving to defend against attack, but instead at Everwinter bound within the forge. Magic clashed as a blade made to alter destinies cut through the mystical shackles. Reality screamed, then parted.Light and burning cold swept out across the city. Within the forge, the unleashed magics of the realms obliterated sage and orruk alike. The Everwinter, shackles breached, vented its fury. Ice swallowed buildings and treasures, cracked stone and sundered steel. Its people that returned beheld a broken dream, its forges cold and hammers silent. They were left, once again, to find a home in the wide realms. The wonders they had crafted were lost to them. The magics they had helped to build, destroyed. Once more, the fate of those who trusted in gods, or their students, unfurled. Thus ends the tragedy of the Sage of Iron. Let it not be forgotten.”- inscription, dated ~110th year of the Age of Chaos, found in the ruins of Tanagoth, estimated destruction ~350 AoC, and rediscovered in the year 210 of the Age of Sigmar

What’s Da Warpath?

Consider #DaWarpath a prelude to war, a month-long escalation toward this summer’s premier global narrative event, Animosity V - The Fated Blade. During this period, Team Animosity reveals all new information about the upcoming campaign’s player teams (called Coalitions), team leader NPC’s (called Figureheads), and the campaign setting itself, including detailed maps and exhaustive location details. Each date on our roadmap is another lore reveal, with blog entries like the one you’re reading now between them. Finally, you’ll be able to read everything in one place: the Player’s Guide, our equivalent of a sourcebook.With #DaWarpath at its end, registration will open July 1st, allowing players to join one of six Coalitions and fight to advance their Figurehead’s agenda in collaboration with their teammates. The campaign plays out over the course of five turns; each turn is seven days, allowing for a “Player Phase” from Weds-Sat and a “Gamemaster’s Phase” from Sun-Tues. During the Player’s Phase, participants will generate Reports by playing games, writing short stories, and working on hobby; during the Gamemaster’s Phase, we take those Reports and forge them into a single Unfolding Narrative, which drops on Wednesday with a new set of Narrative Paths to choose from.So, how can YOU start down #DaWarpath?Read our lore drops! Team Animosity has spent months crafting our most epic storyline yet, and we’re incredibly excited to finally share it with you.Work on your hobby! Although you can always submit building and painting as Reports, we know there’s always more gray plastic to banish. Get a head start on your warband, army, or scenery.Get hyped on the Discord server! As the name implies, Animosity V will be our fifth year doing this (2019-2023), and we’re incredibly proud of the community we’ve built thanks to players like you. There’s always a conversation happening somewhere, so pick your favorite channels and say hello.Let people know you’re on #DaWarpath with the hashtag! We love finding our players “in the wild”, and the hashtag makes it easy.Spread the word! Introducing new players to our corner of the Mortal Realms each year is always exciting, but we can’t do it without you. Send folks our way via the website (AnimosityCampaigns.com) or our Discord server (Discord.GG/AnimosityCampaigns).Organize your local scene! We’re always looking to empower local players to organize events in their area. The way we see it, Matched Play players fight battles, but Narrative Play players wage wars.Right, den, ladz! Let’s get krumpin’!Alex PolimeniOn behalf of Team Animosity

A Wanderer in a Dark Land

I fled from Azyr that night with haste and little else. I did not stop to weigh myself down with the meagre treasures of a life now lost to me, or with preparations for some unthought tomorrow. I was burdened only with guilt, and it lent desperate speed to my flight. I travelled by day and night, with little thought to a destination. The only direction that mattered was away from that gleaming city. Sleep brought no respite, so I did little of it. Bleeding feet were less painful than the guilt that hounded my steps. They soon grew numb, then hardened anyways. I crossed gated cities and savage wilds, and after a time, like all the other detritus of the realms, found myself upon the banks of the Ur-River. The waters carried me ever further from the light, and soon I lost myself upon it. I let it carry me to the very edge. I found myself adrift then upon a sea of shadows. The river’s current was gone, lost in these vast waters. Mist hung thickly in the air, clinging to the sides of massive ice floes. Mountains of it, blue-green and possessed of some deep internal witch-light, would suddenly rear themselves from the fog like titanic beasts. Smaller chunks rapped against the side of my small vessel like bony knuckles. I simply let the craft drift as it would. There was no direction - I had neither the skill to navigate these waters, nor any further goal. If there was any place furthest from the light of the Heavens, this was it. I drifted, in mind and body. Shadows twisted in the mists, haunting forms dredged from memory, yet there was nowhere else to flee. My memories here are as substantial as the mists. Sleep and waking blurred, haunted by the same shadows. I must have eaten, but have no memory of it. I must have found water, yet can recall no pangs of thirst. I had become little more than a wraith, cursed all the more to be trapped still in a breathing body. My reverie was broken by the soft grinding of stone on wood. I forced myself to rise from the bottom of the boat, curiosity driving what numb and sunken muscles would not. A shore of black stones stretched around me. I had no memory of arriving, yet the rocks had worn away at my small craft. I started to rise, then fell back in shock. Above me, looming from the mist like a colossal sentinel of this desolate shore, stood a monolith of black stone. Salt clung to its sides and frost crowned its brow, yet beneath it could be made out the barest outline of humanoid features staring out to the sea. Nothing more could be seen of the maker’s intent, no identity left in their work, yet its hollow eyes and raised features could not be mistaken. Looking up and down the beach, at the barest edges of vision allowed in the mists, stood two more monoliths, and though I could not see the details I had no doubt at all I would find the same vacant faces staring outwards upon them. Beyond, an island rose like a darker wave within the fog, and with only the unending shadow sea beyond, I determined to make my way inland. Anything, I thought, to escape the judging glare of those featureless faces. The island rose upwards from the water’s edge, the smooth black stones of the shore giving way to hard gray bedrock I could not name. Crustaceous lichens in all the colours of rusting metal clung to ground around saw-like sedge grass. The climb was slow and hard, the moss uncertain beneath my feet, yet the further I rose the more the mist thinned. A scent upon the wind then caught me off guard, and for a moment I nearly stumbled upon the rocky slope as my mind flashed back to pleasant days, warm and well rested, in the gin halls of my youth. They seemed like memories of a stranger’s life to me now. Shadow-memories, I thought, intent on steering my footfalls astray, yet looking around I saw a small tree rising defiantly from the rocks. With careful steps I climbed towards it, and rubbed the thin gray-green needles between my fingers. Juniper. Simply juniper, and the memories I had brought with me. I sat a moment more, savouring the scent, then looked ahead. Rising from the mist, the island at last resolved itself before me. I stood upon a ridge line, and from this vantage looked out across a shattered city, its ebon shades of weather-aged stone lined in bright frost-white. Ice hung upon that place like a mantle. It flowed down streets and through broken-sided buildings like a vast wave frozen in time. Razor-edged ridges crested over broken walls, its edges honed in the arctic winds and burning white. Towards the heart of the city, the deep ice took on a sea-green hue, the black stone buildings bound within like vague skeletons. There were no fire lights, no smoke or sound to beckon the wayward home. It was a dead place. Yet, as I watched, the blue-green glimmer of the city’s frozen heart seemed to stir, like the sunlight playing across the facets of a kingly jewel. Yet there was no sunlight here. The ghost of fires, perhaps, or the stirrings of dreamer. Not dead then, but sleeping. I had to continue forwards. There was no choice in the matter.The city’s walls rose to greet my approach like rows of broken teeth. Blackened and worn with time, even I could not help but see the craftsmanship that had once gone into their construction. The cold now was bitter, gone from the bone-chill of the sea to a scouring of claws across my face. I could feel the skin of my lips freezing with each exhale. It rolled from the city like waves, radiating out from the stones. In places it had cracked them, sending twisting webs of bright white frost across the dark face of the stone. Where the walls were broken, they had been breached from within, from icy talons finding purchase in the stone. The gateway into the city was unbarred. One great door, once of oak or some other hearty wood and bounded with inscribed iron, lay cast upon its side on the road beyond. Of the other there was no sign. No sentinels guarded the entrance, living or dead. Enter, if that is really what you wish, or so I imagined the gate to say. Long I wandered the streets of that city. I still would not say the place was dead, not while the memory of that phantom glimmering heart held in my mind, yet I found death enough within. Skeletal forms huddled in shattered doorways or around long-dead fires. Some were rimed with frost, others wholly consumed by the ice. All were old, the long and quiet dead. Yet as I walked, I began to see the layers to this place. The old stone, timeworn as it was, was the bones of this ancient place. Carved by a master’s hand, it had been laid as the foundation to whatever this city once was. The deepest ice, sea-green and salt-hardened, had been formed around it. Yet since then there had been other constructions here. Cruder stonework had been raised in places against those old walls, as if newer and courser hands had come and built upon the slumbering corpse. I saw in places the marks of rough tools upon the old stone and deep ice. Crude wooden shelters, preserved yet brittle from the cold, leaned in the eddies of the buildings. All across the ruins, messages were carved into the city’s walls. In hundreds of tongues and by thousands of hands, in runes familiar and alien, the words of the dead were written in stone. How many had come to this place? How long had it been buried in this ice? Were they fleeing, as I, and sought haven in this desolation? Or were they treasure hunters, seeking the bounty of these ancient masters who had raised its walls? The bones told all there was to tell of their success.No matter how long I wandered its twisting streets, I found myself no closer to the city’s heart. Walls of ice or collapsed stone barred my passage, forcing me to double back, retread my steps and try another avenue, yet when I did the streets never seemed to look the same. I would explore some new passageway, some chasm in the ice or squeeze through a broken wall, only to find myself back where I had been hours ago. It was as though the shadows of the sea had found me again, and were intent on barring my passage further. Yet the thought of that dreaming glimmer filled me. What fire could lie at the heart of such a place? How many of those around me had asked that same question. I looked again at the forgotten piles of bone, then turned back towards the sea.True night was falling as I walked, yet with it came a sight I have never seen the equal to in all the realms. Vast ribbons of fire filled the air, green at first and waving like silk, their edges turning to coruscating purple flames. Then the colours shifted again, roiling like spilled dyes across a sky of midnight fire. I crested the rise again, looking down at the lines of vacant faces staring out to sea, and my boat down among them, the fog at last burned away by the blazing lights. The city, I knew, was behind me, and that sleeping fire of its secret heart would be ablaze with the dancing sky. Yet I could not turn to look, for if I did I would be lost to its glamour. My bones would lie forgotten in its ice. I would not be the one to awaken it, I knew that. That would be someone else’s story. 

Flora and Fauna of the Bleeding Wilds: Part IV

Flora and Fauna of The Bleeding WildsBy Vala Edrasdottír, Adventurer and Natural HistorianPart IV: Children of the BleedForewordIn all my years studying the vast biodiversity of the mortal realms, I have never had the opportunity to witness such a cataclysmic event as the Bleed, and the effect such a catastrophe has on the local flora and fauna. Until now, of course. The Lahar Badlands, or rather the 'Scarlands' as many have taken to calling them upon their merging with Silverside, are home to an eclectic mix of life from both regions. It is a testament to life's resilience that any survive at all, what with the calamitous merging of two vastly different ecosystems, not to mention the constant warring and magical upheaval that have characterised these most turbulent of times. Stranger than the survivors of the Bleed, however, are its children. Populations of creatures mutated by their exposure to the magic of their opposite realm. In this final chapter of my journeys through the Bleeding Wilds, I shall describe some of these bizarre and wondrous anomalies. MetalithodonCaptain Castian of the Stormdancer and I have had a… tumultuous relationship over the course of our acquaintance. I do not approve of his single-minded crusade against the beasts of the realms, but he has always been courteous in showing me his, ah, specimens, shall we say. I was surprised when he reached out to me a few days ago to inform me of a particularly peculiar find, for our acquaintance had never extended to formal invitations in the past. I am most glad that he did, however, for this singular discovery was most intriguing indeed: Castian claimed to have hunted a floating lithodon.After thoroughly chastising him for killing the creature rather than taking it alive for study, I asked to see the grisly trophy. A most irritatingly rakish grin split Castian's face as he gestured for a pair of orruks to bring the thing out, and I soon learned why. Despite being cut from the body, the lithodon's head continued to float serenely in the air. The characteristic rocky growth on the poor thing's forehead was significantly larger than any specimen I had encountered before, and rippled with a subtle, corruscating argent glow. It reminded me of nothing less than a miniature metalith embedded in the poor creature's severed head.I surmised that it must be a singular quirk of chamonite mutation, but was surprised to hear that Castian had in fact encountered an entire herd of identical beasts floating languidly across the Hollow Plains. He very kindly lent me a guide from his own crew, a fellow named Silvatoof, who did indeed possess a most impressive set of metal teeth. The orruk was a surprisingly pleasant traveling companion, and a commendable tracker. Before long, we had sight of the creatures.The herd floated serenely along, their limbs dangling a foot above the earth. When one encountered a scrubby ghyrflesia, its cranial growth began to glow slightly brighter, and it lowered itself down to dig the plant from the earth before lifting it to its mouth. This was a further behaviour I had never encountered in lithodons before. Their forelimbs are articulated enough, but I had never seen them used for anything but digging and scratching. Then, as if sensing my confusion, the creature turned to look me directly in the eye, even from the not inconsiderable distance from which I observed. It may have been my imagination, but I detected a spark of intelligence there that I had never witnessed in any lithodon before. I confess that I do not know what this development portends, but I have a feeling that the metalithodon, as I have dubbed it, shall be most successful, and I would not be surprised if they began to outcompete their forebears in this region in the very near future.VenomtoothIt is an unfortunate side effect of the newness of the subspecies propagated by the magical turmoil of the Bleed that very little of the information I can provide can be grounded in more than educated speculation, as demonstrated by the previous section. The genesis of the venomtooth is not so oblique, however, for it is rooted directly in the events described in my previous examination of the Lumbertooth. As I had feared back in my earlier writings, the Lumbertooth population was decimated by the tainting of the mineral deposits they relied upon to form their distinctive rocky "teeth". However, a small, surviving population seems to have adapted to this hardship in a most peculiar manner. With distended bodies and necks swollen with goitres, one would be forgiven for thinking that the venomtooths are barely clinging to life, but, having observed their hunting from a considerable distance, they appear to be scarce less vital than before their poisoning. Where their beaks were previously lined with tough, craggy stones, they now drip with lines of green-tinged quicksilver. Having collected a small sample of this fluid after the beast's departure, I have surmised that it is the result of the combination between the chamonite mercury that bubbles up from Lumbertooth Tor and the creature's own corrosive saliva, previously used to break down minerals for reconstitution into teeth. The hunting patterns of the lumbertooth are well documented. They are ambush predators, stalking prey before chasing them down and despatching them with a combination of kicks, pecks and bites. However, the venomtooths that I have observed appear to have forsaken their usual ferocity, only attacking for long enough to wound their prey with their beak. After this, they will follow their prey sedately while it succumbs to the poison, the quicksilver seemingly made far more potent by its combination with the bird's own natural corrosive saliva. The venomtooth does not appear to hurry to claim its kill, for no other ghurish predator would dare to imbibe such tainted meat, and any that do simply add to the venomtooth's feast My primary concerns with the longevity of this new subspecies are thus. They do appear to be suffering from their poisoned state, despite their use of it. Only the hardiest individuals have survived long enough to take on this new behaviour, but they still show distinct signs of bodily dysfunction and decay. This also calls into question their ability to reproduce, especially with the documented reduction of reproductive capability in sufferers of mercury poisoning. Beyond that is whether their minds are too addled to even consider reproducing, for every individual I have observed has shown tremendous aggression towards its own kind, a far cry from the tight-knit familial structures that previously categorised the species. If course, this is mere speculation, and only time will tell the fate of the venomtooth, and by extension the lumbertooth species as a whole.Scurry-SandHere is another creature I was contacted directly about, and far stranger a mutation than anything I have seen before. The matriarch of the Lahareth family I had previously stayed with, and the subject of a very brief fling during that time, sent an urgent message to me explaining that multiple of their sand-scurries had apparently crumbled to dust before reconstituting themselves from the very sand. Had I not had such respect for the matriarch, or had I not grown up in Chamon and witnessed firsthand the transmutative effects of the realm of gold, I may have dismissed these claims as ridiculous.Instead, I made my way to Choggrish Market, where the matriarch had asked to meet. As I waited for the arrival of my contacts, I explored the market, which was much changed since my last visit, suffused with new business brought by the multitudes of different folk brought to Lahar by the Bleed. After being accosted by an enthusiastic ogor who seemed absolutely awestruck by my status as an author, I sat down to sample a slice of jellied fangmora purchased from a gargant on the market's outskirts. No sooner had I bitten into my meal than the very desert sand in front of me appeared to spring to life. I was so taken aback that I dropped my snack, and it took me a moment to recognise that the creature nuzzling me was in fact my mount from that previous expedition to the Badlands of Lahar.Her handler came running a moment later, apologising profusely before he recognised me. I was brought to the matriarch, Aerona, who was overseeing the setting of the family's camp. She greeted me warmly before explaining the situation. Just as I had expected, the change had occurred when the nomads had passed into Silverside through the bleed, and since then many of the family's sand-scurries had taken to shifting from their usual lagomorph form to merging with the desert sand with alarming regularity. If I am honest, there is little more that I can say about what I have playfully dubbed "Scurry-Sands". I imagine that their ability to reduce themselves to sand will be a consummate boon to surviving the predations of twistree anglers, but their usefulness as mounts and pack animals has been greatly diminished by their propensity to disappear out from under their riders. Nevertheless, I do not anticipate they will face any particular hardship, for they are family to the Lahareth who ride them, even if their use is lessened. And Aerona is one of the most cunning aelves I have met on my travels; I'm sure she'll find a way to utilise these unprecedented new abilities for the good of her clan.AfterwordSo ends another volume of my travels. The region seems to have settled into itself, while the warring across it appears to be reaching a fever pitch. I fear that there is little more to gain from my staying, and I only endanger myself by doing so. I have heard, however, that my former home has become stranded in Ghur. My knowledge of this realm is much greater than any who dwell there, and I have begun to muse on whether I might be of any use in acclimatising my former people to their new home. Of course, my return would be predicated on Breyla having been humbled somewhat by her misadventures. Or… perhaps it is I who could stand to be more humble. I have met many people and seen many things in the years since my departure. Perhaps it is time that I admit my own impetuousness. And, besides, I think that Kladi would like to see her again. I should probably apologise for that, too. Alas, I am rambling once more. All that remains to be said is, as always, thank you. My readers' continued support is what allows me to persist in my academic pursuits, and for that, I am eternally grateful.Until the next adventure,Vala Edrasdottír, Adventurer and Natural Historian

Flora and Fauna of the Bleeding Wilds Part III

Part III: Survivors of the BleedBy Vala Edrasdottír, Adventurer and Natural HistorianIronscale PangolinIt will not surprise many of my longer term readers that my knowledge of the famed ironscale pangolin of Silverside is extensive, owing to my constant travelling companion, Kladi. I took her with me when I fled the city of my birth, Barak-Drak, much to an old flame's chagrin, and she has been an invaluable friend ever since. Indeed, the animosity between my former lover and I after my absconding with her beloved pet is the reason I have avoided returning to Barak-Drak during my exploration of the Bleeding Wilds, especially as she has apparently been made admiral, and evidently has the run of what remains of the place after its crash. But I digress.Ironscale pangolins are arboreal and found across the breadth of Silverside, from the Glittering Hills in the west to Silverholt to the north. Though wild, they can make excellent companions to any who put in the time, and are not a wholly uncommon sight in Barak-Drak. Their most distinctive feature, and what sets them apart from the common pangolin found elsewhere in the more stable parts of the realms, is their eponymous scales. These ferrous lamina are incredibly tough, made up of a lattice of iron and keratin to render the animal near impervious, especially when it curls into a defensive ball. I was, at first, and perhaps a little selfishly, considering my own personal attachment to the creatures, concerned about the well-being of the ironscale pangolin population with the extreme ecological upheaval brought about by the bleed. It would seem that I needn't have worried so. The flora of Ghur tends to have a higher iron content than most realms save for Chamon itself, so the pangolins that have ended up there have not succumbed to brittlescale. Beyond that, the many predators of Lahar have very little means of injuring the pangolins, while many of their natural predators from Silverside have had a far more difficult time adapting to their changing environment. I predict that, once the Bleed dried, ironscale pangolins will fare remarkably well in their new environs.GhyrflesiaOne such high-iron plant is the ghyrflesia, though to any but a creature so adept at filtering toxins as the ironscale pangolin (due largely to its diet of chamonite vegetation, often replete with poisonous compounds), eating this vegetable is not recommended. The ghyrflesia, similar to its much larger cousin, the Verdian Rafflesia, emits a rank odour similar to rotting flesh. In the case of the ghyrflesia, the plump petals are filled with a liquid similar in constitution to stagnant, rotting blood, and the plant is able to move, after a fashion, twisting and gyrating to mimic animal life, though it is still undeniably a vegetable. This puts many of Ghur's herbivores off of trying the plant, and those that do die rapidly from a particularly nasty form of blood poisoning. Some carrion beasts, like the corpse-rippa vulcha, supplement their diets with these plants, their organs already designed to safely consume rotting flesh, while a few herbivores, such as the next creature we shall talk about, have adapted specifically to eat these abundant plants.LithodonThe lithodon is a most curious specimen indeed, sized somewhere between an elephant and a stonehorn, this creature is theorised to be a distant relative to the latter. Just like the stonehorn, it is a shaggy beast with a petrifacted skeleton, and a protrusion of rock on its forehead, though in this case this growth resembles nothing so much as a boulder emerging from the beast's skull. Just like their distant cousins, the lithodon's intelligence is relatively low, but it is significantly less ornery. Their rocky skull-plates are primarily used in intra-herd conflict and mating displays, and occasionally to ram any would-be predators that threaten the herd's young. The most striking difference between lithodons and stonehorns, however, is the front limbs. The front hooves of the lithodon have adapted into appendages similar to hands, though with far less dexterity and only three digits. They use the stone nails on the ends of their fingers to dig up ghyrflesia blooms, their primary food source, roots and all. Their stomachs are perfectly adapted to eating this singular plant, which serves them well, for until the arrival of the ironscale pangolin, they had almost no competition for this abundant food source. The most pressing threat to the lithodons of Lahar at this time is not competition from the ironscale pangolin, however, but a wholly different Silverside native.Horror-Tailed ViperThe horror-tailed viper is fairly commonplace across many of the domains of Chamon, and, while not a creature of chaos, could not exist without it. As the Lord of Change began his conquests across the realm, he brought with him endless hordes of gibbering horrors, some large and others small. Many of these daemonic entities persist across the realm of metal to this day, the most minor of which are often overlooked by witchunters and daemonfinders alike. Indeed, they are far more likely to face predation by those creatures that subsist on arcane matter, for little flesh is more suffused with magic than that of a Daemon of the Changer. Taking advantage of this unique circumstance, the horror-tailed viper has adapted a fleshy growth on the tip of its tail that bears an uncanny resemblance to a minor Daemon of Tzeentch. This snake hides in small caves and hollows, wiggling its tail outside the entrance to mimic the capering of a horror. When a predator approaches what it believes to be a daemonic snack, the viper strikes with its venomous fangs, paralysing its target near instantaneously. Unfortunately for the dull-witted lithodon, the viper's lure passingly resembles a ghyrflesia bloom. To a more discerning eye, the differences are obvious, but lithodons will happily bite onto the undulating tail of a hidden viper. If the beast is lucky, the shock of such a bite will stun or kill the snake before it has a chance to strike, but more often than not the viper injects its venom before succumbing to its wounds. The venom is designed for smaller targets, and so takes longer to kill the lithodon, but it is a slow and agonising death, from what I have observed during my travels. It is fortunate that both species are so widespread in each of their respective realms, for if not, I would worry for the survival of both.Arcane Oniscid Though the arcane oniscid is an arcanophage like those that the horror-tailed viper preys upon, it does not hunt daemons. Indeed, just as more mundane forms of isopodal crustaceans are detritophages, arcane oniscid subsist on the decaying remnants of magic, and are often found at the sites of significant rituals, arcane battles and geomantic confluences, as well as mage towers, where they are considered pests for their propensity to drain magical potential if present in great enough numbers.In form, arcane oniscids vary relatively widely, being not a single species but an order of many. Individuals seem to favour particular lores of magic, though the particular species does not seem to significantly impact this preference. Arcane oscinids, after consuming a significant amount of their preferred form of magic, begin to display attributes inherent to that lore of magic. For instance, an arcane oniscid of Hysh will appear luminous, while its Ulguan equivalent will be wreathed in shadow. Of course, the arcane oscinids of each lore are most prevalent in the realm corresponding to that lore, but it is not wholly rare to find any type in any realm. Surprisingly, arcane oscinids are rather affectionate to those who take the time to bond with them. They prefer mages, of course, who they can siphon excess magic from, but can be easily tamed by anyone with the will to do so. Some unscrupulous, and if you don't mind my editorialising, heartless mages crush oniscids to release enormous bursts of the magical power stored within. Those willing to bond with the creatures may find much more creative, and less brutal, uses for their companion.With the magical turmoil and frequent battle across the Bleeding Wilds, arcane oniscids of unusual potency have been appearing at a much higher rate. The most interesting specimen I have personally found is what I have coined an arcane oscinid of the Bleed, for the creature has attributes of both Chamon and Ghur in equal measure, and in ways that intermix the two as if they were one. I shall continue to study my new friend, but for now I shall simply say that the scientific implications are staggering.AfterwordAs ever, my studies are far from exhaustive. If you wish to learn more about some of the beasts of the Bleeding Wilds not covered here, I would recommend seeking out the cataloguing work of Inosuke the Hunter. Though his writing takes a more, ahem, culinary approach than I, it still comes highly recommended from this humble scholar.

Flora and Fauna of the Bleeding Wilds: Part II

Flora and Fauna of The Bleeding WildsBy Vala Edrasdottír, Adventurer and Natural HistorianPart II: the Peaks of LaharLumbertoothIt may come as a surprise, then, that upon my return to Lahar to study the effects of the Bleed upon the local flora and fauna, I was met with a startling revelation. Word in the taverns of Fairwater, the closest free city and staging ground for my expedition into the badlands, was that the fabled lumbertooths of the Tor had become, in recent weeks, remarkably easy to hunt. Multiple individual specimens had been found languidly wandering the wastes, while others moved with erratic ferocity, attacking anything and everything around them, from inert rock to their own kind. Though hunters had been quick to take advantage, any who ate the flesh of the birds began to exhibit similar symptoms, with an epidemic of violent outbursts and shivering deaths across the city being traced back to a butcher who had bought the tainted meat.  If it were not for the not insignificant distance between the city and the badlands, I fear that the event would have been far more catastrophic. I resolved to head into the wastes at the earliest convenience to see the Tor for myself. I booked my way aboard a Kharadron vessel. They did not look kindly upon my abandonment of the code, but took my coin just the same. Upon reaching the Tor it was immediately apparent to me what had happened to the birds: the rocks that they consume to maintain their teeth had been infused with the stuff of Chamon. Growths of stone all across the tor leaked a quicksilver substance, similar in disposition to mercury. I have surmised, therefore, that the ailment is something akin to mercury poisoning, though the substance would have to be far more potent to cause such a magnitude of devastation. I can only hope that the lumbertooth population has the opportunity to recover once all this has passed.SnapjawSome knowledgeable readers may be questioning why I have included snapjaw plants among my writings on the mountainous peaks of the Lahar badlands. Indeed, Snapjaw fields are a common threat across Ghur, with no particular favouring of mountain environs. A single seedpod might blanket a square mile of ghurish wilderness in near perfectly camouflaged vegetable bear-traps within a matter of hours, consuming unwary creatures before fruiting and withering away. The subsequent, once again highly camouflaged, seedpods latch to passing megafauna to continue their lifecycle elsewhere. They are, as I well known, prized by the Kruleboy Warclans for their use as biological minefields, though the seedpods are famously difficult to acquire, being that they're near impossible to spot while on the ground and are otherwise entangled in the fur of something very large and very deadly.It might come as a surprise, then, that there is a people endemic to the Dragonspine mountain range of Lahar that deliberately cultivate snapjaws for food. The rodent-like Crik'Rik people are thought by most scholars to be descended from the Rovskyr of the Starlit Plains of Azyr. They're notable for being much more robust and territorial than their forebears, with strikingly vibrant red and white fur patterns. Though just as intelligent as the Rovskyr, much less is known about the Crik'Rik due to their propensity to violent isolationism. Unless approached with utmost care and respect for Crik'Rik customs, they are like to skewer one on sight. Not that I can blame them, having had more than my fair share of scrapes in the savage lands of Ghur. After careful study, I did exactly so, and was granted a brief audience with the Alderwoman of one of the Crik'Rik hordes (the best translation of their own word, not a judgement made by myself). Here did she appraise me of their remarkable agricultural achievement: the Crik'Rik have developed an edible strain of Snapjaw that is hardy enough to grow in stark mountain soil, poses little bodily risk to harvesters, and is much more visually distinct than its highly concealed cousin. They travel along the mountains, and at each camp plant a seedpod. Still remarkably fast growing, the edible parts of the plant are harvested, while the rest is left to reinvigorate the soil for the next time the horde passes through. In an exchange of gifts, I was given a seedpod for this remarkable strain of vegetable. Having tasted it in various dishes, I can confirm that the flavour is mild and nutty, with a hint of iron. I have kept the resulting seedpods with me since, and they have been very helpful on the road, conferring a week's worth of decent meals and a new batch of seedpods with each use.Mallus HoundThe so-called Mallus hound is another beast with which I can claim no direct contact. Indeed, I regarded the beast as little more than a myth until recently. It was my old friend Nashwar who conferred upon me the truth of the beast when I visited her in Chamon at the very advent of the Bleed, for one such beast had wandered from Ghur in those early days of tumult when we had little idea what was happening; though in retrospect I believe Nashwar had more knowledge of the situation than she let on, for she was already approaching silverside for what she only described as a "venture". She told me of the hound that had come wandering, confused and bloodied, out of the wastes, and filled her cabal's heads with prophecy enough to incapacitate them. This is the hunting method by which the hound takes its name; little do we know of how the Mallus hound produces such an overwhelming onslaught of prophetic vision, but its effect has been likened by those very few survivors as an intensified equivalent to the glimmerings of Excelsis and its Spear of Mallus. I for one can only speculate on such, for Nashwar, whose psychical barriers were strong enough to keep her head clear, duly killed the beast before it had eaten too many gnoblars, and the Cabal feasted upon it forthwith. Sorely disappointed, I was, that Nashwar did not at least keep the brain to send to me for study, as I made very much known. I received only a feline chuckle in response. She did at least provide me with a psychic vision of the creature as she had seen it, from which my illustration is drawn. If Nashwar had known about the nature of the bleed, I do wish she would have told me, for it would have saved me a good deal of travel. I returned to Ghur as soon as possible, knowing that the mountains of Lahar are the only area that Mallus hounds have been sighted, and something must have been very wrong for one to appear in distant Chamon.AfterwordAs ever, my writings are nowhere close to exhaustive, and there exists a much greater biodiversity within both Lahar and Silverside than I could cover here. Some, like flathorns, carnosaurs and terrorpins have been catalogued extensively, most famously in Dzantaster's Bestiary, owing to their abundance in Thondia, seat of Excelsis, the God King's greatest stronghold in the Ghurlands.

Flora and Fauna of The Bleeding Wilds: Part I

Flora and Fauna of The Bleeding WildsBy Vala Edrasdottír, Adventurer and Natural HistorianPart I: The Badlands of LaharSand-ScurryThese peculiar, humpbacked lagomorphs are endemic to many of the drier regions of the Lahar Badlands. Their splayed, shaggy feet are ideal for quick traversal of shifting sands, while their distinctive jaw-like facial markings do much to deter many would-be predators. Unlike many other creatures of the Lahar deserts, sand-scurries are diurnal, able to withstand the intense heat and carry large quantities of moisture in their humps. Sand-scurries travel in small family groups, burrowing down at night when many larger predators are abroad and bounding many leagues each day in search for nutritious twistree pods. Such is their relative docility, familial loyalty, and talent for sniffing out the sparse groves of twistrees that dot the endless dunes, that they have become a favoured mount of the nomadic Lahareth aelves. I myself had the opportunity to travel with a band of Lahareth for a season, and experienced the remarkable dexterity and surprising intelligence of these beasts for myself.Desert TwistreeGhur may be known primarily for its predators, but pure aggression does not a functioning ecology make. Sand-scurries are obligate herbivores, and their primary source of food comes in the form of the enigmatic twistree. When not flowering or fruiting, these plants appear as gnarled, twisting snags, jutting incongruously from the desert landscape in peculiar clusters. The visible portion of the twistree is a mere portion of the whole, however, and each of these sickly green bowers is a single organism, its roots sinking deep below the skin of ghur to the hidden veins of water beneath. When their vivid pink flowers are fertilised, twistrees sprout bulging, translucent fruiting bodies, each full of thousands of miniscule seeds suspended in a rich amber nectar. The Lahareth aelves prize these pods, which they gather from the trees with long hooks, as a single fruit tapped for its nectar can keep an entire family fed and watered for a week. Wild herds of sand-scurries feast upon the fruit they knock from trees, then, when they burrow beneath the sand at night, excrete the seeds below the earth: the perfect place for them to begin the cycle anew.Twistree AnglerMegafauna of immense size and ferocious strength, twistree anglers are surprisingly subtle in their approach to hunting. These enormous predators, their hideous countenance and strange mix of hippopotamus, fell-bat, and ghurlion, burrow beneath the sand and wait for their prey to come to them. The only visible portion of the monster are its antlers, near-perfect imitations of desert twistrees, down to fleshy, fragrant growths imitating the prized fruit. The single most useful piece of wisdom imparted upon me by my Lahareth companions was this: never harvest from a twistree grove with less than three boughs.

A Brief History of Animosity

Welcome, warriors and wanderers alike! Today’s article was meant to be a short story depicting Runefather Haraldr-Grimnir’s first meeting with Iden “the Auric”, Satrap of the Aurannar,* but after some recent conversations in our Discord server, we thought it’d be prudent to assemble our history all in one place. Let us begin…Before we were an Age of Sigmar global narrative event, we were a Warhammer Fantasy Battles global narrative event. After Games Workshop’s successful worldwide Albion and Storm of Chaos campaigns (which you can read more about in a recent White Dwarf article by Phil Kelly!), members of Da Warpath forum for Orcs & Goblins decided they wanted more… and thus, Animosity Campaigns was born. In fact, this is the first ever description of Animosity AFAIK, written by community founder Mogrek Longblade on November 27th, 2004:Q: What is Animosity?A: Animosity is a Warhammer Fantasy Battle campaign designed by warhammer players. It takes place after the Games Workshop Campaign Storm Of Chaos that took place this summer.Q: What is Animosity about?A: Animosity is about an Orc civil war, fought by the ruling factions of a large group of Orcs that banded together to form a massive waaagh during SoC. After SoC the waaagh began to war within itself after the death of the Orc in charge at the hands of Archaon.Q: How can I play in this campaign?A: Well thats actually pretty simple, all you need do, is sign up for one of the forces involved(sign up procedure can be found on our website) and play games of warhammer as you would normally or with one of the lists made for this campaign.Although our WHFB iteration died with the World-That-Was during the End Times, like a phoenix from the flames we were reborn June 1st, 2019 with Animosity I: The Hallowed Necropolis. Set in Ghyran and using an organizational model similar to 2017 and 2018’s Coalescence Global Narrative Events, 40+ players in local groups across the United States, UK and Thailand fought to seize the abandoned Age of Myth era city of Amasya across three ridiculously intense days** of gaming. Because this was much smaller event than Animosity II was and III is shaping up to be, we were able to collect everything- including player contributions- into a single PDF:Animosity I – The Hallowed Necropolis (OMNIBUS)Because this event was so experimental, including it’s scoring, every coalition achieved its primary objective. That said, the Sigmarsmacht Delegation, arguably the very first Dawnbringer Crusade dispatched by Hammerhal to annex Amasya, achieved the most secondary objectives and “won” the campaign, claiming a tenuous hold on the city. After the Slann “Frog Dad” Zectoka brought down a comet and destroyed the necropolis part of the city, a hole was punched through to the Realm of Death, paving the way for Animosity II. Even now, the effects of this war can still be felt in ways such as the re-emergence of Mithridates Alti, exiled prince of Amasya- and some even say war may yet return to what remains of the Hallowed Necropolis. Although a fall 2019 weekender was planned, its story elements were eventually rolled into…… Animosity II – The Burning Winter***. Set in Shyish, our player count more than doubled to 90+ across five weeks. With the pandemic settling in for the long haul in March-April, and Animosity II set to kick off in July, we very nearly decided to cancel the campaign before making a hard pivot back to our forum-based roots. The event duration was expanded from 3 turns over 3 days, to 5 turns over 5 weeks, and the chat client Discord adopted as an event platform in lieu of actual venues. Oddly enough, this organically allowed for a return of many old Animosity features, including diplomacy (and the inevitable backstabbing that comes from it). The amount of GM and, especially, player contributions also skyrocketed. Rather than a single PDF, you can (for now, until we organize it better) view all Animosity II materials here:Setting – History of Lake BykaalSetting – Places and people of Lake BykaalPrologue – What Lurks Below Lake BykaalPrologue – Which Can Eternal LieCoalition – The ExpeditionCoalition – The PilgrimageCoalition – The UndividedCoalition – The WretchedCoalition – PerpetualCoalition – SoulmuncherzSetting – Other Figurehead NPCsSetting – Of Monsters and GodbeastsUnfolding Narrative – Turn 1Unfolding Narrative – Turn 2Unfolding Narrative – Turn 3Unfolding Narrative – Turn 4Unfolding Narrative – Turn 5Unfolding EpiloguePlayer Contributions – Da WarpathPlayer Contributions – Turn 1Player Contributions – Turn 2Player Contributions – Turn 3Player Contributions – Turn 4Player Contributions – Turn 5Rather than fighting for control of the lake, each Coalition pursued their own varied ambitions. Ultimately, the Perpetual- an alliance of Death and Seraphon- succeeded in thwarting the cancerous, irradiating Big Bad that escaped Amasya at the end of Animosity I with the help of all the other Coalitions (more or less). Much, however, was left up in the air, and only the affairs of a single town were resolved during…… the Animosity Weekender 2020, “The Root of All Evil”. Set some months after Animosity II, this one-turn, one-week campaign took place in the town of Bolyany, a superstitious and gnarled turnip-farming village native to Lake Bykaal. The site of several major battles during Animosity II, Bolyany’s vegetable patches drank deep of the spilled blood and, on Mallusnacht, gave birth to the Root, vegetable horrors and boogeymen from the town’s distant past. Three rabble-rouser NPCs- a Hammerhal merchant eager to profit, a local woman baker eager steeped in tradition, and an ancient witch wise in the truth of the Root’s nature- led the defense of the town as the player characters attempted to survive the night. Most did not, but the outcome saw the town survive and Hammerhal’s influence cut from the town like a black spot from a root vegetable- but why am I telling you this? You can read both parts of the Weekender here:Animosity 2020 Weekender – Root of All Evil Event PackAnimosity 2020 Weekender – Root of All Evil Unfolding NarrativeSo, yes- that’s Animosity, to date, in a nutshell. Before I sign off, though, I want to leave you with a glimpse of what we believe makes our campaigns so great. This is an excerpt from the Root of All Evil Unfolding, featuring our writers combining three players stories- one, an exemplar of Sigmar, one, a champion of the Dark Gods, and the third, with a conversion of a giant turnip-hurling catapult:Up ahead, a man stood clad in silver armour, towering above the corpse of one of the turnip monstrosities. Blood already dripped from his wrinkled mouth to stain the robes of the hammer-god that adorned him. The two men faced each other, exhausted, yet with eyes still burning with sheer hatred: a pair of avatars pulsing with the energy of the gods they so represented. The Lector raised his sword, and The Shrouded raised his.Before either could so much as take a step, the heavens broke open. The roof of the Church of Sigmar shattered. Like a great flaming comet, the biggest turnip the knight had ever seen came singing through the night air, wreathed in burning flames. For the most fleeting of seconds, Sigmar’s Lector met the eyes of The Shrouded, and he saw his own horrified expression echoed back at him.And then he knew nothing else.Turnipult!*We reckon you’ll have to check back Monday to eavesdrop on this tense conversation between Haraldr-Grimnir and Iden the Auric…**We hope to re-introduce this three day event model with the fall Animosity Weekenders, which may be returning 2021 but, at worst, no later than 2022.*** “The Burning Winter” name was originally pitched as a soft reboot of our WHFB iteration, after End Times: Nagash had released but before we knew the world as we knew it was ending. The original Burning Winter would have pitted Elector Count Valmir von Raukov against Crom the Conqueror in a war for Ostland.This article written by Alex P aka @LittleSoldierTVThis article was originally published on June 12th 2021