Moon's Song

Weekender 2026 : SKAVENFALL Unfolding Narrative!

The slap of padded footfalls echoed down the stone corridor, drowned out only by the sound of his own heart thundering in Skaggan Sourpaws’ ears. Distant blue fire from behind the fleeing warlock washed the cold walls in azure light, followed a half-second later by a flood of warpfire green from somewhere ahead. Good-good, yes! That meant he was heading in the right direction. So much of the ship had crumbled away now, spinning off into the void between realms, or being consumed by the eldritch powers that the lizard-things had woven its structures from. Skaggan had watched with wide-mouthed awe as the crystal dome that spanned the vast jungle known as the World Chamber had shattered into a million million shining fragments. They had hung for a moment suspended above the artificial world, a shimmering cloud of corruscating light that reflected every colour in creation. Like the sky itself had become a pearlescent rainbow. Then, in less than a heart beat, so fast that Skaggan could never again be sure what he had seen in the light, they were gone, blasted out into the cold void beyond. Dome and jungle, skaven and lizard-things alike, gone into darkness. A shudder ran down him from head to tail.  Voices ahead! Claws skittering against the stone, Skaggan dove down a side passage and scrambled out onto a gallery above a large meeting room. He saw the imposing figure of Khuong Blackfist below, his vast bulk and ostentatious armour unmistakable. He could not hear what the corpulent warlock was saying, but saw the Blackfist pluck something from his belt and toss it at a nearby clanrat. In a flash, the unfortunate skaven was engulfed in liquid flame, his greasy fur burning like a wick. Laughter drowned out the brief scream, none of it louder than Khuong’s own. It was deep and booming, a predatory growl woven into unconstrained mirth. Skaggan had already begun to creep further along the gallery when another skaven approached the warlock’s makeshift throne - Gunk, the name dredged itself from some distant memory. Once again, the words were lost, but from the corner of his eye Skaggan saw Khuong Blackfist gesture to his burly stormvermin guard. Then, in a flash, the skaven was leaping forward, a knife glinting in the air. He landed with a crash into the warlock’s chest, and drove the knife deep into Khuong’s heart. ***Mighty Tzarkaul brought his warblade around in a flashing arc, crashing down on the brass-clad stormvermin before him, and though it sent the warrior stumbling back his guard held firm. Tzarkaul fumed. They were the strongest champion that Clan Morfiend had ever produced, the pinnacle of the warrior elite. They were the one chosen to be daemonbound to the Horned One’s own offspring. No one should be able to stand before them. These things were not just true, they were self-evidently so. So why was this low-class warrior choosing to be so difficult?Tzarkaul felt the caress of the daemon’s power in their limbs and drew on it, lunging forward with two blazing fast swipes. The stormvermin - Likzit, something like that, Tzarkaul couldn’t remember - barely dodged the first, the daemonbound’s silvered sword shearing through one of the skulls chained around his neck, but then answered back with a quick counterstrike of his own. Tzarkaul swatted it away easily, but was forced to take a step back, breaking off his attack yet again. This wasn’t fair! He was supposed to be the best! The daemon had promised. And you shall be. You need only take what is freely offered. Tzarkaul felt the daemon’s touch again, no more gentle caress but a barely contained dam. He felt as though the blood in his veins sizzled and writhed, like warpstone snuff had been injected through every pore. He felt like lightning crawled across his skin. He felt his own power, only its bare surface scratched yet suddenly laid bare. Yes! He drew it all in, felt the explosion of force within his limbs, and struck again. This time the stormvermin’s desperate block sent his sword spinning off into the darkness, clattering against stone. The rat tried to turn away, turn with the blow, but Tzarkaul’s snapping kick knocked him a dozen meters into the air, crashing hard enough into the corridor wall to send a shower of dust and broken stones raining down on him. Take it all in, mighty champion. Drink deep of what is offered! Drink deep, Warlord of Clan Morfiend! No, Arch-Warlord of Skavenblight! Oh mightiest of all skaven!Yes! Tzarkaul surged forwards, dropping his blade in the ecstasy of his own power. He felt it rippling through him, his skin crawling, his mind alight. With a wild swing, Tzarkaul drove his fist through the rubble, lifting up the fallen stormvermin and pinning him to the wall. Tzarkaul, or at least the tiny part of his brain that was still processing external information, was surprised to see that his arm had strength and grown, swelling to the size of a rat ogre’s and rippling with muscle, the skin a crackling black and deep veins of swollen purple throbbing beneath. Yes! Drink it all down!The hulking form brought its arm back and struck again, so fast that the stormvermin never hit the ground. The stone wall behind him shattered, spilling out into a blackened chamber beyond, and Tzarkaul stumbled forward. His mind was swimming, lost in a drunkard’s haze on the daemon’s power, but he focused enough to look down at where his hand had crashed into the floor. The limb was twisted and distended, ropy tendrils writhing beneath its surface. Pink swollen flesh had blossomed out where it had struck, mucus-clad cysts anchoring it to the ground. Tzarkaul tried to pull it back, but it was stuck firm. Setting his feet, he pulled again. With a sound like rotten fabric being torn, the blackened skin of his arm split, spilling out rotting flesh, then came away completely. Tzarkaul stumbled back, clutching at what was left of his arm and staring at the grotesque thing now rooting itself into the ground like a feculent sapling. No. No! Yes, rat. You drank your medicine like a good little creature. Tzarkaul felt the flesh of his shoulder rotting and falling away. His other hand was sprouting into a crimson fungal bloom. Thank you for this last little bit of fun before the end, hehehe. But it was always going to come to an end just like this. Tzarkaul tried to wipe at his face, but his rotting eyes only fell away. No!Yes! So long, rat.No…Likzip hobbled out from the ruined wall, limping severely and clutching at broken ribs. He looked at the revolting pile of writhing flesh on the ground, then went to retrieve his sword. Somewhere, down in that struggling mass that was the plaguefather’s spawn, he could still see something that was once skaven. Whipping the blade around, he stabbed it deep, down into the rotten brain at the heart of the mass. It shuddered, spasming outwards, then collapsed into quickly spreading pools of rotting flesh. Still at last. “Fool-thing,” Likzip said, flicking the stinking liquid from his blade, then hobbled off down the cold stone corridor. ***Godrat the Stitchwelder ran at an uneven gait down the passageway. What failure, what failure the assault on the Pyramid of Itzl had been. Of course he would get the blame from those witless worms. Where was Tzarkaul, where were his clanrats? If only they had just understood, had just seen as he had the near limitless possibilities of this place. The fleshcrafting he could accomplish if he could turn one of the cursed lizard-things spawning pools to his own ends. Myriad forms, the secrets of all creation, were right at his fingertips, but the stupid-fools of the clan could not be made to see it!He seethed as he ran, running through every resentment he carefully cultivated from his long life, muttering under his breath to the slap-scrabble-slap-scrabble of his gait. Slap-scrabble, slap-scrabble. Slap-scrabble-crunch. Wait! He froze, mid-stride, ears suddenly alert, scanning around the dark passageway. He could have sworn he heard another sound, another’s claw-scratch hiding itself in his own. Trying to sneak up on him. He stood alert, frozen in stride, peering into the darkness. Nothing. He counted to sixty without seeing or hearing anything, then counted to sixty again just to be sure. Nothing. Godrat set off once more, tentatively, then faster. He let the better part of his mind turn back to the solution to escaping this sinking ship, but kept his ears sharp. Slap-scrabble, slap-scrabble, slap-scrabble-crunch. This time he was ready, spinning about in place. For a fraction of a second, he saw a looming shape behind him, eyes glowing white in the blackness. He froze, arms coming up, perched on the edge of flight or fight. Had whatever he had seen ducked back into some side passage he had not noticed? Had it really been there at all? The draconith head he had grafted to his arm twitched, the flame sac within it flexing. Godrat scanned the corridors around him. He seemed to be at some sort of crossroads, passageways splitting off in multiple directions, each as empty as the last, expecting at every turn to see white eyes reflecting back at him from the gloom. And yet, nothing. “SKREEEK!”The horrid cry split the air, and suddenly Godrat saw them - dozens of white eyes, hundreds, glowing from every passageway. He spun about, screaming something incomprehensible of his own and launching gouts of flame in all directions. He recognized those eyes. He remembered them, strapped to his tables over the long year, staring up at him and silently pleading, shining white in the reflection of his own operating lights. Hundreds and hundreds under his knife. He turned and turned, hurling fire until he felt the flame-sac squeeze tight, swiping at shadows with his claws, until in the dying crimson afterglow of the flames he was alone in the darkness once more. “SKREEEK!”Godrat fell to his knees, clutching at his ears and rocking back and forth. “You’re not real. You’re not real. You’re not-”The ground beneath Godrat’s feet buckled upwards, and the clawed hand of the abomination closed about the moulder and pulled him down. There was a brief scream, and then a crunch, and then nothing. ***Gunk flew through the air towards Khuong, driving his knife down into the warlock’s chest even as his heavy hand closed around the clanrat’s neck. The blade bit deep, sinking down nearly to the hilt. For a moment, everything in the room seemed to go quiet. Gunk looked down at the knife, blood welling around the wound, then up into Khuong’s eyes. Into his cruel, laughing eyes. A heavy slap from the warlock knocked the clanrat senseless, and Gunk felt himself thrown to the floor. He looked up, head in a daze, and watched Khuong pull the knife from his chest. Blood surged up, a heart’s lifeblood, but only for a moment. The well of crimson waned, and Gunk saw the wound knitting itself closed. The laughter of the warlock began deep and low, then rose like an avalanche, until his massive frame shook with a malicious mirth that echoed from the stone ceiling. Khuong pulled a large drinking gourd from his belt and took a deep pull from it, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. Gunk’s eyes swam about, passing from the warlock to the strange looking duardin at his side. He recognized him. He had been the one responsible for redirecting the waters at the Pyramid of Tzunki. The lifewaters! Understanding dawned on the clanrat just as the heavy armoured boot of the stormvermin came crashing down. As if in answer, the door at the far end of the chamber flew open, and a desperate rush of fur-clad bodies poured into the room. Former adversaries, supporters of the other claimants or none at all, all those united only by a hatred of the Blackfist charged into the fray. The warlord’s own supporters rose up to meet them. Krolkn and Thrask met with a thunderous crash, the two enhanced stormfiends wrestling to bring their weapons to bear on the other. Zyll Icelasher, blessed and cursed by the Everwinter in unequal measure, held off The-Death-of-Honour, his eshin training put to its very limits against the red-clad rat. From outside the chamber, Warlock Scorchtail’s warwalker struggled to bring its mighty warplightning cannon to bear, impeded by the inadvertent attentions of Ratch Warpeye as the old scrounger tried to study the mechanical wonder. Above it all, the sound of Khuong Blackfist’s voice cut through the din.“Tweek! I see you, you little rodent. Come here!”Tweek Fumbleclaw nearly jumped out of his skin, turning about to see the would-be warlord stalking towards him through the melee. He spun about, trying to bring his rattling gun to bear on the approaching figure and only spraying the fight around him with flying lead. “Can’t you even shoot right Tweek? Get over here or I’ll make sure you’ll live to regret it!”Skrittch Fangscar saw his opportunity. With the warlock’s attentions turned to that cowering rattling gunner, Skrittch could at last win his fame and fortune. Raising his blade and dropping low, he swept along the crowded melee, weaving in and out of combat and towards the Blackfist’s back. One clean decapitating cut, even the warlock wouldn’t survive that. A dozen feet away. Half a dozen. Another heartbeat and-Skrittch’s foot caught on the fallen body of a clanrat, turning his charge into a sort of tumbling roll. Instead of coming up sword swinging, he bowled into the back of Khuong’s legs, sending them both to the floor in a heap. Skrittch looked around, ready to curse his luck as usual, then looked down. Khuong was beneath him, the warlock still stunned from the sudden crash. Skrittch smiled. Perhaps his luck was finally changing. He raised his blade, and-BANG!***Vrassh Threeclaws peered down at the swirling melee, trying to see through the smoke of his warplock longrifle, then sneered. He had Khuong dead to rights, knocked over and in his crosshairs, then just as he pulled the trigger some bloody fool-rat had raised a blade right into his shot. Vrassh tossed the rifle to his attendant, then snatched back the gunbelt of pistols the black-clad rat had been reloading for him. Together, the two of them crept back down from the sniper’s perch they had been waiting on, then scurried back through the long dark corridors of the ship’s ventilation system. The master assassin and his attendant moved silently, perfectly. The only faint sounds of their passage was the subtle clicks of the warplock rifle being reloaded as they went. Even that aggravated Vrassh. He would have to remember to have the attendant whipped for his carelessness when they made it back to the covert. He had missed his chance to eliminate Khuong during this final battle for control of the clan. No matter. He would disappear into the shadows, let the fat rat think he had won, then strike. This was barely a setback - no, barely even a delay. It did not matter. Still… He looked over at his attendant. No skaven alive had ever seen him miss a shot. And he intended to keep it that way. Quick as a snake, he drew all three pistols and levelled them at the young apprentice. “Master?”Vrassh’s eye twitched. “I don’t miss.” He pulled the trigger. Click. Vrassh looked down at the gun, then tried the other two. Click. Click. He looked up at the attendant, then down at the three daggers that had sprouted from the center of his chest. Vrassh’s breath came out in a wet gurgle, and he sunk to his knees. The younger skaven walked a few steps forwards, then dropped a handful of warplock rounds onto the cold stone in front of him. They clinked brightly, then spun off into the distance. “Heh, good lad.”Vrassh slumped to the ground. Nightrunner Knyfe - no, Master Assassin of Clan Morfiend Knyfe - looked down at the body for a moment, then loped off into the darkness. ***Skaggan sat on the gantry, eyes wide. He had not been watching the battle below, as Khuong Blackfist’s supporters routed the rest of the clan, beating those that would not surrender into submissions. He had not been listening to the new Warlord’s grand speech, promising riches, food and power to those around him. He was staring ahead, where the stone panels of the templeship had slid aside to reveal their descent. It was not the cold of the void beyond whatever enchantments allowed them to view the sky. Fires burned on the stone corners of the templeship, streaming away behind them like embers in the morning. And there, beyond them, beyond the red glow, was the ground, rising up to meet them. Rising. Rising. Skaggan heard a cheer from below, a cheer for Khuong Blackfist, Warlord of Clan Morfiend. Well, at least we managed to figure that-The entire world went blue for a fraction of a second, and then the templeship smashed into the ground with all the force of a comet, like the discarded toy of a careless god. ***Final ScoresMighty Tzarkaul: 13Godrat the Stitchwelder: 19Vrassh Threeclaws: 73Khuong Blackfist: 77Altitude: 0

Animosity Weekender 2026: SKAVENFALL

Animosity Campaigns presents...The Weekender '26: SKAVENFALLGolden fur blazed like halo in the green light that flooded out behind the striding figure. Armour gleamed onyx, lacquered black and lined in runes of pure warpstone that twisted the air with shimmering heat. He held a great glaive in one hand, while the other cut through the haze in emphatic sweeping motions to the crowd that hung on his every word. They had assembled before him in their thousands, roaring, chittering, the great verminous horde of Clan Morfiend. Never before in living memory had the entirety of the clan been gathered together like this. Champions and claw leaders, warlocks and assassins, the mad and the vile, scheming treacherous backstabbers the lot of them. He bared his teeth and locked eyes with the most ambitious of them, watching them turn away in submissions and acknowledge his dominance. Only he could have cowed such fearsome warriors and rallied them all under one banner. Only he had the power and brilliance to lead such an audacious attack. Only he, Ishkatan the Skybreaker, could rip the very stars from the night’s grasp and use them to burn clean the path to Clan Morfiend’s ascendance. Behind him, the great machinery he had poured his brilliance and the wealth of his clan into ground to life. Brazen wheels ground against gears of pig iron. Arcs of green lightning crackled. Soon, it would open a great gnawhole directly into the lizard-thing’s flying temple to their dead gods. Soon. Ishaktan grinned, raising another pinch of warpstone dust to his nostril. The Horned Rat was watching him and him alone. They could not fail. They could not be defeated. Everything was right there, his for the taking, all of it. At last, his destiny had arrived.***“Disaster! Run-flee or die, slow-pads!” Ishkatan was dead. The great temple-mount where he had killed the fat-frog was gone, ripped apart in a violent blast of green and gold. More explosions, distant yet echoing through the ancient stones, sounded from elsewhere in the ship. Panic raced through the masses of Clan Morfiend. The great gnawhole was gone, closed. No one knew how Iskatan had planned to reopen it, or what he had planned to do once they seized the ship. Or how to pilot the ship. Or where they even were. The paranoid old fool-rat had taken his plans to the grave with him. What mattered now was survival. And what mattered for survival was figuring out who would lead the clan now. Already the champions and leaders of the clan were eyeing each other across the burning ship. Already camps were forming, the lightning fast arithmetic of skaven politics and loyalty playing out in thousands of minds. The great stone floors of the temple-ship heaved, listing in the void with a stomach-dropping yaw. Blades were being drawn. Warpfires were being stoked. Schemes were being schemed. It was time for Clan Morfiend to go to war. ***Welcome to the Animosity Weekender 2026: SKAVENFALL!!! This online-only short form campaign will begin February 1st, and run until it ends (more on that below). We will be experimenting with a number of new mechanics in this campaign, testing what works and giving us a chance to do something beyond our usual format. This is intended as a quick and lower intensity campaign experience. Our full narrative format will return for our annual summer campaign, but we hope you’ll give this a try. The Story So FarLed by the Warlord Ishkatan the Skybreaker, the skaven of Clan Morfiend have invaded the Seraphon Temple-ship known as Xo’axtu, or the Serene Celestial Temple-City of the Starlit Waves. Ishkatan succeeded in killing the starmaster Crul’penatl, but was in turn struck down by some unknown force. Shortly thereafter, an explosion destroyed the Temple of Radiance from which the slann controlled the great temple-ship. Suddenly finding themselves unable to leave the astral vessel, with the former leader’s plan a mystery to them, and the ship falling from the sky, the skaven of Clan Morfiend are faced with a much more pressing problem - who is going to lead them now. Among the many striving to claim the title of Warlord for themselves, four stand above the pack. The FigureheadsMighty Tzarkaul Daemonbound - A tall and imposing warrior with heavy armour and a magical sword, Trazakaul is the most fearsome swordmaster of Clan Morfiend. He believes he is possessed by a Verminlord, one of the Horned Rat’s most favoured children, hearing the daemon’s voice and drawing on its power to enhance his speed and strength in combat. While he is the host to a daemon, he has not yet learned the true identity of his erstwhile partner- a nurgling known as Rotterick, who has carried on the charade for its own unknown ends. Godrat the Stitchwelder - The chief fleshmoulder of Clan Morfiend, Godrat has crafted many monsters over the years, but his greatest work of art has always been himself. Swollen to nearly the size of a rat-ogor with a distended cranium, he has become a chimeric monstrosity of grating scales and rustling feathers concealed beneath tattered robes and furs. He believes himself to be on the first step to attaining godhood by compositing the divine essences of the many beasts he has fused himself with. Godrat is not truly mad, or rather has passed through the waters of madness and found a lucid calm beyond, yet the storming rage is never far off. Vrassh Threeclaws - Gaunt and wiry, Clan Morfiend’s master of assassins is a lightning fast and deadly shot. Three arms hang from his sides, resting on the heels of his three warplock pistols, a fourth lost to a long-distant misfire accident that cost him his arm and the now-extinct gunsmiths of Clan Warmite their lives. Some say that Vrassh has never missed a shot; others more correctly and quietly point out that no one who has ever seen him miss has survived to tell the tale. Khuong Blackfist - Swathed in richly appointed armour and silken robes, elaborate headwear and bedecked in bombs of all shapes and sizes, the massively rotund rodent known as Khuong Blackfist is a warlock engineer and the master armourer of Clan Morfiend. Brash and boisterous, Khuong is driven by an all-consuming greed for luxury, food, wine and comfort. He is a master of blackpowder, seeing in the glittering of fuses and sudden blast of explosives his means to achieve the power and pleasures he craves. The Supporting CastWhile the four figureheads have the best claim to the title of Warlord of Clan Morfiend, there are innumerable others that covet it. While most clanrats will never see that ambition rise to more than bitter resentment and an early grave, there are some whose schemes might interrupt even the best laid plans. These NPCs may appear in Paths alongside the Figureheads above, and while their claims cannot be supported directly they could play a vital role in who eventually triumphs. Wheezus Slaw - A heavy bronze breathing mask sits on this peculiar skaven’s head, constantly leaking oily water and other unknown slimes. His voice, when heard, bubbles out from deep within in an almost incomprehensible gibberish. His alchemical knowledge, however, is second to none, and with a touch he can cure poxes, infuse madness, boil skin or turn himself into a chemical berserker. Ratagandran Burntsnout - A pyromaniacal sorcerer of great talent but little self-control, Ratagandran wears a cursed crown of impure Emberstone bolted directly to his skull. The Yellow Death - Clad in rotting robes that smell of spring breezes and wildflowers and carrying a scythe, this unnerving figure wanders through the halls of the ship, claiming skaven lives indiscriminately. He speaks no words and offers no prayers, save for the crack of his whip-like tail and the occasional chuckle from deep within his cowl. No one can recall his name, or remembers seeing him before stepping through the gnawhole. Campaign Structure and RulesThe campaign will begin February 1st, and will last until it ends. Each turn will be 24 hours long, after which there will be a brief after-action report with the day’s results, the current standings, and any changes to the available Paths. A full narrative Unfolding will only take place at the end of the campaign, similar to past short-form Weekender events. Narrative Paths: These are the actions you can take, representing how you interact with the campaign and shape its outcome. Most Paths will function by adding one or more dice to the dice pools of specific figureheads. There will be a wide range of Paths available at the start of the campaign, however, as the temple-ship plummets and areas of it are destroyed, some Paths will disappear. Those Paths will be noted as Perishable, and will disappear after a certain number of Reports are allocated to them and/or a certain amount of time has elapsed.Dice Pools: Each figurehead will have a pool of dice that they accumulate through the course of the campaign, representing their influence and power within the clan. In each after-action report, the current dice pool of each Figurehead will be shown. However, they will not be rolled until the end of the campaign, which will provide a final score. Dice can be of different sizes, can be positive or negative, and can be modified by certain actions. Altitude: The campaign will end not after a specific number of turns, but instead by the uncontrollable descent of the temple-ship. The ship’s altitude will be tracked as part of the after-action reports, and will begin at 20. Each turn, it will lose 1 point automatically, and then for every remaining point of altitude, a die will be rolled and on a ‘1’ that point will also be lost. Furthermore, exhausting Perishable Paths will cause a point of altitude to be lost. The campaign will end when the altitude reaches 0. Organization: As returning campaigners may have noted, there were no coalitions or teams listed alongside the Figureheads, as this campaign will be an ‘open’ format. You will not be locked to a single team or figurehead, or a single Path. Each turn you can choose where your actions go and who you support. Will you stay committed to one claimant, a die-hard loyalist through thick and thin, or will your alliances shift and turn with each new dawn in an attempt to stay on the winning side? That is up to you. All the players will have access to shared discussion and RP channels, where you can make the case for your champion or let yourself become the rat’s paw of another. Taking PartThis campaign will be run entirely on the Animosity Discord server. A Report form link will be provided at the start of the turn to submit your Reports, and will have all the available Paths to choose from. You will need your Discord ID and handle to send a report. Each turn, a player may allocate 1 report just for taking part. Over the course of the campaign, you can allocate up to five bonus reports by doing any of the things listed below. Each of these bonus report types can only be done once per person, and you can only allocate 1 bonus report per turn. Adding your Character to the Protagonist Roster. The Protagonist Roster is a digital character sheet and archive of all the characters taking part in the campaign, including names, descriptions, motivations and RP notes.  Hobby - Create a Model for your Character or a Figurehead or NPC. Build a model based on your character or a figurehead of your choice. The model must be made for this campaign, so previously built models cannot be counted. However, you do not need to wait for the campaign to start to begin - as soon as you read this, it is fair game. Hobby - Paint a Model or Unit based on the Campaign. Paint a model or unit for the campaign. As above, this must be something done for the campaign, so models unrelated to your character cannot be counted, and you may begin as soon as this post is live. Hobby - Create and Paint a Terrain Piece based on the Campaign. Create a terrain piece for this campaign, following all the guidelines above. Arts & Crafts - Create an Artistic Work Based on your Character or a Figurehead. Create a work of visual, musical or other form of art for this campaign. Digital artworks including 3D modeling are allowed, however generative AI may NOT be used. Writing - Write a Short Story about your Character. Write a short story about your character within the context of the campaign. Minimum 500 words, maximum 2000. Protagonist and Campaign ExpectationsAs the central conflict of this campaign will be an internal struggle within Clan Morfiend for the future of the clan, the expectation is that you will be playing as a member of the clan. It is not strictly limited to skaven characters, as members of other races could find themselves in that situation, however it would require some careful lore justification. Specifically, your character must feel that they are (a) a member of the clan, and (b) subject to the clan. If you do not think your character would feel beholden to that, or would be too powerful to care about the leadership of the clan, they might not be the right choice for this campaign. Characters fitting this campaign could vary in scale from a single lowly clanrat, an elite Stormvermin champion, the clawleader of a pack, a triad of assassins, or any number of smaller heroes like a warlock, a plague priest, or a beastmaster. You are the influential core of the clan, not quite within reach of leadership yourselves (at least not yet), but capable of swinging the fate of those that do aspire to rule. As a lore note, even though the great clans have the most famous examples of certain skaven roles like warlock engineers, assassins or plague priests, they are not exclusive to those clans, and examples of all skaven archetypes can be found within Clan Morfiend. Gray Seers, however, are agents of the Council of Thirteen, rather than members of any clan, and would not be a good choice for characters without backstory justification. Finally, you can expect us to deliver on the campaign premise of a power struggle within the clan, depicting our Figureheads clashing for dominance over the Clan, which will be resolved through the actions you take upon your Narrative Paths.The temple-ship Xo'axtu falls from the heavens. Hundreds of ambitious vermin scheme and betray. Animosity rises! WAR BEGINS!

Weekender '26 Short Story - "Genius Without Rival (or recourse)"

Ishkatan the Skybreaker, Arch-Clawlord of Clan Morfiend, surveyed the unfolding atrocity with great satisfaction. These weak-crippled lizard-things had died in droves before the might of his unified Clan, and only nasty fiend-pests remained that crawled about inside the walls like vermin! But they did not matter, because the rotund-fat frog leader lay heaped on its command throne, its distended belly skewered by Ishkatan's halberd. With a whisker-twitch of satisfaction, the Clawlord allowed himself a deserved moment's respite.After months of careful planning and maneuvering the various fool-pawn underlings he could trust into the roles he needed (and killing those he couldn’t trust), it had all come to fruition. His underlings had played their parts, and none were the wiser of the great-big picture that only he knew, of the most critical details of the plan he alone had devised in his genius.Ishkatan the Skybreaker was the first Skaven to capture a lizard-thing voidship, and would be the first to incorporate their (lesser) magics and know-how with brilliance of Skaven engineering to create something far greater! With such a base of operations, Ishkatan knew he would be remember-worshipped by Skaven for an Age to come.  His titles would become even more great-grand than merely 'Skybreaker'! The Council of Thirteen would come begging him to support them and Clan Morfiend would be elevated to the greatest heights. No, wait! He would not just be remembered, the Great Horned Rat would reward his genius, his cunning, and his strength with untold power and immortality!He could taste it already, his chortling sending nearby attendants scurrying for cover. He didn’t care, they didn’t matter anymore. Ishkatan rolled the frog-lizard from his new throne, and tapped the primitive glyphs on it. They resisted his touch at first, until he began scratching at them with his warpstone claws and channeling his mighty-great warlock magicks into them. Slowly but surely, he overcame the primitive lizard’s magic with his own. With all the knowledge he had carefully hoarded for himself, Ishakatan entered the coordinates where he would found his new empire. In the name of all Skaven, of course. (But mostly his own.)Ishkatan the Skybreaker grinned like a Cheshire cat.Then he realized his face was numb. He touched a claw to his mouth, and it came back covered in red froth, before dropping limply to his throne.“Yoo fhool-morons,” Ishkatan slurred, red spittle spraying from his snout to splatter on the dead slann. “Yoo can’t even…”Ishkatan the Skybreaker, Warlord of Clan Morfiend, soon to be the personal paw of the Council of Thirteen, one who would go down in history for his genius and cunning, and destined for ascension at the claws of the Great Horned Rat… simply died.And Clan Morfiend came flying apart.

Weekender '26 Short Story - "Lessons Learned and Lessons Taught"

Krehmicto surveyed the Seraphon before her with her good eye, and was unimpressed. The days old saurus fought with the skill of well-drilled soldiers and worked together like veterans of a dozen battles, the spawn-siblings leveraging the instincts and bonds willed into them by the Old Ones. The fresh kroxigors had worked and trained without rest for the few days they had existed, their power and endurance unmatched by most mortal races. The skinks, both old and new, were agile and cunning, picking up the skills, techniques and tools Krehmicto instructed them to use in no time at all.But the flaws were obvious to one of her experience. Krehmicto may have been unable to see the threads of destiny that wove them all together in the Great Plan, but she was there when Dracothion woke them and had known only war since that distant time. And she was grateful she lived to see the day the draconith returned in fully glory, even if it also marked her ‘retirement’ to this long dormant temple ship. Her platinum scales shone with Azyr’s light, marking her as a Sunblood. Most of the saurus saw her as a demi-god, most of the kroxigors were cowed by her mere presence, and most of the skinks quaked around her. But not all of them. The constellation’s priesthood chafed at her presence, at overriding their auguries with her observations. Of forcing all of them, menials or not, to learn to fight in their free time. They used their cunning to test her. Those she demoted challenged her for dominance, seeing only the many scars that glinted in her heavy scales and perceiving weakness where her one arm ended in a stump.Her body may have sustained damage well beyond the powers of Ghyran to heal, but it was not weak by any stretch. Especially not with her centuries of experience directing it. One by one, Krehmicto corrected their perceptions of her, giving many of Xo’axtu’s spawnlings their first scars. But correcting the rest would take time. The saurus worked well together, but their movements were textbook, predictable, and mechanical. The kroxigors clashed with the saurus, preventing them from fighting close to one another let alone assisting each other’s formations. And while the kroxigors worked well with the skinks, the little creatures’ many clutches had already broken into quarreling cliques that couldn’t even work with fellow skinks and threatened to further the divide between the other Seraphon. Individually, they were potent. More than most humans or even aelven commanders could wish for, certainly for soldiers that were recruited - and born - a few days prior. But despite being driven by one will, they were not a united force. At least, not yet. Krehmicto would be both smith and crucible, hammering away their impurities until they could be forged into an alloy far greater than the sum of its parts. Given time, she was certain of it. Already, they had come far under her tutelage, those she selected for command growing into their roles and bridging the divides between them. Forging new bonds that meant they would fight for more than the Great Plan, though she would not want to test those links until they had been tempered.Fate had other plans, however.As warning glyphs blared and the Starmaster’s will pressed down upon all of them, Krehmicto’s roar drowned it all out and drew the warhost’s attention to her.They needed no spoken language to communicate. She raised her aeonfire warblade into the air, and her warriors followed her without question. Krehmicto would repay their loyalty as best she could, by keeping as many of them alive as possible to learn from the coming battles. As the Great Plan - and her conscience - willed.

Weekender '26 Short Story - "A Festering Wound"

Crul’penatl folded their ungainly legs beneath them as the slann settled into their command throne, ancient runes coming to life as their will connected with the Xo’axtu’s. Around them, skink priests had already shaken off the torpor of their long slumber and roused the temple ship from its own. All heard Xo’axtu’s growl of annoyance in the thrumming celestial energies that coursed across countless glyphs forming the snaking circuity that connected every pyramid, obelisk and orrery into a single and predatory void-beast. But Crul’penatl’s attention was elsewhere, looking beyond their mortal vessel and beyond the skin of their temple ship to the stars that glimmered in the great aetheric void. The constellations that had fallen, their individual stars devoured or corrupted. Crul’penatl felt all the lost souls each star represented through the Astromatrix, but their cold-blood focused only on the Eternal Enemy’s growing miasma and the mounting discord amongst the slann’s peers. That cool focus shifted to the present, seeing their place in the Great Plan’s tapestry shifting as dire events demanded their early awakening, of Xo’axtu’s spawning pools driven into full production. Already, the first clutches had hatched despite the constellation’s misalignment, foretelling an unremarkable spawning at best and one doomed at worst. Crul’penatl felt the agitation of their skink priests as they struggled to identify any hatchlings destined to lead their spawn-siblings and those they had selected being denied their rightful place in the tapestry by… something new.  An ancient saurus assigned to the Xo’axtu without Crul’penatl’s input, one who sought to train their spawnings. To override their priests? One who reeked of hot blood, and dirt, and death, and impurity. Whose strands of fate had coalesced with the Realms’ before fraying down to their very last? The Starmaster could not allow this challenge to the constellation’s Order, this meddling from their peers. They would rectify this at- A burning pain drew Crul’penatl’s attention to their body, a gnawing feeling at the pit of their stomach. It took the slann’s still groggy mind a moment to parse that the sensation came not from their mortal vessel, but Xo’axtu’s stone and starmetal frame. A warding glyph chimed as the pain grew more acute, an unnatural pressure not unlike an ulcer pressing deep within their body. Priests and their entourages moved to treat the area when it burst like a festering boil, rot and venom pouring in. Crul’penatl and Xo’axtu roared in pain together, the slann cutting the sensory connection between them to better focus on the response. As the infection spread through major arteries and spilled down auxiliary veins, Crul’penatl’s cold will mobilized the antibodies needed to contain and destroy it. Glyphs throughout the ship relayed that celestial will to its denizens, who leapt to obey. The cursed spawning and their temporary commander would be tested, thrown at the wound to staunch it as best they could while Crul’penatl woke the rest of their starhost and readied them for war. The fools that dared desecrate Xo’axtu’s halls would not get far.… but the Starmaster could no longer feel the other ulcers forming across Xo’axtu’s body.

Naro's AVII Turn 5 Hobby Highlights

After five amazing weeks of battles, storytelling, art, and hobby there have been a total of 765 Player Reports collected! Please take time to enjoy the following Hobby Highlights.Links to player Social Media postings will be shared with best effort and intentions. Be sure to like and follow them!Narrative flair and descriptions for photos were written by the person who submitted the report and may or may not result in becoming canonical to the Animosity-verse.Submitted by: Ceda_Kuru_Qan“Forcing his knights to consume copious amounts of Kingsblood wine Owain prepares to lead one final assault.”Submitted by: Admacritchie“Corona and her elite guard the unconscious body of Vallash Kall as he does battle with the slann.”Submitted by: lonelyashtreehttps://bsky.app/profile/lonelyashtree.bsky.social/post/3lwwsem7se22l“Tomb kings Necropolis Knights. The unit was patrolling the wilds near the seraphon and especially close to Za'Loc-Ta. It was tasked to help escort Dagger team near the slann and help clear the area from seraphon with well timed charges on the enemies rear. Since it can move burrowed deep underground it was easy to evade the seraphona nd charge undetected when it was needed the most . Despite the knights main role was to help dagger team if it could it helped the other two teams too. Heterfer rode one necroserpent herself and moved burried under the ground as Dagger team moved over the ground. Since Heterfer is no mage she would appear suddently and would start shooting with the Golden Bow of the Sun”Submitted by: manoskatakis“While most of the Dark Angels of Retribution hail from the Ruination Chambers, some are from the Warrior Chamber, called into service to stand with their brothers in this desperate hour. A squad of Liberators, fresh armor and sharpened weapons stand ready to strike at the heart of the Seraphon invaders and save Eklysium from cataclysmic doom.”Submitted by: .lord_vigohttps://www.instagram.com/p/DNo5NoYN2PN/?img_index=1“A gargant walks straight towards the shattered building of the old inn where Junnrik is sitting while a busy apothecary changes a bandage on his right arm. "Wilhom! Tis really you? Harharhar!" Junnrik laughs and slaps his thigh so hard that the apothecary takes a cautious step back. “What in the eight re'lms happened to you, my boy?” “Yes, cousin.” Replies the gargant. He does not laugh. "Tis, still me. Listen. My sister Jannis is missing and probably dead. Our friends here." Now you see a few Fyreslayers gathered around Wilhom's legs. "They have sworn an oath to got to The Chamber and find or avenge her. They are true friends and after my sister's death,“ he swallows, ”like family to me. I've decided to stick with the Brynhars and their promise to find out about Jannis or die trying." He spits out a black lump.”"I'm one of them now."Submitted by: bergfruehling | Varinja Grimnirhttps://bsky.app/profile/bergfruhling.bsky.social/post/3lwnwgn7zqs2e“Ikitt Greynip and his coven of spellcasters prepare to control the Ohmlings and turn them against the seraphon”Submitted by: RedAngel97https://bsky.app/profile/kyle97.bsky.social/post/3lwqxnblw332v“Urif Miresson commands the Barak Gorn Gyrocorp in the attack on the Oculus Sanctum. A team of Gyrocorp Harpooners distinguish themselves in the fight, darting around the battlefield on light endrin packs, using harpoons forged and enhanced by Holgin Forgecaller and the Furnace City smiths. Skinks are skewered by expert throws and lightning attacks from every angle, keeping the Perfected forces from successfully coordinating themselves and providing the most effective defense against Wolfram Industries attack on the Oculus Sanctum”Submitted by: JMWormwoodSubmitted by: Paul | Steamwrought Modlordshttps://bsky.app/profile/chaosformpaints.bsky.social/post/3lwu6e7kpoc2k“During the defense of the Pillars of Scorn, Dolgul unleashed his retinue of gore-gruntas and maw-gruntas and had tremendously enjoyed riding on the biggest of them all.He plans to do the same, but this time sharing the fun with his partner in crime: Zakkdrakk Footcrusha, the megaboss without whom he is leading a hopefully growing WAAAGH!The huge dinosaurs seem to be the perfect targets for some wanton destruction from the brute force of the Shadowsplittaz, and with luck creating enough ruckus for Dolgul to unleash the greatest feet of Gork he ever casted!”Submitted by: jam (Dolgul the Wise)“Goroans fighting a variety of dinosaurs and saurus, larger than normal due to a relics magic.”Submitted by: Sudsinabuckethttps://bsky.app/profile/sinaraipaints.bsky.social/post/3lwxgv562j225“A mighty vampire lord , who will try to infect one of the oversized dinos with a cursed spear and turn it undead and under markela's control”Submitted by: Vinia_46825“Jonas is not the man he once was, now physically twisted by his exposure to Courts magic and entirely devoted to Princess Lyrei”Submitted by: Foreverodd

The Further Adventures of Vala Edrasdottir, Pt. 5

Dear readers, I was wrong. When I wrote of my findings in the Archivium Nebulis, I speculated that something nightmarish had been buried beneath the ancestral Rovskyr burrows that predated Eklysium, preventing them from expanding further below the earth. I still believe that this was a reasonable assumption based on what limited information I could eke out of the archive's highly censored and amended volumes. But alas, I was unfortunately mistaken. I know this now because I have been to the lowest depths of the Citadel and witnessed the truth firsthand.It was after my travelling companions and I passed beyond the Stygian dark and deathly dust-storms of the Howling Abyss that we finally began to see traces of the original Rovskyr architecture. Little enough of it remained in the deepest Chamber of the Citadel, but it was enough to prove that the Rovskyr had, in fact, dug their burrows as deep as was to be expected. Furthermore, though I am far from an expert in the matter, Lipé has informed me that these fragments imply that this was a particularly sacred site for the early Rovskyr, comparable to the Chamber of the Great Seed beneath the Starlit Plains. Whatever darkness lurked here, it was not present in the time before Eklysium's building. It would appear, rather forebodingly, that the ancient Rovskyr’s sacred site had been repurposed as a prison for something the God-King wanted forgotten by all. The displacements, the killing, the very construction of Eklysium itself, they had all been for this purpose.I'm still searching down here, avoiding these so called “Perfected” Seraphon where I can. (I think the term is ridiculous, frankly. My most engaging interactions with Seraphon have been those where they have been able to develop their own culture over years of being bound to the Realms.) But there is certainly something… evil down here. I don't know what better way to put it. It's like an itch at the back of my mind, a crawling of my skin, a suffocating fug on the air. Hopefully this foul aura isn't life threatening or anything, but I always knew I'd pass into the halls of the ancestors doing this kind of work. The ways seem clearer for me to get this to Branach, at least.Yours, hopefully not for the last time,Vala Edrasdottír, Adventurer, Scholar, and Natural Historian.

Naro's AVII Turn 4 Hobby Highlights

Four Weeks into the campaign with 630 Player Reports collected. Please take time to enjoy the following Hobby Highlights!!!Links to player Social Media postings will be shared with best effort and intentions. Be sure to like and follow them!Narrative flair and descriptions for photos were written by the person who submitted the report and may or may not result in becoming canonical to the Animosity-verse.The Acolytes of Ruins Arch warlock skralk ironmaw and  Golruk Geartoof  prepare to turn the foreman rest into a fortress by set up traps and kill zones  to slow down the Lizardmen and give them time to entrench our warp lighting cannon to hunt the bigger sized lizardsSubmitted by: RedAngel97https://bsky.app/profile/kyle97.bsky.social/post/3lvy6s43agg27Virelith the Treelord, and Spite Reventants of this Lost-Song Regiment forms a shield wall with Alder Autumnspite, Vinia, and Raisin against the attacking Seraphon. Submitted by: Ert GlymmerwyldMorbheg cavalry were the blades of the pincer, after lowly ghouls baited the trap.Submitted by: ForeveroddThe Sons of Slambo lock shields to defend the gates of the Prefect’s Palace against the marauding starborn. Hopefully this time Kall doesn’t cast a Purple Sun (you know he will). Submitted by: leoxandarhttps://x.com/thekolbitar/status/1953893699617763789Seraphon turned a chapel into a command post, and only ruins were left in the wake.Submitted by: @.ironblazeOf the many skyvessels that saw action in the battles around Eklysium, some of the noteworthy include: 1) the Void Bore-Borer of the Much-great Sky-kill Armada, a scout Scavenger Engine repurposed for voidflight, 2) the Heathen Promise, an Ironfort flier that was the pride and joy of the mad Chaos sorcerer Eyegor Splithelm, 3) the Fritillary, a mass of shipwrecks lashed to the bulk of a madness-infected voidwhale and swarming with ghouls, and 4) the Black Basha, a Hulk of the Ironjawz Skybasha warclan. Submitted by: borbo3241The XVI contubernium of the Sown Men. Raised from death and used to help carry injured civilians from the battle zone to non-seraphon held districts.Submitted by: Ceda_Kuru_QanHolger Skov and Astrid fighting in the city to protect it from the seraphon.Submitted by: Emo#4838Kadriye is focused on evacuating civilians from the 11th House. The Gyro Haulers of Wolfram's Urif Miresson help with the evacuation while other civilians are escorted through tunnels to secret Boltbreaker safehouses shared by Foreman Junnrik. Several gun haulers of Rygra Darkkin aid in ambushing Seraphon, as do the Charnel Court in a chance encounter.Submitted by: zim42The arch-knight of the Soot Hounds truly distinguished himself in the defense of Eklysium.  At one point in the conflict, he single-handly defended a choke point making it possible for innocent civilians to flee to safety.  The gargolyn is something of a new addition to the Soot Hounds.  This creature seemed to have simply appeared one day after the fight in the Snarl.  It quickly settled in among the soldiers and they took it as a symbol of Sigmar’s favor.  But, the creature did more than just inspire the warriors.  It too fought in the battle for Eklysium.  Less so to defend the city but more so to protect its newly adopted family. Submitted by: hjalti_6139Seeing the city under siege, Kalured leads the Knights Numinous against the invading Seraphon. He is reluctant to leave Pelham, but a quality leader doesn't matter if there are no people to lead. The Knights Numinous fight to protect citizens from attack while mustering aggressive counter charges. Among those defending the city, Kalured finds some surprising allies.Submitted by: RedMullihttps://www.instagram.com/p/DM_7fkUsamK/?igsh=dDA2bnF4M2hub3VjAgain Vyzorak sat at the centre of a summoning circle, the four globes stolen from Wolfram Industries melting inside a small crucible. Thick crimson smoke rose from it, condensing into Tzeentch's sigil, its All-seeing Eye shut."Plotgibber! I summon thee, Xal'ar'ap of the Grand Cabal!", once again the ogroid called to the Great Beyond.The All-seeing Eye opened. As its pupil stared deep into Vyzorak's soul, the air around it started to crack. Then, with a wet rip it opened and out of the rent stepped Xal'ar'ap."Well done, Thaumaturge!" cackled the Changecaster as it capered around the chamber deep within Eklysium's citadel, its blue robes swirling madly."9 times 9 Hyshian cycles I'm at your service, Lorehoarder. And as a first token of my respect, I'll tell you there is a gaggle of grots camped close to the Aetheric Bastion's devices. Strike fast, strike hard, destroy their camp and seize the devices!""So that they can be bent to Eklysium's conquest"Submitted by: @godfatherviktorhttps://viktorswarroom.blogspot.com/2025/08/animosity-vii-azyr-asunder-part-7.htmlUmbra leads a cavalry charge to take the Aetheric Bastion for the March.Submitted by: lonelyashtreehttps://bsky.app/profile/lonelyashtree.bsky.social/post/3lvyllawwc22jShërbëtor G'jak-u got word that the Valeguard was delving into the Howling Abyss to control the Stormfort. She continues to hunt for Dailor Elephas and hopes to find him there.Submitted by: PerryHotterhttps://bsky.app/profile/perryhotter.bsky.social/post/3lvylqdvkhc2xIn the depths of the Howling Abyss, a parchment is caught by the wailing winds that give this place its name. The parchment is carried high into the air. When you catch it, it appears to be a page from the Brynhar Lodge's Great Book of Grudges.Submitted by: gbergfruehling | Varinja Grimnirhttps://bsky.app/profile/bergfruhling.bsky.social/post/3lvyjx3x7g22rThe banner that is strapped to the Goroans back raises high into the sky, behind it a towering ziggurat. Before them an army of Saurus ready to die to protect the secrets withinKuugax and his followers clash with a force of Saurus at the steps of the Ziggurat. An ancient Saurus Old Blood challenges the Goroan Warcaller in combat as others charge around them into battle. Kuugax has his sights set on a group of Kroxigor that threaten a devastating charge.Submitted by: Sudsinabuckethttps://bsky.app/profile/sinaraipaints.bsky.social/post/3lvzavh6ck22xhttps://bsky.app/profile/sinaraipaints.bsky.social/post/3lvzc7isbic2xUpon his return to the besieged Foreman’s Rest Lord Vytravius takes a moment to be healed from his injuries before striking out back into the heart of the assaulting army.Submitted by: Psuedo-Khornehttps://imgur.com/a/fweYd1Kเก้าตา and The Blazing Winds secure strategic positions near an ancient Stormfort deep within the Howling Abyss.Submitted by: naro555Despite the fact Dolgul’s retinue took a steep price in warriors, brutes and ardboyz in equal quantities, there were still some emergency regiments lying in halt around a clearing Not far from the Altar. The Pillars of Scorn could be seen, even if they were hidden by rough weather. Those reinforcements were yet some more ranks of brutes and ardboyz, however with the addition of a couple dozens of gore-gruntas and a handful of maw-gruntas. Dolgul, during one of the legendary flash of wisdom (seldomly corroborated by anyone else…), devise another cunning machination to first, hide some entire cavalry units in key counter attack locations, and second, conjure a teleport spell (learnt from his Gloomspite Gitz friends) to either relocate friends or foes. He even thought it was valid to save the hide of Grakko, if ever the ultimate need would rise. Submitted by: jam#3540Submitted by: kaderlyTokens painted to represent display and auction items and reference previous animosity campaigns; an idol of Kurnous from the prime dominion (AIII and AVI), a black tablet partially encased in sandstone and the bones of unlucky miners uncovered by Grikk Mookshield in the Biting Stones of Lahar, as seen in the turn 2 unfolding narrative, and a metallic bush from Silverside (AIV), and two barrels of Bugman's salvaged from Frorholm, having aged since the Age of Myth (AV)Submitted by: inconvenientmoonrisinghttps://www.instagram.com/p/DNKJfoGomlv/?img_index=1Hobby Progress for a custom Dragon Graveyard.Submitted by: naro555

The Further Adventures of Vala Edrasdottir, Pt. 4

Greetings, Vala’s readers. Might notice this isn't your usual writer, but unfortunately I haven't had anything from Vala since she met up with her Rovskyr friends and headed deeper into Eklysium. Not surprised, with all these lizards running about, but I've no doubt she's doing just fine though, tough lass that she is. Oh yes, probably should say who this is. Branach at your service. Figure I might as well use the space on this paper to flex my own developing writing muscle. Fierce Branach, I've been called, for my ferocity in battle. In recent years, particularly after my stint at diplomacy in the Prime Dominion, organising Old Krogg’s mercenary dealings and suchlike, I've found myself with a wanderlust that can't be satiated by sitting about while Krogg nation-builds. He'll always be my Baron, and I'm sure I'll return to his side some day, but for now I'm quite enjoying travelling about as Vala’s apprentice. An old Fimm warrior like me doesn't often have much opportunity to strike out on his own and learn new trades.This far, most of my duties have been administrative, but you'd be surprised how often such duties become life-threatening in Vala’s line of work. Or perhaps that's just Vala herself. Usually I'm out in the field with the lass, but I understand why she needed me to stay behind and look after our Kladi II while she's gone, plus working the printers and handling distribution. A bit of a change of pace from our last adventure, whereby we managed to get caught in the middle of a stonehorn migration whilst carrying a clutch of precious and highly delicate Aether-Roc eggs. But that's a story for another time. I'm still getting used to writing so much. I've been literate since I was little more than a hatchling, but the life of a Fimm warrior does not lend itself much towards scholarly pursuits.For the time being, and until I receive word from our Vala,Branach of Tír Ceoch, apprentice scholar and adventurer.I'm not quite the artist that Vala is, but this old Fimm tried his best.

Naro's AVII Turn 3 Hobby Highlights

Three Weeks into the campaign with just over 670 Player Reports collected. Please take time to enjoy the following Hobby Highlights!!!Links to player Social Media postings will be shared with best effort and intentions. Be sure to like and follow them!Narrative flair and descriptions for photos were written by the person who submitted the report and may or may not result in becoming canonical to the Animosity-verse."The skies over Elkysium are alive with new forms brought by the twists and turns of the Ur-River. Gitmob armies field Snarlwing Riders, ridden by Gitbosses and crews of shootas with explosive arrows. Ironjawz Brutes ride wyverns, slimmer than Maw-Krushas but much faster. Chaos Warriors ride two-headed mutated Chaos Draconiths. Mages from the Cities of Sigmar tame manticores to find the best vantage points for their spells. Finally, the smithies of the realm of Khorne have bound daemons into metallic forms to allow Blood Warriors to ply the skies on Brass Skullraiders."Submitted by: borbo3241Submitted by: Ceda_Kuru_Qan"The ladz are getting ready to bait the Nightspine with their loud ruckus!"Submitted by: Gall"The full forces of the Shattered Sky Stormcasts arrive shortly after Lord Vytravius and his mounted Vanguard arrive to Mogreks location."Submitted by: Psuedo-Khornehttps://imgur.com/a/xA3n6xS"The Acolytes of Ruin master moulder and her flesh crafted beast prepare to deal with the nightspine as the rest of Boltbreaker's hunting party sharpen weapons and make ready."Submitted by: RedAngel97https://bsky.app/profile/kyle97.bsky.social/post/3lvftindh3f2q"As the Iridian Company press further into the catacombs they find their passage blocked by Questor Soulsworn sent to protect Pelham. Owain narrowly escapes death at the hands of Knight Questor Stormkestrel- Shadowdrinker once again proving her might in the darkness by fending off the Stormcast attackers single-handedly."Submitted by: admacritchie"Only one individual stands between Owain and Pelham the Unready- Knight Questor Liona Stormkestrel! Their clash is a desperate struggle in the dark rather than the glorious duel pictured in Owain’s broken mind."Submitted by: admacritchie"Exploiting her sister's weakness after the ritual of the Mad Cow, Umbra imprisons Corona and takes command of The Ebon Claw. Stepping out of hers sister's shadow, she aims to strike the decisive blow against the Valeguard."Submitted by: lonelyashtreehttps://bsky.app/profile/lonelyashtree.bsky.social/post/3lv6lhxctr22k"With the aid of Kugaax, Umbra captures a number of the Wyvern's brood to be used as living weapons against the Valeguard. She takes one of these beasts as a mount, naming it Rancor."Submitted by: lonelyashtreehttps://bsky.app/profile/lonelyashtree.bsky.social/post/3lvcdlznmps2xSubmitted by: Byeti#5608 "Kalured and the Knights Numinous join the head-on assault against the March while other try to take back the scepter. Prior to the battle, Kalured worked a ritual to unleash a storm of Sigmar's wrath."Submitted by: RedMulli"Daergran had to call in as many favors as he could to replenish the 3rd after the disaster at Nebularch, and that included a crew of Ulguan Kharadron led by Codewright Arbelfon"Submitted by: @.ironblazeCogsmith Miresson, knowing that the overgrown terrain of the Snarl will present problems to his Gyrocraft, and decides to help Wolfram Industries by retrofitting the many Cogdrones used by the Gyrocorp. These flying clockwork automatons are similar in form and function to the Kharadron Auto Endrins, and Urif aims to use them to disrupt the Boltbreakers and herd the Voidblight Infected creatures toward Wolfram's enemies.  There are generally three types of Cogdrones being used, pictured here from Left to Right:Carnyx Cogdrone - Using bladder fed  horns, carnyx and clockwork musical devices, these cogdrones are machines of auditory disruption, stunning and confusing enemies. Grudgebuster Cogdrone - Outfitted with excess Gyrobomber ordinance, these automaton carry explosive payload toward their targets before detonating them. Submitted by: JMWormwood"Markela knowing full well she didnt had the forces required to face her adversaries head on , she resort to ambushes , treachery and delaying tactics. Using zombies and skelletons to annoy everyone on the way to Dreamer's Gate. While she moved the bulk of her forces there to try sneak on Mogrek kill him steal the sword and open the Gate for herself to loot the treaures inside. Despite the delaying tactics and ambushes a large Valeguard army arrived at the Gate almost the same time as Markela . She send her undead mainly her zombies and skeletons to face off the Valeguard in an attemp to stall them till she move in from the kill. Sadly for Markela two tomb kings sphinxes massacred her undead till her personal guard as she was nearing her pray . but a Vargskyr got in front and kept them occupied till Markela and her bodyguards attacked Mogrek." (game ended in a draw , that Vargskyr survived BOTH sphinxes for 2 turns . but kosarki nightguard and markela didnt finish off mogrek in time)Submitted by: vinia_46825"Lieutenant Borrik, commander of the Fourth Spear of the Soot Hounds took his position on the perch of the pious ogor warhulk, Gor-Blok.  From this vantage point he was able to direct the steelhelms under his command. "Submitted by: hjalti_6139Submitted by: manoskatakisHolger Skov on his horse LyraSubmitted by: Emo#4838Submitted by: @godfatherviktorhttps://viktorswarroom.blogspot.com/2025/08/animosity-vii-azyr-asunder-part-6.htmlSubmitted by: Korzek Shadowkin"Enacting the hand of Savagery, Korzek and his hand picked Warband of assassins move into the Vitrian Well to track down any information they can regarding the origin of the city, and corrupt any leylines they can find to give Belakor a link into Azyr. Not only do they use their Furies to find the routes to the Vitrian wells, they use them to find the other alliances."https://www.instagram.com/p/DM3EGugtDO7/Heldan meets with a dark mage who promises untold power from necromantic energy.Submitted by: .lord_vigohttps://www.instagram.com/p/DM385sVNidE/?img_index=1"Within the Snarl there is a location called the Vitrian Well.  Giant mushroom caps protrude from crystal clear waters. เก้าตาm leads his elite warband of Tzaangor Enlightened between fungus stalks avoiding dangerous spore clouds and twisting vines. With a small fleet of available Discs of Tzeentch and Tzaangor riders to operate them,  เก้าตาm offers these discs as a transportation service to the March of Thunder. For the small cost of any discovered magical artifacts. ""Deep within the Snarl, เก้าตาm begins scouting operations here in the Vitrian Well.  The waters are crystal clear, เก้าตาm looks to locate lost arcane treasures from high above."

The Further Adventures of Vala Edrasdottir, Pt. 3

Dear readers, it would appear that I shall be able to return to regular correspondence sooner than anticipated. As expected, as soon as Branach published my encoded addendum, my freedoms were limited heavily and I was no longer permitted to enter the Archivium Nebulis, nor roam the city for fear that my seditious writings would prompt either assassination or rescue by the Veilguard's opposition. Indeed, I have actually had a rather dull few weeks largely confined to my cell, sometimes breaking up the monotony by playing with a tattered deck of cards that I obtained long ago in Choggrish Market with Ro’Gi, at least for the short periods that such an activity could hold his attention. Prefect Pelham and his people had worried that I might be rescued if I moved about too much, but as it turned out quite the opposite was true. It was just this morning that the ground suddenly fell away in our little cell, taking my poor old cards with it. Both Ro’Gi and I jumped back in shock as a figure emerged, a figure with a single eye gleaming through the cloud of dust that filled the room. Lipé grinned at us and motioned for us to follow. It only took me a moment to comply, the sound of guards shouting in alarm coming closer with every breath. We escaped through Lipé’s tunnel into the undercity below, this layer apparently known as the Gilded Manor after a vein of gold running through the walls. Behind us, a burly Rovskyr named Pash’To collapsed the tunnel and I tried to shield my ears from the terrible scream and crunch of bone of the guard that had attempted to follow us. We ran for a while, Lipé ignoring my breathless questions until we took a small passage that led further below into a veritable carpet of creeping vines spotted with fungal growth as far as the eye could see, which admittedly was not too far in the gloom. Another layer had evidently been revealed, much different to the Manor above, though still lacking any obvious remnant of the former Rovskyr burrow-city. Further down into the mat of vegetation, we came across the rest of Lipé’s band gathered around a small fire. Luckily, it seemed that casualties have been low, likely due to the Rovskyr having a lot of experience navigating underground spaces such as these. It was here that Lipé finally answered a few of my questions, and where I'm writing this now. (You'll have to forgive the unfinished nature of the following sketch, many of my materials were confiscated when I was taken back into custody.)I was elated to see my friend alive and well, and apparently in better spirits than when last I saw her.Apparently the Rovskyr have been living and exploring down here for over a month now, looking for any sign of their forbears. They never did reconnect with the March, but found evidence of a particularly bloody battle in the depths of the Gilded Manor, corpses of both the March and the Veilguard left to rot in the dark, including some that were known to us such as members of the Hands of Hate, whom we had met in the March of Thunder encampment before the fighting began. I can't say I shed a tear for them however, bloodthirsty and chaos-touched as they were.The Rovskyr have also, evidently, been scouting above as well, which is how they discovered mine and Ro’Gi’s whereabouts. Again, had Ro’Gi and I been able to move around as we wished it would have been unlikely that our saviours would have been able to keep track of where we were long enough to stage their rescue. Finding the precise place to tunnel into the city above must have been no easy feat, apparently accomplished by a former agriculturalist named Rah’Ni, whose profession required an ability to tunnel precisely for the most efficient distribution of the cultivated roots that substitute the Rovskyr people's hunter-gatherer lifestyle. But I digress. Time runs short. We'll be moving soon, as the Rovskyr have survived this long by not staying in one place for too long. Apparently, there's rumours that even deeper layers of the city may have been discovered beyond the glittering wells below this tangle, and Lipé is keen to see them for herself. I've arranged for this particular communication to be delivered to Branach by way of the trained messenger oniscids utilised by the Rovskyr, something I've not seen before but apparently very efficient, so hopefully you'll be reading this soon, and I'll be able to keep you all updated as events progress in this forgotten world.As ever in your service, Vala Edrasdottír, adventurer, scholar and natural historian.

Naro's AVII Turn 2 Hobby Highlights

Two Weeks into the campaign with just under 320 Player Reports collected. Please take time to enjoy the following Hobby Highlights!!!Links to player Social Media postings will be shared with best effort and intentions. Be sure to like and follow them!Narrative flair and descriptions for photos were written by the person who submitted the report and may or may not result in becoming canonical to the Animosity-verse.A forlorn hope to distract the wolfram soldiers from a tunnel being dug under their fortressSubmitted by: RedAngel97https://bsky.app/profile/kyle97.bsky.social/post/3luqprqywfe2bWith the assistance of their coalition partners and the information from Foreman Junnrik The Shattered Sky send a strike force through the underground maze of the city before bursting spectacularly through the ground directly under the prefab fortresses of Wolfram.Submitted by: @Psuedo-Khornehttps://www.instagram.com/p/DMjrVdXO1A7/?igsh=MXJqYXV6dG5nYnFpZw=เก้าตาm and his champion Kluc’tar lead their band of Tzaangors to explore the tombs of the underhalls. Navigating between perfectly laid masonry created by gargant slaves long ago.Submitted by: naro555In the chaos of the Mad Cow ritual, the ghouls rush in to feast on their enemies. The last thing their half mad enemies see are resplendent knights of chaos on pale steeds riding them down.Submitted by: lonelyashtreehttps://bsky.app/profile/lonelyashtree.bsky.social/post/3luv3z2hqgc2zCorona the Twice Damned and her warband, the Ebon Claw, assault a formation of Valeguard Freeguild. They make short work of those afflicted by the ritual of the Mad Cow.Submitted by: lonelyashtreehttps://bsky.app/profile/lonelyashtree.bsky.social/post/3luv45ovcqs2zLyrei's most loyal servant, Ladislav, has come to protect Lord PelhamSubmitted by: ForeveroddKalured and The Knights Numinous are in the Labyrinth beneath the City with Pelham, looking to keep him safe from attacks by the March of Thunder using forces that fell in the collapse and reinforcements that thundered down through the hole in the ground. Walkways made by garganta provide ample room for Gryphchargers and Dracoth to maneuver and fight while Hunters provide covering fire and Shield Annihilators surround Pelham with an impenetrable wall of Sigmarite. The smoke from Kalured's Relic Censer helps heal and invigorate the forces of the Valeguard. Surrounded by the March of Thunder, the Valeguard rally around Pelham.Submitted by: RedMullihttps://www.instagram.com/p/DMjLwO8RTG-/?igsh=MXhmbzVlcmE3YTRoNg==https://www.instagram.com/p/DMmHoM-uEvK/?igsh=MXU5Y3lzZzBmaXdleQ==The Hydra Legion, along with Dainn’s Fyreslayer mercenaries and Grey-Seer Scalpite, conduct preemptive attacks on the Boltbreakers staging areas. With Alpharisson’s flagship, the Dronaz-Khul, and Scalpite’s Kill-Bomb, they infiltrate and strike gatherings of unsuspecting Union assault groups, destroying them, their weapons, and disrupting the Boltbreaker’s strategy to besiege Gloamsend. Even if they take out a handful of these sites, Alpharisson wagers it will give Dainn’s defenses a greater chance of victory.Submitted by: GorksPokinFingerAfter arriving in Gloamsend Hjolgin wastes no time in preparing for the Boltbreaker's assault. Using the combined knowledge of Wolfram Industries they build a new form of Engine with a more powerful aelementor to power the operation. Runemarked rings spin around the spirit, funneling massive amounts of power to the operation.Submitted by: Paul | Steamwrought Modlordshttps://bsky.app/profile/chaosformpaints.bsky.social/post/3luvrtrdzik2uThe Prosecutors have arrived! Boltbreakers beware! Sigmar's Wrath descends from the heavens with righteous fury.Submitted by: .lord_vigohttps://www.instagram.com/p/DMl3gHCtmk5/?img_index=1Submitted by: Ceda_Kuru_QanWith the battle raging on Rygra took direct command of a unit of Arkanaut company, charging into the fray with her great hammer, steam errupting from the valves as she swung the void stone powered weapon into the sternum of a wizard of some sort. The impact stunning the foul sorcerer enough for her Arkanauts to pile into and overwhelm both the Chaotic magic user and their bodyguard.Around them aethershot rang out, sniping more with unerring precision and covering those in melee. Overhead soared both gunhaulers and skywardens, decimating bombing runs errupting in the back lines of the enemy forces to create a wall of ghouls and duardin to push the slaves to the ruinous powers into the fire of the constant bombardment.Submitted by: Nixolotlhttps://imgur.com/a/wpfpHodSubmitted by: Sudsinabuckethttps://bsky.app/profile/sinaraipaints.bsky.social/post/3lutl6lxloc26These are some of the fusiliers who stood upon the fortified banks of the Second House.  They helped to rain down fire upon enemies who sought to take the Nebularch CourtSubmitted by: hjalti_6139Tomb kings troops sneak at the outer walls of the Nebularch Court trying to catch the guards by surprice, scale the walls and open a nearby gateSubmitted by: manoskatakisCogsmith Miresson knows logistics are key to Wolfram Logisitics success in the Nebularch Court. He employs a Codewright, Zhyrius, a Human Azyrite Noble attached to the Gyrocorp. Miresson's been giving the lad a "Practical Education" and the fighting in Nebularch Court has been the noble's first real test. While by no means combatant, his tactical sense and research into Eklysium and its Houses if invaluable in navigating the 2nd House's many canals and thoroughfares. Indeed, as the Wolfram Industries plan of attack solidifies, Zhyrius research into the location's celestite orbs gives the Cogsmith information to help the ritual being planned by Wolfram Industries and The March of Thunder.Submitted by: JMWormwoodAsavash and her cadre of Templar Enlightened and Skyfires swooped in from above, attacking the Stormcast guards upon the fortified watchtower near the Nebularch Court with vicious blades. Attacking quickly and relentlessly, and with the advantage of their discs' great mobility, the exposed guards were easily dealt with.Submitted by: .burning_templar.https://www.deviantart.com/ourburningsaviour/art/1222544131Vyzorak listened carefully to his spy report. The Acolyte had located an entrance to the Gilded Manor, but it was crawling with gnoblars piling all sorts of stones, scrolls, coins and other trinkets outside the building, next to a Boltbreaker Union's propaganda sign. The Ogroid pondered. Whatever they were collecting, it was better in his hands, so that any knowledge it may be gleaned from it could serve in the destruction of Eklysium. But if gnoblars were there, surely some ogors were overseeing them. It would have been better to attack in force...Submitted by: @godfatherviktorhttps://viktorswarroom.blogspot.com/2025/07/animosity-vii-azyr-asunder-part-3.htmlAs Owain and Silanore’s forces explore the catacombs they encounter gargants of various sizes- some with severe mutations, others adapted to live underground. Owain gives every gargant he encounters a chance to either join his cause or become sport for his knights.Submitted by: admacritchie

The Further Adventures of Vala Edrasdottir, Pt. 2

Well, dear readers, it has been an eventful few weeks since my prior correspondence. I write to you not from the warcamp of Grakko Thunderhide, but from the grand Archivium Nebulis of Eklysium itself under the permission of Prefect Pelham. It likely behoves me to start from the beginning. It was shortly after my last publication that I found myself joining the raid on the Grand Cathedral of Sigmar. Of course, I do not condone the besieging of sacred sites, but I have grown quite fond of the company of Lipé and her allies, and chose the front to follow based on where they were headed. It just so happened that this was the same path being taken by Miss Thunderhide herself. It was sure to be dangerous for a non-combatant such as myself, but I had my Rovskyr friends to protect me and a much more notable target for aggression at the fore of this arm of the March.It was only as our band, close to Miss Thunderhide and her associate, one Mr. Varn Kul’s, vanguard, that I realised something was wrong. I had been relieved when, despite something of a plan involving ghouls, we weren't going to be travelling with Mad Queen Silanore, whom I have previously portraited and have no real interest in spending further time with. However, the stench in that crowd was much more potent than I had anticipated based on the number of ghouls our party was planning to secrete within it. I attempted to explain my trepidation to my allies, but, alas, I am cursed with unchecked verbosity. By the time I had even begun to get my point across, the ruse was revealed. A good portion of the crowd were ghouls working for the Valeguard, who came rushing at us, thankfully focussing most of their efforts on Miss Thunderhide and her cohort. Still, my friends were fending off an onslaught of ghouls before long. That was until our own ploy came into effect, much of the remaining crowd revealing themselves to be out own ghouls disguised in beggar's robes. It might have been comedic if I had not been in mortal danger and my senses assaulted by the stench of a charnel house. Likely more than three quarters of the crowd for Prefect Pelham's ceremony was made up of disguised ghouls, who began ripping into eachother all around us. Those few actual civilians who had attended, mostly nobles, were either running screaming or clutching their heads in evident pain; I imagine the colliding delusions of the many present Flesh-Eater Courts was too much for their small minds to handle. No, that was cruel, they did not deserve such a fate.Silanore. I beat a hasty retreat after completing this portrait, for there was hunger in those eyes.It was then that the earth opened up beneath the Temple, the work of a Mr. Kuugax and something I had known about prior, though I hadn't expected it to be quite so violent or so sudden. In a second, the whole edifice and many of the nearby combatants were swallowed up by a sudden void. As the dust settled, it became apparent that one of the fabled basement layers speculated by Miss Thunderhide, as discussed in my previous correspondence, had been revealed. As soon as Lipé realised what had happened she sprinted ahead of our band in excitement, shouting about her ancestral home unheeding of the slavering ghouls that still surrounding us, with little way to tell friend from foe apart (as much of a friend as a Flesh-Eater can be.) the rest of the band and I hurried to catch up, only to find Lipé quivering with rage; below us, the revealed tunnel was no longer a Rovskyr burrow, all vestiges of the inhabitants of the distant past replaced by polished stone corridors. Screaming, Lipé leapt down, much of her band following after her, but myself and one other, a rather peculiar but kind-hearted Rovskyr named Ro’Gi, remained behind, just for a heartbeat, as we processed what was unfolding before us. It was long enough to find knives pressed to our throats.Evidently, the main bulk of Miss Thunderhide's force had beaten a vastly retreat after it became evident their prize would not be attainable. Those who remained were taken prisoner, myself and my companion included, captured by Seraphon working under Baal’Oot, another of my former portrait subjects. He actually put in a good word for me, knowing that I must only be with the March for scholarly reasons, and I in turn put in a good word for Ro’Gi, who had always seemed more interested in pacing in circles and chattering away about anything and everything than engaging in battle. Thusly, we were afforded a relative freedom compared to most of the other prisoners, able to travel about Valeguard-controlled portions of the city with an armed escort of Eklysium Steelhelms. It was under these particular circumstances that I obtained permission to peruse the Archivium Nebulis to my heart's content while Ro’Gi amused himself with his own musings (much to the chagrin of many of the other visitors to the archive, what few there were at times like this.)Baal’Oot, my unexpected champion.It is through the kind permission of Prefect Pelham that I have been allowed to deliver this entry in my continued adventures to my compatriot Branach back with Kladi II for the purpose of publishing. When next I have something to report, I shall be sure to keep you updated.Yours as ever,Vala Edrasdottír, adventurer, scholar and natural historian.Addendum I have smuggled this part past Pelham's censors through methods I'd rather not disclose publicly, but, all being well, Branach should be able to translate and add this addendum to the published version of this correspondence. I imagine it's publication shall make it rather more difficult to get further word out, at least for the time being, but it would be against my scholarly integrity to ignore such vital information.I have been searching through this archive's collection of tomes brought to Eklysium in its earliest years, or at least those that are currently accessible during this particular Hyshian lunar cycle. With the more well known and notable works, the inconsistencies and alterations are almost undetectable, but when one delves into the more esoteric and forgotten volumes it becomes obvious: Grakko was right. If my reading between the lines of censorship and amendment is correct, and I am generally a dab hand at such things, this area was indeed once home to the Rovskyr people and, more disturbingly, there are allusions to something lower, something that prevented the Rovskyr from burrowing as deeply as they are generally wont to do, something fearful enough that the history of an entire native people was erased from recorded history in order to hide it. I don't know what any of this means, but I shall endeavour to find out more. It might be a while before I can speak to you all again, and alas, I am running out of time to complete this addendum, so I must bid you adeiu.

Naro's AVII Turn 1 Hobby Highlights!

1 Week into the campaign with just over 160 Player Reports collected. Please take time to enjoy the following 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. Submitted by: Ceda_Kuru_Qan Submitted by: Lonelyashtreehttps://bsky.app/profile/lonelyashtree.bsky.social/post/3ltsftswhjk2yhttps://bsky.app/profile/lonelyashtree.bsky.social/post/3lu4pan6l222lSubmitted by: PerryHotterhttps://bsky.app/profile/perryhotter.bsky.social/post/3lu2bcus3gk22Submitted by: Sudsinabuckethttps://bsky.app/profile/sinaraipaints.bsky.social/post/3lue4yqabe22hSubmitted by: @TalinSilverbaneSubmitted by: KingangstSubmitted by: Leoxandarhttps://x.com/thekolbitar/status/1944942272224878841/photo/3Submitted by: RedMulliSubmitted by: .lord_vigohttps://www.instagram.com/p/DMT1VO8teFh/?img_index=1Submitted by: JMWormwoodSubmitted by: RedAngel97https://bsky.app/profile/kyle97.bsky.social/post/3ltzpfzz7se26 Submitted by: @godfatherviktorhttps://viktorswarroom.blogspot.com/2025/07/animosity-vii-azyr-asunder-part-1.htmlhttps://viktorswarroom.blogspot.com/2025/07/animosity-vii-azyr-asunder-part-2.htmlSubmitted by: jam#3540https://www.instagram.com/p/DMTRmEitAeo/?img_index=1Submitted by: naro555Submitted by: ambercoast1Submitted by: kaderlyhttps://www.instagram.com/p/DMTiv08NPjX/?img_index=1 Submitted by: .burning_templar.https://www.deviantart.com/ourburningsaviour/art/Battle-for-the-Archive-of-Swords-Animosity-VII-1219623849Submitted by: @.ironblazeSubmitted by: borbo3241Submitted by: vinia_46825Submitted by: hjalti_6139Submitted by: ManoskatakisSubmitted by: @johnbritt_8099

The Further Adventures of Vala Edrasdottir, Pt. 1

Salutations, readers new and old, and thank you for joining me on yet another of my adventures to the furthest reaches of the Mortal Realms. It has been some time since I've had opportunity or, frankly, inclination to publish any substantial literature, my travels having been so fraught with peril for the better part of a decade now. Between my narrow escape from the dread clutches of the infamous Carrion Queen, an eventful stay with the newly crowned Phoenix Baron Krogg in the Prime Dominion, and my recent attachment to the camp of one Grakko Thunderhide, I've had little enough time to focus on writing. Indeed, much of my published work in recent years has been artistic rather than scientific in nature, my subjects a plethora of pivotal figures in conflicts along the length of the Ur-River rather than the flora and fauna I made my name documenting. This is not to complain, of course. One does get tired of devoting oneself to a single discipline, and it has afforded me the opportunity to meet many people of consequence over the course of my recent travels. My work has spread far and wide as one of the few methods the average person may have to witness the visages of these most monolithic warlords, though I profess not to complete accuracy in my depictions, and I am well aware that my style is markedly naive compared to the masters. All this is to say that, though the artistic bug still has hold of me, I find myself yearning to pick up the pen once again alongside the brush.My previous host, Phoenix Baron Krogg, even now continues a long cold war with the nearby Furnace City.And yet, unfortunately, I must keep this first entry into this record of my current adventures relatively brief, though those who have been following my work for a number of years may scoff at the very notion that I am capable of any form of brevity. As previously mentioned, I have attached myself to the so-called March of Thunder, led by the imposing Grakko Thunderhide, whom I have had the pleasure of some amount of conversation along the road. Of course, I do not condone the raising of city-states to the ground, as is Miss Thunderhide’s stated goal; however, the reality is that she is a near bottomless font of knowledge on the deep history of this corner of Azyr, both sociopolitical and natural. For instance, and I would forgive any seasoned scholar’s incredulity on the matter, Miss Thunderhide makes some stunning claims with regard to the Rovskyr, supposed ancestors of the Crik’Rik people of Ghur and the Djungala of the Xintilian steppes. She claims that, contrary to popularly held scientific and historic belief, the Rovskyr hail not from the Starlit Plains, but from this very vale, their ancestral burrow-cities destroyed in the very same Sigmarite conquest that displaced her own people and led to the founding of the free city of Eklysium. I, too, would likely scoff at this assertion were it not for the source: Grakko Thunderhide is, by all accounts, a primary source. She was a child when the dragon ogors were driven from these lands, and recalls in stunningly accurate detail the Rovskyr nation that coexisted with her own, and their forcible displacement to the distant Starlit Plains. I am less convinced by her speculation on the motives behind this apparent relocation, as well as the supposed covering up of the event through doctored records and altered historical manuscripts, though it is an interesting topic to consider nonetheless. She claims that all this was in service of not just building up the city of Eklysium, but, in secret, also building down, using the Rovskyr’s ancestral burrows as the basis of this expansion. All this secrecy to hide an apparent basement level to the city beggars belief, but I cannot confirm nor deny any part of it. It's fascinating nonetheless, and a new acquaintance of mine, one Miss Lipé of the Starlit Plains, herself a Rovskyr, appears to be fully convinced of its veracity.My new friend Lipé the Starblade agreed to pose for a sketch in her training gear.Alas, dear readers, with that I must leave you, at least for the while. The horns have sounded and the March resumes anew, and I wish not to be left behind, especially as I elected to leave my faithful metalithodon companion Kladi II behind for this particular adventure, seeing as I wished to integrate myself into Miss Thunderhide's retinue as much as possible while maintaining my scholarly integrity. I very much hope to resume communications soon, for I have discovered, and continue to discover, much of interest about the history of this vale.Until next time,Vala Edrasdottír, adventurer, scholar and natural historian

Da Warpath - "Called Home"

Hail, warrior!In the weeks before every Animosity Campaign, we hold a prelude period we call Da Warpath , featuring reveals, information and pre-registration for the coming narrative event. With Animosity VII - Azyr Asunder kicking off this July 12th , the hour is at hand... ... Da Warpath has begun!*** The hulking, cloaked figure sat in the back corner of the Trench’s Head tavern nursed a mug of warm ale on an uncharacteristically cold night in the Scarlands. An unnatural chill had seemingly touched the whole length of the Ur-River as rumors abounded of an orruk demi-god risen from the Age of Myth to slay godbeasts, daemons and other ridiculous ideas that made Knight-Questor Rahlia Greygreave snort with bemusement. Whatever the reason, the unexpected winter weather had frozen much of Trench Hunter Cove, stranding the boisterous inhabitants of Reaver’s Glory at their local tavern and leaving them with nothing to do but drink, gossip, and brawl. Sailors swore up storms as they described how Captain Castian slew the legendary Krabnos upon the Karkino Sea, stealing the kill and plundering the Hall of Drowned Gold from under the noses of their rivals. They boasted how even now they were building a new tavern from its ponderous shell, a new home for all who took part in the hunt. Rahlia lost track of how many fights broke out over the size, shape, origin and even name of Krabnos, and the Stormcast thought she might lose her mind before Sigmar’s next vision when whispered words caught her ear. “Lissen, I ain’t gonna lie t’ya,” came a sibilant voice from a table nearby. “This rift is one of them stable ones, don’t let any tell ya otherwise. Straight to Azyr, shining halls and all. You’n yours’ll be safe. Jus’ don’t go tellin’ anyone else, y’hear? ‘Cause then Sigmar’s heavens won’t be so safe n’more, see? Wouldn’t want anythin’ nasty followin’ ya there, threatenin’ your family again. Them heavenfolk’ll give ya the boot if’n they knew you brought ‘em trouble, but trust me, these papers...” Rahlia heard the rustle of parchment, “...will make it seem like you belong. Nicked ‘em from some workers myself, I did.” “Oh, thank you, kind soul!” came the emotional response. “Thank you! I swear, only my family and their kin, that’s all I’ll bring with me.” “See that y’do. Come’n back tomorrow with the Ghyranis, an’ I’ll tell ya where to find it. Now, off with you, I’ve said too much a’ready…” Rahlia shook her head, saddened as another lost soul bought into the lie that Azyr could be reached by just anyone. Still, she would need to put a stop to it; it was the least she could do while she waited. As the information broker slid out the door, the Knight-Questor realized the situation might be more interesting than she had believed as another robed figure followed him out. She departed as silently as a shadow, none in the tavern even taking notice despite her size. Leaving the raucous establishment and the monstrous skull it was built from behind, she allowed both figures to get well ahead of her, just to be safe. The broker didn’t seem to notice his stalker, and neither did his pursuer realize it was being hunted. It wasn’t long before they had left the small village and skirted around the teeth of the cove, using the rocks for cover. The Knight-Questor expected to find a den of scum and villainy at the end of the trail. Rahlia lost sight of them for a moment, and as she approached the metallic tang of blood caught on the cold night air. She rushed forward, drawing her blade as she moved, and found the broker asprawl, his throat slit and his entrails spilled from his belly. His killer was already slipping away, fleeing toward a cove. The Stormcast was faster, her long legs closing the distance with the alacrity of lightning. The hilt of her blade caught the side of the creature’s head as her free hand ripped the cloak from it. Moments later, she held a burly beastman by the throat, blade pressed to its heart. From her many hunts, the Knight-Questor knew something was wrong. The loathsome Brayherds were in decline, hated even by their own gods. This one wore primal fetishes not unlike those she had seen on bonesplitter orruks, another dying breed. If this was a den of thieves, why hadn’t their sentries stopped this creature from gutting one of their own? “Why did you kill that man, beast?” she hissed. “Thunder marches,” it bleated with what she assumed was a grin. “And only the March can call it home!” Before she could question the beastman further, it wildly stabbed a concealed dagger at her kidneys. Rahlia snapped its neck and put her sword through its heart well before the blade reached her. Dropping the punctured corpse, she realized the coppery smell of blood was much too strong for two bodies. She approached the cove and found two more mortals there, perforated by crooked arrows. Entering the hideout, she ignited her mace to reveal what had been a smugglers den had now become a charnel house. The dead were eviscerated and torn apart, slashed with hacking blades and wicked claws. She found no orruks or gors among the dead, but their work was unmistakable none-the-less. More concerningly, she could find no ledgers nor maps in the den, nothing written to show the smugglers routes our deals, much less the location of this alleged rift. Even their trinkets and effects had been taken, despite these beasts typically caring little for such baubles. Rahlia shook her head. She bore little fondness for the cutthroats, but she would need to hunt down this band of savages before they could further threaten- Then Sigmar spoke to her with a splitting peal of silent thunder, and her next quest began.

Da Warpath - "Operation: Backpay"

Hail, warrior!In the weeks before every Animosity Campaign, we hold a prelude period we call Da Warpath , featuring reveals, information and pre-registration for the coming narrative event. With Animosity VII - Azyr Asunder kicking off this July 12th , the hour is at hand... ... Da Warpath has begun!***Foreman ‘Strong’ Junnrik stepped out into the night, surveying the streets. It is a peaceful night in Eklysium, and not a soul could be seen, witnesses, bystanders or otherwise. Leaning down and ducking back into the warehouse with his mighty frame, the gargant looked over his entourage. Mismatched figures of various races in similar baggy clothes. ‘Uniforms’ they said in jest, but disguises in truth.“Streets are clear. The Ore-bita Boyz brought their minin’ tools, yeah?” Junnrik said to the larger and more excited of the bunch. “Y-ya Boss! We’ze gonna krak ‘em up wif da bits we smuggled out!”“Ah, careful there Burguk, it’s not ‘smugglin’, it's simply a ‘misunderstandin’ on where to store workplace tools’. Got that? I ain’t having anyone here complicit in anything untoward.”The gargant reached into his large pocket and grabbed a flat wooden box.“And I ain’t your boss, Foreman’ll do.” “Ah, Foreman. How ye know that they’ll be fine? I can patch, but I don’t do bits and pieces, makes me too ‘ungry.” The largest figure said, patting his gut.“They’re smart enough, and they know not to stand by the draft.”“What’re they even in there for? Duardin and greenskins, strange bedfellows.”“Protestin’, they wanted less gruelin’ hours and more support. Hard to get a job done when your tools keep splinterin’ in a single mighty swing. Somethin’ they can all understand. On the papers, though? Disturbin’ the peace.”Junnrik and his crew watched out from behind the warehouse window as a small figure shifted through the alleyways towards a large stone keep. The Foreman’s thick fingers slid the box open to reveal a row of sizable Sweet Wilheim Cigars, pinching one out and closing the box.“Did I ever tell you boys about that buildin’ over there?” The figures lean in close and watched the structure. Flags bearing the crossed swords of the Valeguard billowed gently on the breeze, contrasting with the gray stone of the prison.“My family was the one who built it many, many years ago. Back when things were different. When we weren’t as choked and spat upon. Where we weren’t shoved into the rough jobs and treated like dirt, overworked and underpaid. Yeah… my family built that building over there.”Junnrik took the cigar towards his mouth as he pinched a torch from the wall. “...Only one thing left to say, I guess.” He brings the torch close to the end of the cigar, lighting it as he took a puff.“Sorry, gramps.”**KAKKRRRRRRRSCH!**The wall of the building erupted in a fiery explosion, chiseled stone shooting like grapeshot out of an Ironweld cannon. Alarm bells began to ring out, but before the dust could even settle, a horde of greenskin workers ran out from the remains of the wall. Clambering over rubble and ruin, the orruks ran through the labyrinthine streets, led by a nimble grot in baggy clothes. As guards showed up to corral the prisoners, ogor and duardin engineers watched from balconies above, ‘accidentally’ dropping an open toolbox onto the prison guards. A cascade of rusted wrenches, broken hammers and a pile of gears so fused from rust it could only have been described as a ‘clump’ all crashed down. Shields raised high, the metal mess battered them down, their shields shattering amid the sound of splintering wood.More guards were on their way; the sound of plate armor clinked through the streets as they chased after anyone they could find, escapee or otherwise. Junnrik looked towards the others, a gallon-sized grin on his face. “Just wait a moment, eh?” The Valeguard continued through the street, past a butcher shop with jeering occupants. The guards paid it little mind and spat at the windows. Further up the street, a roughshod stallion pulled a carriage as a squabble of grots clambered about the sides. With a gleeful laugh and a glint of small hatchets, they hacked into the ropes affixed to the steed and scattered like ants when the carriage disconnected. Down and down the cobblestone streets it rolled, the cargo a miserable pile of defective material and tools all serving to increase the payload. Before the Valeguard men could realize, the wooden behemoth crashed into them, scattering soldiers and breaking bone as it raced with unparalleled momentum. Junnric watched with a furrowed brow as the carriage remained unharmed, still bounding through more and more guards, with nothing slowing its speed. An unstoppable object had no equal, and as the path began to curve, the carriage defied the cobblestone track and followed the road less traveled… and it made all the difference to the supportive beams of an Inn. With a violent snap of timber and crack of breaking stone, Junnric looked out in horror. “Gods below…”“Ahah, y’see boss, we’ze reinforced it! Ain’t nothin’ stoppin’ it… ‘cept dat inn though.” One of the more hunched figures had proudly exclaimed. “Shame though, I ah… guess dat’s the price for fightin’, collat’ral and all that.”“You… damned fools! Do you have any idea what that cost us!”Junnric turned his gaze towards the worker, his eyes ablaze in rage as he lifted the worker, an orruk, up with his arms.“Everythin’ we hurt by our fight that ain't the enemy is a spear in our gut! A hammer to the knee!” “Y-yes bo-foreman!”“Anythin’ we do against the people- -even if it’s a little accident- is more weapons for the Valeguard to use against us. We are here because the people and for the people. We kept the explosion secured to the prison… but this aint Union material.”“W-we’ze sorry, I-”“Get you and your boys who made this sorry mess up and over there to assess any damages. Gods forbid any civilian was hurt...”Letting the orruk drop down, Junnric turned his attention to the chaos downwind. No screaming of pain from anyone who wasn’t in Valeguard colors. “Wish it weren’t so…” Expressing empathy for those wounded, the foreman turned his attention to the free workers, fleeing into the night back to their friends and family.“We’ll fix this up. Make it right. These folk won’t have to yell till their throats bleed to have their voices heard… and they’ll all go home to the folk that love ‘em…”“They won’t be abandoned.”

Creating YOUR Animosity Protagonist!

Team Animosity is always working to improve our campaign experience, but sometimes innovation comes straight from the players. The introduction of Protagonist Rosters have been one such example: first created by groups of players to track their own characters, we have since formally instituted it as a resource for every Coalition.Besides empowering players to better collaborate with each other, the Rosters have provided an invaluable aid to our writers, allowing us to quickly reference your forces, their characteristics and their motivations when hammering out the Unfolding on a tight deadline.Animosity has always prioritized accessibility, and your Rooster entry doesn’t need to be particularly fancy. There are only four required fields: your Discord ID, your protagonist’s name, their Age of Sigmar faction, and the name of their force. Below, player-turned-writer [GM] Myth has provided several great examples of how to go about creating your Roster entry.This first example is a complete, if bare bones, entry:Littlesoldiertv (Discord ID)Adama Odward, he/him (Protagonist name)Warband/Army faction* - Cities of Sigmar/Order of AzyrWarband/Army name* - Odward’s Occult InquestProtagonist’s Description - Odward is a grizzled, world weary witch hunter who is simultaneously aged and ageless. His graying scruffy pate and frown-lined face are perpetually covered by a dilapidated brown capotain. Odward always appears to either be covered in soot or walking in out of heavy rain, usually both. He wears a dingy orange tunic draped in a dark almost black blue cloak. Oswald carries a pistol, stakes, and a  greatsword and a number of concealed weapons and baubles for dealing with specific strange and supernatural threats.Protagonist’s Story Question - Protagonist’s Goals - Protagonist’s Strengths - Protagonist’s Flaws - Additional Details - These next examples are more thoughtful, exploring Gloomspite Gitz and a Soulblight Gravelords protagonists. Building a strong character narrative often begins with asking the right questions:Warband/Army faction* - Should reference the AoS/Warcry faction(s) your army is composed of.KruelboyzThe kingdom’s undead aristocracy of Soulblight Gravelords fight alongside their vassals, the Cities of SigmarWarband/Army name* - What unique name is your army/warband known by? Slagrot’s Rusty ShanksThe Duchy of KhaenrielProtagonist’s Description - A physical description of your protagonist. Slagrot’s one of them lithe orruks that exudes kunnin’, with dark, mottled armour crafted from the hides and plates of various monsters he’s slain and festooned with shivs of various metals and bones from across the Realms. The grime that seems to cover him eternally lets him blend into the shadows with ease, but the one thing that always gives him away are the yellow, crooked teeth from his perpetual grin.The Duchess is a pale beauty with blood red lips, the kind you’d expect to be a vampire. And she is, naturally. But she differs from many of her kin in the adoption of her vassals arms and armour, sporting a well-worn breastplate over a padded-jack of her Duchy’s colours and eschewing a fine duellist’s weapon in favour of a sturdy broadsword and heavy pistol. Somehow, she doesn’t look quite out of place in the outfit, and the common mortals under her command look up at her not only with reverence - but with grudging respect.Protagonist’s Story Question - The question you and others are exploring with the character’s presence during this Campaign. Ideally, it should showcase how the character's personality and maybe destiny will be impacted over the course of events! While it can be tied to their goals and motivations, often times this question represents something deeper: what they’re struggling with, a possible twist of fate, or how things may play out for them beyond the borders of the Campaign.Slagrot only just came to power after knifin’ his boss in the back, a lot - will he be able to prove himself to the cutthroats he leads and their new found allies, or will he become another body floating face down in the muck?As the last hope of her exiled people, can the Duchess grow into the commander and leader her people need her to be or is she destined to become a meek pawn, in exile or on her lost throne?Protagonist’s Goals - Why did they sign up with this Faction? What do they hope to gain throughout and from the Campaign?Simple: this Boss seemed the most kunnin’, and the most likely to win. Which means Slagrot’s got the best chance of winning battles, capturing worthwhile beasts to break, and maybe even making some worthwhile allies alongside the profit.Though a vampire, the Duchess cares deeply for her people - both living and undead - and the Lord’s ideals best match her own in this. She will need allies to retake her homeland, and she only wants those who are like-minded that she can trust when called upon to aid her.Protagonist’s Strengths - What are your protagonist and their forces specialized in? Do they have a particular set of skills that sets them apart from their usual peers?Slagrot and his Rusty Shanks are the deadly combination of sneaky and kunnin’ that you’d expect of kruelboyz, but they take even greater pride than most in breaking the biggest and meanest beasts around so they have a lot more muscle than most might expect after the first volley of poisoned bolts hits their ranks. Even before knifin’ his boss, Slagrot had a keen eye for the tempo of battle and its strategies, and knows when to hold his enemies, and when to fold’em.The Duchess lacks the usual arrogance of her immortal peers, and leverages her unnatural might and mobility to better aid and coordinate her forces. Leading by example, others have followed, leading to a force of mortals and undead that fight in deadly tandem, covering each other’s weaknesses and catapulting each other’s strengths.Protagonist’s Flaws - No Mary Sues here, please! Warhammer is filled with heroes and villains with tragic flaws that have led them to their doom, or at least astray to every reader’s amusement. What are your protagonist’s flaws? What makes them interesting and relatable?Slagrot’s lived in a dog-eat-dog world his whole life, and his every promotion had nothing to do with being the best leader (though he was) and came at the tip of his knife every time. He’ll probably never trust another soul because he’s most likely scheming to kill them before they get a chance to stab him in the back first. It’s survival of the fittest, and the only thing you can trust is your own kunnin’, your own gear, and whatever beasts you’ve broken to your will.The Duchess is actually as young as she looks, and - in spite of the dark, immortal blood in her veins - is an idealist. While others may think her naive, she deeply believes that mortals and undead can live together in harmony, as long as the vices of both are kept in check. At the end of the day, she’ll struggle with hard choices that may lead her troops to their deaths, and will stick her neck out to protect those when it’s not prudent to do so. And unfortunately, there are still more than a few amongst her exiles that would not do the same for her…Additional Details - Other pertinent details to your character and the Campaign. Have they served with this Faction or Figurehead before? Are they secretly Cultists to the Dark Gods or walk the knife’s edge of slipping into their grasp? Do they have any unique quirks?Animosity Campaigns has seen many memorable Protagonists, from Torag Tome-Eater to the Mad Queen Silanore. What Animosity legend will your Protagonist become?

Da Warpath - "The Well"

Hail, warrior!In the weeks before every Animosity Campaign, we hold a prelude period we call Da Warpath , featuring reveals, information and pre-registration for the coming narrative event. With Animosity VII - Azyr Asunder kicking off this July 12th , the hour is at hand... ... Da Warpath has begun!***Months ago Light spilled suddenly out into the foggy street as the door of the Singing Stonehorn swung open. Warm air rich with the scents of beer and brown butter crystallized in the damp evening. Voices, laughter, the clink of mugs and clatter of dice, all spilled out into the dark street, followed a moment later by the fifth son of the Prefect of the Vale.  The door swung quickly shut behind the young man, and there was a long pause, the sort where many eyes met and eyebrows  raised, then the muffled sounds of laughter echoed from behind the thick wood.  Pelham liked the Stonehorn, and they liked him well enough. He was never short on his tab, always picked up a round or three for the house, and never started the sort of fights that would cause trouble for the landlord. Even the hardest miners and quarrymen couldn't help but like him. It certainly helped that each man and woman who sat down at the card table with him always ended up walking away with an extra week's wages in their pocket. He made sure of that. If they sniggered behind his back, made jokes about the privileged rich boy, well what of it? He was all those things. He hadn't asked for them, but he wouldn't apologize for them either. They could have their jokes, and he could have his nights at the Stonehorn. He took an unsteady step forward, then another, then let forward momentum carry him down the familiar streets. He was clear-headed enough to remember to put one foot in front of the other and drunk enough to not be certain where it would go after that, so he let blissful muscle memory carry him forward in a warm haze. As he neared the end of the street, he saw a shadow peel itself from the stone wall. He didn't stop or change his stride, but he felt the pleasant fog around him burn off in a sudden rush of adrenaline. He didn't reach for his sword, but his left hand tightened over the handle of the long knife at his back, concealed by his rakish duellists cloak. The figure stepped into a pool of light. It was wearing a heavy and battered leather cloak, weather worn and roughly sewn where it had been scarred by knife cuts and cargo pikes, but Pelham relaxed as he saw the glint of familiar maille beneath. "Lucern! What the devil are you doing out at an hour like this! Don't you know it's dangerous to go walking the streets late at night all on your lonesome?" The commander of the Valeguard, the city's watch and his father's personal guard, quirked an eyebrow that had been split in a fistfight with an ogor a decade before."You best not be suggesting that me and my officers can't keep our own streets safe, boy." "Your streets? Certainly not, I am sure they're as safe as a button. But these streets?" Pelham gestured widely out around him, then leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper that echoed from the surrounding walls. "These streets, I heard they belong to the seditionists now."The two men fell into a comfortable stride, moving between the pools of light cast by street lanterns. "Keep your voice down lad. There's no sense prying a fault, and you know how sounds travel." And words, they both thought, though it didn't need saying. Someone was always around to hear everything in the city, and careless words had a habit of finding their way to the wrong ears. "Maybe we ought to do a bit more listening of our own. A lot of these Unionists make some good points.""That so? And who told you that, your friends at the Stonehorn?"Pelham said nothing.  "Besides, you really think your father hasn't heard their arguments already? That he just ignores the Guild envoys out of what, spite?" "It just seems to me like they're not asking for anything unreasonable. Freedom to expand their charters, grow the Guilds or operate independently, set aside trade regulations that were made centuries ago. The days of refugee camps huddled around workshop forges are long gone.""Aye, maybe so. Maybe they're not unreasonable. Maybe every man, woman and child could come in and tell us exactly what they want, and not a one of them would be beyond your fathers power to grant." They were passing through a market square now, and Lucern gestured them over to a well that sat at its centre. He sat down wearily on its lip and pulled out a pipe, then held it up to Pelham. The young man put a hand over its bowl and spoke a few soft words, then a little light of embers sprang to life within and pleasant smoke began to rise. Lucern grunted a thanks, and Pelham smiled. It was one of the few tricks he'd picked up at the Academy that the old guard appreciated.  "Imagine this was the only well in the city. It would have to provide for everyone, but it's deep and strong, and everyone can have their fill with water to spare. This is good, yes?"  Pelham rolled his eyes. Even all these years later, the man still acted like his tutor. Lucern just looked at him though, stolidly awaiting an answer, so Pelham gave an exasperated "Yes." "Good. Well Johan, from the Stonehorn, wants to draw some extra water to make his ales. This isn't unreasonable, is it? We all benefit from that, after all. Then Alyice wants to draw some extra as well so she doesn't have to take her flock up to the river in the summer. Fine. Then Eron sees them taking more, and realizes if he takes more too, he can grow his garden and make some more coin on the side. Is that unreasonable? Wouldn't it be unfair to deny him what the others took? Then someone else sees Eron making more for themselves, and realizes they can do the same, and since there's nothing stopping them they can take as much as the other three combined and make even more than their neighbours. Now the well, which had enough for all, is starting to look barren. Can you allow everyone to take what they will? Can you tell those who have not that they cannot take what others, without regard, have taken, and call that fairness? Can you take away from those who have relied on what they were able to take to build their lives?""It is the tragedy of the commons, I have heard this before." "Then stop just hearing and actually think. Our city has laws that have let us grow from nothing. They are hard. They can be harsh. This is a hard, harsh world. Your father knows this. He doesn't turn down the Guilds because he wants to be a tyrant. He does it because he knows that he cannot give everyone what they want. The Brewers say they would build a better, fairer city. Better for the Brewers, I'm sure. The Boltbreakers say the same, but what they want never seems to line up with what the Brewers want, or the Blacksmiths, or the Bellows. They say liberty for all, and call for a king's head on the wall, but the funny thing about heads on walls is that they always end up multiplying. It's not starting the guillotine that's the problem, it's ending it." Pelham stared at his teacher. The old man's head was surrounded by a cloud of pipe smoke, while Pelham's own felt dangerously clear. He could feel a splitter of a headache coming on.  "So we just get make the rules then, because we've got the shiny stick and the palace and the swords, and call that fair? No matter what anyone else likes?" "Your father gets to decide how to interpret the laws because Sigmar himself set your line the duty and responsibility to make it so." Lucern clutched the small twin-tailed comet amulet that hung at his neck. His quiet piety always struck Pelham as at odds with the man's gruff, practical demeanour, but he knew it was as deep and true as the old man's rhetorical well. If the old man ever retired from the Valeguard, and Pelham had his doubts as Lucern had 'guard' stamped across his soul, he suspected it would be to a quiet Sigmarite temple up the mountain. "As for liking it? No, your father doesn't expect to be liked for what he does. No one likes being told what they can and can't do. But he does it, and takes their anger, and takes the whispers and the plots because someone has to be there to tell them 'no, you can't simply do as you wish, because we're all drinking from one well.'"Now Pelham held the comet amulet in his hand, fingers idly toying with the beads. Lucern had left it in his quarters when he rode out the morning it had happened. Pelham hoped he might still be alive, trapped in the rubble or cut off in some corner of the city, trying to get back in contact with the palace, but he doubted it. The old man had been his mentor for a long time, to their mutual exasperation. He wanted to go look for him, but he didn't.  The office building they had turned into their makeshift war room bustled. There were lines of people waiting to see him, petitioners from the city and mercenaries that had emerged from the strange gates that seemed to appear everywhere. It felt strange to be needed at all, never mind be needed in a hundred places at once. One quiet moment, lost in the bustle, and with a simple stealth spell he could walk right out unseen... No, he couldn't.  Like it or not, the city was in his hands now. He hadn’t asked for this. He hadn’t been taught to command. That was always supposed to be someone else’s job. He was meant to … get drunk, toss some coins around, be the butt of their jokes. A likeable, maybe pitiable, human face to put on the Prefect’s house, while the real leaders took care of things. He’d learned more about leading from Lucern, when the old guardsman had hauled him, drunk and stumbling, home in the evenings. Smiling, he thought of the well. It was a whole lot shallower now than it had been those few months ago, and the demands had never been greater. There were a lot more people out to take from it too. They all had a right, maybe more than he did, to divvy it up. But who would keep it flowing? Who would ensure everyone got their fill?Pelham hadn’t asked for this, but he wouldn’t apologize for it either.It was time to get to work. 

Da Warpath - "Of Starlight And Thunder"

Hail, warrior!In the weeks before every Animosity Campaign, we hold a prelude period we call Da Warpath , featuring reveals, information and pre-registration for the coming narrative event. With Animosity VII - Azyr Asunder kicking off this July 12th , the hour is at hand... ... Da Warpath has begun!*** Lipé clutched her blunted training blade tight in a shaking paw, bringing it back up into a defensive stance as she circled her opponent. The other Rovskyr warrior was larger than her, with a more typical sandy colouring compared to her white and gray. Pash-To had been in her company for some time now, and was certainly no pushover in the training ring. Still, he'd never quite managed to best her, not for want of trying. From the outside this might have appeared to be little more than a routine sparring session, but to Lipé it was a matter of great importance. When one of her warriors called on her to spar, she could not refuse. If she turned down the bout or, Great Seed forbid, lost, her authority would be called into question. She would have it no other way, of course. If she could be bested then she no longer had the right to lead. That was the ancient way of the Rovskyr warrior, forgotten by the bureaucrats huddled safely away in the burrow-cities of the Starlit Plains. Then she noticed it: the slightest twitch of muscle beneath Pash-To’s sandy fur. She launched forward at lightning speed, her opponent barely bringing up his blade in time to parry the strike. He was knocked off balance, teetering as he deflected her blows until, finally, he fell onto his rump, sending dust billowing about him. He looked stunned for a moment, whiskers twitching, large dark eyes slowly blinking. “How'd you know I was about to attack?” He asked, his bulk belying the small, squeaky voice characteristic of their kind. “Why would I tell you that eh? So you can use it against me next time?” Lipé snapped. Then, unable to contain it, she broke into a grin and reached out to help the other warrior back to his feet. “That was a good match. You almost had me.”“You always say that and it's never true.” Lipé wished that were the case, and was glad it was how Pash-To perceived it, but the truth was that he'd had her on the ropes more than once. Not recently, not since she'd learned his tells, but if another warrior could come as close as he had to defeating her… No, she wouldn't think of it. There was far too much to worry about already without fretting about the tenuousness of her position. She looked up at the brooding sky, her nostrils filling with ozone. There was one such worry. The Dragon Queen, or the Queen of Thunder, or perhaps the Empress of the March; all names the shaggoth obviously disliked. Whatever you called her, Grakko Thunderhide was a formidable force, ancient beyond years, and not one that Lipé would readily contend with alone. Except, of course, that she had.*** Grakko Thunderhide hauled herself up onto a promontory overlooking the dust bowl in which her followers had set up camp for the night. Fires dotted the expanse, a warm mirror to the cold stars above. Laughter rang out through the night, met by the howl of a loupare in the distance. The waft of ale intermingled with the stench of curing leather and the reek of pipesmoke in her nostrils as she huffed the night air, but it wasn't enough to drown out the ever present ozone. The smell of the coming cleansing. She breathed deep. The clang of metal against metal rang out across the encampment like a peal of thunder drawing Grakko's gaze. It was coming from the new band of Rovskyr that had recently joined in her campaign to retake her ancestral homelands. It was, she reflected, their ancestral homelands too. Though scholars like that irritating duardin following their camp might claim that the Rovskyr were native to the Starlit Plains, Grakko knew better. She knew from experience. Her name- Grakko- back then, it had meant something. Little lightning, a shining spark of hope for her people. Births were rare among her people, and her father had near coddled her when she was a whelp. Her memory was long, exhaustingly so, and those times were shrouded by the fog of history, but she remembered fragments. The warmth of her father's embrace; an afternoon doze on soft grass after her first hunt; looking up at the mantle of stars in the heavens above and seeing only wonder and possibility, not the cold indifference it inspired now. One such memory was her father taking her to what she now realised was a loose sort of diplomatic session with the rovskyr burrow-city whose range overlapped their clan’s hunting grounds. She'd been delighted by the shows of martial prowess put on by the small, fuzzy creatures, the largest of which would have fit comfortably in her father's palm. They'd changed in their exile, become insular, shied away from any interaction with outsiders. Not this Lipé though, she reminded Grakko of those warriors dancing through the mists of her memory. Grakko had been surprised when the rovskyr, known to her fellows as the Starblade, had marched right into the centre of Grakko's camp and demanded a duel. Grakko had bellowed a mighty laugh at first, but fell silent as she saw the look of grim determination on the diminutive warrior’s face. Lipé must have known from the start that there was no way she could win, that she was putting her life in the hands of a stranger who could crush her without a second thought. But what right would Grakko have to lead if she would do such a thing? Grakko could understand that. Her philosophy was much the same: if the strong could not fend for the weak, what right had they to claim dominion over them? The fight had not been any kind of contest, Grakko’s thunderblade sweeping Lipé’s sword from her hand in a single motion. Nobody had expected anything else. When a nearby orruk had let out a guffaw of laughter as the rovskyr bowed, Grakko had singed him with a sharp crackle of lightning, and nobody else had dared laugh as she had held out a hand to the other warrior. That was the way of things, back in the old days. Before the Sigmarites had burned the fields and slaughtered the prey until none remained. Before they had butchered her father as she screamed, dragged away by clanmates as he covered their escape. Then, the strong had protected the weak, held an uplifting hand out to those who could not fend for themselves. Sometimes it had been brutal, yes. Bitter wars for supremacy had scarred these lands more than once before the sigmarites came, but they were honest bids, and never destroyed so much that things could not be rebuilt when peace returned. That was the way of things, yes, and it would be again. The warriors of the past danced through her head as her father roared joyously, his thunderous footfalls receding into the mists of time once more, and she knew that her path was just.

Da Warpath - "Hope Runs Deep"

Hail, warrior!In the weeks before every Animosity Campaign, we hold a prelude period we call Da Warpath , featuring reveals, information and pre-registration for the coming narrative event. With Animosity VII - Azyr Asunder kicking off this July 12th , the hour is at hand... ... Da Warpath has begun!*** Iscarion’s council chamber had witnessed much these past decades, the hall’s great table having witnessed the furious threats exchanged among bitterly divided Satraps followed by the spirited debates of civic leaders after the Ceraphate’s unification. More recently, the chamber had been repurposed into a war room as the Iscarneth and their allies desperately attempted to repel the devastating onslaught of Waaagh! Mogrek. Dariel "the Resplendent", Ceraph of the united and now shattered Prime Dominion, sat at the head of the great table, surrounded only by his close confidants and their aides. The vast hall felt empty in their presence, empty for all the losses they had suffered in Mogrek’s wake. The Ceraph’s eyes drifted over marks in the table where daggers once pinned maps or accentuated threats, discoloured splotches caused by drinks spilled from excitable diplomats or heretical concoctions, and cobblestones cracked by the passing of armoured juggernauts and treefolk alike. For a moment, his mind wandered, pondering where all those who had come before were now. Silently, he thanked all of his allies, unlikely or otherwise, for their efforts. The Prime Dominion may have been broken, but it remained unbowed. Hope still blossomed as the survivors rebuilt homes and lives atop recent battlefields. “...another shipment of foodstuffs, grain and hardy seeds has arrived from the Black Lotus Combine and the Manbreaker's friends in the Scarlands, Ceraph,” an aide reported. "Furthermore, we have concluded your new crop rotation schedule will indeed render a greater yield." “Excellent,” nodded Caradryas Lightbringer, a former adversary turned trusted advisor. “I expected nothing less. With such a bounty, we can provide for the refugees behind our walls and still resupply Ellisar. We can safely turn our eyes to the study of Noctis without worrying about the lunatics from Furnace City throwing themselves into it.” “What of our missives to Settler’s Gain? To Hammerhal?” Dariel inquired, suppressing a sigh as the aide’s face paled. “Have they at least acknowledged the potential threat to Azyr?” “Apologies, Ceraph,” the aide replied after clearing his throat. “The, uh, the Azyrites wish to…” “Do not sugar-coat their words to soothe my pride. Please, tell us what they said.” “The Azyrites thanked us for our repeated warnings, but have requested we cease relaying them. Furthermore, they express their apologies, they cannot spare any reinforcements to assist in securing the Dominion at this time." “So, they do not believe Azyr to be breached, and instead think we exaggerate the orruk’s horde for personal gain even while they declare the Era of the Beast to be at an end.” Dariel paraphrased, his tone cool. “Thank you. That will be all.” “We could be wrong,” Caradryas interjected, always the optimist. “As best we know, all that passes through the Noctis realmgate is torn apart. It could be that the Longblade has already met his end.” “No,” came the voice of Iden, his counsel ever wise. “These… rifts, they cannot be coincidence. Each is a vortex, as if a plug were pulled from below of the ur-river, and all behave as the Noctis maelstrom does.” The scarred aelf’s brows furrowed, his lips pursed. “They are less volatile, but their traits remain consistent. Should they prove navigable, the Longblade may yet live." Dariel’s gaze had wandered beyond the council chamber, beyond the secure yet overcrowded walls of Iscarion, and settled upon the Dominion so recently despoiled by Mogrek’s horde. Yes, hope still blossomed, but many dreams had been snuffed out long before their time and the scars left upon land and soul ran deep. “Let us hope Caradryas is correct, then.” Dariel muttered, more to himself than present company. “I would not wish Mogrek’s rage upon another’s home.”

Da Warpath - “Unshackling the Future”

Hail, warrior!In the weeks before every Animosity Campaign, we hold a prelude period we call Da Warpath , featuring reveals, information and pre-registration for the coming narrative event. With Animosity VII - Azyr Asunder kicking off this July 12th , the hour is at hand... ... Da Warpath has begun!**** * * The Realms need protectors. Wolfram Industries needs visionaries. Wolfram Industries is proud to serve as a stabilizing force at the crossroads of tradition and transformation. We stand at the edge of a new epoch - where innovation meets duty, and arcane mastery fuses with industrial might. For generations, we’ve shielded people across the Realms with the cutting edge of progress: weapons forged in the crucibles of science and sorcery, technologies that others call impossible… until we make them real. Our mission is clear: defend innocent lives, elevate our peaceful coalition of like-minded nations, and unlock the full potential of the known world. But vision comes at a cost. That’s why we seek those who are unafraid to cross boundaries, to challenge the natural order, and to build a better tomorrow - no matter how deep into the unknown we must go. These rifts and breaches across the Ur-River and even into Azyr pose a threat to stability, but also represent an opportunity to be studied and exploited. Wolfram specializes in restoring order to war torn lands, removing obstacles to progress, and reaping the rewards due for such actions. We are moving fast to seize these opportunities - sign up now and be a part of the solution! WOLFRAM INDUSTRIES: THE HIDDEN COST OF PROGRESS families rumoured to have opposed Dainn’s ascension and maybe had a hand in his death have been wiped from the genealogies . Official investigations cite “accidents.” My sources call it a vengeful purge . across borderlands, proxy conflicts burn - low-scale wars fueled by prototype weapons traced back to Wolfram and golems gone rogue . Dissenting groups have vanished and local populations have been displaced , their lands turned to wastelands then there are the whispers : black-site labs, ties to Nagash or Hashut , and, of course,  the fact their leader is a cursed gheist . Perhaps Wolfram once meant well, but and yet, many continue to sign on, and reap many benefits as employees partners, or investors. Dainn seems to follow the Code and treats those  that work with him as kith and kin, even non-Duardin, but those that oppose him Wolfram’s motto is “Unshackling the Future.”  The question we must ask is: from what… and at what cost?

Da Warpath - "Buildin' Homes, Bashin' Barriers"

Hail, warrior!In the weeks before every Animosity Campaign, we hold a prelude period we call Da Warpath, featuring reveals, information and pre-registration for the coming narrative event. With Animosity VII - Azyr Asunder kicking off this July 12th, the hour is at hand...... Da Warpath has begun!***The Local Azyrite 83 has been serving Eklysium for generations and it can serve you as well! As our forefathers laid the foundation that our homes would be built upon, there was a glint in their eyes, tools in their hands and a glorious dream passed down to the present day workers: home, for any and all who work for it, no matter where you hail from. These contracts, signed before our Lord Sigmar began His great work to liberate the Realms, ensures that you have rights and protection, so long as you better the lands you live upon.  Greenskins, ogors, gargants and all are welcome! Under the Azyrite Labor Edict, you have the right to disc- [The page is plastered over]Fight FOR YOUR FAMILY, YOUR HOME. WE BUILT THESE WALLS, AND BY SIGMAR WILL WE TAKE ‘EM BACK! -matter your kind, we offer a variety of positions for every folk who live in Eklysium. Current positions include: - Demolition Taking our home back! - Masonry Fortifications needed! - Manufacturing  We need smiths for weapons! - Butchery Our families will go hungry!Still think you won’t fit in? We have found that Orr- Outsiders welcome. We know this city like the back of our hands, and we have better supply lines than the damned Valeguard. We take care of our own, no matter who you are or where you’ve been!Interested? Contact your local Union representative today! We have offices at- The Foreman’s Rest, speak to Junnrik. Ya can’t miss ‘im! Fashion your weapons from the broken remains of your home and strike at the damned invaders! We are all in this together, and we’ll give ‘em a hell of a fight. We will not sit abandoned!

Da Warpath - "From Ashes to Empire"

Hail, warrior!In the weeks before every Animosity Campaign, we hold a prelude period we call Da Warpath, featuring reveals, information and pre-registration for the coming narrative event. With Animosity VII - Azyr Asunder kicking off this July 12th, the hour is at hand...... Da Warpath has begun!*** Steel grey clouds roiled and churned in the skies, drowning the plateau below in a dread deluge. Rain pounded the sky-dock and the warring air vessels above it ceaselessly, matched only by the exchange of gunfire between the two fleets. Scrap metal and warpstone spattered off Kharadron iron, while Wolfram incendiaries and lead tore the blasphemous Skryre craft from the air. Dainn Brisingrsson watched the exchange from the prow of The Final Bond with cold disinterest, spinning a heart-shaped locket in one hand as rain and bullets landed about him in equal measure. He was larger than the average duardin and even seemed larger than life itself, clad in his splint-mailed admiral’s coat that was too heavy for the winds to whip up. Yet there was something grounding to his silhouette, with his collar undone and sleeves rolled up above well-muscled forearms to reveal more of the jagged black-gold tattoos that criss-crossed his scar-ridden, burned body even over his bald head. His silver beard stood out against his mottled, smoke-grey skin and was unfashionably short given his age. Just another thing his ‘peers’ ridiculed him for, though never to his face. None had the stones for that. “Shrieker, ten o’clock,” Dainn ordered, his voice a whiskey-aged growl that rolled across the deck of his ship like smoke curling from a dying cigar.  Dainn gestured at a larger Skryre vessel and the cannon that arced with warp lightning. A torpedo launched from The Final Bond and impacted the skaven’s mockery of their ironclads. Instead of exploding, a keening wail emanated from the spectral warhead, tearing wretched souls from verminous bodies. As the skaven went limp, none could steer the craft or unleash the weapon’s stored charge, and it crashed into the fields below where it detonated amongst the horde of skaven there. Dainn rushed down the hall, desperate to find @#$%&. He didn’t know how they had found their hidden base, but he needed to talk to her before it was too late. He needed to make things right. “A reminder of your wife?” the princeling beside him asked, bringing him back to reality. “A reminder of why we do what we must,” Dainn replied, voice crackling with heat from a dying fire. He tucked the locket into his coat and raised his voice to carry over howling winds and staccato gunfire. “Deploy! Get me a perimeter!” Dark frigates snapped into action as ordered, the first wave dropping enormous golems while the second dropped marines and mercenaries. They advanced against the tide of vermin in unison, the soldiers using the golems as cover against incoming fire while returning with their own. The soil churned beneath the feet of the golems, the toxic sludge they sprayed sloughing off the skin of the enemy before seeping into the ground along with blood and offal. Only the most armoured and mutated of the skaven abominations closed with the advancing Wolfram forces, only for their stormvermin to get scythed down by whirring saws meant for deforestation while their plated stormfiends were pulverized by mining pistons. “@#$%&!” Dainn shouted, rushing towards the elevator filled with his closest confidants and supporters. They looked at him with disgust, fear, and guilt, except for @#$%& - her face was an abyss. He banged his fist on the doors as they closed on him, cursing the eight of them. Dainn felt a rush of familiar sorcery, eyes opening as a bridge of screaming souls manifested before him.  A motley group of mercenaries emerged, hauling bulging bags and dragging a Skryre arch-warlock between them, both full of the information Dainn was seeking. They saluted sharply. “Objective secured, sir.” “You’ve earned your bonus today, lads,” Dainn replied, clapping their leader on the shoulder and smiling when he didn’t flinch. “Now go join the perimeter and prepare for phase two.” “Yessir!” they said with joy, saluting once more. The Black Marines he helped invent saluted as he passed, guns blazing into the ghostly horde that followed him. Dainn rushed into the lab, running past tombstones, grave-sand, and screaming spirits that railed against their soul-shackles. “All ahead full,” Dainn ordered. “Open bay doors.” The Final Bond roared forward at speed that seemed impossible for its size. Well-oiled bay doors screeched open as it passed over the sky-dock, carpet bombing it with a variety of urns. Each urn struck and exploded with ash, unleashing spirit after spirit until a screaming tide of them flooded into the fort. Dainn whipped open the ancient tome bound in blackened iron, finding the page with thirteen twisted runes and his notes on them.  “Damn you for keeping us bound to your whims,” he seethed, hate filled eyes turning to the jar of gaseous aether-gold. A scarred fist smashed the jar while the other gestured with a bone wand swirling with amethyst power that captured the aether-gold and turned it to black smoke. Behind him, he heard the last of his Black Marines scream and a grenade go off. Dainn dragged the wand over his skin, injecting the black smoke into it. “Go, old friends,” Dainn whispered. “Smoke’em out.” Seven of Wolfram’s Spectre Marines stepped up to the edge of the deck, oily, green-yellow smog leaking through cracked lenses and misshapen joints. They hopped off the ship, falling to the sky-dock below, falling through its walls and into the darkness. Then they banished it with an unholy eruption of sickly green balefire. The princeling found his spine and spoke up: “No, you’re going to damage my sky-” “Quiet, boy.” Dainn cut in. “We don’t build umgak, don’t insult your ancestors like that.” “Our deal was to secure this place!” Eyes of burnished gold turned to the young duardin, sending a cold shiver through his soul. “I’m well aware of our Contract.”  Dainn’s screams turned to cackling as he finished dragging the wand over his scalp, only for icy blades to plunge into his back. He kept laughing as his blood froze. “I’ll never be a slave like you, damn fools,” he gurgled with his dying breaths. “Always… have an ace… up your sleeve.” The few skaven that escaped the crematorium were scythed down in a ruthless dirge of gunfire, leaving their bodies to smoulder as the balefire turned meat, blood and bone to naught but ash. Dainn watched his people closely. He noted which of them didn’t have the iron will to make it far in Wolfram Industries, and those that did. He’d make sure the gutless were transferred somewhere more fitting their constitutions and that mehrit was awarded where it was due, as demanded of the Code. Everything he did was for his people, after all.  Every sacrifice he made, and would make. Dainn’s Spectre Marines emerged, more smog leaking from their torn up suits than before as they marched up to their master. The balefire that flickered behind their cracked lenses turned to him as they saluted with hollow fists to hollow chests. “Great work, as always,” Dainn told them. “Go get patched up while the clean up crew does its job.” As the cleaners moved forward, vacuuming up every speck of corpse ash and loose revenant they could, Dainn turned back to the pale, trembling boy.  “Your throne is reclaimed, your Majesty,” he said with a mock bow. He pulled a cigar from a breast pocket, lighting it with a snap of his fingers that produced a spark of balefire. He drew the soul-burning flame into himself, savouring the pain it caused him as the green-black smoke spread throughout his form and wafted out of him. “Let’s celebrate this joyous milestone in our contract with a drink.” Before the boy could reject, a servant in the black and silver of Wolfram Industries had set up a small table and poured a smokey amber liquid into two tumblers. Reluctantly, he took up one of the tumblers as Dainn did the same. Dainn stalked the halls of his research facility, passing by the smoke spectres of his people as he approached the twisted metal ruin of the elevator. He gazed at it until it became his entire world, until someone spoke up from behind him. “Boss… what now?” “Priffa dreng,” Dainn offered, before downing the expensive drink he could no longer appreciate. The boy shook with a manic laugh. “Prosper or die?! But you’re already dead!” “I guess that only leaves me with one option then,” Dainn replied, his twisted smile curdling the boy’s blood. “You on the other hand… better pay your dues.” “How? In taking this place, you destroyed the fields! How will I find settlers willing to come to this wasteland?!” “Wolfram Industries offers favourable rates on zpud imports to all our long-term clients,” Dainn replied with a smile. He turned away from his partner and stepped on the skaven’s neck as it tried to slink away. Despite his ephemeral state, the weight of his authority pinned the creature to the ground and it clawed at its throat in vain.  “Hold on there, critter,” Dainn said, his slick smile shimmering like oil. “You and I, we’re gonna make a deal you can’t refuse. You may not be able to screw a bolt straight, but I hear your kind is real good at meddling with a certain god’s plans… and your mad ideas may just help Wolfram Industries fulfill our motto…” “This?” Dainn turned to his workforce and cocked an eyebrow. “This is a minor setback… First, we deal with snakes in our midst, then we get back to business as usual. We still have targets to meet by the third quarter, and now we have no excuses not to meet them. “Unshackling the Future isn’t easy… but someone has to do it. For a brighter future, for us all.”

Da Warpath - "Heavy is the Crown"

Hail, warrior!In the weeks before every Animosity Campaign, we hold a prelude period we call Da Warpath, featuring reveals, information and pre-registration for the coming narrative event. With Animosity VII - Azyr Asunder kicking off this July 12th, the hour is at hand...... Da Warpath has begun!***Hooves thundered as Prefect Markus Pallaeon and his honour guard rode hard towards the exposed flank of the enemy, forming a tight lance formation within the mountain’s passes. They drove deep into the enemy’s lines, Bonesplitter orruks trampled under hooves and monstrous dragon ogors skewered on heavy lances. The King discarded his shattered lance, drawing his runed sword which burned with a star’s fire. He parried a monstrous axe, then riposted with a thrust that punched through the dragon ogor’s scaled hide. Despite the damage done by his charge the ferocious horde held, and despite the sword impaling its chest the Thunderscorn howled its defiance. “For our home! For Suneater’s Spine!”The King’s blood ran cold at that name, and as more of the savages rushed into the mountain pass to overwhelm him and his forces. They appeared from caves and tunnels he never knew existed, arrows, bolts, and boulders raining down on his forces right before the enemy charge struck. A member of his honour guard hacked down the ogor spewing spittle onto the King, as others formed a protective circle around him. Markus had hoped to crush this enemy as they emerged, break their morale and drive them from his lands, so he and his limited forces could contain these portals and focus on stopping the enormous, rampaging monster from reaching the city. But the stubborn savages not only held, they kept coming with a resolve that matched his own. That may have exceeded it, whispered dark thoughts in his mind. Despite the growing piles of dead beastmen and orruks around his Valeguard, more threw themselves at them. Overwhelming his shield wall, turning the ordered formations into chaotic melees, dragging once shining knights into the mud and eviscerating them with stone knives and chipped claws. The Temple’s fanatics and the Union’s levies fared better in the brawl that ensued, but even their zeal and grit couldn’t restore the order necessary to turn the battle. The King hacked at enemies on all sides, trying to escape with his honour guard, but the thunder that echoed through the mountains did not belong to Sigmar or His followers any more. “We are the March of Thunder!” the horde roared. The boogeymen from children’s tales told across the Vale made manifest, the dangers of forbidden areas made real. “For Grakko Thunderhide! For the home she leads us to! For Suneater’s Spine!”And just as it built into a crushing crescendo, a new thunder broke it. The thundering of guns and cannons coming from roaring skyships. These were not the sleek and clean ones he knew of, instead clad in black metal and belching green and yellow smoke that wilted the forest around them. Markus accepted them all the same, the ships withering the savages as much as the plant life around him, carving a bloody gap for his forces to escape through. He and his honour guard secured the path out, their escape covered by the levies and gunfire from motley marines that dropped from the black skyships. As the King whispered his thanks to Sigmar for sending these strange saviours, he noted the badge that tied the humans, duardin and other mercenaries together: a ram-horned wolf of black metal, haloed by amethyst fire.Before he could chide them for not bowing to him, the Prefect’s head snapped toward a familiar sound.“Papa!” his eldest son, Vextram, cried, approaching him in brightly coloured armour that had yet to see battle. “I have saved you! Saved the entire Vale!” “You idiot, what are you doing here?” Markus snapped. “You’re the Heir-Apparent!” “Father, it’s fine!” Vextram replied, stung but undeterred. He raised his voice as the mountains thundered with battle once more, the savages still in pursuit. “I’ve contracted these brave soldiers to hold our lands!” “You what?!” the King bellowed. “This isn’t aid from Sigmar?! What did you agree to?” “Lord-Magnate Dainn Brisingrsson of Wolfram Industries holds an ancestral claim to some long dried out mines,” his son preened. “So I secured us an army in exchange for worthless lands and some minor trade agreements.”“You idiot… you made him a landed noble? Gave him…” A chill went through the King. And it took him a moment to realize it was not from his foolish son’s poor negotiating skills. That the thunder was not merely from guns and beasts. “Where’s your mount, boy? How did you get here?” Markus shouted into his son’s face, shaking him by the shoulders when he only got a confused expression in return. Knowing they had no time, Markus hopped off his steed and threw Vextram onto it, then slapped the beast’s rump to get it running. “Get back to the city! Protect my heir!”“Men, form up! Hold the line!” Markus shouted, raising his flaming sword into the air. The heavy infantry and surviving levies formed up before him, using the mountain pass as a choke point while the Wolfram mercenaries fired down into the mass of savages pressing in at them.The heir and honour guard galloped away at full speed, none of the fighters left behind noticing in the chaos of battle. Nor did they notice the Prefect rush toward one of the skyships, sheathing his sword as he did so. A begemmed gauntlet earned him immediate passage, the skyship’s engines screaming like the damned as it rose back into the air.As the troops he left behind fought, killed and died to secure their escape, Markus whispered a prayer to Sigmar for their brave sacrifices. Knowing it had to be done, that order had to be maintained to fight off this menace. He prayed that they could buy him and his son time as the unnatural blizzard fell over the battle, snuffing out all signs of mere mortal struggle.The titanic form of Mogrek swept into the contested valley with all the fury of a hurricane, the howling Everwinter about him turned red with gore and hurled bodies. One sweep of his blade annihilated a group of Eklysium’s finest gargants while his other hand crushed the skull of an enormous ghorgon. Humans, duardin, orruks and others fared worse - beneath the monster’s blood thirsty notice, yet obliterated just the same.Mogrek broke them all, leaving nothing but macabre carnage where once there were hopes, dreams, and resolve to see them made real.Sirens blared from the skyships, the mercenaries and what few survivors escaped Mogrek’s bloody maelstrom grabbing onto rope ladders to head to the skies. Mogrek chased the savages as they ran into caves and marshes, but drew back to the skyships as they pelted him with gunfire and explosive payloads. Nothing stopped him, or even slowed him.Mogrek tore the slowest of the skyships from the air, hurling it into another and causing both to explode in spectral green fire and oily-black smoke. All those aboard screamed well beyond their time of death, be it from the explosion or the long fall back to the jagged rocks. Mogrek’s long strides ate the distance between him and the heir, trampling those stranded on the ground. A bolt of green lightning exploded from Mogrek’s blade, raking across the mountains and burying a skyship beneath snow and rubble. The avalanche raced ahead, cutting off the Vextram’s escape. “Sigmar, please!” Markus prayed aloud. “Do anything to save my first-born son!”Holy lightning struck and a Templar from the Order of Azyr emerged, mounted upon her stardrake, and flanked by two stormdrake guard. They shot toward Mogrek like loosed bolts, draconic breath weapons raining starfire upon the raging brute in the moments before they slammed into him. Sigmarite weapons chipped away at his bone armour, while monstrous teeth and claws raked at his flesh.The eye of the storm rumbled with laughter. Then the colossaboss peeled one of the drakes off his body by the tail, swinging it like a sack into the mountain to smash the mighty draconith and its rider like a bowl of eggs. The next was bisected with a skillful cut from his blade and the last tried to pull back to harass him from a distance, but underestimated Mogrek’s speed like so many before her. The Drakesworn Templar was plucked from her saddle and hurled into the heavens like a toy, missing her mount’s death as Mogrek hacked a wing off it then pinned it to the earth with his sword.The Valeguard’s elite, torn apart as quickly as his levies.  “You have to do something!” Markus roared over the never ending sirens, into a duardin’s masked face. “We… no, send another ship to pick up my son! Or kill that beast!” “Already on it, m’lord. It’s what the sirens are for.” the duardin replied, stepping around Markus. “Look away ser, yer not cleared nor equipped to see this.”“Gravequaker loaded in chase cannon!” a human barked.Markus turned, a harpoon tipped in purple glass sticking from the cannon. As he spied screaming faces within the smoky glass, he felt his body wither, and felt little better when he pried his eyes away from it. “Live fire trial thirteen recording,” the duardin said, taking out a wax tablet to take notes on. “Fire!”The Prefect watched as the harpoon sailed towards the monster bearing down on his son, knowing it was the boy’s last hope. But also knowing that if all else failed, at least he would survive the day, to continue bearing the burden of rulership in these troubled times. Even with Vextram lost, he technically had three more heirs, though Dracothian forbid the mantle ever fall to that drunken wastrel, Pelham. He felt a mote of pride as Vextram turned and faced Mogrek with his honour guard, drawing his own ancient blade and igniting it with a war cry.The harpoon struck Mogrek’s back and exploded. Searing amethyst light radiated outward to render trees and animals to naught but dust. It passed over Vextram and his honour guard heartbeats later. Then kept going to snuff the life from beastmen and orruks that lurked in the dark, the animals they shared caves with and the canopies and ground cover they hid in.The light consumed all life within a hundred yards or more and blinded the stubborn Prefect well beyond that range. The last thing he saw as the light faded and everything went dark, was an enormous blade hurtling through the air toward the ship he was on. “No…” Markus breathed, unheard over Mogrek’s roar. His sight was gone, yet suddenly he saw how it would all unfold. All the divinations in the stars he never heeded... “He’s not ready. He doesn’t have the iron to control the people, or the will to keep the Seal o-”

Da Warpath - "The Day Everything Changed"

Hail, warrior! In the weeks before every Animosity Campaign, we hold a prelude period we call Da Warpath, featuring reveals, information and pre-registration for the coming narrative event. With Animosity VII - Azyr Asunder kicking off this July 12th, the hour is at hand...... Da Warpath has begun!*** The Starling Gale drifted through the shining heavens, aelementally enchanted silk sails fluttering as the skyship descended. Below, the Vale of Singing Stars opened like a gemstone cradled in strata, although most of its inhabitants had forgotten the name, and none knew the true extent of the treasures it held... At the valley’s center stood Eklysium, the Forgotten City. A starglass citadel formed its glowing heart, and alabaster buildings radiated from it like the sun. All the splendour was contained by a ring of jagged, snow-peaked mountains that scraped the firmament, refusing to be outshone by the works of mere mortals. Midnight rivers traced shimmering, serpentine curves through the Vale’s mountains and fields, streams webbing outward and criss-crossing into constellations known across the Realms. Where the waters pooled, they formed mirrors that reflected the eternal cosmos above, seeming to capture glittering auroras, glowing moons, shooting comets, and countless, blazing stars.  Great bridges arched over Eklysium’s many canals, connecting its twelve districts and their creeping sprawl across the valley. As the Starling Gale descended with its fresh and fragrant haul of giant sea creatures, the sound of harmonious hammering and spirited shanties rose to meet it. The workers of the Boltbreakers’ Union toiled with pride, as they did day in and day out, to erect new homes, new monuments, and new hopes for the Vale’s people. It was their Guilders that guided the Gale onto the dark sea’s surface and into port and helped unload the cargo that would help feed Eklysium’s populace. It was their Guilders that forged the weapons used to hunt the krakens and sea serpents, and their Guilders who lent aid to those wounded during the Gale’s fishing expedition. But when the Starling Gale’s crew paid the brinewright’s levy, the glimscale duty, the saltwake dues and the various other administrative taxes and tolls forced upon them, it was not the Boltbreakers that reaped those rewards. A white-robed scion of House Pallaeon assessed the haul, a scented kerchief over his aquiline nose, and pocketed the pouches of gold demanded with a sniff. At a gesture, guards in polished armour and mirror-sheen shields fell in behind their lord and followed him to the next dock. The people gave them a wide berth, except for two children too caught up in play to realize their mistake until they bumped into one of the guards. A rough shove sent the children sprawling and bawling, the brawny ballads and ripsong rhythms going silent as nearby Boltbreakers stepped away from their work - dusty and soot-stained hands still gripping their tools.  Calloused fingers drummed on hammers, saws, and cleavers, the Boltbreakers’ scarred knuckles telling those across from them they weren’t strangers to a good scrap. Shining gauntlets dropped to broad blades and flanged maces, the scion slinking back with a sneer to cover his unease and the signal flare he reached for. The Valeguard, too, were no strangers to keeping the peace - by whatever means necessary. Blades sung from their scabbards as a gargant approached, gleaming steel forged and sharpened by those across from them. Well made, but unable to cut through the tension that hung in the air between them. The gargant set down his hammer and took a knee before the children. “There, there now,” Junnrik cooed, his soft words rumbling in the bones of all nearby. “Just some little scrapes, yes? They call me ‘Strong’, but look at you two, ready to walk this off on your way home for supper!” A huge, calloused finger gently wiped tears from their faces and the children giggled before rushing away with scraped elbows already forgotten. The innocent sound dispelled some of the tension, but it was not truly banished until the gargant took up his hammer once more and returned to work. The others followed the gentle titan, songs of sweat and solidarity rising up once more as the aristocrats moved on.On any other day, that may have been the only threat of violence within Eklysium. With the noise of thunder, a door lost to time was thrown open, and through that howling maw did Mogrek Longblade set foot in Azyr. His first step was into water, his huge form sending waves that rocked even the largest galleys in port. His second step was onto ice, the Everwinter in his fist manifesting around him and chilling all to the bone before they even turned their heads to look upon him. Mogrek crackled with the power of a shattered dominion, a slaughtered people, and a thirst for battle not yet sated. His Waaagh! energy no longer animated a hundred rogue idols nor drove a horde to war. He had taken all of it with him, and green lightning split the frozen gale that roared about him, drowning out hammers, songs, cries of alarm and screams of terror alike. Mogrek grinned, and the winds of the Vale shifted as he took in a breath. Then they howled when the demi-god bellowed just one word..."SIIIIIIGMAAAAAAAAAR!"

Animosity Weekender 2025 - Naro's Hobby Highlights

An amazing campaign with our online event and the in person meetups at the Las Vegas Open and Warhammer World! From our online participation please enjoy the following 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. https://bsky.app/profile/kyle97.bsky.social/post/3lgydtrtkdz2iSubmitted by: Red Angel97+++Submitted by: Wolflord2344+++Submitted by: Doominator407#2479+++Submitted by: JMWormwood+++Submitted by: hjalti_6139+++Submitted by: GorksPokinFinger+++https://bsky.app/profile/sinaraipaints.bsky.social/post/3lhapvxfkhk2vSubmitted by: Sudsinabucket+++https://viktorswarroom.blogspot.com/2025/02/mutinys-end-part-1.htmlSubmitted by: Godfather Viktor+++https://www.deviantart.com/ourburningsaviour/art/Animosity-Weekender-2025-Battle-on-Karkino-sea-1153884427Submitted by: .burning_templar.+++Submitted by: Wolflord2344+++Submitted by: Manos+++Submitted by: Doominator407#2479+++Submitted by: Admacritchie

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