Campaign

(Before turn 1)

From the Orcs

One of the tiny and sneaky and cunning shamans of the great horde of Warboss
Nineteef arrives at the edge of the eerily silent camps of the vampire count
Baron Von Forlorn.

"Oi you zombie gits!  Listen up, I gots a message for your zombie boss!
Seein' as we might want slightly different tings, namely you wantin'
supreme arcane power and us wantin' to crack some skulls that ain't already
cracked and dry, Warboss Nineteef, what who ate the helmet of Chaos Sorcerer
Chartzek and made kickin' boots from some empire git's mechanical horse
whose name we never learned through all his screamin' and cryin', has sent
me as a messenger!  Here's the deal: you move on Magritte, and your shinies
north of there, and we grab up land north and west, leavin' you alone until
we ain't got no choice, and vice versa, and such."

The shaman unfolds a piece of parchment, scrawled on in a clumsy hand,
reading on the outside "READ DIS WHEN YOU FINISH TALKIN," and reads it,
growing visibly unnerved as he does.

"And, uh, zombie folk, who look mighty good and don't smell at all, I
swears, Warboss Nineteef says, uh, if I come back alive, he'll take that as
a yes.  And otherwise, uh, a no.  Have I mentioned you are some handsome
zombies?"
 
[The Vampire Counts respond]

Baron Von Forlorn finds this acceptable, go back to your boss and let him
know so, before  he changes his mind, or the zombies get too hungry.

Royal Scribe of the House of Forlorn

[The Dwarven “response”]

To the north of Nineteef's territories lie the mountains where live the Dwarves. A
glowering silence emanates from peaks.

 

-----

 

(Also before turn 1)

From the Skaven player, via Empire mages

  These journals were delivered to Magister Jorkal, in the hills outside
Altdorf by a agent of the Grey Order.  If anybody has knowledge of the
location of Magister Glaur, or Wizard Allain, please inform the Masters of
their orders immediately.



January 1st, 2522



It works!  Jorkal, it works!  Allain and I have merged our disciplines
successfully to begin tracking the Skaven.  The application of Shadow magic
scrying combined with my Beast Lore affinity to the warp enriched energies
surrounding the so called "Grey Seers" have allowed us to track several
bands of the creatures, especially when engaged in battle or magic, as the
energies are easier to locate.



I've developed a rudimentary translation of their chatter, based on
several babel translation chants, and their society is fascinating.  Several
large bands have been active in the Estalian region, certainly drawn by the
vast warp energies released in Muros by that foolish Astromancer.  It's only
a matter of time until something escapes one of his gates.



But I digress.  We've been primarily following a band of Skaven from the
"Black Chasm" lair, which is in Northern Bretonnia, if I understand the
beasts correctly.  They've been travelling south, both under cover of night,
and through tunnels of immense length and size, toward the Estalian border.
   This pack appears to be led by a warlord of some renown, Gnark by name.
We've caught conversations with him and our principle source of information,
a Seer named Varnik in their tongue.



They speak of their progress, and skirmishes they've fought, and which
packs await them at their destination.  Apparently when a skaven invasion
like this occurs, there are thirteen bands released to meet the ultimate
goal (the Maiden Dust?).



Gnark's band has already eliminated one competitor to the goal, and he
expects that several others have been likewise eliminated.  His force is
encamped underneath Brionne today, and expects to cross the Estalian border
tonight.  I'm to bed, it'll probably be a late night tonight.

 

From the Dwarves

A droning sound came from the south. Kwee-kweek's sensitive ears twitched, and he sniffed
the air. Nothing unusual. He lifted his ratty head above the lip of the tunnel in which
he was concealed and gave quick, darting glances around. The approaches to the
underground Skaven camp were still clear - the rat lookout saw nothing.

The droning slowly got louder. Finally, he saw it. In the sky was the strangest
contraption Kwee-kweek had ever seen. It was like a metal bird, but ugly and untasty
looking, with a torrent of spinning blades - wings? - whirling above it together with a
plume of black smoke. Not even in the workshops of Clan Skyre had he seen something this
peculiar. A faint acrid stink began to reach his nostrils.

Then he spied the Dwarf-thing inside it, apparently operating it. The machine buzzed
around clumsily and began a tipsy arcing circle, as if the pilot was looking for a
landmark. It stopped and hovered, almost right on top Kwee-kweek. Something hurtled out
of the thing right at him! He was being attacked! The rat scurried at top speed down into
the tunnel, 50, 100 feet, and stopped. He faintly heard the droning sound dissipate, as
if it were receding in to the distance. Then nothing.

Kwee-kweek cautiously scrabbled back toward the opening. Once there, he saw a metal
cylinder lying not 8 tails from his hole. With no sign of the flying machine, Kwee-kweek
scurried out, retrieved the cylinder, sniffed it, opened it, and found a single sheet of
heavy paper with ornate writing upon it. It read:

"Ratmen:
We know you are there. You come into our mountains, we'll kill you. You stay north or
west of us, you won't have a problem.
Borthos Broadaxe, Lord of Clan Broadaxe and Raganos Underkeep."

Kwee-kweek delivered the message to his masters.

 

-----

 

(After turn 3)

View from the beer stein (Dwarves)

Night had fallen on the Dwarven camp. Borthos, Lord of Clan Broadaxe and of Raganos
Underkeep, knitted his brow in thought as he sat alone at his shield table in the command
tent. The half-full tankard of ale in his meaty right hand was almost forgotten. Reports
were coming in from all over the Estalian territories - Skaven above ground and on the
march to the north and also the southwest of the Dwarf lands; Dark Elf raiders landing
and seizing most of the coastlands to the northwest; Wood Elves fighting - and defeating!
- an army of rampaging Daemons to the west.

But most interesting by far was the news brought in just moments ago by the pilot of that
crazy contraption the engineers called a gyrocopter. (Borthos only ever called it "That
Crazy Contraption.") Apparently, aerial surveillance revealed that a major battle had
been fought between Warboss Nineteef's Waaaaugh and an army of Undead led by some
shirtless vampire named "Forlorn". (The Dwarf snorted and thought "He'll look a lot more
forlorn with a sapling from Foe-spear shot through his chest.")

Borthos' army had been pursuing Nineteef's greenskins for many days now. The ancestral
hatred of Dwarves for their enemies the Orcs burned brightly in Borthos' heart, but he
needed to rethink his options now. Apparently, despite great deeds of slaughter by
Nineteef himself, the orc Waaaaugh had been methodically crushed by the dark sorceries of
the Undead. The pilot of that crazy contraption wasn't precise, but it appears that
endless spell-casting, fearsome vampires, the terror of the Undead themselves (not to
mention a rather inept Giant) had contributed much to the greenskins' demise.

His ancestral foe defeated and scattered -- what's a Dwarf Lord to do?

Well, there were more orcs massing in the lands back to the east, and such as them always
needed killing. But that was a long way to march back, and Borthos was tired of chasing
things. Alternatively, he could immediately attack the Forlorn creature where his army sat -
upon the strategically located town of Magritta. This was tempting. Borthos' dwarves were
spoiling for a fight, and they could test the mettle of these vampire soldiers. However,
an even more important territory, and a more important foe, lay to the northwest: the
Reliquary of the Maiden -- Roland Runehammer had assured him that there could be found an
artifact that could close tears in the fabric of the world such as these cursed Daemons
were pouring through. Daemons approached the Reliquary too, no doubt to destroy the
artifact, but the Dwarves might beat them there - if he didn't let the Undead distract
him. If Borthos wanted to hunt vampires, he could head south to their own cursed
lands. Undefended, the territories would make for easy plundering, and then he could wait
for this Forlorn fellow to find him. And then he would see.

As he mulled his options, the Dwarf Lord remembered his ale, and drained the tankard,
only splashing a little into his fragrant beard. He smacked his lips with satisfaction.
The decision could wait upon the morrow. Right now he had to piss.

 

 

-----

 

 

(After turn 3, again)

From the Daemons:

“...I will have to
personally reap destruction upon Estalia the Stinky Land.  Now for the
Rats.  My forces shall do better against their stink.  The clean wood elves
simply blunted our motivation for destruction.”

 

[From the Dwarves]

Borthos was deep in thought again. He may have to reverse his "no wiping!" order with the
success of the relatively unstinky Wood Elves. Perhaps the Dwarves should even take
baths? Hmmm. He could already smell Old Flori with the battle standard from halfway
across the camp.

As he absentmindedly stroked his beard crusts from god knows what fell out unnoticed.

 

-----

 

(After turn 3, again)

From the Orcs

Spending three days at the bottom of a pile of corpses gives you time to
think.  Bogruk Bigtalk wasn't a thinker, particularly, but in the
circumstances he decided maybe it was time to consider thinking as a
survival skill.  Bogruk had taken a lot of names in his short (for a human,
anyway) life.  Boss Manyteef, Big Boss Twentyteef, Warboss Nineteef.  His
first name, the name he'd always call himself despite his boasting, was from
when he left the cave he spawned in and immediately started picking fights.
Bogruk Bigtalk, ready to fight anyone and anything.  And that's what he'd
done, marching west from his stronghold, letting dwarfs cover his rear even
as he moved on the same quiet pinkskin town the rotters under Baron Von
Forlorn were headed to.  A fight was inevitable, and Bogruk liked it that
way.
But he didn't have the force necessary to overcome Forlorn.

So those skeletons had steadily sliced down his boyz, chasing him out of
Magritta, even as he tried to marshal what was left of his once-great army.
Forlorn himself gave up on the chase, content to see the once-proud warboss
flee like a beaten cur.  So Bogruk (who had already counted with his tongue
and determined Nineteef wasn't a name he could use any longer) had ridden
his boar Stinkeye for as far as it would go, and then he got on foot,
knocked some skulls, and arranged a last stand in the fields west of
Magritta.  Last stands were fights, and orcs were for fightin'.
It was a small excursion of skeletons, against already-wounded orcs, and the
fight went poorly for Bogruk.  The undead relentlessly cut down his men on
every side, even as Bogruk swung his mighty axe Sniksnak until the blade
dulled, until the axehead slipped from the haft, until the splintered haft
shattered against a skeletal shield.  But at the very end of a long
skirmish, Bogruk was victorious, tearing the last skeleton apart with his
bare hands.  He looked around, saw a pile of bones where the skeletons had
stood, and a pile of corpses where his orcs had been.  That's when Bogruk
decided to get cunning.  He hid.

And for three days, he hid, until he heard the rattle of skeletons.  Then he
heard them move out west, searching for him, and Bogruk kept hiding, waiting
until he couldn't hear the undead any longer.  Then, and only then, did he
dig himself up out of the bodies of his men, pick an axe up off one of them,
and set out northeast, for the mountains.  There were two things for a
warboss to do at a time like this: either die fighting to re-establish
control, or crack some skulls and get the boyz fighting for you again.
Bogruk was dead-set on seeing the second option carried out.

Bogruk had seen the winged shadow occasionally while heading toward
Magritta, and he had ignored it because he thought the fight was beneath
him.  He wanted to conquer a town, destroy an army, build a throne of dusty
bones.  Cracking one skull, even a big one, to get one more soldier, even a
fierce one, was beneath the mighty Warboss Nineteef, Scourge of the Western
Mountains.  But it wasn't beneath Bogruk Bigtalk, so he returned to these
mountains to finish what he should have before his great defeat.
The lair wasn't hard to find, thanks to the littered corpses near it, and
orc noses were finely tuned to smell other fighty gits.  There were few gits
fightier than this beastie, and Bogruk hefted the choppa in his hand,
wishing he had Sniksnak.  This would be tough, to say the least, but it was
necessary.  And at the very least, dying to a wyvern was a good way for an
orc to go out.
So Bogruk stepped forward into the cavernous lair of the wyvern that had
stalked him and his men, and called out.  "Oi!  You's a weak ting, and I
fink you better jus' let me ride you now.  Save yourself the trouble, eh?"
Bogruk peered into the darkness, waiting for a telltale sound, and heard
nothing.  Nothing, until the sudden screech as the wyvern leapt from the
shadows, taking wing, and sank its talons into Bogruk's shoulders, deep
enough to carry him up into the air.  This was how wyverns did it, he knew:
bite and claw for a hundred feet up, then a hundred foot drop to finish him
off.  Wyverns liked their meals tenderized.
So Bogruk flailed and twisted and used his axe as a climbing hook.  He took
the shield from his back, even as he climbed onto the wyvern's shoulders,
and smacked it square in the back of the head, hard.  "You stupid fat git!
Don't you get it?  I's da boss, and you best follow da boss!"  The wyvern
screamed, climbing higher in the air, and Bogruk gave it another smack in
the head.  "Either you listen up, or I smack you until we both fall.  Your
brain's even tinier than mine, don't think I haven't seen one."
The wyvern lashed around wildly, exerting itself, and this went on for
several minutes.  The wyvern would cry out, Bogruk would smack it with his
shield, and the wyvern would flail around trying to throw its orcish rider
to the ground hundreds of feet below.  But Bogruk held on with his life,
because without this beastie to show the boyz at base camp, he'd never
remain warboss.
Finally, the wyvern calmed, and Bogruk knew he'd won the battle of wills.
He soared over the mountains atop the wyvern, looking down at the lands he
was still determined to conquer.  "You ain't so dumb.  You know when to
fight and when to get cunnin'.  Good ting to know."  Bogruk spat, mulling it
over.  "You gots a name now.  Goodbrainz, smartest wyvern I ever seen.
Goodbrains and Warboss Bigtalk.  We's gonna kill a whole mess of orcs.
Then five whole mess of everyting else!"  Goodbrainz roared with approval,
and Bogruk set the course east, toward his army's base camp.

The reserves of Waaagh! Nineteef had gone a week without their warboss, so a
few inevitable changes had occurred.  First, survivors from the bloody
battle had reported Nineteef was dead, so it wasn't Waaagh! Nineteef
anymore.  A particularly eager night goblin shaman stepped up, claiming to
have foreseen the battle, avoided it through cunnin', and even talked to the
vampires before the battle so he knew how to fight them next time.  So, for
two hours, the mountains were occupied by Waaagh! Ziklip.
Then an orc noticed some tiny thing was making too much noise, so he chopped
its head off.  By the rules of succession, there was an hour of the reign of
Waaagh! Easybovvered, then twenty minutes of Waaaagh! Oneup, and then the
closest greenskins come to stability, with five successive days of Waaagh!
Kneesmasha.  Warboss Kneesmasha was unmatched in single combat, in the
absence of Warboss Nineteef, and he had a right shiny choppa that always
went right for the knees, no matter which way he swung it from.  That meant
if he swung it from the feet, it usually hit the knees, smashed 'em up real
good, then hit squishy bits above the legs as Kneesmasha followed through on
the swing.  The cumulative effect was a well-feared warboss.
So that was the state of things when Bogruk Bigtalk and Goodbrainz landed on
a tree stump in the middle of camp.  A hushed awe came over the greenskins
as they saw their former warboss back from the dead, seemingly, and Bogruk
took advantage of the surprise to speak.  "Now you buncha louts listen up
and listen good!  You mighta heard I lost a battle.  Ain't nuffin'.  You
mighta heard I had to run from some dead git.  Ain't nuffin'.  You mighta
heard I died.  AIN'T NUFFIN'.  I's da warboss, I's always gonna be da
warboss, and anyone says different is askin' for a beatin'!"
Bogruk stared around the camp, daring anyone to challenge him, even as
Goodbrainz lowered her head nearly to the ground, hissing menacingly at the
gathered greenskins.  Shortly, Kneesmasha came out of his tent, belching
loudly as he polished off the jug of fungal beer he'd been working on when
Bogruk arrived.  Kneesmasha didn't say a word, never one for all the
boasting Bogruk Bigtalk was known for, and instead rushed forward, his
choppa's blade just inches from the ground, and swung up, shattering
Bogruk's knee, swinging up between his legs, and becoming firmly embedded in
his pelvic bone, after cutting through the intervening flesh like so much
warm squig cheese.  That's when Bogruk smiled.
" 'At's a nice choppa you got there.  But I gots a nice buncha bones.  Tough
bones."  Kneesmasha's look of grim contentment changed to consternation, as
he tried in vain to pull his choppa free of Bogruk's pelvis.  "So seein' as
the handle's in your hand, but the blade's in MY BLOODY GROIN, I'm sayin'
this is my choppa."  Bogruk punched Kneesmasha once in the nose, causing him
to loosen his grip on the choppa, and then with a sickening crunch pulled
the choppa loose from between his own legs.  "And, you stupid git, you gots
to turn it right."  Bogruk jerked hard on the axehead of the choppa,
reversing its direct on the haft, and raised it high in the air.  Kneesmasha
looked confused, and more than a little frightened.  Bogruk continued to
boast, his sick grin only getting wider.  "See, dis ain't for knees."  And
with that Bogruk Bigtalk gleefully decapitated his would-be replacement, in
view of every greenskin in the mountains.
Wiping the blood from his new choppa Throatfinda, Bogruk gave a nudge to his
wyvern and flew up above the assembled orcs and goblins.  "I'm da warboss,
and we march soon.  Right now, we rebuild, and any git I see muckin' about,
I take his head and play some football with the boyz that afternoon.  I want
choppas made, armor patched, squigs fattened, engines strapped togeva.  I
want an army ain't gonna run from no squats, no pointy-ears, no wizards, and
DEFINITELY no dead gits wot ain't even got the sense to be alive.  I'm
Warboss Bigtalk, and you mangy buncha no-good boyz is mine.
WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

 

-----

 

(After turn 3, again)

From the Dwarves

An open letter to the walking corpse who (aptly) calls himself Forlorn, from Borthos
Broadaxe, Lord of Clan Broadaxe and Raganos Underkeep:

I shall obliterate you. Aside from the usual reasons (you being malicious, wantonly
destructive, undead, etc.), there is this: You have annoyed me. For numberless days my
Clan Broadaxe Dwarves marched mile upon mile in pursuit of the greenskins, and you contemptuously wiped the orcs out before we could. Intolerable!

We will await you in Molena. It is neutral ground, and well placed for all concerned.
Come and face the justice of the Dwarves. We fear you NOT, rotting scum of the earth, and
swear on our ancestors that we will be there waiting for you. If you flee we shall find
you and dig you up and burn your bones til they crack.

I demand a response. Will you face your fate in Molena, or cringe away?

 

From the Dark Elves

Many days following the challenge issued by Borthos, an odd thing happened.
Across Estalia small groups of emaciated weary refugees claiming to be from
the northern coastal cities arrived as the gates of cities throughout the
nation. They told of unparalleled terror spreading across the Northern Coast
of Estalia. They claimed that Raiders led most of the populace away in
shackles, but a select few were spared and told they could go free if they
delivered a message to far away towns. Amid the small group of dying
refugees, one individual carried a piece of flayed skin, which had been
fashioned into a twisted sort of parchment. Each piece of parchement read
the same:

"In my youth I heard tales of the dreaded walking dead hailing from
Sylvania. It was said that some of these abominations had walked the world
for as long as my kin. The stories claimed that these undying creatures were
utterly powerful and feared none. I will watch with interest in the
following weeks to see if the tales were true. Do the counts hailing from
Sylvania truly know no fear? I do hope so as my hatred them will be without
equal if I must listen to the vile bearded foot stools squawk incessantly
about their cowardice if you fail to meet the challenge issued by Borthos
Broadaxe. And believe me, he will squawk... *incessantly.*

-Orgullithra, Master of House Ithra"

 

Response from the Vampire Counts

After sacking the town of Magritta and bringing the population to a more pleasing demeanor it is only natural that I move to the real prize of Molena. If a dwarf wishes to meet me there and commence battle certainly I can accommodate this. Who am I to take away this from something that has already been shunned by the Gods and given the body of a small boy. I only hope your short little legs can walk all that way and make it across the river (I hope your artillery sinks). Little dwarf legs will be the perfect item to construct new coffee tables out of for the trophy room. Unitl we meet in the field of battle my vertically challenged friend feel free to enjoy what little life you have remaining.

Baron Von Forlorn

 

-----

 

From the Skaven player

 

Journals of Magister Glaur, continued:

January 2nd, 2522

What a night!  Allain and I watched as the rat hordes poured through the streets of Brionne, easily sweeping through the unalert guard and rudimentary garrison.  Many citizens are still completely unaware of the night's actions, even now, hours after dawn.  The Skaven removed many of the still living guards through their tunnels, presumably as slaves back in their lair.  The city's gate hangs open, unwatched.  The few curious or adventurous humans that have left the city have been slain or likewise captured.

Both Gnark and Varnik seem quite pleased by this turn of events, though neither have mentioned within our listening why they left the majority of the citizenry alive.  Perhaps they plan future raids on the now defenseless city, or they cannot afford the manpower to carry away that quantity of slaves.

Exhaustion overcomes me.  I must rest today.  I'll write more as I can.

January 6th, 2522

The Skaven continue their assault into Estalia.  Last night, a sizeable force of scouts and pre-runners seized Graus, a sizeable village south of Brionne (population 640, according to my Nuñez gazetteer).  Unfortunately, that august publication will need to be updated, as the rat men left no survivors.  I'm not certain why the tactics of this force differed so much from the Brionne occupation.  It only goes to show what little we still know of these Skaven's politics and behavior.

Back in Brionne, Varnik has been quite busy with a project, ensorcelling the city's Cathedral bells, and replacing the clappers with stones of warp rock.  The citizens have realized that something is horribly wrong by now, but most are content to remain within the city's walls, and hide until this "event" has passed.  None of the messengers that were sent out have returned, and the neighbouring farmers and merchants have all been slain as well.  A small citizen levy is attempting to restore order to the streets, and provide some basic services, but crime and disease are already on the rise.  I fear that the citizens may destroy themselves before the Skaven even return aboveground.

January 11th, 2522

Varnik and Gnark finally revealed their plans for Brionne last eve, as Allain and I watched.  Apparently the two had been corresponding with another warlord interested in Estalia, proposing a joint venture under Gnark's leadership.  In return for this new warlord's support, his tribe would be granted Brionne's population.  The three leaders met cautiously, clearly expecting the other's betrayal.  Ultimately, Gnark's proposal was agreed too, and the new warlord, Skeelik by name, began moving his forces forward.  Skeelik was apparently of a different faction completely from either Varnik or Gnark, dressed in robes of filthy sackcloth, and attended by bearers carrying fuming censers that billowed some toxic fumes.

Allain tells me his order has heard some of this sub faction, and believes them to have originated in far Lustria, but I doubt the tale.  I'm attempting some subtle variations on my seer tracking spellcraft, to see if I can locate the unique magics associated with this order.

As to your request for my initial spell, I shall provide it in due time Jorkal.  I understand your urgency, and the request of the librarians.  I'm still working on specifying the exact parameters, and working with Allain on how we can co publish the work without either order seizing credit, or outcasting us both.

January 15th, 2522

Gnark is dead!  Immediately after the scrying process began, Allain and I were almost overwhelmed by the massive amount of Seer energy pouring out of Brionne.  We honed in quickly to Varnik, who was surrounded by Gnark's lieutenants, all armed to the teeth, and jumping at shadows.  It would appear that another sub faction of the Skaven is specialized in the poisons and techniques of far Cathay, and their ritual assassinations leave tell tale signs.  The entire under city is in an uproar, trying to locate this assassin, and discover his sponsor.

Varnik is also quite concerned about the recent contract with Skeelik, who's advance forces are mere days from the city.  Without Gnark's unifying presence, the deal struck earlier this week may result in open bloodshed instead.

The Skaven advance company, unaware of the recent turmoil, has continued its assault, striking across the river to seize and depopulate Azuara.  At least in this case, a couple hundred citizens were spared, notably the miners and smiths, who remain slaves in the city, creating weapons of war for their new masters.  The large sheep pens remain as well, guarded by the Skaven, presumably for future feed in their war.

I'm trying to take more detailed notes, as per your request Jorkal, but this scrying plus the research into the new magical Skaven spells leave me barely enough energy to write these few words.  I promise you I'll provide you as full and detailed account as I can, as soon as I return from this research.

January 16th, 2522

There, see, I told you I'd write more Jorkal!  Just one day since my last note.

Though the mess involving the succession, Skeelik's approach, and the still missing assassin still rage on, another wrinkle has appeared in the Skaven invasion.  A skaven scout watching a tunnel entrance spotted a Dwarven machine in the sky, which he said dropped a note tied to a rock.  The Skaven seem completely uninterested in this Dwarven flyer, but consider their proximity a blessing.  Varnik thinks that a promise of Dwarven beard cloaks might appease Skeelik, and reunite the alliance after the untimely demise.  He'd kept the note, even though he apparently doesn't understand their runic script, as proof to Skeelik.    Allain understands a bit of their language, but was unable to get a good look in the dark tunnels and through the veil of the scrying shadows.

January 19th, 2522

What an evening!  Every night scrying these skaven is intense, as their behaviour and attitudes are so un-human.  Still tonight was quite a scare, as Allain and I were discovered!  We're both fine now, Allian was able to terminate the shadow magic before we were traced, but it will probably be some number of nights before he's be fit to try again, if we both agree to continue.  But i'm speaking of hte current now, and you'll certainly want to know of our night.

The night began as Varnik was preparing to meet Skeelik.  The two leaders still approached each other quite cautiously, sending emissaries to negotiate entourages and location, until, finally they met just three hours before dawn, in a secluded glen on the surface.  They seemed to be willing to still work together, but unable to agree on who would lead the endeavor, both acting as high priests to their own orders, when Skeelik suddenly noticed that his entourage was dead, silently slain at his very back.  He cried out his treachery against Varnik, who was also suddenly aware of his own entourage's demise, when the very shadows between the two's feet revealed a crouched silhouette, poised with a thin rapier tickling the neck of each priest.  A third knife swished the air restlessly, improbably held in the tail of the darkened figure.

There were several moments of silence, as Allain and I even held our breath, before the dark cloaked Skaven spoke.  "I am Ikassik, seventh of the thirteen deathmasters of Eshin.  I seek the Maiden's Dust for my own purposes..."  He paused, the tail striking unbelievably swift behind him, at a Skaven I'd not even seen.  It slumped to the ground silently, the head nearly severed from the body.

"Will you aid my purpose, or die in this field this night?".

Gulping, Varnik swore his allegiance to Ikassik, followed by only a second for Skeelik's whimering acceptance.

From the shadows to the sides, other shapes appeared from the mist, one so near my right sleeve that I involuntarily let out a gasp.  With that tiny sound, Ikassik spun, looking right at our projected forms.  "Magic of the Shadows!  Slay the wielder!!!".

Allain said that he'd never had a scry detected, nor ever faced a magical assault of the like as the Skaven attacked his body here, hundreds of miles away, as he raced to end the spell.  I too, felt the force of their combined will, stabbing into my skull with the screech of thousands of vermin, mercifully ended as Allain completed his dispell.

Now I too must rest, having shared this night's events.  I'll share more as I can, Gods willing.

 

----

 

(During and after turn 4)

 

From the Dwarf player

 

"VICTORYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!" roared Borthos as Forlorn's head fell in dirt, separated cleanly
from the vampire's shoulders by a swing of the dwarf's two-handed ax. Of course, there
was no victory yet: all across the field, dwarves still fought for their lives grappling
with various undead creatures, and Borthos' own Lord's Guard unit was continuing to take
appalling casualties from the skeletons and vampires targeting them.

But none of this mattered to Borthos at the moment, so exultant was he over having slain
the vampire general. Borthos had challenged Forlorn to meet him here on this field, and
it was as if they had chosen to fight over one single spot in the ground, so fiercely had
each side fought to hold their ground and drive their foe away. But now, with Forlorn
slain, the dwarf lord had reason to hope the entire vampire count army would begin to
crumble away into dust - and indeed it did, only a few skeletons at first, but soon many
more, and vampiresses too. It was a sweet sight. And not a scratch on Borthos either. His
runic armor had saved his skin, with an assist from the Horn of Defiance, which could do
more than blow notes, as Forlorn just found out to his chagrin. He looked over at his
uncle and gave him a joyful "Harumph!" - the aged, shifty Korthos had doubted his lord
nephew's battle plan, but for no reason in the end.

When the field was mopped up of the dead - with the wounded dwarves tended to and the dead
vampires all staked - Borthos bellowed to his scribe to attend him in his tent, and
immediately penned an open letter to all factions currently mustering or at war in the
Estalian lands:

"To the Daemon Beluga or whatever you call yourself:
I have slain the Vampire Count who was in my path and causing trouble. Now I am coming
for you. I'll soon be sending you back through the rift to whatever hell you came from.

Borthos Broadaxe, Lord of Clan Broadaxe and Raganos Underkeep

PS And, no, greenskins, we haven't forgotten about you. Nor you, ya damn dark elf
troublemakers. -BB
PPS Oh, and to the Wood Elves: Sorry to hear about your late misfortune with the Daemons.
You got a good start on them before. We dwarves will take it from here. –BB”

 

-----

 

(Still after turn 4)

 

From the Dark Elf player

 

"We killed a dwarf marching out of the mountain pass. He reeked as if he had
not..." The cowled shade paused as if to choose his words carefully."

"Had not what?" Orgullithra asked flatly, his back to the messenger as he
peered out the window of the Cathedral tower in Bilbali.

"Well... as if he had not *wiped *in a fortnight."

Orgullithra's head snapped around with a disgusted grimace on his face, "So
help me Khaine, you had better have a compelling reason for soiling my ears
with such filth."

The shade revealed a crumpled, bloody letter from his cloak, "He was
carrying this."

The Dreadlord took the letter and slid a long pointed finger nail along the
envelope flap. He removed the letter from the envelope, glanced at it for
only a moment, and then his head dropped in frustration. The little bastard
survived. Not only did he survive, he made a show of it. The shade was
noticeably nervous, fearing an all-to-common rage-filled outburst from his
lord. Orgullithra glanced up and met the shade's eyes and a smirk spread
across his lips, "At least he kept the gloating *short*."

 

 

[Rejoinder from the Dwarves]

 

A few days after the victory over Forlorn, Borthos was in his tent, stinking up the
joint worse than usual, when Ranhir the scout asked for audience. His nose wrinkled as he
waited outside the tent flap. His lord was a great and powerful Dwarf (indeed, some said
his physical strength had grown noticeably since the victorious duel with the vampire),
but this "No Wiping!" policy was insane. Ranhir thanked his ancestors he was a Ranger and
not stuck in this increasingly fetid army camp.

When Borthos shouted for him to come in, Ranhir steeled himself for the olfactory
assault, entered, and delivered his report:

"My lord, one of our messengers has been slain. He was heading into the Dark Elf lands.
The message he carried had been taken."

Borthos rumbled disapprovingly deep in his chest. Then he replied.

"And elf's an elf. Dark, Wood, High - 'High?' the names the arrogant bastards give
themselves... - makes no matter. But this Oreo-sitter or whatever he calls himself, he's
trouble. I had hoped the Skaven and Wood Elves might keep him on a leash. Harrumph. Well.
He can wait his turn. We're busy down here."

Borthos let his gaze rest on Ranhir for a moment. Then he grinned.

"Stink's appalling, isnt' it? He he he. Wait'll that Daemon gets a load of us. The smell
alone will send him back through the rift!"

 

-----

 

From the Daemon player

 

Olfactory assault indeed!!

After his most recent escapade, piling up more skulls, "Thirsty" (the most
current nickname for the super-sniffing bloodthirster, Be'leric of Khorth),
is really starting to get disoriented.  Rats, elves, dead, alive, ogre and
more!  there is just so much to smell (and of course, kill).  And so little
time...

 Be'leric has thought on many occasions that there really should be just 4
senses. Yet Khorne created him as he is and it must be for a purpose (not
only do demons have a sense of smell, but some have introspection as well).
Some demons are just out for skulls and blood.  But it's not all smell and
games for Be'leric. Is there more to Death than just skulls and blood?
Estalia has really got Be'leric thinking.  Maybe it was the doom
wheel...okay, not the doom wheel... but maybe it was the lord on dragon, the
most respectable of living creatures (stinky but still puts up a decent
fight),  that valiantly charged into battle... and... hmmm...


 Every creature seems to think their stink is the best (and those dwarves
are the worst.  pigs in a trough.  rooting in their own shite).  If they
only knew the beauty of Khorth. swiftly flowing lava rivers, through dark
canyons of pumice, and volcanos, beautiful volcanos as far as the eye can
see. And NOT A SPEC of BACTERIA anywhere!!  aaaaaahhhhhh...

alas, Thirsty is here.  and there is a reason. There is something to be
done.  There is meaning in death.  These miserable stinky creatures simply
have  it all wrong. They believe there is meaning in life. Mortals! always
klinging to life!  Khorne was wise to send us through the rift.  We will
convert them all.  They will understand... once they die... the true beauty
is in death!!!

HAA HAA HAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!

Bel'eric of Khorth, Bringer of Doom, Sterilizer Especial.

 

From the Orc and Goblin player

 

Warboss Bigtalk bellowed for his best word-writa to come to the cave he'd
staked out as his own.  "SNEAKYHEAD GIT IN HERE!  BRING SUMMAT PINKSKIN!"

Soon a wiry goblin came in, dragging with great effort a human corpse.
Bigtalk was pacing the length of the cave, ready to dictate a wartime
message in the proud tradition of orc generals going back countless (for
orcs, who are not the world's greatest counters) generations.  "Take dis
down.  'GOOD ON YOU, STUNTY.  SEE YOU SOON.  HEAD'S GUNNA LOOK REAL GOOD WIF AN AXE INNIT.'  Fink you got all dat?"

Sneakyheaded nodded vigorously.  "Yeah boss!  Yeah!"  The goblin finished
carving Bigtalk's message into the human's chest in big, clumsy letters in
moments.

Bigtalk grinned, with a mouth full of iron teeth he'd had forged what for
grinnin' and bitin' and allat.  "Good on ya.  Now git.  Give da pinkskin to
Goodbrainz, she'll fly it to da stuntiez.  If dey can even read!  Dumb
stuntiez!"

Rejoinder from the Dwarves, with an assist from the orcs at the end:

 

The miserable goblin sat in his rickety guard tower drumming his greenish fingers idly on the bent stick that served as a "guard rail". There had been nothing to do for days since Bigtalk had ordered the whole Waaaaaugh to sit there and camp. "Gaverin more Boyz!" was all he had said. Well, if --

 

Suddenly he heard a thunk in the distance, followed by an odd whistling sound. It was as if one of their Rock Lobbas was taking target practice some ways off. The whistling sound came closer and closer. A feeling of dread gripped the goblin. Then there was a colossal crashing sound, and the goblin's world shattered, with twigs and beams and rocks falling all around him, until he landed on the ground with a crunch. Fortunately he broke his fall on a mess of thatch from the roof, or he'd have been dead. When he stood painfully and surveyed the wreckage, his oversized eyes spotted some things that didn't belong - leaflets that had been encased in whatever projectile had destroyed his ugly little tower. They all read the same:

 

"Roland Runehammer, the Anvil of Raganos, to the Orc Chieftain in the Tobaro Hills. My lord Borthos orders me to occupy the foul heap known as Gaulcazar. If you wish to fight, by all means, meet us there. When we are done hammering your skulls (because there's no talking to an orc without braining him first) perhaps we can parley. We both have a Vampire problem. Lord Borthos knows the threat of the walking dead did not die with Forlorn. And he knows you have no love for those evil corpses. From Gualcazar we have a mind to march by road through Solsona (not stopping there) on the way to occupying Chelven, and then points south. We can discuss this - and your own plans - after we have beaten you into a talking frame of mind. Or you can surprise me and talk before/instead of battle.

 

I await your response."

 

Roland received, a day later, a lizardman skull (which raises lots of questions in and of itself) with a "beard" made of thatch and mud attached to it.  There is no note.

Such is the inscrutable nature of greenskins communiqués!

 

-----

(Beginning Turn 5)

 

From the Wood Elf player

 

Falling from his now dead mount, pattered with a glittering green rain that could only be dragon's blood, the general of the wood elves could only wonder at what went wrong.  Anese (known as Ashes in the Winter when riding his dragon) raged at his impeding demise.  Had he not heard the will of Kurnos? Was he not the one to exact his testament and circumvent the doom of mortals?   He had little time to think as with a sickening thud his body hit the ground and his wonder was cut short like the
 pathetic joke that it was.  A Bloodthirster's scream reverberated off elven bodies across the field of battle to terrifying and tremendous effect.  The Demons had exacted their revenge! In a perverse and savage display Be'leric Khorth ripped the Dragons horns from its head and bound the new talisman across his neck for all to see!  Everywhere the foolish elves of the woods despaired in viewing such a catastrophe and eventually all in their army were cut down.   


Still one remained alive. He remained in a confused state for what surely must have been aeons.  
"Ahhhh... hmmmm hm hm...... wake up. Wake up little one."  
Anese jolted awake as he heard an unnatural chime of voices coalescing into one. The shrill harmony was entrancing yet unbearable.
"Hehehehehe....  Did you think Kurnos really spoke to YOU?  Directly? Such is your pride. So sultry, delicate and delicious. So vulnerable, pathetic and vain." 
Anese found the next exhalation of laughter too painful to bear.  Cringing, he was startled to find newfound blood trickling from his nose, ears and mouth.
"Oooh, delicate flesh that you are... so innocent and so sweet.  Does that hurt you? Marvelous. Let me help."
Pain, anger and frustration poured into a maelstrom of emotion.  Anese started to scream as his tormenter's delight only escalated.
"Yes we can use this. So confused? Yes I mean we. Look at what we can do with your primal execration.  Look over there...."
Demon spirit faded from view, while to his horror, Anese recognized something familiar come forward.  Standing in grand view now was his once proud mount.  And yet it was!  But he was peculiar in the grandest way and somehow terribly different.  How could he be alive? More filled his vision. His once tenacious warriors gathered around him.  And yet again they were his warriors.  They were ALL his warriors.  Reason fell away to an opiated acceptance. His movement became uncannily more lithe. Growing in stature and moving with an unnaturally vitalized body he rallied his should be dead army.  A new purpose and intent rose in his once diminished soul.  Cursing Daemon kind once again he forget the jewel eyed manito who had played like the finest elven woodwind.  Reassuring himself in a self deluded state he began a harrowing journey out
 east....

 

-----

 

From the Dark Elf player

 

"They what?!" Orgollithra stood from the Bishop's throne, which he had
commandeered along with the Bilbali Cathedral, his new base of operations.

"Lord, they... they came pouring out of the mountains under the cover of a
small forested outcropping." The shade's voice quivered as he delivered the
news.

"I was told that the vermin were moving south. *Your* reports documented
their march through the southern mountains!" Orgollithra's rage was at a
peak.

"I know Lord. They vanished into the mountains. We never saw them resurface.
We had no way to know." The shade attempted to maintain a calm voice.

"Your petty excuses sound a bit too much like incompetence to me, shade.
Leave now and fetch my brother. Tell him he will be the first of our hose to
draw blood in Estallia."

The shade nodded and left the room without a word. He rushed down the narrow
spiral stairs that spanned the length of the cathedral tower. The shade
reached the ground floor and shoved open the heavy oaken doors facing the
town square. In the center of the square stood a tall thin druchii in ornate
plate armor. In his hand a thin glistening blade darted about the torso,
neck, and face of a bound and gagged human prisoner. The man's hands were
tied above his head and he squirmed and wept as the druchii taunted him with
the onslaught of blows delivered with immortal speed and grace; not a single
blow scathed the prisoner. The druchii grinned with glee at the prisoner's
torment.

The shade cleared his throat and spoke, "Soldril, master, your brother has
made his first proclamation of war. He has asked the you lead the army."

Soldril twirled his blade about once more and with the flick of his wrist
the blade was in its scabbard. The prisoner let out a muffled whimper and
slumped, exhausted from the torment.  Soldril turned his head to look the
shade and smirked. "Finally! My brother's tentativeness was beginning to
bore me. Tell the Hag Urlarra and my seer Spirriina that we ride for war!"

Soldril turned his back on the shade and prisoner, took one step, and in a
single blurred motion twirled to face the prisoner and drew his sword from
the scabbard across the neck of the man and ended once again with his back
to the gurgling corpse. The druchii flicked his blade spattering blood
across the cobblestone road and sheathed it.

"Deliver this corpse to the Hag immediately. This gift will make her more...
amiable regarding Orgollithra's proclamation. She bathes in warm blood
tonight as she will need all of her strength on the morrow."

The shade nodded and cut the man down, clogged his gushing neck wound, and
carried him toward the town hall, which was covered in bloody runes
celebrating Khaine, the god of Murder. As he neared the entrance to the
make-shift temple, his eyes betrayed his intense discomfort with the thought
of entering the Witch Elf sanctum. He reached the entrance, took a deep
breath, and opened the door which allowed the maniacal laughter and screams
of pain and ecstasy to pour out onto the streets. He disappeared beyond the
portal and the doors closed, once again drowning out the maddening
cacophony.

 

-----

 

Dwarven reaction

 

As Borthos' victorious host marched toward the Reliquary of the Maiden of Magritta, word

began to drift in from scouts about actions to the north and south. The Daemon army had

not done as expected and made for the Reliquary where Borthos had hoped to meet it, but

instead advanced east to Magritta, where a new Vampire Count army was about to clash with

it. "Piffle!" muttered the dwarf lord. "I was hoping to introduce those Daemons to some

good dwarven steel on their way back through the rift. Well, they can't avoid me forever."

 

Then the pained buzzing of a clearly laboring flying contraption sounded from the skies

to the north, growing slowly louder. "Hasn't he gotten that crazy contraption fixed yet?"

Borthos complained. When a while later the pilot made his report, Borthos learned that

the Dark Elves were on the verge of battle with a Skaven host. "Finally some action from

those elven pansies on the coast!" exclaimed the dwarf lord. "It's been nothing but yack

yack yack from that Orgeo-sitter for weeks now." He grinned. "Let's see what happens when

you mix hordes of vermin with bloody-minded elves. May they wipe each other out!"

 

-----

 

(After turn 5 battle)

 

From the Dark Elf player

 

Orgollithra watched out the cathedral window as the gates of Bilbali opened
and a single shade staggered in. He gripped the windowsill in frustration.
The fact that a single shade of the seven man detachment was all that
arrived with his battle report was not promising. The Dreadlord turned away
from the window and sat in the Bishop's throne, awaiting the arrival of the
scout. A few moments later the shade entered Orgollithra's chambers. The
Druchii was blood spattered and had clearly seen combat.

Orgollithra sat quietly, staring at the shade with with a disapproving
grimace. The shade spoke, "Lord, I've excellent news."

The Dreadlord cocked his head to the side and sat forward on his throne, "Is
that so? Do tell."

"I suppose its best if I start from the beginning. Mad'am Sprriina's scrying
gave the army a distinct edge. They arrived just outside of Borgas and knew
the direction from which the vermin would approach. They established a
battle line in front of a low hill and awaited the arrival of the creatures.
Our contingent of scouts remained behind the battle lines to observe, per
your command. As the rats began to march onto the field several units of
rats armed with poorly crafted spears and shields occupied the center of
their battle line. However, vile festering rats approached from the left. On
the far right some infernal machine that crackled with lightning emerged in
a small copse of trees. Two units of rats brandishing massive muskets
arrived as well. One perched atop a hill in front of the diseased vermin and
the other perched itself in the center of the battle line.

Lord Soldril's contingent of Blackguard, Drizolvir, held the center of our
line flanked on the left by Warriors from House Riina and the Vasafae (Flesh
Bane/Executioners) bolstered by the twisted Hag Urlarra the Blooded Queen,
and on the right by Warriors from House Dril. Our crossbowman perched atop
the hill and Reaper Bolt Throwers set up on either flank. On the far right
our hydra, Ist'Quarra (The Endless Legion), rushed ahead, pushing its way
through a small forest.

Operating off of the information provided by Spirriina's scrying we made the
first move. Harpies seeing this as an opportunity to feed swooped from the
sky and began to shred the unit of Jezzails atop the hill to pieces. The
other flock of harpies descended on on the large lighting cannon. The crew
was carried away from their machine and we heard the gruesome sound of
slurping and crunching as the Harpies fed on the vermin in the tree tops.

With this the ratmen displayed an utter disregard for their dying kin and
they surged forward toward our battle line. A number of the ratmen stood out
and soon revealed themselves to have some control over the arcane powers.
Fortunately, our elven artifacts proved more potent. The first time the
vermin attempted to summon foul magics to aid in their fight, the commander
of the Blackguard brandished the Ring of Hotek which caused a violent
backlash of magic. This backlash wounded the caster and sapped the magic
from the field for several moments. The remaining unit of Jezzails fired
into our battle line with little effect.

The harpies proceeded to harass and destroy the skaven guns and then roost
in the copse of trees. Our hydra erupted from the trees and doused a heavily
armored unit of rats in flames. The smell was awful. When the smoke and
flames cleared there was around half of the unit left. The rats rightfully
fled from the monster. Our battle line marched forward to meet the skaven
and soon battle commenced. A large horde of the rats rushed into the
executioners. As weapons were raised, Urlarra, the hag standard bearer
summoned the magic contained in her totem which caused the executioners to
strike with blinding speed. Urlarra lunged forward past a row of spears and
began to brutally hack at the Pale colored rat clad in Grey. As she struck
blow after block an executioner stepped forward and removed the vermin's
head with a clean slice of his blade. Urlarra appeared to bask in the
accompanying shower of blood.

Meanwhile the diseased rats charged into combat with a unit of our warriors.
The warriors were out-fought and turned to run. They were cut down like the
cowards they were. Meanwhile, Soldril and his retinue of Blackguard
dispatched another large horde of rats. The executioners wheeled around to
pursue the diseased rats which were now cutting into our battle line. Then
something happened."

The shade looked down at his bloodied sword. Orgollithra smiling with wicked
glee at the positive battle outcome spoke, "What? What happened?"

The shade took a deep breath, "I had moved away from the contingent of
shades to get a better vantage point. When I returned I found all six of
them dead... each one's throat was slit. Their weapons were never drawn. I
rushed away from the massacre and back to my vantage point. Somehow a small
squad of rats, shrouded in darkness had crept behind our lines. They began
to shower our archers upon the hill with bladed projectiles. As the archers
turned and returned fire, one figure amid the others stopped his assault and
he communicated with the others. They vanished from the field as fast as
they came. It was almost as though the creature did not care that the rest
of the rats were being slaughtered, it had its own agenda. The way that the
creature moved was enough to infer how deadly of a combatant it could be.
Part of me thinks that we were lucky that it chose to abandon the fight...

The remainder of the battle continued to swing our way. The executioners
continued to cut a bloody swathe through the skaven. The battle was
punctuated by the bloody massacre of the diseased rats. Only a single
Druichii unit was destroyed and only part of a single vermin rat horde
remained. We had claimed Borgas and utterly annihilated the Vermin Problem.
I encountered very scattered resistance on my return trip."

Orgollithra nodded approvingly, "This is excellent news. Perhaps other
armies will make note of the hundreds of decaying ratmen and choose to leave
us to our business from here on."

The shade smirked, "I would hope so. Soldril and Urlarra certainly
demonstrated our capacity for brutality. No slaves were taken from the horde
per Soldril's orders. Instead, he wanted an example made of those that stand
in opposition to the will of the Druchii.

"Excellent. Well done, and give regards to my brother."

The shade nodded and left the Druchii Dreadlord alone. Orgollithra leaned
back in his throne and grinned in satisfaction.

 

-----

 

Orgollithra watched from the cathedral window as the three dark heralds of
House Rysn returned from their courier mission. Several weeks earlier his
brother, Soldril, led a contingent of Druchii to claim the riverside town of
Borgas. As the army marched into the streets and began to "subdue" the
populace, a horde of vermin poursed out of the southern woods. Orgollithra
had hoped to avoid foolishly stumbling into battle; however as his advisor,
Malag'rysn had informed him there were numerous armies in Estallia and
conflict was inevitable.

Upon recieving word that his forces had crushed the Skaven Opposistion,
Orgollithra decided to send out a message to the other forces marching about
Estallia. He sent riders to Borgas to collect the bodies of the fallen
vermin commanders. The riders carved the coiled serpent into the chests of
each of the three rat corpses and then wrapped them in purple cloth. Upon
the cloth the following words were written:

"It has come to my attention that there is something of great value in
Southeren Estallia. Understand that I have little interest in this prize. I
have come to Estallia for my own ends and I only ask that you do not
interfere. We Druchii are a reasonable people, but merciless as well. Stay
away from what is ours and assure you peace. However, those that
intentionally provoke the might of the Druchii will meet an excrutiating
end.

-Orgollithra, The Dread Serpent"

The decapitated body of the horned grey seer was sent to Magritta, the most
frequented southrn hub. A wooden spike was driven through the crown of the
rats head and into the torso to ensure the package was "complete" upon
arrival.

The bloated diseased corpse of the plague priest was sent to Zaraguz.

The wound-ridden corpse of the warplock engineer was sent to Diamanterra.

Ogrollithra turned his back to the cathedral window and sat in the Bishop's
throne contemplating his next course of action.

 

-----

 

Borthos sighed noisily as his uncle Korthos the Runesmith droned on and on about the reliquary in his report to the command staff. Magic and rifts and relics and runes, all so much nonsense thought the dwarf lord. Borthos occasionally broke in to demand "Damnit, Korthos, can we close the Rift or not?" His annoying (and annoyed) uncle would slowly smile at him - a hard, unpleasant smile - and continue with his boring lecture. "Just getting there, my Lord. But it is complicated. You see..."

 

Borthos' mind wandered. He had taken the news of the Dark Elven victory to the north with equanimity. "A bunch of dead ratmen is nothing but good news," he broke into the lecture to say (Korthos' face visibly darkened). A dead rat army was especially good news given the reports he had received of Skaven penetration into the mountains not far from the Dwarven realm. An army would need to be dispatched regardless. But he also knew that the Elves would need dealing with too, perhaps sooner rather than later.

 

The dwarf lord sighed. So many evil foes to smite, so little time.

 

The Wood Elves had gone silent after their crushing defeat by the Daemons. Licking their wounds? Or something more sinister? "Never trust an elf" he announced out loud (causing Korthos to sputter). A non-sequitur, yes, but truth is ever a welcome guest, as his father used to say.

 

Korthos loudly asked "Does my lord wish me to finish or not?"

 

Borthos responded: "You can have exactly one more minute of your lord's time. Now what's the upshot, uncle?"

 

The smith frowned, shook his head as if ever put upon by dolts, and ground out the following words, slowly.

 

"The relic that was here is gone. Someone has hidden it, or taken it. But the place still has power. And it is only here that the right spell can be woven or Rune hammered. Bid Roland come with his Anvil of Doom. I believe he can close the Rift and send back the Daemons. Maybe."

 

Borthos snorted. "Fetch the Runehammer? He's busy! Unlike you, he's doing something worthwhile, getting ready to fight in the southern marches. By the way, Korthos, what exactly were you doing in the last battle while I was slaying the vampire lord Forlorn in a duel? Sleeping? You certainly weren't stopping much of their magic. They must have raised more skeletons and zombies than were in their whole army at the start."

 

Korthos squinted his baggy eyes and showed his lord nephew an enraged grimace, then stalked off. The whole command staff relaxed once he left. Having Borthos and Korthos in the same room always made it feel like it were about to explode. Borthos' mood improved too. "Fetch us a cask of ale, Flori," he said with a grin. "We have some planning to do."

 

-----

 

 

(end of turn 6, after the Dwarves fought a battle with the Skaven after plunging into Daemon lands)

 

The ever bitter Runesmith Korthos watched his nephew with disgust. Borthos, clan lord, was staggering about roaring drunk celebrating the day’s "victory" over the Skaven, clapping clan dwarves on the back, trading good-natured insults with others, carrying on amid the general merriment. Some victory, thought Korthos. The lord's own Guards were cut to pieces. Every single artillery piece lay in ruins. The Slayers nearly cut down to a dwarf (well, maybe that wasn't so bad. Korthos didn't like those orange-haired freaks either). The Runesmith sat alone on a bench in a corner of the command tent and sipped his ale. "Look at that fat fool," he muttered.

 

Just then a reveler, one of the few surviving Lord's Guards, in fact, stomped joyfully over to Korthos and slapped the Runesmith heartily on the shoulder, causing the Runesmith's ale to slop. Drunk as a skunk, the Guardsman slurred loudly into Korthos' face with foul breath and a smile wide as a mountain. "Diddja see our Lord in action today, Korthos? What a sight he was! Utterly fearless he was, charging into that mass of berserk rats with the screaming bell and ogre and Seer mage and all! First he lops of the head of the rat lord, then he splinters the bell itself with an ax-blow and kills that monstrous ogre, and almost before the pieces are on the ground he's charging off alone to help the Slayers against those smokey poison-dealing rats -- and kills the lot of them too, slaughtering them as they ran off from him in terror! Now that's a dwarf lord! OUR lord! LONG LIVE BORTHOS!"

 

The guardsman's shout - right into Korthos' face, covering him with ale-laced spittle - raised other shouts, and soon the whole tent was shaking with the chant LONG LIVE BORTHOS! LONG LIVE OUR LORD! Korthos couldn't take it anymore. HE should be lord, not this fool of a nephew who'd tricked all the clan dwarves into thinking he was worthy. His face twisted in rage, the Runesmith stalked out of the tent, hearing a derisive laugh go up as he did, Borthos having loudly announced "There goes that sourpuss Korthos. I think he shat his pants when that Doomwheel came his way!" More gales of laughter followed.

 

Intolerable. Maybe if they ever catch up to one of the daemon lords Borthos has been chasing one'll rip his fat head off. Korthos couldn't suppress a smile at the thought. Then the clan would get a REAL lord, a sober one, with judgment. Him. "May Grungni make it so," he muttered as he trudged back to his tent.

 

-----

 

from the Skaven player

 

Journals of Magister Glaur, continued:

January 26th, 2522

I'm terribly sorry for the delay in communications Jorkal.  Allain and I have been very fatigued, and he's been wary to use any more of his magic in case the Skaven were still attempting to track him.  Just tonight, I finally was able to convince him to scry again for a sole hour.

The skaven have not been idle this past week.  Their forces have divided, with Varnik's tribe striking out to join the fore-runners in the West, sweeping up to capture the Port city of Vizeaya.  Varnik's tribe is somewhat slowed, as they've been pushing a massive contraption built around the Cathedral Bell Varnik removed from Brionne.  It's now crackling with warp energy, and makes it quite easy for us to navigate to Varnik's position.

From his discussions, it appears that Skeelik may plan to travel south, into the mountains.  Neither warlord is aware of Ikassik's location, and both still fear him greatly.

January 29th, 2522

The skaven continue to move forward rapidly, assimilating the Borgan Plains, and the foothills to the south.  Most of this effort has been handled by the forerunners, as Varnik's consturct seems to be having no end of problems, with broken axles, wheel damage, and even stuck in a muddy bog for almost a full day.  Though the company seems to be working very efficiently, messengers from Ikassik continue to express displeasure with the delays, citing great urgency before they are discovered.

Skeelik has seemed to move faster, his forces left Brionne only Wednesday, and have already reached the ford south of Azuara, bound south for Pajena.

February 2nd, 2522

Jorkal, what's the official word from the hills on Altdorf Alex?  Has the cursed woodchuck seen his shadow?  My auspices here point to more winter, but I'd hoped the official word would differ.

Anyway, on to the Skaven.  It would appear that Varnik's contraption is a never ending source of frustration to the hordes.  While pushing it tonight, they crossed a road at a severe angle, and the left side buckled, throwing it to the side, and cracking one of the main support arms.  The core force has halted again, while splicing or replacing the brace.  Forerunners are still quite ahead of the main body, but even they have failed to report back this evening.

February 5th, 2522

We have finally witnessed a battle!  The reason for the forerunners lack of communication was the presence of a large force of Pirate elves, sweeping down on a coastal raid from Barboza.  They'd been capturing the scouts, and performing all manner of torture and slaughter in the name of their dark gods and goddesses.

Varnik finally realized what was occurring last night, but feared reporting back to Ikassik because of his delays.  With that incredible lack of foresight, and his war machine left in shambles from its latest wreck, Varnik took a small band of the Skaven to the fields south of Borgas to attempt a parlay with the elves.

The elves had other ideas, and butchered the Skaven almost to a rat. Varnik was almost the first among that number.  As the battle peaked, Ikassik appeared from the rear, evaluated the situation shortly, and turned, to leave his brethren to their fate.

With Varnik down, I'll have to really speed up my efforts to track Skeelik's method of magic, so that I can continue my studies.  None of Varnik's understudies in Brionne are powerful enough to locate quickly or easily.

 

-----

 

(after moves turn 7)

 

Dwarves Embattled

 

Lord Borthos was talking with his trusted advisor Flori the night before the expected clash with the Daemons of Chaos. Borthos' Dwarven army had been seeking them for weeks, ever since they heard of the dangerous rift. Vampires had been beaten down and Skaven driven back, but the main evil now lay before them: the Daemonic tide itself, captained, rumor had it, by a Greater Daemon called a Bloodthirster.

 

"Are the Picks and Shovels in position, old friend?" Borthos asked.

 

"Yes, my lord. They found the tunnels we were told of and have been digging new exits. We should be able to surprise the fiends."

 

"Excellent," murmured Borthos. "The miners could be the difference in swinging the battle our way. Did the engineer finally fix that crazy contraption of his?"

 

"Indeed he did," answered Flori. "The gyrocopter took no damage in the battle with the ratmen and is in good working order. However, there won't be any battle-frenzied troops for it to lead astray in this battle, if we heard aright, my lord."

 

"Too bad, that," answered Borthos. "That thing --"

 

Just then a Ranger arrived at the command tent, panting and spouting news.

 

"I bear urgent tidings, my lord. Olaf Spellbreaker reports that the Greenskins have stopped fleeing from him. They offer battle in the woods near Zaraguz."

 

Borthos scowled. "Zaraguz is close to Raganos Underkeep. Olaf had better win or there will be goblins running everywhere through our lands. I'd have preferred the battle to take place in the mountains. Flori, what do you think?"

 

The old dwarf looked pensive for a moment then nodded. "Olaf is young for a general but has a good head on him. He'll be all right." Flori grinned. "And they are just greenskins, my lord."

 

"Indeed. Perhaps--"

 

Again Borthos was interrupted by the Ranger messenger, and looking none too pleased about it.

 

"There is more, my Lord. Roland Runehammer reports an approaching Vampire army. He was pillaging through the undead lands as you ordered, first at Chelven and then in the mountains to the east, when he heard of its approach. He too prepares for battle."

 

A stunned silence took the commanders for a time. Finally, Borthos spoke.

 

"It seems the next few days will determine the fate of our campaign, for good or ill. May Grimnir and Grugni smile upon our efforts. Nothing good ever comes without a price. Time to start paying. Let's just hope the evil ones pay more, eh, old friend?"

 

"Aye, my lord" said Flori with a hard smile. "We'll start with those Daemons tomorrow."

 

 

-----

 

Old Flori was surveying the carnage from the recently concluded battle with the Daemons.

 

The Dwarves had taken heavy casualties, but so had their foes. The two sides had fought to a stalemate, neither side controlling the battlefield at the end. Flori cocked an eye towards his friend and lord, Borthos, who was nearby cheerily clapping dwarves on the back, helping up the wounded, and regaling them all with tales of his exploits. His clans-dwarves ate it up, especially the wounded ones, feeding off his exultation and looking upon their leader with pride.

 

Borthos had once again done brilliantly in leading the fight, it was true, mused Flori. Roaring out a challenge to the 30-foot-tall Greater Daemon even as the battle began, the Dwarf Lord charged his Guards straight forward toward the enemy. The Bloodthirster chose a craven path, however, first cowering behind a cliff to avoid artillery fire while the rest of his army got shot up – those two units of Chaos Furies took a hellacious beating – then after half the Dwarf shooters were engaged or taken out, he finally flew out to attack – soft targets only. Like artillery crews. Flori shook his head in disbelief. Weren’t these Khorne Daemons supposed to be fierce? The Bloodthirster most of all? Really more of a Wuss-Thirster. Or just a Wuss. Flori began to suspect the real reason this army had come through the Rift - they were chased out my the REAL Daemons....

 

Borthos had not let his opposing number’s pathetic display of non-valor stop him. He charged his Lord’s Guards right into the largest Daemon unit on the field (which, of course, had been backing away from him) and challenged the massive Herald-on-Juggernaught to a duel. The gutless Daemon leader ordered a unit champion to face the dwarf instead. Borthos promptly took its head off with one swing of his ax. Borthos shouted his challenge again – the Herald hesitated, then, reluctantly, stepped up to the fight. The Daemon leader swung first, but his weapon banged off of Borthos’ rune-encrusted armor. The Dwarf Lord laughed and swung back, and killed the Herald and Juggernaught with a flurry of blows from his extremely heavy ax. Borthos roared in triumph, and threw himself into the melee with the rest of the Daemon unit. Soon he and the Lord’s Guards had wiped them out.

 

Meanwhile, Flori had not been idle. His unit of White Whiskers had turned back a charge of Flesh Hounds, killing them all, before doing the same to a small unit of Bloodletters. Disappointing had been the performance of the Picks and Shovels, however, the unit of Miners that had covered itself in glory in previous battles. Given the chance to charge into a unit of Bloodletters, the Dwarves unaccountably froze, giving the charge to the enemy. Despite the heroism of their Prospector champion, who slew the opposing champion in a duel, the rest of the Picks and Shovels for a second time in one encounter showed a total lack of resolve and fled the battle even still having the advantage of numbers. It was a near-Bloodthirster level of cowardice. Flori was sure Borthos would be having a word with the survivors when they straggled in.

 

Borthos came over to Flori and asked in a low voice, “Have you seen my annoying old coot of an uncle, Korthos, anywhere?”

 

Flori responded, “No. One of the Broadaxe clans-dwarves said he saw a Juggernaut take the Runesmith’s whole head in his mouth and chomp down. He was . . . presumed dead.”

 

Borthos’ features took on an expression of guilty pleasure. “Good,” he whispered. “At least he died well. And it may be for the best that we are finally rid of that useless old sourpuss. It was long past time that we —“

 

Just then they were interrupted by shouts of surprise and alarm. Staggering toward them was the sorriest looking Dwarf they’d ever seen, limping, blood-covered, beard torn asunder, and half his face simply missing, with pieces of flesh and gleaming bone visible to all. The crippled thing staggered toward Borthos, fixed him with one malevolent eye, and croaked:

 

“You’re not rid of me yet, nephew!”

 

Korthos gave a twisted, lopsided (of necessity) grin, and promptly collapsed at the Dwarf Lord’s feet, passed out and bleeding on his boots. Borthos gazed down at the crumpled pile and said nothing for a moment. Then he looked up and around at the Dwarves standing nearby staring at him and bellowed, “Well, someone come tend to his wounds, damn it!” And stalked off angrily without a backward glance.

 

Flori shook his head. He could only hope that The Runehammer and young Olaf Spellbreaker would have greater success in their upcoming battles.

 

 

-----

 

(Daemon player reaction)

 

Indeed it was a glorious battle with many skulls taken for Khorne in good
faith by the Khorth, however there was also a victory for Nurgle as well,
for the festid, petri dish of Borthass continues to stink (as evidenced from
the farce written above, the stink is equal out both Borthos' ends.)  So the
stink of the dwarves continues (thanks to immunity to flame attacks...)
Although we would like to recruit that crazy contraption.  It cleanses well.
And was oddly out of place in battle, but the steam shower was pleasant
enough that the slight distraction of a shower while lopping off heads was a
nice change.

There was a time when Khorth actually respected Dwarves, in the early
years.  Especially with the defeat of the plaguefather Ku'Gath.  His stink
was truly beyond reckon.  (His kind is the disgrace of demons.)  But now we
have a new kind of stink that will live on in the annals of Estalia.  For
despite what some might declare, Chaos Dwarves exist!! and Borthos' Fat Ass
is the sign of Nurgle!!

Be'leric of Khorth

 

-----

 

(Other Dwarf battles on turn 7 and 8)

 

Unlike his lord, Borthos, Roland Runehammer is a taciturn dwarf. He sent this dispatch
by Ranger to his lord after the Battle of the Abasko Mountains with the Vampire Counts:

"Fought the Vampires for control of the heights. A draw. Back in Chelven."

 

A subsequent battle was fought when a new Vampire Count army came up from the south to drive off the Dwarves. This time the Runehammer repulsed them, retaining control of Chelven for the moment. But he knew they’d be back.

 

Olaf Spellbreaker also sent a brief report:

 

“Near Zaraguz the Greenskins came at us in their hordes all along the line. A bunch of them got fouled up in the woods and hills and almost never made it to the fight. The Thunderers shot up a few who did, but the real damage was done by Gormund Bosskiller, who lived up to his name by killing the Orc Boss Battle Standard Bearer in a duel. He then led his Raganos Veterans in wipe out a couple units of orcs. The Meatheads (Slayers) and the Rock Eaters (Miners) took out a huge mass of Orc archers plus some Squig Hoppers. With the Raganos Clan Warriors I killed a Goblin boss when he broke and ran, but then out of the corner of my eye I saw a Warboss coming at me on a giant Wyvern. Everything went black after that. When the Guards found me after the battle I couldn’t move my left arm. Fortunately Grugni saw fit to give me a right one as well, so I’ll be fine.”

 

-----

 

Middle of turn 8

 

(Dark Elf player to Daemon player)

 

As of late I have grown uneasy with your occupation, kindred. You are the
first intelligent beings I've encountered since arriving in Estalia and I
cannot be certain of your motives. You pour into my lands with reckless
abandon, so I cannot help but assume the worst. Please do not realize my
worst fears! I've worked, and *still* work tirelessly to eradicate the
vermin that spill forth from every hole and crack in the northern lands.  To
the north there is nothing but desolate, craggy coastline, which I will
inhabit to spare you great misery! Given my toil for the betterment of
Estalia, I ask that you remove your people from my land and I assure you no
hostilities between our people will occur. In fact, there is an abundance of
land and resources to the south, including lush green forests, which I've
come to learn your kind prefer.

At your earliest convenience, please withdraw from my land. In future
encounters, if you require my aid, you need but ask.

Sincerely,
Orgollithra, Lord of House Ithra

 

-----

 

End of turn 8

 

Report to Borthos

 

Borthos and Old Flori were in the command tent when the Ranger messenger arrived. Korthos Half-Face was in a cot in the corner groaning in a fevered sleep.

 

"My lord, a battle report from Thane Gormund of the Raganos throng," he started.

 

Borthos interrupted. "Gormund Bosskiller? Not Olaf? Did the Skaven slay the Runesmith?

 

"Sir, they had to dig Olaf out from under the bodies again. He lives, but now has a chest wound and befouled blood to go with his previous injuries. His unit of Thunderers came under attack from some Gutter Runners led by a Skaven assassin known as a Deathmaster. Olaf challenged him to a duel, trusting to his runic armor and hoping to save his men. The Skaven poisons did not kill him but caused him to swoon. He will survive."

 

"Noble of him, I suppose," Borthos said, uncertain.

 

"He's a young fool" snapped Flori. "He's only 65! And it's showing. Challenging a Master Assassin? When you are a Runesmith? A Dwarf with sense knows to temper his courage with prudence."

 

Borthos smiled. "He'll learn, old friend. His heart's in the right place. I've been known to take a risk or two in battle myself, you know."

 

Flori grunted. "He'll learn only if he survives." But Flori nodded assent to his lord and motioned for the messenger to continue.

 

"The battle was a major victory, though a costly one. Both sides were determined to control the middle of the field. Thane Gormund's unit of Raganos Veterans secured the victory. Early on they were badly singed by a Warpfire Thrower, but soon attacked, defeated and chased down some Rat Ogres. Gormund took a wound in that fight. But he still got the Veterans turned around in time to receive the charge of a mob of Clan Rats, whom they quickly mastered and sent fleeing. They pursued just far enough to take control of center of the field of battle. Then they held - just barely - against a large bunch of beserk ratmen dragging one of those Screaming Bells with them."

 

"The enemy brought a Screaming Bell? With a rat mage?" Flori turned to Borthos. "You already smashed one of those bells, my lord. How many do the vermin have?"

 

The messenger grinned and spoke. "They may have another bell, but this one's missing it's mage. Ruddy the Dragonslayer stood alone right in front of that cursed thing and all those frenzied rats, jumped up on the platform, and chopped the rat wizard in half. Unfortunately for him the bell-ringing ogre then pushed him off the platform and ran the cart right over him. Broke his legs and one arm. But he swears he'll be fine."

 

Borthos shook his head. "A brave win, to be sure. But it sounds like all the Dwarf leaders in that throng took serious wounds."

 

The Dwarf Lord and his advisor asked a few more questions then dismissed the messenger. Borthos asked Flori what he thought now of the battle for Estalia since the Daemon Rift opened. The battle standard bearer answered:

 

"For all his recklessness, Olaf has done well, driving away from our homelands the Orcs first and now the Skaven. And the word from the north is mostly good. It would seem that columns of Skaven and Wood Elves have begun to cut into the huge Dark Elf empire. But something concerns me, my lord."

 

"Yes?" inquired Borthos.

 

"It's not just that the Dark Elves have enslaved and plundered almost all of Estalia north of the mountains with hardly a fight. The problem is that when actually brought to battle they have proved very effective. I do not count the skirmish near Borgas. The Skaven surprised them there and the Elves simply retreated. It's the crushing massacres they've meted out to every army they actually bothered to take the field against, including a few days ago at Verin."

 

Borthos pondered for a moment, then answered. "Yes, old friend, but they've only fought the Skaven so far. We know how those ratmen can be set to running if things don't go their way. Wait til the Wood Elves or Daemons get to them. Then we'll really see what the Dark Elves are made of."

 

"Hm. I suppose. But what if we don't like what is learned?" Flori asks.

 

"Then we may need to take matters into our own hands. But not yet. To move north I'd have to seize the lands of the Wood Elves or others currently liberating territory from the Dark Elf pirates. I promised I wouldn't do that, and I mean to keep that promise. But for the future, who knows. Before this is all over, you and I may need to tangle with this Oreolithra fellow or his minions ourselves." The Dwarf Lord grinned fiercely. "I'd like that."

 

-----

 

(from the Dark Elf player)

 

"No other masters can take the field at Verin?" Orgollithra sat in his
throne, looking up at the shade in front of him with an irritated scowl.

"No m'lord. Battle will meet within the week, and all of your lieutenants
are at least a fortnight from Verin." The shade was clearly nervous in
delivery the news.

The dreadlord suddenly stood from the throne, causing the shade to flinch
and step back. "Issue the order to reinforce the garrison at Potes. I had
hoped the small force at Borgas would be sufficient to repel invaders on our
border. I never dreamt that more of these vermin would strike from the
south... and in such great numbers. It seems the more we eradicate, the more
flood our lands. You are dismissed, shade."

The shade darted from the room. Meanwhile, Orogllithra stood in front of a
large chest of drawers. From it he removed an ornate breast plate, a jet
black pendant which appeared to repel the light from the nearby candles, and
his sea dragon cloak. He walked across the room and hefted his two-handed
sword from its mantle and then exited the room onto the balcony of the
cathedral tower. Before adorning his masked-helm he let out a piercing
whistle. The cathedral spire came alive as a massive creature began to
uncoil at its base. As the creature spread its wings it let out a guttural
roar that shook the walks of  Bilbali. The beast swooped from its perch to
the balcony where Orgollithra stood.

"Hello my friend. It has been too long since you've tasted the blood of your
enemy. I only with it was the sweet blood of our traitorous kin instead of
the foul smelling ratmen."

The Dragon smacked its jaws together, licking its teeth as if it had a bad
taste in its mouth.

 Orgollithra's laugh reverberated in his helmet, "I know. Disgusting. We
will have to crush them entirely at Verin to ensure that we no longer have
to deal with the pests."

With that the dragon lowered its head and Orgollithra climbed atop. The
dragon took flight to the southwest for war.



And he was right... crush the ratmen he did. The Dreadlord routed the army
entirely, his dragon devouring the magician from atop his bell and
subsequently slamming into the device's supports causing it to collapse.
Meanwhile two large unit of frenzied rats chased dark elf light cavalry
around a forest for the duration of the battle. The fight was swift and
decisive. When it was done the druchii were stronger and the rats were gone.
Orgollithra left the battlefield stained with the blood of his enemy wearing
an arrogant grin.

As he soared through the sky toward Bilbali he reflected on what one of the
skaven engineers had communicated to him following torture at the end of a
beastmaster's lash.

"The rock dwellers! The short man-things! Friendship they offer to all for
corruption of your land! No more pain pleasssse!"

Orgollithra tightened his grip on his dragon's reigns as anger welled inside
him. "Who do they think they are? Rallying the armies of Estalia behind *
their* cause. It sickens me that the other races are so weak-willed that
they would do the bidding of a dwarf. So desperate are they for guidance
that they cower, sniveling, and begging to be told how to live. Rats I
understand, but elves? Disgusting. I'll be doing them a favor by ending
their pathetic existences. I'll free them from the bondage of their own
ineptitude."

His thoughts were filled with terrible hatred and cruelty as he neared his
cathedral in Bilbali. Enemies seeped into his domain and he needed to
prepare the plans to repel them.

 

-----

 

(still late in turn 9, back in the Dwarf camp)

 

Borthos and Flori were still in the command tent an hour after the messenger left. It was
getting increasingly ripe in there. This was not just because of the controversial "no
wipe" rule, but because of the incessant flatulence of the injured Korthos snoring away
in his cot.

After a particularly vile olfactory wave broke over the two seated commanders, Borthos
twisted around in his chair to stare balefully at his lump of an uncle and said "Is there
no end to it? Flori, quick, my ax. I must cut a hole in the tent."

As Flori lurched to his feet to get the ax he asked his lord what he meant to do about
the south. Borthos replied:

"From what the Runehammer reports there's no counting on the greenskins. Roland thought
they were going to go south into the Abasko Mountains while we tangled with the Vampire
Counts. There was even talk of cooperation. He considered the possibility that they might
betray him and plunge into Dwarf lands and need smiting. But they did neither - they just
sat in their stronghold. Perplexing. I've ordered him to do what he wants - continue to
hold Chelven, move elsewhere in VC lands, return to the Dwarven realm, whatever - but
leave the northern Abasko mountains to the Orcs if they want to take them from the undead
lords. We'll smash the greenies again if we have to, but until we do it's better to let
them do their yelling and thumping and whatnot in Vampire lands."

A good breeze was now blowing in from a gaping slash in the tent wall near Korthos' cot.
The Runesmith grumbled in his slumber and pulled his sheepskin blanket tighter around
him. Borthos watched him and muttered "Yeah, suck it up you smelly old coot."

 

-----

 

(after Turn 10 moves are revealed)

 

Announcement from the Dark Elf player

 

     I thought perhaps we could reach an agreement, but I see now that you
cannot be reasoned with. I am unsure how the Dwarves have secured your
allegiance in spite of your own best interests. Regardless, that matters
not. In what I could not imagine in my wildest dreams, an allied contingent
of Rats and Woodelves have rallied under the cause of Dwarves to siege my
prized city of Bilibali*. I cannot fathom what would possess Wood Elves to
ally with the vermin or even more unthinkable, the Skaven to do the bidding
of the Dwarves. However the Dwarves have managed to convince you all to suck
the grime from his boots is beyond me. It is a despicable existence when you
secure another's victory in place of your own. I pity you. I truly do.

    After careful consideration, it has become clear to me that the Northern
coast is lost to this twisted allegiance. My sole purpose is to ensure that
the black twisted heart of Borthos Broadaxe is ripped still beating for his
weak-willed lackeys to witness. If others see the twisted Dwarves for what
they truly are, I welcome your aid. That said, all that I request of you is
that you stay out of my way.

   From henceforth the Druchii do not march to war for honor or spoils. They
march to war for Dwarven blood.

 

-----

 

From somewhere in the mountains near Siernos

 

It felt good to be moving again, thought Borthos. His army had camped for many days near Cebreros, and, even with the “no-wipe” rule revoked – Korthos’ unstoppable farting had been the last straw – the place had become inhospitably fetid. The clan warriors had begun calling it “Camp Stank.”

 

So they had moved northwards, into the fresh mountain air near Siernos, to forestall the slippery Dark Elves and prevent them from fleeing the Pina Wood to a safe haven to the south. The fey Daemons claimed not to care what the Dwarves did. Borthos wanted another crack at those fiends eventually, but right now the elven slavers seemed the greater threat.

 

“They’ve slipped into the mountains to our east,” the Ranger reported to Borthos and Old Flori in the command tent one evening when it became apparent that the Dark Elves were not coming toward Siernos. “Oreo-lith…Oreogo-liter…. the Dark Elf lord claims to be hunting Dwarves,” the Ranger finished in stumbling fashion.

 

“So, the Keebler Elf says he’s coming for us now,” mused Borthos with a smile, “in the mountains no less. What do you think, old friend?”

 

Flori shrugged. “He won’t have trouble finding us. Good to see that the Wood Elves and Skaven and Daemons have disrupted his plans and chased him out of his territory. Still, the news elsewhere is more troubling.”

 

“Indeed,” agreed Borthos. “Orcs on the loose again to the east. Vampires in Magritta. But – do you think they’ll have any better luck than we in closing the Rift? They have a fell magic to bring to bear. It may be just the thing.”

 

“DON’T COUNT ON IT” rasped a voice from the back of the tent. They turned to look. Korthos the Runesmith was sitting up in his cot, fully awake and awful to behold. The left half of his face was missing, with a raw soup of torn flesh and protruding bone in its place and shreds of beard hanging from the bottom. The massive wound looked to have healed as much as it was going to, and the results were terrible to see. “I TOLD you, my lordly nephew, that nothing can be done until the missing relic is found. Vampire magic won’t do any better than my Runes without it.”

 

Borthos answered, more softly than he used to, to Flori’s surprise: “Perhaps you are right, uncle. In any case, the Runehammer draws near. He may have further thoughts on the Rift. Until then, let us counsel together on what our next move should be.” Korthos scowled and made to leave the tent, but Borthos stopped him with a glance. “Stay, uncle. Counsel with us. I will need all the wisdom we can muster to deal with the Dark Elves and Vampires and Orcs and who knows what else.” Korthos stood for a moment staring at his lord and nephew, then his crooked scowl eased slightly as he crossed his arms and sat back down.

 

They talked long into the night.

 

-----

(mid-turn 14 battles)

 

From the Daemons player

 

Estalia is truly as baffling in its warrior races as its smell...

The Skaven are quite numerous, with the first few encounters fairly
satisfying with significant cremation of their stink (most recent battle
from another faction was, well...less satisfying).  However all seem hell
bent on destroying the most massive of any demons present.  They call this
"Assassinate".  We of Khorth are baffled.  Sterilize and Annihilate.  This
is better accomplished with mass destruction, not "Assassinate."  Well, the
Dark Elven Lord, OreoSwilluh...OreoKillah, thrilla in manilla...Oreo...
whatever, He sacrificed his ENTIRE ARMY just to kill the Unstoppable
Be'leric of Khorth and Heralds. And Failed.  Be'leric of Khorth took well
over 15 hits from several dozen crossbows for several turns (ah... Good
Times.  kind of reminded me of the Tzeentch swamp back home with all those
mosquitos...Bloodsuckers.)  Anyway, We were eager to take the blood of a
worthy and noble opponent who actually wipes and simply doesn't smell like
shit, and eager to battle a truly noble Dragon, and what happens...?   He
flies all over the battlefield shouting commands to kill me, and he won't
even come close to Thirsty!!   Well, lets just say Khorne was well pleased.
All 3 units of bloodletters and both units of Flesh hounds standing strong
with Be'leric ready to surround the lone elf on the table...Well, maybe we
will get another chance soon enough...


Needless to say, it's been a real pleasure warping to your cute little
corner of reality.  I hope our presence has been a positive influence for
all of you.

And Remember:  Love Not.  Want Not.  Stink Not.  You all must Die.

Sincerely yours,

Be'leric of Khorth

 

------

 

From the Dark Elf player

 

Orgollithra's tactical prowess is overshadowed only by his utter
ruthlessness... and perhaps his high self-regard and self-preservation
instinct.

The entire Druchii warhost was on the march in search of the Dwarven army
when Malag-risn, the Dreadlord's adviser and arcanist called to him
urgently, "The winds of magic shift! A demonic host descends upon this
location!" The Dreadlord shouted for his troops to form ranks and create a
battle line. As his army moved into position, blood-red rips opened in the
sky and bloodthirsty demons poured out. As the demons rushed toward the
Druchii howling "blood for the blood god!" Malag-risn shouted to her lord,
"Destroy the most powerful among them! Their grip on reality is tenuous and
without the leaders, they cannot endure!" Orgollithra nodded as he mounted
his dragon. Next, he saw an unsettling sight. From the rip in reality he saw
the massive avatar of Khorne step forth, a bloodthirster. The Dreadlord
called for all artillery and bow fire to focus on it. Amid the Demonic
Horde, two ogre-sized bloodletters sat atop massive four-legged beasts.
Orgollithra commanded any troops not firing upon the bloodthrister to throw
themselves against the two commanders.

After issuing his orders, Orgollithra took to the skies knowing that his
battle host feared his wrath more than the demonic horde, and so long as he
remained, there was no question that he would reign victorious. He was
right.

The battle was swift and bloody and in the end Orgollithra's sat atop the
massive winged serpent perched upon the cliff-side of a mountain overlooking
the battlefield. He removed his full-helm revealing a grin. He surveyed the
war-torn battle scape where countless of his servants lay in pools of their
own blood. The demonic host was steadily being sucked back into the rifts
from which they crawled. He watched with particular pleasure as the massive
avatar of Khorne, beaten and bloodied, clawed at the stone ground and howled
with rage, reaching out toward Orgollithra who looked down upon him. He
could see the fury in the creature eyes. It felt its work was not yet
completed, but its grip on reality had been severed when the two Heralds
were slain. Their heads now hung from leather straps at the Dreadlord's
side. Orgollithra crossed his arms and looked the bloodthirster in his
rage-filled eyes and smirked confidently as the creature was torn from this
plane of existence.

"That's that." he said.

Other Druchii rummaged through the bodies gathering equipment and survivors.
His army had been obliterated. He was a bit surprised at the bloodthirster's
resilience, but he had prevailed nonetheless. His soldiers had served their
purpose and would soon be in good fighting order again.

 

-----

 

From the Dwarves

 

"So, old friend, what do you think the dawn will bring?" asked Borthos, Lord of Clan Broadaxe and of Raganos Underkeep.

 

He and Flori stood outside the holy Reliquary of the Maiden of Magritta. Inside, Roland the Runehammer, a master of Dwarven runes, was hammering away at his anvil, putting the finishing touches on a single rune of staggering power, one that he expected would close the daemonic rift that had unleashed all the trouble in Estalia. Dwarven miners had found the "lost" relic (a solid gold chastity belt, of all things -- with a lock that a child could pick) hidden in a cave nearby and brought it to Roland to hammer upon. The locals were most unhappy, but the rune would be ready tomorrow. Armies from all across Estalia swarmed on the borders, however.

 

"I cannot say, my lord. I trust The Runehammer. He will finish his rune, which will close the Rift -- given the 3 days time Roland says it must remain undisturbed in the Reliquary. But if we are driven from this place tomorrow, who knows what will happen?"

 

Borthos nodded. "If we are lucky, the Vampires or Dark Elves would have the sense to let the rune do its work. Vampires, for all their undead foulness, like chaos and its intrusion in these lands no more than we do. And the Dark Elves recently lost almost an entire army to a Daemonic force. But Skaven? Orcs? No one can count on them -- for anything! And the Daemons themselves may be near too. No, our best chance is to hold this place against all comers."

 

"But my lord," Flori responded, "we may be forced out by sheer numbers, the way we saw off the Orcs 3 days ago. Those Dark Elves who fled the mountains north of here at our approach have returned, and are moving another force into range. And there are so many others beside -- ratmen, undead, greenskins, Daemons. We may be compelled to abandon this place."

 

Borthos replied: "Then we shall return to Raganos Underkeep and dig deep, old friend -- very deep. For if we fail to close the Rift nothing on the surface of Estalia will be worth a halfing's fart."

 

-----

 

Borthos Still at the Reliquary (mid-Turn 15, last turn)

 

Dwarf Lord Borthos Broadaxe sat in his chair, alone in the command tent but for a scribe. He was dictating his Lord's Journal entry. His voice rumbled, words twisting around the pipe stuck between his teeth.

 

"We were lucky. The Reliquary was surrounded by sum'bitches all wanting this place and dwarf beards as trophies. But the evil bastards wouldn't cooperate, thank Grimnir. And that's why we've won."

 

A contented nod, some chewing on the pipe.

 

"The vampire counts came first. Marching an undead army up from Magritta to the south. Didn't see the Runehammer coming at their flank from Torrosa until it was too late. All it took was a few salvos from Roland's machines, a quick ambush of a some brainless skellies by miners, and the march ground to a halt. They had to redeploy everything to face Roland, who by that point of course had pulled back. The vampires knew they were done coming at the Reliquary - if they tried, the Runehammer would cut them to pieces from behind."

 

"Then the Keebler Elf guy, whats-his-name, tried to send an army at us. Clever attack plan - might have worked. One force aimed straight at the Reliquary, coming over the Molena plains. We were dug in strong as could be behind the fortifications I had Old Flori throw together. Suicide to attack 'em head on, and the elf reavers knew it. They sat down and waited -- like they were expecting another army to come down the mountains at us from the north. If one had, we'd have had a battle on our hands - I'd have had to abandon the defensive works to face the mountain force, Roland would step in to engage the others. But no army came. Korthos thinks it was the Wood Elves that saved us, making all kinds of distracting attacks on their darker cousins around Llaqueno and points east. But Rangers report it was Daemons what done it, attacking the support army from behind. Either way, it left the first force alone and in an untenable position. They soon backed off."

 

"Last of all, those crazy Skaven came at us from the west. We expected this, and Roland tickled their flank just like he did the Vampires before, made 'em stop, knowing two armies were waiting for their one. They skittered off. Of course, if the second Skaven army over that way had supported 'em by moving in on us from Cebreros, we'd have had a battle on our hands. But, being stupid rats, they went rampaging around the mountain villages north of here plundering away."

 

Another nod, a puff on the pipe.

 

"All it would have taken was some coordination between elf and vampire or vampire and rat or elf and rat and we would have been out on our asses or fighting for our lives. Heh! Didn't happen. Imbeciles."

 

"So the Reliquary was safe, and us around it. Korthos has confirmed it - Roland's mighty Rune of Binding has closed the Daemon Rift over Estalia. What daemons are here already will stay until exterminated. But no more are coming. So we dwarves saved the whole damned country. I don't expect no parades, though. There are some as saying that the evil elf reavers have come out of all this the best, with their countless slaves and other plunder. Or the vampires, who now control most of southern Estalia. Or even the Skaven, running around the lands unchecked in outrageous numbers."

 

"Fuck 'em all. I am Borthos Broadaxe, Lord of Clan Broadaxe and Raganos Underkeep, undefeated in six battles, occupier of the Reliquary, slayer of vampire lords and destroyer of big goddamn rat bells, closer of the Rift. They can say what they want. We're going home."

 

One wave of the hand and the scribe scuttled out of the tent, Lord's Journal under his stout arm. Borthos kicked the lit candle into the dirt, appreciating the darkness. For hours to come, it was lifted only by the occasional red ember of his pipe flaring.

 

-----

 

Pathetic Khorth. Sniveling at my boot heels like a dog.
-Orgollithra

 

It's on, Oreo-smellah.
Name the time. (preferably on the weekend.  Demons have a day job)
-Be'leric

 

You're desperation astounds me. The pathetic need to prove yourself. In your
mind you sought to exploit a weakened force. I thought that beneath you
Be'leric. Clearly I was mistaken. I am dissapointed that you did not
dedicate your resources elsewhere rather than fighting the same fight again
and again. You bore me, demon.
-Orgollithra

 

Dear Ivegottamouthfulla,
Shut your trap.  Your breath stinks.
Prepare to die.
-Be'leric

 

I retract my previous statement. Your desperation does not astound me one
bit. In fact, I would say it is on par with the rest of your presentation
and discourse. Pitiful.
-Orgollithra

 

Shut-it! Zip! No-Talkie.
You must die.

-Be'leric

 

(Dwarven sniggers can be heard echoing from the peaceful woods around the Reliquary)

 

-----

 

(From the Dark Elves)

 

The Demons had come quickly this time... the Druchii were ill prepared and
still rallying their scattered forces. The end result was a bloody affair.
This time Orgollithra's forces were not routed, they were cut down by the
blood thirsty demons.

Orgollithra's personal retinue, his Blackguard heaved the lifeless black
dragon's corpse off of their Dreadlord's broken body long enough to pull him
from under it. One called out, "He still draws breath!" And he did. However,
it would be a long time before the Dreadlord rode to battle again. Moreover,
his personal militia had been obliterated.

At the moment that the Demons were poised to strike the finishing blow, the
battle ended. Perhaps it was the Dwarven Rune Magic? Either way, it spared
the Druchii a bloody defeat, but they certainly achieved no victory this
day.

Orgollithra's confrontation with the hate-filled Bloodthirster punctuated
the Druchii involvement in the battle for Estailia. With a comatose
Dreadlord, the Druchii had no direction; thus, Soldril, Orgollithra's
cousin, gave the order to march north back to their black arcs and set sail
for Naggaroth.

 

-----

 

The long Dwarven column snaked through the mountains. On and on the army trudged; they had been marching for days now, and would be for many days to come before they reached the tunnels that would lead them home to Raganos Underkeep. Some say the Dwarves are natural sprinters, very dangerous over short distances. The wise know better. They are indefatigable on a long march.

 

The Ranger scout found Borthos walking near the front. "My lord, the elf reavers and Daemons have fought to a bloody draw in the mountains near Reas. They say the Elven Dread Lord Orglli-... Oreo-... They says the Elf Lord and his dragon mount are dead, but the remaining reavers were a match for the Daemons, if barely. All have fled, the elf reavers north to their ships, the Daemons to gods know where."

 

Borthos grunted an acknowledgment and dismissed the Ranger. He cocked an eye to Old Flori. "So?" asked the Dwarf Lord. Flori responded with a shrug, "I suppose there are those who will say the elf reavers still had their way with Estalia, since they were not beaten in the end. But the Vampire Counts have just crushed a Skaven army and rule most of southern Estalia."

 

Borthos snorted. "The elf reaver-king slain? If that rumor proves true, I have no rival in this land. And don't talk to me about Vampire Lords. I already killed one of those -- with this very ax! -- and massacred his army. And another of their armies could do no better than a draw against Roland Runehammer. No, this is more good news, old friend, more good news for the dwarves."

 

-----

 

(from the Dark Elves)

 

The march from southern Estalia to the northern coast was a long one. The
Druchii force had grown exponentially in power as a result of the numerous
battles. The troops had become veterans of war and the countless souls
sacrificed to Khaine earned the Dark Elves the murder god's blessing. They
were now an unstoppable force, unparalleled by the other Estalian forces,
save for the ever-growing undead horde to the south.

The Dwarves were in route back to their mountains and the other forces of
Estalia were scattered. Those that crossed the Druchii's path on the march
back to the Black Ark were easily cut down. The long trek provided
Orgollithra with sufficient time to heal. He was in no state to fight, but
he had regained enough strength to move about on his own. He rode side by
side with his cousin, Soldril, whose force had become far more powerful than
when he had arrived in Estalia.

After weeks of travel, the Druchii neared Bilbali, one of the first cities
from which slaves were gathered. Orgollithra spoke, "Soldril, this is your
land now."

Soldril looked to the Dreadlord with surprise, "Master?"

"You've fought well and earned the blessing of Khaine... none of the forces
remaining in Estalia, save for the Vampire Counts, are a threat to you. The
Vampires have established their domain in southern Estalia... Your domain
will be the North." Orgollithra nodded his head once punctuating his order.

Soldril nodded in return, "It would be an honor."

The Dreadlord looked ahead and spoke, "The Skaven may rule the land beneath
Estalia, but they have proved no problem in the past. Simply fortify your
borders against the undead. Marrigan, your arcanist, should be able to put
up sufficiently potent wards against them. Besides, perhaps the Vampire Lord
will hear reason where the other armies could not. His forces were, after
all, one of the only forces that failed to heed the call of the pathetic
Dwarves when they rallied the armies of Estalia against us."

Soldril laughed, "I only wish I could see the Dwarf Lord's face. Each force
he sent at us we hammered into the ground. His pathetic attempt at throwing
fodder between his forces and ours is the reason we've grown so powerful! So
many sacrifices in battle! Khaine's thirst for blood was surely satiated."

"Indeed. The Dwarf's folly was incurring my wrath. He struck the first blow
and we the last. He was wise to withdraw his forces... he could not hope to
stand against us now. That said, be mindful of the Vampires. You share this
land Soldril."

Soldril nodded, "The undead make poor slaves anyhow. They are more use to
us... alive?... Well, moving. They have arcane secrets rivaling our own...
As the flames of war die down, we may be able to barter. Time will tell."

The two Dark Elf commanders rode in silence until they arrived at Bilbali. A
battle had recently been fought there. The Druchii cleared the streets of
the remaining vermin and Soldril began turning the city into his fortress.
Orgollithra returned to Naggaroth upon his Black Ark with thousands of
slaves. His victory in Estalia had earned him the blessing of Khaine and the
reverence of the Lords of the the other Druchii houses. The war for Estalia
was over and it ended precisely how the Druchii had planned.