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  2. Wall Relief Plates of Ancient Times Released

    Wall Relief Plates of Ancient Times: Four Reliefs and Triumph & Thralldom (sold separately) Four Reliefs Triumph & Thralldom These two different terrain decorations are out now! Order your wall reliefs here. Also on Warseer. Triumph & Thralldom, and Four Reliefs respectively, are two separate 28mm resin kits of 1 plate with wall reliefs. Both variants are upon release priced at £8 / €9 + plus postage, with bunch savings in place. Picture of miniatures (painted by me, Carcearion and Fuggit Khan respectively) are included for size comparison purposes only. The fine resin casting, by Zealot Miniatures, carries detail well, but the thinness of the plates made it necessary to drill holes through undetailed areas for mould support. These holes are easily filled in with modelling putty. It should be noted that these wall relief plates were very much sculpted with a ruler, but being an amateur I have not achieved perfectly straight lines. Customers might want to file and scrape away at the edges to make the plates fit whatever purposes they have in mind. Once cleaned, just glue these wall plates on to some block and adorn your terrain pieces! Size comparison: Four Reliefs Triumph & Thralldom Four Reliefs + Triumph & Thralldom (sold separately) __________________________________ Hunger gnawed in his gut, and his eyes were dry like desert sand, yet still Hamukk bore a smile on his hollow-cheeked face. He had done it! He had outsmarted the stunted masters with their log-thick arms and coiled beards. He had outran their stumped feet and cruel hands. He had hid, and he had sneaked. He had covered his tracks and kept one step ahead of their vicious lackeys all of the time. The jackals! The dogs! All outwitted. His long plight of labour and hardship was at long last over. Freedom would be his, and slavery but a rotten memory with which to scare his future grandchildren. Praise the gods! Hamukk, son of Bernu and Ishya, of the Human tribe Lakash, ran a calloused hand through his dirty, straight black hair. That hand had only three and a half fingers left. He shivered at the thought, yet smirked triumphantly at the certain knowledge that his captors would never set their brands and blades and tongs to him again. The thrill ran through him, blood rushing in his veins and feeding his hopes. And all thanks to a chance overhearing! That sun-scorched day would stay with him forever. That moment, when he stood chest-deep in the muddy river waters and harvested reeds with a burnt clay sickle, and the priestly acolytes walked past slothfully. Their conversation had for some reason raised his interest from the very start, and he had memorized every word of theirs. They had talked of a labyrinth, a place of darkness through which no man not chosen by the gods or anointed in blood by demons could pass. They had named the location, and it was not far off. Most importantly, they discussed rumours of long maze tunnels leading out to hostile tribal grounds with gates wide open and undefended. Thereupon the short, bulky acolytes had reaffirmed their faith in their foul gods by praising the deities for watching over the labyrinth. A labyrinth! He had trekked through mountain ravines all his life before being caught by the devious blockbeards from the lowlands, and he would take his chances with a mere handmade maze any day. The trick was to not walk in circles, he had decided. Hamukk had then and there determined that this was a sign from his people's gods, and had acted quickly, stealing provisions and torches in the night, running off into the windy wastelands, zigzagging through nigh-on lifeless terrain and walking in a long crescent toward the spot mentioned by the acolytes. It was indeed undefended, except for by some scorpions just inside the entrance. They had nearly been the end of him, but he had glimpsed them in the ruddy light and brought his flaming torch down upon the venomous critters, scaring off the scorpions and clearing the way. Fire truly was a stolen gift from the gods. It gave man power over beast, and man power over darkness. With his torches he had already made it through most of the maze, he was sure. There were costly relief carvings everywhere on the walls, painted in gaudy colours and covered with figures. The relief carvings seldom repeated and thus he had good reason to think that he had not gone in small circles more than thrice. In the light of his flame he could spot the accursed Dwarfs' conception of gods, goddesses, demons and myths. He spotted historical scenes of slavery, warfare and hardship, as well as great works undertaken, sorcery and above all atrocities. There was flaying and maiming and crushing, done by malevolent Dwarfs, usually against Humans and Goblins. They did indeed like to brag about their cruelties, didn't they? But those scenes no longer concerned him. He was no longer part of their malice and torture. His trusty torches would carry him through, like a beacon of the gods. Yet there was only one torch left now, and still there was no end in sight of the maze... The cocky smile vanished. Hamukk swallowed, and moved faster, more rashly than before. He stopped memorizing relief scenes for the sake of speed. The exit must be here somewhere! As the flames burned out their oily fuel, he ripped off his bandages, his headband, his loincloth and even loose hair to feed the fire. He could get other clothes later, but not another life. Steps clattered and echoed through the cool labyrinth, faster and faster. He blowed as much air as he dared into the dying embers, blowing up small flame tongues anew. Hamukk saw less and less of the richly carved stone walls around him, and relied ever more on his hands to guide him along the walls. The darkness was closing in. Damn...! The torch went out with a sputter and sizzle. Hamukk blinked at the coloured lights dancing across his retina. When they were gone, nothing remained. There was not even moonlight reflected in the corridor. Everything went solid black. Teeth clattered as the escaped slave fought a wild panic welling up from within. He began scrambling down corridors, hands shaking on walls to his left and right as he sought guidance. He slid past corners in a stumbling jog, panting and whining. He fell and rose, unseen bruises already aching on all limbs. He had to get out! He ran for it, ran hard, and crashed into a stone wall. The violent impact stole away his breath and senses, for how long he did not know. Hamukk eventually woke up on the smooth floor, or was he perhaps still asleep? It was impossible to tell the difference. His eyes gave the same report whether they were shut or open. Blackness, and nothing more. The man's head was strangely numb yet at the same time beset with sharp pangs of pain. Hamukk suspected that his headlong collision with the wall had damaged his mind. His nose was broken, and he had lost two of his teeth, worn by millstone flakes as they were. He prayed to three gods and seven goddesses, yet heard no response. Was he already in the netherworld? Was this the place of dust and darkness that all men feared to enter? How would the other spirits react to a living man among themselves? Or was he even still alive? Hamukk had no way to tell. For untold hours he sat on his haunches while his head spinned worse and worse. His thoughts turned into a maelstrom of confusion. At last, he reached the bewildered conclusion that demons were stealing away his mind. He rose up and swore heinously at them, uttering such foul words that men would have killed him for the insult. Yes. Demons! It was the demons! The former slave fell silent for a while. Then he whispered: "Reveal yourselves." And in the darkness, the eyes of all the relief figures on the walls lit up, like a nightsky of red embers. Watching him, uncaring. It was as if all the gods had convened to judge his soul, and found him a subject unworthy to even assemble court for. They stared at him. Forever. It was the final straw. Hamukk fell hard to his knees, warm blood trickling across the cold obsidian floor. He clawed at his eyes in madness. And screamed until his lungs burst.
  3. The Future of Fimir

    I'm hoping that they get a full army list from FW. They've already previewed several more models so hopefully they are going that route. I read recently that they had increased the size of their AoS team so hopefully sooner rather than later? I think as far as lore they could fit into the story with little/no change. Any realm that has swamps/marshes could be a home to Fimir. I imagine they just won't mention the reproductive aspect.
  4. Thunder Frost Tribe

    The Thunder Frost tribe during the time of the old world was led by Farad'n Chill Bringer. Coming and favoring the cold climates of snow covered mountains they would raid and pillage for their food and sheer pleasure. Farad'n kept his leadership by being unusually cold and clinical (for an Ogor!) and would not hesitate to make examples quickly. Farad'ns brother Farok was his second in command Bruiser, who was know for his use of beasts of mountains for his forces such as mournfangs and stoneshorns. While Farad'n typically use infantry forces and giants to masterful effect. Both Brothers were fiercely loyal to each other. An unusual trait for Ogors but one which paid off greatly. The tribe has an unusual skin colour and tone. A testament to their favoured climate. Following the age of Sigmar and sundering of the world the Tribe was forced to become nomadic to maintain food supply. But otherwise operated as they normally did. However, with the events the followed Baergut Vosjarl the curse (or blessing) of the Everwinter came. Suddenly Farad'n had found that his beasts and cavalry units along with his Brother Farok brought with them this Everwinter everywhere they went. The Brothers fought many battles and Farok who would tend to vanguard such battles would become known as Farok Ice Layer as he brought the Ice and winter to their enemies. Farad'n Chill Bringer still fiercely loyal and proud of his younger brother named him Frostlord of the Thunder Frost Tribes Beast Claw raiders. Elevating his brother as now a true equal. Farad'n took command of the Gutbuster, maneaters,Firebelly elements of the Tribe. Farok took the Beast Claw raider and Aleguzzler Gargants that he specialized in so well. Both Brothers now raid throughout the mortal realms in unison. Farok bringing the Everwinter and Farad'n leading the might force. The tribe revelling in the Icy climate they favour where ever they roam. The Bond of the Brothers firm and solid, as they bring destruction and carnage with cold and calculated effect not seen in others of their kin. Leading to the fall of many who underestimate them. Will the brothers join with the recent Oruuk stirring lead by an Ironjaw that is said to be gathering a huge army? Only time will tell. Kind regards Zolas.
  5. Da Bloodbreaka Clan

    Rumble with Da FangFists 2000 vs Ironjawz - Major Victory via Turn 2 (Border War) It had been a few days since Da Bloodbreakas sacked the city of Ozil, their last proper fight, save for the handful of scraps that had occurred when the Orruks set up camp. Gorfang and his bosses had to keep the rest of the boyz disciplined, or as disciplined as an Orc could be between the time it took to reach his next fight. They had crossed the narrow mountain pass out of Dreisenberg and entered the Kingdom of Vinternan. Somewhere in this northern realm, Da Bloodbreaka Clan would find the FangFists and attempt to merge their clans together, peacefully or brutally. There was also the issue of this shiny choppa that the shaman Titug foresaw before he lost his head. Gorfang was interested in finding out more, for a shiny choppa blessed by the gods would draw the attention of many forces. And where there were armies, there was bound to be a good fight. First thing was first, they had to find the FangFists and stomp whatever chaos gits they found. However, Da Bloodbreakas had yet to encounter any of the spikey gits since they entered the frozen kingdom with the floating ice islands. All they had seen were shrines erected to the Dark Gods. Then they started to see some spikey bits laying around on the ground, then more, and more, until the Orruks realized the bits they were passing were also the dead bodies of chaos warriors. It appeared that the FangFists had done a good job at thrashing a large number of spikey boys not too long ago, but where were they? Shouldn't the FangFists be distributing the loot amongst the Gore-Gruntas for food or at the very least for the boyz to smash together for new weapons and armour? They did not have to wait too long for that answer as Azkrug FangFist, Megaboss of the FangFists and his Maw Krusha emerged into view. He seemed to be in a hurry, as he glided towards Da Bloodbreakas with a few of his boyz trailing behind. Gorfang made his way forward to see what all the hubbub was all about. "Oi! FangFist! Iz heard about you," said Gorfang. "Im Gorfang Da Immortal, an' this is Da BloodBreakas. Gork and Mork sent us to find you-" "Bout time you lot showed up!" shouted Azkrug. "Da Godz said you'd be here. Better late than never I suppose. Your choppas will be bloody soon enough." "Well you and your boyz seemed to have duffed up them spikey boyz well and dandy. More of them are still up and kicking then?" asked Gorfang. "What, no, not these gits. They all good an' dead," replied Azkrug. "I needs ya help with me boyz." "This lot? That's not much. Where is the rest of your boyz at?" "That's what I'm talking about" Azkrug said as he pointed behind Gorfang across the field. Sure enough, across the horizon, a horde of Ironjawz emerged into view. They carried the banners of the FangFist clan, but appeared to be readying for battle. It appeared that despite Azkrug's reputation as a fighter, he was a lousy leader "What the zoggin' hell did you do to get kicked out of yer own clan?" Gorfang said. "I wanted this shiny choppa my shaman kept yapping about before his head went boom," answered Azkrug. "Me other bosses heard him, thought they could beats me, but they was scared gits and couldn't do it. Me best boy. Zaggatoof, though, decides he wants to be boss, so he gets da other bosses in line, and turns most of me other boyz against me. Da rest of me lads and I had to fights our way out to escape. Fortunately youze lot are here now, just like Gork and Mork said. Now we can stomp them together." "At least me boyz get someone to bash, so thanks," said Gorfang. "We'll talk later bout da shiny choppa later. Lets get yer boyz back then." Invigorated by the site of two megabosses standing side by side, Da Bloodbreakas surged forward towards the rebellious Orruks. Gorfang and Azkrug could see the other bosses scrambling to prepare their troops for battle. Standing atop his Maw Krusha on the right flank, Muggmar gave a taunting warcry as his Gore-Gruntas squealed and cheered a similar challenge. Up on the hill near a Dragonfire Dias, sat the other bosses: Zaggatoof, the traitorous megaboss, Wierdnob Shaman Nifdum, the Warchanter Oogop, and the Brute Boss Xhaxkrux. While his forces advanced, Gorfang and Azkrug seized the dias in the center to observe the battlefield. The traitorous Orruks were mostly gathered on the far hill, slowly advancing down the left, while the fast-moving elements of the Maw Krusha and Gore-Gruntas was preparing to overrun the right flank. Rather than discuss unit tactics, both bosses discussed what competent bosses would talk about: killing other bosses! "Oi, which one of them you wants?" Gorfang asked Azkrug. "No one but me lays a choppa on Zaggatoof," proclaimed Azkrug. "I'm gonna krump him to bits, then have Chewy here eat him to gunk. Then I'm going to stomp all over that gunk until nofin is left of him!" The Maw Krusha gave a timely burp, perhaps a cause of a recent foe he had devoured while escaping. "What about da boss on da Maw Krusha?" asked Gorfang. "Muggmar? He's weak," answered Azkrug. "Da beasts' appetite is more dangerous than him. All he does is feed da beast. Iz more afraid of Xhaxkrux and his Brutes than I is with Muggmar. I never could control those lot. Might be a good challenge for you, Gorfang." "Mmmm," the megaboss thought. "You finks its good to send me lads against him?" "Probably. Even yer ugly lookin' git over there could kill Muggmar just by staring at him!" The thought of ridding the clan of Ugly Bogg brought some solace to Gorfang, but he'd rather have Zodgrob and Drazdruzak ensure the beast would die. Although, if Zodgrob died, a potential threat would go away, only for another, and possibly worse one to arise in Ugly Bogg. It was best to send his big Brutes in for the glory. Besides, Gorfang didn't mind the challenge of a rowdy bunch of Orruks that scared his fellow megaboss. "So be it. Lets get stuck in then, shall we?" said Gorfang, as he turned to order his boyz forward. "ZODGROB!" shouted Gorfang over the cacophany of Orc screaming. "You boyz go bash dat boss and his beast. Azkrug tells me Muggmar over there finks a pointy eared git is better at killing than you boyz!" "What!? No pointy-eared git is better than us!", replied the annoyed Brute Boss. "You hear that lads? Lets go show him how killy we can be. WAAAAGH!" As the riled up Brutes charged forward, Azkrug jested to Gorfang, "Muggmar doesn't know your Brute, nor did I say that." "Right you are Azkrug, but Zodgrob doesn't know that," said Gorfang. "He might be missing half his brain and can't see half the things we can, but he's good at killing fings. That's why he's my big boss." For now, at least, Gorfang said in his mind. "Well then, might as well give him a hand before I go stomp on Zaggatoof." With that, Azkrug kicked Chewy into motion, and beast and rider took off towards the enemy line. As they glided towards a hapless unit of Gore-Gruntas, Azkrug leaned Chewy to his right and the beast roared towards Muggmar. The Maw Krusha's innard-bursting bellow had the desired effect, as the opposing Maw Krusha sank into the ground, writhing in pain. With Muggmar pinned, Zodgrob, Dradruzak, and the rest of the Brutes swarmed the megaboss and chopped him and his beast to death. With a unit of Ardboyz arriving for support, the right flank seemed secure. Gorfang paused briefly to scan the rest of the field, waving on his remaining forces to swoop to the left to claim the alter on the left from the enemy. Ugly Bogg, meanwhile, was struggling to hold onto the center dias from the enemy Ardboyz. Gorfang considered helping out, but that idea was knocked out of his skull when Xhaxkrux's basha bashed him in the head. He stepped back to recover as Xhaxkrux and his Brutes circled the Megaboss. "Youze pretty tough for a boss," said Xhaxkrux. "Iz duffed up plenty of bigger boyz than you before. We'll take care of you before ol' Azkrug gets it!" The first Brute charged into Gorfang, who was still gathering his thoughts after Xhaxkrux's blow. Despite parrying most of his attacks, the opposing Orc was able to land a blow into the megaboss' back. A sharp yelp escaped Gorfang. That was quickly replaced by anger. The next Brute that attacked came straight at him. Gorfang smacked away his lazy attacks and punched his Rip-Tooth Fist right through his chest. Two more Brutes charged, both from his flanks. The megaboss shouldered one Brute to the ground, but the other was too quick, and cut his upper leg. Swallowing the thought of pain, Gorfang kicked the Brute away with the wounded leg. He quickly turned and delivered his choppa into the other Brute's abdomen, then into his side to finish him off. The other Brute hesitated at his kin's demise, a mistake that would cost him his life, as Gorfang seized that moment to split the Brute in two at the waist. Xhaxkrux was growing restless. He threw his last boy at the megaboss, but he was cut down soon after. Gorfang then stammered forward to confront the Brute Boss. "Bigger boyz, eh? You sure they weren't humies? Cause you lot fight just as bad as them" jested Gorfang, as he produced a mocking gesture towards the Brute Boss. Contorting his face with fury, Xhaxkrux barked out, "Nobody insults Xhaxkrux and survives, grotbag! I don't cares who you thinks you is, but I'll make sure to bash you dead real slow so you regrets it!" Xhaxkrux leapt forward, hoping to strike him down in one blow. Despite his wounds, Gorfang sidestepped the attack, and swung horizontally at Xhaxkrux. He turned to catch the choppa just in time, then tried to jostle it from the megaboss' grip. Gorfang then pulled back, dragging Xhaxkrux towards him, but the Brute reacted by bringing down his basha onto the Orruk. Gorfang's armour absorbed the blow, but Xhaxkrux prepared for another strike. With his choppa still stuck in his claw, the megaboss raised his left arm and caught the weapon at its shaft. For moments, both combatants were locked in a stalemate, both relying on their strength rather than mind to try to defeat the other. So Gorfang changed tactics and used his head, literally, to break the stalemate, by slamming his skull into the only good eye Xhaxkrux had left. The Brute was left dazed and confused as he reached his hands to his face. The next time Xhaxkrux opened his eye was later when Gorfang attached his skull to the Bloodbreaka banner after the battle. After dispatching Xhaxkrux, Gorfang caught his breath and gazed to the boss hill to observe Azkrug's Maw Krusha devouring the Warchanter Oogop. With the FangFist rebels surrounded on all sides, the battle was over. The rebellious Orcs were given choice to join the BloodBreakas or die. The survivors made the wise decision, but Zaggatoof had made his choice earlier. Realizing the battle was lost, the megaboss fled for parts unknown. His shaman, Nifdum, had tried to defend himself by whacking the Maw Krusha over its head with his staff. Rather than crush him, Azkrug merely knocked some sense into the Wierdnob Shaman before he changed his mind about who he wanted to fight for. As the Bloodbreakas began to set up camp and looting parties, the megabosses met for a postmortem discussion at Gorfang's boss tent. "Good fightin' that was," Gorfang said. "Got us some more boyz for da WAAAGH! and a new skull for me pointy stick." He polished Xhaxkrux's head and cleaned up the neck area so it would fit on the banner. Da Immortul had a special place for it. He then continued, "So where do you fink Zaggatoof ran off to?" "Beats me," said Azkrug as he scratched his head. "Doubt the spikey boyz will get him. He might be searching for that shiny choppa the shamans be blabbering about. That git might not be da strongest, but he's cunnin'. He won't forget this defeat." "Aye I gots ya, but you boyz are now wif us, and what I says goes." Gorfang rose to his feet and placed his hand on Azkrug's shoulder. "Da FangFists are yours, but Iz da boss now. What I says goes. Youze a good, choppy Orc, and I needs ya for the fights ahead. Weze gots to find more boyz and get them back to fightin' form. Gork and Mork has somefin special for us, something big. Prove me youze loyal by bringing back Zaggatoof's skull, then youze become one of me bosses." There was silence momentarily before Azkrug responded, "I don't likes the idea of being bossed around, but since the rest of me boyz nearly gutted me, might be best to just be a boss rather than the boss. But that's what Iz expect. I won't be answering to some lowly Greenskin or ugly lookin' Brutes. I'll shows you that Im da best and bring back more than Zaggatoof's stupid head. For now, me boyz are yours." ------------- My first match against a fellow Ironjawz player, as well as my first time using the Maw Krusha. I think I found my new favorite toy He was a beast in combat. Reading about destructive bulk and seeing it in action are two different things. I nearly took off his hero on Turn 2, dealing 4 mortal wounds. His ranged attack is also good at taking out stray heroes or softening up bigger targets or units. Very happy to have him on my roster. To the game itself. My opponent used Gordrakk as his Maw Krusha, and set him up with the Gore Gruntas on my right. I planned to press hard on one side to secure three objectives, so I chose to send the bulk of my forces right to overpower the speedy parts of his army. The megabrutes did their job, and took out Gordrakk before he could retaliate. Gorfang nearly perished after a failed charge left him vulnerable, but my opponent rolled poorly on the brute boss/gore choppa rolls and I only suffered four wounds total. He retaliated and practically took out the unit. My decision to hold back my Gruntas and Ardboyz was to consolidate my central position. They were to react to his slower units trying to reinforce the right. By the time I had dispatched with his speedy units, I decided to swarm the middle two spots to pull ahead. By the end of turn 2, I was ahead 16-4 with the match all but in hand. The store had to close at that time, so we just called it. I recognized in this game how important priority really is. Had I not been able to dispatch my opponents big threats first, he would have surely dealt with me swiftly. Yet, this is where support is important. Not only the Warchanter's buffs, Mystic Shield, or a good WAAAGH! from the megaboss, but positioning your troops so you can tilt a skirmish in your favor. I know my Ardboyz can handle themselves, but they are more a tarpit for the hammer that are the Brutes. Likewise, I even used Megaboss Gorfang as bait, unintentionally, to lure the Brutes over so my Maw Krusha could get to his heroes With my Maw Krusha complete, my Ironjawz army is done for the time being. I may purchase the IJ skirmish box to get another unit of Brutes and finish my Ardboyz command, but I am sad that I am basically done painting Orcs for the time being. I am so happy, however, with how the BloodBreaka's came out. They are exactly how I wanted them to be, paint scheme, conversions, et all. The army itself is so fun to play with. I hope the Ironjawz get the proper update they need to make them a stronger choice for matched play. Next up will be a general report of my army's Coalescence experience. Before I go, here is the next character profile AZKRUG FANGFIST - MEGABOSS ON MAW KRUSHA The words FangFist spread fear and panic across Zarcosia. The FangFists are a violent clan of Ironjawz who seek nothing but wonton destruction of everything they come across. Such is the nature of the clan that infighting is almost a daily routine. Oddly enough, this animosity has built a vicious training cycle for the Orruks. No matter who they fight, the FangFists are more than capable of handling themselves in combat. They take it from their leader, Azkrugm a vicious Orruk who loves violence, but has a trait rarely other Orcs have: curiosity. Before he bashes something with his choppa, he likes to understand what the object or person is before he unceremoniously crushes it. This has led to a certain acknowledgement with Megaboss Gorfang. While he hates the idea of being bossed around, he eventually grew tired of being boss, especially after the betrayal of Zaggatoof. He stole the knowledge of the shiny choppa's location. Now Azkrug hunts him down while searching for the same Gork (or Mork) blessed weapon, which is philosophized to have the power to annihilate armies. The weapon that gave Azkrug and his clan the name, FangFist, is a special weapon he personally designed: it is a fanged griever on his left arm, combined with his Scrap-Toof Choppa. It has taken down mighty heroes, slain multitudes of foes, and protected its user from unforeseen harm
  6. Age of sigmar skirmish narrative.

    Saw it earlier and it was incredible! Hope to see more of these types of videos in the future.
  7. 8th Ed BIG Battle (from my Tilean campaign)

    Thanks ConOgre. Here's the final installment ... ----------------------------------------------- (The final turns) Like any ogre, Mangler would not wait for the enemy to charge. He led his warriors headlong into the Cathayan halberdiers beside the dwarfs. He did not ponder the options, knowing in his gut they were the softer of the two possibilities - their relatively thin and less well-armoured bodies promised a speedy destruction, which should mean that he and his lads smashed right through them before the dwarfs could counter-attack his flank. Besides, he had spotted the enemy’s baggage in the rear and greed always had a habit of getting the better of him. Behind Mangler, his bulls crashed into the last of the Pavonan swordsmen, right beside their lord Duke Guidobaldo. (Game note: The Pavonan player, actually playing Duke Guidobaldo in the campaign, had agonised over whether it was best to join the unit or not. I thought it was crazy not to, but he decided it was for the best to ‘remain single’.) On the other side of the field, amidst a confusion of blue and white, with Pavonans running hither and thither, even through their comrades’ ranks and files, Razger tore into and right through the handgunners closest to him before they could even bring their muzzles to bear. This was the beginning of the end for the Pavonans. The handgunners – what few were not only left standing but also retained wits enough to do so – fled away, as did the handgunners at their side, thus joining the halberdiers’ frantic flight to form a turbulent river of broken men. The dismounted pistoliers would soon be swept up too. Visconte Carjaval, having successfully halted and reformed his noble men-at-arms, witnessed this sudden collapse. In that moment, his breath ragged with exhaustion, he chose not to sacrifice himself and the proud chivalry of Pavona in an almost certainly futile gesture of defiance. Instead, he gave the order to ride, and ride fast. He intended to find Duke Guidobaldo and, as he shouted to his men, “Look to our lord’s safety.” What the visconte didn’t know was that Mangler’s large regiment of bulls had made very short work of the last Pavonan swordsmen, stepping forwards to find themselves in combat with the duke himself! Another boom advertised the ironblaster’s next shot, its massive ball killing five of the Reman dwarfs. The Scrap-launcher’s effort was badly directed, for the burden beast carrying the contraption had been startled by the ironblaster’s report, and its heavy hail of sharpened iron poured upon the mules, oxen and wagons of the baggage train rather than the enemy’s soldiers. Duke Scaringella, for more than a decade Captain General of the Reman army, as was his father before him, and in all that time having not fought a single battle that was not already a forgone conclusion, now found himself in the deadliest of combats. He knew this was the moment his life had always been shaping him for, and that the rest of his life would be shaped by, which is why he chose to challenge the brute tyrant Mangler himself. His lance found its mark and grey flesh was pierced, but then Manglers’ riposte almost broke the duke’s shield arm, threatening to tear him from his saddle. Somehow, he held tight. Dropping his shattered lance, he tore his sword from its scabbard and screamed: “Fight, lads. Fight!” Crossbow bolts were loosed by the dozen, and a cannon boomed, killing two more of the lead-belchers on the ogres’ right, and scaring the rest away. Then another cannon shot brought the monstrous beast carrying the ironblaster down, the ball almost taking its head from its shoulders. The dwarfs now charged into Mangler’s flank, and their butchery was astounding. As Mangler finally bashed Duke Scaringella off his horse, then broke the horse’s neck with his elbow, the ironguts beside him were all but annihilated. Suddenly the mighty Mangler found himself surrounded by a dizzying crowd of assailants. Their jabs, thrusts and slashes came from all quarters, while the weight of their numbers made it hard to discern one from another. Stumbling backwards, blood pouring from half a dozen gaps between his iron scales, he realised his huge bardiche was no longer in his hands. For the first time ever, the urge to fight had been supplanted by something different. Before he could fully comprehend what it was, he was dead, falling beside the battered body of Duke Scaringella. One of the dwarfs scrambled over the brute tyrant’s corpse, shouting, “The duke!” and began to drag the armoured noble away. Duke Guidobaldo, having exchanged several blows most gallantly with the enemy before him – enough, he hoped, to distract them momentarily – now gambled his life on the obedience and strength of his mount. Yanking on the reins as he struck his hammer at the lead ogres’ face, he turned about and urged his horse on. He had to outpace the brutes behind him, despite their size and despite the armour upon both him and his horse. His horse, reputed the finest in central Tilea, proved sufficient to the task and the duke escaped the ogres’ further harmful intentions, galloping like he had not done since his youth. The field had become divided from left to right. On one side of the field the Remans were reforming their line to face the foe, while on the other almost every alliance soldier had fled leaving only Razger and his surviving warriors, as well as quite a number of Mangler’s ogres, albeit in a rather less neat formation than the men. In between the two the ground was strewn with ragged heaps men and brutes, dead or wounded, as well as the smoking remains of several guns. The Remans still had two Pavonan cannons with them, as well as their own piece … … and at such a distance they presented a sight which none of the ogres were glad to see. Those were the guns that had not yet failed. They had cut down mournfangs, rhinoxes and many an ogre, and there was no reason to suppose they would not continue to do so. Advancing upon the last surviving Reman regiments would prove costly to Razger’s army, perhaps even fatal? As his brutes stopped their stomping and reformed their bodies, Razger took a breather and gave the situation some thought. He could see the loot was still safe – not a man had got close to the heavily burdened wagons. Scrutinizing the field ahead, he guessed Mangler must surely have fallen in battle, simply by the fact that neither he nor any of his irongut bodyguard could be seen. Suddenly, Razger realised this suited him just fine. Almost all the loot in the baggage train had been Mangler’s - payment and bribes for his continued mercenary service. If Mangler was dead, whose loot was it now? And who would command his warriors? If Razger left now, with all the loot and whichever lads could still march, he decided that wouldn’t be so bad. If anything, it was better than things had been before the battle when virtually none of the loot was his and only half of his army could be trusted. Razger’s mouth twisted into a grin, as wicked as it was fierce, and he shouted to two of his lads to listen up. The dwarfs dragged Duke Scaringella away from the heap of dead and dying Cathayans, then turned him over to look at him properly. There was no sign of life in his eyes, and his chest plate was caved in so deep his ribs must all have broken and his lungs burst beneath. They laid him down gently, then all but one returned to their places in the regiment. The other ran towards the arch-lector to deliver the bad news. To the south of the battlefield, Duke Guidobaldo Gondi had rendezvoused with Visconte Carjaval, and was now riding, somewhat faster than the scattered clumps of footsoldiers around him, in a wide arc to avoid the foe and get to the Reman lines. There he hoped to find his son, and whatever remained of his army. Back at the ogres’ wagons, gnoblars, draught-slaves and bulls alike, watched with suspicion as two ogres, Razger’s lads, raced towards them. As they drew close, the nearest shouted. “Hitch ‘em up and get ready to shift. We’re moving off now.” One of the bulls by the wagons, called Gordok, strode forwards, a great long whip in hand. “On whose say so?” “Razger’s orders,” came the answer. “I take orders from Mangler, like most of us here. Razger can ask him if he wants some shiftin’ done.” “You’ll not be getting orders from Mangler n’more,” said the new arrival, laughing. “So if ya know what’s good for yer, you’ll shut it now an’ do as yer told.” Game Notes The battle was effectively over by turn 3! Which was helpful as our time was up too. 10.00 – 5.00 had seemed like plenty of time, but the armies were so big, and the conversation flowed fully. Luckily, this did not in any way hinder the game-world outcome or story, because the table top was indeed divided. From here on in it would be like starting another battle, this time fighting from east to west rather than from north to south. None of the players would have wanted that even if there was time. Matt (Duke Guidobaldo of Pavona) had little left of his forces, and his only hops was to regain some sort of a force from casualty recovery and retreating what he had from the field. He was also hoping his son Silvano’s ‘Character Recovery Roll’ (a campaign rules chart) might bring the lad back. This is indeed possible as he wasn’t overkilled, although it is only a 5+ chance after a draw. He has have yet to make that roll. Jamie, aka Razger Boulderguts, had begun the battle with renewed confidence. Earlier in the week he had worried about the enemy having 1500 more points, and whether he could trust Mangler, wondering whether Razger should simply flee away, perhaps attempting to employ Mangler’s slow-moving force (due to the baggage train) as a stall. But as the armies were being deployed for the game, and he considered the two opposing players difficulties in coordination on the field, as well as his own obvious strength (despite the points on paper disparity), I could see he was much more confident. In truth, he went away happy, because he now has a chance of re-possessing all the loot, possibly gaining control of Mangler’s ogres to replace the losses in his own ranks, and even perhaps getting back ‘home’ to Campogrotta in the north. (All that, I presume, will be in the campaign thread later.) You probably noticed that the NPC Duke Scaringella of Remas failed the character recovery roll, scoring a measly 2, thus the dwarfs finding him dead. The player playing him, and commanding all the Reman forces, was Damo (who actually plays Lord Alessio Falconi of Portomaggiore in the campaign) had been given a character guide of two full pages of background, motivations and political goals, as well as the full army list etc. I have to say he played the part very well. If you want to know his motivations in a nutshell, then see the end of the prequel story, which was fashioned out of the information I gave to Damo. Excerpt ... “[Scaringella] must defend Remas, of course, either by destroying the ogres or chasing them away. His victory must be glorious, so he can return to Remas as a hero, winning the citizens’ favour. He must earn a good portion of the loot so that he can feed and pay the army; and he must prove to be so effective on the field of battle that the Pavonan duke is grateful, becoming an important ally during the struggle ahead. Yet he must do all these things without suffering crippling losses, for he will need the army to put the Disciplinati di Morr back in their place upon [the arch-lector’s] return to Remas.” Admittedly, his death does not sound too successful, and the Remans never got the ogres’ loot, but I am saying he played the role amazingly well, not that the character was happy about the result! All the way through Damo was happy to give advice to his ally, and did so in such a way that it took until turn 2 before the rest of us realised that the Pavonans had been tricked into doing nearly all the hard fighting! The result was quite a good one for Remas: the arch-lector lives, having much of the Reman army left(1/3 casualties on the field are also be recovered after a draw). They have chased the ogres away, thus gaining a victory (another one) to win support for the arch-lector back home. And the Pavonans might be very loyal allies, especially if they desperately need help! That isn’t bad compared to defeat and annihilation! I would love to go into all the political repercussions and other potential consequences of the battle, as well as what the various parties involved might do as a result of it, but I can’t. For a start, I can’t discuss players’ plans and thoughts for gameplay reasons. (That’s why I do so many stories from NPC perspectives.) And secondly it would take so long that it would fill several pages with a tortuous explanation of ifs and buts, whys and hows, etc. Let’s just say it’s complicated! Very complicated. And changing all the time. It’ll all most likely come out in subsequent stories! So with both sides unwilling to fight on, and both Remans and Razger finding something good about their situation (although not Duke Guidobaldo!), they agreed a draw. Both sides would now back away from each other, recovering what they could in the process without risking being drawn back into a fight. Many thanks to Mark of M&L Models in Pontefract for hosting the game. It’s a great venue, welcoming and with good facilities (tables, scenery, etc). I heartily recommend it to any ‘local’ gamers, and I hope to use it again.
  8. Extract (with Ogres) from my current campaign

    They are fun to make. In the meantime, I have just begun the battle report that features this caravan. See ...
  9. A Summary of the Silmarillion in Pictures

    For my greetings to share knowledge with you.
  10. The Meatmen of Mitzmanheim

    The name “The Meatmen of Mitzmanheim” is a name that harks back through centuries. It is a name passed down from one generation to the next. It is a name that is feared by all who speak of it, and for good reason. For the Meatmen of Mitzmanheim are a purely destructive force descended from an ancient ogre tribe. The legend tells the tale of an Ogre Tyrant the mighty Marg Magrog and his wife Mo who ran the Colossal Collie Inn. The Inn was deep in the heart of Mitzmanheim and was world renowned for its fabulous meat pies. Mo Magrog was a fantastic cook and her meat pies (known as “Big Dogs”) were celebrated the world over. The people of Mitzmanheim had a special bond with both the Ogres having formed an unusual alliance with Marg Magrog. Unlike other Ogre chieftains Marg had found an unusual way to build his wealth. He was waging war throughout the old world and clearing the battlefields of the corpses, these were transported back to Mitzmanheim where Mo Magrog butchered them and turned the meat into pies. The pies were being sold far and wide and such were the quality of the goods that they fetched a hefty price. Little did the rich aristocracy of the mighty empire know that their table centrepieces were in fact full to the brim with the meat from their own kin! Today the Meatmen of Mitzmanheim is made up of many units from across the Destructive factions. Lead by the toughest Orruk in the realm of Ghur, Margrog Meatzniffa. Margrog has roamed the realm of Ghur for decades, in search of a of a fabled artefact. He longs to appease Gorkamorka and present his deity with a Big Dog pie, for in his mind the only way other than through war that his name will be passed down through generations is if he can find the long lost recipes of Mo Magrog! Margrog insists that all units in his army fly the original Meatmen of Mitzmanheim flag, and the flamboyant colours of Marg and Mo Magrog (a vivid Turquoise and golden Yellow) can be seen for miles around as the Meatmen march to war. As they march the ground quakes, horns and drums sound and the cry “For Da Big Dog” is enough to drain the blood from the faces of all who are near!
  11. "Ragtag fleets of Grotbag Scuttlers"

    I'm all for greenskin pirates too!
  12. Tribe Name: The Meatmen of Mitzmanheim Leader: Margrog Meatzniffa War Cry: For Da Big Dog Faction: Beastclaw Raiders, Gitmob Grots, Greenskinz, Gutbusters, Ironjawz, Maneaters, Troggoths, Monstrous Arcanum Realm: The Realm of Beasts (Ghur) The name “The Meatmen of Mitzmanheim” is a name that harks back through centuries. It is a name passed down from one generation to the next. It is a name that is feared by all who speak of it, and for good reason. For the Meatmen of Mitzmanheim are a purely destructive force descended from an ancient ogre tribe. The legend tells the tale of an Ogre Tyrant the mighty Marg Magrog and his wife Mo who ran the Colossal Collie Inn. The Inn was deep in the heart of Mitzmanheim and was world renowned for its fabulous meat pies. Mo Magrog was a fantastic cook and her meat pies (known as “Big Dogs”) were celebrated the world over. The people of Mitzmanheim had a special bond with both the Ogres having formed an unusual alliance with Marg Magrog. Unlike other Ogre chieftains Marg had found an unusual way to build his wealth. He was waging war throughout the old world and clearing the battlefields of the corpses, these were transported back to Mitzmanheim where Mo Magrog butchered them and turned the meat into pies. The pies were being sold far and wide and such were the quality of the goods that they fetched a hefty price. Little did the rich aristocracy of the mighty empire know that their table centrepieces were in fact full to the brim with the meat from their own kin! Today the Meatmen of Mitzmanheim is made up of many units from across the Destructive factions. Lead by the toughest Orruk in the realm of Ghur, Margrog Meatzniffa. Margrog has roamed the realm of Ghur for decades, in search of a of a fabled artefact. He longs to appease Gorkamorka and present his deity with a Big Dog pie, for in his mind the only way other than through war that his name will be passed down through generations is if he can find the long lost recipes of Mo Magrog! Margrog insists that all units in his army fly the original Meatmen of Mitzmanheim flag, and the flamboyant colours of Marg and Mo Magrog (a vivid Turquoise and golden Yellow) can be seen for miles around as the Meatmen march to war. As they march the ground quakes, horns and drums sound and the cry “For Da Big Dog” is enough to drain the blood from the faces of all who are near! View Page
  13. Interesting looking campaign for those interested. Video is nice too. Take a look.
  14. Beasts and Monsters of Ghur

    I would personally want to see the return of Sky Titans but leading and not having been killed by ogres. The idea of armoured, smart and equipped titans has always been a personal love for me since playing computer games like Age of wonders or heroes of might and magic. Agree with Grareth that would be nice to see the Rhinox riders again. Cheers Zolas.
  15. Thats a lot of scrolls buddy!
  16. Da Followers of Graw: Kolkorok and Gormodan the Thunderkings Volkorok stirred. His scaled bulk shivered as the rock around him trembled and shook. How long had it been? He could feel the distant calling, his one true instinct slowly burning into his mind like a hot iron on bare flesh. War had come, and with it a monstrous storm. The shaggoth rolled from one side to the other, scattering bones, dust and small scurrying things that had took up residency in these dank caves. Eyes finally open he snarled as he felt the weight of rock on his tail. Centuries of rock water and dripping had caused a stalagmite to grow right around it, pinning him to the cavern floor. With an almighty tug the tooth of stone shattered and was sent skittering about into the dark, answered by snarls and groans deeper in the cave. The thunderskorn had always used these caves to slumber the quiet warless years away. But now through the very rock a deep rumbling murmured, as if a thunderhead roared on the other side far away. Volkorok rose to all fours, his talons digging deep into the sandy bedrock of the cave. It had been so long since there had been a good storm to wake him, an age since a true battle roared across the planes. He remembered the coming of chaos when he was but a young thing, so much blood and carnage he thought he would never sleep again. But then the battles subsided and the Gargant’s Maw Mountains had grown quiet and still. So the thunderskorn had slumbered as they always did, waiting for the next chance to wreak havoc open the lands. Once or twice he had felt a storms call in his rest, but they had felt wrong. Tainted by light and purity those storms had irked him deeply, like foul music on sleeping ears and so he had receded deeper into his sleep. But what he felt now was glorious to behold, a roar to be bathed in! With a guttural roar he kicked his sleeping brother Gormodan. He was always last to rise for slaughter, always slower to shake off his slumber, but Volkorok wouldn't stand for it, he wouldn't miss the days to come now that he had heard the call of battle through the earth itself. “Hunger…” Gormodan murmured as the larger shaggoth unfurled his horned tail and scarred muscles. “Soon, but first we wake the others!” Volkorok responded before he beat his chest with his monstrous fists and bellowed a harrowing roar into the deeps that undulated and rattled the very earth. Stalactites cracked and fell thundering into the dark, stone quaked and deeper in the caves there was the sound of dozens of dragon ogres rising from their sleep, a cacophony of bestial roars and scrapping claws that would cause the stoutest of mortals to buckle all the while a foul electricity filled the air. But even as Volkorok was reacquainted with the sound he had heard countless times of the thunderscorn awakening he heard a different noise behind him, one of many more smaller clawed feet scurrying and high pitched voices in the dark. “Yes quick, quick it came from this way ekk!” Many furred rat-things burst into the chamber coming to a shuddering halt before the two colossal shaggoth. A rank odour filled the air as several of the ratmen soiled themselves. “Hunger!” Gormodan roared. And so Kolkorok watched as his slow to rise brother proved once again how quick he was to strike. The skaven had been ripped apart, barely sating the hunger of the two shaggoth, but the survivors led the now fully awoken thunderscorn to their warren, whose odorous filth filled tunnels none the less were home to hundreds of tasty squirming fleshy things that were devoured without mercy. Well fed but still lusting for slaughter and war they pushed on through the gore stained skaven nest before they tore from the mountain whose womb they had birthed from, their scaled forms filing out onto a dry plateau of sand, rock and thorny scrub in a plume of crumbling stone and dust. Kolkorok and Gormodan bulled their way to the front of the horde, lightening already crackling and arcing from their giant great axes, setting ablaze to the dry grasses around them. And that is when they beheld it… So vast in size they first thought it was the horizon itself, a wall of jagged toothed peaks with snowcapped summits over a writhing carpet of rainforest that heaved skyward to pierce the very clouds. It was not the land, it was not the horizon, it was the back of something truly monstrous. It was a rotund beast, a continent almost in size from the same pantheon lineage as Behemat or Dracothion, it was a God-Beast. With a world shaking bellow, the roar could be seen tearing across the landscape that moments later broke upon the shaggoth pitching them both to the ground like babes while flattening trees, the beast swung its tusked head low. With a red eye gleaming like a foul scarlet moon scarred by a quivering red slit, it rent the earth with a gouge a mile long with its tusks as its broad skull connected with the Fanged Peak mountain. Even while still scrambling to stand the warhost of dragon ogres felt the connection as they were tossed as the ground heaved, the mountains around them cracked and crumbled while their ears were filled with a great explosion. Kolkorok watched as the Bastion of Pain, the dreadhold of gorechosen that was the anchor point for the followers of Khorn in these desolate lands since the coming of Chaos, was obliterated. Twice the thunderscorn had awoken and twice had they seen the dreadhold still standing, an age unbroken. Now it disappeared as the Fanged Peak whose upper slopes it sat upon was smashed into oblivion, untold tons of rock and stone flew up and out in a colossal cloud of dust and carnage that swallowed the small insignificant fragments of blood and brass. The beasts head continued in its destructive arc as if it had met nothing, flinging bedrock and mountain miles into the air. Again it roared, the very sound pummelling the mountains into rubble, and for the briefest moment its red eyes seemed to be filled with a primal glee as it watched the rocky remains of its mayhem plummet back to earth, but then they returned to their furious glare. No longer amused with the remnants of the Fanged Peak it turned its head duskward and the beast began to move, one colossal foot after another towards the horizon. Behind the beast a tide followed, the length and breadth of the land they were legion. Orruks, grots, ogors, beasts and more hollered and roared. War drums throbbed while gargants bellowed, wyverns, maw-crushas and untold other winged fierce things swooped overhead. Beastmen stomped their hooves and clashed their horns all the while the earth split as lush green growth burst from the dry plains as the Prowling Growth took root in the great beasts wake. It was like staring into the storm front, a wall of fury unlike anything else, flowing and roiling. It bite and clawed at itself as hordes turned on one another, as gitmobs ambushed orruks or herds of gore-gruntas snuffled up unwary morsels, but like a tide it heaved as one. Kolkorok and Gormodan watched, their great axes limp in their grip as they watched Graw the God-Beast stride across the horizon and beyond. They could feel that call fading with it, the storm receding, its very eye centred upon Graw. Wherever that beast went the greatest battles would follow, untold slaughter would be found, they would never slumber again. And so the thunderscorn descended the plateau and followed the God-Beasts crater-like footfalls over the horizon and to untold wars to come…
  17. * A bit of fluff for a piece I'm working... Bullgrog da Iron Warlord It was with a crunching pop that the snotling vanished beneath Bullgrog’s iron-shod boot, the bat eared thing, ironically, didn't seem to hear him approach as it tried to pry an orruks skull from the still receding vine. The knotted growth proceeded to tighten around the bleached white skull, as if it's prize of bone and marrow was still at risk. Bullgrog spat a globule of phlegm at it. These forests, or as the orruks called them, The Deff Growf, was not a safe place to lead any band be they a dozen or a thousand. No matter their number the forest always seemed to take its toll. Funny how the plants never seemed to munch on the snotlings though, lucky blighters were favoured that way he guessed. With a hefty swing of his choppa the towering Ironjaw cleared a swath of undergrowth before him as he pressed onwards into the stinking mass of vines and ferns. The trees were broad and the growth thick. Fanged reptiles scuttled through the leaves while saw beaked birds whirled overhead, some had already landed to pick at the snotlings smeared remains. In the Deff Growf nothing went to waste. As he cut his way through, he could hear the lads making progress behind him. Two hundred strong and still the going was slow, no matter how fast they chopped with their choppas or hacked with their hakkas. Eventually one of the boys would stumble upon a nest of fanged hornets or even a greater jungle squig and pandemonium would break loose before they could get things back under control, often after Bullgrog had loosened some of their teef. This is the part he hated the most. It had been three seasons since Graw the God-Beast had led them on a good rump over the Screaming Peaks. Bullgrog had never seen so many wyverns in his entire life, thousands of the scaly buggers let loose from their lairs all along the peaks as good ol’ Graw took the straight path through the mountains. Bullgrog hated wyverns, he hated flying even, nothing beat having two feet on the ground without the worry of plummeting to his death and missing all the fighting. The God-Beast tore through the very bones of the land sending untold amounts of bedrock and mountain ahead of it in a great tidal wave of destruction. Graw thundered through the mountains only to tear out the other side and what was waiting for them? Spiky chaos boys, war-bands of them! That was a scrap Bullgrog sure did miss. Them lads always put up a good fight, though in the end Graw ate their portal thingy and eventually the chaos runts were overrun. Now Graw slept and the Deff Growf was in full swing, growing and expanding to anywhere it could set its roots all the while the tribes of orruks and ogors throughout what was once the Skull Foothills of the Screaming Peaks were carving out their little fiefdoms before Graw awoke once more. It was the main reason Bullgrog was hacking his way through the stinking woods. Some jumped up ogors had taken over a right nice bunch of caves he had had his eye on for quite some time and it was now time that he rightfully claimed ownership. The downside was getting to those damn caves. The Bonesplitters knew the Growf inside and out, their wurrgogs and even their wardokks could navigate the forests through the safest paths thanks to their stinking bones. Cheating that's what that is! And the gitmobs were no better, if it wasn't their tunnels or their skuttly spiders the buggers would just run full pelt through the jungle, they had the numbers, who cares if one ore two boys fell into git munching plants or a stray gore-grunta gullet. If he could find a way to get through- GRROOOOOOOOAAAAAWGH! Fleshrippers took flight from the canopy above screeching their distress while the plants quivered, no doubt their own sentience playing part, as an undulating roar ripped through the forest and shook Bullgrog to his bones. “Probably just a maw-crasha right boss?” one of the lads called out. A side wards glare was all Bullgrog needed to give for one of the others to give him a crack over the back of the head for being stupid. “Naw…” Bullgrog muttered, he knew his crushas better then most. Bullgrog was a youngin’ when he raided around the Bellowing Cliffs by the Sea of Big Fings and those storm battered cliffs were the lair of many a crusha. And though maw-crashas were known for their bellowing volume they never made ‘that’ much noise. “Much bigger…” The sun had begun to set, the flaming sphere seeming to be swallowed by the horizon as it cast the Deff Growf in even deeper and darker shadows, the forest taking a brief titian hue that would no doubt be swallowed by the coming night in a matter of hours. It was on the bank of a sluggish river that Bullgrog discovered the source of all the commotion, as for much of that evening the roars had continue to shake the forest all around. Mired in the algae covered muck of the riverbank was a monstrosity that almost dwarfed the trees. A rotund scaled beast with colossal tusks thrashed about the muck with little success, it's beady vicious eyes glaring at anything that moved. It was a squiggoth, a bloody huge one at that. It could step on a stonehorn and not notice, it's trunk like legs had sunk into the mud and with each tremendous heave it gave to dislodge itself the trees shook and the rivers waters sloshed and churned. “You thinking strange things Bullgrog…” A deep croaking voice muttered, so close that it took all of Bullgrog's control not swing his choppa before he turned his head. It was Ztraga the shaman, cloaked in a filthy tattered grunta hide. Usually the shaman grinned from ear to ear however at that moment his face was serious, his brows furrowed over his sunken eyes, his tongue licking his one good tusk. “A touch a’ Graw be in dis one” he muttered, tracing his staff in the air, drawing the symbol of Graw where none could see, that is until he stomped his foot and a wispy green image of the God-Beast floated over his head from under his cloak, disappearing just as quickly back beneath his robes. The other ironjaws muttered amongst themselves in awe and though none would admit it, a little trepidation. “Da spawn of Graw are chosen by Gorkamorka himself,” Ztraga continued, “dead killy, and when they get mad? They get real mean!” Ztraga broke off into a howling cackling as he skipped down to the edge of the mire, starting his ritualistic shaking and jigging just out of reach of the squiggoth. The behemoth looked like it wanted to squash the shaman flat, but for the life of it couldn't move its foot towards him, and so it snorted and glared at the strange irritating gyrating thing. “BOYS!” Bullgrog roared, answered by the sound clanking armour and grunts of affirmation. “Fetch da chains and all da iron we got! This is da only chance we got at this!” Several days and much chaos later... Bullgrog roared in triumph as the world shook around him. The squiggoth kept a lumbering pace as it flattened the forest before it, it's bulk splintering trees and crushed anything that wasn't quick enough to get out of its way. With a titanic roar it bulled its way through a particularly dense stand of trees, it's tusks uprooted them without breaking pace. Occasionally it would stop and something would squeal before being cut off by an abrupt squelch and the squiggoth would carry on. “GULP! HAHA! DA BEST NAME I FINK RIGHT LADS?!” Behind him the line of orruks roared in agreement, hooting and hollering at all the mayhem and destruction they followed. Astride the beast on a makeshift howdah of chains, logs and iron bands rode Bullgrog and his finest boys. It took him four days and lost nearly fifty ironjaws trying to wrangle the haphazard platform onto the beast but it was worth it. All the beast needed now was a nudge the right direction and it would take off charging. Now his lads followed him on his finest of steads, the world being crushed before him. Ztraga stood at the head of the howdah above the beasts broad skull, his own howling joining the clamour as he danced frantically, almost somersaulting off the squiggoth once or twice. “Gorkamorka be watching and Graw be with us!” He hollered as a crack of green energy arced out randomly from his smoking staff and set a tree ablaze. “We cannot fail HAHAHA!” Those ogors will definitely regret taking what was Bullgrog's, and so would the rest of the weakling denizens of the Deff Growf for this was his domain now. They will know the might of Bullgrog da Iron Warlord or be devoured by his offspring of Graw!
  18. *Thought I'd continue with the fluff for each of my commanders backstories and how they came to power. This is how a herd of beastmen came to follow the green gods... Any feedback, fluff, lore, is greatly appreciated ^^ Thaulgorg the Beastking Thaulgorg skidded to a halt, his cloven hooves leaving deep gouges in the dry earth. He roared a guttural bellow from his bovine maw as the rest of his bullgors came to a thundering halt. His sunken eyes darted amongst the herd taking a brief note of their loses. The bullgors still stood strong, panting and heaving as they quickly set about tearing up the leafless saplings in these barren foothills for a fire as nightfall quickly descended upon them. The centigors had lost a few of their number but already were pawing at the ground preparing to scout ahead for fresh meat. And then there was the rest of the herd, barely catching up. The bestigors were scarcer than most, having took the most casualties, save perhaps the ungors. Most of those had been ripped limb from limb and eaten to sustain the herds constant march, what was left of the weedy beasts had flaked away before they too were feasted upon and their bones used as decorations for their camp. Thaulgorg was a simple beast, as are most doombulls, but even he was aware of the herds dire straits. The herd had once roamed the Emberlands of Aqshy, reaping a toll of duardin, barbarians and bloodbound alike as they raided the ash choked woodland of those fiery foothills, well that was until the storm came. Lightning shook the flaming peaks and armies of cerulean and gold swept through the region, calling their faith to their thunder god as the herds were hunted and slaughtered. But that had been many seasons ago, as the mountains quaked and belched their molten blood from one cycle to the next, the children of Sigmar were waiting for the herd at every turn. Eventually the herd found itself cornered by the golden warriors, harried by them as they rode on feathered beasts of wind and lightning. There was no battle, no armour to split or flesh for Thaulgorg to cut, just endless strikes and skirmishes that ended as quickly as they started all the while the beasts’ numbers thinned. As a last resort the herd had fled through a portal of colossal construction they found in the side of the mountain, a swirling vortex framed by pillars of stone. Now they were in this new land weak and starving, and even then they were sure whether the stormcast had ceased their pursuit. “Pathetic.” He growled to himself, causing a nearby gor to shuffle out of arms reach. The movement caught the doombulls eye and before the beastman could think Thaulgorg’s meaty paw wrapped around its horned skull. It bleated and scratched at his arm like a new-born whelp, its axe having fallen to the ground. With a sickening squelch he ripped its head from its shoulders before tearing into its flesh, gorging himself on the stringy meat. Where were their gods now, they had been silent as the herd buckled. How many herdstones, how many sacrifices, how much had they done for the Dark Ones and still the herd saw nothing in return. The worshippers of Khorn had harried the beastmen long before the stormcast came from the heavens. The herds had been abandoned, even though they were strong, even though they were the rightful rulers of the wilds, now they were fleeing from the golden wretches like vermin. Bone and marrow crunched as Thaulgorg tasted the savoury tang of blood and spinal fluid. He watched as the bestigors parted, snorting and rumbling amongst themselves as they made way for the Beastlord Kulthorn the Chosen. He strutted about the quickly rising camp, snarling at anything that came too close, even the bullgors watched him wearily. Kulthorn wore a waist of bright orange duardin beards and a few of the short folks sparkling gold adorned his armour like lucky charms as he waved his crooked blade towards the distant horizon. “These new land will be ours!” Kulthorn bellowed, turning his back to the camps pyre. “The humans will pay, we will feed and slaughter, the Dark Ones bless us!” Thaulgorg was already ignoring the Beastlord’s droning. Kulthorn spoke too much, something that tested the doombull’s already incredibly short patience. Even after all this time the gor still praised the Dark Ones and what did they have to show for it. No lands, no meat, no battle for Thaulgorg to loose himself to the bloodlust. Already the bull’s meal was spent, splintered bones and torn bits of armour lay scattered at his hooves, but still his gullet rumbled as he thirsted for more blood. But even as the Beastlord continued his noisome preaching Thaulgorg watched the night sky. Thick black clouds roiled and rolled from the open plains, much different from the lightning filled storm fronts that brought the children of Sigmar. They were thick and heavy, laden with rain that was visibly pounding the far off plains, and the torrential downpour would soon be upon them. But that wasn’t what caught Thaulgorg’s hate filled eyes. Perhaps it was a trick of the night, too long without slaughter dulling his senses. But he saw the clouds part and form gnashing maws of colossal teeth of nimbus that opened wide as rolling thunder rattled the land like a roar. As the first specks of rain pattered against his blood matted hide and then became a torrential deluge a green fork of lightning pierced the sky like a great fracture in the heavens, earthing somewhere over the distant horizon. And in that brief flash of green he saw them, or it, it was too much too briefly for him to comprehend. But even as he shielded his eyes from the burst of light the image was burned into his mind. A two headed god of immeasurably size and strength, thumping the very heavens with its bare fists, its monstrous feet shattering mountains and armies alike as its roars rippled across the world itself. And though he had never heard it before, the gods name echoed in his mind. Thaulgorg found himself back in the pouring rain, the heavy downpour hissing as it struck the camp pyre, the flames burning low as they fought the oncoming storm. Thaulgorg could feel his corded muscles bulging, his heart and blood pounding as he gripped the iron-shod haft of his great axe. He could feel a drumming in his skull, a constant rhythm that screamed for battle and beckoned him to the heart of the storm, forever promising war and rage and untold flesh to strip and eat, all the while the beastlord continued. “You all have failed me, weaklings. How else can the hairless ones best us, why else would the Dark Ones punish us?” Still Kulthorn continued his rambling, and that once irritating itch from his bleating voice in Thaulgorg’s mind became a raging inferno. “You have failed.” The doombull’s voice was low, like grating rocks, a rumble that cut across the camp and stilled all who heard the voice that broke the Beastlord’s preaching. “You dare speak out to me like that bull!” Kulthorn roared, stabbing his sword in the doombull’s direction, a good thirty paces separating them. “Dark Ones gone. They are weak.” Thaulgorg growled as he rose from his stooped position, the hulking mass of muscle and scarred hide towering above the beastlord. “Quiet they are, but this land speaks and it is strong.” Murmurs rippled through the herd. Even Kulthorn’s own guard of bestigors were grunting and bleating amongst themselves. The doombull’s words though blunt none the less sparked something amongst them. Rare was it for a bullgor to utter many words, rarer still for their minds to be voiced and such an event caught many of the beasts off-guard. Though Thaulgorg did not know it, others began whispering of how the distant thunder tugged at them, how the land seemed to growl like something monstrous and wild, a force that called and felt like something far more… godlike. “You speak ill of the Dark Ones!” Kulthorn snarled as he took several steps towards the bull in his own rage. “You forget your place bull, remember it before I have the herd remind you before your hide is peeled from your corpse!” Still the beastlord stormed forwards as his raging breath left his nostrils in steaming plumes. Thaulgorg gripped his great axe, shifting his massive horned head from side to side as he glared at every living thing around him. Not one of them met his gaze save the bullgors, but neither did they move from where they stood, they knew which of the two was to be feared. “The Dark Ones failed us!” Thaulgorg thundered, his voice rebounding off the nearby hills. “Humans they give to, the bloodbound ones are blessed, weak and hairless! No longer I follow! There is a new god here and it is strong!” Now the murmurings were loud enough to carry across the camp, doubt had sown itself into the herd. There was talk of roars and green, of battle and carnage followed then by a broken name, as if half remembered from a fevered dream… “You will die wretch for spea-ACK!” Thaulgorg’s axe swung forth with blinding speed, cutting the beastlord words short. Kulthorn barely had time to raise his own blade before the weight of steel shattered it along with his arm and sent him sprawling to the muddy ground. Thaulgorg snorting in disgust. Kulthorn was a ruthless leader when he first ascended to head of the herd but Thaulgorg had always seen him as weak, but now he had proven himself stupid as well. In his rage the wretch had strayed too far for his guard to defend him and now they stood there like frightened sheep before the wolf. Kulthorn was large, even for the most prime of bestigors but still the doombull lifted him with one hand by his gasping throat, till he held him aloft like some broken trophy for all to see. “Puny!” the bull roared. “You lead to nothing and call us weak!” With a snarl Thaulgorg sank his teeth into Kulthorn’s good arm at the shoulder, before ripping it from the socket as the beastman let loose a gargling howl. The doombull spat the tattered limb into the mud where it continued to twitch. “The Dark Ones are dead and we follow the beast!” Even as Kulthorn’s blood left him, rivulets so thick even the heavy rain couldn’t wash it away, he could hear them. The herd was chanting now, a slow beat that ebbed and flowed with the wind and the pouring rain. “Gorka… gorka… morka… morka…” Even the bullgors had begun to stomp their hooves and clash their weapons on their shields, adding to the rising din. “You will die… urk… you betrayer... the Dark Ones will find you…” Even as he spoke Kulthorn’s words were growing fainter as his struggling weakened. “I will break them!” Thaulgorg roared as he grasped the beastlord’s chest in one hand, crushing ribs and organs alike while gripping his leg in the other. The doombull heaved as the leader of the herd was ripped in twain, his entrails spilling forth in ropes and gore. “We are beasts and we follow the Beast-God!” he roared as the halves of corpse were thrown to the ground. The herd roared in response, cheering on the carnage as they stomped hooves, beat shields and bellowed into the storm. “Who do we follow?!” Thaulgorg roared to his kin as another crack of green light illuminated the roiling sky and far above two tusked filled maws grinned. “GORKAMORKA!”
  19. Destruction Fluff Wiki

    The Stronghold's Destruction fluff wiki aims to become the biggest and best source of Destruction Grand Alliance info on the net, and you're invited to help it grow! Feel free to add new wiki pages or edit any existing pages - all revisions made to the wiki pages are stored permanently and can be rolled back in case of errors, so don't worry if you make an editing mistake! Additionally, if you notice a word on a wiki page that could be linked to another wiki page, go right ahead and link them up if you like. Please note, the purpose of the Stronghold's wiki is to document official Destruction Grand Alliance fluff only. I'd also ask that you don't copy the fluff verbatim - summarise it in your own words and provide details of the source publications in the sources field. Enjoy!
  20. Gargant's Graveyard

    A massive expanse littered with dead beasts and bones found in Ghur, the Realm of Beasts, it was the location of an ancient powerful weapon named Marrowcutter, held within the Howling Labyrinth at the centre of the Graveyard. Gargant's Graveyard was the site of a battle between Gordrakk's forces, the Stormcast Eternals and Chaos, when Sharizad the Shimmering Countess (a powerful Tzeentch sorceress) sought to claim the legendary weapon Marrowcutter.
  21. Urrgrak Bonefist

    The first champion of Gorkamorka, the half-faced boss Urrgrak Bonefist wielded the Worldchoppa - the Axe of Gork and Mork - which is said to have been forged from iron taken from Sigmar's throne. Millennia later, the Worldchoppa was found by Gordrakk, the Fist of Gork, who promptly broke it into two axes to make it more choppy.
  22. Gorkamorka

    Titles include the Great Green God, the Two-Headed God, the Twin-Headed God.
  23. The Wildlands

    A region of Ghur, the WIldlands form a massive continent of bone-strewn plains and caves, dark woods littered with corpses and lakes filled with scales and teeth. Inhabited by mighty blood-soaked monsters renowned for their savagery, many soulless creatures roam the Wildlands, dragging their victims to their lairs while whole villages are torn apart by titanic beasts.
  24. Mork

    The brutally cunning half of Gorkamorka, the Great Green God. Twin of Gork.
  25. Gork

    The cunningly brutal half of Gorkamorka, the Great Green God. Twin of Mork.
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