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  1. Today
  2. At last, and the wait had seemed as long as it was terrible, the drums began to beat and the horns were sounded. The armies of Pavona and Remas were ready to act. Knowing that they had been caught off-guard by the ogres sudden lurch forwards, and thus failed to deliver the barrage of shot they had fervently hoped for, they did not hold back now. Captain Ettore led the largest of the Pavonan halberdiers’ regiment in a charge against the maneaters, mainly because he was unwilling to be the recipient of their inevitable charge. Three of his soldiers died from the Maneaters’ massive pistols, followed by nine more when they made contact, all to very little observable effect against the thick-skinned brutes. But they had stopped the ogres’ advance and then they somehow held their ground to fight on. On the far right the Visconte Carjaval and his mounted men at arms smashed into the ironguts before them … … killing two and wounding another. Not one knight had perished in the assault. The brutes turned and fled, while the visconte ordered his men to restrain their pursuit and reform to face the main body of the foe. The Reman dwarfs, garbed in iron and steel from head to toe, marched in very fine order out from the battle line, wheeling a little to face the foe’s main regiments in the centre. This allowed the Cathayan’s behind them to march up and fill the gap so created. The Pavonan huntsmen moved boldly over the rocky hill towards the lines of still-smoking leadbelchers … … while on the other side of the hill young Lord Silvano led his last surviving Sharlian Riders (elven mercenaries) in a charge against the gnoblar trappers. The young lord was bloodied by one of the vicious traps the greenskins lobbed onto the ground before them. Half the gnoblars died in this assault, and the other half fled in panic only to be cut down by the riders pursuing them. Silvano’s pursuit took him and his riders right into the two monstrously large mournfang cavalry who were lumbering up that flank. As the Pavonan halberdiers struggled to hold their viciously strong and battle hardened opponents … … the Morrite priest began their prayers in earnest, first cursing the flesh of one of the leadbelcher companies on the enemy’s right, then employing an amulet of coal to kill one of them. An iron round-shot plunged deep into the flesh of the rhinox carrying the ironblaster, and yet the beast still lived! Another round-shot felled one of Mangler’s bulls, but the third cannon and the Helstorm were unable to fire, most likely due to a combination of fear and overhaste on the part of crewmen. Two thunderous volleys from the Pavonan handgunners brought down a brace of leadbelchers, while the Cathayan crossbow wounded another. On the other flank of the army, the Reman crossbow also felled a leadbelcher and sent the rest of them running! Thus it was that using less than half the pieces that they had arrived on the field with they had managed to kill four ogres, wound several others, and even send some running. Captain General Duke Scaringella cursed angrily, furious that they had been unready to let loose with the full complement of artillery sooner. (Game Note: What a first turn it could have been if all the artillery had fired, followed by a second turn with the same, as well as 54 crossbow and 32 handgunners!) Next, turn 2 …
  3. Last week
  4. They are fun to make. In the meantime, I have just begun the battle report that features this caravan. See ...
  5. Earlier
  6. For my greetings to share knowledge with you.
  7. Awesome bat rep buddy. Really enjoged the read. You have orky speech down to a tee. Congrats on the win!
  8. I'm all for greenskin pirates too!
  9. 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!
  10. 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
  11. Breaking the Chains Long ago, in Age of Chaos, the Skullthumpas were a prominent Orruk tribe that terrorized the mortal realms. Led by their brutal but cunning Warboss, Gorfang, the clan claimed victories against all they came across. They sacked the impenetrable Dwarf Hold of Karaz Zulfin, brought down Warlord Korkid Da Mighty and his IronSkullz boyz, defeated the Unending Tide of Skaven and Lord Zheed in the burrows of the Forgotten City, put the horse nation of Parravin to the torch, and slayed Daemonlord Thzadrith, a champion of Khorne. While Archaon’s forces spread their presence across the realm, the Skullthumpas continued to persevere against the legions of the Dark Gods. There were so many dead enemies that the Orruks would not have to resort to eating their Grot companions. Although, this did not completely stop the Ogre chefs from whooping up Grot Stew for da boyz. Alas, the Skullthumpas would eventually meet a grisly end at the hands of Chaos. A combined host of Khorne and the Legion of Azgorh ambushed the clan in the Valley of Hargth. The weavers claimed the valley was created when a massive stone-gargant fell from the skies to his death on this spot, littering the ground with large rocks and crags, perfect for taking an enemy by surprise. Despite their fury, Gorfang’s troops were torn apart by daemon blade and fell firepower. The warboss himself was wounded but survived. Much of the army was either sacrificed to the Blood God, while the rest were taken as prisoners by the Chaos Dwarfs, including Gorfang. Very few escaped into the wilderness, including Gorfang's second in command, Urgkash da Stompa. Gorfang and his surviving boyz were marched into the Realm of Fire to the cursed hold of the Chaos Dwarfs, Zharr Haraz. For years, the former warboss slaved away in the quarries of the slave pits beneath the hold alongside his fellow Orruks, as well as slave duardin and humans. All the grots had perished, but Gorfang and most of his orcs endured, plotting and planning for a rebellion. Eventually, they rose against their taskmasters, but it ended in failure. Despite being impaled by an Ironsworn halberd, Gorfang survived. As punishment, the Dawi Zharr began using the slaves as cannon fodder for their armies as they marched across the mortal realms. More orruks perished in battle or grinded to death in the slave pits, but once more, Gorfang endured. Throughout the years, his size and strength grew with each minor victory. He continued to plot for his next rebellion, but he received aid from an unexpected host. After seizing duardin slaves from the Ankor Volghar of the continent of Zarcosia, a mighty throng of the Stormbolt Clan marched into Aqshy and laid siege on Zharr Haraz. While the Chaos Dwarfs attempted to defend their hold, a regiment of Stormbolt Rangers infiltrated the slave pits to free their kin. They attempted to escape using a long-forgotten realmgate concealed during the seizure by the Chaos Dwarfs. However, the portal was too badly damaged as Dawi Zharr reinforcements began flooding the pits. Left with no choice, the Ranger captain freed Gorfang and his Orruks in order to fight off their slavers. Swearing an oath to free the Greenskinz, the orruks were more than eager to seek revenge after decades of enslavement. Using crude tools and smuggled weapons, the orruks turned the tide and slaughtered the fallen duardin. Gorfang himself slew the Castellan of the hold, Rhagrakki Burnfist. With his demise, so too did Zharr Haraz. While the majority of the Stormbolt Clan wished to do away with the Orruks as well, the Ranger captain's oath was fufilled, though with a compromise. Gorfang and his clan would be allowed to sack the hold, but had to leave into the realm of shadows. Zharr Haraz was then raised to the ground, for the taint of chaos had tainted its once proud halls and had to be purged in order to erase the grudge from the clan's Book of Grudges. As for the orruks, they soon banded together to create a new clan. They entered slavery as Greenskinz, but earned their freedom as Ironjawz. They would be known as the Bloodbreaka's, led by the orruk who kept them alive, fought and survived the worst thrown at him at the hands of chaos, Megaboss Gorfang da Immortal. Their quest for vengeance, conquest, and liberation of the mortal realms has begun. ___________ Greetings everyone long-time Warhammer player here since 6th Edition fantasy but I have loved how the game and community has grown since Age of Sigmar began. This is going to be my army blog for my mixed Destruction forces. It will mostly focus on my Ironjawz and Greenskinz, but it will also include Moonclan Grots and hopefully Ogors in the future. In this thread, I will update the progress and construction of my armies, write lore stories surrounding my characters/armies, and battle reports from my matches. Hopefully you all enjoy it and we can share our love for the hobby. --------------- GORFANG DA IMMORTAL From his time as a warboss, to the grueling years of slavery under the Dawi Zharr, Gorfang has emerged from the ashes of those pits a free Orruk, bigger, stronger, and more cunnin' from his trials. He has survived many close calls and grievous wounds in his life: avoiding slaughter at the hands of Khone's worshipers, withstanding the vicious environment of the slave quarries, persisting in the front lines of the Chaos Dwarf armies, as well as the final rebellion that won him his freedom. This has led his followers to refer to him as Da Immortal. Yet, Gorfang is not satisfied. During his years as a slave, the megaboss claims Gorkamorka spoke to him in a dream, telling him to start gathering the downtrodden clans and uniting them into a WAAAGH! to drive out the forces of chaos from the mortal realms. Recalling his time as warboss of the Skullthumpas, Gorfang has revived his practice of adorning his armour with the heads of his fallen foes. Each one tells the story of Gorfang's trials as an Ironjaw. The taskmaster Rhagrakki Burnfist's head sits next to the ogor Turokk The Hairy, whose raiding party was stomped into the ground after they betrayed the Bloodbreaka's while escaping the Realm of Ulgu. The scalp of the Aspiring Deathbringer Kalrak Bloodmarked hangs from the belt of Gorfang after his bloodbound were broken in a vicious battle with the Bloodbreaka's, retribution for their massacre ages ago. And the monster's skull that sits on Gorfang's right shoulder? No one knows what it was, only that Gorfang went on a raid into the Realm of Ghur and returned a week later with the skull intact, along with Urgknash and an army of Skullthumpas.
  12. Interesting looking campaign for those interested. Video is nice too. Take a look.
  13. 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.
  14. Thats a lot of scrolls buddy!
  15. 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…
  16. * 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!
  17. *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!”
  18. 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!
  19. 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.
  20. 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.
  21. 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.
  22. The cunningly brutal half of Gorkamorka, the Great Green God. Twin of Mork.
  23. The brutally cunning half of Gorkamorka, the Great Green God. Twin of Gork.
  24. Titles include the Great Green God, the Two-Headed God, the Twin-Headed God.
  25. 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.
  26. In the wild lands of Ghur there is a great steppe known as the Howling Steppe. Here tribes of Gitmob grots vie for territory and hunting rights. One of the most powerful tribes is known as the Blackjaw tribe. But alas, the tribe was enslaved by the orruk tyrant Bok'gor the Brutal. Bok'gor ruled the tribe with an iron fist and led them into dozens of battles against the forces of chaos, ogors, skaven, other greenskins and more. The most famous of these battles was against the chaos horde of Kravoth the Crowbringer. As the chaotic host marched on the regions largest shrine to Gorkamorka, the Howling Rock, the battered tribes gathered for one final defense, with Bok'gor as the supreme commander. The battle was fierce with many casualties on both sides as the battle swung back and forth. Orruk choppas sliced open chaos warriors as chaos knights ran down fleeing grots. The giant Mad Loupe fought alongside the greenskins and helped crush a group of chaos chariots, meanwhile a mighty slaughterbrute smashed apart a howling mob of Orruks. The battle came to a dramatic climax as Kravoth the Crowbringer fought against Bok'gor the Brutal. The two great warriors fought back and forth as the battle raged, each giving as good as he got. Gradually Bok'gor wore down the chaos champion as he hacked against Kravoth's shield while parrying and blocking most of Kravoth's blows. After several minutes of back and forth fighting Bok'gor sliced through the champion's shield and cut into his heart. With Kravoth's death the chaos aQhorde was shattered and the greenskins were victorious. During the battle a minor chaos champion known as Zaldrak the Hungering was slain by the greenskins, in the aftermath of the battle a grot known as Grongut looted the axe from his corpse. He took the chaos corrupted weapon to the shamans of the howling rock and they reforged it and imbued it with the power of Gorkamorka. From that day onwards the axe was known as The Flesheater. Soon Grongut was rising through the ranks of the Blackjaw tribe as his axe chopped apart rivals and enemies alike. He despised Bok'gor and was always looking for a way to kill him. One day Grongut's most loyal ally, the shaman Onefang, discovered the recipe for a powerful potion that could give it's bearer troggish strength and regeneration. The effects could be made permanent if the drinker also ate raw troggoth flesh. Grongut, upon hearing of this opportunity immediately began collecting the items on the long list of ingredients. He gradually stole, swindled and murdered his way to the acquisition of all the ingredients, save one, the troggoth flesh. Grongut learned of a few troggoths that worked for the Bloodspear tribe of moonclan grots. After visiting the Bloodspear outpost he spiked the fungus brew he had acquired. Grongut used the vile swill to convince Bok'gor that he (Grongut) should lead an attack on the Bloodspear outpost. Grongut's forces included 2 small mobs of grot spider riders, some boarboyz, some snotlings, and some gitmob grots. The Bloodspear defenders included a grot shaman, 2 small mobs of moonclan grots, and some rockgut troggoths. The battle was hard fought and most of Grongut's raiding party were slain or scattered by the end of the battle, but the troggoths were all dead and Grongut was victorious. With the troggoth flesh acquired Grongut returned to his tribe's camp. Using the troggoth flesh Onefang made the potion for Grongut and also had him eat the raw troggoth flesh. Alas for poor Grongut his stomach grew to vast size and the indigestion and flatulence nearly killed him. But some weeks later he emerged from the shaman's tent, bloated and huge. Grongut took up his axe and marched through the camp to Bok'gor's throne. He then challenged him for leadership. Bok'gor mocked him and said he was too fat to be able to fight him, Grongut retorted that Bok'gor was nearly as fat as himself. Bok'gor, enraged at the insult took up his choppas and prepared to strike down the impudent grot. The fight was short and brutal, Bok'gor sliced open Grongut's belly in two places but the wounds healed before his very eyes. Bok'gor was then unceremoniously beheaded. With his defeat Grongut was now leader of the Blackjaw tribe. He soon set about gathering the other tribes to his banner. The first tribe to join were the Scarback grots who had been enslaved by the Bloodspear until Grongut overran the Bloodspear outpost. Then Grongut took over the Skullface and Mammoth Hunter tribes with a show of force. Soon even savage orruks flocked to his banner, drawn by the power of the Waaaaaaaggh!! A few weeks after the defeat of Bok'gor, a warpstone shower could be seen in the sky. Grongut rushed to gather the precious material as tribute to Gorkamorka. Thus began the first of many battles against the skaven. When Grongut arrived where the warpstone was crashing down a skaven horde was already swarming about, gathering up the warpstone. Grongut and his minions immediately attacked the ratmen. It was a long and bloody affair but in the end the skaven were all but wiped out and Grongut had secured the warpstone for himself. As Grongut's horde celebrated the victory the skaven attacked his camp, desperate to claim their prize at all costs. The two armies were drawn up and the battle began.... The battle was a brutal back and forth affair eventually ending with the skaven being slaughtered. The highlights of the battle included a plague claw catapult that killed 2 mobs of orruks singlehandedly, as well as a mob of grot archers imbued with the power of the waaagh!! and "inspired" by a grot boss. These grots killed a dozen clarets as well as the skaven warlord and gray seer.
  27. Off in the distance, War boss Ghurza heard a horn wail away. A dust storm had been raging across the desolate plateau of the Realm of Ghur limiting the vision of the war party that left their stronghold, Blackrok Mountain to find themselves a scuffle. After catching a glimpse of the shiny horn carried by the lone beast man, he knew one thing more certain then ever: he wanted that shiny horn. He could not place why, perhaps it was because it was shiny, perhaps because it made noise, but he absolutely didn't want anyone else to have it! After giving chase to the beast man throughout the day, he finally noticed that the horn was not getting further anymore. It seemed to be coming from a ruined building just ahead. However, the war other sounds beginning to be heard. Drums from a rival war-party of beast men were coming from the Northeast, while chants screaming "Blood for the Blood God!" came from the Northwest. Both of which seemed to be heading towards the lone beast man. A bestial smile lifted the War boss's gnarled lip, not only would he get his hands on the horn, but there would be a good scuffle for him and his boyz as well. Leading the mob of boyz closet to him, Ghurza charged forward into the ruins, outpacing the remainder of his war party in his lust for combat and his desire for that shiny horn. The gitz he had with the mob began unpacking the lumber and rocks from their rhinox and setting up their rock lobba. The air to the Northwest got thick with the ozone twang of magic and the beast men to the Northeast seemed to be getting closer and closer. Reaching the ruin proper, Ghurza barged through those few boyz that had gotten ahead of him and dropped the lone beast man with a skull-shattering punch with his bladed right hand (he would save his axe held in the hand for someone that REALLY needs a good krumpin'). Scooping down, he picked up the horn, pressed it to his lips and a faint "hrmmpppppph" come from it. Chuckling to himself in deep throated "hur hur hurs", he turned completely around and decided to do a kunnin' maneuver that would make GorkaMorka (or is is MorkaGorka?) proud. He would lure the other war parties to him and his boyz with the shiney object so they could all get a good scrap. However, before he could pull out of the ruins a pack of Minotaurs lead by a gigantic Doombull barged through the ruined brick wall. "Oi ye gitz! Get stuck in o'erwise you'll deal with ME!" the Warboss bellowed. More afraid of facing their leader then the enemies the mob of boyz jumped in, looking to take down the largest of the Minotaurs. As Ghurza began his withdrawal from the ruins he could just make out a very large bladed shape heading right for him. Raising his shield he caught one of the largest blades he ever saw that was hurled right at him. Looking at what could lob it at him he saw a gigantic, bat winged monstrosity to the Northwest roaring its frustration at him. Thankfully he heard the loud bellowing of his mob of ogres that he brought on the hunt coming up. "'Ey, you guys are probably hungry, why don't ye' go and get some meat from that there beast. I bet all da blood on it makes it nice and tasty!" He felt he always knew how to inspire his boyz to their most krumpinest. SWOOOOOSH! A large hunk of rock went flying overhead towards the bat wing monster. It went wide though and only managed to shatter a wall of the ruin. Ghurza had made it back to where his gitz had set up their rock lobba and his anger at their lack of effect was swelled even further when he saw the git shaman he brought with sharing his magic mushrooms with the crew and they where all sitting around giggling their little faces off. Swatting the shaman behind the head, he bellowed at him "why don't ye do something about dis 'er storm lest we don't see how the fightin' is goin'!" Chastised, little Nogginzog waved his arms, ran into his "sorcerer's circles" as he called them and bellowed "Whaddle-Whiddie-Wazzupy!" and a gust of wind came up from the south pushing the storm away. Smirking to himself and trying, unsuccessfully to not giggle to himself, Nogginzog realized his chant was off because of all the mushrooms he had already eaten and it was just a normal breeze that dissipated the storm. Surverying the battle with clear sight now, Ghurza noticed that his mob of boyz had been brutally butchered by the minotaurs, although they seemed to have really hurt the large Doombull with them. His ogres had been hacked to pieces by the bat winged monster, but at least the minotaurs and the monster seemed to be heading towards each other in the ruins. "hrmmpppppph...." he sounded the horn again hoping the other war parties weren't foolish enough to not realize he had the shiny horn so that they would come to him. Further to the north some metal clad men seemed to be battling with two gigantic bestial monsters. Perhaps he would have to make them more noticeable, and nothing does that better then some large rocks hurled at them! A large burst of light followed by a rainstorm of blood descended on the battlefield as the remaining minotaur in the ruin lodged its great axe into the bat winged monstrosity. Off to the east along his flank, Ghurza had bullied his remaining mob of boyz to form a buffer between the gitz and a small group of minotaurs led by the wounded Doombull. Wanting to have the pleasure of breaking that beasts head in himself, Ghurza began bullying his way through the boyz to get to him. As he breathed in to make his warcray a large SWOOOOOOSH! went right over his head and he found himself blinded. Wiping the blood from his eyes Ghurza stared open mouthed for a moment, where the Doombull had been moments before a giant blood stained boulder was now sitting. Disheartened by their leaders death, the remaining minotaurs fled from the field. Looking around for another foe to fight Ghurza had seen that all before him was dead bodies, blood, ruined buildings even worse for wear since their arrival and some small silhouettes of the remainder of his enemies war parties fleeing in the distance. "Hah, all according to plan!" Ghurza bellowed, realizing that he must be so kunnin' he can even make plans he himself does not fully realize. "Alright Boyz! Back to the Blackrok, I got another shiny to put on the pile!" Da Blackrok tribe if based in a large cavernous fortress dug into the ash covered mountain known by the surrounding tribes as "Da Blackrok". Lead by the massive Orruk Warboss Ghurza: the bloodyfist, lizard krumper, hoarder of shiny bitz, the kunnin' strategist, head smaher, (on it goes updated as battles are waged), the surrounding orruk tribes have been beaten into submission by him or otherwise completely eradicated. He has gathered several tribes of ogres into his warband as well, often through kunnin' plans that remove their tyrants and place him in a position of power. Of course, many git mobs are also a part of his forces as they find that they get to boss other people around for a change, and seeing some of their neighbors outright eaten is plenty incentive as well. Da Blackrok Tribe goes out on raids to gather shiny objects for their treasure hoard, as well as slaves to craft new armor, weapons, and warmachines for their forces. They are surprisingly industrious for an orruk horde and will spare some of their enemies if they think (well if their leaders think, many of the boyz themselves are too worried about fighting) it can profit them further by using them as labor. They are envious of their skaven foes for their VERY destructive weapons and would like some for themselves, granted they would have to be "Made proppa!" by orruk standards first (carving some effigies, vulgar insults, etc. into the weapons themselves). The above battle was the first one had by Da Blackrock Tribe as a 3-way battle with some of my gaming group (Khorne, Beastman, and Destruction), and was also some of our first game of Age of Sigmar, so we really hope to be getting many more in! I will update this with some of their battles and tales of glory (or shameful defeat) as well as hopefully creating a goblog when I get some time to paint my forces up.
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