Tuesday 26 May 2009
Retuck's Return
Retuck’s body lay crumpled on the pavement, blood strewn across the rubbled ground, and pooled around his mid-drift.
The streets were uncharacteristically quiet, perhaps rumour of the rat-men had spread and fear was keeping others away, or perhaps there had been another large finding of wyrd stone which had drawn the crowds.
The body was alone. Retuck’s crimson robes moved in the slight breeze, the dusky sun was being its decent and was now obscured by the abandoned orphanage, casting the area into shadow.
Retuck’s eye opened suddenly. It squinted against the light. A groan escaped from his blood-encrusted mouth as he gained consciousness and realised his plight. Slowly and more cautiously the skaven opened his second eye.
He had no idea how long he’d been lying there.
He thought back to the battle with the humans, their swords and ferocity. They had been powerful. His mind wandered to his warband, had they been hurt too? Or worse maybe… or perhaps they had fled safely leaving him for dead?
“Those humans will pay” muttered Retuck bitterly.
He slowly slipped his right fist out of the fighting claw and moved it to feel his stomach. It was not good. The gash was large, and although blood no longer gushed from it, yellow puss and grit were already forming a crust. Infections in Mordheim almost always lead to death. He would have to get it cleaned as soon as possible if he was to stand a chance at survival. He rolled onto his back, and summoned his strength to lift his left paw, fighting claw still attached, and sliced off his robe sleeve. With his free paw he loosened his belt. He folded the sleeve, placing it on the wound and used the belt to secure it. He concentrated, yet the only movement he could muster in his legs was a slight wiggle of his toes. It was going to be a long, painful crawl to the sewer, but the other option was to accept the fate of being torn apart by rats, cats, carrion, or worse, at the hand of man. Night in Mordheim was a dangerous time, especially for the weak.
He rolled onto his stomach, and with a wince began heaving himself forward.
Defying all odds, Retuck had survived. It took him 4 hours to crawl the short distance to the sewer camp. His mob, had been tending their wounds, and squabbling over whom would take the warp stone to Rotclaw when they saw their leader. They quickly greeted Retuck, and cleaned his wounds before letting him rest. Begrudgingly Retuck ordered Hirt, a strong cunning black skaven, to take charge until he recovered and regained full health. The hunt for warp stone must continue if they were to avoid unleashing Rotclaw’s wrath.
------
It was a smoggy, hot and sticky day, almost two weeks from Retucks return. The air seemed heavy and felt thick as it entered the skaven’s throats. Hirt and the mob crept between the crumpled buildings. This area of Mordheim had received a lot of damage during the shower, few buildings stood taller than Nool the ogre, forcing him to crouch.
Hirt, determined to prove both to the Mob and Rotclaw he was deserving of his new responsibilities, was determined to find warp stone. Two weeks and he’d found none. He was getting desperate.
“You sure it waz here Sakery?” Hirt snarled at a young, scrawny verminkin. The youngster had heard rumour of a building rife with warp stone in this area being protected by strange lizard beasts. Drawn to Mordheim for riches and power Sakery had travelled far to get there, only to realise on arrival the cut throat savage day to day life, something he had not bargained for. After hiding, and lurking, barely managing to scavenge enough food he had listened and gathered information, until he came across Retuck’s war band. Cautiously he’d approached Hirt, who had first assumed he was a spy and launched at his throat with his sword, but Sakery bribed his trust with promises of Warp stone. The cunning gamble had paid off, and if the rumour was right he would be allowed to join the war band, and find safety in numbers, perhaps even advance up the ranks…however, if no warp stone was found …
“Yes yes yes, Hirt…sir…I am sure. Just that building, the tallest one, the old brewery, Lizards with warp stone, that’s what I heard.” Sakery stuttered, crossing his tail for luck.
* * * * *
Retuck was woken from his slumper when the mob returned. He lifted his claw to his forehead and wiped away the sweat. “Success Retuck” sneered Hirt, as he placed two pieces of warp stone down on the damp ground. “Grabbed it and ran we did silly lizards. Silly lizards” he continued to jeer.
“They were quite scary beasties, showered us with darts sharp as teethskes and had a lizard-ogre just like Nool, fear made me, made us look like a FOOL … We ran away we did, and found the precious stones as we hid…” sang Fishnag happily, not realising the rest of the mob, including Retuck was listening. Fishnag trailed off and ducked as Hirt lobed a dagger aimed at his head. The dagger spun and bounced off the concrete sewer wall. Nool roared, moving to stand between Hirt and Fishnag.
“So, you were lucky indeed Hirt”, this time it was Retuck who was jeering. He stood up. “You were lucky you all survived, IDIOTS”, he yelled. “No longer shall I lie here, and let you risk the mobs progress, I shall lead the next hunt, and remind you how to find warp stone, striking fear into the hearts of anyone who opposes us”. With that Retuck sat back down. “Hirt, take the stone to Rotclaw, perhaps that will remind you of the cost failure.”
Hirt scowled, picked up the warp and sulked off into the shadows, one day, one day he’d be the leader, of that he was determined.
The streets were uncharacteristically quiet, perhaps rumour of the rat-men had spread and fear was keeping others away, or perhaps there had been another large finding of wyrd stone which had drawn the crowds.
The body was alone. Retuck’s crimson robes moved in the slight breeze, the dusky sun was being its decent and was now obscured by the abandoned orphanage, casting the area into shadow.
Retuck’s eye opened suddenly. It squinted against the light. A groan escaped from his blood-encrusted mouth as he gained consciousness and realised his plight. Slowly and more cautiously the skaven opened his second eye.
He had no idea how long he’d been lying there.
He thought back to the battle with the humans, their swords and ferocity. They had been powerful. His mind wandered to his warband, had they been hurt too? Or worse maybe… or perhaps they had fled safely leaving him for dead?
“Those humans will pay” muttered Retuck bitterly.
He slowly slipped his right fist out of the fighting claw and moved it to feel his stomach. It was not good. The gash was large, and although blood no longer gushed from it, yellow puss and grit were already forming a crust. Infections in Mordheim almost always lead to death. He would have to get it cleaned as soon as possible if he was to stand a chance at survival. He rolled onto his back, and summoned his strength to lift his left paw, fighting claw still attached, and sliced off his robe sleeve. With his free paw he loosened his belt. He folded the sleeve, placing it on the wound and used the belt to secure it. He concentrated, yet the only movement he could muster in his legs was a slight wiggle of his toes. It was going to be a long, painful crawl to the sewer, but the other option was to accept the fate of being torn apart by rats, cats, carrion, or worse, at the hand of man. Night in Mordheim was a dangerous time, especially for the weak.
He rolled onto his stomach, and with a wince began heaving himself forward.
Defying all odds, Retuck had survived. It took him 4 hours to crawl the short distance to the sewer camp. His mob, had been tending their wounds, and squabbling over whom would take the warp stone to Rotclaw when they saw their leader. They quickly greeted Retuck, and cleaned his wounds before letting him rest. Begrudgingly Retuck ordered Hirt, a strong cunning black skaven, to take charge until he recovered and regained full health. The hunt for warp stone must continue if they were to avoid unleashing Rotclaw’s wrath.
------
It was a smoggy, hot and sticky day, almost two weeks from Retucks return. The air seemed heavy and felt thick as it entered the skaven’s throats. Hirt and the mob crept between the crumpled buildings. This area of Mordheim had received a lot of damage during the shower, few buildings stood taller than Nool the ogre, forcing him to crouch.
Hirt, determined to prove both to the Mob and Rotclaw he was deserving of his new responsibilities, was determined to find warp stone. Two weeks and he’d found none. He was getting desperate.
“You sure it waz here Sakery?” Hirt snarled at a young, scrawny verminkin. The youngster had heard rumour of a building rife with warp stone in this area being protected by strange lizard beasts. Drawn to Mordheim for riches and power Sakery had travelled far to get there, only to realise on arrival the cut throat savage day to day life, something he had not bargained for. After hiding, and lurking, barely managing to scavenge enough food he had listened and gathered information, until he came across Retuck’s war band. Cautiously he’d approached Hirt, who had first assumed he was a spy and launched at his throat with his sword, but Sakery bribed his trust with promises of Warp stone. The cunning gamble had paid off, and if the rumour was right he would be allowed to join the war band, and find safety in numbers, perhaps even advance up the ranks…however, if no warp stone was found …
“Yes yes yes, Hirt…sir…I am sure. Just that building, the tallest one, the old brewery, Lizards with warp stone, that’s what I heard.” Sakery stuttered, crossing his tail for luck.
* * * * *
Retuck was woken from his slumper when the mob returned. He lifted his claw to his forehead and wiped away the sweat. “Success Retuck” sneered Hirt, as he placed two pieces of warp stone down on the damp ground. “Grabbed it and ran we did silly lizards. Silly lizards” he continued to jeer.
“They were quite scary beasties, showered us with darts sharp as teethskes and had a lizard-ogre just like Nool, fear made me, made us look like a FOOL … We ran away we did, and found the precious stones as we hid…” sang Fishnag happily, not realising the rest of the mob, including Retuck was listening. Fishnag trailed off and ducked as Hirt lobed a dagger aimed at his head. The dagger spun and bounced off the concrete sewer wall. Nool roared, moving to stand between Hirt and Fishnag.
“So, you were lucky indeed Hirt”, this time it was Retuck who was jeering. He stood up. “You were lucky you all survived, IDIOTS”, he yelled. “No longer shall I lie here, and let you risk the mobs progress, I shall lead the next hunt, and remind you how to find warp stone, striking fear into the hearts of anyone who opposes us”. With that Retuck sat back down. “Hirt, take the stone to Rotclaw, perhaps that will remind you of the cost failure.”
Hirt scowled, picked up the warp and sulked off into the shadows, one day, one day he’d be the leader, of that he was determined.
Fiends of the Fen Week 3
The constant warfare and battle had taken their toll on Scabious Pestilous and Bilious multiple head injuries had left them all confused and slow. The recent skirmishes had been tough and even with the hideous and know bloodily scared Hilda von Trapp, Witch and member of the mistresses coven in the band the struggles recently had been the hardest yet. He was also worried about his position in the band both of his Lieutenants were know his equal in his combat possibly more so however they were in awe of him and the grizzly token of his victories he carried, the body of Konrat Harker. The band had been defeated three times within the past week firstly against the Samurai warriors of Nippon. Then the lizardmen had attacked the pure brutality of the Kroxigor overpowering and driving his snivelling minions into retreat. Finally they'd been overpowered by the freakish clowns of a circus they'd tried to pillage. nurgle would be laughing at that one for sure. Fortunately he was still in the Mistresses good books her hatred of Witch Hunters meant their killing of one would greatly aid him in succouring his safety from her and Mordheim was far less perilous than the Mistreses displeasure.
Suddenly he heard the howl of one of his hounds, recognising the peculiar notes from Lassie the hound Pestilous yelled out "What's that Lassie you smell Druchii do you? Lets feast upon their bones then". Swiftly the band rushed forwards bow fire knocked out the dogs and left them whimpering on the floor fortunately neither was badly injured. Rushing through the bowfire the warband was counter charged fortunately the brutal might of his minions swiftly overpowered the Druchii. Spindleshanks had overpowered the leader and with the falling of him the Druchii suddenly retreated as swiftly as the ambush had occurred. The leader and a swordsman were not so lucky and the two prisoners provided a fine feast for the band.
Suddenly he heard the howl of one of his hounds, recognising the peculiar notes from Lassie the hound Pestilous yelled out "What's that Lassie you smell Druchii do you? Lets feast upon their bones then". Swiftly the band rushed forwards bow fire knocked out the dogs and left them whimpering on the floor fortunately neither was badly injured. Rushing through the bowfire the warband was counter charged fortunately the brutal might of his minions swiftly overpowered the Druchii. Spindleshanks had overpowered the leader and with the falling of him the Druchii suddenly retreated as swiftly as the ambush had occurred. The leader and a swordsman were not so lucky and the two prisoners provided a fine feast for the band.
Saturday 23 May 2009
Warriors of the Mystic East Suffer Further Ignominy
Hideyoshi awoke with a splitting headache and a sharp pain in the side of his face. The last thing he remembered was one of those bastard clowns smashing him in the face with one of those crude clubs of theirs. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he surveyed the dingy room of the run-down basement that he had woken up in. He was not very reassured by what he saw - at one end of the room Akira was slumped against the wall with bloodied bandages covering his chest, at the other Shingen was fidgeting in the corner, looking nothing like the brave warrior Hideyoshi new.
"Could someone tell me what happened?"
One of Hideyoshi's recently hired spearmen spoke up. "Those fools gave us quite a beating sir, we had to pull back to save you and the others, and we lost Katsuyori and Jiro."
Hideyoshi cursed the gang of clowns. This town's strange inhabitants had disgraced his men for the last time! Despite his injury, Hideyoshi had no intention of returning home without completing his mission.
"Shiro, send for someone to replace Katsuyori, we need to get ready to continue our mission as soon as we can. And tell the dwarf we'll still be needing his services."
The spearman turned round and left the room, leaving Hideyoshi to plan how he would avenge his defeat.
"Could someone tell me what happened?"
One of Hideyoshi's recently hired spearmen spoke up. "Those fools gave us quite a beating sir, we had to pull back to save you and the others, and we lost Katsuyori and Jiro."
Hideyoshi cursed the gang of clowns. This town's strange inhabitants had disgraced his men for the last time! Despite his injury, Hideyoshi had no intention of returning home without completing his mission.
"Shiro, send for someone to replace Katsuyori, we need to get ready to continue our mission as soon as we can. And tell the dwarf we'll still be needing his services."
The spearman turned round and left the room, leaving Hideyoshi to plan how he would avenge his defeat.
Crossing the Pond
Tilpoca clacked some beads across on his abacus as he worked out the calculation. He was squatting down by one of the pools in the city. His calculations were to work out how much longer it would take to construct the new building. In front of him the work teams were working tirelessly. Stegadons were hauling massive carts filled with great slabs of stone. They were met by groups of Kroxigors, who would lift the stone from the cart and move it into place. Darting among them were scores of skinks, overseeing all and directing the larger reptiles.
Tilpoca’s calculations were interrupted when a shadow fell over his tablet. Looking up to see who was blocking his light he was most surprised to see Izquitzin, one of the highest ranking Skink Priests in the city.
“Tilpoca,” the old skink said in a raspy voice, “walk with me.” Tilpoca set down his abacus and stood up. Falling into step beside the priest the two walked away from the construction site. “It has been known a long time that you were destined for greatness, you have been marked by the Old Ones.”
Izquitzin was referring to his albino skink, a sure sign of great destiny among the Lizardmen. “Has that time come?” Tilpoca asked eagerly.
“Yes,” rasped the priest, “Our great lord has spoken of an important event happening across the great pond. We cannot send forth an army to deal with this, instead a subtler method will be used. You will lead a small group of handpicked Skinks deep into the heart of the pale skins. This tablet will lead you to the place where the event will happen. You should stay back until the sign reveals itself. Once it has, move in and investigate.”
Tilpoca took the gold tablet and studied it. He’d seen maps of the land across the great pond before, taken from the interlopers. This was in the region known as the Empire. Tilpoca couldn’t speak the language of the Empire, but he could speak some other languages of the surrounding land. He should be able to communicate with at least some of the locals should the need arise.
“I will do so.” Tilpoca assured Izquitzin.
“Good. Now come and meet the warriors under your command.”
There were a dozen skinks all told, including Tilpoca. Two were the Great Crested Skinks, famed for their great skill as Hunter. The remaining were split into three groups, two groups of archers and a group with javelins and shields. It was a solid exploratory group, one which would be more than sufficient for their task.
A brief discussion with the two great crests, Tililxocatl and Quanquitoc, and they had the journey planned. They would cross the great pond on teradons. The winged lizards would be the easiest way to cross such a vast expanse of water. Food could be an issue, as the teradons could only carry so much weight, but they would swoop down to fish as they flew, so the skinks should be able to use javelins and arrows with vines tied to them to gather some fish of their own.
With that settled half a dozen teradons were brought forth, the expedition checked their gear one last time, the teradons were loaded up and with a flap of wings Tilpoca and his people were airborne and heading out to cross the great pond.
Tilpoca’s terradon practically crashed into the beach. Half asleep at the time the albino was thrown violently off and rolled across the sand. Hauling himself to his feet he saw that the others were faring little better. The journey had been the most difficult one any of them had ever made. They had eaten little, as fishing from the back of a terradon was extremely hard work. Also they were all sleep deprived as you couldn’t sleep too comfortably on a terrodon either. But, they had all made it. They’d crossed the great pond.
Slowly the rest of the skinks made their way over to him, signs of fatigue and malnutrition were clearly present. Looking over at the terradons they were all at least half dead after the ordeal. It would be a miracle if all would survive to carry them home when this was over. It made the decision a lot easier.
“Quanquitoc, take the Striking Jaguars and kill the terradons,” Tilpoca ordered, “We’ll feast on them tonight and regain our strength. Tilixocatl, Take the Hidden Snake and scout out for a suitable place to spend the night. Keep a watch for pale skins, we don’t want our presence revealed.”
The two great creasts nodded, gathered their groups and set about their tasks. TIlpoca pulled out the gold tablets and began studying the various maps to try and work out where they had landed. The first part of their ordeal was over, they’d crossed the great pond. They still had to navigate through the land of the pale skins to one of their cities, wait for whatever was going to happen to happen and then deal with the consequences.
Tilpoca’s calculations were interrupted when a shadow fell over his tablet. Looking up to see who was blocking his light he was most surprised to see Izquitzin, one of the highest ranking Skink Priests in the city.
“Tilpoca,” the old skink said in a raspy voice, “walk with me.” Tilpoca set down his abacus and stood up. Falling into step beside the priest the two walked away from the construction site. “It has been known a long time that you were destined for greatness, you have been marked by the Old Ones.”
Izquitzin was referring to his albino skink, a sure sign of great destiny among the Lizardmen. “Has that time come?” Tilpoca asked eagerly.
“Yes,” rasped the priest, “Our great lord has spoken of an important event happening across the great pond. We cannot send forth an army to deal with this, instead a subtler method will be used. You will lead a small group of handpicked Skinks deep into the heart of the pale skins. This tablet will lead you to the place where the event will happen. You should stay back until the sign reveals itself. Once it has, move in and investigate.”
Tilpoca took the gold tablet and studied it. He’d seen maps of the land across the great pond before, taken from the interlopers. This was in the region known as the Empire. Tilpoca couldn’t speak the language of the Empire, but he could speak some other languages of the surrounding land. He should be able to communicate with at least some of the locals should the need arise.
“I will do so.” Tilpoca assured Izquitzin.
“Good. Now come and meet the warriors under your command.”
There were a dozen skinks all told, including Tilpoca. Two were the Great Crested Skinks, famed for their great skill as Hunter. The remaining were split into three groups, two groups of archers and a group with javelins and shields. It was a solid exploratory group, one which would be more than sufficient for their task.
A brief discussion with the two great crests, Tililxocatl and Quanquitoc, and they had the journey planned. They would cross the great pond on teradons. The winged lizards would be the easiest way to cross such a vast expanse of water. Food could be an issue, as the teradons could only carry so much weight, but they would swoop down to fish as they flew, so the skinks should be able to use javelins and arrows with vines tied to them to gather some fish of their own.
With that settled half a dozen teradons were brought forth, the expedition checked their gear one last time, the teradons were loaded up and with a flap of wings Tilpoca and his people were airborne and heading out to cross the great pond.
Tilpoca’s terradon practically crashed into the beach. Half asleep at the time the albino was thrown violently off and rolled across the sand. Hauling himself to his feet he saw that the others were faring little better. The journey had been the most difficult one any of them had ever made. They had eaten little, as fishing from the back of a terradon was extremely hard work. Also they were all sleep deprived as you couldn’t sleep too comfortably on a terrodon either. But, they had all made it. They’d crossed the great pond.
Slowly the rest of the skinks made their way over to him, signs of fatigue and malnutrition were clearly present. Looking over at the terradons they were all at least half dead after the ordeal. It would be a miracle if all would survive to carry them home when this was over. It made the decision a lot easier.
“Quanquitoc, take the Striking Jaguars and kill the terradons,” Tilpoca ordered, “We’ll feast on them tonight and regain our strength. Tilixocatl, Take the Hidden Snake and scout out for a suitable place to spend the night. Keep a watch for pale skins, we don’t want our presence revealed.”
The two great creasts nodded, gathered their groups and set about their tasks. TIlpoca pulled out the gold tablets and began studying the various maps to try and work out where they had landed. The first part of their ordeal was over, they’d crossed the great pond. They still had to navigate through the land of the pale skins to one of their cities, wait for whatever was going to happen to happen and then deal with the consequences.
Sunday 17 May 2009
Fiends of the Fen
Pestilous, Scabious and Bilious wandered down the street and into the market wondering what was causing all the screaming and wretching. He and his warband were trying to acquire a Holy Relic to boost the resolve of their minions especially the cowardly Ungor.
Scabious chuckled evilly as Pestilous began snivelling since the Elven Mage had stabbed him with the sword he had become nervous and terrified of sudden movement which had slowed them all down. "We'll never find a Relic there aren't any nowhere"
Bilious snorted and tryed to glower at pestilous difficult when he always looks out of the left shoulder and can never actually see the other to. "Stop yer yollering you idjit if the mistress here's about it we'll suffer."
"Sharrap" replied Pestilous. Then one of the Ungor Tostig this one was Scabious thought ran up dragging something.
The entire composite creature immediately decided that whatever the Ungor had and was so excited by they wanted. Quickly they clobbered him and then recognised it for what it was Konrat Harker the notorious Witch Hunters body. The band had killed him in the struggle under the streets they all grinned what better icon for the servants of the Witch of the Fens than the torso of a Witch Hunter.
Scabious chuckled evilly as Pestilous began snivelling since the Elven Mage had stabbed him with the sword he had become nervous and terrified of sudden movement which had slowed them all down. "We'll never find a Relic there aren't any nowhere"
Bilious snorted and tryed to glower at pestilous difficult when he always looks out of the left shoulder and can never actually see the other to. "Stop yer yollering you idjit if the mistress here's about it we'll suffer."
"Sharrap" replied Pestilous. Then one of the Ungor Tostig this one was Scabious thought ran up dragging something.
The entire composite creature immediately decided that whatever the Ungor had and was so excited by they wanted. Quickly they clobbered him and then recognised it for what it was Konrat Harker the notorious Witch Hunters body. The band had killed him in the struggle under the streets they all grinned what better icon for the servants of the Witch of the Fens than the torso of a Witch Hunter.
Wednesday 13 May 2009
Monday 11 May 2009
The Free Company of Professional Bounty Hunters and Information Seekers of the Great City of Marienburg
‘Captain. This is all we could find.’ Captain Reinholdt Kuiper, duellist extraordinaire and renowned bounty hunter, took the crumpled mass of papers from his sergeant’s hands. Before him stood the charred husk of a once opulent inn, that but a month ago had been his company’s refuge in this gods-forsaken city. Sifting through the papers, the Captain dropped his head with a disappointed grunt. He crushed the papers in his gauntleted hand before casting them to the ground. What remained of his contract, along with weeks of intelligence on his current bounty, was now left to the smouldering ruins. Whoever had gained the Merchant Guild’s ire was one of the few who could claim good fortune after the coming of Sigmar’s Wrath. If he still drew breath to enjoy it, of course.
Alone but for his men in the now silent streets, the Captain had already heard the approach of the lone horsemen. Ready for any danger the city might produce, Kuiper was surprised to see the rider was a young and well-dressed messenger, though his weary face and unkempt, if fashioned, appearance spoke of a long and hastened journey.
‘Captain Kuiper! By Sigmar, at last. I bring news from the Guild Master.’ The young man presented a letter, sealed with the mark of one of Marienburg’s many wealthy merchant guilds. The Captain opened the letter and began to read, a wizened look upon his face as he digested the information within. He did not recognise this word, ‘Wyrdstone’, though knew from its description that it was the unnatural looking rock he had seen spread amongst the city’s rubble-strewn streets. He pocketed the letter; his orders clear. The Merchant Guilds of Marienburg desired this ‘Wyrdstone’, and what the guilds desired was never less than valuable. With knowledge of their new bounty, the Captain and his men headed deeper into the newly christened City of the Damned.
Alone but for his men in the now silent streets, the Captain had already heard the approach of the lone horsemen. Ready for any danger the city might produce, Kuiper was surprised to see the rider was a young and well-dressed messenger, though his weary face and unkempt, if fashioned, appearance spoke of a long and hastened journey.
‘Captain Kuiper! By Sigmar, at last. I bring news from the Guild Master.’ The young man presented a letter, sealed with the mark of one of Marienburg’s many wealthy merchant guilds. The Captain opened the letter and began to read, a wizened look upon his face as he digested the information within. He did not recognise this word, ‘Wyrdstone’, though knew from its description that it was the unnatural looking rock he had seen spread amongst the city’s rubble-strewn streets. He pocketed the letter; his orders clear. The Merchant Guilds of Marienburg desired this ‘Wyrdstone’, and what the guilds desired was never less than valuable. With knowledge of their new bounty, the Captain and his men headed deeper into the newly christened City of the Damned.
The Experiences Of Learned Horst II
The Experiences of Learned Horst - Part II
“Where did ye learn to fight like dat?” Maria of Hasselhund asked.
“Hmmm.” Learned Horst began to think. He and Maria walked down an empty street, over the fallen front wall of a Mordheim fishmongers. They stumbled slightly on the bricks, struggling with their respective loads. Maria carried a dead pig over her shoulders, the beast having swallowed a splash of poison earlier in the week. Horst’s burden was even more unusual, a humanoid lizard.
“I’m not sure.” He answered. “The young men in my village were taught to wield a sword or cudgel, or even a big stick, to help fend off greenskins. But I’ve never really…”
Horst tailed off, wondering where exactly his turn of combat prowess had come from. Witch Finder Konrat Harker had heard rumours of a witch selling potions and charms in the abandoned Mordheim University and so Horst had travelled along, eager to do Sigmar’s bidding. Of course he knew the city was a dangerous place, but Horst had never really considered what he would do if fighting broke out. So when a band of these blue-skinned lizard men began shooting at them as they travelled down the street, Horst was at rather a loss.
Konrat sensed this, and thankfully asked Horst to do the one thing he was good at. “Read, lad.” He said simply, and Horst fumbled with his copy of Thee Pashions of Sigmar, and selected an appropriate verse. It was called We Are His Hammers and was the one Horst was most familiar with, which was useful as attempting to read at the same time as charging forward as part of a raging mob was not a practice he was used to. Still he must have managed well enough as a crazed mad man, who Horst supposed was nominally on his side though he was unsure of the man’s name, came up to him after the battle to decry how much he had enjoyed the reading, ‘especially the bit about the hammers.’
Horst saw very little of the battle, his eyes flicking between his feet and his book. However he did manage to notice one very important moment in the fight, when he accidentally strayed from the warband whilst struggling with a particularly long word. He heard a chirping noise that put Horst in mind of a Stirland Thrush, and looked up to see one of the lizards only a metre away dropping a short bow and pulling out a curved dagger. Horst had reacted quickly, bringing his club round in a sweeping arc that the lizard easily ducked under as it made to stab Horst’s belly.
Thee Pashions of Sigmar was the only other weapon to hand, and Horst flung his arm sideways, the book catching the lizard in the chin and spinning its head around with a terrible sounding crack. Horst stared at it’s body until the next thing he knew, people were clapping him on the back and congratulating him. It seems the rest of the lizards had fled with a few injuries and Horst was the only confirmed kill, making him some sort of hero amongst these people.
So now Learned Horst was carrying the corpse to the edge of Mordheim, where traders would hopefully pay a few shillings for such an unusual body. Maria was with him with her deceased swine, hoping to sell the meat and purchase a replacement. Horst had asked her if she was upset at her pet’s death. “The little shite bit ma finger this mornin’.” Was the reply.
“I believe Sigmar must have been guiding my arm.” Horst decided, diplomatically.
“Aye. He’s good like dat.” Maria replied, flashing Horst a dirty grin. “Well, we’d better get a move on. Konrat, he’s got plans, aye. Plans for all o’ us bastards.”
Horst nodded, remembering the front of Mordheim University as they had departed an hour a go. Over the entrance a witch was hanging.
“Where did ye learn to fight like dat?” Maria of Hasselhund asked.
“Hmmm.” Learned Horst began to think. He and Maria walked down an empty street, over the fallen front wall of a Mordheim fishmongers. They stumbled slightly on the bricks, struggling with their respective loads. Maria carried a dead pig over her shoulders, the beast having swallowed a splash of poison earlier in the week. Horst’s burden was even more unusual, a humanoid lizard.
“I’m not sure.” He answered. “The young men in my village were taught to wield a sword or cudgel, or even a big stick, to help fend off greenskins. But I’ve never really…”
Horst tailed off, wondering where exactly his turn of combat prowess had come from. Witch Finder Konrat Harker had heard rumours of a witch selling potions and charms in the abandoned Mordheim University and so Horst had travelled along, eager to do Sigmar’s bidding. Of course he knew the city was a dangerous place, but Horst had never really considered what he would do if fighting broke out. So when a band of these blue-skinned lizard men began shooting at them as they travelled down the street, Horst was at rather a loss.
Konrat sensed this, and thankfully asked Horst to do the one thing he was good at. “Read, lad.” He said simply, and Horst fumbled with his copy of Thee Pashions of Sigmar, and selected an appropriate verse. It was called We Are His Hammers and was the one Horst was most familiar with, which was useful as attempting to read at the same time as charging forward as part of a raging mob was not a practice he was used to. Still he must have managed well enough as a crazed mad man, who Horst supposed was nominally on his side though he was unsure of the man’s name, came up to him after the battle to decry how much he had enjoyed the reading, ‘especially the bit about the hammers.’
Horst saw very little of the battle, his eyes flicking between his feet and his book. However he did manage to notice one very important moment in the fight, when he accidentally strayed from the warband whilst struggling with a particularly long word. He heard a chirping noise that put Horst in mind of a Stirland Thrush, and looked up to see one of the lizards only a metre away dropping a short bow and pulling out a curved dagger. Horst had reacted quickly, bringing his club round in a sweeping arc that the lizard easily ducked under as it made to stab Horst’s belly.
Thee Pashions of Sigmar was the only other weapon to hand, and Horst flung his arm sideways, the book catching the lizard in the chin and spinning its head around with a terrible sounding crack. Horst stared at it’s body until the next thing he knew, people were clapping him on the back and congratulating him. It seems the rest of the lizards had fled with a few injuries and Horst was the only confirmed kill, making him some sort of hero amongst these people.
So now Learned Horst was carrying the corpse to the edge of Mordheim, where traders would hopefully pay a few shillings for such an unusual body. Maria was with him with her deceased swine, hoping to sell the meat and purchase a replacement. Horst had asked her if she was upset at her pet’s death. “The little shite bit ma finger this mornin’.” Was the reply.
“I believe Sigmar must have been guiding my arm.” Horst decided, diplomatically.
“Aye. He’s good like dat.” Maria replied, flashing Horst a dirty grin. “Well, we’d better get a move on. Konrat, he’s got plans, aye. Plans for all o’ us bastards.”
Horst nodded, remembering the front of Mordheim University as they had departed an hour a go. Over the entrance a witch was hanging.
Sunday 10 May 2009
Fen Fiends week 2
Scabious Bilious and Pestilous were arguing ferociously "You tell her Scabious".
"No Bilious shall".
"Shan't let one of the Ungor do it"
"Yes Pestilous one of the Ungor can do it"
"Oy you yes you you shall tell the mistress about our adventures"
The cowering Ungor headed up the stairs of the tower in the bog outside Mordheim. The rest of the party relaxed the sacrifice having been selected. Minutes later the cowering shrieks of a scared goat came across out of the tower window then suddenly the shattered body of the Ungor flew out as it crashed like a rag doll into the wall it sunk straight into the swamp beneath where it landed to drown. Moments later Scabious Bilious and Pestilous heard a weird buzzing in their ears.
"Shit she still wants us" murmured Pestilous
As the woebegone Beastman afraid of nothing save the mistress entered the tower he tried to think of anything that could save him from his failures. The only thing he could think of was the Jewelled Sword they'd recovered from a cart and maybe the pretty rocks. They definitely weren't looking forward to this discussion.
"No Bilious shall".
"Shan't let one of the Ungor do it"
"Yes Pestilous one of the Ungor can do it"
"Oy you yes you you shall tell the mistress about our adventures"
The cowering Ungor headed up the stairs of the tower in the bog outside Mordheim. The rest of the party relaxed the sacrifice having been selected. Minutes later the cowering shrieks of a scared goat came across out of the tower window then suddenly the shattered body of the Ungor flew out as it crashed like a rag doll into the wall it sunk straight into the swamp beneath where it landed to drown. Moments later Scabious Bilious and Pestilous heard a weird buzzing in their ears.
"Shit she still wants us" murmured Pestilous
As the woebegone Beastman afraid of nothing save the mistress entered the tower he tried to think of anything that could save him from his failures. The only thing he could think of was the Jewelled Sword they'd recovered from a cart and maybe the pretty rocks. They definitely weren't looking forward to this discussion.
Servants of the Shadowlord
The violent scene tore across his vision once more. A red sheet of slow, rippling liquid lapped at his naked feet. Before him a ruined city stood, burning and ripe with darkness – there were pieces of pure wickedness there. In the centre a sinister, impenetrable shadow hung, above the city. A pair of red, coal eyes peered from what might have been the head. The name “Mordheim” ricocheted around his mind forcefully. Halibel opened his eyes and was back in the small farm that once might have been prosperous. But now it was dormant and dead. The screams of those who once occupied it were now and forever silent. He missed them. In the distance he spied the city, a great spire of smoke still drifted from its ruined corpse. It had been nearly a month since the so named 'Judgement of Sigmar' had struck the city, it had quickly become a haven for those not wanting to be found or those serving a higher purpose. Like Halibel.
********
It had only been a week or two since he had entered the city, he had forgotten since time never seemed to flow here, but Halibel now had quite the gathering. His cult's den, as he called it, sprawled a single three story building. The ruined rooms were rife with debauchery that would make a servant of the pleasure god blush. Rough cloth died purple hung all over the building, the rooms used them as rugs or doors for the more private of events. Everywhere he walked the smell of the blue lotus clogged the air. The rare flower had some very interesting effects when burnt, the smoke became a powerful hallucinogenic and aphrodisiac. Something that helped him gather those needed. Nodding to two fully inducted brethren he picked out four females from a group in one of the rooms, each semmingly involved in an act more mind boggling than the last. The two robed figures wound their way past the profligate revellers to the chosen, and unceremoniously dragged them from the room. Taking one last look, Halibel took a deep breath and left, leaving the moaning and gasps to echo down an empty hall.
The drugged women were carried down to a darkened cellar, lit only by a dozen half burnt candles. The first female was lain across the stone tablet in the middle, a large arcane circle has be carved into its surface, deep channels cut into the rock. Pulling a curved dagger from beneath his robes, Halibel began to mutter a prayer. His words would bring his dark master's, the mysterious “Shadow Lord”, gaze towards his sacrifice. Plunging the dagger down, its highly polished surface cut into her pale skin with ease, in a moment of lucidity she arced her back, a tortured scream tore from her blood flecked lips as the blade gouged a rough circular shape in her chest. Her last, final gasp came as he ripped the vital muscle from her chest. Her corpse flopped back down onto the stone, the channels below filled with crimson, completing the arcane symbol. Turning, the bloody heart in his hands, Halibel dropped it into the burning brazier next to him. The hissing sound of meat being cooked filled the silence, the crackling of the coking meat suddenly gave way to roaring flames of black and white leaping from the brazier, forming a leering daemonic visage for mere moments before vanishing once more.
“Ulquiorra” he muttered. “Dinner”. From one of the darkened corner of the room a hulking figure emerged. It stood nearly a head taller than any other in the room, its hunched body was constantly racked with changes, as if the skin was being pushed at from inside. Its slack jawed face belied the possessed power. Halibel knew that either of its three arms could rip a limb off. As if illustrating his unspoken observation Ulquiorra picked up the heartless woman and in a sharp, vicious movement he tore her arm free from the body. Acidic saliva dripped from the creatures maw as its powerful jaws clamped hard on the necrotic flesh and Ulquiorra tore a chunk of pale flesh off, before gulping it down.
Halibel tore his gaze away from the spectacle. He had work to do.
********
It had only been a week or two since he had entered the city, he had forgotten since time never seemed to flow here, but Halibel now had quite the gathering. His cult's den, as he called it, sprawled a single three story building. The ruined rooms were rife with debauchery that would make a servant of the pleasure god blush. Rough cloth died purple hung all over the building, the rooms used them as rugs or doors for the more private of events. Everywhere he walked the smell of the blue lotus clogged the air. The rare flower had some very interesting effects when burnt, the smoke became a powerful hallucinogenic and aphrodisiac. Something that helped him gather those needed. Nodding to two fully inducted brethren he picked out four females from a group in one of the rooms, each semmingly involved in an act more mind boggling than the last. The two robed figures wound their way past the profligate revellers to the chosen, and unceremoniously dragged them from the room. Taking one last look, Halibel took a deep breath and left, leaving the moaning and gasps to echo down an empty hall.
The drugged women were carried down to a darkened cellar, lit only by a dozen half burnt candles. The first female was lain across the stone tablet in the middle, a large arcane circle has be carved into its surface, deep channels cut into the rock. Pulling a curved dagger from beneath his robes, Halibel began to mutter a prayer. His words would bring his dark master's, the mysterious “Shadow Lord”, gaze towards his sacrifice. Plunging the dagger down, its highly polished surface cut into her pale skin with ease, in a moment of lucidity she arced her back, a tortured scream tore from her blood flecked lips as the blade gouged a rough circular shape in her chest. Her last, final gasp came as he ripped the vital muscle from her chest. Her corpse flopped back down onto the stone, the channels below filled with crimson, completing the arcane symbol. Turning, the bloody heart in his hands, Halibel dropped it into the burning brazier next to him. The hissing sound of meat being cooked filled the silence, the crackling of the coking meat suddenly gave way to roaring flames of black and white leaping from the brazier, forming a leering daemonic visage for mere moments before vanishing once more.
“Ulquiorra” he muttered. “Dinner”. From one of the darkened corner of the room a hulking figure emerged. It stood nearly a head taller than any other in the room, its hunched body was constantly racked with changes, as if the skin was being pushed at from inside. Its slack jawed face belied the possessed power. Halibel knew that either of its three arms could rip a limb off. As if illustrating his unspoken observation Ulquiorra picked up the heartless woman and in a sharp, vicious movement he tore her arm free from the body. Acidic saliva dripped from the creatures maw as its powerful jaws clamped hard on the necrotic flesh and Ulquiorra tore a chunk of pale flesh off, before gulping it down.
Halibel tore his gaze away from the spectacle. He had work to do.
Hidyoshi's Cadre
Hideyoshi looked out over the ruins of the city with trepidation. He had heard stories of whole bands of men disappearing in the blasted wreckage that the city had been reduced to. It certainly didn't look hospitable, and his men were far from home. Still, he hadn't come half way across the world to leave empty handed.
Resolved to complete this mission, which, although a risky undertaking, could bring great wealth and honour to his clan, Hideyoshi led his men into the city.
Resolved to complete this mission, which, although a risky undertaking, could bring great wealth and honour to his clan, Hideyoshi led his men into the city.
Tuesday 5 May 2009
The experiences of Learned Horst
Learned Horst was his name, for in his village he was the only one who could read letters, an overrated skill acquired during his brief time as a Friar’s apprentice. Friar Dietmund was a good man, but not without his vices. He caught the Bretonnian Disease from a Talabheim prostitute and succumbed to its ravages less than a year after he had taken (the then unlearned) Horst under his flabby wing. Though Horst was not sure it was the disease that did him in but the small doses of arsenic the good father took to keep the symptoms at bay.
This was years ago of course, and today Learned Horst was riding Gosbert, his faithful yet half-blind nag, through the streets of Mordheim. He was slowly progressing down Tanner Lane and looking for The Leaping Troute having received directions from a crooked bone picker only ten minutes back. In payment the picker had taken a sermon from Horst’s most important possession, his book. Though whenever Horst looked up from his reading to see the effect his most stirring words were having on the poor fellow, the picker seemed more interested is Gosbert, eyeing the beast hungrily. The book was the only possession of Friar Dietmund that Horst had left. It was unfortunately called "Thee Pashions of Sigmar", unfortunate as it was a series of rousing verses intended to inflame mens’ hearts and certainly not their loins as one intoxicated tavern occupier had suggested to Horst. He had received a crack on his skull from Horst’s club as divine punishment and Horst stopped telling interested parties the book’s title. He had considered maybe changing the title but Friar Dietmund had taught him how to read but not how to write.
The Leaping Troute was in view, a tavern made of stern stone that still stood in a street of fallen buildings. Here Horst expected to find Witch Finder Konrat Harker, known to some as Konrat the Bloody, known to others as Heartless Konrat. It is said even the most pious Witch Hunters of Altdorf breathed a sigh of relief when he decided to head to Mordheim in search of mutants, rat-men and sorcerous folk. Using a standing tavern as his base of operations, Konrat was recruiting those mad/devout enough to join him.
It was a surprise to Horst, therefore that the entrance was guarded not by a bearded fanatic but by a wild haired lady in a tattered red dress struggling to hold back a frothing swine on the end of a thankfully sturdy looking chain. If Gosbert had been able to see that far, he probably would shy away, but the old steed plodded on towards the snapping teeth of the pig.
“Ye be looking for Konrat.” The woman said taking Horst, who had been more focussed on the immediate problem of the attack-pig, by surprise. “He’s inside. Name’s Maria of Hasselhund.”
Horst said the first thing that came to mind, then immediately regretted it. “I heard Hasselhund doesn’t exist anymore.”
"Aye, it don’t. Whole place burned by chaotic bastards.”
Horst was about to apologise, though Maria didn’t actually look upset, when from
The Troute’s doorway strode a figure carrying itself as only a man who received nicknames such as ‘Heartless’ and ‘The Bloody’ could. Witch Finder Harker regarded Horst with a glare that lasted, or at least it seemed so to Horst, minutes and reducing him to babbling incoherently.
“Lord… that is to say… most holy… err… sir. Witch Finder sir. Horst…. That’s me sir. That… I mean I… I’m here under the guidance of… of most holy Sigmar. That is to say, our lord had guided us, me, myself here. Err…”
Horst managed to reign in his prattling, just as Konrat Harker gave a slight nod to Maria and spun round on his heels and marched back into the inn. Maria smiled through blackened teeth, her swine calmed for the moment and laying at her feet. “Looks like yer in my dear. Bring that club o’yours and get inside. We got huntin’ ta do.”
This was years ago of course, and today Learned Horst was riding Gosbert, his faithful yet half-blind nag, through the streets of Mordheim. He was slowly progressing down Tanner Lane and looking for The Leaping Troute having received directions from a crooked bone picker only ten minutes back. In payment the picker had taken a sermon from Horst’s most important possession, his book. Though whenever Horst looked up from his reading to see the effect his most stirring words were having on the poor fellow, the picker seemed more interested is Gosbert, eyeing the beast hungrily. The book was the only possession of Friar Dietmund that Horst had left. It was unfortunately called "Thee Pashions of Sigmar", unfortunate as it was a series of rousing verses intended to inflame mens’ hearts and certainly not their loins as one intoxicated tavern occupier had suggested to Horst. He had received a crack on his skull from Horst’s club as divine punishment and Horst stopped telling interested parties the book’s title. He had considered maybe changing the title but Friar Dietmund had taught him how to read but not how to write.
The Leaping Troute was in view, a tavern made of stern stone that still stood in a street of fallen buildings. Here Horst expected to find Witch Finder Konrat Harker, known to some as Konrat the Bloody, known to others as Heartless Konrat. It is said even the most pious Witch Hunters of Altdorf breathed a sigh of relief when he decided to head to Mordheim in search of mutants, rat-men and sorcerous folk. Using a standing tavern as his base of operations, Konrat was recruiting those mad/devout enough to join him.
It was a surprise to Horst, therefore that the entrance was guarded not by a bearded fanatic but by a wild haired lady in a tattered red dress struggling to hold back a frothing swine on the end of a thankfully sturdy looking chain. If Gosbert had been able to see that far, he probably would shy away, but the old steed plodded on towards the snapping teeth of the pig.
“Ye be looking for Konrat.” The woman said taking Horst, who had been more focussed on the immediate problem of the attack-pig, by surprise. “He’s inside. Name’s Maria of Hasselhund.”
Horst said the first thing that came to mind, then immediately regretted it. “I heard Hasselhund doesn’t exist anymore.”
"Aye, it don’t. Whole place burned by chaotic bastards.”
Horst was about to apologise, though Maria didn’t actually look upset, when from
The Troute’s doorway strode a figure carrying itself as only a man who received nicknames such as ‘Heartless’ and ‘The Bloody’ could. Witch Finder Harker regarded Horst with a glare that lasted, or at least it seemed so to Horst, minutes and reducing him to babbling incoherently.
“Lord… that is to say… most holy… err… sir. Witch Finder sir. Horst…. That’s me sir. That… I mean I… I’m here under the guidance of… of most holy Sigmar. That is to say, our lord had guided us, me, myself here. Err…”
Horst managed to reign in his prattling, just as Konrat Harker gave a slight nod to Maria and spun round on his heels and marched back into the inn. Maria smiled through blackened teeth, her swine calmed for the moment and laying at her feet. “Looks like yer in my dear. Bring that club o’yours and get inside. We got huntin’ ta do.”
The Fiends of the Fen
This small band of Beastmen are servants of the deadly and dangerous Hag of the Fen. They have been sent to retrieve the belongings of the mistress from her former home. A great lady of the Empire, the Hag was discovered by the Witch Hunters and sent to Altdorf for execution. However, Papa Nurgle looks after his own and in the swamps around Mordheim the coach was ambushed by a band of Beastmen. Just as they were about to eat the lady she showed her blessing, dropping the previous Shaman in an explosion of sorcerous might. The band of her guards she sorcerously bound along with the Shaman into a hideous Spawn . The Hag of course is too grand to lead forces into battle and sends minions to do the dirty work for her. The chief of these is Scabious, Bilious and Pestilous . This three headed fiend constantly argues insanely with himself leading to some erratic battlefield decisions. He currently has a pair of Bestigor Spindleshanks and Connor of the Swords to support him as well as a motly crew of Gors and Ungors as well as some loveable puppies.
Rotclaw's servants
Not all the ratmen in Mordheim work for the Clan lords of Eshin, some have found their way in to the service of other more local masters. One such is Rekuck and his brothers, they work for their Master- Rotclaw. Rotclaw is a huge flea bitten, warp-deformed moggy cat who once belonged to an alchemist before the comet hit and lead to his mutation and prolonged lif, he has some knowledge of magic- making him terrifying- but also allowing him to reward his most reliable servants with powerful spells.
Huge and bloated he lives in the sewers. The rats think of Rotclaw almost like a god and do his bidding out of fear and hope of reward….
Huge and bloated he lives in the sewers. The rats think of Rotclaw almost like a god and do his bidding out of fear and hope of reward….
Rekuck's Rats lick their wounds
“Six of the seven Skaven stood huddled in a corner of what could only loosely be described as a room. The building was perhaps grand once, now it lay in ruins, wrecked with little structure, its ceiling looked ready to cave, the door hung limply from one hinge.
Fishnag, a night runner and the seventh Skaven was in the opposite corner. Fishnag had an extraordinary and inexplicable talent for controlling beasts, and stood stroking a huge rat ogre. The rat ogre, usually a fearsome creature, savage and hungry for flesh was huntched over, offering the top of its head to Fishnag. Fishnag adoringly obeyed the beast (which he had lovingly bestowed the name Nool), forgetting the pain coming from the gruesome injury he had obtained in battle and instead scratched Nool behind the ear with his long yellow claws.
A trickle of blood oozed from the gash just below Fishnag’s knee. Yellow puss was already forming in the centre of the cut. “That fatskey sliced my leg Nool. That fatskey dwarf will be munched upon next time we see him” Fishnag whispered to the Ogre. Nool, oblivious, replied with a gormless expression of contentment.
“Fools, two shards of warpstone, Master will not be happy- WILL NOT BE HAPPY” Rekuck yelled, following the outburst with a stomp of his foot.
Rekuck was a terrifying Skaven, with long red robes, sharp blades tided to his fists and a scar ridden face. He was older than the rest, approaching 14 and had already risen to rank of Assassin. His tail was twitching from left to right with irritation. Today had been a humiliating day for his mob.
Rekuck clicked his tongue. He needed to think. Master had just begun to trust Rekuck, something that was favourable if he wanted to stay un-gobbled. How do you prevent being gobbled thought Rekuck…
“Two shards, is better than no shards.” Spoke Rekuck and grinned- showing his black fangs. If the Master was displeased he would sacrifice the verminkin- Zedax and Orz. Hopefully if Master was feasting on their scrawny bodies he would forgive Rekuck.
“Let’s go and present Master with our warp-treasure” Rekuck spoke slowly- concentrating not to let slip his plan.
None of the Mob argued. The Skaven all salivated at the thought of owning their very own warpstone chunk but knew the risk was not worth the gain. Master would track traitors down, betraying the Nightmaster of Clan Eshin was no threat in comparison. Even if they could escape Master, they would almost certainly die. A single Skaven, even one with a rat ogre would be doomed alone in Mordheim. They had chosen their path long ago, now they must tread it.”
Fishnag, a night runner and the seventh Skaven was in the opposite corner. Fishnag had an extraordinary and inexplicable talent for controlling beasts, and stood stroking a huge rat ogre. The rat ogre, usually a fearsome creature, savage and hungry for flesh was huntched over, offering the top of its head to Fishnag. Fishnag adoringly obeyed the beast (which he had lovingly bestowed the name Nool), forgetting the pain coming from the gruesome injury he had obtained in battle and instead scratched Nool behind the ear with his long yellow claws.
A trickle of blood oozed from the gash just below Fishnag’s knee. Yellow puss was already forming in the centre of the cut. “That fatskey sliced my leg Nool. That fatskey dwarf will be munched upon next time we see him” Fishnag whispered to the Ogre. Nool, oblivious, replied with a gormless expression of contentment.
“Fools, two shards of warpstone, Master will not be happy- WILL NOT BE HAPPY” Rekuck yelled, following the outburst with a stomp of his foot.
Rekuck was a terrifying Skaven, with long red robes, sharp blades tided to his fists and a scar ridden face. He was older than the rest, approaching 14 and had already risen to rank of Assassin. His tail was twitching from left to right with irritation. Today had been a humiliating day for his mob.
Rekuck clicked his tongue. He needed to think. Master had just begun to trust Rekuck, something that was favourable if he wanted to stay un-gobbled. How do you prevent being gobbled thought Rekuck…
“Two shards, is better than no shards.” Spoke Rekuck and grinned- showing his black fangs. If the Master was displeased he would sacrifice the verminkin- Zedax and Orz. Hopefully if Master was feasting on their scrawny bodies he would forgive Rekuck.
“Let’s go and present Master with our warp-treasure” Rekuck spoke slowly- concentrating not to let slip his plan.
None of the Mob argued. The Skaven all salivated at the thought of owning their very own warpstone chunk but knew the risk was not worth the gain. Master would track traitors down, betraying the Nightmaster of Clan Eshin was no threat in comparison. Even if they could escape Master, they would almost certainly die. A single Skaven, even one with a rat ogre would be doomed alone in Mordheim. They had chosen their path long ago, now they must tread it.”
Henghir and the Khung Clan arrive in Mordheim
History of hengir and hwafid
The Khund Clan originates from Karak Norn, and the head family still resides there: subordinate families within the clan are situated across the dwarf empire. The Khund brothers, Hengir and Hwafid, are from the Khund second family in Karak Norn. While Hengir, being the eldest, was raised a warrior (that is as a 'profession' or life style rather than the natural training every dwarf undertakes as a beardling) Hwafid shunned the more respected trade and apprenticed in engineering. The pair complete each other, like a dwarf and his armour or the right key to the right lock. They temper each others skills and from an early age were selected for the clan's expeditions as a team.
Such missions, Hengir felt, lacked the test and difficulty to satiate his lust for challenge and so when his younger brother came of age Hengir offered to lead the expedition to the cursed city with his brother as aide. Few would honour his request to join his party however, as tales travelled deep even within the deepest recesses of all Karaks of the terrors of Mordheim. Hengir even travelled to the Slayer keep, so to find those warriors insane enough to search death willingly. Upon entering Mordheim, the Khund Clan expedition has set up a small base in the outskirts of Mordheim, while prosperity seems possible, it has so far been difficult to establish a safe trade route out of Mordheim.
The Khund Clan originates from Karak Norn, and the head family still resides there: subordinate families within the clan are situated across the dwarf empire. The Khund brothers, Hengir and Hwafid, are from the Khund second family in Karak Norn. While Hengir, being the eldest, was raised a warrior (that is as a 'profession' or life style rather than the natural training every dwarf undertakes as a beardling) Hwafid shunned the more respected trade and apprenticed in engineering. The pair complete each other, like a dwarf and his armour or the right key to the right lock. They temper each others skills and from an early age were selected for the clan's expeditions as a team.
Such missions, Hengir felt, lacked the test and difficulty to satiate his lust for challenge and so when his younger brother came of age Hengir offered to lead the expedition to the cursed city with his brother as aide. Few would honour his request to join his party however, as tales travelled deep even within the deepest recesses of all Karaks of the terrors of Mordheim. Hengir even travelled to the Slayer keep, so to find those warriors insane enough to search death willingly. Upon entering Mordheim, the Khund Clan expedition has set up a small base in the outskirts of Mordheim, while prosperity seems possible, it has so far been difficult to establish a safe trade route out of Mordheim.
Henghir's first exploration of the streets of Mordheim
Hengir Khund paused at the broken city wallsthat bordered the ghoulish city that harboured the dreams, and ultimately the ends, of those brave enough to penetrate its borders. Those who entered rarely returned, but Khund held a stoic hope that the riches in store were worth the risk. His brother, Hwafid, tended to his dwarven handgun idly as he waited for the orders to move out. Hwafid was a natural when it came to technology, although his true purpose was to temper his elder brothers fiery spirit. Only two troll slayers and two of Khund's bravest clansmen had been mad enough to accompany Hengir and Hwafid on their dangerous venture to set up shop in Mordheim. They stood silently, their ears tracking the wails and screams that emerged from the ghastly hallows ahead, it was enough to chill the bone of even a dwarf. Pulling out his ancestral axe, Hengir, turned to his companions and barked, "Onwards comrades, riches and spoils awaits our brave company herein!" Without a pause Hengir turned and plunged lithely into the shadows that was Mordheim.
Hengir's group had been prospecting for a few days, the air tasted bitter and foul like the dreg ends of a steel mine. Hwafid had eyed an area polluted with the valuable stones and Hengir had been too quick to snatch and grab. Far off in the distance other groups were already fighting for the precious mineral, his group were split into two as they converged on the beautiful material on the corner of the street. Then the skaven attacked, a hail of stones erupted from their left flank and Balor Gundwane yelled, losing his footing as blood erupted from his temple. Faldur Jannen and Dorn Bolst leapt ahead to protect him even as he fell, charging the two Skaven ballisters with a throated roar. The familiar crack of Hwafid's Handgun sounded as Hengir leapt for the Wyrdstone, Jan Galdur vaulting the wall the aide Balor Gundwane. Two filthy rats engaged Hengir as he tried to retreat in Hwafid's direction, a mace deftly knocked his dagger aside and he dropped to a knee as he parried the second assailant's blow. A giant, terrifying rat ogre charged out of an alcove and engaged Balor who screamed battle cries and engaged as any true troll sayer would. Hengir heard a yell of fury and witnessed his brother engaging one of the skaven attacking him, stepping back to his feet he brought his battle axe in a broad sweep into the mid riff of a clothed vermin who fell squealing in pain. As the second backed up slightly Hengir shouted at his brother, "Hwafid, get the minerals out of here!" A roar erupted once more from inside the building that his comrades were situated and Balor crashed out of the building, smashing over the low wall and slumping in the street. Screaming, Hengir pushed back his opponent desperately, calling for the other dwarfs to regroup on his position.
Hwafid wasn't ready for the incursion by the Skaven, he'd missed his hastily readied shot and had been forced to charge two Skaven to protect his headstrong brother. As he picked up the valuable wyrdstone Balor flew out of the ravaged building, the responsible rat ogre bellowing in satisfaction as he flung his prey out of the dank room. As Hwafid turned and fled around the corner he saw his remaining comrades desperately holding out against a much larger foe, parying the lesser Skaven while dodging the brutal attacks of the rat ogre. He dived into an empty building and huddled down out of site, clutching the cursed material that was worth dying for in the deep recesses of Mordheim. He silently prayed nothing would find him here...
Jan Galdur kicked a Skaven into its rat associates, ducking under a deadly swipe from a set of razor sharp claws. The remaining troll slayer, Faldur had engaged the enormous rat ogre in Balor's place leaving him to guard Dorn's unconsious body from three enraged Skaven. One pitch black, large rat leapt forwards and Jan desperately anticipated its attack. Stepping to one side he brought his axe down on the foul rat's leg, hewing into the thick black fur and cleaving into flesh. He saw Hengir throw a Skaven back outside and stood, panting, as the deadly Skaven retreated back into the shadows. Faldur shouted profanities as the lumbering rat ogre followed its master, before returning to aide Jan in picking up Dorn. Hengir was dragging off Balor who miraculously seemed to be alive after his duel with the rat ogre. Hwafid had escaped with the booty and they had all survived, just. Sheathing his weapon he limped back in the direction of 'home', a small and well defensible building not a days march from here. They had bit off more than they could chew today, it was a miracle that they had come out unscathed.
As Hengir led his troop of weary clansmen back to the safe zone, he pondered on how to deal with such a problem again. They had come out unprepared and rushed into a dangerous situation. Care, it seemed, would be a must to survive in the cursed city. He would also bring more clansfolk on the next excursion, other warbands clearly harboured many more than six in a party. Either way, they would not let themselves be caught in such a situation again. Next time might turn out quite differently.
Hengir's group had been prospecting for a few days, the air tasted bitter and foul like the dreg ends of a steel mine. Hwafid had eyed an area polluted with the valuable stones and Hengir had been too quick to snatch and grab. Far off in the distance other groups were already fighting for the precious mineral, his group were split into two as they converged on the beautiful material on the corner of the street. Then the skaven attacked, a hail of stones erupted from their left flank and Balor Gundwane yelled, losing his footing as blood erupted from his temple. Faldur Jannen and Dorn Bolst leapt ahead to protect him even as he fell, charging the two Skaven ballisters with a throated roar. The familiar crack of Hwafid's Handgun sounded as Hengir leapt for the Wyrdstone, Jan Galdur vaulting the wall the aide Balor Gundwane. Two filthy rats engaged Hengir as he tried to retreat in Hwafid's direction, a mace deftly knocked his dagger aside and he dropped to a knee as he parried the second assailant's blow. A giant, terrifying rat ogre charged out of an alcove and engaged Balor who screamed battle cries and engaged as any true troll sayer would. Hengir heard a yell of fury and witnessed his brother engaging one of the skaven attacking him, stepping back to his feet he brought his battle axe in a broad sweep into the mid riff of a clothed vermin who fell squealing in pain. As the second backed up slightly Hengir shouted at his brother, "Hwafid, get the minerals out of here!" A roar erupted once more from inside the building that his comrades were situated and Balor crashed out of the building, smashing over the low wall and slumping in the street. Screaming, Hengir pushed back his opponent desperately, calling for the other dwarfs to regroup on his position.
Hwafid wasn't ready for the incursion by the Skaven, he'd missed his hastily readied shot and had been forced to charge two Skaven to protect his headstrong brother. As he picked up the valuable wyrdstone Balor flew out of the ravaged building, the responsible rat ogre bellowing in satisfaction as he flung his prey out of the dank room. As Hwafid turned and fled around the corner he saw his remaining comrades desperately holding out against a much larger foe, parying the lesser Skaven while dodging the brutal attacks of the rat ogre. He dived into an empty building and huddled down out of site, clutching the cursed material that was worth dying for in the deep recesses of Mordheim. He silently prayed nothing would find him here...
Jan Galdur kicked a Skaven into its rat associates, ducking under a deadly swipe from a set of razor sharp claws. The remaining troll slayer, Faldur had engaged the enormous rat ogre in Balor's place leaving him to guard Dorn's unconsious body from three enraged Skaven. One pitch black, large rat leapt forwards and Jan desperately anticipated its attack. Stepping to one side he brought his axe down on the foul rat's leg, hewing into the thick black fur and cleaving into flesh. He saw Hengir throw a Skaven back outside and stood, panting, as the deadly Skaven retreated back into the shadows. Faldur shouted profanities as the lumbering rat ogre followed its master, before returning to aide Jan in picking up Dorn. Hengir was dragging off Balor who miraculously seemed to be alive after his duel with the rat ogre. Hwafid had escaped with the booty and they had all survived, just. Sheathing his weapon he limped back in the direction of 'home', a small and well defensible building not a days march from here. They had bit off more than they could chew today, it was a miracle that they had come out unscathed.
As Hengir led his troop of weary clansmen back to the safe zone, he pondered on how to deal with such a problem again. They had come out unprepared and rushed into a dangerous situation. Care, it seemed, would be a must to survive in the cursed city. He would also bring more clansfolk on the next excursion, other warbands clearly harboured many more than six in a party. Either way, they would not let themselves be caught in such a situation again. Next time might turn out quite differently.
Crazy Joe
Crazy joe, once a highly decorated soldier of the empire now a jibbering tramp, roamed the streets of mordheim looking for the easiest way to get a drink.
The warmth was familiar, he put his hand down the back of his pants. Joe coughed and flung a hunk of phlem out of his mouth into the open gutter running down the side of the road. He smelt his finger, the thick pundgent smell hit the back of his throat. He smeared his hand down the front of his once white shirt and picked up his sword with both hands. Words were continually spat from his mouth but no-one else bothered to listen. The young man stood next to him looked nervous, his face sweaty and pale. A large grin spilt over Joe's face, the blood would come soon he could sense it. In the distant streets the sounds of war echoed off the ruins, the clash of swords and screams of the slain. Above him marksmen fired crossbow bolts into enemies he could not see. Joe's patience had ran out, he no longer cared about the men stood by him. Murderous rage filled his mind, he let out a deep roar and charged forward towards the battle in the street.
The warmth was familiar, he put his hand down the back of his pants. Joe coughed and flung a hunk of phlem out of his mouth into the open gutter running down the side of the road. He smelt his finger, the thick pundgent smell hit the back of his throat. He smeared his hand down the front of his once white shirt and picked up his sword with both hands. Words were continually spat from his mouth but no-one else bothered to listen. The young man stood next to him looked nervous, his face sweaty and pale. A large grin spilt over Joe's face, the blood would come soon he could sense it. In the distant streets the sounds of war echoed off the ruins, the clash of swords and screams of the slain. Above him marksmen fired crossbow bolts into enemies he could not see. Joe's patience had ran out, he no longer cared about the men stood by him. Murderous rage filled his mind, he let out a deep roar and charged forward towards the battle in the street.
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