Here is the first of a series of statements indicating the position and motivation of the various factions involved in the fighting in the Old World at the end of the Siege of Middenheim.
The Empire
The Empire was in turmoil. Though the siege of the city of the White Wolf had been broken, and the forces of Archaon forced into retreat, the Warlord himself still lived. He was surrounded within the virtually impregnable fortress of Brass Keep, his greatest surviving warriors gathered about him and the walls of the edifice protected further by vile enchantments. Valten was gone, and none knew for sure where, but those who knew of the manner of his disappearance feared the worst. Some of the nobility with an eye on the throne themselves muttered in muted whispers about how conveniently this challenge to Karl Franz position had so neatly been removed.
Despite the hardships the Imperial forces had suffered, now was not the time to fall to complacency, and Karl Franz had ordered a mustering of the remaining Empire forces, bolstered by reinforcements from the southern States spared the horror of the war thus far. A decisive push must be made to cleanse the land of the forces of Chaos and drive them back to whence they came, or destroy them utterly. Archaon himself must die, so that he would have no chance to reorder his forces and plunge the Empire once more into bitter war. The northern States that had borne the brunt of the fighting were in ruin, and great was the task of rebuilding ahead of them. The roving bands of Beastmen and fur clad Marauders must be hunted down, and any treacherous men of the Empire who, in their darkest hour had thrown their lot in with the forces of the enemy, must be put to the sword as well, lest their taint be allowed to spread.
An army had already been dispatched, heavy with Priests and Witch Hunters, east towards Stirland and far Sylvania. Now that the threat of the Vampire Counts hung once more over their heads, that too must be addressed and ended for all time. Now, while they were on the front foot, the forces of the Empire could be victorious, but it was a hard task to come.
As Karl Franz stood in council around the map table before him and his generals, an outrider entered the tent. He looked worn and short of breath. From within a leather satchel he drew forth a rolled parchment, and kneeling he held it out for the Emperor. Karl Franz took the roll and unfurled it, scanning down the script within. The news was grave. The Orcs were marching south, towards Altdorf...
The Empire was in turmoil. Though the siege of the city of the White Wolf had been broken, and the forces of Archaon forced into retreat, the Warlord himself still lived. He was surrounded within the virtually impregnable fortress of Brass Keep, his greatest surviving warriors gathered about him and the walls of the edifice protected further by vile enchantments. Valten was gone, and none knew for sure where, but those who knew of the manner of his disappearance feared the worst. Some of the nobility with an eye on the throne themselves muttered in muted whispers about how conveniently this challenge to Karl Franz position had so neatly been removed.
Despite the hardships the Imperial forces had suffered, now was not the time to fall to complacency, and Karl Franz had ordered a mustering of the remaining Empire forces, bolstered by reinforcements from the southern States spared the horror of the war thus far. A decisive push must be made to cleanse the land of the forces of Chaos and drive them back to whence they came, or destroy them utterly. Archaon himself must die, so that he would have no chance to reorder his forces and plunge the Empire once more into bitter war. The northern States that had borne the brunt of the fighting were in ruin, and great was the task of rebuilding ahead of them. The roving bands of Beastmen and fur clad Marauders must be hunted down, and any treacherous men of the Empire who, in their darkest hour had thrown their lot in with the forces of the enemy, must be put to the sword as well, lest their taint be allowed to spread.
An army had already been dispatched, heavy with Priests and Witch Hunters, east towards Stirland and far Sylvania. Now that the threat of the Vampire Counts hung once more over their heads, that too must be addressed and ended for all time. Now, while they were on the front foot, the forces of the Empire could be victorious, but it was a hard task to come.
As Karl Franz stood in council around the map table before him and his generals, an outrider entered the tent. He looked worn and short of breath. From within a leather satchel he drew forth a rolled parchment, and kneeling he held it out for the Emperor. Karl Franz took the roll and unfurled it, scanning down the script within. The news was grave. The Orcs were marching south, towards Altdorf...
Storm of Chaos - Beastmen
Beastmen
The insatiable warherds that took part in the great invasion of the hated human Empire, led by the forces of the northman Archaon, took great satisfaction from the enraged bloodletting that saw the northern provinces ravaged. However, the Everchosen proved too weak, underestimating his enemy, and was now at bay, cornered like an animal within the pile of stones the humans called Brass Keep. Who was this Archaon? A mere man, who thought himself the Chosen of Chaos, when it was the Blessed Children of the deepest forests that were the true chosen of Chaos! The herds had been mustered in secret over many months, massing in numbers greater than ever before. The great beasts of the dark places had been roused to anger, and now the Beastmen were ready to finally take back what once was theirs, tearing down the pitiful cities of human kind as they went, in an unstoppable roaring, gnashing tide of destruction that would see the end of men in this world.
The northern Empire had been weakened by Archaon’s assault, and now the time was ripe. The numberless beastherds, joined by rampaging Ghorgons, insane Cygor and horrific Jaberslythe, would sweep across the northern Empire, razing utterly those places that still stood defiant, before they could rebuild their defences and call forth more warriors from the south. After the destruction of the north was complete, they would turn to the destruction of the rest of the Empire, and after that all the nations of men, Dwarfs and Elves beyond the mountains. The time of the Beastmen was here...
The insatiable warherds that took part in the great invasion of the hated human Empire, led by the forces of the northman Archaon, took great satisfaction from the enraged bloodletting that saw the northern provinces ravaged. However, the Everchosen proved too weak, underestimating his enemy, and was now at bay, cornered like an animal within the pile of stones the humans called Brass Keep. Who was this Archaon? A mere man, who thought himself the Chosen of Chaos, when it was the Blessed Children of the deepest forests that were the true chosen of Chaos! The herds had been mustered in secret over many months, massing in numbers greater than ever before. The great beasts of the dark places had been roused to anger, and now the Beastmen were ready to finally take back what once was theirs, tearing down the pitiful cities of human kind as they went, in an unstoppable roaring, gnashing tide of destruction that would see the end of men in this world.
The northern Empire had been weakened by Archaon’s assault, and now the time was ripe. The numberless beastherds, joined by rampaging Ghorgons, insane Cygor and horrific Jaberslythe, would sweep across the northern Empire, razing utterly those places that still stood defiant, before they could rebuild their defences and call forth more warriors from the south. After the destruction of the north was complete, they would turn to the destruction of the rest of the Empire, and after that all the nations of men, Dwarfs and Elves beyond the mountains. The time of the Beastmen was here...
Storm of Chaos - The Vampire
Counts
The armies of Manfred von Carstein
Having scattered the remnants of Archaon’s forces at Sokh, Manfred has marched his army east. The naive leaders of the Empire, which had themselves failed to take Sokh after bitter street fighting, believed Manfred’s ‘retreat’ to be due to the defiance of the Grand Theogonist, Volkmar, but in truth, he knew he needed to protect his centre, and the vast power and knowledge stored there, from the encroachment of the hordes of Vardek Crom into Sylvania.
As Manfred turned and rode away from Middenheim, there was in fact an evil grin seeping across his pale visage, for armies under the command of his most trusted lieutenants had already marched across the borders of Sylvania into the eastern Empire States of war ravaged Ostermark, hated Stirland and Talabecland. The humans could never comprehend his great ambitions, for they were short lived and thought in terms of weeks and months, not the years, decades and even centuries his complex plans could encompass. There was one pressing consideration though. With the vast size of his forces, he must have a victory, to reinforce his dominance and keep the Vampires of his horde in order.
Trust among Vampires is a fallacy in purest form though, and whether Manfred is able to retain control of his lieutenants without his direct influence remains to be seen. It has ever been the way with Vampire kind that they rule through fear rather than loyalty, and only the strongest of wills can ensure their continued obedience...
Will the depleted but jubilant forces of an Empire and its allies battered by war be able to counter this new and terrible threat, or will the Empire finally fall to the cold machinations of the Vampire Counts?
Having scattered the remnants of Archaon’s forces at Sokh, Manfred has marched his army east. The naive leaders of the Empire, which had themselves failed to take Sokh after bitter street fighting, believed Manfred’s ‘retreat’ to be due to the defiance of the Grand Theogonist, Volkmar, but in truth, he knew he needed to protect his centre, and the vast power and knowledge stored there, from the encroachment of the hordes of Vardek Crom into Sylvania.
As Manfred turned and rode away from Middenheim, there was in fact an evil grin seeping across his pale visage, for armies under the command of his most trusted lieutenants had already marched across the borders of Sylvania into the eastern Empire States of war ravaged Ostermark, hated Stirland and Talabecland. The humans could never comprehend his great ambitions, for they were short lived and thought in terms of weeks and months, not the years, decades and even centuries his complex plans could encompass. There was one pressing consideration though. With the vast size of his forces, he must have a victory, to reinforce his dominance and keep the Vampires of his horde in order.
Trust among Vampires is a fallacy in purest form though, and whether Manfred is able to retain control of his lieutenants without his direct influence remains to be seen. It has ever been the way with Vampire kind that they rule through fear rather than loyalty, and only the strongest of wills can ensure their continued obedience...
Will the depleted but jubilant forces of an Empire and its allies battered by war be able to counter this new and terrible threat, or will the Empire finally fall to the cold machinations of the Vampire Counts?
Storm of Chaos - The Orcs
The Orcs of Gimgor Ironhide
Grimgor Ironhide, mightiest Orc Warlord of the age, was seething with rage. Of every promise he ever heard roared across a battlefield, every challenge laid down by the warmongering cries of a mighty champion, every upstart proclaiming himself the doom of all other warriors, Archaon, the supposed Lord of the End Times, top Chaos boy, had been the biggest disappointment.
By the time Grimgor and his Immortulz had hacked their way to the heart of the mighty battle of Middenheim, hewing their way through screaming Flagellants and spiky Chaos boys, their leader was already battered and bruised after a fight with two other humies, but he’d beaten them both, but the fight he offered Grimgor was utterly disheartening.
How did such a weakling ever become the leader of such a vast horde of warriors? Surely the quality of the northern tribes of men must be pretty low for this man to rise so high? Having laid the Everchosen low with a mighty ‘edbut and the flat of Gitsnik’s heavy blade, Grimgor turned his army around and withdrew from this vexing waste of his time. Muttering to himself as his boys hacked and slashed their way clear of the fighting, Grimgor wracked his Orcish brain for the answer to his lifelong question. Where would he ever find a challenge worthy of his blade? Where could he go to find the greatest fighters he could possibly face?
As he finished battering a shrieking Flagellant into the mud with a length of wood he didn’t remember picking up, the spiky end of it caught his gaze. It had human words scratched on it. Wiping away the Flagellants blood he struggled to make out the name on what he now saw was a signpost....Alt-dorf? That was the human boys big city to the south. If they’d managed to beat the Chaos boys here, then the Empire must have even better fighters than the Chaos lot, and they would muster every blade to defend their big important city. Grimgor extended his muscled green arm, and with a roar and the pointing of a dirty claw, turned his army south...
Grimgor Ironhide, mightiest Orc Warlord of the age, was seething with rage. Of every promise he ever heard roared across a battlefield, every challenge laid down by the warmongering cries of a mighty champion, every upstart proclaiming himself the doom of all other warriors, Archaon, the supposed Lord of the End Times, top Chaos boy, had been the biggest disappointment.
By the time Grimgor and his Immortulz had hacked their way to the heart of the mighty battle of Middenheim, hewing their way through screaming Flagellants and spiky Chaos boys, their leader was already battered and bruised after a fight with two other humies, but he’d beaten them both, but the fight he offered Grimgor was utterly disheartening.
How did such a weakling ever become the leader of such a vast horde of warriors? Surely the quality of the northern tribes of men must be pretty low for this man to rise so high? Having laid the Everchosen low with a mighty ‘edbut and the flat of Gitsnik’s heavy blade, Grimgor turned his army around and withdrew from this vexing waste of his time. Muttering to himself as his boys hacked and slashed their way clear of the fighting, Grimgor wracked his Orcish brain for the answer to his lifelong question. Where would he ever find a challenge worthy of his blade? Where could he go to find the greatest fighters he could possibly face?
As he finished battering a shrieking Flagellant into the mud with a length of wood he didn’t remember picking up, the spiky end of it caught his gaze. It had human words scratched on it. Wiping away the Flagellants blood he struggled to make out the name on what he now saw was a signpost....Alt-dorf? That was the human boys big city to the south. If they’d managed to beat the Chaos boys here, then the Empire must have even better fighters than the Chaos lot, and they would muster every blade to defend their big important city. Grimgor extended his muscled green arm, and with a roar and the pointing of a dirty claw, turned his army south...
Storm of Chaos - The Skaven
The Skaven
The Council Chamber was in complete uproar. Fur stood on end, and tails swished agitatedly. The Council endorsed plan to utilise Clan Skyre’s super weapon, the lauded ‘Doom Hemisphere’, had failed to annihilate the mountain and the fortified human warren that sat atop it. Instead it had only partially exploded, warping and fusing the tunnels beneath the great rock into labyrinthine new forms. The device itself was now lost somewhere within the newly created maze, though even now, gutter runners of Clan Eshin had been despatched to try and find the device.
The shrieks of treachery and sabotage that had been levelled at Clan Skyre themselves had been deafening, and it had almost come to bloodshed on several occasions, until the Council had restored order, the Storm Vermin guards brandishing their blades menacingly until the clamour abated. The fact remained that armies of many thousands of Skaven warriors were in place to attack. Beasts of every description had been herded to the underways beneath the city the humans called Middenheim in their hundreds. If they did not attack now, then the vast resources expended gathering so many Skaven and so much support into a single place would be wasted as all sense of order and purpose gave way to infighting and the Councils meticulously laid plans dissolved into nothing.
The human Empire above was in turmoil, now was the Skaven’s time. This city would have to be taken the old fashioned way, by sneaking up on the humans from beneath and taking them by surprise. The order would be given. They would attack...
The Council Chamber was in complete uproar. Fur stood on end, and tails swished agitatedly. The Council endorsed plan to utilise Clan Skyre’s super weapon, the lauded ‘Doom Hemisphere’, had failed to annihilate the mountain and the fortified human warren that sat atop it. Instead it had only partially exploded, warping and fusing the tunnels beneath the great rock into labyrinthine new forms. The device itself was now lost somewhere within the newly created maze, though even now, gutter runners of Clan Eshin had been despatched to try and find the device.
The shrieks of treachery and sabotage that had been levelled at Clan Skyre themselves had been deafening, and it had almost come to bloodshed on several occasions, until the Council had restored order, the Storm Vermin guards brandishing their blades menacingly until the clamour abated. The fact remained that armies of many thousands of Skaven warriors were in place to attack. Beasts of every description had been herded to the underways beneath the city the humans called Middenheim in their hundreds. If they did not attack now, then the vast resources expended gathering so many Skaven and so much support into a single place would be wasted as all sense of order and purpose gave way to infighting and the Councils meticulously laid plans dissolved into nothing.
The human Empire above was in turmoil, now was the Skaven’s time. This city would have to be taken the old fashioned way, by sneaking up on the humans from beneath and taking them by surprise. The order would be given. They would attack...
Storm of Chaos - Warriors of
Chaos
The Forces of Chaos
Archaon roared in pain. His head swam with terrible images and sounds, and felt as if all the power of Chaos threatened to burst his skull asunder. His body was equally wracked with pain, and it contorted and cracked into unfathomable shapes as the displeasure of the Chaos gods manifest itself. Being the favoured of the four greater deities brought almost limitless power, but it also meant that failure invited punishment from all four as well. His body, verging on the immortal, could withstand far greater physical damage than any simple man, forcing him to endure unimaginable agony while his life force refused to expire. The anger and the will that had brought him so far, down the path of long years, sustained him. It bubbled slowly from deep within him until it began to overcome the pain and the noise.
The malicious deities beyond the veil, a hairs breadth from the material realm, sensed the strength that remained deep within their defeated champion, sensed that, though brought low, the will that had brought him to them endured. It smouldered. They could still achieve their goals through him, though they must commit a portion of their own being to restore their champion...he was not like those champions who had gone before. He was of them, and his hatred burned hotter than the deepest hell.
...Slowly, and with great effort, Archaon, Lord of the End Times rose to his feet. Now he knew how close he had come to oblivion. It did not do to fail the very powers that had given him his chance to have his vengeance on the Empire. He had underestimated his enemy, thought his forces unstoppable. Now he knew better, knew what he faced, knew what waited should he fail once more...now there would be a reckoning. He strode from the chamber...
Archaon roared in pain. His head swam with terrible images and sounds, and felt as if all the power of Chaos threatened to burst his skull asunder. His body was equally wracked with pain, and it contorted and cracked into unfathomable shapes as the displeasure of the Chaos gods manifest itself. Being the favoured of the four greater deities brought almost limitless power, but it also meant that failure invited punishment from all four as well. His body, verging on the immortal, could withstand far greater physical damage than any simple man, forcing him to endure unimaginable agony while his life force refused to expire. The anger and the will that had brought him so far, down the path of long years, sustained him. It bubbled slowly from deep within him until it began to overcome the pain and the noise.
The malicious deities beyond the veil, a hairs breadth from the material realm, sensed the strength that remained deep within their defeated champion, sensed that, though brought low, the will that had brought him to them endured. It smouldered. They could still achieve their goals through him, though they must commit a portion of their own being to restore their champion...he was not like those champions who had gone before. He was of them, and his hatred burned hotter than the deepest hell.
...Slowly, and with great effort, Archaon, Lord of the End Times rose to his feet. Now he knew how close he had come to oblivion. It did not do to fail the very powers that had given him his chance to have his vengeance on the Empire. He had underestimated his enemy, thought his forces unstoppable. Now he knew better, knew what he faced, knew what waited should he fail once more...now there would be a reckoning. He strode from the chamber...
Storm of Chaos - Bretonnia
Bretonnia
After battling alongside their human and Dwarf allies in the defence of the Empire from the vast hordes of Archaon, and distinguishing themselves at the Siege of Middenheim, the Knights of Bretonnia are in high spirits, jubilant in their hard won glory, though little of that spirit seems to be present in the peasantry who marched to the Empire’s aid in the wake of their noble masters. They appear as downtrodden and dishevelled as ever. Now that the siege has been lifted and the forces of Archaon forced into retreat, the Knights of Bretonnia seek further challenges to test their metal against.
The chasing down of bandits and the broken remnants of the enemy force beneath their interest, the Bretonnians turn their thoughts instead to the newly emerged threat from Sylvania. Many are the tales of that blighted realm that have found their way to Bretonnian tap rooms over the centuries, and such a challenge as the notorious line of the von Carsteins would indeed be a test worthy of the gallant elite of fair Bretonnia. It is also rumoured that a vast army of Ogres marches from the east, from beyond the Worlds Edge Mountains, and an entire army of such monsters is too much for any true knight of Bretonnia to resist.
And so, word has spread amongst the legions of young knights eager to prove themselves in their eyes of both their piers and the Lady of the Lake. Never before will the dank and decrepit province of Sylvania have seen such a muster of splendour as the army of Knights marches to finally free the people of that benighted realm from the curse of the Vampire Counts...
After battling alongside their human and Dwarf allies in the defence of the Empire from the vast hordes of Archaon, and distinguishing themselves at the Siege of Middenheim, the Knights of Bretonnia are in high spirits, jubilant in their hard won glory, though little of that spirit seems to be present in the peasantry who marched to the Empire’s aid in the wake of their noble masters. They appear as downtrodden and dishevelled as ever. Now that the siege has been lifted and the forces of Archaon forced into retreat, the Knights of Bretonnia seek further challenges to test their metal against.
The chasing down of bandits and the broken remnants of the enemy force beneath their interest, the Bretonnians turn their thoughts instead to the newly emerged threat from Sylvania. Many are the tales of that blighted realm that have found their way to Bretonnian tap rooms over the centuries, and such a challenge as the notorious line of the von Carsteins would indeed be a test worthy of the gallant elite of fair Bretonnia. It is also rumoured that a vast army of Ogres marches from the east, from beyond the Worlds Edge Mountains, and an entire army of such monsters is too much for any true knight of Bretonnia to resist.
And so, word has spread amongst the legions of young knights eager to prove themselves in their eyes of both their piers and the Lady of the Lake. Never before will the dank and decrepit province of Sylvania have seen such a muster of splendour as the army of Knights marches to finally free the people of that benighted realm from the curse of the Vampire Counts...
Storm of Chaos - Dwarfs
Dwarfs
Garagrim Ironfist, heir to the throne of the Slayer Keep, is dead. His Father, Ungrim, beside himself with grief, and torn between his duty to lead his people and his oath as a slayer, has halted after the breaking of the siege of Middenheim, allowing his forces to reorder themselves and re-equip for the fight ahead. They have been joined by hundreds more slayers from the length and breadth of the Worlds Edge Mountains, only now completing long journeys from the south.
There is much debate within the Slayer Kings war council about the direction they should take now that Archaon’s forces have been forced into retreat. Dwarf armies march to defend their holds or to the aid of their human allies across the Empire, lending their skill to the rebuilding or shoring up of shoddy man made fortifications, but rumours have reached the ears of the Slayer King of a might horde of Ogres from far to the east which have crossed the Worlds Edge Mountains to the south, and now threaten the eastern Empire and the Dwarf holds of the region. Confronting such a force would earn many slayers a worthy end indeed, but having amassed such an army of Slayers as had never been seen before, many would have Ungrim march his army to the Eight Peaks, and attempt to regain the ancient city, greatest of Dwarf holds, an endeavour which would also assuredly see many Slayers fulfil their oaths. This course also promises the chance to return the city to Dwarven hands at long last.
Ungrim knows well that whatever the decision he makes, the repercussions will echo down the ages...
Garagrim Ironfist, heir to the throne of the Slayer Keep, is dead. His Father, Ungrim, beside himself with grief, and torn between his duty to lead his people and his oath as a slayer, has halted after the breaking of the siege of Middenheim, allowing his forces to reorder themselves and re-equip for the fight ahead. They have been joined by hundreds more slayers from the length and breadth of the Worlds Edge Mountains, only now completing long journeys from the south.
There is much debate within the Slayer Kings war council about the direction they should take now that Archaon’s forces have been forced into retreat. Dwarf armies march to defend their holds or to the aid of their human allies across the Empire, lending their skill to the rebuilding or shoring up of shoddy man made fortifications, but rumours have reached the ears of the Slayer King of a might horde of Ogres from far to the east which have crossed the Worlds Edge Mountains to the south, and now threaten the eastern Empire and the Dwarf holds of the region. Confronting such a force would earn many slayers a worthy end indeed, but having amassed such an army of Slayers as had never been seen before, many would have Ungrim march his army to the Eight Peaks, and attempt to regain the ancient city, greatest of Dwarf holds, an endeavour which would also assuredly see many Slayers fulfil their oaths. This course also promises the chance to return the city to Dwarven hands at long last.
Ungrim knows well that whatever the decision he makes, the repercussions will echo down the ages...
Storm of Chaos - High Elves
High Elves
Throughout the war, small contingents of High Elves lent support against the forces of Archaon where they could. Though they were few in number, their spears were welcome wherever they joined the forces of men and Dwarfs. Perhaps a tale that will be told unto the end of time in the annals of history, the greatest achievement of the High Mage Teclis was the banishment of the host of Daemons led by the Dark Master, Belakor. Not since the first war against Chaos has such power been unleashed in the world. There is no doubt in the minds of some that Middenheim would have fallen had this terrible force reached the walls, and the people of the Empire will always owe a debt to the High Elves for this significant intervention.
As Karl Franz holds council to decide how best to combat the foes that still beset the Empire, and in particular regard to how Archaon himself should be dealt with, surely the sage council of Teclis will prove invaluable. As Teclis himself considers the many paths that the coming months may take, he has become acutely aware of the power that has been unleashed in Sylvania, and the fate that follows Manfred von Carstein, a fate that may see even greater death and horror than that which was unleashed by the Everchosen...could it be that Teclis and the Vampyre must face each other before the end?
Throughout the war, small contingents of High Elves lent support against the forces of Archaon where they could. Though they were few in number, their spears were welcome wherever they joined the forces of men and Dwarfs. Perhaps a tale that will be told unto the end of time in the annals of history, the greatest achievement of the High Mage Teclis was the banishment of the host of Daemons led by the Dark Master, Belakor. Not since the first war against Chaos has such power been unleashed in the world. There is no doubt in the minds of some that Middenheim would have fallen had this terrible force reached the walls, and the people of the Empire will always owe a debt to the High Elves for this significant intervention.
As Karl Franz holds council to decide how best to combat the foes that still beset the Empire, and in particular regard to how Archaon himself should be dealt with, surely the sage council of Teclis will prove invaluable. As Teclis himself considers the many paths that the coming months may take, he has become acutely aware of the power that has been unleashed in Sylvania, and the fate that follows Manfred von Carstein, a fate that may see even greater death and horror than that which was unleashed by the Everchosen...could it be that Teclis and the Vampyre must face each other before the end?
Storm of Chaos - Wood Elves
Wood Elves
The Summer has passed. Its raging infernos that consumed our forest as beasts burned, rampaged and rutted amongst the ashes is over for now. Though our realms are a withered husk of what they were, we made the tainted invaders pay with rivers of blood for every step they took, every forest despoiled and every one of our own they cut down in battle.
The seasons turn, Autumn calls, and with it our last chance to chase them from our lands before we are too weak to defend ourselves. The king and his wild hunt call out to us 'Come drive them before us!', 'Come, let us finally crush the lord of skulls and drive his corrupting presence from our lands!', 'Come, let us rejoice in the slaughter of the unworthy, so their blood may nourish us in spring!’
The Summer has passed. Its raging infernos that consumed our forest as beasts burned, rampaged and rutted amongst the ashes is over for now. Though our realms are a withered husk of what they were, we made the tainted invaders pay with rivers of blood for every step they took, every forest despoiled and every one of our own they cut down in battle.
The seasons turn, Autumn calls, and with it our last chance to chase them from our lands before we are too weak to defend ourselves. The king and his wild hunt call out to us 'Come drive them before us!', 'Come, let us finally crush the lord of skulls and drive his corrupting presence from our lands!', 'Come, let us rejoice in the slaughter of the unworthy, so their blood may nourish us in spring!’
Storm of Chaos - Ogre Kingdoms
The Ogre Kingdoms
From the northern Dwarf holds of the Worlds Edge Mountains to the rickety watch towers of the Goblin Tribes of Peak Pass and Mount Gunbad, lookouts have spied great columns of dust out across the plains of the Dark Lands. For weeks these clouds of dust have been visible, but their source has been a mystery until now.
First there came great tides of lesser creatures, game animals, and tribes of Goblins, heading west towards the Old World. The frantic Wolf Riders of the Goblins brought with them tales of an immense and insatiable creature from further east, all tusks and grumbling belly, that devoured everything in it’s path, save those who could offer mounds of gold and glimmering trinkets, or else lead it to even more sustenance, and afterwards it would devour those as well! On and on the rumors of the creature came, ever westwards, ever hungry.
It was the Rangers of Clan Elriksson that brought the truth of this creature. Moving fast, well armed, and with great furred beasts of the Mountains of Mourn in tow, a great migration of Ogre tribes were on the move. Far to the east, in the foothills of the Mountains of Mourn, the Rangers witnessed an exchange between a Warband of Orcs, and the Paymasters of Greasus Goldtooth, the Gutlord himself. The Orcs, carrying with them a standard bearing the tribal emblems of Grimgor Ironhide, had driven a team of four hulking Squiggoths across the plains, dragging behind them a huge and ramshakled wooden wagon, plated with rusted iron, and loaded to bursting with gold taken in plunder from all the races of the Old World. The creaking wagon was mounted with sharpened stakes along its high sides, each of which impaled the diminutive bodies of Gnoblars, stacked one on top of the other: those who tried, foolishly, to steal the treasure horde of Grimgor, destined for the Lord of all the Ogre Tribes. This spectacular treasure, offered by a muscled and beweaponed Orc Warboss in exchange for marching his warriors west to war in the Old World, was accepted. However, the bargain was not sealed with blood until the Orcs had agreed to also give over the Squiggoths, to bless the feast table of the Goldtooth and his warriors.
Several hours later, after much belching and butting, and Greasus Goldtooth had finished picking the last strings of Orc flesh from between his yellowing tusks, he announced that the bargain was made, they would march west over the Worlds Edge Mountains, to war…
From the northern Dwarf holds of the Worlds Edge Mountains to the rickety watch towers of the Goblin Tribes of Peak Pass and Mount Gunbad, lookouts have spied great columns of dust out across the plains of the Dark Lands. For weeks these clouds of dust have been visible, but their source has been a mystery until now.
First there came great tides of lesser creatures, game animals, and tribes of Goblins, heading west towards the Old World. The frantic Wolf Riders of the Goblins brought with them tales of an immense and insatiable creature from further east, all tusks and grumbling belly, that devoured everything in it’s path, save those who could offer mounds of gold and glimmering trinkets, or else lead it to even more sustenance, and afterwards it would devour those as well! On and on the rumors of the creature came, ever westwards, ever hungry.
It was the Rangers of Clan Elriksson that brought the truth of this creature. Moving fast, well armed, and with great furred beasts of the Mountains of Mourn in tow, a great migration of Ogre tribes were on the move. Far to the east, in the foothills of the Mountains of Mourn, the Rangers witnessed an exchange between a Warband of Orcs, and the Paymasters of Greasus Goldtooth, the Gutlord himself. The Orcs, carrying with them a standard bearing the tribal emblems of Grimgor Ironhide, had driven a team of four hulking Squiggoths across the plains, dragging behind them a huge and ramshakled wooden wagon, plated with rusted iron, and loaded to bursting with gold taken in plunder from all the races of the Old World. The creaking wagon was mounted with sharpened stakes along its high sides, each of which impaled the diminutive bodies of Gnoblars, stacked one on top of the other: those who tried, foolishly, to steal the treasure horde of Grimgor, destined for the Lord of all the Ogre Tribes. This spectacular treasure, offered by a muscled and beweaponed Orc Warboss in exchange for marching his warriors west to war in the Old World, was accepted. However, the bargain was not sealed with blood until the Orcs had agreed to also give over the Squiggoths, to bless the feast table of the Goldtooth and his warriors.
Several hours later, after much belching and butting, and Greasus Goldtooth had finished picking the last strings of Orc flesh from between his yellowing tusks, he announced that the bargain was made, they would march west over the Worlds Edge Mountains, to war…
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