An Old Campaign #5

Padre

Member
Scabscar has a Go!

Ban Jarr, mercenary Ogre Tyrant, had thought long and hard (all morning in fact, apart from the hour he spent chewing an old sheep) and he had come to a conclusion. He must show his employers just what he and his brutes could do, then not only would they would have to cease their whining and moaning about his mistake, but they would also recognise the power he had at his disposal and so think twice about ever again suggesting his pay might be withheld as punishment.

You see, his Murosian masters had send Ban Jarr southwards against an army of desert men who could not be found, then immediately ordered him to retreat as soon as the enemy finally made their tardy appearance. This in itself was frustrating enough, and his warriors had taken to looting and mayhem to relieve their frustration at the lack of fighting. But the foe turned out not to be desert men, at least most of them were not, and Ban Jarr and his brutes had much difficulty distinguishing friend from foe. A simple mistake for drunken ogres to make, except it led to a bit of naughtiness in which a few Murosians were killed by mistake. One of the commanders called it a massacre - a rather far-fetched account to Ban Jarr’s mind - and it was this same man who suggested the ogres be punished.

Now Ban Jarr was leading his army to face the real enemy, a force of strength, and one that could not possibly be Murosians. They were Skaven, and even his brutes could see the difference between rat-men and men-men. He was not entirely sure who the skaven served, whether they were from the mountain Clan Skarr or if they marched for some other power, but did not care. He intended to teach his Murosian masters what the word ‘massacre’ really meant, and let them mull over whether they really ought to be bandying words like punishment in his presence.

(Writer’s Note: I hoped our Murosian players did not mind me adding some character background for this mercenary ogre force. I had grown tired of writing bat reps where the enemy were an anonymous bunch of faceless fighters.)

Funnily enough the Skaven commander, Warlord Scabscar, had come to a remarkably similar conclusion to the Tyrant: he too needed to show his masters what he was capable of. His motives, however differed considerably. He yearned to have the generals of the AIF heed his advice, bow to his wisdom, and so better serve his purposes. If he proved himself on the field of battle, in the bright light of day, then perhaps his fellow generals would in turn prove more malleable to his wishes.

Until now his forces had done little more than drive off a weak force or two, capture a few brigands and scouts, and prevent enemy foragers from returning with more than empty bellies. For over a week now his scouts had returned time and time again with no news of the foe, until Scabscar was starting to believe that the Murosian ‘threat’ was nothing but a clever war-ruse, an illusory force that in truth was little more than a band or two of huntsmen and raiders. This morning, however, the scouts returned with news of a substantial army of grey-skinned Ogres, arrayed for war and close by.

His time had come.

The Field of Battle

The battle would be fought over a flat stretch of land, dotted with farmsteads and copses of trees.

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Scabscar immediately decided to anchor his left flank with the largest farm in the vicinity, sending his Doomwheel to trundle around it on the far left of his position, whilst his huge mob of slaves were led by an engineer to occupy the farm as if they were a garrison.

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With these dispatched about their business, Scabscar gave his orders for the battle array.

Warlord Scabscar’s Force (2500 Pts)

Warlord (General Scabscar)
Halberd, Hvy Armour, Bonebreaker, Trickster's Helm, Talisman Preservation
Warlock Engineer
Level 2 Wizard, Warp Lightning, Warp Energy Condenser
Warlock Engineer
Level 1 Wizard, Warp Lightning, Dispel Scroll
Warlock Engineer
Level 1 Wizard, Opal Amulet, Warp Lightning
Chieftain
Heavy Armour, Weeping Blade, Charmed Shield, Luckstone
Chieftain
Battle Standard, Armour of Fortune

40 Clanrats - Full command, Spear, Light, Shield plus Ratling Gun team
40 Clanrats - Full command, Spear, Light, Shield plus Warpfire Thrower team
46 Skavenslaves - musician & Pawleader
40 Plague Monks - Full command, Banner of Under-Empire
24 Giant Rats & 4 Packmasters
9 Poisoned Wind Globadiers - Bombardier plus Poisoned Wind Mortar team

Doomwheel
2 Warp-Lightning Cannons
9 Warplock Jezzails

His two regiments of Clanrats would advance upon either side of a little wood, whilst their attached weapon teams would creep along through it. Scabscar himself led one of these regiments (upon the side of the wood nearest to the farmstead) while his chieftain would command the other. His horde of Plague Monks were sent to form the right of his central block of fighting regiments ….

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… while his jezzails, cannons, globadiers and giant rats were ordered to make as much difficulty as possible for any foe who attempted to make headway upon the right.

Ban-Jarr also put his fighting rank and filers together, with three regiments of Bulls making up the centre-right of his line. Upon the far right his sent his massive Bull Rhinoxes, their sickly yellow rag-banner hardly required to advertise to all their presence on the field.

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To his left, facing Clan Scabscar’s machines, bullets and bombs, Ban-Jarr sent his Scraplauncher, a small band of gnoblars and his yhetees.

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Ogre Force (2500)

Tyrant (Sword of Bloodshed, Talisman of Endurance, Enchanted shield)
Slaughtermaster (Fencer’s Blades, Talisman of Preservation, Skull Mantle)
Bruiser (Battle Standard, Armour of Destiny)

Three units of 6 Bulls
8 Gnoblar Trappers
ScrapLauncher
3 Yhetees
3 Bull Rhinox Riders (incl. Thunderlord)
Gorger
......................................................................................................................................

The Skaven Jezzails now lowered their long barrelled pieces to take aim on the foe. Battle was about to be joined!

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Deployment described, battle to follow. I have to ask, what say you? Who’ll win this one? Lay yer bets before tomorrow evening. This is your chance to show off and prove your WFB savvy. I’ll give you a clue - one side will absolutely massacre the other. But which one?
 
My money is on Padre and his rats. I predict one round of decent shooting, a bad ogre miscast swallowing their mage early on, an upset in close combat that leads to a key ogre unit breaking and being run down leading to a cascade fail that sees the game conceeded at the bottom of turn 3. BRING IT! :grin:
 

The Fat Git

Member
To give a sense of balance I will go for the skaven. Also as Padre gave the Ogres a bit of background it seems like he'd have some fluff for the end, which makes me believe it will be more woe for Ban Jarr.
 

Padre

Member
The gnoblars, skilled at the art of annoyance in more ways than one, moved up boldly towards the Jezzails …

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… while Yhetees’ employed their incredible agility to bound over the buildings and rush right up to the edge of the little woods on the Skaven’s right flank.

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At the same time Ban-Jarr signalled the general advance of his main battle units and his three Bull Regiments and Rhinox Riders came on fast towards the foe.

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Scabscar felt the fur on the back of his neck stiffen and his tail flick nervously. He had not expected such a bold advance in the face of his massive force, nor had it occurred to him just how large these brutish foes were. This close, there was no denying their might. It was at times like these that he was glad of the howdah he rode in, for his warriors were very unlikely to have spotted his fearful reaction. He steeled himself, holding his viciously barbed halberd aloft with as steady a hand as he could manage, and readied himself to give the necessary command.

Ban-Jarr’s Slaughtermaster, Splutterhorn, eyed the enemy as he gauged what magical power the gods might grant him. (Magic = 3:3) Suddenly the warp fire thrower caught his attention, is flared, smoking muzzle pointing his way. With a grunt he summoned Bonecruncher and killed the little fire-machine’s crew, but his grunt turned accidentally into a burp and the potent magic he had summoned (6,6,3) surged dangerously, sparking into reality around him. Luckily for him and his companions, the accidentally manifesting energy proved too weak to harm them.

The Scraplauncher hurled its tangled clump of specially sharpened metal fragments through the air towards Scabscar’s unit (I suddenly realised that arraying said unit in a 6 x 7 formation could well prove a big mistake. I watched the dice very closely here.) But the greenskin crew’s aim proved shoddy and all they managed to do was shatter tiles on the building nearby. At least their little cousins fared a little better, killing a jezzail team with their hand held equivalents.

Scabscar now swept his halberd around and to the side with his left arm, signalling the regiment he personally commanded to fall back a little way.

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He had fully expected his war machines to fatally bloody the foe before he had to face them in melee, but the Ogre’s speedy advance threatened to disappoint his plans. Well, he refused to let them approach unharmed, and now hoped his retreat would buy his diabolical engines the time they needed to deal out death. (I was praying that the Ogres’ charge would now fail. My 2.5 inch retreat took them from being - statistically - more, to less, likely to reach).

No such caution was being exercised by the Plague Monks. When they saw the enemy before them, they saw only red. Before their frenzy for battle might drive them against more foes than they could handle, their red-capped leader screamed his order to charge the Bulls before them and in they went, their blades a-stabbing and staffs a-spinning. The Ogres were caught off guard and reeled at the weight of numbers now suddenly amassed against them.

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Courage of a less dramatic kind was being shown by Scabscar’s Globadiers out on the far right flank. As the engineer who had been with them ran off on his own, hoping to unleash warp-lightning at the icy monsters, they moved right up before them, cloas enough to throw their bombs.

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Their keen senses somehow sensing the general’s caution, the second regiment of Clanrats in the centre of the line now also fell back a little, while the Pawleader led his massive regiment of slaves a little way forwards, hoping the enemy might foolishly show them his flank.

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The engineer who had been leading the slaves now scuttled into the building close by, thinking he would be very safe in there, yet able to throw magical bolts from the windows. What he didn’t realise (i.e. I didn’t realise) was that the Doomwheel was curving around the outside of the building, it’s fizzing Zzap energy now attuned to his presence rather than the enemy’s. Luckily the engineer in charge of the wheel managed somehow to restrain it, and stored the broiling energy ready for a blast later on.

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(Magic = 6:3) Now came the lightning storm as the engineers let loose their spells simultaneously. Four gnoblars fell to the green tinged lightning, yet the remaining four (typically contrary in nature) chose to laugh at their comrades’ misfortune rather than flee, and continued their bold actions in the face of the enemy. Another green bolt struck a Yhetee and tore deep into its flesh (2 wounds), and a third hit an Ogre Bull in the shoulder, scalding his skin.

This, prayed Scabscar, was merely the start. His engines were about to fire. The eight Jezzails fired first, aiming their long barrels at the Scraplauncher. Yet none hit, and one team fell screaming as their piece blew up in their hands! Nearby nine poisoned wind globes were tossed at the Yhetees (at 7’s to hit - move, long range, soft cover!). One hit the already scalded monster and the poison released from its glassy sphere was gulped deep into the creature’s lungs as it panted in pain from the lightning. With a hideous gargle, the creature fell to the ground dead.

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The Ratling Gun team in the woods began their frantic winding, and sent a flurry of bullets sufficient to kill one of the Bulls in the Slaughtermaster’s Guard. But Scabscar’s pride and joy, his warp lightning cannons, proved insufficient for the task in hand. Both took aim on the Bull Rhinox’s but neither could harm the foe, their energy dissipating harmlessly.

As several skaven looked with disbelief at the cannon, and cursed the crew for their lack of skill (and luck), the Plague Monks got down to some real fighting. (Horde, 41 attacks in at the Bulls!) Three Bulls were hacked down by the crazed Pestilens’ warriors, while the Banner of the Under Empire stung another so badly he reeled in pain and could barely keep on his feet. Dazed, the Ogres only managed to kill two Plague Monks in return. This was too much, too soon and too quick. The Bulls turned and fled in desperation, and when the monks followed, every last Bull was slain.

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Scabscar smiled. One entire enemy regiment had been removed. Maybe, just maybe, his Clanrats could finish off the rest?

Ban-Jarr was expecting his pet gorger to arrive in the enemy’s flank or rear at any moment, but the creature did not come. Shame, he thought, then ordered the charge anyway. He led his Bulls towards Warlord Scabscar and his clanrats, while his Bull Rhinoxes made for the same enemy and his other Bulls (with the Slaughtermaster) ran at the Ratling Gun team. Somewhat perturbed by the prospect facing of the seven Ogres tearing them apart, the ratling team fumbled and bumbled and in their haste ended up sending a spray of bullets into Scabscar’s regiment, killing three of them.

It turned out that they need not even have tried to shoot, for not one of the Ogres reached the Skaven line. All had begun their charge too soon, and each unit lost its momentum and faltered even as the Skaven made ready to deliver their own charges.

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While the four surviving gnoblars ran to hide behind the stone wall nearby …

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… the two yhetees smashed into the globadiers. One was mildly hurt by the poisonous vapours released by the Pestilens’ warriors countershot, but unlike the main regiments, these icy monsters did at least meet with the foe in combat.

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The Slaughtermaster’s first spell was broken by the skaven engineers’ countermagic, and then his second failed (on a natural 12) and in the process whipped what magical energies he had been conjuring away from his grasp bringing his spell-casting to a close.

Throwing as many sharp objects as they could …

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… the gnoblars proved once more to be more than merely annoying by killing another jezzail team. This success paled into insignificance compared to the Scraplauncher’s next shot, for the rhinox-pulled engine of war now killed sixteen warriors in Scabscar’s bodyguard. (Direct hit on a 6x7 regiment, 39 possible hits, 16 successful kills. I stupidly put these guys on the field in this formation instead of a column of 8x5, a mistake that would cost me later in the game re: steadfast rule.)

Of course the yhetees met little resistance from skirmishing globadiers in combat, killing enough to scare them off and then the rest as they ran. Now the shaggy furred creatures faced a mass of giant rats being herded towards them.

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Of course they could hardly help themselves - even without their packmasters’ whips’ applications, the giant rats swarmed at the yhetees before them…

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… while an engineer used the distraction to creep around the back of the yhetees.

If the clanrats in the centre of the field had known what was going on upon their flank - their little cousins attacking monsters - perhaps it would have given them another motive to charge? But they had reasons enough, mainly the fact that this was their chance to hit the Ogres while the brutes had lost their momentum, robbing them of some of the advantage of their size. So it was that Scabscar and his two chieftains led their regiments into the foe. Both hit home. Now the real battle had begun.

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The Doomwheel trundled up behind the Bull Rhinoxes, hoping to unleash its zzapp bolts into their rears! The slaves’ Pawleader, unwilling to throw him and his wards into the massively monstrous foe (not while warplightning of several kinds could do their work for them) chose to move closer but not to attempt to engage. Perhaps the slaves could protect their Warlord’s flank, simply by being in the Rhinoxes’ way?

Now the three engineers began their real work of the day. One unleashed an irresistible blast of warp lightning at the Scraplauncher, severely wounding it (3 wounds) but wounded himself in the process and accidentally drained away some of the etheric energies his comrades were hoping to utilise. Only one could muster enough magic to unleash another lightning blast, but this time the foe managed to prevent the spell gaining sufficient potency to add to the harm already done. The beast’s fur now smouldered, releasing the stench of burnt hair to mingle with its already copiously noisome odours.


The Doomwheel engineer yanked hard at the release lever and sent three trickles of zzapp energy at the nearest Bull Rhinox. Although the weakly flickering bolts seemed entirely insufficient to harm such a behemoth, they must have wormed deep enough to strike at some vital inner organ, for the beast keeled over and died! (3 x Str managed 1 wound, magnified to 6. One more than needed to slay the beast!)

The ratling gun team tried their own weapon against the bull rhinoxes but to no effect. Then came the Warp Lightning cannons’ chance.

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Both hit their targets, one killing the Bull Rhinox ridden by the unit champion, the other severely wounding the last. (Last Bull Rhinox had 1 wound left! And now had a way through to Scabscar - his base was small enough to squeeze through!)

The Jezzails managed to sink several bullets into the Scraplauncher, adding sufficient injury to the harm the engineer had done to kill it.

In the centre of the field the fight was bloody indeed. The ogres were little more than scratched by the chieftain and his clanrats in the rightmost regiment, while eight clanrats died in the melee. Yet even though this was butchery done right before them, their weight of numbers (Steadfast) kept them fighting. To the left Scabscar and his skaven fought hard, with Scabscar and his Bonebreaker more than holding their own against the mighty Ban-Jarr. But here too eight clanrats died to the Ogres’ attacks, while only one ogre succumbed to the jabbing spears. (Lose combat by 6). Reduced to only one rank behind the first, no more than the Ogres, Scabscar’s regiment could not take such punishment. They did what so many skaven have done before them - they turned tail and fled.

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Although Ban-Jarr and his ogres failed to reachm, the regimental standard and army battle standard bearers were both left behind to by torn to shreds. Scabscar screamed at his men, his voice turning into a frantic squeal. This time he was not ordering them to fight, but to run.

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The sight of the army’s general and his bodyguard breaking and fleeing so close to them sent a chill into the slaves’ weak hearts. Within less than a second they too turned tail and fled, outdoing the battle tired clanrats for speed and pushing in front of them.

A lot of ratmen were now streaming away from the battle!

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End of turn two.
 
So let's see, we got:
-enemy miscast: check!
-a good round of shooting: check!
-one ogre unit routed in a combat upset: check!
-a chain fail leading to... all your skaven fleeing? ?? No no this isn't supposed to happen! Darn you cowardly ratmen for messing up my predictions! !
 

Padre

Member
To the Bitter End!
(Turns 3 - 6)

Although the giant rats pursued the last surviving Yhetee, there was little else happening on the field that might encourage the Skaven.

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The Bull Rhinox Rider charged the exposed flank of the last clanrat regiment left fighting.

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The result was brutal as ogre clubs, stomping feet and the Rhinox’s huge tusks crushed and tore into the Skaven. What few remained fled , just as their general had done. As the Ogres pursued and slaughtered them, the Tyrant Ban Jarr was similarly tearing apart the last of Scabscar’s regiment too.

The Skaven had lost both their main regiments, as well as their commander.

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The Gorger still failed to find his way to the field, while the gnoblars continued to harass the jezzails, killing another.

The Giant Rats now chased the Yhetee right off the field of battle, while everything else that Clan Scabscar had at its disposal turned to aim at the Ogres in the centre of the field.

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Magically conjured warp lightning came from three sides to kill one ogre, while the Doomwheel sent its own warp energy into the arse of the last Bull Rhinox, killing it.

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The trouble was it also killed the ratling gun team and a Plague Monk! But that’s Skaven technology for you. One warp lightning cannon joined the fun to kill another ogre and wound a third, but the other engine simply exploded - almost vaporising itself in the process!

The sight of this destruction caused so much dismay in the other skaven that the jezzails and mortar team now all turned tail and ran.

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As Ban Jarr’s Gorger finally loped onto the field near to the Tyrant himself, the Bruiser and Slaughtermaster turned their attentions to the last Warp Lightning Cannon and of course as a consequence it did not survive very long! Ban Jarr turned his regiment around and headed off towards the Domwheel, as if simply to prove he was not afraid of it.

Perhaps a little impetuously the Plague Monks attempted to charge Ban Jarr, but they were too far away and failed to reach him. The Doomwheel did better and hit him abn his unit in the flank (Game Note: we entirely misunderstood the random movement rule and did the Doomwheel the old way, thinking it could manoeuvre freely and then count as charging. At least I know now!)

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As engineers skitter-leaped around and sent more flashed of warp lightning to sting the foe severely, the Doomwheel zapped merrily away to fry two of the ogres attacking it. In the ensuing combat somehow the wheel survived and stood its ground, but Ban Jarr re-ordered his regiment to fight somewhat better from then on.

The gnoblars came running from their hiding place to hurl insults and sharp things at an engineer…

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… but then the Giant Rats surprised the little greenskins from behind and killed them (at last!). As the jezzails rallied the Plague Monks once more failed to reach Ban Jarr and his boys. Inevitably the Tyrant and his personal guard now tipped the Doomwheel onto its side and smashed it to pieces. Then they turned to face the Plague Monks, happy to see the gorger at their side.

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Both regiments of Ogre Bulls and the Gorger all now hurled themselves into the Clan Pestilens’ warriors …

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… inflicting bloody mayhem in the process. Sixteen monks died, yet they steadfastly stood their ground and fought on. Of course, theirs was a hopeless cause, for even with a desperate charge by the Giant Rats to join the fray …

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… it was never going to be enough. Before long the last of the fighting skaven were running as fast as their legs could carry them.

The day was Ban Jarr’s. The Ogres had won.

(Campaign Note: Scabscar crawled off the field and made his way back to his main force. Now he intended to forge a new regiment of bodyguards, for never again did he want to be that close to death!)
 

Padre

Member
Mine, All Mine (part one)

Underground

The new regiment had been assembled. Each warrior was a veteran, proven in battle, and fanatically loyal to Warlord Scabscar. At least, that’s how they felt when they mustered in such numbers - once on their own, they felt much the same as any other skaven, concerned most with their own self-preservation. But here, in massed rank and file, armed and armoured, one regiment among many, they believed that they could take on whatever foe came before them.

Warlord Scabscar had gathered them together in this large underground cave-chamber so that he might address them, and as soon as they had fallen into place, that is what he did.

“You, all of you,” he bellowed, sitting atop his Bonebreaker mount. “Proud warriors and most obedient soldiers, yes. You are the best. You fight, you kill; you beat down the foe. I know these things. You know these things.”

Pausing, he let this stream of praise sink in, nodding as if agreeing with himself, as if he had spoken wise words indeed. Then he went on.

“You are my elite, my guard in battle. You will stand fast and steady, you will hold firm, you will smash-cut through any foe. You will bathe in glory and feed on our enemies. Once you wore the red of my many clanrat regiment-hosts. Yes? You wore the colour of blood. Well, this is no longer fitting for such as you, for blood is the colour of injury and death. You are better than this. No foe shall think you are besmeared in blood, nor will they squint to make you out in the shadows. Oh no. You are now garbed in the terrifying colour of the sky-sun, a burning, blazeful colour that shall strike fear in the hearts of all those who look upon you. You wear the shining hue of fearful daylight, the burning glow that stings eyes, dries throats and burns flesh.”

The warriors had been wondering why the change of clothes, though none had worked out this particular reason. Scabscar raised his halberd, took a deep breath, then declared much more loudly than his previous words: “You are now my yellow regiment!”

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Apparently, and to some of the warriors’ dismay, Scabscar had only just started his speech, and was no warming to his theme …

“You will scorch our enemies, burn their homes, burst their skin, addle their wits …,” etc etc.

The yellow regiment stood quietly listening. In the third rank, Manglegrub leaned ever so slightly towards his old comrade Furrbit, and whispered. “You know what this means?”

Furrbit sniffed as if smelling the words to judge whether or not he should reply. “We look pretty?”

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“No,” Manglegrub said, spitting out his whispered answer to show his annoyance. “Well, yes, pretty. But we will be seen. We will be seen by every enemy on the field. While all the rest charge about in red, we will be the one regiment that stands out.”

Smiling, Furrbit hissed. “Yess. We are the best, see? Ain’t you listening to what the big rat is saying?”

Manglegrub exhaled between clenched teeth. “Listen. We are the bulls-eye. We are the mark at which the enemy will shoot. We gets picked on because we looks different. There’ll be no hiding for us now. No sneaking.”

Furrbit’s smile vanished. He tugged at the bright yellow cloth at his chest, scrutinising it. Finally, he sneaked a glance at his friend and inquired: “Reckon we can get to back next time we march? No need for us to be up here near the front, eh?”

(Note: This regiment , for some reason, seemed to take me forever to paint. Here in the pic they were not yet based, but while they were on their black bases I thought it would be all the better for the pictures in a black-rock cavern.)
 

Padre

Member
Mine, All Mine (Part 2)

The Descent

Juanito could not believe his eyes. He had already descended what seemed to him like a league, though as his journey was in a direction he had never really travelled far in previously, and by a means - ladders - he had never yet employed in his short life, it was hard for him to gauge exactly the distance. And yet, here before him the shaft fell away even further, opening ever wider below. Perhaps this was the stomach of the world, and he was little more than a bolus being swallowed down its rocky gullet?

He squatted once more (how many times had he already done so?) to attempt the uncomfortable twisting manoeuvres required to safely access the ladder.

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Behind him was a pale man who had apparently been making his way upwards. The boy had been forced to wait while the man struggled to pull himself onto the platform. It had been a worrying time, what with the rat-man slaver switching his hateful gaze back and forth from Juanito to the man. Now another rat-man was squealing at the man, for the poor fellow had stumbled to one side of the next ladder, so weakened by his long labours in the depths followed by the eternal climb, that his hands faltered when he reached for the rungs, then his legs weakened with the fear of the lash that would surely be applied as a consequence.

Did Juanito recognise the man? His weather worn face the look of one of the Murosian army’s outriders. It was hard to be certain, however, for the man he remembered had not been bald, nor half naked, but had been possessed of flowing locks, and always garbed in heavy boots and a heavy leather jerkin. Yet here he was a mere shadow, rising from the darkness below as if he had been born of it, a white-skinned, hollow eyed creature of the depths.

Was this to be Juanito’s fate? Would he too become a gaunt and haunted troglodyte? If only he had not been captured. More accurately, if only he had not held a blade in his hand, nor foolishly thought to defend himself with it. The other boys in the camp had been set free, to their surprise, while everyone else had been bound in fetters. The rat-men only took those who bore arms prisoners, and let all the rest simply stagger, tumble and run away. It was a riddle Juanito had yet to solve, but he feared now that even if he had the answer it was too late for him. The deed was done.

Looking down he could see the next platform was empty, but below that there were more slaves, two going down, a third hefting a bundle of some kind upon his shoulders whilst attempting to haul himself upwards.

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Upon a rickety frame of timbers which leaned precariously to one side a labourer wielded a hammer while the long lash of a rat-man’s whip violently stroked at the wood by his side, as if in mockery of his beating of nails.

Suddenly Juanito’s eyes adjusted and he realised that the dim lights he could see were not sconces upon the shaft walls, but braziers upon the floor. He could see the bottom. Yes, there were still more cruel rat-men wielding whips; slaves burdened with buckets, picks and timbers. But it was an end to the descent, and there was a species of relief in that.

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He must be at the very bottom of the earth. To dig any lower would be surely to enter into the upper layers of some hellish realm populated by demons.

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Or was he already in such a hell? With demonic guardians in the shape of giant rats? Where torture took the form of eternal, back breaking labour?

(Scabscar's clan was busy, making use of captured prisoners of war. Waste not, want not. And don't tell anyone.)
 

Padre

Member
Mine, All Mine (Part 3)

(At the Murga 'minehead')

The smell, an admixture of brimstone, sweat and mould clinging to his throat, was threatening to overwhelm the captain, and it was this difficulty in breathing that got to him the most. He had expected to find the darkness, or perhaps the enclosed spaces, the most worrying aspect of this particular journey. Yet here vast caverns were cut into the rock, some larger than even the greatest of castle halls, and a good deal of the mine was well lit, with many of Scabscar’s guards carrying lanterns, as well as burning braziers and even some beams of sunlight piercing down from way above through long shafts cut through the rock.

He had been sent down here by the Caliph Nur-al Dihn to (How did the caliph put it?): “Ascertain the true nature of the enterprise and give a full report.”

Simple enough instructions, however not necessarily a simple task. The ratmen fussed around him constantly, showing him the sort of exaggerated deference that they exhibited towards Scabscar himself. They bowed at every opportunity, hopped from foot to foot in their eagerness to show him the way, and forever fidgeted in their rush to assist him with doors and ladders. Their words tumbled out in torrents of titles and tortuous etiquette. Even now as he entered a large cavern from which no sound of labour could be heard his current guide was chattering away in like manner.

“Good captain, here, here your honour, you see, if it please and satisfy you to do so - you see how we, humble servants of the Sheikh, do make it our concern-duty, yes, to ensure that the workers, man-workers, are kept safe-secure from harm? We know how your most noble commanders would have us treat with respect-kindness the prisoners. We know how you, kind captain, will wish-want to see that they are well kept, and warned of all the dangers that might befall them.”

In all honesty, the captain had entirely lost track of what the babbling skaven was saying, and so it was he encountered the scene in the cavern without really understanding what it was the ratmen were trying to prove. A small crowd of workers, a rag-tag bunch of Murosians and foreign mercenaries, were gathered together in order to listen to an announcement. Before them stood three skaven, each bent and stooped in the way this entire race seemed to do. One carried a lantern on a pole, the other a large scroll of parchment covered in ratmen markings. The third, after glancing over his shoulder to see the captain and his guides arriving, began reading aloud.

“We want you to work-labour hard and long, and so we want you to live-breath long. You must not slip-fall, you must not gash-bleed. Listen-hear, these are rules for you, for your benefit. First you must obey every order prompt-quick. Do not delay. Do not tally. Do not sit-rest unless told to do so. It is not safe to cease-stop when others work hard-good. Lazy, disobedient workers get trodden-squashed under foot, see? They gets kicked and crushed and slows all the rest, see?”

Mine1.jpg


The ratman was obviously warming to his theme, for his tone was becoming more strident and higher pitched. The speech continued, laden with a profusion of extraneous words in the common skaven manner of speaking, but the captain lost interest and took the opportunity to look around the chamber. He had been concerned that the workers might escape, which could prove an embarrassment for his masters, but here he saw there were plenty of guards with heavy spears keeping an eye on the work party.

Mine2.jpg


Escape did seem a rather unlikely prospect for these prisoners, although the captain wondered how much of the scene before him was being put on for his satisfaction. Perhaps even the guards were there for his benefit? His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by his guide asking:

“See? Good Captain? Yes. We take/lead you now, by your permission, to show you how well the workers are treated? They drink well, eat well - all are nourished, all made strong-fit, all made healthy-hearty. Yes? Brave captain?”

The captain simply nodded and allowed himself to be led from the cavern. He found himself descending further, and now a new fear began to make itself known to him. It was as if he could feel the weight of tons and tons of rock above him. As if the pressure placed upon the struts and beams were emanating out into the air itself, there to press upon his head, to drum upon his ears. If breathing was hard before, it now became even more so.

Thankfully the next destination proved to be not so far away. The guide had been talking throughout the journey, and now the captain once more allowed the ratman’s words to impinge on his consciousness. “Much food, great quantities, is brought down from above. Cooked and burned and boiled, fire-hot, like manthings eat. Generous we are, much food given. See?”

He pointed at a ratmen up ahead on a rickety wooden platform, carrying what appeared to be a huge, iron ladle heaped full of steaming, luridly green vegetable matter.

Mine3.jpg


“These workers here eat well, yes, four times a day-night,” continued the guide. “No one hungry-starving. No one goes without.”

The captain could not help himself. He found himself smiling, a grim expression that came from his much better (human) understanding of what the workers might really feel about the food. Each had a look of dismay on their faces.

Mine4.jpg


It was clear that they would eat it - how else could they survive this back-breaking labour. It was just as clear that they loathed every cabbagy mouthful.

“Yum-yum, good captain. You taste, if you please-like? Yes?”

The captain shook his head. “No, these prisoners have earned it, let them have it all, eh?”

The guide bared his teeth in a wide grimace - which took the captain aback at first, until he realised this was the ratman’s attempt at a smile. “Kind captain, most thoughtful. They eat all.”

Suddenly the smell of the ‘food’ came at the captain, mixing horribly with all the other odours so that finally the obnoxiously noisome atmosphere threatened to make him retch. He spoke quickly. “Enough. I have seen all that I need to see. Now, take me up and out, and do it quickly. I have no desire to linger here and must be away about my business.”

Once again the grimace. “Of course, good captain. Yes? Satisfied you are, I see-know. This way, this way!”

As they left the cavern and its stench behind, the sound of someone pleading came from an archway off to one side: “No, please … no!”

The captain turned to look, and as his eyes adjusted to the lesser illumination in the little cavern upon the other side of the opening, he saw a man stripped to his waist, surrounded by skaven.

Mine5.jpg


The nearest skaven, a snarling specimen garbed in scarlet like nearly all Scabscar’s fighting servants, was raising a whip. No, saw the captain, not a whip, but a most cruel collection of iron chains, clattering and glittering as they swung back. An instrument made not to deliver chastisement but to deal out death, and with one blow.

“What …” began the captain.

The guide tugged him away. “You need not see that, captain. Bad thing. Come away.”

As the sound of the terrible strike could be heard, the captain could only ask: “What had he done?”

“Him, captain? He was lazy …”

“Lazy?” interrupted the captain, shocked.

“Lazy, yes, but worse. See?”

The captain did not see. “What do you mean worse?”

“He, well," the skaven seemed to be struggling. "See, he … he was .. disrespectful. Yes, yes. That was it. He insulted-cursed the sheikh and King Ladislao, spoke foul things, double treachery and murder-assassination, see?”

The captain was entirely unconvinced. The trouble was, he had to get out of this place. “If you say so. I care not. Now, make haste. I will tarry here no longer.”
 

Orjetax

Member
Made me laugh out loud twice. Best of any installment thus far in this or your other campaigns.

Also, I'll be adopting the expression "prompt-quick" in daily life.
 
Orjetax":zsvqgt3k said:
Also, I'll be adopting the expression "prompt-quick" in daily life.

If you don't get back to you the D&D thread prompt-quick I'm going to get my butt kicked by goblins :mad:

Padre: as always, you inspire and impress :grin: I even forgive you for losing that last battle and showing everyone I have no precognitive abilities...
 

Padre

Member
’Warlord Scabscar His Grand Army’

The order had been given just after noon: every fighting regiment and all war engines and crews were to assemble at nightfall upon the fields to the east of the minehead. Warlord Scabscar wished to review his forces, to satisfy himself as to their total strength and battle worthiness. Now was not the time for further skirmishes and squabbles, with a detached force here and a vanguard there. Now was the time for great battles, where Scabscar intended to apply all the strength he had at his disposal.

So, as the sun finally dipped below the horizon, Scabscar stood atop his Bonebreaker facing his army.

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Every warrior was silent, and each was a still as it was possible for a fidgety skaven to be (and all skaven seemed to possess that particular trait). The regimental standards fluttered in the cool breeze, while wisps of steam leaked from the Doomwheel and the Warp Lightning cannons in the rear of the line.

For several lone minutes Scabscar simply watched this force, perhaps gauging their obedience to his will by testing their patience. The only movement throughout the force was that of the Doomwheel as it continued its surprisingly stately roll towards its intended position to the right of the line.

ReviewBCool.jpg


Scabscar’s attention was drawn (how could it not be?) by his own guard regiment, bravely attired as they were in yellow. Beside them stood a warpfire thrower crew, happily hefting the deadly device as if posed no risk at all to them. Was this bravery, recklessness or ignorance, thought Scabscar, the decided he cared not as long as they did what was required in battle.

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The regiment was new, but every warrior had been tried in battle. Admittedly some had previously run from the field, but in doing so they had seen the inherent danger of such panicked flight and Scabscar hioped they had learned that to stand before the foe and resist was often the best way to ensure survival.

Beside them was the first of his red regiments of the line, forty two in strength and proudly flying the red banner that they had earned with their own blood. Their heavy bladed spears were thrust into the air, some still besmeared with the blood of those they had killed only days before.

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In the rear (where else could they be for a parade such as this) was his 60 strong horde of slaves. With the mine fully supplied with manthing prisoners of war, there was no reason these skaven prisoners, taken during squabbles in the underworld tunnels, should not be used for battle. Strength in numbers, thought the warlord as he looked them over, let them pour over the foe and press against them so heavily that even without any particular loyalty to him they would still prevail.

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At the front stood his magic users, the warlock engineers and Grey Seers, along with his bravest chieftain who carried the army standard. Surely, with these in his ranks, his army could bend the winds of magic to their own purpose and pour deadly spells by the dozen in wave after wave at the enemy?

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Yes, from left…

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…to right ..

Review2right.jpg


… Scabscar reckoned that now victory would be inevitable. Let them come, he thought, let them come charging right at us.

We are ready.

Review1.jpg



(This I had to do, if only to see 'where I was up to' with my painting! It makes me think now that I probably ought to think of a way to get this army involved in my current campaign.
 

Padre

Member
What follows gives you an idea of the sort of thing that is involved when one takes a position of responsibility within a faction. While my Caliph was temporarily in command, these are the sort of letters I was drafting, getting advice on, and sending out to figureheads and other factions ...

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General Skulltaka

I speak for the AIF in King Ladislao's stead, while he recovers from a bout of sickness. Please consider me as good a friend as the king, and ready to follow the lead he has taken in his words with you fully.

We were pleased to hear that you believe we might be able to help each other out regarding the 'Protectorate problem'. We want Evette's army to look bad, if only because that's what they are. They are snooty, yes, and think they're better than arabs and ogres, and probably everyone else too. So yes, please let's continue help each other out. We offer you 5 spoils so that you might continue your fight against the forces arrayed against you, to right wrongs and look after your own. If you see fit to repay us by taking war to the Protectorate, then we would be grateful. But our gift is given as a sign of continued friendship, to do with as you will, and to aid in the defence of your haven.

If it should prove necessary, and the forces against you become overwhelming, know that we would attempt to provide an escape route for you via the underground or perhaps through Magrittan territory. You have an ally in us.

Caliph Nur-al Rhadi, temporary Captain General of the AIF

5 spoils (food, again) to Skulltaka.

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The Caliph words delivered to the representative from the rebel group named the 'Red Lions' ...

I heard an account of your words to our king, and I was gladdened by them. We toss gold around for such is necessary in time of war. But know that we are in now way indifferent to the injustice of the downtrodden, the enslaved. We might be somewhat 'stern' with captured enemies, looting enemy soldiers who have treated the populace cruelly, but that is simply to balance the terrible crimes they have committed, to gain retribution. When it come to truly hateful 'nobility' and miss-applied 'chivalry' then yes, you are right, Bretonnia is the vilest and worst offender. Their arrogance and vanity is hard to swallow, their carelessness of the lives of hard working labourers moreso.

But I also heard of your words against us, how us Arabyans have made our way in the world. Judge us not by our past, but by what we try to do here. All nations and peoples have episodes in their past they are not proud of. Yes, we hate the Protectorate for many reasons, some that you do not share, but you can use our hatred, our support because of it, to help your cause. We want for trade, fair trade and not the miserable illusion of trade that Bretonnians offer. We aim not to be simply a 'mighty force for good' as you said, but also a force for fair pay and fair trade, and yes, we would dearly love to advertise to all and sundry the injustice upon which the Bretonnian war machine is built. We seek our own goals, yes, but those goals include fair trade, and that works better when all thrive, masters and merchants, servants, labourers and craftsmen.

What say you, will you take our gold for your own use, as you see fit? If you will, will you also tell us what sort of society you would establish in Estalia, so that we might understand you better, know your goals, and most importantly know best how to assist you. We have no desire to offend you, nor to thwart you.

And if you continue your brave fight against the Bretonni, then perhaps we can help? If you would tell us where your forces are concentrated, we could send further aid in the form of messengers and skilled warriors, and if possible perhaps even armies! If you will not tell us, we are not offended at all, but still offer the gold freely.

Caliph Nur-al Rhadi, temporary Captain General of the AIF

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Capitan De Livio,

Our noble leader, King Ladislao Di Lucci, is currently suffering from a minor incapacity which he will no doubt, considering his strong constitution, recover from shortly. In the meantime I have been ordered to act upon his behalf as commander of the forces of the AIF.

I was glad to receive your words of wisdom regarding the Murosians. Yes, we too recognise they are not to be trusted, and it pleases us to know that you see this also. Known that even though we feel a righteous anger concerning their past treacheries, we too understand that they are not the true foe, nor the real threat to Estalia. Please rest assured. We have plans afoot right now not to help them, but to better watch them and prod them into doing what they should do, which is face up to their responsibilities to fight against the evil foes that beset Estalia. These plans involve mercenary elements and will in no way lessen our ability to aid you against the true foes.

You once told us that your weakness was your Navy, and asked us to send what ships we could to support you at sea against the Orcs. This we willingly did, and as a consequence we have gained control of vast expanses of sea, almost all the sea to the south of your domain. This we have happily done in the hope that it will be accessible to all law abiding traders to enrich Estalia in the future. Now we want to know what we can do next to best serve you against the greenskin threat. We now ask what your intentions are in the east - what do you intend to do next? Once we know this, we can coordinate our activities to ensure the maximum harm to the foe.

We may remain at sea and so continue to defend the Magrittan coast, perhaps taking the remaining sea regions. But we may choose to make an amphibious assault, perhaps on Almagora itself (in concert with your forces) or on the Javea Region, to prevent further encroachment by the greenskins. We aim to do whatever will most cripple the foe.

There is also the pressing matter of our possible use of Cerebros to send forces towards Durango. You suggested to us that we might move upon that place in order to deliver a surprise attack on the Protectorate. I see your wisdom here, and your strategic skill. If we were to commit to fighting on that front we would need to be able to move through your Magrittan lands without penalty, as you so wisely suggested you would allow this, even offering supplies (for a cost) should the need arise. But you earlier expressed your happiness to cede control of Cerebros and san Cerebros to us so that we might take the war even more effectively towards Durango, as well as act as a buffer to the northern regions of your realm? You stated you had no love for the elves and would support us in such a move, knowing we fight for Estalia’s happiness. Which is your decision? Occupation or passage? The former would allow our soldiers to fight more bravely and confidently, though the latter might allow them to move with much more surprise and thus catch the Protectorate off guard.

I turn now to Belmoz. With your forces stretched in the brave defence of your realm it would seem remiss of us not to offer assistance dealing with Belmoz. It is a hub of the ignoble slave trade, and while it may be a fact of life that such a trade exists, it seems to us it would be a great philip to the good name and reputation of the AIF if we could bring it to heel in that town. Not to mention we would both benefit from a good sized port town in that place. We have troops close to hand to take it, who would then be able to head to sea in further support of the conflict of the war against the Orcs. Would you be willing to allow us to take Belmoz and so disband that hateful practise, throw all slave traders from the city, and thus grant us the strategic flexibility and security we crave?

Your most loyal servant

Caliph Nur-al Rhadi

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And these were drafted whilst also 9 pages of discussion about the orders for the next turn took place, plus all the other threads in our faction forum about a bunch of other stuff. It's crazy when you think about it. Still, thought it would be interesting to reveal the depths to which one could immerse oneself and others in these campaigns. And yes, I know none of the names (etc) in the above letters will mean anything who is reading this thread about Scabscar, but this thread, apart from this post, is Scabscar's story.
 

Padre

Member
Note: Suddenly my faction were entering into a very favourable (for us) deal with the Murosians, in which they basically allowed themselves to be governed by us in return for our military alliance and protection. It was a sad state of affairs for them, but one which would ultimately lead to our faction winning the campaign so was a very good deal for us. The only trouble was that my Warlord Scabscar had a LOT of Murosian PoWs slaving in awful conditions in his new mines - as showed in the previous fluff pieces. Thus it was that, as part of an exchange agreement quite contrary to usual skaven practise, Scabscar had to give as many prisoners back as he could, so that our faction did not appear to have killed vast numbers of captured Murosians. Oh, and so the non-skaven members of our faction, most of whom were a bit hazy about what exactly had been going on, might not be terribly offended ....

An Exchange: Part One

“This is no idle-ordinary inspection,” explained overseer Gragyt. “This is important. The work-slaves will be numbered, their condition written-recorded with their names and their homes. All will be written in manthing letter-words.”

The clerks nodded, signalling an understanding they did not really possess. They knew what they must do, but not why they must do it. Both bit their tongues for their first response, had they been free to speak their mind, would have been to curse the slaves and ask why such creatures need be listed in such a way. Surely the slaves were here to work until they die? Their only worth was to labour, finally to be replaced by others when they perished from their toil? They were like mere rats to be driven and whipped into line. But the clerks said none of this.

Then they were really surprised, for the overseer, a skaven who had until now avoided having to smell the slaves’ stench, added, “And I will inspect the slaves. This, this I will do now. Now!”

He was taken first to one of the mine tunnels, where the best of the work-stock were hewing walls and breaking rocks to delve ever deeper into the earth.

SlavesWorkersBusy.jpg


He did not move close to them, but stood watching a while. “They are strong-healthy, I see that. They work well.”

One of the clerks took the comment to be question. “Yes, chief-overseer, good workers, the best. We work them hard.”

Gragyt scowled. Turning upon the clerk he fixed him with a stare. In a calm voice he said slowly and clearly. “They will work no more. Not one day, not one hour, not one minute. All labour ceases, immediately, and the listing will begin. You, you will start here and now.”

The clerk bowed and kept his eyes down as the overseer spun about and left the tunnel. Gragyt's voice boomed around the tunnel as he continued with his instructions, “Now I will see the pens. Take me there.”

Little more than a quarter of a hour later Gragyt had arrived in the third chamber he was to inspect. He had long grown impatient with this duty, his nose assailed by one vile stink after another, but he had no choice. He had to know that the slaves would not look too wretched when they were brought from the mine. Thank the gods that he had always made sure they were fed, and allowed to sleep between their work-shifts. What had seemed to him financial common sense, now might save Warlord Scabscar from much embarrassment.

Here, like the others, he found several caged off areas. In one were the heavy workers. They must have known something new was occurring here, for they had pulled themselves to their feet and were now staring at him through the bars.

SlavesWorkers.jpg


He hissed as he noticed those who clung to the bars, barely able to stand, and the others who were injured, arms slung in bandages. Still, he thought, if they could get to their feet then there was hope for their recovery. Moving on he saw a smaller cage containing (perhaps appropriately?) smaller workers. This brought his scowl back. “What are these?” he growled.

“The smaller workers, chief-overseer. We treat them kind, see, and put them here so that they are not killed and eaten by the bigger ones.”

“What?” said Gragyt in disbelief. “What? They are children. I was never told. We took warriors, yes? We took all who resisted. Not young ones.”

SlavesChildrenPen.jpg


The clerk was silent. He knew full well that these little ones had resisted, though it had not previously occurred to him that they were litter-cubs. He knew also that to speak now, to say anything whatsoever, would only provoke Gragyt’s further wrath. Silence did indeed prove the best policy, for the overseer now began to walk from the chamber, his verbal instructions turning to other business as if he had already forgotten what he had seen. Behind the Murosians watched the party leave, each one wondering what all the chattering and squealing had been about; most believing that it could not bode well.

SlavesMultiPens.jpg


They were wrong. For within a day they would be above ground again, chained in groups of six or seven, and heading towards home. Such was the strange and unexpected nature of war!

SlavesChained.jpg

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An Exchange: Part Two

Chief Overseer Cragyt watched as this the eleventh bunch of slaves staggered past him in their chains. A motley collection, he thought. Manthings obviously came in all shapes and sizes, something he had never really noticed before. Perhaps he had not cared to notice? Suddenly it crossed his mind that here lay an opportunity to test the clerk standing by his side, to ascertain if the records that had been made would prove satisfactory when it came to exchanging these slaves for fair and suitable alternatives.

“You, clerk-rat, look in your ledger-book. Tell-tell me who these are, what these are.” At first the clerk looked confused, so Cragyt decided to be kind and give the runt some advice: “Start with the first one, and work your way back.”

In theory this should be very possible for the clerk, for every batch of chained slaves had been listed so that the bargaining could proceed all the easier, six or seven slaves at a time. Specific assigned guards were held responsible for any careless or needless losses incurred on the march, which meant the clerk could glance at the lead guard assigned to this particular group to see who it was, then run his fingertip down a page to see which batch had been assigned to that guard, and finally flip the pages of the ledger to find that batch. So far, so easy. Now, however, came the hard part, for there was a list of six names with notes appended to each. But which names belonged to which of the slaves the clerk really did not know. He would have to guess and hope that Cragyt was convinced. Studying the first pair in the line, he quickly skimmed the notes, and began.

“Ahh, your honour, the first. Yes? In blue … unsteady on his feet? Yes, here he is. Certainly this is him, without a doubt. ‘Babiaca Ozunna, manservant. Blind in one eye.’

SlavesChainedA.jpg


Cragyt hissed at this last comment, for the guards had been told to get 'rid of' the more obviously harmed slaves before they were listed and put in chains, lest the Murosian dealers began complaining about mistreatment and cruelty. The clerk understood, and quickly added, “Oh, overseer, his hurt-harm was not done by us. He came like that - the wound-scar is old.”

“Good, good. The next?”

Once again the clerk attempted to cross-reference the slave with the manthing words recorded in the book, slowed in his efforts by the annoying fact that the clerks had been ordered not to use skaven text. “Here, here she is. Yes. She’s Graciela Pineda, a maid who refused to lose-leave her soldier husband when …”

“What?” snarled Cragyt. “You say that is female?” Even with his deliberately limited contact with the manthings in his care he thought there was something wrong here.

The clerk almost dropped the book in fear, then quickly re-composed himself. “Ah, see, sorry-truly sorry I am. It was a mistake, my finger slipped, I read-spoke the wrong entry. Here it is now. He, yes he, is Roque Gamboa, soldier. He carried a spear in battle, and is strong. Yes. Look, look how he pulls and lifts at the chain.”

“I care not a jot about your opinions, clerk-scribe,” said Cragyt. Just read the book.

Gulping, the clerk looked up at the next three, and decided quickly from their facial hair that none were female, though even he knew that with these Murosian slaves that was not a certainty.

SlavesChainedB.jpg


Yes, yes - these next three were captured together, and work-toiled together since. The first two serve-obey the last. He is Captain Fernando Cortez, son of Rodriguez de Monroy, and will fetch a good price in exchange. He is surely-certainly worth more than all the rest in this batch put together. Rich clothes were taken from him, armour and fine blade. The other two are his guard and his horse-servant, Guimar Vargas and Raymundo Delval.”

A nobleman! This caught Cragyt’s interest, and he held up his hand to hush the clerk while he looked at the manthing in question. He walked tall, proud, as did even his servants. Perhaps Manthings did not beat their servants as Skaven did? He had huge black furry whiskers hanging limp down beside his fangless mouth. The others also had such hair upon their face, the soldier apparently mimicking his master’s fashion, the servant having gone too far in his impersonation, with a great mass of hair completely surrounding his face. Interesting, thought Cragyt. All the workers in the mines had been hairy around their mouths, but they had only yesterday been allowed to hack off the hairs in question so that they might appear a little more like they did when they were first captured. Perhaps the captain did not trust his servant and would not let him hold the razor? Stupid, thought Cragyt - that’s why servants must be beaten. If not: disobedience, disrespect, dismay.

The sight of the last slave took Cragyt by surprise, for the creature was little like those ahead. The manthing had locked hair twisted into knots, and one arm bloated and heavy in the way rat ogres were often asymmetrically malformed.

SlavesChainedC.jpg


The clerk seemed more confident as he read from his book this time. “The last is Graciela Pineda, a maid who refused to lose-leave her soldier husband when …”

“Yes! I know that,” shouted Cragyt. “You need not read it again.” Then, reigning in his frustration, he added a little more calmly, “So that is a female?”

The clerk was right this time to consider this a question, and was quick to answer. “Yes, female. The dealers will be glad to have her, for manthings dote upon their females, pet them, clothe them, listen to them sing, watch them dance. They will be pleased to have her, she is desirable in their eyes. She is a good specimen. Yes.”

Cragyt could not see it, but he decided he would have to take the clerk’s word on it. Perhaps with captains and females amongst the slaves, the exchange would indeed go well? Perhaps more slaves would be received than given? That would be nice.
 

Padre

Member
This is the last post for this campaign, and it's a long one. It was put together in secret (i.e. not made public to the other factions even after the events described) due to the fact that it concerned secret negotiations with the Skaven factions (with a character run by 'Dark Lord Nihilus'). The negotiations were still ongoing as the campaign ended, thus the abrupt end. I have included Dark Lord Nihilus' text in quotes otherwise this piece really wouldn't work!

These negotiations and the (very beneficial to us) agreement/pact we made with the Murosian faction, were all part of us consolidating our position so that we would look like we had made great progress throughout the campaign.


Speak-talk

The tension was becoming unbearable, a weight of concern pressing in on Crikfoot’s mind so heavily that it almost blurred his vision - thus it was that he had ordered one of the lantern bearers to hold his burden above his head to better light the way. Strangely, however, his other senses were heightened, turning every tiny sound into a component part in a crystal clear yet cacophonous collection of noise, and weaving a layered confection of odours out of every breeze.

He was so close to them now, the signs were all around. Clan Skarr’s warriors had been here within the last hour, and had been here many times before. Crikfoot knew he must keep his wits about him. Yes, he might well be an entirely legitimate emissary from Warlord Scabscar in his capacity a diplomat to Clan Skarr, but this did not mean that he would be recognised as such upon sight, nor treated with the respect he surely deserved. It was entirely possible that any patrols he encountered would simply decide to play safe, assume he and his companions were trouble, and cut them down immediately. The trick was to act quickly and calmly in the first moment of any encounter, show that he presented no threat, yet at the same time that he was not some foolish stray ripe for murder and robbery. A balancing act indeed. Hopefully having a lantern illuminating him as he walked would advertise to every watcher that he was not in any way trying to creep up on anyone!

Crikfoot1.jpg


Then the moment came, and Crikfoot thanked the gods that he was ready. Better still, it was he who had the initiative, for the warrior who suddenly appeared before them seemed to be acting upon the assumption that they were a Clan Skarr party who blundered somewhere they were not supposed to go.

“What, what are you idiot-fools doing here? This place is forbidden to … is forbidden to …”

The guard’s words faltered then stopped, and Crikfoot hurriedly began his prepared speech. “Do not fear. We are not here to fight-kill, but talk-talk. We are sent to speak with Grey Seer Skabrius. I am an emissary of the great-warlord Scabscar.”

Dark Lord Nihilus wrote: “Warlord Scabscar….?”, the guard ground his teeth in thought. “Warlord Sca-“ his eyes gleamed red, a flash of recognition. He bared his fangs and raised his weapon, “Traitor-scum! Your master-master is a tick-licking mouse! He fight-fights for man-things. He is a man-thing pet-pet. How dare-dare you come here-here! We are-are-“. He whipped his head around, growling as another skaven approached. This one looked like a messenger. He was breathless but still managed to scowl in the direction of Crikfoot before whispering animatedly with the guard.

Growling, the guard-rat turned back to Crikfoot and glared as he spoke, “You will come-follow, traitor-meat.” He took out a strip of cloth and tossed it to Crikfoot. “Blind-blindfolded,” he smiled maliciously. “You will be taken-brought to diplo-rat that speaks-squeaks with the voice of the Supreme Warlord.”

“Quick-fast! Much-much does diplo-rat have to speak-squeak and little-little time…”

Crikfoot could not really have expected any different treatment. To be honest, he was glad to be alive, and the fact that he was being taken to a skaven who could speak for Clan Skarr was an added bonus. They had indeed blindfolded him with a heavy cloth, and had refused to allow all but one of his companions to go any further. The only one who did come with him, in an act that was perhaps done to mock Crikfoot, was his lantern bearer. The young skaven in question seemed keen to come along, perhaps thinking it was safer to stay with the official emissary than with a small party of leaderless guards at the border of an enemy territory. Crikfoot had however noticed that the Clan Skarr warrior had not blindfolded the servant. He had not the inclination to tell the fellow exactly what that meant - Crikfoot, if he was to return, would surely be doing so alone!

The journey took some time, not helped by the fact that Crikfoot stumbled and fell upon several occasions. The lantern bearer did what he could to keep him on a firm footing, but the escorting guards did not seem to care whether they took a route suitable for a blinded skaven.

DipFluff2.jpg


Finally he reached his destination. The blindfold was removed and he found himself in the presence of a well-guarded and richly attired skaven. Crikfoot thought to ascertain his status (and safety) quickly, and began his own speech before the diplomat could speak. He did not even take in his surroundings, but rushed on with his words. “I speak for Warlord Scabscar, yes? I am his mouthpiece. Yes, he has allied with manthings, because this makes him strong-powerful. Clan Scabscar is growing mighty. He has profit-gold enough to make his army strong. This is clever. This is bold.”

Silence.

“We are not traitors," Crikfoot continued, "but ally-work with those who best serve our need-interest. You see us how you see us, yes, but you know also that you must dwell-prosper alongside all those in the wide-world who cannot be defeated-killed. Time will come, say all skaven, our time will come. Not yet, not now, though, for there are armies uncountable and we are not yet strong-mighty enough.”

The diplomat was beginning to frown, surely wondering what the point to this babbling was. Crikfoot decided he must be a little more succinct and came now to the point he really wanted to make. “So as Warlord Scabscar has made allies to bring him plunder-victories, so the army of the Arabyan Intervention has made allies. Strength on strength, kingdom aside kingdom, armies flanking armies with armies in reserve. Yes?”

The diplomat seemed to understand. Crikfoot had only one more thing to add before the real talking began. “I am a mouthpiece of all this strength. To hurt-harm me is to scratch at a giant’s tongue; to ignore me is to stand dumb-silent before the giant.”

Dark Lord Nihilus wrote: Thirteen tunnels connected to this chamber, proof of its importance. Crikfoot, the lantern bearer, the Clan Skarr ambassador and a small cadre of guard-rats stood in the center of the chamber on a raised platform that separated them from the pandemonium below. Aides, slaves, and messengers swarmed the connecting tunnels and the surrounding chamber. The platform was cordoned off by the ramshackle series of desks. Scribes alternated between furiously penning missives and reading in-coming messages. Those of particular importance were stacked in a surprisingly neat pile on the platform, designated for the ambassador's personal attention. The others were simply tossed indiscriminately. Parchment lined the chamber floor as discarded messages were shredded and trampled by foot traffic.

Stormvermin, heavily armored and wielding halberds, leaned against the chamber walls. They growled and shunted aside any skaven that pressed too close.

Crikfoot took this all in as he awaited the ambassador's reply. "You speak-squeak empty threats." The skaven's voice was refined and confident. This was no backward clanrat only accustomed to obeying orders. He was controlled in movement, as if deliberately resisting his race's tendency towards jerky mannerisms, and his features were composed. "Your master-warlord and his allies have done us a grave insult." He tilted his head in a strangely human gesture and peered at Crikfoot intently. "What does the traitor-scum seek with Clan Skarr? It is known-apparent that your allegiance lies with the man-things, not the Supreme Warlord. So tell me, squeak-speak, why are you here?"

(Author's Note: I now had a challenge - to create a diorama to represent the description Dark Lord Nihilus had given. See below to discover if I managed it!)

Crikfoot found the huge, busy cavern somewhat overwhelming, though he put this down to having been blindfolded for so long. As the Skarr ambassador had spoken he had glanced furtively around - an action that was so natural to Skaven that it did not in any way rile the ambassador. He knew Crikfoot was listening, and he was sufficiently riled already.

His guard had the tip of his blade touching Crikfoot’s arm pit, presumably ready in an instant to shove through (thus avoiding the armour) to grievously wound Crikfoot should he attempt anything. But looking around was not a threatening gesture, so Crikfoot began to take in the details.

DipFluff3.jpg


Braziers burned at the corners of the platform, possibly to ensure that the chamber remained warm and dry, to better preserve the copious parchments and vellums it contained. An impressive, heavy tome lay upon a small, round table by the grand chair the ambassador had just vacated to address Crikfoot. It looked important, but Crikfoot could not make out any of the words revealed upon the open page. Glancing to one side he could see past the halberd tips of the platform guards to where two skaven where engaged in scholarly work. One held a book up and was ranting at full pelt while the other studiously ignored him to peer intently at a long parchment containing some sort of list.

DipFluff5.jpg


Upon the other side were more tables, even more clerks and scribes, and a great many more scrolls and parchments. Yet although he could see all this, it did not benefit him. There was no doubt in his mind that unless he were left alone and undisturbed to search at whim through this chamber for hours his eyes would be unlikely to settle upon anything of great import and worthy of his master’s attention.

DipFluff4.jpg


So he turned his full attention back to the ambassador just as his words came to an end.

DipFluff6.jpg


The ambassador was pointing an accusative finger right at him, awaiting an answer to his last question. Crikfoot grinned. “I am Chieftain Crikfoot of the Scabscar foremost. I am here because we received word-messages. Question-queries were asked by skaven who serve clan Skarr. Help was offered. Our affairs were asked about. I have come to listen-hear to those questions from one in authority, so that we know it is truly-fully Clan Skarr who asks them. I am here to answer-speak.”

The ambassador looked bemused. “So, it is not I who is to speak-talk beyond meeting-introductions. It is you I have come to hear!”

Out Of Character note to Dark Lord Nihilus player: This is the note I received: "Grey Seer Skabrius wrote: Poke. Informal message. Just want know if there's an alliance in the making between you and Magritta. Skaven could help." And now Crikfoot has come to turn this enquiry into IC conversation. So … your turn! Please feel free to turn Skabrius query into an IC question.

Dark Lord Nihilus wrote: "Aid-help you?!", the ambassador snarled. His composed countenance was suddenly contorted with rage. Eyes simmering with hate, fangs bared, and muscles tensed, the ambassador looked as if he were about to strangle Crikfoot in a fit of fury. The guard-rats took a tentative step back and a hush fell over the nearest scribes. The musk of fear was heavy in the air.

With a deep breath the ambassador forced himself back into control, composing himself and affecting a malice tinged smile. "Yes-yes, we may have considered helping you, even overlooking-ignoring your attacks upon our underground-burrows, but no-no longer." The ambassador's smile broadened. "We know-know now the power of the artifact, such terrible, raw power!" He was nearly salivating at the thought of such arcane might, his eyes misting over as his thoughts were drawn to what he could do if he wielded such a super-weapon. Shaking his head to dispel such treacherous thoughts, the ambassador fixed Crikfoot with a glare. "Clan Skarr has no need-need to grovel-beg to you and your dung-eating masters. No-no, Clan Skarr has the artifact and with the artifact we can make you suffer, suffer for the pain-loss you have caused us."

A twinkle of amusement came to the ambassador's eyes, "It is you-you that must grovel-beg. Tell-squeak what you will do for Clan Skarr so that Clan Skarr will not-not strike-smite you with the power of the almighty artifact," his words had lost all of their refined veneer, now they were little more than chittering. "Speak-squeak fast-quick, fool-thing, or suffer-suffer!", his chittering laughter echoed off of the cavern walls, causing many of the frenzied skaven to pause in sudden fright.

OOC: I love you dioramas, they are superb

(Author's Note: I was going to answer thus: "We have power too, great power. Clan Scabscar has ingenious and deadly engines of war, and the AIF has strength in the north, west and south; allies all around. There is no one spot you can critically injure us. We are, like I said before, a giant, and even your mightiest weapon could only bruise or scratch. Beware of making threats. I came here to negotiate, to give you the chance not to incur our wrath or find yourselves in a war with us. Why would you, when asked what it is you offered before, why would you immediately threaten. Is this posturing? Is this vainglorious boasting? Do you mask weakness with your threats? If you were truly strong you would know how to use negotiations such as these to your advantage. Give and take. We both benefit. Until now we have only used a tunnel here and a tunnel there to take the war to our foes. Not to take it against you. We have no urge to do so. Surely you have enough to keep you occupied without turning on those who would do you no harm if you would only do likewise. The messengers we received said that Skabrius wished to know of our alliances. That we wanted to help us in some way. Do you now say they were wrong? Was Skabrius, your diplomat, lying? Or do his servants twist his words?" BUT our glorious leader thought it a bit aggressive, so it morphed into this rather more timid response ...)

Crikfoot fought hard to conceal his flinch. He failed to hide it completely, but disguised it a little by turning it into a humble bow. Thankfully, his words did come quick … “We did not know you had power, great power. Clan Scabscar also has ingenious, deadly engines of war, and the Arabyan Intervention has strong-strength in the north, west and south; allies all about and around. But you talk of something more, yes? Something bigger, better, badder? Perhaps it is we who stand before the giant? What, I beg of you, humbled, what have you made? Tell us so that we shall know all the better what to fear. Tell us that we might know what you can bring to bear on those you fight-kill. Tell me that I might convince my doubting masters that you speak the real-truth.”

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The ambassador did not look like he was going to answer easily, so Crikfoot spoke on in haste. “I do not want you to believe-think we are making threats. I came here to talk-negotiate, to give us the chance not to incur your hatred-wrath or begin a war between us. Why would we? I come not to posture before you, nor to vainglorious boast. We have strength, but no clan can beat every and all other clans at once. We are truly strong because we know how to use negotiations such as these to our advantage. Give and take. Yes? Both benefit. Until now we have only used a tunnel here and a tunnel there to take the war to our hated foes. Not to make war against you. We have no desire-urge to do so. The messengers we received said that Skabrius wished to know of our alliances; that he may want to help us in some way. I come here to see if this might be done. Help both ways. Yes, yes? We can aid you in your fight against the accursed Protectorate. We can join your plans to harm them, kill them, beat them down and drive them out. We will eager-happily help you defeat them, share the captured slaves with you. You are mighty, but you can be mightier still if you allow us to share your fight, share your burden. We hate the Bretonni. Know this about us and you will know you have an ally to make you mightier still.”

Dark Lord Nihilus wrote: The ambassador cocked his head and peered at Crikfoot warily before a slow smile crept across his face. It was the smile of a predator gazing at hapless prey. Without removing his eyes from Crikfoot, he hissed and snapped his fingers in the direction of a quivering aide. The skaven tried and failed to suppress the musk of fear and visible shook as he handed a surprising immaculate sheet of parchment to the ambassador before racing back to his shadowy corner. The rolled up sheaf of parchment had the broken seal of the Protectorate. Crikfoot’s eyes widened and darted back up to the face of the ambassador. The diplo-rat’s eyes had never left Crikfoot. His smile only widened.

“You recognize this, yes-yes,” there was no question in his words. He flicked a talon, needlessly, at the seal. The tension was apparent even to the crazed scribes, who paused comically in their antics to glance over questioningly, a hint of fear in their eyes, at the confrontation.

“The Arab-things have broken-shattered the treaty they shared with Clan Skarr. It is true, we would rather be friends-allies and have trust restored between our two great forces”, he stretched out his paws in an empty gesture of helplessness. “Clan Skarr was not the one that broke trust-faith, it was your Arabyan Intervention Force and it is they that need to restore-rebuild trust.” He shrugged, another disconcertingly human gesture. “Clan Skarr still welcomes-smiles upon an alliance, but until the Arab-things and their allies demonstrate that they are trustworthy and committed…”, the ambassador trailed off, tapping the Protectorate’s seal on the letter he held.

“You can begin-start to do that by removing your troops from the Rooted Cavern. Under-in the terms of our agreement the Arab-things and their allies would not attack our underground warrens-lairs and we would do the same. Remove your troops so that we can reclaim-retake it. Agree-accept this and we will begin-open talks of how we will help each other against our mutual enemies.”

Crikfoot was surprised to hear these demand-requests, though not to see the missive from the Protectorate. Broken trust-faith? He did not understand. Then it dawned on him - this ambassador must not have been told of the words that had passed between Warlord Scabscar and Grey Seer Skabrius. Fumbling in his robe, an action prompting the guards’ increased scrutiny, he withdrew a parchment.

“If you will allow-permit, lord ambassador, I humbly present you this letter. Here-now you see why we did what we did. These are the letter-words of your previous ambassador - the words we took to be the truth."

Crikfoot now read the letter ...

Grey Seer Skabrius wrote: Lord Scabscar, We are aware of your faction's eagerness to combat the Bretonnian threat to the north. I propose an exchange of sorts.

We shall open our supply lines to you, allowing you to march through our territory. Military acces thorugh our land gives you a perfect oppurtunity to strike at the Protectorate. You shall be unseen and swift, crippling those bigoted invaders. We are even prepared to cede Junction 3, should you grant us simmilar acces. Of course, we would offer you compensation for the upkeep of our troops that would be stranded at the Junction. We would not presume to unfairly take adavantage of our allies.

In return, we would ask assistance in region 43A. We know you are no friend of the Elf-things, for their treacherous thorns have stung you as well. They must be stopped here, before their vile influence spreads throughout the land. If you would intervene with good intent, driving out the Elves and leaving its rightful rulers, the Skaven, in place, you would have our gratitude. In addition to military assistance, we would ask that you supply our troops in Junction 3. We will of course pay you in full should you agree to these terms, so that your treasury does not diminsi hdue to foreign troops.

Grey Seer Skabrius

"I bring to your attention in specific-particular the letter-words: 'We are even prepared to cede Junction 3.' We acted upon that, and then awaited further word from you upon how to continue-proceed with our alliance-agreement, the particular details of what you wanted us to do. Words never came, and so here-now I am."

Crikfoot could not tell if the ambassador was convinced by this, though had little doubt that he would least want to appear so. Perhaps he would think the letter a fake? No matter - let Clan Skarr look to their own affairs, question their own chieftains. It was plain that he could not agree to such a thing without informing Scabscar and king Ladislau, gaining their permission, so he continued,

“Alliance is indeed our will-wish. No need for bloody fighting between us. I will carry-take your demands to my warlord and the Arab-things, and I will return with their response. Then you will know it is the honest-truth, and binding. I will press my leaders to do as you wish, to withdraw from the Rooted Cavern, and look towards a beneficial alliance between us. May your enemies, our enemies, die-perish at our hands. With blades combined we might hack-slash and slay all who stand against us.”

He bowed deep, and waited permission to leave. Glancing to his side he could see that the lantern bearer still seemed to have no idea what was about to happen! Clan Skarr was surely not going to let the servant leave when he had seen the way - not just that, but illuminated the whole route.


Then ... the campaign ended. We shall never know if Crikfoot left the cavern alive!
 

Padre

Member
I can promise you closure in the Animosity 6 campaign, which I think I am putting up next. But this one - it is hard to continue with writing etc when the thing is over.
 
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