An Old Campaign #5

Padre

Member
This campaign thread does not have the strong ending of the last one, and just peters out as sometimes they do (mainly because the official campaign ends before I can work out a way to bring my story to a satisfactory conclusion). But it still has some good posts, nice pictures and plenty of battles. Oh, and Skaven - lots of them. The very odd thing about it was that I was playing a Skaven Warlord but I was NOT in the Skaven faction. I did this in order to create a tension in the story straight away, a twist that needed explanation right from the off, and because some of my friends were in this faction and it was fun to be on their side.

I'll aim for one a day as before but this time it'll be harder 'cos the forum is locked so I can't just lift and spell check, I have to sort out all the picture links and formatting too. I also think there's more posts to find, as the thread have located does not seem to be all of it. And some of the posts in this thread are not in the right order (due to keeping things secret until it didn't matter any more). So, there's work to do to sort and position each post.

Here it begins ...

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Warlord Scabscar

How long would they keep him waiting this time? Warlord Scabscar’s previous visits had involved successively shorter waiting periods, and although any such delay rankled at his sense of pride, the diminishing length of the delays encouraged him to believe that he was slowly but surely gaining greater respect. Here at least was some species of progress.

He already had a good idea what the intermediaries would (eventually) order him to do. Their long list of questions concerning any links he had with Clan Skarr, as well as their demands to know in detail the full nature of the forces he commanded, had made their desires obvious: he would surely be ordered to take the field against Clan Skarr.

The chamber in which he had been told to wait was not one he had visited before, and although very minimally illuminated by three tallow fat candles his eyes could pierce the shadows to discern details a man-thing could never see. This thought brought a smile to his lips, revealing his razor-sharp, ragged teeth as he recalled the many times he had watched man-things stumbling around in the dark while he himself revelled in the delicious feeling of power and control as he held back his attack. Remembering the pleasure made his smile widen further - not all delays engendered frustration.

He was of course without his guards, having been ordered to leave them outside the antechamber in case any assassins lurked amongst them. Scabscar had chosen his bodyguards with great care, picking only those he knew would be wholly loyal to him. The very fact that his guards had no connection with any other leader was one of the reasons he chose them. They were personal weapons for him to wield, extensions of his will alone, more so perhaps than even the Bonebreaker mount he rode into battle. He recognised, however, that others could not know them that well. And even if the intermediaries he was about to speak to recognised the guards’ loyalty, then maybe then they were more worried about what he himself might order them to do?

The subterranean chamber was cluttered with a rusting tangle of apparatus and mysterious, arcane components. It had once been occupied by an engineer of renown who had fashioned devices of such destructive power that they could shatter entire enemy regiments. Like so many of his particular bent the engineer was destroyed by the malfunctioning of one such machine – it activated whilst being moved from this particular warren and sent such a bout of noxious flames surging through tunnels that everyone else within was killed along with the engineer, as well as all those with two dozen yards of the entrance. The tunnels had then been abandoned for decades, for the heat endured within them and scolded all who attempted to enter, gifting stubborn blisters that never stopped itching and which festered until the victim was utterly incapacitated by the symptoms (if they survived at all). Then again, as an incapacitated skaven is always quickly killed by his erstwhile comrades, it would be more truthful and succinct to say that all who contracted the blisters perished as a consequence. Two years ago, however, the tunnels were deemed finally safe and were once again occupied, and now they housed the grey furred representatives of the Council acting as intermediaries between the Skaven leaders and Scabscar.

The warlord now began passing the time by scutinising some of the strange paraphernalia piled into heaps around the edges of the chamber. Nearly every rusted lump had mouldy leather-bound tubes hanging from it, and what was not rusted iron or rotted skins, was mildewed wood or tarnished copper and brass. Here he found a lever, there a gear wheel, but nowhere anything he considered of any worth. He knew, however, that his engineers might think differently and decided that he would tell them of this particular chamber so that they could make whatever use they could of the junk within. His own unenthusiastic search was brought to a sudden halt by two simultaneous events – first the cut he received from some still-sharp shard hidden in the clutter and second the opening of the door by a servant sent to beckon him. Hiding his scowl and clutching at his finger to prevent the blood from pouring out, Scabscar strode from the room behind the scuttling servant.

Before he had crossed the threshold the intermediaries could smell his blood.

A little earlier that morning:
A5Interview1.jpg


The Intermediaries

Three skaven were awaiting Scabscar’s arrival. Two were ostentatiously garbed representatives of the council and the third was their servant Grimelumpe, a subordinate aide whose duty was to record all that was said in meetings such as this (and bear witness too). The latter was twitching nervously, his tail performing little flicks, his eyes never quite settling on any one spot. Scabscar had noticed how the aide effected a similar manner during previous meetings, and had come to the conclusion that the onerous responsibility of vouching for powerful masters to even more powerful masters must be a burden the transcriber found overwhelming.

The grey seers sat in high backed chairs which had taken Scabscar’s menials an entire afternoon to find. Both wore colourful and contrasting garb: Pustulgar the Erudited had green, quilted shoulder-plates over his dry-blood-red cassock, while Adolbod the Gormful sported a garish design of yellow and red interlocking triangles on his similarly large shoulder adornments. Scabscar could only assume this was what currently passed for ‘fashion’ amongst the strange and other-worldly seer fraternity, and had once contemplated whether as time went by they would choose to make themselves look even more ridiculous. Both had laid their bronze-coiled staffs upon the table, unwieldy as they were, as well as resting their leather bound tomes directly before them. They had not, however, thought fit to remove their long, pointed hoods. Pustulgar’s had been brushing against a hanging lantern of ironwood and horn, disturbing it so that wax dribbled through the ill-fitting base and was slowly forming a lumpy, clotted path down the cloth towards the seer’s unsuspecting forehead.

Scabscar had a rather different and much more practical appearance, being every bit the warrior lord. His whole body was covered in plates of armour, with only his clawed fingers and toes protruding unprotected. Beneath this layer was even more metallic protection in the form of a long mail coat, and beneath that the scarred and toughened hide of a skaven who had lived (as anyone in his position had) in ‘interesting’ times. His back-plate bore an odd pair of hooped protrusions, for in battle he marked himself out by attaching a personal standard to his back, in the form of a spiked iron hoop containing the tri-barred sigil often incorporated into skaven heraldry. Two long pennants would hang from this hoop to flutter behind him. Not that the standard was strictly necessary, for he usually rode upon his Bonebreaker mount and so could be picked out easily enough by his warriors. Yet even without standard or mount he still looked imposing enough. Well, he would do to most skaven and nearly all creatures smaller than an ogre in stature. Not to the seers, however, for they had the confidence of those who had delved deep into and even manipulated the other-worldly stuff of magic, witnessing the supernatural horrors lurking there waiting to snatch away the careless or weak. Not that such insight had made them frightening to others, rather it had inured them against the fear of the mundane. Oh, and it had left them a little unhinged and somewhat eccentric in their ways.

It was Seer Pustulgar who opened proceedings, and as ever immediately embarked upon a speech more akin to a scholarly lecture than an interrogation, compulsively littered with asides and over-stretched explanations.

“Let us, yes, consider the matter of how a fighting warlord such as yourself – in point of fact exactly like yourself, so much so that you may as well assume I speak specifically of you even though I shall address the matter in general terms - how a warlord such as yourself might make his way in the world. How he might elevate himself, yes, to rise in both honourable degree and worldly power. I have no doubt that this is a topic close to your heart, Lord Scabscar, or if not housed in proximity to that particularly sanguine vital organ then lodged instead within your stomach there to catalyse broiling gurgulations, or perhaps it has thought fit to creep inside your cranial extremity where it is best placed to gnaw at your mind and sprinkle unanswerable and fevered questions to disturb your night? And if none of those, then I am wholly convinced it has settled itself so deep as to become rooted in some alternative analogically anatomical nook or cranny elsewhere within your frame.”

Scabscar frowned. He had learned several days ago that following Pustulgar’s speeches took every bit of wit he could muster, and that was not always enough. Thankfully Adolbod now offered a comment.

“Hmmm,” came rumbling from the second seer’s throat, loud enough to halt his colleague in his wayward tracks. “I agree. A topic very appropriate for this our penultimate meeting.”

It now dawned on Scabscar that so far the two seers had effectively done little more than announce they were going to speak of his future. This annoyed him. He had to stop himself giving vent to his frustration, he did not want them to see even the smallest raising of his hackles or curling of his lip. If the seers had been anyone of his own advisers and servants they would have been cut short several moments ago – in fact depending on his mood actual cutting may well have been involved. But here the tables were turned and it was he who was required to be subservient. Then a thought blossomed in his mind which momentarily calmed him, almost medicinal in the relief it briefly promised: he had given the seers every opportunity and if progress were not made soon he could and would drive them from his realm (or worse) and care not a single whisker for the political consequences. At least he would never have to listen to their long-winded and self-important pronouncements again.

Then, as if the thick air in the chamber had slowed the sound’s progress from the seer’s mouth to warlord’s ear, Scabscar suddenly realised exactly what Adolbod had just said.

“Penultimate?” he asked. “You mean there is to be but one more meeting?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Pustulgar. “Adolbod and I are in the fullest of agreements, yes, positively sated with acquiescence. We shall today make our offer and have your answer. Then, should you prove willing and your answer satisfactory …”

“Of which we have little doubt,” interjected Adolbod.

“… then we will meet but once more, yes, to discuss the finest and sharpest of details, to polish and hone our expectations until as acute as a scalpel’s edge.”

Scabscar suddenly recalled a thought from the last meeting - how the seers might well be deliberately riling him with their verbosity so as to gauge his response, to assess both his patience and willingness to obey. Their method and manner very likely formed part of whatever test they were putting him to.

“It seems clear to me,” continued Pustulgar, “that there are two tunnels which an ambitious clan warlord must choose between. To enter one is to begin clawing and tearing your way through, cutting down not only foes but rivals, not only vengeful enemies but also jealous servants and backstabbing allies. This tunnel is a deathly place, where mountainous heaps of the fallen are piled up by blade work and the fires of battle. There is no denying that this first tunnel has served some few well, yes, very well. But, and this is well known to every skaven with even a modicum of wit, most who choose this route do not reach the tunnel’s exit, rather they simply deposit their own corpse somewhere along the way. So many others enter the same tunnel that they are merely one amongst many, with foes before and behind, and none of any worth truly willing to come to their aid. Only through luck can they survive, and not the simple roll of a knuckle bone, but rather the sort of good fortune that would astound even the gods.”

The seer paused and the silence caught Scabscar by surprise. Compulsively, perhaps simply to prove he was paying attention (when the truth was that his thoughts had strayed once more), the warlord found himself commenting: “Not the best of tunnels then?”

The seer’s eyes flashed as a grin broadened his lips to reveal as many flint teeth as enamel. “Ah, yes, you understand the perils. You would not be here if you had chosen that tunnel, yes? You wish to go the other way?”

“The other way?”

Adolbod gave vent to a wheezy snigger, his hood wobbling as a consequence. “Do keep up, Lord Scabscar. Two tunnels, remember?”

Scabscar frowned, suddenly unable to hold back all his frustration. Meeting after meeting concerning what he would do if this, that or the other happened, question after question about his personal past and the strength of his clan, all the while waiting impatiently to hear whether they would approve of him to the council.

“I know you said two tunnels,” he growled. “I am no fool to be toyed with, nor a cowering slave too afraid to concentrate. I am a fighting warlord of repute and power. You would do well to remember this. My question came from the burning desire that you might get on with what you have to say. My lack of attention comes only from my impatience with your never ending torrent of words.”

“Ahh,” exclaimed Adolbod. “Now we see the spirit of a warrior, a glimpse of your professed mettle.”

Scabscar knew now that to the seers this was indeed all a game, and that every word they spoke was part of an elaborate test. He bit his tongue and glared at them, his eyes speaking for him: ‘Finish this now!’

Pustulgar did not even blink at this outburst, but went on in exactly his accustomed manner, as if no complaint at all had just been made. “The alternative is a more certain tunnel, through which diligence and loyalty provide a pair of bold legs upon which to stride. Of course luck is always needed, but with sufficient skill even that slippery commodity can be made to play only a minor part. Many can still trip and fall through a lapse of concentration or a careless failure to duck out of the way of harm. This tunnel is that through which the council directs those who wish to prove themselves worthy. It is not an easy path, for to obey the council’s will is to find oneself faced with the challenges and threats that such great Skaven counter on a daily basis, but those who emerge are rewarded, having proved themselves both mighty and loyal. The dangers remain great, but at least the warlord can expect some honest, actual assistance from allies of a like mind.”

Scabscar had no intention of waiting to hear if the seer would continue his verbal circulations and so immediately pronounced, “I choose the second tunnel."

The two seers cocked their heads to one side as if intrigued by Scabscar’s outburst, an action which finally flicked a gobbet of wax from Pustulgar’s hood to bespatter Adolbod’s robe. Neither seemed to notice.

“Why do you think,” Scabscar felt the need to explain, “I have listened so patiently so far? Why do you think I invited you here at all? Have your servant scribble my name in the list. I intend to grow in power wholly in the service of the mighty Council, and would have no-one call me traitor.”

Turning to the aide, Adolbod snapped, “Go on then, Grimelumpe, scribble his name on your list.”

Scabscar could not be certain but did wonder whether there was more than a hint of sarcasm in the seer’s tone. He too looked at the aide and although the creature was still writing it did not seem to Scabscar that the pen’s nib had altered position at all – rather it simply scraping along as before. Scabscar hadn’t the will to question the method, instead he wanted to know something else.

“Finally!” he said. “Now the Council knows I am theirs to command, for a suitable reward. Now, tell me, is it Clan Skarr they want me to face? And if so, which other clans will join with me?”

“Yes, and none,” said Adolbod succinctly.

The warlord frowned. “Yes, it is to be Clan Skarr. But what do you mean by ‘none’? You mean I am to face them alone?”

“Of course not, Lord Scabscar,” agreed Pustulgar. “We would never ask you to do that. Both of us, and the Council also, recognise that you could not face Skarr alone and expect even to survive, never mind thrive. The plain truth is that there are no other clans available to assist you. The Council, its mind ever fixed upon the greater scheme of things, the very world itself encompassed in its thoughts, every nation and people, every realm and empire, yes, has engaged them all upon other tasks. You must seek aid from other quarters.”

Now Scabscar truly did not understand. “What mean you by ‘other quarters’?”

“There is war brewing in the manthing lands of Estalia, a great conflict that shall embroil manthings and greenskins, elflings and dwarfthings to name but a few. Many of these, if not all, will be enemies of Clan Skarr. From those enemies of your enemy you must find battle allies. Have them assist you and vica versa, so that both you and they thrive. We care not how their fortunes wax, as long as Clan Skarr’s fortune wanes.”

A silence ensued. The three contributors to the conversation stared at each other and the scribes scratching pen came to a halt. Finally it was Adolbod who spoke.

“Thus we must conclude our meeting. You have much to think about. In our final meeting we shall speak of how exactly you might find suitable allies.”

Scabscar heard some of what had just been said, but the meaning was tangled up with the thoughts in his own mind. He had not long before been fondly recalling the delicious feeling of power just before he killed a manthing. Now he was to fight alongside them, speak with them, perhaps often. He knew the Council intended to test him, but he had thought it would be simply a matter of sending him into battle. No, the real test would be to see if he could work with his race’s enemies to defeat a traitorous clan.
 

Padre

Member
As it is the start, I'll add an extra post to make the pilot episode a bit longer ...

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Scabscar’s chief engineer, Abdurat the Clevering, was pacing the cave-chamber …

A5Interview4-1.jpg


“Who will go?” he asked, “Who can convince manthings to listen, to trust?”

Warlord Scabscar watched him pace, and although there was vexation in his voice, it was not due to the engineer’s pendulum-like perambulations, rather the issue itself. “Not an easy thing,” he muttered. “Not easy at all.”

“Not safe,” blurted Abdurat. “That’s what it is not. Whoever goes, the manthings will likely kill him. Very likely on first sight, and quick about it too.”

“Kill him, yes. Kill him they will. So …” Scabscar paused as if he needed to put an idea into proper form, or check it to see if it made sense before he gave it utterance “We send someone to die. Then we send someone else to die, then when we send maybe a third, a fourth if needed, so the manthings will come to know we mean business. And when they have stopped killing our messengers then I shall meet with them.”

Abdurat stopped his pacing and grinned. He required little time to shape his thoughts – they came quick and easy to mind, then issued nimbly from his mouth. “My lord, I have several names in mind. Perfect for such a task.”

........................

A5Interview3.jpg


Chieftain Chizzleflig approached the tunnel exit nervously, but as he had been nervous before he entered it, and the full length of his journey through it, then this was not a novel state of mind. He had with him only two guards, two musicians and a standard bearer, none of whom were any less unnerved by the task that lay before them.

Although he did not know for certain, Chizzleflig reckoned that each of the warriors with him were also here because they had particular enemies, rivals or at the least they had displeased someone. All six, including him, advanced with fangs bared, tails a-twitching and eyes wide with apprehension. One of the musicians kept emitting involuntary squeaks and chitters, each of which made his companions flinch and clutch their drawn weapons tighter.

A5Interview2.jpg


Narrowing their eyes and pushing through a verdant curtain of hanging roots and vines they entered the sunlight from the tunnel’s concealed mouth, to find themselves upon a wooded slope. Immediately they could smell that manthings were close by, which did nothing to diminish their nervousness. Chizzleflig hissed and spun around to face the musicians. “You, and you,” he whispered, “do what you are here for. We need parley sounds. Make them, and quick, quick!”

The musicians began hesitantly beating their bells and cymbals. Chizzleflig scowled, realising the noise added to his apprehension rather than lessening it. “Is that the right noise?” He snapped at them. “Is that what manthings do? Is it? Is it?”

The musicians stopped and looked at each other, which made Chizzleflig hiss again. “No, no, don’t stop. Play, play on – they must know we are here for words not fighting. And you,” he pointed at the ensign, “unfurl the colours. I want the manthings to see us as well as hear us. Don’t want any of them thinking we’re here to play sneaky tricks.”
 

Padre

Member
Background to the campaign:

As I promised in another thread I have taken a look at the background for the campaign, in the hopes of giving you a better idea of what was going on. In doing so, I discovered why it never occurred to me before. The background is vast and labyrinthine, the factions numerous and varied, the NPCs too many to name. Even during the campaign I was not exactly conversant with it all (if that's the right word).

This campaign, Animosity 5, was set in Estalia.

There were eight factions, three kinds of figureheads (important NPCs - each of which catagory included at least 8 NPCs) and even uber-groupings of religious factions which could include members from different categories. There was an overground map and an underground map, with exit/entry points between. There were Non-Player realms. And other complications.

The factions had between 9 players (the Muros faction was deliberately small) and 20 or so players. Their size changed through the campaign. The faction's aims were a mass of motives and sub-motives - again too hard to explain. Some, like the Greenskins, were here to loot and burn and fight (etc). Some, like the Protectorate and the Arabyan Intervention Force were politically opposed, using Estalia to fight out an ongoing war. Some' like Muros, wanted to survive. The Skaven had 'cunning' plans, and the Dark Elves were here to profit from slavery etc.

8 Factions
The Protectorate - Bretonnians, I think
Shattered Sunz - Greenskins
The Maderasari - maybe Wood Elves
Clan Skarr - Skaven (I had already picked the name Warlord Scabscar long before I knew this faction name - I wouldn't have done if I had known.)
The Reavers - Dark Elves
Kingdom of Muros - Estalian Kingdom
The Accord
Arabian Intervention Force - Arabs and foreign mercenaries etc (This was my faction.)

3 types of Figurehead
National - Kings and such
Local - Variety of NPCs, from merchants to priests, Lords to bandit leaders.
Faction (Like Political Leaders of our factions, though we had players as our actual military leaders.)

Religious groupings that came together (based around the emergence of a weird demi-god like woman named Lilith)
The Eyeless – supporting Lilith (kept secret from other factions)
The resistance – opposed to Lilith (kept secret from other factions)

It would take me days and days of arduous study to make sense of it all, and a lot of writing to explain it all. But now I know the effort involved and the complexity of it all, I don't think it necessary to give you all that information, as it would only muddle things up. Instead as I post things I'll try to ensure I explain anything that doesn't make sense without some insight into aspects of the background. So far there's been no need to.

In amongst vast, and do mean vast, swathes of forum sections (general or faction), hundreds of threads and thousands of posts, I saw some interesting things as I scanned. Like the following GM announcement about a certain modus operandi we were to stick to ...
However, I wanted to take the time to inform you all of a large difference here at Animosity between what you might be used to and how we operate. In T&G and Underdark, individuality is encouraged, and the selling of Faction information for resources or amusement was allowed. It is not allowed here.

There is a special project that allows Factions to gain information about the movement and plans of other factions in a general way, obviously with a chance of failure, and we encourage people to use it. However, the goal here is to encourage Factions to work (largely) together to simulate strategic combat on a country wide scale. You don't all have to be best friends, not by a long shot, but people passing on confidential information to other factions in non diplomatic channels will be removed from the campaign. Fair warning.

So in summary. Diplomatic haggling and trying to pursuade Faction X to gang up on the NPCs with you is absolutely fine. So is doing that and then 'changing your mind' conviniently. However, sending a PM with "Pst, here's a copy of our Faction's entire orders", is not.

Now, having established the unrealistic level of work involved in trying to explain 'everything', let's just get on with my posts. Yay!?


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sunlight

Chizzleflig was loathe to step out into the sunlight, but he had no choice. He knew that the guards were here as much to see that he did as he was ordered as to protect him. He saw the scattered shadows cast by the trees and wished he were as small as a common rat, and thus able to scuttle about within the undergrowth from dark patch to dark patch.

The scent of manthings grew stronger. The chieftain knew that he would be able to hear them too if it were not for the cacophonous racket being beaten out by the skaven musicians behind him. The yellow banner, the colour carried by the best of Warlord Scabscar’s warriors, was fashioned of fine cloth and so cast it’s own subtly hued shadow by Chizzleflig’s side.

A5Interview5.jpg


For the briefest of moments a kind of madness threatened to lure him away, promising the illusion of security. It took the form of an urge to stare at the muddy yellow patch, to let it’s ephemeral form fill his thoughts and waft his attention away from the very real danger he was in. Hissing to himself, he ousted the foolish notion from his mind and although his eyes had yet to adjust fully to the brightness outside the cave mouth he began to scour the tree line for any sign of the manthings.

And there they were, several of them, approaching directly. Although they were obscured by the trees and undergrowth, Chizzleflig’s keen senses told him there were several of them. He raised his hand to command his musicians to cease their racket. This they did, though they probably would have done so without his gestured order. “Here, here - see how they come!” announced Chizzleflig to the cowering band behind him. “See, the manthings come to speak, speak.”

“Why speak here in the sun?” came a loud question from one of the warriors. “Why not speak in the cave, where others cannot see. Make them come inside, yes?”

Chizzleflig was not happy at this. It was for him to do the speaking now - he was certain this was why he had been chosen, for he had some mastery of the manthings’ speech, having once commanded a band of manthing children slaves. He whipped his head around and snarled back at the warrior, who was so agitated he looked to be having difficulty just staying on the ground.

“You, shut up!" snapped the chieftain. "You are not here to talk. Say one word more and I shall make your loose tongue looser still.”

The warrior glowered at Chizzleflig, yet fell obediently silent. Satisfied, the chieftain looked back at the approaching band. Now it was his chance to try his manthing words, and to prove himself capable of this task. One of the manthings was easier to see than the others, a fellow with a band of blue wrapped around his head and a little tree-creature resting on his shoulder. Surely this one was their leader, for he knew that manthings had the perverse notion that officers should lead from the front and seek out the thickest fighting to encourage their warriors. (Such behaviour would surely discourage most Skaven fighters, for they would think the leader a fool and few would wish to be commanded by such.)

Chizzleflig fixed his eyes on the manthing and cleared his throat. Then, suddenly, there was a tremendously loud noise accompanied by a large flash of fire and a broiling burst of smoke - a gunshot. The biggest of the two skaven warriors broke into pieces as if a volley of warsptone bullets had torn into him. Chizzleflig had time only to whimper before several more eruptions knocked the musician off his feet and tore the standard bearer’s head from his neck. Pain now welled through Chizzleflig’s abdomen as he spun on the spot, reeling as if a rat ogre had punched him in the belly. He hit the ground hard, bespattered by his own blood.

The blue scarfed man now stepped from the undergrowth and aimed two pistols over Chizzleflig’s prone body, firing towards the cave. The chieftain had not the strength or the will to turn his head to see what was done, but no doubt that was the end of another of his warriors. The other manthings also stepped from the trees, busy with their firearms and talking fast - too fast for Chizzleflig to understand.

“… damned rat men … everywhere, curse … powders and fuses and tunnels … ambush any more …”

A5Interview6.jpg


Chizzleflig was looking right at them. There was a boldness in their motion, not because they moved quickly, but more due to their steady purpose. Not one of them was fidgeting and twitching the way skaven warriors did. Each one was heavily armed with pistols, handguns and curved blades, though only one wore any visible armour. Here and there they wore brightly coloured garments, a snow-white cap, a scarlet sash, a bold, blue shirt, as if they cared not that they might be more easily spied as a consequence. One had bright orange fur growing from his snout and chin, while another had a leg fashioned of wood as if he were a cheaply bought and miniature construct from Clan Moulder.

Entirely unable to move, Chizzleflig noticed that darkness was coming fast, as if a cold night was suddenly falling. A surge of panic gripped him as he realised what was happening. He tried to clutch at his blade, but at the first flinch he passed out. Before a second had passed he had entered the longest night of them all.

............
Note: Up until now you have been reading about my attempts to explain how I was joining this particular (mostly human) faction, even though I was skaven. I enjoyed the challenge this represented, though of course I could have just said I was in the faction and left it pretty much at that!

My faction (and RL) friend Van Riekert wrote about event posted above from the 'manthings' perspective. It was great fun reading his post and then writing a story to match it. I will attach it here.

Keep in mind that these are not my words, they are my friends ...


The past few days had been long, lazy days of drinking, wenching and brawling for the small company of sea rovers. Younger bravos railed at the boredom, eager to be marching to war but the rovers were old hands and knew that life could, and probably would end brutally quickly and with little warning, so it was best to enjoy what life could give while you could.

All too soon their revels were interrupted, an officious looking officer, sent by their long time employers to tell them to investigate some strange goings on in the hills near to where much of the army of the VMC was camped.

***

His every sense stained to gather information from the wooded hills around him, to his left and right were his companions, moving without a sound as they slowly, painfully slowly, picked their way through the woodland.

To other people this would be good land, with lush forest, good soil and ideal for vines, it would even be considered picturesque by many, especially at this moment as the sun cast dappled shadows on the small group. But to Joost and his companions it was a place where death lurked, a place where they were not sure if they were the hunters or the hunted and no matter how many times they had been in such a position the thought still filled them with fear and made a knot of their guts.

But it also honed their senses and reflexes, perhaps that's why they still lived while others were long since dead.

As a single mind they all froze in place, all had heard the same thing. A strange chirruping or squeaking. To the side of Joost Eli had put the but of his long rifle to his shoulder, and was slowly, silently pulling the dogs-head to full cock, around him others were doing the same, even now he was unthinkingly levelling his pistols towards the sound.

A moment later there was a cacophony of sound from just ahead, drums, horns and a shrill sound they couldn't quite place. So unexpected was the sound they almost simply bolted, but their experience told them that to run was to die and so they held themselves steady.

As suddenly as it started, the noise stopped.

Joost looked round at his companions and gestured with his pistol for them to keep moving, and silent as the grave he took another step. As he did the cacophony started again, but this time they kept their measured, silent movement through the woodland. Barely a half dozen paces and their eyes could see movement and colour through the web of trees ahead, minutes passed as step by step more was revealed of the source of the noise.

First a crude banner, then the dark hunched shapes holding it. Goblins? Thought Joost, no, not goblins.

"Rat Men" was the unmistakable gesture from Lisbeth to which Joost nodded. Eli stopped moving, and gave a nod to Joost as he settled himself, resting the long barrel of his rifle on a sturdy tree branch, taking sight down it.

The rest of them continued their slow tread until they were no more than a score of paces from the place where the Rat-men made their cacophony.

The noise stopped, and the Rat-men fell to conversation, chattering excitedly amongst themselves, one of them hopping from foot to foot and looking anxiously at the hole in the hillside they had emerged from and then they too stopped and fell silent, looking about them at the woods. The largest of them looked at where Joost was stood, his beady black eyes meeting Joost's one good eye through the thicket. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then thunder ripped the peace to shreds.

It was a sound like the world ripping, unmistakable to Joost who had heard it so often, as the largest of the Rat-men was exploded into small chunks of gore, bits of armour and cloth and shredded fur as Nicolas had unleashed a volley from his repeating handgun.

In an instant the world filled with smoke and noise as more shots were added to the fray. A shot from Eli's rifle removed the head of the standard bearer, while a combination of pistol shots from Hagrim and Lisbeth along with the hail of shrapnel from Roderick's blunderbuss did for a musician.

Joost could see the rear end of one last rat kin as it desperately scrabbled at the small cave mouth behind them as he levelled a pair of pistols at it. Loaded with a double charge, two lead balls and some swan shot each, he couldn't miss at this range and the cave mouth was left with a most gruesome curtain to cut it off from the surface.

"Hells be damned Rat men" cursed Joost as he stuffed his spent pistols into his belt, and drew another pair.

"They get everywhere, curse them" replied Nicolas, frantically reloading the multiple barrels of his heavy gun

"We need to get powder and fuses, and blow that tunnel so they cant use it" was Hagrim's offer.

"Or do we wait to ambush any more that came for that signal they were making" asked Lisbeth.

"By the Gods no we don't Lisbeth, Hagrim is right, we go get powder and fuse and blow this place to rubble" snapped Joost "Or better yet, have them send sappers and soldier to do it properly"

There, now that's surely a nice piece of 'connecting things up' background. Interestingly, my friend used characters from the PCs in his WFRP Marienburger party, from an occasional campaign I used to run. That's why I happened to have figures that looked exactly like the band he was describing. We agreed he would do this in advance so that I could incorporate them into a picture.
 

Padre

Member
Snitz Furgut was surprised to have been chosen to lead a party out to meet with the manthings. He had been trying to attract no attention to himself after the trouble with the warpstone bullet and thought that lying low would mean no such interest would be shown in him. Now he had been ordered by Warlord Scabscar himself to pick four warriors and lead them upon what seemed to be an important errand, the sort that would lead to considerable reward if he were to succeed.

Unless, he feared, he was not supposed to succeed? Perhaps the purpose of this command was to get rid of him so that he would not have anymore ‘accidents’.

No-one had directly accused him of the shooting, but he was convinced that Abdurat the engineer had suspicions. When an engineer as important as Hachblar was killed by a carelessly fired jezzail then someone had to pay with their life, of course; and although Tholaki had been executed for the lapse, Snitz knew that no-one, neither judge nor executioner, really thought he was responsible (or was it that they did not care?). Snitz’s subsequent promotion to leader of the first company of jezzails only made his position look even more suspect.

Snitz knew full well he could not explain that killing Hachblar was not part of a dastardly plan to frame Tholaki and gain promotion, for such an admission would involve revealing it was in fact he himself who had pulled the trigger. Whether he killed the engineer by accident or deliberately would not matter, he would in turn be killed either way. If only, he thought time and time again, the bullet had hit the slave he intended to shoot, then there would have been no trouble at all. Killing the slave in question the next day had given him some satisfaction. His fear, however, had not diminished one jot.

Now his life was one of constant nervousness. More accurately, his life had gone from one of the usual level of constant fear most skaven feel, to a heightened sense of terror every time a commander so much as glanced his way or merely walked nearby. Instead of imagining brutish monsters as the source of strange night-time sounds (as others might do) his fevered mind turned every noise into approaching assassins or death squads. Such a state of mind drove him to assume there was a deadly intention behind his orders.

The meeting with Warlord Scabscar had been full of apprehension, laced with indications of hidden purposes. Scabscar had waxed lyrical about how the manthings would be happy to speak, how they would be expecting Snitz. It was in truth an out of character display of verbosity that made Snitz wonder if the warlord was hoping to conceal the unsavoury truth under a heap of words. Throughout the interview the chief engineer Abdurat had stared at him through narrowed eyes, studying his every flinch and twitch as if gauging his state of mind.

So now here he was leading his men towards the tunnel exit. His blade was drawn, as were those of the warriors with him, and he had found a little armour to give him a more respectably warrior-like appearance.

A5Interview8.jpg


As his warriors carried jezzails into battle, Snitz had no standard to bring along, nor musicians to accompany him. Considering that the manthings were coming to talk, not fight, he had ordered that only one jezzail be brought. He could not bring himself to travel so far without at least one, especially as the weapon’s impressive retort when fired could scare away most beasts and many attackers – sound alone striking fear into the foe even if the bullet flew wild.

A5Interview7.jpg


The clan’s warren was situated in the southern Miramar Hills, and this particular tunnel came out in the vicinity of a town named San Pedro del Sur. Already Snitz could feel the air warming, a sign that the tunnel mouth was close. Suddenly he stopped, for there was daylight ahead. Gulping and gripping the hilt of his blade a little tighter, he glanced back at the others. All four were still with him.

“Come, come now,” he ordered. “Follow me.”

And outside they went.

...............................

“Listen well,” ordered Scabscar with a conspiratorial tone in his voice. “Listen good. We have allies, warriors who will fight against our enemies. These our new friends are not to be harmed. There will be no plundering or kill-kill-killing, even if they are manthings and greenskins and otherthings. Every warrior will know this - even the slaves. No harm will be done to them - not against our allies. I say this, and you will remember it.”

Upon the other side of the table, illuminated by the flickering torchlight from the cave chamber walls, stood the warlord’s engineers and chieftain-captains. Abdurat was nodding, for he knew full well all that had been arranged, but the others fidgeted in a less assured manner.

MarchOnA.jpg


The chieftain Fraxyud did more the fidget - going so far as to grimace as if in pain. “This … this you command,” he found himself saying before common sense could kick in and warn him not to contradict Scabscar. “…it is not skaven. It is not war."

The warlord fixed his stare upon the chieftain and allowed a moment to pass, just long enough for Fraxyud’s contrariness to mutate into plain fear. Then he spoke, “Ahh, I see your have a fighting spirit, brave Fraxyud. You want blood and battle and broken bones, yes?”

Fraxyud gulped, whilst Abdurat stifled a laugh.

“Well,” said Scabscar, in so mocking a tone he was almost singing the word, “you shall have them, yes, you shall have bloody battle to break your bones. You shall lead the vanguard when we take to the field against the traitors. You shall stand afore your warriors and show them your hunger for battle. And if you survive, then you shall have my favour again.”

Fraxyud could not bring himself to look Scabscar in the eyes. If it were not for the fur on his jowls then one would have seen the colour draining from his face, but the sudden involuntary tensing of his tail advertised his disconsolation to all present.

“Must I say it again?” asked Scabscar, glancing at each of his commanders in turn. “Must I speak, speak every word over and over and over? We will be victorious. We will kill and kill numbers far greater than we can raise. Yes? We will kill more traitors than we can count. And we will do this because manthings and greenskins will willingly join us to cut our enemies down. They are a blade to be wielded against the foe, and I will not break that blade. Yes?”

His last word was growled. The answer came in the form of a nods and mumbles from all the skaven in the chamber.

“Yes?” the warlord shouted this time.

“YES, YES!” came the answer.

And so it was that hours later Scabscar’s army issued froth from the isolated warren they had inhabited these last few weeks. Upon the flanks came scuttling vermin swarms and globadiers, as well as the portable machines of war, whilst in their midst marched the massed ranks and files of clan warriors.

MarchOn2.jpg


For more than an hour they spilled from the cave-mouth, lugging halberds, viciously curved swords and great, long jezzails. A legion of slaves hauled engines of war, behind which strode Scabscar’s Bonebreaker carrying the warlord so high he could see almost to the front of the column.

And at the head flew the principal banners of the fighting regiments: red, yellow and brown in hue, with the army standard bedecked with skulls.

MarchOn3.jpg


Scabscar’s army marched to war.
 
Padre, I already like where this is heading. The skaven intrigues and political squabblings are going to be fun to watch unravel :grin: on a slightly off-topic subject, just how many painted armies do you own??? I'm assuming you have developed a fine method of speed-painting (or you are a 3000 year old vampire who doesn't require sleep and has unnaturally quick painting reflexes). Do you have any painting tips to share? :) keep the narrative coming!

P.S. I love your skaven names, they are extremely ratty (in a good sense ;) ).
 

Padre

Member
Let's just say I own a LOT of painted armies. Vast numbers. (Wait 'til you see the full horde of rats later on in this thread. I went a bit rat crazy for a while.) All very embarrassing really, as I think of the novel writing skills I could have developed if I had not been painting.

There is no trick, just longevity. I have been painting since about 1982, apart from a few breaks from the hobby to concentrate on roleplaying for a while. I paint with enamels (out of stubbornness I suppose) and I use a black undercoat over which I 'cell shade'. It feels like 3D 'colouring-in' to me, and needs only patience and a steady hand.
 

Padre

Member
Machinations and Machines

The apprentices came running towards him, their manner so agitated as to startle chief engineer Abdurat into consideration of how he might best defend himself against whatever it was pursued them. Perhaps they had disturbed something monstrous in the flood waters which even now slithered after them hungrily? When the apprentices skidded to a halt, however, he quickly realised it was something else that brought them here.

Now they were squabbling amongst themselves, pushing and shoving. Abdurat glowered at them, thinking that they were each afraid to be the one who must give him bad news, then he realised it was quite the opposite – they were fighting to be the first one to report something to him. To be acknowledged by him before the others, and thus allowed to speak. Finally it dawned on all the young skaven that the consequences of behaving like this in front of their master would be far worse than the lost opportunity to speak first, and so the squabbling came to an end. It was Tragghul who was at the front at his moment, gaining his precedence quite by accident.

“Speak, speak!” commanded Abdurat, fixing his glare upon the foremost apprentice.

“I have found something you must see, master,” began the apprentice, but his explanation was cut short by a sudden burst of voices correcting his use of the word ‘I’.

“We … we have found it,” the others cried – or words to that effect.

“Quiet!” demanded the chief engineer. “I have no patience for your petty bickering. What have you found? Tell, tell.” Of course he realised this was too much to ask, for this particular batch of apprentices were as yet very unlearned and ignorant. Instead of answering, they turned and scuttled back the way they had come.

“See, see … We show you … I show you … This way, this way!”

Gritting his teeth he followed. This had better be good, he thought, then quickly moved on to consideration of how best he might punish them if the journey proved disappointing and a waste of his time.

Three days ago when the army had arrived at the Murga minehead, Abdurat had been disappointed to discover many of the mineshafts were flooded. This meant there would have to be considerable toil (as well as necessarily entailing a great loss of slaves) or the army would be unable to enter or exit quickly and surely. Even though the Skaven’s true home was beneath the earth, they were never keen to put themselves somewhere they might not be able to escape from! In a last ditch attempt to avoid the work and delay, Abdurat had dispatched his apprentices in packs to scour every fissure and crack for alternative routes to the tunnels below. These particular youngsters were one of those packs.

They led him into the main mine entrance. Stepping from the hateful daylight into the welcoming gloom did not bring the relief one might expect, for he was beginning to suspect they were indeed leading him on a fool’s errand. This had been the first place to be searched, and nothing had been found that was not flooded or in imminent danger of succumbing to the waters. Just as he was about to order the apprentices to halt, he saw something that had not previously been there – a huge portal.

“See, see?” the apprentices chimed together, almost as if they were singing the chorus to a tuneless song. They did not appear, however, to know the verse to accompany it: “We … I … We found it. Secret it was … hidden … levers here and … opened itself … look, see.”

Although Abdurat could not discern exactly what any individual had said, the muddle of words had nevertheless revealed enough for him to understand. A hidden door, designed to look like no different from cave wall around it, had rolled open at the yank of a lever. He sniffed, so that he might better smell the more than usually musty air leaking from the chamber: rust, oil, and the weak but still pungently tainted aroma of warpstone. They had indeed, he decided, found something. He could not bear the thought of the apprentices’ chattering and giddy excitement ruining the pleasure of what might lie ahead.

“Stop,” he barked. “Silence.” Then he pointed at Tragghul. “You, you alone, follow me. You others, wait and wait good.”

For centuries there had been talk of an ancient engineer’s massive contraptions buried somewhere beneath Estalia. Some called him Schtoblag, others Maddle-Girn, still others the ‘chiefest engineer’. A few of the more discerning believed that he was not one skaven but several, a brotherhood of gifted engineers who had, for a short while, worked together to create monstrous devices of barely conceivable power. Back in the southern Miramar Hills Abdurat had allowed himself to hope that something had been found, for Scabscar himself had suggested a certain chamber might contain artifacts of use. But there was nothing to be found in there, only junk. Yes, the warren had long been associated with the ancient engineer, but everything of any worth (and much of no value whatsoever) had long since been removed. This new discovery, however, being an ancient door that once opened would be very difficult to close, boded well. It was possible, even likely, that no-one had entered since it was closed. The man-thing miners who had disturbed this particular abandoned warren had certainly not found it. Maybe no-one ever had?

Tragghul had the sense to know he should go first. Why else would a skaven of such authority as Abdurat invite him along if it were not as a scapegoat and a springer of traps? The nervous apprentice was pleased to find that he had not far to go, and he got there without being skewered or plunged to a horrible death. The door led to a tunnel little more than ten yards in length, at which point it flared open to become a very large cave. The apprentice smiled, for what he saw reassured him that him master must surely be pleased. He scuttled forwards to take a closer look, and to ensure that Abdurat would always associate him with the fin ding of it.

Abdurat strode into the huge cave and came once more to a halt. There lay before him, without a shadow of doubt (though shadows did obscure much of it) a machine of considerable size, mightily engineered in iron and steel.

TheFinding1.jpg


It was dismantled, with pieces lying all around it; a dismembered, mechanical beast. Huge wheels of solid iron lay all around, some being toothed gear-wheels, others perhaps intended merely to raise this behemoth from the ground. Large bolts held much of the beast together, and a huge belly, no doubt intended to hold a great mass of pressurized steam, lay at the heart of the pile. Abdurat could not speak. His mind was racing with thoughts, chasing each other around his brain. He stared, first here, then there - his eyes still, then suddenly shifting, then lying still once more. He could barely believe it. He had found one of the fabled relics. He knew that from this moment on, for as long as it took, his home would be in this cave. And when he was done, something awesome would roll out of this cave and make his name respected once more in Clan Skrye.

(Note: I was working on a new model, a kit bash project, and thought I would be clever and use it in its uncompleted state to forge this fluff piece!)
 

Padre

Member
Gears, wheels and other bits

The machine was without doubt created by the legendary genius Schtoblag. It fitted together like a dream, every piece engineered to a level of precision Abdurat had never before come close to creating, nor even encountered in anyone else’s work. Such engineering was truly the stuff of legend. There were even times during the process of construction when Abdurat did not understand what he was putting together, neither what it was nor how it was supposed to work, yet the neat fit of every component with its intended mate meant that by simple and methodical testing of each possible orientation the answer would leap out. Time and time again Abdurat’s full understanding of what the parts did only came after the they were put in place; each time shivers rippled through his mind, suggesting all sorts of half-recognised possibilities as if he were hearing (without fully understanding) the echo of a lecture being delivered by Schtoblag himself.

He began to believe the machine was building itself. Perhaps it was possessed by the ancient engineer’s spirit, delivering a driving, supernatural will that could only be satisfied when its material host was whole and working once more? What a machine! Abdurat had to fight against a growing feeling of inferiority as its true form and power became obvious. It was, however, a mental battle he proved sufficiently proud to win, his natural and well-honed vainglory stoked by the fact that he knew his peers would forever associate his name with this machine.

The only part missing was the warp lightning cannon. He knew the machine had originally sported such a device, for the tell-tale signs of its emplacement were there – tiny pocks and coloured dents where sparkling shards of fizzing warp energy had dripped from the large lump of warpstone powering the cannon. His conviction was made complete when a fragment of a barrel (similarly pockmarked) was discovered nearby in the chamber, the size of which proved it must surely have been part of a warp lightning cannon. Why the rest of the cannon was missing he had no idea, not even an inkling of one. Perhaps the machine had been dismantled to pass through some underground chamber, but then for whatever reason, the cannon was never remounted. Perhaps it was lost due to theft, trickery or sabotage? Perhaps it had simply needed replacing after it became dangerously weakened through heavy use - its barrel threatening to shiver and destroy the glorious machine that carried it. Abdurat sent his apprentices out once more to scour the tunnels, with instructions to find the cannon, or merely its remains. But so far they had found nothing. In the meantime, Abdurat had cannibalised all the required parts by breaking up Clan Scabscar’s two best Warp Lightning cannons and had mounted the resultant monstrosity upon the beast’s metal spine, as well as having wooden platforms attached for the crewmen.

WLCannon6.jpg


So what exactly was this machine? It was a steam driven engine, a locomotive capable of moving its own considerable weight and presumably much, much more. Powdered crumbs of warpstone provided the tremendous heat required to superheat the steam, and then huge gears, shafts and levers transformed that pressure into the twisting strength that turned the iron wheels.

WLCannon7.jpg


Nearly every part of the engine was cast in iron, fortified here and there with steel – no other metal had (apparently) been incorporated. This was not exactly a lost art to modern skaven, but it was one which would involve such effort and time that nearly all modern engineers would instead look to brass, copper, lead, tin, even hard-wood, and simply hope for the best. But Schtoblag had used cast iron, and Adburat could only wonder at the forges the ancient engineer must have possessed to fashion such massive and mighty pieces. Yes it was a little rusty, yet even here there was evidence of Schtlobag’s genius, for every piece had been coated with a slimy oil which had somehow prevented the whole thing, in this damp cave, from rusting to oblivion. The little surface rust was not a flaw, it was miraculous - this machine should never have survived at all.

So it was that Warlord Scabscar’s enemies would soon face the terrifying sight of an iron behemoth lumbering unstoppably towards them, crushing all foes before it whilst flaring deadly lightning bolts into those further away.

WLCannon8.jpg


And Abdurat was indeed proud to show off the machine to his master and the Grey Seers Pustulgar the Erudited and Adolbod the Gormful.

WLCannon5.jpg


Yet there was some nervousness. Abdurat looked at his cannon, the one (rather dangerous) component part he himself was wholly responsible for. Please, he prayed silently to any god who might listen, please let this thing work.

(Note: Unhappy with the way I did not rust the gun, so it looked a bit odd on the top, I added rust after these pictures were taken. It looks much better now. Honest. Oh, and after complaints, I tarted up the warpstone to give it some more, erm, 'depth'))
 

Padre

Member
Note: I wanted to begin with a Skaven vs Skaven battle as my fluff dictated. Luckily my friend had a skaven army.

Scabscar's First Battle

Warlord Scabscar had presumed that the first battle against the foe would be fought in the underground realm beneath Estalia, yet here he was leading his vanguard beneath the bright blue sky rather than a ceiling of rock, timber supports and tangled roots. For months now he and almost his entire force had dwelt in the depths of the earth, but now they moved upon its sunlit skin. Not that this worried him, for he knew that this force was more than adequately equipped for a battle above ground. He had ordered that it be so. It was just an unexpected outcome.

Oddly, his own yellow-liveried personal guard of Clanrats were not present, having been entrusted to a task he would not risk giving to any less loyal warriors. Instead he had two of his largest battle regiments, both wearing the dried-blood hued cloth favoured by the majority of his force, and he intended to take the field leading one of these. The rest of his force consisted of a large body of Plague Monks (Clan Pestilens must also be keen to have Clan Skarr subdued for they had generously provided a substantial contingent of their warriors), as well as slaves, giant rats and a variety of Chief Engineer Abdurat’s engines of war. Abdurat himself, unsurprisingly, was not present, and had sent two of his lieutenants to support the vanguard in his stead. Yet one of the Council’s Intermediaries, the Grey Seer Pustulgar the Erudited, had chosen to come along. Hopefully, thought Scabscar, he was here not merely to observe but to lend more active (magical) support.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Warlord Scabscar’s Vanguard Force (2500 Pts)

Warlord (General Scabscar)
Halberd, Hvy Armour, Bonebreaker, Trickster's Helm, Talisman Preservation
Grey Seer (Pustulgar the Erudited)
Warpstone Token, Channeling Staff, Pendant, Skalm
Warlock Engineer
Level 1 Wizard, Warp Lightning
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 with Ratling Gun
40 Clanrats - Full command, Spear, Light, Shield with Warpfire Thrower
46 Skavenslaves - musician & Pawleader
40 Plague Monks - Full command, Banner of Under-Empire
24 Giant Rats & 4 Packmasters
9 Poisoned Wind Globadiers - Bombardier & Poisoned Wind Mortar

Doomwheel
Warp-Lightning Cannon
5 Warplock Jezzails
_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Clan Scabscar’s foe was to be an army of rebellious skaven, the warriors of an obscure petty clan called Clan Gobdoth, and although in many respects the opposing armies were similar, what with Clanrats and engineers and a Grey Seer in both forces, there were significant differences too. Gobdoth seemed to favour war machines, for it had a brace of Warp Lightning Cannons as well as a pair of Plague Catapults. Even the Grey Seer (the army’s general) apparently had a liking for constructs, for he rode a Screaming Bell. They also marched with more than twice as many jezzails.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Clan Gobdoth (2500 Pts)

Grey Seer on Screaming Bell
Book of Ashur, Shadow Magnet Trinket; with 35 Clanrats & a Ratling team
Chieftain with Sacred Standard of the Horned Rat
Chieftain with Golden Sigil Sword & Armour of Fortune
Lvl 2 Engineer with Doom Rocket, Portent of Verminous Doom
Lvl 2 Engineer with Warlock Enhanced Weapon, Warpstone Armour

26 Stormvermin with Ratling Gun team
27 Clanrats with Ratling Gun team
7 Jezzails & Sharpshooter
7 Jezzails & Sharpshooter

Two WL Cannons
Two Plague Claw Catapults
_________________________________________________________________________________________________

The two forces approached the ground over which they would fight with trepidation - a fairly common feeling for skaven before battle. Every warrior on both sides could smell the fear of those around him, the strength of which, from so many, would in turn stimulate a new emotion, that of bloodlust. A strong smell of fear aroused most skaven, and so a fearful army of ratmen could often become, quite quickly, quite the opposite in what might appear a quite contrary sort of response, but was actually one that had served the race well for centuries. A lone skaven was often a pathetic sort of creature, but in numbers they could become a vicious and unstoppable force.

Scabscar saw the foe was approaching a river and so ordered several elements of his army to make their way quickly to its banks, and others to cross them, all the better to prevent the foe from employing the river as an admittedly soggy defensive ditch. He had every intention of getting to the enemy’s war machines as quickly as possible, and did not want his main regiments slowed down by flowing waters and thus susceptible to more bombardment as they advanced at the foe.

Terrain-1.jpg


There was a bridge one of his regiments could employ, while he sent those best able to clear the waters relatively hastily towards the stretch of the river closest to the Clan Gobdoth. The rest of the battlefield consisted of a scattering of ancient ruins and some copses of wiry trees. (Game Note: None of these terrain features were classed as the wacky kinds in the BRB, and we decided the woods would actually - like so often IRL - be dense enough to block LoS.)

His orders given, Scabscar’s army moved accordingly. The Doomwheel and Warp Lightning Cannon flanked his main block of warriors - the Monks, the Clanrats he personally commanded and his slaves - while the second Clanrat regiment headed over the bridge almost in the centre of the line. Giant rats and Globadiers moved up in the bend of the river, towards the flowing water. The latter were pleased to see that the woods concealed their advance from most of the foe.

ScabBat1-1.jpg


Gobdoth arrayed themselves symmetrically, with a Warp Lightning Cannon, a Catapult and seven Jezzails on each flank, and the mass of warriors in the centre. Although the regiments were smaller than Scabscar’s, they had better quality troops (Stormvermin) and one of the clanrat regiments was made considerably more battle worthy with the fighting spirit imbued by the Screaming Bell.

ScabBat1-2.jpg


Atop his Bonebreaker, Scabscar cursed as he realised that the ruins would either slow down or disrupt his line somewhat (perhaps both) but there was nothing he could do.

ScabBat1-3.jpg


Pustulgar the Erudited, perhaps not wanting to wet the hem of his fancy robes, strode at the head of the one regiment who crossed the river by bridge rather than wading it …

ScabBat1-4.jpg


… whilst the now dripping wet horde of forty Plague Monks advanced keenly, barely aware of their soggy state, on the right.

ScabBat1-6.jpg


For a moment, the army halted as Scabscar took one last look at the enemy. Apart from the underlying noise of hundreds or warriors scratching at the shields, grinding their teeth and clawing at the ground, the only other noticeable sound was the rhythmic hiss of steam from Abdurat’s marvellous engine.

Scabscar hunched forwards, as if moving his head that little amount might bring him closer to the enemy and thus reveal some new detail regarding their composition. As he peered, his hand rested on the lever that worked his stinger, receiving little jolts of energy which made the hairs of his right arm stand and his finger tips sting as if being pricked by the contents of a pin cushion.

ScabBat1-5.jpg


He failed to notice these things, however, for he could see the enemy was about to make its move.

(Actual battle to follow ...)
 

Padre

Member
The Fight

Almost as soon as they began to advance, however, they stopped. Scabscar was confused - almost looking behind him to see what had made them suddenly hesitate. Clan Gobdoth had done nothing more than take a few steps to straighten their line, while a lone engineer scuttled from one regiment into the one accompanying the Bell. Little else seemed to happen. Being well versed in the art of Skaven warfare, Scabscar now realised what this meant - a storm of magic and missiles was surely about to be unleashed against him.

Luckily for Scabscar the winds of magic were little more than a wisp of a breeze (4:2) and the only harm done by Gobdoth’s wielders of magic was to kill four jezzail teams with warp lightning. The last team fled the field of battle never to be heard of again. When the barrage of war machine missiles came, however, the effect was much more dramatic. An engineer released his Doom Rocket to land on Scabscar’s own regiment killing a dozen of the warriors at the front (around Scabscar and his now wounded Bonebreaker). The two Plague Catapult crews wanted to join the fun and lobbed their missiles at the same unit. One landed a little off killing only two more Clanrats (but also seven slaves in the adjacent mob) but the other hit full on and ended the (rather squalid) lives of sixteen more Clanrat warriors! Having closed his eyes just before the impact of the noisome missiles, Scabscar now opened them to see what few warriors remained could hardly be called a regiment any more.

ScabBat1-7.jpg


Gobdoth’s jezzails aimed at the Doomwheel and the Warp Lightning cannon, wounding the latter. In the process two of their own weapons misfired killing their own crews. Both Warp Lightning Cannons together could only fell one Plague Monk, which the rest of the loudly chanting Clan Pestilen’s warriors failed to notice at all.

Scabscar now realised he had to engage the foe quickly, or risk massive further damage from the enemy’s powerfully destructive machines of war, and so he ordered a general advance. On the left the Globadiers and Giant Rats advanced to the river, where they began to slow their pace a little, while the second (still whole) Clanrat Legion marched boldly over the bridge.

ScabBat1-8.jpg


On the other flank, the Plague Monk horde began picking its way through the ruined temple while the Doomwheel rolled along by their side (it’s sudden burst of warp lightning striking out to kill three of them!).

ScabBat1-9.jpg


In the centre the Slaves were led boldly forwards by Chieftain Uddleclaw and one of the apprentice engineers, with Scabscar’s badly mauled regiment moving less confidently behind. Scabscar was already wondering how he might reach the intact legion emerging from the bridge.

ScabBat1-10.jpg


A sudden strong gust stirred the winds of magic (10:7), yet try as they might, Scabscar’s magic users could not tame it. Pustulgar’s Scorch spell was batted aside by Gobdoth’s Grey Seer, whilst both apprentice engineers failed abysmally to cast Warp Lightning. (Game note: Get this, I rolled two triple ones. Two triple ones! That’s a 1:46656 chance! I apologise for the stupidity of this, but I just had to take a photo of the second triple one …)

ScabBat1-11.jpg


A weak eruption from the muzzle of the Warp Lightning Cannon slew two Stormvermin, while a stray shot from the poisoned wind mortar hit the Clanrats with the Bell and killed six. All very nice, thought Scabscar, but nothing compared to what their missiles did to us. He shuddered as he saw that the catapult arms had been hauled back into position and the warpstone of the Lightning Cannons was fizzling with accumulated energy. And now they are about to fire again. His teeth clamped hard together, drawing blood from his gums, as he involuntarily braced himself for the blast.

Once again Clan Gobdoth barely moved, making only the slightest adjustment to their line. They obviously believed their machines would do the necessary and bloody work for them. The Grey Seer smelled the trace of brimstone that always revealed to him that there was magic about (7:5). Feeding off some of this, his engineers released warp lightning. One was foiled by Scabscar’s own engineers but the other blast got through irresistibly and brought down four more of Scabscar’s dwindling regiment. The engineer responsible, however, had let some of the energy spill away from him and by the time it’s coiling tendrils had finished whipping viciously through his own unit seven of Gobdoth’s clanrats were dead too. The disruption threw the Grey Seer off his balance and his subsequently weakly powered attempt at casting Vermintide failed.

The Bell now chimed and sent a disruptive peel through the stones of the ruins. (House Rule: The ruined temple would count as a building for this spell on a 4+ roll, even though it was not put down as a building in terms of terrain. 3 rolled, so the Monks were unaffected.) The Jezzails sent the Doomwheel out of control by damaging some of its components, but such was it’s loss of control that it now rolled even quicker towards them! The other Jezzails killed the Poisoned Wind Mortar team before they could launch another vile globe. Warp Lightning Cannons, Ratling Guns and Plague Catapults all contributed their own particular deadly missiles to bring down four Slaves, four Monks and thirteen more of the Clanrats with Scabscar. Only the regimental champion was left.

ScabBat1-12.jpg


Scabscar looked at the bloody mess of writhing and twitching ratmen around him and did not know whether to feel annoyed or angered. In the end more sensible motives, the urge to survive flavoured with tactical considerations, won the battle for his attention, and he knew he would have to reach the other legion - and quick!

As he set off to join them, his army standard bearer following as best he could (and the lone survivor of the first regiment left in a daze behind), the slaves attempted to charge before the enemy’s machines could turn their full attention on them. But there was too much ground to cover and their desperate dash petered out long before they reached the enemy line. The Doomwheel did reach the red-clad Clanrat regiment on the left of the Bell.

ScabBat1-13.jpg


Scabscar reached the advancing legion at the moment his magic users tried once more to summon something harmful from the all-pervading ethereal realm of magical currents and tides (11:5). Pustulgar’s Scorch spell was again batted aside, but two warp-lightning blasts knocked five Clanrats with the Bell to the ground (never to get up).

The Globadiers moved from the water to the edge of the trees …

ScabBat1-14.jpg


… while Scabscar’s various machines of war let loose as best they could. One of Gobdoth’s Ratling Teams was torn apart by Scabscar’s own similar team, while lightning from the Doomwheel fatally frazzled two Clanrats. But the Doomwheel's momentum was not as powerful as it could and should have been, so that not one enemy warrior fell to it’s impact. The driver decided he no longer fancied the odds and turned the huge machine around to flee from the foe as fast as he had attacked them moments before. Hurtling through the Plague Monks, one of the robed Pestilen’s rats failed to jump out of the wheel's way quick enough and was crushed to a pulp beneath its mighty iron and wood mass; it then smashed through the ruined temple. (Game Note: Passed Terrain test.)

Looking at the enemy before him, Scabscar found a moment’s time to ponder: Would Clan Gobdoth finally charge and so come to blows with his warriors, or would they once more hurl missiles and hope in doing so to break his force’s spirit?

ScabBat1-15.jpg


End of Turn 2.
.................

Still clan Gobdoth refused to charge and the only movement across their line (apart from the frantic activity of warmachine crews) was a handful of commanders running between regiments to find what they considered were better positions. Once again the huge Bell rang to no real effect, while the Grey Seer riding atop it cast the spell ‘Wither’ on the Plague Monks. Scabscar’s magic users, fearing still greater spells to come, let this one slip by and prepared to fend off whatever followed. They subsequently dissipated the strength of a ‘Plague’ spell (26 dispel versus 18 casting) and thanked their gods that they had not wasted precious energies on the first spell.

One pack of Jezzails killed a packmaster and three of the giant rats emerging from the river, while the other bunch damaged the fleeing Doomwheel. A ratling team also brought down a packmaster, and then although one Warp Lightning Cannon failed to generate enough of a sting to do more than tickle the Giant Rats, a stinking glob from the Plague Claw Catapult landed squarely upon them to kill another eleven vermin as well the penultimate Packmaster. A stern look from Scabscar, who was now nearby, chased away any thoughts of flight and the rats continued to move forwards. Secretly, however, the warlord was simply happy that they had drawn much of the fire that might have been directed at him instead.

Two Plague Monks fell to the second Warp Lightning Cannon, while the second Plague Claw Catapult fatally misfired in its attempt to harm the same.

This is it, thought Scabscar, it is now or never. Behind him the crew of his own Warp Lightning Cannon suddenly worried that they might soon become a target and so decided they would turn their attention to one of the enemy’s cannons …

ScabBat1-16.jpg


… and just as they carefully turned the steam engine to aim their barrel, Scabscar gave the shrieking command to charge!

ScabBat1-17.jpg


All three regiments at the front now rushed forwards. All three met the foe: Scabscar and his Clanrats smashed into the Stormvermin; the Slaves hit the regiment with the Screaming Bell while the Plague Monks made sure they hit both that unit and the other Clanrat unit. (Even weakened by the ‘Wither’ spell they reckoned they were a match for both.)

ScabBat1-18.jpg


Now the real fight was to take place, the struggle that would determine who won the day. Scabscar had lost an entire regiment to Goboth’s war machines, and now he intended to return the favour using scimitar and spear, claw and tooth. His Bonebreaker was frothing at the mouth from all the exertion of carrying Scabscar so far, yet nevertheless it now found its second wind and set about tearing at the foe with abandon, while the warlord lowered his warp-powered stinger to begin it's work. (Game note: Don’t worry, this isn’t a hitherto unknown Skaven invention, just a fluffy way of explaining how he does some of his many attacks from ‘way up there’.)

ScabBat1-19.jpg


Behind this mighty melee, the lone survivor from the other Clanrat unit suddenly wondered why he was running around in the open when warp-stone bullets and bombs were a-flying, and so ran to hide behind the ruins. When he got there he could not press himself close enough to the stone!

ScabBat1-20.jpg


The surviving Giant Rats (much reduced in strength) gleefully charged the Plague Claw Catapult before them …

ScabBat1-21.jpg


… while the globadiers emerged from the trees on the journey towards Warp Lightning Cannon out on the enemy’s far right flank.

ScabBat1-24.jpg


One of the engineers sent fatal warp lightning into a Ratling team, but hurt himself in the process and drained so much magic from the etheric winds that none other of Clan Gobdoth's spells proved effective. The globadiers and the Warp Lightning Cannon now both attempted to harm the enemy cannon but could not do so. The Giant Rats could not overcome the monkish crew of the Plague Claw Catapult and that fight settled down to a messy brawl as rats leapt and monks stamped, then rats stamped and monks leapt and still no harm was done.

In the main melee the Bonebreaker killed three Stormvermin, while Scabscar killed but one. Five of Scabscar’s Clanrats perished, while the engineer another rats stepped over the corpses to kill two more Stormvermin. Scabscar and his boys knew things were going their way, but with Gobdoth’s Battle Standard Bearer nearby the Stormvermin found the courage to fight on.

The Rat Ogre on the Bell roared mightily but failed to hurt anyone (1, 1 & 2 to hit!). Slaves, Clanrats, Monks and more Clanrats fell (though 41 attacks from the Plague Monks on the two Clanrat regiments resulted in only 2 deaths!). Gobdoth’s warriors were just perceptibly on the back foot, but they would not run and the battle went on.

ScabBat1-25.jpg


Clan Gobdoth’s left-wing Warp Lightning Cannon now came rushing around to find better targets. As it careened along, the Screaming Bell now finally rang out an ominous sound (rolling 13) - a noise so ear-piercingly deadly that it killed a Plague Monk, an Engineer, the Ratling Gun team, the Warpfire Thrower, a Giant rat, a Globadier and even wounded the Grey Seer skulking in a ruin near the bridge (where he had been hiding for some time.) The death cries of all these disparate Skaven came from all sides, a short-lived wail of a chorus that halted abruptly as every open mouth clamped shut at exactly the same moment.

The Doomwheel was finally stopped by Gobdoth’s jezzails - it would need major repairs before it would ever move again. The Giant Rats and Plague Monk crewmen continued their violent dance without either side yielding, but Scabscar showed them what a true warrior could do as he and his Bonebreaker hacked an engineer into pieces. The Stormvermin killed five Clanrats but the red-clad warriors could not return the favour, unable to penetrate the foe’s armour. Gobdoth’s Stormvermin refused to run, even against such numbers.

To Scabscar’s right the Plague Monks laid into the Clanrats so viciously that one regiment (the one without the Bell) scarpered away as fast as their legs could carry them. The regiment left with the Bell was reduced to only one ragged rank. Scabscar and his warriors pushed on, their gleeful war-cries drowning out the multitude of groanings and moanings arising from the bloodily injured skaven lying underfoot.

ScabBat1-26.jpg


Then, as the Globadiers raised their arms to lob another round of stink-balls …

ScabBat1-23.jpg


… and the Plague Monks surged to finish off the weakened foe before them …

ScabBat1-22.jpg


… Clan Goboth’s resolve finally snapped. At first it was just one or two warriors who turned to join those already fleeing, but with half a moment everyone else joined in.

Scabscar was victorious. The enemy streamed away from his army. Taking a moment to catch their breaths, Scabscar's warriors then leapt forwards, eager to kill, kill, kill the panicked foe before them.

Game Notes: This was the end of turn 4, and the Gobdoth player conceded defeat - a combination of lack of time and belief that he really could not recover the game. His two Plague Monk crew were unlikely to continue their luck, and the Grey Seer, Bell and three companions were about to be really hammered. Scabscar’s boys had won every combat against the Stormvermin so far, despite really (I mean really) bad rolls and so even there things should have gone my way. Probably. ‘J’ provided a great game, and not because I won, but because it was fun and I learned a lot about using Skaven in 8th ed. When you play Skaven vs Skaven you just have to learn a thing or two. I now really wanted a doom rocket, and I had to get more warp-globe mortars.
 
Watching skaven vs skaven fills me with an evil sort of glee... I can't stand those nasty vermin! But I love seeing your armies in action Padre, great report! :grin:
 

Padre

Member
Captain Crooks":2j4bxt47 said:
Watching skaven vs skaven fills me with an evil sort of glee..

I felt wickedly naughty all through the campaign, but that was because I was Skaven. It was fun, and the modelling projects made me feel like an evil genius planning to take over the world - just as they should do when you're modeling skaven machinery.
 

Padre

Member
Here's a propaganda piece I did for my faction early in the campaign - we wanted the Murosians to look bad. Everyone agreed this piece made them look bad, whether it was true or not!

Terror in the Miramar Hills!

Armies of raiding troops have descended southwards from the realm of Muros to begin pillaging and plundering the lands that the Arabian Intervention Force had earlier successfully and peacefully occupied. In a vicious, surprise attack Murosian dog-soldiers by the thousand came sword-in-hand to strike terror into the hearts of the civilian population. Those native Estalians who thought that the brewing war would pass them by now that the AIF had offered its protection, promising free trade and life without the Tyranny of Bretonnian Lords, now discovered that the neighbouring realm of Muros had become the real danger to their hearth and homes. Muros was not for peace, oh no. Muros wanted bloody war!

In one village, merely one of many, Murosian ‘soldados’ ordered everyone onto the streets so that they might have free reign to loot all portable possessions they could lay their hands on. Any honest Estalians who put up even verbal resistance were at best beaten, at worst mercilessly butchered. One band of soldados hacked down a farmer even as his family - his wife, children, an old, sick servant and his grey-haired father - watched in horror. The family, like so many others, were left pleading for their own lives as the soldados bragged at their cruelty and vied to outdo one another in all manner of wickedness.

TerrorEstalians1.jpg


Some brave souls were willing to stand their ground, though most such would later count themselves lucky if they were still alive, even if made prisoner or suffering broken bones and bruises. One stubborn wench berated the greedy and cruel soldados who intended to rob her of all she had, until a black bearded XXXXard lurched at at her to threaten her with a naked blade (an act which amongst his base kind is perhaps counted as bravery?).

TerrorEstalians2.jpg


I cannot bring myself to describe what followed, but those amongst the readers who have seen war as conducted by beastly orcs and the crazed warriors of chaos will know to what level war can make base creatures stoop. The men of Muros revelled in their works of butchery and debasement, as if they wholeheartedly wished to show even the vilest of races that Murosians could sink even lower than the worst amongst greenskins and the chaos-corrupted.

As the sun fell, the terror continued. One young man’s only crime was to attempt to dress before he came out onto the street as ordered by the shouting soldiers, thus delaying his response. It seems to Murosian soldados such an action is considered a felony, for he was pushed up against a barn door and summarily shot by soldados who were already drunk on looted wine and hot liquors.

TerrorEstalians3.jpg


Is this what the folk of Miramar expected from the servants of Muros? Only they know. Did they deserve such barbarous cruelty? No! Here, writ plain, is the truth of Muros’ attack on the south. Weep, Estalia, that such men as these Murosian wretches, should besmirch your reputation as a noble and honourable people.
 

Padre

Member
Note: I was part of the Arabyan Intervention Force (AIF) faction in this campaign. It dawned on me that we had no-one actually playing an arabyan army so I thought I really ought to get my own arabyans out and do a photo report, just so the other players will believe we really are that faction. Thus was born the following game. Two friends brought their own forces to join in, and the whole 'Wood Elves' silliness was born out of a comment we made during the game - "How the hell would a desert dwelling arab know what a Wood Elf looked like?"

The Arabyan Intervention Force Face the Wood Elves in Battle

At long last, thought Captain Traugotts, we are going to war. Having spent several months guarding convoys, gates, constructions and fortifications, patrolling, foraging and ‘keeping the peace’, he had finally received unequivocal battle orders. He and his men (part of the Vereenigde Marienberg Compagnie forces in Estalia) were to march north with an Arabyan force, there to seek out the foe. Who exactly the foe was the orders were somewhat hazy about, but there was definitely an aggressive force or two moving southwards. Refugees from tiny villages in the area had described raids by monstrous denizens of the dark forest, which could mean many things, but very probably meant the almost mythical Wood Elves. This was certainly the belief of the Arabyan Caliph commanding the allied contingent, as he had expounded that morning at breakfast.

“I have made efforts to study,” Caliph Nur-al Rhadi had said, “these creatures of the green trees. You might think it an unexpected area of expertise for a man of the desert such as I, but I have always considered it my duty as a commander to know as much as possible about any and every enemy I might face in battle. There are no forests, of course, in our sandy realm, only the tended trees of fine orchards, watered by ingenious channels and pipes, but a true servant of the Sheik must ensure he is ready to fight in any land, even those far removed from his home and quite, quite different in …”

“The elves?” interrupted Captain Traugotts, knowing that if he did not then the Caliph may never actually return to the matter in hand. “You said you knew of the forest elves. What do you know of them?”

The Caliph smiled. “Ahh yes, my friend. You must surely have heard the faerie tales? I know you must, for they come from the north, from your own realm and that of the Breton. Well, in parts they are correct, in others they fail to describe satisfactorily the full and horrible truth concerning the debased and corrupted denizens of the forest. Everyone knows how the elves jealously guard their realm, and will lure all who stray within to certain doom. How they steal human children for their wicked purposes, and how they thus conjure strange spirits to serve them. All these things are true. But there is much, much more to them. They have been seduced by unspeakable gods and demons who taint the realm in which they dwell to make it a twisted and chaotic place. Monsters abound, hideous creatures that swing from branch to branch yelping and howling; brutish giants that can tear a full grown tree from the ground, roots and all, so that it might be planted in a place more suited to the Wood Elves’ will; warriors sporting horns, thorns and calluses of bark instead of skin. In that shadowy realm walk wiry fiends with limbs as hairy as a spider’s, and eyes so heavily lidded that they creak every time they blink; there are creatures who appear to be beautiful young women when seen from one angle, and yet in truth are nought but hollowed out husks puppeteered by gnarled and crusty imps …”

On and on the Caliph droned. The captain drank deep of his morning ale, watching the caliph’s fleshy lips slapping up and down, the occasional glint from his several golden teeth, and instead of listening began to wonder whether any of the arabyan’s fantastical words could be true.



Then, at noon that day, any doubts the captain may have harboured concerning the Caliph’s strange tales were washed away. All that the caliph had said was true. If anything, the rotund arab noble had failed to capture the full horror of the elves of the wood and their monstrous servants.

Ahead of the allied force lay the edge of a forest, a scattering of trees growing thicker and more impenetrable as they extended upwards into the hills. The only dwelling place in the vicinity, no doubt abandoned, was a forester’s hovel, though there had once been a building of substance here. Perhaps an Estalian Don’s manor house, if the ruined pile of moss-ridden stones was anything to go by? But all of these details impinged only on the periphery of the captain’s mind, for spilling out of the trees was a monstrous horde of foul creatures.

Bat2-1Terrain.jpg


Realising that to watch them would be to become fascinated in them, to become caught up in a nightmarish daze, the captain instead shook his head and began shouting commands. He had an army to lead, and a battle to fight for his life.

The allied forces:

Vereenigde Marienberg Compagnie detatchment (Empire of Wolves’ campaign list) 1250 pts

Captain Traugotts (on foot)
Warrior Priest
30 Pike
2 x 10 handgunners
Level 4 wizard
12 heavy cavalry (cuirassiers)
Cannon
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
AIF Contingent 1248 pts

Caliph Nur-al Rhadi 263 Pts - Light armour, shield; War Elephant
Emir 94 Pts - Light armour, enchanted shield, Battle Standard
Emir 101 Pts - Light armour, Arabian Stallion, Sword of Striking, Charmed Shield

25 Arab Conscripts 170 Pts - Spear, shield, light, full command, Insurgence upgrade
5 Jinete Mounted Tribesmen 127 Pts - full command
6 Arabyan Camel Corps 146 Pts - full command

25 Red (Black) Guard 349 Pts - full command, Insurgence upgrade
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Arabyans deployed on the left, as had been agreed the previous day when the order of march had been decided. Captain Traugotts had been impressed with the speed with which the men of the desert moved - horse and camel as well as foot soldiers - and had thus suggested that if they deployed together then at least they could all keep up with each other. To have the arabyans intermingled with his troops would surely lead to a ragged line as the arabyans ran on ahead leaving his own handgunners and pikemen behind.

The caliph rode upon his war elephant just behind the two large regiments of foot in his force. They were clad in black and white, contrasting colours reflecting the very contrasting quality of the two bodies of men. Garbed in black were his elite, professional guardsmen, while his raw conscripts wore unbleached linen. The former moved with confidence and discipline, the latter were barely kept together in ranks and files by their sergeants and officers. Out on the Arabyan flanks rode his horse and camelry, the former divided from the rest of the line by the ruins.

Bat2-2.jpg


The men of the Vereenigde Marienberg Compagnie adopted a fairly traditional posture on the field, with a cannon emplaced on a hill to the rear while their handgunners moved alongside the heavy horse, the pikemen ready to take the knights’ place as they moved off to gain some advantage in the field.

Bat2-3.jpg


The little wizard jogged along the heights to the far right, surprising Traugotts with his courage.

The enemy army of Sylvan monsters had also apparently divided itself in two, as if in mockery of the allied forces’ positions. On their right their had two pair of chariots, flanking a stone wielding giant that seemed to be made of nought but bone, flesh and thin sinews, without one muscle to power his loping stride. On the far right came a large body of almost naked elves, their ugly heads sporting sharp horns, their legs ending not in feet but hooves. A hideous, slithering mound accompanied them, of a form that was so misshapen that it was hard to describe.

Bat2-4.jpg


To their left another regimented horde of elves jogged through the woods, flying a blood red banner at their head, while just beside the trees came the largest and most terrifying beast in their army - a huge creature with a bull’s head and too many arms - each hand wielding a massive rusting blade longer than a man is tall.

Bat2-5.jpg


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wood Elves' Roster 2500 pts

Beastlord
The Brass Cleaver, Ramhorn Helm, Dawnstone, Gnarled Hide
Great Bray Shaman
Level 4 Upgrade, Sword of Bloodshed, Hagtree Fetish
Wargor (Battle Standard Bearer)
Heavy Armour, Chalice of Dark Rain
Bray-Shaman
Level 2 Upgrade, Dispel Scroll, Ruby Ring of Ruin

4 Tuskgor Chariots
20 Gor Herd with full command, extra hand
20 Gor Herd with full command, extra hand
20 Bestigor Herd with full command, Gouge-Horn, Ranger's Standard

Cygor
Ghorgon
Chaos Spawn

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the arabs moved quickly forwards, the Caliph Nur-al Rhadi watched them with satisfaction.

“Another, if you please, my lord?” came his servant’s voice.

“What?” asked the Caliph quietly.

“Another sugared delight, my Lord, or should I put the plate away?”

Nur-al Rhadi’s fat fingered hand, every finger encircled by a bejewelled golden ring, grabbed at a handful of the squashy confections as he spoke. “No, no. Keep the plate there, I shall have more in a moment.”

Bat2-6.jpg


It had long been his custom to nibble on sweetmeats as his army practised their manoeuvres. Perhaps it was superstition, perhaps simply habit, but he could not see why today should be any different. Besides, the elephant stank and the perfumed delights masked the full power of its odour.

“Nice,” he said in a muffled voice, his mouth stuffed full, as he turned his gaze towards the wood elves in the distance. “Very nice.”

Battle Report to follow tomorrow
 

Padre

Member
As the handgunners on the far right of the allied line loaded their pieces and prepared to give fire, and the halfling wizard began to wonder ‘What kind of elves are these?’ …

Bat2-7.jpg


… the arabyan warriors made their vanguard move. The Jinette horsemen came between the ruins as the Black Guard (experienced at insurgency) moved up on their flank to form a line with them.

Bat2-8.jpg


The camelry and conscripts, beating their war drums as best they could to hide their nervousness, made a much more cautious advance towards the centre of the field where a pair of monstrous giants were stamping about .

Bat2-9.jpg


Perhaps recognising that his white-garbed soldiers stood little chance of standing against such an enemy if unsupported, the caliph commanded his elephant to move it’s reassuringly monstrous mass up to their flank.

Bat2-10.jpg


The Empire troops performed some well-drilled manoeuvres to bring the pikemen in line with the handgunners, while the heavy horsemen made their way towards the Empire left flank and thus the centre of the field. Every man carried a brace of pistols, and all were now praying that Myrmidia would guide their bullets and lend weight to their impact. None were particularly keen to find out what hand to hand combat with such twisted monstrosities was like!

Bat2-11.jpg


Having decided he would make enquiries after the battle concerning the foe, the halfling wizard now prepared unleash what magic he could (Magic = 7:7), but only his Banishment spell proved forceful enough to bend the winds of magic to its purpose and managed to wound the biggest of the two enemy giants. The cannon crew were thinking along exactly the same lines as the halfling and fired a cannon ball at the same monster. This proved well-aimed enough to clip the creature, but (roll of 1 to wound) apparently failed even to distract it, never mind harm it!

Suddenly the allied forces learned that the foe was even more numerous than they had previously supposed, as a large regiment of bestial warriors came running from the right flank to appear downhill from the cannon - almost in the rear of the allied lines.

Bat2-12.jpg


The monstrous spawn of the twisted forest shambled as best it could towards the arabyans …

Bat2-13.jpg


… while the regimented warriors came up behind. (Game note: Although I did not know it at the time, and so could not advise regarding the issue, the beastmen player was labouring under the assumption that wizards cannot use magic if they march. I thought he was simply playing cautiously, but later - when we asked him in similar circumstance why he didn’t march - he admitted his mistaken assumption and said had he known he would have moved the warriors to the spawn’s flank so as not leaving it so isolated.)

The giants now moved to face the advancing arabyans, ignoring the mercenary soldiers of the Empire for a while. The chariots also shifted slightly in hope of delivering a charge just as the monsters tore in.

Bat2-14.jpg


Amongst the camel riders, two old friends were holding a shouted conversation (loud enough to be heard over the beating of the kettle drums).

“Not at all like the fairy stories, eh?” cried Dargo.

“You mean the monsters?” his friend Benganna asked.

“I mean all of them, even the little ones. Not what I remember at all.”

“Remember?” said Benganna, looking confused. “You’ve seen them before?”

“No, not with my own eyes, but I remember the stories my uncle told me. He had a book from the northern lands filled with tales of elves and orcs, goblins and trolls. And the elves, well, they weren’t like that!” He pointed towards the enemy lines. “Not at all. They were cruelly beautiful, tall and lithe, much more like the elven traders in the sea ports. More fey, yes, and garbed somewhat more rustically.”

Benganna laughed. “You wanted them to be rustic? Ha! I think you got your wish. Look at them - they’re so rustic they look more like goats than goatherds.”

Dargo went quiet. He remembered his uncle’s stories of almond-eyed princesses and porcelain skinned warriors who could juggle sharp blades and sing whilst fighting forest trolls. What approached now looked more like he had imagined the trolls to look than the elves. He turned once more to Benganna and shouted, “Don’t believe what you read in books.”

His friend laughed again. “You mean don’t believe what your uncle said he read in books!”

The largest of the Wood Elf warriors (Bestigors) were moving up behind the trees, heading towards the Empire soldiers, with a shaman nearby.

Bat2-15.jpg


The Wood Elves’ mages now summoned what magic they could (magic = 6:5), cursing the Arabyan Black Guards with the Hag Tree Fetish, then cast Traitors’ Kin on the Jinette horsemen, turning two of the steeds against their riders to kill them! The giant Gohorgon was blessed with Wild Form, though the mage in question hurt himself summoning such powerful magic. The other giant now attempted to hurl a massive rock but it slipped (misfire) and cracked his own skull. He rubbed his head whilst wondering what had gone wrong!

As the outflanking warrior elves moved closer to the cannon on the hill …

Bat2-16.jpg


… the surviving Jinette horsemen and the Black Guard charged into the spawn of chaos.

Bat2-17.jpg


Such an act might be considered bravery, but in the centre of the field the camel riders found even greater courage as they charged into the thinner of the two giants (Saigor). Perhaps unsurprisingly, the conscripts failed to reach the same foe, leaving the camelry to fight alone!

Bat2-18.jpg


The Empire Cuirassiers moved to the flank of their line whilst hefting their pistols ready to shoot, while the handgunners also prepared to loose a hail; of lead shot.

Bat2-19.jpg


The halfling Wizard (magic 6:5) found his first two spells dispelled by the foe, but managed to cast the Net of Amontok on the warriors behind him, hoping thus to slow their advance on the cannon. The cannon felled only one of the foe with its grapeshot, while the massive volley of pistol bullets proved entirely ‘unblessed’ and failed to harm the giant at all! The hangunners drew some blood from the enemy monster now turning to look at the knights, but not enough to slow it.

The emir leading the horsemen, backed by the rank and file might of the Black Guard, made short work of the span, then both pushed onwards to smash into the regiment of brutish elves following the now extinct beast.

Bat2-20.jpg


The skinny giant was pierced here and there by the camel riders (2 wounds) but it return he punched two riders from their mounts and ground two more into the ground with a mighty stomp. Yet the men of the desert were not yet beaten (a draw due to fact in 8th we get +1 for charging) and the last pair elected to fight on!

Now came the moment for four chariots to charge - and they did not hesitate. All four crashed hard into the quaking desert conscripts …

Bat2-20b.jpg


… it should come as no surprise that the caliph’s least warrior-like troops could not hope to stand against such brute strength. Eighteen men all told died spears, tusks, hooves and rolling wheels. The last few attempted to flee, and were mercilessly cut down. But they did one more service in their death - their battered corpses slowed the chariots down so that only one reached the caliph’s elephant!

The huge Gohorgon also thundered forwards to hit the gentlemen of the Empire. These proved somewhat more stubborn than the conscripts, and although three died whilst the rest failed to harm the monster, they did stand their ground.

Bat2-20a.jpg


Out on the far flank of the field, near the ruins, the fight between the sylvan warriors and the Caliph’s best soldiers went on. Five wood elves perished, as well as the champion leading them, and although the defenders of the forest were filled with hatred for the foe, they could only kill three foot-soldiers and two riders in return. This was not enough to satisfy either side, and the fight went on.

In the centre of the field the Siagor finished off the camel riders and for a moment he stood in a daze thinking what to do next. He need not have bothered, however for (spoiler alert) he was not going to be long in the world.

(End of Turn 2)
 

Padre

Member
Bat2-21.jpg


(Turn 3)

The VMC’s grey-uniformed pikemen reformed to face the right flank, readying themselves for the inevitable charge that must surely soon come from the brutish wood elves advancing towards them (the poor hand-gunners frantically reloaded in the middle ground).

Bat2-24.jpg


The halfling wizard could find no etheric wind to suck and twist to his service (magic 2:2) and so his magical efforts came to nought. The more mundane method of attack, lead bullets, did not need magical winds to make it effective. A volley from the centre of the field felled the Cygor and a cheer went up from behind the rolling smoke. There was no such cheer on the right, however, for the handgunners there now failed to harm even one of the large body of beasts afore them.

Bravely the gunners manning the cannon on the hill, knowing that their end was surely nigh (what with the enemy so close) chose not to try a desperate defence with grapeshot and instead hurled a cannon ball at the chariots now threatening the Caliph’s elephant in the middle of the field. Their aim was good and the ball hit the middle chariot, but their powder must have been corrupted, or soft ground slowed the ball’s flight, for the shot failed to pass through the chariot - it did not even knock it out of action. The caliph and his monstrous mount would have to do the work of dispatching them.

Bat2-22.jpg


The chariot’s crew were afraid of the mighty, grey beast, and it was perhaps this fear that led them to steer badly enough that they failed to hit the elephant squarely (one unsuccessful impact hit). Even though one of the tuskers pulling the chariot managed to draw blood from the elephant’s foreleg, the elephant reared, stamped and crushed the chariot into the ground, scattering shivers of wood in all directions. At the sight of this, the crew of one of other three chariots panicked and fled.

Meanwhile, the bloody melee on the allied left between the Black Guard, the mounted emir and the foul denizens of the wood went on, and although the arabyans gave better than they received, the wild warriors of the forest would yet accept defeat and fought on.

Bat2-23.jpg


Now came the wood elf charioteers’ chance, and while the one that had fled in panic now rallied, first one …

Bat2-25.jpg


… then the other …

Bat2-26.jpg


…hurtled into the elephant. As the tuskers’ gored at the elephant’s legs, Caliph Nur-al Rhabi spat out the mess of sugary confection in his mouth and hurled two of his razor sharp spears to dispatch the crew of the chariot in front. The elephant swung its massive tusks into the surviving chariots’ side, then kicked its leg to jolt the chariot back. Its crew were now (rightfully) afraid for their lives, and swung the chariot around to flee away.

Bat2-28.jpg


Considering for a moment, the caliph bent over to whisper into his beloved elephant’s ear, persuading it to withhold and not to pursue as it would otherwise certainly have done. (Game Note: I would have chased, but my ally (Van Riekert) advised me that chasing a chariot off in the wrong direction was a stupid idea when his own men were being assailed by a Gohorgon, Gors and Bestigors! I bowed to his wisdom and privately wished I had someone offering such advice in my other games too!)

Now the Gors charged the cannon on the hill …

Bat2-27.jpg


… and tore the crew to pieces without even slowing their pace. To their right the larger warriors tore the hapless handgunners apart almost as easily, but then chose not to overrun for they were not yet ready to face the pikemen. On the far side of the field the last Jinette horseman died as did one Black Guardsman, but the sylvan beasts perished in even greater numbers and finally their fighting spirit was shattered - they fled and were pursued by the lone Emir, whose blood was up.

The Priest leading the VMC pikeman was reluctant to lead his men into rough ground and thus seriously disrupt their ability to fight (They would lose the campaign rule: ‘Phalanx’, which is bad!) No such caution was shown by the lone emir, however, who chased the beastmen (and the level 4 shaman) from the field of battle, whooping and cursing as he did so. The Caliph turned the elephant about to threaten the giant off to the right, while the halfling wizard on the hill desperately summoned what magic he could, killing two of the largest enemy warriors with Shem’s Burning Gaze and casting the Net of Apontoth on the other regiment.

The fleeing chariot now halted and turned to face the Black Guard as they made their way back towards the fight, being joined by the other chariot in threatening the elite arab soldiers.

Bat2-29.jpg


The Gohorgon turned to face the Caliph’s elephant, drool pouring from its snarling maw. The huge beast knew full well the elephant would lunge at it any moment…

Bat2-30.jpg


The Gors could not help themselves, their frenzied state making them charge the handgunners, while the Bestigors (the player thinking ‘fluff it!’) charged the pikemen.

Bat2-31.jpg


The surviving shaman did what he could with magic and managed to cast Pan’s Impenetrable Pelt on the Beastlord leading the Bestigor herd. The pikemen managed only to kill three of the foe, while the forest beasts killed fifteen of the VMC’s finest gentlemen of the pike, including the regimental champion. The rest turned to flee past the back of the handgunners, who, very unexpectedly, found the courage to stand even though there were only three left alive from their original ten - and thus stopped the Bestigors from pursuing the pike.

Bat2-32.jpg


As the Caliph atop his elephant commanded it to charge the Gohorgon …

Bat2-33.jpg


… the Black Guard charged the chariot. The elite warriors lost three of their number battling the chariot, but they broke it through weight of numbers and sent it fleeing. They did not pursue, however, but rather reformed to ready themselves for the charge of the other chariot!

Bat2-35.jpg


The VMC’s pikemen rallied and reformed, while their little wizard cast Shem’s Burning Gaze on the last fighting chariot, wounding it. The handgunners bravely killed three Gors as they themselves died, and the Bestigors in their flank ran towards the pikemen (on a 4” overrun they failed to reach). The Caliph and his elephant now bloodily cut down the monstrous Gohorgon and overran into the newly reformed Gors who had known what was likely to happen.

Bat2-34.jpg


The Bray Shaman now threw himself at the little VMC wizard, rearing to his full height in an attempt to discourage the tiny fellow, and casting Wildform on himself too to better his fighting chances.

Bat2-36.jpg


Yet the halfling proved a doughty opponent and although both hurt each other, he stood his ground and fought on. The largest of the forest warriors (Bestigors) crashed into the pikemen (who had, due to their reduced numbers, lost their pike 'phalanx' rule), and the chariot smashed into the exhausted Black Guard, killing four of the arabyans all told. Still the battered guard refused to flee.

The pikemen were butchered to a man by the wild warriors, who overran some way in their anger, but the lesser warriors to their side could not fell the mighty elephant.

Bat2-37.jpg


Four Gors perished yet they refused to flee (pass second LD roll). Over near the ruins (where stood a bottle of one of the finest brewed ales in the land) the Emir charged the chariot in the flank hoping to drive it from the last of the Black Guard …

Bat2-38.jpg


… while the elephant and the Caliph killed all but one of the now frenzied beastmen, with the mighty mount suffering only another scratch.

Bat2-39.jpg


The Bray-shaman now hacked the halfling’s head right off, sending the little noggin bouncing down the slope. As he howled his gory delight, on the other side of the field the Black Guard and the emir finished the chariot off only to find themselves now charged (again!) by the last surviving chariot.

Bat2-40.jpg


This time the chariot hit hard, killing six warriors with its impact alone. The army battle standard bearer (an emir) yielded neither to grief nor fear and killed the crewmen to end the chariot’s bloody work that day.

As Caliph Nur-al Rhabi speared the last of the Gors through his skull, and his elephant roared its frustration at having no more enemies before it to satisfy its blood lust, darkness brought the fight to an end. The tattered remnants of both army’s now withdrew, both unsure as to what enemy forces survived or even where they were.

End of Turn 6. Result: Draw (less than 100 VP difference) Only the Caliph, elephant, 2 emirs &a fragment of Black Guard survived of the allies, while the Bestigors, Beastlord, Wargor and Shaman survived from the enemy.

Thank you Van Reikert (my ally in the AIF) and DamoB (of the enemy Reavers' faction) for coming over to play this game. I think I am right in saying that we all agreed it was a very fun day and a very satisfying game. And thank you ever so much for making me realise that the allies were likely to presume such forest dwelling creatures could well be Wood Elves.
 

Padre

Member
'Mine's Better than Yours'

Clottfurg was pondering, rubbing his forefinger beneath his chin as he always did when in deep thought.

WLCFluff1.jpg


With his protective leather hood on, of course, he could not much feel his finger against his chin-flesh, just a vague sensation of pressure. Although the hood’s design had flaws, this was not really one of them, as few other skaven felt the need to scratch at their face in such a manner. No, the most evident flaw, and one which had Clottfurg cursing on many an occasion, was the positioning of the goggles. They were placed just a little too far to the side which meant the wearer’s vision was restricted, necessitating the constant flicking of his head from side to side to get a good look at almost anything. Looking forwards, a direction one might well suppose was of the greatest interest and use to the master operator of a warp lightning cannon, was practically impossible. Instead the engineer was forced to turn his head to one side whilst painfully swivelling his eyeballs in their sockets until one of them (not both, of course) could see in the direction required.

WLCFluff1b.jpg


None of this, however, was what currently occupied Clottfurg’s mind. Instead he was wondering what the great warlord Scabscar would make of him and his engine. Gibner’s words, spoken only that morning, went round and around in his head. They were not exactly eloquent, for Gibner was hardly one for rhetoric nor fancy speeches, but they had stuck nevertheless. “Don’t show him it. It won’t do. Heed me, friend. Heed my words and don’t you go.”

When Clottfurg pressed his so called friend for an explanation for his discouragement, Gibner had simply laughed hoarsely as if the query was a joke, then scuttled away upon some other business. This left Clottfurg mightily confused. He was proud of his cannon, and had spent many a month perfecting it, fiddling with its every component part until it sat perfectly in place, tightening every joint and screw, re-forging faulty pieces again and again, and finally polishing it with three rags and his own spit. Now it was completed, and all traces of the damage done when it was last used had gone. How could Warlord Scabscar do anything but thank him for his efforts? He would surely be praised for all the time it took to prepare it. He had devoted himself single-mindedly to the task in hand, refusing all company and conversation. He worked incessantly on the engine, and slept with it at night. He ate only he scraps brought to him by slaves while he laboured, drank only the water that dripped from the stalactites above, and his droppings became like a carpet around the cannon.

Yet now he was here something was niggling him. He had been picking rust from the barrel with his nails, thinking perhaps it was this that disturbed him, but his worries refused to leave. Then one of the slaves who he had ordered to push him to the inspection chamber-cave suddenly spoke, and his reverie was finally broken.

“That’s big, big. Happy-glad we ain’t lugging that one!” was all the slave said.

What is the creature talking about? thought Clottfurg, and strained to move his head and the ill-fitting hood to take a look at what else lay in the chamber. Catching a glimpse of a wheel, he used his hands to lift the hood up and so draw the glass of the goggle nearer to his eye. An engine came into view, and yes, it was big.

WLCFluff2.jpg


“Blood and fangs!” Clottfurg cursed. It too was a warp lightning cannon, but it was easily twice the size of his. This was most unexpected, and most unwelcome. How would his cannon look to Scabscar beside a monstrosity such as that? Pathetic, that’s how. No matter what love he had for his own engine, a warlord would without a doubt be much more impressed by the larger engine. Oh, why had he not asked about what the other engineers were working on? Why had he obsessively closeted himself away in monomaniacal labours upon his own engine, without thinking to see what other engines were being made?

Then the second slave’s voice interrupted his miserable train of thoughts. “That’s nothing,” the creature said. “Look at that one over there.

Clottfurg now struggled to shift his perspective, forced to used both hands to shift his heavy leather hood with its tubes of iron hoops and dried gut. What had they seen? Where was ‘over there’?

Then the third engine came into view, and even though his goggles were somewhat grimy and steamed, there was no doubting this one was even bigger!

WLCFluff3.jpg


“Blood, fangs! Burning fur!” he snarled. “How … what … Why me?”

The inspection chamber was a lot bigger than he had realised. And it needed to be ...

WLCFluff4.jpg


... as there were some mighty engines indeed in there.

Now came the sound of approaching footsteps: metal armoured feet clacking against the rocky ground in one of the tunnels leading to the chamber. A greenish light shone weakly from the tunnel entrance, no doubt being emitted by warpstone-lanterns. Only Scabscar would have such rarities to light his way!

He must not see it! thought Clottfurg. “Quick, quick!” he squealed at the slaves. “Push, push! Get this out of here! Now, now! We must hide."
 

Padre

Member
I was temporarily given command of the faction while our usual leader took an RL holiday. So it was, unable to command the AIF as a skaven, I commanded it (appropriately) as an Arabyan. Here I did a fluff piece to explain the handover of command in game-world story terms ...
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Circumstances

Caliph Nur-al Rhadi had asked not to be disturbed until noon. No, not asked, he had ordered it - given a strict and clear command. He had intended to sleep all morning, for he had managed to find little time to do so for the last two days and a familiar heaviness was coming over him, as if his thoughts were buried in sand and struggling to surface. And yet now there came a call at his door.

“Worshipful Caliph! I beg your forgiveness for my disobedience, but there is a messenger who desires to speak with you most urgently.”

Through gritted teeth, his head aching and his barely opened eyes stung by the bright light of day coming through a hole on the shutters, the caliph cursed. Then, even louder, he said, “There is always a messenger, you fool. Why do you think I gave the order?”

The voice upon the other side of the bedchamber door faltered, “I most humbly … You see, my lord … well …”

“Are you still there?” bawled the Caliph.

Surely there would be silence now? Instead the servant coughed, then raised his voice in what must have been an attempt to sound bold and confident but which came out as the strained cry of a man terrified by his own choice of action.

“He has been sent by King Ladislao.”

Silence. Then Nur-al Rhadim, still half submerged in Morpheus's realm, found himself speaking. “Who? Who has been sent?”

“My Lord, it is Fatin Indalecio. He awaits your pleasure outside.”

This time the caliph’s curses were heard only inside his head. Fatin was a servant of the Sheik himself, and here he had kept the man waiting. Perhaps Fatin had even heard the shouts from his chamber? Then quite suddenly the last of his sleep-confusion lifted from his mind, and he was fully awake. In that moment all his concerns lightened, then vanished. It had been only the child-like state to which all men, even great warriors such as himself, descended when the yielded to sleep. He was not truly the sort of man to worry over such things as whether someone had heard him shouting - that sort of fear belonged in his almost forgotten infancy.

He picked up the carefully folded bundle of white linen lying on the table by his bed and began to wind upon his head. He never let a servant help him with his turban, for he found the act almost meditative and it had become his custom to do it himself.

“Go tell Fatin to wait. I shall be there in a little while.”

As his hand circled his head again and again, he allowed his thoughts of the night before to re-emerge in his consciousness, like oasis flowers opening their petals as the sun warmed them. Not that the cast of characters that now strode through his mind were anything like little flowers: Zoon van Riekert and his talk of profit and peppercorns, tobacco and trade; Hamad Al Harbi and his dhows and barques; Hugo de Payns and his painful honour. Such a cosmopolitan force - and they were just the men. Nur-al Rhadi knew full well of the other forces marching with the AIF, forces one might not expect in the Sheikh’s army, yet nevertheless useful, and sometimes necessary.

In truth, of all the Sheikh’s generals it was he who had been most instrumental in obtaining the services of the more unusual (and less human) forces, warriors of the kind with fur or green-tinged flesh, and others still. General Maximillio Sforza had played his part, and still did with certain forces, but as far as the sheikh was concerned this remained the caliph's particular duty, on top of the command of his own troops in the campaign. Perhaps the other commanders (with the exception of Sforza) would find such a duty distasteful? The caliph cared not - if it was necessary for victory, and served the sheikh’s purposes, then he was happy to do it, even if it was patently dangerous and meant he must ever be watchful. Certain allies did have a tendency of ‘creeping up’ on him.

At last the turban was complete. Caliph Nur-al Rhadi now signalled to the bodyguard by the door (who had, of course, been present throughout, even when the caliph slept) and left the room to descend the stairs. Soon he was out on the street. He wondered why his men had not invited Fatin inside, but then dismissed the concern. Had he wanted to, a man such as Fatin would certainly have taken his ease inside.

As his guardsmen from around the building converged to flank him, he came to a halt with his arms folded. There was Fatin, as well as a captain of the Sheikh’s own guard.

Caliph1.jpg


“Lord Fatin, good day to you! I hope my tardiness in no way offends, but you caught me taking my ease after more than two days’ hard campaigning.”

Fatin bowed, then spoke. “General-caliph Nur-al Rhadi, be assured there is no offence taken. You were not expecting me. I was not expecting to come. But circumstances require it.”

“Circumstances,” repeated Nur-al Rhadi. “What are these circumstances?”

“You must take the reigns of the AIF forces for a short time. King Ladislao is indisposed and must rest. There is no concern for his health, he simply needs purging with a clyster then several days rest as his surgeons advise. In the meantime you are to command. I am happy to assist you if you so wish.”

The caliph's expression changed as he silently mouthed a short prayer to the gods of war. It seemed he was unlikely to catch up on his sleep for some time yet.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

And here I did a cheeky fluff piece to reflect (mildly) how difficult it was to lead a faction with so many players each with their own opinions, bringing in a character or two played by other players ...

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Visitation

Speaking with the last messenger had left the Caliph Nur-al Rahdi a little uncomfortable. Simply to witness the bodily gestures of such a creature, the twitching, the wriggling, the clicking nails, set Nur-al Rahdi’s teeth on edge. The creature, a bent and wiry thing with a name that sounded like a curse, had matted fur and thin, overstretched lips. He had come looking for General Sforza with some intelligence about captured Murosians. Having little interest in the fate of such treacherous men allowed the Caliph to dismiss the emissary and send him scuttling off to find the Tilean general instead. Let Sforza deal with this particular issue, listen to the strangely convoluted requests and queries. It was the last thing he wanted to do. He had enough on dealing with the others (who although of the same breed, were at least a little less foul, certainly less irritating), as well as his new duties.

With the creature gone, Nur-al Rhadi could turn his attention to the latest news from his own scouts and spies, as well as the reports that had come in from the military commanders of the AIF. Apparently, and several sources agreed on this, something had happened north east of the Ironwood Forest. All the accounts were vague, as well as usually conflicting about the exact nature of what had happened, but put together they were a sure sign that something had happened. But what? And, more pressingly, what was he to do in response?

Why had such an event occurred almost immediately the king had fallen ill? Almost the very hour the caliph had reluctantly (but undoubtedly) accepted command responsibility? Were the gods mocking him, he wondered? The thought of the gods made him shudder, for some of the reports had claimed that the disturbance was indeed the manifestation of a deity, the brandished sword of an almighty manifestation from the heavenly realms which had smote an entire town and rent the ground open to reveal broiling rivers of fire.

Then again, it occurred to him now, it all did seem a little far-fetched. He decided to put such unquantifiable fears from his mind and concentrate on the here and now: on brigades, supplies, fleets and armies. He cast his eyes around the room looking for his compass, for he intended to dance around his maps imagining strategies and counterstrategies, moving thousands of soldiers with every flick of his wrist. It amused him to think that as far as his imagination was concerned, and this microcosmus of the world drawn upon parchment, he was as mighty as the gods. Then again, to think that would be blasphemy. So best not!

Suddenly he heard shouting from the courtyard outside. His meandering, moody thoughts now coalesced into irritation. Could his guards not force visitors and passers by act with the respect due to his (admittedly temporary) status? Must every foul mouthed and beggarly wretch in the realm of Estalia be brought to his presence and foisted upon him, hour after hour, so that not a moment’s peace could be had?

The words being shouted were easily discernible, such was the strength of the shouter’s voice. “I will see him. And I will see him now. I am Doktor Jakob von Hohenheim and am permitted to speak with him by King Ladislau himself.”

Nur-al Rhadi came to a halt, giving up his search for the compasses. The Doctor! The mad doctor who rose from galley slave to secretary in the AIF, became involved in powerful magics to awaken things that should have been left well alone (it was rumoured), then disappeared. The Caliph had heard this man had reappeared but he had that that idle gossip with no true basis. It seemed not - here he was and demanding an audience.

What could the man want? The King had some sort of hold over the fellow, though what that could be Nur-al Rahdi had no idea, but surely he could do nothing for the man. The voice came again, if anything even louder, though this time with a sing-song lilt as if the alchemist was performing a nursery ryhme.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are. Dear, dear Caliph, the Doktor is here. I have cures and remedies for all our ills. What ails thee? And ails this land? Is it a flux, like that which afflicts our poor, poor king? To be struck down when I had only just returned. How unfortunate. And I had only just begun to talk with him.”

The Caliph could not help himself, but moved to the window and looked out.

Caliph5.jpg


Doctor Jacob did not notice him at first - there were too many windows and the fellow obviously did not know which one he might appear at - which gave the Caliph the chance to survey the scene.

Several of his soldiers had surrounded the raving alchemist, while a bare-chested ship’s master pointed at him in an attempt to berate him and shame him into proper silence. Workmen and some townsfolk also looked on, apparently fascinated by the doctor as if he were some street preacher giving vent to with divine inspiration or an irate agitator advertising the masses’ grievances.

The Doctor held a staff in one hand, and a clutch of papers in the other. His hair was unkempt, wild, and his face bearded, as if he had only just stepped from the galley ship upon which he had been enslaved; as if he had not washed or combed in weeks. The ship’s master, a little fellow, now addressed the doctor.

Caliph3.jpg


“You, you wretch, hold your tongue. Show respect for our most noble caliph or we shall have every right to tear the offending organ from your mouth!”

Doctor Jacob turned his attention on the man, as if curiously studying him. Then, calmly and quietly he said, “Hush, silly fellow, for it is you who speaks out of turn.”

Then his eyes flicked up to look straight at Nur-al Rahdi, and his voice became loud once more. “There you are, worshipful Caliph and momentary captain-general! You heard me, yes? As your ears are in good working order, I ought to ask, my lord, is the rest of you well? Apart from fully functional listening lumps, do you feel quite yourself?”

The caliph was confused, and simply said, “What?”

“Nothing,” came the quick reply. “More importantly, have you considered the planetary motions and how they bear upon both you and the whole world about you? I have.”

The Caliph coughed, involuntarily, then answered, hoping the doctor and the rest in the courtyard would hear authority in his voice, and confidence. “Wait there. Do not move." Then, in an attempt to play the doctor's own game with fancy words, he went on, "If you wish to address ailments and the balancing of humours, then I recommend you consider the quality of patience.”

The doctor smiled, a little too wide.

“Yes, that’s it,” said the Caliph quickly, simply to prevent the Doctor beginning another confusing speech. He had been quite taken aback by the man’s expression, seeing in his look the promise of more embarrassing words yet to come. “I said wait. I shall speak with you anon.”

He turned back into the room where the doctor could not see him. Would he ever have peace to consider orders and tactics and the many necessaries of war! Yet the king entertained this man, and would have him serve the AIF, and so should his servant.

He now began to consider how long he dared keep the man waiting.
 

Padre

Member
Now back to the murky realm of the skaven. I was busy dealing 'unofficially' with prisoners, looking to make use of them ...

Underground (somewhere)

The spluttering torches, almost extinguished through want of tallow fat and faggots, gifted only a ghostly light to the tunnel, seeming to human eyes more to emphasize the shadows rather than drive them away. And there were indeed human eyes straining in the almost-dark, as well as several sets of much more accustomed Skaven eyes. Senor Abelardo lifted his head and strained to see what he could. They had stopped moments before for some unknown reason (how could anything be known down here in this world of darkness?) and his first response had been to sit upon the rocky ground, hunch over and try to catch his breath. There was a tang of brimstone (or so it seemed to him) in the air that stung his throat as he gulped it down, but in comparison to the throbbing of his over-worked limbs and the burning pain of his lashed and bloody back, the taste only registered at the back of his mind. Now he tried to put all bodily distractions from his mind and instead concentrate on where he was, who was with him and where he might be going.

As he peered around he could make out that there were still other men there, some on their hands and knees as if retching, others lying, perhaps even across each other. Counting them was impossible and he had no way of knowing how many had fallen by the wayside too weak to go on, nor what horrible fate might then have been dealt them. Beyond the silhouetted wretches were their captors’ crimson eyes, (almost) always in pairs. The rat men were on their feet and from the steadiness of their glare, interspersed with an occasional jerking motion as they shifted their attention, they were obviously not exhausted like their prisoners. The blades of their halberds and scimitars gleamed red in the weak light, as if they were awash with blood, and their odour battled for dominance with the sulphurous stench of the tunnels and the stinking sweat of the exhausted prisoners.

Suddenly Abelardo felt a hand clutch at his arm. He had to stop himself crying out lest the verminous guards turn their attention on him. A voice followed quickly, little more than a hoarse whisper. “Senor Abelardo. Senor, is that you.”

Abelardo did not recognise the speaker, but that was not what was on his mind. He lifted his hand and swept it through the air, guessing as best he could where the speaker’s mouth might be and clamping over it when his guessed proved correct. “Hush,” he whispered much more quietly than the other man had done. “Friend, you must speak quietly.” Then he removed his hand.

“It is you,” said the stranger in the dark, this time so quietly as to be hardly heard. “I am Candelario, your brother’s servant.”

Abelardo knew the man, of course, though he had rarely heard him speak. He was a native Murosian huntsman who his brother Cayo employed for his boar and deer hunts. The mention of his brother’s name instantly re-awoke a concern Abelardo harboured for the first hours of their journey but which had been subsequently lost in the pain and exhaustion. He leaned much closer to the man until his head was right up against the fellow’s ear. Through clenched teeth he asked, “Where is Cayo? Is he alive? Is he with us?”

At first there was silence, then Candelario exhaled - a defeated sound that revealed his brother’s fate to Abelardo before the man could utter the words. “Senor … I saw… he fell during the fight … and two of them, they …”

His explanation was cut short by the appearance of four brightly burning torches, followed immediately by the chattering of the ratmen. Then a commanding voice demanded, “What, what have you brought me? How many, how many?” One of the ratmen's leaders had entered the cave.

“My Lord Rottenfang, here is a score less one. All manthings, no little childers, no womens. Strong, healthy.”

“Yesss,” the leader said with relish. “They must be, must be strong indeed to have made it here-safe. You brought them quick, yes? Ran them.”

“Of course my Lord, ran them fast and faster. The weaklings fell, died. These left here will be good workers all - all of them ready-able for pumps and treadmills.”

“I shall look at them.”

One of the torch-bearers now stepped forwards and Abelardo caught sight of the ratman Lord Rottenfang. He was a warrior, without doubt, for he hefted a very heavy shield bedecked with one of ratmen’s hateful runes, wore an iron breastplate and espaldars and clutched in his hand a heavy cleaver of a blade, still spattered with the blood of some recent butchery. The chieftain now raised his head and let out an odd chittering sound, part clearing of his throat and part laugh. Abelardo had no idea what it signified, but the ratmen guards did not seem to find it unusual.

ScabFluff1-2.jpg


When the Skaven Lord had completed this eerie growl, he set about examining the prisoners. “Good. Very good. yes, yes. This one too,” he said as he stepped nimbly around the edge of the cowering men, the claws on his feet scraping and tapping at the stony ground. “Better and better.” Then he stopped, just as he was looking at Abelardo.

‘Just my luck,’ thought the Murosian senor. ‘Why me?’

The ratman chieftain let his blade fall so that it’s tip scratched the ground. A hiss issued from between his snarling lips, then he shouted angrily, “This here - what is this here?” None of the guards answered, but Rottenfang did not really give them time to. “You had orders, orders most carefully given. No noblemen, no capitanos. Take only their scum, their slaves, their underlings. Those who would not be missed.”

Still no answer from the other ratmen. Lord Rottenfang began jabbing his viciously sharp finger-nail at Abelardo. “This here - look, look. Velvet, silver, here - gold rings. See, fools? See what you have taken? This here is a capitano. This here is trouble-caused.”

The guards remembered the order, but they had no idea why they might be in trouble. Rottenfang understood that berating them would achieve nothing of use, and besides, he suddenly thought maybe this was not so bad. Maybe there was ransom to be had? Maybe Warlord Scabscar’s manthing allies would be pleased to have one of the Murosian officers? He could tell them things, surely. And if they insisted, he could be given back to his kind. It was a shame to waste him, for he looked like he would work some months as a slave before succumbing to sickness or exhaustion, but Scabscar had been very clear. Only Murosian scum would be made slaves. Not men such as these.

“Bring him,” he commanded, this pointing his crooked finger at Abelardo's face. “He comes with me. Take the rest to the workings, give them water and man-bread, then when the next watch begins, make them work. Work hard-fast.”
 
Back
Top