| QUOTE (WarbossKurgan @ Apr 23 2008, 05:28 PM) |
| Tales of the Cod & Cutlass. Background Things are not all free-wheeling, swashbuckling fun on Sartosa anymore: The Island and its piratical inhabitants have suffered greatly over the last few years; invasion, war, plague and a ghastly shortage of rum have all combined to make the place a less than welcoming safe-haven for the pirates. Many have fled the island for less troubled waters and the many small islands around the coast of the Southern Sea, Black Gulf and the Gulf of Sufaga have become make-shift ports for the erstwhile Sartosans. The Beastlord Nethrag's ascension to Daemonhood hinged on a plan to create a vast storm in the Winds of Magic that created a huge pool of Dark Magic centred on, and trapped around, the Bloodfane; a Herdstone of unprecedented scale. When the Final Rite was performed the Dark Magic was drawn into the Bloodfane in a swirling vortex of immense power, which tore a temporary rift in reality and wove the very fabric of the Warp into the soul of the Beastlord, turning him into a Daemon Prince and "using up" the Dark Magic that was blighting the island. This had the unexpected result of actually purifying the corruption that was blighting the Pirate Kingdom and removing the worst of the after-effect cause by the occupation by Davy Jones' Crew. There are still many fragments of "crystallised" wyrdstone scattered over Sartosa – fragments of the exploded Bloodfane, which shattered at the conclusion of the Final Rite. The waters surrounding Sartosa were not so lucky though – beyond the coasts they are still steeped in Dark Magic that was beyond the reach of the Bloodfane, and the effect on the local sea-life has been dramatic and unpleasant. In the east Vercuso has become cut off from the mainland by the sea. The town is deserted and can only be reached by boat but the newly-formed channels are uncharted and too dangerous for large ships. Vercuso's old harbour is however still accessible except that it's now guarded by a large and predatory sea monster which means that large ships can occasionally make passage, but not a full army. The forces of darkness used the town as the base for their work on Dragon Tooth Island for much of the first invasion, so very few of the buildings are still standing since most were stripped for timber to repair their shipping and a great number where damaged by falling fragments of Bloodfane. ~ ~ ~ Another campaign on the unfortunate island is brewing – fleets are being fitted out and armies are being mustered. Even now several small bands have made their way to the Island of Pirates in secret, hoping to get the best shards of the Bloodfane before their rivals have even set foot ashore… |
| QUOTE ("zelophahad") |
| Ye Merrie Men of Chalons In the silent darkness, the end of the knotted rope made a faint splash as it hit the water. One by one green-clad figures clambered over the gunwales of the vast Bretonnian ship Le Sanglier, each man with a mighty longbow and quiver full of arrows strapped to his back. They expertly shimmied down the rope and slipped into the water before swimming silently towards the looming ruins of Vercuso harbour. Two of the figures were much larger than the other men – one in height, the other in girth. The towering form of Jean Le Petit snarled at his rotund companion, “Tuc, give me that barrel! You’ll wake the guards!” Le Moine Tuc grinned at him. “Oh my friend, they’ll be sleeping long and dreaming well for many hours yet – those poor navy lads never get a chance to become accustomed to brandy like that!” Nonetheless, Tuc handed the barrel to Jean and lowered himself gracelessly into the water with a plop. “What’s keeping the boss?” growled Jean. He looked up from the water to see not one but two figures appear silhouetted against the pale moonlight. “Oh no, don’t tell me she’s coming too,” he rumbled to himself. A man and a woman were conversing in frantic passionate whispers above them. “Ah, true love,” sighed Tuc, bobbing in the water like an apple, “Surely even a brute like you can appreciate the romance in it? A beautiful young woman betrothed to a foppish knight but secretly in love with the handsome bandit…” “Mademoiselle Marianne is a looker, I’ll give you that,” admitted Jean, “but we’re supposed to be here for loot, not romance. I didn’t risk my neck smuggling myself to Sartosa just so Robin Le Capot could go a-smooching. And now it looks like she’s coming with us – what use will she be in a fight, seriously?” “Oh, don’t be such a misery. I’m sure she’ll do the band’s morale the world of good – ” “And another thing,” interrupted Jean, “once Sir Geraint discovers his fiancée’s run off with Le Capot, the pompous idiot’s going to be coming after us like a chivalrous but angry, love-sick puppy! Don’t forget there’s a price on our heads already.” “Why can’t you just be pleased for them?” sighed Tuc. “Ah, here they come!” Robin of Chalons, more commonly known as the outlaw ‘Le Capot’ dived headlong from Le Sanglier’s gunwales with his characteristic flamboyance and disregard for personal safety. Mademoiselle Marianne meanwhile descended towards the water like an angel from heaven, her gown billowing in the breeze. She floated onto the water where Jean caught her to pull her to shore. As she looked up at him, her eyes, wet with tears, caught the moonlight and she smiled coyly. Jean’s heart melted instantly as he understood exactly what Tuc had meant about her boosting morale. |
| QUOTE ("zelophahad") |
| Le Moine Tuc and Jean Le Petit were sitting either side of a fire in the semi-derelict town house they’d holed-up in. The place reeked of fish and mould but the Merrie Men were in good spirits. They’d each earned some gold today and furthermore they’d been joined by two more of their compatriots from Le Sanglier. ‘You didn’t do badly today, young Will,’ grunted Jean. ‘I’d say picking off the orc shaman at that range within seconds of spotting him warrants a little more praise than that!’ protested Tuc, but Will L'Écarlate just grinned wolfishly and remained silent. ‘You did all right too Father Lard,’ teased Jean, leaning over and tapping Tuc’s newly-acquired helmet, ‘although he was only a little fishman you killed.’ ‘Well he was a darn sight bigger than the goblin you so bravely shot!’ laughed the cleric, straightening his helmet which had been pushed over his eyes by the force of Jean’s playful thump. ‘And don’t you be forgetting who took their stinking leader down either, eh?’ gloated the giant, ‘It’s Jean two; Tuc and Will one. …and the boss still to score. Must have had his mind on other things – ’ Suddenly the door slammed downstairs and a moment later Robin’s head appeared at the trapdoor in the floor. He sprung into the room grinning and pulled Marianne up behind him. She was holding a long thin package wrapped in a dirty cloth. ‘Look what Robin’s bought me boys!’ she exclaimed with girlish delight. The wrappings fell off and a sword glinted in the firelight as she swung it around with gay abandon. ‘He’s bought her a sword?!’ whispered Jean as he almost fell off his stool avoiding her careless swing, ‘we’re done for…’ ‘What are you muttering about little one?’ laughed Robin, ‘Marianne’s a member of our band now, aren’t you my dear?’ ‘Yes,’ she beamed, ‘and Robin says you’re to teach me sword-fighting Jean!’ ‘Does he now? Well, I’m not sure that’s proper for a lady – ’ But before he could protest further, Marianne had lunged at him with her new blade. Jean leapt up with his huge staff in his hand and just parried the blade in time. Her stroke was utterly without skill, but there was a force behind it that belied her slender form. Jean was wrong-footed and tumbled backwards onto the floor. The band all roared with laughter. Jean sat on the floorboards ignominiously. He should be angry at their mockery but one look from Marianne’s huge, green, apologetic eyes and heart melted. Again. |
| QUOTE ("Captain Jackson") |
| Gallant Geraint the Knight Errant Jean-Pierre looked down carefully as he saw the brigand dive into the water. ‘Careful, now, lads,’ he breathed to the two archers in the shadows with him. Then another figure spoke from behind. His voice was low, but carried an unmistakable authority: ‘No, Jean-Pierre, not this time. There is a lady down there. Let them go. I am sure we will meet them on the field of honour before the month is out’. There was a gentle clank as the armoured knight moved to the rail and watched the brigands swimming with gusto towards the shore. Jean-Pierre shook his hear as he signalled the bow-men to stand down. ‘Just like his father,’ he thought. His mind turned back to that terrible day. It had been near three months since, yet he could still smell the fire as the manor thatch had burned. It was one thing to be assailed by a noble enemy or even brigands, but when a neighbouring lord sends men at night. He could smiled as he remembered Sir Gusteau’s calmness as he pulled on his armour. His horse standing quietly as the house burned around them. Then he rode out – magnificent against the flames in his polished harness. The scum hadn’t known what hit them, but there were too many, far too many… And then running. Jean-Pierre spat overboard. His Lord had ordered him to take the women to safety – Mademoiselle Marianne, waiting for Geraint to come back form the wars. And Mademoiselle Jocelyn, staying with the family to keep her away from the court and the fops there – her father terrified she might not marry a fighting knight. They had fled through the night, two archers, two women and the Warden of Chateaux Blancaford. It was below his honour to run, but Jean-Pierre had pledged obedience to his lord. He had thought they were done for in the dawn as the pursuit drew close – cornered against a cliff with over a dozen of them, and as Jean-Pierre had shouted the ancient war-cry, he realised he was not alone. ‘Notre Dame de Bataile’ had echoed through the trees as Geraint’s charger crashed into them. Jean-Pierre chuckled to remember their faces – Geraint left his lance in the first of ‘em and took two more with his blade before the others fled and he chased them – obviously not striking from behind! And here there were in Sartosa. Geraint had not liked his father’s orders to take the women to safety and come back with an army rather than march to challenge the dishonourable Lord. But he had accepted it. The wars had changed him, Jean-Pierre mused. He was as courteous, the honour was still there, but there was a steel, a lack of regard for fine clothes, he laughed. Marianne had certainly cooled – she had always like the idea of romance. But Jocelyn – well, they would see. But now there was a horse to unload, armour to clean and squires to wake up with a bucket of water. And prayer to be said – Jean-Pierre was all for honour and a blade, but he had seen what concentrated archery could do to a cavalry charge. But Sir Geraint would certainly press home… |
| QUOTE ("Sizzling Gromril") |
| Fall From Grace - The Hunt For Waldorf Kleev A geyser of blood speared upwards as the madman’s teeth buried themselves in the merchant’s jugular. The twitching corpse slumped down into the mudded streets as Waldorf Kleev dove for his next victim - an elderly man in a burgomaster’s garb. The fright on his powdered face made his killer smile, and the crack of his neck made him howl in triumph. Screams rose from a distant alley as more bodies were discovered. Waldorf Kleev’s butchery had sent all but the bravest away from this place, and now the bravest hunted him; tracked him; craved the rending of his flesh just as much as he craved theirs. The slaughterer bared his teeth at the bloated moon, and then at the figures charging from the midnight’s darkness. They were heretics one and all. Sigmar’s work was likely to go on through the night. * * * The Lector-General did not move as he spoke. His wizened face was wreathed in shadow, and his wasted skull hidden by a pitch black hood. “This man Kleev, he was one of our own, one of Sigmar’s children. But he is mad, now”. “And what is my purpose in this, your grace?” asked the man who kneeled at the centre of the freezing chamber. “Three weeks ago he escaped from Arkheim Asylum. We had banished him there because he was a loyal servant. Zealous, but dutiful. We thought he could be...”. The priest sighed heavily. “Salvaged”. “At first his insanity empowered him to hunt the enemies of righteousness with a holy vigour, but it was not long before he was turning on criminals, the destitute and the homeless – anybody he considered lacking of faith. And then he wrought his murderous ways upon the innocent. He must be brought to retribution for his crimes. And that is where you come in, Herr Moriarty”. “You want him brought back here, to answer for his heinous ways?” “No”, the old man breathed. “He is too far gone now. He must be killed”. Domingo Moriarty stifled a grin. This was his time to shine. Promotion loomed. This Waldorf Kleev would beg for death, and he would receive it. “Just tell me where, your grace, and his blood shall stain my sword”. The priest leaned forward, his throne creaking. “Sartosa, Isle of the Cutthroat Kings”. |
| QUOTE (Warlord Ghazak Gazhkull @ Jul 7 2008, 01:40 PM) |
| This is awesome Kurgan, it seems it are busy times in your gaming group. 2 Campaigns running. I'm looking forward to the next update. Greetz G |
| QUOTE ("Captain Jackson") |
| Jean-Pierre could see this was going to be hard, but he tried again. ‘We need to find this dark stone, Sir Geraint. The stuff the men call storm-bane. It fetches a good price and then we will find it easier to raise an army.’ Sir Geraint looked suspicious, ‘Are you suggesting that we will trade, my friend?’ ‘Ah…' though Jean-Pierre, 'that’s the problem’. He quickly answered, looking aghast, ‘Of course not, Sir. We need to stop this precious substance falling into the hands of the brigands, or worse. Once we find it I can take it to the duke’s chancellor, and umm, he will see we are amply supplied with coin for food, weapons and men.’ The knight was clearly not stupid, and so the old veteran hurried on as Geraint began to open his mouth, ‘and we must win this substance upon the field of honour. It is close to trade, but Mademoiselle Jocelyn must eat, and we must avenge your noble father and we must carve honour and glory for ourselves in this accursed city. I will deal with the chancellor, Sir, and the bards will sing of our fame!’ And a little while later... ‘Sing,’ thought Jean-Pierre as he grasped the plank at the edge of the water, grimacing. 'I said they would sing our fame'. He had known from the start they were outclassed, and if the orcs ever stopped bickering with each other and decided to fight his men, they were in trouble. The plan had only had the slimmest chance of success anyway, and the orc shamen had put pay to any hope of Geraint reaching him in time. The orcs had the field covered, the two squires were worse than useless for all their boasting and the archer seemed to be missing with great accomplishment too. Geraint had downed the shaman at last, but the cursed mage wasn’t beaten. The orcs would have had the day if they had fought another five minutes. He mused how the Lady had graciously provided the storm to stop the destruction of her followers, and wondered if the fey Jocelyn had anything to do with it. He saw there was frustration in Geraint’s eyes, though, as the knight hauled him into the saddle and led him away on the horse. ‘We cannot fight on in this,’ he said, ‘I have ordered the withdrawal once I saw the enemy were doing the same. Oh, but such terrible fortune! Did you see, Jean-Pierre – once you fell the others were up aloft, and there must have been ten of the foul beasts to stand against me. What honour to be won with such odds. They fought well, and none of the others would have been quick enough to intervene. I could have fought all ten at once, perchance, and with a lady watching. But perchance the morrow will bring even greater hope for honour and advancement. They had a troll – did you see. Now that would be noble, to fight a troll…’ Geraint went on as Jean-Pierre nursed his injured leg. Next time he would bring more archers… and try to think of a way to support Geraint before he got himself killed. |
| QUOTE ("zelophahad") |
| The Merrie Men of Chalons were sitting around in their hideout, laughing, drinking and gazing in eager expectation at the enormous hog Le Moine Tuc was spit-roasting over the fire. It had been another good day in Vercuso: Another haul of treasure procured and another victorious confrontation with the fishy greenskins. The orcs were lacking their leader who still didn’t appear to have recovered from the arrow wounds he’d received when they’d last met. Consequently, Robin had ordered Jean Le Petit and Will L'Écarlate to lead a marksman a bit closer and try and draw the orcs away from the lovely Mademoiselle Marianne. Will and Jean had ended up even closer than they’d planned when they’d both fallen through the rotten wood of a walkway, but the orcs had run off before Jean got a chance to lay into them with his stave. Another of the Merrie Men, eager to demonstrate his climbing skills, had taken a nasty fall, and only survived the scrap because the orcs had left his unconscious form for dead. Meanwhile Robin and Tuc had protected Marianne from a rather unpredictable troll. As he turned the spit and attended to the sizzling pork, Tuc mused about the changes in Robin Le Capot since they’d arrived in Vercuso and taken Marianne into their gang. Tuc would never say anything out loud, but he was just beginning to worry a little about Robin’s leadership. His love for Marianne appeared to be making him uncharacteristically cautious and the fact of the matter was Robin hadn’t killed a single foe since they arrived. Alongside this, young Will L'Écarlate was gaining more and more respect with the men. Will was a good lad, but ambitious, and the Marksmen of the Yew (who had done most of the killing in Vercuso) were increasingly looking to him. Maybe there was a subtle way Tuc could encourage the boss… Robin Le Capot and Marianne had been chatting and laughing in a romantic huddle by the fire, but suddenly he leapt up from his chair with a flourish and brandished what was obviously another love-gift for his lady. After the hilarious incident with the sword, Tuc was amused to see Jean Le Petit keeping his mouth shut, yet unable to stifle a grimace as Robin presented the beautiful longbow to Marianne. Five minutes later, when she’d put an arrow through a dead fish fifty paces across the street below, Tuc heard Jean mumble appreciatively, ‘She may be a giggly girlie, but there’s no denying that lass is full of surprises!’ Le Moine Tuc smiled, all the gang loved having Marianne around – she certainly did raise morale. And maybe if she was learning to look after herself, Robin might be more willing to return to his old swashbuckling ways… |
| QUOTE ("zelophahad") |
| Fought Sizzling Gromril today and it was rather brutal and I lost, mainly because he refused to fail his rout tests! Report and photos will follow. Managed a triple 6 in exploration thanks to the straggler I found after the game with Kurgan, so I get a free hired sword next game! 8) Ye Merrie Men of Chalons Heroes Robin Le Capot (bandit leader) - longbow, hunting arrows, sword, dagger …killed a flagellant in combat (still hasn't managed it with an arrow! :roll: ); taken out of action (in combat) by Librarian Volger; gained +1A Mademoiselle Marianne ('petty thief') - longbow, sword, dagger ...rolled three 6s to kill a zealot who was about to charge Robin (amazing what true love can do for a woman! :wink: ); gained +1WS Le Moine Tuc (cleric) - longbow, dagger, helmet, 'Hearts of Steel' and 'Soulfire' prayers ...shot a zealot Jean Le Petit (champion) - longbow, hunting arrows, double handed weapon, dagger ...taken out of action (in combat) by a flagellant; hand injury (-1WS :roll: ) Will L'Écarlate (champion) - longbow, hunting arrows, dagger ...killed (that is, properly killed dead) the witch hunter himself! Beau Coup (promoted marksman of the Willow) - longbow, dagger, quick shot Henchmen 1x Merrie Men of the Ash (marksmen) - longbow, dagger ...taken out of action due to falling (AGAIN!) but survived (again) :lol: 4x Merrie Men of the Yew (marksmen) - longbow, dagger ...shot warrior priest; gained +1A 1x Merrie Men of the Oak( marksmen) – longbow, dagger 2 new x Naval Deserters (outlaws - the other one was killed in combat) – bow, dagger Free Hired Sword... need to choose one :? Warband rating = 183+ hired sword |
| QUOTE ("Sizzling Gromril") |
| Domingo Moriarty pressed himself against the brickwork. “Load, aim, fire! Load, aim, fire!” The booming mantra sounded overhead from somewhere deep in the ruins. A snap of bowstrings pierced the crisp, afternoon air, and a chorus of thin hisses sang above him. Stagnant water dripped from a broken gutter. The flames of his torch sizzled like fat on a skillet. Was his position betrayed? There was a clump of feet high over him, and a shout of alarm. He had been discovered. He snatched his sword from its scabbard, cocked his pistol and leapt into action. “Hounds” he roared. “Attack”. * * * There was a cry behind him, and Librarian Volger turned. The heavy set priest, Ludwig, was on his knees, clutching at his ruined hand. A barbed arrow had skewered it like a spit. “Go”, the large man roared, blood foaming from his mouth. “Finish off these dogs”. He tried to rise again, but another shaft thudded into his broad shoulder and punched him to the ground. Volger muttered a prayer for his friend and continued forward. His aged bones screamed in agony and his ancient lungs burned with the strain. His better days were well behind him, but he still had the fire of purpose in his eyes. He could hurt later. He tramped towards a crumbling doorway and a towering, behemoth of a man appeared in its pitted frame. The giant grinned sardonically. Volger recoiled, recovered his nerve, and then charged. He swept his hammer upward in a clumsy fashion and the hulking man dashed aside, but not as quick as to avoid the oak staff that screamed from the librarian’s left hand. The stave caught the brute in the jaw and he crumbled backwards. As the old man brought his hammer up for the killing blow a mad man, wild beard stained and knotted, frothing from the mouth, smashed a rusted flail into the downed leviathan’s skull. There was a sickening crack and his body went limp, except to jerk suddenly when his attacker toppled onto him with an arrow in his throat. Moriarty’s battle cry rose from afar, and Volger pressed the attack. * * * “Hounds, smite them, tear them, rend them limb from limb. Bring me glory”. The squat, slobbering beasts rushed forward, taking the steps two at a time and hugging the walls, just as they had been trained. Domingo Moriarty planted his boot on the first stair and then fell back dead. Crimson blood oozed from his right eye socket and pooled about the feathered arrow that had punctured it. * * * “What shall we do with his body, Father?”. The muscular priest brooded for a moment, his right hand unconsciously nursing his wounded left. “Bury him” he sighed. “And then I shall lead you to this Waldorf Kleev. Already too many have died for his madness”. His acolytes rolled Domingo Moriarty into a shallow grave and began to shovel. |
| QUOTE ("Sizzling Gromril") |
| What a great opening campaign game today. Thanks, zelophahad. I got very lucky early on. I had to make a mad dash across the street, right in front of the BS 5 archers, but luckily they couldn't roll more than a 1 to hit, and when they did hit, they only rolled 1's to wound. I didn't come away from it unscathed, though. I lost a zealot, a flagellant (which I managed to buy back) and, worst of all, my leader, the eponymous Domingo Moriarty, who is now dead. An arrow from Will E'carlet saw to that. My warband's looking good though: Ludwig Kopf - Warrior Priest Two Hammers; Hand Injury, Mighty Blow, Leader Librarian Volger - Witch Hunter Hammer, Staff, Crossbow; +1 Toughness; one kill Kurt Sharp Mind - Witch Hunter Hammer, Crossbow 2 Stewards of the Chapel - Zealots Swords; +1 WS 2 The Forgotten - Flagellants Flails; +1 Attack (who needs frenzy? :wink: ) 3 Fangs of Sigmar - Hounds Warband Rating: 90 Treasury: 22gc |
| QUOTE ("zelophahad") |
  The Merrie Men were heading back to their den, sweeping the ruined buildings for bits of Bloodfane as they went. Robin, Jean and the navy lad who’d deserted from Le Sanglier were rifling a corpse at the base of what may once have been a wizard’s tower. The rest of the band had climbed up high into the precarious ruins of the old town hall. Suddenly Will sounded his horn – a band of witch hunters had appeared in the vicinity and they didn’t look friendly.   Eager to prove himself to his new boss, the naval deserter ran towards the witch hunters while Robin and Jean knocked arrows to strings and looked for clear shots at the enemy.  Ash (now dubbed ‘Montee’ by the other Merrie Men) tried to scramble from one house to another to come to the aid of his boss, but yet again slipped and fell, bashing his head on an old timber and collapsing unconscious on the floor.  Meanwhile, the Witch Hunter himself was bringing his hounds around the left flank of the Merrie Men who could hear the yapping dogs approaching but the angles of the buildings denied clear shots for the marksmen high up above them.   With a clash of steel, one of the zealots leaped upon the former sailor. Outnumbered, and with only a dagger with which to defend himself, his career with the Merrie Men of Chalons was over almost as soon as it had begun.   One by one, the marksmen on the gantry became aware that they were not as safe as they’d thought. Their blood ran cold as they realised the dogs had found a way into their building – the sound of barking coming from the stairwell was rapidly getting louder.   Meanwhile, far below them, Jean Le Petit stowed his bow, grasped his mighty staff in his huge hands and stepped into the doorway of the ruined pie shop. Within moments an old man wielding a flaming torch had thrown himself at him    With a cacophony of howling, the dogs burst onto the landing and hugged the cover as the archers desperately tried, but failed, to take them down.   Robin’s rescue Finally the dogs get there  Robin gets it  They run |
| QUOTE ("zelophahad") |
| Robin Le Capot opened his eyes to see the derelict buildings of Vercuso bobbing past him. He appeared to be lying on his back. Quickly coming to his senses, he reached for his dagger but was relieved to see he was surrounded not by foes, but by his men. Two were carrying his stretcher, another two were struggling to support the massive, bloodied form of Jean Le Petit. The Merrie Men didn’t look so merry. He gasped with pain as he was embraced by Marianne and smothered by her sweet-smelling hair and everything seemed a lot better. ‘Oh Robin!’ she exclaimed, ‘I thought I’d lost you!’ He smiled weakly because his head still pounded. ‘This is true love my dear. Death cannot stop true love, only delay it for a while.’ Marianne collapsed in tears of joy. Behind her, Will L'Écarlate rolled his eyes. He was beginning to wonder whether Robin still had what it took to lead the Merrie Men. Who had killed the Witch Hunter? He had, not Robin. What had Robin done? He’d sent their newest recruit to his death. He’d left Jean Le Petit unsupported. He’d had to be rescued by the arrows of his girlfriend. And if his men hadn’t managed to rescue him, he’d have got himself killed too. Le Moine Tuc saw the look in Will’s eye and guessed his thoughts. But however Will felt, Robin was still their beloved boss. The ‘willow’ marksman Beau Coup had distinguished himself with his speed shooting skills and become something of a hero among the other men. And he was fiercely loyal to Robin, having been his manservant in wealthier times back home in Chalons. The Merrie Men weren’t falling apart just yet. Suddenly they heard the unmistakable clatter of hooves and the clank of heavy armour coming round the street corner behind them. The sound of a knight on a warhorse. Mademoiselle Marianne went as white as a sheet: Her dreadful fiancée, Sir Geraint, had found them and here lay Robin unable to protect her! The Merrie Men instantly turned and formed a protective wall around their wounded leader, arrows on strings, knocks drawn back to their cheeks… But the splendid knight who appeared around the corner did not appear to be Sir Geraint. No gaudy gold and red tabard for him, just plain black – plain black armour, plain black shield, plain black tabard, plain black horse. His helmet visor was closed but the fact that his lance was held upright indicated that he was not about to charge them. Not yet. ‘Friend or foe?’ shouted Will. The black knight did not respond. ‘Friend or foe?’ Will repeated. ‘Speak, before my men make a pin cushion of you!’ ‘You may call me Le Tenebreux,’ the knight said softly, his voice muffled by his black helm, ‘and those are not your men. They are the men of Robin of Chalons, who is called Le Capot, and is lying on a stretcher behind you.’ Will flinched at the rebuke but stood firm. ‘Friend or foe?’ ‘He is a friend. A good friend.’ Robin’s voice was quiet and laboured but full of joy and relief. ‘And he has come at just the right time.’ |
| QUOTE ("zelophahad") |
[i] The salty wind whistled through the narrow streets of Vercuso, carrying sea spray and the harsh screeches of gulls to the ears of the Bretonian bandits. High up on the old city walls and among the derelict merchant-houses they waited, bows strung and arrows knocked. In the shadow of the arch, the mysterious knight known only as ‘Le Tenebreux’ sat astride his great black warhorse, also waiting. Robin Le Capot’s trap was set.   Presently the clip-clop of hooves on cracked cobbles could be heard echoing from the buildings as a splendidly-equipped knight in red and gold heraldry ambled down the road towards the bandits. At first Sir Geraint appeared to be alone, but it soon became clear that various squires and retainers were scurrying some distance behind him, hugging the cover while trying to keen up with his mighty warhorse.     Without warning, the black knight lowered his lance to the horizontal, drove in his spurs and thundered out from under the arch towards his red and gold adversary. Without hesitation, almost as if he was expecting this, Sir Geraint’s steed leapt forward and the two knights galloped towards each other at a terrifying speed, lances lowered and held steady. The commoners held their breath, for none could fail to be awed by the spectacle.   With a deafening crash the knights met, right where Robin had planned it – in the middle of the circle of archers. Robin knew not to underestimate Sir Geraint’s skills with a lance and was ready to shoot him down should Le Tenebreux be bested. And the black knight was indeed bested, taking a glancing blow to his face which crumpled his helmet visor in a shower of sparks, but somehow he managed to keep his seat. The knights passed each other and Le Tenebreux desperately wheeled round to face his opponent again. But the blow to his head and the dent in his helm left him helpless. Before he even realised what was happening, Sir Geraint’s lance had shattered into a thousand splinters as it lifted his black-armoured body from his saddle and slammed him into a wall. Le Tenebreux slid onto the ground and lay there, unconscious. Sir Geraint did not hesitate to follow his second charge through, thundering back towards his retainers and out of the deadly circle of archers.   But the bowmen of Chalons were too quick for him. Even Bretonian bandits respect the Code of the Joust, but no sooner had their champion had been bested, than bows were drawn and arrows loosed. Even as he galloped away, the shafts thudded into Sir Geraint’s back with such force that they lifted him out of his saddle and he crashed to the ground and lay still.    |
| QUOTE |
Maddened with despair at their Lord’s fate, the retainers surged towards the bandits. They wanted their revenge for the brigands’ dishonourable butchery, and they wanted to reap it with sword and mace, not bow and arrow. From among the buildings behind them came the sound of the Damsel Jocelyn weeping for the honour of her beloved.   A storm of arrows met them, and though some fell, the bandits were obviously caught off guard by their enemies’ sudden charge and most shots went wide.  Most of the marksmen swiftly descended from their lofty perch, while the sailors who had absconded from Le Sanglier rushed forward to engage their former ship-mates.   The knight’s grizzled old warden hobbled forward to join the fighting, shouting orders at his men, but they needed no encouragement. Their superior weapons and training quickly overwhelmed the impoverished brigands.   But Robin was not one to stand around and watch his men be slaughtered. With a shout he, Jean Le Petit and Will L’Ecarlat charged into the fray while Mademoiselle Marianne, Le Moine Tuc and the swift-shooting Beau Coup provided covering fire.    In the absence of the nobility the confrontation rapidly degenerated into a vicious street brawl, Will laying about himself with his dagger and Robin cutting men down with swift strokes of his flashing sword. Jean, hampered by his injured hand was knocked unconscious before he could really get stuck in, but despite this the bandits soon had the upper hand. Robin Le Capot had won the day again, although it seemed it had cost him some good men.[/i] |
| QUOTE ("Captain Jackson") |
| Well, Geraint's gallant men were defeated again, but continue to do quite well out of defeat! Le Capot's outlaws shot too well although I was quite pleased with how Geraint's men did in combat even after he was out of action. Maybe next time... |
| QUOTE ("Captain Jackson") |
| Jocelyn brushed back her long hair as she applied another bandage to the old warden’s leg. The room was a mess of groaning men. ‘They had been so chivalrous’, she mused to herself, ‘truly her papa would have been proud of them, none had even turned to flee, they had all fallen where they fought. That was what made Brettonia great… well, that and winning sometimes, of course.’ Jean-Pierre knew he had been right not to take the archers on at their own game, but the arrows were still deadly. He had seen too many brave charges disappear in a quagmire of falling horses and blood-soaked knights. And to see his Lord so unceremoniously shot down by the cowards. He should have ordered the retreat, but his anger had been hot, and he was proud of his men. Although he was a bit worried about the two squires. Both had taken serious injuries to the head. Nigel was outside challenging a tree to single combat. That was the third inanimate object he had engaged on the way back to their camp. And he could hear Gusteau, ‘It’s only a flesh wound, let’s get back at them! I slipped, I tell you, next time I’ll have ‘em.’ But where was Geraint? It was with relief that Jean-Pierre heard a familiar voice through the window, ‘Ah, Jean-Pierre, would you be so good as to pass my spare hose and jerkin through the window, preferably before the damsel realises I am here.’ Glancing through the window Jean-Pierre could see why, as he hurriedly passed the embarrassed knight some clothes. ‘What happened, my lord?’ he asked. ‘Um… I think I would rather not talk about it. Ah, you recovered my horse. Thank you. Now, the key thing, Le Tenebreux fell before those bounders shot me did he?’ And when reassured that this was the case, Geraint’s face lit up. ‘Ah yes, you see the key thing is to change target at the last to the helm, very hard to counter quickly. It is how Sir Ulric got his hat-trick at the Louens open last year. Now, that was a fine tournament’. His reverie was cut short by Jocelyn’s tearful embrace. Geraint tried not to wince from the arrow wounds as he reflected that he really wasn’t missing Marian as much as he would have thought. |
| QUOTE ("zelophahad") |
| Here's the state of affairs after the scrap with John (Captain Jackson) - see above. I won, but three henchmen copped it. Found lots of treasure and a fletcher's hovel in exploration - 3 longbows! Ye Merrie Men of Chalons Heroes Robin Le Capot (bandit leader) - longbow, hunting arrows, sword, dagger …took out Squire Nigel and Jean Pierre in combat (...still hasn't managed a kill with an arrow though! :lol: ); gained +1A again (3 now!) Mademoiselle Marianne ('petty thief') - longbow, sword, dagger ...no news Le Moine Tuc (cleric) - longbow, dagger, helmet, 'Hearts of Steel' and 'Soulfire' prayers ...no news Jean Le Petit (champion) - longbow, hunting arrows, double handed weapon, dagger ...taken out of action (in combat) by a Nigel; full recovery Will L'Écarlate (champion) - longbow, hunting arrows, dagger ...stabbed Squire Gusteau and an archer (go dagger!); gained +1W again (he's on 3 now, the max a human's allowed!) Beau Coup (marksman) - longbow, dagger, quick shot ...quick shot indeed: shot an archer, Henri and Sir Geraint himself!; gained +1A (3 now) and +1T Henchmen 1x Merrie Men of the Ash (marksmen) - longbow, dagger ...no news (i.e. he didn't fall off anything this game!) 1 new x Merrie Man of the Willow (marksman) – longbow, dagger 4x Merrie Men of the Yew (marksmen) - longbow, dagger ...no news (yes, the heroes actually managed to do the killing this game!) 3x Naval Deserters (outlaws) – bow, dagger ...both original guys taken out of action; only one survived but two new ones hired Le Tenebreux (freelancer) - warhorse, heavy armour, shield, lance, sword 0x Merrie Man of the Oak (marksman) – longbow, dagger ...killed dead by Gusteau 15 members + hired sword Warband rating = 236 :o |
| QUOTE ("zelophahad") |
| Marianne watched Le Moine Tuc as he solemnly pulled the blanket over the marksman’s pallid face. He was a good man, this fat friar, and he loved the Merrie Men as much even as Robin Le Capot himself. As her mind turned to her beloved, Marianne’s legs felt weak and she could feel her neck flush even in the chill sea breeze whistling through the draughty building. Robin of Chalons, her one true love, the man she had followed all the way to Sartosa and would follow even to death. Oh the cruelty of her engagement to that idiot Geraint! She didn’t care that it had been planned since they were both babes in arms – she had never loved him, and his professed love for her seemed to have been but a passing fancy: The word in the inns of Vercuso was that that harlot Jocelyn had taken his fancy! Well, she was welcome to him. Marianne had thought Geraint dead after Beau Coup had shot him from his horse, but one of the men said they’d seen him just a few hours ago, apparently stripped of all his clothes and belongings! Marianne giggled to herself – it served him right for his indifference towards her. She looked around the upper room that Tuc had fashioned into a make-shift infirmary. As well as the three bodies, a few other men were receiving Tuc’s ministrations. She laughed at Jean Le Petit as he winced when the monk pressed a poultice onto his arm – such a strong, tough man who had seen so many injuries, and yet such a big softy when the battle rage left him! Next to him, Will L’Écarlate waited patiently in silence. Marianne gasped as she saw the horrible wound on his back, but the wiry young man seemed to have an incredibly high pain threshold. She wasn’t sure whether she liked Will. He was always polite and courteous to her, but she never quite felt comfortable with him, and it didn’t take feminine intuition to see he would like to take Robin’s place in the warband one day. Finally she peered into the shadows where Le Tenebreux was sitting. He was tapping at his helmet in an attempt to remove the dent from it, and seemed engrossed in his work. She knew nothing about him, save that he was of noble birth. This was the first time she had seen his face, and Robin was strangely reluctant to tell her anything about the black knight. He looked older that she was expecting, and it was clear that he had seen much action, although in the gloom she could hardly make out his features. Suddenly he raised his head and looked straight at her – his eyes were proud, noble, and very sad. Chilled, she looked away immediately, but not before she registered that his face seemed strangely familiar… |
| QUOTE ("zelophahad") |
| Had an unexpected but fun fight with Andy (Sizzling Gromril) this Luncheim, and won (well given the relative experiences of our warbands it'd have been rather humiliating if I hadn't!). Having said that, it was no push-over, not least because my entire warband appeared to have lost the ability to shoot their bows - they couldn't hit a barn door! :roll: :lol: Found a gunsmith's shop when exploring - three useless flasks of superior black powder! ...but at least they were worth 45gc! Ye Merrie Men of Chalons Stored equipment: 2 longbows; newly-acquired halfling cookbook (I'll give it to Tuc when it's needed) Heroes Robin Le Capot (bandit leader) - longbow, hunting arrows, sword, dagger …having repeatedly missed his targets, he was rewarded with a crossbow bolt to the face through the window he was shooting from. OOA but full recovery (again!). I bought him a lucky charm though, rather than rely on my own luck on the injury chart! Mademoiselle Marianne ('petty thief') - longbow, sword, dagger ...gained the eagle eyes skill so her longbow is now 36" range! I'm hoping that'll help keep her out of trouble... Le Moine Tuc (cleric) - longbow, dagger, helmet, 'Hearts of Steel' and 'Soulfire' prayers ...did very little, but I've given him a cudgel Jean Le Petit (champion) - longbow, double handed weapon, dagger ...shot a flagellant and killed him dead (sorry Andy); gained +1 Ld; given a lucky charm in the hope he might one day live up to his potential in combat! Will L'Écarlate (champion) - longbow, hunting arrows, dagger ...gained a skill: quick shot (well, why not eh?); gave him a cudgel too. Beau Coup (marksman) - longbow, hunting arrows, dagger, quick shot ...nothing to report - hardly got to see anything, let alone shoot it! :roll: Gave him a cudgel though. Henchmen 1x Merrie Man of the Ash (marksmen) - longbow, dagger ...killed a dog in hand-to-hand; shot and OOA by witch hunter librarian Volger but survived (again!); given a shiney new cudgel as a reward! 1x Merrie Man of the Willow (marksman) – longbow, dagger ...took out a zealot in combat 4x Merrie Men of the Yew (marksmen) - longbow, dagger ...no news (hardly got to shoot at all) 3x Naval Deserters (outlaws) – bow, dagger ...it took a few dozen arrows, but they eventually took a flagellant out of action; shot a dog too! Rewarded with cudgels! Hired Sword Le Tenebreux (freelancer) - warhorse, heavy armour, shield, lance, sword ...killed a dog after a ridiculously protracted combat! :roll: :oops: Gained an extra attck though, which is good news. 15 members + hired sword (but thanks to the halfling cookbook, I'll hopefully be able to go up to 16 members soon, thus needing 4 taken OOA before I have to take rout tests!) Warband rating = 254 |
| QUOTE ("zelophahad") |
 Beau Coup was enjoying his new-found status among the Merrie Men, and he particularly appreciated the recognition from Robin Le Capot himself. But he knew his continuing respect had to be earned, so he rechecked the first two arrows he had ready to fire as he stood alongside Will L’Ecarlat and the Yew marksmen, up on the gantry overlooking the street. Below him, Le Tenebreux’s black charger pawed the ground and snorted in the cold evening air.  Somewhere down that street were those accursed witch hunters who had almost killed Robin and Jean Le Petit last time they’d met. Robin and Jean had taken the deserters from Le Sanglier off down the street to Beau’s left; Le Moine Tuc, Mademoiselle Marianne and a couple of marksmen had headed down the gantries to his right.   Suddenly Le Tenebreux clattered down the street. Beau assumed he wanted to draw the cowardly witch hunters out of cover so the marksmen could see them, but although he could hear faint shouts and dogs barking, the archers still had no marks.   Beau could hear things going on around him though. Off to the left it sounded like Robin, Jean and the navy lads had engaged the enemy; and to his right he could hear Tuc and Marianne drawing more of their foes in while they took up firing positions to defend themselves.    The black knight started to walk back down the street towards the Beau, Will and the other marksmen, and one of the dogs foolishly strayed out of cover. Half a dozen arrows were instantly loosed, but not one hit the canine, which quickly ran through a doorway and vanished. Beau cursed and wondered how they could all have missed?  * * * Beau saw very little else during that fight, although he heard afterwards that the witch hunters were soon seen off after their dogs had been sent yelping away with their tails between their legs. Robin and Ash (or Montee as they liked to call him) had both been wounded again but recovered well, but Beau couldn’t help feeling the Merrie Men should have found that fight a lot more straightforward. He also heard that he was not the only Merrie marksman who had not had his eye in that evening. Everyone’s shooting appeared to be off and the real damage had been done hand-to-hand. He took an arrow out of his quiver, held it vertically with the point in his palm and spinned it to check it was straight. It was bent like a strung bow! He cursed the damp sea air and made a mental note to instruct the men on how to keep their arrows warm and dry. |
| QUOTE ("Sizzling Gromril") |
| The men were in no mood to be bullied. Broken, battered weapons hung from gaunt, emaciated hands. Faces drooped; necks rolled; muscles quivered. Ludwig Kopf rested a hand on Kurt's shoulder. His eyes took in each man's gaze. “We fought well today. We closed upon the enemy. We smelled their breath. We saw the whites of their eyes. You are my brave warriors – no, the church's brave warriors”. Siegfried Gant fingered the dagger at his belt: it was pocked and bent. “But we still ran, your grace. We are cowards. How can we do Sigmar's work, how can we apprehend the Butcher of Bogenhafen when we cannot even face a cadre of bandits?”. “We will be strong in our faith”, the priest said. “I shall retire to my meditations, and I shall convene personally with our lord”. * * * The mad man's laughter was a sound from the darkest belly of Hell. He fumbled through the corridor, hands grasping the jagged walls. The laceration upon his wrist, that had not bled since he had carved it into his flesh three days ago, began to ooze with blood, not red like that of a man, but black like that of a daemon. The voice had summoned him here. The guttering braziers gave life to capering things, formed from shadow and wreathed in death. The lunatic stopped. The beast at the corridor's end observed him. No eyes or mouth or ears or nose sat on that gore coloured face, but still the thing whispered. “Arack'shiii'ughluuu'utaasgh”. And Waldorf Kleev knew nothing more. |
| QUOTE ("zelophahad") |
| Played WarbossKurgan on Friday - 'Bloodfane-shard' hunt. Was turning into a very evocative and exciting game when WbK suddenly realised he had to be back in the office! :cry: So we called it a draw and only let models carrying counters at that point keep them. I had more counters, but it was building up to a very close game and we've no idea who would have won the day! Found a well in exploration (double 1): sent Beau Coup down it investigate (because he has the highest T in the warband). He survived and climbed out with an extra fragment of bloodfane, bringing the total haul to 7 shards. Here's where Robin and his men are up to as a result after shopping for plenty of cudgels, lucky charms and a new naval deserter (thanks to Tuc's halfling cookbook): Ye Merrie Men of Chalons Stored equipment: 2 longbows, 2gc Heroes Robin Le Capot (bandit leader) - longbow, hunting arrows, sword, dagger, lucky charm; leader Mademoiselle Marianne ('petty thief') - longbow, sword, dagger; 'eagle eyes', 'helpless damsel' ...ended the fight with a fragment of bloodfane (+1 exp) Le Moine Tuc (cleric) - longbow, cudgel, dagger, helmet, halfling cookbook, lucky charm; 'Hearts of Steel' and 'Soulfire' prayers ...shot Trowt (orc boy); was just about to defy Slippery Jack by jumping onto a jetty to grab a bloodfane fragment when the game ended! :roll: gained +1BS (up to 4) Jean Le Petit (champion) - longbow, double handed weapon, dagger, lucky charm; 'strongman' Will L'Écarlate (champion) - longbow, hunting arrows, cudgel, dagger; 'quick shot' ...gained +1BS (now 5!) Beau Coup (marksman) - longbow, hunting arrows, cudgel, dagger; 'quick shot' ...gained +1W (because already at max T for human) Henchmen 1x Merrie Man of the Ash (marksmen) - longbow, cudgel, dagger ...now BS5! 1x Merrie Man of the Willow (marksman) – longbow, dagger ...shot Ray (orc boy); now BS5 too (initally rolled lad's-got-talent, but my heroes are at max already) 4x Merrie Men of the Yew (marksmen) - longbow, cudgel, dagger 3+1 new x Naval Deserters (outlaws) – bow, cudgel, dagger ...ended the game with a bloodfane shard nicked off the orc shaman who was just about to get up again and blast them when the game ended! (+1 exp) Hired Sword Le Tenebreux (freelancer) - warhorse, heavy armour, shield, helmet, lance, sword 16 members (thanks to the halfling cookbook) + hired sword Warband rating = 284 |
| QUOTE ("zelophahad") |
Le Moine Tuc gritted his teeth as he looked out across ruined marina. There on a floating jetty just a few yards away was the precious fragment of the Bloodfane dropped by the orc he had just shot. The shard of magical stone was surely worth at least a fistful of much-needed gold coins. All it would take was a small jump over the water onto the boardwalk and it’d be his! But across the water he could also make out the unmistakable form of the tentacled beast known in these parts as ‘Slippery Jack’. The monster didn’t appear to have noticed him yet but he knew that should he slip and end up in the drink those tentacles would be heading his way at great speed!  ‘Go on – you lard-bucket!’ shouted Jean Le Petit behind him, ‘I’ve got you covered!’ Le Moine Tuc gulped, gritted his teeth and prepared to jump… * * * ‘Cover me!’ shouted Will L’Ecarlat as he hurled himself down the ladder and across the rotten floorboards. His target was the chunk of Bloodfane in the next house down the street, but he was painfully aware that it was also the target of two very large, very fierce-looking orcs.  The marksmen in the ruins behind and above him were pouring arrows into the orcs, knocking them off their feet as they tried to clamber up the ladders to the prize. The archers’ efforts were certainly having some effect, but the orcs kept getting up again! Will knew he would be quicker up the ladder to the magical fragment but he also knew that if either of the greenskins were still standing when he got there, he’d be fishfood… * * *  ‘Get it!’ barked Le Tenebreux, and the three former sailors instinctively obeyed the black knight, just as if they were his serfs back home in Bretonnia. They crept into the ruined warehouse where the fragment of Bloodfane was lying in the dirt. The huge orc shaman was on the floor by the table, writhing in pain and trying to remove the arrow sticking out of his groin. Despite the men’s stealth, the shaman’s octopus-crowned head turned towards them as they approached, and his beady red eyes glowed with malice. Even as one of the men snatched up the precious shard of stone, the orc rose to his hands and knees and started shouting his strange chant… * * * With a blinding flash and a deafening roar that shook the very ground, the storm started without warning. Lethal hail stones the size of cannonballs thundered out of the sky, crashing through the ruins and sending both men and orcs sprinting for cover. The shaman stopped in mid chant and the ex-sailors seized the moment and dashed out of the warehouse clutching their prize. Across the street, both Will and his greenskin rivals abandoned their prize to the elements. And down by the harbour one particularly large hailstone smashed into the jetty, clipping the fragment of Bloodfane which skittered off across the boards and into the water with an inaudible plop. This day, the only winner was the weather. |
| QUOTE ("Sizzling Gromril") |
| Waldorf Kleev knew not where he was, or why, but he knew he was no longer human. His right forearm was a mosaic of crystallised flesh, jutting with spines and rivets and open wounds. His left was more dramatic. No longer did he have fingers or a palm or anything resembling a hand; instead the appendage ended in a nest of wiry tentacles, dotted with suckers, each one a tiny, hissing maw. What changes had racked the rest of his body he did not think, dared not touch his grotesque limbs to his face for fear of what he might feel. “Whurt ham hi?” he rasped. He groaned. Why was his speech so slurred? What manner of madness had warped his mouth: a bloated tongue? A deciduous windpipe? Atrophied vocal chords? He roared, pushed against the wet cobbles with his glass hand, sprang to his feet. There it was, there was the power. His legs were strong and taut as iron, muscles pulled tight like bowstrings. He almost somersaulted over himself, such was the force of them. He landed, wavered a moment, and then collapsed into a heap. This new body would take some getting use to. And then it hit him like a wave. Where was his lord, where was Sigmar? No longer could he hear the voice of his god, the whispering council in his ear. “Whurr arr ooo!” he wailed to the heavens. He slammed his hands to his temples, and the pain came instantly. He had forgotten the state of his new hands. The razor edged crystals dashed his skull, blood slicked down. But there was no death, no lancing pain of glass perforating his brain, only a dull crack and a chink of ivory came away. So, then, the same sorcery as had warped his flesh had made his bone as thick as plate-mail. And his master was gone, to be replaced by, yes, he remembered now – that featureless, crimson face, that tortured, gasping voice – and he sobbed. His new master now. He rose again on those powerful legs, stumbled forward into the night, talons clacking on the stones. Was that a feather jutting from his knee? There would be time to study his new form later, but for now he fled. No doubt the hunters were still on his trail. The Badly Painted Beast That Was Once Waldorf Kleev  |
| QUOTE ("Sizzling Gromril") |
| The howl of the hounds carried through the night, heads raised at the moon. They were not cries of the hunt, but of sorrow for the dead. Librarian Volger's corpse rested on the pyre, arms crossed against his dead chest, hammer clasped in rigor mortised hands. His neck ended in a bloodied stump, tassels of bruised, purplish meat dangling from the wound where a massive troll's rude blade had torn his head off. The head remained lost somewhere in the city; as they had scuttled back to the ruins to recover the bodies it was nowhere to be found. Ludwig rubbed his stubbly chin with thick fingers. Had the green beasts taken it for some primitive ritual? The weeks of hardship had taken their toll on the priest. Once a handsome man, now his faced was ravaged by scars, some fresh, some only beginning to heal. His nose was broken, his left eye sunken far too deep into its socket. A thin field of stubble flecked his scalp and jaw – he had abandoned his daily grooming ritual over six days ago. His right hand was missing a finger, ending in a gangrenous nub that bled pus. No doubt the infection would take his entire hand within the month. The men were as tired and battered as usual, standing over the funeral pyres like stone avatars, each muttering a prayer for the fallen. Kurt Sharp nursed a ghastly hand wound that would have made a lesser man scream for death, but not him. His pitted crossbow dangled from his good hand, swinging like a child's teddy bear. Richter rested his sword against his shoulder, his other hand perched on the chest of his dead friend Gunter, fingers almost falling into the gaping cavity of his opened ribcage. Ludwig picked up Volger's old torch and pressed the flame to the dry wood. Within moments the stacks were ablaze and the carcasses of the dead disappeared behind an orange inferno, finally put to rest. Ludwig sighed. Perhaps he envied them a little too much. Only in death could this madness end, only in death would he not have to face the sullen looks of the men he had failed, or look into the glassy visages of the men who had died for him. But that was not the way of Sigmar's disciples. Stagger on, he thought, and do what he had come here to do. * * * “Just one of you try it. You think you've got the balls?” The gaunt man stood there, fists raised, rocking on the balls of his feet, completely stark naked. “I'll have you all for supper, and then some”. The four thugs closed in, relaxed and cocky. The first kicked out at the nudist's legs with a heavy boot. The thin man dashed backwards, scuttled back in like a crab and caught the bandit's nose with a bony fist. The brigand fell backward, blood spewing from his crushed face. “Ha” the naked man roared. “Anyone else want to try me”. In answer two more came flying at him, thick arms outstretched. He dashed between them like a greased chicken, kicked the first in the back on the knee, span round round and butted the second in the back of the skull. There was a sickening crack and the man fell lifeless onto a table, sending tankards and playing cards flying. “Ha” boasted the exhibitionist. “Looks like there's only one of....” He fell back, head bursting with stars, pain spearing his brain. The fourth enemy had bludgeoned him from behind. What poor sport. He leapt upwards, sprang forwards, fell back again, gore dripping from his mouth. This one had more skill than the others. The attacker, a hulking, brutish creature with an impressive, ale soaked beard and a bangle driven through his nose lurched forward for the killing blow, cudgel raised above his big head. The naked man screwed his eyes shut, awaiting death. There wouldn't be much dignity in this. There was splinter of wood, or was that bone. Was it his bone. He opened his eyes to check. A massive, bald headed man in the robes of a warrior priest stood over the huge bandit's body, hammer smeared with fresh blood. “Ludwig, my friend”. “I've got a proposition for you, Errol, but first you must do me a favour”. “Anything for you my old mate” said the pale man, stick arms outstretched. “What do you request?” The priest scowled. “Put some bloody clothes on”. |
| QUOTE ("Sizzling Gromril") |
| A pair of barbed quarrels thudded into the man's body and he splashed into the wet street. “Errol!”. Ludwig sprang upwards, clambering over the crumbling wall like a cat. A gaunt hand grabbed his breastplate, pulled him down into the safety of the courtyard. “No, your grace,” pleaded Richter. “He must be dead. No man can survive such wounds. I swear I saw him take one in the throat”. The steward was right. Ludwig peered over the wall, wary this time, cautious as a prowling panther. Errol's naked body lay lifeless on the soaked cobbles, dark blood foaming onto his still chest from a grievous puncture in his throat. “Look, up there” the servant cried. A smashed building, side open and gaping, ruined masonry spilling down its flank as sand spills from a toppled bucket. A piece of glimmering rock lay on its middle floor: a piece of the heinous Bloodfane. “The bastards will pay” roared the priest. “I will see to it personally. Men, attack!” A shabby pack of starved, bedraggled, crippled men burst from the garden of a banker's house, bent swords raised, chipped hammers thirsting. More of those strange, serrated bolts whipped about them, inches from their faces. The crushed bricks of the desolated house broke to powder beneath their boots as they scrambled upwards, eyes fixed on that piece of tainted stone. Ludwig pounced, felt level ground, saw more men. His eyes lit up. A priest, a flagellant and a man bearing the necklace of the Templars of Sigmar. Allies, then. He lowered his hammers, calmed himself, and strode forward to greet them. “Die!” His counterpart, the yellow liveried warrior priest, charged at him like a beast, eyes bulging, lips frothing, shield and hammer raised above him, consumed with hate and rage. And then his expression changed. He staggered forward a little further. His limbs seemed to fall lower, as though made of iron, and then he slumped onto his face, one of those strange, serrated arrows embedded in his back. The rest of these new templars eyed their fallen friend, scooped him up and bolted away. “Wait, my friends...” But they were already gone. There was suddenly a bitter taste in Ludwig's mouth. It seemed that the heathens who had snatched Errol from him had now saved his life. Another weird shaft stuck into the the stonework beside his head, and the warrior priest called the retreat. * * * The box was made of a mundane wood, latticed with iron and embossed at the corners with a tarnished bronze. It seemed as normal a container as any, except for a grotesque face that was etched into the metal, leering up at Waldorf Kleev like an jealous nemesis. Even it, though, was unremarkable: human in every respect. The vicious crab-claw, once Kleev's right hand, smashed down into the box. He had smashed it half a score times, and half a score times it had resisted him, seemed to grow denser, harder, with every strike. “Fool!” That horrid, featureless face considered him from the shadows. How did the creature speak. Was there a mouth behind that sheet of bland flesh, eyes even, a nose, ears? The daemon hissed again, words dripping with malice. “The Chesssst of the Dead cannot be opened without the key”. Did the skin around the monster's jaw just move? “Go to the edge of this island, to where the cloudssss meet Hell, and to where the rockssss meet Heaven. I command you. Bring the key”.     |
| QUOTE ("frog") |
| Nethu lives in the great shadow of Lokhin Fellheart, his father. With a such prestigious father Nethu has always had to prove his place in the family. So he turned to the underworld, the secrets of one's soul within the land of the dead. He dabbled with curses and the essence of life within ones body. One of his trusted side comrades Morathi named after the great Godess of the dark elves, our beloved’s mother, helps Nethu with his dealing of this darkness, she is a powerfull sorceress and always stays at the side of her master, for she would give her life for his cause. The two of them first learned of Sartosa when there an influx of souls within the warp into the underworld, and wished to travel to the source to tap into the energy released by the souls who lost there lives there. To go to this dangerous ruined area, they recruited one of the finest retinues ever known. Among the group came two fellblades, Lhunara and Crone hellbon, are from some of the most noble family from the great army of Lokhin Fellheat. These fellblades live a life of strict martial training, who specialise in the way of the sword. Killing is a way of life for these two ladies. Kouran was the next to join the retinue, a great Beastmaster from beyond the Blackspine Mountains. Who is known for his sadistic manner of killing the weak and feeding them to his creatures… Nethu also brought a small selection of his finest warriors, who are renowned for the accuracy and their ability to create deadly alchemical poisons for their repeater crossbows. After the long voyage across the sea, pillaging any ship in site, burning them to the waves and relishing on the souls remaining. The warband sailed into this godforsaken city of Vercuso only to discover there was a lot more value within the walls of the buildings that lay there, but never forgetting their ultimate goal, more souls to reap for there dark magic they were conjuring. |
