Title: Animosity Three Campaign
Description: Final Fluff
Draig - December 8, 2008 11:08 AM (GMT)
Well A3 was a blast and my thank go out to fauthsie and Goomb for putting on an excellent show. For those who don't know Animosity III was the third of Da Warpath's online campaigns, this one set in Araby. Head over to The Mainsite
to see the final map and graphic and to The Forums
to read about the fallout.
I won't ruin the surprise just yet, but here is the epic final fluff update in its entirety to give you a taste of what you missed if you couldn't make it over.
Prior to the last turn the Araby Reclamation Pact (Bretonnians and Wood Elfs) were hard pressed by the Imperial Merchant Council (Mostly Empire) who marched on the capital, Lashiek with the deposed former ruler at their side. The Covenant of Shadow (Chaos and Skaven) had been almost driven from the map after a superb assault in the South and the Army of da Godz (Orcs, Ogres, Trolls and Tomb Kings) had quietly amassed an empire in the mountains.
Draig - December 8, 2008 11:09 AM (GMT)
Part I - Lashiek
‘Hard times these are indeed, hard times but we fight like lions to hold onto what is ours and to hold onto who we are. The coming battle will be long and difficult, make no mistake, but I ask you this. Would you have Araby in the hands of a traitor king? Would you surrender to those who seek to advance by force of arms against a city ravaged by sickness, by storm and by darkness? Of course not, and what others will not do we must. This invasion must be thrown out by force of arms and of will for we will not bow down to darkness. So we will stand and we will fight. We will draw a line in the earth and cry out to the stars that no enemy of Araby will cross it. We will give our last breath to keep them out and tell them that this is as far as they go, that Araby will never fall, that we will never surrender. For Araby! For Bretonnia!’
--- Evette Petres to the assembled forces of the Pact, before the battle of Three Kings.
Baluin stood over the Great Gate of Lashiek, watching as the last of the supplies were shuttled inwards and the gates closed with a resounding crash, the massive oaken doors shuddering and settling on their hinges as the bolts were engaged. As people swarmed around him, loading weapons, distributing swords and readying the defences his hand closed tightly around the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword as he thought back on the past five years. How had it come to this? He had stood by the boy, guiding him, teaching him, preparing him for what was to come and to have Tariq betray him cut deep. As he gazed out across the plains in silence five years of memories tumbled through his mind, rising up, overlapping, fading away and returning once more until all of it, all the blood, all the pain, all those friendships and promises all those dreams and ambitions compressed down to one single day, where the fate of Araby would be decided on the battlefield once more. It was on his shoulders. He was the Last Marshall of Araby and by the Lady he would do his duty. With a heavy heart Baluin turned, his cloak billowing behind him as he prepared to address his army.
‘My Lady it is time.’ Sir Siegfried said, smiling sadly. ‘We must leave.’
Evette sighed and look out across the ramparts. Before her the snowy-white banner of house Petres trembled in the breeze beside the blood red Banner of the Three Kings, the swirling trade winds making the standards dance and writhe in the clear morning air. To the West the sea was filled with Greatships, the oars clearly visible now as the Tilean fleet advanced steadily on Lashiek. Out across the plains, the ground itself trembling, she could see the full military force of the Imperial Merchant Council. Thousands of men, decked in red and white, advancing in disciplined formation. Spearmen and halberdiers to the front, two full companies of heavy horse snorting and prancing in the morning heat, flanked by archers and musketeers. To the rear, rolling forward behind draft horses was a battery of artillery. Great Cannons and Mortars by the score, the metal glittering in the sun, engineers scurrying to align their weapons as they drew a bead on the cities walls. Her city. Finally she had cast off the shackles of that absurd boy and claimed what was rightfully hers, but as she gazed out across the plains she knew that she could not hold onto it.
‘My lady?’ Sir Siegfriend said, starting forward until Evette raised an arm and smiled wanly at the Knight.
‘Our dream is dying and I cannot save it. Do not weep for me; weep for Araby, for should we fail today she will truly be lost.’
Field Marshal Jodas von Gövinhof sat behind a desk in his command tend outside Lashiek, couriers and messengers scurrying in and out with reports and deployment notices from the front line. He cast an eye over the map of the city one last time and sat down to write his final orders.
‘Ladies, Gentlemen, Officers, and Mercenaries of the Merchant Council,
Ulric has at last turned his cold face to the south, and we must finish what we have come here to do.
We stand before Lashiek itself; capital of Araby, the most profitable location in the land, and rightful possession of Tariq Abbas, Sheikh of Araby, who now stands with ten thousand Tileans, ready to take back his citadel. We are to aid him with every element at our disposal.’
He set the quill down. How to put it into words? How to sum up almost six months of bitter fighting, of loss and victory of glory and enterprise? He frowned. In the end, he supposed, he did not have to. It was enough that they were here, that in this moment that they had chosen to stand and to fight for what they believed in. What need had such men for the past? Picking up the quill he began to write.
By my estimates, some thirteen thousand men will advance against Lashiek from our end alone. It has been the greatest of honours to serve with and to command such men as yourselves. Many have given their lives to free Araby from the Pact. Today, we honour those who have given all, and we show ourselves to be as willing as they to give everything we have for the victory that we must achieve.
Sigmar be with us.
Field Marshal Jodas von Gövinhof
Setting the quill down one last time he rose and called for his horse, buckling his sword around his waist as he emerged from his tent and turned his eyes to the city in the distance. It was almost time.
Tariq gazed up at his home for the first time in a month. Soaring gracefully into the sky the walls of Lashiek seemed to reach into the heavens. He swallowed and looked back out across the plains, at the army that had ridden with him. Would they be enough? Had he done right? Attached to his banner was a white flag the snapped angrily in the gusting winds. Casting aside his doubts he turned his face to the gatehouse, his voice carrying despite the breeze.
‘Ho the gate!’ he cried out
‘Ho the field!’ came the reply.
‘Baluin is that you?’
‘The same. What have you come to say Tariq?’
The boy smiled wrily. ‘I have come to offer you one last chance to surrender. Your men do not have to die this day. The city does not have to suffer. Leave Araby, forever, and I will see you safe.’
‘What happened to you Tariq?’ Baluin replied. ‘What happened to our friendship? To all that I wished for you? Are you so ready to cast those dreams aside? So ready to rise up against those who kept you safe when darkness threatened?’
‘Your safety came at too high a price Baluin. Araby yearns to be free and I would see her released. You played your part and for that I am grateful but now you must leave Araby for what safety is worthy of the name if a country is not free to govern itself, to shape its own destiny? If you will not leave peacefully then I will remove you by force.’
Baluin sighed. ‘It is such a quiet thing, to fall, but fallen you are Tariq. If you would raise a hand against those who swore to see you safe, who bled under your banner to drive back the darkness then there can be no bargain between us.’
Tariq opened his mouth for a moment then closed it again and inclined his head, raising one fist to his head in salute before he turned his horse and cantered back to the Imperial lines. It was almost time.
The ship pitched and rolled in the turbulent sea, the sail billowing before the wind, the mast rising like a spear into the sky as the deckmaster called out the timing to the oarsmen. STROKE! Five hundred pairs of hand heaved as they drove the ship onwards. STROKE! The atmosphere on board began to build like a symphony. It wouldn’t be long now. STRO-. The ship heaved and listed to port, a deep rumble coming from beneath the hull as the Perugia beached on the sandy shore.
Drawing his pistol and his sword, Alfonti turned back to his men as he raised his weapon in salute.
‘This is what we have come for my friends. This is how we choose to earn our bread. Treat this moment as you would if your own home had been taken from you, if Tilea herself suffered and cried out for freedom. Let us watch the world burn once more!’
Vaulting over the side of the ship Alfonti hit the ground running. Looking upwards the sky flickered once and slowly darkened to a suffocating black as thousands of archers filled the air with an endless crowd of ebony shafted arrows that arced gracelessly above the beach, hanging for one aching moment before trembling and dropping down to earth. The sound was immense. A low buzzing hum, the drone turning into a roar as the arrows picked up speed, feathers vibrating in the air, the throaty rumble finally giving way to the seething crunch of arrowheads biting through skin and armour as fully five hundred Tileans fell to the floor, their bodies sprouting hundreds of white-feathered shafts.
Alfonti picked up his banner, saying a prayer for the fallen soldier as he planted it firmly in the sand, driving the pole deep.
‘This is the line!’ He cried ‘We do not fall back beyond this point! This is the line! Onwards! To glory and the turning of the world!
---Observations on the Battle of Three Kings by Johan von Kelmsburg, Forward Observer attached to the IVth Company, XVI Infantry of the Merchant Guard.
07:03 am. It began quietly. The flags fluttering in the breeze as the signalmen relayed instructions passed down the lines by coloured pennants and banners. It seemed like the army itself paused for one long moment, as if reluctant to begin the slaughter, until the cannons and mortars roared, their shells whining through the air to detonate against the walls thunderous explosions dislodging clouds of mortar. The noise is unfathomable. I am perhaps half a mile away and still my ears ring with the clamour. Jurgen von Bergkamp’s barrage is constant and the cannon fire in rotation, the machines hurled backwards by the force of the blast, their wheels carving great ruts in the earth. How can anything survive such an onslaught?
08:42 am. The barrage has been going for almost two hours, the mighty walls trembling under the assault until, finally, the Northern Gatehouse crumbled into dust. A pillar of smoke rises across the battlefield and there is silence for a moment.
08:44 am. Marshal Vekram de Crux leads his men into the breach supported by Lady Odrada’s Sisters of Sigmar and, I swear my eyes deceive me, Lizardmen! What signs are these when the servants of the old ones fight on our side!
09:11 am. The fighting at the gatehouse is brutal; men lie piled on the ground and the living hurl themselves at one another across the bodies of the dead. The Pact is hard set and of progress I can make no report.
09:37 am. Disaster. A massive counterpunch by the Pact drives our forces from the breach. The smoke is thick and I can see little. Precious few remain from our spearhead and I fear the breach may be lost.
09:59 am. Sigmar has answered our prayers! The Tileans are here! Thousands of them, resplendent in blue, their crossbows chattering as they slowly press on. Never have I seen such discipline in the face of death. They are surely inhuman for no sane man would willingly advance into the face of such slaughter.
10:23 am. Breakthrough! The Tileans have recaptured the wall aided by Marshal Van Koschumberg and Rembrandt van Haagen’s forces and the Marshal has planted the blood red banner of Tariq Abbas in the breach. Sigmar is truly with us on this day. The slaughter was terrible, and I pray I will be spared from its like again. I must alight to a better observation point if I am to record the capture of the city itself. Our men flood through the breach and I will join them!
Editor’s Note: Johan was killed entering the city and no further observations were recorded.
Miscellaneous Thoughts from the Field, being a portion of the unpublished memoirs of Leonard de Bauchamp, Poet, Bretonnian, present at the Battle of Three Kings.
We as a people talk much of duty and honour, of courage and of feats of arms but what I saw that day deserves to live on in the memories of any who happen upon this place in all the countless years to come and wonder with the insatiable curiosity that makes us human, what men lived and died within these walls?
I was trapped with other civilians with the forces of Marshal Baluin as he ordered the retreat into the Palace itself, fire in his voice. They came through the breach in their thousands. Tileans carrying crossbows, Imperial troops in scarlet. There was no panic, no fear from our forces. While I huddled in terror they formed a circle around us, driving back the enemy as we were shepherded to safety.
We poets ever seek to attach words to things. Valour. Heroism. Chivalry. But such things are labels, a means to grasp a concept that is lived but we cannot experience. In that moment, I saw what it meant to uphold those ideals, to live and to die for them, to face your fear and to overcome. I made it my duty to learn the names of some of these warriors, though many more fell, unrecorded on the battlefield. Sir Cai’s Desert Lions, Sir William, Sir Jacob the Bold, heroes all. But it was within the Palace of the Sheikh that I saw the fury of the Asrai unleashed before my eyes as we made our stand. While the Knights held the gate the Elves darkened the sky with arrows, their accuracy unfailing as they cut down any who tried to assault our walls.
Jodas ducked as a white-shafted Asrai arrow hummed overhead, embedding itself in the timber frame of a ruined building with a hollow twang, fletching trembling. To his left the IVth rifle company returned fire, their faces and hands blacked by powder, but they were pinned down in a row of derelict houses and were getting nowhere. The Pact had fallen back to the Palace after the outer wall fell and his forces could not get close enough to make a serious assault. Raising his arm Jodas summoned a runner, the boy arriving swiftly, his tunic torn to shreds and covered in dust, his head bleeding through a hastily wrapped bandage.
‘Bring me a white bed sheet, whatever it takes’ Jodas barked. ‘And find Alfonti! I would speak with Baluin.’
Draig - December 8, 2008 11:10 AM (GMT)
Part II - Bardouk
‘Build me a castle that will be the envy of Araby. Build me towers and spires that reach for the sky. Build it from the finest stone and let all who see it marvel. Build me something, extraordinary.’
---Gilles la Bressauex to his architect at the conception of Bardouk Keep
‘Make meez sumfin zoggin big an ‘splodey!’
---Admiral Azzhata to Trazgit, his monocle git.
Wurrzag squatted at the cliff-edge, the first spidery lances of the molten morning sun beginning to creep over the horizon as he turned his eyes to the fortress below. Nestled at the base of a mountain valley Bardouk slumbered, the ground dropping away to a smooth plateau where the Fortress rose up majestically, banners snapping in the breeze. Wurzzag paused for a moment, the anticipation building within him. Perhaps this was the battle. Perhaps the Git would be found at long last. Wurzzag was getting old and he did not have long left. The Gods had shown him the way but he had to fulfil his end of the bargain before it was too late. The heat was building as the sun rose higher, creeping into view above the jagged peaks and as he clambered into the saddle, his joints creaking with age, Wurrzag smiled to himself. It was time.
Shattering the silence with a resounding cry he dug his heels into Sawtoof’s flanks and leaned forward in the saddle, feeling the taut rippling of muscle and sinew beneath him as the powerful animal surged forward. The sibilant hiss of the creature’s escaping breath was punctuated by a regular percussive thud that reverberated through his ancient body as the thundering boar made contact with the ground, sending small shivers of adrenaline racing up his spine. Lowering his staff towards the Keep in the distance he roared again, his guttural war-cry carried by the light morning breeze to echo across the mountain pass. Behind him, the better part of five thousand Greenskins took up the cry as they poured down the gentle incline, the clouds of dust thrown up into the air by the clattering hooves and pounding feet shrouding the clear morning sun in a hazy, choking cloud.
It was then, released like an escaping breath that the Fortress sang to one almighty note and all at once the air was filled with a hissing, seething buzz as an immense flock of black-shafted arrows arced gracelessly across the ruined walls, jostling for position like a crowd of angry ravens. Along the city walls, the creaking groan of trebuchets rang out as cottage sized hunks of masonry whistled upwards into the sky. Wurrzag grinned.
Tarlen sighed and tucked Gretsie awkwardly under his arm as he grabbed a passing Goblin by the scruff of the neck and hauled him bodily off the floor, the pitiful creature dangling in the air, its legs still pumping until it realized its feet were no longer on the ground.
‘Um… hi boss! I woz just…’ the Shaman began.
‘Shut up git’ Tarlen roared stuffing something heavy and smelly in the Goblin’s hands, his face pressed close to the small creature. ‘Dis ‘ere is Gretsie. Dere is only wun rule wiv Gretsie. GRETSIE. DOES. NOT. GET. URT. Got it? If she doez I iz gonna come find ya!’ Tarlen’s face took on a manic grin as his teeth glittered in the rising light ‘Youze dun want dat git, trust me…’
Gitgit nodded and burbled something incoherent, looking down at the crudely sculpted dung idol in his hands but Tarlen was already moving, bellowing orders at the top of his voice as Greenskins, Ogres, Trolls and Dead’ Unz swarmed down from the mountains in their thousands, parting around him like a boulder in the ocean as they descended on Bardouk. As they neared the walls massive boulders began to fall among them, crushing whole regiments and sending broken bodies funnelling upward into the air from the force of the impact. Tarlen nodded. It had begun.
Trazgit cuffed one of his helper grots and adjusted his monocle as he made a few last minute adjustments to the sprocket deroundinator. He was south of the keep at the crest of a gentle incline that ran down via a smooth dirt track to the gate of the keep, the huge oaken doors reinforced with polished brass lions and studded with silver nails. In front of him was a colossal siege engine, the Boomb-Boom-Fing, the ramshackle construction fully three stories high, the front shaped into a massive ram sharpened to a wicked point while every available space was packed with barrels of Dwarven gunpowder. As Trazgit flailed his arms around his assistants removed the blocks that restrained the wheels and the machine groaned once and began to edge forwards. He shouted some last minute encouragement to the two goblins he had volunteered to operate his latest contraption as the engine began to pick up speed, rumbling towards the gate of Bardouk Keep.
Perched inside the cockpit as the Boom-Boom-Fing began to hurtle down the slope Snaggit looked down in dismay at the vast array of levers and ropes in front of him realizing that none of the instructions he had received seemed to make any sense. Where was the pre-trigger ratchet clamp?
‘Which wun woz it ee said to pull?’ Snaggit wailed in panic.
‘I dunno git you iz da zoggin pilot!’ Zoggoff shouted back ‘Just zoggin pull sumefin’ den jump! We iz almost dere!’
Snaggit closed his eyes as the gargantuan machine bounced and rattled down the incline, creaking and groaning under the stress, shedding nuts, bolts and planks of wood as it rumbled onwards towards the gate. Muttering a prayer to Gork he reached out his trembling hand and pulled the red lever. As a deep throaty clank came from the machine he had just enough time to open his eyes and turn towards Zoggoff, a large grin plastered over his face before the titanic explosion rippled through the siege engine. Zoggoff’s last sight as he was propelled skyward, screaming at the top of his lungs, was a rapidly shrinking castle surrounded by a heaving swarm of bodies before he ran out of breath and began to fall.
Hénry was thrown to the floor, a shockwave driving the wind from his body as he slammed into the cold stone, his ears ringing as the flagstones scored deep marks in his shield as hunks of masonry began to rain down, larger rocks exploding on impact while the smaller ones pattered off his armour. He blinked, waving his gauntleted hand in front of his face to clear the clouds of dust that filled the air, the colour draining from his face as he scrambled to his feet. The southern wall was gone, and through the gaping pile of rubble all he could see were greenskins, stacked back towards the mountains. Hauling his son to his feet he bellowed at the top of his voice.
‘The walls are breeched! Fall back! We will buy you time, you must protect the refuges, fall back!
Wurrzag sighed as the Army of Da Godz began to retreat, the whooping Orcs, Goblins and Ogres picking over the ruins and the outer walls for loot as the sinking sun began to swathe the landscape in darkness. They had ripped open the fortress but they could not penetrate the keep itself. Again and again Tarlen had hurled his forces against the massive stone walls. Again and again the Pact had thrown them back. The base of the keep was littered with a wall of bodies, twenty foot high, Greenskin, Bretonnian, Ogre, Troll, Undead all of them trampled into the ground as the Army of the Gods surged forward against walls. Spider riders and Wyverns of the Itchy Skab tribe clambering over the walls, the percussive rumble of Gory’s Thundermace crashing into the door of the keep, thousands and thousands of disparate Greenskin voices howling their anger and their fury at the skies. But it was not meant to be.
Wurzzag ground his teeth in frustration. There was not enough time. With winter approaching the Waaagh! was beginning to dissipate. Already he could feel it slipping away from him, the raw animal energy bleeding from his body as the aggression seeped out of the attacking greenskins and they began to scuffle amongst themselves, drifting back to their tribes and villages in the mountains and abandoning the crippled Keep.
Leaning wearily against a boulder he looked down at the ground and blinked. The massive projectile was embedded in the ground and had clearly made short work of some unfortunate Shaman. Only an arm was visible, emerging from under the boulder as though thrust desperately out of the way of the descending rock, something grasped firmly in its fingers. Wurzzag grinned.
‘Gretsie! Wot iz you doing down dere! I told Tarlen to look afta ya.’
Scooping the idol into his hands and slipping her reverently into his saddlebag Wurrzag nudged Sawtoof in the ribs and turned his back on Bardouk as the molten sun began to bleed into the sea, lances of amber light setting the sky aflame. Maybe all was not lost after all. There was bound to be a power struggle over the winter as the remaining Bosses tried to unify the Waaagh! once more and perhaps the Git would emerge after all. Nodding to himself Wurzzag disappeared into the darkness muttering softly to himself.
Draig - December 8, 2008 11:11 AM (GMT)
---From the History of Araby – Vol. VIII – ‘An Endless Dawn’ by Kristoff Haamar
In the South the Covenant made its final play, sending their forces against the Temple of the Eight Winds. Stretched thin beyond measure the Pact did all they could to defend it and managed to hold the inner sanctum of the Temple against all comers. The Covenant threw everything they had at their former stronghold, their troops arriving via an underground Skaven tunnel dug by Morgoth’s tunnel team but in the end they did not have the manpower to completely wrest control of the Temple from the Pact. Despite everything, despite the machinations of Lord Har’kai and Nihl Vesica, despite their furious advance, the Covenant was broken, their power is the South crushed under the weight of Marshal Baluin’s Crusade. Retreating to the East to lick their wounds, an Empire that had once stretched clear across Araby was reduced to a few scattered territories in the desert and their days as a power in Araby were at an end.
But it was the battle at the gates of Lashiek that decided the second Great Arabian War. The combined Imperial and Tilean forces would eventually break through the main gate, sweeping the beleaguered Pact defenders back through the city as more and more men flooded through the breach. The city hung in the balance and it was only when Marshal Baluin gave the order to fall back into the Palace itself that the tide began to turn. The defenders managed to secure the Palace, Lord Maithu’s Asrai bowmen preventing anyone from mounting a serious assault on its walls. The Pact hung on doggedly in the face of overwhelming odds as they days began to shorten. Men began to fall, each one more precious than the last as the Pact’s numbers dwindled, but their sacrifice was not in vain.
Recognising the desperate nature of the situation with winter fast approaching a truce was declared and the Treaty of the Three Kings was signed by Marshall Baluin, Tariq Abbas and Count Alfonti outside the Palace of Lashiek. The treaty changed the face of Araby forever. Tariq Abbas was reinstated as Sheikh and Araby was deemed independent of Bretonnian rule. The Pact was allowed to remain, as citizens of Araby, its military force disbanded and returned to Bretonnia under the supervision of Evette Petres who was accompanied to her homeland by the loyal Sir Siegfried. The rebuilding of Lashiek began in earnest though it would be two full years before the city came to resemble its former self.
The Pact as a military and political entity ceased to exist that day. Loosing control of the Temple of the Eight Winds, Bardouk and Lashiek in the closing days of the campaign was a devastating blow and though they still contested those areas as autumn turned to winter, their powerbase was broken.
The Imperial Merchant Council, its job done, scattered. Agents and Merchants remained behind, helping to oversee the reconstruction of Lashiek and were pivotal in re-establishing many of the old trade routes that once ferried silks and spices to the Empire and beyond. Their control of the North and the lucrative trade routes that came with it ensured that they went home wealthy men as well as securing a pivotal place in Arabian history for their daring advance on Lashiek in the final days of the campaign.
But it was the Army of Da Godz, against all expectation, who had amassed the largest amount of territory and who held sway when the final tally was assessed. The war in the mountains and, more importantly, at sea under the watchful eye of Kaptain Blacksquig, gave them a victory that would not easily be forgotten. Engaging the Pact Navy at the behest of the Imperial Merchant Council Blacksquig and Admiral Azzhata managed to amass a sizable empire at sea and presented the new government with its first serious challenge as autumn turned inevitably to winter.
Draig - December 8, 2008 11:12 AM (GMT)
Epilogue – A New Dawn
Daan van der Grast whistled an eerie Bretonnian ballad as he ambled through Lashiek’s broken harbour, his thumbs wedged in the pockets of his ample doublet. Already the clean up had begun, the vast quantities of stagnated water had been drained and the rubble and debris cleared from the streets. His new office on the harbour-side was already a hive of activity and the coin had begun to flow in staggering quantities.
Smiling he turned his eyes to the sea as the sun began to sink peacefully into the water, the rippling waves flecked with delicate golden crests. It had all worked out in the end, he thought and now anything was poss… Daan blinked and swallowed hard, his breath catching in his throat as he tried to move his legs. A dull ache radiated out from his back turning into a fiery pain as it lanced through his body. Behind him a honeyed voice whispered softly in his ear as his hand began to tremble.
‘I am sorry it has to end this way my friend, truly I am, but you have served your purpose and there is but room for one of us in this new dawn.’
Daan slumped to his knees, the throbbing pain spreading down his side like spilt liquid, his body trembling as blood seeped quickly from the open wound, staining his tunic a deep shade of crimson. As he tumbled wordlessly to the floor he saw the lean, bearded face of Kali Babbas for the briefest of moments as his eyes closed one last time onto darkness.
Groznit Goregut - December 8, 2008 01:46 PM (GMT)
Sweet! Victory for the underdogs! I'm quite surprised by it. I can only wonder what would have happened if we had gotten the Sheik?
Excellent job on the campaign. My helmet is off to you gits.
I'm really glad we stuck with the plan and went for the mountains. If we had gone off to burn cities, we would only have been marginal. The fact that we stuck to the original idea and consolidated our power while everyone else was fighting over the cities, we won.
Warboss Dragoneye - December 8, 2008 06:26 PM (GMT)
Of course, we would have denied the IMC points for controlling their city... Ahh, never mind, too late to burn Al Hadok now. It all worked out good.
Wonderful fluff once more, Boss. This was a great campaign!