SEARCH RESULTS

A dark cult rises in the Empire. Two killers enter a village in Ostermark with murderous intentions. A woman is reborn into darkness... An eclipsed sun hovers above the Red Boar Inn on the outskirts of Schalzburg, a town of eastern Ostermark under the shadow of the Worlds Edge mountains. Two hooded figures walk through shadow towards the door of the inn. As the first walks in, the second hesitates to look around and check no one is watching, before walking inside as well. The inside decor of the Red Boar sums up the village itself. Old. Set in its ways. Uninterested in the modern styles of Altdorf or Nuln. The inn is quiet, with only 3 people inside. The barman leans on his side of the bar. A old farmer, still smelling to high heaven in his work clothes, sits at the far end of the bar staring into his ale. The Barman’s wife sits at the opposite end of the bar, going through inventory lists and receipts that are spread over the bar’s wooden surface. Each villager looks over as the two hooded men enter the pub. The younger of the two men lowers his hood but his bearded companion doesn’t. They walk up to the bar and sit at stools in front of the Barman. 'Evening sirs. what will it be?' The young outsider points at a barrel of local ale next to the barman and holds up 2 dirt-stained fingers. 'Coming up.' replied the barman. The Barman picks up two tankards and starts to fill them slowly in an uncomfortable silence as the young outsider looks around the pub, inspecting it. The bearded man glances at the Farmer, as if expecting him to do something. 'This is a nice inn. For what it is.' said the Young Outsider The Barman glances at the Outsider as he pours. A surprisingly unreasonable statement. Antagonistic. 'Are you the owner?' asked the Outsider. 'Myself and the wife. It was her father’s place. Before he passed.' answered the Barman. He nods to the woman at the end of the bar. The Wife. The Outsider looks over and she stares coldly back at him. These people are clearly not the ‘type’ that this couple want in their nice country inn. 'Sorry for your loss.' said the outsider without a fraction of sincerity. The wife, unflinching, just stares the man down. The Outsider smiles . 'I’m sure he was a saint.' The barman glares at him but calms himself almost instantly. Through long experience with dealing with rudeness in his profession, he ignores the comment and continues pouring. The Quiet Man, sat next to the younger outsider, turns in his seat to fully face the Farmer, almost daring him to turn and look at him. The farmer continues to avoid eye contact. 'So you grew up here? The both of you?' asked the Outsider. 'Born and bred.' Said the man behind the bar. The Barman places the first drink on the bar in front of The Quiet Man and starts to pour another. The Quiet Man doesn't touch it. Or even look at it. His eyes don't move from staring at the Farmer. The Young Outsider stares blankly at the Barman. The Barman just pours, avoiding eye contact with him. Both outsiders are adding an unnecessary tense atmosphere to the inn. 'Born and bred...I’d bet your friend over there is too?' The Outsider motions to the farmer. The Barman looks over at the Farmer and nods. The Farmer ignores them when they look over, clearly nervous of people. 'A close-knit community, I’d suppose?' 'You’d suppose correctly.' replied the barman, starting to lose patience. 'The type of place people never leave?' A strange way to phrase it. The Barman glances back at the man who is staring straight at him. Unblinking. 'You could say that. We almost upped roots... years ago. But the community here... The traditions.... The countryside. It’s everything we’ve ever needed. ' said the Barman, playing along to be civil. The Barman passes The Outsider his drink, placing it on the bar in front of him. The Outsider doesn't touch it. Or look down at it. He just keeps eyeballing the Barman and takes his time, sitting happily in the uncomfortable silence before talking again. 'It's the quiet that would get to me. Too much of it... tends to affect the mind.' said the outsider, tapping his temple. 'There’s enough goings-on to keep us busy.' said the Barman. The Outsider smirks again at that statement. 'Where are you lads from?' asked the Barman. The Outsider ignores the question, he looks over to the Quiet Man who looks back and nods. A message passed between them. The outside nods back before looking at the Barman again. 'Are you both working nearby or something?' asked the Bar keep. The Outsider takes an uncomfortable amount of time to just stare at the barman. Eventually he gently shakes his head with a blank expression. 'No. ' The strange aggressiveness of both men is quite unnerving. The Barman looks towards his Wife, who is staring intently at the two visitors. These guys are trouble. The Barman now looks awkward, he needs to be paid for the drinks and is unsure how to ask for it. After another toe-curling uncomfortable silence, The Outsider smiles. Faking forgetfulness. 'Oh... right.' The Outsider puts two coins on the bar. The Barman takes it and puts it in a small box of coins behind the bar as The Outsider watches him. He takes out some change and holds out a coin to The Outsider, who doesn’t take it. He just stares back at the Barman who puts the money on the bar in front of The Outsider instead. The two outsiders continue staring back at him. Not drinking their ale. Not picking up the change. The Barman looks over to the Farmer, for assistance if the situation was to turn bad. The Outsider, seeing the Barman's eye-line, looks towards the Farmer too, eyes projecting violence. The Farmer continues to avoid eye contact, looking into his drink when they glance his way. The Outsider then looks at the woman, but unlike the Farmer, she stares right back. She is clearly not to be messed with. 'Are you lads passing through or are you staying in town?' asked the barman The Outsider keeps the stare-off with the woman going as he talks. 'We’ll be staying a while.' 'If you haven't secured lodgings yet, I can recommend a good hotel. The Magnus. Its down the -' The Barman, pointing to the west and about to fire off some directions, stops when he sees The Outsider smirking and slowly shaking his head. The Barman’s sentence trails off, confused at the man's attitude. 'Are we done with the pleasantries? ' asked the Outsider. 'I'm sorry? ' The Quiet Man steps off his stool and looks like he is going to walk out. But he gets to the door of the inn, looks out and closes the door with him still inside. He locks it and turns around. Blocking the door. The Young Outsider starts to address everyone at the bar, but stares at the Barman. 'You know why we’re here. ' 'I'm sorry... I don't know -' The Barman goes to continue but The Outsider pulls out a steel short sword from under his long jacket and places it on the bar. It has clearly been used recently. That stops the discussion in its tracks. The Outsider then puts his finger to his lips, encouraging the Barman to be silent or more interruptions will be answered with violence. 'Now...One of you will be walking out of this place alive. ' He holds up a single finger. 'One of you.' The locals exchange shocked glances. 'The other two... who decide to follow your traditions and keep your secrets...will be dealt with by my brother. And it will be, well...' The Quiet Man, at the door, pulls a huge two handed broadsword out from under his cloak. '...Brutal.' The Barman sees the huge sword and holds his hands out. Submissive. The Farmer stands up off his stool and backs away towards the wall behind him. 'And your remains will be left here when we burn this village to the ground.' concluded the Outsider. 'Ok son...i'm sorry but i'm going to have to ask you to -' The barman starts before being interrupted by the outsider again. 'Can any of you guess the questions I’m going to ask?' The barman looks at the wife again. She just stares back at the outsider like he is an insect. 'Because I think you can.' The Outsider looks back to the Barman and his demeanor changes from cold, steely confidence to raw emotion. Rage. Bubbling underneath. Trying to be kept in check. Tears swell up in his eyes but his fists clench, signalling danger to everyone in the room. He has been wanting, needing, some answers for a long time. The locals look like they don’t have any idea about what he is talking about. 'You know what we’re looking for. One of you is going to give me some answers right now and you get to walk out of here. The others... will not.' The Barman and the Wife look at each other - and then over to the Farmer. The Outsider sees the couple looking at the weak link in the room and smiles. He looks towards the Farmer too. 'You. It's going to be you.' The Quiet Man behind them steps closer to the Farmer, broadsword at his side. The Outsider nods his head towards the couple behind him. 'These two? They are going to stick together. You’re the wild card here and they know it. So you’re going to tell us what we need to know. If you do, you get to go home. If you don’t... My brother is going to chop you into mush. Here. Now. Understand?' The Farmer looks to the couple, who are silently pleading with him to not say a word. He looks at the exit door behind the bar. The Outsider shakes his head. 'Don’t be stupid. We blocked the back door. There’s no way out of here unless we let you out.' He stares at the scared farmer, waiting for an answer. The Barman tries to plead with these people. 'Sir...you’re...' The Outsider turns on the Barman, his real emotions coming to the forefront. 'SHUT YOUR PIG MOUTH OR I’LL CUT YOUR EYES OUT!' He picks the sword off the bar and points the weapon at the woman sat on the table. 'And you can listen in the dark as I make your wife bleed.' Backing away, the Barman steps back as far as he can until he hits the glasses lined up behind the bar. The Outsider is becoming more and more emotional, realising this is an opportunity he has been looking for for a long time. 'Even if she’s dead, you are going to tell me where her body is. Dead or alive, we are taking her home. Then you are going to tell us where to find the people who took her.' The Farmer can’t talk. He looks terrified. The Outsider’s patience is running out and he stands up off the stool, holding the blade at his side. He stands in front of the barman, like a coiled snake. But he lacks composure. His rage is now burning. 'Do not doubt me. If I’m met with silence when I count to three, someone is going to die. Tell. Me. Where. She. Is.' The Outsider stares towards the Barman with deadly intent. The Quiet Man looks ready to kill the Farmer. 'Sir...please!' begs the Barman. 'One.' Stepping towards the Wife, The Outsider looks for fear in her eyes. She however, doesn't flinch. The Quiet Man holds out the axe in a two handed grip. Ready to swing at the Farmer. 'Gentlemen, I'm afraid you're mistaken...' 'Two.' The Outsider holds out the blade in front of the wife’s throat. Again, she doesn’t move. '...That little bitch would have been cut open hours ago. ' That stops the counting. The Quiet Man turns and looks at the Barman, shocked. The gentle-seeming Barman now stares back confidently, coldly. He’s proud of his words. The Farmer chuckles quietly at the comment, cheekily, like a child hearing his first dirty joke. The Outsider looks at the woman and she is smiling devilishly. '...and her filthy remains would have been burnt to ash.' The Outsider looks like he is now shaking with rage but final confirmation that the girl he is looking for is actually dead has visibly hit him hard. The Quiet Man shows it too. 'Oh...but the things she would have seen...' said the barman with a smile The Outsider looks over to The Quiet Man. Who nods. Let's do what we came here to do. '...Wonders. The Deliverer is creating another masterpiece.' The Barman talks with delight in his voice, as if describing the best food he’s ever tasted. The locals and outsiders exchange looks without moving. A standoff. Grips on weapons tighten. Beads of sweat on foreheads. Eyes shift from one person to another. A wolf howls in the distance. The woman grips a sharp quill she was using. The Barman’s hands creep towards a knife behind the bar. The Quiet Man looks over to The Outsider. Nervous. Becoming unsure. The Farmer, seeing The Quiet Man distracted, suddenly dives for the broadsword and grips the man's wrists that hold the weapon. A mistake. The Quiet Man is too quick for the older man and he swings the blade upwards, cutting off the farmers hands at the wrist, making him scream. As soon as the Farmer pounced, The Barman reached for the knife and starts to run around the bar to meet The Outsider head-on. Before he can get there, his Wife jumps at The Outsider, stabbing out with her quill and sharp fingernails but The Outsider deflects her, grabs her and turns her around - Holding her in a one-armed choke hold from behind, as he holds out the shortsword in the other hand, pointing it towards the Barman. This makes the Barman stop in his tracks before entering the fray. Screaming, the Farmer looks at the bloody stumps are the end of his wrists but as he does, The Quiet Man push-kicks him to the ground. The Outsider holds the wife in a vice like grip. Behind him, The Quiet Man is now chopping at the grounded Farmer, like he is making firewood at record speed. The screams from the Farmer are horrific until they fade away and all they hear is bones crushing, blood squelching and flesh mushing with every last chop until The Quiet Man is too tired to raise his arms anymore. With furious tear-filled eyes, The Outsider confronts the Barman as he holds his wife prisoner with the billhook blade now at her throat. 'WHERE IS SHE?' The Barman, scared of what could happen to his wife, stands dumbstruck, holding out his hands to urge him to stop. 'TELL ME WHERE SHE IS!' The Barman doesn't say anything. He looks at his wife. She shakes her head. Their secrets are more important. 'No? Open your mouth lady.' The woman refuses. He grabs her tighter and blood starts to drip from the edge of the blade at her throat. He shouts into the side of her face. 'I SAID OPEN YOUR FUCKING MOUTH!' She reluctantly opens her mouth. With a horrible scraping noise of metal against tooth, The Outsider forces the blade of the short sword between her teeth and looks at the Barman as he does it. The woman's expression changes and finally looks with helpless eyes to the Barman. 'WHERE IS SHE?!' The Barman just shakes his head at his wife. The Quiet Man steps forward, getting between The Outsider and the Barman, who now won't be able to stop them if he doesn't talk. 'TELL ME OR I START PULLING!' The Barman refuses to do it. He looks crestfallen and gives his wife an apologetic look. The Outsider, beyond angry, has had enough. 'Say goodbye. ' The Outsider pulls the blade towards him, through the woman's cheeks and jaw. He doesn't stop pulling. The barman listens to the gurgling screams of the woman in horror. Her arms are fighting The Outsider at first, hitting his shoulders and arms behind her, but they eventually drop when he pulls with one more yank of the blade and severs her neck. The screams stop as soon as her arms drop. After a few final saw movements, the woman's body collapses to the ground like a ragdoll. The Outsider holds out the top half of the woman's head in his hand and he throws it away. 'You stupid whore-spawned filth.' Said by the barman with venom. 'Start praying to that depraved God you believe in.' said the outsider, stepping forward to finish the barman. But in his rage, fixated on the Barman ahead of him. The Outsider and the The Quiet Man hadn't seen the men in strange robes enter the room behind him. Two of the robed men steps forward and hit The Outsider with a cosh and they both hit the floor hard. knocked out cold. The Outsider wakes up for just a moment by his own swaying movement. He manages to open his eyes slightly. Still dazed and concussed. He sees he is on a cart pulled by a horse moving through some woods. The cart is surrounded by the men in strange robes. He touches his head, feels the blood at his the back of his head and falls back into unconsciousness. He wakes again when he is being dragged through some woods. He manages to open up his eyes for a moment and he sees strange people gathered in the woods preparing for a ritual of some kind. Their skin is covered in a white powder. Some seem to be conducting strange surgery on each other in religious fervor. Flaying the skin from an arm. A leg. A back. But without pain. With eye-closing pleasure. He falls into unconsciousness again. The Outsider opens his eyes, awoken by the loud squawking of ravens. Painfully, he rolls off his back and gets onto his knees. He looks up in horror when he sees what was behind him. He is kneeling in front of a huge twisted tree with dismembered human legs and arms hanging from it by ropes. Sacrifices. The Outsider’s eyes widen with horrifying recognition, as he sees that his brother, The Quiet Man, makes up some of the body parts. His are the freshest. The Outsider struggles desperately but his hands and feet are tied with rope. He looks to his side to see a cultist step out of some distant trees, dressed in white and his skin completely covered in white powder. The man waves him over. Confused at first, The Outsider quickly realises the man is not waving to him at all but to two cultists behind him, who grab The Outsider by his arms and drag him towards the waving man. 'Get off me!' he manages. They reach where the man was and The Outsider sees he can now see that there are several other cultists gathered in a small clearing in the woods. The crowd of people parts, revealing a woman in a white robe being crucified - each of her hands are pulled out by ropes to two large trees either side of her. From poles in the ground behind her, several other ropes are attached to her ankles, back and head. These are not tied to her. Hooks are at the end of each rope. Each buried into her skin, pulling the skin backwards. The Outsider recognises who it is. 'Jessica! Jess, I’m sorry' The cultist behind him covers his mouth with a gag to stop his protests. Jessica turns to him. Strangely, she is not in pain. She looks at peace. 'It’s ok Marcus. It’s ok...' He screams underneath his gag. Begging her for forgiveness. He couldn’t save her. She smiles at him. '...I’m already saved.' The Outsider’s confusion stops him struggling. Why is she so calm? A cultist turns to his comrades. 'Loved ones...Prepare.' All the cultists kneel. Close their eyes. Wait. 'He will take away my pain. ' Said Jessica. All eyes of the gathering are closed. Except for The Outsider, who’s rage starts to turn to fear. There is suddenly a smell of Ozone in the air and his world starts to slow down. Dust in the air floats hypnotically in the rays of sunlight peeking through the trees. The Outsider looks down to see the hairs on his arm standing on edge. The air turns cold. He notices he can see his own breath. Looking up to the cultists, they breathe visibly into the air as well. He looks back to Jessica, still tied and crucified, with a look of ecstasy on her face. Tears fall from her eye and roll down her cheek. This seems to be everything she ever wanted. Stones and twigs start to vibrate before rising a couple of inches off the floor. Behind the crowd, a thick oil-like liquid drips on the forest floor from above. A pair of oil-covered bare feet with unnaturally white skin and strange tattoos float to the ground. The Outsider’s eyes widen, not believing what he is seeing. A strange hooded figure in black now stands between the cultists. A strange smoke seeps from the figures robes. The eerie individual arts to slowly walk forward. The crowd parts as the figure walks towards Jessica. She looks at him with loving, thankful eyes. All the Outsider can see is a mouth within a shadow from the figures hood, and paper-white mystically-tattooed hands with black talons for nails revealed from his robes. The colour of his skin is bright white but unlike the cultists, it is not powder. They are simply trying to look like him in reverence. 'Purpose...' The eerily whispered voice seems to come from all around them but the figure's mouth does not move as it speaks. The Outsider looks terrified of whatever this man-shaped thing is. 'Another seeks...purpose. To be delivered.' The figures stops in front of Jessica. 'But... with great purpose, comes sin.' Jessica begins to cry. Tears of happiness. A release from a lifetime of pain. 'The pride to strive for a better life... The greed to take what you need from a world that offers you nothing.' The Deliverer strokes the back of one of his beloved cult members that kneels next to him. 'Loved ones... Our Sin is our salvation. We embrace sin because it gives us opportunity... to seek forgiveness. ' He turns to the crucified girl. 'For if you do not sin, you cannot repent. And if you cannot repent.... you can not be saved. ' She looks at the Deliverer lovingly. Her saviour. 'They say you give yourself willing to Slaanesh. Are they right?' The Deliverer holds out his hands, palms upwards. For a brief moment, The Outsider sees strange black eyes burn into Jessica's soul as the figure concentrates. As he does, long gashes start to open across her skin from her outstretched hands to her shoulders, as if a sharp blade was slowly slashed across the skin of her arm. A waterfall of blood starts to fall from the wounds. The Outsider is having a panic attack, begging these people to stop. The girl closes her eyes and smiles. Instead of pain, she feels an unnerving orgasmic pleasure from it. 'Yes.' she moans. The Deliverer moves his hands the opposite direction and a bloody slice moves across the skin of her opposite arm towards its shoulder. 'Do you reject this vessel that corrupts your very being?' asked The Deliverer. As he says it, another bloody slice starts to move up from her toes to the top of her thighs, leaving blood pouring as it travels upwards. 'Yes.' she moans again. 'And what do you desire?' asks the Deliverer. Her blouse becomes red as a blood stain opens and moves from her genitals to her chest. The wound opens vertically up her torso. The wound moves up her pleasure-filled face and she hs to talk through blood pouring into her mouth. 'Ascension.' she replies. A cultist walks up to her and, with a knife, rips open her blood soaked blouse. The cultist steps back. The Deliverer holds out a hand to her. 'Then come to me, beloved.' Jessica opens her eyes again and looks lovingly at the Deliverer. Her foot moved forward, but her skin stays still. The bloody muscle and bone of her foot starts to exit its skin as if she was stepping out of a ripped sock. The outsider is forced to watch as her muscle-covered skull starts to push out of the skin of her face through the slice going down the centre of her head. He watches her slowly step out of her entire skin, leaving her former shell hanging in the ropes as her skinless figure takes a couple of steps forward. The Outsider screams under his gag. Tears streaming from his face. The Deliverer smiles, looking over to The Outsider and then back to her. The girl takes a couple of steps forward and her skinless muscled form collapses. The cultists quickly move forward and swarm over her. Like rats around meat. The Deliverer steps in front of them, blocking the Outsiders view and starts to walk over to him. Lowering himself down on his haunches to meet The Outsider’s eye level, he pulls back his hood to reveal his inhuman features - hairless, paper-white skin, purple veins seen under his rune-tattooed skull. His thick black eyes stare back at The Outsider and he reaches out a talon to lower the gag from The Outsiders mouth. The man doesn't have the energy to protest any more. She’s gone. Again, the Deliverer talks without his mouth moving is an eerie whisper. 'I wanted you to see.' The Outsider ignores him and tries to see what is happening to Jessica under the swarm of cultists. Are they eating her? He can't see through the crowd. 'You are wrong. This is not cruelty.... This is love. Pure, unselfish, love. Without obligation or guilt. Something you could not give her.' The Outsider looks over the Deliverer’s shoulder again. He sees movement. His eyes open wide in shock. From the arms of the cultists, Jessica stands up. Healed. Reborn anew. Totally unharmed. 'She is your property no longer. She belongs to no-one. She... is finally free.' She keeps her eyes on him as the cultists all kneel around her. She stands. Confident. Determined. Different. The cultists stand as one, put their arms around her and they start to walk away. She holds The Outsider’s look as long as she can before she turns and walks with them. The Outsider wants to call out but he knows that is no longer the Jessica he knows. He snaps out of it when a cultist drops his bloody short sword in front of him. The Deliverer sees it and knows what it has done. 'You however... are mine.' He holds his taloned hand out, millimeters in front of The Outsider’s face. Veils start to bulge in The Outsider's face, temples and eyes. In the Deliverer’s all-black eyes, The Outsider sees himself scream in their reflection. TO BE CONTINUED...

An emissary from Bretonnia is sent to the camp of a army of escaped slaves demanding that they show fealty. ‘This is not a kingdom and you are not a king.’ said the Bretonnian emissary. King Josef of the self proclamed 'Free People's army' leans back in his throne of furs in the huge royal tent of his camp that sits in land formerly owned by the Bretons. Josef smiles at the bravado of the man stood at the bottom of the steps to his throne. “You show little diplomacy for a diplomat, little man.” said the king. “Look around you Josef. This is not a royal palace. It is a tent. The palace of king Leoncuer has hundreds of servants, gold lines every wall, jewels sparkle along every ceiling. His personal guard wear full plate of shining silver and are the finest swordsmen in the world. Quite simply, it is a place suitable for royalty. ' The emissary was right, most kings wouldn’t be see dead in this dirty, undecorated campsite where his army resides. A Josef looks up to the dozens of Freefolk soldiers, councillors and guards lining the walls of the tent They all to a man look furious that this foreign diplomat keeps insisting on insulting their beloved leader. Seeing his people demand a reply to such insults, King Josef stands from his throne and walks down the steps towards the emissary. His hand rests on the pommel of the sword in his belt. The emissary’s four guards tense up. They each wonder if this so-called king would dare to draw his sword to a man who has arrived under the flag of parlay. Each guard looks around the packed room of armed soldiers, realising that if Josef does indeed draw his sword, they are not leaving this room alive. “Shall I tell you why my throne room lacks the stylings and comforts you are accustomed to?” said King Josef. The emissary doesn’t answer. The king points to his right. 'Do you see this man?' The emissary looks in the direction of Josef’s finger, to a crowd of soldiers dressed in chainmail. When they realise who their king is looking at, the crowd parts to reveal a tall young soldier with a particularly impressive broadsword sheathed at his belt. Although young, he is clearly a battle hardened warrior. The young man looks a little surprised to be singled out by the King. "His name is Lucas Vale. He is the son of a blacksmith. To you that may seem low standing but I knew who his father was. A man who forged weapons in secret... a crime our druchii masters deemed punishable by death if caught... to help free and protect his people. Without any promise of success or reward. He said he was just a man doing what was right. That is what I call ‘highborn’. The crowd all nod in agreement. ‘Highborn indeed’ said a huge red-bearded man at the back of the room. Lucas Vale, obviously emotional at the mention of his father, raises his chin to show how proud he is to hear the king talk of him in such a way. The king steps forward towards Lucas. "After years of planning, after the final uprising, we were just an rabble of starving slaves on the run through Naggaroth. We didn't know the land we had escaped into, so the army that was sent to hunt us down finally caught up to us at Moonpeak. Those of us who still had the strength to raise a weapon had to make a last stand for those who couldn't. We had to buy them time to get away. You should have heard the deafening charge of the elves emissary. It would chill the bravest of soldiers' bones." The room goes quiet. Most were there. They remember. " We weren't warriors. We were farmers, fishermen, miners. We knew our chances. But like his comrades, like all who stood on that peak, Lucas’s father Jonah fought like a lion. The crowd start to murmur loudly again and nod. Some say Jonahs name with reverence. 'I remember. I saw.' said the huge red bearded man agreeing with his leader. "With three dead elves lying at his feet, Jonah was eventually wounded when single handedly fighting off two dreadspears. Before they could finish him off, a young boy, who had secretly hidden to stay behind with the men, ran forward, picked up his father’s sword and stood in their way. ' Lucas Vale’s eye start to swell with tears at the memory. "They laughed at the lad. He looked ridiculous holding a sword almost as long as he was tall. But they soon found out that trying to put down a boy, born in chains but with fire in his eyes, was to be the worst and final decision they ever made" . The crowd let out a cheer of respect for Lucas. They shout his nickname. ‘Firechild! Firechild!' The king looks proudly at the young warrior. Twelve years later, a father was able to die old in his bed in a manner he deserved, thanks to the bravery of his son. Emissary, you say that brettonian solders have the best swordsmen in the world…I’m afraid those of us who watched that small boy stand over his father, and then grow more fearsome with every passing year, would say you have no idea how wrong that statement is'. The king clasps a hand on Lucas’s shoulder. 'Woe betides the man that raises a weapon to anyone that Lucas Vale loves or any he trains to wield a blade like him. Be assured Emissary, Lucas loves his people. And he now trains all of my soldiers. If they are half as good as he, I feel sorry for anyone who must fight a warrior trained by Lucas, son of Jonah. Am I right Freefolk? ' The crowd of soldiers applaud and cheer, those nearest to Lucas pat him on the back.. Lucas bows in respect to his King. The king nods back and steps deeper into the room, pointing at a whitehaired man stood at the wall. ' Do you see that older gentleman emissary?' Every one turns to look at the grizzled old soldier. 'His name is Kalen, a tactician who has turned swift victory into an art. At the Black River Raid, his force, outnumbered three to one, carved an impossible victory like none had ever seen before. Taking the Druchii fleet that eventually brought us back to these shores. He proved that sheer numbers is no match for skill, quick thinking and unshakable bravery.' The crowd start to shout support for their finest general. ' On that day, unlike Brettonian generals who sit at the back of their armies with their minstrels, Kalen drew his sword and led his men into victory himself. Because that is the kind of man he is. A man who will forever make us proud. A man who soldiers will follow into fire because they know when they stand beside Kalen, General of the Free Peoples, any hand that raises to take what is ours will be swiftly cut down. ' The crowd burst into roars of agreement, chanting Kalens name. No one louder than the large bearded man at the back of the room. The king points to him. The crowd is now being whipped into a frenzy. ' Do you see, and hear, that huge warrior at the back emissary? That is Ivan. Ivan…well….look at the size of him. Do not fuck with Ivan.' The room bursts into laughter. No one laughs louder than the nodding Ivan. The king sees someone in a corner. 'And do you see that woman?' The king becomes more serious, as he points out a short-haired lady in chainmail at the back of the room. 'I can only apologise to you emissary as that woman is the reason I hear your borders have become rife with bandits and druchii corsairs.' The woman looks bemused to why the King would single her out for ridicule. "After finally finding freedom, like most women, she was told she must become a seamstress, cook or a nurse maid to help our cause. Instead, she decided she had a higher calling. She decided to protect her people instead. ' The woman realises that she isn’t being shamed. Quite the opposite. She takes a step forward, out of the crowd. "Knowing that women were not allowed in the rank and file of the army, she instead formed border patrols with fellow female warriors who have since dedicated their lives to protecting our camps from outlaws. Since she became their captain there have not been any attacks on our settlements for over three years. Do you know why emissary? Because when that scum think about raiding our lands or hurting our people, they know that when they arrive…' The king turns back around from the Brettonians and points once more to the warrior woman. ' …Captain Loren will be waiting for them. ' The crowd nod again in agreement and respect for the captain. ' That gives them pause. And they realise raiding your borders is a better option than suicide.' More laughter. Captain Loren gives a grin and a cocky nod of her head. ' You say emissary, that your king thinks I am weak or undermanned because I finally decided to allow women into my army’s ranks. Well you can tell him, because of the actions of people like Captain Loren, I know, and my people know, that one freefolk woman is worth ten of his elite soldiers.' ‘Damn right’, bellows Ivan Captain Loren holds her head high after such praise from her beloved king. ' I think those named would all agree with me when I say they are not special cases among us – they are typical examples of the people who live in the camps where you stand.' Every person the king named nods in agreement. ' Do you think any of them give a shit about rugs, gold or servants emissary? Yes we are the an army of former slaves. You speak like we should be ashamed of that fact. You sir, are mistaken. Tell your king that we wear history on our sleeve with pride. It reminds us that all here were baptised in fire to live free. And now you are standing with the most experienced single army the world has ever seen. The handful of Petty border squabbles your most experienced generals have had, pales in comparison to the hundreds of battles we have fought across a decade and two continents for our freedom, our lives and the right to finally lay stone and build a home here for ourselves. When Bretonnia, The Empire, Marinburg and the damn border prices left us, their people, to rot in Naggarothi dungeons, I'd say we have earned right to refuse to give back this small carve of land no one was using anyway. From this moment until the end of time, what happens here is now no business of anyone else. Understand emissary, you come with threats but we are willing to die to protect what we have earned. ' The emisarry looks shocked at the slave Kings defiance. ' That is why my throne room is without the adornments you people crave so much. We only care about the condition of our weapons, the quality of our character and now the legacy of the land our children will be born free into'. The crowd shout agreements to support their king. 'Not the sparkly shit that you people are obsessed with. Tell that son of a tyrant that he may think he is a king proclaimed by the gods themselves... but i stand as king because our people request it until they find someone better. When they do I will stand by the new king with pride. ' Looking around the unadorned room, the emissary sees that unlike the unkempt soldiers, every weapon at someone’s side was in immaculate condition. It is obvious where their priorities lie. ' Tell your king that any foot that steps onto our lands with bad intentions will be swiftly cut down by the most fearsome warriors this world has ever birthed. He may have a hundred times our number...But my men appreciate the practice. ' The king draws his sword, making the emissaries guards reach for, but not draw, their weapons. The king stabs his sword into the ground. A challenge. 'Or.... if he would like to figure this out the old way and step into this room with his own sword drawn, I’d be happy to end any quarrel much faster without anyone else having to be involved. Now leave. Tell him I’ll be waiting.' The crowd starts to part as the Emissary and his guards turns to leave. The only person who doesn’t move is Ivan. His massive armoured form blocks the way of the Emmisary, who looks up to meet Ivans eyes. ' Boo!' The emissary nearly jumps out of his skin. Ivan lets out a thunderous laugh, followed by chuckles of the surrounding crowd. The Bretonnian contingent leave as swiftly as possible leaving the laughter of the Freefolk behind them. The laughter soon dies down and they all turn back to the Slave King who watches the Bretonnian leave his camp. 'Prepare. They are coming.' TO BE CONTINUED....

A former priest protects a very dark secret from the world.. In a farmhouse just outside Nuln, a middle-aged man has fallen asleep in front of the fire in the dark. Two empty bottles of wine sit on a small table next to his chair. The only sound in the quiet house is his drunken snoring. The fire suddenly goes out as if a huge wind just blew into the room even though all windows and doors are shuttered. The man awakes and looks around, confused in the darkness. He stands up and stumbles, underestimating how hard the previous evenings drink would hit him, and knocks over the side table. The glass bottles roll off and shatter on the floor. Trying to find his balance, he steps forward but steps barefoot onto the shards of glass. Screaming in pain, he hops back against the wall behind him and collapses down it as he grips his foot tight trying to stop the gushing blood. Cursing himself and his vices, he can see the mess he has made in the moonlight coming through the windows. A long trail of crimson leads towards him from the smashed bottles. As he stares at it, the blood starts to move across the ground. Come together. Form shapes. It starts to spell out words. How. Can. You. Live. With. Yourself. The man doesn’t seem overly scared of the supernatural occurrence, he just seems tired of seeing things like this. He looks to the trap door on the other side of the room that leads into his cellar. Looking back to the blood on the floor, he sees the writing has changed. You are going to die soon. He finally starts to look worried. A bucket of water stands next to where he is sat, so he knocks it over and the wave of water washes away the writing of blood. The man rips off the sleeve of his ragged shirt and wraps his foot. As he does, he looks at the now-red water spread all over the floor, expecting another grim message. However, no more words come. He stands up and limps his way to bed. Staring at the trapdoor as he does, expecting danger. Later, the man lies in bed in a deep sleep. His eyes start to twitch and roll under eyelids. His breathing becomes heavier. Faster. Terrified from the visions in his dreams. A figure in darkness. The back of a teenage boy sat on a stone floor. Chains lead from his wrists and ankles to the wall. As the dream becomes more lucid, the man rolls onto his back, breathing heavy. Reaching out with his arms, the strange boy starts to tug rhythmically on the chains on his wrists. Sweat starts to bead on the sleeping man's forehead. Uncontrollably, he grips his bed covers tight in his fists. As the boy pulls again and gain, the noise gets louder and louder. The man twitches as he unconsciously fights against the nightmare. The candles hanging from the ceiling start to melt and drip onto the floor around his bed. The bottles of water next to his bed starts to heat up and bubble. The boy in the dark room slowly turns and looks over his shoulder. Staring into Paul's soul. With the eyes of a daemon. The bottles next to The man shatters and bursts, waking him up with a scream. Sweating, he collapses back into the bed, trying to calm himself down. The next day, the man is dressed for working the fields and walks towards the door. He grabs a jacket off a hook and puts it on over his scrubs. Before he leaves, he looks back to the blood on the floor from last night and then to the ominous trapdoor. When man returns home at the end of the day, he flinches from a loud BANG noise when he steps into the house. Looking around, his chairs, tables, cupboards and all other furniture is wobbling slightly. Ss if they were floating a few inches off the ground moments before he opened the door. He hangs up his coat. He looks around his house, checking candles, checking the locks on the trap door, putting anything not in its place back where it is supposed to be. Obviously a daily routine. He finds no clear problems. He lights the fireplace. He sweeps up the glass from the night before and cleans the blood from the floor. Eventually he collapses into his chair, exhausted before shoveling down a bowl of porridge he had just made. Finishing, he opens another bottle of wine and settles down to read a book. His eyes become heavy very quickly and he starts to drift off. He starts to dream. The strange boy, still hooked up to chains, is now stood in the dark room. A voice in the darkness - but the boy's mouth doesn't move. 'Let….me…' The voice becomes distorted, terrifying and deafening as the boys eyes become more bloodshot. '...GOOOOOOO!' The world starts to shake like an earthquake. The man wakes up in his chair with a jolt. He wipes his eyes and rubs his neck, he fell asleep at an uncomfortable angle. After a few moments, his breath starts to be seen – the room is becoming colder. Hair on his neck stands up and goose bumps ripple across his skin. He notices his visible breath and starts to look alarmed. Looking up to the nearest window, he sees frost start to gather around the edges of the frame. He starts to hear a high-pitched ringing in his ears, obviously painful. He looks at the half empty wine bottle on the table next to him and the red liquid inside starts to tilt - As if the room was turning sideways. The wine steadily tilts to steeper angle. He looks over his shoulder to the trapdoor. 'Oh no.' He quickly stands up as the ringing in his ears becomes louder, more painful. The noise affects his equilibrium and he stumbles, reaching out a hand to a wall for balance as the ringing becomes louder. Reaching a cupboard, he moves some things out of the way to find what he is looking for. He wraps his face with a rag, covering his nose and mouth. He picks out from the cupboard a small vial with a purple powder inside and a small bucket of sand. The pain in his head becomes worse and he struggles to make it over to the trapdoor. Blood starts to trickle from his ears. He stumbles, landing on all fours. The ringing is almost deafening now and Paul's eyes starts to become bloodshot. The veins in his neck strains as he crawls desperately towards the trapdoor. Reaching it, he starts to unlock all the locks on the door in a frantic and painful effort and removes the bar from across it. The man lets out a painful scream, what is happening to him is becoming too much to take. He opens the door just a couple of inches and throws inside the vial with purple powder. He hears it shatter on the floor below. The man manages to lock just one of the padlocks before the cellar starts to fill with a thick purple smoke from the alchemists powder reacting with the air. With some effort, he tightens the rag around his mouth and starts to pour the sand around the edge of the trapdoor, sealing any gaps he sees wisps of purple gas escaping from. As he is doing so, he hears muffled screams from within the room and chains rattling as if someone is trying to break free. The man collapses, unable to do more and starts to scream from the pain. More muffled, furious shouts come from within the trapdoor and the frantic pulling of chains. Eventually someone inside stops struggling and, with a thud, whoever is in there hits the ground. Unconscious. The man stops screaming as the ringing and pain starts to subside, leaving an eeire silence after the storm. He is almost hyperventilating through his mask as he sits up, terrified, staring at the trapdoor. Scared of what is behind it. He lmost jumps out of his skin when a multitude of things hit the ground in the house around him – falling back to their surfaces after being forced to levitate from the ground. The man collapses on his back in relief when he realises everything is now fine. Once he catches his breath, he lights a rag on the end of a pole. He picks up a small pot of paint and a brush. Getting to the locked trapdoor, he places the paint down and ties his mask back on tight. He takes a breath to settle himself. Tentatively, he slowly opens the trap door a few inches and puts his eye to the slit. He can see nothing in the darkness inside. Paul throws the burning torch onto the stone floor of the cellar below. Taking another huge breath to settle himself, he picks up the pain pot and brush and steps down the ladder. Terrified, he slowly steps inside the dark room, lit an eerie orange by the torch on the ground. The stone room is totally covered in strange painted symbols - walls, ceiling, floor - all different but all essential. Some gas still hovers in the air and the man waves the whisps away from his face to see. In the far end of the room, an unconscious teenage boy in filthy clothes can be seen through the purple fog. Chains are attached to clamps around the boys throat, ankles and wrists. His mouth is covered with a leather strap. The only other objects in the room are a pile of hay, a foul smelling bucket and a child's toy. An wooden effigy of the emperor Karl Franz. It appears to have been smashed and mangled. The boy isn’t moving. The manquickly searches for the problem along the walls. He sees that a part of the wall has water dripping down it, a leak from above. The water has leaked down the wall and ruined two of the painted symbols. They are now broken and faded. 'Damn it'. The man quickly starts starts to paint over the ruined symbols. Adding the runes he had once been taught. Before he can finish, he starts to hear chains moving behind him. He freezes. The man hears breathing over his shoulder. Each breath sounds full of rage. Scared beyond terror, he looks over his shoulder to see the silhouetted boy in the orange light, stood up, looking at the back of the man. Both don't move. 'Drake… I need you to stay calm.' The man breathes heavy under his mask. Paul slowly starts to step towards the door. He stops and starts to hold his stomach. Pain. 'Drake… stop!' The boy just stands there staring at him. The man starts to moan. He drops the paint and it hits the ground spilling the white liquid across the ground Holding onto his stomach with both hands now, he falls to one knee in excruciating pain. 'STOP!' The boy just stares blankly at him, motionless. 'STOP!' The man, fighting and screaming, gets to his feet and sprints up the ladder. As soon as he escapes through the trapdoor, he pulls off his mask and vomits blood onto the floor before collapsing unconscious. Paul wakes up later in his chair. The sunlight of dawn creeps into the house. A look of fear falls over his blood-covered face when he looks up. The boy, covered in filth, stands in the doorway of the house looking out. Feeling the long-unseen sunlight on his skin. He stands with his back to the man. The boy’s body language gives away only one emotion. Rage. They stay in an uncomfortable silent moment before the man speaks with a dry throat. 'You might think that you were a prisoner here... but you know, deep down, I’m keeping you safe. As well as the people out there.' The boy, unimpressed with the little speech, picks up a bag of the mans things and steps out to leave. The man becomes more desperate. He can't let this boy go. Tears start to swell in his eyes. 'Don’t go!' The boy stops in the doorway. Listens. But doesn't look back. 'Those people out there looking for you…they will hunt you down and turn your gifts into a weapon they can wield. They will make you do unspeakable things. Every last spark of kindness, of humanity, that you have left inside of you will be…extracted. And eventually, they will have no further use of you. They will cut you open to see what the monster is made of. I saved you from that. I took you from that place. Here, I can keep you safe. Just like I promised your parents. Stay. Let's talk. Let's talk about how we can make this work...' After thinking about it, the boy makes his decision. He turns back to the man with hate in his eyes. Eyes with endless power. The boy watches motionless as the man's bones contract and break at impossible angles. A disgusting crunch and squelch signals the man's rib cage collapsing. The man cant even scream as he chokes on his blood before his internal organs rupture. The man's corpse is left sitting in the chair as blood starts to pool on the floor. The boy picks up the bag and leaves the farmhouse to start a journey that would darken the lives of millions. TO BE CONTINUED

A necromancer grows in strength. A suicidal woman isn't allowed to die. Her contract with her employer is for multiple lifetimes. Always check the small print. In the dead of a cold Middenland night, three robed men walk in silence along a country road on the outskirts of Drakwald forest. They walk in silhouette, lit by a single lantern held up by the man in front. Each man's breath is seen in the cold lamp light. They walk with purpose, time is against them as they rush to their destination. One of them hears horses coming up the road. 'Wagon' says the first man. Their leader. Each man pulls a hood over their head and they move to hide in the trees against the side of the road They extinguish the lantern before the stagecoach eventually speeds past. Continuing once it was gone, the men reach the entrance of an old pathway at the side of the road. The type of path in the woods that you would only notice if you were really looking for it. Two of the hooded men enter the darkness of the pathway. The leader looks in both directions, checking that no one has seen them, before entering the path himself and lighting his lantern again using a magical click of his fingers. Two more lanterns are switched on, illuminating the group and they walk deeper into the woods. The dark pathway leads them up a hill that looms above the town of Delberz. Harsh wind beats the three men when they finally stand at the peak. One of them looks down at the lights below, signs of life from the town. They give each other a look and the leader nods. ‘Let’s get this over with’. They face each other and take a few steps back. Each man places his lantern at his feet, making a triangle of lights. They all kneel beside their own lantern. With heads lowered, eyes closed and hands on knees, they look to be in silent prayer. The wind howls over the hillside as the men kneel in silence. Their breathing becomes strange. Quicker. Short. Suddenly, the world around them slows down. Ravens in the air slow to the pace of a snail. Dust in the air slowly starts to twirl around the lanterns. Veins in the men’s temples pulse. Eyes underneath eyelids turn and roll. Their visible breath in the air disappears, as their surroundings starts to warm up. Blood starts to creep out of their ears and down their necks. Eventually the world around them returns to natural speed with a jolt. The dust in the air slams outwards and into the sky in a single push. Their rapid breathing stops and becomes more measured. Their breath becomes visible in the air once more. Each man opens his eyes. They each stand up in a fluid motion, mirroring each other, staring at the ground between them as they do. 'Masks' orders the leader. The two other men pull out featureless white masks and put them on, covering their identities. Each mask is labelled, one with a circle, the other with a triangle, drawn on with blood that doesn't appear to be theirs. 'Circle' pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and starts to wipe the blood from his ears. The dirt between them starts to move. A figure pushes up out of the ground with a painful moan. A young woman. She takes a huge, deep, lifesaving breath as her face comes out of the dirt. As if she has just been saved from drowning in a deep lake. The young woman rolls onto her back, hyperventilating and moaning in pain as she looks up at the three men. The men in mask just look down on her with emotionless indifference. The leader smiles at her. Not with warmth, but like a serpent seeing easy prey. The young woman tries to catch her breath but can’t and she starts to weep, curling into the foetal position. They are not tears of joy - she is clearly angry at these men for doing what they have done. 'It’s alright. It’s alright.' says the leader with a soothing voice. The young woman shakes her head. It’s not alright. She manages to slowly and painfully get on all fours, then leaning up onto her knees. 'Take your time.' says the leader. She wipes dirt and tears from her face. 'How long?' demands the woman, spitting out soil as she speaks. 'Catch your breath Lina.' says the leader. 'How long has it been?' she asks with more vitriol. 'Just a couple of days.' he replies as he leans down to meet her eyes, sitting on his haunches. He passes her some water in a bottle. The woman snaps it out of his hand, furious but exhausted. Clearly needing water. She starts to drink with the thirst of a runner in the Araby desert, spilling most of it down the sides of her mouth as she desperately tries to drink as much as possible. 'Easy, girl.' She drinks too much and falls onto her hands and knees again, vomiting most of the water back up. 'We have food if you need it.' stated 'Triangle'. The young woman puts her head to the ground in despair, hoping this isn’t real. 'This isn’t right.' she moans. She looks up to the leader, speaking with fury in her voice. 'This isn’t right.' 'That’s not for you to decide.' 'I’ll just do it again.' says Lina. As she turns into the light of their lanterns, the leader sees the reasonably fresh wound sliced across her throat. 'We’d just be back here two days later.' says the leader with a chuckle. Realising she is never going to intimidate these men, she looks for mercy instead. 'Please. Please. Let me go. I can’t -' The leader interrupts, cutting her off. 'You signed a contract. You have to honour it.' She nods. Surrendering. Knowing exactly who these people are and how they will never let her go unless she submits. Triangle and Circle pick her up, each taking an arm pulling her up to her feet. As soon as they let her go, Lina actually sees a chance worth taking. And runs. She sprints along the hillside as fast as her legs can carry her. 'Get her.' demands the leader. More disappointed in her than angry. Circle and Triangle turn and walk after her. The young woman runs down the pathway towards the road. Trees and bushes leaning over into the pathway whip and cut her face as she runs but adrenaline and terror keep her going. Her lungs sound like they are going to explode. She looks over her shoulder. In the distance she can see the masked men walking after her down the pathway. They are taking their time. She can't work out why, she just keeps going. She reaches the road. Desperate, looking for a way to freedom, she sees the lights of the town in the distance to her right. She sees nothing but a dark road to her left. But her vision starts to blur. One of her legs shakes, spasms and gives out, causing her to fall to one knee. Her opposite hand keeping her from collapsing completely. 'What’s… happening…' She clutches her chest. Internal pain. Burning. A voice comes from the distance behind her. 'Taking a break?' The leaders voice. She looks behind her, but her vision is still blurred. Fading. The pain in her chest becomes more intense. She hears the leaders voice again. even though he is not nearby. It is coming from all around her. 'The tendons, the joints, your lungs. They need a day or so to work properly again. You know this. You won’t be going far I’m afraid.' Looking down, she can just make out a broken bottle on the floor next to her that has obviously been flung by a drunken driver of a wagon or horse rider along the road. She hovers her hand over it for a moment and closes her eyes. Lina takes a breath and punches her palm through the standing-upright shards. The young woman screams as the spikes of glass go through her palm and out of the back of her hand. However, the jolt of pain gives her a moment of clarity and her vision focuses. She steadies her breathing. 'Come on….COME ON!' With a painful moan she drags herself to her feet and starts to run again with a limp – not as fast, but at least she is moving. She chooses the dark of the road rather than the light of the village. She knows the dangers that wait for her there. She would prefer the infamous dangers lying in wait in the Drakwald instead. Lina would see them as the easy choice, knowing her history with her pursuers. Looking over her shoulder, she finally sees the men come out of the dark pathway onto the road. They see her and continues to walk after her. She continues her painful run but as the road turns a corner, the leader stands impossibly in the road in front of her. 'When has running ever worked Lina?' he asks patiently. Giving up, she falls to her hands and knees again. 'Please… please…' A blinding light starts to shine behind her. For moment of optimism for her, it seemed a beautiful release, but it isn’t the warmth of the afterlife. The headlights of another travelling stagecoach come around the corner and its horses stop behind her, leaving her on her hands and knees in silhouette in front of the lantern beams from the drivers seat. The driver steps down from the coach. 'Are you hurt my girl?' he asks in a thick Stirland accent. 'Run...Run!' shouts Lina with whatever strength she has left. The driver sees the state she is in. 'Sigmar preserve us!' The driver steps closer to her and finally notices the leader in front of her. 'Was this you? You piece of -' The leader looks at the driver. Lina watches as the driver starts to choke. He claws desperately at his throat. He is raised off his feet an inch off the ground, even though nothing touches him. Then Lina hears a snapping noise. Blood falls and lands on the road at the feet of the driver. His dead body is dropped in from of the stagecoach like a puppet with its strings cut. Landing like a ragdoll. The woman looks to the driver and starts to cry, all of her is spent. No fight is left in her. Circle and Triangle now stand either side of the stage wagon, looking at the people inside. Lina hears women screaming, then women choking, then the sound' of bones contracting and breaking and then eerie silence. After the bodies are taken out of their seats, she is picked up and placed inside the coach by Circle and Triangle. They both then sit up on the drivers seat. Miserable and downtrodden, covered in mud and blood, she looks at the leader as he steps into the blood soaked coach and sits across from her. 'You remember the small print don't you'' She nods. He throws some clothes at her, hitting her in the chest and falling on her lap. 'Clean yourself up' and says the Necromancer Hans Skrike 'We have much to do'. Lina wipes away the tears. She can not get away today. She will bide her time instead. TO BE CONTINUED.

Kraven 'The Red Handed", brother of Dreadlord Furion The Impaler, carries out a mission to lay the foundations of an invasion of the Old World. Standing on a beach of the Black Gulf, High Elf captain Uriel Thrane gazes in despair at the forest of death in front of him. The hundreds of skewered elven warriors on sharp wooden spikes spread along the dunes have been there for hours. For those still breathing, it was simply too late to help. Removing them would be their death anyway. No matter how much they screamed. ‘He lives up to his name.’ Uriel surprised himself when he felt the shake in his voice. An elf of his standing rarely showed emotions, especially around rank-and-file soldiers like the messenger who stood behind him. However, after laying eyes on an endless ocean of impaled comrades, it was hard to not be affected. The depravity of what had happened here, and the speed of its undertaking was truly unthinkable. ‘How can they be so different to us? So cruel. So capable of such horror. The same blood of our ancestors runs through their veins. It’s almost as if they are a different species. ‘ ‘They are shaped by their hatred.’ said the messenger. ‘But we have even more reason to hate them. They defile our lands at every chance and forever threaten our people with slavery and torture. But we would never go this far.’ Uriel speaks with venom, anger starting to get the better of him. ‘That is their greatest strength. They are willing to do what the Asur are not’ answered the messenger. The tall elf Captain stabs the blade of his spear into the sand in anger. ‘Furion The Impaler.. . He has damned himself. With this act, I will be his doom. ‘ Uriel steps forward to the nearest impaled elf. He took the warriors barely alive hand with sympathy. There is a slight grip at first, but the fingers go limp when the light in the elf’s eyes extinguish. ‘When you return with your message, please tell them to send men to take down these poor souls and lay them to rest properly.’ Uriel gently lowers the dead elf’s hand and steps back to again to review the entire scene. His anger is replaced by dark melancholy caused by exhaustion. ‘I have been hunting this monster for too long. But his army are like ghosts in the wind. Albion. Estalia. Tilea. We always arrive mere hours after their raids. After their depravities. After this. My troops are tired. I am tired. I haven’t seen my sons in… so long. I long for home. But I cannot return without Furion’s head.‘ Uriel finally turns to the messenger, realising he isn’t the only one far from home. ‘I apologise Soldier. I’m sure you miss your home and loved ones as much as I. What part of Ulthuan do you hail from Soldier? Your accent…’ The blade in the messenger’s hand was in Uriel’s neck before the High Elf could finish his sentence. Before the body of the dead elf lord hit the ground, the Druchii assassin started to remove his stolen uniform like it burned his skin. He spat on it once it was discarded. ‘You people are just so... boring. If you just got around to killing things faster, instead of standing around spouting poetry, you pompus morons might actually stand a chance. My brother wouldn’t make a kebab out of every one of you he meets in battle. It’s your fault our manticore is getting fat on Ulthuan gristle. Poor girl, it now takes three flaps before she can take off. ' Kraven ‘The Red Handed’, younger brother of Furion the Impaler, kneeled next to Uriel’s body and checked his pockets and belt for gold. All he finds is 2 coins. ‘And you are a cheap bastard too!’ Kraven kicks the general’s body for his thriftiness. He hoped he would at least get some gold after the mission from his brother was completed. A rumble in the distance... The sand gentle starts to move at his feet. The rumble grows louder. Calvary. Over the horizon came dozens of Druchii dark riders and a regiment of knights riding cold ones in their centre. Leading the knights is a chariot pulled by 2 of the most enormous cold ones Kraven had ever seen. On the back of the chariot were two tall spikes, unlike the crude wooded versions laid out across the dunes, these were made of intricate gold and bronze. On the left Spike was the dead body of the elf prince Uvil Thrane. The cousin of Uriel. The prince’s dead body had gone grey and was starting to mummify. On the other golden spike was a red bearded dwarf. The miniature warrior was still alive, even with the spike through his ribs. As the chariot pulls to a stop in front of Kraven, a renowned killer steps off the back of it. Furion, Dreadlord of the Eastern Druchii fleet, smiles coldly at his Younger brother. Kraven did not return the smile. It was his job to complete the assassination and he knew exactly how this conversation would have gone if the High elf still lived. Family doesn’t mean much for the Druchii. Only power. ‘Two coins. That’s all he had.’ Kraven gave the High Elf Lord another kick for good measure. ‘And what will you spend this newly found fortune on?’ asked Furion. Kraven looks down. ‘How about some clothes?’ Furion laughed at the nakedness of his brother from discarding the High elf uniform. ‘That can be arranged.’ Furion clicks his fingers. One of his warriors carries over Kraven’s armour and weapons. The assassin puts on the silver and black uniform with pleasure. ‘What now brother?’ said Kraven as he tightened the straps on his armour. Furion turned and raised a finger to the dying Dwarf on the chariot. ‘Have you met my stunted friend here? He talks of Karak Eight peaks and its riches.’ Kraven laughs at his brother’s zeal. ‘Eight Peaks? We all know it is brimmed with the gold of these little idiots. But when I’m single-handed fighting the thousands of dwarfs trying to take back their homeland and you and you entourage here are fighting the countless skaven coming up from the caverns below us, who will be fighting off the hordes of greenskins coming down on top of us from the surface? This guy?...’ Another unnecessary kick of poor old Uriel. ‘I love gold as much as the next Druchii. But I’d like to be alive to spend it. Call me old fashioned’. Furion chuckles at the bravery of his sibling. No one else talks to him like that and lives. 'I am not simple enough to attempt that broken mountain. I just appreciate this stunted ones attempts at diversion.' 'Diversion from what?' 'Real treasures. This stunted thing is a merchant. After specialist persuasion, It explained it has been trading with an army built of former naggaroth slaves.' 'Ah...The slave king.' replied Kraven. Furion raises a eybrow. 'You have heard of them?' 'An uprising years ago. Hundreds of them escaped at once. Fought their way out of Naggarond. stole ships and sailed across the ocean. A lifetime to humans I suppose. The Asur mentioned them around the mess table during my time with them. All very impressed in their evasion of our kind. I later cut out a tongue of one that chuckled. They are a nomad people who live in filthy tents. No one knows where the army is based. ' 'This one does'. Furion tugs on the leg of the Dwarf, pulling him even further down the spike and the dwarf lets out a scream. Kraven smiles but is hesitant. ‘The hold of the fleet is brimmed with gold and slaves brother. Any more weight would sink them at this point! How many more slaves can we actually sell?’. ‘Eventually, it’s not about selling them. It’s about using them. We stop this campaign when we have enough to build our own colony and live as kings. To keep what we take instead of living off Malekith’s scraps in Naggaroth. I still feel the blasted cold of that land in my bones. We will rule in the sun of the south brother. With a slave army to build our city for us and a fleet to protect it from Malekiths wrath. With Uriel no longer on our tail, we can choose our targets more carefully, taking our time. Head deeper inland.’ Explained Furion. ‘But why travel far to find them when we can just raid a few more villages across the coast? ?’ asked his brother. ‘What are the types of slaves we prefer? Which are the strongest and last the longest under the whip?’ asked the Dreadlord. ‘Warriors’ answered Kraven correctly. ‘Exactly. What would be even more valuable than warriors? 'Warriors experienced in the work of slaves.' Furion smiles at his smaller brother for not being a simpleton. ‘He just gave up this information? I’ve never heard one of their kind to be particularly chatty with ours.’ Said Kraven. ‘Never underestimate a witch elf with a scalpel. Or a sorceress happy to keep someone alive as long as I wish.’ said Furion. Kraven smiled. It sounded intriguing. TO BE CONTINUED

A Night Goblin and a Clan-Rat are forced to work together when split from their armies under a dwarven stronghold. In the caverns beneath the dwarven hold of Zhufbar, Clanrat Snif Blackclaw punches Night Goblin Griz Bent-toof square in the nose, sending the greenskin flying. 'Snif punch stupid green face again yes-yes?' shouted the Ratman in triumph. The Gobbo got straight back up and punched the Skaven in the snout, flinging Snif backwards. They had been back and forth like this for almost an hour. Snif gets to his feet once more and they continue circling each other with their fists raised like old pitfighters. Due to neither party knowing the other's language, they both assume their expert knowledge of the human dialect would communicate their thoughts both effectively and with a minimal amount of explanation... 'Stupid rat-face smell like me bumhole!' said the goblin. Griz points at his backside in case the Skaven didn't understand his Reikspiel. 'Bumhole!' He points his other hand at Snif, to clarify who the insult was in fact aimed at. 'You.' Snif shakes his head. 'Fatty green pig-pig' said the Skaven, blowing out its cheeks and holding his claws out, faking a invisible giant belly. Griz tried to hide the fact that the insult was actually quite upsetting. He had been eating a lot of mushrooms recently. Snif basked for a moment in his poetic use of language. He really did have a way with words that lesser Skaven struggled to attain. 'Big hairy squirrel smell like bumhole, wiv a face like a bumhole'. shouted Griz. Griz nodded with satisfaction at his well thought out retort. That should put an end to this debate, surely a clear victory in the battle of minds. Snif of course knew this was utter nonsense. The breeders back home in Skavenblight often complimented his interesting musk and exotic tooth arrangement. Neither would like to admit they were getting pretty tired at this point. The skirmish between Snif's Clan and Griz's warband in the dark tunnels was exhausting enough and since they both got split from their comrades in the dark, they have been here at each others throat. Luckily (or unluckily depending on how you look at it), both had lost their weapons in the fighting. So punches and kicks were as lethal as this confrontation got. They stopped circling for a second, both hearing a noise to their right. They lower their raised dukes when they realise they can hear Dwarven voices coming around the corner along with lantern light. 'Scarper!' Looking around, Snif and Griz see there were two other passageways to escape into the safety of the darkness of the mountain. The two of them run without hesitation. To their dismay, each had chosen the same tunnel and they were running side by side in the same direction. 'Stupid rat-face bum-shit! Go 'uva way!' shouted Griz over his panicked breaths. 'This Snifs hole! Stupid gob-gob go different! Now bye-byes!' The Skaven, clearly quicker than the short greenskin, started to pull away in front. However, in what he thought was a moment of genius and quick thinking, Griz kicks the Skaven's legs from under it, making Snif collapse and skid along the ground in a heap. The night goblin jumps over him and continues into the dark. 'Ha! Griz super fast smart gobbo! Squirrel dead meat!'. Snif looks back and sees the light behind them getting closer, almost coming around the corner of the tunnel entrance. He can make out words of some of the Dwarfs now. He definitely recognised two words in the guttural language of the stunties. Smell. Skaven. He speeds off after the goblin. Griz, with a huge toothy grin, starts to slow. Knowing he is winning, he takes a moment to look over his shoulder to observe the plight of the rat-man. 'Wait til I tell the lads about this' he thought to himself as he turned... His thought process instantly stopped at the point as, to his dismay, two skaven feet were flying in the direction of his face. Snif dropkicks the night goblin in the forehead. Griz hits the ground hard as he hears the chittering skaven running past him. 'Me Snif! Victorious over pudgy gobbo! The indignity and part-truth of the hurtful fat joke was put to the back of his head as Griz scrambled back up and started running again. Time to burn off some of the more oily mushrooms. They sped along for a few more moments until they both skid to a halt at the t-junction at the end of the tunnel. They both go to turn right but stop when they realise the other is also going that way. 'You go that way, obese green thing!' Said Snif pointing down the left hand tunnel. 'Bog off squirrel! You take thatta way! This Griz' s tunnel! ' They both go to punch the other but when they swing, they accidentally punch each others incoming fists instead, making them both yelp in pain, clutching their wounded hands. The dozen dwarfs, now in the tunnel around 50 feet away, see and hear them. The stunted warriors start running towards them, shouting in their deep-voiced language and raising their axes over their heads in fury. Both Griz and Snif understand enough of the dialect to know that these shouts were not requests for hugs and companionship. They start running. Again in the same direction. 'Stupid fat gobbo.' said Snif when he realises that fact. 'Griz not fat! Griz muscly specimen!' They round another corner and speed into a large cavernous room carved in the stone. Some sort of dwarven hall used as a warehouse, full of wooden boxes and barrels. Looking around, they see there is no exit but the way they came. The both start to panic. The sounds coming down the hallway are getting louder. Snif spots something. In the corner is a small hole on the ground with a pungent stench coming from it. Clearly a dwarven toilet. The clan rat points at it with hope in his pink eyes. The greenskin looks back at Snif like the Skaven as if he just asked him for a big sloppy kiss. 'Nope.' says Griz shaking his head at the horrendous thought. 'Yes-yes!' shouts Snif, starting to become manic as the lights of the Dwarfs gets closer. 'Errrrr.....nope. ' replies the goblin, straight faced. 'Stupid greenface find other escape?' Griz looks around for a moment for any other tunnel, door or opening but finding none. When he turns back around, Snif has already jumped down the toilet, his long pink tail dropping down within. 'Stupid bog poop creature!' shouts Griz after him. He runs up to the dark hole. The smell within is mind numbing, making Griz wince. 'This a holiday for stupid Skaven!' Finally the dwarfs scramble into the room, their lanterns engulfing Griz and the entire room in bright light. They charge at him with their gleaming axes. No choice. 'See ya in the futcha!' Griz pinches his nose and jumps in. The hole is just big enough to fit his small frame but too small for the fat dwarfs to follow. If they even wanted to! The goblin found himself screaming as he slid down a long slimy stone chute that seemed to go on forever. His scream ends when when he shoots out of the chute, falls about twenty feet into the smelliest pool of excrement Griz has ever encountered. Which has been a few. He also remembers he cant swim - even in poo-free water. So this isn't ideal. As he starts to sink, thinking 'well dis a great way to go!', a hairy claw grabs him by the wrist and pulls him out of the bog. He lands flat on his face on the stone at the feet of Snif Blackclaw, equally as covered in wet dwarf dung as the Goblin. He is stood on the edge of the dwarf-built sewer reservoir in a huge dark cavern. The greenskin, desperately fighting for breath, looks confused. 'So you in love wiv Griz stupid squirrel?' Snif hits him over the head with the bottom of his fist and points in the distance. An exit tunnel. Three dwarfs stand under it. Sewer workers. 'Help bash stunties. Yes-yes?' Griz realises the big squirrel didnt care about the goblin at all, he just wanted strength in numbers to get out of this place. Not so stupid after all he thought. The goblin then vomited a decent sized gollop of dwarf shit on Snif's feet. 'Stupid fat Gob-gob. Can't stop eating' 'EATING?' shouted Griz, making the distant dwarf turn and shine their lanterns in their direction. Snif and Griz hide in the stone creases of the wall, keeping in shadow avoiding the searching beam of light. Snif starts to think of a plan and points at the water. 'In.' 'WHAT?' said Griz. 'In!' ordered Snif. 'You want nuva punch in snout?' Snif points at the the pool of dung, then along the surface to the dwarfs. 'Go in. Stay under. Sneaky swim up. Bash!' 'Griz cant swim!' replied Griz, panic in his face. Don't make me do this. Snif sighed at the pathetic nature of the greenskins. Unlike the mighty nations of the Horned Rat. 'Skaven do everything.' ....... Gustav Ragursson could swear he heard something. He searches with the light of his lantern to find the source of the noise. The only noise usuly heard in the silence of this place was the toilet contents coming out the chutes above and falling in the water. This was different. He was sure it was a voice. His two comrades Olaf and Lothar searched too. When Gustav turned back to the reservoir, he noticed some bubbles in the murky water behind Olaf. He realised what it actually was far too late. A filth-covered Skaven sprung out of the water, spraying disgusting brown sludge all over them, making them cover there eyes for a moment. Which was a mistake. That second bought the disgusting creature an extra moment to bash Olaf over the head with a rock, making the dwarven engineer hit the ground hard. Unconscious. But the distraction was then over, the two remaining dwarfs charged the rat-thing. To their surprise, the Skaven held its ground, brandishing the rock in its claw ready to protect itself. They would make quick work of this creature. But before they reached it, Gustav heard the tapping of small bare feet running behind him. 'GRIIIIIZZZZZ THE MAGNIFFFFFFICENT!' Gutav and Olaf turned to see a little night goblin charging from the shadows behind them. This other distraction bought the Skaven time to jump forward and bite Lothar in the neck before pulling the bleeding dwarf to the ground. Gustav went to swing his short axe at the goblin but the thing throws some form of missile at the dwarf. It was a thick dollop of wet dwarf dung. It hits the Gustav in the eyes, blinding him for a moment until the goblin was on him. The greenskin, also holding a rock, started to bash the dwarf's skull in. Dying, the last thing Gustav ever saw was a yellow grin of a slightly overweight night goblin looking down at him. ...... Snif kicked the dead dwarf off him and looked up at the goblin, now stood over the dead dwarf it had just killed due to Snif's genius plan. Griz starts flexing his muscles in several poses. 'Specimen!' Snif and Griz both pick up a dwarven weapon each and make for the exit. Going through, they realise the tunnel splits in two and they finally realise they are now going in different directions to make it home. They give a quick glance to each other and jog off in opposite tunnels. After a few steps the Goblin and Skaven both stop and look back at each other before going their separate ways. This would be the moment that two enemy warriors lock eyes in a moment of reflection and through the strife of battle at each others side, they would finally show the respect each deserved. A nod would be enough. A memory they would have forever, a brotherhood forged in fire. But instead, Snif blows out his cheeks and stomach. Holding his arms out to mime a fat belly. Griz points at his backside. 'Bumhole.' He points his other hand at Snif, who is still doing the fat goblin impression. 'You.' TO BE CONTINUED... GRIZ AND SNIF WILL MEET AGAIN!