19 Oct 2006
Olaf winced as he knelt, his knees craking audibly. Sweat beaded on his brow and his shirt clung to his skin. His eyes darted nervously to his crossbow, checking for the thirty-second time that it was still primed and loaded. A gust of wind blew past him and lifted his dark hood from his head, exposing a shock of blond hair. The young watchman scrambled desperatley for the hood, pulling it back over his head. It was a bitter night, but he needed the hooded cloak as more than protection from the elements, in the dark night of Mortonburg, it offered some transient sense of safety, some sense of hidden security.
From his perch in the shadows atop the temple, Olaf could see clearly from one end of the main street to the other. Mortonburg was not a large town, barely a settlement, dug into a pass in the worlds edge mountains. The town suffered a few raids here and there from marauding goblins, occasionally supported by their hulking orcish bretheren, but it was basically a quiet town. It was close enough to Fort Traultz that any major attacks were scared off. A full regiment of the Emperor's finest soldiers could be at the township within a matter of hours. But that didn't matter now. The call had been sent but it would still be daybreak before the soldiers of Fort Traultz reached Mortonburg. By morning there would be no Mortonburg to save.
The first warnings had come a little after sundown. Frau Welker had come running into the Watch office, her dress torn and bloodied. She had been in the outskirts, laying with a mercenary who was passing through. Then it had come. The mercenary had died silently whilst she ran screaming. Captain Gunther had questioned the poor woman until the shock of it all overcame her and she passed out. His orders had been simple. Gather the men, take up positions, and wait to engage. Never in its short history had Mortonburg been assaulted by an ogre. Olaf shuddered at the thought of it. He had seen one of the hulking eastern brutes for the first time not a month ago when a mercenary train had come through, heading for the war in the north. Its size, and girth, had chilled Olaf to the bone. He remembered feeling so insignificant next to the monster, but had thanked Sigmar that he had not had to fight the beast. Now, he and the other members of the Watch had to take up arms against one. Olaf could already see his grizzly fate, just off fate's horizon line. He say himself missing with his crossbow and failing to reload it. Being torn limb from limb and spending the next few weeks being digested by it's colossal gut.
He was shaken from his morose train of thought by the sound of screaming. Tarik, the Innkeeper came bolting round the corner onto mainstreet, his arm town off at the elbow. Red lifeblood stained the entire left side of his body and it wasn't long before the cobbled street got the best of him. The Innkeeper collapsed just as the gargantuan frame of the ogre followed him from the alleyway into mainstreet. Olaf's breath caught in his throat at the sight of it. He could only see the outline of the beast as it moved from the shadows. Olaf squinted in the moonlight to make it out. Its movements were slow and methodical. unusual for an ogre, but not unheard of. He lifted his crossbow and sighted along it, struggling to discern where the kill shopt would be amongst the silhouette. He finger danced nervously cross the trigger, waiting for one more step. One more step and the ogre would be in the firelight of the streetlamps. One more step and Olaf would get his kill shot. The ogre's leg began to move in the same rythmn as it had done since appearing and The watchman adjusted his aim. The foot landed and the brute's bulk shifted forward into the light. Olaf let out a silenced gasp as he saw the monster in the light for the first time. It was like no ogre he had ever seen before. its skin was a deep azure, its shoulders capped like snowy peaks with a shaggy main of white fur. The corss bow bolt was loosed as Olaf's trigger finger contracted in horror, sailing through the brisk night air and burying itself in the beasts chest. It let out a strangulated moan, the muted, throaty sound entirely at odds with the animlistic roars usually assosciated with its kin.
Olaf fumbled at his hips, desperatley seeking a second bolt, whilst gasping for air, his heart beating a tattoo on his ribcage. All at once he stopped. Intent only on what he saw. The flesh of the ogre was growing and reshaping in fonr of him, healing over the crossbow wound. Within seconds, the only trace of the wound was the tips of the bolt's flights, protruding from a milky blue tumour of flesh. Olaf felt his bile rise in his throat and grasped for the whistle around his neck, forgetting his crossbow as it fell to the roof of the temple. He raised it to his lips, the steel cold against his skin as he blew into it, a single note keening out across the night air. The signal. Captain Gunther and the others would asnwer his call. They would have this beast here and now. The Ogre started forward, ambling towards Olaf's position, another muted moan echoing from its throat. As it closed the distance, Olaf scrambled down the ladder on the side of the temple, dropping to the cobbled street below. Now, even closer than before he saw yet more abnormality in this ogre. Although he was certain it knew where he was, Olaf saw that the beast was blind. It has a rusted slab of steel bolted into its forhead, the firelight of the streetlamps reflecting off the rare scraps of its surface that weren't caked in rust or blood. It maoned again, and Olaf saw the thing's mouth was sew shut and it toar at the stitched everytime the strangulated cry rose from its throat.
The scared watchman offered up a prayer to Sigmar for deliverence as he unsheated his sword. He sensed movement behind him and swung round, sword ready, only to come face to face with Father Oben. Oben was the local healer and the town's priest of Sigmar. Of course he would be at the gates of the temple. Olaf cursed himself for his stupidity and wheeled back around to face the invading mutant. Behind him he heard the scurry of footsteps and the heavy sound of the temples oak doors being shut and barred. He didn't blame the old priest. If it weren't for his blasted oaths as a watchman he's be in there hiding with him right now. His knees trembled beneath his britches and he prayed Captain Gunther would come soon, the ogre was almsot upon him, its pace not increasing despite the apparent charge of its direction. Just as he was ready top give up hope, the captain and the two other members of the Mortonburg Watch came careening round the corner, weapons at the ready. Captain Gunther bellowed a warcry and lead the charge agaisnt the beast. Olaf siezed the opportunity and swung at the distracted ogre with all his might. His sword connected but barely dented it's blue hide. Olaf roared in pain as the force of the blow broke his arm, icy pain lancing through every limb on his body. He collapsed to the floor, blackness threatening to overtake him as the ogre twisted round to meet the new threat. Captain Gunther faced the same problem. He thrust with his blue but it shattered on the rusted gutplate of the ogre marauder. With a speed which belied its size, the ogre grabbed the captains sword arm and hefted him into the air, there was a sickening sound of bones splintering as the vice like grip of the ogre crippled the captain, before it slammed him down into Laars, his seconed in command. The two were instantly reduced to a sticky paste of blood and ichor. Belloq, the last remaining member of the watch screamed in abject terror and dropped his sword. He fell to his knees and prayed to Sigmar, face streaming with tears as the Ogre Lifted its mighty, gauntleted fist and drove it down into him. The force of the blow knocked Olaf back to consciousness and burrowed a cratered hole in the cobbles of Mainstreet.
The monster righted itself and turned to return to its course. Olaf realised now that the ogre had not been heading for him, it aimed for the church. He tried to yell out a warning to old Oben but the words wouldn't come. Olaf twisted on the slick cobbles pain again threatening to overtake him, in a vain atempt to gain a better view. The beast was almost at the doors, and it would make short work of those. As the ogre crested the top of the few stairs which lead up to the temple the doors swung open, their audible creaks a protestation against such rapid movement. The young watchman jaw fell agape at the site which greeted him. There, standing before the hulking monster was Father Oben, dressed head to foot in pristine Platmail armour, a brutal wahammer held at his side. He opened his mouth and gone from his tone was the meek, mild mannered healer who Olaf knew so well, replaced with an authority he had never dreamed to hear from the man.
'You shall not pass me heretic. There is no room for the Daemon in the house of Sigmar. Send back your lackey and leave this place.' The ogre paused in its step, its body entirely still for a few moments.
When the monster spoke it was with a sibilant voice and grammatical accuracy entirely devoid from the ogre race. Although Olaf guessed the ogre must be the source, he could not hear from which direction the strange voice came. it was everywhere and no-where and even more curously, the ogre's mouth was still sewn shut. 'You misunderstand Priest. Lay down your arms. You defeat has already been written'.
It seemed to Olaf as though the preacher was considering this for a moment, but then, without warning he swung his mighty hammer. The runes emblazoned on its head blazed into life, casting the steps of the temple into a ruddy half light. Despite the ogres speed, the blow connected and with a deep wet sound, a chunk of blue flesh was seared from its shoulder. Smouldering fur and lumps of charred flesh littered the steps as Oben readied himself for another blow. Before he could regain his balance, the ogre, apparently immune to the pain of its great wound thrust with its good arm, the cruel spikes on the end of its steel gauntlet skewered the Sigmarite priest, shearing traight throug his polishe steel armour. Oben roared in pain as he was lifted clear of the ground, but he did not let go of his Hammer. He swung the hoply weapon over his head and brought it down on the ironfist of the ogre, shattering the gauntlet and forcing himself free of the ogre's elevated grip. He crashed to the floor, the force of being ripped free having torn an even greater hole in his stomach. Blood and guts spewed form the wound, staining the holy steps of the temple as Oben struggled to rise. Again, th ogre had seemed to register no ain, but unlike the crossbow wound, these were not healing themselves. Now both arms were injured and Olaf could see a good deal of the ogres strength was draining from it. Never the less, the priest still lay onthe floor, in a pool of his own entrails, whilst the ogre locked its twisted fingers together, ready to deliver the killing blow. Olaf saw Oben muttering something undfer his breath. He recognised dome of the words form the Priests weekly sermons to Sigmar, and with a blaze of holy glory, the preachers eyes jerked open, the light of life strong in them. He swung upwards with his hammer. The blow caught the ogre in the groin and its holy purity cleft the daemon in twain, blacjk blood showering the temple and the priest. Oben screamed in fresh agony as the flui coated his face and immediatley began to smoke and burn. The two halves of the daemon ogre fell to the steps of the temple of Sigmar as Oben collapsed once more. The force of the last desperate attack had broken the head of the warhammer in two, and the two halves law either size of the priests head, the black blood quickly reducing it to a smoking ebony skull. As Olaf saw his friend, the preacher dead, he wept mixed tears of joy and mounring and finally allowed unconsciousness to clami him.
Far away, in a camp set atop one of the very peaks of the Worlds Edge Mountains, Skyronn sat in his chambers. In its right hand it held a book with ever changing symbols etched into it, its left arm was nought but a mass of writhing tentacles. It glared down at the tome, reading it's sigils with eyes that coud not see. A grin crept across his stony azure face. The Daemon that wore the ogres skin was pleased. Across the mountain every town had been attacked, and in each, the local priesthood of Sigmar had been eradicated. Already he had single ogres moving silently through the mines of the dwarves. Soon there would be nothing left to stop his advance. Lord Tzeench shall be pleased.
From his perch in the shadows atop the temple, Olaf could see clearly from one end of the main street to the other. Mortonburg was not a large town, barely a settlement, dug into a pass in the worlds edge mountains. The town suffered a few raids here and there from marauding goblins, occasionally supported by their hulking orcish bretheren, but it was basically a quiet town. It was close enough to Fort Traultz that any major attacks were scared off. A full regiment of the Emperor's finest soldiers could be at the township within a matter of hours. But that didn't matter now. The call had been sent but it would still be daybreak before the soldiers of Fort Traultz reached Mortonburg. By morning there would be no Mortonburg to save.
The first warnings had come a little after sundown. Frau Welker had come running into the Watch office, her dress torn and bloodied. She had been in the outskirts, laying with a mercenary who was passing through. Then it had come. The mercenary had died silently whilst she ran screaming. Captain Gunther had questioned the poor woman until the shock of it all overcame her and she passed out. His orders had been simple. Gather the men, take up positions, and wait to engage. Never in its short history had Mortonburg been assaulted by an ogre. Olaf shuddered at the thought of it. He had seen one of the hulking eastern brutes for the first time not a month ago when a mercenary train had come through, heading for the war in the north. Its size, and girth, had chilled Olaf to the bone. He remembered feeling so insignificant next to the monster, but had thanked Sigmar that he had not had to fight the beast. Now, he and the other members of the Watch had to take up arms against one. Olaf could already see his grizzly fate, just off fate's horizon line. He say himself missing with his crossbow and failing to reload it. Being torn limb from limb and spending the next few weeks being digested by it's colossal gut.
He was shaken from his morose train of thought by the sound of screaming. Tarik, the Innkeeper came bolting round the corner onto mainstreet, his arm town off at the elbow. Red lifeblood stained the entire left side of his body and it wasn't long before the cobbled street got the best of him. The Innkeeper collapsed just as the gargantuan frame of the ogre followed him from the alleyway into mainstreet. Olaf's breath caught in his throat at the sight of it. He could only see the outline of the beast as it moved from the shadows. Olaf squinted in the moonlight to make it out. Its movements were slow and methodical. unusual for an ogre, but not unheard of. He lifted his crossbow and sighted along it, struggling to discern where the kill shopt would be amongst the silhouette. He finger danced nervously cross the trigger, waiting for one more step. One more step and the ogre would be in the firelight of the streetlamps. One more step and Olaf would get his kill shot. The ogre's leg began to move in the same rythmn as it had done since appearing and The watchman adjusted his aim. The foot landed and the brute's bulk shifted forward into the light. Olaf let out a silenced gasp as he saw the monster in the light for the first time. It was like no ogre he had ever seen before. its skin was a deep azure, its shoulders capped like snowy peaks with a shaggy main of white fur. The corss bow bolt was loosed as Olaf's trigger finger contracted in horror, sailing through the brisk night air and burying itself in the beasts chest. It let out a strangulated moan, the muted, throaty sound entirely at odds with the animlistic roars usually assosciated with its kin.
Olaf fumbled at his hips, desperatley seeking a second bolt, whilst gasping for air, his heart beating a tattoo on his ribcage. All at once he stopped. Intent only on what he saw. The flesh of the ogre was growing and reshaping in fonr of him, healing over the crossbow wound. Within seconds, the only trace of the wound was the tips of the bolt's flights, protruding from a milky blue tumour of flesh. Olaf felt his bile rise in his throat and grasped for the whistle around his neck, forgetting his crossbow as it fell to the roof of the temple. He raised it to his lips, the steel cold against his skin as he blew into it, a single note keening out across the night air. The signal. Captain Gunther and the others would asnwer his call. They would have this beast here and now. The Ogre started forward, ambling towards Olaf's position, another muted moan echoing from its throat. As it closed the distance, Olaf scrambled down the ladder on the side of the temple, dropping to the cobbled street below. Now, even closer than before he saw yet more abnormality in this ogre. Although he was certain it knew where he was, Olaf saw that the beast was blind. It has a rusted slab of steel bolted into its forhead, the firelight of the streetlamps reflecting off the rare scraps of its surface that weren't caked in rust or blood. It maoned again, and Olaf saw the thing's mouth was sew shut and it toar at the stitched everytime the strangulated cry rose from its throat.
The scared watchman offered up a prayer to Sigmar for deliverence as he unsheated his sword. He sensed movement behind him and swung round, sword ready, only to come face to face with Father Oben. Oben was the local healer and the town's priest of Sigmar. Of course he would be at the gates of the temple. Olaf cursed himself for his stupidity and wheeled back around to face the invading mutant. Behind him he heard the scurry of footsteps and the heavy sound of the temples oak doors being shut and barred. He didn't blame the old priest. If it weren't for his blasted oaths as a watchman he's be in there hiding with him right now. His knees trembled beneath his britches and he prayed Captain Gunther would come soon, the ogre was almsot upon him, its pace not increasing despite the apparent charge of its direction. Just as he was ready top give up hope, the captain and the two other members of the Mortonburg Watch came careening round the corner, weapons at the ready. Captain Gunther bellowed a warcry and lead the charge agaisnt the beast. Olaf siezed the opportunity and swung at the distracted ogre with all his might. His sword connected but barely dented it's blue hide. Olaf roared in pain as the force of the blow broke his arm, icy pain lancing through every limb on his body. He collapsed to the floor, blackness threatening to overtake him as the ogre twisted round to meet the new threat. Captain Gunther faced the same problem. He thrust with his blue but it shattered on the rusted gutplate of the ogre marauder. With a speed which belied its size, the ogre grabbed the captains sword arm and hefted him into the air, there was a sickening sound of bones splintering as the vice like grip of the ogre crippled the captain, before it slammed him down into Laars, his seconed in command. The two were instantly reduced to a sticky paste of blood and ichor. Belloq, the last remaining member of the watch screamed in abject terror and dropped his sword. He fell to his knees and prayed to Sigmar, face streaming with tears as the Ogre Lifted its mighty, gauntleted fist and drove it down into him. The force of the blow knocked Olaf back to consciousness and burrowed a cratered hole in the cobbles of Mainstreet.
The monster righted itself and turned to return to its course. Olaf realised now that the ogre had not been heading for him, it aimed for the church. He tried to yell out a warning to old Oben but the words wouldn't come. Olaf twisted on the slick cobbles pain again threatening to overtake him, in a vain atempt to gain a better view. The beast was almost at the doors, and it would make short work of those. As the ogre crested the top of the few stairs which lead up to the temple the doors swung open, their audible creaks a protestation against such rapid movement. The young watchman jaw fell agape at the site which greeted him. There, standing before the hulking monster was Father Oben, dressed head to foot in pristine Platmail armour, a brutal wahammer held at his side. He opened his mouth and gone from his tone was the meek, mild mannered healer who Olaf knew so well, replaced with an authority he had never dreamed to hear from the man.
'You shall not pass me heretic. There is no room for the Daemon in the house of Sigmar. Send back your lackey and leave this place.' The ogre paused in its step, its body entirely still for a few moments.
When the monster spoke it was with a sibilant voice and grammatical accuracy entirely devoid from the ogre race. Although Olaf guessed the ogre must be the source, he could not hear from which direction the strange voice came. it was everywhere and no-where and even more curously, the ogre's mouth was still sewn shut. 'You misunderstand Priest. Lay down your arms. You defeat has already been written'.
It seemed to Olaf as though the preacher was considering this for a moment, but then, without warning he swung his mighty hammer. The runes emblazoned on its head blazed into life, casting the steps of the temple into a ruddy half light. Despite the ogres speed, the blow connected and with a deep wet sound, a chunk of blue flesh was seared from its shoulder. Smouldering fur and lumps of charred flesh littered the steps as Oben readied himself for another blow. Before he could regain his balance, the ogre, apparently immune to the pain of its great wound thrust with its good arm, the cruel spikes on the end of its steel gauntlet skewered the Sigmarite priest, shearing traight throug his polishe steel armour. Oben roared in pain as he was lifted clear of the ground, but he did not let go of his Hammer. He swung the hoply weapon over his head and brought it down on the ironfist of the ogre, shattering the gauntlet and forcing himself free of the ogre's elevated grip. He crashed to the floor, the force of being ripped free having torn an even greater hole in his stomach. Blood and guts spewed form the wound, staining the holy steps of the temple as Oben struggled to rise. Again, th ogre had seemed to register no ain, but unlike the crossbow wound, these were not healing themselves. Now both arms were injured and Olaf could see a good deal of the ogres strength was draining from it. Never the less, the priest still lay onthe floor, in a pool of his own entrails, whilst the ogre locked its twisted fingers together, ready to deliver the killing blow. Olaf saw Oben muttering something undfer his breath. He recognised dome of the words form the Priests weekly sermons to Sigmar, and with a blaze of holy glory, the preachers eyes jerked open, the light of life strong in them. He swung upwards with his hammer. The blow caught the ogre in the groin and its holy purity cleft the daemon in twain, blacjk blood showering the temple and the priest. Oben screamed in fresh agony as the flui coated his face and immediatley began to smoke and burn. The two halves of the daemon ogre fell to the steps of the temple of Sigmar as Oben collapsed once more. The force of the last desperate attack had broken the head of the warhammer in two, and the two halves law either size of the priests head, the black blood quickly reducing it to a smoking ebony skull. As Olaf saw his friend, the preacher dead, he wept mixed tears of joy and mounring and finally allowed unconsciousness to clami him.
Far away, in a camp set atop one of the very peaks of the Worlds Edge Mountains, Skyronn sat in his chambers. In its right hand it held a book with ever changing symbols etched into it, its left arm was nought but a mass of writhing tentacles. It glared down at the tome, reading it's sigils with eyes that coud not see. A grin crept across his stony azure face. The Daemon that wore the ogres skin was pleased. Across the mountain every town had been attacked, and in each, the local priesthood of Sigmar had been eradicated. Already he had single ogres moving silently through the mines of the dwarves. Soon there would be nothing left to stop his advance. Lord Tzeench shall be pleased.
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