15 Dec 2007
The young rhinox lifted its head, the biting mountain snows bouncing off its hide as it rooted around in a deep drift, a tiny piece of green finally poking its shrivelled head up from beneath. The shaggy behemoth took another cautious glance around and then bit down. It lifted the plant up in its massive jaws and crunched it down, the tiny lump terracotta on the end meaning nothing to the dim-witted beast. It belched, apparently satisfied with its paltry meal, staggered a bit, and then fell over. Nearby, another creature pushed its way out of its hiding place and tapped a bottle of a strange green substance in its hand. It gave a wicked grin and wandered over to the downed rhinox. Then, hoisting the massive beast over its shoulders with barely a groan, the hunter set off into the blizzard. Within minutes, it was like he was never there.
"So ye wish te hear of Sly Grahk, Overtyrant of the Northern Steppe? A name yet to go down in the history books, but give it time my child, give it time. Ye've seen Ogres before 'aven't ye? Big nasty buggers wi' an appetite te match of yes, but ye've never seen Ogres like this! Skin as white as the snow in which they abide, wrapped up in furs of the many cree-ay-tures that they 'ave slain. Amazin' hunters they are, without peer anywhere in t'old world or abroad. He's a clever one that Grahk, the only reason 'is traps an' ambushes aren't the stuff of legen' is that noone survives 'em."
"But then-"
The Old Man grinned his Horrible Old Man Grin, so horrible that it deserves full capitalisation, stopping the merchant dead in his tracks. "Don' ask child, an' I'll not tell. Where was I? They live in the high mountain slopes to the north-east, not quite Kislev but not quite in the lands of that slimy bugger Greasus either. They pay heed to no master but Grahk, a fact that's got 'em in trouble with the other ogres more than once. Greasus sent an emissary askin' for tithes. Last thing I 'eard, they found 'is body six feet unner the snow, an' 'is 'ead twelve. The Big Man claims that he could wipe 'em out in an instant if he wann'ed to, but I don't think so. Fightin' 'em's akin to fightin' ghosts so I 'eard. The weather on their dismal peak is so in-cleeem-ent that no man nor beast 'cept them an' their prey can survive, though I doubt that the prey lasts long." He gave a nasty laugh and continued. "'an there's the other thing. Don' let me catch you tellin' anyone else 'bout this, but I 'eard they's got a deal goin' with..." his lowered his head slightly, as if his very words would cause the bustling tavern to catch alight. "the ratmen. Slaves don' last very long on the mountain, so they sells 'em to the ratmen in exchange foor...things. Devices, chemicals. Things. I'm not a man of science, so I'd best not delve into that which I cannae unnerstan'. Some...things, are best kept out o' sight and out o' mind.
And they's plannin' somethin'. Somethin' big. Over the last few decades they's been happy with stayin' on their mountain, but somethin's changed. More and more they's been comin' down into Kislev, leaving nothing but death in their wake. They's migratin'. May bee their mountain got to small for 'em, I dunno, but whatever it is, they're on the move." He looked up as the room's dirty roof and shuddered, his eyes glazed, dreaming of far off nightmares. Turning back to the young Tilean, he gave a gaze that could have bored straight through a castle wall. "'an somethin' tells me, when they arrive, that we aint gonna enjoy it one bit."
+++
Alright, so I've got the ogres out of the cupboard, stripped them down, GSed up some nice fur and given them a total repaint. They needed it.
No pics of the newly painted ogres yet, but I'll get some up as soon as I can find my camera. Also, take comfort in the fact that I've got quite a lot better since then. You'll see when I get pics up, I'm quite proud of what I've done. Also note that the above ogre was painted about a week after the release of the ogre bull box, when I was a mite younger...
So yeah, I'll be documenting the painting, playing and fluff development of my boys over the new few months so sit back and enjoy the Saga of Grahk an' is boys.
Poly
Out
...
Ahem. For your viewing/reading pleasure, henceforth posted are all the pics from this thread (in chronological order), followed by writing and tactical articles.
December 15th '07
January 4th '08
January 8th '08
January 12th '08
January 21st '08
February 7th '08
February 11th '08
February 21st '08
March 4th '08
March 15th '08
Poly's Ogre Mini Tactica Series
Characters
Hunter
Special
Scraplauncher
Leadbelchers
Rare
Slavegiant
Gorgers
Misc
Hammer Units
Fluff and stories
The young rhinox lifted its head, the biting mountain snows bouncing off its hide as it rooted around in a deep drift, a tiny piece of green finally poking its shrivelled head up from beneath. The shaggy behemoth took another cautious glance around and then bit down. It lifted the plant up in its massive jaws and crunched it down, the tiny lump terracotta on the end meaning nothing to the dim-witted beast. It belched, apparently satisfied with its paltry meal, staggered a bit, and then fell over. Nearby, another creature pushed its way out of its hiding place and tapped a bottle of a strange green substance in its hand. It gave a wicked grin and wandered over to the downed rhinox. Then, hoisting the massive beast over its shoulders with barely a groan, the hunter set off into the blizzard. Within minutes, it was like he was never there.
"So ye wish te hear of Sly Grahk, Overtyrant of the Northern Steppe? A name yet to go down in the history books, but give it time my child, give it time. Ye've seen Ogres before 'aven't ye? Big nasty buggers wi' an appetite te match of yes, but ye've never seen Ogres like this! Skin as white as the snow in which they abide, wrapped up in furs of the many cree-ay-tures that they 'ave slain. Amazin' hunters they are, without peer anywhere in t'old world or abroad. He's a clever one that Grahk, the only reason 'is traps an' ambushes aren't the stuff of legen' is that noone survives 'em."
"But then-"
The Old Man grinned his Horrible Old Man Grin, so horrible that it deserves full capitalisation, stopping the merchant dead in his tracks. "Don' ask child, an' I'll not tell. Where was I? They live in the high mountain slopes to the north-east, not quite Kislev but not quite in the lands of that slimy bugger Greasus either. They pay heed to no master but Grahk, a fact that's got 'em in trouble with the other ogres more than once. Greasus sent an emissary askin' for tithes. Last thing I 'eard, they found 'is body six feet unner the snow, an' 'is 'ead twelve. The Big Man claims that he could wipe 'em out in an instant if he wann'ed to, but I don't think so. Fightin' 'em's akin to fightin' ghosts so I 'eard. The weather on their dismal peak is so in-cleeem-ent that no man nor beast 'cept them an' their prey can survive, though I doubt that the prey lasts long." He gave a nasty laugh and continued. "'an there's the other thing. Don' let me catch you tellin' anyone else 'bout this, but I 'eard they's got a deal goin' with..." his lowered his head slightly, as if his very words would cause the bustling tavern to catch alight. "the ratmen. Slaves don' last very long on the mountain, so they sells 'em to the ratmen in exchange foor...things. Devices, chemicals. Things. I'm not a man of science, so I'd best not delve into that which I cannae unnerstan'. Some...things, are best kept out o' sight and out o' mind.
And they's plannin' somethin'. Somethin' big. Over the last few decades they's been happy with stayin' on their mountain, but somethin's changed. More and more they's been comin' down into Kislev, leaving nothing but death in their wake. They's migratin'. May bee their mountain got to small for 'em, I dunno, but whatever it is, they're on the move." He looked up as the room's dirty roof and shuddered, his eyes glazed, dreaming of far off nightmares. Turning back to the young Tilean, he gave a gaze that could have bored straight through a castle wall. "'an somethin' tells me, when they arrive, that we aint gonna enjoy it one bit."
+++
The Sacking of Ravensburg.
Part 1: The Tavern.
The old man settled back to his mug, gulping down the rancid ale like water. The Tilean sat uncomfortably for a few seconds and then sprang to his feet, knocking over a nearby pint with his overzealous arm waving. "Good Sir, praytell how you know this. I demand it of you!" The old man merely gave his little grin again, and then looked to a point about a foot above the Tilean's left shoulder. Said shoulder then felt the weight of a meaty hand placed upon it, followed by the clearing of an even meatier throat. "It seems Good Sir," drawled the voice, "that you 'ave, in a manner, spilled my ale, not only ruining this here beatificially maintained bar but also denuding me of a tasty and refreshing alcoholic beverage that I had previously pur-chased. It seems to me the one logical method of solving this here conundrum is me taking my now empty glass, and smashing it over your dainty little foor-ain head. Are you comprending the message that I am attempting to impart?"
The merchant was spun around and faced with a creature that looked less like a man and more like a shaved bear. It lifted up its glass and went to bring it down, but by this point the tiny Tilean had slipped out of his grasp and sprinted halfway across the room. His escape was stopped when he slammed headfirst into, if possible, an even bigger man, who didn't take well to having his drunken stupour interupted. He pushed himself to his feet and swung a bottle, which smashed another man, whose ale spilled all down the front of yet another. There were a tense few seconds as everyone weighed up the situation, and then the brawl broke out.
Brawl doesn't quite sum it up. Every man, woman and child capable of holding a bottle got into the thick of it, and then some. The Tilean, who for the purposes of this text we shall call Alonzo, tried to get out, but someone had flung a table in front of the door, and it was too heavy for the poor spice-trader to lift. He dodged and weaved his way through the heaving mass of bodies to try and find another way out, instead finding the old man, the mysterious raconteur from earlier. A stooped, hooded figure stood over him, holding in its hand a small vial, which quickly vanished into the folds of its grimy little habit. Alonzo caught a glimpse of blood-red eyes, before the thing turned and vanished off into the melee. The old man wasn't moving.
It was at this point that the figure from before caught up with him, now sporting a massive scar across his cheek. The man looked quite angry, as he might be, and upon catching sight of Alonzo he hefted what appeared to be a pool cue and came charging in, mouth screaming a litany of drunken anger. Alonzo turned and fled. Seeing a smashed window he dived through it, the jagged glass slicing open his arm. He hit the ground with a thud and a scream, rolling along the dusty ground and hearing a strange whoomph from inside the building. Flames began to lick up from inside the building, and the screams began. Alonzo looked on in disbelief as the building began to catch alight. Someone screamed something, something that may have sounded like "the brandy!", and then the whole building was engulfed in fire, a horrible beacon shining in the dark streets. Shaking, the Tilean went and found his horse. He mounted in, turned back to the burning wreck of the tavern, and then got the hell out of there.
+++
The din from the assembled ogres was intense. If you could take the loudest sound you can possibly imagine, amplify it by a thousand, mixing in along the way the aurally pleasing tones of breaking bone and tearing flesh, and then cram in into a very small meeting hall, you might just begin to percieve exactly what this sounded like. It was the biggest feast the tribe had ever seen, and a few of the wilier ogres had declined Grahk's official invitation, citing that they woudn't trust the Tyrant "as far as they could throw him". Context considered, that was actually pretty far, Grahk being small for a tyrant, but more than making up for it in deviousness and animal cunning. Wily as they may have been though, they weren't smart, and many of them were now being used as decorations and/or appetisers. The Tyrant sat on his massive throne, a dwarf in giant's robes, eyeing the proceedings with a look of disdain. After some time, he cleared his throat. It was a tiny sound in the omnipresent roar of the cavern, but in an instant, there was silence.
He stood and raised his drinking horn into the air. "You boys may wonder for what I have assembled you all here. It's simple really. Imagine a land. A land where there's food everywhere, fighting everywhere, and gold beyond measure. Gold." The last word came out in a sigh that bounced around the cavern walls. The ogres grinned and began to nod. The tyrant continued. "Well boys, I'm here to tell you that it's real. And what's more, it's pretty close. You all though the maneaters were just blowing it out their arses, but about say...half of what they say, is actually true! And I plan to take you there, because you're my tribe, and I want noone to say that I don't care about my tribe. We're moving boys. What say you?"
The roar nearly brung the roof in.
Later
"Sah, I aint the type o' lad for this kind o' thing, but do you think you shoulda told 'em the truth?"
The old Tyrant smiled. "What truth would that be? I certainly didn't lie to them. I may have...omitted certain details, but my aim remains true. It is in the service of my tribe that I do what I am doing. I will deliver them into glory."
He chuckled. The Hunter nodded silently and then, silently, spun and left the room.
+++
One Week Later.
A pair of blood-red eyes stared out of the darkness, surveying their target with contempt. There was a pause, and then it lunged forward from the shadow, revealing a hideous, malformed creature not of this earth. Ten feet tall, covered in bubbling sores, it raised a massive hand and moved to bring it dow-
Alonzo woke with a jolt and a searing pain from his arm. He'd had one of the local shamans look at his wound. The frail old creature had wrapped it up and then prescribed Alonzo a herb that both tasted like and prompted vomit in the mouth. He's said that it would make the wound heal quicker, but all that had happened so far was that the poor Tilean had to stop every half hour and find somewhere to throw up.
He'd been riding for a week now since the incident in the tavern, wary the whole time of stooped, shadowy figures watching him every time he stopped. If he made a move towards them, they would vanish in an instant. He didn't know what they were, but they scared the hell of out him.
He knew what he was doing. There was a man. Not a friend, as his type didn't really make friends, but someone who would provide help if needed. His name was Alexander Grigovich, and he was a Sigmarite Inquisitor. Alonzo had met him earlier on his travels, and had found the man a horrible bore. It was all witches this and heresy that, and Alonzo had heard enough of that sort of stuff back home. But now he needed the man. Something was going on here. Something-
Something that needed to be stopped. Something Evil.
And so Alonzo rode on, the dark figures keeping pace every step of the way.
+++
From the Diary of Alexander Grigovich, Inquisitor of the Holy Lord Sigmar.
Sektober 5th
Disturbing events prompt me to write another entry. Ravensburg has long been a haven for the kind and devout, but it seems that this situation will not last much longer. Today, I uncovered evidence of heresies most vile amongst the townsfolk. A family home desecrated, symbols that seemed to twist and write daubed upon the walls in various horrible fluids, the nature of which I choose not to speculate. A child survived, but burned upon its flesh were words in a language I could not understand. I killed it. It was weeping pitifully, but I had no choice. Should I have let it live, and let the heresy spread? An aura of dread was left hanging over the building, which I had my men immolate. The same aura I have felt only once before, hanging over a most unusual man; a Tilean, whose name and proffession allude me. I must seek him out, and perhaps he will shed some light on the matter. If not, and maybe if so, then he will die. As it is written, so shall it be.
AG.
+++
'A tap tap tapping, a gentle rapping, doth rap upon my chamber door,' thought Alexander, rather more wrily in his own mind than on paper. He replaced "Daemonologie ande the Underthinges" back onto the shelf, stood up and wandered over to the door. He peeped through the peephole and nearly fell backwards, so shocked was he by the tragic figure awaiting his presence. It was the Tilean, the same man he'd had his acolytes searching for for weeks. He pulled the door open with great aplomb and took a better look at Alonzo. He was soaked, and the Witch Hunter noted for the first time how heavily it was raining outside. The dark streets were deserted but for this dreary figure, dripping all over Alexander's doorstep. "Ah...Alonzo...is it? How very convenient, I was just thinking about you. Do come in, dry yourself off. What brings you to my humble abode?" he asked, waving at his lavish entranceway with a dismissive hand. He led the man in and sat him down, noting how heavily the man was shaking. He couldn't be that cold, could he? "What's wrong friend?" He drew them both a large brandy and sat back, awaiting the man's response.
It took a while for the merchant to start up, words coming out in fits and bursts. "Dark. Eyes. Teeth." Pause. "Chasing. Fire. Plague." Pause. "Help. Followed. Help. Followed. The man was frantic now, his eyes darting around the room, lingering on the doors, windows and particularly the extravagant fireplace. He pushed himself to his feet and began to scramble about, pulling on the window bars, sliding bolts in all the doors. The fire was lit, and the man threw several large logs onto it, before retuning to his seat, still twitching and shaking. He sprang up again, and then began to pull books off the shelf, putting them into two piles, one significantly larger than the other. He pushed the smaller pile towards the witch hunter, and then, with as little ceremony as possible, died. He simply fell backwards out of his chair and lay still. Alexander went to check whether the man was dead, but the stream of green foam coming steadily from the corner of Alonzo's mouth gave the man all the answers he needed.
He had returned to his seat and began to ponder the night's events when he heard a tiny sound from high above. A furtive scuttling from the rooftops, starting from directly above the Late Alonzo's seat and quickly moving off into the distance. He picked up the pile of books and read the covers. He paused, putting the books in a neat pile, stepped across the room, and threw them into the fire. Several blocks away, in an unobtrusive neighborhood house, the laughter started.
+++
The gorgers were feasting alone in their holes
While ogres drank eggnog from humie-skull bowls
The Tyrant was sleeping alone in his chair
In hope that Ogrey Claws would soon be there
When from the gutpit there arose such a clatter
And onto those closest the gore did thick splatter
From within the gorepiles a figure did rise
A mighty red Ogre of such massive size
That those Ogres nearest did cower in fright
It seemed indeed that Ogrey claws had arrived...tonight.
From within his sack he drew piles of meat
Throwing them down at the Ogres' huge feet
Bellowing, belching and grinning with glee
And I swear to the maw that he winked straight at me!
And into the mawpit the Ogre did sink
My skull still ringing with that big brazen wink
I fell to my knees in surprise and awe
And that was the night that I saw the maw
Merry Gutmas everybody!
Poly
Out
For real this time
Really
You should stop reading now
...
...
"So ye wish te hear of Sly Grahk, Overtyrant of the Northern Steppe? A name yet to go down in the history books, but give it time my child, give it time. Ye've seen Ogres before 'aven't ye? Big nasty buggers wi' an appetite te match of yes, but ye've never seen Ogres like this! Skin as white as the snow in which they abide, wrapped up in furs of the many cree-ay-tures that they 'ave slain. Amazin' hunters they are, without peer anywhere in t'old world or abroad. He's a clever one that Grahk, the only reason 'is traps an' ambushes aren't the stuff of legen' is that noone survives 'em."
"But then-"
The Old Man grinned his Horrible Old Man Grin, so horrible that it deserves full capitalisation, stopping the merchant dead in his tracks. "Don' ask child, an' I'll not tell. Where was I? They live in the high mountain slopes to the north-east, not quite Kislev but not quite in the lands of that slimy bugger Greasus either. They pay heed to no master but Grahk, a fact that's got 'em in trouble with the other ogres more than once. Greasus sent an emissary askin' for tithes. Last thing I 'eard, they found 'is body six feet unner the snow, an' 'is 'ead twelve. The Big Man claims that he could wipe 'em out in an instant if he wann'ed to, but I don't think so. Fightin' 'em's akin to fightin' ghosts so I 'eard. The weather on their dismal peak is so in-cleeem-ent that no man nor beast 'cept them an' their prey can survive, though I doubt that the prey lasts long." He gave a nasty laugh and continued. "'an there's the other thing. Don' let me catch you tellin' anyone else 'bout this, but I 'eard they's got a deal goin' with..." his lowered his head slightly, as if his very words would cause the bustling tavern to catch alight. "the ratmen. Slaves don' last very long on the mountain, so they sells 'em to the ratmen in exchange foor...things. Devices, chemicals. Things. I'm not a man of science, so I'd best not delve into that which I cannae unnerstan'. Some...things, are best kept out o' sight and out o' mind.
And they's plannin' somethin'. Somethin' big. Over the last few decades they's been happy with stayin' on their mountain, but somethin's changed. More and more they's been comin' down into Kislev, leaving nothing but death in their wake. They's migratin'. May bee their mountain got to small for 'em, I dunno, but whatever it is, they're on the move." He looked up as the room's dirty roof and shuddered, his eyes glazed, dreaming of far off nightmares. Turning back to the young Tilean, he gave a gaze that could have bored straight through a castle wall. "'an somethin' tells me, when they arrive, that we aint gonna enjoy it one bit."
+++
Alright, so I've got the ogres out of the cupboard, stripped them down, GSed up some nice fur and given them a total repaint. They needed it.
No pics of the newly painted ogres yet, but I'll get some up as soon as I can find my camera. Also, take comfort in the fact that I've got quite a lot better since then. You'll see when I get pics up, I'm quite proud of what I've done. Also note that the above ogre was painted about a week after the release of the ogre bull box, when I was a mite younger...
So yeah, I'll be documenting the painting, playing and fluff development of my boys over the new few months so sit back and enjoy the Saga of Grahk an' is boys.
Poly
Out
...
Ahem. For your viewing/reading pleasure, henceforth posted are all the pics from this thread (in chronological order), followed by writing and tactical articles.
December 15th '07
January 4th '08
January 8th '08
January 12th '08
January 21st '08
February 7th '08
February 11th '08
February 21st '08
March 4th '08
March 15th '08
Poly's Ogre Mini Tactica Series
Characters
Hunter
Special
Scraplauncher
Leadbelchers
Rare
Slavegiant
Gorgers
Misc
Hammer Units
Fluff and stories
The young rhinox lifted its head, the biting mountain snows bouncing off its hide as it rooted around in a deep drift, a tiny piece of green finally poking its shrivelled head up from beneath. The shaggy behemoth took another cautious glance around and then bit down. It lifted the plant up in its massive jaws and crunched it down, the tiny lump terracotta on the end meaning nothing to the dim-witted beast. It belched, apparently satisfied with its paltry meal, staggered a bit, and then fell over. Nearby, another creature pushed its way out of its hiding place and tapped a bottle of a strange green substance in its hand. It gave a wicked grin and wandered over to the downed rhinox. Then, hoisting the massive beast over its shoulders with barely a groan, the hunter set off into the blizzard. Within minutes, it was like he was never there.
"So ye wish te hear of Sly Grahk, Overtyrant of the Northern Steppe? A name yet to go down in the history books, but give it time my child, give it time. Ye've seen Ogres before 'aven't ye? Big nasty buggers wi' an appetite te match of yes, but ye've never seen Ogres like this! Skin as white as the snow in which they abide, wrapped up in furs of the many cree-ay-tures that they 'ave slain. Amazin' hunters they are, without peer anywhere in t'old world or abroad. He's a clever one that Grahk, the only reason 'is traps an' ambushes aren't the stuff of legen' is that noone survives 'em."
"But then-"
The Old Man grinned his Horrible Old Man Grin, so horrible that it deserves full capitalisation, stopping the merchant dead in his tracks. "Don' ask child, an' I'll not tell. Where was I? They live in the high mountain slopes to the north-east, not quite Kislev but not quite in the lands of that slimy bugger Greasus either. They pay heed to no master but Grahk, a fact that's got 'em in trouble with the other ogres more than once. Greasus sent an emissary askin' for tithes. Last thing I 'eard, they found 'is body six feet unner the snow, an' 'is 'ead twelve. The Big Man claims that he could wipe 'em out in an instant if he wann'ed to, but I don't think so. Fightin' 'em's akin to fightin' ghosts so I 'eard. The weather on their dismal peak is so in-cleeem-ent that no man nor beast 'cept them an' their prey can survive, though I doubt that the prey lasts long." He gave a nasty laugh and continued. "'an there's the other thing. Don' let me catch you tellin' anyone else 'bout this, but I 'eard they's got a deal goin' with..." his lowered his head slightly, as if his very words would cause the bustling tavern to catch alight. "the ratmen. Slaves don' last very long on the mountain, so they sells 'em to the ratmen in exchange foor...things. Devices, chemicals. Things. I'm not a man of science, so I'd best not delve into that which I cannae unnerstan'. Some...things, are best kept out o' sight and out o' mind.
And they's plannin' somethin'. Somethin' big. Over the last few decades they's been happy with stayin' on their mountain, but somethin's changed. More and more they's been comin' down into Kislev, leaving nothing but death in their wake. They's migratin'. May bee their mountain got to small for 'em, I dunno, but whatever it is, they're on the move." He looked up as the room's dirty roof and shuddered, his eyes glazed, dreaming of far off nightmares. Turning back to the young Tilean, he gave a gaze that could have bored straight through a castle wall. "'an somethin' tells me, when they arrive, that we aint gonna enjoy it one bit."
+++
The Sacking of Ravensburg.
Part 1: The Tavern.
The old man settled back to his mug, gulping down the rancid ale like water. The Tilean sat uncomfortably for a few seconds and then sprang to his feet, knocking over a nearby pint with his overzealous arm waving. "Good Sir, praytell how you know this. I demand it of you!" The old man merely gave his little grin again, and then looked to a point about a foot above the Tilean's left shoulder. Said shoulder then felt the weight of a meaty hand placed upon it, followed by the clearing of an even meatier throat. "It seems Good Sir," drawled the voice, "that you 'ave, in a manner, spilled my ale, not only ruining this here beatificially maintained bar but also denuding me of a tasty and refreshing alcoholic beverage that I had previously pur-chased. It seems to me the one logical method of solving this here conundrum is me taking my now empty glass, and smashing it over your dainty little foor-ain head. Are you comprending the message that I am attempting to impart?"
The merchant was spun around and faced with a creature that looked less like a man and more like a shaved bear. It lifted up its glass and went to bring it down, but by this point the tiny Tilean had slipped out of his grasp and sprinted halfway across the room. His escape was stopped when he slammed headfirst into, if possible, an even bigger man, who didn't take well to having his drunken stupour interupted. He pushed himself to his feet and swung a bottle, which smashed another man, whose ale spilled all down the front of yet another. There were a tense few seconds as everyone weighed up the situation, and then the brawl broke out.
Brawl doesn't quite sum it up. Every man, woman and child capable of holding a bottle got into the thick of it, and then some. The Tilean, who for the purposes of this text we shall call Alonzo, tried to get out, but someone had flung a table in front of the door, and it was too heavy for the poor spice-trader to lift. He dodged and weaved his way through the heaving mass of bodies to try and find another way out, instead finding the old man, the mysterious raconteur from earlier. A stooped, hooded figure stood over him, holding in its hand a small vial, which quickly vanished into the folds of its grimy little habit. Alonzo caught a glimpse of blood-red eyes, before the thing turned and vanished off into the melee. The old man wasn't moving.
It was at this point that the figure from before caught up with him, now sporting a massive scar across his cheek. The man looked quite angry, as he might be, and upon catching sight of Alonzo he hefted what appeared to be a pool cue and came charging in, mouth screaming a litany of drunken anger. Alonzo turned and fled. Seeing a smashed window he dived through it, the jagged glass slicing open his arm. He hit the ground with a thud and a scream, rolling along the dusty ground and hearing a strange whoomph from inside the building. Flames began to lick up from inside the building, and the screams began. Alonzo looked on in disbelief as the building began to catch alight. Someone screamed something, something that may have sounded like "the brandy!", and then the whole building was engulfed in fire, a horrible beacon shining in the dark streets. Shaking, the Tilean went and found his horse. He mounted in, turned back to the burning wreck of the tavern, and then got the hell out of there.
+++
The din from the assembled ogres was intense. If you could take the loudest sound you can possibly imagine, amplify it by a thousand, mixing in along the way the aurally pleasing tones of breaking bone and tearing flesh, and then cram in into a very small meeting hall, you might just begin to percieve exactly what this sounded like. It was the biggest feast the tribe had ever seen, and a few of the wilier ogres had declined Grahk's official invitation, citing that they woudn't trust the Tyrant "as far as they could throw him". Context considered, that was actually pretty far, Grahk being small for a tyrant, but more than making up for it in deviousness and animal cunning. Wily as they may have been though, they weren't smart, and many of them were now being used as decorations and/or appetisers. The Tyrant sat on his massive throne, a dwarf in giant's robes, eyeing the proceedings with a look of disdain. After some time, he cleared his throat. It was a tiny sound in the omnipresent roar of the cavern, but in an instant, there was silence.
He stood and raised his drinking horn into the air. "You boys may wonder for what I have assembled you all here. It's simple really. Imagine a land. A land where there's food everywhere, fighting everywhere, and gold beyond measure. Gold." The last word came out in a sigh that bounced around the cavern walls. The ogres grinned and began to nod. The tyrant continued. "Well boys, I'm here to tell you that it's real. And what's more, it's pretty close. You all though the maneaters were just blowing it out their arses, but about say...half of what they say, is actually true! And I plan to take you there, because you're my tribe, and I want noone to say that I don't care about my tribe. We're moving boys. What say you?"
The roar nearly brung the roof in.
Later
"Sah, I aint the type o' lad for this kind o' thing, but do you think you shoulda told 'em the truth?"
The old Tyrant smiled. "What truth would that be? I certainly didn't lie to them. I may have...omitted certain details, but my aim remains true. It is in the service of my tribe that I do what I am doing. I will deliver them into glory."
He chuckled. The Hunter nodded silently and then, silently, spun and left the room.
+++
One Week Later.
A pair of blood-red eyes stared out of the darkness, surveying their target with contempt. There was a pause, and then it lunged forward from the shadow, revealing a hideous, malformed creature not of this earth. Ten feet tall, covered in bubbling sores, it raised a massive hand and moved to bring it dow-
Alonzo woke with a jolt and a searing pain from his arm. He'd had one of the local shamans look at his wound. The frail old creature had wrapped it up and then prescribed Alonzo a herb that both tasted like and prompted vomit in the mouth. He's said that it would make the wound heal quicker, but all that had happened so far was that the poor Tilean had to stop every half hour and find somewhere to throw up.
He'd been riding for a week now since the incident in the tavern, wary the whole time of stooped, shadowy figures watching him every time he stopped. If he made a move towards them, they would vanish in an instant. He didn't know what they were, but they scared the hell of out him.
He knew what he was doing. There was a man. Not a friend, as his type didn't really make friends, but someone who would provide help if needed. His name was Alexander Grigovich, and he was a Sigmarite Inquisitor. Alonzo had met him earlier on his travels, and had found the man a horrible bore. It was all witches this and heresy that, and Alonzo had heard enough of that sort of stuff back home. But now he needed the man. Something was going on here. Something-
Something that needed to be stopped. Something Evil.
And so Alonzo rode on, the dark figures keeping pace every step of the way.
+++
From the Diary of Alexander Grigovich, Inquisitor of the Holy Lord Sigmar.
Sektober 5th
Disturbing events prompt me to write another entry. Ravensburg has long been a haven for the kind and devout, but it seems that this situation will not last much longer. Today, I uncovered evidence of heresies most vile amongst the townsfolk. A family home desecrated, symbols that seemed to twist and write daubed upon the walls in various horrible fluids, the nature of which I choose not to speculate. A child survived, but burned upon its flesh were words in a language I could not understand. I killed it. It was weeping pitifully, but I had no choice. Should I have let it live, and let the heresy spread? An aura of dread was left hanging over the building, which I had my men immolate. The same aura I have felt only once before, hanging over a most unusual man; a Tilean, whose name and proffession allude me. I must seek him out, and perhaps he will shed some light on the matter. If not, and maybe if so, then he will die. As it is written, so shall it be.
AG.
+++
'A tap tap tapping, a gentle rapping, doth rap upon my chamber door,' thought Alexander, rather more wrily in his own mind than on paper. He replaced "Daemonologie ande the Underthinges" back onto the shelf, stood up and wandered over to the door. He peeped through the peephole and nearly fell backwards, so shocked was he by the tragic figure awaiting his presence. It was the Tilean, the same man he'd had his acolytes searching for for weeks. He pulled the door open with great aplomb and took a better look at Alonzo. He was soaked, and the Witch Hunter noted for the first time how heavily it was raining outside. The dark streets were deserted but for this dreary figure, dripping all over Alexander's doorstep. "Ah...Alonzo...is it? How very convenient, I was just thinking about you. Do come in, dry yourself off. What brings you to my humble abode?" he asked, waving at his lavish entranceway with a dismissive hand. He led the man in and sat him down, noting how heavily the man was shaking. He couldn't be that cold, could he? "What's wrong friend?" He drew them both a large brandy and sat back, awaiting the man's response.
It took a while for the merchant to start up, words coming out in fits and bursts. "Dark. Eyes. Teeth." Pause. "Chasing. Fire. Plague." Pause. "Help. Followed. Help. Followed. The man was frantic now, his eyes darting around the room, lingering on the doors, windows and particularly the extravagant fireplace. He pushed himself to his feet and began to scramble about, pulling on the window bars, sliding bolts in all the doors. The fire was lit, and the man threw several large logs onto it, before retuning to his seat, still twitching and shaking. He sprang up again, and then began to pull books off the shelf, putting them into two piles, one significantly larger than the other. He pushed the smaller pile towards the witch hunter, and then, with as little ceremony as possible, died. He simply fell backwards out of his chair and lay still. Alexander went to check whether the man was dead, but the stream of green foam coming steadily from the corner of Alonzo's mouth gave the man all the answers he needed.
He had returned to his seat and began to ponder the night's events when he heard a tiny sound from high above. A furtive scuttling from the rooftops, starting from directly above the Late Alonzo's seat and quickly moving off into the distance. He picked up the pile of books and read the covers. He paused, putting the books in a neat pile, stepped across the room, and threw them into the fire. Several blocks away, in an unobtrusive neighborhood house, the laughter started.
+++
The gorgers were feasting alone in their holes
While ogres drank eggnog from humie-skull bowls
The Tyrant was sleeping alone in his chair
In hope that Ogrey Claws would soon be there
When from the gutpit there arose such a clatter
And onto those closest the gore did thick splatter
From within the gorepiles a figure did rise
A mighty red Ogre of such massive size
That those Ogres nearest did cower in fright
It seemed indeed that Ogrey claws had arrived...tonight.
From within his sack he drew piles of meat
Throwing them down at the Ogres' huge feet
Bellowing, belching and grinning with glee
And I swear to the maw that he winked straight at me!
And into the mawpit the Ogre did sink
My skull still ringing with that big brazen wink
I fell to my knees in surprise and awe
And that was the night that I saw the maw
Merry Gutmas everybody!
Poly
Out
For real this time
Really
You should stop reading now
...
...
Follow the link for Poly's Ogrey Goodness(©).
Shakey Arithmetic: "Tr@wl1ng t3h f0rum$!!1!11" since 1892.
Who is he? He's Jean Valjeeeeeeeeeean.
Shakey Arithmetic: "Tr@wl1ng t3h f0rum$!!1!11" since 1892.
Who is he? He's Jean Valjeeeeeeeeeean.
)
And why did I have the ability to unlock it? Odd. Anyway. I'm expecting the stuff to arrive tommorrow.
I love batreps from Legendary Battles games 