You are browsing the archive for Warhammer Fantasy.

Profile photo of NoPoet

by NoPoet

[WHFB] A Bloody Road

03/10/2013 in Warhammer Fantasy

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes

A Warhammer story by Mr Morden.

Originally posted on www.dakkadakka.com. Posted here with the author’s permission.

——————————

PART 1

——————————

The Drakwald, south of the fortress city of Middenheim, The Empire.

Captain Lucarius was quicker than the beastman, deftly avoiding the huge cleaver. In retaliation, his own slender blade sliced through the creature’s body, cleaving deep matted fur, thick muscle and malformed bone. He pivoted swiftly and decapitated another of the foul creatures, his speed far surpassing their own crudely powerful movements.

He risked a glance to see how the rest of his command fared and witnessed two of his own hacked down. The beastmen were no match individually for the elvish warriors, but they had come in numbers and whilst slender blades were momentarily mired in dark furred bodies, so their pack mates took full advantage.

Lucarius ducked a wild blow from a bellowing monster and parried a swinging club as he dropped to one knee and then launched himself forward to stain his blade again in another creature. However, this time his rapid pivot took him into the path of a mighty fist and it sent him reeling back, scarcely retaining his grip on his sword.

Blood pouring from his shattered nose, the captain rolled and scrambled from the fists, axes, clubs and cleavers that sought a more decisive blow. The bloody mud of the forest floor clung to his armour and clothes, slowing his movements resulting in his left leg being crushed by an ill crafted club, little more than large tree branch.

His own sword, the product of a craftsman who had spent centuries mastering his art, sliced the tendons of a beast, but then like the hand that wielded it was hammered deep into the yielding ground by the hefty hoof of another. Growling in triumph, the creature ground his foot, shattering the bones beneath and causing a cry of pain to leap from the Elf officer.

Read the rest of this entry →

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes
Profile photo of NoPoet

by NoPoet

[WHFB] The Rising Tide of Filth

27/09/2013 in Warhammer Fantasy

5.00 avg. rating (97% score) - 2 votes

#1: The Breaking of the Kurgan

Our settlement had grown large, not through conquest, but through farming. We sustained a population by feeding them while making the proper obeisance to Neiglen, Grandfather Nurgle, who is the god of fecundity as well as the god of decay.

My people had not become soft. The occasional terror of a Chimera attack meant we were always vigilant, and the followers of the Crow God would like little more than to divine their fate by studying our innards.

Yet it was neither beast nor Crow Brethren that saw our destruction. Khorne had looked upon our settlement and found our warrior spirit wanting, for he despises the man who lays down his sword to take up the implements of the farmer, especially when that man is a capable fighter.

The Kurgan horde attacked us in full daylight, giving warning enough to prepare ourselves. Still we suffered many casualties, warriors of the Blood God swiping axes and hellblades in strikes that disembowelled and drew great gouts of blood. They attacked with fury rather than skill, yet somehow the speed and strength of their rage overmatched our discipline, so we knew the Kurgan were favoured indeed.

I was cut down and my guts hit the dirt a heartbeat before my body. As I lay dying, flies began to land upon my exposed vitals. We had always suspected that our tribe carried the favour of Nurgle and as I saw putrefaction spreading across my flesh, I knew the Plague God would hear me. While I prayed, I lost the strength to speak, so I finished the plea in my thoughts.

“Please, Lord Nurgle,” I whispered. Flies landed on my face and began to crawl down my throat. It took me a moment to realise they were chewing into my tongue.  “Give me the strength to strike back against these blood-mad heathens. Give me the chance to avenge my people and I will serve you.”

My child, a voice seemed to say in my head. I could hear flies buzzing madly in my ears, feel them burrowing into my skin to lay their eggs.

My child, I do not abandon faithful servants to the torments of other hells, other deities. Am I not a loving God? Is my intervention not inevitable? I have come to claim you and your people, but you shall serve me with your lives, not your deaths.

Read the rest of this entry →

5.00 avg. rating (97% score) - 2 votes

As The Dwarf Tunnels

12/02/2012 in Warhammer Fantasy

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes

“Can we not just go around?” Cal asked irritably from his seat on the boulder, leaning back on his elbows as he stared wearily at Rognus’ helmeted head, the dwarf ignoring his companion’s tone with ease born of long acquaintance.

“No,” Rognus replied. ”We go as the dwarf tunnels.” He adjusted the fastening of Neckbiter’s holster, settling the rune-inscribed battleaxe more comfortably against his back.

“What?” Cal scratched his beard irritably. Though he could not wait to arrive in Bierdorf and wash the past fortnight’s grime and travel from his weary body, he would rather add a few days to their journey and avoid facing the thing that waited ahead.

Straightening his domed helm, Rognus pointed towards the obstacle. “Straight. We go straight, longshanks. Now, get up.”

Cal groaned in protest, but he stood and walked over to join Rognus in spite of his complaining, shouldering his heavy pack as he did so.
Read the rest of this entry →

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes

Good Marienburg Steel

09/03/2011 in Warhammer Fantasy

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes

~~~{KF}~~~

“To me, warriors of Franz, to me! Heed my words! Hear my call!”

The commander sat astride his noble steed, polished armor shining like the sun, longsword held high above his head. All the men of the Nordland 3rd Regiment of foot, resplendent in their blue and yellow livery, looked up at him and listened as he spoke. Among the massed ranks of the Imperial soldiers, William Osbourg listened with great care to his uncle’s words.

Read the rest of this entry →

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes
Profile photo of Nemesys

by Nemesys

Ravendark’s Rebirth

15/02/2011 in Warhammer Fantasy

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes

This is the third story in the Ravendark Saga – click here for the second one.

We fly north.

The Realm of Chaos passes beneath me in a blur as I am borne north on angel’s wings, Rai’elle’s arms tight around me, holding me closer than I ever thought she would again. I can sense something in her… is it love? Fear? Envy? Some delicious mix of the three? Whatever it is, its taste delights me.

My eyes leave her for a few moments and watch the Blessed Realm flying by in a dark rush of beating wings. At first it could pass for the northern steppes, the only difference being the telltale red sky, but as we pass on the vegetation becomes more and more animated, the ground darkens, the mountains become impossibly vast… the landscape becomes more and more unreal.

Read the rest of this entry →

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes

Gehemisnacht

09/11/2009 in Warhammer Fantasy

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes

Grotesque was aptly named. His flesh was an unhealthy shade that resembled wax, or the putrefaction of death. Bone hooks jutted from his back and gangly limbs, punched through his skin as crude jewelry. His back was exaggeratedly hunched, and his eyes—small, beady things—seemed almost luminescent.

It was almost time, now. The light-moon was gone tonight, he knew. But it was almost time that the dark-moon, the strong-moon, was to rise up. This was the night of purification. The Great One had promised a feast beyond compare.

Well, no. The Great One intended to feast beyond compare, was the truth. But his emissary, the man-of-death, he had promised that the bevy of scraps remaining would be all for Grotesque and his brethren. There was nothing in all the world that could stand in the Great One’s way, either, and so this promise of meat was one that was sure to be fulfilled. Grotesque and his like kept out of the Great One’s way as much as possible—at least, they did so after several of them had graced His teeth.

There! There was the first finger of the green light of Morrslieb on the horizon.

He and his kin kept onward through the forest. Woodsmoke drifted faintly on the air, though it was only Grotesque’s bestial sense of smell that let him detect it. It fired his imagination to higher imaginations of the desecrations they would enact, and the marrow that they would suck from splintered bones…

Read the rest of this entry →

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes

Son of Nagarythe

08/10/2009 in Warhammer Fantasy

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes

Sweat.

Silence.

I ran forward—not the lumbering, clumping run of a human, but instead my far lighter, elven step. The breeze rustled as it blew past, making more noise than my footsteps. Ingrained by the drilling of decades, the training of my tutor and father, Taleryn, took over.

A Dark Elven sentry lay ahead, and I felt a surge of hatred flow through my veins—but I could not kill him. His absence would be noticed.

I pulled up behind a twisted, blackened tree. The faint ‘crunch’ of his feet on the leaves met my ears. I waited until it faded, and he passed me on his rounds.

Read the rest of this entry →

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes
Profile photo of NoPoet

by NoPoet

Anointed In Blood

03/09/2009 in Warhammer Fantasy

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes

There is a place, they say, where disciples of evil meet in open worship. They gather together in the grounds of a monastery long since desecrated with blood and excrement. This defiled place stands alone in the bleak plains of Troll Country, a silhouette like broken teeth against a sky pregnant with storms.

It is said that such worship takes place at times sacred only to those who gather there. No-one understands their perverted calendar of reverence, not even those of the Old World who hide darker inclinations of their own. Who would want to know? Their sermons follow an erratic pattern most are too sane to perceive.

Filthy things are these worshippers. Debased people, some human, others not, united in their hatred of the world of order. Their worldly personas are cast aside as they cross the threshold of that evil place. They become lost in spite and vehemence.

So it is said.

Read the rest of this entry →

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes

Beneath the Black Water

28/07/2009 in Warhammer Fantasy

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes

Now the Albion bastard sword is a handy weapon, mind. All the length of the Imperial longsword, but with enough heft to allow a decent cleaving stroke too. Single edge means less time over a forge, and that extra weight backing it also means more strength down the length of the blade. No decent point, mind, but I always say knife work’s to be done with a knife. Now you’d struggle a bit off of a horse, mind, the weight’d pull forward, but for close in bloodletting you’d be hard pressed to find a better blade.

Aye, a handy weapon.

Which, of course, is a great consolation when it’s snapped of a hand span above the hilt, and seven or eight foot of monstrous creature is pounding on the door you are so carefully bracing, wanting to finish off the job it began in the far room of this god-forsaken hole in the ground.

“Redmane!”

The hint of hysteria in my voice is, I think, entirely justified in this situation. Not only has that damn pint-sized, beer-swilling mobile carpet inveigled me, against my better judgement might I add, to accompany him into this foul smelling pit, but now he had managed to lose me in it too.

Read the rest of this entry →

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes

A Tale’s Worth

20/07/2009 in Warhammer Fantasy

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes

In the crowded bazaar of white-walled Al-Kalabar, the biggest shop was without doubt Yasmir al-Mahres’ spice counter. The old man was well known, and well loved, all throughout the city. He was the oldest man in town by far, with a mane of hair whiter than the city’s walls. He had lived there for nearly six decades, and many were those who remembered him from their childhood, men and women that now had children of their own and sometimes even grandchildren. The memories of long evening spent in the big warehouse full of foreign and intriguing odours; of the wrinkled, tanned face of the old merchant lit by the shifting fire blazing in the hearth; of the moving shapes his shadow cast as he told them tale after tale of the desert, gesticulating, carried by his own voice; those memories were forever in the people of Al-Kalabar. As the call of Ptra’s priest is to the believer an anchor on which he secures the ordering of his day, Yasmir al-Mahres was the rock that secured the people of the white-walled city.

Many a man whose childhood had been misery and harshness had in his heart an undying little flame of gratitude for the haven of peace and joy that were those evenings; for the times when, while the old man told them of the mysteries, djinns and spirits that slept in the sea of sand, they had cried, trembled and laughed; clutching in their hands some treat given by the merchant. Peppers, stingy and burning and yet delicious to mouths that knew only fish and wheat porridge. Thymes from the west, to chew with delight. And sometimes, when old al-Mahres was celebrating, tiny crystals of sweet, sweet sugar from far in the north, from the lands of the infidels.

Read the rest of this entry →

0.00 avg. rating (0% score) - 0 votes
Skip to toolbar