Frostlord Vorgrun Loshar and his Ogor warriors have spent many years in the hunt for the ultimate conquest. With Hammerhal set firmly in their sights The Fists of Winter prepare themselves for a succulent feast.
Over the next four weeks take part in our Fists of Winter Digital Campaign and stop back here every Monday to learn more about the story that leads up to these ferocious battles.
Week Three – A Partnership of Convenience
Skarbrand found himself snarling as he gazed upon the followers of the Deceitful One that were mixed amongst the ranks of his own warriors. He had been in service of Khorne since before ‘time’ had been cursed with its name; he had built the very throne his master now rested upon, harvesting every skull that had come to forge the awe-inspiring structure. Skarbrand had for centuries been his master’s most trusted warrior, but those days were long forgotten.
The Bloodthirster found his attention drawn to the followers of the devious Tzeentch as he felt his innate fury growing once more. Pride had been his only weakness, and it was a weakness that Tzeentch had fed upon with great relish. Turning the once loyal warrior against his master; a betrayal that had been short-lived.
Now, marching to war alongside those who had taken everything from him was yet one more insult that the great Daemon would have to endure in service to the Blood God.
“Are you ready, Scarred One?” the call of The Changeling suddenly dug into the darkest depths of Skarbrand’s mind, how he hated the sound of its soft, soothing tone. The web of deceit this creature spun was second only to its master, able to peer into the heart of any it chose and twisting them in whatever manner it saw fit.
“I am ready!” Skarbrand called, revealing his glistening twin axes…
Week Two – Something Lurks
Lady Olynder’s deep-set eye sockets darted across her army of the damned, for the last three days they had cut a bloody swathe across the city, their numbers slowly growing with the death of each mortal that stood in their way. Now the Mortarch of Grief found herself deep within the gut of Hammerhal Ghyra, surrounded by the city’s mighty Fire Bastions.
Magnificent stone spires climbed into the sky. These dark, brooding towers standing in stark contrast to the brilliant, plentiful greenery that made its home just beyond the city walls. Each of these towers held molten rock from the heart of Aqshy; the very lifeblood of the Realm of Fire.
For as long as there had been a Hammerhal Ghyra, there had been a Hammerhal Aqsha. Both parts of the great Twin-Tailed City had existed in a delicate balance, neither able to survive without the support of its sister. The fertile soil of Ghyran allowed for an almost endless bounty of food to be sown, more than making up for the harsh and unforgiving terrain found in Aqshy, whilst the lava that flows so freely through the Realm of Fire could be introduced as a deterrent against the often deadly plant life found in the Realm of Life.
Turning her attention back to what lay ahead, Lady Olynder sensed something had changed. This city was no longer home to just the followers of Sigmar and those other traitorous gods. Something else had arrived, something all the more brutal…
Week One – Under Siege
What started as little more than a disturbance on the outer boundaries of Duskfell Market quickly grew to a deafening roar. The sound of glass shattering and stone breaking in the distance was now accompanied by the guttural roar of something bestial that had found its way into the city.
The frenzy spread like wildfire as the intruders swarmed through the gaping wound in Hammerhal Ghyra’s outer perimeter. Orruks and Grots plunged through the opening, moving in droves towards the market square, drawn by the hustle and bustle of city life.
Stepping over rumble and bodies with ease came a beast who stood head and shoulders above all others, his gluttonous bulk matched equally by bulging muscles that swelled from beneath thick layers of fat.
Once more the Ogor let out a howl that tore through the streets, carving through the screams of the fleeing free people.
“That’s it, boys!” He growled, lifting a blade the length of a man towards the sky. “Take it all; this city belongs to the Sovanheng.”
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