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Viene La Tormenta
Author MessageViene La Tormenta
Thommy H
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Post: #1
Viene La TormentaThommy H 07-24-2011


Balor Stuntedtooth crouched low amidst the dry, brown grass that clung to the edges of the swamp. He kept close to the ground on instinct, his heavy, maced tail swishing around seemingly of its own volition, in case some foe should come on him unawares from behind. On land – true land – the mists had no power, and he felt exposed and unprotected. He had never journeyed from the brood lair before, except out into the trackless marshes when he was a hunter, in the years before the Bale Eye found him. He had been another creature then.

It was still dark, and the relentless fury of the bright orb that the weakling races sometimes worshipped was hidden. Balor was thankful for that, but he knew it would return soon, searing his oily flesh to a crisp and blinding his eye. When that evil moment came, he intended to be well sheltered. Slowly, he made himself creep away from the swamp's edge, forsaking its sweet moisture for the dry, hateful true land. It was dark, yes, but the black moon hung overhead, casting everything in a weird, greenish light. The unlight of that moon was all that could penetrate the mists that shrouded the brood lair, and so it gave Balor some comfort as he pawed his way through the reeds and dirt. In one four-fingered hand he held his Staff of Pain, a gift from the Dirach, and mounted atop it was the skull of one of the Cloven Ones. Usurpers they were, daring to claim even more patronage of the True Lords than the Men, and this one had wandered away from its pack, stumbling into the fog to be slain by the poisoned javelins of the Fimm. It died slowly, its wretched body rotting from the inside, all its flesh finally erupting in a shower of writhing white maggots, and now its skull helped Balor draw on the power of the True Lords. Occasionally it spoke to him, though Balor could not understand its twisted language, nor did he know how it made itself heard with no tongue.

Through the Staff of Pain, Balor could feel the True Lords' energy building and writhing. His Bale Eye allowed him to see what even his brood siblings could not too, and when he dared to look up at the hateful sky, he could see the great channels of magical energy spanning the heavens, connecting the black moon to the world beneath his feet, thrumming in time to some evil power deep beneath the earth. It was the strongest of the True Lords, Balor knew, the Hateful One, the King of Skulls, who ruled here. He could smell the tang of mammal blood in the air, and hear the distant howling of hounds and wolves. The bronze armour he wore, stained with the patina of ages, seemed to channel some of the energy too. It was said the King of Skulls favoured brass and bronze over iron and steel.

Balor knew from the Dirach that some powerful servant of the King of Skulls lay beneath the earth nearby, in a prison built by the magic of the Pale Ones. For thousands of years he had slept, but now the power of the black moon caused him to stir. He was the eldest champion of the Hateful One, a prince of blood and fury, and had placed many thousands of skulls at the feet of his master, or so it was said. Balor's brood had gathered here a thousand generations ago to pay homage and ensure that, when the time was right, the Prince of Hate might rise again. They had defiled the stones of the Pale Ones with their runes, transforming them into mighty Bane Circles. Every hundred years, one of the Diarchs left the brood lair to taint another and weaken the seals of the prison. Balor would have been one of those, in time, but instead the age of awakening had arrived.

Now he had a much more dangerous and profane task.

The Prince of Hate would need slaves to serve him. Alone, he was a terrible foe, but Men, Pale Ones, Stunted Ones, Scaled Ones and even the servants of the other True Lords would gather to oppose him when they realised he was free. Some of the servants of the King of Skulls were close by already, but they were not enough. Others must come. Dead things, Cloven Ones, the Men with their bright banners, Pale Ones of the forest of death...perhaps others. All would be drawn close, if the rituals were completed. The dark harmony of moon and earth was not enough, not without the Bane Circles. Balor must claim them, or persuade others to claim them in the name of the True Lords. They must be bent to the same aim: freeing the Prince of Hate. Events in the outside world had conspired to bring a motley collection of armies close enough to feel the storm that gathered over the whole region, and with them, Balor could complete his destiny.

Climbing atop a half-sunken rock, its solid surface unfamiliar beneath his clawed feet, Balor straightened fully for the first time. He was not large – amongst his own kind he was considered a weakling – but he was stronger and harder than all but the mightiest of the other races even so. And he was powerful in ways they could not imagine. He lifted his Staff of Pain just as the black moon swelled to fullness, casting its full green light upon the battle-scarred world. A great flash of light nearly blinded Balor, but he held his ground, digging his claws into the unyielding rock. Defiantly, he kept his eye open, staring out the moon, which was now thronged with glowing tendrils of green light. They snaked towards the earth, were strengthened by a cosmic resonance, and the very air began to taste metallic. A thrum of sound, almost beyond the edge of hearing, reverberated across the marshland. The distant mountains were lit by a second flash of witchfire, and Balor thought he could hear the howls of the Cloven Ones, distant as they were. Behind their stone walls, he knew the Men were trembling in terror. The Pale Ones would be riding even now, knowing better than the others what was brewing in the skies. Somewhere in the foothills of the far mountains, those sworn to the King of Skulls would quicken their pace, knowing their time was near. And the living dead crept ever closer, driven by what they believed to be their own ambition, but in fact playing further into the hands of the True Gods with every shambling step they took.

Balor threw back his reptilian head and let out a guttural roar, just as the Storm of Magic broke above his head. Eldritch lightning bolts lashed down all around him, setting green fires amongst the dead brown grass. The skull atop his staff began to chatter in its monstrous gibberish.

This was a good land. The corruption of the Prince of Hate had been kept at bay for many centuries by the sacred stones, but their power was failing. Evil forces converged on the land that the Men called Béniterre, and Balor Stuntedtooth, Balefind of the Fimir, would be the one to steer them along their true course: the course of freedom for Abbadon, first Daemon Prince of Khorne.










This is the thread in which I plan to chronicle the things I paint up for Storm of Magic games. Since some of them won't technically fit into any of my armies, a new thread was needed. So far we have a Fimir Balefiend and my first Arcane Fulcrum, in the form of one of the mysterious Bane Circles. It looks like my Necromancer, Roi, has found his way to one already, and is making good use of it.

Coming next: more fulcra, and perhaps monsters!


Serial Writist - lots and lots of short fiction, written by me, regularly updated.

My models:
The Legion of Astragoth | The Dark Crusade of Mousillon | The Destroyer Cult | Les Défenseurs du Béniterre | Storm Over Béniterre | Force Belial

My rules:
Chaos Dwarfs Warscroll Compendium


This post was last modified: 07-24-2011 03:45 PM by Thommy H.

07-24-2011 03:44 PM
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Unzul
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Post: #2
RE: Viene La TormentaUnzul 07-26-2011

very simple but very successful


Il sangue scorre, il sangue chiama, il sangue divora tutto e solo sangue rimane.....

07-26-2011 03:55 AM
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Thommy H
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Post: #3
RE: Viene La TormentaThommy H 07-28-2011

Gerrard le Taureau slowed his horse to a canter, then a trot, and then finally drew the bad-tempered stallion, which he had aptly named Haine, to a halt before the small cluster of pale standing stones. A gaggle of his peasants stood around morosely, as motionless as the stones and about as intelligent, rusted shovels and picks in hand. Gerrard dismounted, handing his reins over to his pimple-faced squire – the bastard son of his halfwit cousin, on whom Gerrard had taken pity – and tugged off his greathelm. He perched it in the crook of his arm, so that the glowering black bull on the crest stood almost level with his shoulders. Gerrard was a huge man, over seven-and-a-half feet tall, with massive shoulders and huge, muscular limbs. At his side hung a morning star with two brutal spiked heads, a weapon that would have served as a full-sized flail for most men. He glowered at the lazy peasants beneath his heavy dark brow as he strode up to them.

"What is the meaning of this?" he bellowed. All the commoners had the decency to flinch at the sheer volume of his question, but one dared to look up at him vacantly and started to say something. "Shut up!" he growled, before the slope-shouldered old man had the chance to actually speak. He casually backhanded him across the face by way of punctuation and the blow from his heavy gauntlet of lobstered steel sent him flying with a fountain of blood from a lip or a nose. He jabbed a finger at the others. "Why aren't you working? I need my road, and those damn rocks are in my way!"

No one said anything.

"Well?" It dawned on him after a second that they were scared he'd hit them too. "Ignore him," he said, aiming a kick at the sprawling, bloodied peasant on the floor, "one of you answer me. Who's supposed to be in charge?"

"I am, m'lord," a grey-haired man said, bobbing his head up and down and keeping his eyes carefully averted.

"I see. Now, explain to me why those standing stones are still
standing and I won't be forced to cut out all of your tongues."

"M'lord," the old man stammered, "there were a f...faerie..."

"A
what?" Gerrard demanded.

"A faerie, m'lord!" a younger, uglier man piped up from the back, "honest there were! I seen him!"

"I didn't ask you," Gerrard snarled, shoving through the small group and storming up to the edge of the stone circle. "Faerie...what's the point of owning peasants when they won't even work? I should hang them all..." He stepped between the two largest stones and then frowned. Had he just imagined it, or had the sun gone in? He looked up. No...still not a cloud in the sky. So why did it suddenly seem so overcast?

"Looking for something?" a melodious voice asked.

Gerrard whirled, hand going to the haft of his morning star, then laughed when he saw who had spoken. Sitting cross-legged on top of the largest stone – a big lump of white rock with an overhang that even Gerrard could have stood beneath – was a young boy of maybe thirteen or fourteen summers with a shock of unkempt red hair. He was barefoot, very pale, and wore clothes that looked as if they were stitched together from older, even more threadbare clothes. He appeared to have dyed some of them a lurid green. In his hands was an old wooden flute that looked to have been made from a hollowed out twig. His eyes were golden.

"Do you belong to me, boy?"

"I don't belong to anyone."

"Then get off my land."

The boy smiled and played a tuneless ditty on his flute. Gerrard was quietly amazed that he got such a resonant sound from such a pitiful instrument. "It's not your land, is it?"

"Pardon me?" Gerrard pulled out his morning star, letting the boy see the weight and heft of it. "This belonged to my father, and so did this land. Taste one; taste both. It's a simple creed that he lived by, and I do the same. Get out of here now, while I still find you amusing."

The boy narrowed his eyes and then placed the flute carefully to one side. "Sir Knight, if I let you dig up these stones, I'd be betraying my father too. And, no offence, but I think he was thrice the warrior your father was. What he'd have done with you...well, I'd not like to say. And
he was ruling this land before your remotest ancestor ever crossed the mountains."

"Ah, so that's the way of it is it? My peasants said they saw a faerie, and I thought they were just being superstitious. One of the Fair Folk, are you?"

"Some call us that."

"You don't look so fair to me. I've fathered whelps on tavern whores that grew up more handsome than you. Not that they grew up very far – I make sure to kill them before they get ideas above their station."

"What a charming fellow you are." The Elf boy leaned closer. "I don't find you amusing at all, but I'll still let you leave. I'm nice like that."

Gerrard pointed with his morning star. "I've killed a few Fae in my time too, boy, and they die just as easy as bastards. Your kind don't scare me. I suppose these stones are sacred to your witch-goddess or what have you. Well it makes no matter to me. I'll tear them down, and if you don't like it, send your effete, prancing ninnies against me. You'll find my castle walls a little tougher than your treehouses."

"Very funny. But you shouldn't uproot these stones. Of old, your folk knew them for what they were – Ward Stones – and they understood the evil they kept at bay. We made a pact with your ancestors, but Men have such short memories, and they forgot what their fathers swore. Of course, it made no matter, so long as they were good to the land and its people. A good land breeds good folk, but lately the land has been dying. Evil has crept in, and the Ward Stones have weakened." He pointed with his flute. "You are part of it."

"Superstitious nonsense..."

"Really? How are your crops doing, Gerrard le Taureau?"

"How...how did you know my name?"

"Your sons, are they strong?"

"They..."

"The ones you didn't kill, I mean. Your trueborn sons, Charles and Henri. Not sickly? Not weak?"

"My sons..."

"Will die this winter. There's a hard one coming. The world is out of synch. The storm out of the north has thrown the seasons into disarray. This land has weathered the worst, for now, but the shadow will soon fall here too. And when it does, starvation and pestilence will only be the beginning."

Gerrard roared with fury and made a lunge for the Elf, but the boy darted nimbly away, disappearing behind the rock. The huge knight spat a curse and followed his quarry behind his stone, but there was no one there. He looked around, but the Elf had disappeared. An owl was perched on the next stone though, watching Gerrard. An owl with golden eyes.

The peasants were still standing around aimlessly when Gerrard came out of the stone circle. "M'lord...?" one of them dared to ask.

"Build it somewhere else," the knight mumbled.

"What?" the old man in charge asked, forgetting himself.

"I said build it somewhere else! Gerrard snapped. "Go around these bloody stones! I don't care!" He snatched the reins from his squire and nearly leapt onto Haine's back. With a scowl, he shoved his helm on and turned his horse, galloping back in the direction of his castle as fast as possible, leaving the squire to scramble onto his draught horse and try to catch up as best he could.





Serial Writist - lots and lots of short fiction, written by me, regularly updated.

My models:
The Legion of Astragoth | The Dark Crusade of Mousillon | The Destroyer Cult | Les Défenseurs du Béniterre | Storm Over Béniterre | Force Belial

My rules:
Chaos Dwarfs Warscroll Compendium


07-28-2011 03:24 PM
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Thommy H
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Post: #4
RE: Viene La TormentaThommy H 08-03-2011

Typhon

There is a theory amongst a perverse class of Imperial scholar that some of the so-called heraldic monsters of the world, who were all tainted by the Dark Gods during the Time of Chaos, belong to particular deities. The lithe and serpentine Hydrae are the spawn of Slaanesh, the corpulent and draconic Wyverns are particularly beloved of Nurgle and the avian and arcane Cockatrices are the chosen beasts of Tzeentch. These views are controversial, but if there is one thing that all scholars who devote themselves to filling the bestiaries of the Old World with their flowery prose can agree on, it is that the monster that belongs to Khorne is the Manticore.

The Brass Keeps of Khorne breed all manner of vile monsters for use in the hosts of the Blood God, for testing the mettle of Khorne's Champions and simply as an act of devotion to the Lord of Skulls. In their dungeons are all of the above beasts, all subtly warped to service Khorne, but the Manticore accordingly needs no such tainting. It is, body and twisted soul, a servant of the Blood God from birth. The Red Manticores of the Brass Keeps are the most prized mounts of Chaos Lords devoted to Khorne, and they pay heavily in gold, slaves and warpstone for the opportunity to ride one into battle. Red Manticores are born in the darkest dungeons and a cub's first opponents are its own litter-mates. Only the strongest will survive the initial frenzy, and it is pitted against larger and larger monsters, then Chaos Champions, and finally Daemons. The final challenge for a Red Manticore is a Bloodthirster. The Skull Priests gather together to summon one of the High-Handed Slayers in the largest fighting pits, and it takes no encouragement whatsoever for the two frenzied monsters to fall upon each other. Only when the Manticore has taken down the Bloodthirster and gorged itself on its Daemonic flesh is it judged to be ready for sale.

Typhon is a Manticore that has recently been seen flying above the foothills of the Masif Orcal, clearly drawn by the gathering storm of magical energy forming over Béniterre. When armies clash, he descends to join in the carnage, usually aligning himself with the force whose philosophy resonates most closely with his divine master's. Thus he has been seen fighting beside the gathering Beastmen hordes, the vanguard of the Dark Crusade of Mousillon and Bretonnians led by the venal Baron David or his bloodthirsty cousin Sir Gerrard. However, his true masters are approaching, for Typhon is merely the forerunner of the Destroyer Cult, and their most powerful weapon. Once the servants of the Blood God reach their destination - the land beneath which Abbadon, the first Daemon Prince of Khorne, is imprisoned - Typhon will be called back to serve as a mount for the only man able to command him: Lord Riktus, the High Skull Priest of Khorne.









Serial Writist - lots and lots of short fiction, written by me, regularly updated.

My models:
The Legion of Astragoth | The Dark Crusade of Mousillon | The Destroyer Cult | Les Défenseurs du Béniterre | Storm Over Béniterre | Force Belial

My rules:
Chaos Dwarfs Warscroll Compendium


08-03-2011 03:05 PM
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nitroglysarine
Burninating the Countryside
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Post: #5
RE: Viene La Tormentanitroglysarine 08-03-2011

You know what, that is quite a nice model, or it just your nice paint job!
Nice work!


08-03-2011 03:10 PM
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Thommy H
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Post: #6
RE: Viene La TormentaThommy H 08-03-2011

Yeah, it's a much nicer model than the GW paintjob makes it look. And, as I said elsewhere, it goes together like a dream. Whether you like the sculpt or not, as a work of draughtsmanship, creating a model as dynamic as this in the form a mass-produced multi-part plastic kit is an astonishing feat. It's so lightweight as well. That seems obvious, but it's almost a bit hard to get your head around until you hold it in your hand.

Oh, and a really awesome thing is that it comes with two identical heads, so you can build a ridden version too. And the heads hook on to the body using the mane, so you don't need to magnetise or even use blu-tack. You can just change them around freely. So expect to see Lord Riktus pretty soon...


Serial Writist - lots and lots of short fiction, written by me, regularly updated.

My models:
The Legion of Astragoth | The Dark Crusade of Mousillon | The Destroyer Cult | Les Défenseurs du Béniterre | Storm Over Béniterre | Force Belial

My rules:
Chaos Dwarfs Warscroll Compendium


This post was last modified: 08-03-2011 03:45 PM by Thommy H.

08-03-2011 03:43 PM
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Abecedar
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Post: #7
RE: Viene La TormentaAbecedar 08-03-2011

does so make me fell envious. of the having the model and your skills in presenting it so well.


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08-03-2011 06:06 PM
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Thommy H
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Post: #8
RE: Viene La TormentaThommy H 03-03-2012

La Bête Aveugle des Chalons

Tharris Thrice-Cursed tossed and turned fitfully on his parasite-infested pallet. Since he was a young child, he had been plagued by nightmares – or, rather, one single nightmare. As a boy, he had woken screaming in the night because of the horrific vision of a single, fearful red eye, staring balefully down upon him. In his dreams he was rendered tiny in the sight of that fiery, glowing eye, and he knew it meant his doom. His father, one of the Burgomeisters of Ostermark, took his troubled son to an alleged wise-woman who lived out in the wilds in search of a cure, or at least some information as to what his dreams might mean. They had come to the reeking woman's hovel, where she had taken and tasted a drop of his blood and then recoiled screaming about the taint of Chaos. Enraged, his father sent his guards to drive her away, and she was never seen near Mordheim again.

Nonetheless, Tharris – though that was not his name in those days – didn't forget her words. Secretly, he began to research the forbidden knowledge of Chaos. He learned of Tzeentch, the Great Deceiver, and his symbol: a great eye. Tharris became convinced the Changer of Ways had some awful fate in store for him and he sought to protect himself against his divine machinations, knowing that this was surely futile. When the comet hit Mordheim, everything Tharris had known was destroyed, but by then he was fully immersed in the lore of the Dark Gods. Emerging from his hiding place into blackened ruins laced with a choking warpstone miasma, he couldn't help but wonder if this was part of his eventual Doom. In the ruins of his former home, he discovered a new power though: one that claimed it could rival Tzeentch and promised to protect Tharris from what he thought awaited him.

He thus became one of the first disciples of the Shadowlord, the mighty entity that lurked in the heart of the crater at the centre of Mordhiem. As a Magister of one of the roving bands of the Possessed cultists, Tharris rose to prominence, but it could never last. Magnus the Pious razed the ruins and the Shadowlord was driven away. Tharris and those other damned souls who escaped fled into the north to the Realm of Chaos, were they shared their former master's fate – insanity and eventually death. But Tharris endured, and when the Dark Master rose in Albion, he knew it was the Shadowlord somehow come again. He journeyed to that fog-shrouded island by dark art and there joined the Dark Emissaries who sought to usher the Dark Master into corporeality so he too might escape the fate Tzeentch had ordained for him. They failed, and the Dark Master – now revealed as the Daemon Prince Be'lakor – was forced to bend knee to Archaon, the Everchosen of Chaos.

As Archaon led his great horde south to destroy the Empire, Be'lakor was forced to serve him as the master of a legion of Daemons, and his Dark Emissaries went with him. Thus did Tharris earn the epithet "Thrice-Cursed", for he had served his evil lord three times now. Be'lakor was undone again: this time by the sorcery of the Elven Loremaster, and his army scattered to the Realm of Chaos before he could attempt to betray Archaon. Those benighted mortals who had been with him were slaughtered by the Men and Elves, save only Tharris, who crawled into the undergrowth and cowered, defeated in a ditch.

It was here that Xavier found him, and the Lord of Khorne recognised a broken Sorcerer whom he could use to complete the Destroyer Cult's evil mission. More than half-mad and unable to defend himself, Tharris became little more than a slave of the berserker horde that splintered from Haargroth the Bloodied One's host and now made for the green fields of Bretonnia.  But the nightmares of the burning red eye never stopped and, as he regained his sanity, he wondered what worse fate could now await him.

Waking with a jolt, Tharris shuddered in his sackcloth bedding and tried to hide himself. There was some kind of commotion outside. Thinking him totally broken, Xavier no longer chained Tharris up at night, despite the advice of Lord Riktus to the contrary, and so he was able to scramble from his sagging, dirty tent to see what was going on. It was an early grey dawn, and some of the Warriors in the warband were struggling with some creature. With a snarl, Krond hurled the thing into the dust and aimed a kick at it. He snarled something unintelligible in his native Kurgan. Tharris crept closer and then recoiled when he saw the reptilian thing lying in the mud.

"Fimir!" he hissed, and drew a knife from his filthy robes.

"You know what this thing is, worm?" one of the Warriors asked him. His pallid, unhealthy skin was scored with dozens of devotional scars in the shape of Khorne's skull rune and the star of Chaos.

"It's a Fimir, a bog-dweller," he said, "I saw them on Albion."

The wretched Fimir, his scaled form bruised and bleeding from the attentions of the Warriors, rolled its single eye towards Tharris and it bared his fangs. Tharris recoiled – the single eye seemed to peer into his soul and he realised then that his Doom was at hand. "Kill it!" he screeched, "kill it now!"

The Warriors were bemused, but the Fimir began to stand. It was as tall and heavily-muscled as them, but Tharris knew it was a dwarf of its kind. All its attention was focused on him, and it pawed at the earth with its claws as it watched him. "Thaaaariiiith...." it hissed through its misshaped beak.

The Sorcerer's eyes went wide. "How...how do you know my name, creature?"

"We haaave cooooome for you, Thaaaaariiith..."

"Kill it!" he implored the Warriors again but they hung back, obviously interested to see what would happen. Emboldened by their nonchalance, Tharris drew himself up and levelled a finger at the Fimir. "I refuse to believe that you, pathetic reptile, are the instrument of my Doom."

The Fimir hunched low and let out a gurgling cackle. "Not yoouuu..." it said, "him..." It pointed with one gnarled, scaly finger. The Destroyer Cult's camp was set on a defensible ridge, overlooking a once-lush valley, now barren and desolate. A trickle of foetid water, choked with green algae, was all that remained of a once-considerable watercourse. Beyond that was a forest, all in drab late-Autumn hues, and in the distance, blurry in the grey haze of dawn, the looming peaks of the Masif Orcal. The treeline began to shake, as if something huge and powerful was making its way through the forest. It seemed to move erratically, and occasionally there was a guttural roar from below the dense brown canopy.

"Form up!" Krond bellowed to the Warriors. The camp began to rouse itself, and the roars from the forest were matched by the roars of the Destroyer Cult's warbeasts. Somewhere, the great Manticore Typhon let out its bestial hunting cry. Then, the thing emerged from the trees. It was towering and misshapen, a horned and hoofed beast, its hide filthy and unkempt. Bedecked in bones and other totems, in its calloused hands – weirdly human in shape, if not size – it held one of the great black banestones that littered this region, the fell runes etched into it still glowing with a fell green light. Its fur was an unhealthy shade of white; it was an albino.

The Destroyer Cult was forming ranks, and the great black mounts of The Enraged galloped past them to take position near the front. Skull Priests moved down the line, administering impromptu rites of the Blood God. As they daubed runes in blood from their skull-shaped chalices on the foreheads, weapons and armour of the Warriors and Marauders, they left behind changed men, invigorated by the power of Khorne or the Wolf God, depending on the particulars of their personal creed. They were already working themselves into a savage frenzy, but Tharris Thrice-Cursed knew it would do no good: the monster moving towards them had only one target, for its curious mutation allowed it to see only one of the Chaos servants standing in the camp.

It was a Cygor, the most dreaded of all the hideous forms of the Cloven Ones, at least for a Sorcerer like Tharris. He knew then what the nightmares he had endured all his life were leading up to, for the huge, warped giant charging straight for him with a thunderous braying born of miserable starvation, had but one eye in the centre of its forehead and, due to its albinism, it was as red as a dying sun. Tharris turned and ran.







Serial Writist - lots and lots of short fiction, written by me, regularly updated.

My models:
The Legion of Astragoth | The Dark Crusade of Mousillon | The Destroyer Cult | Les Défenseurs du Béniterre | Storm Over Béniterre | Force Belial

My rules:
Chaos Dwarfs Warscroll Compendium


03-03-2012 03:35 PM
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vulcanologist
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Post: #9
RE: Viene La Tormentavulcanologist 03-03-2012

Great stuff as usual Thommy! Don't know where you find the time to fit in all the aspects of your hobby!!


Check out lots of my other stuff on my blog: MY WEBSITE: http://vulcanologists.blogspot.co.uk/

MY CHAOS DWARF ARMY BLOG: http://www.chaos-dwarfs.com/forum/showth...p?tid=7773

MY BLOG OF EVERYTHING ELSE: http://www.chaos-dwarfs.com/forum/showth...?tid=10173

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03-03-2012 03:57 PM
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Thommy H
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Post: #10
RE: Viene La TormentaThommy H 03-03-2012

Oh, you know, I have a few hours here and there between writing a novel, maintaining a blog, being a loving and attentive husband and literally saving my department £3,000 with two hours work.


Serial Writist - lots and lots of short fiction, written by me, regularly updated.

My models:
The Legion of Astragoth | The Dark Crusade of Mousillon | The Destroyer Cult | Les Défenseurs du Béniterre | Storm Over Béniterre | Force Belial

My rules:
Chaos Dwarfs Warscroll Compendium


03-03-2012 03:59 PM
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dncswlf
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RE: Viene La Tormentadncswlf 03-03-2012

Wow, the glowing runes on the stones in the first pic are very impressive!!  All your work blows me away!


Check out my blogs, lots of oldies but goodies:
 
Dncswlf's Chaos Dwarf Blog
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03-03-2012 04:13 PM
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