Summer Round 2

Summer Rules Effects:
Whenever an expedition is removed from the map for any reason replace it in an unoccupied tile anywhere in your empire.



Random Events:
Alex 22 Settlers: pick unclaimed tile and put flag into it.
Justin 56 Blood Sacrifice. Force enemy to re-roll character injury table
Sam 53 Diplomacy. Pick an opponent. They cannot challenge you. (Empire)
Caz 11 Elven power politics results in army removed from the field

Mines:
Caz: mine exhausted. Next battle + 50 points troops
Sam: Relic and a 20 point magic item
Justin mine exhausted. Relic and a 30 point magic item
Alex: 200 points towards next battle

Battles:
Justin vs Sam: Ogres assault the castle at Ormshole
Sam vs Caspian:

Relic Count:
Sam: 0
Alex: 0
Caz: 6
Justin: 3

The Second Battle of Ormshole

Marshal Kurdt von Uffen did not fear danger. The long-ears had had a price on his head, and his head was still attached, despite many attempts from many men, and worse, to disconnect it from his head.

Father Ulric had tried to block the passes to the ogre armies, but somehow this one had snuck through. That's what you got when you left fighting to men of the cloth. They fethed it up. Better leave it to professional fighters. Men whose fathers were warriors, and whose daughters could tear the head off an orc.

There was going to be no finesse today. Just a straight up the guts charge with his best knights, and see which way the skulls fell.

With that thought he slammed down his visor and the war-horn sang!

Charge!


The few men on the walls of Castle Ormshole watched as Kurdt von Uffen's men cut down the last of the maneaters. Their horses stamped the dead bodies into the ground and then swung round to the help the centre, which was being slowly ground down by the foe.

Suddenly the centre broke and was trampled down by the monstrous cavalry. There were shrieks and cries of fear and alarm! Would they all end up as ogre-snacks!

The knights looked so magnificent as they wheeled round and drove another unit of ogres and knoblars from the field. Now the two generals faced each other.

'Flee!' men shouted. 'Save yourself lord Kurdt! Save our king!'

If Kurdt heard he did not show it. He remained tall and resolute in his saddle. The remaining knights, bloodied, battered, exhausted, lowered their lances for one final charge. The ogres did not flee, but braced their clubs and prepared for the fight.

Kurdt picked out the biggest and drew his sword. Kurdt von Uffen did not fear danger. His head was still attached, despite many attempts to remove it from his head.



The Victory Feast

The Battle of Bluegut Pass

Ulric the Black spent the night in prayer.
It had been three weeks since news came of the terrible demise of Luddvig the Accursed.
Sigmar had deserted them.
'Lord Sigmar!' he prayed, and tears of blood flowed from his eyes. 'Save our people from the terrors of this world!'
If Sigmar heard he gave no sign. The two armies lined up for battle. Blocks of swordsmen and halberdiers in the centre, a unit of knights on the right wing, and flagellants on the left.
Father Ulric had put his acolytes into the main units to raise the courage of the men.
All they had talked of was the size and the terror of the foe.
'I fear no big-gut!' Father Ulric shouted, his voice hoarse in the cold mountain winds, but somehow carrying across the bleak pass, and warming the hearts of the assembled men. There was a dull rumble, and he turned and saw the ogres coming towards them in a giant line.
He took his place in the centre of the line. There was a dull thud as the first of the blackpowder weapons began to fire.

The knights moved forwards. Their hearts were heavy. Against them were lined the most terrifying cavalry they had ever seen: ogres atop giant beasts. The priest with them called on them to have faith in Sigmar. 'If we die this day we shall feast at Sigmar's benches!'

The enemy came towards them, and they spurred their warhorses forward into the charge. It was terrifying riding towards these beasts. The stench of them came closer and closer. They drove their horses into the charge and the pennants on their lances fluttered at the long points were lowered.


Ulric watched as the the two lines of cavalry collided on the right wing. There was a sickening crunch, audible from this far away. He could not tell what had happened, but he prayed the knights sacrificed themselves dearly. At least to give him long enough to hold the centre. If he could just hold them off till nightfall, then perhaps the nomadic warriors would look for easier prey to the east or west.

'Lord!' a man cried out. 'Look!'

Ulric looked with dread, expecting the knights to have been crushed and broken, but instead he saw a most wonderous sight. The enemy cavalry breaking and fleeing like frightened children. The knights scattered them to the four winds, then turned towards the centre, and crushed a wheeling unit of ogre infantry, who were desperately trying to hold their flank.

The knights crashed into them and drove them from the field. They turned and wheeled again dipping their blooded pennants in a grim salute.

'Sigmar be praised!' he cried, and his men charged forward.

Earlsborg is surrounded.

The halls rang out with hurrying footsteps. 'Lord!' the steward, an old man with one eye and a beard as white as the snow on the far mountain tops. 'The ogres have slipped past our watchmen and are even now marching towards Earlborg! Men say it is time to flee. For what can withstand the might of these great beasts with their terrifying cavalry of monstrous wild things.'
Uter nodded. He could hear hammering from the armoury. The smiths were making him a suitably impressive suit of full plate as they talked. He wondered if he'd live long enough to wear it. A vision came into his head, of his broken and bloodied body, the bright armour stained red, and an ogre foot upon his chest, crushing the life from him. He banished it as he had banished his mother. Locked them both away and made no sign.
'But there is worse lord!' the man said.
Uter nodded. Go on.
'It is your mother lord.'
Uter nodded. Speak.
'The Countess.'
Uter allowed himself a wry smile. His mother was no more a countess than he was a mermaid.
'She has bribed the garrison at Ormshole, and now they have deserted their posts and the castle, which Marshall Kurdt von Uffen won with such great slaughter against the long-ears.'
'I heard it was Barrt the Fierce who defended the place. Kurdtt didn't arrive till the elven foe had already fled.'
'Well,' the steward said. 'Anyway! We are surrounded and two great hosts of the ogre kin are upon us!' His voice rose in pitch and volume until the last words came out in a terrified shrill. 'We are doomed! Flee my lord flee! The end if nigh and we would not have you slaughtered as your poor father.'
Uter looked at the man, and he stopped his mad ravings. 'We do not speak of that, Lord Steward. Understand?'
The man nodded dumbly.
'Send word to Father Ulric the Black and Kurdtt von Uffen. Order them to meet the foe with all the strength at their disposal. I want no heroics. Just slow them down. How many men have we here?'
'Few my lord. Just those who survived the battle where your father...'
'What about the new army we raised?'
'Those men are untested, lord and they have been listening to tales.'
'What tales?'
'Of the last battle. And how no man could stand against the foe.'
'Well,' Uter said, 'they had better stand this time, or we shall all be filling the guts of the Great Maw!'
The steward nodded and calmed sufficiently, he turned to go.
'And Steward!' Uter said. 'If you come to my hall like that again, I shall feed you to the ogrekin myself. Understood?'
'Understand, my lord.'
'Good. Now go.'
Uter watched the man leave. How had it come to this. Shiester! he thought. How the hell can we stop the ogres!?

The Choices of Prince Khorandis

The mid-morning sun cast brilliant rays across the barren wasteland that lay stretched out infront of Prince Khorandis. He watched it with one foot upon a bloodstained boulder, noticing a small, half-starved bird fluttering down and pecking at the ground. At first it seemed about to give up but then, finding its quarry, it flew back to its nest with a leafed twig clasped in its mouth.
"Report," he said without turning to see the elf who had quietly come to stand a few paces behind him.
"No enemy activity has been spotted for many miles around," the sergeant stated matter-of-factly. "Commander Fenorr reports his regiment is as good as ready for your orders."
Khorandis' ears twitched. "Fenorr has sent word?"
"He's here m'lord. Rode through the night with his bodyguard as I understand it."
"Then I suppose we'd better grant him an audience."

***

Khorandis marched through the camp, responding when his men saluted him, slapping his soldiers on the back as if they were old comrades. Every action he made and the expression fixed to his face was designed to project utter confidence but it only served to highlight to himself how far from reality that really was. His armies had been crushed on every front since enterring this accursed land and if his men did not have a victory soon then the despair growing in their hearts would defeat them faster than any flesh and blood enemy.

As he approached an ornately embroidered tent, the halberd wielding guards posted at its entrance swept away the curtained porthole. He stepped through and when his eyes had adjusted to the dimmer lighting he saw Calistari sat next to a prone figure. As green-tinted magic drifted from her fingertips to the figure's chest and forehead, the elf's breathing seemed to grow stronger, though he did not open his eyes.
"Will he live?" he asked, not bothering to mask the concern in his voice.
She finished mouthing a few words of an incantation before standing up and answering him, her eyes still fixed on her patient.
"Maybe if we were in Ulthuan, but there is little I can do for him here besides ease his suffering. Isha herself would find it hard to make anything grow or heal here."
Khorandis took a few steps closer and realised that the wounded elf was Ilthirion, a footsoldier in the spear regiments who had gained minor fame in Saphery for his epic poems.
"We march in a few hours. If you wish you may remain here and tend to the wounded. We go to secure more defensible positions, not to engage."
"How very thoughtful of you," she snapped, turning an angry glare on him. "If I'm not mistaken, retreat is also a valid strategy."
"Not for me," he said coldly.
"How many of our kinsmen must die for your revenge?" She demanded.
He stooped down and picked up one of Ilthirion's gauntlets that lay beside him. He turned it over in his hands like a master craftsmen evaluating the work of an apprentice.
"I know you spoke out against the latest raids on Naggeroth and advised the Phoenix King against the latest expeditions to Lustria."
"I did," she said without hesitation. "They were unnecessary and every elf life lost is a blow to our race."
"Then you would have us cloistered on Ulthuan."
"There are worse places to retreat to."
"True, but the fact of the matter is that we as a race will never regain our former greatness if we do not venture out. Risk is part of greatness."
"You speak like a human," she said, and he shot her an angry look. She almost laughed. "You hate them so much and yet you're more like them than you wish to admit. Why not return to Ulthuan? There is no shame in realising that this fool's venture is not worth the blood of our kin."
Her words cut through him and he found himself disarmed yet again in a way that only his oldest childhood friend could do. He was about to speak when Bel Fenorr swept the curtain aside and enterred the tent.
"Sire, I've come to report and discuss our strategy if you will it."
Khorandis took a deep breath and recomposed himself.
"We are continuing the campaign, are we not?" Fenorr asked.
"Yes..." he said as much to himself as to his lieutenant. "We are continuing. And what's more is we'll win. Call the other commanders. Tell them to be ready to say farewell to the taste of defeat and be ready at the war council with any and all suggestions."
The tall elf nodded and left the tent, letting the flap close behind him. Khorandis himself got up to leave and then Calistari called his name.
"Khorandis, you know I'll stand beside you whichever road you choose."
He gave a sad smile and nodded.
"I just don't want to see your hatred destroy you. You won't let that happen, will you?"
"I hope not," he said with a weak smile before walking out.

Summer Round 1

Summer Rules Effects:
Whenever an expedition is removed from the map for any reason replace it in an unoccupied tile anywhere in your empire.


Uter the Bastard takes over from his reputed father, Luddvig the Accursed.

Random Events:
Alex - 34 Bad Intelligence
Justin 24 Sapper - remove enemy fortress
Sam 21 Stoking unrest - pick enemy tile and remove flag
Caz 63 Treasure chest gain d3 relics

Mines:
Caz: +150 point to army +50pt magic item
Sam: +200 p[oints to next battle
Justin +250 points to next battle. +50pt magic item

Battles:
Justin vs Sam: A resounding Victory to Father Ulric the Black and the Empire! RESULT: EMPIRE GAIN RELIC. MARSHAL GAINS MAGIC ITEM OF 40POINTS. OGRES DRIVEN BACK TO CAPITAL. KNOBLARS STUPID IN NEXT BATTLE
Sam vs Justin: A great rout of the ogres by Marshal Kurdt von Uffen, who held the place of slaughter. RESULT: EMPIRE UNITS CAUSES FEAR. OGRES DRIVEN BACK TO CAPITAL. REGIMENT OF RENOWN REDUCED TO GREEN TROOPS

The End of Luddvig Giantkiller

When Luddvig awoke, strapped to a stone altar, with a ogre shamen carving bloody runes into his living skin, he thought he had passed from the living world into some nightmare of horrific proportions.

He struggled futilely. This time there was no escape. The last moments of the battle came back to him. A desperate - no he thought with bitter amusement - a single, last glorious act of heroism. His only heroic moment, in fact, and it seemed his last. Charging - and almost routing the enemy general before being sat upon and crushed from his horse.

He wondered if his army had escaped. And if they had - had they escaped with his gold. He cursed his men as he thought of them enjoying his ill-won gains. He shut his eyes as the shamen reached the end of his bizarre ceremony.

There was a moment's pause, as the bloody knife was lifted into the air.

-------------

Word came to the windy crags of Earlburg.

The rider threw back his hood. 'The news is true, my lord,' he said. 'Your father has gone to meet Sigmar.'

'How did he die?'

The messenger could not bring himself to tell Uter the truth. 'He did not survive the battle,' he said.

Uter the Bastard had always dreamed of this moment. But here he was, barely sixteen years old, and now with the weight of authority thrust upon him, and at this of all times, with rampaging armies of ogres and elves and lizards besetting him on all sides.

'Bring me my sword!' he said.