A tale of 6 heroes

[LexEleven]

Turn 1 to turn two

Brenn meets Haffi

Haffi had to admit it, he was lost seven whole weeks he had been walking through the lands of men with not a single drop of ale stronger than a Gobos nadsack. Not for the first time he cursed not being able to visit the dwarven strongholds and partake in a good strong brew or two. But that was his price, self imposed mind you, for his failure. Worst still he had seen the tracks of empire men, not the free-town folk who accept all, but those puritans if he bumped into them it would not be a mighty doom, they may burn Haffi at the stake or ring his neck. Haffi reached to his neck instinctively rubbing the imaginary noose loose.

“Ah whets this? Droppings of skaven but Haffi find any to fight?” Haffi proceeded to shout at the top of his lungs every obspeetive he could muster but it had not brought enemies running. Cheesed off was not the word for Haffi.

He raised his mighty hand to his head and pushed back the Orange main on his head, “Marie burg where all are welcome, pirate’s thieves, even slayers” the hushed words followed by a roar “where the troll sputum is it?” He fumbled in his tatty shorts pocket for a piece of parchment “the hanging cadaver what a place, dwarf beer, buxom wenchs and never ending grub” suddenly he was snapped out of his daydream there was a rustle in the bushes. “Ah” he whispered “skaven hiding from old haffi”

Haffi picked up his axes, crack and split had seen some action but their edges were keen, and so was the slayer charging headlong through the bushes, bowling straight into a fellow dwarf knocking his ornate helm and Hammer flying across the glade the weapon hummed gently as it flew, then without seeming to do so returned to the dwarfs hand…………….. All around him crossbows clicked and bolts pointed at him. The young dwarf smiled “I am Brenn of Marienburg and we could do with one of your cult, evil draws near and I am sure your doom awaits”, “great” replied haffi helping up the dwarf “but can you take me to the hanging cadaver first I needs a beer?”

“I fear there is no time for that Slayer” brenn almost spat out the last of the sentence “we have had a lucky escape from a band of well armed puritans and skaven are on the scuttle” Haffi shrugged “and they will scuttle no more if I sees them”, Brenn raised an eyebrow “quite, but less would scuttle if we can engage them at the merchants pass, I have a canon crew stationed there” then to his captain “give this dragon slayer some ale, I have heard they fight better drunk”. A Roar of laughted spread through party.

With that the dwarves set off to await the on coming Skaven, Haffi smiled.

[Lordmonkey]

I love Slayers :D

The Blood Elves of Arnheim

Galanir raised his twin swords and howled a battlecry. He and his Blood Elf brethren surged forth at a blinding pace to engage the marauding Ratmen. The Blood Elves were the children of Arnheim, a forest so saturated in magic that the inhabitants had developed a natural affinity, resistance, and even a dependency on magical energy. To the enhanced sense of the Blood Elves, the Ratmen literally stank of magic, and only Galanir's iron will and leadership had prevented his brethren from breaking ranks and sprinting towards the foe in a frenzy of mana-lust.
As they approached the mob of some forty brown-furred Ratmen clad in filthy red rags, Galanir noticed his scouts galloping into view from behind a nearby copse of trees. Not all of them had returned from reconnaissance, having sustained several losses and with the survivors clinging to their mounts for grim death. One of them caught Galanir's eye and quickly made a complex signed gesture to convey information about the foe before galloping away into the distance.

++ WEAPON ++ FIRE ++ SORCEROR ++

The fire weapon was of no major concern, since his brethren were cloaked in the scales of the Cold Ones, great lizards that prowled the forest of Arnheim. Cold One hide was tough and thick, and heavily resistant to ranged weaponry of many kinds.
However, a sorcerer ... this could pose a problem. As they approached the ranks of the Ratmen a bolt of green energy erupted from one particular strange looking Ratman who carried upon his back a metallic device with miniature green lightning bolts playing across it's surface. The green bolt blinded Galanir for a second, and when his vision returned two of his brethren were a charred, blackened mess. The rest of the Blood Elves were unfazed by this, and slammed into the ranks of the enemy, each laying about the vermin with their twin swords in a whirlwind of death. Half of their numbers butchered, the remainder fled only to be shredded as they fled from the frenzied Blood Elves. Galanir could see that the rat-sorcerer was readying himself for another bolt of energy and wasted no time in leading his brethren into another charge. As he did so however, a gout of flame erupted from the flank as two Ratmen wielding a flame-spewing device cackled maniacally. Galanir drew his cloak about himself, as did many others, but some of kin were not quick enough and were completely engulfed by the flame. These unfortunate elves broke ranks, frothing at the mouths into the ranks of the Ratmen. The magic gave them strength. Energy. It drove them to unprecedented lengths and gave them the will to kill even as their bodies burned. His mouth watered...

Galanir awoke to the sound of birdsong. He opened his eyes and looked around. His brethren were sitting or lying in various parts of the clearing, every one asleep or semi-awake. He was sitting against a tree with his swords on the ground where he had dropped them. The corpses of Ratmen were everywhere, some of them burning, though the fires had not spread to the forest. As he recollected the events of the battle he realised he must have given in to the magic craving that afflicted all of his people. He got onto his feet and searched the area, looking for something to jog his memory. On the ground amongst a large pile of corpses was a trio of dried out husks. They looked as if they had been left to dry out in the sun for months. Then something stirred within his memory. A Ratman fleeing into the woods. Terrified, furred faces held at sword point. His fellow Blood Elves, their eyes burning green, their faces contorted in a mixture of hatred and lust. Hands. His hands, spread wide. And words... words that echoed throughout his mind so loudly they hurt;

"YOUR MAGIC IS MINE!"