The Shieldwall of the Rangers held against the many volleys of the Asrai before their own return fire was let loose. It wasn't accurate with the Dawi forced to protect themselves with their shields, but it didn't have to be. A war of attrition was exactly where they excelled, and the day would be their's. Though only one of ten of their crossbow bolts hit the nimble Wood folk, the Rangers had each brought dozens while holding fast themselves, armour stopping the arrows their shields could not. They cheered as they lowered their shields to find the corpses of the elves strewn across the battlefield, archers and war dancers alike looking as porcupines full of bolts.

But they raised their crossbows in cheers and celebration far too early as upon a green dragon descended one of their Spellweavers. In a single burst of flame almost half of the Dwarfen formation evaporated, and the rest that launched bolts had them harmlessly clatter off of the foe.

Though prideful, Dwarfs know well when to retreat and this was a clear case when that was advisable as the Rangers scattered as fast as their stumpy legs would take them. But though faster than most Dwarfs, Rangers were not faster than a dragon. It swept across the battlefield causing a true carnage. Only a small pack of the original Dawi remained running, heading towards the cave they had emerged from. They had nearly come to safety when the dragon again descended, the Elf upon it smiling smugly upon the Dwarfs. She began a taunt in the Khazalid she had mastered thousands of years ago to helpless Dwarfs, but she paused half way through it noticing their shite-eating grins. She turned to look back far too late to see the Shard Dragon coming, her only warning being a feint glow of the runes that the midgets had carved into it.

The ugly, misshapen and enslaved dragon crashed into her glorious beast, its thousands of dark spines impaling her green mount. The Rangers wasted no time getting in close to hack at the stricken foe with their axes, the Shard Dragon wasted no time in gobbling up the mage herself to satisfy its unending gluttony. But the woman knew she could not end it like this, and so as the venom running through the organism of the monster began to destroy he she released all the power she could muster from the winds of magic.

A horrible explosion happened within the throat of the Shard Dragon, and the runic collar that bounded it to the will of the Dawi burst half-broken. Though of free will, its mind was still broken by the remaining pieces of runic gromril biting into its flesh. It roared, spasming momentarily before burrowing into the ground.

The Dwarfs looked between each other grimly. "Shit." One of them said.

---

"I challenge you to a duel then, Sir Roderick!"

"So it shall be!"

The drunken Imperial and Brettonnian Lords both drew their own longswords. Neither could remember exactly what had started their argument but by now it hadn't mattered. Their duel was a pitiful sight with swords clanging seamlessly flat to flat and edge to edge. But gasps erupted when Sir Roderick after parrying punched his counterpart. This was not allowed.

Roderick was very surprised to find two arms grasp his shoulders. Sobriety hit him like a truck when he was informed he would be taken into the local stockade for his most horrible trespass. Kuno Wolfenburg - the only other Imperial guest present at the party - kept quiet. An outburst now would serve nobody. Most likely Roderick would not be set free, but by Sigmar when he would return home and explain what happened he would make sure that the frogs paid for applying this silly and indeed local rule to a man who knew it not.

Ferruccio sits in his wooden chair, staring at a series of statistics printed on paper and book. The room of the Duke is a modest one. In one corner, the left side, is a long-shelf of books. This is where Ferruccio keeps all his records and administration papers at. At another corner, the right side, is another shelf of books, but this one is much shorter. This shelf holds all the personal books of the Duke. Fairy tales, dramas, and likewise, are all a-part of the collection. Moving towards the middle is Ferruccio’s desk. The workplace, where Ferruccio spends most of his days at. The task of administration and taxation is an important duty, and Ferruccio has no time to do anything else but that. Diligent would be a fitting word here.

Today, Ferruccio has to overlook the recent census performed not too long ago. The Lodi Census is due every five years. This is all to gather accurate information on the status of the realm, and most importantly to properly tax the realm. Ferruccio is no shoddy steward, and he will make sure that Lodi will prosper under his leadership. The Duke has plenty of things lined up, mainly public works. Amongst the piles of books and paper on his desk are details for a planned cobble road. The facilitation of trade is highly important for Lodi, and Ferruccio knows that very well.

From the dwarfs to the fortress of Helmgart, all of them rely on daily shipments of grain from the farm-fields of Lodi. This trade fuels the economy and growth of Lucca, the only main urban center of Lodi. But enough of economics and trade. That could be always talked about at later dates. Ferruccio is more interested in the news of a high-profile Imperial noble named Sir Roderick. The noble somehow got himself in trouble, with the source of the issue being that Roderick violated a rule of a duel with a Brettonnian Lord. What news, especially for Ferruccio. Who knows what this will lead to. Hopefully, this will all be resolved soon. If not then there might be a war on the horizon. Ferruccio rather not have his realm be involved with a war with the Brettonnians, but he cannot control what will occur.

---

"No."

"What do you mean, no?!" Baron Fritz Gerlich, Lord of Helmgart, sputtered in indignation , his hands flapping uselessly in front of him. "You cannot refuse!"

"One does not tell an Arch Lector what he can, or cannot do, except the Emperor himself. Are you the Emperor, my lord?" Strauch stood tall in the Barons personal chambers, his shaved head gleaming in the sunlight that streamed in through a massive arched window that rose from floor to ceiling. One hand was gently stroking a long blonde beard as he stared at the tall, reed-thin Nobleman in front of him.

The Baron looked at a loss for words as he stared at Strauch. A fine silken shirt was half hidden by a breastplate that showed signs of battle, and a noticeable limp attested to the Barons own service in the armies of the Empire. A Greatsword, nearly as tall as Gerlich, told the story of his own history. The Arch Lector, for his own part, wore a humble blue robe with a fine chainmail woven into the fabric, Book of Sigmar hung, as it always had, over his left hip, by a simple chain of forged steel. A one handed mace hung from his belt and he felt it bump comfortingly against his thigh; he was never a man without a weapon.

"I have not been sent to Helmgart to sort out the childish mistakes of your kinsmen." Strauchs voice was a deep, almost pleasant, rumble. It brokered no argument, even from a distant cousin of the Emperors Chamberlin.

"Well, that is quite unexpected..." Gerlich said with a sigh as he sat in a small chair, the red cushion giving a poof of dust that cascaded through the sunbeam. His long fingers drummed for a moment on a grey table that held a bottle of port and two glasses. He had not offered the Arch Lector one, nor would it have been accepted if he did.

"I am glad we understand each other, my lord." Strauch bowed his head slightly and then turned to go.

"You don't think it'll lead to war?" Gerlichs voice was so quiet that Strauch almost missed the question. He paused for a moment in the doorway before turning to look over his shoulder. Helmgarts commander was sitting slumped on his chair, staring out the tall window - an old soldier remembering old battles - and fiddling with the hilt of his sword.

"I would like to say no, but I both think we know that men are foolish. I, for one, will not take part. There are far greater enemies afoot."

"Yes, so you said..." Gerlich glanced up and his green eyes met piercing blue as the two men regarded each other. "Sigmar protect you, Arch Lector."

"And you, my lord." Strauch bowed and swept from the room.

Azzsar The Dreamer - The Great City of Mourkain, In Another Time

The warm night breeze lightly tossed the red silken curtains of the balcony’s awning, whilst the scent of perfumed incense wafted through the air. All around were various exotic planters containing a variety of flowers and small trees, each giving off their own scent borne of a hundred different lands. Amongst this decadent setting a small cadre of pale-skinned nobles wearing soft flowing outfits of various colors reclined on stuffed peacock cushions. A number of servants stood gently fanning them, whilst elegant crystal glasses filled with a dark red liquid was held in each of their jewelry-bedecked hands. One of them took a long drink from his glass before turning to his fellows,

“Brothers I must speak,” He turned to one of the nobles seated across from him, and raised his glass, “Azzsar your hospitality is once again proven to all. I cannot think of a finer night I have experienced than this.”

“Please your thanks is appreciated but unnecessary, what manner of man would I be to not welcome my fellow brothers of the night into my home? You are most welcome here, and shall ever be,” The man he'd addressed replied cheerfully.

“I too must compliment you on your mortal fare. Who were they?” Another man spoke, “The taste is exquisite.”

“A criminal condemned and executed not but this very morning. A merchant who swindled a considerable amount of money from his business partners. I’m told he was of excellent heritage and good breeding.”

“Ha! Very fine indeed, you spoil us brother.”

“Only the finest,” Azzsar said as he stood up, his silken white robes billowed about him as he did so, “Brothers I propose a toast. To Great Ushoran, Lord and King of Mourkain and all the lands of Mighty Strygos. I name him founder of this celebration.”

The rest of the nobles followed Azzsar’s lead, and also raised their glasses,

“To the King!”

Suddenly the billowing curtains leading to the balcony parted and out stepped a beautiful woman in light blue dress, her slender pale hands clasped before her and her deep blue eyes looked at Azzsar with a warm unspoken tenderness,

“Brothers,” Azzsar turned, “I present to you my wife.”

Azzsar reached for her hand, eagerly anticipating her loving touch.

It never came.

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

Azzsar woke within his stone sarcophagus, there was a brief moment of dawning realization as he raised up his hand, expecting yet to see his wife before him, but instead seeing only dripping rock and the outline of long razor sharp claws that he quickly knew was his own.

All at once her roared and pulled himself up out of the stone coffin. His bestial cry was borne of the horror of a former life long since lost: of friends, of love, and dignity all now torn from him forever. Azzsar swung one of his hands and tore into the rock beside him, tearing bits and pieces of stalagmites and sending them crashing to the ground as he did so.

Several ghouls scurried their way into his chamber from the blackness of the tunnel beyond. The loathsome creatures carried crudely fashioned bone clubs and wore scraps of tattered animal refuse and hide as makeshift clothing. When they saw that Azzsar had awakened, they immediately dropped low in deference, and placed their hunched and deformed bodies as close to the ground as they could.

Azzsar looked at them and strode over, he immediately grabbed one of the ghouls and with a single powerful bite, he sank his fangs into the creature's neck and tore it open. He drank deeply as its lifeblood drained out in a great torrent before him. The blood was wretched and foul, but it was none the less nourishing and he needed to feed after his long slumber. When he was finished, he tossed the exsanguinated ghoul aside. The other ghouls immediately turned and grabbed at their former pack mate, tearing the corpse apart limb from limb as they feasted on its body. Not a scrap would go to waste.

Someone else entered his chamber then, an undead warrior clad head to toe in ancient armor with a sword clasped at its side. A great helm in the visage of a winged dragon sat atop its head and from its now empty eye sockets glowed a bright blue aura. It drew its sword and knelt before Azzsar in noble deference. When it spoke, its voice was unearthly and remote,

“My Lord you have awakened once more. What command do you have for your servant?”

“Verrok,” Azzsar said, as he approached towards the Wight, “How many years has it been?”

“A century at least, Great One”

“I must feed Verrok. I desire sweeter blood: not of these wretched creatures,” He motioned to the gibbering ghouls who were still feasting on their fallen kin, “I would have an unspoiled mortal.”

“Then I will send out patrols to watch the mountain roads for travelers Great One. I shall procure you a human from which you might slake your thirst.”

“And summon all before my throne Verrok. I would hold court this night.”

“As you wish Great One.”

---

Forty men rode in two columns and they wound their way up the steep mountain roadway that served as the main route through the Gisoreux Gap. The air was crisp and cold, a fine spring morning, and the breath of men and horses showed white against the newly rising sun. The warmth was welcome, these mountains tended to hold the chill as long as they could but here at least they received the new rays early in the day.

Snow crunched beneath hooves and leather creaked loudly in protest at the cold air. Hands continually reached for blades, tugging slightly on the blades to ensure they did not stick in the scabbard at a critical moment. The wooden hilts were at least a welcome warmth to cold fingers, no matter how little true warmth they produced.

A yeoman scout, his kettle helm hanging from the saddle horn, appeared ahead of them and waved upward. The Duke himself, riding at the head of the column, waved in reply and kicked his mount up the last few yards to the top. He was not riding his great war destrier, instead he was mounted on a fine looking quarter horse that served him far more in this treacherous terrain than any well trained warhorse could ever hope to do.

The crest of the pass was a barren hundred yards of stone, not a single one left was big enough for even a goblin to hide behind. Guarding the pass, equal distance from the mountains, loomed the imposing bulk of Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte, the fortress from which the trade road was patrolled and Bretonnias enemies kept at bay.

"My lord, the garrison wishes to know if you will be attending the castle today?" The scout, his head covered by a fur hat, rode up, bowing his head slightly.

Thommas would have loved nothing more than to enter into the warmth of the castle but that was not his goal here today. The time would come, on the way back, and he shook his head regretfully. The fortress was not a large one by most standards but its location on a rocky pinnacle in the middle of the valley made it virtually impenetrable. Even Skaven, more numerous in recent years, would find it nearly impossible to infiltrate thanks to bleedings given by The Lady.

He glanced up toward the tall conical turrets from which his banner snapped in the wind. His critical eye could find nothing out of the ordinary with the fortress and he smiled inwardly. He has chosen the commander well.

"Not right away, Marshall. On our return trip I am sure we would all be grateful of a hot fire and some food." Grins showed among the column of horsemen. Only a half dozen were knights, another half dozen were men-at-arms while the rest were yeomen. Taking them from their homes and into the savage peaks of the Grey Mountains required some sort of perks and he often found that a simple meal and wine they did not have to pay for went a long way.

"Right, onward and upward then, m'lord?" The scout asked, pulling off his hat now and strapping the kettle helmet into place. They would be leaving the main roads at once for more hostile terrain and it did well to be prepared.

"Aye, onward and upward. Arm up!" The last two words were said loud enough for the whole column to hear and men shrugged out of their more comfortable clothing, replacing it with proper fighting gear. "All eyes!"

The words carried down the line as the horsemen began to move westward into the Grey Mountains.

Lodi

---

With winter's end many men would know that a harvest season would soon begin. But elsewhere the changing of seasons meant something entirely different. Some time ago and far away the Asrai held their court, until Orion eventually awoke to do the bidding of Kurnous, revered of the Wood Elves. The Wild Hunt began, and now it reached lands of the Empire. How they passed so many lands to reach this point without being intercepted was a mystery, but a far greater one was why then, if they can move as such, did they now have to ask the Lord of Lodi for permission to cross his lands?

For indeed, some villagers would speak of a great column of foreigners riding stags quietly going through the night, until one such pointy-eared rider would arrive at the Castle of the Lord hoping for a quick audience, his request simple; that the men of the Empire not interfere with the Asrai as they passed through.

---

---

The Realm of Azzsar

---

The realm of Azzsar had only now begun to stir with their Lord's recent awakening. But there were those who sensed these things, even if inelegantly. Whispers went through the darkness of the mountains, whispers that reached a great many ears that all made use of their new knowledge in oh so different ways.

But the most immediate result Azzsar himself would notice - perhaps informed by his most sapient of serfs - was the lingering of giant spiders at the edges of his realm, of red eyes glowing in the dark that could not be accounted for by anyone under the Dark Lord's command.

---

---

The Duchy of Gisoreux

---

To the lands of the Duke would appear a wandering wizard. He was not the typical practitioner of magics of Brettonnia, but he was rather a more Imperial looking man. The more cosmopolitan people who had seen him would be divided in describing him as a wizard of Shadows or of Beasts, but they would certainly agree he had the look of a college boy, what with the beard not to his knees and still not quite grey. Some would say small miracles would come follow him, but he was not here to spread these wonders.

He would state to any he passed that he had a most important business to attend to, that he had to speak to the Lord of Gisoreux with a very important matter.

“And you are certain-sure of this, yes-yes?”

The Bonelord’s low, rumbling words made him clench his glands even tighter. Tweep Smalleyes kept his eyes to the ground, not daring to look up at the face of death looming over him. From his position on his knees, prostrated before the Osseous Throne, the man-thing hair rug was cleaner than he expected. Well except for the bit of discarded gristle inches from his snout.

“Yes, oh mighty Bonelord, it is true-certain,” Tweep stammered. “All the malign portents of the foul-thing’s awakening have come to pass, just as you said! Savage man-things rip and tear and howl! Wight warrior departs from tunnels! All my wall creepers report the same.” He bobbed his head enthusiastically, which threatened to send the warpstone lens goggles careening off his head. He stopped them, but only just. It would cost another month’s flesh rations to replace them if they broke, and he could not dirty himself with eating mushroom stew for so long again!

The Bonelord was silent for a long moment. Tweep was sure his lord’s dread blade would come flashing down at any moment for some impasse. Tweep could maybe scurry away faster than Skelett, make a new life in nearby Clan Fester, sell his secrets, but the two chieftains in the room would surely catch him if he tried to bolt. Perhaps if he-

Then the Bonelord spoke. “You are a satisfactory minion.” The Bonelord paused, perhaps realizing that Tweep did not know what “satisfactory” meant. “Good-fine sneaking. You are not so useless after all!” Skelett’s hot breath washed over him as his heart soared. “Scamper to feeding pit now!”

Tweep needed no excuse to leave.



Skelett glowered at the black-robed clanrat’s backside as he scurried out of the room like his life depended on it. Of course Skelett wouldn’t kill the imbecile! He was the only one who fully understood the labyrinth of sneak holes under Azzsar. Then again, his cowardly behavior perhaps showed Tweep was getting too comfortable as a puppet master. Maybe one of his bolder subordinates, who actually put himself in danger sneaking past ghouls, would be better suited to be his Chief Skulker Under the Mountain.

He noted with delight that Chieftain Veskitt Foulthief snarled at Tweep’s backside as he left. The rivalry between Chief Skulker Under the Manthings and Chief Skulker Under the Mountain was one he could play off. Chieftain Zatch Mournjaw remained as stoic as ever, but Skelett thought he could detect a faint glimmer in his eyes as he too noticed Veskitt’s jealousy. Skelett narrowed his eyes. Zatch liked to play the simple, brute stormvermin, but Skelett was no snotling-brained son of a mouse! He knew Zatch had his ambitions and games. But as the clanrat left, it was time to get back to the matter at hand. He shivered in excitement as he processed Tweep’s words again. The Strigoi Ghoul King had finally awakened! He grabbed a handful of succulent, zombie fingers from a bucket near his throne, chewed, and swallowed, letting the moment linger on as the Necroflayer guard closed the bone-handled door behind Tweep.

“I trust you know what this means?” Skelett intoned regally.

Veskitt gnashed his fangs. Zatch nodded.

Skelett answered anyways. “From my readings and ruminations on necromantic lore, these are portents that their arch foul-thing has awoken. Our unholy enemy, blood of Nagash.” Of course, the history was more complicated than that, but he found throwbacks to the great necromancer always had a way of scaring his pawns into action. “We have a great many plans to lay, but first must gather strength.” He turned towards Veskitt, fine chainmail jiggling as he did. “Chieftain Veskitt, does the Helmgart Undertown prosper-succeed?”

Veskitt grinned toothily, as much as a ratman could, anyways. The brown-furred Skaven wore black leathers with a variety of jagged blades strapped to his belt. Most prominent was a fine hand crossbow that Veskitt took pride in pilfering from a witch hunter some years ago. While Skelett kept his fur carefully dyed white in keeping with Clan Mordkin tradition, Veskitt’s only concession to that tradition was a band of white paint around his eyes and the circumference of his furry head, broken in the center by his snout. “Helmgart Undertown does prosper. Many generations of warriors buried in death garden. Jeweled swords, silver hammer god symbols, and succulent bones,” he snorted “man-things leave perfectly good meat in gutters and alleys too.”

“Good-good. Intensify your gathering. But only so many rich corpses in Helmgart. Most man-things are squalid wretches. Start digging sneaky tunnels under plains into Brettonia.” Skelett tried to speak with more refinement than the average Skaven, but the troublesome word Brettonia came out more like Brettuna. He cursed himself and made a note to review man-thing vocabulary later. He continued “More to be found there. And with the news you brought of the foolish quarrel between mouse brained man-thing elites of knight land and the Empire, perhaps more battlefields to scavenge soon, yes-yes? Make tunnels deep and sneaky, use other clan’s tunnels sparingly. We want no war with Fester and other Clans with arch foul-thing awake.”

Veskitt nodded this time and responded with a hint of sarcasm “Yes, Bonelord. Your wisdom is great.”

For now, Skelett ignored the impudence as he turned to Zatch Mournjaw. His orders were much simpler. “Begin gathering warriors from tunnels. Thin out less important sections. Concentrate forces in Rotbane Mine, closest to Azzsar’s caves, yes-yes? Begin preparations for a raid. We must test the Ghoul King’s strength.”

The hulking, former Necroflayer’s fur was fully dyed white as Skelett’s was. His plate was stained pinkish, flesh color similar to the Mordkin banner. But his namesake feature was his overgrown jaws, closer to a rat ogre’s than a normal skaven. Once Zatch had gained the warp tokens, he had even encased his teeth in a silver-bonesteel alloy, so that Skaven and dead-things alike feared his bite.

Zatch’s red eyes gleamed and he nodded silently, offering a hint of a snarl on his otherwise stoic snout. A sign of battle-readiness.

Skelett leaned back in his throne, feeling another thrilling shiver. It was all soon to be worth it. Leaving Sylvania behind, fighting green-things and other Skaven on great tunnel journey, taking tunnels beneath Azzsar for himself. The fools back in Skulsreach would tremble if they saw him now.

“May the Horned Rat smile on us,” he murmured, feeling very satisfied with himself.

The Osseus Hollow

---

To the the underworld of the Bonelord arrived a figure that he could see as a blessing, as a curse, or perhaps simply a nuisance. It was a fellow Skaven who was larger than the typical clanrat - almost the size of a Stormvermin - yet lacking the upright posture of Stormvermin and much of the Skaven intellectual castes (though the full extent of his proportions was hidden by the grand cloak upon him).

He was a strange fellow, with a particulalry long snouth and jaw to much peering out from the length of his hood. His fur was rather well maintained despite having apparently travelled this treacherous distance on a stormfiend, but just as interesting were the two very long and transparent warpstone cylinders likewise peering out from the hood and resting upon the snout of the giant rat; some more learned folk would be able to watch and see how light twisted around the lengths of green, and after witnessing the two brown orbs projected out the flat but smooth tips of the cylinders they would be able to deduce that these were very, very large spectacles made out of warpstone.

He would speak to the skaven he came upon and ask to see the Bonelord, claiming to have a very important duty. Though many might call this claim to be dwarf-thing-shit, he announced himself to be an Inspector from the Council of Thirteen.

What could go wrong? Besides, Ferruccio Lo Duca rather not get himself into the politics of the elves. All they ask is a passage into his lands. A simple request and one that can be easily given. Without much hassle, Ferruccio gives the go-ahead and lets the Wild Hunt be on its merry way. Ferruccio knows next to nothing about the elves as well. Why would he go about and dispute their culture and life? He also rather not piss off the elves too. You never know what could go wrong when you piss off an ancient race. The same for the dwarfs since they do not forget any sins done to them, but that is another story for another time. With that done, Ferruccio goes back to his duties in administering the realm.