The sound of iron shod hooves raged upon earth hardened by the chill winds and bleak ice like thunder. The ground trembled and cracked beneath their passing. The Anarch, Heresiarch of the Northern Wastes, road at the head of the infamous Brass Bulls of Helfjord. The Brass Bulls were by no means a sizeable warband, numbering under a hundred, yet they were possessed of fearsome reputation. Like their lord, the Throne of Skulls had seen fit to grant each warrior a terrifying Juggernaut of Khorne. Through sheer brute force the Brass Bulls have bludgeoned warbands of greater size into submission and fealty when the Anarch's impassioned words fell on deaf ears.

"My Lord Anarch," came a voice over the din of thundering hooves and the clatter of plates. "We have been riding for days now, with no sign of our destination...I do not even know what our destination is. I trust you, Haakon, I always have...but please tell me it is not much further...the men grow restless for the slaughter to come."

The voice was Aeskil, the Anarch's coryphaus and bearer of his personal icon. Only Aeskil could get away with such a familiar tone, for the two had been childhood friends and blood-oathed as soon as they were able to pick up a sword.

"Patience, old friend," The Anarch said, his tone genial. "Have faith, trust in the Gods. They will show us the way. We march south when the signs are right. First, there is one more thing that needs to be done. I follow the stench of Warpcraft... that will lead us to our destination."

"Of course," Aeskil replied, without truly understanding.

A keening sound disturbed their thaughts, the caw of a raven as it passed overhead.

"Look! Look!" cried Haakon so that his followers may hear him, his sword pointing to the sky. "An omen, an omen from the Changer of Ways! Truly the Gods favour we few. Soon the Southlings, grown fat and complacent, will tremble at our name!"

The Brass Bulls let out a mightly bellow as one, crashing their spears against their shields.

"Yes Aeskil," Haakon said, confiding in his sword-brother. "Soon vengeance will be served and the Gods' Will done, after we find the Witchling."

The tent was cold and damp. The humans leaders looked down on the map where there were small stones and chess pieces laid across the area which they were located at. "Captain, while my men hold the front lines, you and the White Wolves will maneuver around the front lines and harass the Norscas from the behind. Charging into their lines, again and again," Elector Count Boris said and moved a horse chess piece behind a black line of peasant chess pieces.
"Tell me...Do you see the White Wolves as solely marauders which will use hit and run tactics against our foe? Our potential-" the captain of the White Wolves Knights said, however Boris interrupted the Captain before he could continue, "No, that isn't my intentions. My intentions are to break them. Their morale must be broken, then we will move on to the next part of my plan.
Once the Norscas are broken, they will turn and flee back to their ships, however that is where my canons will fire, sinking their ships, and leaving them with their backs to the sea and our steel at their heart."
The Captain nodded, however it was only because the plan that Boris had laid was sound and had a promising potential which would assure the army a glorious victory against the Norscas.

Elector Count Boris von Kaiser had been informed by Kislev that a Norsca fleet was on its way towards the Empire through the Urskoy River. The Kislev army had managed to sink a fraction of the ships and kill the Norse, however they had failed to destroy the fleet completely. The Urskoy River was a river that came dangerously close to Bechafen, thus Boris had assembled Bechafen's army and called for Captain Beiner's aid along with the White Wolves.
Boris knew that the Norsca would land on a certain shore which would give them less than a days march towards Bachafen, however it was encircled by high cliffs, giving the soldiers of the Empire the advantage of geographical superiority, as they could use the cliffs to place their canons and archers, and on the beach where the Norscas would land there were set up fences of log-thick stakes to slow down the marauding Northmen.

The weather gave neither advantage nor disadvantage. The skies were gray, and there hung a very weak fog in the air. Nothing which worsened the archers', or canon crew men sight.
"Ships in sight!" a voice called.
"Gentlemen, get to your positions. The hour of the Empire has come, and may Sigmar guide your sword," Boris said and then placed his helmet on his head and left the tent to stand on a barrel, surrounded by his greatswordsmen.
The Norsca's ships were approaching quickly. Their sails were massive, and dark. At the forefront of their ships they had formed it with demonic faces, which made Boris frown.

"Signal for the canons," Boris said, and then a servant waved with a yellow flag. The ungodly sound of several canons being fired in a row echoed through the air, followed by the screeching noise that the canon balls made as they flew through the air, and then finally the sound of wood exploding and water splashing could be heard.
"Good," Boris said to himself and then crouched down and said, "Spyglass." He then used the spyglass to get closer details for what was happening at the shores of the beach. He saw as the massive men of the Norse jumped off their ships, into the ice cold water and waded toward dry land where they started to form ranks.

Boris smiled with satisfaction as he noticed that the Norscas were holding up their shields in hope to defend themselves from the canons that came flying down to them and sank their ships, flew right through them, or landed hard in the water nearby.
"Signal for canons to ceasefire," Boris ordered and this time a red banner was waved, and the canons stopped firing. "Archers, forward!"

Boris had divided the archers into three groups. On down where the fight would happen, and another two groups up at the cliffs where they would fire down upon the Norscas.
Rows of archers then marched forward, standing barely one and a half meter behind the lines of halberdiers, crossbowmen and spearmen. "Load!" Boris called as he could see that the Norscas had formed their ranks and the last of their ships had been completely emptied. There must have been at least a thousand Norscas at the shore, standing shoulder to shoulder and were marching towards the Empire lines. "Crossbowmen, prepare!" Boris called, and the crossbowmen prepared their weapons. "Archers. Aim!"

"Archers. Fire!"
The air was filled with the sound of strings being released, and black arrows filled the skies, and rained down upon the barbaric men of the north. The Norscas hadn't spread the least bit out, and as squeezed together as they were, many had trouble lifting their shields in cover from the arrows that soared down from the front and the rears of the Norscas. The roars of pain and agony from the northmen filled the air.
"Fire at will!" Boris then ordered, and there was a constant rain of black arrows that came soaring down upon the advancing brutes.

As the Norse's numbers decreased, their ability to move freely increased, and soon they had all their shields lifted up and blacking the rain of arrows that came from the archers. "Archers, ceasefire. Crossbows, fire!" Boris ordered, and then hundreds of crossbow bolts soared right into the front rows of the marauders, killing and wounding.
"Fall back. Halberdiers, defense positions!" A row of iron pointy spears now lined up behind the log-stakes and prepared for the impact of the now charging angry Norscas.
"Stand your ground men. We will beat these beasts, like we defeated them before," Boris called and then jumped down from the barrel and drew out his Runefang, Troll Cleaver, and approached the battle. "Captain, now!" he called and the White Wolves charged around the battle and behind the Norse. A few Norscas turned and tried to fight the knights, however their steel lances made quick work of the followers of chaos.

Boris then signaled for his greatswordsmen to take the other flank and two groups of swordsmen and spare halberdiers to attack both flanks. Boris, in the meantime, approached the center of the conflict where he helped with holding the line against the Norscas.
With the attacks from the White Wolves from the back, the pressure from the rears, and the dug in soldiers in the front, the Norse began to slowly become more and more frustrated. Some chieftains even turned and ran after the White Wolves only to be mauled down by other knights.
Men were dying all around. The Norse would either be killed by the soldiers of the Empire or be pressed into one of the log-stakes, while the fierce Norse would fight the swordsmen, and when they did manage to break through the wall of spears, they would kill a few halberdiers.
Boris swung his Runefang, hacking, slashing and stabbing. He carved his strong weapon through skin, flesh and bones, however he didn’t don unscratched.

During the battle Boris received numerous wounds. None of them were truly serious, they only slowed down his pace for a moment before he would be back in the heat of the battle with all his enthusiasm.
A punch to the face had left his nose bleeding and his cheek swollen and his left eye bloodshot. A stab to the lower part of the stomach had forced Boris to take a few minutes to regain his breath, though as he had joked to the soldiers around him, “I’m too old to feel any real pain these days.” Besides this, it was only minor wounds, nothing which would have any serious effect on Boris.
Boris wasn’t in his former shape, thus after having fought for forty-five minutes, non-stop, he began to feel his age catching up with him; his breaths became heavier, he could feel the sweat dripping down on his forehead, and the helmet he was wearing was becoming increasingly warmer, plus he wondered why he hadn’t shaved, nor cut, his hair and beard. It was getting in the way now.

Finally, after what must have been an hour's worth of fighting and defending, the Norse broke their lines, turned and fled back to their ships. the Norse had suffered horribly from the attacks in both Kislev, canon shots, the blizzard of black arrows, and fight against the well prepared men of the Empire.

“Push them back!” Boris called as the Norse began to fall back, though the White Wolves didn’t stop charging at the Norse, instead they increased their attacks, killing more and more of the brutes.
The soldiers of Ostermark began to take steps forward, stepping over their fallen comrades, and leaving the wounded ones to be taken care of by the priests of Morr, later. Boris called for the order that the soldiers of The Mark were to allow the Norsemen to gain some space, for the moment they were five meters away from the main army, Boris called for the Archers to start firing again, and that the White Wolves returned to safety.

The Norsemen were shot at from both on top the cliff and from the archers and crossbow men fro the front line, all while the soldiers and knights continued to press them back to their boats.
“Give the signal for the canons!” Boris called and then the servant waved with the flag.

BOOM
The ground before the Empire soldiers exploded, too close for Boris’ liking, and then the canon balls continued to fly towards the Norsemen, flying through the men, separating legs, making holes in the torso and ripping through arms.
Norsemen fell on the ground, yelling and crying in pain while the rest continued to flee back to their boats.

“Can’t those bloody engineers do their bloody work?” Boris hissed as he turned and looked at the cliff where the canons were stationed, and then he shook his head, “Signal for ceasefire. Men…Charge!”
Boris then charged towards the Norsemen; it was only a matter of time before the captain of the White Wolves had directed the knights in front of the Norsemen and forced them to slow down. The soldiers of Ostermark and the Norsemen clashed. Steel hitting flesh, cries filled the air as the outnumbered, and out maneuvered, Norsemen were slowly chopped to pieces.



“How many did we loose?” Boris asked as he sunk into the chair, all while a doctor tried to stitch together the wound he had in the lower part of his stomach.
“Well,” Captain Steimer said and then looked at the figures, “We’ve lost roughly three hundred soldiers during this battle. Two hundred halberdiers, ninety five swordsmen, and five greatswordsmen.”
Boris sighed heavily and then looked at his wound, “We keep the Empire safe. Ostermark is the gateway between hell and peace. Get the dead assembled, strip them of their gear, and have the priests of Morr informed. How many will die over night?” Boris asked.
“We have estimated that about another fifty will die to their wounds, also…We have taken three prisoners, at your orders, and they are being immobilized for the transportation back to Bechafen,” Captain Steimer reported and then looked at Boris, “Are you serious about this?”

“How else would you prove to the people that we are holding back these monsters?” Boris asked, “The people need a physical proof that we are defeating these monsters.”
“True, Count, however…Isn’ it a bit extreme?”
“No. These people aren’t humans. They are tainted by Chaos, and thus they deserve their future fate.
Assemble the remaining soldiers, leave a single company for making sure that the dead returns home, and then lets get back to Bechafen.”
“Yes, sire,” Steimer answered, then he bowed and left the rent.

As the doctor had left the tent, Boris sighed and said silently, “Stay strong…The Empire needs a gatekeeper.”

The Boar’s Head Inn
Somewhere on the borders of Miragliano and Trantio in the region of Tilea



William grunted softly, before taking a long pull from his mug of ale. It was a rather weak brew, more water then malted barley and barely helped his dark mood. Gathered at tables all around the common room, where his mercenaries, most drinking as much as they could afford, to drown out their sorrows. Some saved their gold, knowing that right now, they were out of a job.

It had happened a few days ago. They had been escorting the merchant Bonaventura Giordano from the Irrana Mountains to Verezzo. The merchant claimed he wasn’t going by sea because of an increase of Dark Elven corsairs in the Southern Sea, not that it really mattered to the mercenaries. They were getting paid good money to guard the merchant through the lawless lands that had once been the principality of Miragliano. It had gone reasonably well, they had almost reached the border of the principality of Trantio.

Things had gone bad though. As the caravan halted for the noon meal, they came under attack by Skaven raiders. They were hit first by giant rats and then a flood of skavenslaves and clanrats. The battle had been hard fought, the mercenaries using superior weapons and formations to hold off the swarm. That was, until the mercenaries were assaulted by a trio of rat ogres. The smaller formations were forced apart, opening a path to the wagons, which were overrun quickly. With the goods looted and the merchants dead, the ratmen seemed intent on killing or enslaving the caravan’s guards, until two of the rat ogres were slain. Then the rest of the cowards fled the field.

The mercenary captain had flown into a rage, when they found one of the merchants, who was only at death’s door. The man had confessed that hidden among the trade goods, as a large shipment of warpstone, stored in magicked crates. If he had known of the cargo, he would have either made sure to get several of his allies to join him or never signed the contract.

William set his mug down and signaled to the innkeep, that he was ready for some food. Several of the tavenmaids came forwards, baring trays laden with loaves of bread, a bowl of rich mutton stew and the cauldron that the bowl had been drawn from. The bowl was place in front of the mercenary, along with a loaf of bread. The cauldron was place on the other side of the table and the largest ladle in the inn was placed besides the iron cookpot. The rest of the bread was also set on the other side of the table, besides a great pitcher of ale. The tavern girls then all but fled to the safety of the kitchen.

The stocky man started to laugh, as he looked over at his dinner companion. Sitting on the floor, for he would have broken the bench, was a large ogre. The offering of stew would hopefully keep the big eating machine happy until the pair of cows finished cooking for him.

“So” said William, “What we gonna do now? No way we can go down to Verezzo and get the rest of our pay. And this failure is gonna make them merchantmen think we lost our touch. Maybe we head north? I was hearin that them Empire men are always sufferin rebellion or invasion from those norsemen or greenskins.”

Blow Hole Tavern, Altdorf

"Look, I'm not saying that everyone in the court is inherently evil, I'm just saying that they are equal to us and therefore don't have the right to rule over others!" Harald slammed his glass on the bar to emphasise his last point. He had been lecturing the retired watchman for quite some time, and still didn't seem to be getting anywhere. He had, however drawn quite a crowd, mostly drifters who would come and go.

Harald was doing what he did most nights; lurch from tavern to tavern, trying to find support for his glorious revolution. And, like most nights, he was failing. Something he was not failing at, as usual, was attracting female attention. This came a close second to his revolutionary cause, so more often than not he would settle for the company of some young girl or other in place of the conspirators he dreamt of gathering.

As the old man he had been explaining his theories to finally got bored and excused himself, Harald ordered yet another ale. He stared, disappointed, at his tankard, sighing as he often found himself doing. He looked around the room, and saw the usual faces. Not that he recognised anyone in particular, but everyone in this city was the same person, more or less. They were empty faces, the faces of the peasant. City-folk tried as best they could to distance themselves from the farmer, but underneath the bright colours and the ruffs, they were just the same. Higher up still were the aristocrats, the counts, the barons, the Emperors. They were just the same too, but with still more finery to convince themselves that they weren't.

It was exactly this type of thinking he had been trying to convey to others for years, yet still the type of depression he saw written on everyone's faces. He had come to thinking recently that the only way this city was going to be awakened was in the event of some sort of external threat. The Skaven invasion had worked wonders for city morale, as had the business with Drachenfels and Sierck's heroic 'performance'. He hated to admit it, but maybe this was the only way the people would come to realise their true potential. Whatever it was that happened, he knew he had to be at the forefront.

“Chieftain Thallius. I think that it would be beneficent for you to see this.” Whispered one of the many scholars that Thallius kept around. He slowly looked up from a large tome he had been reading to lock the scholar’s gaze in place.
“This had better be worth my time.” Said Thallius resolutely. The scholar nodded vigorously to emphasise that it was. Sighing heavily and rising slowly, Thallius followed the nervous scholar into the next room.

Thallius built this castle for a reason. He wanted a place to keep all his information. Every room, except one, had books and scrolls inside them in thousands of different known languages with a thousand more unknown. They ranged from minor things such as simple letters of greeting to massive books on the arts of tactics and sorcery and even a few highly valuable documents, such as one rumoured to have been written by Archaon himself. The one room that was void of books was simply known as “The Eye”. As Thallius entered he admired his most favoured creation. The largest scrying orb in the northern realms. It was mainly used for observing the areas around his castle in case there were invaders passing through, but he had sent the operators on a scouting mission the other month. It seemed that they had managed to get aboard a Norsca ship. They had gone right down to the Empire in it.

The most astounding thing about The Eye is that the scholars around it record the events it shows them inside special smaller orbs.
“This is what you should see Chieftain.” Said the scholar, handing him one of the smaller orb. Thallius watched with meagre interest at the events that unravelled before him.
“I do not see the relevance. I already know that the Norscas are incompetent tacticians.” The scholar coughed nervously. “However, this does give me an insight into the sorts of defences they are using at Ostermark. I will spare you, but make sure the next time you interrupt me that it is more use than this.” Thallius handed the orb back to the scholar. He would never destroy an orb, no matter how useless it was. He always stands by the proverb “knowledge is power”.

Sitting back down in front of his book he began to contemplate the idea of an attack on Ostermark. It would be risky, since his forces were not primarily built for assault. He would be able to defend, quite easily. Some might say defence is the best form of offence, and in some cases it is true. Sadly they were not defending though. Thallius would be more than a match for any mage they could throw at him, but no man, wizard or not, could survive several cannonballs to his body. He may be a Champion but he is not a God. Even Tzeentch’s most potent hex and augment spells could not assist him enough to take out all their wizards, war machines and hard hitting veterans so that his soldiers could take out the rest. No, a less direct approach would be required and much deliberation.

Before Thallius could contemplate further, a large man came into the room.
“Chieftain. Our long distance scouts report that a Chaos force are moving south.”
“Are they heading here?”
“It appears not Chieftain.”
“Then how does this concern me?” Thallius asked impatiently.
“I thought that you might like to be informed should they decide to change course and come here.”
“And you feel that you can read my mind?”
“I was only making presumptions, I…” He spoke no more as a bolt of lightning blasted him into his own shadow. Thallius muttered to himself.
“If they come here wanting to attack, I shall fight them. Otherwise I will not hinder their progress around my castle,” he continued in a sinister tone, “after all, my castle is floating…”

After sighting the raven omen, the Anarch rode his followers hard for a day and a night. Little was said aside from the protestations of his warriors who leaned too close to the Blood God's violent creed - for they saw any moment that wasnt spent cleaving skulls as a wasted moment. How limited their vision was.

"My lord Heresiarch!" exclaimed one of the Anarch's warriors.

A shape hung in the distance, a speck at first that grew into greater size and clarity as they approached.

"Like a diamond in the sky," Haakon mouthed, unintentionally. The words plucked themselves from some forgotten part of his mind, the memory of a coastal raid long since passed. In an instant he could smell the acrid stench of charred meat and burning homesteads. In an instant he was once again stood over a young girl, not even five winters old, clutching at her mother's limp frame whilst tearfully reciting the rhyme her mother would sing to soothe her to sleep. Once again Haakon ended that life before it began.

"My Lord Anarch?" the Coryphaus' questioning tone shook him from his reverie.

Like a diamond in the sky it was. Crystal towers sat atop an indomitable fortress of floating rock. The ozone stench of warpcraft permeated the land all around it. Whilst the Winds of Magic blew more freely in the northern wastes, it spoke of prodigious sorcery to maintain such an edifice outside the Eye of Chaos, where the Realm of Chaos and the Material Realm overlap.

"We are here, Aeskil," Haakon stated flatly.

The Anarch and his companions approached closer to the fortress, the sheer saturation of warp-fuelled energies causing a uncomfortably painful, but not unwelcome, sensation in their sinuses.

"How could we hope to scale such a.... a thing, like this?" Aeskil breathed to himself.

"Have faith," Haakon said. "Gods' willing, they will come to us."

In a fluid movement, Haakon dismounted the Brass Steed. His mount reared and stomped at the ground, rebelling at its servitude now that its master was separated. Those around grew wary, Juggernauts are vicious and belligerent creatures even under the heel of a master - the avatars of that aspect of Khorne which represents sheer, animalistic, brutality - and strive against their riders. However, Haakon's glare quickly pacified the beast - the daemon-steed recognised the favour of it's maker.

Haakon turned back to the floating fortress with a steady pace and a fixed gaze.

"Witchling!" Haakon bellowed. "I know you can see me, I know you can hear me!"

Haakon held his arms to the side, forming a cruciform pattern so that the inhabitants might clearly see the gifts the Gods had bestowed to him, yet also show that he was not here to shed blood.

"Harken to my words," Haakon bellowed with the voice of a demagogue. "I bring great tidings!"

Behind him, the Coryphaus roared his approval, and likewise the Brass Bulls followed.

"I am the Anarch Haakon," he began. "Anointed by the Gods and Heresiarch of the lands between the Hung and the Kurgan. The Four Winds have brought me here, the Raven God's omen guiding my way. I seek audience with the master of this lair, for who can deny that the Architect of Fates has purpose in bringing me here?"

Yet another man came into Thallius’ study to interrupt his reading once again. Sighing heavily he slammed his book shut, causing a cloud of dust to spiral upwards, and stood up.
“You had better hope that on your life this is worth the interruption.” Said Thallius before the man could speak.
“Outside the castle. There is one who calls himself Anarch Haakon, he seeks an audience.” Explained the man as fast as his tongue would allow him.
“Anarch Haakon… I believe I had a book with him in it somewhere. Did he have a large amount of those crimson brass bulls with him?”
“Yes Chieftain.”
“Ah. So he is one in the same.” Mused Thallius. “What could a favoured son of Chaos be doing knocking on my door?”

As he walked for the door he picked up Neth Khadhar'phak, the weapon cackled inside Thallius’ mind and small flares of magic leaped from the weapon’s tip. Thallius made his way to the main hall and from there down to the front gates, not that the castle needed gates particularly. The heavy steel doors were winched open and Thallius walked out on to the small patch of ground that was floating with the castle. He knew he’d need not fear a ranged attack, he was dealing with Khorne here. Peering over the edge he took stock of what he saw. Just under a hundred of those infernal steeds, each with a blood frenzied and mighty Chaos warrior atop them. He was not concerned; Juggernaughts cannot climb in thin air. It appeared that Haakon’s reputation was well deserved.
“Send an observer down.” Thallius whispered to a scholar behind him. The scholar nodded and dispatched an observer. These rotund purple imp-like things were the ‘cameramen’ for The Eye. Invisible to the naked eye but entirely harmless. The observer flew down and gave a live feed to the scholars back in the castle.

“Haakon. I am Thallius the Sagacious, the librarian of Tzeentch, the chosen of Fateweaver. State what brings you to my castle.” He spoke loudly, but level, and the yellow glow deep within his helmet flared with each word, punctuating them.

Ulthuan - Saphery

Ireul stood on one of the many balconies lining the flawless White Tower that dominated the lush rolling green hills spread out around him. Ulthuan... there was no land in the world more precious than here, none more beautiful and fair. Walking along the balcony of the great tower, his gold armor gleamed in the sun, and the sounds of sword clashing and the mutterings of sorcery could be heard from different floors of the tower. It had been quiet since the fall of Archaon the puppet of Chaos... and Ireul found himself missing the cruel beauty of war.

His long blue cape fluttered behind him, as the wind picked up his long gold locks and in the soft breeze of the air it flew freely behind his sharp elven features, that so many elves envied. He was on one of the many floors dedicated to Mage training, more becuase of the view than curiosity. He knew basic magic, as he was taught it in his Swordmaster training to help purify the mind and the body. Still he found the wonders the mages could preform breath taking, and was usually struck with jealousy.

Placing his delicate gauntleted hand on the railing of the White Tower, he let his thoughts wander to the glory of war, and wondered briefly how many hundreds of years he would have to wait for the next one to text his finely honed skills. Khaine only knew that the weak lesser races would never be able to hold the line without his Majestic and mighty people.

The Boar’s Head Inn
Somewhere on the borders of Miragliano and Trantio in the region of Tilea



The smell of the rich mutton stew placed in front of him did wonders to rekindle the appetite of the burly mercenary seated upon the tavern floor. A great distaste had lingered with the savage fighter over the recent failure in escorting Bonaventura Giordano curbing his desire. Golgfag was not one to take defeat easily but there was something more. He felt off, his mind was still clouded and he wondered if the warpstone cargo which they transported had tainted their food supply. Such an occurrence would at least explain such a pitiful display upon the battlefield. After all, they were only rats.

The Ogre picked up the ladle that was placed beside the iron cookpot and after a brief examination of the large kitchen implement dwarfed in his grasp he tossed it aside with great dissatisfaction. It just simply wouldn’t do. Wrapping his thick sausage-like fingers over the brim of the cauldron he simply tilted his head back, opened his mouth wide and poured the thick stem down his throat. The action was performed as simply as the mug of ale in which William threw back. An unruly elongated belch erupted soon after the disposal of the meal, an ill-mannered sign intent on acknowledging the cook that had prepared the meal as well as providing some much needed entertainment at the hands of the tavern girls that scurried for cover.

“If we goes down ta Verezzo it won’t be just for da pay.” Golgfag growled the remnants of the stew still dripping from the cultivated reddish facial hair that surrounded his mouth.

“We gave up far too easily on this one William. We should ‘ave tracked down dem bloody rats and taken da booty for ourselves.”

Golgfag growled slamming his massive paw into the side of heavy wooden banquet table in front of him. The action tossed the obstruction aside as if it were made of balsa clearing a direct path to the mercenary. The Ogre’s cold blue stare locked on his old friend.

“At least then we’d ‘ave been paid.”

Without warning the Ogre veteran reached across his chest pulling out the customized handgun and pointed it at the other seated across from him. His thick finger fell taut upon the stiff firing mechanism itching for the fool to point the finger and indicate it was his fault. Friend or no this was business and another bad client just didn’t sit well with the mercenary. Besides, it was never a good thing to get on the bad side of an Ogre, especially this one.

“And I’m not takin a job just to keep da hands from being idle. Many of da provinces dat need our help are too poor to pay da proper fee we deserve; even with da rumors of our recent failure we are still worthy of a king’s bounty.”

And as if a switch had been thrown the agitated behemoth broke out in laughter lowering his weapon.

“You know William if you are set on headin’ North I'll follow. I only hope it is as profitable as you think. Just remember, you still owe me for dat last job failed or not and expect I’ll be collectin’ that bit of coin as well.”

Smoke rose in the background as Boris and his army was marching back to Bechafen. Boris had ordered the ships to be burned, in order to prevent any form of Chaos taint from spreading, and to ensure that no plague would spread, the dead Norse were piled up in the ships as well and burned along with their vessels. The Norse had been stripped from any metal that they had worn, "Metal is metal, let it be melted and reformed into good weapons against them," as the Elector had said when he had issued the command.
Captain Steimer had taken his part of the army and was now heading towards Borkum to suppress a riot that had suddenly occurred, leaving Boris with a good three thousand soldiers under his command which he intended to take back to Bechafen and man the walls and streets, for the time being.

Returning back the castle in the center of the city, Boris ordered that his bath to be filled with water. While Boris had his mild bath he listened to what his advisers had to tell about what had happened while he had been gone.
"Grand Elector. while you have been on your...Campaign, there has been several events which has happened that you might want to be aware of," the first, of the three, advisers said. "Lord Barton of Darshik have recently died, leaving the lands to be ruled by his brother, Lord Dayton. due to your absence, Lord Dayton haven't been able to swear his loyalty to you and the Empire, and...Well...There has been minor...Disputes about whether or not Lord Dayton is fitted to rule the lands."
"It is certainly a most unfortunate that Lord Barton has died. He was a good man and loyal noble under my rule, and the count before me. I hpe that his brother will live up to the demands I have from him, both loyal-wise and economically. After all, Darshik is of high importance to The Mark."
"Understood, milord, however...The debate is between Lord Dayton and Lady Amara, Lord Barton's adopted child. They are, debating, who should have the right to rule."
"Excuse me?" Boris said and looked at the adviser who responded, "I'm just reporting what the messenger has told me. Oh and I also forgot, Lord Dayton also claims that he is the new Guardian of Lady Amara."
"By blood-right Lord Dayton should have the throne," Boris muttered. "However, claiming guardian right over, how old is this Amada?"
"I don't know...We presume she must be in her teens."
"Very well. Well, then Lord Dayton has all right to take the throne. She isn't of age to rule, and she will need either a rank or an education to be a Lord, at least while I'm Elector Count."
"As you wish, milord."

The adviser then stepped aside and allowed the second to come and make his report, "Milord, sergeant Meinheimer has made a breakthrough to the warbands of bandits. They are, apparently, all banded together under a rule of a shadow organization called for 'The Black Crows'. Commander Meinheimer asks for an additional fifty soldiers, and promises that he will have the headquarters of these bandits found by the end of next month."
"Wonderful news!" Boris erupted and raised his hands to the ceiling, "Sigmar be praised, finally, the bandit menace can be ended. Give the sergeant his request, and note this down. Meinheimer is to be promoted when he finds and destroys the bandit lair.
He is a keen man that Meinheimer."
"As you wish, Elector Count."

Then the final adviser made his report, "While you were gone, we have experienced a large growth of agricultural production. The warbands that you have send out have decreased the raiding rates, and the Merchants feels safer traveling the main roads again, however, routes to cities such as Nagenhof, Elbing, and Nachtdorf aren't as traveled as other roads.
In general, the western roads have become more safe however the eastern roads remains under the threat of ork warbands. The Church of Sigmar offers a series of warrior priests that are willing to participate in a 'purge' of the forests, if you would be willing to go along with this."
"How can I deny the offer from the church? What commanders are availiable in the eastern regions of Ostermark?"
"Well...General Jacob is currently assigned with fighting off orks in the Veldt, and with him is Captain Klause and Jeroume, which leaves Captain Wendel Hartfelder in Eisental and sergeant Hemerlin Mondthal in Osterwald."
"Send message to sergeant Hemerlin Mondthal that he is to start a purge with the warrior priests of Sigmar and bring down the unfaithful and whatever other manners of beasts that lurks in the shadows of the forests."
"It will be done," the adviser said and then left Boris to enjoy his bath.

Haakon stared at the floating observer, witch-sight picking out the dancing tendrils of raw chaotic energy most mortals were blind to, the blank anonymity of his silver helm betraying no emotion. Behind him, the ranks of Juggernauts began to stomp and snort agitatedly, occasionally goring at one another before their riders reigned them in. The thick black Collars of Khorne that hung from the beast's necks glowed dimly. The daemon-steeds could smell magic in the air.

So the witchling would hide in his tower, unwilling to meet him in person. The Changer of Ways could surely not have brought him to an ineffectual coward content to hide within his libraries?

"The providence of Tzeentch has brought me before your walls," Haakon said. "I bring tidings pain and woe. Under my banner a mighty host is amassing - countless sword and spear have been pledged to me. Horsemen of the east, warriors of the north, Beast-kin of the forest and even the Dawi-Zharr of the Black Lands owe their fealty to me."

The Brass Bulls once more let forth a gutteral sound from their throats, banging mailed fist upon shield as if to punctuate his words.

"In dream-visions," Haakon continued. "The gods revealed that before this host can bring ruin to the world I must seek the Many-Eyed Witchling. Of what purpose, I know not, but the raven herald of Tzeentch guided my companions here and I knew at once this was as ordained."

Haakon laid a hand across the Eight-Pointed Star, a crimson sigil that glowed as if the rage of a volcano had been harnessed and imprisoned within it, laid in bas relief across his cuirass - aside from the black marbling, the only other detail to contrast with the pearl of his plate.

"My faith," Haakon continued, "it sustains me and gives me reason to trust the gods' guidance. I stand here to ask you for the blessings of Tzeentch, for your wisdom - for perhaps the gods' have spoken to you also - and the pledge of your staff."

“Flattery does not go far with me.” Thallius began. “But,” He said quickly to quash any protest that may arise from below; “I will swear allegiance to your warband on one simple condition.”

Thallius pointed Neth Khadhar'phak at the ground below himself and summoned forth a disc for him to stand on. The daemon writhed for a few seconds and attempted to break free but was ultimately defeated and was turned into a solid circle for Thallius. He rose a few inches off the ground, then over the lip of the floating ground and then began his slow descent down to the normal earth, as normal as the earth can be in the Chaos northlands. Tzeentch had obviously let that scripture of Haakon fall into his hands on purpose; it was destined since then that he would come here. No point in telling him to go away, it would not be beneficial for Thallius. Bargaining with him would be the wiser option.

The disc touched the scarred dirt and disappeared. Thallius had landed only a few metres form Haakon and his army. He was pretty sure that they would not attack him, and it would not be hard to retreat should they change their minds.
“My condition is thus. You can have everything that both you and I conquer, except that I shall have full ownership of the libraries, magic guilds and documentations. I will let you and your warband have all of the slaves, money, metal, cannons and whatever else you feel you can carry with you.” Thallius took a few paces forward and extended his free hand.
“This is the deal, take it and I shall follow you with my clan into the heart of the Empire and beyond. Leave it and I stay here with my papyrus and tomes.” Thallius looked at Haakon dead on.
“That is the true value of information to me.”

The Boar’s Head Inn
Somewhere on the borders of Miragliano and Trantio in the region of Tilea



Normally William would have been in agreement, they had given up recovering the cargo, much to easily. His men would have been willing to chase goblin raiders into their holes, marauding orcs into the mountains, human bandits to small forts in forests or dark elven corsairs into the waves. However, they would balk at the thought of crawling down into the plague infested and disease-ridden caverns of the skaven. They would fight any enemy but illness turned their (and his own) bowls to water.

It was great chance that the mercenary was able to save his stew, as his friend saw fit to smash the table and wave that small cannon of his around. All around them, the rest of the human mercenaries (for the rest of Golgfag’s lads had to sit outside under a raised piece of colored canvas) watched, along with the whimpering tavern girls. The innkeeper had dived into the kitchen and was busy muttering prayers. None of the hardened veterans seemed to breath, just waited to see how this would end.

Then the ogre laughed. The tension melted away, like ice thrown into a pot of boiling oil. The men went back to their drinking or those that had managed to both get a girl into his lap and hold onto her while the ogre leader was busy scaring the lot, when back to attempting to woo them. Several of the girls were just frozen with fear but that didn’t stop the men from just fondling them.

“Goin north and doin busy work for little pay” said William, finishing his stew, “Is more profitable then sitting here on our arses and spendin our gold Tubgut.”

A smile passed the mercenary’s face, as the insult flowed from his speech without even a hint of malice.

“Besides I need ta pick up some more lads” he continued, placing the bowl on the floor and kicking it towards the kitchen, “Those rat bastards crippled or killed some good fellows. It be cheaper ta march into Bretonnia and pick up some recruits from ‘em peasant fellows. Their lords use ‘em as cannon fodder anyways, so offerin pay should swell the ranks.”

Amara had been on the road for several days now. She was tired, hungry, and weary from travel, but she had finally made it to Bechafen, Electoral Count Boris’ estate. He was the closest, and held the most authority over their region, but she had also heard he was a fair man, which gave her hope. She was also bolstered by the news that Boris had just returned this day from his campaign, which put her days ahead of her wretched uncle. He undoubtedly had men out searching for her, but they could do nothing to her here, and by the time the mere news of Boris’s return reached Dayton, she could persuade the powerful man to her cause, ridding herself of that horrid, temperamental, freeloading, abusive man forever. Or have already fled Bechafen should Boris subscribe to the backward ideology Dayton seemed sure entitled him to her father’s hard worked and maintained estate. That however, was a dark thought, and her life was too full of them as of late to be prematurely adding another.

Amara was a grown woman, she had twenty summers to her name, and she had a valid right to succession. She was her father’s child by blood, she knew how to run the estate (she’d been helping her father do it for years), and anyone who knew her father knew he had intended for her to inherit his estate, and not just because he detested his brother. Her father loved her, had officially claimed her, and anyone from their region, whether peasant or Noble, knew he was proud to call her his daughter. It was more than she could say for her mother, despite the many lovely elvish trinkets she had sent over the years. Dayton’s only argument that might holdup in some courts was her matter of legitimacy, a matter that was only plausible because of some people’s prejudice towards elves, and perhaps her gender. She had seen many bastard sons of strictly human heritage inherit in absence of a legitimate heir, her hope was that her case was treated the same way. It would be the worst sort of irony if her home was stolen from her because of a heritage she barely knew, and had no desire to associate herself with.

So Amara found herself in Boris’s hall, having cleaned herself up, and asked for an audience with the Count. She seated herself in one of the far back corners of the long tables in his hall, patiently waiting to hear word if she had been granted an audience or not, and trying not to draw attention to herself. Despite her attempts and quiet demeanor, she had received several curious stares from patrons of the hall, though none approached her; yet.

((Black Guard of Morr, and Death Heads are both real units in Ostermark))

Sigfried was a strode his gray steed, as a line of halberdier men trailed behind, unlike the standard Ostermark colors of Purple and Yellow, or the occasional White and Purple, the halberdier men behind the black night wore black and red. The color was not the oddest thing, it was the armor itself. On the breastplates were skulls, their black orbs for eyes staring out in a classic scene of death. On their heads were silver skulls, reflecting the light of the metallic surface and showing nothing of the men underneath. In their right hand was a classic halberd that was a basic state troop weapon. In their left was a shield strapped to their forearms, at their waist were longs swords, finely crafted.

Fifty of these dark halberdiers trailed behind the even darker knight. They were a regiment of Death Heads, a regiment of halberdiers trained after the dreaded Vampire Wars. They follow Morr and work closely with the Black Guard of Morr, and now a regiement served as Sigfrieds escort, personal unit, and bodyguards. The march to Bechafen was a rather short as the entourage traveled in silence.

Coming to the large walls the guards nodded, and opened the gates. Sigfried bowed his head to the gate guards as his entourage walked through the crowded city streets. Child clung to their mothers legs, in fear of being taken away by the Black Guard, but the belief was ridiculous and spread around to get children to sleep. It was common in Ostermark that mothers would whisper to their children at night "If you dont go to sleep, the Black Guard will come and snatch you away to Morr." The hushed sounds in the street was one Sigfried was well accustomed to, as the people feared and even hated the Black Guard, of course in times of war that changed, and they were welcomed with open arms... the people it seemed were always fickle with the unknown.

Coming to the Castle, he dismounted from his steed and handed the reins to a stable boy and turned to the Death Heads "Stay here, I will speak with the Count" Entering the main halls, he gazed around the dark but somewhat lovely hall. At the long table sat a young woman, who was either a part of the nobility or had an appointment. Finding it rude to possibly interfere, he walked and sat at a side chair, far enough to not ease drop, but not far enough for a pleasant conversation. Remembering from his lessons that having a helm when intending to speak to a noble in his own home was disrespectful, he dutifully removed the black helm and placed it on the table with a soft clank.

His brown hair spilled out around his scarred but still youth retaining face. His cloudy gray eyes, searching around the room, and whenever they fell on a servant they shivered as if death was breathing down their neck. Turning his gaze to the young women at the far end of the table, he bowed his head in greeting before turning back to his examination.

Boris had gotten out of the bath when the news had reached him; Lady Amara had arrived and was seeking an audience with the Elector Count. Boris was surprised, it was an unexpected visit that none of his advisers had predicted.
Someone will have to do a lot of explaining, Boris thought as he was getting himself dried and dressed from his bath. In Boris’ opinion, the news had come too early, he’d barely had half an hour before the news had been brought to him, so he quickly washed his hair, and beard, before he got up.
Boris was a soldier, right down to his heart, so what he wore didn’t differ much from the military uniform that the army wore, yellow and purple dominated his clothes along with the two feathers in his hat; the hat itself was brown. Boris also wore a chainmail and his Runefang; it felt more natural for him.

“Well, have our guest been fed?” Boris asked his closest adviser while he was getting his beard and hair combed. While Boris would give little, to no, care of how his hair and beard was, during occasions of visiting nobles, or other important people of Ostermark, he would set time aside and make sure that he looked the best he could.
“Uhm - ”
Boris sighed heavily. “Just because a noble shows up, unexpectedly, we will all assume that she has already eaten?” he erupted. “Tell the kitchen to prepare a stew. Something quick, yet good - the kind of food that my greatswordsmen are fed. Now that’s what I would call for decent food, but skip the meat. It’ll take too long to cook.”
“Yes, milord.”

Boris yelled after the adviser to hurry, as he saw that he was walking to the kitchen, not running. Boris, with his hair combed back and his beard more organized and straight. No matter how well dressed Boris would be, or how well he would comb his hair and beard, he would never be able to hide the waves of wrinkles that were occupying his face. Boris looked as if he as an elder, a man with over fifty summers behind him while in reality, he only had forty summers.
Boris was accompanied of ten of the Royal Guard; similar to his greatswordsmen in battle these men were charged with defending his estate as well as the owner.
As he stood before the doors that led to the hall, where the visitors would usually stay and wait to be told that their audience was granted, Boris’ adviser came running towards him, again, and called, “My Count, my Count!”
“What is it now?” Boris asked, tired of always being chased by his pesky advisers.
“My Count…I’ve just been informed that the Dead Hands have arrived in the city.”
“How come it is always you who is told of this? Where are they now?” Boris demanded.
“Their leader, sir Sigfried, is sitting in the hall.”
“I didn’t know that Ostermark was hit by another plague,” Boris commented ominously.
“Sire?”
“Never mind.”

Entering the great hall, Boris stood at the door and regarded both the knight and Lady Amara (the only woman who looked noble), and then he turned to his adviser and said, “Get the servants to prepared the food along with vine in my study, and have the tabled moved so that we can talk while we eat.”
Boris then turned his attention, first towards Amara, and walked with purposeful steps towards her, “Lady Amara. Elector Count Boris von Kaiser, at your service. I must apologize on behalf of my servants, had we known we would be visited of a noble from such a loyal and highly respected family, then I’d have a feast prepared in your honor; I’m afraid that the feast have been reduced to a mere meal between myself, you and the good knight here. Please, my guards will have you escorted to my study where we will have our private conversation.”

With that said, Boris bowed, turned and walked over to the knight of Morr. He didn’t wish to be the least bit rude toward the knight, nor his order, although the sense of uneasiness was strong around Boris.
“Sir Sigfried, correct? I am Elector Count Boris von Kaise, I’m honored that a knight of Morr would seek an audience from me, please; I’d like you to join me and Lady Amara in my study so we can discuss any business further,” Boris said, doing his best to not look too nervous at the presence of Sigfried.

Boris was a believer of Sigmar. He acknowledged the role of the priests of Morr, without question, however he didn’t understand why they needed soldiers as well; at least soldiers who didn’t even show the slightest hint of emotions when they fought.
He had heard of un-living beings to the South, however he had never truly believed that such things existed. He had seen that daemons existed, he’d witnessed such beings in action during the Siege of Bechafen, however that didn’t stop him from believing in Sigmar, on the contrary, it strengthened his belief.

As they came to the study, the servants were placing the food on the table and pillows on the chairs for the three people. The table was rectangular with three seats, the food was a simple stew with potatoes, herbs accompanied by bread and fruits. To drink there was wine and water, as Boris wasn’t the type who drank wine.
“Please, seat yourself, and lets get down to business,” Boris said and then took the seat in the middle of the table. “What honor do I own of having you here in my capital?” Boris asked and looked first at Amara and then at Sigfried.

Haakon regarded the sorcerer for a moment, considering his words.

"As they say," Haakon said. "Knowledge is power, guard it well."

Haakon understood the value of knowledge. While some of his more belligerent followers, such as the Khorneate contingents of his host, would be content to raze all they see to the ground in an orgy of mindless violence, Haakon was more considered. He had found the works of some of the civilised world's greatest minds - Volkmar, Huss, Teclis - to be quite fascinating, particularly in the realms of theology and philosophy. Flawed, but fascinating.

"The Changer of Ways has purpose in my coming here," Haakon continued. "And if the wealth of knowledge to be gained will aid in that endeavour then how can I deny your request?"

Haakon proffered his own mailed fist and grasp the sorcerer's in the customary warrior's grasp common to the Northern tribes.

"You have a deal," Haakon said, a wicked grin hidden by his faceless helm. "Although, if you find anything of academic interest I may come to you for a reading list."

“I assure you, that list would not be short,” replied Thallius, “But I see that you are not simple minded, as the Empire would think us to be.”

Thallius sent for his lieutenant, a sorcerer who had been hand picked by Thallius himself. He was nothing special however; he was mainly there to direct the tribe when Thallius was busy. He also summoned his familiar, a small rotund horror with twenty arms too many. Thallius entrusted the daemon with his spare scrolls and other artefacts that he felt like bringing, but not using at that moment in time.

He turned back to Haakon.
“My tribe shall be ready to move before nightfall. I’ll leave a few of my scholars here to keep the castle running, but other than that my entire tribe is at your disposal.” Thallius’ gaze wandered to Neth Khadhar'phak. “And I think my great friend here would enjoy a new type of soul to devour. Scholar’s souls are quite paltry I hear.”

Soon his familiar was laden with the scrolls and miscellaneous objects he would need in assisting Haakon and his warband. Thallius’ tribe added roughly one hundred marauders and a score of warriors to the ranks of Haakon. Along side a dozen scholars to record the events that unfolded, to be archived inside the floating castle upon their return.

“Notify me if you should require magical assistance. I know a few spells from the Skaven lore. It is the only thing worthwhile I found when raiding those Dwarf strongholds. I’ve already tested Skitterleap and Bless with Filth. Crude names, I admit, but effective. I’ve also been wanting to try Crack’s Call, but have not had the necessary time to learn it.” Thallius took a breath, “And should we require any more assistance, I am fluent in the lores of Shadow and Tzeentch. You could not have picked a better sorcerer in all of the Northern realms to aid you, other than Tzeentch himself.”

Thallius added, “But I warn you. I ask only one thing from your warriors. Do not let the enemy in close or have a clean shot at me. I cannot fight hand to hand, and should they get that close I will be done for. This armour can withstand heavy magical punishment, but a cannonball will tear it asunder. My only chance of becoming immune to their ranged weaponry is to obtain the lores of Metal or Heavens. Once that is accomplished I can shield your men from almost everything.”

He was now satisfied that he had said his piece and awaited a reply, if any reply was prepared. It was now Thallius' turn to listen.

((I was waiting for her but alright ill post. I will PM her to see if she still wishes to participate))

Sigfried sat waiting for the lady to speak, as he had looked to her first, but as the silence dragged on, the black knight leaned forward letting his armored elbows rest upon his equally armored legs. He spoke quietly as years at the Black Guards of Morr castle never gave one much skills in the finer linguistic aspects of life, but they still taught it.

“My order has been in the southern Ostermark since the Vampire Wars, we have been a source of support to Ostermark and her people for many years, however, with the new…. Development and governmental change, the inner circle of my order voted 14 to 14 on whose side of the civil war we should take part on, and the arguments got quite heated… well heated in our fashion, the 15th vote belonged to Jurgen are grandmaster… he withheld his vote. This… action caused the order to sit in silence on the war, waiting to see who emerged victorious and that has proved to be you.”
His helm was on the floor next to him, and his deep cloudy, gray eyes noticing the scars on the counts face, and approving of what he saw a count that wouldn’t abandon his people on the front lines.

“My order has sent me as a liaison officer I suppose. I am to be the representative of my order as well as are close friends the Death Heads. The southern people of Ostermark have strong faith in Morr, but I am aware that you believe in sigmar… and I support your decision, he is a strong deity. I also understand that you have some Middenheim white wolves here, and seeing as they believe in Ulric, that we will have no problems over the more religious aspect. I also believe that you won’t much care about are religion, what I do think you should ponder is our aid.”

He sat in silence letting the information sit in before continuing.

“Ostermark is our home. Unlike other knights we will never charge you for our aid. We will come when called upon, which is my main reason for being present before you. I am your connection to my Order; I will serve you as any way you see fit. I will serve in the army, guard, or whatever it is that you command. When war gathers on Ostermarks door, I will gather supports in my order to bring forth are strength to your aid.”

Standing, he stepped to the side to not hit the cheer and kneeled, lowering his head “Me, and the Knights of the Black Guard of Morr are at your service... if you wish it”

It was amazing how the entrance of one man could have such a conflicting impact on the occupants of the hall. Amara watched as the people in the hall showed the man in black armor respect, but at the same time regarded his presence with anxiety. She nodded her head in return to his acknowledgement, but remained silent, having never been particularly socially outgoing, nor did she even begin to how to approach a man of his warrior caliber. The silence was interrupted however, by the very man she wished to see; Count Boris.

“There is no need for apologies milord, as I’m sure my arrival was quite unexpected to your staff. I myself was pleasantly surprised to find you here, and end my search so quickly.” Amara replied to Count Boris’s courtly manner and invitation, before he moved to address Sir Sigfrid, and she was lead to his study.

Once in the study, the three of them were presented a simply but filling meal, and Boris posed his question, waiting upon her answer. Suddenly, she was quite missing that extra time she’d expected to have to prepare her petition. She had to be very carful how she asked for his help, as it was both a delicate situation, and very open to ones interpretation. It would very much depend on they way she asked for his help, and Boris’s own views.

It appeared she had pondered too long, as Sir Sigfried went first. She was slightly dismayed by the severity of the issue he brought to Sir Boris, realizing her issue was likely to seem trivial to him in comparison, but none the less, she had to try. It was not only she who would suffer from her uncle’s rule of Darshik, but her people as well.

“I’m afraid my reason for seeking your presence is not nearly as selfless as Sir Sigfried’s, but I beg you treat it with similar importance. As I hope you’ve heard, my father Lord Barton, has recently past on. Darshik was his life, he built it from nothing, turned a ruined castle and poorly tended lands into a strong fortress, and highly productive agricultural state. It was always intended that I would continue to run Darshik as my father had taught me to, but not a week past, we were invaded. My uncle, Lord Dayton, descended upon our land with a band of men of…disreputable character. Since their arrival, my lands have been ravaged by pillaging, extortion, and rape, all by the hands of these men, and my uncle has now claimed Darshik for his own. He has also attempted to claim guardianship over myself, and hold me as prisoner in my own home. I can not be certain his reasons, but I speculate it is either to keep my father’s friends and fellow knights from expelling him from Darshik, or a misguided attempt to force my mother to came to Darshik herself. I only ask milord, that you expel my uncle and his wretched men from Darskik, allow him to do no more harm to my father’s legacy.” Amara pleaded, hoping to incite the count’s understanding.

Boris looked first at Sir Sigfried and listened to what the knight had to say.
It was true, Boris had been the one who had turned out to be the victor during the Civil War of the Mark, however there had been only been skirmishes between his army and the three captains' army, and it had been thanks to the emperor's trusted bodyguard that the Civil War had stopped before it had torn half of the Mark apart.
Boris did, however, feel a sense of relief as Sir Sigfried told him that he had come to join him in his cause, and it was in a sense true. Boris wasn't a priest nor any a religiously educated man; a simple soldier whose heart belonged to Sigmar, and though he would wish that it counted for everyone he knew he couldn't change religion as it was.

"Well, let me raise my glass and welcome you to Bechafen," Boris said in respect and then he raised his glass, which was filled with more water than wine, nodded respectfuly to the knight and then drank.
"Belierver of Ulric, Sigmar or Morr. It matters not, as long as your loyalty lies to the better of the Empire, then religion is the last thing that should ever divide men," Boris announced, though his tone words were far from as passionate as his choice of words, "Sir Sigfried, you and your men are welcome here in Bechafen, and i must say, I am honored to have you as my spokesman to your order-" this time he said it with more spirit.
"Men of Ostermark stands together. I cannot turn away men who willingly will fight for their State and Empire," Boris then said, after having drunk his glass.

With that said he turned his attention towards Lady Amara and listened to what she had to say while he ate his meal. When she finished, Boris looked at her, his face blank and without any sign of emotions or reaction, then he turned and filled his glass up with more wine and water, drank it, and then sighed heavily.
"What is the meaning of this?" He then exclaimed; hitting both fists into the table making plates, glasses, spoons and knives jump up as he rose quickly, kicking his chair away and making it fall down loudly. The sudden yelling and noise alerted the guards outside the study, and the doors were thrown open with the guards pointing crossbows and spears at the guests, however seeing as their Count was alive, they lowered their weapons and backed away, allowing their Elector Count to portray his anger.

"The Norse has been attempting to invade the Empire for years. I've fought them for years now; them and the greenskins to the East. Now Civil War is coming and knocking on my door, endangering not just the Mark, but the entire Empire as well. What is this world coming to? Tell me, Amara-" Boris then said, and turning his attention to Amara-"Are you suggesting that I leave our borders defenseless against the marauding hordes of the north and the savage greenskins to the east? Would you rather have three cities massacred than have your own little state ruled by your uncle? Bah! Politicians!"

Boris paced back and forth, along the table, stroking his beard while his eyes flashed with anger and frustration. His lips could be seen talking silently to himself as he valued up what he should do. "Bloody...Civil war and chaos and...Imbred sons of...Bah!" It could be heard until he finally turned to Amara, clearly not the least bit settled with the situation.
"Very well. I will go to Dayton and talk with him. I want this matter settled and I need a ruler over Darshik, however I need someone who can rule just and with loyalty as well. If Dayton proves that he is nothing more than a pigeon brained soldier, then I’d see him removed and replaced. If he’s another politician, Sigmar forbid it, then I’ll have to consult my advisers about the matters," Boris said. "Dayton have yet to swear loyalty to me, yet, thus he hasn't accepted my sovereignty over Ostermark, leaving him in disadvantage.
Now, Sir Sigfried, would you mind accompanying us to Darshik? I think it would be good that Lord Dayton is introduced to your order."

Cursing again, Boris took another glass of wine and drank it all before he looked at Sigfried and then Amara, "We are, after all, civilized men, lets not tear down good walls and kill good men of Ostermark. Either way, I’ll see to it that justice is brought."
Afterward he walked to the door and told his Royal Guards to give words to his sergeants that they would have to assemble the soldiers within two hours and prepare to go to Darshik, “Oh, and call for Engineer Markus Ironblood. He needs fresh air; he’s been in his laboratory for too long now,” he added.

He then turned back to the two and said, “If this ends with a civil war, I hope that it will be a swift one. Ostermarkers doesn’t fight Ostermarkers. Is there anything else I should be warned of? A plague? Famine? The Witch Hunters are visiting?”
“Close enough sire, but a priest of Morr did say that he saw you in a vision of his,” one of the Royal Guards commented.
“The day that I will not be amused with such comments is the day that it will truly happen,” Boris replied, his spirit lifted by the light joke of his aged face.

Sigfried was happy with the Counts response, pleased that he too wanted to end this pointless political ramble, and would not look down to harshly on the religious difference, although the chance of the Count ever seeing the beauty of Morr was doubtful "I am glad you see it as such Count" Standing, he moved and sat back into his seat, and lifting his black helm he placed it back over his head. He felt naked without it, and due to his extended periods under the black metal or in dark rooms he had very pale skin, that he didn't not like to show the world.

The Counts outburst caught Sigfried by surprise, as he was never used to such a raw show of emotion. As the count calmed himself, Sigfried nodded "Yes, I will be glad to accompany you, do you wish the Death Heads to come as well?" This question was based on more of if the Count wanted to do a psychological attack. He assumed the count wanting him along was one such tactic, as many counts only brought along his order to inspire fear into their nobility, or enemies.

The comment on the priest of Morr only further confused Sigfried, but he wasn't accustomed to... humor, but he suppose it was time to learn such fine linguistic puzzles as he was to be her for awhile.

The Anarch nodded sagely at the witchling's words. While the frenzied berzerkers of Khorne are naturally at home in the thick of combat, the warriors of Slaanesh chase the thrill of the swiling dance of death and the festering followers of Nurgle are better able to spread their gifts in melee, the sorcerors of Tzeentch are of far more use away from the enemy's swords.

"Of course," Haakon said. "I have more in mind for you than to dash your life away worthlessly at a wall of spears."

Crows began to gather, circling hight over head, a slowly spinning vortex of black feathers just close enough to seen.

"You see," Haakon said, gesturing upwards. "The Eye of Tzeentch watches us. What purpose he has in store for you will become clear soon enough, but until then I have some ideas..."

Thallius nodded to Haakon.
“Fateweaver gave me visions, he showed me my future. I have seen my own death. I can feel Tzeentch watching me always, awaiting to see my sands run thin.” Thallius felt that he would conceal the exact conditions under which his own demise is met. He knew he could not avoid Tzeentch’s grand master plan and did not want Haakon attempting to make destiny change its course in fear of ruining the prophecy.

Thallius’ mind strayed from concentration, back into the labyrinth of his own mind. If it were manifest, it would have been as if walking through a vast archive but instead of books there would be Thallius’ memories. Tzeentch granted him with unlimited access to memory, the only difficulty was acquiring the information in the first place. The Changer of Ways likes playing with his champions, granting them gifts they cant comprehend or ones that have major downfalls, such as the mighty Fateweaver, able to see future and past simultaneously but blind to the present. He selected a memory of him reading a tablet; it was recovered from an ancient chaos temple. It depicted a large figure leading four smaller differently coloured figures towards a large building. Thallius had decoded it, thanks to Tzeentch, long ago. It was simple. One Warlord would arise and each God would send his followers to assist. The blue figure was obviously Thallius himself. The red figure would probably be one of the Khorne warriors standing not too far away from him. He had yet to see the green or purple figures though. Ponderous. But they would turn up eventually. For what is written in stone cannot be erased. The large black figure was now clear to him. It was Haakon; the figure even bore weapons of similar shape to Haakon. And the building? That was the only thing Thallius could not decipher. Snapping back to reality, he remembered Haakon’s last words, something about his ideas.

“I would like to hear these ideas of yours, Warlord” Thallius finally said.