War on the street

Halibel covered his ears, the caterwauling of the Sigmarite priest echoed across the open plaza. Through gritted teeth, he grunted his orders to the rest of the band. They spread out, moving slowly along the centre of the plaza. Almost cautious like. That was until Ulquiorra spotted the humans. A group of males, wearing long sleeved cloaks and tall, high brimmed hats walked with a swagger through the ruins. Burning torches lit their way in the gloom, the ruddy red glow catching the purified, silvered weapons and the pristinely polished pistols held in black gloved hands. Each wore a silver icon of a hammer behind a flaming comet. Halibel felt sick, it seemed that Ulquiorra felt the same; the multi-limbed monstrosity howled a bestial roar and sprang out of cover. The possessed being bounded from ruin to ruin, nimbly avoiding the dangers; before falling upon a crazed fanatic and a devoted of Sigmar. His blackened tongue flicked out of his mouth in a hiss as he leaped upon his quarry. The three clawed talons that acted as his arms lashed about him in a flurry, the black nailed tearing flesh from bone with ease. Halibel’s demented grin of jubilation melted from his face as he watched the silver icon glow gold for a brief moment, and the realisation that neither of them fell. The fanatical flagellant merely shouted his prayer louder at the searing pain that flashed across his chest, and in response he swung the overly sized flail at Ulquiorra. The weapon, unlike the rest of the band, was unclean, its spiked head was matted with what Halibel could only guess was flesh and brain matter. In fact, to the magister’s eyes the entire man looked out of place. In stark contrast to the sharp, clean, pure clothing of the witch hunters themselves, this man and the others like him, were sorely an anomaly. Each wore a tore tunic of a red fabric; the edges were ripped and worn, like they were rarely taken off. The tunic exposed pieces of flesh through the holes, each inch of these humans were scarred or bleeding in one manner or another. Halibel had know of this, a self inflicted wounding – something about it, he recalled, was similar to those worshippers of the Dark God Slannesh. He watched in horror as this specific fanatic caught Ulquiorra hard in the head, blood as black as night gushed from the wound and the possessed human dropped hard to the floor.

On the other side of him, Halibel watched as one of his mutants grabbed a large breed of a dog and dashed its head out against the stone tiles of some ravaged building. In its death throws the mutt dropped a glowing green crystal from its mouth – wyrdstone! The mutant picked up the powerful stone, and began to wave and prance around – that was until a filthy, woman brained him from behind with a makeshift mace. Cursing Halibel turned back to the other half, where he was just in fine to watch the last of his coven fall beneath the silvered weapons of the blessed witch hunters. He could see that two were true killing blows, as the initiates fell, their corpses spasmed as they slid down to the floor. It was enough for Halibel, and he called a retreat.

************

Halibel dumped the rotting piece of wood on the floor, frustrated. It wasn’t here. One of the cult’s patrons, one of the many fools wishing to forget about the city’s plight and drown themselves in depravity, had told his ‘partner’ of a stash of gold, and “glowing green rocks”. Now Halibel and his followers were hunting through the dilapidated remains of what once appeared to be a market place – or just a large street, it was hard to tell what rubble and remains would have been there before the city’s destruction.

“Next one, its not here.” he muttered, gesturing to the others in the same building. As he turned to leave, there came a pained shout from the street. Carefully picking his way over to a ruined wall, he glanced up and down the open area outside the building. At the far end he spotted humans, ones he had fought with before – the rich, pompous ones they encountered many months ago. Sighing he began to bark orders at the cultists; it was never easy being the leader. Halibel stealthily slipped out of the building, to get a better look at the street, taking shelter behind an upturned cart less than a dozen feet from the building, and his fallen mutant.

Quickly Ulquiorra and the others began to spread out, looking for the prize before the humans did. But it was not to be. As the twisted man-goat neared a small burnt out pie shop he witnessed two men emerge, a large blackened chest was hefted between them on a makeshift stretcher.

“THERE!” he bellowed, his finger pointing at the two men shuffling further and further away from his followers. “Get it!” he bellowed, with as much authority he could mange, from his hiding hole behind the cart. Ulquiorra was the first to react, his near naked, purple form a mere blur as he sprinted towards the two men, ready to render them into pieces. But instead he was sent flying to the floor, as in a brave, yet ultimately stupid, move, one of the humans – the leader perhaps, Halibel thought, as he considered the oversized peacock feather flopping from his hat – had lowered his shoulder and launched himself into the speeding possessed, thus stalling his hunt for the treasure. Unfortunately for the imperial the possessed being was not easily stunned, and was quickly back on his feet – black clawed hands raked the worn clothing of the mercenary. Clouds of white tinged with black hung around the combat, as the captain unleashed two elegant pistols at almost point-blank into Ulquiorra. The act just angered his further, so much so that his next strike, struck the man in the head, knocking him clean off his feet.

Elsewhere, he could hear the sounds of metal upon metal, evidence that the cultists elsewhere were engaging the rest of the mercenaries, out of view. To the other side, he witnessed a third arrow strike the already wounded mutant; making the abhuman beast stumble again. Then, suddenly – as quickly as they came – they left. A couple of corpses littered the floor, the rest of their wounded being dragged away under the umbrella of bow fire. The treasure was his! The ragged remains of his warband shuffled around the corner, a wounded mutant dragging a leg whilst being supported by a cultist. Halibel cared not. The prize was his.

Words from the street

These are two battle reports from my first two games on Saturday. The first was against Marienburgers and the latter a Carnival of Chaos. I lost the first but technically won the second as he voluntarily routed, but had more wyrdstone.

**********

Halibel gazed across the misty street, his head throbbed from the cudgel that struck him down. Groaning he squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to remember what had happened. The cult had been following a band of humans, not too shabby or worn by the looks of them, who had wandered past their secret hideout. Using his knowledge of the area, he planned for a number of 'road blocks' or accidents to happen that would funnel them into an area that was favoured by the chosen of the shadow lord. That was the plan anyway. Unsteadily he regained his feet, one of the brethren stood by to steady him. The carnage was immense. Dead lay scattered around the street, his possessed warrior Ulquiorra sat hunched over a number of dismembered body parts, of whom Halibel could only assume was the two brethren that were killed. It appears the humans had managed to survive, though judging from the bloody strains and drag marks, there were not entirely unscathed.

The ambush worked well at first, the archers were taken by surprise as Ulquiorra charged out of the light mist at them that they missed with almost ever shot. After that it was quite swift as his three clawed arms just raked down them, as well as their guardians. It was however, the right flank that Halibel had failed on. He had misjudged the intellect of his opponent, and they were not walking into an ambush unaware as they should have been, but rather walking in with full knowledge of it being a trap. The first signs of this being so was the bullet that tore through brother Hans' throat before they were in clear view. Then they came. Halibel had watched from afar, watching and praying for the Shadow's help and power. First the mutant, Ushōda, was one of the first to engage, receiving the brutal strikes of a large two-handed sword. His beastman ally, that was found wandering the ruins, was joint in a fight with a young, finely dressed lad – all bright silks and cloth, a small amount of dust had gathered, showing that he had travelled comfortably. Gripped in his hands was a halberd, the weapon was obscene in the youngling's hand, clumsy strikes were easily stopped by the bulging arms of the half man, half goat. That fop was finally dropped by the beast, a large welt bigger than the one on Halibel's head had formed quickly.

Yet, it was not the fop that interested Halibel the most. The human with the long coat and twin pistols was spotted among the brawl. The leader, Halibel had assumed. Not a very good one it seemed, for in an act of stupidity he stepped between a battle raged beastman and his death. The crushing blow from the blood matted mace was enough to see him off. Halibel scratched his head. Then again, he was not exactly infallible. So intent upon the fight ahead he failed to spot the warrior who had crept around behind him and brained him when his attention was elsewhere. The rest of the fight he was slowly being filled in with by the remaining groups. The main thing that happened was his fighters had bottled, fleeing into the hidey holes along the street. The humans had then grabbed their wounded and fled.

“This one lives my lord.”, a masked brethren stood behind him, one of his own hung loosely in his arms, blood streaked his pale flesh. Halibel limped over to the man, cupping his slack face in one hand, Halibel gazed into the stunned man's eyes.
“You failed. That will not be tolerated.” he growled. Quicker than expected of his frail, wounded form, he tore his axe across the brethren's throats, opening up his veins to the open air. The wound sprayed blood in a crimson fountain, something Halibel had found himself to enjoy. The blood coated him from head to foot, as the crimson fountain continued he found himself raising his hands to the sky and laughing. And laughing, and laughing and laughing...

**********************

Halibel caught his second glimpse of the putrid caravan as it rumbled down the ruined street, it wheels making a loud clacking sound. Turning away from his advantage point at a ruined window he looked to his group, it was smaller than before, but one of his initiates was ready for the final test. Again it seemed his plans were being spoilt. He had heard of a large number of the shards being in this area, but hadn't factored that another group would be so quick as to get there same time as he did. Cursing he gestured the band to spread out and find them, his head throbbed still from the previous battle – laughter bubbled to the top of his throat but he fought it down.

They were fast, Halibel had decided as a number of the Nurgle blessed beings ran forward to claim as much wyrdstone as they could. So fast were they that they were out of range of his slower band quickly. Cursing he noted that Ulquiorra held one in his spare arm, but rather than bring it to him he sprinted off into the distance, his blood lust raging inside him. To the left he watched as one of his spearmen shoved his weapon into the bloated chest of a large, fat man with a green tint to his flesh. A rather ill fitting dinner jacket was stretched across his bulk, a ratty looking top hat was balanced upon his head. The spear sunk into the decaying flesh with a slopping sound that Halibel could hear from where he was stood, the fat man wore a slightly bemused look upon his face as he slipped to the floor, tearing the spear from the brethren's hands. Halibel began to chuckle as he watched the cultist brace himself against the man's bulk, both feet off the floor, tugging at the embedded spear he grunted loudly. It tore free in a loud, slopping sound and in a spray of greenish blood which squirted from his body like a fountain. The cultist was pulling so hard that when it tore free he was catapulted to the floor, landing heavily on his arse. Halibel roared with laughter at the spectacle, tears rolled down his face – the rest of the battle was a blur.

Ulquiorra had ripped up one of the blessed of Nurgle before the rest of them cowardly vanished back to their cart – the bloated body of their master being rolled away as well. The cult had won, but as he slowly wiped he tears from his eyes he realised he had lost the chance of a lot of wyrdstone. Nurgle would pay for this.