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« Thread Started on Aug 9, 2008, 10:43pm » | |
Compiled and posted by Sayu
http://forums.tentonhammer.com/showthread.php?t=31854
Most terrible one, Dreadlord Maulk of Har Ganeth,
Known widely through Naggaroth is your thirst for knowledge of our world and its cultures. The following document was procured on a slaving raid deep into the North-west of the human lands. My men encountered a caravan traveling from the so-called human “Empire” to the rich slave lands of Bretonnia. Though but few of the caravan were in any shape to be sold on the flesh-market, a cache of goods was found, the following parchment being the only thing worth taking due to your interests.
Though the scrawling human writ is scarcely more civilized and understandable than the crude wall-paintings of Orcs, one of my slave-masters, with a somewhat disturbing interest in the lesser races has been able to transcribe it into Druchast. Included within are my notes and observations.
Though the information within in but a drop of water compared to the fount of Druchii knowledge, perhaps a bit of insight to the feeble understanding of man may help to serve the interests of you and the Witch King.
Khaine's will be done,
Sayu
![[image]](http://i529.photobucket.com/albums/dd333/drucii/image-4-1.jpg)
Ye History Of Ye Old World
as told by the Venerable Hieronymous of Nuln
“Dark and dangerous is the world. A place filled with conflict.”
To his most Imperial Majesty, the Prince of Reikland, the ruler of the holy Empire, sovereign of heights and depths, Karl-Franz I of Altdorf.
According to your most imperial order, I am to compile a manuscript which explains in detail the great realms of the Old World and the wondrous inhabitants of these lands. As Sigmar is my witness I describe truthfully the lands of the Old World, the southern continents, and the New World. I shall also discuss the eastern lands beyond the Worlds Edge Mountains: the great steppes of the east and the mysterious lands of Cathay.
Thus I write under the two moons: Morrslieb and Mannslieb. I write of the days long gone and I write of the days that are yet to come, and those days are the days of Man. We are the inheritors of the twin bounties of wealth and wonderment that the Old World has to offer, if we can defeat the evils that besiege us.
It seems the arrogance of man is only overshadowed only by his ignorance.
Of The Old World
The Old World is bounded by the immeasurably high Worlds Edge Mountains in the east, by the dark and deep Great Ocean to the west, and then by the forbidding Troll Country in the north. To the south lies a broad arm of the Great Ocean, and beyond this the shores of the land of Araby.
In ancient times Dwarfs and Elves fought over possession of the Old World and, after many centuries of bitter conflict, retreated into their own lands. In their wake came the Orcs from the east, who infested the trackless forests and wastes and ruined the abandoned cities of the Dwarfs and Elves. Later the tribes of Mankind wandered into the Old World and began to clear the land and dwell there. Incessantly did they fight against the Orcs and out of this long conflict arose the great realms of men, namely the Empire and Bretonnia, Estalia, Tilea, and Kislev.
The Map I have included prior to these pages was presented as a gift to Emperor Leoopold from the Cartographers of Altdorf.
![[image]](http://i529.photobucket.com/albums/dd333/drucii/image-7-1.jpg)
An heir was born to the chief of the Unberogens, greatest of the tribes of men, and his birth was heralded by by a twin-tailed comet and by thunder and lightning at night. He grew to manhood and became a mighty warrior, one who could withstand a thousand Orcs on his own, with none beside him. Orcs slunk back at his approach and even Dwarfs sang his saga.
This was the holy Sigmar of which the sacred legends speak. He it was who utterly crushed the Orcish armies in the terrible Battle of the Blackfire Pass. The songs say that half of the green skinned warriors of the Worlds Edge Mountains were slain that day. Thus was Sigmar founder of the Empire that endures to this day and the one who first appointed the Elector Counts. He who saved the Dwarf king as well as humble men. The holder of the Hammer of Wrath by which evil is vanquished. By the mere utterance of his name may the righteous cause every evil thing to be banished.
I have included in this tome “Ye Legend of Sigmar”, the oldest known record of the deeds of Sigmar Heldenhammer.
For the entertainment of you, my Dreadlord, this foolish fairy tale will be attached to my report, as there is naught but hilarity to find within the beliefs of these lowly creatures which call themselves man.
Many other tales are told of the first Emperor, including the description of how he defeated an entire army of Orcs armed only with the jawbone of an ox.
I must note that in comparison to the art of Druchii weaponry produced from Hag Graef, the savage weaponry of the so-called warriors of Man have not evolved much.
Twice more the twin-tailed comet has been seen in the lands of the Empire. In the year of woes of 1999 when the twin-tailed comet destroyed the city of Mordheim, and three hundred years later when Magnus the Pious, the savior of the Empire was born. Every time the wings of fire in the sky heralded the coming of great things.
Our Honored Land – The Empire
Our beautiful empire is the largest, the most powerful nation in all of the Old World. We, the sons of Sigmar, have a right to be proud. For over two millennia the banner of the Griffon has flown over Castle Reikschlosse, proclaiming the might and glory of the Emperors. Altdorf is the capital of our glorious Empire and the seat of the Emperor. Here all manner of arts and sciences flourish under the patronage of the imperial crown. Here lies the great Shrine of Sigmar and the Engineer's Guildhall, and the spires of the Colleges of Magic rise high above the rooftops of Altdorf. Herein lies the heart of our trade: river barges laden with goods dock and depart here, and our rich markets bustle with traders from as far as Araby.
While Altdorf is second to none in its glory and splendor, our Empire encompasses many other places of beauty and awe besides the capital. The prosperous fields of Reikland stretch around the capital, and farms, estates, and villages dot the fields before giving way to the all-encompassing forests of the Empire.
Nuln is the gem of Reikland situated above the mighty River Reik. Once she was the first city of the Empire and of old the seat of Emperors. Many Dwarf craftsmen came to dwell here and work their forges along the Reik, where great oak barges arrive daily with ore and coals. The great bridge which spans the broad Reik at Nuln is wondrous to behold and the glory and pride of the city. Beyond this there are no more bridges for the river is too wide. Within the boundaries of Nuln stands the Imperial Artillery School, and many universities for the studious amongst the population of the Empire. Herein rules the Elector Countess Emmanuelle von Liebewitz, a beauty who is famous for her masked balls and lavish parties, which almost rival the splendor of the Imperial Court.
Leave it to the lesser-races to celebrate the ability to cross water and have their cities infested with un-enslaved Dwarfs. The lack of capitalizing on Dwarf-slaves, such an expensive and valuable resource, is mind-boggling to say the least.
Middenheim, the city of the White Wolf, is built upon a towering crag rising up out of the great forest. It is an impregnable fortress which may only be approached by four roads raised up on arches. Ulric is the patron god of this mighty city and his high priest rules alongside the Elector Count of the city. Herein lies the stronghold of the famed order of the ferocious Knights of the White Wolf.
Marienburg, the busy prosperous port which lies at the mouth of the Reik is no longer part of our great Empire. Her wealth is legendary. Here ships from every realm are docked bringing all manner of exotic goods and luxuries. The pride and pretension of the citizens knows no bounds and they claim to be the equal in every way of the Tileans in art and culture.
Once again thanks to his disturbing interest in these creatures, my slave-master has informed me Marienburg is known as the “city of gold” and gained its independence through a large transfer of gold to imperial coffers. All attempts to bring Marienburg back into the Empire has so-far failed. I point this out as without the backing of imperial troops and a location near the Great Ocean, this perhaps could be a wonderful location for a massive raid next raiding season.
Talabheim lies also in the midst of the forest in the very heart of the Empire. Here dwell the hardy woodsmen and hunters who keep their axes and bows by the threshold of their cottages. The city itself rests within a rocky bowl whose steep outward sides present wall-like fortifications. Within these natural walls stand the sturdy buildings of Talabheim.
Mordheim, the once great city is no more. Of this place it is wise to say little. Such was the sin of this city that a great thunderbolt from the heavens did raze it to be no more than a bleak ruin. Some say this was the Hammer of Judgment wielded by Sigmar himself.
Ostland, snow bound and windswept, marches with Kislev and is the bastion of the Empire against Orc and Chaos alike. Her warriors are well accustomed to war and know little comfort in their great timber fortresses.
The Moot is a fat land, rich in pastures and produces much that is good for the tables of the nobility. It is inhabited by Halflings who are renowned for their greed and craving for good food, rather than their courage.
An excellent example of the backwardness of man. Having encountered these Halfling creatures in a small battle with imperial troops along the Grey Mountains, I can vouch for their incapacity as proper-slaves.
Solland, the southernmost of our provinces is no more. During the rampages of the Orc Warlord Gorbad Ironclaw Solland was razed and deserted. The Elector Count of Solland fell in battle and his Runefang was lost. After the war the lands of Solland and its few remaining inhabitants were divided between the neighboring provinces.
Lastly, there is the cursed lands of Sylvania, the most infamous of the provinces. It was here that the dreaded Vampire Counts rose five hundred years ago. These aristocrats of the night sent their hordes of zombies and skeletons to ravage all the lands between the sea and the Worlds Edge Mountains. Only after centuries of war were they defeated at the grim battle of Hel Fen.
Many of the derelict villages are abodes of Ghoul clans, and travelers are warned from approaching the ruined castles and mansions of Sylvania after dark. Travelers should be wary and avoid the cursed soil of Sylvania if you can. The less said about this desolate and ghastly land, the better. Mannfred von Carstein, the last of the dread Vampire Counts is dead. Long may he rest.
Of Bretonnia
Beyond the Grey Mountains lies the kingdom of Bretonnia, inhabited by the descendants of the Bretonni tribe. It is a great kingdom, next only to our great Empire in power and wealth. Indeed they are our chief rivals in trade and war.
The kings of Bretonnia live in the most sumptuous luxury imaginable. Their stables are filled with the finest warhorses, their weapons are encrusted with jewels, and their silk banners glitter with gold.
Yet you should hesitate from mocking a Bretonnian nobleman (to his face at least), for behind the courtly graces is a warrior born and bred to battle. From a very early age the knights of Bretonnia are taught to bear the traditional arms of a knight, to ride and to endure the hardships of war. There are no greater warriors amongst the race of Man (or at least so say the Bretonnians).
That isn't saying much.
Bretonnia was founded by King Gilles le Breton, whom the Bretonnians hold to be as renowned as Sigmar. He was the first of all knights of Bretonnia, and established their military traditions.
Their kingdom is divided into fourteen great dukedoms, from the fair Couronne in the north to the rugged land of Carcassonne to the south. Each of the powerful dukes commands an army of knights supported by squires, men-at-arms, and archers drawn from the ranks of the commoners. This way of fighting, though old-fashioned in our Empire, has proven time and again effective in repelling numerous invading armies.
It is the ideal of knighthood which inspires the warriors of Bretonnia. The worship of the Lady of the Lake, their goddess of virtue and honor, is widespread, and sets the code of honor under which the finest of nobility conducts itself in peace and war. Each knight of Bretonnia bears his own heraldic device on his shield and livery. The Fleur de Lys or Flower of the Lily is the most common of these symbols, signifying a knight's dedication to the Quest for the Grail.
While most of the Bretonnians are rural folk, there are still numerous walled cities: the capital, Couronne, with its marble temples; Parravon, which guards the Axe Bite Pass; Gisoreux, which protects the reaches of the Upper Grismerie river; Quenells with its chapels and vineyards, and lastly the dreaded city of Moussilon, a squalid ruin which is now a lair of evil creatures. Bordeleaux, L'Anguille, and Brionne, the coastal cities of Bretonnia are trading ports and havens for the dreaded war-fleet of Bretonnia, and control much of the wealth of the kingdom.
Of Kislev
North from the lands of our magnificent Empire the forests give way to great wind-swept plains and dark birch glades. These are the lands of Kislev. For one thousand years this kingdom has endured the attacks of the savage Norse and the incursion of dread Chaos.
During the long winter nights the men of Kislev, known as Gospodars, gather around their log cottages, remembering the glory of the Tzars of old and the might of the Ice Queens of bygone ages. They sing songs of war and dream of happier times, for their own age is filled with much strife. Kislev guards the borderlands of the north against the terrible servants of Chaos. Each year the toll of death is greater. But to Kislevites this matters not. North is their home and if they cannot live there, they will die there.
Kislevites are great warriors and magnificent horsemen. They tirelessly patrol the northern border along the forbidding Troll Country, trying to keep the rampaging Chaos warbands in check.
The cities of Kislev are ruled by Tzars and boyars, who all owe their fealty to the overlord of Kislev. Tzarina Katarin the Great, the current ruler of all Kislev, is a mighty sorceress, mistress of the cold winds and ice of the north. She is known for both her beauty and her haughty and cold manners which have earned her the title of Ice Queen of Kislev. So suffused is she with magic that is is said that her flesh is cold to touch and she rules her lands with icy efficiency.
Erengrad is one of the greatest trading ports of the Old World. Here the wares of the north are traded with merchants from Bretonnia, Tilea, Estalia, and, of course, our own noble Empire.
The city of Praag has an evil reputation, for during the last Great War against Chaos the city was overrun with the servants of the Ruinous Powers and twisted beyond recognition. After Magnus the Pious defeated the forces of the Dark Gods the city was razed to the ground and rebuilt, but Chaos returned. Travelers tell tales in hushed tones of cries of agony that pierce the night and faces that appear the walls of building to consume the unwary with savage ferocity. The citizens of Praag are forced to burn down and rebuild their homes if they are to retain some small measure of sanity.
Of Tilea And Estalia
South of the Empire and Bretonnia lie the lands of Tilea and Estalia. Cut-throats and sell-swords to a man. Tileans often offer their services as mercenaries when no wars are waged in their own country. For in this land each city is a separate principality in an unfettered rivalry with its neighbors. Every merchant prince looks to himself and his own wealth and seeks only to stab and poison his neighbors, while extending the hand of friendship. In some cities, the citizens, tiring of their own corrupt nobility, overthrew the princes to rule themselves as a republic. Yet even there it is the dagger that rules. Despite this, the Tileans are cultured people, expert in all the arts and master seafarers. Their explorers have discovered many lands.
Mention must be made of Sartosa, which is an island near to Tilea, inhabited entirely by pirates. Thought they plague the seas thereabouts, they are a fitting match for the cruel corsairs of Araby and both are much deserving of each other.
Tilean wines fetch high prices throughout the Old World, and their large fleet of merchant vessels ply the seas trading with all nations from the north of Kislev to the scorched lands of Araby. Art, sciences, innovation, and music are all strongly supported by the princes of the city states.
Of Estalia, little is to be said for it is a rugged place. Within its few fortified cities live hardy people who make their living with fishing and trade. Jaffar, the Sultan of Araby once invaded that land and nearly conquered it but for the great army of knights which came to drive out his hordes. It is said that the Estalians are very hardy folk, who will slay a man for mistaking them for a Tilean or even greeting them in the Tilean dialect by mistake.
Of The Lands Of Araby
South of Tilea, past the stormy seas of the Black Gulf, lies the kingdom of Araby. Here the decadent Caliphs and Sultans rule cities made of white stone, and their realms are the vast deserts, oases that glitter like jewels, and mountains inhabited by fierce nomad warriors. Several great cities form a loose coalition, though in effect they are all independent states with their own rulers, traditions, and customs.
The Sheikhs, Emirs, and Sultans of Copher, Lashiek, and Martek live in unimaginable luxury, served by hundreds of slaves who will fulfill their every whim, their harems are filled with voluptuous beauties from across the world and their treasure chambers with all the splendor and wealth of that distant land. Some of these despots are cruel by their nature, ordering beheadings and mutilations of even the pettiest criminals, while others are great rulers and patrons of art and science.
It would seem some lands of men are at least on the right track.
In contrast the nomadic peoples, who are the subjects of the Arabian rulers, do not build permanents settlements, preferring to travel far and wide in the desert. Some ride not upon horses, but on strange and most bad-tempered beasts which never thirst and appear never to drink.
Whatever these beasts be, perhaps it would be worthwhile to look further into. If only our nauglir were such low-maintenance.
There are many sorcerers in Araby, who can perform strange works of magic. It is said they can conjure up spirits which they call genies and imprison them in glass bottles. When the bottle is uncorked, the spirit emerges as a vapor and grows to immense size to do the bidding of his master. Other tales speak of Wizards who fly high above the sands on carpets. Believe this if you will.
In the Old World the Arabians are known to be cunning traders and merchants. It is said that an Arabian can trick even a Tilean into a bad bargain, and I know few more crooked traders than the treacherous Tileans.
The most infamous of the Arabians are the merciless pirates of Copher. The ships of the Old World fear few perils of the sea as much as the Corsairs of Araby. The Port of Copher holds many sleek and deadly ships which prey the seven seas.
Of The Southlands
Of the hot jungles of the south I can say little, for few have dared the stormy seas of the south and even fewer have returned from the Dark Continent. The Southlands encompass vast, untouched jungles and snow-capped mountains. The western coast boasts a number of small colonies of Arabian merchants which serve as havens for their ships.
The jungles themselves are said to be impenetrable and trackless, filled with all manner of dangerous animals and monsters. All attempts to explore this hostile, steaming hell have failed. The few survivors talk of the last of the great Dwarf strongholds, surrounded by savage Orcs and Goblins and all manner of other monsters. Other tales speak of a great High Elf fortress which guards the tip of the Southlands and the way to the distant east and the lands of Ind and Cathay. But whatever power holds the Southlands, it is welcome to it. Keep your dark secrets and your cursed treasures!
Of The Distant Kingdom Of Cathay
Past the Worlds Edge Mountains and across the Great Skull Lands, on the other side of the Mountains of Mourn and the vast steppes, begin the uncharted lands. Only a single path travels to the east, known as the Silk Road. It runs through the untamed steppes until its destination, the fabled kingdom of Cathay. The lure of the Silk Road is great to the merchant houses of the Tilea and the Burgomeisters of the Empire, as well as the traders of Araby. But the road is far from safe: roving bandits, steppe nomads, and the vast hordes of Hobgobla-Khan who rule the steppes are an ever-present threat, and one that cannot be taken too lightly. Only one caravan out of ten makes the trip safely.
The travelers that return from Cathay tell tales of great golden pagodas and the inexhaustible armies of the eastern despots. They bring exotic spices and finest silks, gleaming gold, luxurious porcelain vases, and all manner of strange and wonderful items from the Kingdom of the Dragon, glimpses of the mysterious glory of the distant and rich orient.
They also bring tales of jade cities and high temples where mystics probe the movements of the heavenly bodies and the position of the stars, of the scholars who inscribe every word ever uttered by their divine Emperor. Many strange creatures are said to live in the land of Cathay, from serpentine dragons to gigantic living stone dogs which guard the temples of the multitudinous gods of Cathay.
Records of travelers tell of the thousand, thousand footsoldiers of the Emperor, the mystic brotherhoods of monks who can kill you with a touch of their hand, and the strange monkey warriors living high in the Mountains of Heaven.
Most of these tales are highly fanciful, but certainly the Empire of the Celestial Dragon must be a wondrous and rich place, but until the trade routes to the east are safe it will remain a realm of legend.
It is fortunate for our raiding missions that the lands of Man are so fragmented and filled with as much infighting as that of the Greenskins. Otherwise Man would be much more formidable, by sheer numbers alone.
Of The Land Of The Dead
East of Araby lies a great desert and amongst the dunes rise the necropolises, tomb-cities which are said to be the home for the unquiet dead. In that dread desert, beneath the moon's pale gaze, dead men are said to walk. They haunt the dunes and ruined pyramids in the breathless, windless night.
It is told in my most obscure and ancient scrolls that the Great Necromancer himself, Nagash the Black, ruled here long, long ago, and the land still bears the scars of his clawed hand. Here stand the great pyramids built to be the tombs of the past kings of Nehekhara. These ancient tombs are said to hold untold riches, and yet only a few travel to this most desolate of places to face the dangers of the ancient necropoli. Entire armies, commanded by their mummified kings, march under the scorching sun to wage war against the living and each other. My source of these ancient and evil things is the blasphemous tome known as the Liber Mortis, the Book of the Dead, which rests at my desk. Bound as it is by the prayers of the Grand Theogonist and wards of the Light Wizards. I know it cannot corrupt me, but yet still I fear and dare not do more than glimpse at its cursed pages, where long-dead faces leer back at me. I can barely bring myself to touch the human-skinned covers or the pages where the rites of Necromancy and the spells of blood magic are written by the hand of the Great Necromancer. For this book comes from the land of Sylvania, and it once belonged to the foul Vlad von Carstein, the most infamous of all the Vampire Counts, who was defeated by the holy Grand Theogonist Wilhelm at the Siege of Altdorf.
A grand resource of treasure and flesh these lands could be, if a way were to be found to bend the will of the undead which rules these lands. A few subtle scouting trips up the Black Gulf would give us further insight to this desolate place.
Of Dwarfs
Dwarfs are an ancient race, wide of girth, strong of arm, and stubborn of mind. Unless killed in battle, a Dwarf can live to a very great age, as long as 400 years, though the Dwarfs claim that some of their Runesmiths have lived considerably longer. I can scarcely believe these tales, even though it is not in the Dwarf nature to lie.
Four-hundred years, a very great age? How laughable. I own kheitans of Dwarf-flesh much older than that.
The mighty Worlds Edge Mountains have been their home since time immemorial. Once, a long time ago, mighty Dwarf strongholds formed an unbroken chain along the mountain range. Great were the halls and vaults hewn out of the mountains, and great was the clamor of Dwarf hammering and song singing echoing in the depths. Now, alas, many of these once great holds resound only to the scampering feet of Goblins.
Dwarfs are the greatest smiths and craftsmen in the world. Not even Elven smiths can match the skill and care of the Dwarfs. It was the Dwarfs who in the days past forged the Runefangs, the twelve swords of the Empire, as a payment for Sigmar's help against the Orcs. Today they are symbols of office and authority of the Elector Counts of the Empire.
And yet man still does not enslave these masterful workers. I'm once again at a loss to the inefficiency of the minds of men.
Dwarfs are strong and unbending as stone (and some would say as forgiving) and grim as the mountains they live in. From Karaz-a-Karak, the most ancient of the Dwarf holds, the last High King of the Dwarfs wages a never-ending war against Orcs, Goblins, and other evil creatures. Each year Dwarf numbers dwindle. Each year the war becomes more desperate. Each year the enemies of the Dwarfs become more numerous. In my mind the wisdom of continuing the struggle is doubtful, even if its heroism is not. But as long as one of their warriors draws breath, the Dwarfs will not set aside their axes or forget their grudges.
In my youth I traveled to Karaz-a-Karak, the seat of the Dwarf High Kings to study their lore. For seven years I stood behind the door of the Hall of Remembrance to prove my dedication to learn the Dwarf Lore. Finally the locked doors were opened for me, and even then the Dwarf Loremasters were reluctant to part with their knowledge and only taught me because of the long-standing friendship between the Emperors and the Dwarf Kings.
I studied the Great Book of Grudges and the Book of Remembrance, where the history of the Dwarf race is recorded in the runescript, and the annals of their kings are kept, with each passing day recording in meticulous detail by the dozens of Dwarf scribes. The Great Book of Grudges holds the record of great breaches of faith against the Dwarf people. Its words are written in the blood of kings – so seriously do Dwarfs regard such matters.
The Book of Remembrance claims that during the ancient times the mighty Dwarf empire stretched across the entire Worlds Edge Mountains, from the lands of Norsca in the north to the distant Southlands, encompassing dozens of Dwarf Holds. But those days are now long gone, only a memory recited in sagas sung in the few Dwarf halls that still survive. For long before the time of Sigmar, there was a war in the Old World.
Dwarf fought Elf and Elf fought Dwarf. It seems that for an entire age the slaughter continued, and many great battles were fought where both races suffered terribly.
I'd wager the Elves, most notably, suffered from the stench of close-contact with the Dwarfs.
The war finally ended when the Dwarf High King defeated the Phoenix King in single battle and the Elves retreated from the Old World.
Huge earthquakes and volcanic eruptions shattered the vaults and chambers of the Dwarf holds and broke the power of the Dwarf empire for all time. Evil creatures from below the bowels of the earth then emerged to challenge the Dwarf supremacy of the mountains, and cast them onto the precipe of extinction where they now fight.
__________________
"My god knows nothing of mercy...He does not forgive. He cares nothing for redemption. He simply hungers, and I live to see him fed."
-The Grand Carnifex of Har Ganeth (speaking of Khaela Mensha Khaine
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Karma: 0 | | Re: Sayu's Compendium
« Reply #1 on Aug 9, 2008, 10:43pm » | |
Of The Elves
Elves are an ancient, fey and rare folk. Some scholars believe that the Elves are immortal, but I believe that it is the cruel fate of all living things to perish, and even these fey creatures die as time passes. But the Elves do live for a very long time indeed. Some of their lords have lived for two millennia, though I hazard a guess that the lifespan of the Elf warrior be until he is slain in battle, which will oft be sooner than his natural death. Can it therefore be any wonder that the Elf wears upon his face such a sorrowful countenance and speaks much of fate and doom?
Would an insect speak so confidently about the gilded boot that could smash it at its convenience?
Physically the Elves are tall, slender, and elegant creatures with aesthetically beautiful features. Their flowing hair is as fine as flax. Their movements are graceful, and their speed is inhuman. To the eyes of a Man, the Elves appear radiantly beautiful, but the wise should not let appearances fool them, for the Elves are quick to anger and slow to appease. A mortal Man who might by chance cast his eyes upon an Elf maid would think her to be a goddess and would be incapable of any thought but her for the rest of the day. The wise do not judge Elves by their divine appearance alone, but shun these fey and strange creatures, for beneath the beautiful exterior lies an enigmatic and mystic psyche.
Make that a gilded and spiked boot.
The minds of the Elves are every bit as quick and agile as their bodies, but at the same time they are inhuman and strange, their mentality completely alien to a Man. They can concentrate on a single task with terrifying intensity. An Elf can quickly master any skill and far surpasses humans in song, writing, magic, alchemy, architecture, or any other fine art. Elves call themselves the First Speakers, and it is true that their gifts of song and speech surpass by far any of the mannish races.
But such mental discipline comes at a price. Elves can lose track of time and the affairs of the world around them, foregoing rest and nourishment. Indeed an Elf may lose himself for weeks, staring intently at a beautiful sculpture or painting, uncaring of the flow of time or events evolving around him. Elves are also aloof, proud, arrogant, and uncaring of “lesser” races. In their eyes, Men are little better than Orcs, and more often than once Men and Elves have come to blows.
The Elves are divided into several peoples and kindreds. The Great Ones, known as the High Elves, inhabit the great island-continent of Ulthuan which rests in the Great Western Ocean. Their great capital of Lothern in the land of Eataine is the hub of Elven trade, and the port of the mighty Elven armada. From here their fleet plies the waves to dominate trade and explore the world.
Man's ignorance is once again flaunted with the praise of Elves with lesser blood.
Finubar the Seafarer is their ruler, and he is the most cosmopolitan of all the Phoenix Kings.
An increasingly meaningless title when realized that Malekith's reign has outlasted the last seven so-called Phoenix “Kings”.
He lifted the ancient bans which decreed that no ship save those of the Elven fleet may ply the seas for three hundred miles around Ulthuan. The city is as far as any non-Elf can go. Human traders can taste the pleasures of the most wondrous city of the world (after our beloved Altdorf, that is) and ply their trade in the bazaars and merchant houses of Lothern. But try to pass the Emerald Gate is to invite swift and certain death. A ten thousand strong guard keeps vigilance over the city and the citadel of the Glittering Tower, the beacon which guides the Elven craft through the straits of Lothern.
Outside their blessed island, Elves are rare nowadays, and getting rarer. Only in the land of Bretonnia, amongst the hidden glades of the Loren Forest, survives the last kingdom of the Wood Elves in the Old World.
The Wood Elves of Loren are the masters of the bow, and it is said that an Elven marksman can hit an eye of a Goblin in the dark. Many strange tales are told in the land of Bretonnia about the fey Elf Lords of Loren. Troubadours of Couronne sing of a cult of Wardancers, young Elves with lethal acrobatic abilities as well as strange and terrible Beastmasters, Elves who live amongst the wild animals of the forests. Tales also tell of Elves who sing to the trees and plants, shaping them to form houses and make the paths of the forest misdirect intruders. The most fanciful tales speak of Forest Spirits, of giant trees that walk like men, but these are probably mere fables. Few men ever venture to the glades of Loren, and fewer still return. When they do, they are found on the boundaries of the Loren Forest, their bodies broken and strung on the branches of the trees as warnings to trespassers. Bretonnians have learned to fear the “Fayrie Folk”, and leave their woodland kingdom alone.
So Loren rests, shrouded by mists and magic, brooding and forbidding. Be wary traveler, and do not venture to the shadow of Loren. For even if you do not lose your life to an Elven arrow or sword, you might travel for three hundred years amongst the glades, never realizing the time that has passed until you return to your home and the years take their toll on you in an eyeblink.
Wood Elves live in very few places besides Loren. The Forest of Shadows and Drakwald Forest are said to hold small Elven communities still. A man should be wary of these places, for many have died by unseen arrows when they have trespassed into the domain of Elves, even without knowing that they had passed their invisible borders.
There is said to be a third kindred of the Elves as well, even more sinister than the other two. From across the separating seas come piratical Elf raiders dressed in black, bringing death to the coastal areas with fire and steel. No scholar that I have talked to knows their true origin. Perhaps they live at sea, or come from some other land of the West, past the blessed island of Ulthuan. The Lords of Ulthuan say little of these raiders, but warn us to slay them without mercy. They call these black-garbed Elves the Dark Elves, and hint at some ancient schism amongst the Elves which led to their downfall. It is said that over a millennia ago these Dark Elves sacked the city of Remas in the land of Tilea, razed it to the ground, and took thousands of prisoners to be carried off to slavery. It is proof of how the race of Elves is capable of great cruelty and evil despite their fair countenance and apparent civility.
It is amusing how Man must describe our reach of power as “cruel” and “evil” all the while turning a blind eye to their own indiscretions. Yet another sign of the weakness within Man, hiding their short-comings behind a moral compass.
To me the Elven race remains a fascinating, complex, and dangerous mystery. But I shall rejoice when they are no more, for then all that remains shall be left for Man. These are the last days of the Elves, and their sun is setting – glorious, blood-red, and ultimately dying.
Of The Lands Across The Sea
Across the Great Western Ocean, south of the bleak lands of the northern shores lies the hot and uncharted land which is called Lustria by the scholars of the Empire. Many fortune-seekers travel there, and, though, few return, they bring tales of the steaming-hot jungles and strange inhabitants, of howling dusky warrior-women and of the lizard-men which dwell amongst the ruined temple cities of immeasurable antiquity.
I have seen the dissection of one of these corpses and witnessed its strangeness and unwholesome appearance. They appear to be giant lizards of sorts, walking on two feet like men, though they are far taller and have heavy musculature, and their blood is said to be cold and venomous.
Their temples reputedly hold vast riches such that the Emperor equipped an expedition to bring back the wealth of distant Lustria to the Empire where it could be put to good use in the service of his most Imperial Majesty Karl-Franz. That was many years ago and there has since been no word of the fate of this expedition.
All manner of strange scaly monsters dwell in the jungles of Lustria, for it is a morass from which but few return who have gone thence. Great are the treasures heaped up in the cities of the Lizardmen, to whom gold is commonplace.
Of The Encroachments Of Dread Chaos And The Enemy Within
Even here in my own chamber, protected by the Templars of Reiksguard and by the prayers of the most pious priest of Lord Sigmar, I shiver with fear when I write of the unspeakable beast, the abomination, the enemy of life, the dread power that men call Chaos.
It is claimed by the foul daemonologists that our world is but one of many, and all of us exist in the world of shadows as well as in the real world we can see. They say that our shadow-selves live in the strange and unfathomable place known as the Realm of Chaos, the shadowy, immaterial abode of daemons. Known as the Aethyr, the Warp, the Underworld, the Utterdark, and by many other names. Here time has no meaning and the events of past, present, and future meld into one, chaotic existence. Some debate that this is not one dimension, but many, an infinite number of alternative worlds were everything is possible and every variation of human history is played out as decreed at the beginning of time.
North from the borders of Kislev, past the rugged Troll Country, lies the hellish Realm of Chaos where the daremons roam, servants of Entropy and the Long Night. These creatures consist of thoughts alone, and these thoughts are terrible.
The Realm of Chaos is a home to many terrible entities of cosmic power. I tremble as I write down the names of the Four Great Gods of Chaos. I dare not speak their names aloud, for their servants can see and hear anything that is said anywhere, and the wise do no draw the attention of the denizens of the dark to themselves. Therefore I shall write them down and pray for your souls.
There are four vile and loathsome Dark Gods of Chaos – four brothers in darkness. The first of them is Khorne, the great god of War, the Lord of Skulls. He takes many shapes: a gigantic blood-stained hound, a bestial warrior, his hands dripping with blood, a brooding king sitting on a throne of skulls. In his hand is a sword, upon him, brass armour, and he sits on a great mound of skulls which stretches around him eternally. His bellow of rage echoes throughout time and space, and it is he who brings the curse of war to the unhappy world.
Oft-believed to be the feeble-minded man's interpretation of Khaine.
Next is Tzeentch, the Great Conspirator, the master of mutable timestream. He is the Sorcerer of Chaos, and his sphere of influence is change. He is the Ever-changing One, the master of magic, and mutator or Mankind. His followers infiltrate the human society, forever plotting, biding their time, waiting for the moment to rise up against law and order.
Nurgle is the nauseating Lord of Plague. He is described as a vast mountain of rotting and corpulent flesh, ridden with all the diseases of the world. In his physical form Nurgle is a mountain of filth and corruption. But these words scarcely do justice to the true foulness that is Father Nurgle, the lord of physical corruption and disease, morbidness and hopelessness. It is he who unleashes the horrific diseases that take such a terrible toll on the inhabitants of the Old World.
Lastly there is Slaanesh, the keeper of hidden vices and terrible passions, the Lord of Forbidden Pleasures, the decadent Prince of Chaos. Slaanesh is said to be neither man or woman yet both, and that to see the physical perfection of his form is to be d**ned to love him forever with passionate and undying intensity. His followers and daemons cavort naked with the fallen, driven forth to new and agonizing pleasures by his stinging whips.
There are many other lesser powers of Chaos: lesser gods, godlings, daemons and demigods, but only the Four Great Powers are known everywhere in the known world. They are worshiped throughout the world in different guises and names, but always they remain the same, as do their goals.
Many mortals serve the daemonic overlords of Chaos. From the north come the black-clad warriors of Chaos, followed by the barbarian tribes that worship the gods of Chaos. These are the enemy without, the dark armies that gather on our borders.
More insidious are the followers of Chaos within. In the lands of men there are reviled and sick heretics who worship the Chaos gods in secret. Despite the efforts of the order of Witch Hunters, their influence grows daily. It grows in secret, and many powerful and influential men secretly throw their lot in with the Ruinous Powers, hoping to gain great power and immortality as their reward. In deep cellars and hidden temples these despicable and insane men perform hideous rites and living sacrifices to appease their dark masters. Each year they are said to be more numerous and powerful.
Many of us believe that we live in the dusk-time of the world. I fear that they might be right. Sigmar forgive me, for these are heretical thoughts, but the shadow of the north has grown so huge that I see little hope for our survival. Sigmar preserve us and deliver us. Perhaps I have doomed myself by what I have written, but I have sworn to write the truth for scholars who come after me, and warn them of the danger.
Of The Power Of Magic
Long ago the study of magic was forbidden in the lands of the Old World, and all men and women who saw visions or could perform miraculous deeds were (quite sensibly) burned at the stake. But during the Great War against Chaos, Magnus the Pious, the uniter of the Empire, lifted the ancient ban against sorcery, and established the Colleges of Magic. From that day on the Empire has been served by a corps of Battle Wizards.
The Aethyr, or the Wind of Magic, encompasses eight strands of Magic: that of Fire or Pyromancy, Gold or the Lore of Alchemy, Amber the Wind of Beasts, Light which is the Heavenly lore of Astromancy, the Shadow Wind and the Jade Wind of Life as well as the purple Wind of the Dead. These are the disciplines of sorcery as they are taught in the Colleges of Magic today.
But though many do not know it, all magic originates from the Realm of Chaos. In the furthest north, say the scholars of the Colleges of Magic, stands a colossal gateway to the dimension of nightmares and daemons. From this gaping maw spews forth unnatural winds and mutating dust. This energy coils around the world like an immense serpent, and it is this power that the Wizards employ when they are casting spells.
Those with the gift (or, indeed the curse) of second sight can perceive these eight energies as they emerge from the Northern Wastes, and coil over the world like a serpent strangling its prey. Humans specialize in one of these strands of magic, and there are schools of sorcery which specialize in each of the colors of magic.
Of The Monstrous Beings
Many of my grimoires show pictures of frightening beasts. Of Giant Octopi that lurk beneath the waves: of the great Kraken which emerge to consume entire ships before sinking back to the dark depths of the ocean. Of the strange Jabberwock, said to eat beautiful maidens. Of the Winged Folk of the southern isles, and the serpentine Wyrms of the East. Of course, a rational scientist such as myself does not believe in things such as these.
But there are other beasts which do exist, as I have seen with my own eyes. The zoo of our most beneficent Emperor here in Altdorf holds many strange and terrible creatures which can be brought to war: Griffons wth the bodies of lions and heads of fierce eagles, steaming winged horses called Pegasi, giant snakes brought by the Arabian merchants from the Southlands, Hippogriffs that nest in the crags of the Massif Orcal, greater lumbering beasts of Araby known as elephants, and many more.
Dragons are the most ancient of the creatures. Under the Worlds Edge Mountains and stony mounds the Dragons are still said to slumber. Even Kalgalanos the Black, the father of all Dragons is rumored to have his lair beneath the bowels of the earth, with the mountains as his spine, waiting for the doomsday, when the Dragons will be roused from their slumber, and soar above the clouds once more.
Of Orcs And Goblins
The Orcs and Goblins are the bane of all civilized races. These creatures have hides of greenish hue and are hideous in appearance. Their beady eyes glow red in the dark and their foul fangs protrude from their gaping mouths which utter such grunts as pass among them for language. They converse among themselves as much by blows and cuffs as by words and it is a wonder that they can make or do anything at all. Indeed, their weapons and artefacts are of the crudest kind, yet effective enough to wreak havoc in every land. The Orcs are green of skin and strong of stature. They are taller and broader than a man but stooped like an ape of the Southlands. Orcish kind has fangs which are bared and their eyes are set deep beneath a thick brow. The Orc has but little intelligence excepting for some glimmer of cunning.
Dumb may be an understatement, but they do have their uses.
Their encampments are squalid in the extreme, and every so often the tribes gather and migrate in great hordes across the land, waging war which is their greatest delight. Indeed, it is said that Orcs in particular live for war. Goblins, their lesser cousins eagerly follow and serve the Orcs. The names of many tribes are known, such as the Festering Scabs, the Iron Claws, the Red Eyes, and the Broken Tooth, and these tribes are swayed by their Shamans who wield strangely potent magical powers. It is they who invoke their idols and raise up warlords and set the tribes in motion, stirring up great Wargas or wanderings of which the Kislevites speak.
Orcs are constantly fighting amongst themselves to establish the rule of the strongest. Thus there are endless layers of leaders and warlords, each vying for power. Thus much of their energy is spent fighting amongst themselves. It is claimed there is no Orcish word for “equal”.
There is no counting the numbers of Orcs and Goblins which infest the barren places of the world and no matter how many are slain, there are always more. Certain other creatures slink and grovel around the Orc encampments such as Trolls, who are foul and ghastly beyond description and the Snotlings who infest the dungheaps in their multitudes.
Do not, however, underestimate the power of the Orcs. For sometimes, when led by a warlord who is inspired by his idols, the horde becomes unstoppable and will cut a swathe through the realms of Men, Dwarfs, and even Elves. Great cities have been laid low by the Orcs and many fine things have been overthrown and trodden into dust.
Of The Ratmen Of The Underworld
One of the most persistent legends in the folklore of the ignorant and uncouth peasants is that of giant rats who walk on two feet in the manner of men. It is said that their vast empire stretches for untold miles beneath the earth. Allegedly their society is divided into several Great Clans, each ruled by powerful Skaven collectively known as the Lords of Decay. Most of the time they are said to fight amongst themselves like rabid rats, but sometimes they lay their bickerings aside and wage war against other inhabitants of the Old World. When the rat-host goes to battle, they muster the innumerable hordes of the lesser Warlord Clans.
There are lunatics and madmen in the Great Altdorf Asylum who claim that they have escaped from the slavery of these rat-men, and others who say that even as we speak they are preparing for a great war against Mankind.
I have never seen such creatures, and as the learned professors of Nuln have shown irrefutable scientific proof exists that these creatures are but a sham and a hoax. I have included here a parchment which is said to have been written by one of these creatures known as Skaven. I have brought it before your Majesty for the sake of completeness, despite my firm belief that it is but a clever forgery.
![[image]](http://i529.photobucket.com/albums/dd333/drucii/image-9.jpg)
These Skaven are but a figment of imagination, and there are enough real dangers in this grim world of ours. Let your thoughts concentrate on the tasks at hand and not on the babblings of old senile saga poets.
According to these questionable reports, each of the Greater Clans has its own armaments and foul methods to wage war. The clan known as Moulder are powerful Beastmasters and use magical warpstone to breed and mutate ferocious fighting beasts. Clan Eshin are feared assassins and stealthy murderers. It is even rumored that one of their number assassinated Emperor Mandred. Clan Skyre are known as Warlock Engineers, masters of an insane blend of magic and science. The Clan Pestilens are also known as the Plague Monks. They are disciples of disease and initiates of infection. It is told that their clan holds a great book called Liber Bubonicus which lists all diseases known to man and many unknown besides. As instructed by their god, the Plague Monks are dedicated to spreading pestilence and plague amongst the cities of men.
In the land of Tilea the men of that land tell tales of the great city of Skaven hidden deep in the rotting heart of the Blighted Marshes. This city is called Skavenblight (Tileans are not noted for their originality) in the legends. Herein lies the temple of the Horned Rat, the foul Chaos god of Skaven, and here multitudinous millions of the Skaven hordes scuttle, plot, fight, and murder, each vying for supremacy. No man has seen this city, and like most I believe it is just a myth, for the Blighted Marshes are impenetrable and poisonous, thus giving rise to the legends of the Skaven city.
![[image]](http://i529.photobucket.com/albums/dd333/drucii/image-6.jpg)
The Saga of Sigmar Heldenhammer
When the sun rests
And the world is dark
And the great fires are lit
And the ale is poured into flagons
Then is the time to sing sagas as the Dwarfs do
And the greatest of sagas
Is the saga of Sigmar, mightiest warrior
Harken now, hear these words
And live in hope
In the time before time.
Orcs roamed the land.
All was darkness.
It was a time of woes
It was a time of doom
It was time of wolves
Mankind was prey
They looked to the sky
Cried to the gods; deliver us
And the gods answered them
Into the darkness, came a light
A torch of the gods
A dragon with two tails
Flying in the sky by night
One looked to another
What can this sign mean
Orcs grew fearful
Wolves slunk back into their lairs
Among Unberogens
A child was born
A chief's son, destined for greatness
And the gods decreed
That his name shall be Sigmar
The one whose coming was foretold
By the signs of the gods
And this Sigmar, while yet a youth
Withstood Goblin and Orc
While others fled, taking up
His father's axe
Defending his hearth and home
Fear not mother, sister be not afraid
This house is not for burning
Nor this village, not while the hand of a man
Can hold the shaft of an axe
Men came to Sigmar
brave warrior
Made him their leader
favoured by the gods
Let us not be prey to Goblins and Orcs
For now the time of men has come
Word came to Sigmar, of Goblin raiders
A mighty warband
laden with plunder
Leading bound captives
delighting in slaughter
Men held the pass
and Sigmar stood with them
Made slaughter of Goblins
Withstood the horde
Like a wall of brave men
In the days before iron
Great was the victory
Rescued was Kurgan, the Iron Beard
Foremost of Dwarfs, A High King
Old and long bearded
Bound by Goblins, held for ransom
Freed by Sigmar, bravest of men
Never in long years
Have I seen such a slaughter
Of Goblin kind, nor Orc
Even in the days of my youth
In the mountains of the Dwarfs
So spake King Kurgan
Mighty is Sigmar
He who saves a Dwarf King
From dishonor
How can I reward him
Attend my hall, let us feast
In honor of victory
A hammer of war
A hammer of iron
Which fell from the sky
With two tongues of fire
From the forge of the gods
Worked by a runesmith
Ghal-Maraz is its name
The splitter of skulls
Then fame and renown
Of Sigmar, hammer bearer
Of the high king of the Dwarfs
Spread far and wide
Sigmar the chief, mighty lord
Of Unberogens and other tribes
Of Mankind
Except for Teutogens
Who is this Sigmar?
Let us wage war on him!
Men against men, pleasing to Orcs
Yet the gods shook their heads
Let Sigmar prevail. Let the tribes be united
Let mankind be well led
And vanquished was, the Teutogen chief
And for Sigmar was his hall
Lord of all tribes, leader of Men.
The chiefs came to Sigmar, to his hold
Let us fight Goblins, let Orcs be fought!
Sigmar, hammer-bearer lead us in war
And the tribes when forth
With iron of the Dwarfs, to do battle
With Goblins and Orcs
On the plain of battles, beside the mighty Stir
Met they the Goblin horde, eager for slaughter
And the number of Goblins
Was beyond counting
And the number of Orcs, was as the trees in the forest
And the number of Trolls
was more than boulders upon the mountains
And the number of men, was but a few
And the gods gave the victory to the men
To the Worlds Edge, the Goblins fled
But the greater number of them, were dead
Dwarfs came, from King Kurgan
High King of Dwarfs, whose hall
Is in Karak, A noble messenger
Alaric the Runesmith
From the far Black Mountains
Who braved the Blackfire Pass
Where Goblins unnumbered
And Hobgoblins uncounted
And Black Orcs eager for slaughter
Besieged the Dwarf holds
Sigmar, hammer-holder
Shall come, and fight beside his friend
Goblins shall not stand between us
Dwarfs and men
In Blackfire Pass, men fought the foe
Cut a swathe through the horde
Met Dwarfs and embraced them
Brothers in battle
Sigmar Helden Hammer and Kurgan the King
The Hammer of The Goblins
And the Anvil of the Dwarfs
Then all chiefs made an oath
To stand together, united as men
And a crown was fashioned
By Alaric, runesmith of the Dwarfs
Placed by Ulric, the priest
Upon noble Sigmar's brow
Henceforth let all men
unite and appoint the greatest
among them to wield the hammer
Then did Sigmar cause to be built
the greatest of halls beside the Reik
The high hall of kings
Long did noble Sigmar reign
Among his people and Orcs
Dare not trespass into his realm
To each chief and each tribe
Did Sigmar, the wise, appoint his lands
And did he appoint Alaric the Dwarf
To forge, with all his skill
Twelve swords, one for each chief
And holy Sigmar bade each to wield it
In justice for his people
And to pledge to fight for one another
In undying unity
Thus did every chief's hall
Become a stronghold in the realm of men
Then did noble Sigmar set aside his crown
My beard is long, and peace reigns in the land
The gods call me to attend their mighty hall
It is time to appoint the greatest among you
My chiefs, to reign after me
And this hammer which I hold
I shall return to the place of its forging
To the safe keeping of the Dwarfs
Unto King Kurgan's hall, that he may
In time of trouble, give it to he that is worthy
Now I take this road alone
To Karaz of the Dwarfs
And thus did holy Sigmar, mighty warrior
Greatest of men, wise ruler
Pass into legend, not to be seen
Until the time when he returns
Hammer held in hand
To bring victory to mankind
By the sign of the the two-tailed sky dragon
__________________
"My god knows nothing of mercy...He does not forgive. He cares nothing for redemption. He simply hungers, and I live to see him fed."
-The Grand Carnifex of Har Ganeth (speaking of Khaela Mensha Khaine)
"Kill-Kill!" - Warlord Queek
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Karma: 0 | | Re: Sayu's Compendium
« Reply #2 on Aug 9, 2008, 10:54pm » | |
From DaBoyz
alrite then i got this for yea,The Wars Of the Vampire Counts.
In the eastern reaches of Stirland, under the cold shadow of the Worlds Edge Mountains, lies Sylvania, the most ill-famed region in the Empire. This land of bleak hills, blasted moorlands and mist-shrouded forests is shunned by all sensible travellers. No sane man would venture forth after dark and no questing knight or weary pilgrim ever accepts shelter within the brooding, rotting castles that tower over the land. By night, the brutish peasants of the squalid villages lock and bar their doors, and hang bundles of witchbane and daemonsroot over their shuttered windows, in the vain hope that these protective herbs will ward against those who haunt the night.
For as long as any man can remember, evil tales have been told of Sylvania. The odds are good that if ever a tavern bard is reciting a grisly ballad, or a court poet inscribing a story of horror, then the setting will be this dire place. There are more dark legends concerning Sylvania than of all the other Imperial provinces put together, and most of these tales contain a solid kernel of truth. This is indeed a land where unquiet spirits, thirsty Vampires and evil sorcerers still walk beneath the moons' pale light. Only the bravest or the most foolhardy would wander there and then only with the most compelling of purposes.
Dark Magic blows strong in Sylvania, and the keeps of the nobility are all built over particularly ill-omened and evilly-aspected sites. Even the notoriously brutal and fearless tax collectors of the Elector of Stirland wear amulets blessed by Priests of Morr and Sigmar, and go about in companies fifty-strong when their lord compels them to seek his due there.
The Madness of Otto von Drak
The nadir of this dark land came when Vlad von Carstein took the rulership of Sylvania. It began on a storm-lashed night when Otto, last of the mad von Drak Counts, lay on his death bed in Castle Drakenhof, cursing the gods that he was without male heir. Otto was an evil man, given to putting the heads of peasants on spikes at the slightest provocation, and when mad with drink he was convinced he was Sigmar reincarnated. The nobles who should have been his liegemen had no respect for his authority, and paid no attention to his commands. Sylvania seethed with strife.
As his family awaited his final breath, Otto swore he would marry his daughter Isabella to a daemon rather than let his hated brother Leopold inherit. Otto had already refused his daughter's hand to every noble in Sylvania for he despised them all. No man of breeding from beyond the borders of von Drak's realm wanted to marry an heiress from the ill-regarded region.
The thunder rumbled and lightning split the storm black darkness. Victor Guttman, the aged priest of Sigmar who had been called to shrive the old Count fainted dead away. Then, from out of the storm can the sound of wheels and pounding hooves. A dark coach pulled by four mighty black steeds drew up outside the keep and a heavy hand smote the door a ringing blow, and a proud voice demanded entry.
The Arrival of Vlad
The castle gate swung open on its hinges before any man-at-arms could touch it and the visitor was revealed. The clogs ceased to howl and slunk away. The stranger was tall, darkly handsome, of noble bearing and aspect. No-one stayed his entry and he marched directly to Count's chamber. The newcomer's accent was foreign perhaps from Kislev. He named himself as Vlad von Carstein and recited his noble antecedents to the Count. He then claimed Isabella's hand. Looking in the stranger's coldly glowing eyes the Count perhaps regretted his rash oath but agreed nonetheless.
The priest was revived from his swoon, and brought to the chambers of Otto, where the marriage ceremony was performed before the dying count's bed. Then von Drak expired, leaving his daughter in the charge of Vlad von Carstein. The new Count's first act was to heave the protesting Leopold through the window of the highest tower of Castle Drakenhof.
Vlad seemed as eccentric as old Otto. He never ate in the servants' presence. He never walked abroad by day. He dismissed the priest and sent him from the town No-one ever saw Victor Guttman again. Soon, many of the old servants at the keep were dismissed and mysterious, swarthy strangers took their place. However, the new Count seemed less oppressive than the old one and so the folk got on with their daily business, ignoring the hooded and cloaked foreigners that often visited the castle. Years of von Drak rule had taught them not to question the deeds of their betters. All that concerned the lower classes was that at least the new Count didn't order senseless executions or demand the exorbitant taxes that the old one had.
No-one doubted the Count's prowess in battle either. When the company of Bernhoff the Butcher rode in town and demanded tribute, the Count cut the mercenary down as if he were a stripling, although Bernhoff was a famed warrior. Vlad then proceeded to slaughter the entire mercenary band while his bodyguard watched, taking no part in the bloodbath. The Count's popularity was assured. Within his real the laws were kept, the guilty were punished, and bandits were kept down.
The Healing of Isabella
Word reached Drakenhof that Isabella had fallen sick with an incurable illness, and was slowly wasting away. One of the physicians who tended her claimed her heart had stopped and that she had died. The new Count said this was not so. He dismissed the learned doctors, claiming he would care for her with his own hands. Three days later she appeared in front of her folk, saying she was fully recovered and it appeared to be so, although she was ever afterwards pale and wan and never left her chambers save by moonlight.
At first none of the feuding nobles of Sylvania paid any heed to the commands of the new Count; they were too wrapped up in their own bloody quarrels and rivalries to listen to the edicts of one they saw as a usurper. If this bothered Vlad von Carstein he gave no sign of it. A farmer who had newly inherited a herd of cattle could not have paid more attention to the running of his lands. Vlad calmly proceeded to rebuild estates that had suffered from centuries of neglect. The Count cherished his tenants as a peasant family cherishes a beast they are fattening for the Midsummer feast. After decades of rule by mad Otto this was all welcomed. After several months, however, dark things began to happen.
Young girls and lads from the villages began to disappear. The Undead gathered in growing numbers. These were small forces at first, and they did not attack any of the Count's possessions but harried those whodisobeyed his authority. If the rebellious Sylvanians escaped the attentions of the unliving, then the dissidents quickly fell victim to strange accidents. Only those who had sworn allegiance to Vlad von Carstein seemed immune to these depredations. Soon, the renegade nobles were queuing to swear fealty to him. Within ten years, Vlad was more firmly in control of unruly Sylvania than many Electors were of their states.
Generations of peasants were born and died and still Vlad and Isabella ruled, unchanged by the years. At first few paid attention to their longevity. The lives of peasants had always been brutish and short, and nobles had always enjoyed vastly longer lifespans. However, when the oldest woman of Drakenhof claimed that her grandmother had been a girl when von Carstein came to the throne, even the most dim-witted peasantry of Sylvania began to surmise that all was not as it seemed.
The spreading rumours drew witch hunters to Sylvania. Those who chose to investigate von Carstein were never seen again. Worse was to come. The disease that had first laid low Isabella von Carstein struck other noble families allied with the Count. Soon every castle in Sylvania was home to long-lived, nocturnal folk. The number of the living who went missing became increasingly noticeable. The temples to Sigmar, Taal and Ulric were closed. The Priests of Morr were driven from the region and the dead were left untended. Grim watch posts -were set up along the border and few were allowed to cross - either into or out of Sylvania.
When catastrophe struck the Ostermark capital of Mordheim in the year 2010, Vlad was swift to act. A great meteor of warpstone had destroyed half the city and shards of raw magic littered the ruins. As the claimants to the Imperial throne despatched mercenaries to scavenge this new source of power, so too did Vlad send dark minions to bring him back this magical treasure.
Vlad Marches Forth
On Geheimnisnacht in the year 2010, Vlad von Carstein revealed the nightmarish truth to the world. The Count of Sylvania stood upon the battlements of Castle Drakenhof and intoned a terrible incantation from the pages of the Nine Books of Nagash. Fuelled by the warpstone of Mordheim, Vlad's magic seeped over Sylvania, coiling through the unguarded Gardens of Morr, pooling in the open peasant graves. Across Vlad's lands the dead awoke. Skeletons clawed their way through the dusty soil; Zombies stirred in their muddy holes; Ghouls loped from their crypt lairs to worship their new master. With this act, von Carstein threw down the gauntlet to the Empire. The Wars of the Vampire Counts had begun.
The Sylvanian armies headed northwest, crossing the Stir and driving for Talabheim, capital of the Ottilia, one of the three claimants for the Imperial throne. The Undead force was huge. The Vampire aristocracy of Sylvania led hordes of Skeletons and Zombies. The peasant levies marched alongside their Undead masters, fighting as they would for any mortal overlord These degenerates were accompanied by Crypt Ghoul and Wights and other, much darker, things.
At the Battle of Essen Ford, the Undead faced the Ottillia of Talabecland's armies. Before the battle, Vlad von Carstein promised the humans clemency if they surrendered, and no mercy if they opposed him. Though fearful, the Ottilia's general ordered the attack. Crossbows and bullets cut a swathe through the legions of Zombies and Skeletons as they crossed the ford, but Vlad's magic reanimated the fallen creatures and spurred them forward. Knightly charges destroyed hundreds of the Undead but still thousands more pressed onwards.
Vengeful spirits swept through the Talabecland lines, shrieking and killing, while the never-ending army of Zombies dragged down soldier after soldier. Embattle against a seemingly endless horde of the dead, the Ottilia's forces were encircled. Vlad led the final attack himself at the head of his Black Knights, while Wights of the Drakenhof Guard surrounded the enemy general's bodyguard.
Faced with the power of Vlad and his fellow Vampires, the forces of the Ottilia were overwhelmed and routed many surrendered, but Vlad was as good as his word. His followers butchered every captive, and then Vlad used his powers to re-animate their bodies and add them to his growing legion.
As he watched his men executed, the Ottilia's general, Schliffen, became so incensed that he flew into a berserk rage. Schliffen broke free from the grasp of his captors. seized the Vampire Count's own enchanted J and struck off Vlad's head. For his pains Schliffen immediately torn limb from limb by Konrad von Carstein, the most deranged of the Count's followers.
With Vlad seemingly destroyed, the remaining Vampires squabbled among themselves to see who would take von Carstein's place. Herman Posner, Baron of Waldenhof, finally prevailed on the others. That very night, as Posner strutted at the head of the army, von Carstein returned. Posner claimed it was a trick and Vlad cut him down without a moment's thought.
This was not the only time the elusive Vampire Count had come back from seeming destruction. With the army of Talabecland smashed, Vlad turned his attention further westward, towards the fortress-city of Middenheim. At the Battle of Schwarthafen, Vlad was cut down by Jerek Kruger, leader of the Knights of the White Wolf, and the army of Sylvania was defeated by the forces of the Elector of Middenheim. Yet within a year Vlad von Carstein was leading another army and Kruger’s smashed and bloodless body was found at the foot of the Middenheim spire. The Knights of the White Wolf and Knights Panther were scattered by Vlad’s Undead creatures and the soldiers of Middenheim retreated to the city and destroyed the causeway leading up to the gates.
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Karma: 0 | | Re: Sayu's Compendium
« Reply #3 on Aug 9, 2008, 10:54pm » | |
Again from DaBoyz
Content that the Graf of Middenheim's army posed no threat to his ambition, Vlad ravaged Middenland to further swell his forces. At every village and town he came across, Vlad offered the same bargain - serve him and live, oppose him and die. At first many tried to fight the Undead, but all suffered the same fate as the Ottilia’s army had done and Vlad's Undead legion grew larger and stronger. Soon miles-long columns of refugees fled westward, fearful of the relentless onslaught of Vlad's Undead army.
Vlad then turned east and fought along the Old Forest through Hochland into Ostland. Army after army was sent to check his advance but the result of every battle was the same - the undying legions slew their enemies in a battle of attrition the living could not hope to win, while Vlad and his Vampires slaughtered hundreds and fed on their blood. Nothing seemed to stop Vlad, every time it appeared he had been slain he returned to wreak his revenge. At Bluthof, the Vampire Count fell with five lances through his body and the Count of Ostland's Runefang blade lodged in his heart. Three days later Vlad was seen ordering the crucifixion of prisoners outside the gates of Bluthof.
With the northern provinces overrun and their armies smashed, Vlad turned south and made for Reikland. At Bogenhafen Bridge, a lucky cannon shot took von Carstein's head clean off. Within the hour the cannon crew were drained of blood and the army overrun, soldiers of the Empire were gripped with terror in the face of their invincible foe.
Altdorf Besieged
By the winter of 2051 the Sylvania’s laid siege to Altdorf, capital of Reikland. The city was surrounded by a ditch edged with sharpened stakes and the Reik had been redirected into the ditch to give the city a moat of fast-flowing water. None of the precautions taken by the defenders worked. They did not stop the Sylvanians for a moment. Great siege engines built of fused human remains lumbered forward, animated by Dark Magic, while carrion birds circled greedily overhead. Vlad gave his usual ultimatum - open the gates and serve him in life, or fight on and serve him in death. Ludwig, the Reikland's claimant to the Imperial throne, wanted to surrender but the Grand Theogonist Wilhelm III convinced him not to. Wilhelm cloistered himself within the Great Temple of Sigmar and after three days of prayer emerged claiming that Sigmar had revealed the salvation of the Empire to him. He knew the source of von Carstein's immortality.
That day Wilhelm dispatched an agent to the Vampire Count's camp. His name was Felix Mann, and he was the greatest thief of the age. He had been offered a pardon and laid under a geas by the Grand Theogonist. His task was to steal the Vampire Count's ring. By stealth and trickery Mann made his way to the heart of the Sylvanian camp. Heart in mouth he entered the great black silk pavilion where the Undead aristocrats lay sleeping in their open coffins. Such was their confidence that no-one stood guard. Mann slipped the ring from von Carstein's finger and fled, not returning to Altdorf. No-one knows what became of him and the Carstein Ring.
When he woke Vlad was enraged and ordered an immediate attack on the city. The Undead army surged forward under the burning will of the Vampire Count. Great siege towers of bone wheeled to the walls. On the towering battlements Skeletons and swordsmen hacked at each other. Imperial heroes armed with formidable magical weapons taken from the vaults of the city cut down the Vampire aristocrats and were themselves chopped apart.
At the centre of this vast struggle engulfing the city, the Grand Theogonist clashed with the Vampire Count. After an hour of combat, holy hammer against magical blade, Vlad gained the upper hand. Sensing that die end was near, Wilhelm charged his foe headlong and flung himself and Vlad over the battlements. The two fell locked together in an embrace of death. First Vlad was impaled on a wooden spike at the wall's foot and then Wilhelm landed on top, driving the Count still further on. With an awful scream the Count expired, for without the power of his magical ring, Vlad at last proved vulnerable.
With Count Vlad destroyed, the Sylvanians were forced to lift the siege and retreat. Over half the Vampires were dead, but so great were the casualties inflicted on the men of Altdorf that no pursuit was possible. The last casualty of the Battle of Altdorf was Isabella von Carstein. Unable to face eternity without her husband she impaled herself on a stake and shrivelled to a pile, of dust before the eyes of would-be Emperor Ludwig and his bodyguard. Ludwig would have pressed into Sylvania and ended the evil scourge but the other claimants to the imperial throne joined forces against him fearing that Ludwig would use his new popularity to secure his clam to the throne. So the pernicious .lords of Sylvania were able to regather their strength.
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