Wednesday, 13 May 2009

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.

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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, Ush┼Źda, 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.

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