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skaven vs brets; long, grab some milk & cookies :)
Topic Started: 26th July 2004 - 08:31 AM (321 Views)
phordicus
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Battlemaster of Clan Skrikkik

The farmstead had been abandoned when Xerxes and his army had found it. He was three days' march from his grey seer Ishivithrax's debacle at the Bretonnian grail shrine, but he hoped it had given Priest Grulskruk the distraction necessary to avoid the main Bretonnian army and rejoin him before assaulting Hergig.

His two regiments of clan warriors seemed anxious, occassionally throwing a rock at their accompanying slaves to ease their unrest. Even the weapon team crews lacked their typical bravado as they trudged alongside. Only his personal guard of stormvermin seemed to maintain their composure even as the distant thundering of hooves became louder. Xerxes had dismissed the warlock twins, Twik and Twak, and instead was hoping the jezzails would fare better than the engineers. Twik needed time to recover from his "accident" at the shrine where, after Ishivithrax skitterlept him mere yards away from Damsel Argentlowen, he proceeded to electrocute himself into unconsciousness.

Xerxes climbed the small hill with the jezzails and a swarm of vermin, observing as the gilded and glittering knights rode through the fields, the dirt and dust kicked up behind them giving a hazy shroud to the setting sun. Spying the cumbersome trebuchet being set up on the hillock next to the farmhouse, he grinned as the Bretonnians were unaware of the tunneling surely going on mere feet below them. His grin gave way to a frown as he realized the weight of the thing might collapse the tunnel itself.

Ordering his clanrats and slaves to flank both sides of his hill, he set the stormvermin just behind it, not wanting his prize warriors to be pin cushions for the haggard-looking bowmen lining up in front of the trebuchet. His curiosity was aroused by the other bowmen being sent out wide to the west until they were hidden behind the farmhouse and a grove of fruit trees. "They must be watching for Grulskruk and his troops," thought Xerxes. "Good, then despite that idiot Ishi's incompetence I do know at least the distraction worked and my army will be complete for this battle, assuming Grul doesn't get lost."

To either side of their hill, the Bretonnians matched Xerxes' deployment with realm knights and peasants with spears on that hill's sides. On their east flank, Xerxes noted a smaller unit of knights, their armor significantly more ornate and their faces more worn through weather and scars, and on their lips they bore the grim countenance of unflappable confidence and prowess.

"The fabled knights of the grail have come to pay homage to me!" Xerxes boasts to his soldiers, serving to bolster their resolve and taunt the woman commander across the field. "Let us spill some of their blood and perhaps we shall be the ones drinking from that tin cup!"

With that, Xerxes barks out the commands to his unit champions and walks down the back of the hill to rejoin his stormvermin, who are already circling around the east side of the hill, following the clanrats and slaves who advance just enough to tease the knights staring them down. The other clanrats and slaves also advance cautiously. Xerxes looks up and signals the jezzails to begin their barrage as the Bretonnian army mounts up after their sniveling prayers. They are still too far for much accuracy and only one of the horses is killed, but at least the rider broke his legs.

There is some shuffling of troops on the far east as the spearmen boldly move out, giving room for the grail knights to angle outward, preparing for a sweep to the outside. "Surely they are too far away to consider charging now," Xerxes ponders. The whir of pulleys and the snapping of rope causes Xerxes to look skyward, watching as the trebuchet's missile lauches up into the darkening sky, heading directly for the top of his hill and the jezzails nervously crouching there.

Before it has even landed, the treb crew are cheering as the shot is obviously dead on, but their cheers turn to moans of consternation as the rock explodes into harmless dust amidst the jezzail teams, who promptly return the jeers with more warpstone into the knights again, this time felling three as green sparks burst out from the shattered armor.

Xerxes turns to the stormvermin champion and says, "Remind me to reward Scatha and Twak. The liquid compound seems to have done what it was supposed to." His problem-solver, Scatha, had dispatched one of Gwencalon's paladins days earlier, and his infiltration into the Bretonnian supply line had been successful, dousing the trebuchet's ammuniton wagon in some concoction or other Warlock Twak had inadvertantly discovered after it had caused a cave in at one of their camps.

Once more the trebuchet hurls its massive payload with the same remarkable accuracy, and once more it lands impotently amid the jezzails, sending up a cloud of dust. Still in shock from this inexplicable sabotage, the treb team fails to notice the ground nearby fairly bubbling with activity, as daggers and swords protrude from the earth, finally giving way to a whirlwind of turf, cloaks, and blades as the gutter runners leap out from below, snarling viciously as they rampage into the bewildered crew, who are mercilessly slaughtered as they try to run away. The commoner bowmen hear the death shrieks of their friends and cousins and lose heart, fleeing in the opposite direction of the menacing gutter runners.

"Forward, knights of Arbonne!" Gwencalon gives the signal for the charge and the Bretonnian battle line surges forward as spurs dig deep into the flanks of their horses. Whether it was the lengthening shadows upon the fields, or the blankets of dust wafting in the air, or perhaps just bloodlust towards her fell nemesis, Gwencalon had misjudged and their charge faltered as the distance to the enemy seemed to increase. Despite this, both groups of slaves promptly spewed the musk of fear into the air and scrambled backwards, leaving their clanrat units exposed.

The grail knights were kindled into a rage, now joined by a paladin who urged them to pounce upon a distant clanrat unit. As they begin their movement, the warpfire thrower turns to fire upon the spearmen mere yards away. With an excited squeak, the gunner aims his barrel and squeezes the trigger. Nothing. He tries again. Nothing. He looks back at his barrelman questioningy and exclaims "More! Open the valve more!" Hurriedly, the barrelman twists the valve nozzle all the way open, nodding at the gunner mere seconds later. This time something happens. The warpstone fuel bursts from the seams of the barrel, the valve having been completely closed instead of open. A tremendous green fireball instantly snuffs the life from the crew and toasting two nearby clanrats. Xerxes sees this and shakes his head.

On the west side, the ratling gun has substantially more success as a hail of warpstone shards flies full into the knights bearing down on them, creating such a deafening pall of metallic screeching that even the skaven are forced to cover their ears. After the din has dissipated, even the knights themselves are surprised to see that no one, not one of their number has fallen to the infernal machinery. Instant prayers of thanks to the Lady are spoken by the knights.

In the ensuing relative silence, a sound is heard. Grating words being spoken, harsh tones of discordant chanting flowing eastward on the wind. Through the pall of smoke and dirt, Xerxes sees the tattered cloaks and robes of Grulskruk leading his monks onto the field just beyond the farmhouse, accompanied by the psychopathic censer bearers as the fumes leaking from their weapons rot the fruit from the trees at their passing and scores of tiny insects and animals perish where they stand.

With unrestrained fury Xerxes bellows the command to attack, rushing headlong into the spearmen as clanrats nail them in the side seemingly unworried by the grail knights now circling towards them. The jezzails sing their song of clashing metal and burning flesh again, downing two more knights before the knights are swamped by a swarm in their flank and clanrats to their front. One unit of monks rushes the lonely bowmen who flee just out of reach as Grulskruk and his monks run past the grove, nearing the other spearmen. The gutter runners now notice a lone paladin, a huge two-handed sword cocked behind his head, gunning for them. They deftly step aside and allow the knight to pass by, cursing as he tries to reign in his steed.

On the east, Xerxes and his stormvermin as well as the clanrats turn the ground soggy with blood as the spearmen are quickly butchered into fertilizer. As they throw down their weapons and attempt to run away, both attacking regiments chase them down and send their souls to hell, leaving the tracking grail knights further behind.

On the west, after minutes of inconclusive sparring with Gwencalon's knights, Arc'hantel's knights stampede into the clanrats who swallow their pride and run away, but their feet are as slow as their hearts are stout and are hacked to pieces as they fled up the hill towards the jezzails. The jezzail teams consider this to be a good time to leave, but reconsider as they now have a target barely ten yards away.

Grulskruk's monks and censer bearers tear into the remaining spearmen, shredding their flesh in a flurry of disease-encrusted blades. The spearmen abruptly give up the fight and sprint back towards the abandoned trebuchet, exposing Gwencalon's other flank to the spittle-dripping monks and Grulskruk as she struggles to extricate her knights from the diminishing swarm of rats. Without warning, Xerxes and his stormvermin smash into her flank just as the swarm is dispatched. Xerxes himself lops the head of one knight with a leap and swish of his sword, then leaps from the back of the riderless horse into another knight, dragging him to the ground as fangs and claws find soft flesh between the thick plates of steel. His stormvermin are following his example, cutting the legs of the horses from under the knights here, pinning a knight to the ground with a halberd through the abdomen there.

The grail knights finally swing around just in time to see the lone paladin behind the hill get rushed by the gutter runners, their daggers and wrist-claws dripping with toxin. Their weapons find home but the brave knight steels himself and cuts a swath through the air, beheading one of his assailants. Raising his sword to strike again, he brings it down in a death arc through the defensive stance of a gutter runner and cleanly cleaves through its skull. But fortune gives and fortune takes, as the great sword becomes hopelessly embedded in the dead skaven's spine. He tries to reach for his broad sword on his saddle, but the remaining gutter runners seize upon his momentary defenselessness and hook their wrist-claws into his tabard and armor, yanking him from his perch and then setting upon him with vengeful violence.

Gwencalon realizes this day is lost and yells for the retreat, riding back towards the fields she so recently crossed with optimism. But her way was not clear. As she rides she sees one pack of monks running to cut off her escape. Grulskruk and his monks are nearly upon her side. And a blood-covered Xerxes is madly chasing after her, the runes of his sword Warpfang now glowing bright green.

Knowing she will not escape without a miracle, the frustrated grail knights decide to provide one. Screaming at the fleeing spearmen to hold their ground for the sake of all that is holy, their words have effect as the spearmen muster up their courage and prepare to give their lives for their lady.

As she crosses through the field, Gwencalon looks back through tear-clouded eyes as she watches her faithful soldiers fight to the last, and as the last glint of armor and spearpoint is overwhelmed by the verminous horde, a knot forms in her throat. She reigns in her mount and turns around, watching as the maelstrom of fur and claw subsides into celebretory chittering and squeaking, grating on her heart more than her ears.

One skaven, his amethyst-colored armor now complete obscured by Bretonnian blood, climbs atop the pile of the slain and gives a soul-rending screech that echoes to the heavens, chilling Gwencalon's body to her bones. Xerxes ceases his yell, then slowly lowers his eyes until, across the gore-covered field, he and Gwencalon lock eyes. In her heart, she swears she will see those eyes dimmed one day, and turns her horse back around and rides off into the deepening gloom.
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Skaveni primi, skaveni infiniti.
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if you meet a master swordsman, show him your sword; but do not show your poem to one who is not a poet.

- japanese proverb
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Verminous Fang
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Very cool! And congrats on the win. :D
Go forth my brethren, that we shall nibble at the roots of the old world!

We are the rats in the shadows. We hold the blades of corruption, aimed at the very heart of the Old World. We are The Council of Thirteen.

Second place in the UnderEmpire painting competition!

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warlord_rattick
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Warlord
Nice! Well done on your win!
SoC- Win/Draw/Lose 7/1/1
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iigubiigu
Clanrat
Well Done!
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Ponge
Inferno Lord Of The South
Very nice , both battle report and victory
Stick 'em wiv arrers. Stick 'em wiv knives, and spears. Stick 'em where it 'urts. But most of all, stick 'em when they's looking the other way
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