3.1 The Battles of Acheron

The Battles of The Siege of Acheron

- The Gulblood Culling
- The Gates of Acheron
- The Ambush of Morrentis Ravenborn
- An Explosive Gift
- Ambush in the Mountains
- To Wield Hunger Itself
- Let The Spirits In
- The Hunt
- Chaos Ascendant
- The Final hours of Acheron
- The Calling

---

The Gulblood Culling

The Mourngul hoards had gathered over the previous nights and swept from all across the Lost Archipelago towards Acheron. It was unclear what had caused this, or why, but the horde was ravenous. The screams of those caught unawares as they descended across the landscape echoed continuously from dusk until dawn. Acheron’s wards glowed, preventing the Mournguls from snuffing the life from the fortress in one horde, but it wasn’t enough to keep them out entirely. In places, the wards would be overwhelmed, a massive peal of explosive arcane energy rolling across the landscape and echoing from mountain to mountain. The troops within put up fanes around the edges of the castle, intended to be a means to quickly summon reinforcements anywhere the Mournguls would attack.

Nomura's court, as they traveled, came across ever more frequent Mourngul attacks. The whispers every night grew louder, and it became clear that something was happening. After two moons, the court turned back to Acheron. They, in turn, realized that they would need to begin setting up a camp each evening. As the region grew thick with Mournguls, the camps defenses grew ever more thorough. As was fitting for a hedonite court, they also grew more elaborate and decadent. The court focused on carvings, and the walls of the temporary keeps were often fully decorated by the time dawn’s first rays came over the temporary battlements.

By the time the court made it to Acheron, the skies above the keep were permanently shadowed. The Mournguls roamed the region all day, and thus was forced the Gulblood Culling. In the battle, Nomura lead the tip of the spear, running forward as her court followed swiftly behind. While the mourngul couldn’t harm Nomura herself, many of her underlings were torn apart. Only when a second, and then third greater daemon were summoned were the court able to make progress.

The battle nearly turned at the coming of dusk, when the Mourngul attacked with greater savagery and numbers. As the lesser daemonettes threw themselves at the oncoming hordes, the remaining nobles of the court escaped to Acheron.

---

The Gates of Acheron

Why were they here? This was not their fight, those foolish Slaaneshi had stirred up the Mourgul nests and now should suffer for it. Yet the orders from Crackedmorrow were clear, “help Nomura at Acheron no matter the cost”. Why that traitorous shade lord thought courting the other chaos lords was a good idea, Fluxweaver would never know. The Screamers thrashed and dove through the clouds above, they were hungry and Fluxweaver always cared for his pets.

The Tzeentchian looked over at a Slaaneshi commander further down the wall, armored in reflective silver armor. The pristine appearance masked the darkness that emanated from the man’s soul. If the Slaaneshi warlord noticed his reluctant allies, he gave no sign, instead he focused on polishing his sword to a blinding sheen. Annoyed, Fluxweaver had an idea. He would force the Slaaneshi to see the greatness of the Kingdom of Infernal Darkness by attacking the besiegers head-on, the fools loved a good show.

The Brimstone Horrors seemed to be enjoying themselves, hopping, skipping, dancing, they even accidentally set one of Nomura’s banners aflame. Eager to show these mortals true daemonic power, Fluxweaver assembled his army at the gates. In an instant his Screamers were amongst the enemy, summoned from the clouds they tore into the Mournguls - carrying one away before dropping it, a sickening thud was heard before they swooped in to feast. Pandemonium erupted as one Mourngul threw off its visual disguise and the Treason of Tzeentch was unleashed. Another Mourngul turned into a gibbering spawn, attacking its former comrades.

It was a good start for Fluxweaver, however, as the battle progressed the fickle nature of Tzeentch turned against his followers. Spells failed, the enemy made impossible charges, and wizards were forced into battle they would rather avoid. The retreat was embarrassing but not as bad as the barrage of jests the Slaaneshi sent Fluxweaver’s way. The commander he had tried to impress, blocked the Tzeentchian’s path, sniggered, and went back to grooming himself. This was going to be a long siege, and longer eternity if Fluxweaver was going to be forced to ally with this lot...

---

The Ambush of Morrentis Ravenborn

The Corvidux Rangers continued to track the Mourngul threat, staying hidden in magmic tunnels or the ethersea. The packs of undead monsters seemed to be converging on the Aqshy continent and Runesmitter Captain AngfiI Oathfist felt sorry for whoever they were hunting, that was until he saw the fort of Acheron. Disgusting was to put it lightly for the hedonistic decorations and symbols carved into the walls made any who looked upon it uneasily. In fact, he now was glad the horrid Mournguls were headed this way, for this was a foe that deserved nothing but death.

Oathfist felt it in the ground first, the rumble of an army on the move, and fast. Lowering himself back into the tunnels, the cacophony of horns and shrill laughter revealed that a Slaaneshi host was headed this way. The Fyreslayers readied their weapons and prayed the Idoneth wouldn’t spoil the ambush too early. The crunch of hooves overhead echoed through the hidden passages and the enemy was close enough now that their effeminate voices could be heard. Oathfist gave the sign, and all hell broke loose.

The Hearthguard fired their molten rockbolts into the Keeper of Secrets, causing it to let out an ear piercing wail. Next the Idoneth struck, hacking away at the Chaos Warriors with blades, while the Fangmora Eels carried their victims away. Seemingly intrigued at the new threat, the Slaaneshi Varanguard charged, sending the surviving Namarti fleeing back to their hidden paths. The Hellstriders attempted to do the same as the heavy cavalry but the stout Fyreslayers held the line. Their next shots ready, the Hearthguard fired at a Chaos Lord on Manticore, sending the feral beast crunching to the ground.

As the Varanguard readied for their next charges, Runesmitter Oathfist called the retreat. The Corvidux Rangers had done their part, hopefully slowing down these Slaaneshi enough that they would not reach Acheron in time for the battle with the Mournguls.

---

An Explosive Gift

"To whom it may concern, The Abyssal Fleet of the venerable Captain Aldernon Numan, scourge of the Dwindlesea, raider of a thousand coffins and master of a hundred ships, is willing to provide aide to Acheron, in returne for the moderate fee of 2 Realm Stone per strike force sent. Contact us at thy leisure. Skellan mac Bonnar, quartermaster to the Abyssal Fleet"

Nomura read the Fleet’s letter, a curious smile upon her lips. She cocked an eyebrow, took a look outside at the unfolding battle, and thought for a moment. “Hmmm”, she pondered. Then she eyed her scribed and motioned with her head. The scribe happily grabbed a quill and slit open a vein.

"My dearest quartermaster Skellan mac Bonnar, I hope this letter finds thee well. We ourselves are having quite the soiree, and it has demanded much of our attention. Our most unruly guests have proven quite disruptive, and all of our realmstone is needed to pay for the damages to our domiciles, and upgrade them to help keep out the riff raff. While we are unable to pay thee, as such, we would offer our word that any aid you offer us now, in your own time of leisure, will gladly be paid back should you ever require aid thyself. With best wishes and great fondness, Nomura of the Haethen Court"

Away from the frontline of the carnage, a slow mist rose from the Scalding Sea and The Caldera Wound. An unnatural, lazy mist, very much at odds with the fiery storms and quick-onset squalls of the region. And almost completely unnoticed by the garrison at Acheron, busy as they were putting down the gheists and monstrous apparitions that have besieged their city. But not all. Draachius Kindletouch and his scouts could see the Mournguls from their secret watchtower on the Major False Cry mountains. Their scrying team relayed any circling gheists and stalking revenants trying to skulk unseen to the command post at Acheron, and so far had managed to contain these flanking attacks by enlisting the help of a few would-be allies… if only of convenience.

“Either a trick it is, they pull on we today… or verily, someone desiring of entreating themselves with us comes bearing aid. We wait. What does the mist carry, wonder I?”

The mist, indeed and verily, carried something. It never approached more than 2 miles of Acheron, and then receded after less than one hour. Leaving a pile of crates and barrels behind.

“To the esteemed Nomura of the Haethen Court, The venerable Captain Aldernon Numan has seen it wise to bestow thee with a gift of our making. A favour, to one who could stand to rule over the continent of Fire… to be paid accordingly in due time. We leave thee with some of our finest Grave-Powder. It hath been especially enchanted to ensnare the spectral form, so it might prove effective against your current predicament. Our fleet hopes thy engines of war, and thy sappers and ambushers may find a suitable use for it. Forget not, we will be expecting compensation for our… friendship. Skellan mac Bonnar, quartermaster to the Abyssal Fleet"

---

Ambush in the Mountains

On the steep slopes of the False Cry Mountains Galdorn Beastbane and his Rangers picked out a path. The land was harsh and rugged, and marked by no path. It was tough going, but they had been through worse - the Rangers of The Gryndrn Lodge were used to lands such as these, they lived their lives away from civilisation and were denizens of the wilds. And now, the peaks of this range were long behind them and they were reaching the end of their journey. Before them lay the Western Scorched Plains of Aqshy, a vast, dead land. Yet its surface was crawling with unlife. The mournful howls and wailing screams of huge Mournguls and their Nighthaunt legions boomed thunderouslyas they clashed with slaaneshi daemons and the myriad other forces come to do battle At the center of the plains, and where the spirits swirled closest stood the settlement of Acheron, besieged but not overrun.

Galdorn hated the thought of aiding these daemons and their cursed city, but he knew this great host, gathered by the Mournkinghimself, was the true threat, and would scour the Lost Archipelago of life if they let it. There was no choice.

Now that they were nearing the foot of the mountain they were on, Galdorn could clearly see the Nighthaunt swirling below him. As he watched, a group broke off from one of the processions and flew low over the roots of the mountain to where a warband of hardy men, warriors of the Sundered Clans, emerged onto the plains, their obsidian weapons shining.

He spoke hurriedly, to his Rangers - they were far enough away to have no need of hand signals, but still, force of habit kept his voice low “There’s our first target” he said, gesturing to the Nighthaunt “Fire arrows, one volley, on my signal.” The Duardin acknowledged him with a muted chorus of “Ayes” and silently thirty bows were drawn and thirty arrows nocked. Then, as a lighted match was passed around, the grey cloaked figures were lit by the red glow. His cowled head raised above the cover of the rocks he tracked the ghosts, then stood, suddenly and smoothly raising from cover and releasing the flaming arrow. His actions were mirrored by his Rangers and a volley of arrows poured into the Nighthaunt, and they devolved into chaos a swirling mass of burning screaming ghosts.

“Again” He hissed, and another volley poured into the ghosts, leaving none behind. This skirmish was won, but the battle was far from over.

---

To Wield Hunger Itself

After their victory over the Mournking, the Harvesterwas very disappointed to have found the soul slip out of the grasp of its Soulmasons. Instead the spirit rushed out to the eastern side of the island, along with the remaining ghuls. A contingent was sent to follow the spirits, perhaps to find their source. Instead they found a massive sea of Ghuls, all laying siege to the Hedonite city they had seen earlier.

Sensing an opportunity to strike a blow against the Great Enemy, the Soulmasons of the detachment took to utilizing the spirits of the Ghuls they had previously defeated and repurposed them to attack the Hedonites. While the main group raged against the city, these Ghuls were used to intercept any relief forces trying to attack the horde from behind.

Sure enough, scouting elements of the Hedonites were found returning to the city. The enslaved Ghuls set an ambush for them, something the brutes would unlikely have done on their own but with the minds of the Ossiarch’s influencing them their tactical acumen had increased greatly. A volcanic canyon that would have allowed the relief elements to stealth past the bulk of the Mournghuls and make it back to the city was the site of the ambush. A swarm of angry ectoplasm barreled down the walls of the canyon and quickly encircled the Slaanesh worshippers.

Normally the giving of pain, and receiving of it, would excite the Hedonites to greater and greater frenzy. Against these unfeeling spirits though, half the fun was denied them. Daemonettes and marauders were quickly enveloped by the lesser spirits tagging along with the ghuls, many of them the victims of the ghuls, until the large spiritbeasts smashed into them ala hammer and anvil.

A contingency of Seekers of Slaanesh broke past the envelopment and tried to escape the ensnarement, but they then ran into the last trick the Nighthaunt had. The Mournking itself, already rejuvenated, ripped rider from mount and tore both asunder, only slightly confused at the mix of screams and sighs it heard from its victims.

The demons might have just blinked back into the realms of Chaos, but the mortal souls were torn from their bodies. Maddened and confused, these spirits simply joined the Nighthaunt procession. They would join the main horde and carry on the assault. The Ossiarch’s noticed something though, they might be able to take advantage of this small canyon and make their way to the very base of the walls of Acheron undetected. There they would have the chance to summon a Mournking behind the walls, and sabotage the defences.

---

Let The Spirits In

All four of the Stalker’s souls were at full alertness as they dropped silently to the city streets on the other side of the wall. Despite being twice the height of a man, and with the mortek guard clinging to it, the constructs had scaled the wall with ease using the distraction of the spirit swarm. They possessed a small black gem gifted by the Soulmason, if they could plant it in the city the lure would let the Nighthaunt pass through the Underworld directly to the beacon, bypassing the defenders on the wall. This would hopefully compromise the defense of the city and lead to its destruction, or at least curtail its growth. The Great Enemy couldn’t be allowed to prosper anywhere, that all the souls bound together in the Stalker could agree with.

The unit spread out without a word, the discipline of ages had made the Ossiarchs give off the impression of a hive mind. A location where the spirit veil was already thin had been detected in this section of the city, that would be the place to plant the beacon. For now the cloaked Mortek Guard stalked silently through streets empty of civilians, no breath betrayed them for no breath was drawn. The stalkers kept to higher elevations, moving from roof to roof, sensing the civilians shivering in their rooms underneath, waiting for the wave of death to pass.

While luck had smiled so far upon them, it seemed like it was about to run out. No patrol or sentry had spotted them, and they had found the spot to plant the beacon, but it turned out what had been the veil thin there was that it was a sacrificial altar. Many a living soul had felt the ecstasy and agony that only one devoted to Slaanesh could share upon that altar, and the follow up deaths had made a marked groove in the resonance of the land. This could be a boon for summoning the Nighthaunt into the city, but it also made it a very popular location during a siege. A contingent of Slaanesh revelers were there now, sacrificing victims and even torturing themselves and each other.

Into this chaos the Ossiarchs dropped in, the Mortek quickly locking shields into smaller shield walls. The stalkers lived up to their namesakes and held back, waiting for the Hedonites to engage the guards. Lost already in the throes of pain and sadism, the Hedonites didn’t seem apprehensive of the appearance of the dead within the city, but almost joyous. With a cry they threw themselves at the intruders and the speed of their attacks left the Mortek hard pressed. While the Mortek were hardy, they were slow. Their nadirite swords could do more damage than one would expect from the seemingly simple blades, but the true hammer were the Stalkers. They dropped from their vantage point down on the Hedonites and tore their mortal frames asunder.

Undaunted the mortals continued, their blood and passion attracting the daemonette shrine maidens to the fight. They started to press the Ossiarchs back, even managing to break through the defenses of some of the guards. Bonedust covered the ground where a Hedonite had managed to down one of the Mortek, and then proceeded to strike the unmoving bone again and again. In all their enthusiasm though, they didn’t notice that one of the Ossiarch’s had made it to the shrine and placed a black shard on it. Immediately the area went from being saturated in the rapturous energies of Slaanesh, the musk of the place demanding that you abandon all restraint and burn through everything you have, to the chill of the grave.

The heat continued to drain from the shrine as from the ground screaming souls began to rise. The Ossiarchs knew they wouldn’t distinguish friend from foe. Quickly they grabbed the gem phylacteries of their fallen comrades and made a hasty retreat back to the walls. They had done all they could for now.

---

The Hunt

The knife carved deep into the sickly creature’s neck, spilling dark blood across the barren rocks. Its shriek only came out a gurgle as the mournghul flopped in agony. A violent twist and the horror’s death throes were cut short. Above the ragged corpse stood a heavily muscled beastman, its long horns twisted out past its shoulders. Leather, mud, and bone decorated its body in barbaric fashion. The beast’s chest heaved with exertion from the struggle.

Ghurthak knelt and tore his dagger free. A fresh flow of black blood gushed past his hooves. Always go for the neck. The beastman repeated to himself internally. The shrieks always brought more. Many more. Silence was the key when the prey were in such numbers, and so deadly. A few dozen of his herd had been shredded or consumed entirely for letting the Long-arms howl for too long. Yet they were getting closer and the Long-arms were in greater numbers the further they went.

With an impatient snort, Ghurthrak waved his weapon to the rocky outcrop behind him. Hesitantly, three wary ungor scampered around and pounced on the body. The trio carved the distended arms off of the mournghul then began to drag the remains down the rocky hill.

“More bones for the shaman!” the last ungot chittered as it struggled to drag the thing’s bulbous head.

Yes, but it wasn’t enough. For the plan, Ghurthrak needed one much bigger. And that was what Ghurthrak the Hunter did best.

They had come ashore several days before , not long after the emissary had come. The piercing-covered human eloquently informed the herd leaders of their plight at the hordes of Long-arms. Ghurthrak cared nothing for their shiny baubles or cloth. The cur was long-winded, and Ghurthrak direly wished to bash their skull in then and their. Only two words cut through the rage-inducing din.

Slay. Monsters.

Now, on this land of smoke and black rock, the hunt was on. Gathering around, Ghurthrak’s Hunt-herd snorted and brayed. Their blood was up. A fresh kill reinvigorated the gors after the long miles of travel across the wastes. These Long-arms had been big, but they all could smell it on the wind. Bigger ones led the packs. Somewhere out here was an alpha.

“Fan out!” Ghurthrak commanded. “When I give the signal, attack!”

Brandishing their axes and clubs with relish, the gors wasted no time charging off into the rocky terrain. They were eager for a fight. Less eager, the ungor grabbed their bows and scurried away to unseen hiding places. A straggling ungor was stopped abruptlyby Ghurthrak’s hand.

“Filthy wretch!” Ghurthrak spat with disdain. “You are needed for the hunt!”

The pitiful creature screeched as the beastman dragged it bodily down a rocky slope to a shallow valley. The ungor knew what was to come. Ghurthrak didn’t care. All that mattered was the hunt. Thick grey smoke billowed from volcanic vents scattered across the landscape, wreathing them in a thick fog. At the bottom Ghurthrak hauled the struggling ungor off the ground, holding the creature aloft by its neck. It scrabbled and google in resistance but it was of little use. Ghurthrak drew his massive weapon, carved from the jaw bone of some great Ghurdish beast, and brought it heavily across the ungor. With an audible crack, the strike shattered the ungor’s thigh completely. Releasing his grip, the mewling creature fell to the ground with a howl. Satisfied, Ghurthrak turned and strode away into the thick smoke.

---

The waiting gnawed at them all. The gors seethed more and more as time went on. Ghurthrak knelt in the crater and fought down his own bloodlust as well. Patience. The hunter was patient. Patience brought the prey. Focusing, he peered out from his smoke wreathed hideout. The injured ungor had steadily howled and cried since he’d left it there. He didn’t know how long it had been. Too long?

Ghurthrak considered braining the wretch and trying again elsewhere, until he saw it. Movement. The strange undulating gait of a creature that loped on its spindly arms. Beady eyes focused on the writhing ungor that had crawled a short distance before giving up the attempt. Saliva dripped from the mournghul’s gaping maw as it swaggered down the slope cautiously. It was a big one, at least big enough for Ghurthrak’s needs. Gripping the haft of his brutal bone weapon he prepared to spring the trap. The mournghul continued its slow descent until the wounded ungor rolled over and froze, realizing its inevitable fate. Without hesitation the mournghul pounced, eviscerating the prey in its rictus jaw. This was it.

Ghurthrak brought around the horn on his back and droned a long, deep note. The Hunt-herd on the ridgeline exploded into violent action. Arrows rained down, peppering the stunned monster with wooden shafts. Beastmen charged and swarmed the mournghul as it thrashed in surprise. Axes peeled off paper-thin skin, revealing the tortured muscle beneath. Several gors were tossed like rag dolls as the monster swatted them away. But it wasn’t enough. The horde toppled the mournghul even as it fought with frantic swipes. A massively muscled and armored beastman, known as Gristle, brought his great axe down and severed an arm at the shoulder. The distended limb flopped in death even as the mourghul’s remaining fist pulped another of Ghurthrak’s kin. Gristle turned to deliver the killing blow.

“No!” Commanded Ghurthrak with a bellow as he strode into the fray. “This one I want alive!”

Bewildered, Gristle glared at him.

“You will bring a horde of them down on us!” the Bestigor roared as Ghurthrak passed him on his way to the creature.

“You think too small, Gristle.” Ghurthrak chided as several gors staked the remaining hand of the mournghul to the earth. “That is the plan.”

Bereft of its arms, Ghurthrak freely approached the ghoul, its mouth still full of its most recent victim. He placed a hoof on its chest as it shrieked at him, pinning it to the ground. With a final stroke, his weapon relieved the mournghul of its remaining limb before Ghurthrak turned to the stunned group of beastmen.

“Tie this thing by the guts and bring it.” He bellowed at them. “The rest won’t be far behind.”

---

Far to the ash-covered south, in the shadow of the fortress city of Acheron, a similar scene unfolded once more. A deep ravine of black rock split the landscape, and lying within that ravine the thrashing form of a limbless mournghul. The horrific creature writhed and shrieked, echoing into the evening twilight. Like always, Ghurthrak waited. Everything had been put in place with barely time to spare. He could smell them on the wind. A lot of them.

At the mouth of the ravine they began to appear. First a few, but then tens upon tens, then… Ghurthrak never thought to count that high. All rushing in a frenzy towards the shrieking bait. The first few reached the wounded creature when the false ground they had made caved from the weight, delivering the charging horde into the pits. Pits lined with sharpened bones and volcanic glass. The collective shriek was more than enough signal for the Hunt-herd. Arrows flew and gors pushed great boulders to the cliff, then laughed as they rolled down the slope to crush the mourghul hordes below. A final charge down the slope finished off the surviving mounrghuls with few, but acceptable casualties.

Ghurthrak felt a surge of adrenaline as he looked upon his handiwork. It was the most successful hunt since they had been lost in this strange place. And Ghurthrak was beginning to enjoy it. Tonight they would offer this great mass of bones before the Herdstone pyre. Not to any gods, but to the primordial chaos. This is the gift Ghurthrak would bring to this world. But tonight he would drink, and feast, and in the morning the hunt would begin again.

---

Chaos Ascendant

Embarrassed by the failures in front of Acheron, Fluxweaver took his warband ranging into enemy territory. Perhaps with some Tzeentchian trickery he could win back the graces of Nomura.

They came in the night. Who they fought for mattered little to Fluxweaver, for nothing but pure hate granted by chaos flowed through his thoughts. His current foe belonged to one of the vampiric clans, whether loyal to Malrak Windstrike or another, the Tzeentchian cared not. The leader of this Soulblighted foe rode upon a flying bone construct and was escorted by Vargheists. Blood Knights and Direwolves stalked the edges of the battlefield probing for weak spots, they may have been able to trick mortal eyes but Fluxweaver and his daemons knew exactly where and when the enemy would strike. The smell of vampiric magic in the air attracted Screamers to the Vampire Lord, his unnatural speed only able to slay one of the creatures before the rest dove in to shred the ancient warrior. With the enemy leader gone, Fluxweaver used his multitude of Horrors to pin the remaining vampires while the Flamers sent gouts of flame after the Vargheists. The Tzeenchian was victorious again.

Heading back to Acheron, Fluxweaver was bombarded by a putrid stench. Somewhere nearby followers of the plague god were arriving. The Tzeenchian could not let his hated foe gain a foothold here. Currying favor with the Slaaneshi was one thing, but tolerating Nurglite allies would be too much.

The trap was set, the Blightkings lumbered through the pass, singing joyfully and being generally disgusting. They stopped and became silent as a stampede of gibbering Horrors came running at them. Next, the Flamers created a great conflagration, boiling the blighted flesh of their enemies. The Screamers bombarded the enemy commanders, keeping them from aiding their beset soldiers. It was over quickly, with the enemy dying in droves. The forces of Nurgle could not keep up with the ever shifting speeds that the Tzeenchians fought with. Fluxweaver felt back on top, he had defeated two foes this day and wanted another, racing back to Acheron he found the final battle already underway. Fyreslayers were at the walls!

The Runefather turned as the cackles of Fluxweaver drifted on the wind. His forces were already committed to the walls, if another force arrived they would be surrounded. A sickening feeling filled his soul as the horizon glowed with multicolored light and the Tzeentchians revealed themselves. He knew he and his clan would die, but they would not go without honoring Grimnir one last time.

Fluxweaver stood upon the ridge spreading his wings, he addressed the Fyreslayers

“Children of Grimnir, I give you one chance. These lands belong to Nomura, exquisite hedonite of the god of pleasure. This is not your fight, no Ur-Gold is at stake here, your fallen will not be remembered. Leave now and you may join your kin back at your sulfuric rutting grounds. Stay and you shall only see the power of a greater god unleashed.”

“Dum Uzkul!” Was the only reply by the Runefather and the wild Duardin charged.

The daemons jumped into the Fyreslayer lines scorching naked flesh with magical flame. The burning blood of a Magmadroth did little to hamper the hunger of the Screamers who tore huge chunks of the beast away.

“You were warned you mewling wretch” Fluxweaver told the defeated Runefather.

"I represent the Kingdom of Infernal Darkness and none shall stand in the way of our plans!”

At that, the Tzeentchian brought his staff down, pulping the Duardin’s skull. He had much to relay to Nomura...

---

The Final hours of Acheron

The Mourngul attacks on Acheron grew more fierce with every passing day. The final three battles happened in one long stretch of warfare, each leading into the next. In the first, waves of Mournguls threw themselves at the city walls. From the fanes, ever more fey creatures were summoned, until the Mournguls were overwhelmed. As dawn’s light hit the walls, the mouldering remains of the aelven bones were strewn in piles, with corrupt land surrounding them. The day was spent reinforcing the walls, re-gilding the runic protection of the walls, and preparing for the next evening.

As the sun went down, the next assault came in. Larger than the last, these Mournguls were bonded by necromantic magics. They roiled forward, starving for the death of all within the walls. The Mourngul King, or the deputy thereof, led his forces in a brutal assault that saw dozens of the Haethens killed. In the end, the Mournguls were stopped, but it was once more a brutal battle. The Mournguls had cast down many of the defenders, defiled the arcane defenses, and were on the cusp of taking over when the roosters crowed the relief of dawn.

The final day, as the defenders took to calling it, was before the climax. The defenses could only take so much more, and some of the garrison fled from what they assumed would be certain death. Whether they truly escaped or were culled by the mournguls is a question none could answer. None of the deserters were seen again, regardless.

As the final day ebbed, and gloaming spread across the land, the howls of the Mournguls came again. The fierce assault of the day before came again, but this time with a true leader. Whether it was the Mourngul King of the day before, the true leader, or some newly risen beast could not be told, but this one inspired his troops to ever greater forms of depravity, wounds which should have slain the abominations hardly leaving a scratch.

The battle itself raged for much of the night, and though the King fell in the end to Nomura’s blade, it was unclear whether Acheron would remain standing or fall to the undead hordes come dawn.

---

The Calling

Perched upon the ridgeline, Ghurthrak the Hunter loomed over the foul smelling ravine. His chest swelled with pride at the masterful trap he had executed. Luring hundreds of mournghuls had been no small feat. Yes, half a herd’s worth of lesser beastmen had been devoured or torn apart, but the prize was theirs nonetheless. A strange prize though, as the creatures dissolved into ichor and bones too small for their elongated frames. But bones were bones, and that would have to do.

Below, the ravine bustled with activity. Work teams of paler skinned ungor sifted through the rubble and stinking gore. Each creature sported a coating of black ichor as they pulled more bones from the liquid. Gor taskmasters angrily whipped the layabouts back into action. A train of shoddy carts full of the too-small bones stretched out of the ravine in the direction of Acheron.

Ghurthrak flexed his muscles, breaking into a slide down the rocky scree. Reaching the bottom, he could see the battlefield was nearly picked clean. The last of the carts was slowly being towed away, its frame bowing under the weight. Nearby, several gors locked horns, each attempting to establish dominance in the group. Having lost focus on the task, they had begun fighting over the fresh remains of a fallen chariot beast. Others salivated and howled in elation at the display. Ghurthrak stomped towards them.

“Enough pissing around, you soft-hoofed whelps!” He bellowed, taking them by surprise. The sparring pair parted, realizing the beastlord’s call. The rest instinctively began to depart, lest they incur Ghurthrak’s wrath.

“If any of those bones don’t make it to the pile, it’ll be your horn on there instead!” Ghurthrak threatened.

The threat being made very clear sent the stragglers huffing into the distance. Ghurthrak took a moment to survey the ravine. They had indeed picked it clean, as expected of the greatest Hunt-herd in the realms. His Hunt-herd. Without hesitation, Ghurthrak knelt and feasted upon the bloody mess that remained of the deboned beast, The Long-arms made for terrible meals, and he was starving. Caked in gore and belly full, Ghurthrak instinctively threw back his head, bellowing to the skies. He hoped that all the gods could hear his unholy revelry.

Hunger sated, the beastlord rushed off to catch up with the herd. As he ran on, the same familiar impulse edged into the back of his mind.
Hunt.

He tamped down the urge. It wasn’t time yet. Too soon. Great things were to happen this night. Past the slow line of bone filled carts he pushed up the hill. Up towards the top where a lone figure stood amongst the strewn remains. Ghurthrak slowed to a walk as he approached.

The figure faced the looming form of Acheron’s fortress. The beastman’s broad form was cloaked in a drape of sewn together skins of all tones. Curling horns protruded from underneath the tanned hood and a muscular arm held a great hardwood staff festooned with various skulls. Anywhere the figure’s dark skin shown, piercings of thin bone shards littered the flesh. Without turning, the shaman tapped the staff and grunted.

“Ghurthrak” the figure addressed him. “A great offering you have brought this day.”

“Yes, Marrowfather” Ghurthrak responded. “The hunt was good.”

“It will be good tonight, too. The Marrowfather said, looking up to the slowly appearing evening moon. Ghurthrak stayed silent. The shaman always spoke in riddles.

“A great hunt! The likes this land has never seen!” The Marrowfather shouted, breaking out of the strange stupor suddenly. “The Primordial Chaos approaches!”

Ghurthrak felt his blood boil at the words. The Marrowfather had that effect on all those around him. Even the nearby ungors began to howl along with his shouts. Ghurthrak wanted to slay them all. Kill something. Hunt. Saliva welled in his mouth and muscles tensed in anticipation of violent action.

“The Chaos embraces you, Ghurthrak! Hold on to it, for night draws near.” The shaman exaltedly spoke, placing a meaty hand on Ghurthrak’s shoulder as he strode past.

The pile of bones had grown tall and wide behind them. Ghurthrak stood rooted in place, blood pumping so loud he could hear it. Savage urges conflicted with the Marrowfather’s command, sending his head spinning. He could slaughter all the little whelps. That would satisfy the sudden surge. He could kill them all!

“Worry not, my child of slaughter!” The Marrowfather interrupted the fantasy. “Call them. Call the children and we will sate your bloodlust!”

Seemingly out of his control, Ghurthrak blew a long, droning call through the horn at his side. The braying of his kin, and some familiar shrieks, answered from the surrounding hills. The deep beat of drums began as the Marrowfather’s ungor attendants lit a massive bonfire before the pile of bones. As the blaze grew, the scattered remains of the Hunt-herd returned from their duties to witness the Marrowfather. Each falling under the same strange enchantment.

“Gather, my children.” The Marrowfather began, stomping and snorting in exaltation. “Tonight we give this offering to the Primordial Chaos! The Godbeasts will hear our call! Let the power fill out and become one!”

The Hunt-herd roared out in unison. Bestigors, gors, and ungors all lost themselves to the frenzy carried by the words. Ghurthrak joined the fray and the drums beat ever longer, ever faster. The beastmen’s cacophony drowned out the growing shrieks that echoed in the distance. Night swallowed the land as the sun quickly fled, perhaps unwilling to witness the unholy ritual. The Marrowfather grunted and snorted rhythmically in some forgotten, bestial language. In the flickering light of the pyre, blood was spilt.

“Yes, children of true chaos! Feed the Great Beast! Chaos is nigh!” The Marrowfather roared as the earth beneath them quaked.

The frenzy peaked as the drums beat furiously like the heart of a beast savaging its prey. Beastmen skewered each other upon pikes and consumed their flesh. The ground split beneath their hooves with a deafening peal. Amber energies radiated from the bones and swirled around the shaman., who howled to the trembling heavens. From within the shattered rock thrust a curved pillar of pale bone. It seemed to scrape the black sky as it grew to five times the height of its caller. Unholy carvings littered its surface, radiating savage energies.

“The Godbeast has heard us! We are blessed with a new hunt!” Marrowfather bellowed. His form dwarfed as he stood before the titanic, fang-shaped monument. It loomed tall and vibrated eerily in tune with the thumping drums.

In the darkness, pinpricks of ghoul light marked the approach of curious mournghuls, the stragglers of Acheron’s siege. The rapid beat of the bestial ritual seemingly drawing them in. Quickly approaching in numbers, they shrieked and bayed in undying hunger.
This was their moment.

The Marrowfather grabbed a nearby ungor, slashing its throat with a dagger of sharpened bone. The arterial spray doused the giant bone monument in gore. Time stood still for a split second and reality seemed to stretch all too thin.

“Let Chaos reign!” The Marrowfather bellowed as the mournghul horde charged.

From the darkness, a dozen different cries issued from around them. Beasts, massive and ashen crashed out of the night from all sides. Born of the land, they spat gouts of flame and slammed the mournghuls into paste with black, rocky hides. The stampede rumbled past the stone, their bestial brethren roaring in their wake. Out into the ashen lands the monsters raged on, pulling the Hunt-herd along in the frenzy. No swarm of Mournghul, or even the great Mournking itself, could not stop their fury. All that was left was a trail of ash, bone, and the howling of beasts in the night.

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