Karak Angkul is a minor Dwarf Hold located somewhere within the World's Edge Mountain. Little is known about the hold other than the fact that it was subject to an invasion force of Skaven from Clan Skyre and Clan Mors, led by three infamous figures; Grey Seer Thanquol, Chief Warlock Ikit Claw and Warlord Queek Headtaker. The dwarfs of Karak Angkul had been described as a particularly tough and sneaky sort, their wars against the Skaven of Bonestash having lasted for centuries, the deathtoll on the Skaven being hundreds of times the number of the Dwarf dead. The current ruler is King Logan Longblade.
What little history about the hold could be found is located within the walls of the Hold's throneroom. They depicted the founding of Karak Angkul, the heroic history of the dwarfs who called the stronghold home. Sections of wall were dedicated to the Goblin Wars, showing the dwarfs waging their unending battle against the wretched greenskins for control of the mountains. A section dozens of yards long showed the dwarfs of Karak Angkul making war against the arrogant elves during the War of the Beard, artillerists from the stronghold maiming the dreaded wyrm Malok at the Battle of Burned Blades. A smaller tableau showed the dwarfs marching to the aid of the fledgling Empire, cutting off the advance of the undead warlord Zahaak the Usurper before he could join the horde of his unholy master Nagash against the outnumbered army of the manling emperor Sigmar.
Trophies adorned the sides of the pillars, mementoes of the victories of Karak Angkul. The mummified husk of the devil-spider Togrildam hung from chains against one column, the gigantic beast’s carapace still showing the marks of King Glorin Thornefinger’s hammer. The immense war-axe of the orc warlord Ghazagruff, its cleaver-like blade split where it had broken against the runeshield of King Uldrik Blackhand. The armour of Lord Corirthar Swiftsword, slain by Nimbrindil Ironfoot at the Battle of Fellwind Dale. Two crimson scales as big as shields that had been ripped from the hide of the dragon Malok by Skalfri Brandbeard with his bolt-thrower during the War of the Beard. The glory of Karak Angkul was on display all around him and Klarak felt a swelling of pride to belong to such a proud heritage. Reflecting upon his ancestors always gave him a redoubled sense of purpose, a fierce determination to bend his sharp mind towards the service of his people. It did not matter if he received acclaim and recognition for his works. What mattered was that he helped ensure the continuance of Karak Angkul and its rich history.
The Skaven Invasion
Sometime around the early 25th century IC, Karak Angkul had been subject to a fresh series of invaison led by Warlord Rikkit Snapfang of Clan Mors. Under the leadership of Engineer Klarak Bronzehammer, a new series of defensive steam-automated turrets held the invaders back for a time until the timely arrival of Ikit Claw and the warriors of Clan Skyre. Through the leadership of Grey Seer Thanquol, the Skaven have been able to distract the Dwarfs long enough for Ikit Claw to finish production of his Doomsphere, a horrific atomic bomb. In desperation, a mighty throng breached the defences of Bonestash and destroyed the weapon before it became operational.
However, during the ensuring conflict, Warlord Queek Headtaker of Clan Mors launched a surprise attack against the now defenceless dwarfs of Karak Angkul, breaching the first two deeps before being stop at the third deeps. In desperation, Grey Seer Thanquol mistakenly summoned Bloodthirster Skarbrand into the hold, butchering the Dwarfs and Skaven armies before the Daemon was cut down by a fallen axe held by a statue of the goddess Valaya thanks to the heroic deeds of Klarak Bronzehammer. Wanting revenge, Thanquol sent a bolt of lightning towards the Engineer, his body fallen into the floor with a splat, the death of the hero rousing the Dwarfs to fury. However, Thanquol escaped and the Hold is left to do nothing but mourn the dead.
Enemies fighting the bearer of this maddening weapon become confused and befuddled, making it hard for them to strike back.
Ungrol Four-Horn, also known as Blackheart, Hornsthief, and the Spurned One, is a being consumed with bitterness and spite. There is no more hateful a creature in the Old World, for he has been cast out of the ranks of both man and beast. Such was the scale of his transgressions that he has become something of a legend, and to this day he leads as a self-styled beggar king, marching at the head of a ragtag army of outcasts, mutants, and heretics who have nowhere else to run.
Ungrol was born with two heads, each of which was possessed of a singular ugliness. The mewling beast was greeted with utter revulsion by his human parents, and so Ungrol was cast out into the woods to die.
But he subsisted on a diet of grubs and roots until he was strong enough to hunt and kill. Ungrol eventually found his way to the Manblight tribe, where he joined the ranks of the Ungor. Though he had only the most rudimentary horn-buds, the fact that Ungrol had two heads was remarkable enough that he was tolerated as a Beastman. But still Ungrol had not found peace. The other Ungors were jealous of his mutation, and the Gors mocked him and beat him for having such small horns. Every day was a new set of demeaning and horrible trials for the creature they mockingly called four-horn.
One dark night, covered in bruises and bleeding from a dozen wounds, Ungrol could take no more. His tribe kin were snoring loudly after a drunken feast which Ungrol was not allowed to attend. He took up a great rock and, approaching the largest of the sleeping figures, bashed his chieftain's brains out. The Bray-Shaman was next, throttled by Ungrol's sinewy hands. Ungrol carved off the magnificent horns of the two tribal leaders with his jagged knife, strapping the chieftain's horns to one of his heads and those of the Bray-Shaman to the other. Resplendent with his new sets of headgear, Ungrol capered in the moonlight, gazing with manic glee at his shadow and singing "Four horn, four-horn!" over and over again.
To kill a chieftain outside of a challenge is bad enough, but to kill a Bray-Shaman is the gravest sin of all. When the tribe discovered the atrocities Ungrol had committed they chased him for a night and a day, but Ungrol was ever sly, and he evaded their pursuit in a labyrinth of dark caves. He still dwells there to this day, consumed by enmity and jealous ire.
Over the years Ungrol's legend has spread, and through channelling his vast reservoir of hatred he has come to be a warrior of some repute. Many Ungors have joined his cause and he now commands a great army of mutants, outcasts and monsters that raid the lands of men, taking out their hatred upon any they can catch and keeping their human captives like cattle in the dank depths of the Labyrinth of the Spurned.
The Stolen Crowns: Ungrol's 'horns' still contain a residue of their former owners' power, meaning that he can often be found bickering with himself or speaking the dark tongues of magic, including rudimentary casting of Wild Magic.
"I'll be happy to work for you, but Lustrian expeditions are high-risk. I'm not familiar with this one, but if I were you I'd do a little research in the 'Change's records - I could do it for you, for ten guilders - to find out more before investing heavily. The prices of future-shares can go down as well as up, you know."
Martinus Brobbel is the junior partner in Brobbel and Son, based in Hightower Island. He is 24, tall and nervous, but his depth of knowledge about the workings of the 'Change is excellent, and on the trading floor he becomes a whirlwind of energy. He's a bit of a bureaucrat and a stickler for paperwork, refusing to do anything solely on trust. His commission is 1.5%, with a minimum investment of 200 Gu. Martinus is solid but lacking in flair.
A Bretonnian nobleman, Florin d'Artaud was forced to escape his life of debt and debauchery by tricking his way onto a flotilla headed to the fabled lands of Lustria. Posing as a veteran military commander, Florin's immediate concerns are to get his troops under control and survive the long, dangerous sea voyage. Once they arrive in Lustria's steamy jungles, the mercenaries find far more than they bargained for and a simple treasure hunt turns into a sinister expedition for forgotten lore. But the ancient guardians of the jungle will not let their secrets be plundered so freely.
Having spent all his inheritance on cards, Florin had been living in the apartments at the top of an old building within Castle Bordeleaux since his parents died. It had served many different purposes over the years, from barracks, to stables to inn. Now it served none of these functions, the cavernous spaces between its peeling lathe walls and highly drafty gables having been carved up into a shabby warren of little chambers housing everything from bales of cheap calico to the workshops of a dozen stooped and weak-eyed artificers.
A side-door leads up three flights of narrow stairs to the apartments, squeaking and groaning as if about to collapse (though Florin has grown too used to them to paid any heed). In summer, the slate roof above his rooms would become hot enough to fry eggs on, while in the winter it froze into a flat sculpture of snow and icicles. Even the rats deserted the gables at that time of year, though the cockroaches aren't as fussy. The front door, meanwhile, is a heavy one with a bolt-lock. The furniture consists of a table and a beaten-up sofa drawn up to the window.
Yet despite the discomfort, Florin has never considered returning to the luxury of his family's town house, the place having felt like a prison to him for as long as he could remember. The bars of respectability strictly guarded first by his father, Count d'Artaud, and then, after his death, his brother Bastien.
The Staff of Darkoth, and its wielder, are crawling with slugs, bugs, and insects. They seeth over the surface of the wood, infect the shaman's fur and inhabit his robes.
Clan Kreepus of Gnaw Pit was once conquered by Clan Grikk. Despite months of plotting, Clan Kreepus were unable to overthrow their jailers – until, that is, Clan Eshin promised to intervene in exchange for unswerving fealty.
Deciding that service was better than slavery, Clan Kreepus accepted and a stash of poisoned daggers was smuggled into Gnaw Pit that night. Unable to clutch the weapons in their manacled claws, the Skaven of Clan Kreepus instead wielded them in their tails.
When the guards next opened the cages they were overwhelmed. Clan Kreepus have been the willing thralls of Clan Eshin ever since and they have adopted many of their patron's mysterious ways. They are a secretive clan, running many mysterious errants for their Clan Eshin masters. Wary of reprisals, the warriors of Clan Kreepus rarely show their faces: it is rare for them not to obscure their faces with cloths, masks, or at least a few rags.
Clan Kreepus display Skaven runes made from daggers. Poisoned blades and rat-tail motifs are both common on Clan Kreepus' shields and banners.
Waybread is an enchanted, long lasting type of cuisine made in Ulthuan. Indeed, elven bread does not stale, lasting for years without going hard or tasteless, that is, unless magic is used to despoil it.
A demilance is a short spear or a half pike used by cavalry. Though not as large as a lance, it is still capable of delivering impressive amounts of damage, without being as cumbersome as the full lance. Light cavalry in the Empire and squires in Bretonnia often use these weapons.
Elven legends tell that Draugnir, Father of Dragons, was welcome in Asuryan's court as an equal, for mortal Elves and gods alike were awestruck by his might and nobility. Alas, not all the Elven pantheon were so enamoured. Anath Raema, sister to Khaine and Goddess of the Savage Hunt, saw him as nothing more than an upstart beast to be harried and hunted as any other. Taking her spear, she pursued the Dragon through the heavens. The contest that followed shook the world to its core, rousing even wise Asuryan from contemplation. The Creator halted the battle, but came too late to save Draugnir, whose wounds were beyond healing.
With a single word, Asuryan banished Anath Raema to the Mirai forevermore. From the corpse of his fallen friend, he worked to create a new land where Elves and Dragons could live in peace, beyond the jealousies of the gods. From Draugnir's bones, he forged Ulthuan's mountains, and from the Dragon's flesh he created its broad plains. Draugnir's glittering scales Asuryan gave into the keeping of Isha. She, in turn, passed them to her mortal children, the Elves, who wrought many fabulous works with them, chief amongst them a mighty standard, woven with silver and hung with gems of all shapes and hues. This Banner of the World Dragon endures to this day, a reminder not only of the bond between the Elves and Dragons, but also of that which binds both races to their ancestral home.
Another legend tells that the mightiest of the blades forged at Vaul's hand, the Widowmaker, was tempered with Draugnir's own fiery breath. Unfortunately, the weapon thirsted, even then, and stole from Draugnir more than he sought to give. Thereafter, the fate of Draugnir's line was externally bound to that of the Elves.
Tor Annan was a small, provincial town in the valley beneath Mount Antorec, Yvresse, ruled by Lord Eanith. The Asur holding was burnt to the ground by the Keeper of Secrets N'Kari in XI 10, after the daemon conjured a storm to decimate an already crumbling waystone atop Antorec, thereby freeing it from the Great Vortex. In pursuit of vengeance against the Blood of Aenarion, the servant of Slaanesh lay siege to the settlement. A howling, daemonic horde raced against the walls, some falling to elf shafts, the daemons otherwise ignoring whatever arrows weren't enchanted by asur mages.
Alongside his household guard, Eanith formed a wall of spears against the Daemon's onslaught, only to have their weapons splinter on his hide. Snapping Eanith's sword beneath the pincers of one massive claw, N'Kari thrust his fist into the Elf's chest. Closing his fingers about Eanith's heart, the Daemon tore the still pulsating organ from the noble’s body. N'Kari brandished the heart briefly before the Elf's dying eyes, bellowed in triumph and swallowed it whole. Casting the limp corpse aside, the Keeper of Secrets turned his back on the ruins of Tor Annan, and sought out his next victim.
Winged things flapped down from the sky and attacked first the siege machines, and then the archers. Death had come so close to Prince Sardriane in the opening moments of the battle. The winged Furies had struck down the elves on either side of him. Daemons had smashed through the gates and clambered onto the walls, killing everybody they encountered. One had loomed over the prince, about to strike when at the last second, at the shouted command of N'Kari, instead struck down Alfrik instead. Mad cultists came to swarm through the gateway, howling and chanting ecstatically as they slew.
At first, the asur of Tor Annan fought bravely. Archers had died where they stood, still unleashing arrows at targets that ignored them. Warriors had tried to halt the monstrous red-skinned daemons. But as the fight went on it became obvious that they could not overcome their foes. Some had fled. Some had tried to surrender. And some, seeing the daemonic leader of their enemies, had been overcome by a strange madness and had started throwing themselves at its feet and grovelling in ecstatic communion.
Prince Sardriane had been among the ones who had fled, racing through the streets to the ancestral home he shared with his mother and a few ageing retainers. He told them to bar the door and make ready to withstand a siege. Some of them, feeling that death was preferable to falling into the hands of the enemy, had taken their own lives using poisons preserved for that purpose. The prince urged his mother to do the same, fearing what might happen if she were to fall into the taloned claws of the besiegers. But she refused, saying that while he lived, she would. She had as much pride as she. After all, she too was of the Blood.
For a while, they huddled in their chambers while the town burned around them and screams echoed down the streets. To them, it sounded as if some hideous carnival of torture and wickedness were taking place outside. Sardriane prayed that if they waited long enough, they would go unnoticed by their enemies and escape with their lives. The prince hated himself for his cowardice, hated himself for running, feeling all of it unworthy of his proud ancestry. The only defence he could offer up being that he was young and he did not want to die. When at last the screaming had stopped, and he dared to peek out through his shuttered windows, he saw lines upon lines of silent faces watching the building. Some of them belonged to brazen horned, crimson-skinned daemons. Some of them belonged to cultists. Some of them belonged to people who had once been his neighbors and who now gazed at his house with features dazed and numbed and subtly altered.
As if looking upon them broke some evil spell, they all shouted and rushed forwards, smashing in through the doors and revelling through the halls of Sardriane's home, smashing ancient furnishings, burning the ancient tapestries, maiming and killing the retainers, howling with insatiable bloodlust and something else, a primitive deep-throated pleasure that was even more disgusting than their desire to do harm.
The horde overwhelmed both mother and son, carrying them back to N'Kari, whose outline shimmered and shifted constantly sometimes suggesting a crab-clawed hulking daemonic thing, sometimes the most beautiful woman Sardriane had ever imagined, and sometimes the most noble king. When Sardriane threw himself at the monster, trying to strike it with a dagger he seized from the scabbard of one of his tormentors, the prince was struck unconscious by a blow to the head.
After the sacking, it was discovered that at least one Asur mage survived, casting a Sending to warn of Tor Annan's fall. Along with the report of the ranger, Takalen, this would prove the veracity of claims that Ulthuan was under daemonic invasion.
Brother Kenrol Stonius, 87, is the eldest priest in the Cathedral of Verena in Marienburg, and thus the Chief Justice of the High Court. He has served in the post for the last 25 years. Widely regarded as a scholar and respected for his pursuit of Justice over the letter of the law; he also is known for falling asleep in court sessions.
Earlier today, you took an object to the Temple of Sigmar, and gave it to one Father Morten, is that right? According to this note, Father Morten was found dead less than an hour ago, with signs of foul play. The object is missing, and it appears that you were the last people to see him alive. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you for your weapons and keep you here until our investigation is concluded."
—Ulrich Schutzmann, Watch Commander
Schutzmann is an imposing man in his fifties, tall (6’ 2”) and well built, with close-cropped grey hair and dark blue eyes. He is known for his tight discipline and the efficiency with which he runs the City Watch.
The Eye of the Horned Rat is imbued with warpstone energy which can be channeled by the bearer by holding the stone firmly to his head.
Warhorses such as destriers or coursers are unsuitable for general riding. Most knights only mount their warhorses in times of battle. Instead, they rely on riding horses for daily use. The finest and most ill-tempered steeds come from Araby and command prices as high as 10 times the normal cost for horses.
Warhammer Fantasy is a high fantasy fictional universe created by Games Workshop and used in many of its games, including the table top wargame Warhammer Fantasy Battle, the Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay (WFRP) pen-and-paper role-playing game, and the MMORPG Warhammer Online: Age of Reckoning.
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