War is coming. The great beasts that used to call the plains of Ghur home have retreated to their dens. The tremendous earthquakes that were caused by lumbering behemoths have slowly faded to a soft rumble, yet the ground began to thrum with motion, under the beat of armies marching across the land. Massive columns of daemons and marauders carve out great swathes of land as they make their way towards their goal. Orcs, ogres and giants begin to fight within their camps, with the violence slowly slipping out into the wilderness. Decrepit skeletons march in forced lockstep, eyeless sockets staring at the horizon. War was coming to Gallet, and it was up to the agents of Order and all that is good to bring peace to the land once again.
The sun began to rise upon the lands of Ghur. A small herd lumbering Ghurian aurochs trampled the dried-out weeds under hoof as it looked for more suitable food to graze. A few yards back an old, hooded shepherd followed, gnarled staff in hand he let loose a hearty sigh and peered at the horizon. Rain hadn’t fallen on this stretch of land in a few weeks and grazing areas were getting harder and harder to find. He looked at his herd of beasts slowly trudging along; they were still feeding heartily on the various patches of grasses that had endured for this long. He straightened his back and inhaled deeply through his nose. He smelled the earth, grass and trees upon the breeze, along with the musty smell of the aurochs nearby but he caught a scent of something else upon the wind. Petrichor. His dried lips curled into a half smile. With a quick sharp whistle, he began to gather his herd to the nearest grouping of trees, where there was a small clearing, and he knew his herd would be safe from the storm. After a few minutes the small group found their way to the clearing, the aurochs made themselves comfy and began to look for select grasses and berries near the ground. The hooded shepherd found a nice large tree and took a seat near the base of the trunk, reclining back he pulled his hood even further down to get the sun out of his eyes and settled in for a quick nap.
Over the sub-continent of Gallet, a storm was beginning to form. Dark clouds blotted out the sun and the wind became a howling screech. Rain began to fall, slowly at first then into a great cacophony of a torrential downpour. Finally, the maelstrom let loose, thunder roared, and lightning arced across the sky. Within a large clearing of an ancient forest, lightning bolts slammed into the ground, with a flash great armored figures appeared. As the rain dripped off the deep green plate accented by silver and gold the small band of Stormcast warriors began to take stock of their position and set up camp. The storm slowly died down while the men went about their work, setting up tents, campfires and a patrolling the immediate vicinity. The head of this small group of Stormcast was Miroslaw Ruza, a Knight-Judicator, before he had entered the service of Sigmar he had lived a life of war, surrounded as he and his doomed city fought against the rising tide of darkness during the Age of Chaos. Now he fights as a member of the Order of the Blood Rose, freeing the lands that had fallen under the thrall of chaos, death and destruction, until one day he and his family can walk through their homeland, free from the darkness of centuries of bloodshed. He mused, as he set about helping his men prepare the camp, there will be no peace until the last agent of chaos is dead. Miro looked to the sky hopefully and turned on his heel only to run into a strange, hooded man smelling of livestock and holding a gnarled staff. Miro was taken aback he had not heard the man approach and obviously neither did his men. He went for his sword, but the hooded man lifted his head slightly revealing eyes of pure blue energy, causing Miro to stop in his tracks and give the man a short respectful bow. The man smiled jovially and nodded to Miro in response. The men exchanged some hushed words and Miro began to continue preparing the camp for the campaign ahead and signaling to some nearby Judicators to attend to the unexpected guest.
It was about mid-day when there was an explosion of activity, movement had been spotted in the trees. The sun hung high in the sky, but the canopy of leaves smothered any light before it could make it to the forest floor. Miroslaw made his way to the edge of the clearing and peered into the darkness. In the murky darkness he could make out 2 sets of reptilian eyes looking back at him. The shadows obscured most of the newcomers’ faces but the scales surrounding the larger set of eyes were a brilliant red and the rider was a subtle blue. A familiar face in a not so familiar place, Miroslaw thought as he motioned for his friend to come closer. As the Scar-Veteran crossed the tree line on the back of his deadly carnosaur, he was flanked on both sides by saurus riders on cold ones and just behind him was a great Bastiladon heaving a great crystalline apparatus on its back. Miroslaw slowly held out his hand for the carnosaur allowing it to smell that there was no ill intent, it sniffed out the hand and allowed Miroslaw to lay a caring hand on its giant snout.
“Good to see you my old friend,” Miroslaw shouted to the rider atop the great beast.
“Same to you great warrior,” returned Zoro’los Jeflaux’tor. Jumping from his saddle to the solid ground below.
“We are still waiting for the remainder of our forces,” Miroslaw continued as they exchanged pleasantries, “hopefully they will find their way to us-” before any other words could leave his mouth a tree began to groan on the other side of the clearing. At the base of the tree its roots began to unsettle and open to the sky, then from the upturned soil flowers bloomed and spread out across the clearing, bringing a pleasant scent upon the gentle breeze. Kurnoth Hunters slowly appeared from the ground stepping up through the dirt and out into the clearing. Each brandishing a massive weapon, they stood at the ready with a lane in between them. Next, out of the earth sprang a mass of branches taller and wilder than the Hunters before, a giant Treelord Ancient gave a great groan of effort and stepped through the depths of the forest and back into the light of the surface. With each step he took, masses of loose dirt began to fall from his hulking frame, after a few steps he turned and knelt back to the base of the tree. Finally, the patch of overturned soil sprang to life once more, and the shape of a Branchwych began to step up and out from the ground, eventually revealing her full form. Lithe and holding a dangerous scythe, she looked out on the clearing with a disapproving look. She waved her hand and the gaping hole at the base of the tree began to rustle itself back to what it looked like before the parade of Sylvaneth appeared. Cherise made her way to Miroslaw and Zoro’los at the center of the clearing.
The sun was beginning to fall below the tops of the trees, and the shadows of the clearing became longer as the forest itself began to take on an appearance of being something dark, ancient and haunted. Yet out of the darkness came a strange noise, at first it was distant and hard to hear but soon it became more coherent as the source made its way closer to the clearing. Small voices were singing about food, beer and happy times back home. Eventually the owners of the voices revealed themselves, trotting out into the clearing were fancily dressed halflings, still eating what were probably leftovers from a midafternoon snack, or an early dinner. Behind them, dwarves sauntered heartily, grumbling about how halflings don’t sing half as well as they used to. Behind them, a magical Hurricanum on the chassis of a steam tank sputtered into view. Bringing up the rear was a Steam Tank, painted, polished, and primed for battle. Chugging along and billowing out steam as it moved further into the clearing until it screeched to a grinding halt. On the top of the steam tank Rungni Hogmog, a Runelord, barked orders to his men.
“We made it! Get ready to prepare camp and start dinner preparations.” The halflings cheered, hastily finished their leftovers from afternoon tea and began to prepare for dinner, while the dwarves silently set about bringing up their tents. Rugni made his way to the command tent in the center of the camp, it was hard to miss, with the fabric being a deep purple and embroidered with roses. As he entered the heads of the amassed forces were pouring over an intricate map of the area. It showed the land above and the tunnels that spanned miles and miles underneath the surface. Miro acknowledged Rungni without shifting his gaze, carefully planning and meticulously double checking early scouting reports from his men. Zoro’los and Cherise were sitting in the corner debating the strengths and weaknesses of different battle plans that had been drawn up. Rungni trotted over to the table to get a better understanding of what was in store for them. The Stormcast patrolling the area had spotted armies marching in the distance, making their way to the subterranean center of Gallet. Small skirmishes had broken out between the columns of bodies and now it was the duty of this small strike force to head underground and disrupt the movements of the other armies on the surface.
The group leaders stepped out of the camp to the brisk night. It was a flurry of excitement, the halflings had prepared a feast of roasted aurochs with salads of exotic herbs and flowers grown by the Sylvaneth in record time. The whole camp was in the early stages of a party and the battle was over the horizon but for tonight the small group of fighters would dance and eat their cares away.
Miro begrudgingly opened his eyes that morning, his bed was warm, and his two gryph-hounds were snoring peacefully at his feet. The remnants of a small fire and its coals were softly popping and glowing a warm orange in the brazier in the middle of the tent. He let out a long sigh and lurched up, waking his trusty hounds and tossing them some food, Miro began to get dressed and put on his armor. Nearly half an hour later Miro threw open the flap in his tent and stepped out into the morning sun, noticing his fellow warriors were also beginning to get ready. The four of them stood around the central campfire, as the hooded man from yesterday walked up to them. The hooded man nodded to all of them in acknowledgement and raised his staff to the sky. An ear shattering thunderbolt struck the tip of the staff and in a cloud of light smoke the frame of the man disappeared, only to be replaced by the resplendent frame of the Celestant-Prime. His livery shifted from its normal colors to that of the Blood Rose as he began to lift into the air and turn slowly. The battle had begun.
Continued in: The Torrential Downpour
PKredki 
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