Warhammer Fantasy Battle Report summary:-
A great battle story full of Ogre character (well written, it should bring a smile to your face)| source : warhammer.org.uk | credit : rabbit | 27-Nov-2008 |
I've read a few of these story style reports, and I thought I'd give it a go. It was a 1500 point game at the local club. I thoroughly enjoyed it and managed to scrape a minor victory.
Fatty Mojo listened half heartedly to Hrun the Girthy’s battle plan as he gazed out across the marshlands towards the point where he knew the vampires were waiting for them. He dipped his thick fingers into the bag of troll guts that he was carrying and licked the red gore from their tips. His tribe would need him today. They would need him and his trusty bang stick.
The bulls were getting excited as Hrun told them of the battle ahead and of the feast that awaited them afterwards… but to Fatty that didn’t seem right… didn’t vampires fight with skeletons? Skeletons weren’t very good to eat coz they were all bones. Fatty new this because he had eaten them before.
Things had been different for the tribe in the Mountains of Mourn. They had feasted on juicy mens and Rhinox flesh and best of all Ogres! Fatty giggled at the memory of sneaking into Belch Longstriders cave in the dead of night and slaughtering his tribe. He had eaten Belch’s guts himself, then thrown them up and eaten them again… Ah, happy days!
Course, that had lead to some problems with some other tribes. Belch’s brother, an’ his dad (or maybe it was his mum, it was hard to tell) well they’d brought along a lot of ogres and it had seemed best to find a new place to eat for a bit, and now they were here. Here there were vampires.
Fatty was drawn back to the present by the sounds of two bulls fighting, but as one raised his iron fist to smash the skull of his opponent Hrun stepped in, towering above the two combatants. With a swift yanking motion he grabbed the hair of each bull, jerking their heads back, then with a mighty roar he brought their heads together with a sickening thud. You could say what you liked about Hrun thought Mojo, he kept his tribe in line.
“Save it for them!” shouted Hrun the Girthy and he pointed at the two units of skeletons that had appeared from under the ground, forming themselves into neat units of rusting metal armour and clanking bones. To their left, on the far side of a low copse, hovered a host of ghostly shapes, almost see through and masking something behind them.
The Bulls roared their approval at the words of their leader and immediately set off at a run. Fatty Mojo sensed trouble for his tribe and set off in pursuit of the iron guts and Yhetees who had sprinted at the ghost things.
In the middle of the battle field two units of bulls and a unit of iron guts had run full tilt at the skeletons, but now Fatty could see that they were not alone, that there was a unit shambling things behind… Dead mens! Fatty realised with a smile. He had seen many dead mens in his time, but these were walking! They had weapons!
On the Eastern edge of the battle field the Yhetees screamed and roared as they charged in to a ghostly spirit hosts, swinging their ice weapons at their insubstantial foe. A few of the spirits fell, disappearing in a great cloud of foul smelling smoke, but too many remained. Despite their furious swipes, the huge shaggy beasts were becoming surrounded and cut down. Finally only one remained and with a despairing scream he turned and fled, leaving the bodies of his fallen comrades to the spirit hosts, but they did not care or pause, they merely continued their steady advance along the Eastern flank of the battle field.
Fatty licked his lips and drooled at the sight of the fallen Yhetee meat on the floor, yet he managed to push his hunger to one side for a moment and aim a carefully aimed blast from his bang stick at the spirits. They paused and turned towards him. Before they could arrive Fatty reached into his bloody sack of body parts that he always carried and started to crunch into a hunk of rock from the high peaks of his home mountain range. If the spirit things attacked him he would make sure they couldn’t hurt him! Shards of his metal teeth splintered as Fatty crunched on the rock and yet he felt no different. He felt no toughening of his skin as he had in the past, something was stopping his gut magic!
The spirit hosts were nearly upon him now, their numbers seemingly undiminished by the blasts from his bangstick, and Fatty gripped the handle of his cleaver with grim determination. He wasn’t sure how he could hurt them, he just knew he’d have to try. The faces of the ghostly figures did not change as they advanced, but if they could have shown emotion they would have registered terrible surprise as with a mighty roar of anger Hrun the Girthy himself flung himself into the fray his sword of battle cutting a mighty swathe through the ghosts which were beginning to disappear at a very fast rate.
Meanwhile in the centre of the battle field, beside the dense copse of trees, the bulls were making slow progress against the skeleton things. As one row was cut down another seemed to jump up to replace it. Fatty Mojo concentrated his efforts on trying to prevent the spells and incantations working. He called upon The Great Maw, eater of souls, eater of worlds, to help him and his tribe in this moment of need. The rate of the appearance of the skeletons slowed, but it did not stop and the sheer weight of numbers appeared to be pushing one unit of bulls back. To make matters worse there was a unit of heavily armoured Iron Guts behind the Bulls but they were unable to join the battle because of the thick copse of trees.
As more of the bulls fell the remaining ogres fled the battle, pursued by their undead tormentors, but this was the turning point of the battle. The Iron guts in the centre roared as they joined the melee and swiftly inflicted heavy casualties on the crumbling skeleton unit. Invigorated by their colleagues success, the bulls beside them made quicker headway through the unit they were fighting and soon both units were crashing into the zombies that were slinking behind.
Fatty Mojo sensed more powerful winds of magic coursing over the battle field and saw that the shambling dead men had gained the ability to wield their weapons with unnatural swiftness, but it wouldn’t matter, the big ogres would over power them quickly now. In the mean time Hrun the Girthy was screaming, wielding his battle sword like an ogre possessed. Nothing could stop him when he fought like this, nothing! The last of the ghosts exploded in a belch of foul smelling gas.
Suddenly there was a movement, a flicker of a shadow behind Hrun, then a terrible piercing scream. The noise was like nothing Fatty had ever heard before, but it was Hrun mightiest of all the ogres on the battle field who felt the full force of its blast. Surprise registered on his face but only briefly, before his face became twisted with agony and he emitted one final terrifying roar as he collapsed to the floor, dead...
Cold, unnatural mists swirled around the ankles of the surviving ogres as they stood victorious, gathered around the body of Hrun the Girthy. Fatty Mojo surveyed the scene in front of him. Lots of Iron guts survived. That was good. Four Bulls. That was good too. His stomach began to growl and he could hear the same thing happening in the bellies of his comrades. He would lead them. He would become their Slaughter Master! His tribe needed feeding. Fatty Mojo gripped his bang stick and wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth. He looked around the dead swamp lands that surrounded him then giggled. Reaching out slowly he placed one massive, callused hand on the chest of his fallen leader, then gripped and yanked off a huge hunk of ogre flesh. He hung the steak above his lips and let the blood drip on to them as he yelled,
“Time to eat!”
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