The Battle for Braghafen the Scenario

Outline

Braghafen is a small settlement on the border between the Empire and the wild border lands of the south. Home to a variety of frontiersmen, farmers and retired adventurers. This rough little village hangs on to survival thanks to the stubborn nature of its citizens. One such citizen is Silas Tun. Silas was once a young, handsome, grifter, quick of tongue and quicker with a sword. It was said he could pick any lock and charm any maiden fair or not. Silas’s skills saw him fall in with a group of treasure hunters and adventurers. After many years of high adventure this group stumbled across an artifact of great power and evil known as the Demonicum. Realizing the damage it could do to the world, the adventurers formed a pact to keep the artifact safe and out of the hands of those that would abuse it. The artifact was left in the charge of the party’s wizard Baygar Brightsoul and the rest of the party pledged to come to his aid if he ever need it.

Silas settled in Braghafen setting himself up as a sage, using a number of minor magic items found on his adventurers, and the knowledge acquired in a life well travelled. Silas is now an old man, his eyesight is failing and old wounds cause him aches and pains in cold weather. Any thoughts of a peaceful retirement, spending his days in the Golden Goblin inn, are about to be rudely shattered. Timinus Blacksoul, the son of Baygar, has murdered his father and stolen the Demonicum and is now seeking to open it to gain the power he believes is held within. Timinus has tracked down his father’s old adventuring companions and plans to capture and torture them for information on the Demonicum. His first target is Silas. To achieve his goal Timinus has taken control of an orc tribe, living west of Braghafen, and sent them under his new orc general Slabgut to storm Braghafen and capture Silas.

Yesterday a scout brought news, to the Mayor of Braghafen, that orcs were gathering nearby readying an assault on the village. The Mayor’s initial plan was to load up the wagons, abandon the village and hide in the dubious safety of the hills. The arrival of a mysterious wizard called Adhumla Brightsoul changed the plan. With the wizard’s assurance that he would add his magical powers to the defence of the village the Mayor has ordered Captain Gunther of the village Millitia to prepare to defend Braghafen. The village’s defences were further strengthened when some visiting Dwarf traders, led by Jorgun Hammerson, offered to fight side by side with villagers. Now as dawn breaks the orcs can be seen on the horizon and the village’s defenders prepare for the coming storm.

The rain had stopped an hour before dawn, leaving the fields outside Braghafen slick with mud. The dawn light revealed hundreds of orc warriors sprawled across the hills like boils on rotten flesh, their flaming torches coughing greasy smoke into the grey morning sky. Orcs bellowed, fought, sharpened axes, and dragged carts laden with jagged stones toward the tribe’s newest pride a trebuchet the orcs had named The Rocklobber

It towered above the orc horde, all thick beams and iron bindings, its throwing arm creaking in the wind like some giant wooden beast eager to feed. Orc artillerists scrambled over it while several sweating, cursing orcs hauled ammunition into place.

General Slabgut stood beneath the machine with his arms folded across his rusted breastplate. The title still felt strange in his ears. General. He liked it. An orc trotted up the muddy slope toward him, panting with excitement. “Oi, Gen’ral Slabgut! We ready ta smash da hummies?”Slabgut’s yellow eyes narrowed.The soldier blinked. Then blinked again.“No salute?” Slabgut growled. The orc jumped and nearly dropped his axe. He slammed a fist against his chest so hard it knocked one of his tusk caps loose. “SORRY, GEN’RAL!”“Dat’s better.”The soldier grinned stupidly. “Can’t wait ta chop da village up. Heard hummies squeal funny when ya stomp on ‘em.”

Slabgut scratched at his jaw. “Yeh, well… we ain’t killin’ all of ‘em.”The orc looked horrified. “Wot?”“Da boss wants one alive.”“The boss” meant Timinus Blacksoul. Even speaking the wizard’s name made the air feel colder.The soldier frowned. “Which humie?”Slabgut paused. His thick brow furrowed.“…Old one.”“Old humie?”“Wot’s he look like?”Slabgut’s eye twitched. “Old.”The soldier waited for more.

“That’s all I got! Wizard didn’t say much. Wrinkly. Probably smells funny. You can kill any humie carryin’ weapons. But if dey ain’t armed, grab ‘em instead. One of ‘em’s probably da old git.”The orc nodded enthusiastically. “Right! Kill the stabby ones, grab the squishy ones!”“Exactly.”The soldier saluted again — backwards this time somehow — before running downhill shouting for the others to get ready. Slabgut watched him go and muttered, “Moron.”

His thought drifted toward the “boss” the wizard who had careful chosen to stay back at the main orc camp. Even from here many miles away, he could feel the wizard watching him. Timinus Blacksoul. The human had arrived months ago walking into the tribes camp like nothing scared him. Irontusk had laughed at the skinny sorcerer right until bolts of lightning had burst from his hands and reduced him to a smoking corpse in front of the whole tribe.

By dawn the next day, Timinus commanded the tribe and Slabgut had become his General. The wizard had changed everything. The tribe marched in ranks now. Supplies were counted. Scouts reported properly. Siege engines were built. It was clever.Too clever. Slabgut hated him for it. But he feared him more. He still remembered Irontusk screaming as his body was fried by lightning.

One day, though…One day the wizard would slip and when he did, Slabgut would gut him personally. Then the tribe would belong to him.Not just another squabbling mob of greenskins charging at walls until arrows turned them into pincushions. No — his army would have Rock lobbers, discipline, armour and Siege towers. Slabgut would be the greatest orc warlord the world had ever seen. General Slabgut. He grinned at the thought, showing rows of chipped yellow fangs.“Yeh,” he muttered. “Got a nice sound to it.”

A horn bellowed across the army. Orcs surged toward the village, weapons raised high. More orcs hauled the trebuchet into firing position. Below them, in Braghafen, a bell began to ring in panic.

Slabgut lifted his axe.“ATTACK DA VILLAGE!” he roared. The trebuchet arm snapped forward with a thunderous crack and the first stone flew toward Braghafen

Terrain

Braghafen sits on the western side of the river Brag which is crossed by a stone bridge; some woods lie to the north and south of the village. Some low hills ring the village.

Woods – count as difficult ground

River Brag – the river can be crossed at the bridge with no penalty. The Bridge is T7 5 wounds. Troops can cross the river elsewhere but due to steep muddy banks must do so at ¼ speed

Hills – the hills are low and shallow so incur no movement penalties to cross

The village of Braghafen – the village has six buildings, four houses, the Golden Goblin Inn and the Mayors tower residence. Houses are T7 5 wounds, the Golden Goblin is s T7 8 wounds. The village hall is T7 10 wounds. All doors to the buildings are T4 3 wounds.

Fences and Barricades – the village is surrounded by poorly maintained wooden palisade and the gaps have been filled where possible with makeshift barricades, these 4” sections T6 3 wounds each.

Starting The Game

The Defenders set up first anywhere inside the village walls. The orcs deploy in a 12” deep deployment zone from the table edge anywhere west of the River. 1 unit of orcs can be sent on an outflanking attack and will appear east of the river on the northern table edge. As the attackers the orcs get the first turn.

Special Rules

All orc units other than the stone thrower have access to fire. The orc archers can use fire arrows; the orc infantry have flaming torches available from the start of the game. The orcs can use these to try and destroy a village building as long as they have captured the civilian inside first.

The orcs are aiming to capture Silas the sage, however in true orc fashion they can’t exactly remember who they are looking for. General Slabgut has given orders that all unarmed civilians should be captured and they can work out who Silas is after the battle. Each building contains one civilian locked inside; if a unit of orcs can break down the door and enter the building they can capture the civilian inside. A civilian captive is kept with the orc unit that captured it if the orc unit is routed or destroyed the civilian captive will then join the nearest unit of village defenders. The orcs can recapture the civilians by routing or destroying the defenders in combat.

At the end of the game number the six civilians 1 to 6 and roll 1d6 the number rolled on the dice indicates which civilian is Silas the Sage. If Silas turns out to be one of the Civilians captured by the orcs they gain a hefty victory points bonus.

Stone thrower. Because of the chance of accidentally killing Silas the Sage General Slabgut has forbidden the Stone thrower to deliberately target the buildings in Braghafen. The stone thrower may still target the bridge, barricades and palisade or defending units. Note the stone thrower can still hit buildings by accident due to the rock missing its intended target. If it does destroy a building, with a civilian in it, the civilian inside is assumed to be killed. The orcs will automatically lose the game if the dice roll to find Silas at the end of the game indicates he died in a building collapse.

Dwarven supply wagon. The Dwarf traders have a supply wagon ladened with supplies that they were planning to transport back to their mine in the hills. if a unit of orcs can come into base to base contact with the wagon they can loot it that turn for some extra victory points. the defenders get extra victory points if the wagon remains unlooted. The Defender can place the wagon wherever he likes inside the village deployment zone.

Flank Attack. General Slabgut can select one orc unit to cross the river Brag further north and march down the east side of the river. He must declare during deployment if he wants to do this and which unit he is choosing. If the flank attack is used, roll a d6 at the start of each orc turn from turn 2 a 5-6 indicates the orcs have arrived and they are placed on the table edge and may move in the movement phase. Add +1 to the dice each turn after turn 2.(ie 4,5,6 on turn 3).

Victory points

Defenders

Every orc killed 1 point

Every building not destroyed 1point

Orc stone thrower destroyed 2 points

dwarf supply wagon unlooted 2 points

every Orc Captain killed 2 points

General Slabgut killed 3 points

each uncaptured civilian 1 point

Orcs

Every building destroyed 1 point

Every defender killed 1 point

Captain Gunter killed 2 points

Mayor Grunchild killed 2 points

Jorgun Hammerson killed 2 points

Adhumla Brightsoul killed 3 points

Dwarf supply wagon looted 1 point

Silas the Sage captured +10 points

Victoria Secrette drew the whetstone slowly down the edge of her axe in a smooth, rhythmic movement. Below the palisade, Braghafen still flickered with lantern light. Men hammered fresh planks into place with shaking hands. Old Marta Brehm carried buckets of arrows from the fletcher’s shed, while boys scarcely old enough to shave dragged barrels of stones to the wall. Someone was praying loudly. Someone else was drunk already.

Victoria stared silently over the wall, scanning the horizon for signs of the orc army heading towards Braghafen. Funny, she thought, how protective she had become of these simple frontier folk. Years ago she would have laughed at the idea. Back then she had only cared about freedom—freedom from clever men with promises, freedom from being told where she belonged, freedom from every soft-handed fool who thought a woman should live small and quiet. Adventuring had given her that freedom in full. The road had been hard, dangerous, lonely—but honest. You lived or died by your own hand.

Now, somehow, she had become one of those hard-eyed wanderers the villages relied upon. The scout who knew the hills. The ranger who returned with warnings before dangerous foes came screaming from the trees. She had forged a bond with these people. A bond that would not let her abandon them to their fate.

The eastern horizon had just begun to pale. Dawn was coming, and with it, the orcs.

She had seen them herself yesterday from the ridgeline beyond the Black Alder woods. Not a rabble. Not the usual green tide roaring and fighting amongst themselves. They marched in ranks. They posted scouts. Officers saluted each other with snapped fists to breastplates hammered from stolen iron. And they had a trebuchet.

Victoria stopped sharpening for a moment and frowned into the dark. “Who taught the orcs to build a trebuchet?”

No answer came save the creak of timber and distant hammering below. The thing that bothered her most was not the machine itself; it was the organisation. Patrol routes. Campfires placed sensibly. Advance outriders. Someone was teaching them. Or something….

She rested the axe head against her boot and rolled her broad shoulders beneath her weather cloak. In the end, she decided it did not matter. Tomorrow Braghafen would survive. And if it did not— Well. Victoria Seacrette had chosen her own road long ago. She intended to walk it until the very end.

General Slabguts Orc Attackers

General Slabgut (Orc minor Hero)

M WS BS S T W I A LD CL Int WP

3    5    5   4 5  2 4  2  8     8    7    8

Equipped with full plate armour, shield, sword 

“General” Slabgut found himself promoted to his current position after the death of the orc Chief Irontooth at the hands of the wizard Timinus Blacksoul. Slabgut despises the human wizard but is also scared of what the wizard will do if he fails to carry out his orders. A large, one eyed, orc Slabgut is not afraid to get stuck in, on the front line, to achieve his mission.

Orc Captains (5 Orc Champions)

M WS BS S T W I A LD CL Int WP

4    4    4   4 4   1 3 1  7    7    6   7

Equipped with a variety of shields, armour and weapons counting as a chainmail shirt and a hand weapon. The captain of the Archer regiment also has a bow.

The meanest and strongest orc lads have been personally picked by General Slabgut to become captains to lead the orc soldiers into battle each has a regiment to lead.

Orc regiments (4 units of 14 orcs)

M WS BS S T W I A LD CL Int WP

4    3    3   3 4  1  3 1  7    7    6   7

Equipped with a variety of armour and weapons which count as a shield and a hand weapon and flaming torches for burning down hummie houses. Each regiment also has a standard

Special rules Hatred (Dwarves), Animosity

Mean, nasty, certainly smelly the lads make up the bulk of Slabgut’s army

Orc Archer regiment (1 unit of 9 orc archers)

M WS BS S T W I A LD CL Int WP

4    3    3   3 4  1  3 1  7    7    6     7

Equipped with chainmail shirts, bow, hand weapon and flaming arrows.

Special rules Hatred (Dwarves), Animosity

Those orcs who can hit a barn door with an arrow are drafted into the Archers.

Slabgut's Bodyguard (1 unit 9 orcs)

M WS BS S T W I A LD CL Int WP

 3    3   3   3 4  1  3 1  7    7     6    7

Equipped with full plate, shields and hand weapons. The unit has a standard

Special rules Hatred (Dwarves), Animosity

Big, tough orc warriors clad in the best armour the tribe can muster to protect General Slagbut.

The Rock Chukka (a stone thrower with 3 orc crew)

M WS BS S T W I A LD CL Int WP

4     3   3   3 4  1  3 1   7    7   6    7

Equipped with a hand weapons and a bloody great warmachine

Special rules Hatred (Dwarves), Animosity

Led by Borghast Foulbreath these lads are rightly proud of the damage their shiny new war machine can cause.

The rain came down in cold needles from a slate-grey sky as the dwarfs trudged along the muddy road to Braghafen. Five hard days they had marched from Ironpeak Mine, the home of clan Stonehammer, their mule cart laden with iron ingots, copper ore, and finely worked tools bound for the human settlement.

​At their head strode Jorgun Hammerson, broad as an ale barrel and twice as hard. His mail shirt clinked beneath a weatherworn cloak, and the rune-carved axe at his side bore the marks of long use. Beside him marched Snorri Whitebeard, ancient even by dwarf reckoning, his beard tucked into his belt and his eyes sharp beneath bushy white brows. Hortek Stonebrow supervised the cart and pony with steady determination, while Bergan Shortbeard, youngest of the clan and scarcely more than a beardling, led the other dwarfs of the party bringing up the rear, grumbling at every puddle and aching foot.

​By dusk they reached Braghafen.

​The village crouched beside the river like a frightened dog, timber houses huddled together beneath curling chimney smoke. By the river stood the Golden Goblin Inn, the only place in the village fit for travellers.

​Inside, the air was thick with pipe smoke and roasting meat. Humans laughed loudly over mugs of frothing ale while a tired fiddler scraped away in the corner. The dwarfs claimed some tables near the fire and sampled the inn’s beer.

​“It tastes like horse water,” muttered Hortek after a long swallow.

​Snorri snorted. “Aye. Humans wouldn’t know proper ale if Bugman himself poured it down their throats.”

​Bergan grinned. “I’d trade this whole barrel for a mug of Bugman’s XXXX.”

​Jorgun merely grunted and drank anyway, his mind already wandering towards returning home.

​An hour later, the dwarfs were deep in their mugs and devouring a leg of mutton when the bells started ringing.

​A frantic clamour erupted outside. The inn fell silent save for the distant ringing and the sudden crash of overturned stools. Villagers rushed to the windows in panic.

​“Orcs!” someone shouted. “Orcs in the hills!”

​The room exploded into chaos.

​Jorgun rose at once, grabbing a fleeing villager by the arm. “Speak plainly, manling. What’s happening?”

​The terrified fellow swallowed hard. “Scouts spotted an orc warband a few miles away. They’ll be here by nightfall!”

​The dwarf released him with a scowl.

​Outside, Braghafen had become a frenzy of fear. Men hauled carts into the streets to form barricades while women hurried children indoors. The village bell tolled without pause.

​Back at their table, the dwarfs sat in grim silence.

​“We should leave now,” said Bergan at last. “Pack the cart and head for the mine. The villagers are no kin of ours.”

​Hortek shook his head slowly. “And if the village burns? Where do we trade then? Where do we buy food, lamp oil, and timber? We’ll not find another settlement this close to the mine.”

​“Aye,” Snorri rumbled. “And there’s more to it than trade.”

​The old dwarf looked toward Jorgun.

​“Your grandsire died fighting greenskins in the Black Crags. Your father swore the Blood Oath to slay every orc he could draw breath against.”

​Jorgun’s jaw tightened.

​“He failed,” Snorri continued quietly. “And so the oath passed to you.”

​For a moment, only the crackling hearth answered him.

​Then Jorgun rose, lifting his axe from beside the table.

​“Enough talk,” he growled. “We’ll not run from orcs while there’s breath in our lungs. Gather your gear.”

​The dwarfs marched into the chaos outside and made their way to the village square, where Captain Gunther of the militia barked desperate orders to exhausted townsfolk.

​The militia captain looked half-mad with worry. Sweat poured down his face despite the cold evening air.

​“We need every man on the barricades!” he shouted without turning. “No cowards, no drunkards, and Sigmar help me if—”

​He stopped abruptly as he finally looked up into the stern faces of a band of armed dwarfs.

​Jorgun folded his arms. “You’ve got trouble, human.”

​Gunther blinked, then straightened immediately. “Master Dwarfs… forgive me. Stress has robbed me of my manners.”

​“It often does with your kind,” muttered Hortek.

​The captain ignored the remark. “Your aid would honour Braghafen. We’ve little time. Orcs could arrive before midnight.”

​Jorgun nodded once. “Tell us where you need us.”

​Relief flooded Gunther’s face. “The south barricade is weakest. We’re building extra fortifications there now.”

​Without another word, the dwarfs followed him through the darkening streets.

​As the bells continued to ring and thunder rolled overhead, Jorgun Hammerson tightened his grip upon his axe.

​Somewhere beyond the hills, the greenskins were coming.

​And the oath of blood would soon be answered.

Defenders of Braghafen

Mayor Grunchild (Human Minor hero)

 M WS BS S T W I A Ld Int Cl WP

  3   5    5   4 4  2  5 2  8   8     8   8

Equipped with a sword, shield and full plate. Mayor Grunchild's suit of armour is a family heirloom and still carries a single armour rune, the rune provides a +1 to his armour saves until he fails an armour save then it stops working for the rest of the battle.

Mayor Grunchild’s great grandfather was the founder of Braghafen and although the role of Mayor is not hereditary a Grunchild has always been voted into the post. A serious, hardworking man, Grunchild cares deeply about his people and village and will fight to the death to protect both.

Captain Gunther (Human Minor hero)

M WS BS S T W I A Ld Int Cl WP

3    5    5   4  4  2 5 2  8    8    8   8

Equipped with heavy armour, shield and a hand weapon

Special rule. Captain Gunther’s steady orders and sense of calmness during battle rubs off on those nearby. Any unit of Braghafen Human defenders can re-roll a failed panic test if they are within 6” of the Captain.

Born in faraway Nuln, Captain Gunther was a successful mercenary fighting all across the Old World. He retired to Braghafen at the end of his mercenary days. Mayor Grunchild persuaded the veteran Gunther to train and lead the Braghafen militia, giving him the title of Captain. A tough no nonsense man who is good in a crisis.

Victoria Secrette (Human minor Hero)

 M  WS BS S T W I A Ld Int Cl WP

4(8)  5    5  4  4 2  5 2   8   8    8   8

Equipped with two handed axe, chainmail and boots of speed (doubles her movement)

A retired Adventurer Victoria now makes a living as a ranger and scout along the border lands. Having brought news to Braghafen of the impending Orc attack she now prepares to help defend the frontier folk she has grown so fond of. During her many adventures Victoria came into possession of some magic boots which have proved very useful for someone traversing the border lands.

Jorgun Hammerson (Dwarf Minor hero)

M WS BS S T W I A Ld Int Cl WP

3    6    5   4  5  2 4  2 10  8  10  10

Equipped chainmail, crossbow and a rune axe with a rune of cutting ( -1 enemy saves until an enemy makes a successful save).

Special rules Hates orcs

Jorgun had the bad luck of bringing in a trading caravan to Braghafen just hours before the orc attack. Faced with the options of trying to flee, or helping the villagers, Jorgun and his clansfolk opted to stay and fight the hated orcs.

Adhumla Brightsoul (Human Wizard lvl 3 mastery)

M WS BS S T W I A Ld Int Cl WP

4     3    3  4 4  3 6  1 9     9    9  10

Equipped with a sturdy walking stick (hand weapon)

CPs 30

Spells Lvl 1 cure light wounds, fireball, hammerhand

           Lvl 2 cause panic, zone of steadfastness, hold flight

           Lvl 3 cause fear, arrow invulnerability, animate sword

Adhumla Brightsoul appeared rather suddenly, and mysteriously, in Braghafen, only hours before the orc attack offering his help in the village's defence. The wizard has kept his reasons, for this offer, to himself but Mayor Grunchild is only too happy to add wizard, to the villages defence, regardless of the wizards motivations

2 units of Braghafen militia (15 humans)

M WS BS S T W I A Ld Int Cl WP

 4   3    3   3  3 1  3 1  7    7    7   7

Equipped with a variety of armour and weapons that count as a hand weapon and chainmail. One unit has the banner of Braghafen and Burt, the local bagpiper, in it (counting as standard and musician) both units have a leader.

The men and women of Braghafen. A motley collection of frontier folk. Armed and armoured with an equally motley collection of weapons and armour. Determined to defend their little corner of the world from the orcs 

1 unit local Rangers and scouts ( 8 humans)

M WS BS S T W I A Ld Int Cl WP

 4   3    3   3 3  1  3 1  7    7   7   7

Equipped with longbows and hand weapons

Special rules may skirmish

Every frontier town and village has a few scouts and rangers who are there to keep the trade routes safe and give warning of impending danger. They travel light, relying on their skill with the longbow to keep them safe.

1 unit of Clan Stonehammer Dwarves (11 Dwarves)

M WS BS S T W I A Ld Int Cl WP

 3    4    3  3  4  1 2 1   9   7    9   9

Equipped with crossbows,chainmail and hand weapons

Special rules Hates orcs

The Dwarves of Clan Stonehammer will willingly follow their leader Jorgun’s orders as a matter of honour even if it means fighting to save a human village. 

A Scholar’s Account of the Settlement of Braghafen

 A Scholar’s Account of the Settlement of Braghafen

Compiled by H. Kleinknecht, Itinerant Chronicler and Scribe of Altdorf

On its Founding and Governance

Deep within the lawless and fractured lands known to civilized men as the Border Princes, there exists a curious anomaly of order and industry. This is the walled settlement of Braghafen, a sanctuary born not from the ambition of some petty warlord, but from the stubborn pragmatism of an Imperial merchant.

The chroniclers of old record that one Brag Grunchild, a wealthy trader hailing from the heart of the Empire, grew utterly despondent with the suffocating avarice of our noble houses. Weary of extortionate tolls and the endless thumb of the Elector Counts' tax collectors, Grunchild took a desperate, some might say mad, gamble. He liquidated his estates, converted his vast holdings into cold coin, and financed a great caravan of like-minded settlers to brave the perilous journey south.

Seeking a life free from feudal bondage, they established their new home upon a prominent, defensive bend of a local river—subsequently christened the River Brag in the founder's honor. Today, the settlement has grown to govern a modest territory, claiming sovereignty over several outlying hamlets and scattered tenant farms, none situated further than a single day’s hard ride from the primary settlement.

In keeping with the anti-noble sentiment of its inception, the highest office in Braghafen is that of Mayor. By law, this position is strictly non-hereditary, with democratic elections held every five years. Yet, in a display of local eccentricity, the citizenry has consistently voted a member of the founding bloodline into office. The current magistrate is the great-grandson of old Brag himself, proving that whilst the folk of the Border Princes despise a lord, they dearly love a familiar name.

On Commerce and the Legend of Dolly

Though the Border Princes are typically known for exporting naught but brigands and mercenaries, Braghafen has carved out a peaceful monopoly. Its substantial wealth is drawn entirely from its sprawling sheep flocks, which yield a wool so remarkably fine, dense, and soft that it rivaleth the best fleeces found across the Old World. The original animals, brought south by the settlers, were Ostland Craghorns. A tough hardy breed known for the unusual trait of growing impressive horns on both male and female members of the breed.

However, the origin of these legendary flocks is in a tale of hedge-wizardry and near-ruin. Local folklore dictates that the settlement's first winter was an unmitigated disaster. A foul, unnatural pestilence swept through the valley, decimating the colonists' livestock. When the frost set in, but a single, solitary ewe remained alive—a beast affectionately named Dolly.

Faced with the grim prospect of starvation or abandoning their new-found freedom, the settlers were approached by a wandering wizard of unknown Order. The arcane practitioner offered a solution, though his fee required the desperate pioneers to pool the absolute last of their worldly wealth.

With no other recourse, the bargain was struck. That night, the wizard led Dolly into an open pasture beneath the pale light of the moons. By the dawn's light, the wizard was gone, but in his stead stood fifty identical sheep—each one an absolute, flawless duplicate of Dolly in stature, fleece, and disposition. This miraculous flock sustained the pioneers through the bitter winter, and the sale of their exquisite wool provided the coin needed to firmly establish the colony. It is from these fifty mystical clones that the entirety of Braghafen’s famed modern flocks are descended.

On the Civic Heraldry

The deep-seated reverence for this founding miracle is perfectly captured in the town's civic iconography, as meticulously detailed in the surviving Illuminations 

As observed, the settlement’s standard is a masterpiece of frontier heraldry, bordered by defensive red battlements. At its heart sits the venerable Dolly herself, crowned with magnificent ram-horns and wearing a prominent bell, cast against a depiction of the walled town rising safely above the churning waters of the River Brag. Flanking this central piece are two distinct shields: the dexter bearing a tightly wound ball of yarn over three weights of trade, and the sinister bearing the great bell, symbolizing the industry and collective assembly of this fiercely independent folk.

The Battle of Braghafen - the Prelude

 

The rain came down in greasy sheets, turning dust to filth and filth to sucking mire. The camp of Chief Ironfang sprawled across a low ridge of broken stone, lit by guttering fires. Orcs huddled in ramshackle huts and tents, faces glum, as they tried to keep out of the incessant rain. The weather matched the mood in the orc encampment.

Into this walked Timinus Blacksoul. He did not belong. That much was clear. Cloaked in red, a cap of curled horns upon his head. His boots unsoiled by the mud, clothes untouched by rain, eyes glinting with a cold and knowing malice, he walked straight through the camp as though the staring orcs were no more than shadows. A few noticed. One tried to bar his way. The orc never finished the gesture. His tusked grin froze as black shadows crawled over his face, entering his mouth, and choking the very life out of him. He toppled, stiff as iron. Word spread quickly.

By the time Timinus reached the central fire, Chief Ironfang was waiting. The warlord was huge, even for an orc. Clad in rusty black armor, his missing left tusk crudely replaced with a metal one. He sat upon a rough wooden throne covered in fur pelts, a crude collection of wooden poles and canvas cloth keeping the rain off. Ironfang gnawed on something that might once have been a goat.“You got guts, humie,” Ironfang growled, tossing the bone aside. “Or you got a zoggin death wish.” Timinus inclined his head slightly. “I have a proposition.”A ripple of laughter passed through the gathered orcs. Slabgut, Ironfang’s lieutenant, stood close by—thick-necked, watchful, one eye milky with an old wound. He spat into the mud.“Humies don’t make propositions,” Slabgut muttered. “They squeal.”Timinus ignored him.“There is a village,” the wizard continued. “Braghafen. Small. Poorly defended. Within it resides a sage—an old man with knowledge I require. You will take your warriors, seize the village, and bring him to me alive.”Ironfang leaned forward, grinning wide. “And why don’t we just smash yer skull and take whatever shiny bit you’re after?”“Because,” said Timinus calmly, “you do not know what you’re looking for.”That earned a pause.“The sage possesses information regarding an artifact,” the wizard went on. ” A relic of considerable power. Dangerous power. Beyond your comprehension.” Ironfang’s grin returned, wider than before. “Power I don’t understand still sounds like power. Maybe I’ll just take it.”“You would die before you touched it.”

That did it. The warlord rose to his full height, towering over the wizard. Around them, the orcs fell silent, sensing blood.“I don’t like yer tone, humie,” Ironfang snarled. “You come into my camp, tell me what I can’t do—”“And yet,” Timinus cut in softly, “you are listening.”For a moment, the only sound was the rain. Then Ironfang laughed—a booming, ugly sound. “Alright. I’ll play. What do we get?”“Gold. Weapons. And the opportunity to serve a purpose greater than pointless raiding.”That last part was a mistake. Ironfang’s laughter died instantly. His eyes narrowed to slits. “Pointless?”Slabgut shifted, sensing the change. The surrounding orcs began to edge closer.“Every raid is a test,” Ironfang growled. “Every fight makes us stronger. That’s purpose.”“Primitive rationalization,” Timinus replied. “You mistake noise for meaning.”The warlord’s hand tightened around his cleaver. “You think you’re better than us.”“I know I am.”The first blow came fast. Ironfang swung his cleaver in a brutal arc meant to split the wizard from shoulder to hip. Timinus did not move—until the last instant. Then the world turned white. A crack like the sky itself breaking open split the air. Lightning, unnatural and searing blue, leapt from Timinus’s outstretched hand and struck Ironfang square in the chest.For a heartbeat, the warlord stood frozen, every muscle locked. Then smoke began to curl from his armor. His jaw opened in a silent roar. He collapsed, dead, before he hit the ground. Silence fell across the camp. Even the rain seemed to hesitate.

Timinus lowered his hand slowly, as though the act had cost him nothing at all. His gaze swept over the stunned orcs.“Is there another who would negotiate?” he asked.No one moved. Slabgut stared at Ironfang’s corpse, then at the wizard. His good eye flickered with something dangerously close to thought. Around him, the tribe shifted—leaderless, uncertain.Timinus’s gaze settled on him.“You,” the wizard said. “You have enough sense to hesitate. That is rare.”Slabgut bared his tusks. “You killed the boss.”“Yes.”A long pause.Then Slabgut shrugged.“Boss got killed,” he said. “Means he weren’t strong enough.”A murmur of agreement rippled through the orcs.Timinus allowed himself a thin smile.“You will lead them now,” he said. “You will be my general.”Slabgut tilted his head. “And if I say no?” The air grew colder. Faint sparks danced between the wizard’s fingers.“Then you will join your former chief,” Timinus replied. Another pause. Longer this time. Slabgut looked around at the watching orcs. He could see it in their faces—the expectation, the hunger for direction, the simple, brutal logic of their kind. Strength ruled. The wizard had proven his. Slabgut grunted.“Fine,” he said. “We smash yer village. We grab yer old git. But if there’s a fight—”“There will be,” said Timinus. Slabgut grinned, wide and ugly. “Good.” The wizard turned, already losing interest in the conversation.“Ready your warriors,” he said. “We have much to prepare”Behind him, the orcs began to stir—grabbing weapons, shouting, shoving one another back into motion. The tribe had a new master, whether they understood it or not. Slabgut lingered a moment longer by Ironfang’s body. He nudged the corpse with his boot.“Should’ve zoggin ducked,” he muttered. Then he turned and bellowed orders into the night.

Far away, beyond the rain and mud, the village of Braghafen slept easily—unaware that something terrible was already reaching for it.

​The cave stank of wizard’s incense, wet stone, and smoke. Timinus Blacksoul stood at its mouth, his red robe immaculate despite the filth of his surroundings. Outside, under a bruised sky, the Orcs labored. Crude voices barked and snarled as they hauled timber, lashed sinew, and hammered bone pegs into place. The trebuchet—his design—rose like a skeletal titan against the horizon. He allowed himself a thin smile.

​“Savages,” he murmured, though there was a note of pride beneath the contempt. “Yet so easily guided.”

​Behind him, deeper in the cave, something pulsed.

​Timinus turned. Resting upon a jagged stone altar lay the Daemonicum. It was no mere box; it devoured the light around it. Black beyond black, its surface seemed carved from a substance that refused the world’s laws. Runes crawled across it—never still, never fully readable. Looking too long made the mind itch.

​He approached slowly, as though greeting an old friend. Or a patient master. His fingers hovered, then settled upon its surface.

​Cold. Not the cold of winter, but of absence. Of the void. The whispers came, as they always did, and with them, memories.

​Timinus’s thoughts drifted back to a childhood on the farm, to his twin brother Adhumla, and then to his father—and the fateful night he had killed him to take the Daemonicum as his own. Memory brought back the smell of his father’s burning study, the sight of the blood-covered body, and the confused look on his wounded brother's face. Years of trials and tests had followed as he tried to unlock the artifact's true power, all to no avail. In truth, as he mulled over those memories, he realized he had been rash in his eagerness to gain power. Killing his father had been a mistake; by doing so, he had killed the one person who could have shown him how to open the Daemonicum.

​Timinus shook his head slowly.

​The cave returned. The Orcs still labored. The trebuchet creaked as its frame took shape. Timinus withdrew his hand from the Daemonicum.

​“Soon,” he whispered. “At last, I have found another who knows your secrets. An old sage, a one-time companion of my father. My army will capture him, and I will make him tell me your secrets. He will tell me how to open you.”

​Outside, an Orc bellowed in crude excitement as a massive beam locked into place. War was coming to the little village of Braghafen, and with it, the key. Timinus glanced toward the cave entrance, as if expecting someone.

​“Brother,” he said softly, almost thoughtfully. “If you still live… I wonder which of us will reach the truth first.”

​The Daemonicum pulsed once, like a heavy heartbeat.

The village of Braghafen clung stubbornly to the ragged edge of civilization, where the last banners of the Empire gave way to the lawless expanse of the Border Princes. Timbered houses leaned into the wind, fields stretched thin across rocky soil, and every man, woman, and child knew how to grip a blade when needed.

Victoria Seacrette knew it better than most. She stumbled through the village gate at dusk, boots caked in mud, cloak torn by brambles, breath coming hard. The watchman barely had time to shout before Victoria pushed past him, heading straight for the council hall. Inside, Mayor Grunchild sat hunched over a rough-hewn table, talking in low tones with Captain Gunter of the Braghafen militia. Both men turned as Thomas burst in.“Orcs,” Victoria said, not bothering with ceremony. “A warband. Big one.”Silence fell like a hammer.“How big?” Gunter asked, already rising to his feet.“Hundreds. Maybe more. A few days’ march, no less.” Victoria swallowed, then added, “They’re not just some wandering band. They’re building something.”Grunchild frowned. “Building?”“A war machine. Big as a barn. Looks like a trebuchet.” That drew a curse from Gunter. “Since when do orcs build siege engines?”“That’s not the worst of it,” Victoria said quietly. “They’re organised. Scouts posted. Patrols moving in formation. Someone’s leading them.” The mayor leaned back slowly, his face pale but composed. “Then we leave.” Gunter snapped toward him. “Leave?”“We take what we can carry and head into the hills,” Grunchild said firmly. “Hide until they pass or lose interest. We cannot withstand a siege engine, Captain. Not with farmers and hunters.”“And if they don’t pass?” Gunter shot back. “If they burn Braghafen to the ground anyway? You’d have us cower while they smash our homes?”“I would have us live,” the mayor replied, steel creeping into his voice. “A dead man defends nothing.”“And a man who runs defends even less.”Their voices rose, tension coiling tight as a drawn bowstring.“Enough,” Victoria muttered, though neither listened.

Then the air changed. A chill swept through the room, though no wind stirred. The lantern flames flickered, stretching unnaturally, and a faint shimmer gathered in the corner—like starlight caught in water. From that shimmer, a man stepped forward. He was tall, pale, and clad in robes of deep blue that seemed to ripple like the night sky itself. Tiny points of light glimmered across the fabric, shifting as though alive. His eyes were calm, but ancient in their depth. Gunter’s hand went to his sword. “Name yourself.”The stranger inclined his head. “Adhumla Brightsoul.”Grunchild blinked. “A wizard?” “A practitioner of the magic arts , yes,” Adhumla said. His voice was smooth, measured. “And a friend, if you will have me.”Gunter didn’t lower his hand. “Convenient timing.”“I go where I am needed,” Adhumla replied. “And you will need more than steel and courage to face what comes.” Victoria stepped forward. “You know about the orcs?”A faint shadow crossed the wizard’s face. “I know enough.” Grunchild studied him carefully. Fear warred with hope in his expression, but in the end necessity won. “If you truly mean to help us, then you are welcome in Braghafen.” Gunter exhaled sharply but gave a curt nod. “We’ll need every advantage we can get.” “Then prepare your people,” Adhumla said. “Fortify what you can. Gather your militia. When the greenskins come, they must find not prey—but resistance.”The mayor straightened. “Very well. We stand.”Gunter allowed himself a grim smile. “Good. I was getting tired of arguing.”

Orders began at once—bells ringing, villagers gathering, tools turning into weapons. Fear spread quickly, but so did resolve. As the village stirred into motion, Adhumla stepped quietly outside, away from the noise, into the dimming light of evening. He stood alone beneath the first emerging stars, his gaze fixed on the distant hills.“Timinus…” he murmured. The name tasted bitter in his mouth. His twin brother. His opposite. Where Adhumla’s magic shimmered with clarity and purpose, Timinus Blacksoul reveled in shadow and ruin. If the scout Victoria spoke true—and Adhumla had no doubt she did—then this was no mere orc raid. Greenskins did not build machines of war with discipline and foresight. Not without guidance. Not without manipulation.“Why here?” Adhumla whispered. “Why Braghafen?”No answer came, only the cold hush of the frontier. But he knew one thing with certainty: whatever his brother sought, it mattered. Timinus never acted without reason—and never without cruelty. Adhumla’s jaw tightened.“Then I will deny you,” he said softly. “Whatever your purpose… it ends here.”Behind him, Braghafen prepared for war. Ahead, somewhere in the darkening wilds, an army gathered and between them stood a single village—and two brothers bound for collision.

Power, Murder and Corruption

 

Warm spring air drifted through the open windows of the tower, carrying the scent of pine forests and fresh rain from the hills below. Birds called from the trees beyond the cliffs, and golden sunlight spilled across the stone sanctuary that clung to the edge of the precipice.

At the top of the tower, beneath a ceiling painted with faded constellations, the twins stood before their father.

Two years had passed since Baygar Brightsoul had ridden into their family farm and upended their lives. For two years, he had traveled with them, ultimately bringing them to this isolated tower. He was not merely teaching them how to utilize their immense natural talent for magic; he was training them for a heavier burden. He was preparing his sons to inherit his sacred duty—to become the future protectors and custodians of the dark artifact he had spent his life guarding. Without discipline, Baygar had warned, their gifts would grow dangerous, and they would never be strong enough to withstand the burden to come.

“Again,” the old wizard instructed calmly. Though age weighed heavily upon him, there was a deep strength hidden beneath his grey beard and weary eyes. His robes were lined with protective runes, and arcane power seemed to hum quietly around him like heat before a summer storm.

Adhumla stepped forward first. He closed his eyes, steadied his breathing, and raised one hand. Fire curled smoothly around his fingers before gathering into a perfect orb of flame hovering above his palm. It was controlled. Focused.

Their father smiled faintly. “Good. You are learning restraint, Adhumla. A custodian must possess an unshakeable mind.”

Timinus rolled his eyes, his sharp features twisting into a sneer. “Restraint is slow.”

With barely a gesture, violet sparks burst from Timinus's fingertips. They whipped wildly through the room before crashing into the far wall in a violent shower of energy. Books tumbled from the shelves. Candles flickered out.

Their father frowned, though a flicker of reluctant admiration remained in his gaze. “You have immense talent, Timinus. Both of you do. But talent without discipline is destruction waiting to happen. The burden we guard will exploit any fracture in your resolve.”

Timinus barely listened to the lecture. His attention had already drifted toward the black box resting in the corner of the study, securely housed under a shimmering, magical cage of light.

The Daemonicum.

Timinus was utterly fascinated by the strange black artifact. Its metalwork was carved with intricate, horned, demonic imagery that made the very air around it feel wrong. Candlelight dimmed in its presence. The twisted runes etched across its surface seemed to shift and writhe whenever they were viewed from the corner of the eye. Adhumla hated looking at it, feeling the same instinctual revulsion he felt toward predators in the woods.

But Timinus could not stop staring.

Their father noticed the boy's fixation immediately. “You are never to touch it,” he warned sharply.

“Then why keep it here?” Timinus asked, his voice laced with challenge. “If we are to be its protectors, shouldn't we understand it?”

The old wizard’s expression darkened. “Because it cannot be destroyed.” He stepped slowly toward the force cage housing the artifact. “When I was young, my companions and I found the Daemonicum beneath a ruined temple in the Border Princes. Entire settlements had slaughtered themselves under its influence. Men killed their own families simply to possess it.” His voice lowered to a harsh whisper. “It whispers. It tempts. It corrupts. And worse, it acts as a horrific catalyst—enhancing the magical powers of evil spellcasters, drawing upon the dark to make them far more powerful than their natural talents would ever allow.”

Adhumla felt a chill run down his spine despite the warm evening air.

“But if it is so dangerous,” Timinus pressed, taking a step forward, “why not bury it somewhere deep beneath the earth where no one can ever find it?”

“Because there are always those who search for forbidden power. My companions and I swore a sacred oath to guard it until death, and I brought you here so that one day, you might take up that watch.” The old wizard fixed both sons with a hard, unyielding stare. “And neither of you will ever open it.”

Timinus said nothing, but his sharp eyes lingered on the box long after the lesson had ended.

That night, the tower fell quiet beneath the soft sounds of a spring wind brushing through the trees. Moonlight spilled like silver across the study floor as Timinus crept up the spiral staircase alone.

The Daemonicum sat waiting in the darkness.

The whispers began the moment he approached. They were not words at first, but promises—feelings of power beyond imagination, of freedom from weakness, of a world where no one could ever stand above him again. Timinus reached toward the force cage almost unconsciously.

The instant his fingers brushed the barrier, the cage's powerful magic dissipated, unraveled by the sheer force of Timinus's raw, natural talent.

But hidden runes beneath the Daemonicum registered the loss of the protective ward immediately. The magical alarm made no sound and gave Timinus no warning, but in his bedchamber below, Baygar awoke with a start.

In the study, the whispers grew deafeningly loud. Timinus’s breathing quickened as he stared at the artifact.

Suddenly, the heavy study door burst open.

“Timinus!”

Their father strode into the chamber. For a brief, terrifying moment, genuine fear crossed the old wizard’s face. “Step away from it. Now.”

Timinus spun around, startled but instantly defensive, his anger flaring. “Why should I?”

The old wizard lifted his staff carefully. “Leave the box and walk away, son.”

Instead, Timinus turned back to the Daemonicum and laid his bare hand directly upon it.

Sensations erupted through him. Sensing its long-awaited chance to escape Baygar’s custody, the Daemonicum surged to life. It recognized the immense, raw potential within the boy and immediately began feeding his malice. Dark, oily energy flowed from the box and into Timinus’s veins, forcibly amplifying his already formidable magic. The whispers screamed in his mind, elevating his natural talents to terrifying, monstrous heights.

“You hid this from the world,” Timinus spat, his eyes reflecting a sickening purple light as the Daemonicum's power filled him. “You’ve kept this power locked in a cage. You are a fool.”

The old wizard shook his head sadly. “I protected the world from it. I protected you and your brother from it.”

“You feared power!” Timinus roared. “I don't fear it. I crave it!”

Arcane energy crackled violently around Timinus’s hands, turning a dangerous, bruised violet, burning far brighter and hotter than any spell he had ever cast before.

The old wizard reacted instantly. Silver chains of magical light erupted from the tip of his staff and lashed toward Timinus, wrapping tightly around his arms and chest. “Do not force me to bind you!” he shouted.

Timinus roared with fury. Fueled by the Daemonicum's dark amplification, a shockwave of raw, black-violet power exploded outward from his body. It shattered the silver bindings instantly and blasted heavy tomes from the shelves.

His father grimaced, bracing himself against the wind of the impact, realizing with horror that he was no longer fighting just his son. “You are not in control!”

The wizard slammed the base of his staff against the stone floor. Runes ignited across the chamber walls as an invisible, crushing force crashed down on Timinus, trying to pin him to the ground. For a heartbeat, it worked.

Then, drawing directly upon the dark catalyst beneath his hand, Timinus unleashed a bolt of crackling violet energy directly at his father's chest.

The old wizard barely raised a force shield in time. The blast smashed into the barrier hard enough to drive him backward across the room, his boots skidding over the stone.

“Timinus, stop this!” he pleaded.

But Timinus attacked again immediately, hurling wild, destructive streams of magic without hesitation. The old wizard fought defensively, weaving barriers and binding spells, trying desperately to subdue rather than harm his flesh and blood. Bands of blue light coiled around Timinus’s legs. A cage of force formed around him.

Timinus tore through both with brute, terrifying magical strength, the Daemonicum feeding his rage and shattering every defensive ward his father threw up. Furniture splintered apart. Windows exploded outward, showering the night air with glass shards. Arcane energy flashed through the chamber like a localized thunderstorm.

With every spell countered, their father’s breathing grew heavier, his strength waning against the artifact's overwhelming power. Timinus saw the old man weakening and pressed harder.

“You should have taught me everything!” the boy shouted.

“I tried to teach you wisdom!”

“I don’t want wisdom!” Timinus roared. “I want power!”

He hurled both hands forward. A massive bolt of black-purple energy, amplified to lethal proportions by the Daemonicum, struck the old wizard square in the chest, shattering his protective barrier completely. The impact hurled Baygar violently against the stone wall. His ancient oak staff cracked in half, clattering to the floor, and the wizard collapsed into a motionless heap.

For a moment, the room fell dead silent, save for Timinus's ragged breathing.

The old wizard looked up weakly, his vision fading. Pain and heartbreak filled his eyes, far heavier than any anger. “Timinus…” he whispered.

Timinus hesitated only briefly. Then, letting the coldness that had lived within him since childhood take over completely, he unleashed another bolt of energy. The impact struck the old wizard directly.

His body went entirely still. Silence consumed the study.

The rapid sound of bare feet sprinting up the spiral stairs broke the quiet.

Adhumla burst into the chamber, wearing only his nightshirt, his chest heaving. He froze instantly. Their father lay motionless beside the shattered wall. Timinus stood above the body, clutching the dark form of the Daemonicum to his chest.

“No…” Adhumla whispered, his voice cracking with sudden, overwhelming grief. “Timinus… what have you done?”

Timinus turned slowly, his eyes cold, distant, and burning with a dark, borrowed power. “What was necessary.”

“You murdered him!”

“He was weak.”

Anger, hot and blinding, flooded Adhumla’s face. A scream of pure, unbridled rage tore from his throat. Fire erupted around his hands, burning brighter and hotter than it ever had during their lessons. He launched forward, hurling a blazing wave of solar heat across the chamber.

Timinus countered with a shield of crackling violet force. The two spells collided violently in midair, exploding outward in a burst of energy powerful enough to make the entire tower groan.

The brothers attacked each other relentlessly. Adhumla fought with a fury sharpened by grief, his flames roaring with the strength of his broken heart. Timinus answered with raw, destructive malice, entirely uncaring of how much damage he caused to the structure around them. Arcane blasts tore chunks from the stone walls, shelves collapsed into kindling, and ancient artifacts shattered into dust.

Adhumla drove Timinus backward with a relentless stream of fire, but Timinus channeled a crushing wave of kinetic force that caught Adhumla off guard, hurling him across the room.

Adhumla slammed hard against a stone pillar. At that exact moment, a burning lantern crashed from a broken shelf nearby. Oil spilled across the floor, and the flames ignited it instantly. The fire spread rapidly through the study, catching the heavy velvet curtains and racing up the ancient wooden beams overhead. Thick, choking smoke began to fill the chamber.

Timinus, realizing the tower was lost, began chanting words of dark power, summoning a swirling blue vortex beside him—a teleportation spell.

“No!” Adhumla shouted, coughing violently as he struggled to his feet.

Timinus looked down at his twin one last time, his gaze utterly devoid of brotherly love. “You were always weak, brother. You could have taken this power for yourself, but you never had the strength.”

With a sharp thunderclap and a burst of warped, unnatural light, Timinus stepped into the vortex and vanished.

The study burned furiously around Adhumla as the flames consumed centuries of irreplaceable books and climbed higher into the tower walls. Coughing through the dense smoke, Adhumla crawled across the scorching floor to his father’s body, lifting the old wizard gently into his arms.

For several moments, he simply knelt there, weeping silently while the fire crackled and roared around them.

Then, slowly, the grief in his eyes hardened into an unyielding resolve. Tears streamed down his soot-stained face as he looked toward the empty space where his brother had stood.

“I swear it,” he whispered hoarsely, his grip tightening around his father. “I will find you, brother.”

The tower groaned ominously overhead as a burning timber cracked and shattered.

“I will avenge our father.” Adhumla stared into the raging inferno. “And I will reclaim the Daemonicum… no matter where you hide. That evil will never be allowed to poison this world again.”

Outside, the peaceful spring night gave way to rising plumes of black smoke as the tower burned against the stars, signaling the birth of a terrible war between two brothers.

A Life Less Ordinary

 

The years that followed passed quietly upon the family farm.

​The twins grew beneath warm hearth fires, rolling green hills, and the steady love of a family who never once treated them as burdens. Their grandfather taught them to mend fences and track animals through woodland mud. Their grandmother taught them patience, kindness, and the old songs of the valley. Their mother loved them fiercely with the whole of her heart, and though life upon the farm was hard, it was honest work filled with laughter and simple joys.

​Yet from the beginning, the boys were as different as summer sun and winter frost.

​Timinus was clever, charming when it suited him, and possessed of sharp eyes always searching for advantage. Even as a child, he hated labor. While Adhumla hauled water buckets until his shoulders ached, Timinus found ways to disappear before chores began. If caught, he smiled sweetly at his mother until her frustration melted away. He learned quickly how easily affection could be turned into a shield. When punished, he blamed others. When praised, he claimed more credit than deserved. Though handsome and quick-witted, there was something unsettling in the boy when he thought no one watched him—a coldness that seemed too old for his years.

​Adhumla was the opposite in nearly every way.

​Where Timinus avoided hardship, Adhumla embraced it willingly. He rose before dawn beside his grandfather to milk cows in winter frost and worked fields beneath the hot summer sun without complaint. He shared what little he had, defended smaller children from bullies, and possessed a gentleness that drew people naturally toward him. Animals trusted him instinctively. Dogs slept beside him. Horses calmed beneath his touch. Even the old farm cat, vicious toward everyone else, curled happily in his lap by the fire.

​As they grew older, the differences between the twins deepened.

​Then, shortly after their thirteenth birthday, strange things began to happen.

​At first, the incidents were small enough to dismiss as coincidence.

​When Timinus grew angry, doors slammed shut hard enough to shake the walls. Cups shattered beside him without being touched. Tools flew from shelves during his rages as though hurled by invisible hands. Once, after losing an argument with his grandfather, every lantern in the barn burst at once, showering sparks across the floor while the boy stood breathing heavily in the darkness.

​Adhumla’s powers revealed themselves far differently.

​Whenever joy filled him deeply, strange music drifted softly through the air—beautiful melodies played by unseen instruments somewhere beyond hearing. Candles burned brighter near him. Flowers seemed fresher after he touched them. During winter evenings, the farmhouse hearth flared warm and golden whenever he laughed.

​The family spoke little of such things, though fear quietly lingered beneath the surface. In lonely valleys, folk knew enough old tales to understand magic rarely brought peace.

​The first true incident came during autumn.

​Timinus traveled with his grandmother to the nearby village to purchase winter supplies. While she bartered with merchants in the crowded square, the boy wandered away into the narrow alleys behind the tavern.

​That was where the village boys found him.

​There were four of them, all older and broader than he was—farm lads with cruel smiles and the confidence of a pack. They mocked his fine speech, shoved him into the mud, and laughed when he tried to push past them.

​The largest boy grabbed Timinus by the collar.

​“What’s wrong?” the bully sneered. “Going to cry for your mother?”

​Something changed in Timinus then.

​The air grew suddenly cold.

​The bully’s grin vanished as invisible fingers closed around his throat.

​He rose, choking, from the ground, boots kicking wildly in empty air while his friends screamed in terror. His hands clawed desperately at his neck, though nothing held him. His face darkened to purple. Tears streamed from bulging eyes.

​And Timinus stood perfectly still.

​Watching.

​Smiling.

​Not frightened. Not confused.

​Enjoying it.

​The boy would have died had an old carter not rounded the alley at that moment, shouting in alarm. The unseen force vanished instantly, dropping the bully hard into the mud, gasping for breath.

​Timinus said nothing afterward—neither apology nor denial.

​But all the way home, hidden beneath his silence, he remembered the thrill he had felt holding another life helplessly in his grasp.

​And he liked it.

​The second incident came only weeks later.

​Adhumla had gone hunting in the forests north of the valley alongside his grandfather and several local woodsmen. Snow had begun falling lightly through the trees when they cornered a wounded wild boar deep among the pines.

​The beast exploded from the underbrush like a demon.

​Huge tusks tore into Adhumla’s grandfather before anyone could react. Men shouted. Spears thrust wildly. The boar collapsed at last beneath axe blows, but the old man lay crumpled in bloodstained snow, his chest ripped open and breath fading fast.

​The hunters could do nothing.

​One man quietly muttered a prayer for the dying.

​Adhumla fell beside his grandfather, clutching him desperately as tears streamed down his face.

​“Please,” he begged. “Please don’t leave me.”

​Then the light appeared.

​Soft golden radiance spilled between the boy’s fingers, growing brighter and brighter until the snowy forest glowed like sunrise. Warmth swept through the trees. The wind itself seemed to fall silent.

​The terrible wounds closed.

​Flesh knit together before stunned eyes. Blood vanished into unbroken skin. Within moments, the old man opened his eyes again, breathing steadily as though he had never been harmed at all.

​None of the hunters spoke for a long while afterward.

​Several fell to their knees.

​Others stared at Adhumla with fearful awe.

​Word spread quickly through the valley after that winter. Stories of the strange twin brothers traveled far beyond lonely farms and woodland taverns. Travelers carried tales from village to village—of the dark-haired boy whose anger could kill, and the golden-haired youth who healed the dying with light from his hands.

​Eventually, those stories reached the ears of a man traveling distant roads beneath many different names.

​Baygar Brightsoul returned to the valley on the twins’ sixteenth birthday.

​The boys were helping repair fencing when the stranger rode into the farmyard atop a great grey horse. Though older now, Baygar remained a striking figure in his dark cloak trimmed with fur, his neatly kept beard touched only slightly by age. The polished oak staff across his back marked him unmistakably as a wizard.

​Their mother recognized him instantly.

​For several moments, she could only stare.

​Baygar removed his gloves slowly, his eyes drifting from her to the twins standing nearby—one dark-haired and sharp-eyed, the other fair-haired and open-faced.

​Understanding settled across his features almost immediately.

​“They are mine,” he said quietly.

​No one answered.

​That evening, they sat together beside the hearth while rain battered softly against the farmhouse windows. Baygar listened carefully as the family recounted everything—the strange incidents, the growing powers, the fear spreading through nearby villages.

​The wizard’s expression grew grave.

​“Magic is not a gift left untaught,” he explained. “Without discipline, it becomes dangerous. Uncontrolled power destroys not only others… but the wielders themselves.”

​Timinus listened with hungry fascination.

​Adhumla listened with worry.

​Their mother sat silently, twisting her hands together.

​Finally, Baygar turned toward the twins.

​“You possess great natural ability,” he told them. “Greater than most born with such talents. If properly trained, you may yet master these powers rather than become slaves to them.”

​“And if we refuse?” Timinus asked.

​Baygar’s eyes lingered on him for a moment too long.

​“Then eventually, your powers will choose their own path.”

​The fire crackled softly in the silence that followed.

​At last, their grandfather sighed heavily and looked toward the boys.

​“You cannot stay hidden on this farm forever.”

​Their mother’s eyes filled with tears, though deep down she already knew the truth of it. The valley had become too small for what her sons were becoming.

​Baygar rose from his chair.

​“Come with me,” he said. “I will teach you to control what lives inside you.”

​Outside, night settled over the valley while unseen beyond thick clouds, Morrslieb waited patiently in the dark.

Born Under Ill Omen

 

The cold had teeth that night.

​Snow lay thick across the valley floor, untouched except for the narrow wagon tracks leading toward the lonely farmhouse. Frost clung to the fence posts like pale fingers, and every breath hung silver in the air. Above it all, glaring down from the clear, cold sky, Morrslieb—the Chaos moon—shone full and swollen. Even through the clear winter sky, its sickly green light stained the snow faintly emerald, as though the land itself had begun to rot beneath the moon’s gaze.

​Baygar Brightsoul drew his fur-lined cloak tighter as he approached the farmhouse. Ice crackled beneath his boots while the wind tugged at the ends of his dark hair and neatly kept goatee. A polished oak staff rested in one gloved hand, its iron fittings glimmering faintly in the moonlight.

​Warm lantern glow spilled from the farmhouse windows ahead—a welcome sight.

​The farmer who opened the door was a broad, sturdy man with weathered hands and tired eyes made kind by years of honest work.

​“Well now,” the farmer said, looking the traveler over carefully. “You’ll freeze solid out there. Come in.”

​“You have my thanks,” Baygar replied warmly.

​The farmhouse smelled of stew, baking bread, and woodsmoke. The farmer’s daughter glanced up from setting bowls upon the table and nearly forgot what she was doing. The stranger was handsome in a way unlike the men of the valley. Refined. Educated. Dangerous, perhaps, though not cruel. His voice carried the confidence of a man who had seen distant lands beyond muddy fields and sheep-covered hills.

​The girl listened to him all through supper. Baygar spoke of towering cities in the Empire, Dwarven halls carved beneath mountains, and ships sailing black oceans under foreign stars. The farmer laughed heartily at every tale while filling the traveler’s cup again and again.

​His daughter barely touched her meal. Several times she caught Baygar watching her across the table. Several times she blushed and looked away too slowly.

​By midnight, the farmhouse had gone quiet. The farmer and his wife snored softly in their bed, and the fire had burned low. But the farmer’s daughter lay awake beneath her blankets, staring at the pale green light creeping across her ceiling. She knew this was foolish. Wicked, perhaps. At least, her parents would think so. Yet her heart would not listen to reason.

​Quietly, she rose, wrapped herself in a wool shawl, and slipped out into the freezing night. Snow crunched beneath her boots as she crossed the yard toward the barn. Her breath misted before her face while Morrslieb bathed the world in its unnatural glow.

​Inside the barn, it was warmer. Horses shifted lazily in their stalls while the scent of hay filled the air. Baygar lay beneath a blanket near the far wall, though his eyes opened before she spoke.

​For a long moment, neither of them said a word. Then Baygar smiled faintly.

​“You should not be here.”

​“I know,” she whispered.

​Outside, the winter wind sighed across the valley under the mournful light of Morrslieb.

​The next morning dawned bitterly cold and grey. The girl woke smiling, but for only a moment before she saw Baygar already dressed for travel, fastening his cloak.

​“You’re leaving.”

​“I must.”

​The hurt in her voice made him pause. Baygar stepped close, taking her hands gently in his own.

​“You are kind,” he told her softly. “And I will remember you long after greater places and greater people have faded from memory.”

​“Then stay.”

​Sadness flickered briefly across his face.

​“My road leads elsewhere. A wizard’s life is not one that leaves room for love… nor for settling beside a hearth.” He kissed her forehead softly. Then he turned and walked out into the snow.

​She stood in the barn doorway watching him disappear down the frozen road beneath the breaking light of dawn, never once looking back.

​Nine months later, the valley shook beneath the fury of a terrible storm. Rain lashed against the farmhouse windows while thunder rolled across the hills hard enough to rattle the shutters. Lightning split the night sky in blinding white flashes.

​The farmer stood helplessly near the kitchen fire, twisting his cap nervously in rough hands while his daughter cried out from the next room. Old Gert stood at the window, peering uneasily toward the heavens.

​“Hmph,” the old woman muttered. “Not seen a storm this wicked since I was a girl.”

​The farmer glanced at her anxiously.

​“They used to say nights like this were bad omens,” Gert continued. “Said it was a sign the Gods were offended.”

​The farmer’s face tightened with worry. Old Gert snorted sharply.

​“All nonsense, of course. Fool tales for frightening children. Don’t stand there looking ready for a funeral. Boil more water.”

​As the farmer turned toward the kettle, Old Gert quietly made the sign of Sigmar behind his back. Just in case. Then she gathered another bundle of towels beneath one arm and added casually, “And be quick about it. Your daughter’s giving you twin boys for grandchildren.”

​The farmer nearly dropped the kettle into the fire.

​A week later, the storm had passed. Sunlight spilled warmly through the farmhouse windows while the farmer’s daughter sat in bed nursing her children. Already, the twins seemed utterly different. One had dark hair and solemn eyes that wandered the room with strange intensity for a child so young. The other was fair-haired and smiling, happily grasping at his mother’s fingers.

​Her father and mother stood nearby, grinning proudly as only grandparents can.

​“Have you settled on names yet?”

​She looked down lovingly at the boys.

​“Yes.” She kissed the dark-haired child gently upon the brow. “Timinus.” Then the smiling blonde babe. “And Adhumla.”

​Outside, the valley lay peaceful beneath clear skies washed clean by rain. No one in that little farmhouse could possibly know what fate awaited the brothers—that Timinus would one day grow into a terror spoken of in fear across kingdoms, a shadow that would darken the world itself; nor that Adhumla would rise against him, a shining beacon of hope in an age drowning in despair.

​For now, they were only children. Two sleeping infants beside a farmhouse hearth while far above them, hidden by the power of the sun's brightness, Morrslieb lingered, pale and watchful.

A Pact is Made

 

The burial chamber had waited in silence, deep below the earth of the lands known as the Border Princes, undisturbed for centuries.

​Five figures moved through the shadows, guided by the witchlight of Baygar Brightsoul’s staff. The witchlight cast a thin island of light across black stone walls carved with demonic faces and twisted runes. Dust drifted through the stale air, smelling faintly of copper and old rot. Somewhere far behind them, deep in the maze of tunnels that formed the tomb complex, an ancient mechanism still groaned from the last trap they had survived.

​At the chamber’s threshold stood the survivors.

​Baygar Brightsoul leaned heavily on his ash staff, his fine blue robes torn and blackened with soot. Blood from a cut above his brow had dried into his handsome goatee. His tired eyes swept the chamber with the caution of a man who understood that the deadliest thing in a tomb was rarely the obvious thing.

​Beside him, Silas Tun flashed a grin despite the purple bruising around his throat.

​“Well,” the thief murmured, “if we die in here, at least we die wealthy.”

​“That’ll be the first honest thing ye’ve said in three days,” growled Artek Stonesson.

​The dwarf shoved past him with a heavy scrape of iron boots. His rune-carved battle-axe rested across one shoulder, its blue symbols glowing faintly in the dark. Artek’s broad face looked as if it had been carved from unhappy granite. Old scars crossed his shaved scalp and thick nose alike.

​Timbul Appleton hurried after him, almost jogging to keep pace with the dwarf’s long strides.

​“Oh, leave him alone, Artek,” said the halfling cheerfully. “If Silas hadn’t opened that gate, we’d all still be trapped in the corridor with those skeletons.”

​“Aye,” Artek muttered. “And if he hadn’t stolen the idol before that, the skeletons would never have woken.”

​“That’s called initiative.”

​“That’s called thievin’.”

​Sletva Svensdotter ignored the bickering. The tall northerner stepped into the chamber with her hand resting on her longsword, pale eyes studying every shadow. Sweat glistened on her muscular arms beneath rings of tarnished mail. Even here, in the belly of ancient evil, she moved with the calm certainty of a warrior who trusted steel more than luck.

​At the center of the vast chamber sat the Sorcerer King.

​His corpse remained upon a black throne shaped from volcanic glass. Dry skin clung to yellow bone beneath robes of faded crimson and gold. A crown of jagged iron rested crookedly upon his skull.

​Around him lay the remnants of forgotten, tarnished glory.

​Gold cups coated in green verdigris.

​Gem-encrusted weapons dulled by centuries of grime.

​Ancient banners reduced to rotted threads.

​A great bronze chariot decorated with snarling daemons.

​Enough wealth to buy kingdoms.

​But none of them looked at the treasure for long.

​Their eyes were fixed upon the chest at the foot of the throne.

​It rested atop a raised stone. The chest was banded in black iron and covered in faded symbols that hurt the eye if stared at too long. Tiny gargoyle faces leered from the corners, their mouths twisted in mocking laughter. Skulls had been carved into the metalwork in garish decoration.

​At the center was the lock.

​A great brass daemon’s face with curling horns and hollow eyes. Its gaping mouth formed the keyhole.

​The chest radiated evil; just being this close to it felt oppressive, like an unseen force pushing down on the would-be treasure hunters.

​Timbul swallowed audibly, the sound echoing in the stillness.

​“I don’t like that chest.”

​“Smartest thing you’ve said all day,” Artek grunted.

​Silas, however, stepped forward with immediate fascination.

​“Oh, that is beautiful.”

​“Beautiful?” Sletva said incredulously.

​The thief crouched before the lock, examining it with a craftsman’s admiration.

​“Look at the workmanship. Triple tumblers. Hidden catches. Dwarf-quality iron.” He frowned toward Artek. “No offense.”

​“I’m offended anyway, manling.”

​Baygar stared at the chest with growing unease.

​He could feel it.

​Power seeped from the iron seams like cold smoke. The runes along the chest shimmered faintly in his sight, dancing with an unnatural, sickening light.

​“Don’t touch it,” he warned quietly.

​Silas looked back over one shoulder.

​“I was only admiring it.”

​“And I’m only warning you.”

​The thief slowly stood. For once, he obeyed immediately.

​Baygar approached the dais carefully, every instinct screaming at him to turn back. The air smelled faintly of ash and fresh blood. As he neared the chest, whispers brushed the edge of his hearing—promises, secrets, power.

​His face paled.

​“Oh,” he whispered.

​The others turned toward him. Silas folded his arms. “That sounds unpleasantly serious.”

​Baygar nodded slowly.

​“It’s worse than serious.” His eyes remained fixed on the chest. “This is no mere treasure vault. That box is a gateway to realms beyond ours.”

​Artek spat on the floor.

​“Knew it. Whole damned place reeks of Chaos.”

​Sletva tightened her grip on her sword hilt.

​“What’s inside?”

​Baygar hesitated. Then, carefully, he reached out with trembling fingers and spoke an incantation. A soft blue light bathed the chest. Baygar's spell was designed to reveal a magic item's hidden purpose.

​The chest answered.

​A pulse of crimson light flashed through the iron bands. The daemon-faced lock seemed almost to grin. And suddenly, Baygar understood.

​“The Daemonicum,” he breathed.

​The name seemed to darken the chamber itself, swallowing the light of their lanterns.

​Timbul frowned. “What’s a Daemonicum?”

​Baygar took a slow step backward.

​“A Chaos artefact from before the time of Sigmar. A relic made by a Demon Lord to fulfill a terrible destiny.” His voice grew quieter still. “Something capable of opening a rift to a place far beyond the Mortal Realms. Even if it's not opened, its power could be harnessed to gift a mortal the power of sorcery.”

​Silas raised an eyebrow.

​“And its worth?”

​Baygar shot him a hard, warning look.

​“More than cities. More than your sanity.”

​The thief gave a low whistle.

​Artek immediately hefted his axe.

​“Then we smash it.”

​“No,” Baygar said at once.

​“Why not?”

​“Because objects like this do not break easily.” The wizard stared at the chest. “And if the legends are true, destroying it improperly could unleash whatever foulness its creator intended.”

​Silas took several cautious steps away from the dais.

​“That,” he muttered, “is useful information I would have appreciated earlier.”

​Suddenly, the temperature in the room plummeted. The stale air grew violently cold, turning their breath to sudden mist.

​Then the dead king moved.

​His jaw snapped open with a harsh crack like breaking timber.

​Timbul yelped.

​Sickly red fire burst inside the rotted monarch's eye sockets. Rising from his volcanic throne in a billowing cloud of ancient dust, the lich-king extended clawed fingers toward the chest.

​“THIEVES,” the corpse howled, a sound that vibrated in their skulls.

​Artek roared louder.

​The dwarf charged first, his axe swinging in a blue arc that missed his target and shattered one arm of the throne into fragments. The sheer force of the lich-king's backhand counter-blow sent Artek skidding backward across the stone floor. Sletva moved into the gap with disciplined precision, her blade punching straight through rotted ribs.

​The lich-king answered with sorcery.

​Dark fire exploded outward from his skeletal palms.

​Baygar thrust up his staff, chanting desperately. Golden light met the crimson flame in a violent collision that shook the chamber ceiling, raining dust and pebbles down upon them. Baygar’s ash staff groaned under the pressure, a hairline fracture spidering up the wood.

​Silas darted through the magical chaos like a striking snake. One knife buried itself deep in the corpse’s throat while the thief rolled beneath grasping claws.

​Timbul scrambled atop a treasure mound, drawing his bowstring to his ear.

​“Move yer ugly dead head!”

​His arrow flew true, piercing straight through one burning eye socket.

​The Sorcerer King screamed, his concentration breaking. The dark fire sputtered out.

​Artek, recovering his footing, drove his rune axe down, shearing the creature’s arm off at the elbow. Sletva followed through, a brutal arc of her longsword severing its spine.

​Baygar spoke words of power, and brilliant white fire engulfed the collapsing king entirely, consuming rotted bone to ash.

​The scream ended.

​Ash drifted silently onto the defiled treasure.

​Then there was only the sound of heavy, ragged breathing.

​Silas collapsed back against a pillar, clutching a bruised rib.

​“Well,” he gasped, “that was dreadful.”

​Timbul grinned shakily, lowering his bow.

​“I thought it went rather well.”

​Artek sat heavily atop the shattered remnants of the throne.

​“I hate tombs.”

​“You hate everything,” said Sletva, wiping black ichor from her blade.

​“Aye,” the dwarf admitted.

​Baygar approached the chest once more.

​Without the Sorcerer King, the fiery glow of the chest's runes faded to a dull crimson. Yet the chest still radiated a terrible, heavy presence, as though it listened patiently to their every word.

​The wizard looked back at the others.

​“No one opens this. Ever!”

​Silas blinked.

​“Something truly terrible happens if we do?”

​“Yes.”

​“That seems unreasonable. A chest should be full of gold, not world-ending horror.” The thief looked truly upset.

​Baygar willed himself to stare hard at the chest until it started to hurt, and then shut his eyes briefly.

​“If this artefact returns to the world,” he said quietly, “thousands will die. Kingdoms will fall. Chaos will prosper.”

​“Then bury it again,” Artek grunted.

​“No tomb lasts forever,” Baygar replied.

​Sletva nodded slowly.

​“He’s right.”

​The wizard looked down at the daemon-faced lock.

​“There will always be someone seeking power enough to claim this thing.”

​Silas sighed dramatically.

​“So the sensible option would be to throw it into the sea.”

​“And if some fisherman drags it up in a century?” Baygar asked.

​The thief thought for a moment.

​“…Fair point.”

​The chamber grew quiet again.

​Then Timbul spoke softly.

​“We keep it safe.”

​The others looked at the halfling. Timbul shrugged.

​“That’s what heroes do, isn’t it?”

​Artek barked a short, cynical laugh.

​“We’re not heroes, lad.”

​Sletva rested her sword across one shoulder.

​“Maybe not,” she said. “But we can still choose what kind of people we are.”

​Baygar slowly nodded.

​“The Daemonicum must never belong to kings. Or cults. Or ambitious wizards.” He drew a long breath. “I will carry it. Guard it. Hide it if I must.”

​Silas smirked faintly.

​“And the rest of us?”

​Baygar looked at them one by one.

​“I would ask for your help.”

​Artek rose from the broken throne, his boots crunching on stone fragments.

​“For gold?”

​Baygar smiled tiredly.

​“For the world.”

​The dwarf snorted.

​“World never did much for me.”

​Timbul beamed up at him.

​“But you’ll help anyway.”

​Artek glared down at the halfling.

​“…Aye.”

​Sletva stepped forward first. She drew her sword and planted it point-first into the stone floor between them.

​“Then I swear it,” she declared. “So long as I draw breath, no servant of Chaos will take that artefact.”

​Silas rolled his eyes theatrically but drew one of his throwing knives, placing the flat of the blade against hers.

​“Oh, why not? I swear too.”

​Artek lowered his heavy rune axe beside them.

​“By Grungni’s bones,” the dwarf growled, “if Chaos comes for that thing, they’ll choke on steel first.”

​At last, Timbul laid his small bow across the weapons.

​“And I’m with them.”

​Baygar looked at the circle they had formed beneath the dead king’s shattered throne.

​Five wanderers.

​Five fools.

​Five unlikely guardians standing in the heart of ancient darkness.

​The wizard placed his hand atop the others.

​“Then let it be a pact,” he said quietly. “From this day on, the Daemonicum is our ward, our mission, and we will stand together against any who would seek to wield its power.”

​Far beneath the earth, the ancient tomb remained silent.

​But behind the brass daemon-faced lock of the Daemonicum, something ancient and evil waited impatiently in the Realm of Chaos.