Ba'kar Soulstealer and the Soul Hunters of Gorth

 The Empire men had broken before the sun had reached its zenith. Their dead lay scattered across the churned earth, their banners trampled into the mud, their courage spent beneath the axes and blades of the Dark Gods’ chosen. Yet some had fled, dragging their wounded comrades towards the distant tree line, foolishly believing that the forest might offer them salvation.

I smiled beneath my helm.

Let the warriors on foot claim the glory of the battle. Let the chieftains count their captives and the sorcerers gather their trophies. My brothers and I had been granted a finer privilege. We were the Soul Hunters, the chosen riders of Gorth the Great Obesity, and the souls of the fleeing were ours to harvest.

Once, there had been many of us. Once we had been called Dolgans. We had ridden beneath Thel, our chief, when he led us from the the great grass lands of the east, the land of our birth, into the embrace of our God. We had followed him willingly, believing that strength alone would carry us to glory. We had been naive then, knowing nothing of the true price of power.

Now I looked upon the warriors riding at my side and counted those who had not had the strength to follow our chosen path.

Some had turned away, their minds too weak to endure the truth of our new existence. They had clung to our old gods, their old honour, their old notions of right and wrong. They had mistaken weakness for virtue and paid for it with their lives. Others had sought the blessings of Gorth but lacked the strength to survive his favour. Their bones lay scattered across the many lands, or their bodies had been consumed by the very power they sought to serve.

The weak were food for the strong. The fearful were meat for the brave. And the souls of the fallen were the wine with which our master feasted.

I would not share their fate.

Ahead, one of the Empire soldiers stumbled over a fallen branch. His companion abandoned him without a second glance. I urged my daemon steed forward, feeling its powerful muscles bunch beneath me as we thundered between the trees. The man looked back. I saw the terror in his face, the desperate realisation that no prayer, no oath of loyalty, no last act of courage would save him.

His death scream was drowned out by my triumphant call to Gorth to witness the sacrifice I was sending to his feast hall.

There was a peculiar sweetness in that moment, when a man's hope dies before his body. I felt his fear as though it were my own strength, a dark warmth spreading through my limbs. His soul would soon join the countless others that had gone before him, stolen from the world of mortals and delivered to the insatiable appetite of Gorth.

My sword fell. His screaming ceased.

One more soul for the feast.

I turned towards the remaining fugitives. My brothers were already among them, their black armour glinting beneath the pale sky, their weapons falling and raising in rythmic slaughter . Above us fluttered the banner of our company, its caged soul forever reaching for freedom that would never come.

I knew that cage. I had seen its like in visions granted by our God. It was not merely a symbol of those we hunted, but a promise of what awaited those who failed him.

Yet I had no fear of the cage. Not anymore.

One day, I will be more than a warrior of chaos. More than a servant who gathers souls for my Gods pleasure. I will become Gorth's chosen, his greatest servant in the mortal world. Eventually I will rise beyond flesh and blood, beyond the petty struggles of mortal warriors, and claim the ultimate reward: ascension into daemonhood to sit at Gorth's side in his feast hall.

Let the weak flee. Let the faithless perish. Let the world tremble at the coming of the Soul Hunters.

I, Ba’kar Soulstealer, will prove myself worthy.

And Gorth will feast.

The Treasure of Kurgan Darksoul

Long before the coming of Sigmar, when the lands south of the Worlds Edge Mountains were little more than a wilderness of petty tribes, wandering warriors and isolated holds, there arose amongst the tribes of men a sorcerer king named Kurgan Darksoul.

An acolyte of the Dark Gods, Kurgan carved out a brutal empire with sword, sorcery and fear. His armies swept across the lands that would one day become known as the Border Princes, and those who opposed him were put to the sword. Those who submitted were taxed, enslaved and stripped of anything of value. Kurgan's treasure hoard grew with every victory, fed by the riches of conquered kingdoms, plundered tombs and the tribute of terrified subjects.

For many years Kurgan ruled without challenge.

Eventually, however, Dwarf and Man united against the tyrant. A great army marched against Kurgan and, after a bloody battle, the sorcerer king was finally defeated. Mortally wounded, he was carried from the battlefield by the last of his loyal followers. Knowing that their master was dying, they gathered his enormous treasure and carried both the king and his sizable treasure hoard to a secret place known only to them.

There, beneath an ancient hill, they constructed a great barrow. Kurgan Darksoul was laid amongst his treasure, and the entrance was sealed. The followers of Kurgan were slain or scattered soon afterwards, and the location of the barrow was lost.

Centuries passed.

Kingdoms rose and fell. Roads changed. Forests grew over ancient battlefields. The names of Kurgan and his enemies became little more than half-remembered tales told beside smoky tavern fires. Yet one part of the old stories never disappeared:

Kurgan possessed a treasure board beyond imagination.

And so, many centuries later, it came to pass that a small band of adventurers stumbled upon the lost barrow.

Inside they found the bones of the ancient king and a treasure hoard beyond their wildest dreams. Unfortunately, they could not carry it all. Reasonably enough, they took what they could and returned to civilization, intending to gather horses, wagons and enough trustworthy men to recover the rest.

They also swore a solemn oath that not a word would be spoken of their discovery.This might have worked but unfortunately, their party included a Halfling.

Bungo Blabfoot was a fellow of many talents. Unfortunately, keeping his mouth shut was not amongst them.

Several evenings later, having consumed considerably more ale than was good for him and attempting to impress a particularly attractive dwarven barmaid, Bungo let slip that he and his companions had discovered something rather interesting.

Something involving an ancient king.

Something involving a lost barrow.

And, most importantly...

A very large amount of gold.

By the following morning, Bungo had a terrible headache. By the following evening, half the taverns in the Border Princes were buzzing with rumours.

Within a week, the rumour had become a certainty.

The Lost Treasure of Kurgan Darksoul had been found!

Princes, warlords, mercenary captains, ambitious nobles and unscrupulous adventurers immediately began gathering their forces. Each intended to claim the treasure for themselves so, from every corner of the Border Princes, banners were raised and armies marched towards the forgotten barrow of Kurgan Darksoul.

Some seek wealth, some seek glory, Some seek the ancient relics said to lie amongst Kurgan's treasures

and perhaps, somewhere amongst them, there are even those who remember the old legends...

For the tales say that Kurgan Darksoul was not merely a king.He was a servant of the Dark Gods

and the last thing his loyal followers did before sealing his tomb was to swear that their master would one day rise again.

Whether that part of the story is true remains to be seen.

For now, however, there is treasure to be claimed.

Let the battle begin!

Victory points Common to All Generals

Objective	Victory Points
Kurgan's Barrow – Have one unit of your own troops occupying the Barrow at the end of the game.	+50 VP
A Share of the Treasure – Have a unit belonging to an allied player occupying the Barrow at the end of the game.	+25 VP
Loot the Barrow – Each successful looting of the Barrow.	+10 VP
Casualties – Each Rank & File model from your army killed.	–1 VP
Heroes & Wizards – Each Hero or Wizard from your army killed.	–2 VP
The General – Your General is killed.	–10 VP

Secret Objectives

Before the battle begins, each General secretly rolls 1D6. The result is known only to that General and must not be revealed until the end of the game.

1. You Hate That Guy!

There is one General amongst the enemy whom you particularly despise.

Randomly determine which opposing General is your hated foe.

+20 VP if that General is killed during the battle.

You don't necessarily have to kill him yourself. A dead General is a dead General.

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2. What's the Point of All This Gold if I'm Dead?

Your General has decided that discretion is the better part of valour.

+20 VP if your General is still alive at the end of the battle.

There is no shame in running away. Especially when you're running away with your life and a fortune in gold

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3. The Sword of My Forefathers

Your General believes that Kurgan's hoard contains the lost sword of his ancestors.

Each time one of your units successfully loots the Barrow, roll 1D6.

On a 5+, your warriors discover the ancient weapon.

+20 VP if the sword is recovered.

The sword counts as a basic magic weapon, with no additional attributes or special abilities.

Whether it really belonged to your ancestors is another matter entirely.

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4. Keep Your Enemies Close...

You have little faith in your ally. In fact, you rather suspect that he would be considerably easier to deal with if he were dead.

Your ally's General must be killed during the battle.

+50 VP if your ally's General is killed.

You may not deliberately attack your ally's troops. However, there is nothing in the rules preventing you from giving your ally extremely questionable tactical advice.

“Of course you should send your General ahead. What could possibly go wrong?”

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5. Kurgan Lives!

Your ancestors were followers of Kurgan Darksoul. You have no interest in mere gold.

You intend to restore Kurgan to life and return him to his rightful place as ruler of the Border Princes.

Instead of looting the Barrow, your General may attempt the Ancient Ritual.

Roll 1D6. On a 5+, the ritual succeeds.

Kurgan Darksoul rises from his tomb and joins your army as a Level 15 Liche, replacing your General as the army's commander.

+50 VP for successfully resurrecting Kurgan.

If the ritual fails, the Barrow remains unlooted and your General has wasted his time meddling with powers he clearly does not understand.

Whether a Liche is actually what Kurgan's followers had in mind is a question best left to the scholars.

6. Think of the Inflation!

Your General has considered the consequences of allowing Kurgan's enormous treasure hoard to suddenly enter circulation.

Such an influx of gold would surely have a disastrous effect upon the economy of his kingdom. Prices would rise, merchants would grow fat, and the value of honest coin would plummet.

Far better, therefore, that the treasure remain safely buried.

Your General has equipped himself with a quantity of magical explosives and/or black powder bombs for precisely this eventuality.

Instead of looting the Barrow, your General may attempt to destroy it. He must be personally present at the Barrow and spend one complete turn preparing the explosives. At the end of the turn, roll 1D6.

On a 5+, the explosives work.

KABOOM!

Kurgan's Barrow is blown to kingdom come, burying the treasure beneath tons of rubble and denying anyone the opportunity to enter it for the remainder of the game.

+30 VP for successfully destroying the Barrow.

The destruction of the Barrow may prevent other Generals from achieving their objectives.

The General must do this himself. His troops would never understand the economic necessity of the operation.

Thel Knight of Gorth the Great Obesity

 Across the frozen salt-flats of the Great Steppe, east of the jagged spires of the Mountains of Mourn, the wind  carried the faint, sickly scent of cooked flesh, smoke, and freshly spilled blood, the smell that always accompanied the host of Gorth, the Great Obesity.

At the head of the warband rode Thel knight of Gorth. Once a Chief of the Dolgans, one of the many nomadic human tribes that called the great steppe home, now Thel was Gorth’s chosen champion in the mortal realms.

 To look upon him was to gaze upon a lie frozen in time. Though he had sworn his tribe’s soul to Gorth centuries ago, no rot or bloated decay touched his flesh. He appeared as a warrior-lord in his absolute prime: a thick black beard and lavish, flowing hair, both spilling beneath an open-faced helm crowned with a snarling  daemon face. His plate armor, forged in midnight-black iron and heavy brass, bore the deep patina of endless battles, paired with a midnight shield that seemed to writhe with leering skull motifs. In his right gauntlet, he balanced a monstrous, barbed hunting spear. A weapon forged not just to kill, but to inflict the utmost pain as it did so, a weapon that could still the very life energy of Thel's enemies.

Beside him, the earth groaned.

Theograx shifted her immense weight, her scaly emerald hide glistening under the pale northern sun. She was an anomaly, a relic of an era before mortal reckoning. She had watched the skies when the Old Ones first arrived, and she had drunk deep of the raw stuff of chaos when their polar gates collapsed, warping her ancient blood with the curse of Chaos. After a millennia of slumber deep within the earth, it was Thel’s call that had pierced her dreams. For reasons the ancient creature could not comprehend—a binding tether woven by Gorth or pure cosmic caprice—she felt an inescapable obligation to serve him.

A low, subterranean rumble rolled from her chest as an inattentive Black armoured warrior rode too close. In a heartbeat, her dark-red dorsal plates flared, her slit-pupil eyes snapped wide with sudden, unhinged madness, and a plume of black smoke escaped from her nostrils. With an unearthly shriek, her neck snapped forward, sending an open mouth full of dagger-like teeth towards the unfortunate rider.

"Down, Old One," Thel commanded, his voice deep and smooth, carrying the weight of absolute authority. He did not raise his voice, nor did he flinch as her massive frame, supporting the red-and-black leather saddle—its high back shaped into a brass-trimmed, sneering daemon face—snapped back into obedience.

Instantly, the ancient dragon’s frenzy dissolved. The violent madness in her gold-flecked eyes melted into a look of bizarre, dog-like devotion. She pressed her massive snout into the dirt near purring with a sound like grinding millstones, crushing a dozen skulls under her talons in the process.

Thel stroked her dark red back crest, his barbed spear slung easily over his shoulder. The Old World to the west was ripe, bloated with weak men who mistook comfort for strength. Gorth was hungry, and Thel had found the ultimate hunter to ride into the feast.