Heralds Of Oblivion Campaign Fanaly

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bondzy
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Heralds Of Oblivion Campaign Fanaly

#1 Post by bondzy »

I want to start by apologizing for taking so long to get this out. it was basically finished in may or jun of last year but the great fire wall of China kept me from being able to post it and as with all things I then forgot all about it. It wasn't until I read VictorK's official final piece that went "oh shit, I need to post that thing." I have taken a little time to try to bring it in line with what Victor wrote, though I suspect that may have missed some stuff and I feel like the ending I wrote is week but hopefully it will suffice. Thank you again to all the Lores For putting UIF together, I know it wasn't easy, especially with all our bi*eh hem whining about balancing ECT.

Dedication: The Heralds of Oblivion

The fog was so thick it muted the rhythmic sounds of the ores as the dip into the water. The milky greyness hid the other ships of great fleet from Alcurio’s view. He hated Sailing, the constantly shifting deck, the hours of boredom; He couldn’t even ride his horse to alleviate the stress. The rough wood of the bowsprit grated on his back, but there was no other place to sit on the cramped vessel so he tolerated it. The rough wooden planks that made up the ships decks pressed splinters into his behind, but long hours in the saddle had given him hard calluses so that we felt little.

Closing his eyes he went over his plan for the beach assault. In about five minutes he and his warriors would make their way down to the hold of this floating shit hole, to where the horse were stored. There they would mount, crammed together in the inky blackness like nurglings in a privy. There they would wait until they felt the jolting of the ship running aground on the beach. Then using some “special” powder Ra’they had provided him with, he would blow out the front of the hull, allowing Him and his Riders to charge directly from the ship. He shook his head, it was bad plan and he knew it, there were far too many things that could go wrong, killing him and his men. He had little choice though; the only other option was to fight on foot until the horses could be unloaded, one by one, from the ship, a process that would take hours.

If the plan worked though, oh if it worked, the Elves would be total caught off guard. A touch on the shoulder roused him from this contemplation. “Lord, the ship master says we are about twenty minutes from shore, should I start getting the men ready?” Nodding, he got to his feet. It was time to make The gamble, he just hoped the gods had rigged things in his favor.
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Ra’they stood stooped over the ad hoc work bench he had had set up in his personal cabin. His crock pot and other cooking supplies were neatly stored in a crate under his bed for once. The smooth, well polished surface of the workbench was now covered in ancient tomes and manuscripts, most piled atop one another. The whole mess emitted a musty, evil smell that now permeated the small room, though he hardly noticed it.

Holding a small elf skin bound codex in one had while following along the script on a scroll laid out on the desk with the other, He was picture of concentration. The great lord of change had favored him much in his three years on the Elves continent, but his thirst for knowledge was not satisfied. His electric blue eyes moved independent of each other, one reading the book while the other cross referenced what was on the scroll. He was so close to his answer he could taste it. His Snowy white coat bristled in excitement, Then there it was, his answer. The plainness of it was appalling, he should have seen it months ago when the little daemon had brought the changers message.

Using the hand that had been following along the scroll, he cleared away the workbench. Books and parchment went everywhere, but he paid them no mind. Seizing the crate that contained his alchemy supplies he quickly began to set up the necessary equipment. Test tubes and beakers were set up in unidentifiable pattern, other that the great car which he took to place them in exactly the right place.

There came a knock from the door. Ra’they bent the flows of magic, only meaning to open the wooden portal, but in his haste and frustration succeeded in tearing it from its hinges. A very scarred Northman stood in the doorway. “WHAT!!” he Roared, couldn’t the idiot see he was busy? “l..l..l..lord, The Shi…i.., The S..h..h..h.., the ship master says we’re about to make l….l…land” “Then get the men ready you idiot!!! I don’t have time for this! RA’THEY IS BUSY!!!”

Turing back to his work table he began to cackle, yes, he was so close. He had to be careful thought, oh yes; Ra’they had to be very careful. What good would his answer be if he lost his sanity in the process?
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Azazel leaned against the railing of the poop deck, watching his helms man steer the great vessel. The strange fog that seemed to have followed the fleet since it left Finuval Plain sealed them off from the rest of the world, making it seem like the sailed through the clouds instead of the ocean.

He sighed, The message from the Blood letter had weighted heavily on his mind these last few weeks, he knew what was to happen was inevitable, That the great lord of blood had deemed it to happen. Still, He constantly went over and over again in his mind his plans for how he would play his part. He fought the urge to draw his sword and start sharpening it. He had done that twice today and now its edge was sharp enough to split hairs. He was being given a great honor he told himself; this one act would propel him to the favored position in his god’s eyes. The power and glory that would be given to him would make his name eternal.

And yet, and yet. “Master, we’re only about a half hour from land” the helms man said, never taking his eyes from the now fixed compass. Azazel nodded, it was time. Pushing himself off the railing he made his way down the ladder to his men. Today they would spill the blood of elves in their most sacred place. Khorne had deemed it so.
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Valandil Cheered with the rest of his men as one of the one of the wrestlers taped out. The hold of the ship had been turned into an area, allowing his men to practice their before battle traditions. The hold was brightly lit by large red candles. It gave the hold a macabre air. The Bundles of provisions and supplies and been pushed up against the side of the vessel and now served as seating for those watching the proceedings.

Turing Valandil picked up his goblet. “Drink deep lads, you’ll find no finer stuff in the entire world!” he drained his goblet, the strong Northman mead stung and it oozed down his throat and put a fire in his belly. His men cheered uproariously, and began singing one of their many drinking songs. Drinking deep he settled back into his Chair and watched.

It was good for them men to blow off a little steam before a battle, helped them focus. They would need that focus, beach assault were always the bloodiest of battles, even worst then sieges. The sand would give out under your feet at a crucial moment and instead of killing your opponent he killed you. His men knew what to do though; they obeyed orders, fought hard and if they had to, died well.

The sound of someone sidling down the ladder leading from the deck brought silence to the room. Everyone looked at the man, who was panting in excitement. “We’ve spotted land! We’ve Spotted Land” The cheer was deafening, and then the hold became a scene of organized chaos. Men went everywhere, grabbing armour and weapons. Rising from his chair, Valadil waived to his personal armorer. It was time to find battle glory, the battle joy awaited him and he yearned for its embrace.

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Thoronthol , High prince of Yvresse, paced the battlements. The great Runed-sword Calenui was strapped to his waist; he could feel its call, its desire for battle, its need to seek out those who had despoiled his home land. He cursed, how could the council be so daft? The mass migration of the traitors had been so obvious, so logical, that only the extreme paranoia that existed among the high ones could account for it. Now instead of anticipating the chaos move and matching it, forcing the traitors to fight, the traitors now had a clear path to Ulthuan’s most sacred site!

He knew he needed to calm down, at the time the choice to stay in case the traitor’s tried to double back seem logical. No he wasn’t angered with the council, truth be told if it wasn’t for their insight, Ulthuan may have fallen long ago. No it was that blasted letter that was goading him to wrath. Retrieving the now well creased parchment, from his belt pouch, he unfolded it. Not for the first time he wondered what kind of hide it was made from and not for the first time decided he rather not know.

The writing was cramped, the letters strangely formed, like they had been written by someone who wasn’t used to the elfin tongue.

High Prince of Yvvarriss,
Often have you met us on the battlefield, showing courage and strength that is seldom known among you race. When all other fled before us you stood strong, defending those who had not the courage to defend themselves.
Why do you defend them? It is no secret that you find difficult with your ruling council, seeing their blunders while they are blind to them. It is no secret that though you are one of your people’s finest generals, you are regaled to a position of non-importance because of mere politics.
I will not insult your intelligence by pretending that this is anything but a letter of recruitment. You know as well as we do that lord Anar highly prizes great commanders as yourself, as do I. You would hold a high place among us, your battle prowess would be equally rewarded, a situation that you’ll surly agree isn’t being fulfiled by your current masters.
You have in the name of Malekith, spread death and destruction across Ulthuan. Wherever you go, the body’s of your brethren, laid low by your hand, are so numerous that they must be stacked like cords of wood. Where you army treads, oblivion follows. You know it is true, look to where you have been, you cannot deny it. In your heart you know this is because you fight for one reason and one alone, the love of bringing death and carnage to your enemies.
High Prince, would it not be better to fight along beings that hold high the same morals as you? To fight for the TRUE king of Ultuan? You do not have to answer this at once. As an act of good faith I will tell you that the forces of Anar are leaving this place in a few short hours. If you decide to leave off fighting for those you cannot understand you much less give you the glory that is rightly yours, you shall find us at the Tower of Qualme'lenya.

It was signed Setesh, commander of the Heralds of Oblivion. Crumpling the letter angrily, he threw it over the rampart. How dare they! He was nothing like them, NOTHING!! These traitors were butchers, unskilled in the ways of war and honor. How dare they compare his great accomplishments to their wholesale slaughter.

Yet a small voice in the back of his head whispered, did he really fight for Ulthuan? Was there not truth in letter? Did he not feel the battle joy come upon him as he slew his enemies, whether man or elf? Was he not worthy of far more?

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Ashin hated life. He hated his commander. He hated the damn mist that seemed that had rolled in the night before, soaking everything. He hated the fact that even though the war was being fought in the south, that glory and honor and political capital was freely flowing, he was stuck on this forsaken rock, protecting something he wasn’t even allowed to see.

He cursed the day when he had begged, BEGGED, to be included in Malekiths personal army. Stupidly believing it would be the fastest way to the fount of the war. Oh they had had some sport, at one point it had even looked like they were going to get to make a last stand, but the bastardly cowardice Chaos legions had fled, leaving him stuck with nothing to do but endless patrols.

He spat , leaning over in his high saddle so the phlegm wouldn’t hit his mount. His “war master” who was sitting his mount just a few feet away jumped at the sudden movement. “Stop jumping at shadows you idiot.” Ashin said contemptuously, the fool was a hold over form his father’s day, and by law would command Ashins troops until Ashin reached the age of reason, another two days away.

The old fool just looked at him dumbly “My apologies your lordship, the mist, it just reminds me…..” trailing off the idiot just sat there. “Is this about the Slave campaign again? Khaine hump you unborn grandchildren! I suppose you going to tell me all about the warriors in the mist again right?” The old Elf looked affronted, Ashin didn’t care though, he was having fun bating this moron. “Or will you start talking about the magic pipes that signal an attack? Or perhaps how their warriors can sing the mist from the very ground its self? Or maybe…glic.h.” The old Elf had seized him by the throat; the strength of his grip was surprising.

Ashin’s bulged in indignation, he tried to pry the mad elf’s hands away but found he was unable. “You listen to my you little cold one turd, You have no idea, NO IDEA, what it was like in those gods damned hills. If it wasn’t for your father I would kill you right now.” Letting go roughly the old elf road off into the mist, Ashin went apoplectic. “SIEZE HIM, SIEZE HIM!!” but his men just looked at him dumbly and pretended they hadn’t heard a thing.
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Daedelos Silver tongue reclined luxuriously on his silk cushion chaise. The pearl colored fog felt delicious on his exposed skin. He leaned his head back as one of his pleasure slaves began to rub his temples. A small smile of enjoyment crossed his face as the Elf girls talented fingers did their magic. The combination of her skills as a masseuse and her status as a high born, the sister of some ranking muckity muck in the loyalist grand council, made her the perfect slave.

As she worked her way down his face and on to his shoulders Daedelos stretched, extending his lanky frame to its full length. He thought about taking the girl into his bed, just for one last sacrament to the lord of pleasure before what promised to be the last battle of this campaign. He decided against it though, if the lord of secrets wasn’t pleased with him by now there was little he could do to change that.

So he lay there, enjoying the contrast of the warm smoothness of the silk and the Cold moistness of the mist. Soon he and his wolves would scourge the Island of the Elfin Dead. He wondered if he would see any of those he had kill there. It surprised him that he could no long remember what it had been like as a child to read stories about that place. It worried him little though; it had been a very long time since he had been anything close to an elf.

The ocean beat a slow tattoo against the hull of his ship, perfectly timed to the beating of his heart. A sign from the Dark lord he though, A good omen. Then there was a loud scraping noise and the Ship shuttered to a halt. Waving the slave girl away, he rose from his silken pillows and began to buckle on his midnight colored armour. The Heralds of Oblivion had arrived.
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Cadwaladr stood on the forecastle, peering into the mist. He wasn’t looking for land; he wasn’t sure what he was looking for. The sound of boots on the deck behind him told him it was almost time to get the men ready. Turing he was startled to find the huge form of a man striding towards him out of the fog .

The giant wore a cloak of the colour of the fields of Albion, his great sword in its black leather sheath hanging at his side. His Enclosed helm was made of the finest steal, the rings of his mail seemed to be forged from the very mists themselves. The eyes that stared out of the Helm were brown like aged bark of an oak while is hair was the colour of rich earth.

Beckoning the figure signaled Cadwaladr to follow him. Moving down the deck the pair made their way to the helms man’s station. The being seemed little disturbed by the rocking of the sea. As they reached the wheel he could see that the helmsman had left his post. The figure, who could be no one but Beli Mwar, the grate ancestral god of all Albion, Turned and pointed to the wheel.

“Steer the ship, I will tell you where to go” puzzled, He took the wheel, Turing it as the god directed.
“What are we going?”
“To a place of my choosing.”
“Are we not to fight then?”
“We are to fight, but not in the manner of elves. The point ears have forgotten the fear that kept them from approaching Albion, today we shall remind them of that fear. Do you not recognize this mist? Does its protecting embrace not speak to your soul? Albion herself has sent her mists to protect her sons in battle this day. ”
“Will you fight with us?”
“Yes, I will fight”
Cadwaladr nodded, Albion would be avenged.

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The Beach.

The elfin force waited silently on the beach head, hidden from view by the all encompassing mist. Their armor had long ago lost the bright shine of regular polishing. The dullness of their armor made the look like oddly shaped rocks, ever shaped by the tides of the wine dark inner sea. They knew the enemy would land here, it was the only place they could land coming from the east. The Eeriness of dawn seemed not to touch them , only adding to their stony appearance. Each solders face was a mask of determination, this was their holy site and they would defend it to the death.

Though they could not see the ships, the muffled splashing of their oars echoed thought the milky grayness. Then there scrape of wood on stones. It was time to die.
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Listen to this while reading
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XX-KjkdDozQ

Daedelos jumped lightly from the bowsprit, landing silently on the pebble beach. Rising, he waited a few seconds, listening to the wind, all was silent. He could see the shadow forms of other ships driving aground, the crunch and scrape of their hulls sounding strangely far away.
Then, in a great rush of wind, the mists disintegrated. The beach sloped up to a grassy ridge, and that Ridge was bristling with spear elves. Cursing He threw himself backwards, the sound arrows clattering against the rocks told him he had almost been too slow. Screeming up at his men to get the gang ways out he knew that unless they got up that beach fast they were all dead.
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Bron watched as huge blade like missiles from bolt throwers tore through rigging, cuting down masts like they were saplings, eviscerated deck crews and pierced hulls. Mage fire turned the sea to scalding steam. The army of his Master the Red Raider, and it was an army now, numbering nearly 400 warriors and 50 Cavalry, not the small war band they had 3 years ago, had commandeered 3 ships. 2 Sleek elven galleys and a great crumbling hulk of indeterminate origin. Herger and he had commanded the galleys , while their master Valandil Eluch had the hulk.

Despite the hulks apparent decreptitude it was a fast ship, easily keeping just ahead of it’s 2 sisters in the armada. Bron had wondered if he should have let the old Shaman sacrifice so many of the slaves from the oar decks to scrawl wards of protection on the prow of the ship. Perhaps speed would have been a better protection. A galley on their port side had then been burned to the water line in a matter of moments by a fiery bolt. Most of the slave crew and warriors it carried did not even have the time to jump overboard. Those that did make it into the water alive were dragged under by the weight of their chains or armor. Another fire ball had bounced over the waves towards them but had plunged harmlessly into a wave just short of his ship. Perhaps the wards were working after all. A great cry had gone up from a number of ships further to port. His eyes had been drawn to something flying just above the waves, but he could not see it clearly, it was hidden behind a mass of sails and masts.

A ship burst into flames and silhouetted against it was the unmistakable form of a dragon. It incinerated another ship before sweeping over a smaller craft and hoisting it from the water. Rigging, broken timbers and falling crewmen rained down onto the armada as it climbed higher and then it released the broken vessel to let it spear down into a larger galley. The keel of the galley was broken and the ship split in 2. The bows slipped quickly beneath the waters and the stern up ended and started to sink slowly. He could see men fighting desperately to stay on top of the wreck, to live a little longer. A galleon tried to manoeuvre around the sinking wreck and it’s rigging became entangled with that of another ship close alongside. How far was it to shore? Would they survive that long? He looked across the ship of his Master.

Valandil was on deck with half of the horsemen readying their insane mounts. They would run the hulk aground and drive it as far into the shallows as possible. The riders would force the horses to plunge the short distance from the deck into the water and ride through the shallows to the beach. The galleys having a shallower draft would get right into the beach. If he was lucky he might even keep his feet dry. The sound of splintering wood woke him from this fanciful revery. Herger’s ship had been hit on the water line by a volley of bolts. Four great slashes marked the hull and he could hear orders being given to begin bailing. A ship ahead of them suddenly stopped, burying it’s bows in the water, listing heavily. A mast collapsed. Men were screaming. What could stop a ship? A great scaled serpentine head rose from the water in answer to his question. The beast effortlessly pulled the ship over. Bron turned to Skeld on the drum, “we need to get on the beach now.”
“I know.”
“We need to go faster,” Skeld increased the tempo of his drumming.
“I know.”
He grabbed a lash and went down onto the oar deck. “Lash them harder,” he roared at his warriors. A number of the slaves had already died of exhaustion and slumped to the deck.”We’re all dead if we don’t get to that beach.” Back on deck he saw one of Teriash’s smaller galleys sweep past and loose a volley of bolts at the sea serpent. The sea turned red. It looked like Kormas’s ship would be the first ashore, which was just as well because the aft quarterdeck was fully ablaze. He could see the Black Pearl close behind it, the huge form of Azzazel Fellmane obvious in the prow, roaring his defiance at the distant enemy.
Bron looked back Herger’s galley, it was much lower in the water now and lagging slightly behind the 2 other ships, but the beach was not far away and they might make it. He scanned the skies for the dragon and saw it wheeling around for another dive amongst the ships.
“Skeld!”
“I know, more speed!”
Valandil had mounted his daemon steed in readiness for the landing and battle to come, he looked across the water at Bron and thumped his breastplate. Bron waved goodbye to his Master and friend, doubting he would see him alive again. “Die well,” he shouted across, but his goodbye was lost in the roar of the diving dragon.

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Alcario fidgeted, he could hear the sound of battle trough the hull of the ship. He couldn’t help but wonder what was taking them so long to reach ground. The sudden jarring if the ship was most disturbing, like it was being hit in the side by a giant. Looking around he could just make out the faces of his men, they were nervous, none of them wanted to drowned in the belly of some gods forsaken ship.

The ship shuttered violently, coming to a stop and almost throwing him from his mount. Righting himself he pulled the bag of magic powder that Ra’they had given him. “Gods be with us” He murmured and threw the bag as hard as he could.

The explosion was deafening. Heat washed over him like the fire from a thousand suns. Then he was looking out into daylight. The sudden brightness forced him to blink tears out of his eye. The thump of elven arrows hitting the pebble beach pulled him to the present. Drawing his sword he put his spurs to his mount. The horse was all too willing to leave the now wrecked ship and as he rode out on to the beach he could see that they had come in a little off course, The main battle was to the east of him, where the elves held a grassy hill that over looked the beach. Great bolt throwers were destroying the ships as they came in, slitting open their hulls and dumping their armored cargo into the sea. One of the Great War machines was only a little ways off and seemed to be unawares.

Turing to make sure his men were flowing he point to the giant crossbow “Let give these loyalist bastards a little surprise.
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Azzazel crouched behind large boulder, trying to get control of the situation. The men of the armada were getting slaughtered, coming in piece meal off the boats. He snarled as he realized how well the elves had played their hand. Peeking around the rock he had just enough time to see one of the Giant bolt throwers turn on the elves and fire.

The distraction was all he need. As the volley fire from their arches slacked he began sprinting towards the Elfin lines. The elves where in utter disarray, desperately trying to get cover as the wild blot thrower turned on its own. He roared orders at men as he passed them, wither they were his or not did matter, they had to get hand to hand with the loyalist bastards or be cut to pieces by their bows.

He dared only one look back, but it gave him strength. Streaming behind him the entire chaos force was charging up the 50 yard beach, men were streaming off the boats now that the missile fire had abated. Turing back he picked a point about mid way in the loyalist’s line. Focusing on that point as he ran his whole world became that point. That point then became a loyalist solder.

The killing frenzy was coming; he could feel it, the sweet seductive song of blood called to him. As he hit the now disorganized elf line and killed the solder he had focused on he let himself go to it.

It was glorious.
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Valandil fought for his life, the dragon rider’s steed proving to almost be a match for him. The great leathery serpent perched on the prow like some gigantic vulture. Only it spewed flames and disemboweled men with a swipe of its dagger like claws. Rolling sideways he narrowly missed being scorched by the dragon’s breath.

Coming up with his sword ready he made a quick cut at the beast underbelly. The dragon let out an earth shattering roar. The beast back handed him sending him flying. Striking what was left of the main mast with a sickening crunch he slid to the deck. Forcing himself to his feat he shook his head clear. The Dragon and his rider were gone though, screaming his indignation he ran to where the beast had dug it’s claws into the ship.

There was nothing there of course, just the great gouges from where the beast claws had dug into the wood of the ship. His fury at being denied his glory was over whelming, raising his fist to the sky he roar his challenge “ DAMN YOU HOLLIDAY REPS!!!”
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The roar and screech of battle filled the air, the gray pebbles of the beach turned black with the blood of the dead and dying. Few arrows flew through the air now, the archers having put up their bows and drawn their swords to help hold the line. The forces of Anar rolled up the beach like a great tidal wave, breaking against the elf, pushing the elfin line backwards.

The Sun burned hot in the mid morning sky, showing no mercy to those fighting and dying, draining them of energy and coating them sweat. Swords, axes and spear shimmered in the daylight, looking like little stars. Blood Glinted like emerald as it spurted from severed arteries.

The Elfin line was bulging in the middle, giving away as the furry of the invaders took its toll. Then the line broke, the warriors of Anar pushed through the last of the elf resistant, splitting the elf line in two. The elves, realizing the beach was lost to them, lost their resolve and began to fall back.

A great shout went up from the hordes of Chaos, many ran to slaughter the fleeing elves, but the sound of the horns called them back.

End audio
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Listen to this now
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0rSBYJcG ... re=related

Cadwaladr walked through the mist shrouded forest . The great trunks of the ancient trees were like black smudges in the clinging mist. The half hidden form of Beli Mwar strode head of him. His seven thousand men where spread out in battle order behind him labored up the steep slope. They strode with a purpose, each had a fire in his eyes. As he slope leveled off There was a break in the mist, allowing Cadwaladr to see for the first time where they had gone.

Stretched out before him was a wooded fortification in a valley. That fortress was the center of a whirling battle was taking place. Men and elves fought had to hand as great magic’s blew huge holes in the lines of solders. Great daemons waded through the combat reigning death on all those, friend or foe, which were in their path. Dragons soared through the air, breathing fire and brim stone.

Cadwaladr and his men were behind the Elf Stronghold, giving them access to an under guarded rear. Turing he could see his men watching the great form of their ancestral god.

The God turned and pulled a cloth wrapped bundle from under his cloak. Handing it to Cadwaladr, he looked out over the assembled men “Since time began the men of Albion have go into battle to the war music of the pipes.” He pointed at a small, runtish boy “You, Daffyd ap Grffyn, you were train by your father as a piper” pointing to the cloth bundle Cadwaladr held he said “plays us to war”.

The young man looked to scared to move, but Cadwaladr, seizing the moment, unwrapped the bundle and walked over to the lad. Handing it to the boy he patted him on the shoulder “you can do it lad”.

The lad, still looking like he would like to vomit, took the instrument, placing the balder expertly under his arm while positioning his fingers of the chanter.

He began to play. The song was death ballad of Albion, the song sung at a warrior’s death pyre. Some of the men began to sing along, and then more men joined in until everyone was singing.

The deep Earthen voice of Beli Mwar joined them. The sounds of the pipes echo from the hills, was in the hills, was the hills. The sound of the pipes echoed from him, in him, was him. The sounds of his and his men’s voices singing the death ballad, melded with the pipes, melded with the land, melded with the sky, melded with the mist.

Beli Mwar drew Drnwyn, his magic sword and pointing at the point ears line. “My sons, Albion crys out for vengeance, the blood of your wives, of your children, of you parents, of you brother and your sister, cry up from the earth. As long as one of you stands Albion stands, CYMRU AM BTYH!”

As one body, as one voice they began to run, to charge, the last charge of the sons of Albion. They poured over hill, down the hill. The elves tried turn, to prepare for the attack, but it was too late.

Cadwaladr ran as hard as he ever had, singing at the top of his lungs. His hair streamed behind him, the sword song came. Not the blood lust of the dark gods, but the pure joy of battle, the life that only a son of Albion can know. he could see the fear the elf face, the knowledge that death had come.

++++
Ashin stared dumbly as the wall of painted barbarians streamed down the hill towards him. He knew he should be doing something, but what that was would come, something about closing a gate. He didn’t have to think long though, as the barbarians smashed into the rear of his line, a sword took his head clean from his shoulders.

++++++++
Azzazel kicked away the dead black guard, where the hell was that damn music coming from? Then he saw it and his mouth drop. The hill behind the loyalist was shrouded in mist and out of that mist poured Painted warriors. At their front a great red dragon banner streamed. It was dieter! Roaring at his men to press harder he threw himself back into the fight.
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With the fury of men how had been enslaved the sons of Albion struck the elfin guards like a hammer strikes a forge soften piece of steel. The sound of their impact was like the crash of mountain peaks being struck by lightning. The Elves panic started as those in the closes to the vengeful tribe’s men tried to flee and those farthest away tired to push them forward.

Cadwaladr danced, his sword moved like the strike of an Adder. Elves fell before him like stalks of grain, and then the arrows started to fall. Men began to fall as archers on a platform of cut timbers spewed death down upon them. To his left Norse men poured around the corner of the fort. Gritting his teeth Cadwaladr fixed his eyes on the wooden barricade and charged.

End audio

Setesh stood in the water, his voice yelled horse. He had been used, used and then forgotten. The elfin archers mocked him by letting him live, showing that they did not deem him a worthy enough threat to spend a single precious arrow on. Going to his knees in he let the surf surge over him. There was nothing left but death.

A great hand Griped the back of his tunic, hauling him up out of the water.
“now we can’t have our great leader coming suicide m’lord” the gravelly voice of Azzazel Fellmane was unmistakable. Setesh eye expanded until they felt like they would pop of out his skull.

Fell man just held up a hand “Not now Lord, now we must get you to the Pearl.”
“The Pearl? Your Ship?”
“All will become clear on the Pearl”

As the black fleet flees east from the defeat of Aniath Anar, a single ship slips from the inner sea and makes west. It’s crew of Daemon elves, Cursed men, even a chaotic goblin are lead by a Khemri noble. What can be their purpose? What can be their destination? only time will tell, the only thing that can be know for sure is where ever they tread Oblivion will follow.
[b]Cadwaladr ap Cadwallon
Emissary of Oblivion[/b]
29/7/7
Elves skinned : 325
High Born Skins taken: Way Watcher, Khar, Prince Eldarion
Rivalry with Way Watcher : 5/1/0
little brother
Posts: 31
Joined: Tue Feb 10, 2009 10:40 pm
Location: In a happy place.

Re: Heralds Of Oblivion Campaign Fanaly

#2 Post by little brother »

Thanks for posting this Bondzy. I never got round to saving it before they closed down the campaign part of the site. Thought it was lost forever. I wish they would put up some of the other fiction people wrote. I will add another part to the battle at the beach if that's ok.

I am sure the Heralds of Oblivion will ride again one day.
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Obey Orders.
Fight Hard.
Die Well.

The Red Raider - Shadow Lord Valandil Eluch. The Crimson Herald 35/6/6. 499 Skulls
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bondzy
Posts: 38
Joined: Mon Feb 09, 2009 7:45 pm
Location: Galena, Ohio, USA

Re: Heralds Of Oblivion Campaign Fanaly

#3 Post by bondzy »

feel free to add on!
[b]Cadwaladr ap Cadwallon
Emissary of Oblivion[/b]
29/7/7
Elves skinned : 325
High Born Skins taken: Way Watcher, Khar, Prince Eldarion
Rivalry with Way Watcher : 5/1/0
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