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Thread: Narrative multiplayer battles

  1. #1

    Default Narrative multiplayer battles

    I have wanted to make a battle report for a long time. Not one where I just talk about units, the tactics my opponent and I use and all that, but a narrative one, where the battle may be something more than just a skirmish in a random location of the Old World. Winning or losing is secondary. What is truly important is to have fun and, if possible, make it interesting for the reader.

    As I am not the best player of Total War, not every battle posted here will be a victory. In fact, the army I am going to bring to these battles is more focused in being “fun” than actually competitive. That is the main reason its forces will be mostly made of goblins. Weak, cowardly, with some special troops so the battles do not end the same moment they begin. The commander, heroes and the troops they bring with them will have their names and little back stories, just to make it a little more interesting. After each battle, depending on how they do, I might add something to follow some sort of narrative.

    Anyway, here I leave you the “glorious army” I will be leading to victory (but most provably defeat) in my incoming battles!

    -Commanders:

    Bobo the Superlatively Superior Great Shaman of the Tribe of the Broken Tail: Ambitious, deceitful, mad…there are many adjectives which can be used to describe Bobo. Had he not been blessed by Gork (or Mork, his tribe still cannot agree on that) with the gift of magic, he would have provably ended up as supper for the trolls or pummeled to death with rocks by his many enemies. A constant consumption of all kinds of mushrooms from the deepest corners of his tribe’s mountain brought a boost to those powers (and also, a good deal of madness).

    After many “incidents” which almost blew up half the mountain they lived in, Bobo’s warlord finally kicked the mad shaman out, alongside with all of his drinking buddies. Not wanting to be turned into squig food by his new troops, Bobo assured them that he had not actually been kicked out. In fact, he, and those around him, had been given the chance, no, the GIFT, of marching North to join a WAAAAGH! Which would soon lay waste to the holds of the dwarves. The promise of plunder, a good fight and a chance to get to business with their most hated foes finally improved the band’s mood. In a matter of seconds, the night goblins, who had wanted to turn Bobo to supper, now hailed them as their leader and prophet!

    Some months of hardships, skirmishes and losing half of his band on the march, Bobo finally met (by luck alone) with the WAAAAGH! he had seen in his visions. Not impressed by the small, crazy goblin, but still needing someone to take command of his cannon fodder, Gazzrug, leader of the WAAAAGH! Allowed Bobo to join in and take command of the rear. With any luck, he would at least slow down a little whoever tried to surprise him.

    -Magic spells: Itchy Nuisance and Sneaky Stabbin'

    “I don´t know bozz, thoze stunties look really mean and…ONE BARREL OF MADHAT FUNGUS?! You zir have got yourzelf a deal! Come on boyz, it iz time for zome fightin’!”

    Bobo the Superalitvely Superior, before charging with 1000 of his goblins at the walls of Ekrund. Only survivor.

    Kolbot the Shrewd: Cowardice is an expected trait amongst the goblin kind. Stabbing someone on the back, using others to corner and stab to death a rival, they are all fair game. Kolbot himself has rarely used his spear, instead relying on his small, drunk personal guard of easily-manipulated gobbos. When battle comes, he is there to keep the lines in order or poke at his “men” on the rear to charge against a particularly-scary opponent. If that opponent is also to busy slaying his boys to notice him, then Kolbot will join in and maybe stab where the armor is weak a few times. If his foe survives and turns to fight back, then the “Shrewd” will have no problems putting as many of his “loyals” as he can between him and his foe. After all, he can always get more where he found them.


    “Very good Snikler! Now, keep his sword in your chest just for a little longer while I stab him… where iz the damn…? AHA!! RIGHT HERE!”

    Kolbot the Shrewd, during the battle of the crimson fields, right before sinking his spear into the back of a bretonnian knight’s armor.

    Kazrog Khan the Magnanimous: The nomad leaders of the goblin, wolf rider tribes that roam the wastelands beyond the Old World take many names: King, Despot, Overlord, Chosen of the Gods… “Khan” though, is usually the most common amongst them.

    Little is known of how Kazrog’s rise to power, only that it was swift and his predecessor ended up in the stomach of the new Khan’s wolf, “Bite”. What is commonly known, however, is how Kazrog seems to lack the cruelty so common amongst the goblin kind. This is not due to the goodness of her heart, but of the headaches which constantly assail the Khan’s head whenever any loud noise (like screaming) reaches his sharp ears. Because of this, his tribe rides and fights without making a sound, killing quickly and as quietly as they can, leaving Kazrog to unleash his berserk rage upon the “noisy gitz” of the enemy side.


    “No, forget about zhoze bow gitz! We are going to zhat hill, we are going to kill anyzing zhat movez and zhen push zhoze big, noizy zhings down a cliff!”

    Kazrog Khan, leading his boys in an uphill charge towards Count Eirnhart’s artillery train. Later seen taking every cannon to a cliff two miles away from the battlefield.

    -The boyz:

    Bobo’s Range Guard: Made of both the Shaman’s few surviving tribe buddies and any other goblins he believes are also blessed by the gods. Favored by Bobo, they are allowed to stand with him on the best spot to be found in the battlefield: The rearguard.

    The goblins of the Range Guard are neither the most skilled warriors nor the bravest of Bobo’s host. When they unleash their arrows upon their enemy, they do so in huge volleys, hoping that at least some of their projectiles will find a target. As an added bonus, they also cover the iron of their arrows with all kinds of poisons made by the Great Shaman himself. While not deadly, they still drain the target of much of his stamina, leaving him an easy prey to the blades and spears of the host’s eager vanguard.

    -Numbers: 4 warbands.

    Boyz, I zaid ztop shootin’! They are already dead!”

    Bobo to his archers, after they spent half their ammo on a couple of dead Demigryphs.

    Kolbot’s tipsy buds: Clad in shields, poisoned swords and big hats to make them appear taller than they really are, Kolbot’s boyz are the center of the host’s battle line. Due to all the strong drink their leader gives them, the tipsy buds are seldom sober and less so when fighting their foe.

    Those amongst the buds who displease Kolbot in any way are given a full cup of “Madhat fungus juice”. This poisonous substance gives takes what was left of the goblin’s sanity while giving him inhuman strength and endurance. Before the battle, this fanatics are hidden amongst the ranks and get a huge rock or ball of iron tied to a thick chain. When the enemy is close enough, the goblins push the fanatics towards their foe and (if lucky) take a small brake while the loonies cut a path into the enemy army.

    -Numbers: 2 warbands.

    “Bozz, Bordug...he is coming back!”

    Heard just one moment before a fanatic spun back into the ranks of the tipsy buds.

    Kazrog’s mutes: Sometimes, silence can be as deafening and terrible as the war cries of one hundred throats. This is a tactic used by some forces around the world, but Kazrog’s mutes are still the first greenskin force ever known to do this. It is not cunning though, but their absolute terror of their Khan which makes them bite their own tongues and cut those of their wolves, in an attempt to keep them from barking and thus bringing their master’s rage.

    The mutes always are the first to reach the battlefield and, if things go badly for them, also the first to turn tail and run. Trusting their speed and numbers, they ride in circles around their foes, charging their artillery trains, missile troops and lone, cavalry regiments.

    -Numbers: 4 warbands.

    “…”
    Warcry of Kazrog’s mutes before their charge.

    The Knightz of the Heavenz: One (if not, the deadliest) part of Bobo’s host is made of two batteries of Doom Diver catapults, machines which are shot by goblins and shoot them too. There is never a lack of volunteers to put on a pair of wings and be thrown into the enemy ranks. Goblins lives are short and brutal, so a chance to be used as a tool of destruction is one very few of their kind will pass up.

    Unlike other Doom Divers, the “ammunition” of the Knightz does sometimes come back for another go. Special helmets, protectors for the neck and other vital areas and, of course, some very good luck, makes it so one or two of every hundred can be recovered after the battle, dizzy, wounded, but still alive. These “aces” usually become addicted, to the point where they ask to be shot into the air, even when there is no foe in sight.

    -Numbers: 2 Doom Diver batteries.

    “Zeven victoriez! You juzt have to go after the big gits with lots of flesh in their body. There was this one time with a griffin…”

    Zurbu, top ace of the “knightz”, boasting about her victories.

    The big boyz: The latest addition to Bobo’s host happened mostly by accident (or fate, if you believe the Shaman’s story that this was another one of his visions).
    As they raided the countryside around the lands of the Border Princes, the Great Shaman’s boys began to hear deafening growls and roars coming from behind a nearby hill. Before anyone could stop him, Bobo joined Kazrog and his mutes to investigate. When they reached the hill, they found a battle happening in the valley below, one where a giant of immense stature and a small band of drooling, mountain trolls tried to keep a large band of questing knights at bay. Having more than a few drinks in him already, Bobo quickly ordered the wolves to charge and join the fray, quickly riding behind them while his staff charged with magical energies. No knights walked out of that place alive.

    Even now, Bobo knows not what brought the giant Karith, and the surviving trolls together, nor he really cares. They follow him, kill his enemies and generally are worth the few goblins they tend to eat along the way “by accident”.

    -Numbers: 2 veteran trolls and a giant.

    “Now you see a zhieldwall, now you don´t!”

    Said by Bobo as his trolls broke the dawi’s right flank at the battle of the Thousand Beards.


  2. #2

    Default Re: Narrative multiplayer battles

    This first battles takes place in the greenskin-infested wastelands near the dawi settlements. I would like to thank hyadriandinh for the battle, It was a ton of fun!
    Here you have the first part of the battle.

    -The Untold Grude, part 1-


    I did not desire to write this.

    For decades, I have kept the oath me and my sworn-brothers did after that hateful day. My father, my wife and sons, I never spoke to them of what happened, for I am a dawi, and we take our oaths seriously. There is nothing in this world as vile, as wretched, than a dwarf who breaks his word, for he not only puts his own name to shame, but also that of his ancestors.

    I am rambling again. It tends to happen when your beard has grown as long and grey as mine. I still remember though, every single detail without exception. I know that it was during the reign of Barador Goldenbeard that the greenskin hordes attacked our frontiers in numbers not seen for many centuries. Some invaded the lands of the young human empire, burning their towns and eagerly battling all armies the Emperor threw in their path. We would have eagerly aided our allies in such a time of need, but the rest of the greenskin tribes were already at our gates.

    The strongest Karaks easily dealt with the green tide. No matter how high their numbers were, or how many of their crude, siege weaponry, they brought to bring our gates down, our walls had been built to stand against much worse. At Karaz-a-Karak, 10.000 invaders spent three days and nights assaulting the Eternal Gates, falling in droves as the batteries of the High King turned their warbands into dust. By the end of the third night, king Barador himself opened the main gates and sallied into the surprised greenskins, cutting the head of their leader while his warriors slaughtered dealt with his fleeing minions.

    Karak-Kadrin, my home, was not spared from the seemingly-endless waves of foes. Our king, Dargo, son of Baragor, first of the Slayer Kings, did not wait behind our walls. Some say this was because of his oath as a slayer, to meet a glorious end in battle. Nonsense. A Slayer King might be bound by the oath of the red-haired death-seekers, but he will always be a king first. By attacking the tribes so quickly, he made sure no great hordes could be formed and spared many of our neighboring keeps from destruction. I myself was the sworn shield of the king’s own son, Tormin Silveraxe. Never have I seen a better warrior and I do not expect to do so in the years I have left on me. It was thanks to his bravery that the pass of the Four Daughters was held from the goblin hordes. His axe, Zon-Anad, ended the life of more than one warboss and chieftain, saving the lives of hundreds, if not thousands, of dawi in the process.

    We were returning to Karak Kadrin when a messenger reached our lines. He was bloodied, with a mess of flesh where his right hand had once been, yet still alive. Alrik was his name, the fourth to be sent to call for aid from the besieged Karak of Normug, and the only one to survive the goblin wolf riders. No more than 300 warriors defended the fortress and the number of greenskins only increased with every new day. Battering rams and crude, siege towers were already being built by the time Alrik was sent to call for reinforcements. If help was not sent, and fast, then Karak Normug would become just another note in the great book of Grudges. We could not allow that to happen.

    Tormin wasted no time. His father was on the North with most of the army, leaving him only little more than 400 warriors to ambush and destroy minor tribes and warbands. A small force, true, but we had been hardened by months of battle without end. Almost every single warrior was a longbeard, warriors who would not flee no matter how desperate the odds were against them. Two Runesmiths, Dwinbar Grey-Hammer and Arik Scarred-Axe, also came with us, bringing not only their endless wisdom, but also the power of runes, critical to defeat our foe’s dangerous magic. Four days before beginning our march, we also were blessed by the arrival of some of the High King’s warriors, mounted in the new, strange flying machines they called “gyrocopters”. Odd for sure, but all help was welcomed in our quest.

    Two weeks of marching in good order were needed before the gyrocopters brought us news of the besieging horde. Like the messenger had told us, their numbers were great, but there was a weakness to those numbers: The infighting. Not enough food and the boredom of a siege had made fights and quarrels a common sight at the greenskin camp. To solve this, the warboss had chosen to keep each tribe as far away as possible from the other, to keep the infighting to a minimum. A chance to destroy them one by one, Tormin said with the first smile I had seen on him in a whole year.

    It would also be the last.

    A force of goblins came to meet us as we began to see the siege lines around our brothers’ fortress. They outnumbered us, something that we had gotten used to after months of fighting their kind, but that was not all. Even from the distance, we could see a huge figure, walking with the horde like a man amongst insects. Far from the giant, behind the endless ranks of night goblins, mountain trolls with long, crude weapons and stone-like skin also marched towards us. We did not see the wolf riders, but our gyrocopters assured us of the presence of a large band of them waiting behind the hill to our right flank, eager to ambush us. I had faced the beasts before and often they are more fearsome than the goblins on their backs. Even so, they die just as easily when struck by a well-forged dawi axe.

    I was thinking on just how we could bring that giant down when my eyes spotted a swift, black spot amongst the claws. As it drew closer, I managed to glimpse a pair of crude wings, attached to a wide-eyed, yet grinning goblin diving right towards us. I threw myself at Tormin just as that suicidal creature reached our ranks. The earth shook for a moment and, when I rose my eyes, only bloodied flesh and broken armor remained where once longbeards had stood. Already, I could hear more shrieks as more of those creatures were shot at us. A gyrocopter barely managed to dodge one of the creatures which swiftly slammed into the ground, wings and body equally broken after impact. A moment afterwards, more were shot by the greenskin war machines, ready to plunge into our tight ranks. There was only one choice left for us: Charge.

    Seeing the danger we were in, the High King’s pilots flew their machines at the horde, hoping to silence the Doom Divers before they could take any more dawi lives. The vile creature leading the goblins though managed to realize this and shouted to his archers to make ranks and rain volley after volley on our allies. Our gyrocopters answered with their own brimstone guns, melting some of the archers, but not enough to stop the rain of arrows, some of which began to take their toll as they tore into the machine’s wings and delicate mechanisms. The pilots did what they could, spinning and dodging most of the goblin’s volleys, but it was still a dance they could not hope to win. Shooting a red flare into the sky, the captain of the three squadrons pulled back to our lines, followed close by even more arrows and a couple of winged mad-creatures.




    To busy trying to dodge the incoming living projectiles, it took us a while to notice the so-called “Khan” and his horde of bloodthirsty wolves riding towards our rear. A regiment of clan warriors (the youngest amongst or long-bearded force) was sent to the rear, ready to turn around and make a swift wall of shields if the riders dared a charge. Tormin hardly spared this menace a second glance. It would take more than a few pups and goblins to brake dawi steel and discipline. He even ordered them to smack the sides of their axes against their shields to taunt the foe into a reckless attack.

    Soon enough, the prince’s bet was put to the test. Later, I found out that this attack was not due to some strategy from their Khan but a change in his mood. One of the gyrocopter pilots managed to get a glimpse of their leader a few moments before the charge. It seems the sound of metal hitting metal was not pleasing to his ears and that he ordered half his troops to attack to get rid of the noise. There was no war cry, no howls…just silence until, finally, our two forces met, spear against shield, wolve’s bite against dawi axe.

    Tormin was right. After a brief melee, the chopped bodies of wolves and greenskins far outnumbered those of our warriors. With a mighty warcry,and locking their shields to secure any gaps in the line, our rearguard moved forwards, slaying those beasts to slow to react with mechanic precision. My younger brother by blood, Durgam, was the one whose blade finally sent the creatures into a rout, as he pushed it through the helmet and into the skull of one of the goblin’s minor leaders. No longer caring about their Khan’s ire, the survivors turned and ran, followed close by our gyrocopter and their guns. Their shots of molten iron made new holes into the fleeing horde, forcing them to run faster while their Khan chased after while flailing his long spear over his head.

    While sweet, the rearguard’s minor victory did not stop the seemingly-endless rain of flying goblins falling into our ranks. Alaric, Sven, the brothers, Burlok and Snorri… they died even before coming into the range of their archers. At my side, Tormin held his runic, two-handed axe high in the air, bowing that a hundred greenskins would die for each fallen brother. As one, four hundred voices shouted the name of our prince: Tormin, Tormin, Tormin… the sound sent chills down my body when I heard it at the battlefield. Now, it wakes me up at night, sweating and with my heart pounding hard against my old chest.

    Compared to the Doom Divers, the clouds of dark arrows which greeted us felt like a gentle breeze as they bounced against our round shields and heavy armor. Those who struck flesh though, came with a nasty surprise. Veteran warriors began to have trouble lifting their weapons or even keeping pace with the rest of their companions. Yet, no matter what they threw at our thinning ranks, we kept going, each step being one closer to our well-deserved retribution.

    We were just one charge away from plunging into the goblin lines when their leader unleashed his beasts at us. Not only stone-skinned trolls, but fanatics too, spinning their great balls of iron and death without caring for whom they struck. Our left, protected by Gromhold’s longbeards, received the absolute worst of the gobbi charge when trolls, fanatics and volleys of arrows fell, almost at once, into their ranks. If they tried to stand their ground, they were pulverized by the goblin’s monstrous weapons. If they tried to pull away and form closer ranks, then the trolls’ vomit would melt their armor before going for their flesh and bone. A few chose to lower their shields or throw them away thinking them useless. Their efforts were rewarded by the bite of a hundred dark arrows.




    Of lighter armor, but no less courage, were the Warriors of Dragonfire Pass. Wielding their flaming axes, they ran forwards right towards the heart of the goblin host. Behind them, slower due to their much heavier emerald armor and great axes, came the Grumbling Guard. Snorri, their leader and a great friend of mine, led them from the front while wielding her mighty axe “Drakk-Uzhgul”, the dragonslayer. Legend had it that his great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather had sunk its blade into the brains of a dragon during the War of the Beard.

    Instead of a Drakk though, the goblins sent a Gronti, one of the largest I have had the misfortune of seeing in my entire life. His entire torso was covered with the scars of a lifetime of war and, in his hand, he carried what might had once been a great oak, now turned into a crude mace with crude stones tied to its end. Ignoring the grobis fleeing from his incoming feet, the creature charged at our center, his warcry loud enough to overshadow every other sound upon the battlefield. I did not witness the moment his weapon fell upon the ranks of my brothers, for I had some foes of my own to deal with.

    Having witnessed just what had happed to the dawi to our left, the prince shouted at us to leave some paths for the incoming fanatics to go through. A few longbeards were sent flying out, crushed and bloodied by the hit. My own head would have been shot off my shoulders had not Tormin pulled me away in the last second, still holding his great axe on one hand as the trolls came howling towards us. Undaunted, the prince lowered his weapon and, as one, we once more became a wall of shields, ready just in time to great the pestilent creatures with our axes and courage. Tormin himself stood by our side, his eyes already focused on the biggest of the greenskin’s mascots.

    Fighting a rival of a troll’s size is not the same as dealing with an orc or a human. Unless he wields a long, war axe, a dawi warrior will not be able to attack anything above the creature’s waist. That, as a slayer might tell you, is really not as big of an issue as it might seem. When the creatures strikes, it bends forwards, leaving more parts of its body open an attack. Fighting together, striking from all possible angles, is also advice for foes large and small.

    Only a few longbeards perished to the sudden assault. We answered the beasts in kind, hacking at their legs, going for their softer wrists when one of their blows missed. Dwinbar, the most ancient of the two rune-smiths aiding us, rose his hammer, activating the symbols carved in its surface. The Shaman leading our foes tried to fight back with his own, foul magic, but goblin sorcery will never be a match to the ancient wisdom of our ancestors. Sadly, not every warrior was close enough to be protected under Dwinbar’s shield. Some began to twitch as if struck by thunder, alive, but with a mad need to scratch every single inch of their bodies. Knowing that only the death of the Shaman would stop the curses sent towards us, Tormin, now yanking his mighty axe out of the skull of a fallen troll, shouted at us to push the monsters back. The goblins, fearing a breakthrough, sent hordes of their sword-wielding brethren in an attempt to slow our advance. Not only were these vermin oblivious to the death which awaited them at the end of our weapons, but they also seemed to be infused by some ethereal, green energy. This magic seemed to take control of their short blades, driving them through the gaps of our wall of shields and into the weak spots of our armor. Yet, for every dawi they managed to bring down, four of their number fell dead by our hands. There was still hope for victory.

    Then, we heard it: The sound of almost a thousand paws, sprinting forwards. At first, we paid it no mind. Our brethren had easily delt with the wolf riders before and they could surely do so again. But then I saw the look on my prince's face, the horror in his eyes. Quickly, I turned my own head and felt my heart stopping inside my chest as I saw the mauled remains of our rearguard, broken by the endless rain of winged sucidal goblins who had quickly found a new target after we have gotten to close to their lines. With their glaring Khan at their head, the greenskins tore through the line, not worrying about the wounded or dead they left in their wake. Their target was obvious: Our unprotected rear.

    I saw the prince quickly recover from his surprise, as expected for a son of Karak-Kadrin's royal blood, and shout for what reserves we had to form a shield wall to meet the goblin's attack. There was none though. We had been so focused in our charge, in trying to finish our foe as swiftly as possible, that there were no dawi left to keep us from being surrounded. Behind the wolves, our gyrocopters fired so fast smoke poured out of the mounts of their weapons. This time though, the goblins did not seem to notice and finally met out lines with the same silence as before.

    It was at that moment, that everything fell apart.



  3. #3
    Alwyn's Avatar Frothy Goodness
    Content Director Patrician Citizen

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    Default Re: Narrative multiplayer battles

    A very enjoyable introduction (I like the way that you characterise Bobo and the various units, including the accidental additions to the army) and an exciting battle, with great screenshots! Looking forward to more.

  4. #4

    Default Re: Narrative multiplayer battles

    Thanks for the comment! I hope to make the next battles more interesting. Having just one POV can be a bit limitating if you want to show all the fights and duels in a battlefield

  5. #5

    Default Re: Narrative multiplayer battles

    -The Untold Grudge, part 2-



    Half of a dozen dawi fell to the charge.

    Such a “low” number might come as a surprise to many after knowing of the large number of riders and the surprise of their attack. You have to remember though that the steel they struck with their spears was still made by dwarf smiths. Their crude spears and the fangs of their wolves could only do any real harm if they found an opening where only cloth or mail protected our warriors. Again, the greenskin Shaman used his foul magic to make sure more spears found their marks. With both of our rune-smiths fighting for their lives at the front lines, there was little they could do to protect our brothers at the back. Golfor, Skiggi, Ronber, Kulmun, Arduga, Perikon…I hope to meet them again in the halls of Grungni when the time comes for me too.

    More deadly than the goblins or their wolves was the chaos they brought with them as the Khan drove his minions into our ranks, breaking shield walls and leaving a dozen different openings for the now-eager greenskins to slip through. Battlelines which had held since the beginning became scattered islands, surrounded by a green ocean of red-eyed faces. Dwarfs began to fall, first one by one, then in droves as those islands were broken and their warriors surrounded and stabbed repeatedly even after they had stopped moving. The Khan, that vile creature, continued to slice through us with his warband. Already, four heads were tied to the sides of his saddle, each one belonging to a member of our doomed rear. My memory always plays games with me whenever I try to remember their faces, for each of them turns into that of my brother Durgam, staring at me from the afterlife.

    Of all pockets of resistance in our doomed battlefield, Tormin’s was the only one strong enough to maybe turn the tide back to our favor. Only half the longbeards who have followed him remained, Dwinbar, our rune-smith, was covered in blood, half of which belonged to him and could hardly lift his hammer any longer. The goblins who had once surrounded us though were on the run (their leader being the first one to turn and flee once he saw us getting dangerously close to him) and the trolls were running right behind, all dreading the bite of our prince’s runic axe. They would come back though, healed and eager for more.

    It was at that moment that we focused our attention back on the giant and dawi who continued to try to bring it down. My heart sank when I saw the pile of broken and pulverized bodies surrounding the beast. Hundreds of arrows, shot by the nearby goblin warbands, also covered both the ground and those fighting over it. Snorri himself, the leader of the Grumbling Guard of longbeards, had more than two dozen of them stuck in the green plate of his armor, yet he still continued to swing his mighty axe at the giant, carving great wounds into his flesh. Somehow, he had managed to dodge the greature’s immense weapon every time it descended towards him, giving our prince the time he needed to rally those dwarves closest to us and throw them forwards to finally slay the giant.

    We ignored the constant shower of arrows and followed Tormin as he cut his way forwards, so fast I could hardly keep up with him. His axe became a blur as the prince swung it in all directions, chopping limbs and cutting down any goblin foolish enough to stand in his way. I am not sure he even spared them a look before slaying them, since his full attention seemed to be focused on the giant alone. Perhaps, deep inside, he knew that he was going to die in that field, less than a day’s march to Karak Normug. The only thing left for him, for all of us, now was to find a good death.

    The trolls must have somehow read the prince’s mind, for they were soon upon us, followed close by another horde of sword-wielding goblins. The former showed no deep wounds upon their bodies, only scars where our weapons had struck them. No matter how many times you see it in your lifetime, the regenerative power of a troll is always something to fear. I heard one of my long-bearded brothers hiss a curse as the creatures drew nearer to us. When I asked him about the reason for his anger, he pointed at one of the trolls “Last time I saw him, he only had one arm!”

    The war above us was not going any better for our side. Facing arrows and living projectiles, the pilots of those machines had to both fire their weapons and try to dodge whatever the enemy threw at them. If they tried to aim, they became easy targets. Just dodging was also a dangerous affair. No matter how skilled the pilot, there would always be an arrow which would find its mark, or a goblin who would turn just right at the best moment and slam into the machine’s cockpit, slaying its pilot and sending the gyrocopter spinning towards the battlefield like a dying sun.

    Few paid any mind to the war in the skies though. All structure or semblance of discipline had almost disappeared, leaving every dwarf and greenskin to fight on his own. The latter hardly noticed the change and began fighting with renewed viciousness, rushing to battle where my king were weaker and retreating to find easier target if the resistance met was to much for their cowardly hearts. Some goblins went as far as two fight those who had once been in their allies to fight for the spoils, caring nothing for the battle which still raged around them. Such is the nature of those black-hearted creatures.

    The Shaman, maybe wanting to keep order or to stop others from stealing the valuables he wanted to rob himself, wasted no time putting her troops in order. As I used my shield to protect the prince from another wave of arrows, I saw the creature, riding a big, armored wolf, burn at least a dozen of his troops with rays of green light, cackling maniacally as he did so. Without another word, and still twitching on his saddle, he thrusted his staff towards us and shouted an order. The survivors, not wanting to be added to the piles of smoking dust around them, picked their weapons and climbed the bodies towards our awaiting axes.

    A few of those dawi who still fought at our left also spotted the Shaman as he leaned back on his saddle and poured a strange, boiling liquid down his throat. While less than a dozen of their brothers covered them, six dawi, armed with deadly, tall axes, went after the oblivious creature, hoping that its death would break the morale of the greenskin horde. We were to far away to lend aid, so we continued with our mission, following Tormin as he parried a troll’s mace and sliced the hand of another one. By then, we were so close to the giant we could catch its foul scent, one which almost surpassed that of the trolls surrounding us. The creature’s lower body had so many cuts in it he now fought with one knee on the ground, howling and sweeping dawi, dear or living, into the air. Roaring the war cry of his ancestors, Tormin, heir to the kingdom of Karak Kadrin, dispatched the last troll in his way and finally met the creature in combat. Muttering a few words in ancient Khazalid, the tongue of our ancestors, Dwinbar awoke the runes over the prince’s weapon which quickly bit into the giant’s hand, severing two fingers out of it.




    At first, the monster only stared dumbly at the blood pouring from her severed flesh, his brain to small to process both pain and the fact that he had just almost half of his hand’s fingers. When he understood though, the howl which followed was enough to shook the ground itself. Ignoring the many cuts on his lower limbs, he rose once more, focusing all his rage and pain in a scream which sent dawi and goblin alike flying back towards the battle raging behind them. Seeing the beast turning his attention towards the prince, I ran, shield in hand and pushed Tormin aside as the tree fell towards me in an arc. Gritting my teeth, I rose my shield and closed my eyes, ready to meet the attack. I did not have time to regret my choice when, finally, the tree crushed into my shield, shattering it and my arm along with it. I went so fast, the darkness caught me long before the pain did.

    What I know about the rest of the battle comes not from my eyes, but those of Egrick Uricsonn, one of the youngest pilots of the High King’s gyrocopter squadrons. His machine, “The pride of Grungni” had been fitted to support the other flying, war-machines, delivering ammunition and fuel whenever the others began to run low on either. That way, the squadrons could fight almost without respite, taking turns to resupply, without having to carry any extra ammunition or fuel which could slow them down. That did not mean he was not in constant danger though, as the larger size of his machine made him an easier target to the goblin Doom Divers, a few of which came dangerously close to hitting the delicate shells and fuel stored inside the belly of Egrick’s gyrocopter.

    Like it happens with most engineers, he used as few words as possible as he narrated the last minutes of the prince’s host. While Tormin battled the giant across the battlefield, the long-beards who had gone to end the Shaman’s life finally reached the goblin and his small bodyguard. After a small skirmish, and some chopped heads, the Shaman’s minions left their lord behind, alone and panicking as he saw the dwarves coming his way. Green, arcane fire melted two brave dawi until only their bones remained. A third prepared to take the goblin’s head, only for its mount to leap at him and tear his neck with fang and claw. Wanting to avenge their fallen brothers, the survivors charged, driving the wolf back. One of the axes almost tore the Shaman’s leg in half, but instead shattered wooden flask on his hip, sending its contents hissing into the ground.

    Furious by his loss, the Shaman smacked at his mount’s hide with his staff and charged, surrounded by an aura of flowing, magical energy. Dawi axes still bit hard into his flesh, yet either the magic, or his own madness, prevented him from paying notice to his wounds as he began to kill our brothers in arms with spear and foul sorcery. Some nearby goblins, seeing the tables turning in that fight, rushed to attack our brethren from behind, as they knew it was the only way they could ever best them in combat. None of the long-beards died with a clean axe that day as they fell, one by one, under the sheer numbers of our foes. Still not done, the Shaman once more rallied his minions and drove them after the last pocket of resistance left in of the whole dawi army: Tormin’s.

    All flanks and formations were now officially gone. All the dwarves of the three last pockets of resistance either cut their way through to join their prince or died then and there, feathered by a dozen dark arrows or mauled by the fists and crude weapons of a hungry troll. All the remaining dawi, less than 80 in total, now followed the king as the green ocean around them continued to shatter against their shields. Old and young, modest warriors and captains with ties to the royal family, all fought like one, shouting the names of their fallen over the rage of the battlefield. In the midst of all that chaos and bloodshed, Tormin, first son of king Dargo, managed to bring the giant back to his knees right before sinking his axe deep into his belly, ending his menace once and for all. Such was the strength of Tormin’s blow that the monster fell back, slamming into the goblin ranks and crushing many of those creatures under its weight.

    By then, the circle of dwarves had grown much smaller. The High Kind’s gyrocopters, mauled and finally out of all ammunition, dove into the battle as to rescue both the king and his survivors. The goblins had spent all their arrows in the last pocket of resistance and even the Doom Diver catapults had no more “volunteers” to send into the skies to stop the incoming machines. Thus, they landed on the fallen giant, shouting at the king and his surviving dawi to jump into the supply gyrocopter and thus save their lives for another day. Tormin ordered his survivors to get in and take all the wounded with them, yet refused to follow. Some said it was pride which forced him to stay there. Others, that he wanted to die like a true Slayer-King.




    Unlike those dawi though, I knew the prince. If he chose to stay, it was not due to pride or a desire for glory. Shame and loss are the two culprits. Losing almost his entire throng, each one a companion he had known for years if not decades, in a single battle, and without saving the doomed folk of Karak-Normug…I shudder just to think of the guilt which must have fallen upon him. The last thing he could do, the thing which would bring some redemption in his eyes, would be to stay back and keep the greenskin horde at bay while what few survivors remained fled from such a death-trap. His rune-smiths, both friends to him, stubbornly refused to leave him and remained at his side to the last breath. The last thing Egrick saw before disappearing into the clouds was Tormin’s axe, rising and falling until it rose no more.




    --

    Of the eight gyrocopters which left the battlefield, only five managed to land on Karak Kadrin. One plunged into the ground, killing both his pilot and two other passengers, due to the horrendous damage done to its engines. Another was forced to make an emergency landing. The pilot and the four dwarves at his side, all wounded or dying, fought to the last breath when a marauding tribe of wolf riders spotted them. The machine carrying me would have surely joined it in that fate, had Egrick not managed to somehow found a landing spot on the mountains, where me and another twenty-two brothers kept goblin and orc bandits at bay until finally being saved by an expedition from our home. Of those twenty, only thirteen managed to survive their wounds.

    Including the High King’s pilots, only thirty of us managed to survive the battle. We all desired to take the oath of the Slayer, but there was still the matter of telling the news to the Karak and our king. They too had suffered, losing many brothers and friends in the war against the greenskins. The king himself was but a shadow when I saw him again, using his axe not as a weapon, but a cane to just keep going. If I spoke that his son had died, for nothing, would he survive the hit? Would any dawi of any kind do?

    It took me three days and three nights to convince the survivors of my plan. Many named me turncoat and shameless, yet every single one ended up agreeing after I spoke of what would happen if we did not follow with my honor-less, yet necessary scheme. Tormin and our brothers would not die in a failed attempt to save a now-doomed fortress, but in battle against an alliance of three different hordes. The prince himself would have fallen the same way he did on the real battle: Axe in hand, battling over the corpse of the giant he had slain. Thanks to their efforts, Karak-Kadrin would have survived certain doom and so the names of our brothers would be remembered not with shame or sadness, but pride for their feats.

    It was a shameful plot, but it worked. The King was shaken by the loss of his son, but also proud about the courage he had seen on the face of death. The whole fortress would both mourn and praise the heroes of Karak-Kadrin for ten days and nights. We would do the same like the actors we were, smiling and drowning our shame with what ale we could find. As much as we craved to do so, none of our number took the oath of the slayer, fearing that that might bring suspicion and doubt to our claims of victory. So, for years afterwards, we remained silent, trying to live our lives and fight for our home while carrying the guilt on our backs.

    Now all of my thirty brothers are dead, either in battle or the wounds they suffered that day. Tomorrow, our new King, Thrangon, marches to war against the foul greenskins once more. My body is old and scarred, but I will march alongside my king, to never return. I have lived way more than I deserve and my next battle would be my last. Arrow, spear, hammer or bite, I no longer care of the way I meet my end. My only wish is to walk to the halls of Grungni and apologize for my lies, both to the father of all dwarves and the brothers I left at that forgotten battlefield. I do not seek redemption, or even forgiveness. Just peace.
    May those who read this never have to face a choice like I did.

    For Tormin.
    Brogound.

  6. #6

    Default Re: Narrative multiplayer battles

    After ever victory or defeat, Bobo will take what remains of his forces to camp. There, those who fell will have to be replaced and maybe new forces will join the Great Shaman’s army.

    Since this time the forces of Bobo have managed to somehow score a victory, they will have an easier time recovering from their loses. Those who appeared dead or to wounded to survive will have time to heal from the worst of their wounds and fight once more in what battles await this warband.

    -Back at the greenskin camp-



    After his victory against the dwarf force, Bobo, the Superlatively Superior Great Shaman of the Tribe of the Broken Tail, chose to add something else to his ever-growing number of titles: Stuntie Smasher. Sadly, he could make no use of the fallen dwarf prince’s battle-axe due to its sheer weight and size. Luckily, he managed to find an orc in Gazzrug’s horde who traded him the unwieldy thing for not one, or two, but three barrels of strong, mushroom beer. Bobo still is amazed of how stupid some orcs can be. Little did he know, that "dum orc" would later use the axe to slay the horde's warboss and become the new leader of the 10.000 strong army. Had he been aware of that, maybe he would have asked for an extra barrel.

    The wounds he had suffered at the hands of Tormin’s long-beards were many, but the sweet taste of victory (and the strong, almost-deadly, drink he poured down his throat) made him oblivious to both the pain and the fact that he had been one lucky slice away from losing his head. When the time to march to battle once more came, he was the first to ride his wolf and follow the horde into war, trusting that the luck Gork and Mork had lended him would not run out soon.

    Kolbot the Shrewd hardly took part in the battle, something which he wasted no time celebrating alongside what remained of his mauled boyz. Of course, for his “leadership” skills (of pocking his minions so they would fight harder) he demanded, and got, two out of three parts of the loot his troops scavenged from the battlefield. The tipsy buds wasted no time praising his bosses’ generosity and more so when he invited him to half a round of mushroom drink. What he did not mention was that he had found some potent, dwarf ale amongst the corpses of the fallen one which, he believed, would grant him strength and stamina beyond that of any goblin.

    The Khan added the heads of those dwarves he had personally slain to the others one’s hanging around his tent. The rest of their bodies were stripped out of their armor just so his tribe’s wolves could feast on the remains. He kept his camp a mile away from the main one, yet his head still ached because of the roars and cheers of the party and quarrels taking place there. To keep his mind busy (and also recover some of the loses he had suffered during the battle) he roamed the wastelands for a few days, rallying what small bands of wolf riders he could find and killing any goblin boss who tried to stop him. By the time he came back, the ranks of his tribe were, once more, full and seven more heads were added to those around his tent.

    Bobo’s glorious Range Guard suffered few loses and were forced to spend the rest of the day recovering what arrows they could find in the fallen bodies of their foes. Unsurprisingly, half of those arrows had either missed or struck a goblin or troll instead. The latter did not seem to mind, or notice, not when they were struck by the missiles or when the bravest of the Guard’s goblins tried to pull the arrows out of their rocky skin. Skarski one-eye, leader of the Guard and the best marksman of them all (which is not saying much) was pleased to find that two of his poisonous arrows had found their mark and sunk into the back of a runesmith's neck. He, of course, chose to ignore the other twelve of his arrows which had utterly missed their targets or struck a goblin in the back instead.

    Kolbot’s tipsy buds could remember very little of what had happened during the fight against the dwarves. All they knew was that some of them had wounds on their bodies, that some fight and happened and more drinking buddies had joined their merry band. One of the veterans, Pirkin, spent the whole party wondering where he had found the runic hammer he now carried on his left hand. Then, after a few drinks, he stopped caring and lost it in a bet against a cheating member of the Range Guard. A fight, of course, quickly ensued.

    Few of Kazrog’s mutes managed to survive the battle, yet none chose to raise his voice to complain to their boss about it. A few of his lieutenants (the one who had managed to survive that is, either by luck or always keeping at a distance from dwarf axes) imitated their boss by also adding the heads of their victims to their tents. The others spent the time trying to out-boast the others with tales of their feats in battle. These boasts never became louder than whispers though, as none wanted to awaken their Khan’s rage.

    The Knights of the Heavenz celebrated for a whole week after the battle was over. Of the four hundred who were flung towards the dwarves, eleven survived and five managed to walk back, grinning smugly as they prepared to speak of their exploits (imaginary or not). Once more, Zurbu, the knight’s top ace, managed to survive his crash into a gyrocopter with only minor burns and a few broken ribbs. Second place was awarded posthumously to Skirtin half-ear, one of the newest “knights” who had missed his flying, metal target yet somehow managed to struck and kill a wandering griffon instead.

    Karith, the lone giant marching alongside Bobo’s boyz, had somehow managed to survive the bite of the dwarf prince’s runic axe. For six days and almost as many nights, he roared, groaned and twisted on the grounds outside the camp, protected by his “guard” of trolls, who either wanted to keep the giant from harm, were waiting for him to die to eat his corpse, or, provably, did not know where else to go. Whatever the case, Karith survived his wounds, even if he had “borrow” and wrap one of the camp’s tents around his belly to keep his intestines in.

  7. #7

    Default Re: Narrative multiplayer battles

    I don´t know what you could call this. A preview? A teaser? Anyway, it has to do (in a way) with the next battle between Bobo's warband and another dwarf host ready to settle some grudges.

    --

    -Main trade tunnel of Karak-Zamar-



    "Form shields!"

    Irgrim's order echoed through the sturdy walls of the subway, reaching both the line of Ironbrakers at his back and the aproaching greenskin wave. He still could not see them and neither did he need to. One thousand feet marched towards them, each pair belonging to another creature eager to feast on the flesh of those dawi still living in the half-ruined fortress of Karak-Zamar. Their King, Breog, had already sealed half the subway paths leading to his keep. Most were already little more than ruins, while others still could have been traveled, had it not been for the many dangers which now lived hidden in the dark.

    The siege had not helped matters in the least. All dwarves not protecting the outter walls around the mountain had to protect the last three subways leading to the citie's heart. The one which Kirgurd and his heavily-armored brothers now protected was the largest of them and connected Karak-Zamar to the other dwarf holds. Clad in armor made of the finest gromil, Kirgurd and his band had already repelled seven waves of attackers. The first five had been made up mostly of the more cowardly goblins. Their feeble spears and shields had been broken almost as quickly as their morale after being greeted by the sharp axes of the dawi. The sixth wave had been of the taller and heavier orcs, each one carrying a long, crude blade on their hands as they tried to charge through the piles of bodies of the previous waves. A few minutes later and that mountain of corpses had grown a few feet taller.

    "They are taking their time" muttered Kirgurd's standard-bearer, Ragnar Ironskin.

    "Maybe they will not charge this time" said Narku as he yanked his blade out of the chest of a large, orc warrior "Or they have finally run out of things to throw at us"

    Ragnar scoffed "Since when are we that lucky?"

    "There is always a first time for everything, is it not?"

    "I think Ragnar is right" sighed Kirgurd "They may be taking their time, but they are still coming. They may not be as stupid as the others...and that worries me" he whispered, only loud enough for his closest companions to hear. After a short silence, he shouted to his band "Rest shields! They are giving us a small brake for once"

    Of the 200 dawi who had followed him to the tunnel, 27 had died while 14 were to wounded to fight on. The greenskins had suffered almost ten times as many loses, but they would have no trouble replacing them. Each warrior Kirgurd lost would never come back.

    "Kirgurd, news from the surface!" shouted Ragnar, pulling back to allow a young, panting dawi to cross through the tight ranks of Ironbrakers.

    "King Breog sent me" he said, struggling to recover his breath "The greenskins have found the path of the frozen lake and are sending a large force to invade us from a new front. Luckily, the greenskins on the North and East walls are not attacking at the same time, so King Breog has sent a force to attack the greenskins and destroy them before they can cause us any harm. If your front is safe, he asks for some of your Ironbrakers to join him and..."

    The next words were drawned by a roar coming from the tunnel's darkness. Soon, Kirgurd saw what the greenskin chieftain was sending at them...black orcs. Larger, stronger and clad in dark plate from head to toes, each wielded a heavy axe, sharpened day and night. At the head of this new force, 400 in number, was the chieftain himself, grinning as he carried a finely-made axe on one hand and a crude blade on the other. Inmediatelly, Kirgurd recognized the manufacture. A rune-axe! His fist tightened around the pommel of his axe.

    "Sorry lad, but it seems we will all be bussy down here. Tell the king I wish him fortune in the battle to come"

    "Dwarf!" shouted the chieftain in a khazalid so crude, it made Kirgurd's ears bleed "Time death now!"

    "Aye" growled the ironbraker as his brothers rose shields and the orcs charged forwards with their axes rising high to cleave "For you"

  8. #8
    Alwyn's Avatar Frothy Goodness
    Content Director Patrician Citizen

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    Default Re: Narrative multiplayer battles

    These are impressive and enjoyable updates! I particularly like your use of imagery, such as the lines of warriors becoming 'scattered islands' in an 'ocean of red-eye faces'. The tale of Tormin's desperate fight to reach the giant, his axe becoming a blur - and Tormin's decision, when the supply gyrocopter arrives, is a moving moment. The 'honor-less, but necessary' scheme is intriguing, with shameful acts reviving pride; there is pathos in lines such as "If I spoke that his son had died, for nothing, would he survive the hit? Would any dawi of any kind do?".

  9. #9
    Caillagh de Bodemloze's Avatar to rede I me delyte
    Content Director Patrician Citizen

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    Default Re: Narrative multiplayer battles

    I'm really enjoying this, JulianApostate! It's a huge amount of fun, and it gives me the impression you're having a lot of fun both with the playing and with the writing. I think your characters are entertaining, and your description works well. I'm looking forward to the next instalment.






  10. #10

    Default Re: Narrative multiplayer battles

    Thanks for the comments! Yes, I am having a lot of fun making the stories

  11. #11

    Default Re: Narrative multiplayer battles

    This battle will take place near a frozen lake, less than a mile away to a secret path leading to Karak-Zamar. I would like to thank colewow for the battle.

    -Carnage at the Frozen Lake, part 1-



    During reign of the late king Ingrim, there were few sounds which could bring such terror to the enemy and hope to the hearts of dwarfs than the army of Karak-Zamar marching to war. They did so banging their axes and hammers against their shields, chanting the same songs their ancestors had sung when their race was still young. From miles away, the earth shook under the heavy boots of a legion of marching feet. Runic banners rose like trees from the tight ranks of their formations, each one displaying the symbols of a one of the keep’s clans. A long artillery train of the newest wonders brought by the Engineer’s Guild came right behind, the roars of their weapons more than enough to shake the mountains and send Karak-Zamar’s foes running away.

    “Let the elves and goblins cower in the shadow” had said king Ingrim once “The throng of Karak-Zamar does not fear any foe. Let them see the strength of our warriors and hear the roar of our guns, for it will be the last thing they will ever witness!”

    Breog, alongside the rest of the king’s guard of hammerers, had rose his cup and cheered. Life had been hard back then, with greenskin raiding from above and foul skaven ambushing their mining parties from the tunnels below. Still, at least in those days their fortress had not been the only one in the mountains dividing the land between the human Empire and the lands of the bretonnian knights. Other dawi keeps still stood, weakened yet determined to survive and preserve the homes of their ancestors. Izghal and Poghlorund were the names of the now-deserted ruins which remained of the once-proud fortresses. Tried as he did, king Ingrim could not be everywhere at once. Like the waves of a raging sea, foes slammed against the walls of Karak-Zamar. Without doubt, the worst were the corrupted, dark-armored men of the far North. Mounted in mutated beasts from the darkest of nightmares, they tore into their home, slaying hundreds and extinguishing whole clans in an orgy of blood and death.

    The assailants were driven back, but none within the keep celebrated their “victory”. King Ingrim had died, along with all his sons and more than a thousand of the Karak’s inhabitants. As the closest (and only) relative to the now-dead king, it came to Breog to take the crown and duty of protecting what little survived of the once mighty realm.

    Now, his realm was under siege by the greenskins from all directions and the Karak’s host marched to war no with a roar of defiance, but in silence, leaving the walls to strike quickly at the force which now threatened to attack from their open flank. A horde of goblins, machines of war, trolls and even a giant were currently just an hour from bursting through their already-weakened gates and the meager garrison defending it. Yes, meeting this host in battle and leaving his keep’s walls with just a token defense was a risk, but what other alternative did they really have? Neither Ugrim or Zhafbar, master engineer and runesmith of his kingdom, had an answer to his question. Instead, they nodded and joined their king as what could be spared from the keep rushed to meet the invaders and show them that Karak-Zamar was not beaten yet.

    First to step into the snow surrounding the dwarve’s solitary mountain was king Breog himself. While not old by the standards of the dwarfs, his long beard was of the same white of the snow under his thick boots. Wrinkles and scars covered his face in equal numbers as he marched at the head of his personal bodyguard, each clad in gleaming, dark-blue steel and mail. The hammerers carried the tall, heavy weapons which gave them their name, each one twice as old as the grim-faced warrior who wielded it in battle. A few paces behind this elite force of 80 dawi, 4 blocks of warriors followed, axes and shields at the ready. Usually, each regiment would be made of dwarves of the same clan, but constant loses had forced the king to push tradition aside and mix the remains of weakened forces into effective, fighting squads. The clan leaders had grumbled of course, but none shied away from his duty to their king. They either fought together, or died apart, devoured by the invaders and their pets.
    The longbeards came next, with Zhafbar at their head. Like Breog, he too had been “promoted” from apprentice to runesmith after his teacher’s grievous wounds during one of the greenskin’s worst assaults. A spider, which managed to tower even over the walls of the keep, climbed to the ramparts, devouring scores of dawi while the castle of goblins on its back showered more warriors with their poisoned arrows. Only the intervention of the old runelord, and three other brave longbeards, managed to end the creature’s life, throwing its dead carcass from the walls, to land over the small castle on its back, squashing all greenskins in it. Dying from a dozen, bleeding wounds, Zhafbar’s teacher had only enough strength in himself to rest the tool of his office on his apprentice’s arms.

    Last, but not least, was the “specialized” part of the king’s makeshift host. It was led by one of the oldest dwarfs in the whole Karak, a half-blind, half-mad engineer by the name of Ugrim. Two batteries of organ-guns, one of the newest inventions made by the Guild of Engineers, came with him, pushed by crews of young engineers and the last part of the king’s force: The Slayers.

    For the red-haired death-seekers, the invasions were like a dream come true. A large band of them had come only two days before the greenskin horde, covered in the gore of those goblins, orcs and monsters stupid enough to stand in their way. While their presence unnerved the defenders of Karak-Zamar, none dined their skill when it came to dealing with the worst the invaders sent at them. All of those who had survived the siege so far now followed the king’s sally, grunting and cursing as they helped the artillery crews to bring their heavy weapons to the snow-covered field.

    While his forces prepared to form ranks, Breog turned his gaze to the land beyond the frozen lake, now covered by a sudden storm of snow and chilling winds. Standing over a gentle hill, the dawi were spared the worst of the storm. As the minutes passed, another storm, this one of doubts, invaded Breog’s thoughts. He could not wait for his foe to come at him forever. Each minute he spent here, waiting for the goblins to find their way, increased the chances of another attack to the walls of the Karak. On the other hand, if he just rushed to find the horde, he might get lost into the storm too, only for his forces to be surrounded and cut down by a thousand invisible attackers.

    “What would you do Ingrim?” he muttered to himself.

    “My king, I see them!” grunted Ugrim as he focused his old telescope in the storm’s depths “Their giant at least and there is a strange glow…”

    “I see it” interrupted Breog. It was weak, a faint, green spot amongst a wall of snow and roaring winds. As it drew closer, the light grew in size and strength, revealing a line of shadows of all sizes and shapes coming towards the dwarves. Like an army of ghosts, they marched, driven there by the emerald lighthouse of their guide “Can you reach them with your guns?”

    Ugrim looked again muttered something and shook his head “If I shot at an arc, with the wind behind at our favor and the target was that big, ugly giant? I may get close, but nothing more”

    “What about their own war engines?” questioned the king “Can they reach us?”

    Before the engineer could give his king an answer, a shape emerged from the snow, not from the floor, but the skies above. It was a goblin, tied to a pair of wings and half-frozen by the mountain’s cruel climate, yet still grinning from ear-to-ear. A shriek flew from its mouth when his eyes, covered by a pair of crude goggles, spotted the dwarf host, already ready in their battle lines. Letting out a mixture of war-cry and howl of terror, the green creature changed direction and dived towards the king and his advisors, eager to pierce them with his rusty, iron helmet.

    “He is coming” muttered the king, not moving an inch from his position.

    Next to him, Ugrim gave the living projectile a quick look and shook his head “Wait for it my liege”

    Just as Ugrim finished his sentence, the creature, seeing the ground getting dangerously close, but not his targets, began to desperately flap his wings. One hundred feet, fifty…the goblin fell like a bullet, shrieking this time fully in terror before splashing into the snow-covered rock still two-hundred feet away from either the king or his chief engineer.

    “No my liege, they can´t reach us” said the engineer “Does this count as first blood for us, or them?”

    “We will discuss that when the battle is over” the king frowned “Is their reach better than ours?”

    “Not by much” muttered the engineer, reluctant to admit the goblin weapon’s superior range.

    “We cannot allow them any advantages” said the king “The army will advance to the bottom of the hill with the guns at the front for now. Do not worry; you will have the longbeards to back you up in case the enemy manages to survive the firestorm”
    Finally, the shadows began to emerge from the storm, the first being the wielder of the strange, green light. A shaman, thought the king when he got a better look of the goblin and the large, panting wolf which carried him to war. Like many of his nocturnal kind, he wore a tall, black hat and matching robes with a dozen different talismans over his body. The light of his curved, spear-like staff crawled down before returning to the creature’s body, making him shiver and grin with obvious delight. That grin was not shared by the trembling horde of hooded goblins following right behind, many carrying short bows, others curved swords and light shields. The latter seemed to be “led” by the tallest of their kind, right from the very back of the formation. Breog could not stop his right eyebrow from rising as the creature pulled a flask from his hip and poured its full contents down his throat. As the king scanned the sea of greenskins, he saw others doing the same thing, some already walking in drunken zigzags or dropping in the freezing snow, unconscious and snoring as loudly as they could.

    The real danger came soon after. Trolls came first, four times the size of a dwarf warrior and with grey skin as hard as mountain rock. Breog turned his gaze back to his own slayers, noticing the sudden glee in their eyes at the sight of the incoming monsters. The most ambitious of the tattooed death-seekers were already pointing at the giant, almost three times as tall as the trolls flanking him. Of course, there was still the small matter of cutting through the horde of goblins first.
    “My king” a member of his hammerer bodyguard, Kolgron, bowed to Breog “The guns are ready to fire on your order my king”

    Not only was that, but the rest of the host of Karak-Zamar also standing at the ready. Great blocks of infantry, divided by wide, open pathways to maneuver with ease, made the heart and muscle of the king’s host. Guarding the rear (and not very happy about it) were the grumbling slayers, each hoping that this battle would prove to be his last. The right flank, of course, belonged to Breog and his guard. It was tradition for any dawi army to place their best warriors on the right, ready to charge and cut through the enemy as he busied himself with the shieldwall at the front. Behind the great weapons of the Engineer Guild, the longbeards formed ranks, already grumbling about the noise and smoke to come out of the guns.

    “Are they finally in range?” asked Breog.

    “So does the chief engineer say” nodded the hammerer “There are also new foes coming from our left. Wolf riders, a full horde of them”

    Instead of the storm, the greenskin “cavalry” had surged from behind the snowy hills, their ranks loose and devoid of any visible organization. On top of an armored, white beast, came the leader of the strangely-silent wave. From its saddle, the skulls of a dozen foes hung, some human, others belonging to the dawi and even a few of other minor greenskin warlords the rider had killed in the past. For a moment, Breog was about to order his guns to focus on the new threat, before quickly lowering his hand to rest once more upon his runic hammer. Fierce as they might seem at first glance, wolf riders were light cavalry at most. Hold the line and they might as well not be there, thought the king to himself.

    “Commence bombardment”




    8 organ guns answered the king’s command with a deafening roar. Balls of dark iron flew in bands of four, each making an arc as it fell towards the invader’s lines. More than half missed, leaving thick, smocking craters in their wake. Others missed the goblin war machines, tearing into the ranks of shrieking, goblin warriors instead. Only two of the missiles found their mark, tearing into the wood and cloth of one of the foe’s war machines. Splinters, flying fast like bullets, followed, tearing into the panicking crew as if they were made of butter.

    The goblin machines were quick to answer with their howls and eager shrieks of their own, living projectiles. Like with the organ guns, the long distance between the two forces made it difficult, even for the winged creatures, to make for their targets. Their targets, the king’s batteries, had been well fortified under small walls of snow, walls which soon turned red as many a screaming goblin crashed into them. Many others fell short, others wounded or tore through one or two unlucky artillerymen. The last goblin of the first volley, seeing the destiny of his companions, took a sharp turn and crushed through one of the thick blocks of heavy, dwarf infantry. Half a dozen dwarves saw their shields and bones braking under the impact of the creature.

    “Loosen the ranks!” shouted Breog over the roar and thunder of his guns “Do not allow yourselves to become easy targets to their machines!”

    Ugrim did not move as he directed his crews. Instead of trying to shout over the organ cannons, the master of engineers used his free hand to communicate with the smoke-covered dwarves. In a matter of seconds, the cannons rose or dropped slightly before firing once more, this time turning one of the goblin war machines into a crater of splinters and melting snow. Already, the survivors of the destroyed Doom Divers were fleeing in mass, some flapping their makeshift wings in hopes of flying away from the dawi fusillade. The greenskins tried to keep up, but it was clear that the dwarfs’ better marksmanship and war machines would soon tip the balance to their advantage. So clear, that even the invaders managed to notice it.

    “Sire, they are charging our rear!”

    “What?” sure enough, most of the mounted horde was now riding directly towards the back of the king’s army, silent with their spears lowered, eager to pierce the bare chests of the red-haired slayers. Instead of calling for help or trying to form tight ranks to meet the charge, the death-seekers cheered and rushed at the wolves.

    Surprised, some of the riders slowed down their mounts, stunned by the charge. Those behind them had to stop too, cursing waving their spears in the air. The wolves who managed to meet the slayers counter-charge came as individuals and were easily cut down while the dwarves continued their rush towards the still-unaware horde.

    What came next, was not battle, but a true massacre. Each slayer was like a war galley, cutting into a sea of grey furs. Some, possessed by a berserk rage, cut and chopped without sparing a glance to the dead or wounded they left behind. Should either wolf or goblin miraculously survive, they would meet their end under the sharp, twin axes of the slayer right behind. None were left to the growling third line, dwarves who had to climb over the new mountains of bodies just to keep up with their companions.




    “To aid them in their charge?” asked the hammerer.

    “To stop them from pursuing them to the other side of the mountain” growled the king “The last thing we need is an opening for the goblins to exploit”

    Breog’s words turned out to be prophetic. A lone rider, the leader of the mounted horde, had quickly grown tired of watching his troops be massacred and rushed through the opening left by the slayers. He paid no mind to the lines of shielded warriors, all of his attention focused instead on the battery closest to the armie’s heart. With its defenses destroyed, the engine of war had been pulled to the center of the formation by their crews. To their shock, a tall, grimacing goblin now charged at them, spear at hand and shield covering his flank as his wolf leaped and tore the neck of the dwarf closest to its master. Another had fallen victim to the rider’s lance, its point springing out of the crewman’s back like a crude, rusty flower.


    “Cut the bastard down!” shouted the king.

    Four dwarfs lay dead when the rider, seeing the warriors coming his way, turned tail and ran through what gaps he could find in the approaching lines. For a moment, it seemed that not even the wolf’s agility would save him from the righteous retribution of his pursuers. Ten had already made a wall, right in the way of the goblin’s fleeing route. It seemed as if it was going to be the rider’s end, surrounded in all directions with no way out or opening for him to exploit. Then, a shriek was heard and that same wall of dwarves disappeared after the landing of another, flying goblin. Roaring in triumph, the mounted boss smacked his mount’s rear and leaped over the bloodied remains of goblin and dwarf, the rest of the dawi warriors to slow to give chase.

    “Close the openings” growled the king, only low enough to those hammerers nearby to hear “He will not do that again”

    While the rain of flapping greenskins became weaker after each volley from the organ guns, the Doom Divers still managed to take their toll, carving crimson paths into the now-loose blocks of infantry. Many of the fallen still breathed, to wounded to move or talk as they were dragged to safety. Nearby, the slayers growled and muttered darkly through clenched teeth. They were eager to fight, as were the rest of the dwarfs in Breog’s army. The king himself would wish nothing more than punching the Shaman’s head into his torso with his runic hammer, but he managed to take rein of his rage. If they charged forwards then what would have been the sense in destroying his foes’ war machines? Only two of them remained now and one of those did not dare to fire back. It was only a matter of time before…

    “Finally” Breog smiled grimly “They charge”

    With trolls in the front line, the horde of hooded creatures rushed through the hole-filled valley towards the dwarf lines. The organ guns (finally done with the last of the Doom Diver catapults) re-directed their deadly fire towards the incoming monsters. Many balls of iron hit, tearing chunks of grey flesh and even one limb or two, but the creatures kept going, their wounds quickly closing thanks to the regenerative powers of their kind. Behind Breog’s guns, his longbeards took the center while the slayers, already covered in dark blood, yet still not satisfied, ran towards the left to meet part of the hideous beasts. Right behind the trolls, a cackling goblin chief spun his spear, oblivious to the shot rushing only inches away from him or the grim line of dawi waiting to slay him. A good distance behind lay his canteen, now empty from whatever liquid he had kept in it.

    “Prepare to receive the charge!” shouted Breog.

    The clash, when it came, put the thunder of the organ guns to shame. Some longbeards flew back by might blows from troll weapons, but the rest held firm, answering the attack with the sharp edges of their weapons. A troll’s skill to regenerate any wound was indeed, something to be feared. Those who had been hit by the guns already had scars where the cannon balls had struck then. Eyes, ears…even limbs were beginning to grow back. Few were the ways in which a dawi warrior could kill a troll on its own and most of them entailed a high risk.

    Something which the slayers did not mind at all.




    The red-haired madmen roared and even laughed as they slashed, cut and chopped at the beasts. One somehow managed to jump over the back of a troll, sinking his axes to climb all the way to his shoulders before sinking his two weapons through his skull into what little brain he could find. Four others surrounded another of the beasts, slashing at his legs until it was down and defenseless enough to stab at him until no regeneration could be possible. Everywhere he looked, the king saw slayers killing and trolls slowly falling back, finally realizing the danger they were in.

    “Sire, the wolves are back!”

    “They came for more?” Breog spat on the snow and grimaced. With his warriors busy dealing with the next wave of greenskin warriors and their archers, there were very few who could be spared to protect both the rear and the army’s guns. Luckily, what had once been a horde was now little more than small, weakened warbands, only attacking where they found weakness and fleeing whenever more than ten dwarves rose to meet them.

    “Ugrim, tell your crews to make a circle with the guns and fire at those rabid dogs! Zhafbar!” the king pointed to his right and the incoming giant “Take as many as you can spare and try to keep that thing busy! When I finish here, we will bring it down!”

    “Yes my king!” shouted the two dwarfs.

    “Come on dwarves of Karak-Zamar! To victory!”

  12. #12
    Caillagh de Bodemloze's Avatar to rede I me delyte
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    Default Re: Narrative multiplayer battles

    It looks as if the dwarves are doing well - but I notice this is only part one, so I won't rush to assume the battle's over just yet!

    I particularly like your first screenshot, of the line of cannon. And I'm enjoying your description of the dwarves; the engineer who doesn't want to admit the goblins are superior in any way is a great touch.






  13. #13
    Alwyn's Avatar Frothy Goodness
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    Default Re: Narrative multiplayer battles

    I agree, I enjoyed the way that you portrayed king Breog marching through the snow, the artillery exchanging fire and the melee between trolls and slayers. Will Breog's army achieve victory, or will their enemies exploit their lack of warriors, striking at the rear of their army and their artillery simultaneously? I look forward to finding out!

    [Edit to add] The Writers' Study Yearly Awards 2016 are now open for nominations. Everyone is invited to submit nominations here.
    Last edited by Alwyn; January 15, 2017 at 03:40 AM.

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