The Story Thus Far...

ar has come to the Great Forest, and the sky has turned black as ash-laden clouds obscure the sun. The forest resounds to the sound of marching feet and clashing steel. The armies of Men, Dwarfs, and Greenskins seek the Nemesis Crown, and smaller hosts from many other races are drawn to the fighting, determined to affect the outcome of the conflict.

The Nemesis Crown has been discovered, yet it was almost immediately lost. First a Dwarf Miner and then a Night Goblin claimed the crown before disappearing, having slaughtered their compatriots. None knows exactly who holds it now, or the terrible powers at work upon its bearer.

The armies of the Empire are mustered while the expert woodsmen of Talebecland are scouring the forest in search of the Goblin who escaped with the crown. The Emperor himself is encamped nearby and leads daily forays against the enemies invading his realm. Karl Franz harbours a desire to return to Altdorf with the crown, to enshrine it within the temple of Sigmar as an artefact as revered as any of the Runefangs.

The Dwarfs are encamped along the Old Dwarf road and have erected mighty fortifications around their camp. Thorgrim himself leads the hunt for the crown, yet a tension is building between Dwarf and Man. Whether or not the old allies will come to blows remains to be seen, though no one is in doubt that a time of great strife is fast approaching, and this oldest of alliances will be tested as never before.

Grimgor leads his vast greenskin horde from his lair in the Middle Mountains. Entire tribes of Forest Goblins crawl through the dark woods at Grimgor's command, seeking out the crown. A network of runners brings news of the hunt to Grimgor; yet few volunteer for the task, for bearers of bad tidings seldom survive Grimgor's wrath.

These are the factions active in the forest in the greatest numbers and with the most hope of gaining the crown. Yet, others are drawn to the conflict, whether through the desire to aid an ally, stymie a rival, or perhaps even to claim the crown for themselves.

The Beastmen have been driven from their ancient lairs in the deepest woods by the conflict, yet now they rally to the fell creature known as Morghur. The Wood Elves have responded to the intrusion of the other races into the deepest glades of the Great Forest by despatching parties to expel any and all invaders. The High Elves lend their aid to the forces of light, while their opportunistic dark kin sow fear and confusion in the name of the Witch King. The forces of the Undead are abroad too - the Vampire Rahtep leading the aristocracy of the night, taking advantage of the bloodshed to swell his shambling legions. Outrageous tales of bone-clad Khemrian ships traversing the Reik by moonlight have been discounted as hysterical rumour.

Whatever their agenda, every race in the world has a stake in the events unfolding in the Great Forest. Whether they seek to use the crown for their own ends or to hide it away so that others may not, to aid allies or simply to profit from the mayhem and bloodshed - the dark earth of the Great Forest shall soon be fed by the blood of those who would claim for themselves the Nemesis Crown!

Hordes of Chaos Initial Despatch

“Darkness… and blood.” The bent and twisted shaman whispered as he plunged his arms into the entrails spread before him. “The sweet aroma of dead things sleeping beneath the earth, and the sound of marching feet.”

“Cease your mutterings, seer,” growled the mighty warlord, whose massive bulk dominated the shaman’s small lair. “Tell me the will of the gods in plain words.”

The shaman gibbered softly to himself before withdrawing his spindly arms from the carcass laid across the floor. They glistened red up past his elbows. “The will of the gods is clear, my lord.”

“Then speak it, seer, before I tire of your riddle!”

“This crown shall one day be ours, but that day is far, far in the future. We must gather the tribes and bring pain and death to those who would seek it, and ensure that neither Man nor Dwarf gains it.”

The warlord thought on the shaman’s words for a moment, his mind far away as he pictured the blood he would spill in Khorne’s name. “This we shall do, seer,” the warlord growled, “but lead us astray, and it shall be your entrails spilled upon the floor, and not those of some weakling Elf.”

With that, the warlord turned and stalked off into the night. Soon, the sound of the warband mustering to travel rang out. The shaman’s hideous face broke into a leering grin. “Such a fate is not for the likes of you to decide, my lord,” he whispered. “What transpires to the south may be the making, or the unmaking, of us all.”

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