RealGree

The Spine of Sotek Dwarfs sent a vengeful throng to battle. Morrslieb, in its eternal, emerald glory, shone upon the night-clad battlefield, a chandelier affixed to a black canvas. It turned the hilly grassland into a dark blotch, and the swaying trees became thin daggers, their tips blades thrust upward. The Dwarfs formed a long, neat rectangle, its speed a solid march towards their target, the diseased Skaven ruins of Oyxl. The clan’s banners flapped west and east, a blue background for a white, straight horn with a slightly curved top. Warriors clad in gromril hauberks bore round shields and one-handed axes. They strode first, bro

Six thousand Flagellants, in the name of Sigmar, wailed out His name and charged at the besiegers. Their war cries paled in comparison to the lion’s roars of Bretonnian knights, or the boisterous laughter of Imperial Greatswords. They were agonized howls, desperate sobs, and maniacal screeches – an echo of their souls’ disease they thought of as a miracle. Flagellants never wore armour; they had their flesh and bone as Sigmar’s hammer and plate against his enemies. Dirtied, ragged cloth covered their famished bodies, hanging over deep, long scars, white knives that reaped their due. Craters of lanced boils spread acr

They fought in a cave of frozen roses. Their petals were pale blue, wide and straight, curving upwards to the ceiling of icicles that hid the cold sun. They swayed left and right from the whooshes of their blades and the air they stirred, a gentle whisper of sorrow in this sonata of battle. The two duellers clashed for an eternity. One rested in this place for centuries now, within the broken ruin of a colosseum that protected a grave of an old, dear friend. He was clad in a maille hauberk, still pristine and taken care despite his grim duty. A hood of grey and a brown beard obscured his face; the challenger couldn’t peer into his eye

He knew the end was nigh. As soon as that hellish cavalry of the Warriors of Chaos shattered their right flank, the outcome of this battle was certain. Their shielded spearmen were slaughtered by the dozens, either trampled by the humongous, black steeds whose hoofs were on fire, or the thick, serrated spears of their masters skewered or split them in two. The heretics were horrible to behold. They were clad in pristine, black full plate, with gilded runes crawling over their tall mighty, physiques, illuminated by an eldritch glow. Curved horns sprouted from some of their helmets that obscured their faces, but nothing could hide the red, mu

 The English charged against the Scots. “For Saint George!” their war cry was a howl, followed by maniacal screams and belittling laughter. Two hundred knights, the army’s heavy infantry, ran through the vale where the battle ensued. It was a rolling plain of dark green, with the afternoon skies blemished by steel and iron. It was summer, and the air was humid. A thunderclap cracked from far away, a warning of a vicious storm. Two hundred boots of good quality leather turned the grass into a brown marsh. The English knights were clad in maille hauberks, partially covered by their tabards. They displayed the proud colours

(Winter, 1098, Bologna) The grunts of training spear-wielders filled the town watch yard. It was a plain square of wet, sucking mud with a low, stone fence surrounding its perimeter. Long, wooden racks were hammered into the earth on the yard's either side, supporting practice dummies made out of straw and old, crumbling jerkins of leather and cloth. They shook and creaked as spears were thrust into them in series of quick, accurate attacks, coordinated by the Garrison Captain. Twenty spear-wielders honed their skills that afternoon. Each wore an identical training garb – long, woollen trousers, boots, shirts or gambesons, all colourle

(Summer, 1098, the city of Cordoba) The great library of Cordoba was a haven for scholars. It was a circular room with a high, smooth ceiling of pure white. Plain walls and slim pillars hid behind vast, oval shelves, carved and polished out of strong timber shipped from the faraway lands of Ethiopia. Inside these light brown pieces of furniture, books, scrolls, maps and other penned works were stacked in neat, organized lines, divided alphabetically as well as by the recorded history of the Moorish empire. Some were white and pristine, their inked words still fresh and the paper silky smooth, while others were wrinkled, yellowed bearers of o

(Winter, 1098, western borders of Oxford) The snowed glade's silence was disrupted by an entourage of knights. In the blooming, warm seasons of spring and summer, these woods were an ocean of emeralds shrouded in a mysterious fog that clung to the pine trees' trunks. Many an animal frolicked and darted around, seeking game or shelter from hungry predators. Wide, clear streams sliced the forest into several, large sections of untamed nature, jealously protecting their secrets within their hearts. Now, white blankets hung heavy on branches and bushes. Rivers turned into tongues of ice, and nothing seemed to dare to disturb the peaceful quietne