“Form up, youz squig-shits!” roared Ugag as he yanked the reins of his massive war-boar.
He smelled them before he saw them, and he was glad.
For three moons, his lads had pillaged the countryside, leaving nothing and no one standing. Ugag had grown frustrated. The only “opposition” they’d faced were rabble— peasants in roughspun tunics; men with too much gray in their beards, and boys barely able to lift a pitchfork.
It wasn’t until Gruuma, boss nob of his boar riders, suggested they leave survivors to spread the word.
Why survivors? Ugag had thought. Less carnage. Less fun.
Still, Gruuma had always been a shrewd one. At times, Ugag suspected the nob had goblin in him.
And truth be told, there was little sport left in killing farmers. His lads were getting bored. Soon they’d turn on each other… or worse, start squabbling with the goblins that had joined them.
These were not the same goblins that toiled in the warcamp. These were night goblins, led by Krekka da Red Whispa, a cunning shaman who never showed his face. They gorged on mushrooms that drove them into frenzies, and slicked their blades with ooze said to have withered Thrakka’s limbs to twigs.
Ugag snarled at the thought of ending up like Thrakka— all because the shiny gitz never showed.
So he had begrudgingly agreed with Gruuma.
The air shimmered as they crested the grassy knoll.
To their right, an old watchtower lay in ruin. To their left, a lazy creek wound downhill. In the center stood a small shrine and house dedicated to a god that was neither Gork nor Mork.
It was destined to burn.
That’s when Ugag saw them.
The high sun gleamed off polished armor. Colorful banners snapped in the breeze. The scent of horseflesh and sweat hit the back of Ugag's tongue.
Around him, shrill cries and deep bellows rose from the warband.
“Dak-ka! Dak-ka! Dak-ka!”
They drummed blades against crude shields and stomped their feet. Ugag felt his blood boil as the chant built to a crescendo, his vision reddening...
“WAAAAAAGH!”
He drove his heels into the flanks of his war-boar and charged straight for the Bretonnian line.
He expected Gruuma and the boar boyz to follow.
They didn’t.
Ugag bared his tusks. He would deal with Gruuma later.
He thundered into the field, great axe gripped in both hands. A sortie of shiny gitz rode to meet him, the ground trembling beneath their charge.
From the sortie, a group of knights peeled away in the direction of the watchtower.
Ahead, leading the remaining knights, was one rider.
He was young with a mane of golden hair. Green and white heraldry. A black serpent coiled across his shield.
Ugag roared and leaned into the charge.
The knight lowered his lance.
Its tip was shaped like a serpent’s head, its mouth open, a steel tongue thrust forward.
Ugag was too slow.
The serpent struck true.
The world became a crash of steel, splintering wood, and thunderous hooves as the knights rode him down, not even slowing as they passed.
Pinned beneath his war-boar, barely conscious, Ugag glimpsed the chaos unfolding.
The serpent knight slammed into the line of boyz as they descended from the knoll, failing, or perhaps choosing not, to see the goblins sweeping in on their flank.
From the goblin ranks came madness.
Two whirling shapes—torn linen and iron—hurtled forward like living missiles.
It was the fanatics.
They smashed into the knights' flank.
The crunch of steel. The snap of bone.
They tore through the formation of both men and greenskin without slowing.
Amid the carnage, Krekka danced with his totem-staff raised, voice shrieking. A halo of red energy flared above the mob of greenskins, forming a grimacing sun. The red-light gleamed across their blades.
The boyz surged forward, hacking with renewed fury.
The knights broke.
Seeing the charge had failed, they wheeled in panic and rode straight into the goblins closing on their flank.
From the old watchtower came the sound of hooves and screams.
A handful of knights returned, far fewer than had ridden out.
Behind them came Gruuma and his boar boyz, cackling as they ran the survivors down to the last man.
Arrows thudded into the dirt around him. A feeble volley gone wide.
Horn blasts sounded.
Hooves thundered past, fading toward the shrine.
“Dak-ka! Dak-ka!”
The chant swelled once more.
Then… another sound.
The jingle of spurs.
Heavy footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate.
Gruuma stepped into view, looming over him.
Not hurried. Not searching. Certain.
He crouched and took hold of Ugag’s harness, dragging him just enough from the mud to meet his gaze.
Their eyes locked.
In the nob’s expression… something like triumph. Something colder than victory.
Understanding.
As if this had always been the way of it.
Reflected in those fiery red pupils, Ugag saw a grin. Wide. Brutal.
Gork.
Or maybe Mork.
And then…
Blackness.
+/+/+
At my core, I’ll always choose fantasy over sci-fi, so it was a great pleasure to play my first game of the Old World with Sam (@realmofniembro). We’d been talking about running a (very) slow-grow narrative series. No pressure, no league, just playing games and letting the dice tell the story while we learn a new ruleset... Excuse the lack of paint as I work through these mob of gitz.
Sam did an excellent job painting the terrain, and Forest helped ref the game as we worked our way through the rules. Definitely check out Sam’s write-up on his blog here, covering the same battle from the perspective of his knights.
There was a lot of interest at the shop to see neither AoS or 40k being played. A couple observers mentioned that they had fantasy armies at home and that they would be up for a game.
Anyway, we'll see what happens between Ugag and Gruuma in the next game.
- Mike
