THE NEMESIS CROWNHIGH ELVES VS VAMPIRE COUNTS
MIDNIGHT HOUR
The Warhost of Tor Karandell has suffered a great setback with the defeat of Cerandar's contingent by the Black Wolf Templars. Prince Elreth, outraged at the mage's losses, has given Cerandar and his son, Uryllion, one chance to redeem themselves of their dishonour. Tracking the dragon's egg to the Tower of Midnight, Cerandar and his contingent must retrieve the egg from Lord Moldovia and his undead hosts. The alternative is exile…
SCENARIO STATISTICS
Points:
1000
Participants:
High Elves
(Pat Quinnell)
Lahmian Vampire Counts
(Ben Smith)
Scenario:
Pitched Battle
Location:
Outside the Tower of Midnight
Timeline: 2525 (Empire Calendar)
THE ARMIES
High Elves:
The Warhost of Tor Karandell
General:
Cerandar
Lahmian Vampire Counts:
The Minions of Midnight
General:
Lord Moldovia
THE STORY SO FAR…
Again Cerandar and his elven warriors have been soundly beaten by the Black Wolf Templars led by Vorak. Upon returning to the High Elf encampment, the mage and his son were met by Prince Elreth, general of the Warhost of Tor Karandell. The prince was outraged that such a failure could occur, and only one thing now stands between Cerandar and complete dishonour resulting in a discharge from the army and exile. The dragon's egg has been found to lie deep in the Tower of Midnight, a bastion of black stone controlled by the Necromancer, Lord Moldovia. If Cerandar can defeat the undead hordes and retrieve the dragon's egg, he will stand favoured once more in Elreth's eyes. But if he fails, and the undead host destroys the High Elf army, the mage can expect nothing but a quick discharge from the Warhost of Tor Karandell followed by self-imposed exile. The battle will be tense indeed…
TURN 1
Lord Moldovia stood on the parapet of his tower, gazing down across his windswept lands. The rotted trunks of the trees groaned and creaked, their skeletal limbs clutching at an uncaring sky. Beside him stood the vampiress, Amanda DeFlowna, her skirts shifting slightly in the cold breeze. Her eyes narrowed as she spotted the enemy army approaching below. To her keen eyes, it looked like a force of elves. Cavalry, and infantry, supported by a war machine, a bolt thrower, that's what their meagre army resembled. Easily beaten, perhaps. At last, she thought, something with blood she could actually drink without suffering any chaotic side effects.
It was time to feed.
'My lord,' she purred, 'shall I prepare the Black Knights?'
'Indeed,' Moldovia replied. 'It seems that this drake's egg I've claimed has attracted attention. We shall destroy them, and their bones shall nourish the hungry earth. And summon the Black Coach…I feel it needs a working out this time.'
'Well said, for a mere human. The blood rises.' Amanda turned tail and swept away, her hair flicking over her shoulder. The elves were weak, frail creatures. Their discipline and courage in the face of adversity was admirable, but they were about to fight a battle that would ultimately be lost. In the end they would be her prey. Given another chance to supp on blood, her strength would only increase. Soon she would be revitalised once more…
Cerandar shivered. His cloak billowed around him as the wind began howling a ghostly lament. This was no wind of magic however. It was the spirits of the damned. As the last rays of the sun were blotted from the sky, and the remnants of power faded from his mind, leaving him without the energy he needed, the first ranks of the undead emerged from the dark forest. Rank upon rank of skeletons and vile mounted wights dragged themselves inexorably towards the elf lines. Among their number the mage could see a ghostly figure, a banshee. He swallowed his fear and tried not to succumb to further shock. There, sitting side-saddle upon one of the nightmarish steeds was a luxurious, yet deadly figure. He was sure it was a vampire. A Vampiress, making it doubly dangerous. She could transfix him with a stare and then drink from his freshly exposed throat. He would have to use extreme caution.
There was the rumble of wheels and a huge, black coach materialised from the woods. It was drawn by nightmares: skeletal steeds draped with rotting flesh and rags. But they were nothing compared to the horror that sat atop the driver's seat. Without face or features, it was a black space visible only because of the hooded, black cloak it wore. From its otherwise empty sleeves protruded two skeletal arms wielding a double-handed scythe.
It was a wraith, a likeness to death itself.
'Fire! Eliminate the coach!' Came the command. The bolt flew directly towards the hellish carriage, but quickly clattered from the vehicle's wooden side. Cerandar grimaced. It would take more than missiles then to get rid of this deathly fiend.
Suddenly there came a burst of power from amongst the ranks of the damned. Someone was casting magic…quickly, Cerandar concentrated and, using all his mental force and will, tried to wrest that power away and take it for his own spellcasting. It was a struggle, a darkness battled against him, but he won, and without hesitation, unleashed the Fury of Khaine against the coach.
The blast scored a dent in the black coach's panels, nothing more. Cerandar cursed. Neither missiles nor magic – what was it going to take to destroy this thing?
TURN 2
The Silver Helms continued to advance across the field, their lances levelled, ready for the charge. The spearelves, too, advanced, wary and yet terrified of the corpses that marched against them. Cerandar gritted his teeth and opened his arms wide, gathering in power. The winds of magic responded this time and he uttered the words to his spell. He had to succeed. If this day was lost his house would be shamed for many years.
Thankfully, the Fury of Khaine struck the coach and damaged it. Wood splintered, rocking the carriage. Cerandar smiled. At least he could cause some damage. The Eagle's Claw fired again, and the mage's smile faded as another bolt ricocheted from the door. This was surely a sturdy construct.
With an ear-piercing screech like the screaming of a choir of damned souls, the wraith steered the monstrous black coach into the spearelves' midst. Elves were trampled beneath skeletal hooves and the wraith's great scythe arced down, slicing a warrior in two. In return the elf commander leading the spearelves hacked out, but his blows glanced off the carriage sides, and the stabbing spears went straight through the horses' bodies, causing no damage. With a ghostly screech that forced commander and troops alike to clap gauntlets to ears, a black aura of darkness began to surround the coach. It swelled and billowed like a blanket, before being sucked into the carriage itself. It was as if the thing was revitalising itself from the bodies of the slain.
TURN 3
'Charge! Victory for Tor Karandell!'
With the thunder of silver-shod hooves, the silver helm knights crashed into the skeletal ranks. Their lance tips sliced through rib cages and shattered limbs, but alas! The bodies of the damned simply got up again and continued their relentless assault. Their rusted swords and mouldering axes clashed on the elven armour, causing no damage and yet they battled on.
The battle with the black coach dragged on, neither elf spear warrior nor commander causing any lasting damage against the carriage of evil. Looming like a shadow, the wraith struck out with his scythe, decapitating a single elf with one blow. The helmeted head bounced upon the hard ground, leaving a patch of blood that soaked into the earth.
Uryllion spied the undead knights and tried to use his powers. Some evil force deflected his magic, preventing him from damaging his targets. Looking to his father, he frowned.
Cerandar called upon his gods and howled to the winds of magic. This time they answered him with power, and he could feel the energy rushing through his veins. Swollen with it, his eyes flashing white, he unleashed the Fury of Khaine towards the cantering Black Knights led by the Vampiress. No less than three of the mounted wight warriors were felled.
'Now that's how it's done, child.'
Amanda snarled, her canines protruding from her mouth, yet not defacing her beauty. Beside her the remaining knights rumbled forwards, their eyes glinting with eerie light.
'Cowardly mage,' she spat as Cerandar fled in terror, his robes whipping about him.
Selene, the ethereal banshee, issued her infernal scream and swept towards the Eagle's Claw. One of the crew, clutching his bleeding ears, fell. The other fled, but was slain quickly as the ghostly figure closed with him and wrenched his soul from his body.
'Why cannot I use the power?' Lord Moldovia roared as his spellcasting attempts failed. 'I curse thee, High Elves of Karandell!'
'Retreat!' The silver helms spurred their elven steeds to turn and flee. Two of their number had been pulled down and gutted, and only a single skeleton had returned to the grave. It was a heavy loss. As the flower of the elven cavalry fled, the damned marched on.
TURN 4
Uryllion gritted his teeth and pulled his pulled his hair in frustration. Why were his spells not working? He had learnt well, practiced under the tutelage of his father, and yet the winds were against him. Damn these foul undead hordes, he thought. Even as the Flames of the Phoenix crackled at his fingertips, the spell died and was annulled.
In stark contrast, Cerandar praised Lileath, goddess of Magic as the Fury of Khaine once again blasted the dark knights. A single rider crumbled to dust, the armour of ages ago falling amidst a pile of mouldering horse bones. The mage was having a little success, at least, even if his apprentice was not.
Moldovia ducked into the cover of the woods. Here he could dodge the elven magic that was being so devastating to the knights. He would have his share of the glory, and soon the elves would die. And be inducted into his army of undeath. He smiled at the thought.
The wraith lashed out, killing all it touched. Two more warriors fell to its unholy blade, their flesh withering and dying, their armour rusting over. The skeletal nightmares reared and trampled another, but the stoic elves refused to flee, even in the face of such terror.
TURN 5
'My lord Cerandar!' The captain of the silver helms led his knights towards the mage. 'We must retreat! The undead are too strong!'
'There will be no retreat,' Cerandar hissed. 'Not yet; we must ensure the dragon's egg is secured.'
'But this is madness! There are too many!' The captain pointed at the advancing skeletons.
'Enough!' Cerandar's eyes grew harsh. 'We continue the battle. The winds might change yet.'
And change they did, at least a little towards Uryllion's favour. Closing his eyes, he reached out to the winds of magic. Putting himself at risk, he opened himself up to them. Automatically he could sense the chaotic energies swirling and eddying. The power was there…all he had to do was grasp it and take it, mould it to his will and unleash it.
It was time for him to become a true mage.
Suddenly, a ghostly figure floated towards him. He could see it clearly with his mage sight, a deathly white shape clad in scanty rags and with hair blowing out like ripped cloth. It was the banshee. Now, his mind told him, unleash your spell, destroy the undead thing! The energy was there…for the taking.
With a snarl, Uryllion opened his eyes to see Lady Selene approaching. It was his turn.
'Praise be to Khaine!' He roared, and the magic was released. In a flash of bright power, the banshee was extinguished, her piercing shriek echoing on the winds of magic.
'You will feel the wrath of the Lahmian!' Amanda screamed as she galloped into the midst of the spearelves alongside her Hell Knight, the last remaining of her wight bodyguards.
'We'll see about that, undead witch!' The commander replied, turning to face her from the ground. As the swirl of battle continued to rage around the black coach, the two duellists faced against each other. The commander twirled his sword and clashed with the vampiress' staff. Sparks flew as elf and vampire circled, looking for an opening. Around them elves died beneath flashing scythe and trampling undead hooves. The Hell Knight's blade hacked down another, but still the elves stood firm while their commander lived. Amanda shrieked and feinted left. As the commander rose his sword to parry, she swung the staff around. Its ornate head smacked into the elf's face, drawing blood. He staggered back, dazed, and before he could do anything, Amada was upon him. She leapt from her steed, and wrenched the blade from his hands, discarding it like a broken toy. He fought back, but with superhuman strength she grasped his upper arms and ripped them back, breaking both. A pained gasp escaped from the elf's lips before the vampiress drew back her hand and smashed him across the face. His head snapped back, exposing his throat. Without further hesitation, she leaned forward and drank deep.
It was time to feed…
Around the pair the battle raged, elves falling to the undead horrors. Black energy twirled and whisked around the combatants, filling the air with darkness. Already night had fallen, and the shadows of true night had emerged. Eyes glowed; spirits whispered their hatred of the living and ghastly wails split the atmosphere of battle din.
TURN 6
Amanda DeFlowna threw back her head and howled her victory to the black skies. Fresh blood splashed from her jaws, her fangs wet in the moonlight. It ran down her face and neck. She felt revitalised, strengthened, intoxicated. She felt alive, as alive could be for a creature of the night. Her eyes glowing, she looked down at the fallen elf commander.
'Now rise, weakling, and serve your true master, Amanda DeFlowna!'
Raising her hand, palm downwards and fingers spread, she uttered words of power. There was a tremor in the air, a shimmering as if reality had shifted ever so slightly. Slowly, the elf's glazed eyes returned to life. But it was a greenish witchlight that gleamed within, not the bright defiance that had once been there. Dragging itself upright, the corpse reached for its sword. Amanda smiled a sweet smile. Her new thrall had answered the summoning.
'Cerandar, my lord! We must retreat! There is no choice now!' The silver helm captain shouted at his commander. His horse jolted and shifted, eager to flee this place of death.
'No! The winds are weak, but we cannot lose this chance!' Cerandar glanced left and right, at the gathering hordes of undeath. Perhaps the captain was right. More and more skeletons were clawing their way up from the cold earth, eager to get at the living. The elves' numbers had diminished, only to swell the ranks of the damned. With one last horrified glance at the mages, the silver helm captain ordered his men to retreat. Confused, the mage shook his head but the cavalry did not look back. They disappeared into the trees.
Back to back, Cerandar and Uryllion readied their minds for the spells they would need to cast to save their own lives. They watched in horror as the last of the spears were overwhelmed beneath a tide of skeletal death and the black coach thundered towards the small hillock they were standing on. The vampiress and her last Black Knight, the Hell Knight, galloped in their direction. Her face was wet with blood. The blood of his kin. Fangs extended, she resembled some she-daemon from the nether hells. And still, she was perfection.
They were surrounded. There was no escape. Their mission had failed.
And then, to confirm their fate, a black cloud materialized above the forest. It moved, like an amorphous shadow, towards the coach. Suddenly, it was drawn into it, sucked in by some unseen force. What little damage the carriage had taken disappeared as the mysterious terror absorbed the cloud and seemed to swell in its dark majesty.
Cerandar swallowed, and raised his staff. Behind him he heard Uryllion gasp.
They were doomed…
The silver helm captain chanced a single glance back towards where the mages had been standing. Partially hidden by trees, flashes of magic lit up their position. He could hear the elves' voices, chanting words in the Eltharin mage tongue. Then, suddenly, there was silence. The last he saw was a giant, black bat rising above the forest, its eyes glinting. It made a circuit of the Tower of Midnight and then looked in his direction. Urging his steed onwards, he galloped away to report their failure to Prince Elthas…
THE LAHMIAN FEEDS WELL TONIGHT
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