It was the greatest battle that Joheim Burgenston had ever witnessed, and it hadn't even begun. Atop a hill somewhere in the land of Middenheim squatted a young cannoneer born of Nuln, overlooking the grandest of exchanges between the forces of the legendary Boris Toddbringer and Rakath the Bloodheaver. Boris had not been seen all morning as the preparations were made in his absence, but a great reassurance was over the men at the sound of his name. Beside his cannon and crew of six the artillerist observed the formations through his spyglass. He was amazed at the spectacle of the uniforms and heraldry flying resplendent over the field. Joheim gazed longingly at the soldiers on the front with their emblazoned blue shields and heroic steel swords as they were carried forth to the hypnotizing drums of beating feet. Middenheimers were of course the bravest soldiers in all the old world, and he couldn't help but feel a tinge of remorse that he had not been born "blue-blooded" as a Middenlander. Instead, he was born into the life of the somewhat craven artilleryman, who's kills came not from the strength of his arm but the aim of his cannon.

Lost in his thoughts, he was shouted awake by the call of the artillery captain as the crews moved to aim the guns. Joheim wondered what they were aiming at trying to find their target through his spyglass when suddenly the woods before them sprang to life. A rancorous call arose to the tree-tops as without warning thousands of chaos cursed beast-men melted out of the tree line as if born by the forest herself. The blue and white host folded out deftly like a stack of cards as the beasts rushed across the field towards them. The captain's cry rang out and then was smothered by the deafening roar of the cannons as fire leapt from the mouth of the guns at Joheim's side. The iron shot crashed into the horde of animals causing gaps to ripple through their disorganized ranks, but still the tainted charged with unmatched fury. Again, the cannons fired this time parroted by a wave of gunshot from further down the hill which tore apart the vanguard line of the caprinous raiders. Finally, through the spyglass the young engineer watched as the chaos worshippers slammed into the line of proud looking Middenheimers for what was to be a truly valiant display of bravery. Joehiem narrowed his glass and peered in anticipation ready to see daring acts of heroism and stunning feats of strength by the footmen against the foul agents of chaos but as the two lines met a horrible unease settled into the gut of the young Nulnite. His eyes began to water, and his stomach began to ache as the true nature of war unfolded before him.

Screaming Middenlanders were chopped to pieces by gore-drunk animals before being gunned down by marksmen perched above. A once proud standard bearer dropped his flag into the mud as his gut was cleaved open by a goatman twice his size, only for the goat's disfigured head to split open from a blind-side blow. The cannons shouted once more, and the guns answered their cry. More beasts ran from the forest in an unceasing tide of horns and fur as the line of blue and white dwindled worryingly below. Musketeers fired desperately into the melee in the hopes of stopping their impending doom only to hit fellow imperials in the back leaving gaping holes to slowly bleed them out. Officers shouted hopelessly for the men to stand and fight, invoking the name of Ulric, Sigmar, or anyone who could hope to stop the death-starved beasts from tearing them apart. Joheim soaked it all in from beside the safety of his gun. The cannon fired again making him wince and the gore spilled out like a flood beneath him. Like a madman at a scab he put the glass to his eye again, in spite of himself, and looked at the beasts pouring out of the undergrowth. They were hideous beyond compare and their capacity for violence was endless. He watched as one lost both its arms and kept on goring men until it bled out in the dirt. The most twisted of all was the beastlord Rakath who stood roaring on the edge of the treeline, provoking his swarm to greater heights of destruction. The beastlord brandished his ax with a gleam in his crimson eyes as he too rushed forward to meet the last of the imperial line. Musketmen brandished their swords as the tide swept away the Ulricans and fell upon their soft innards. The last of the army made their stand with not a single spark of hope in their hearts for survival when a figure emerged beside Joheim at the top of the hill.

Upon his silver-clad steed sat the visage of Boris Toddbringer wielding his mighty Runefang and wearing a look of determined hatred. Boris strode down the hill with might and fury and crashed into the black-hearted beastkin. This was the heroism I was promised, though Joheim, as the elector-count slew countless fiends beneath his blade. His strength and wrath were unmatched and ceaseless it seemed and in his heart no fear could be found. The battle turned in what seemed like an instant as Toddbringer charged valiantly towards the blackard commander Rakath who stood braying in the center of his vast army. A stream of beastmen were slain in the path of the unrelenting Ulrican who rode fearlessly upon his steed to meet the dreaded foe. Without a moment's pause Boris lowered his sword and sliced the wretched head of the beast clean from its shoulders before turning and cleaving through the swarm once more. The beast's lord lay dead and his murderer stood triumphantly unscratched before them, so without another sound the beasts turned and ran back into the dark forest. A joyous cry went up from the men as the chaos receded into its rightful place. Joheim could muster no cry and did not join in the chant of Toddbringer's name, instead he emptied his stomach onto the dirt to let it run down into the blood and gore below. We have won nothing, he thought, we have merely survived. There in that blood-soaked field Joheim knew that this was not the tale that would be told back in the taverns of his homeland. There would be no talk of screaming men turned to nothing more than frightened children, or misfires marking would-be friends for slow bloody deaths. The veterans knew his mind, for when he turned to them, they merely shook their heads and then returned to the celebration.

So it was at the jetties of Nordland where the raging northmen stormed over the bay, smashing the heads of soldiers and gulping down their blood like a calf at a mother's teat. So too was there horror in the marshes of Ostermark when the trees themselves began impaling terrified scouts on the roads leading to the whole of the army narrowly escaping an ambush by an army of undead. All across the empire Joheim sat beside his cannon and spotted for the old-hands, watching the chaos of combat unfold, then heaving his rations into the mud. It was near the village of Turensteim in Ostland when a group of northmen hunters were allowed to get too close to the artillery fortifications that the loader, Bergan Stollstack, was run through with a bone-tipped javelin. The horsemen were run off by archers but it didn't matter, the battle was still raging and the cannon needed a loader. Joheim was called to the task and without a word he mimicked the motion he had seen during so many battles. The rhythm comforted him, and beside that he didn't have to look at the massacre any longer through his accursed spyglass.

Joheim didn't mind being a loader, but by the end of every day his arms were so sore he couldn't even lift a spoon to eat his soup, but he was thankful that he could at least keep it down now that he wasn't gazing into the maw of death any longer. Now, whenever he heard the distinctive cry of a particularly gruesome death rise above the din of battle he simply picked up another round and turned away. Joheim didn't like to talk to the Middenlanders either, which was fine with them, it seemed, as they found the Nulnites to be cowardly standing behind their guns, but more than that he feared that he would glance towards the fighting one day and recognize one of their faces, he hoped he never remembered a single footman's face and when he spoke to them he turned his eyes down as to never catch their gaze and see the soul behind their eyes. After the battles when the survivors picked through the bodies for supplies to give to the new recruits Joheim pretended they were odd looking crops and he was simply picking a strange harvest of boots and swords. By night the ringing in his ears was so great that he felt as if a Sigmarite monastery was beside his head at all times and by day his lungs were so choked by the whiff of black powder that he felt his nose might ignite if he held his pipe too close. Towards the end of the year Joheim Burgenston had grown to the size of his fellow artillerist and had hardened his mind to the leering stare of death that gazed at him every time he stepped onto a field. He had seen countless skirmishes and a handful of major battles and he had defended sieges and tore down walls. Joheim understood his gun like no other and coaxed it to do his bidding like a wild horse. Its quirks and tendencies were his second nature and its rhythms and timings became the paces upon which he lived his life. When he lifted his cup to drink he waited exactly the number of seconds for a fuse to blow until he put it down again, and when he smoked his pipe he packed the tobacco exactly three times as if jamming in a round. The empire requires constant defense and for a man to be a stalwart defender he must give up some part of himself along the way. He must relinquish the side of him that longs for a warm bed and hot meal and replace it with a side that longs for a clear shot and a dry fuse. Joheim was a part of war now, not an outsider and not an observer, but one of its pieces. He felt right perched atop a hill firing onto the enemy, and he felt satisfaction at seeing their ranks scatter under his gun's might. He felt he had cheated death itself by bringing such great destruction from so far away, and with so little risk. Though in all his days of fighting Joheim had never considered an enemy who fired back, until the damage had already been done.