“I do not trust this Hashrakul, Bray-shaman. He reeks of civilization. The Goroans are not true children of the formless wilds!”
Clovis, elder Bray-shaman of the Spellgrazers, allowed his apprentice to continue raving. Best to let the young one let all the aggression out of his system. Besides, Grash’s fevered rantings would give Clovis the chance to sound out the rest of the alpha-beasts among the Spellgrazers.
Take for example the foe-render called the Varanslave. If there was anyone that Clovis trusted less than the Goroan seeking the Spellgrazers’ aid, it was the armored gor wearing the black and gold of Archaon’s battle-thralls. The Varanslave interrupted the younger shaman with a bellow that drowned out the thunderstorm outside their shelter. “Bah! Foolish to ignore the aid offered by a fellow servant of the Dark Gods. Hashrakul’s words ring true. Preservers guard something ancient. Powerful. You can smell, can’t you? Magic-stink. Builder-craft. Power to be taken. Foolish to let it slip from our grasp.”
The pair continued to argue, so Clovis turned his attention to the final alpha-beast in the motley collection of the Spellgrazers. The far end of the cave was taken up by the hulking doombull that the other gor-kin reverentially called The Maw. The beast paused from sharpening its enormous cleaver to turn its baleful gaze on the other beastmen in the room. Clovis chuckled internally. He shouldn’t have worried. There was only ever really one thought in the Maw’s head as it sized up how easily it could tear apart every other beastman in reach. The hunger. Bloodgreed.
(The leaders of the Spellgrazers, clockwise from top-left, Clovis Bray-Shaman, Grash, the Varanslave, and the Maw)
The arguments could continue forever, Clovis mused. Neither Grash or the Varanslave were ready to confront each other yet. Thankfully, Clovis would be able to defer making a decision. As the thunderstorm subsided, the Prophet, the great crimson cygor that served as the leader of their great herd, stood to its full height. As god-speaker to the Spellgrazers, it was Clovis’ self-appointed duty to discern the wishes of the herd of cygors and ghorgons and relate it to the lesser gors that made up the Spellgrazer brayherd. With an imperious motion Clovis demanded silence from the other gors. Finally rid of the incessant bleating, the bray-shaman looked expectantly towards the Prophet. The giant beast sniffed the air for a moment, and then turned its magic-seeking gaze inland.
“Brethren! The decision is made for us. The Prophet decrees that we march towards the Viridian Crown! We will take this relic, snap it in twain, and the herd will feed on its magic!”
The lesser gor-kin gathered around the cave howled, and prepared to march.
(The Prophet of the Herd)
**
The Slidecrown conflict had begun to turn decisively in favor of the ragged alliance of Preservers. Should the invading armies of Obliterators be driven of the island, then it wouldn’t take long for the Preservers to turn their blades towards other interlopers, like the motley collection of warbands that made up the Heresiarch’s Synod. The Synod’s baggage train, swollen with plunder taken from the verdant woods and arcane ruins of the Slidecrown Isle, would be an easy target. Hashrakul needed a distraction for his exit strategy.
Fortuitous then that the Spellgrazers, a wandering bray-herd, had somehow found their way onto the island. Luckier still that Hashrakul was acquainted with the conniving old bray-shaman that led the herd. It hadn’t taken long for Hashrakul to convince the old goat that there was rich plunder to be had deeper into the isle, but Clovis had required an additional piece of theatrics before committing the Spellgrazers to battle. Hashrakul had to sacrifice the Sigmarite boulder that the Synod had wrested from a company of Dawnbringers, but it was a small price to pay for their distraction.
“Are you absolutely sure that thing will attract the cygor’s attention, Eekrek?”
“Yes-yes! Sigmarite realmstone. Much magic. Power-reeks. Stick this onto duardin wreck, send it flying low and slow. Irresistible!” Eekrek Not-A-Rat’s confident tone might have been more convincing if the sorcerer wasn’t skittering about so nervously after launching the salvaged gunhauler.
As the evening thunderstorm gave way to the dawn, Hashrakul heard the hungry roar of one of the Spellgrazers’ magic-eating giants. It seemed that the lure had worked.
**
(Taking a more OOC tack here onwards:)
The new year saw the launch of an AoS escalation league in our local playgroup and less Warcry, so I pivoted to my small Beasts of Chaos force. I figured Hashrakul and the Heresiarch’s Synod would need a distraction on the way out of the Slidecrown Isle, and a rampaging herd of gor-kin would do the trick. Enter the Spellgrazers, a group of squabbling beastmen following a herd of magic-eating cygors, much as ticks, parasites, and birds might follow along and aid a grazing plains-beast.
Lead by the duplicitous Clovis, a bray-shaman claiming to interpret the will of the silent cygors, the Spellgrazers cut a bloody swath through the center of the Slidecrown Isle. In a series of skirmishes, the beastmen drove off looters from the Thirteen Towers, razed an Ossiarch outpost, and feasted on the arcane foliage of a Sylvaneth wyldwood grove. The rampaging beastmen should give Hashrakul and the Heresiarch’s Synod an opening to reach the shores of the isle so that they can load their plunder onto their blockade runners and off to safety, though if the defenses around the Viridian Crown collapse, perhaps richer pickings are in store for the rogues of the Synod.
(The Spellgrazers ambush a Sylvaneth war-party)
