At the edge of the Bogswallow where the swampy forest clashed with the Hungering Plains, the rickety caravan of the Hobgrots spilled out into the clearing. Four wagons long, each was pulled by a mirebeast of burden. The pig-like creatures were the size of a boar, covered in grimy dark skin that resembled the waters of the Bogswallow, and five rugged tusks protruding from their faces. The ill-tempered mirebeasts were ill-tempered, possibly from the constant prodding of their hobgrot handlers, or simply riled up by the nature of the Hungering Steppe itself.
Purple shadows stalked in the shadows observing the caravan’s travel.
Flanked on each side of the wagon were several dozen Hobgrots, each armed with a series of slittas and scrap grenades in case the situation became too messy. Around them, the thick canopies of the Bogswallow met the tall brush and rocks of the open Plains, perfect to hide a hungry predator or carnivorous megafauna.
One hobgrot thought he saw a large man in the tree line, but moments later, two axehounds rushed out chasing one another, oblivious to the vile creatures nearby.
Ripped tarps and dirty leathers hid the caravan’s cargo from the beating sun of the Plains. One of the middle wagons bounced off a large rock, nearly tipping over. An annoyed growl erupted from the wagon, drawing one of its drivers to turn around and slam a stick into the cage holding the hidden beast. A tall Hobgrot named Mugga, armed with a barbed whip and caged mask, snapped at his subordinates to maintain the caravan’s pace.
Within the cages were creatures that Bor’s adviser had told Mugga explicitly to deliver with haste. These beasts were indigenous to the region, but the hobgrot knew something was “off” about them. There was a rhinoxes, axehounds and even a tigerish creature, but looking into their eyes, there wasn’t a feral mindset of a normal animal. They seemed corrupted, but Mugga didn’t want to find out, just so long as he got paid.
“Keep it going you lot,” screamed Mugga. “Boss Bor needs us to get these fings outta ‘ere! Dere be a lot of nice shinies waitin’ for us once-“
Mugga caught his breath as his wagon came to an abrupt halt. The caravan had turned a bend, only to find the path blocked by a similar-looking caravan.
Upon closer inspection, the greenskins recognized this as a previous Caravan dispatched from Bogswallow. In fact, there was a handful more abandoned wagons further down the road. This would explain why some of Bor’s previous caravans had not yet returned.
“You lots bests get this box outta da way,” shouted Mugga. “Grabs what you can. Dis lot won’t be needin’ it no more.” His grip tightened around his whip as a large bird floated above.
Several hobgrots jumped off their wagons and grabbed a side of the overturned wagon. They heaved to one side, trying with all their might to clear the road with haste.
“Boss!” an intrepid hobgrot named Zuk squealed. “There ain’t no loot. In fact, there’s nobody here!”
“There’s Morkin what?” Mugga said. He found himself looking to the sky for the bird once more but was unsure where it had gone.
What felt like a gust of wind hit Mugga, nearly throwing him off his wagon. A sharp thud slammed the ground near the rear wagon. When Mugga turned, he found a mess.
The mirebeast and hobgrot defenders laid still, each littered with bolts and slashes. The creature inside the massive cage had three javelins impaled through the tarp. The beasts gave one last squeal before a fourth javelin shot out from the brush, silencing it for good.
“Zoggin ‘ell! Weze under attack!” Mugga screamed, watching a lightning-colored bolt fly by his face and slam into the back of another hobgrot on his wagon.
To his left flank, Mugga saw the predators emerge from the brush. Giant suits of purple armour, well-concealed in the vegetation, charged forth, axes raised with boltstorm pistols pointed.
Stormcast Eternals. The realization made Mugga briefly soil himself before he regained his wits. He grabbed his dead driver and used his corpse to shield him from incoming bolts. He then jumped down and hid under the wagon.
The stormcasts chewed through the hobgrots like a Maw Krusha smashing through a barricade. These fur-clad warriors were not just powerful but quite nimble, thought Mugga. Hobgrots chucked their grenades, but the stormcasts either dodged or let the shrapnel bounce off their purple armour. Those same hobgrots were then pelted with a return volley of bots.
Some tried fleeing back the way they came, but the Stormcast were ready. Around the bend, more stormcasts charged, only these were riding orange avian monsters. They clawed aside the fleeing hobgrots, renting their patchwork armour and flesh with ease.
Even the mirebeasts and the two tainted axehounds that broke free were no match for the thunder warriors.
Mugga recognized his caravan was likely the next to never return to Bogswallow, but he could make it out.
“Let’s see how you handles dis humies,” Mugga whispered as he unlocked the creature’s cage.
A rhinox burst from the canopy, enraged and looking for something to kill. The creature’s eyes were unnaturally red, its fur a dark, faded grey, while its horn had horrifyingly warped into two.
The corrupted rhinox roared a challenge and attacked. It stampeded over one stormcast and gored another with its horns. The two warriors crumpled into lightning and shot towards the sky, then arced and scattered in several directions.
Mugga giggled and went to unlock the remaining cage, when his legs went dead and he collapsed. Four bolts pierced his calves, drawing a cry from the hobgrot.
Nearby, the Stormcasts covered in a lion pelt, reared up, sword drawn, and charged the rhinox. The creature responded and trampled toward him. As Mugga watched on, he thought he was watching the stormcast’s demise.
That expression lasted a moment as the Eternal and his avian mount lept over the rhinox. The bird-like beast clawed the rhinox’s back, tearing into thick muscle. The rider in quick succession slashed the top of its neck and slammed his sword into the monster’s spine.
The stormcast landed gracefully, while the rhinox took two more steps before it collapsed. The leader came over and smashed a lightning axe into the monster’s skull to put it out of its misery.
Fear crept back into Mugga’s face as he tried to crawl away. He only got a few feet before a shaggy stormcast picked him up with one arm and held against the wagon. The creature inside stirred.
“Are there any more of these creatures?” the purple-armored thunder warrior said. His stark orange hair stuck up like a tooth. His missing eye reinforced the warrior’s fierce expression.
“Wuts what, humie?” answered Mugga. “I ain’t gonna tell youze anything.”
The Eternal slammed Mugga against the cage this time. The hobgrot thought he heard his shoulder crack. Or that might have been the jaws of the caged monster ever-so close to its meal.
“Hehe now dat you mention it, I does remember somefin’” Mugga conceded. “One of da bosses of Bogswallow said to get these besties on da Plains wif haste. Said da recipients would know what to do. I wasn’t askin’ questions cause they paid extra to make it discrete.”
“And do you know exactly who they are?” the eternal spat.
Mugga shook his head in denial.
“Then we are finished,” the stormcast said. Mugga sighed in relief, then screamed as the stormcast opened the cage and tossed him in.
Mugga’s screams were quick as the hungry monster tore the hobgrot limb from limb. When it was finished, the stormcast unloaded several bolts into its skull.
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When he was finished, Vanguard-Hunter Prime Davocles reloaded his boltstorm pistol and regrouped with his hunting party. From the tree line, Vanguard Raptors emerged, while the Palladors returned after chasing down the last of the hobgrots. The Hunters scoured the remaining wagons for anything useful and started to drag the deceased hobgrots to the side of the road.
Lord-Aquilor Vatteros The Lionborne hopped off his gryph-charger as Davocles approached. With Lord-Imperitant Garbaldis and half of his warriors recuperating from their clashes with the Maggotkin, Vatteros had assumed full command of the Astral Templars on the Plains.
“Looks like you’ll have a new tale to tell when we return to the Drakken Lodge,” Davocles jested. “It might even rival the one with you and the ur-lion.”
“If you’re worried about not returning with your own tale to spin, I’ll be sure to speak about how Davocles Dawnsoul destroyed a host of hobgrots single handedly.”
The Hunter-Prime returned a dry laugh. A sqwak from above alerted him to his aetherwing Iark. The bird landed on his shoulder and communicated what it had seen on the edge of the Bogswallow.
“Iark says this was the last one. There are signs that more caravans are trying to find other locations to penetrate the Plains, but they seem to be avoiding this path now.”
Vatteros listened as he ran his fingers through one of the destroyed wagons. He scavenged through its items before pulling a tarp from the wreckage. He brought it to his nose and sniffed. “This is the fourth caravan we’ve dispatched that’s carried these corrupted beasts.”
“The hobgrot leader also referenced this same adviser to Bor being responsible for the beasts,” said Davocles as he let Iark return to the sky.
“Safe to assume where these beasts are coming from,” said Vatteros handing Davocles the tarp. The Hunter-Prime took it and sniffed. His face crunched.
“The same scent of Chaos,” Davocles answered.
“I think it’s time we inform Packhome of our discovery. We will need to return at some point to see how our brother and sisters are recovering.”
Nearby, the rest of the Astral Templars blocked the road with the ruins of the four caravans. This path would prove unviable for future caravans from the Bogswallow.
“At least they won’t have to worry about this path anymore,” the Hunter-Prime quipped.
“All at the cost of nine of our own,” Vatteros spoke grimly. “I pray their souls find a way through Be’lakor’s storm back to Azyr.”
“They knew the risks, Vatteros,” Davocles spoke plainly. “Even our Thunderstrike brethren aren’t guaranteed to return to Sigmaron.”
Davocles stepped close to Vatteros to conceal his next words. “I do not fear death or a return to the Anvil of Apotheosis. We have done so countless times. Even with Be’lakor’s storm, I would gladly lay my life down for any of our own or mortal. Even if it was my last.” He paused before continuing. “Yet it’s clear that “The Flaw” is becoming more prevalent among our stormhost. Some among us feel our fate will become that of “The Untamable.”
The Lord-Aquilor looked upon his fellow Astral Templars. Pride and concern surged within him, Davocles’ words stuck in his head. Yet there was something else stirring within. A feral urge to hunt down more of the Bogswallow hobgrots. A desire to find this agent of Chaos and lay him low with brute savagery akin to a thrasher maw, or even an Ironjaw.
The Lionborne knew what it was. He fought the sensation down and regained control. He wouldn’t let “The Flaw” take hold of him.
“We are Sigmar’s Beastslayers, Davocles. We have tamed much of the Jhokulands and Ghur, including here on the Hungering Steppes. We protect the mortals from the monsters they cannot kill, and slay the foes that threaten Sigmar’s domain. No matter the cost.”
Davocles nodded, fulfilled by the Lord-Aquilor’s response. He looked back at the destroyed caravans that now blocked the highway to the Plains.
“I do not consider Azyr our home anymore,” said Davocles sincerely. “We have become Ghur’s inhabitants. We are the hunters of its heartlands. We know every hunting ground from The Barren Tundra to even Thondia itself. We have fought every conceivable creature Ghur has thrown at us, bled across all its lands, and lived enough lifetimes of a dozen or more mortals.”
“I feel more comfortable out here in the wilds, or even the great hall of the Drakken Lodge, than I do in any part of Azyrheim. This realm is part of us, Vatteros. And we are now part of it as well.”
The Lord-Aquilor of the Astral Templars chuckled in acknowledgement, remembering a saying the azyrite mortals had for those who dwelled in the realm too long
“Ghur will make savages of us all.”
