View Full Version : Fluff piece for an upcoming gaming session

08-13-2010, 10:41 PM
Hi, my friends and I just got the idea to play a 3 on 1 game in which small forces of Cygnar, Protectorate, and Khador defend against a larger force of Skorne. Since this reminded me of Makeda's army of the Western Reaches, I decided to have some fun with it, and write some fluff to try to rile the fellas up a little bit. Here's what I wrote, typos and all :c)

605 AR
Western Immoren is engulfed in flames. The nation of Cygnar, once the bright beacon of progress, is beset from foes in all directions.
Two years ago, the city of Corvis was invaded by a mysterious race of alien and cruel creatures from beyond the Eastern Stormlands. However, their leader was all too familiar, the deposed former king, Vinter Raelthorne IV. The invaders were repelled, but the Cygnaran military was shaken. In the wake of that surprise attack, Khador invaded neighboring Lael, conquering that small nation, and established bulwarks at Cygnar’s borders. Cygnar in turn declared war on Khador. Amidst the chaos of that invasion, a singular voice rose from the ashes of the Laelese country side. A prophet was found, and her message to all followers of Menoth was “crusade”. Declaring this moment ripe, the secessionist nation launched their own campaign, this time not in the name of freedom, but in the name of conquest. Conquest in the name of Menoth.

Somewhere in Thornwood Forest, Eastern Border of Cygnar and the Protectorate

Sorlan Hestasius hauled himself over a bramble-trimmed ridge and laying prone, scanned the clearing before him. Bodies of many of his brethren in the Holy Zealot militia lay strewn in a star like pattern around a smoking crater where a Khadoran bombard had just landed with a deafening explosion. Similar explosions were detonating among the trees all around him, shaking the earth and spraying the air with twigs and stones. Sorlan thought back to the words of brother Manfel, uttered… was it just a half hour ago? He mustered the team of ten volunteers with such aplomb, such certainty. Never had Sorlan felt so sure of his purpose. Now where was Manfel? Likely among the scattered bodies, where Sorlan would have lain as well, if it weren’t for dim luck. And where was Menoth, whose blessings they had invoked just a moment ago? Now where zeal reigned there was panic. The team of Zealots were meant to be a diversionary force, providing an opportunity for an elite squad of Daughters of the Flame to infiltrate a lightly defended Cygnaran fort, one of several in Thornwood Forest. That plan was torn apart as easily as Khadoran shrapnel through holy vestments.
Sorlan was startled by movement to his left. A large stone Menofix stirred and lifted from the earth, and underneath, a bloody and grizzled Menite rose unsteadily to his feet. Brother Manfel, Bearer of the Monolith, locked eyes with Sorlan. immediately, Sorlan could feel fear dissolving into calm, and exhaustion melting into conviction. Without looking away, brother Manfel began reciting a prayer both men knew by heart. Sorlan did not need to hear over the din to recite the prayer in perfect unison. Their voices rose as if a spirit was rushing through their lungs, lifting their prayers in a holy Crescendo. Just as they began the final verse, calling for Menoth to bless their bodies with strength and precision, six heavily armored sword Knights broke into the clearing. Lifting his firebomb, Sorlan began to bellow out the final verse of the prayer. The sword knight lieutenant made a deft signal, and the privates formed up to either side, Drawing their swords. Sorlan’s voice rasped on. The Cygnarans snapped into a squat stance, and just as quickly charged forward, swords and shields thrust outwards. Sorlan, throat now in agony, screamed his final words, even as he lunged forward, bomb lifted high. “Fire for the heretic! Fire for the faithful! Fire for eternity!”


“Get into those trees, now!” Lieutenant Coulburn shouted, gesturing to his right. When he turned to look over his shoulder, he discovered that the two trenchers hunched beside him were slumped over on their sandbags, wearing the blank expression of men who met their deaths with naivety. There was no denying it now, the 9th Trencher Company was pinned, with what appeared to be a squad of Widowmakers, lurking out of sight. They were now helpless to watch the melee before them, as the 5th Company, a squad of sword knights hailing from Corvis clashed loudly with what seemed like an insurmountable number of heavily armored Iron Fang Pikemen. Suddenly, someone double –tapped Coulburn on the shoulder, and a young officer was shouting in his ear. “Pull back! Everyone back! Parlay! Parlay!” Barely believing the order, Coulburn eased out of his prone position, and amidst sniper roundswhistling by his ears, began signaling as emphatically as possible to his regiment, and anyone else in the area. “Pull back! Pull back you sorry bastards! Pull back for the love of Morrow!” he yelled. He knew it was too late for the swordsmen, locked as they were, in mortal combat. However, a pikemen turned and regarded him as if he heard the shouting, and quickly swung his pike around. Before Coulburn could react, he felt the blunt tip of the Iron Fang blasting pike smash into his rib, knocking the breath out of his lungs. He instinctively stabbed outwards with his bayonet and felt the blade sink into the chainmail covering the pikeman’s left arm. Mutually impaled, both men struggled, Coulburn, struggling to free his cumbersome weapon, while the pikeman struggled to reach the trigger further up the haft of the spear. With a fierce cry, the Khadoran wrenched his arm from the blade, reached backwards, and pressed the trigger. The round speartip clinked in Coulburn’s ribs, and a heartbeat later, both men were consumed in a white hot explosion.


“Our scouts report a significant force including large beasts and more than one infantry unit, Skorne, by all accounts, closing quickly. They’ll be upon us in fifteen minutes, sooner if they notice our condition.” Coleman Stryker tried to rein his impatience, even as he leaned over the table, where a battleworn map lay across a barrel. “Our scouts report no such thing.” spat the Khadoran commander, his heavy accent grinding the words like gravel.
“Ah… ahem, sir?” came a warbling Khadoran voice at the entrance of the parlay tent. Vladimir stiffened. “Speak, Kovnik!”.
“Our scouts stopped reporting two cycles ago”.
“It seems you have your confirmation then”, intoned another voice from a dark recess of the tent. The Exemplar Seneschal stepped forward, and threw a golden signet onto the ground. “The High Exemplar wishes to withdraw our forces, though we will see to our defenses as necessary. If you two wish to continue squabbling, it is of no concern to us.” The Menite knight then strode from the tent, and his retinue could be seen joining him outside. Stryker turned back towards the fixed and icy glare of the Khadoran warcaster. “Well Vladimir, do we have a deal?”
“You are fortunate today, Commander. This is not over.” Stryker looked on as the Umbrian prince stormed out of the tent. “Fortunate indeed” he mused.