Overview

The adventurers first uncovered hints of something foul in Bögenhafen almost by accident. What began as a simple errand through the dock district turned strange when they found odd ledgers, shipments marked with unfamiliar sigils, and scraps of parchment etched with the eight-pointed star hidden in a merchant’s warehouse. A cellar beneath the building held darker proof: scorched ritual circles, guttered black candles, and the lingering stink of warp-tainted incense. Whatever had happened there had been recent—and whatever the cult planned next was likely worse. The party exchanged uneasy looks, weighed the danger, and decided that discretion was the better part of survival. Before dawn they quietly rode out of town, telling themselves that the authorities—or someone more suitably heroic—would deal with it.

Months later that decision tasted like ashes. Their coin vanished in bad ale, worse gambling, and the endless road, until the last of their silver was gone. When recruiters of the provincial levy came through, promising meals and forgiveness of certain “misunderstandings,” the adventurers found themselves wearing the colors of the local army marching under grim banners. Now the road bends back toward Bogenhafen once more—but this time at the head of a column of nervous soldiers sent to reclaim a town overrun by cultists and daemons. As the walls appear on the horizon, the party recognizes the smoke rising above the rooftops and the distant echo of unholy bells… and realizes the horror awaiting them is the very one they chose not to stop.

The enemy

The scout’s report was delivered breathless, boots still muddy, cloak half-torn by thorns from the forest's edge. He refused ale until he had spoken. When he did, his voice shook despite his effort to steady it.

“I swear by Sigmar, I ain’t seen the like of it before… and I pray I never do again.

It started with the sky.

Not clouds, mind you—colors. Wrong ones. Purples and blues swirling like oil on water. Then something moved inside it… wings the size of a windmill’s sails. A great bird-thing, but no bird Emperor ever made. Feathers of flame, eyes like burning lanterns. It floated above the rest like it owned the very air.

And gods help me, I think it did.

That creature was the master of them all—casting fire from its claws, laughing like a mad scholar. Blue flames rained down around it that burned the ground but not the things marching beneath.

Beneath that horror came the chattering mob.

Little things at first glance… pink as raw meat and giggling like children who know a cruel joke. But there were dozens of them. Two mobs at least—one small pack, maybe ten or so… and another nearly twice that size. They capered and shrieked in a tongue I couldn’t bear listening to long.

And among them marched the worst of that lot—tall, twisted things with long arms like burning branches. They spat gouts of warp-fire. Five of them I counted clearly, though the smoke made it hard to be certain. Wherever they pointed their hands the earth blackened.

That was only the first host.

Behind them strode something far worse.

A towering daemon, tall as an ogre but leaner, crowned with horns and wrapped in shadow like a cloak. It walked like a king surveying his lands. The others kept their distance from it. I think it was their lord… or maybe their executioner.

Around that monster ran hunting beasts—five red hounds with brass collars and jaws that never stopped snapping. They didn’t bark. They howled, like war horns made of meat.

Trailing behind them slithered three… things. I barely have words for them. Great piles of rot and tentacles, dragging themselves through the mud and leaving slime behind. The air around them smelled like a battlefield three days after the crows leave.

And dancing among that filth were six pale creatures shaped like women—but wrong. Too graceful. Too sharp. They moved like blades through water, laughing softly as they went.

I thought that was the whole host.

I was wrong.

From the tree line came the braying.

Beastmen. A small warband, but brutal looking. One big brute with twisted horns led them—carrying himself like a chieftain. Around ten of the goat-things marched behind him, banging crude weapons on shields like they were eager for blood.

And with them… the monsters.

Three Minotaurs.

Huge even by their kind. Muscles like siege engines and horns wide enough to gore a horse clean through. They walked at the rear like living battering rams.

“So that’s what’s coming for us,” the scout finished quietly.

“One sky-daemon leading a swarm of those pink horrors and fire-spitters… a horned prince commanding blood-hounds, rot-beasts, and those clawed temptress things… and a beastman warband with minotaurs bringing up the rear.”

He swallowed hard.

“I don’t know what foul alliance binds them… but I counted near sixty creatures of Chaos if I counted true.”

The man looked around the room at the gathered soldiers.

“And they’re marching this way.” ⚔️🔥

The Empire Army

The sergeant dragged a whetstone down his halberd and gave the new recruits a long, unimpressed look.

“Welcome to the army of The Empire, whelps. Since you’re likely to die beside these fine folk, you may as well know their names.”

He jerked his chin toward the hill where the command banners snapped in the wind.

“That’s General Aldric von Krieger, riding his griffon Stormtalon. Veteran of three campaigns and owner of the daemon-killing blade Griefcleaver. Try not to embarrass him. Beside him rides the banner of Sir Otto Falkenhayn, bearer of the Valorous Standard of Altdorf. When that banner’s standing, men fight. When it falls… well, they usually don’t.”

He pointed toward the block of infantry drilling in the mud.

“That wall of iron is Captain Marta Riedel’s 1st Halberdiers – the Sockeyes. Thirty stubborn Reiklanders with halberds longer than their tempers. They hold the line while the rest of us pray the cannons do their job.”

The sergeant gestured toward the artillery park behind them.

“Guns belong to Master Gunner Holtz Brunner. Those two cannons are Iron Saint and Black Comet—fine pieces that can punch through a troll, a beastman, or a church wall if needed. That ugly contraption beside them is the Helblaster Sigmar’s Thunder. Fires so fast it turns a charge into soup. And that crew tamping powder is Old Kappel’s Bombard, our mortar—best used against enemies far away… preferably very far away.”

He nodded toward the treeline where bowstrings creaked.

“Scouts are the Grunburg Marksmen and the Altdorf Foresters—two bands of Reikland archers who know their way through woods and river fog better than most soldiers know their own boots.”

Down the road a patrol of cavalry wheeled their horses.

“That lot is Lieutenant Kaspar Dieter’s Outriders. Repeater guns, fast horses, and just enough discipline to stay out of the cannons’ way.”

His tone shifted slightly as a group of heavily armored knights assembled near the banner.

“And those shining statues there are Baron Lukas von Reik’s Reiksguard, the knights of The Silver Mantle. When they charge, the ground shakes and the enemy remembers somewhere else they’d rather be.”

Finally the sergeant pointed skyward, where wings cut through the clouds.

“And circling above is Magister Adelhard Zweig, master wizard of the Colleges, riding his pegasus Auriel. Carries scrolls to break enemy spells and a wand called Jetfire that can burn a monster to cinders.”

He planted the butt of his halberd in the mud and gave the recruits a crooked grin.

“So there you have it—generals, guns, knights, and a wizard who might accidentally incinerate you.”

He nodded toward the road ahead.

“Congratulations. You’re now part of the army marching on Bogenhafen… and rumor says the cultists own the place.”

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