‘Oh, oh, oh! he was here, he was here, he was here!’

Following along behind a long line of soldiers as they marched over snowy and forested hills, Sif could barely stand her joy, she could barely walk without her thighs tingling.

She had seen Lanshor’s avatar, felt Lanshor’s own presence, and knew, just knew, that her Jarl was Chosen.

‘No, not just Jarl Ivankov!’ she told herself again and again, because the god that had descended wasn’t the Hound, wasn’t the Crow, and definitely wasn’t Raven god…

It was the Serpent!

Over the last several days Sif could not help but to fantasize about the [Serpent], the [Lord of Excess], the [God of Obsession], that [Perfect Prince] …

‘Passion, Pleasure, Pain, it all makes sense to me now… I know I know...!’

For a Norscan, seeing the Serpent avatar of the god [Lanshor] (Slaanesh) was akin to a Christian seeing Jesus or a Muslim seeing the Prophet Muhammad – it was a religious moment that could be dreamed of but never expected.

And for an avatar of the gods to show themselves in front of so many people at once, well Sif thought, that hadn’t been heard of since the last Everchosen.

Although she had acted as well as anyone after the avatar had been banished, meek and afraid despite her overwhelming sense of joy and wonder, almost instantly running through her mind was how she would serve to aid Peter in his path towards the true gods.

How SHE would stand there, for him.

How SHE would bask in the glory of the gods, with him.

And how SHE would…

Suddenly a thought struck her: ‘He’s so different from the stories I’ve been told…

… perhaps he wants a brood?’

With a slight smile on her lips, Sif walked in step with the other Camp Defenders with a small sack strapped to her back with not a care in the world about the battlefield that they were moving towards.

***************************************************************

Sniffing the air, a 10ft tall killing machine slammed a wicked iron axe into the ground with a…

*Bang!*

“FIND THE FOLLOWERS OF MORK GORK!

SEEK THEIR CAMPS!

OFFER THEM!

BRING THE ALPHA BACK!”

Snarling in a mix of Dark Tongue, growls, and howls, the Beastlord threatened the Bestigors surrounding him.

And despite being a group of the most ferocious Gors in the Warherd, each Bestigor standing around 9ft in height, not a single one of them dared to look up at the snarling Beastlord.

Because while they loved to fight and eat, they didn’t love to get killed and be eaten alive.

Which would be exactly what would happen to them if they displeased the one called [Kharghar the Red].

In Beastman society not many Gors would dare use the epithet of ‘the Red’ – or in other words, declaring themselves to be chosen by Khorne.

But for Kharghar, it was natural.

It was a name he was personally given by the Everchosen, the 12th Chosen of the gods, the one they called simply ‘The Anointed’.

The Cloven One was at least 150 years old, almost an eternity in Beastman years, and during that time Kharghar had stomped through the North unrivaled in battle and had only tasted defeat during the final battle that saw [The Anointed] fall and go to the gods in humiliation.

And though it was ultimately the Anointed that had dishonored the gods, all the chaotic survivors of the Great War felt the sting of shame and disgrace.

Paying penance to the gods for his failure, Kharghar had broken into many Dwarf strongholds, slaughtered every human settlement that dared to be near the Beast-Paths, and amassed a Warherd the size that had not been seen since the Great War.

Finally now, having expanded the Blood-Grounds as far as he needed, Kharghar intended to descend on the humans of the South once again to wash away his dishonor.

But in the moment of accomplishment, in the moment where he would make things right, the filthy followers of Mork and Gork had to step in his way!

With no Everchosen, he could only hold the massive Warherd together by sheer force, and he could not tolerate anything, anything at all, to get in his way.

Intelligent for his kind, Kharghar knew the true enemy was not the Gork and Mork. The true enemies of the gods were the wretched humans, the sneaky elves, and the craven dwarf that hid inside their walls.

But, if the followers of Gork and Mork did not understand their place, the order didn’t matter, Kharghar had already decided to stampede them all.

“SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!” shouted the Beastlord, and stomping his feat, his Bestigors ran helter-skelter to order the ones under them to find the Greenskin camps.

***************************************************************

“Get bac’ ‘ere ya git!”

Tackling a Gor to the ground, Mash brought down his choppa one, two, three time on the Beastman’s skull.

Then seeing the Gor stop moving, he stood up, looked down, and chopped another three times just to make it even before roaring back to the group Boyz and Goblins who was following him: “Neva forget! We iz strong an' tough. Da strong onez win an' then eat the weak!”

Then, as if to prove his point, Mash picked up a mangled piece of the Gor, shoved it in his mouth and started talking while he chewed: “Some of yewz Gobbo runtz is awright, but if ya don’t make yerself useful, den yewz for da pot too!”

“Got’it Boss!”

“Yer Boss!”

“Dat’s rite Boss”

“We’z aint no squigs Baws!”

Amidst a chorus of compliments and agreements, one voice somehow floated above the rest.

“Errr, iz Mash da Boss?” questioned one goblin runt with a dumb look on his face.

Greenish brown, covered in pine needles and mole skins while holding a pointed stick, this runt looked like a wart, and like the other young Greenskin, it was practically a feral creature.

How this newly-spawned Goblin Runt would have ever thought to ask that kind of question would have been a mystery to even the most learned Empire Scholars.

But, to the Greenskin, it was natural for it to ask.

After all, Gobbo’s were stupid.

And just like that, the inquisitive Goblin Runt was eaten by the nearest Orc in the span of a heartbeat.

Moving on as if nothing had happened, Mash ordered the Young Boyz to go and find some nosh, and with a small honor guard – which was a group of Orcs who wanted Mash’s position as commander – he went to find Throgg.

As for the honor guards intentions, Mash knew it and even supported their idea! An Orc who didn’t want to lead wont no proper Orc to start with!

And why should he care anyway? He was bigger than them all!

Over the past month, unnoticed by him, but most certainly noticed by Throgg and the other Greenskin, Mash had grown to the size of a Big’un.

Not nearly the size of a Boss or Big Boss, Mash was still larger and more ferocious than almost every other Orc that followed Throgg.

The fact that he could take down a Gor wasn’t surprising.

The fact that he was comfortable leading a bunch of Young Boyz and Gobbo Runtz – armed with mostly stone and bone weapons – against a mature Warherd wasn’t surprising either.

After all, Orc’s were stupid.

With that said, as dumb as the Greenskin generally were, Throgg was not.

Knowing the tendencies of Orcs well enough, Throgg had left Mash in charge mostly to bolster their numbers.

‘To deal with an Orc almost makes one feel as unsophisticated as they are…’ thought the man-eating Troll.

In truth, calling for a Waagh! Was not the best idea Throgg had thought.

Only, at the time, he risked losing a significant portion of his power and so figured ‘what was there to lose’. Only, if he had known the size of the Warherd, he would have thought twice.

But he didn’t know the size of the Herd, and had it not been for his personal understanding of the principle that ‘if you were going to attack then you should attack with all your might’ Throgg may have suffered an unthinkable defeat.

He may have even been killed.

Yet, when Throgg finally came down from his mountain lair he followed along the destructive path made by Mash and the other Orc Big’uns. He did so leading an army of 400 Stone Trolls, each armed with giant stone mauls while they themselves stood 12ft tall.

And by the time Throgg finally caught up with Mash, albeit smaller than their cousins, another 200 River Trolls were added to the horde.

Thinking to himself, logically, with 600 of the most gnarly monsters in the Old World even if the Waaagh! was fresh, it was impossible to lose.

‘And once the Beastmen are settled, well, the ‘civilized’ Men will follow right behind them.’

***************************************************************

Leading the procession of 600 Marksmen, 200 Knights, 150 Sword Sisters, and 150 Camp Defenders over icy hills was dangerous, but leading his people, Peter knew he had to stay strong.

It had been a week since the demon had shown itself, but that incident was something to consider at another time.

For almost instantly, the very day after the Witch had been burned, a group of Marksmen hunters had come back with reports of seeing several dozen Greenskin barely 15 miles away from the camp.

The Marksmen had run for most of the day to give the camp the news, and as grateful as they were to see Peter in camp, Peter himself was considering other matters, and could only give them perfunctory thanks.

Mentally tired for the first time in almost half a year, Peter knew he couldn’t rest just yet.

So gritting his teeth after dealing with the hunters he first set out orders for scouts to comb the area and had Lezalit and Alayen go observe the warherd.

He still hadn’t told the others how the Greenskin came into the world – straight out of the ground as fully formed killing machines – but thinking it wasn’t an urgent piece of news he started working with Father Anderson and the designated Captains and Lieutenants.

In most cases each Captain would have a two Lieutenants and together they would have to quickly gather a company of newly recruited soldiers.

The size of the Companies was determined by factoring in how many men could a single person effectively lead, and the totals they came out with was:

Knight Company – 40

Sword Sister Company – 50

Marksman Company – 60

In general, Company sizes were determined by Heavy Calvary, Light Calvary, and Infantry, with the Sword Sisters being a sort of hybrid calvary force thus having a larger number.

These preparations were the actual difference between success and failure because none of the Humans knew if the fighting Greenskin and Beastmen would team up once they were discovered.

To prevent a slaughter of their own, speed was key.

Now, several days after the first reports had come in, and after confirmation by Lezalit and Alayen about strange moves being made by the Beastman herd, Peter figured it was time to go.

As for Levi, the man had been released from his chains but hadn’t spoken to anyone since…

Deciding to allow him to be free, Peter wouldn’t be the first to approach the former Titan-Slayer: ‘Either he’ll come to me and apologize, or he can fuck right off.’ was Peter’s attitude on the matter.

With that said though, Levi hadn’t left the camp and was following the procession of soldiers through the snowy mountainous terrain.

Slipping and catching himself, Peter stopped thinking about Levi and focused on the ground until he finally found a small valley where the soldiers would camp for the night.

Finding a place to camp was hard when they had nearly 400 horses in tow.

Those horses, invaluable on the battlefield, represented the single hardest challenge logistically, after all, in these mountains there were no roads for baggage trains or carts to roll over.

So, the horses generally had to be walked, and instead of carrying supplies for their human counterparts, a good deal of their cargo was their own feed.

In fact, had it not been for Peter’s [Inventory], this type of a campaign would not have even been possible with the Vaegir’s current level of civilization.

Marching over virgin snowy terrain made everything go slow, and from time-to-time Peter had to stop to hear reports from the teams of Marksmen scouts that were spread all around the formation.

As the army marched in relative peace, unbeknownst to most there had already been a half dozen skirmishes between Marksmen and monster.

Finally getting to a clearing that was big enough to house the 1100 soldiers, Peter decided to stop and camp for the night.

In order to prevent being seen they wouldn’t be able to make fires, so the night would be long and cold and to make matters worse that night would be the last time they camped before making it to the large valley that held the warherd.

Peter rested as best as he could, bringing up the [Mount and Blade: Warband] system before sleep took him.

[User – Peter Ivankov

Current Denars – 596,443 (-32,823/Wk)

Recruit – Vaegir, Mercenary

Active Forces – 1,331

Villages – 2

Castles – 0

Towns –

Caravans – 0

Inventory – 55/60 Slots

Ransom – 0 Prisoners

Sell Loot/Cargo

Recruit Companion – 2/2

Open Store – N/A]

Looking at the bare thread information, Peter focused on his Denars, and couldn’t help but shake his head thinking how much less Denars he had than before.

‘It took too long to incite the Greenskins to attack…’ was what he thought, and though it was truly the case that he would have rather had the Warherd fighting Greenskins then not, losing 33k Denars a week made his nearly 2-month task cost a lot of resources.

Had it not been for the concerted efforts of Anderson, as only the Priest and Professor Helsing knew that Peter needed ‘trophies’ to sacrifice, the amount of Denars would be even lower.

Rubbing his eyes and dismissing the screen, Peter knew that he would need his rest for the next day.

And so putting away his worries and fears that he may arrive too soon or too late, that the monsters may join together, and his people would be slaughtered, Peter drifted off into a restless nights sleep.