Small stones crunched underfoot as a figure enveloped in armor the color of brass with black accents and a red crested helm and five beastmen travelled north, towards some a destination unknown to all assembled. Flint had long ago stopped counting the number of days he’d been walking; the only sense of time that mattered to the dwarf now was the amount of time between battles. He hungered for conflict now as a beggar in the streets hungers for even the tiniest morsel to sustain himself until the next morsel.

The icon of Khorne took a deep breath as a breeze blew up from the south, and worked his tongue around as if tasting the air. There was…something different on the winds, and, for no discernible reason Flint turned southwards with his warband and waited. At first the dwarf was troubled by the way events unfolded as if planned; it felt like he had no say in his fate, that he was merely following a path laid out for him. Sure enough, after the passing of minutes, or possibly hours, not that it mattered which, two figures came into view.

“Split evenly. We will overwhelm them with our numbers and strength.” The beastmen brayed or nodded their acknowledgement of the order, but as the pair got close enough to distinguish features all semblance of order dissolved. The Dwarf’s minions launched an attack at the human with a ferocity Flint hadn’t yet seen. When the opposing Dwarf began casting spells, Flint Ironstag lost his composure as well. The sorcery filled Flint with a sense of indignity that could only be sated with an offering of blood and skulls. If something was said to Flint, he certainly couldn’t hear it over the thrum of blood in his head as he launched into a furious offensive. Magics arced outwards from the Servant of Slaanesh, but Flint’s second skin absorbed and redirected the attacks.

The Sorcerer and his minion were in dire straits as Flint and his pack pressed their advantage. Seconds more, and their lifeblood would be soaking into the ground at their feet as an offering to the most benevolent Khorne. Before Flint could make his offering, though, a flash of magic left Flint and the beastmen confused as to the whereabouts of their prey. Ironstag tilted his head back and let forth a bellowing warcry to announce his disappointment to whomever was close enough to hear it. His weapon was placed on the ground while his horde tended to their wounds and he sat down, waiting for the next challenge to approach from the South.

The sky was a deep bronze tinge as Agnus’s band finally made their way within the Chaos Wastes. It was just as Nurgle showed the old priest within his dreams. But even Agnus was surprised at what was to come…

Within hours of trudging through the barren landscape, Agnus’s band was accosted by a most curious sight. A small, many tentacled man wielding a banner made of human skin and his entourage of beastmen came rushing towards his band. Outnumbered, but not without faith, Agnus decided to greet in kind, raising his voice.

“YOU SHALL FALL THIS DAY! FOR I AM AGNUS, SEVANT OF NURGLE!” he cried out, and the warband came rushing towards the tentacled man and his band of beasts. The tentacled man raised his limbs high in the air, muttering to himself. Agnus realized they were against a man of the arcane! This might not bode well…

But just as Agnus’s band came near, a most odd omen (or rather miracle, in Agnus’s case) appeared. The wizard man started to choke on his words, and gripped his stomach in such a fashion as though his entrails were about to explode out of it. THe man then keels over, falling to the ground, his face pale and awash with sweat. The beasts, not knowing what happened or what to do, merely pick up their leader, and rush off, before Agnus and his followers could attack.

The Skaven look confused, as did Agnus. But soon he came to realize what had happened. A wicked grin formed on his misshapen lips.

“Should go after them?!” Sreech, the younger of the Skaven said, while scratching his head.

“NO!” Agnus responds, and the ratmen look at him strangely. He coughs for a moment, trying to ready himself for a sermon, just as he did back in his old village. “DO YOU NOT SEE HAT HAS HAPPENED?! PAPA NURGLE HIMSELF HAS BLESSED US WITH A MOST FRUITIOUS SIGN! HE HAS INFECTED THAT MISERABLE WIZARD WITH A DISEASE! IT JUST PROVES HE WAS NOT WROTH NURGLE’S (AND OUR) TIME!”

The Skaven looked at one another. “We go kill him? He not far. Want eat face!” Fat-face said, a name that aptly describes both the stupid creature’s intelligence and look.

“NO, LET THEM RUN! WORD OF MOUTH IS AFTER ALL, A DISEASE! LET THE NAME AGNUS THE CANKEROUS SPREAD THROUGHOUT THIS WASTELAND! LET ALL WHO HEAR IT TREMBLE BEFORE NURGLE!”

The Skaven cheered him on. Father Agnus replied each with a slap on the face… with the butt end of his staff. The creatures look at him even more confused. “I said you can’t KILL them. I never said to not harry them. GO NOW, MAKE THEIR ESCAPE AS HUMILIATING AS POSSIBLE!”

With that, the rats run off after the beastmen, who now had quite a headstart on them. Agnus’ grin grew ever more wide. By the day’s end, the grin could almost envelop his own face when the ratmen brought news back to him that they managed to poke and prod the beastmen with their spears, wounding some of them in the process.

It was not as glamourous a battle as Agnus read in the scrolls, but even he knew that all things started out small. And like any disease, once it grows out of control, nothing can stop it. Such was the crusade Agnus vowed to bring to the Wastes, and after that, the rest of the world…

Crom

Dust flew and rubble followed at his feet as Crom charged down the craters edge. He saw the beastmen scatter trying to flank him, Crom cared not! All focus was on the warrior of chaos before him. As he reached peak momentum he leaped high into the air, bellowing with rage. Shocked momentarily by Croms sheer boldness, Mokol faltered. The massive bulk of Crom crashed into him with a sickening thud, bowling the chaos warrior off his feet.

Now standing tall above his foe (well tall for a dwarf), Crom took a mighty breath. The infernal flames gathered in his gut and he let forth a torrent of flame. Spewing out from his mouth the white hot magical flames covered Mokol in fiery doom. His screams of agony could be heard throughout the chaos wastelands as his skin blistered and his blood boiled. Satisfied that the warrior would be incapacitated, he wiped his mouth and with an evil grin, turned his attention to the beastmen who had been taking pot shots with arrows, each arrow that hit only enraging Crom more.

Grabbing his weapon in one hand and picking up Dungnabs with the other he unleashed a whirlwind of blows, slashes left and right he carved his way through the beastmens flesh. Already shaken from watching their master flash cooked, didn’t take long for them to flee with Mokols charred body, in an attempt to carry him away and tend to his wounds.
Crom began to chase after them, to finish what was started but a thick, heavy mist rose up from the cracks in the parched earth, as he got closer to Mokol the mist got thicker, physically restraining him from giving chase. Crom looked up and cursed the sky, this was clearly Slaanesh giving his champion a second chance at life. His bloodlust would have to be satisfied another day. With a grunt, he turned around and walked away.

Dungnab looked up at his boss with wide eyes as he walked back towards him, Crom sighed and threw Dungnabs weapon at him, landing between his legs cutting his bindings. Just as he got back to his feet he was sent straight back to the ground with a mighty head butt and a scowl. He wouldn’t make the mistake of being captured again.

Mokol

Mokol waited at the crater. All was ready: The beastmen understood the plan(at least, they gave the appearance of knowing the plan), the orc was behaving like a good captive, begging to be rescued. All to do now was wait. And he did not have long, for within a matter of minutes, Krom came over the lip of the pock-marked earth.

“Well, it seems you can follow directions after all. Would you like a glass of this wine? I put some poison in it, I heard that you like that sort of thing.” With this, Krom walked over the lip of the crater. Mokol smiled, and continued. “Good. Would you care to start begging for this one’s life?” he said as he gestured towards Dungnab. At this, Krom broke into a run.

“Well, there’s no rush-” was all Mokol could get before, with a supernatural burst of speed, Krom ran right over the chair set out for him and slammed his shoulder into Mokol’s stomach. The pain was excruciatingly delightful, but even so, it stunned Mokol. “Well…it seems our discussion won’t be as long as…wait, what’s that smell?”

And then he was on fire. Mokol had to admit that this was an event he did not give a very large chance of happening.

“AAAAAAAHHAHAHHAOAOAOAHHAHTOHOTOHHTOOHOT!” His intestines were on fire. His skin began welting and blistering. Mokol was at a loss for what to do. He had great experience at fighting the mundane (if a half-man, half-rat could be considered mundane), but a super-speedy dwarf that breathed fire was a new twist for him. As the flames ceased, Mokol was in too much pain to move. It was at this point that the beastmen actually took the two firing brain cells in their heads and smashed them together hard enough to improvise. As Krom stood over Mokol, readying the final blow, the beastmen swooped in and picked up the dwarf, minding his hands of course, and began carrying him to safety. Their hind legs moved even faster than normal, as if lent the speed of another entity. Then, with his last vestige of consciousness, he turned back to the site of his defeat, and saw a most inspiring sight.

He saw the most grotesque woman he had ever seen. Purple skin, insectoid eyes, many flailing appendages in the shape of tentacles emerging from her sides. She also had eight breasts that covered her abdominal muscles. She stabbed Dungnab in the side, and then turned to face the retreating dwarf.

“…Do you want to live forever? If so, this was a poor start.”

And then she vanished, and Mokol slipped into unconsciousness soon after.