Blight: Lore & Fiction

[Dwarmin]

Hmm…

~Human Pioneers
"It seems when your house is burning down, you realize pretty quick what’s worth carrying out with you."

~Dwarven Expedition
"There were almost no supplies left once we had reached our home, but with stout labor came sustenance. Whether by bolt, plow, or hook-we could provide for ourselves." ((Total DF reference here))

~Elven Wanderers
"Not all who wander are lost." ((I’m sure you guess this reference ))

~Goblin Caravan
"Finey winey wo?
Pack and stow!
Weegle woogle wack?
Beans, meats, hardtack!
Dangle, Ponk, Muckyucket?
Shovels, ropes, wooden buckets!
Meegle feegle fie?
So, off we fly!
Grizzly da, Dayla ba, Mala Hin?
Fine weather ahead, The Dead behind!"

~Orcish Party
"I hear some of you would rather die to the Shamans fire, than leave this place. Perhaps we’ve grown too soft, sitting in our comfortable homes…a true Orc needs no comfort, but the heft of his blade, and the saddle of his wolf. He needs no roof, but the stars overhead. When he is thirsty, he drinks wolfsblood. When he is hungry, he butchers hogs, or foes. Are you true Orcs, or not?"

~Troll Nomads
"We’re not leaving this land. The land is leaving us. This place belongs to the grave now. We must move with the land. We’re not losing our home. We’re just following it where it takes us."

OOC: Tried to get into the heads of the various races here. Hope I did well.

[Gorvar]

I like it, dude!
The idea of having cards carrying the population with them is a cool idea to seriously mess up the numbers game. I always hated from a narrative point of view that sometimes you would lose villages you own while it would be possible for those villagers to run away to their neighbours next door.
We’re facing zombies! Aint really hard to outrun them!

I like these cards and you made the fluff made sense to the lore!

[Dwarmin]

Next in my series of 'pick a card and write a story about it.

Elvish Berserker
"We are…sorry…but, we are no longer Jehran. We are the blood of the land, the water flowing in the rivers, the moist earth under our feet, the leaves on the wind. We are the hawk and the rabbit, the bramble and the berry, the storm and the hill. We are harmony, and rage of the forest. We are everything…and nothing." ~Collected Writings, The Elegiac

Lore~
Most Elves have at least an instinctual connection to the flows of magic. What most species learn by rote, the Elven people merely know-intrinsic, as much as they know their own bodies. When an Elf practices the arcane, he or she sends out a pattern-a weave-of ripples across the surface of Alundria’s living soul.

The Elven Berserker was the ultimate weapon designed to utilize this weave effect. During the Blight War, in times of great desperation, Elvish Warriors sometimes chose to forever sacrifice themselves and who they were, to tie themselves to the lands-becoming one with the forests they protected, absorbing the rippling weaves of mana generated by their Elven brothers and sisters, becoming stronger and stronger over time. Painted with ritual tattoos designed to absorb Alundria’s life energy, a Berserkers eyes were said to turn an eerie shade, glowing luminously green-and their body twisted and distorted, becoming more primal and feral as time goes on. As they grow stronger, feelings of rage and disconnection from their mortal side grews wider. There was technically no limit to the power which a Beserker could achieve, but eventually, the act of becoming one was always fatal. The person they were died, and what was left is an elemental force of unstoppable fury that heeds no moral design, but to purge the land of Blight, and eventually of any mortal presence. Even Elves learned that their anger was often impossible to control-Berserkers could turn on their own friends and lovers with hardly a moments notice, and so many chose ritual death, once a land was cleansed of Blight…or, it was chosen for them, as a mercy.

In battle, Elven Berserkers were always known to fight with no regard to their self preservation, and they usually led any attack-seemingly feeling no pain or exhaustion, Berserkers can sustain crippling wounds with hardly a moments pause-less form than substance, the removal of a limb is merely an momentary annoyance, as they can regenerate their bodies from the elements around them-fire, water, wood, stone or earth-which they also utilized as weapons. They often struck from the shadows, howling madly-a Berserkers howl, full of pain and sadness, is one thing many Elven veterans know in their nightmares to this day-never stopping their rampage until they were literally torn to pieces, or they had won the field. Few were armed or armored in any way, apart from the weapons they scavenged and used in a moments notice, often shattering them in fury, and using whatever came to hand. If nothing else, they used their bare hands and teeth.

To become a Berserker was considered, perhaps, the greatest sacrifice to the Elven People. There was no returning from this state, no ‘cure’, no good ending for your story. By agreeing to become nothing more than a living weapon directed at the Blight, you lost everything you were, and would be. The sacrifice of ones soul to the very land was essentially the greatest loss one could suffer. Very few Berserkers managed to survive the war, and those that did could not return to their homes, for fear they would lose control and strike down those they once loved-the last band of Elven Berserkers was said to have retreated into the deepest, most wild places left in Alundria, secluding themselves-waiting for the Blight to return one day, so they could battle once again…

No one who goes to those places ever returns.

[JayKyburz]

Hey guys,

I just wanted to jump in and say Penny and I have been really enjoying reading your posts.

It’s so awesome to see our game world grow so much further than we ever imagined it would!

I love some of the ideas you guys are exploring here, dont be surprised if you see some of your ideas, or very similar ideas in future expansions or new features.

Keep up the great work!

[Gorvar]

Thanks, Jay!
We’re glad your work inspires us and vice versa!

[mammon]

This is a card I’ve been wanting to turn into a story for quite some time now, but I simply didn’t have the inspiration until last night. I hope you enjoy yet another dark and grim tale of mine.

---

Why me?

It’s a question I’ve been asking myself longer than I can remember. A question endlessly repeating itself in my head, over and over again. A question driving me insane, and keeping me sane. And most of all, a question I don’t know the answer to.

Why me?

Why not someone else? In the early days, this thought filled me with shame. The longing for someone else to go through this curse instead of me was a thought I didn’t want to have. But now, after all these years of everlasting suffering, that shame is long gone. The question turned into a desire, a wish.

Why me?

Why was it me? Why wasn’t it one of the other children? I can still remember that faithful day when I was still a happy, innocent girl as if it were yesterday. It’s one of my few happy memories and I cling to it more tightly than life itself.

I was playing with a lot of children that day. Their names and faces have faded over the years, but I can remember there were a lot of them. So many, and yet I was chosen.

Why me? Why did you pick me?

I look at the faery fluttering around me, it’s childish features contorted into a gleeful smile as it looks my way. I stopped wondering how such an innocent looking creature can be so vile, and why there are these few of the benevolent race who got corrupted into such evil beings. When I look at it now, I just wonder why it picked me. Why it embedded this dreadful, terrifying presence within my lungs.

I hear a tree branch snapping under someone’s foot, and for a moment the ‘innocent’ features of the forest dryad turn into a hateful glare. It doesn’t like it when people walk around it’s woods, not even the nature-loving elves. If this were back in the days when I was just taken, he would have forced me to scare her away hours before. But now, now it has to allow her to draw closer.

He has to allow her, or allow a much greater threat to corrupt his forest. The elves lurking around, the giants lumbering through, even the orcs who chop and burn their way through ancient woods on their way to the battlefield, he has to let them. He has to allow them, so that the blight won’t take his forests. And the frustration he feels when he hears his woods whimper and cry under this abuse, he takes out on me.

I look at the faery again. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you how vicious it can get. Sure, they can’t physically assault me a great deal with their small frame, but they likes to grab my hair and pull it with all their might until it comes of with pieces of my scalp still attached. And I can’t stop it when they do, because when I do…

They know ways to hurt me that are much, much more painful.

And lately, with the mortal armies marching through their territory and with the immortals invading the outskirts of their forest, they have gotten all the more agitated. They’re so angry with the armies they allowed through, who failed to stop the immortals after all, that they’ve been pulling at my hair faster than it can grow back.

Another branch snaps when the elven woman walks into the small clearing and looks at me. She nears me and takes out a small green bottle. The slightly luminescent water sloshes around as she extends it to me, while trying to keep her distance as much as possible.

I don’t move.

Take the bottle.

I look at the woman with a hateful glare. Both she and the faery are waiting for me to make my move, but I have no intention to comply. Why should I? They’re the ones fighting against the immortals, not me. In fact, the curse of the undead might be a relief from what I have to go through every day. Having to feel that dreadful presence within me every day.

Take the bottle!

The faery’s voice grows more angry in my head, but I don’t move. The woman’s expression changes as well, the almost instinctive fear she had while approaching turns into an annoyed sneer and she nudges the bottle at me while bringing it even closer to my face.

I don’t accept it, and merely continue staring at her. As far as I’m concerned, she and the rest of the elves have forsaken me and the other sacrifices. They left us to our miserable faith, and for what? So that the forest dryads won’t take another girl from their villages? So that their precious balance remains intact?

They can all die as far as I’m concerned. And this forest can get blighted all it wants. I’ll laugh at the faery’s misery and cherish the thought that they, just like everyone else, will eventually be killed by the unbiased dead who’ll slaughter us all indiscriminately.

TAKE THE DAMNED BOTTLE, WENCH!

The faery screams into my mind, their voice accompanied by a mental attack that feels like they stabbed a hundred needles into my ears. I winch and lose eye-contact with the woman, but I don’t give in. I won’t.

YOU SPOILED BITCH, DO AS I SAY!

I can barely keep myself from soiling myself as the faery amps up its mental torture to punish me all over. The painful sensation of needles turns into the feeling of flames burning my skin all over and I curl up into a fetus position. But I don’t give in. I won’t give in. If they keeps this up, eventually I’ll break. My mind will snap and my thoughts will seize to be. My heart will stop beating and the pain will subside.

I’ll break and the never ending nightmare will be…

The pain suddenly stops when something cold touches my arm. The elven woman quickly stands up and bolts away, not trying to hide her presence any more as she runs as fast as her legs can carry her.

No!

No no no no no no!

Get up.

I was so close! They were so angry they almost killed me, their wrath almost put me out of my misery! And then that wench ruined everything by forcing the bottle on me!

I sit up straight again and look at the mana water. I know what they want me to do with it. I know what will happen when I give in to their demands. But the water looks so tempting. They haven’t allowed me to drink anything for two days now, and I’m so thirsty. And the water has the most rejuvenating taste, just before…

No!

I won’t drink it! I won’t go through that nightmare again! I won’t!

I raise the bottle above my head and scream as I bring it down. I’ll smash it on the ground and let its contents seep into the humus. I might even get the chance to grab one of the glass shards and slit my wrist! I’ll deny the faery this gift and doom their forest once and…

No…

I freeze up as the faery speaks the unearthly command and look helplessly as the bottle in my hand remains intact. So close, just a split second later and they would’ve been too late to stop it. Just a little later and I would have prevented…

Drink the water, you shit stain!

The faery flutters in front of me, only allowing a few of my muscles to untense. They’re not going to give me another chance, they’ll only let me do what they want me to do. And what they want me to do, is the worst punishment of all. Worse than the hair pulling, worse than the mental attacks, even worse than the hunger and thirst. They wants me to scream, to unleash the dreadful presence within me.

But the water. It looks so tempting. So cold. And I’m so thirsty…

Slowly I open the cap and bring the bottle to my mouth.

Yes, that’s a good girl.

I put the bottle on my lips and heave it up. Tears well up from my eyes as the most pure of pleasures engulfs my parched tongue and runs down my throat. I don’t swallow, the faery wouldn’t even allow me to, I just let the water flow through my throat into my lungs. Let it flow to the dreadful presence which seems to stir to life when it tastes the magical liquid. And in that one moment before the worst, I enjoy this little luxury.

All too soon, the bottle is empty and I lick the last few drops before dropping the bottle to the floor. Then, my tears start flowing again, knowing what will happen next.

The beast within, the stuff of a thousand nightmares, comes to life and starts to rumble to be released. It’s presence, which fills me with and instinctive fear every moment of every day, grows a thousand times more powerful as it creeps up my throat to freedom. And I open my mouth.

With the force of a thousand voices, I scream to release the terror and hear it resounding throughout the forest, every tree and every bush absorbing the screams and sending them out again twice as strong.

An unearthly scream so terrifying, so powerful, none remain unaffected. Elusive elves, skeptical goblins, brave orcs, even calm ents and mighty dragons fear this scream. An intense kind of instinctive fear so powerful that even the immortals, deemed to be fearless and without emotion, flee in unbridled panick when they hear it.

But the one most affected by it, the one who suffers from this mind-breaking terror more than any other, is me. Where others can hide in their mindless fear and run away from the unknown, I cannot. The hatred of the forest is all around me, it’s within me. I can’t run away. I can’t even try. No matter where I run, it will follow. No matter where I hide, it will find me. Because it is within me, at every hour of every day.

And once I stop screaming and the forest calms down again, it won’t be over. Not for me. That dreadful presence which scares all with mortal fear will still be within me. It will never be over for me, not until the moment I die.

And I’m not allowed to die. I’m not allowed to run away. I’m not allowed to hide. All I’m allowed to do, is ask myself over and over again:

Why me?

Why me?

Why me?

[Gorvar]

Holy crap, dude!
That’s…geez! Cool idea how some magical powers could be so harmfull to the user (hence the cool down). Imagine a gnostic mage having been there to force her to do it again! Horrible!
What card is this by any chance?

[mammon]

The forest dryad, I dropped the name in a few times. It’s the card of the young girl with a terrified and hopeless look on her face with a strange green faery thing fluttering around it, so this story is pretty much exactly what the card already depicts. And the shriek is the power to scare all immortals from forest areas.

[Gorvar]

Ah, I haven’t used her in my elf deck, explains it.
I dig it man, I dig it a lot!

[Dwarmin]

Gonna try my hand at writing a less ‘bookish’ lore piece.

Hound Master

I’m not proud call myself Hound Master. I don’t know what I am now. I don’t know why I am writing, but I am writing this very careful, since I am not good with words. I am a simple man.

…

Everyone knews that the Immortals seemed to hate all living things with a true vengeance. And, my Dogs are good bait for this vengeance. A bit of luring magic-don’t ask me about that, it’s something the same sort of magick used by those Trollfolk, and knights with Dragonheads on their own heads-and, they are followed by the monsters, away and far away. I would release my hounds on the horde-I most trained to hit, harry, harass and then flee, lead the whole damn ugly mass away from some place in a fuming, blood hungry rage…maybe to save alot of people, maybe to just get the Immortals away from some blighted town so that you could move in and burn up all the corpse that had never yet risen, without so much as a single dead man more.

If I was lucky, I got a quarter of em’ back afters. And, more than half of those, I put down with mine own long knife, or crossbow…if they had already begun to turn around on me. Dogs I’d raised since pups. They had names. It wasn’t much of a sacrifice, you say, to save the lives of other men and ladies…but, it was pain enough for me.

I really hated that part of his job. The having to put them down. I love my beasts-I am a simple man, not smart or strong, but not without a heart in my chest. All I had to give was my Hounds. I tossed the meat, and they run. They trusted me. That was what hurt so much. They were simple beasts, too, like children. It wasn’t right what I did…but, not doing it would be even worse. So no matter what I did I was wrong. The Gods are cruel.

So, I had to do it again-over, and over. They always needed more Hounds. More meat for the grinder. What was I now? I killed so many of my own Hounds they called me Hound Master. And that made me feel worse than ever.I felt like butcher, not a Master.

I remembered once a High Lord who’d had his whole manor and family and friends well saved from some shambling atrocity, by my dogs. He came up and shook my hand. Looked me in the eye, the way no Lord has ever done.

The Lord had said to me.

“I thank you, my son”-though I weren’t no son of his-“What do you wish as a reward? I will give you whatever you desire.”

I was about to say, give me back my Millie. Give her back.

She was my best hound. Sweet with the little ones, four legs or two. She had a way of making me smile, and laugh, a real joker, and smart too. Likely smarter than me. But, she got torn apart in two halves, by one of the big Troll-things. I saws it. But, than I was thought, he won’t know who Millie was. And he couldn’t bring her back anyhow. Nobody wants anything to come back these days. So I don’t say anything about nothing. Took him a few minutes, but he musta realized I had nothing to say. He kinda backed up, nodding. Anything you want, just ask, he kept saying, anything at all. He musta not figured why I looked so sad. They was just dogs to him, weren’t nothing I lost that was anything at all compared to all he still had.

I’m a simple man, like I said. I don’t know big words, or have any big ideas, or do anything big and important. All I know is I give what I can, and it hurts, to do what I do, and it’ll probably hurt me for a long time. They tell me when I’m sad, well there’s always more Hounds, and sometimes I think of saying, but there won’t be another Millie. Of course they wouldn’t understand, and I don’t say that.

I am stop writing this now, since I am very sad. Thinking about Millie.

[Gorvar]

…Those poor dogs, man…

[Gorvar]

Gryphon Horn

It was day 78 of the Iron Crown Campaign and the beginning of the final offensive. Either now the Alliance of Orc, Man, Dwarf and Elf would break through the Undead hordes that kept battering on their doors or they would be crushed beneath it. The mountain passes below them were littered with piles of the dead, bullet casings and other signs of war. Workers made the paths as walkable as possible for the massive host.
Queen Morganna overlooked the preparations along with her bodyguard Elswin, Mountain King Thror and Warchief Grella of the Laughing axes.
The dwarven Gryphon banners waved alongside the Orcish dragons and the Alestrian Unicorn. Although the humans also worshipped the same god and giants like their kin on Alundria, the royal family’s blood was more closely tied to the elves and thus the humans preferred to use a Unicorn as their banner than the human giant. She also spotted a few Goblin mercenary bands and Children of the Light amongst the host. She noticed only one warband of elven archers led by a prince. A token force send by her elven allies. This made her sad, it seemed her adopted dwarven family had more faith in her than her ancestral ones.
Her bodyguard seemed to agree as he commented on the more numerous chaotic members of their army.“Mercs, zealots and orcs. These are desperate times, your highness.” Elswin said quietly to his Queen.
“The men seem ready.” Morganna said, answering whilst also ignoring Elswin’s comment." If God wills it, we will reclaim the Iron Crown."
Grella snorted before the orc warchief spat out some phlem from her tusked mouth. The Queen frowned at this. She tried to speak but stopped herself as she felt the Mountain King’s gaze on her. She was a queen, addressing her men alongside orcs and dwarves. The last thing they needed to see was discord among the alliance.
It was bad enough that the few elven villages refused to participate

Morganna was a young beautiful woman of twenty summers with long black hair and eyes as green as the leaves of a spring tree, dressed in armour that had a elven style to them, slender yet fitting. Beautiful with it’s curves and green trees, but as tough as dwarven steel. Her blade was the royal blade, Gwenhierblade. A mix of elven and human artistry. It was the only thing beside her armour that survived the sack of Queenspark. Some said elven weapons had a soul, much like any other living being, with it’s own wants and needs. Morganna had elven blood in her ancestry and knew what the blade wanted. Revenge, a chance to slay those who killed her family. But she knew better than to follow that impulse. She herself did not fight. After the death of most of her family when Queenspark fell to the Blight it was only her and her younger brother who were left alive out of the entire Alestrian royal family. They only survived because they were learning in Smallhill with her uncle, the Mountain King when the Blight and the Immortals came.
Thror was a surrogate uncle of sorts, a wise king who had lost his own child years ago during a previous Blight and had found a new one in Morganna. It was because of their bound, human refugees found sanctuary in the dwarven strongholds and had a chance to reclaim their home.
She appreciated his teachings, help and comfort. Without him, the human kingdom of Alestria would’ve died out the moment Queenspark and all other human settlements fell.

She was shaken from her revelry when a gnomish runner came to Thror. The pointed red hat fellow saluted as the mountain king saluted back.
“Sire, the men are ready.” the messenger said.
Thror nodded." Excellent, sound the advance. It is time we let the Blight know what they get for angering the dwarves.“
The messenger saluted again before he left.
Thror turned to Morganna and smiled.” It’s time I crossed a few names of my book of grudges, eh?“
The young queen returned the smile.” Alestria has your thanks, Uncle.“
Thror shook his head.” Naye, lass. Don’t thank me yet. We still got a long war ahead of us."
“Longer if we keep yapping about it.” the one eyed Grella snapped.
Before Morganna could reply, a deep sound rumbled through the mountains.

It was a sound she had heard before but it never lost it’s luster. It shook her bones inside her body, it was slightly painful but apparently to dwarves it stirs their internal furnaces.
The deep sound lingered as it slowly but surely turned to a screeching sound, much like the gryphons that flew overhead.
A second sound went, followed by another and another. Morgonna’s eyes went to the army where she saw one of the dwarves bellowing the horn. It was a large horn that went around the dwarf’s body, as he blew into it the sound came out, the deep sound followed by a screeching.
“My ancestors bound with the gryphons is a close one, lass.” Thror said." They helped us look up to the sky and see innovation, to reach out and claim our destiny. To protect us and them with our inventions. In their honour did we make our banners and horns. It’s that bound that drives us into a fever and makes us ready to crack skulls.“
Morgonna had heard it before but humoured her uncle.” Then let’s not let that fever go to waste. Lead on, Uncle Thror."
The Mountain King laughed before he donned his helmet and gave the signal to advance.
As one the warhost marched East, towards either victory or death.

[mammon]

@Dwarmin, aw those poor dogs. I always pretended in blissful ignorance that the dogs must have somehow scared the immortals away somehow, not lured them away only to be eaten. This is giving me serious flashbacks to the scout dogs story in World War Z, only there won’t be a retirement home for these hounds…

@Gorvar, nice addition to the ever expanding story you’re weaving. I love how you’re taking this thread as an opportunity to create an actual lore for this game, not just singular tales about a single hero.

[Gorvar]

Thanks man! I like to make this into a big saga if sorts. Like A song of ice and fire or Wheel of time except with a hint of Walking Dead.

[Dwarmin]

And now for more entries in Lore Book

Bounty Hunter

It’s said across that Alundria, that Goblins can turn a coin into their palms from almost any sort of labor-eradicating the Immortals proved no different. Most who wished to fight joined the ranks of Goblins Bows mustered from village levies, but some Goblins saw richer prizes awaiting those who worked alone.

The first Goblin bounty Hunters were merely former hired killers and assassins, who bargained their rate of pay higher than usual for ‘specialist’ work. As the war went on, they began to offer an entire assortment of battlefield jobs…to those who had a heavy enough coin pouch.

The width and breadth of those jobs paid credit to the Goblin mindset.

There was many formerly powerful and influential and infamous men and women shambling along any given Immortal horde-if a living family didn’t like the thought of their grandma being shot full of Elven arrows, blown in half by a Dwarvish artillery cannon, and eventually being tossed into a mass grave to be burned en masse with the hordes of dirty peasants, well-they could hire a Goblin Bounty Hunter to make sure she’d be put down ‘gently’, before she could rise if possible (this job often saw them competing with Goblin Tinkers for funerary rights), and that her body would be returned (more or less intact) to them for a proper burial. If they started to twitch a bit beforehand, well, that’s all in the contract too.

Perhaps, you knew the person the Immortal once was, and hated them enough to wish for an even greater desecration then they already suffered-or, maybe you just really wanted to make sure they were dead, the proof with your own eyes. They would do that as well. With a particular compunction on fulfilling the exact terms of their contract, irregardless of the actual state of the person at the time.

Goblin Bounty Hunters were also skilled in tracking and putting down wealthy targets who were known to carry powerful magical items and rich treasures iconic to their persons, and relieving them of the burden, to either make sure they were returned to living owners, or merely for their own profit-which earned them the name ‘Crownhunters’ in some parts. In other places, they were called ‘Imps’ (a play on Impaler), due to the specialized harpoon weapon many carried on their hands, to aid in collecting Immortal heads.

If nothing else, a person might somewhat ironically, hire a Goblin Bounty Hunter to protect him during a battle, sometimes from other Goblin Bounty Hunters.

Typically, a Bounty Hunter averaged close to ten gold pieces for every Immortal slain in a battle-thought the vast majority were worthless dregs, there were always deals to be made-and the bigger the horde, the better the price. The best Bounty Hunters could brag of handling fifty jobs in one day. The canny Lords who hired Bounty Hunters into their armies took two pieces of that gold per kill in exchange for a ‘contractual benefits’-such as troop support, housing and provision, medical aid, and forgiveness of past crimes-leading to a profitable venture for everyone involved.

When the War ended, the vast majority of survivors went back to their old ‘jobs’ or retired, much wealthier than before. A common joke among Goblin Bounty Hunters during and after the war was the ‘Ten for two, better than the four for one’-that they had been often getting paid for killing and robbing the same people twice, and that this time around the pay had been much better.

[Gorvar]

Foolhardy Bigwig

Gentle breezes and waves pushed the ship, the Siren’s wail, forward on the open seas. The large vessel, decked out with dwarven cannons and a large sail, bore the flag of the Sea Rats, one of Alundria’s biggest goblin sellsword companies. As Goblin, Human and even the odd Orc sailor worked the sails and riggings, below deck three goblins and a dwarf overlooked the bound and gagged human female in dark robes.

Captain Lunatice was the captain of the Siren as Bigwig Folly lead the land crew. A day ago the company stopped at a well to replenish their sweet water supplies before the sea voyage east, away from the Iron Crown. However they came across a woman had nearly poured a vial with green liquid into the nearby water source which gave water to the dwarven strongholds to the east. When she was discovered she and her cohorts immediately attacked the goblins. She was a mage of sorts so capturing her was no easy task and it cost the lives of four good gobbos. By the time they had caught her a terrifying roar send most of the grunts running for the shore. Captain Lunatice could not blame them, A blighted dragon was a foe born out of nightmare.

Normally a gang of goblins would have no qualm killing people for coin but there was a rub. The woman was not alone when the gobbos found her. She was there with five immortals, a bodyguard of sorts. Somehow this woman managed to have the undead bound to her will.
Capturing her and delivering her to the proper authorities would give the sellsword company a lot of compensation, but the question was…who were the proper authorities in this instance?

“We could go to Sanctuary.” Volg the Bounty hunter offered." My contacts have ties to King Halmadir. I do not recognise her face but I know Undying fetch a hefty price on the Black Market."
“Sod that noise.” Folly shook her head." They got the Children of the Light duking it out there with Lord Barnsworth, we go over we’ll be stuck in a civil war and I aint got no time for that."
“We can’t go back to Iron Crown either.” Captain Lunatice said." The entire Iron Crowns will be dead when Morganna’s campaign fails.“
Folly smirked.” Isn’t it also because you were chased out of that dwarf’s bedroom when her husband the Foreman came home?“
Lunatice turned to Folly.” Gnome actually and the ministrations of a gentlemen were required. The poor woman was being ill treated in that department and needed a…helping hand.“
Folly’ smirk turned as her skin turned even greener.” Bah, gnomes…"

“Enough.” the dwarf with the name of Balfog the dwarfkiller said. His skin was paler then that of his normal kin as his eyes were a burning red. He wore light clothing, befitting a sailor, as his forearms and face bore dark tattoos showing skulls with beards." What do we do with her?“
The woman in the dark robes still squirmed as her eyes cast hatefull glances at the goblins and the dwarf.
“You got any suggestions, Mr Dwarfkiller?” Lunatice asked his boatswain.
The albino dwarf stroked his black beard as he pondered.” Oasis is nearby, yes?" the goblin captain nodded." The elves there would pay for a necromancer, we might get a elven destroyer vessel out of the deal and expand our fleet. Then again if we sell her to the orcs, we could get some slaves which we can sell to our associates in the Green Valley."

Volg sat on a chair and took out his sword and whetstone and sharpened it." Dwarfkiller is right, the Rats have not been paid for a while. We might face mutiny soon next payday."
“We already got three ships so far, not enough crew or coin to helm a fourth.” Balfog said.
Lunatice considered." Slavery does sound better in the long run…"

Folly clapped her hands together eagerly." Oh boy, I miss slavery! Let’s do that! I can finally afford a castle of my own when it’s all said and done!“
Lunatice nodded thoughtfully as Volg kept silent. The captain was about to speak when a cry came from above decks.” SAILS INCOMING!“
Captain Lunatice ran up the stairs.” What kind, Mr Styles?!" he shouted.
“Black sails! None of ours!” the crow’s nest replied." I…I see the ship is full of Immortals!“
Volg frowned.” It seems we caught a very important Undying if they’re willing to risk a fleet to get her back."
“Indeed so, Mr Volg…” Lunatice concurred.
The Bigwig looked to the bound human who began to smirk. In return the goblin female kicked her across the face. Blood was splattered across the wooden floor as the woman was knocked out. This did not solicit any replies from her peers. Instead the four closed the door behind them and rushed on deck.

Lunatice peered through the binoculars as he confirmed the crow’s nest words. The ships that were pursuing them were indeed human vessels manned by the Immortals and more humans in black robes.
Thankfully the ships pursuing them were merchant ships and not as armed as the Siren.Furthermore he noticed the undead sailors had lost most of their experice in death. If anything this was the equivalent of children playing at war. On land their numbers might’ve made a difference but on sea, that is where the Sea Rats shined. Lunatice lowered his binoculars. He saw a opportunity and turned to his friend Volg who nodded. More coin was to be had.
“Orders, captain?” Balfog asked.
“Prepare for battle, Mr Dwarfkiller.” the sea captain smirked." There are prizes to be won."

Cannon fire rang as one of the pursuing ships was shot to pieces. The other two came close, ready to board…only to be boarded themselves.
As the undead sailors prepared to jump over, goblin arrows cut them down as Folly the Bigwig jumped over with her savage peers.
" For the Sea Rats!" Folly exclaimed. She swung her massive hammer around and slammed it’s head to a Immortal’s head, black gushy brain bits and blood was sprayed all over the deck. A cheer went up with the archers and savage warriors as they stormed the ship, intend on capturing more Undying…and claiming two more ships for their fleet.
The Bigwig was laughing madly as she slayed dozens of the undead with her crew mates, in time the Rat Pack would sail the seas unopposed and all would fear and respect them.

[Gorvar]

Wow, we both did Gobbos today. Great minds eh? ;D

I like this one dude, I always wondered how you could explain specialised goblin hunters in this setting.
Kudos, I love it. Love the Imps term, gives the world a bit more of a flair that way.

[Dwarmin]

Yeah, good work.

I doubt I could think of good lore for the Foolhardy Bigwig, myself. All the description you need is in the name!

[Dwarmin]

Gonna brainstorm some new ideas for Immortal Bosses-today, for Humans!

Who can say they saw all of the horrors that the Blight produced?

Humans
Undying Oathkeepers
Caerlyn vowed on her wedding day to protect her husband, until her dying breath, and beyond. Her Princely husband vowed the same. Before the Blight came, we thought nothing of it…

Ten times Caerlyn fell in the defense of her Lord Husband during the war, and ten times she rose again at his side. When the fell and rose the 11th time, she returned from death, to fulfill her oath-as his bane, driving her spear into his back. Now, they still march together, rotting bride and rotting groom, as fierce defending one another in death as they were in life-their spirits tied as one, so that neither will rest in death until both do.

Unless we find a way to end their tragic tale, their undying Oath will be the end of us.

Ability
Blighted Oath: Consists of two separate units that fight together, and cannot be separated.

The Undying Bride: She prevents all direct damage to the Prince, and gives him an attack boost of X. If She or the Prince are slain in battle, they both return to life, taking over the bodies a nearby immortals of the same race within X leagues in one hour (can be any race), and gaining a stack of X strength for herself and him.

The Undying Groom: As long as he lives, both the Groom and Bride will always return to life. He gives a strength bonus to all immortals of his currently species in X range. If He or the Bride are slain in battle, they both return to life, taking over the bodies a nearby immortals of the same race within X leagues in one hour, and gaining a stack of X strength for himself and her.

Note: Only by slaying them both at the same time, without a matching pair of immortal bodies for them to inhabit, can lay them to rest permanently.

Queen of Despair
In life, our Queen was renowned for her beauty and kindness-there was not a man unmarked by her grace and poise, nor untouched by her loveliness. In death, she brought only misery and sorrow, though men whispered that her beauty was yet undimmed by death, and that perhaps a part of her still remained for us, if only we would join her in death. Perhaps, that is why her subjects are slow to raise their hands against her and join the fight, even now, we are filled with a sickly despair that cannot be entirely natural. Maybe, that is why the dead seem eager to rise at her imperious command, to fulfill her new, darker edicts-the spread the blight across the living world

Perhaps in the end, we will all love and serve her in death, as we once did in life.

Ability:

Beauty of the Blight: The Queen of Despair marches through the land, her unearthly beauty beguiling men into despondency, and invigorating the Immortal hordes into a bitter parody of life.

As long as the Queen of Despair is on the field, Human Immortals rise X hours faster than usual, and training human troops or buying human hero cards takes X amount more gold. For every Human immortal currently risen, the Queen gains X strength.

Traitor King
He sits upon a stolen throne
A stolen blade in his hand
A stolen crown upon his head
His bloody hands, bedecked with stolen rings
All men name him, The Traitor King

Ability:

Traitor: The Traitor King marches across the land, a willing traitor for the Blight, spreading lies and dissension among the living. For the price of his soul, he intends to rule over the dead and the living, though in truth he is little more than a puppet.

For every valor point spent by players, The Traitor King summons X amount of Traitor Knights to defend him, adding to his army. If the Traitor King’s army claims a city by force, he claims a portion of the living population for his ‘Kingdom’-he will summon X amount of Traitor Legionnaires, where X is the amount of population of the city. Traitor units are mortals, and if they are slain without being put to rest, they will join the undead in their march. Traitor units are immune to push, pull and lure abilities.

[Gorvar]

I dig these cards, we do need more royalty cards for the humans. Even if they are nasty, evil ones ;D