The Race through the Silver Tower : The Company of Sigmar
It's a late one here on Wargaming Wednesday but we assure you it is worth the wait!
Today we announce the launch of our new narrative campaign that will centre all around Warhammer Quest: The Silver Tower.
The Campaign will feature two teams of rival warriors, one comprised of the forces of Order and the other from the forces of Chaos, who are each desperately trying to reach the Gaunt Summoner in his nightmarish lair. The Forces of Order wish to destroy him where as the forces of Chaos wish to acquire his power and knowledge for their own nefarious reasons...
We'll be bringing you the battle reports from their quests and following each team and their colourful characters story, as they try to gather all the pieces of the Amulet before the other in the hopes of destroying or securing the Gaunt Summoner before the other.
So stay tuned, and keep your ever changing eye of Tzeentch on our ever changing blog to keep up with your favourite team and character and see how they are fairing at the Gaunt Summoner's fiendish trials!
To wet your appetite here is the introduction to forces of Order's team, the glorious Company of Sigmar. We meet Grimli Ironhand, an aged Duardian Cogsmith, who is down on his luck and out of ale! Surely at the ripe age of one hundred and fifty five, the Cogmsith has no more epic heroic narratives to form? Let's find out...
We hope you enjoy and we hope to see you checking in on our mighty heroes (and villians) quests!
The Company of Sigmar.
Prologue.
Grimli Ironhand drained the last quarts of ale in his tankard in two hearty swallows. The old Cogsmith gave an audible grunt as the last fiery dregs of the ale burned a path down his gullet and landed heavily in his already engorged stomach; an issue he tried to remedy immediately with a boisterous belch that rang out like the peel of a great bell through the quiet tavern. The raucous noise caused a few of the shadowed faces dotted around the darkened room to turn his way, but when they inevitably saw the Duardin’s pistol stoically half-lit in the candlelight, they quickly returned to their hushed conversations.
The lone Duardin didn’t notice their glares; instead he continued to wrestle with the inferno blazing in his gut. He cautiously let another torrid burp escape, and the ale laced breath blazed up his throat on its way out with such heat the old Duardin instinctively pounded a meaty fist into his chest to try and clear the bile creeping up his short neck. It worked; and the searing acid worming out of his stomach subsided, for now at least. The wily Cogsmith knew all too well that the only way to cool the burn of the ale…was with more ale. Lots more.
With that thought Grimli reached for the old leather pouch on his belt and once located, thrust his stubby fingers into its depths. A few moments later a frown so deep it carved canyons onto his face formed on his brow, and the cracked lips on his weathered face flicked downward into grimace. With a grumble he enclosed his pudgy digits around the sparse smattering of coins and dumped them unceremoniously on the battered wooden table before him. Grimli knew with an ever-sinking heart, that the pathetic collection of dull copper that lay before him would not even buy him half a tankard. In fact with this pittance he would barely be able to bribe the barkeep to let him lick the bottom of the barrel. He had burned through his, admittedly meagre, coin purse at an alarming speed, and was nowhere near as drunk as he needed to be. He thought with a deep sense of pity, that for an old Duardin, inebriation was an expensive business.
Grimli gave a hefty sigh that rocked his stout body. He gravely took a pinch of tobacco from another pouch on his belt, another almost empty pouch he thought with ever increasing dismay, and delicately placed the tobacco into his pipe. He picked up the candle, gently glowing in the centre of his table, and lit his pipe; paying no mind to the wax that dripped into the now glowing chamber. He settled back into his wooden chair that groaned dangerously in protest as his hefty frame caused the haggard structure to strain beneath his bulk. But once comfortable, Grimli Ironhand stared listlessly into the flickering light of the candle before him, the warm glare of the light occasionally cut by wafts of grey smoke that oozed from his nostrils and drifted by his eyes like morning mist.
“The money’s gone” he finally muttered, the quiet rumble of words was accompanied out his mouth by a great gout of pipe smoke; the money was gone and that was a harrowing thought. No more money meant no more ale, and that was a thought more terrifying then any monster he had ever seen. A life of sobriety was no life for a Duardin.
He took a great puff of his pipe, the flavour of the bitter smoke filling his chest paling in comparison to the delicious sting of the heady brew still writhing turbulently in his stomach. By now he had hoped to have been slumped in a drunken stupor, reminiscing about his monster hunting days with some other drifter, giving his rousing recollection of the time he shot both the eyes out of a huge Rockgut Troggoth before spending hours chiselling his stony head off. But instead he sat here, alone and sober as a judge, bar the mild buzz radiating around his head like a lazy bumblebee droning around his troubled thoughts; staring into the candlelight. He was close to retiring to the humble room he had rented for the night, when the small light of the candle suddenly wavered violently, so violently that it shook itself out, the light vanishing into the darkness of the tavern with nothing more than a wisp of blue smoke and the acrid smell of the burning wick.
Grimli should have been satisfied to leave the extinguished candle as it was and head to his modest bed, but something compelled him to relight its small fire. With an aged groan he hauled himself forward in his chair and the old Cogsmith clumsily retrieved the candle. Holding the wick in the glowing embers in the chamber of his pipe, a fragile flame sprang from the blackened fabric once more. Placing the candle back on the table the infant light began to grow stronger, until it recast its glow on Grimli’s aged face and framed the table he sat at. The downhearted Duardin was about to resume his pitying stare into the candle’s light, when the flames delicate glow illuminated something that he had not noticed before.
Grimli was sure his eyes must have been playing a trick on him, either that or he was far more inebriated than he thought. Flanking either side of Grimli’s table, were two huge gold statues. They were two towering monoliths in the shape of mortal men, the statues depicted two great hulking warriors, their chests swelled to the size of demi-gods and thick golden armour encasing their statuesque forms. The Cogsmith stared at them for a considerable amount of time, and the two statues merely stood, and stared back with hollow black eyes. Grimli was so perplexed by what he saw, that for a moment he actually considered that he was having some form of episode. Perhaps the barman had been diluting the ale here with some strange tonic, or mixing it with some deadly fungus. Grimli had heard tales of thrifty innkeepers cutting their ale with Orruk Blood; a substance so potent that the paranoia it induced could cause a Duardin to mistrust even the beard on his chin. But as the old Cogsmith continued to stare, the two goliath statues remained before him, standing stoically, their golden bodies glimmering in the candlelight. Grimli chewed on his pipe mindlessly, hypnotised by the light dancing upon their shining golden bodies. As his confusion and awe enamoured his brain; he thoughtlessly exhaled a huge puff of grey smoke that bloomed into the air and swelled around the statues.
It was only when one of the statues raised its arm and swatted the smoke from its face in a commanding arc, that his trance was broken. Grimli drew an intake of breath so violent that his pipe shot into his mouth like a bullet. The mouthpiece jabbed the back of his throat and was mere inches from flying down his windpipe when the Cogsmith lurched forward, coughing and choking, finally managing to splutter the tobacco pipe onto the table with a hideous gag. Through bleared and watery eyes Grimli saw the implacable statues advance towards him in one great and powerful stride until they towered before him blocking out the rest of the silent tavern. Regaining his composure the Duardin reached instinctively for the pistol lying on the table before him. Grimli’s hand fell upon the grip, and his finger slotted naturally onto the trigger. He was mere seconds from raising the barrel and opening fire, when a soft voice emanated from the darkness beyond the light on his table.
“There’s no need for that friend,” The voice soothed. It was a stern but kindly note that managed to slightly calm the Cogsmith’s hammering heart, but not enough to cause him to release his death grip on the pistol. The golden goliaths parted before him and from the shadows of the tavern Grimli saw a looming figure emerge. The figure was also that of a mortal man, who stood tall and proud, his graceful frame being carried forward in great commanding strides was shadowed before his features materialized in the candlelight.
Grimli was met by a determined and hard face framing two piercing eyes, so blue they almost appeared grey, the contrast even more startling by the dark, unyielding flesh that surrounded them. Atop his head was a small golden band, that Grimli may have mistaken for a modest crown of a lesser known king, had the gold not been so dull and unadorned. Instead, the mysterious man’s flowing white robes had betrayed this man’s station, and the Duardin was now aware he was talking to some form of priest rather than some regal commander.
“May we join you?” The figure enquired; the question appearing to be no more than ceremony as the man was already delicately placing his muscular frame into the empty and clearly undersized chair opposite Grimli. “We have a proposition for you.” The man began.
“And who are we?” Grimli found himself replying sternly, his voice slurring slightly, which surprised him, the ale here was definitely stronger than he first thought. The stranger offered him a wry smile.
“My name is Felix,” He began, “Felix Zeal. I would shake your hand, but it still seems to be full of pistol,”
“It’ll stay that way,” Grimli replied gruffly, as he trained the barrel on the broad chest of his unwelcome guest. “Until you tell me what you want.” Felix’s eyes drifted only momentarily to the staring black eye of the pistol, and the two hulking golden figures that flanked him shifted uncomfortably at the sight of the gun trained on, what the Duardin had assumed to be, their master.
But that ice blue stare re-fixed itself quickly back onto the dark eyes of the Cogsmith, and emanated an eerie calm.
“We want you,” Felix began, a smile worming onto his face. Grimli couldn’t fight the puzzled look that suddenly invaded his expression causing his eyebrows to contort into a strange mixture of confusion and surprise. “I hear word that you are one of the finest shots in the realm.” Felix continued.
“And who told you that?” Grimli replied gruffly, trying to hide the swell of pride that was bubbling up in his chest.
“Someone whom I trust even more so than myself,” Felix began grandly, as if he was addressing a great congregation, “Someone who told me that I was as much in need of your services, as you were of mine,” This caused the modest smile on Felix’s lips to bloom like a great flower, until it filled his cheeks. “We have a job for you,” Again, that momentary look of bewilderment clouded Grimli’s brow.
“For me?” The Cogsmith fought back a roaring laugh that welled up from his chest, “No one has required my services for many a moon Master Felix. Not many men wish to hire a one hundred and fifty five year old mercenary!” He barked out a long, raucous laugh that brought a red flush to his purple cheeks.
“In that case not many men want to hire the best dungeon crawler there is or ever was,” Felix said sternly, and the old Duardin managed to choke back his haughty laughter to wave the compliment away.
“You’ll not persuade me with flattery Master Felix,” The Cogsmith retorted, wiping the tears from his aching cheeks.
“I didn’t think I would,” Felix beamed and in one swift movement his hand flew into his robes and the coin purse he flung onto the table was as big and swollen as an engorged beehive. “But I’ve been assured that this will be enough to make you agreeable,” The heavy metallic rattle the purse made as it hit the table caused Grimli’s mouth to fly open like a door being blown from its hinges. There was no doubt in the Duardin’s mind that the sum of the coins in that purse wouldn’t just buy him a tankard of ale, but an entire river of it.
The Duardin’s eyes glimmered like diamonds as, enthralled by the allure of the coins, his hand wandered from the grip of the pistol to clutch the exquisite smooth leather of the coin purse. Felix’s voice roused him from his thoughts.
“You’ll receive half now, and half after the job is complete.” Grimli’s head snapped up from the table with such speed that he almost wrenched it clean off of his shoulders.
“Half?” He managed to ask cautiously, his husky voice scraping from his throat that had gone dry in sheer shock. “This is only half?” Felix Zeal made no effort to hide his pleasure at this question.
“Yes. And I use the term ‘half’ very loosely. The second coin purse in truth is much more substantial than this meagre offering.” The Cogsmith’s sheer delight was short lived as suddenly he felt his brow furrow as the lure of the gold gave way to a wave of suspicion.
“What’s the job?” He ventured cautiously. The question made the pleased smile on Felix’s face dissipate almost instantly. The waver in Grimli’s voice may have been confused for doubt or even rejection of the matter had the old Cogsmith’s hand not been still firmly placed on the fat coin purse. Felix fixed him with an ice cold stare.
“Hunting a nightmares,” He said gravely. “That’s the job. We’re going to hunt the biggest nightmare of them all.”
