Race Through The Silver Tower, The Trinity And The Traitor Round 3
Team Name: The Trinity and The Traitor
Team: Butch the Darkoath Chieftain Red the Slaughterpriest Pox Riddle the Lord of Plagues Malphikk the Chaos Sorcerer Lord
The Trinity and the Traitor.
The fragment of Chamon.
Part 1:
Trapped.
“How much further?” The Slaughtpriest demanded. The sight had returned to Malphikk’s eyes in a huge rush of colour and noise and he was still disorientated from his return to the land of the living. His blurred vision settled and he found himself staring into the burning eyes of Red the Slaughterpriest. Malphikk’s eyes widened in wonder as he gazed upon the living, breathing Slaughterpriest whom he had witnessed perish what seemed like merely moments before. Red however, seemed oblivious to this as he continued with the words that rang with the horrid sense of Déjà vu. “We’ve been walking for so long the blood on my blade is almost dry,” It was a conversation they had, had before.
“Not far now,” Malphikk responded plainly, almost automatically, it was the response he had given before, it was the response he always gave, and now it was the only retort he could manage to say as if he was reading from a script. Malphikk’s eyes wandered loftily to Red’s chest, he could remember it exploding in a gory flash, a beam of corrosive acid searing a gory crater into the Slaughterpriest’s breast. Malphikk looked and where the great bloody chasm had been now in its place he saw a great knot of white, gnarled scar tissue.
“We’ve been here before,” Butch barked rousing Malphikk from his thoughts. He turned and faced the barbarian, and felt almost a wave of relief to see him alive, Malphikk had watched him die in front of his eyes, his throat torn from his body; and sure enough, Malphikk saw a thick, twisted scar on Butch’s neck. The scar was pulled tight, clearly trying to conceal the amount of flesh that had been ripped away.
“The Sorcerer is lost,” Red spat. Malphikk wheeled around his eyes drawn automatically to that torrid and grisly scar on the Slaughterpriest’s chest. But Red seemed not to notice it. None of them did. Pox gave a bemused grunt and stepped into the dim light of the chamber. Malphikk saw that his head was firmly reattached to his shoulders, although he could not see past the covering of thick black armour that hid most of the Plague Lord’s flesh, Malphikk knew that beneath that thick helm, there would be a horrid scar encircling Pox’s neck. The Chaos Sorcerer watched as the Trinity exchanged perplexed looks, none of them even glancing at the fresh covering of gruesome scars that covered their bodies. Malphikk turned to Red, who stared glared at him furiously.
“That scar,” He said suddenly, pointing to the mass of gnarled flesh on Red’s Chest. The fury in the Slaughterpriest’s eyes faded, as he glanced down to his chest, examining the barely healed wound. “Where did you get it?” Red’s eyes glazed with a look of utter confusion, his brow furrowed deeply behind his helm. Red stared dreamily at the scar tissue. His hand wandered slowly towards the knot of twisted flesh and his fingers traced the lumpy skin there.
“It was…” He began, his voice distant and quiet. “A Duardin cannon. Hit me square in the chest…” He continued slowly and with great uncertainty. “Wasn’t it? Or perhaps. Perhaps it was the Flesh Hounds in the fighting pit.” Red’s voice trailed off slowly and the towering Slaughterpreist suddenly had a look on his face that resembled that of a child alone and lost in the woods. His eyes wandered to the floor and Red stood dumbfounded in silence, lost in some distant trance. Malphikk thought that was the end of the conversation but suddenly Red spoke out of this dreamlike state.
“There were so many.” He continued. “I had never been beaten in the fighting pit. Never. But I underestimated them.” Malphikk listened intently as Red’s glazed eyes continued to stare at the chamber floor; his mouth was the only part of his body that moved as the Slaughterpriest stood rummaging through his memories. “They were tearing me apart. I managed to flee. I remember that. I had to. I leapt up those walls and away from those braying beasts. I can see my flesh still hanging in ribbons from their mouths.” Butch took two cautious steps towards Red his mouth opening to speak. Malphikk hissed at him violently, silencing and halting the Cheiftain in his tracks, he would not have Butch breaking Red’s trance. Malphikk was unsure whether this memory was real, or whether it was merely a fabrication but either way, he wanted to hear it all. “I was defeated. Disgraced,” Red continued. “I prayed to Khorne for redemption. For his forgiveness.”
The clanking and jangling of armour and blades suddenly came into earshot. A multitude of metallic echoes rang eerily down the long, empty corridors of the Silver Tower. The sound of footfall was unmistakable now, and Pox suddenly drew his blade and squared his shoulders as the rumble of approaching enemies grew louder.
“Malphikk!” Butch hissed, “They’re coming!” The Cheiftain took up his mammoth Broadsword in both hands, as now through the far chamber door a stream of howling and shrieking acolytes appeared in the waning light of the chamber. Their twisted blades were raised high, their weapons and armour glinting and shimmering with malice in the flicking light of the torches that illuminated the chamber. But Malphikk did not stir, nor did he rouse Red, the Slaughterpriest continued, and although Malphikk could barely hear his hushed whisper over the shriek of fanatics he thought he made out the last words the Slaughterpriest spoke before their enemies washed over and overwhelmed them.
“He told me there was only one way to regain his favour.” Red continued, even as the clash of swords began to ring out. “Only one way to earn his forgiveness.” Red turned suddenly to Malphikk who stared intently at him. Their eyes locked, and suddenly the lost look in Red’s expression was replaced by a sudden terrible fury. “I had to come here.” He said, his lips flicking up into a snarl. “I had to come here. And help you.”
Malphikk had no time to understand what this truly meant, as the Acolytes rushed over them, and the bitter thrall of battle rang out in the Silver Tower once more.
Round: Three
Mission: Three - Chamon
Battle Report: The team had no treasure and only three skills cards between them. This was not necessarily a bad thing though, having fewer skills means that there is less chance of being ambushed during the breaks from the fighting and therefore more chance of finding treasure. Danger lurked round every corner in the Silver Tower and the Trinity and Traitor found it in the very first room!
The very room itself could explode against missed attacks and damage every model inside. Unfortunately there were loads of enemies to potentially blow the room up! In the first turn Pox and Malphikk were very ponderous and careful with there swings and they only caused 3 wounds between them. Butch, in typical fashion, was not so careful. He stormed into the room and in a whirlwind of attacks he caused 9 wounds and cut down 4 enemies. Red decided that he preferred this approach and followed suit killing another 2 Tzaangors. These enemies however were vengeful and took 4 wounds off Red and Butch, their lack of armour was becoming a big problem.
Five turns and an unexpected event later, the Trinity and Traitor had blown up the room an uncountable amount of times but they had made it. Not much further into the dungeon they came upon a golden gargoyle which spat out a potential companion or a deadly trap but seeing as this was a Chaos team they elected not to help and left the thing to suffer. Soon after this Butch gained the Wardancer skill which should help get amongst the enemies and force his way through them. Shortly after this Malphikk and his men were ambushed by a party that was very similar to the one that killed them last time, only with extra Horrors! They expected the worse and got it!
The party of enemies inflicted some horrendous amounts of Damage in their very first turn of action. Pox Riddle was the first one to drop soon followed by Malphikk. They were nearly followed by Butch and Red but they had somehow managed to hold out, leaving it all up to them to clear the room. The Darkoath Chieftain cut down a pair of acolytes but Red could not assist because he was forced to heal himself, unfortunately it was all wasted as Red went down in the next turn. Butch was on his own. He tried his best, passing an unbelievable amount of Saving throws but he just could not manage it! The Trinity and the Traitor had lost another challenge, All of their gained treasure was stripped from them as well as the only Skill that had been gained in this event. Some tough decisions would have to be made.
Result: Defeat
Outcome:
Malphikk
Treasure: None
Skills: None
Red
Treasure: None
Skills: Unstoppable
Amulet Pieces: Hysh
Pox Riddle
Treasure: None
Skills: Battlewrath
Butch
Treasure: None
Skills: One Step Ahead
Current Score: Company of Sigmar: Rounds played: 3 Amulet pieces: 3
The Trinity and The Traitor: Rounds played: 3 Amulet pieces: 1
The Trinity and the Traitor.
The Fragment of Chamon.
Part 2
Tricked.
The young Acolyte Zarog stooped and, gathering a fist full of the fallen Sorcerer’s robes, wiped the blood from his twisted blade. He felt a well of pride as he admired his reflection in his blood-smeared sword. They had done it. Another handful of intruders swiftly and effectively dealt with. It was true that these warriors had put up a good fight and taken down a great number of Acolytes before they had fallen, but the Acolytes had attacked in great numbers and the ambush had been a great success. Zarog straightened and stared down at the still body of the Chaos Sorcerer who lay in a great pool of blood that still steadily widened like a slowly blossoming flower. The Sorcerer’s eyes stared back at him, glassy and lifeless. Zarog wondered what a Tzeentch Sorcerer was doing skulking the corridors of the Silver Tower with such an eclectic mix of warriors, especially a Slaughterpriest of Khorne; whose mammoth form now lay slumped against the chamber wall, his chest littered with innumerable bloodied punctures. But Zarog had little time to ponder the motives of a dead man.
Instead he had more pressing matters to attend to.
Already his fellow Acolytes were clearing out, leaving the bodies of the fallen warriors where they lay. The mists of change would drift through the chamber soon, and this battle and these corpses would disappear and be forgotten, or even reappear alive and well in another part of the Tower to be ambushed and slaughtered again, depending on the whim of the Gaunt Summoner. Zarog hoped he would have some time before that happened, after all, these fallen warriors were not just anonymous corpses.
They were the bait in his trap.
Zarog kept to the shadowed corners of the chamber, skulking out of sight of his comrades, as they wandered away, already laughing, cheering and gloating about their victory. Zarog waited patiently until they were out of sight, and their voices vanished into the distance. He hunkered down on his haunches in the darkest shadow he could find, and waited in the deathly silence of the chamber, that had rang with the deafening pall of battle mere moments before. Zarog remained as still and as quiet as he could, barely allowing himself to breathe for fear it would betray his position. He knew he wouldn’t have long to wait before his quarry would undoubtedly arrive. And he was right; no sooner had Zarog taken up his concealed position did his prey cautiously creep into the chamber.
The stooped skulking form of Beezle was unmistakable. The ancient Acolyte shuffled into the centre of the chamber, his aged footsteps whispered softly against the stony chamber floor. Beezle approached the slumped and bloodied corpses of the warriors Zarog and his men had ambushed and gave a cautious glance at his surroundings before he stooped low and began to rummage through the pouches and pockets of those still, lifeless bodies. The frail old man reminded Zarog of some skittish deer cautiously creeping out of its hiding place in the woods to take a drink from some watering hole; unaware that the wolf is watching it from the shadows, preparing to pounce. Zarog smiled wickedly at this thought and his grip on his blade grew tight. The sneaky thief had walked straight into his trap; he knew the old miser could not resist the allure of such a lucrative pile of corpses.
‘The old fool would regret ever meeting me’ Zarog thought.
Zarog straightened silently and stepped into the light of the chamber. Beezle was busying himself trying to prize the blood red jewel from the hilt of the Sorcerer’s sword and did not notice Zarog slowly advancing upon him. He gave a hushed cheer as he pried the jewel from the weapon, and as he held it aloft to admire its fiery hue in the flickering light of the wall mounted torches; Zarog’s shadow suddenly loomed large over him. Beezle turned his head sharply, his eyes wide and frightened, and stared up at the young Acolyte who glowered greedily at him. The old man’s eyes fixed onto his only for a moment, until they drifted slowly to the sharp, bloodied blade in his hands.
“Hello again my dear old friend,” Zarog said, his wicked smile broadened into a serpentine grin. Beezle scurried to his feet quickly, clamping his hands around the jewel he had stolen covetously.
“What do you want?” The old man demanded as fiercely as he could, but his voice cracked with fear.
“Just to talk,” Zarog lied, his eyes fell to the fat coin purse hanging on Beezle’s belt. A coin purse fat with HIS gold. Beezle followed Zarog’s eyes, and he gave a torrid, high pitched squeal, snatching the coin purse up and gripping it tightly in his greedy palms.
“You can’t have it! I won that money fair and square!” He shrieked, his eyes darting around the chamber. His voice echoed down the lonely, empty corridors and Zarog’s smile widened further, no one would hear the old man’s shrieks.
Or screams.
“You did,” Zarog admitted, “But you ran off in such a hurry. You didn’t give me a chance to win my money back,” Beezle’s eyes widened further and shimmered with tears.
“It’s mine!” He wailed pitifully; his knuckles glowing white from clutching the coin purse so tightly, “You can’t have it back. I won it!”
“Oh come now,” Zarog soothed, “Are you sure I can’t persuade you into another wager?” He casually lifted the blade higher, dangling it in front of the old man’s nose. Beezle’s frightened eyes followed the blade as Zarog teased the weapon between his hands, making the sword shimmer and dance in the waning light of the chamber.
“Okay,” Beezle croaked through his dry mouth that hung open at the sight of the bloodied blade. “Okay. You can have your money back,” Zarog threw his head back and let out a cruel peel of laughter.
“And what would be the fun in that?” Zarog taunted. “I didn’t come here to steal my money back off you, I came here to win it, fair and square.” Beezle’s face crinkled pathetically as the tears began to run down his cheeks.
“Please,” He pleaded, “Just take your money, and let me be on my way.”
“Don’t you want to know the wager?” Zarog teased wickedly. “It’s a bet you’ll be familiar with.” Beezle snivelled noisily as he swiped the tears from his face.
“Please,” He begged quietly again but Zarog only grinned maliciously and silenced him with a wave of his hand.
“The bet is that you cannot land a single hit against me.” Zarog continued. “I know you’re a gambling man Beezle, and I’m sure you fancy your chances of winning. After all, you’re on a lucky streak today aren’t you?” The old man wailed pathetically, the tears now running in rivers down his wrinkled cheeks. “And since you’re so lucky today, you’ll want to raise the stakes a little won’t you? Why don’t we pick a nice round number? Shall we say…Five hundred?” Beezle’s eyes sprang open with sheer horror.
“Five hundred!” He squealed.
“I’m sorry is that not enough?” Zarog grinned, “Let’s make it a thousand then.” The old man’s eyes sprang open even further.
“A thousand gold coins that I can’t land a single hit against you?” Beezle whimpered. Zarog nodded, his smile wider than ever.
“Yes. Is it a bet?”
Beezle’s tear streaked face stared up at Zarog wide eyed and terrified. The old man stifled the sobs that were slipping from his throat, even though his breaths hitched feebly from his chest he sniffled and composed himself.
“It’s a bet,” He said suddenly. Zarog’s smile waivered at this, and he could not hid the surprise that suddenly flooded his expression. Beezle saw this, and his mouth that had been pathetically down-turned in his whimpering cries now flicked upwards into a smile. Zarog stood dumbfounded for a moment as Beezle began to laugh, his mouth widened as he did, and Zarog saw suddenly row upon row of razor sharp teeth. Zarog stared into that gaping maw in utter confusion. He could not fully understand what was happening; even as Beezle’s pale, wrinkled flesh suddenly began to turn a bright blue; even as the old man’s arms swelled with thick muscle Zarog stood rooted to the spot, utterly perplexed. From his balding head, two mammoth horns sprouted from his skull, his grey wispy hair turned into a luxurious mane of jet black fur, and his stooped, hunched figure straightened and bloomed into that of a hulking 8ft monster. Zarog stared up at the mammoth, towering beast who was now so tall his thick head was brushing against the stone ceiling of the chamber. Those frail hands that had clutched the fat coin purse were now two wicked sharp claws and that pitiful face that had shimmered with tears mere moments before was now dominated by two fiery red eyes that blazed with fury, but that same fang-filled smile beamed down on Zarog.
Zarog stared up at Beezle, who was no longer Beezle at all. But an Ogroid Thaumaturge.
Zarog gawped at the towering monster and felt his mouth go dry. It appeared that there was a lot more to Beezle than anyone thought.
As he was sadly about to learn.
Zarog lifted his blade to strike. But Beezle swatted the weapon from his hand with a powerful swipe of his claw. Zarog tottered off balance and tumbled to the floor his bones cracking as he landed heavily on the stony tiles. Zarog got his feet quickly, his eyes wide with terror as he scoured the room for his lost weapon. But it had vanished.
He summoned up all his courage and strength and charged at Beezle with his fists clenched and raised. He wheeled his arm back and threw an optimistic punch at the hulking beast. Beezle merely caught the flying fist and enveloped it with his own mammoth hand. Beezle’s face contorted into a hideous grin as he suddenly clamped his hand shut. Zarog screamed as every bone in his hand was shattered like glass in a series of gory snaps and crunches. He fell to his knees before Beezle who casually released his grip of Zarog’s shattered limb.
Zarog cradled his crippled hand; wailing and shrieking in pain. The gnarled fingers were all twisted at horrid and unnatural angles, and all across the surface of the flesh shards and splinters of bloodied bone jutted from bloodied tears in the skin. Zarog felt the tears flood his eyes and run in rivers down his cheeks, as the white hot pain of his broken hand bored into his mind. He stared up at Beezle through eyes that were bleary with agony and saw the mammoth monster outstretch a huge and beastly palm towards him. The fingers beckoned tauntingly and a thick smile was plastered on the beast’s face as it growled the words:
“Pay up,”
Please comment below with your Silver Tower experiences, let us know how many rounds you gathered all 8 amulet pieces in and whether or not you defeated the Gaunt Summoner! Which characters are best to use in teams of four? Would you use a themed team or a bulked up team? We would love to hear from you! Happy Wargaming!
