WRITING DOWN THE LORE

Author: zingggre
Vignette: Waiting for my father
(299 words)

I have been there before. More times that I can count. It is always the same.
A sulfurous odor. That acrid smell emanating from both combatants, the sign of a fear they would never acknowledge.
Regardless of how insignificant a detail, your eyes are constantly working, observing both heroes going at each other. You catch a muscle twitch early, tipping off what their next move will be. You perceive a quick flash in the eyes - they have found an opening to land home their winning strike. And the sounds. The grunting and panting from the exertion these fighters put in. The scrapping of the blades and the bellowing from the onlooking crowd.

But I fear this time will be different. The crowd will watch in complete silence, the stakes at hand in their minds. The destiny of the imperium our father is trying to keep together is in balance. He is my mighty father, but I fear he will face his demise through the blade of his brother.
While I will stand until the end of days for my father and his principles, I truly wish he will not face his brother in the circle. I hope they find their brotherly love. I pray this fight I have been imagining never happens. A vision of a duel stuck in my head, eating at my soul since we first heard that my fathers brother is alive. Since the news, I have been waiting for my fathers decision.

Finally, the door to his chambers slides open. Here he stands, a dark and sad aura enveloping his regal appearance. A sickening, palpable tension fills the air. Without acknowledging me he strides down the hallway and I hear him speaking softly to himself with fierce determination: “It is time to meet the Lion”.

Author: Modyer
Vignette: Closing Time
300 words

In the heart of Suiddock, as Morrs Beloved hung low in the inky sky, casting viridescent hues upon the cobbles - The Keel Hall prepared to batten the hatches for the night. The tilted dockside tavern, draped in shadow, stood as a weary witness to the secrets of old Marienburg.

Inside the air was thick with the odor of salt fish, tallow and spilled spirits. The Patrons, illuminated by a soft flicker of whaleoil lamps, delt hushed exchanges as the tavernkeep Ollie, rang the last call. Tankards clinked in reluctant toasts, the warmth of camaraderie mingling with the chill seeping in from the darkened docks beyond. Behind the storm shutters, an eerie radiance painted a spectral tableau on the streets.

Candlelight danced between the cups and trinkets strewn across the driftwood tables, like forgotten relics of the evening's revelry. The minstrel, his fingers now plucking a haunting melody, cast a long wavering shadow across the room, as he finished his final tune.

The docks clamor had hushed to a mere whisper, leaving only the quiet creaking of ships in the harbor and the soft lap of waves against the pilings. Dim waterfront lanterns threw distorted reflections on to the puddles, guiding the footsteps of last few stragglers along the damp wharf.

Weary of countless nights, the proprietor added up his meager earnings. Sighing, he extinguished the last light, plunging the space into a blackness defied only by the glow of the dying hearth. The door bolt whined shut, sealing a cocoon of silence amid the nocturnal symphony of Marienburg.

As the tavern finally surrendered to the gloom of the hour, prickling emerald moonlight bathed the city in an otherworldly glow, birthing ethereal shadows that whispered of secrets hidden beneath the water's edge and tales untold by Manann fearing sailors.

Author: MKWarhead
Poem, The Corruption of Farsight
36 Lines

On Arthas Moloch, an artefact world
Corrupted straight through to its core
A great battle raged between Tau and Gue'la
Fiercer than ever before.
The Fire Caste fought onward, gaining more ground
Bolter slugs whizzing on by
As Orca, 'Cuda and Manta alike
Provided support from the sky.
O'Shovah stood silent, surveying the field,
Pleased with the ground they had gained,
Remembering last time his feet touched this soil
His Ethereals all had been slain.
For his men he kept fighting, for them he would die:
He was their Ethereal now.
He would set right the mistakes of the past.
He was the Yoke and the Plow.
As plasma punched cleanly through ceramic plate
A familiar voice filled his ear
One he had heard almost every day
Since his leaders were slaughtered in fear
"I am the Blood God, the Hunter of Souls,
The bringer of Wrath and of Rage.
I have been watching you, child of Vior'la
Every step of the way.
Your skill is unmatched on the battlefield,
Your enemies all are unmade.
But you lack the strength to accomplish your goals.
Perhaps a deal can be made...
You have been fighting Dawnblade in hand
For years, with your aims unfulfilled.
But with you as my Herald and I as your God
Just think of the blood we could spill..."
O'Shovah replied, voice unpreterbed,
"My will is not weak as you say.
The blood that sustains you as well sustains me.
I'll be searching for you in the fray."

Author: Modyer
Poem, Chaos Touched
26 lines.

Stoker teams toil in the moon's pale glow,
As the cloven ones stir, where the mangled trees grow.

Charcoal kilns crackle, billow in the chill of night,
A vorpal shadow, in the grinning Morslieb' light.

In Hochland woods, where warp taint creeps,
A forester sleeps, whilst near a dire beast sneaks.

Beware the Minotaur's bellowing howl,
Rangers, awake! The Beastmen are on prowl!

Ungors with adze, as hunched shadows advance,
Through the brush, in a macabre dance.

"Snicker-snack!" the Bestigor, snarling loud cries,
Like a mighty beast, with soulless madman's eyes.

Woodsmen, raise arrows, and aim with care,
As the bray herd bleats, the forests faith declare!

In the darkened grove, where twisted powers weave,
Colliers and foresters, both now grieve.

For in Taal's sacred realm, this tale doth unfold,
On winding footpaths, where evil yet tightens it’s hold.

The Chaos touched, their fate forlorned,
In the bray-folks care, new kin aren't scorned.

So, beware the great enemy’s spawn, my friend,
The gore-drenched hooves that rend and rend.

'Tis grim and vile, the cursed, corrupted grove,
a foul caprine prance, in the bloody, moonlit cove,

The jabberspawn, with keen, twisted horn,
In Hochland woods, we wait for the break of morn’.

Author: Modyer
Poem, Twisted Fates
38 lines

In a shadowed glade, a guilt-ridden whisper,
An abandoned infant, fate's cruelest twister.
In murky shade, where a sordid herd breeds,
Disowned children, tangled in thorny weeds.

Forsaken and bereft, now for themto find,
Hope in young eyes, lost, left sobbing behind.
Marked by chaos, how could innocence remain?
As bray-men break, fate's cold binding chain.

The cloven roam, their minds savage, untamed,
Taking in stray souls, destinies unfairly framed.
Beastmen gathered, brought to the herdstone,
To claim this lost black lamb, their very own.

Through twisted woods, a tale is spun,
Of chaos touched, that their kin had shun.
Abandoned, adopted, soon in wild they roam,
In the heart of beast, they found a make-shift home.

Hooves and claws, a fledgling left scorned,
In the gloomy night, a grim life transformed.
Sorrowful whispers now fade to mirth,
As beast folk cradle the newfound worth.

Horns and fur, in moons eerie green glow,
Kindred spirits, a dark bond does grow.
In the Reikwald forest, a kinship’s sworn,
The Beastmen raise the Chaos-touch born.

The forest's core, a refuge cold,
Echoes tales of those Chaos hold.
Amidst the savage-torn, twisted glen,
The altered ones find a welcoming den.

The unwanted offspring, embraced in the wild,
Raised by the herd, like a secret bastard child.
In the cover of night, a disturbing jig or prance,
As Beastmen offer them a second chance.

Through thorny paths and forest dense,
These wayward souls find recompense.
In the War-herds realm, a belonging found,
Little ones lost to woe; In anger forever bound.
In the chaos blessed, a strength unreigned,
A union forged, never ever to be named.