Old Mother Cinderpaw felt a sense of unease in her ancient bones. It had been many years since she, and her children, had fled the slave pits of Tragar and so many decisions had been made in that time. So many risks calculated, so many opportunities grasped at. She knew full well that she had made mistakes along the way, whether it was because she had made decisions too quickly, or without enough information, but not any big mistakes. She had always trusted the feelings in her bones as the final arbiter in all her decisions, and not once had they screamed so hard at her to abandon any other course of action. Not like they did now.
As she looked across the scarred and cratered battlefield, she had to admit there were considerably more orcs standing in front of her than she had been expecting. When the ratkin had first arrived on the grim plains, with sterile soil and great tracts of green crystalline rock that poisoned the land and made underground exploration all but impossible, they had fought for their survival against the local goblin tribes. Slowly they had carved out a meagre foothold before eventually squeezing the tribes out of their land, but now the ratkin needed more resources, which meant fighting the orcs.
Progress had been slow. The orcs were determined opponents, but Cinderpaw knew the mettle of her race. Born into squalid slave pits they had risen up and overcome, and whilst the baron land they now stood on could only be valued by any other race as something to be fought over, for her it represented freedom. The freedom to do as she pleased. The freedom to gnaw her mark on the world’s face, but for that she needed an army, for an army she needed a clan, and for a clan she needed resources and just the right amount of stability.
It was the need for stability that had finally forced her to take the decision to march on the orc encampment. Stability, and an intelligence report from a particularly ambitious birthing daughter. The report had suggested the orcs had taken massive casualties in a series of recent skirmishes and were now a significantly diminished threat. Something in her bones had told her she should wait for her trusted master scurrier to confirm the birthing daughter’s claims, but the cult of the Survivalists was starting to grow again within the clan, and whilst no single ratkin would be stupid enough to openly call for a change in leadership, the Survivalists would do what they perceived to be the right thing for the survival of the clan, regardless of how ill-informed and short sighted. She knew only too well how easily some ratkin could be manipulated, after all, it had been her who had founded the original incarnation of the cult, drawn her most loyal lieutenants from it before “disbanding” it in a night of frenzied blood letting after it had outlived its usefulness.
“For the survival.”
The chant rose in the ranks of warriors and wretches to Cinderpaw’s right. She shuddered. The ratkin in these horde packs still flew the red and bone flags of the clan. The colours had been adopted after the original Survivalist uprising that had secured her grip on power. They were chosen to remind the clan of the years of starvation they had faced which had forced them to survive off their own kind (specifically those who had even the vaguest difference of opinion to Cinderpaw). The colours represented the bone farms where the Survivalists had undertaken the bloody work necessary to ensure those loyal to the clan (Cinderpaw) would be fed. However, she had noticed that the new survivalists had taken to tattooing their hands red, which had made it relatively straight forward to see how rapidly the cult was growing once again. What she had not been able to ascertain was who was behind the resurgence. When the reports had started to arrive that the orcs were weakening, she immediately recognised the opportunity it presented. A decisive victory over the orcs would secure the clan new resources; and buy her time to root out whoever was responsible for the renewal.
Casting her withering gaze across the wall of angry green muscle and blood encrusted weapons that now faced the clan, she could not help but wonder if the reports the birthing daughter had brought to her had been tampered with, or simply invented. Had someone else realised what weakened orc tribes would mean to her? Had someone else presented her with a decision she could not afford to not make?
There was, however, no going back now. As the old Basilean saying goes, “One does not simply walk away from an angry orc.”
The scenario
It’s been a few years since my last narrative battle report. With something approaching “time on my hands” and a 5k game lined up with Steve from Lazy Pirate Painting I thought it would a great time to revisit the narrative series I started based around my very own Fyrefur Clan.
For this game we’ll be using a 10’ by 4’ table and we’ve adapted the Control scenario. Each 2’ by 2’ section will be worth 1 VP to whoever has the most unit strength in it, with the exception of the section that has the orc village in it, which will be worth 3 points to the victor in that section.
Army lists
Between the two armies there are 67 units making their way to the table. I will add the pdfs of the lists to the end of the report, but to set the scene I’ll give an overview of the forces fighting on the left flank, centre and right flank (from the rat’s point of view).
Left flank
Rats: Tunnel Runners, Hackpaws, the Spawn (Scud), Swarm Crier, Night Terror, Vermintide.
Orcs: Gore Riders, Mounted Skulks, Wip, Wip’s playmates, Morax, Krushers on Gores, Gak.
Centre:
Rats: Death Engine Spewer, Death Engine Impaler, Mutant Rat Fiend, Master Scurrier, Scurriers, Nightmares, Shock Troops, Old Mother Cinderpaw (Cryza), War Chief, Weapons Teams, Vermintide, Birthing Daughter.
Orcs: Trolls, Morax, Morax Mansplitter, Longax, Ax, Flagger, Giant, Hackbeard and Puff (Krudger on Winged Slasher), Fight Wagons, Orclings.
Right flank:
Rats: Wretchs, Shock Troops, Shredders, Mutant Rat Fiend, Brute Enforcer, Twitch Keenear, Spear Warriors.
Orcs: Chariots, War Drums, Greatax, Ax, Giants, Orclings, Ulpgar.
Turns 1 and 2
Putting aside the deep-rooted uncertainty that was now starting to gnaw away at her Cinderpaw unleashed a barrage of lightning bolts at the long ax regiment that stood in front of her, splitting the tension that had been building up between the two armies as they waited for the battle to begin, and signalling the ratkin advance.
The scurriers, who had slipped ahead of the main battle line, sent a volley of shots into some nearby skulks and they ran from the battlefield. On the Ratkin’s left flank the cavalry advanced cautiously, not wanting to get drawn into an unrewarding combat with the mounted skulks and krushers that would leave them easy prey for the gore riders hiding behind the hill. The Spawn released his own lightning bolts at the massive gore riding orc at the centre of the cavalry wing, to little real avail.
Seeing the lightning bolts flicker across the sky and ground themselves through Gak, Wip hexed the towering aberration before it could cause any real damage. The gore riders spurred their mounts and started off over and around the hill. Seeing the size of the threat that had been hidden from them until now the hackpaws charged into the screen of skirmishers, knowing they had to clear a path for the tunnel runners. The charges hit hard, a krusher was wavered and a troop of mounted skulks bore so much damage that if seemed unbelievable that they continued to stand, let alone fight back.
Fortunately for the ratkin though, the sheer volume of angry gores and even angier orc riders on the left flank made it difficult for them to manoeuvre off the hill. The krusher managed to pull away from the hackpaws that had attacked him, allowing one regiment of gore riders to charge the rat riders, but the charge failed to send them from the field. The miracle survival of the skulks meant the gore riders behind them, including the lightning singed Gak, were blocked up and unable to reach a combat. The chaos this was causing on the hill, as the frustrated beasts milled about desperate to enter the brawl, spread into a third regiment coming around the hill as they charged the night terror. Despite a number of orcish lances finding their target the terror managed to overcome its injuries and fight back, knocking two riders from their saddles and eviscerating them with its long claws in the process.
In the centre the orcs pushed forward, keen to get to grips with their enemy and unwilling to let anymore of their number be lost to shooting. Towering over the long ax she had blasted with her lightening bolts stood the orc krudger, Hackbeard, and his slasher mount, Puff. The pair made for an imposing sight. Cinderpaw eyed the monstrosity and its rider. She had heard much about the ruthless warrior, but all those things paled now she stood so close to them.
Their stench was overpowering, even at this distance, even for orcs. The slasher began to heave as though it was attempting to breathe fire, which made Cinderpaw wonder if in fact it could breathe fire, although she understood these creatures could not. Her question was answered a moment later when the monster half vomited, half choked up a sheet of bloody mucus which covered the long ax regiment that stood in front of it. Cinderpaw’s attention was drawn to a series of open wounds and twisted scar tissue that ran down one side of Puff’s thick neck and a broken spear end Hackbeard held in one hand on the same side. Her questions were answered.
Despite, or more likely because of, their unwelcome ablution the long ax pressed forward. Without hesitation the vermintide legion swarmed towards them supported by the impaler, the mutilated night terror that served as its engine pumping its severed limbs for all it was worth. The rats collided with the long ax. Spinning blades ground into them at head height, whilst the vermintide ran around their feet, up their legs and under their armour, seconds later the regiment had been reduced to red pulp.
Cinderpaw began to wonder if she might have underestimated the strength of her own forces, rather than that of her enemy.
On the right flank the ratkin held still, uncertain of the size of the force they faced due to the hills and standing stones that obscured the orcish line.
Turns 3 and 4
As the last of the long ax disappeared under the sea of vermin the battle lines began to meet in other places across the battlefield. Hackbeard goaded Puff forward, and together with the fight wagons, crashed into the impaler, whilst the giant that had been closest to them grabbed at one of the weapons teams that blocked it from getting to the shock troops and hurdled it out of the way. The weapon, and its crew, exploded in a spectacular cloud of noxious green smoke several hundred metres from the back of the ratkin lines as they hit the ground. The shock troops charged the giant in response, but despite causing grievous wounds to it, some losing the grip on their weapons so slicked they became with the giant’s blood, it refused to die.
The unrelenting advance of the mass ranks of orc infantry in the centre put a massive pressure on the ratkin there. Despite the centre being held by experienced and elite warriors their well drilled tactics, combining close ranged fire with waves of chaff and plague pots to distract and whittle down the enemy advance, simply wasn’t working. Although a lone war chief managed to successfully hold a horde of trolls at bay, bad shooting, or just plain bad luck, meant the troops of morax refused to succumb to the scurriers’ volleys, pressing forward and finding their way into the flanks of veteran hordes. The berserkers caught the preoccupied warriors off guard and caused massive amounts of damage that saw both the nightmares and the shock troop horde fighting the giant dissolve.
The fog of war surrounding her, uncertain as to how the battle was unfolding, Cinderpaw launched herself at Hackbeard. Puff sensed the cold, wilting air around her and instinctively drew his head back inadvertently exposing his damaged neck. Cinderpaw thrust the sharp end of her rotting staff into one of the beast’s open wounds and pushed with all her might. She felt the creature wince, and then convulse. A choking, spluttering bark erupted from his throat and Cinderpaw felt the weight of warm, bloody mucus land on her. The disgusting slime covered her from head to toe, momentarily blinding her and resulting in her next blow going wide of its mark.
Hackbeard had always been scornful of the wiry old rat witch, even more so after what the witch’s traitor had told him. Whilst he did not doubt she had some talents, he had not expected the decrepit looking, almost corpse like, creature to have any sort of fight in her. He could feel the unsettling stench of archaic death permeating the air around him, even in the heat of battle, and the viciousness with which she had lashed out at Puff made him re-evaluate his perceived one-sidedness of the duel. As the old rat thrashed about, attempting to alleviate her temporary blindness, the wily krudger took the opportunity to look for an alternative fight, one where he might find better odds. Seeing a horde of spear rats in the woods just beyond with their flank turned to him, he directed Puff towards them.
Despite her confusion Cinderpaw felt the downward rush of air as Puff flexed his wings to leap over her. In amongst the darkness, and the rush of air she heard the unmistakable sound of a fight wagon barrelling towards her, through the woods to her left. The fight wagons had become embroiled in a fight with the impaler, before becoming the target of shooting. Heavily damaged, only one of the contraptions remained. It struck her, but a collection of roots had wound themselves around the wheels and slowed it to the point that whilst the impact looked impressive the loud crunching sound it created came from the axels detaching themselves from the underside of the wagon. The body of the wagon, together with the orc crew, then flew backwards into the faces of the gores that pushed them. Cinderpaw gave a wicked smile as she surveyed the wreckage at her feet. “Maybe.” she thought to herself.
On the left flank the gore riders had finally broken through the regiments of hackpaws and vermintide that had held them up. They bellowed out challenges to the tunnel runners and the Spawn beyond, bloodied weapons raised above their heads. Despite the massive Spawn bolstering the charioteers’ confidence the number of gore riders, and a wave of morax behind them, made the outcome of the combats to come far from certain.
As the charioteers readied themselves a burst of shots flew from the deathspewer in the centre of the field and tore into the morax. As the smoke clearer it became apparent that the deathspewer had managed to wipe out the troop to an orc. Emboldened, the Spawn and the tunnel runners charged. The Spawn landed in front of the gore riders to the furthest left, on the very end of the orc line. His heavy sword fell, unseating orcs and spreading terror, but not quite forcing them from the field.
The tunnel runner regiments charged a second gore rider regiment that had positioned itself awkwardly on the hill. Despite the regiment being swiftly dispatched the subsequent attempts by the tunnel runners to reform for the next charge resulted in the remaining unengaged gore rider regiment catching the flank of one unit of chariots and swiftly routing it.
Suddenly the brief window of opportunity the successful destruction of the morax had opened seemed to be slamming shut.
Turns 5 and 6
The orcs on the right flank had been advancing slowly, held up by the forests, hills and uneven stretches of scrub land. Cinderpaw had hoped to take advantage of the terrain on the right of the battlefield to buy her time to over run the centre and establish a rally point around the encampment before the orc reinforcements could join battle. With the centre lost to the rats, the rally point had never materialised and now the troops on the right flank were scrabbling to mount some sort of defence. Orc infantry and a giant were making there way through the woods in front of the encampment, whilst regiments of chariots had crested the hill and were now within easy distance of the remaining ratkin.
Hackbeard’s arrival had thrown the flank into disarray, forcing a horde of spears to turn their back on the chariots to deal with the new threat. Despite the damage that Cinderpaw had inflicted on the beast, the confusion resulting from the direction of his attack meant the spear armed warriors were in no position to capitalise on it, and spear tips flew wide of their mark. As the rat warriors did their best to fend off the krudger, the orc chariots prepared to charge.
At the birthing daughter’s command a horde of wretches flooded into the side of an ax regiment that, together with the giant, were engaged with the vermintide legion. Despite the weight of numbers, the rats were simply no match for the brutal orcs and their towering companion.
Cinderpaw looked across to see the wretches and vermintide fleeing, leaving a lonely shock troop horde that had been in reserve as the only chance to stop the onslaught. Aware of the failure in the centre and now seeing the right flank overrun, Cinderpaw turned to see what support she could offer the shock troops. Distracted, she did not see the morax mansplitter bearing down on her and offered no defence as the reckless berserker swung repeatedly at her, each axe blow landing with a sickening crack, splitting flesh, breaking bone, and driving the withered matriarch to the ground.
Awareness of Cinderpaw’s demise spread almost instinctively through the remnants of the ratkin on the right flank and in the centre, discipline broke down completely and the army fled.
Only on the left flank did the fighting continue. The Spawn swung again at the wavered gore riders, finally putting them to flight, only to be charged by both Gak and the remaining krusher. The two champions lashed out with an almost superhuman rage, rending great wounds in the creature.
Supported by their swarm crier the remaining tunnel runners surged into the last of the gore riders. Such was the ferocity of their charge not only did they wipeout the gore riders, but also rode over the krusher, who had attempted to stop them from interfering with the combat between the Spawn and Gak, and then trampled Gak.
As the Spawn surveyed the carnage the charioteers had left behind them with grim glee a single lightening bolt shot from Wip’s direction. It struck the beast directly between the eyes. The creature went still, before collapsing to the ground.
For the first time the charioteers turned their attention to the rest of the battlefield. Despite their hard-won victory, they knew immediately that there would be no celebrations as they saw the piles of dead that littered the plain, far too many of which they recognised as their own brothers and sisters.
The aftermarth
Dying fires offered their last light to the night as the first hint of dawn’s arrival crept across the battlefield. The sounds of celebration had echoed across the plains for many hours until the orcs had finally drunk more than even their vast thirsts could handle.
The birthing daughter picked her way carefully across the battlefield. The corpse mountains provided sufficient cover for her not to worry too much about being discovered. Led by an amulet that aided her in searching for what she most desired she quickly found the crumpled body of Cinderpaw.
She paused for a moment as she took in just how fragile the old ratkin was. Her desiccated limbs were shattered. The birthing daughter drew in a quick breath. Where was it? She rooted around frantically, over turning corpses and scratching at the dark earth until her fingers started to bleed.
“Looking for this?” Hackbeard rumbled as he stepped out from behind a tree.
The birthing daughter froze, before slowly turning to face the massive krudger.
“She was a strong enemy. Stronger than you had me believe.”
“You won the day.” The birthing daughter retorted defensively, “Now give me what’s mine.”
The krudger threw a ball of bloody cloth towards the birthing daughter, “It’s all yours.”
The birth daughter reached out a hand, fresh red tattooing etched into her skin.
“I’ll never understand your race’s obsession of making helmets out of your rival’s skulls.” The krudger grumbled.
“It’s symbolic.” The birthing daughter snapped back, taking hold of the bundle.
“I hope for your sake it’s more than symbolic. A weaker one than her won’t last long on my plains.” Hackbeard sneered as the birthing daughter disappeared, without another word or backwards glance, into the new dawn.
Army lists
The Wizard's Bookshelf 