High in obsidian towers the immortal Malekith moves his pawns into place. Hundreds of years of watching, waiting and planning underpin his dark schemes for war on his kin.
Beneath the cities of man, the Council of Thirteen intrigue and plot for when their countless storm vermin emerge in unison across the continent.
The High King of the Dwarves solemnly intones the words within the Book of Grudges, as his council plan the counter-offensives to right millenia-old wrongs.
In the lands of men, feudal hosts are gathering, as oaths of fealty are renewed. Ladies busy themselves, weaving the silken war banners of Bretonnia..
Meanwhile, somewhere in the Badlands, Grak is picking his toes in his hut. He hears a faint stirring, a mumbling, a groaning from many throats. 'Wots going on?' he calls to a passing Orc, through the open doorway. 'Sounds like war to me!' is the enthused reply. 'Right, then!' calls Grak, mostly to himself, as he grabs his axe and makes for the door.
No armour, no food, no spare clothes, not even some boots. Preparation? Who needs it? Grak was born ready for this!
Beneath the cities of man, the Council of Thirteen intrigue and plot for when their countless storm vermin emerge in unison across the continent.
The High King of the Dwarves solemnly intones the words within the Book of Grudges, as his council plan the counter-offensives to right millenia-old wrongs.
In the lands of men, feudal hosts are gathering, as oaths of fealty are renewed. Ladies busy themselves, weaving the silken war banners of Bretonnia..
Meanwhile, somewhere in the Badlands, Grak is picking his toes in his hut. He hears a faint stirring, a mumbling, a groaning from many throats. 'Wots going on?' he calls to a passing Orc, through the open doorway. 'Sounds like war to me!' is the enthused reply. 'Right, then!' calls Grak, mostly to himself, as he grabs his axe and makes for the door.
No armour, no food, no spare clothes, not even some boots. Preparation? Who needs it? Grak was born ready for this!