During this campaign, we will hold a number of contests where you'll be awarded for writing stories, battle reports or other creative works. And to prepare for the Dragonback tale's kickoff, the first contest will be writing a story about the character you'll be playing!

To enter, simply reply to this thread (or start a new topic and post the link here). Your story should be about 500-1000 words long, and detail the background of your character and why he joined your faction.

For this first campaign, the rewards are simple- everyone who enters will receive two starting gold for this campaign. However, per faction I will pick one person who stands out, and award their character with three starting gold rather than two. The winner will be determined both by how well written the story is, and how well it ties in with the faction's agenda.

Please post any questions you might have below! The end date for this contest is April 1st, and you can start submitting your stories right now!

Good luck!

Somewhere in the distance, the noise of a petty squabble rose, then abruptly descended into squeals of pain. The campfire crackled. Half a dozen ragged shapes huddled around it a little closer, trying to keep warm in the chill Badlands evening; one of them poked moodily at it with a bloodstained spear. Sparks whirled up into the night.

“Well, dat’s it, I guess.” The figure grumbled, his voice a high, nasal whine. He lifted a long green finger and scratched at a boil on the side of his knife-blade nose. “We’ez fresh outta Boss, and good riddance, says I. Any o’ you gits fancy takin’ da job?”

The other goblins glanced warily at each other. Dengrik had been one of Boss Skirgit’s most respected, if not trusted, flunkies. He’d also been the one to push him under a rampaging boar as soon as the scrap had really gotten underway. Everyone had seen it, but he could ‘plausibly’ claim it was an accident; the best sort of goblin coup. There was little doubt among the group as to what would happen if any of them spoke up. Besides, given the current upheaval among Gobstomper’s former followers, there was a better than even chance anyone who stuck his neck out too far would end up in an orc cookpot.

Dengrik leered, as if he knew what they were thinking. “Wot? Ain’t you lot got no bloody ambition? Show o’ ‘ands, come on? Goldtoof? Wozbik? Fikrot, I know yer wants a shot at – no? Nobody?” He jammed the spear point-down into the ground and spread his arms, grinning hugely. “Well, den I guess yer can all say ‘ello ter Boss Dengri – hrk!”

The speech cut off in a soft, fleshy thump. Dengrik’s eyes widened in shock. He made a choked, gurgling noise, one long-fingered hand reaching up to feel the curved metal point jutting out of the side of his neck. Without another sound, he toppled over, and a white-eyed, grinning shape stepped over his corpse.

“’Ello, Boss Dengrik.” Skirgit chortled, yanking his sword free of his erstwhile lackey.

If it were not for the events of the Dragonback War, it is this scholar’s humble opinion that the depredations of the Bone Locust goblin tribe would have been little more than a historical footnote for those few chroniclers specializing in the borderlands, and even less to their own savage kind. Like most of the smaller greenskin warbands, the Bone Locusts made their living through raids, theft, swindling, and the occasional honest trade; as they were formed mainly of goblins, with the occasional scrawny orc for good measure, their choice of targets was necessarily limited. Perhaps the only remarkable thing about them was their leader, one Girbuk da Klaw. Unusually, Girbuk was a shaman, one of the uncouth mixtures of sorcerer and priest venerated by the greenskin races. Even more unusually, Girbuk was quite elderly, and this lent an odd stability to the Bone Locusts; as he had time to practice his craft, Girbuk was less prone to spontaneous cranial detonation than his peers, and as most orcs and goblins believe killing a shaman to be bad luck, he was practically immune to the typical dangers of restless underlings eager to seize control of the tribe.

Of course, there are always exceptions, and after a particularly dismal series of failed skirmishes, Girbuk’s luck ran out. An outrider by the name of Skirgit and a hand-picked group of disaffected goblins murdered Girbuk and his supporters in a vicious night of backstabbing; such was the suddenness of the transfer of power that no one dared object when the tribe’s new Boss made a trophy of their old shaman’s ears, although his next step would prove slightly less palatable. Over the panicked objections of his followers, Skirgit ordered the rest of Girbuk to be fried up with squig-legs and onions for his personal victory dinner.

Perhaps it was the mixture of potent spider venom and whatever unwholesome force that grants witchery to these beasts coursing through Girbuk’s body that began Skirgit’s physical deterioration; perhaps it was an unfortunate accident of birth, or a disease contracted from the foul ways of goblins. Whatever the reason, the goblin grew paler and almost emaciated; his eyes began to cloud, and he would go off on bizarre, illogical rantings at a moment’s notice. None of this seemed to affect his ability to fight (considerable, for a goblin) or his ability to lead (somewhat more debatable); it did, however, provoke an atmosphere of discontent among his underlings…

Liebhardt Schiller, ‘An Unpleasant History of the Green-Skin and His Doings’ Nuln Popular Press

Wozbik was the first to react. As the rest of the goblins sat frozen around the campfire, staring in shock, he yanked a badly-rusted sword from his belt, cursing. It was the last mistake he’d ever make. Skirgit descended on him, his sickle-shaped sword flashing in the firelight. Wozbik parried once, twice, then dropped with a gaping wound where his left eye had been. Skirgit’s blade fell twice more before he stopped.

“Anyone else wanna say somefin’?” He panted, grinning dementedly at his former supporters. A bulky goblin with a ragged ear slowly climbed to his feet, his hands raised in a placatory gesture.

“Boss, Boss, easy now…” He said, his tone approaching an effort at ‘soothing’. “We thought yer was dead, dat’s all. I mean, yer know ‘ow it is. Last I saw, yer was getting’ pecked on by dem bloody big birds, da wotsits – “

“Yeah, yeah, yer lot left me fer crowbait.” Skirgit said, his tone heavy with disgust. Behind him, another goblin had eased a serrated knife out of its sheath, and was steadily creeping closer. “Well, guess wot? It didn’t take, so now yer got da old Boss back.” He whirled, and the would-be backstabber screeched, clutching at the stump of his hand.

“Hah! Nice try, Fikrot, ya zoggin’ sneak! Yer lucky I need nasty gits like yer around. Someone burn dat shut afore ‘e bleeds out.”

Skirgit’s cloudy eyes twinkled as a pair of goblins forced the struggling Fikrot toward the fire.

“Oh, yes…and we’ez just getting’ started…” He whispered, staring past the greenskins, over the broken, barren lands around them. Off toward Mount Bloodhorn.

Nice! Always good to see some gobbo backstabbing .

"He hewed with the brand!
Long since he went to Ekrund-Land for the slaying of the grobi,
There he won glory and the name of Ironhelm,
Since he pierced that warlord through, with the blade of inlaid steel.

He hewed with the brand!
White-bearded he was, when east of Oere-sound he made good breakfast for the wolves,
While his steel sang on the high-crest of the icing-death,
Blood-stained the sands, the ravens waded through.

He hewed with the brand!
Ere the shadow of death has passed o'er us, we who shake our axes,
At cave-mouth was the grobi laid low,
Warriors died! The crimson death colored the sands and ravens feasted.

He hewed with the brand!
The war-god Grimnir loved him when he broke the grobi line,
Keen was the raven feathered arrows that barred his passing,
Dirge was the music of sword on scale and cleft was shield.

He hewed with the brand!
Great was his courage when he faced Eyeplucker, 'mid the eight-legged steed, died.
No thane more fearless was sent o'er the main;
His stout heart drove him, fearless, by the green-devil's haunt.

He hewed with the brand!
The brand bit sore, the sword flew from its sheath,
Crimson the borders of our hearth-shields did grobi die,
Loud roared the voices of his kin, as low he laid the warlord.

He hewed with the brand!
Grobi life was well-nigh o'er; sharp is the pang that the blade gives.
For the blade nests deep in the heart. No more may grobi pollute our halls,
Great wrath will fly for their coming doom.

He hewed with the brand!
Full gladly will he go! He fights for the Glory to fly to Magrim's halls!
High-seated among the heroes shall he quaff the yellow-mead."

From the (ongoing) Saga of Duark Ironhelm


Durak Ironhelm is one of the descendants of the Ekrund clansmen who fled the halls in ages past. While generations have indeed gone by, his family has repeated the grudges and remembers the wrong. Durak, indeed, seethes with anger at the thought of the wrongs done to his people, and has long dreamed of earning fame and fortune by retaking his long lost homeland. His family was only tangentially related to the nobility of Ekrund, but in the generations that have passed their tellings of previous status and wealth have grown bolder and bolder. To this date, Durak truly and firmly believes that the current hardship faced by his clan would be erased if they could reclaim what was taken from them.

Once an ironbreaker by trade (for in their 'low' state, he and his clan were forced to work for a living), Durak has a plethora of a combat experience. Infact, it is one of the few things that is truly good at. He has now rallied his kinsmen and has emptied his coffers to raise an army of dwarven mercenaries to retake Ekrund. The only thing that he hates more than the Marienburgers are the orc and goblin filth that have taken what belongs to the Dawi.

Durak himself is vain enough to keep a detailed record of his deeds and accomplishments, hoping to use it to buck up the rather faulty family genealogy that he would otherwise have to rely upon. While others may find it grating to see him followed around by chroniclers, his skill with a blade, short temper, and the loyalty of his men are enough to stop most from commenting.




[For fairness: The above saga is adapted from an actual viking saga that I found awhile ago. It was 'dwarfified' for the purposes of this campaign]

Freyr Fairhair

Freyr Fairhair looks like a traditional dwarf and has always acted as one. He grumbles the traditional grumbles, he uses the tradition methods, he drinks the traditional booze, but in his heart burned an ember. An ember that yearned for a new age. Freyr has always been inspired by the dwarvish High King Thorgrimm Grudgebearer, despite his hailing from Karak-Hirn. In particular Freyr has yearned to see the dwarvish people retake their old glory and to build themselves a new golden age. To see every grudge struck out! Every enemy made to pay! To see all the fallen holds reclaimed and made prosperous once more! With every heartbeat he dreams of their old glory and imagines making it real again.

Freyr is an experienced combat veteran. He’s served under King Alrik for many years and has been a trusted retainer. In recent times however he’s entered a bit of a depression. Despite their bravery, he’s seen to many Dawi fall and despite all their efforts it seems like their only being pushed back further. Freyr has campaigned across the old world, often beside human armies as a delegation from Karak-Hirn. Due to his he’s developed a fondness for the humans, and likes working with them against common enemies.
Then word came of the humans expedition to Ekrund. At first Freyr was thrilled. A joint expedition between the humans and the dwarves! The hold would be reclaimed for the mutual benefit of both. Two allies working together against the darkness that threatens to sweep the land. All these hopes came crashing down when the humans made it clear they had no intentions of ever sharing this glory. Instead they wished to claim the hold for themselves. To STEAL an ancestral dawi home!

Freyr was furious! The betrayal he felt almost made him shave his beard and take the slayers oath. To think he’s been willing to trust such spineless cowards! Instead he chose to channel his fury in a different direction. Before the kings of the holds had even declared their own intentions to retake Ekrund, Freyr was already gathering volunteers. A moderately rich dwarf, he emptied every coffer to build and equip an army. Family came from across the vaults to join his efforts. This was to be a legendary undertaking. When the announcement came of the Dalazidrungak Drekaz, Freyr was already there and swore himself to the udnertaking. He would see Ekrund back in dwarvish hands or die trying!

With this strike the Age of Reclamation has begun!

**
Freyr Fairhair is a somber but veteran dwarf commander. Once he was known for his good humour and jests, but recent depression has changed that. Although this old humour occasionally still shines through, Freyr has become obsessed with the thought of building a new golden age for the dwarf people. An admirer of the High King of Karaz-A-Karak, he believes the retaking of Ekrund to be the first step towards an Age of Reclamation that will see the dwarfs as the masters of the mountain they deserve to be. All the good people of the Old World, but especially the dwarves, deserve a better future.

Like all his brethren Freyr has an ancestral hatred of the greenskins. They are the original despoilers of the hold and need to be purged whenever they’re found. However he also now nurses a fiery new grudge against humans for what he sees as their betrayal and snub of the dwarves. He campaigned for many years beside many human armies, mostly from the Empire, and believed all humans to be firm allies. Privately he admits that he didn’t realise Marienburgers to be seperate from the Empire, but that will not stop the new hatred he has for them.

Freyr has no interest in ruling Ekrund himself, although he would never turn down the crown if it was given to him. He’d happily support another claimant to the throne, on the condition that they share his dreams of rebuilding.

Armed with the Kladbarazka, the ancestral axe of his clan, and armored in hope for a better future, Freyr Fairhair is ready for war.

Strong entries from the dawi, very characterful !

The deck heaved beneath his feet as Kaspar van Gelding looked along the coastline to the walls of Monte Castello, his expression unknowable beneath the expressionless gilded mask that covered his face. The wizard allowed the ship's captain the fiction of presuming he was in command whilst the fleet was at sea but now they were nearing their destination it was time to remind him with whom the power lay.

"Captain, I must go ashore at the earliest opportunity to confer with our allies in this venture, you will ensure that the fleet fully prepared to set sail with the minimum of notice, it would not be wise to display any hint weakness or inefficiency to our partners in this venture. You will also see that our supplies are brought ashore as my previous directions".

The captain knew better than to argue with the company directorate, let alone that it presented itself in the form of a seven ft tall masked wizard. Van Gelding sighed, even the leaders among this rabble were obsequious toadies, he suspected that the other leaders that comprised the Dragonback Expansion Effort would not be so easily cowed, finally a challenge worthy of his talents.

Kaspar van Gelding was an enigmatic figure among the wealthy classes of Marienburg, even among the board members of his West Ind Company none have ever seen what lies beneath his impassive golden mask. What is known about Kaspar is that he was once a promising young wizard of the Gold Order in Altdorf, always seeking to expand the frontiers of alchemical knowledge. At some point during his tenure at the Gold College his fellow practitioners grew uncomfortable with the ethical implications of his experiments and he was compelled to leave. Finding little support for his experiments in the wider Empire he eventually found his way to Marienburg where he was able to acquire a controlling interest in the West Ind Trading Company.

Kaspar's ascension to the company directorate was as improbable as it was swift, the result of a series of unfortunate events befalling his rivals, with entire shipments lost to pirates or shipwreck. At the same time some curiously well-performing investments in Kaspar's portfolio allowed him to buy out a number of other share-holders until he had secured his position at the head of the company. Working under Kaspar was a different matter entirely, the wizard was a physically intimidating figure and a great many terrifying stories swirled around him. Some told of how he had transmuted a company operative to lead for failing in his duty or the time he had set the fleet of a rival company ablaze with magical flames for refusing to ratify a trade agreement. Whether the stories were true, none could say, but Kaspar himself did nothing to discourage them, fear, he reasoned, was as good a motivator as any.

Such a position of influence and financial security gave Kaspar the space and resources to continue his arcane experiments uninterrupted, experiments from which the company has undeniably benefited. As the company expanded, its merchant fleet increased in size and armament, operating from many ports across the Old World and beyond. Kaspar's board soon learned not to ask too many questions about his activities and objectives in company operations as long as the money kept rolling in, which of course it always did.

In recent years Kaspar has expanded his research to include the runic magic of the Dawi, seeking dwarf artefacts through trading opportunities and charting numerous archaeological expeditions. Giving the company's backing to the Dragonback Expansion Effort has provided the ambitious wizard with the opportunity of entering a former dwarf hold full of runic artefacts to fuel his arcane experiments for years to come while simultaneously enriching his company beyond compare. This was not an opportunity Kaspar van Gelding intended to let slip through his fingers and so the company's flagship, the Empress Magritta, had crossed the Sea of Claws at the head of a fleet of vessels and made its way to the Black Gulf and soon the flag of the East Ind Company was flying from the parapets of Monte Castello, along with a great many others.

"Well, that should be the last of it!"
"Lets hope so, the men are restless. Not good to let restless men wait for to long."
"Well, it ain´t no better leaving with meagre supplies. Then the men will be more than restless later."
"I guess that is true aswell. But one can always live a bit of the land."
"Maybe if it is a normal campaign in Tilea or the Border princes. But it will be different this time. We are going were little supplies can be found save that only fit for greenskins, feldoberst."
The greyhaired man chuckled and stroke his beard. He wore clothes in the latest Tilean fashion but he spoke with a heavy northern accent. His face was that of a seasoned veteran soldier. One would have expect to see some symbolic imagery of a diety of the Empire, the Hammer of Sigmar or a symbol of the Wolf lord Ulric. But he wore non such thing, nor the signs of Myrmiddia. But on his chest sat a small badge of an hourglass in silver. It stood out against his black silken doublet.
The old soldier spoke again towards the man beside him. A slender man with dark hair and a very serious look and a green bonnet.

"Remind me of why I made you my paymaster."
"Because I think of the details you overlook, Oberst Todt. Because I like to keep track of the detail."
"So true, Frederico, so true."

The nordlander contemplated the last months preparations. He had carefully selected his officers and via them made equally throughout recruitment of soldiers. He needed troops who could take care of themselves. Motivated and dependable. And those who would not have any qualms about being as ruthless towards dwarfs as towards greenskins. Dwarves... He felt the old smoldering anger rise towards the surface again. Devious, egocentric little pricks! Bringing up old allegiances and calling you to hold on to them and then leaving you to rott. Or claiming some silly vendetta was more important than keeping a deal!
They were so careful and proud about keeping book of their grudges and the settlement of them. Well, lo and behold they would learn that men could hold grudges too. It was time for the dwarves to pay!

"The elves report that they are ready to depart and wonder what is dragging on."

The young messenger had arrived as he had been lost in his mind. Todt turned towards the youngster.

"Good. Very good! Let them know I am grateful for their effort and must ask for some patience with us humans."
Frederico made a noise showing his dislike.
"Arrogant as always, those elves. I cannot understand how you can bear it, Oberst."
"Ah, elves are at least honest in their arrogance, unlike dwarves. Most of the time it is not really arrogance as much as an annoyance with what they see as things moving too slow. A matter of perspective."

As they were talking an elf made his way along the docks. Casually dressed in fine red silken robes and a fine sword by his side, he looked more fitting for a stroll in the park than for an expedition of war. He greeted Isaac Todt corteously and Todt replied in kind.

"Commander Caerndan. It is good to see you again. I guess it seems like yesterday for you but it was a while since our last joint endeavour."
"Indeed, Herr Todt. Indeed. But for being a human you look remarkably similar. Maybe a bit more fierce, but that is fitting for a warrior."
"Well, you know how it is, seasons of war. I am starting to think Master Death does not want to see me anytime soon. Not that I mind."
"Nor do I. Too many treads hanging loose, too many debts unsettled."

Todt nodded in reply and smiled wickedly.
"Indeed. But maybe the two of us can finally get to settle some old scores for our families."

Good stuff all! Fun to read and it will be fun to interact a little with your characters during the game!

Here is my entry:

"Borag chewed on a spider leg as he distractedly listened to his clan’s warboss, Grimlit Three Toof, explain his “plan”, if that’s what you want to call it, to his troops. While Grimlit was beyond a doubt a powerful and strong orc warrior he was not what you might call a tactical genius; a head-on charge at the enemy was the height of strategic cunning in his book.
Undeterred by his lack of mental faculties Grimlit continued to extol his virtues, giving a speech to some particularly unimpressed looking squigs, a blankly smiling snotling and anyone else who he could harangue or bully into listening. His second in command, Lucher, sauntered over and Grimlit turned his attention towards the surly orc:
“An’ wot do ya say about today’s great victory? We showed those stunties wot for, eh?” Lucher gave him an unimpressed look and muttered something unintelligible about their next move.
“Well, wez gonna go dat way an’ give dem stunties some more bootlevver, ain’t we?”
Borag sighed and rubbed his eyes as he moved over to the warboss, Grimlet had showed of his tactical skills in the last battle and had gotten most of their best troops killed. Borag knew that they desperately needed more forces and that if, in their current state, they actually found the dwarves they would be utterly destroyed.
He was going to have to step in, again: “Iz see wot da boss iz sayin’, he’z got a cunnin’ plan!”
“I do? I meanz; ov corz I do!” Replied Grimlit. “Wot waz my brilliant plan again, then?”
“We’z gonna git dem stunties after we haz smashed doz idiots in da Red Lightning clan and made ‘em fight fer uz, we can use der chariots an’ wolves against da stunties.”
“Ov course I did!”
“An’ then weez gonna krump da odder klanz and do da same fing wiv dem an’ so on…” said Borag with an ingratiating grin.
“Alright, bring me good choppa, it’z time to krump dem gobbos!”

*******

He stared at the dying goblin at his feet, watching its convulsions slow as his spider’s poison worked on its nervous system. To say the battle was not going well would be a bit of an understatement, Grimlet had managed to follow Borag’s plan for about 5 minutes. The plan was that Grimlet would hit the goblin’s center and while Borag and his spider riders would use the forest as cover to take out then enemy’s archers before wrapping around and charging the enemy’s rear. It was working until the enemy’s wolf riders withdrew from the center and Grimlet, in his stupidity, chased them right into a waiting chariot ambush. This, of course opened, up the arrer boyz to a wolf rider flanking attack. If Borag didn’t do anything about it Grimlet, his boyz and the arrer boys would be killed. Their counter attack showed ingenuity and cunning, these wolf riders and chariots would be a valuable addition to his army.
As the life left the poisoned goblin’s eyes he looked up at the battlefield, say what you will about Grimlet’s stupidity, he was brave. The losses they had already sustained would have broken any goblin unit but the orcs seemed to be enjoying themselves, unbelievable. Borag could intervene now and turn the tide or he could just let the charioteers kill Grimlet, perhaps Lucher could take over? Borag sighed to himself; he couldn’t do it, Lucher was smarter than Grimlet and would be harder to manipulate. He urged his spider riders towards the main melee and began gathering the power of the great green. It was time to end this.

******

Borag turned the medallion over and over in his hand, there was something about the it that he couldn’t shake, it wasn’t particularly well made, shiny or even valuable looking but he still couldn’t stop staring at it. The medallion’s design was a rough impression of a mountain sculpted in a reddish metal with a horn embossed into it. He had claimed the it off of a pair of quarrelling goblins who didn’t seem to understand it’s significance, but he did. It knew things, it called to him, spoke to him of glory, fame, and power. It spoke to him of a Waaagh! to be remembered throughout the ages, it spoke to him of his Destiny. It told him to go west to the blood red mountain under the sign of the horn."

Wazoo

Contest is now closed! Thank you all for participating, I'll decide on the winners and hand out rewards in a bit. There were some very strong entries all around, so I have my work cut out for me!

If you didn't have the chance to participate, don't despair! More contests are incoming, and if you want to tell your character's backstory, please do! It really helps me when coming up with the turn updates, after all .