Hardcore Hobby

******************* Chuikov had been stumbling around in the dark forest of hours now. He had found Alex first, then Georgy. As dawn broke, the remaining members of the warband had appeared, huddled tightly near a river bend, seeking refuge within an old Sigmarite ruin. 'His' warband, he mused to himself. What an odd turn of events.  The men were strung out and tired. They had all marched south, following their new liege lord on a noble but ill-fated revenge quest into Ostermark, hunting for.. well, Chuikov had forgotten.  Trudging on, the group entered a small clearing. Chuikov could hear the faint trickle of water and he led them slowly closer. They had no vodka, so water would be the next best thing.  'Aye, keep your eyes peeled you lot, no telling what's out there. Alex, Vlad! Take watch while we fill the canteens.  Taking a knee on a large rock, the two crossbowmen shouldered their weapons and scanned the opposing riverbank.  'It's clear boss!', Vlad ex...

*********************** Chuikov's chest heaved as he looked back anxiously through the forest. The darkness was oppressive, and even with his adrenaline heightened senses, he could barely see a thing. Gathering his wits, he crouched behind a rotting, fallen oak. He could not see the others, but feared calling out, lest those foul chaos worshippers were close behind.  It suddenly dawned on him that he may be the only one left alive. He was only meters from Andreiovich as he was cut down by some nightmarish mutant, and he could do nothing as young Oleg had his arm eaten by that foul spawn! Andreiovich.. such a fool, Chuikov thought to himself. A huge, bloody fool. Now here they were, leaderless and lost in Ostermark. Those not dead or injured were being chased by mutated freaks through a bloody southern forest. He shook his head and grunted in resignation. What was he thinking? If they were all going to die, he would make sure it was not with empty pockets. Filled with a sudden resol...

***************** Andrei Andreiovich peered slowly above the broken window frame. What he saw affirmed his suspicions.  Ogres.  He had smelt them from several miles away, and they had obviously smelt the wyrdstone. This little expedition from camp was about to get a little more heated than he had intended. Although Andrei and his small band of Kislevites were itching to blow off some steam, he had hoped their first encounter within the bounds of this blasted town, was against a slightly.. softer opponent. ********************* As I said last time, we've come back to Mordheim.. well Grunveldt, a neighbouring little town, close to the city of the damned that I came up with last year to host some narrative games. This was an attempt to bring something different and original to the table (pun intended), but in a way that keeps things grounded in the setting we know and love. Running the campaign with the Empire in Flames rules allows us to explore the setting a little bit more, an...

Mordheim, wow - what a game. Somehow I keep coming back to it. I really did not expect to be playing another campaign anytime soon, let alone this year, but here we are. The renaissance that Tuomas Pironen's masterpeice has undergone in recent years (at least from my perspective) is frankly amazing and just like in so many gaming groups around the world, Wyrdstone fever has finally overcome the Western Badlands Wargaming Club!  I'm certainly not complaining, it's probably my favourite fantasy setting, and the fact that it exists within my other favourite fantasy setting, and was made at a time when this setting was at it's creative peak, is definitely a bonus. Say what you want about the janky rules and dated Geedub turn conventions, they nailed the vibe and that's what matters.  Anyway, into it! I Couldn't start a new campaign without a new warband, so behold.. my new motley crew of Kislevites. These guys will be using the Middenheim Mercenary rules, for thre...

************** Well met, traveller. It is the year 2025 of our Imperial Calendar and fair warning to thee, for evil has once again come to our fair country of Ostermark. Grim tidings abound from Grunveldt, nought but a days ride west along the River Stir from the damed city. Reports of strange beasts and other ne’er well doers once again lurk within. Even the dead do not rest easy, twenty-six years on. Evil as these times may be, there is fortune to be made! Rumours of a mad dwarf brewmaster residing in the olde’ brewery are true. Some say he uses the wyrdstone fouled waters that flow downstream from Mordheim to brew a diabolical beer. There are certainly many folk, some well to do, some not.. that would pay a pretty penny for a keg of that concoction, not to mention the price on the dwarf’s head. By Sigmar, go well but beware. Word travels and it is not just you and I that would seek gold and glory in Grunveldt. The shadow of Mordheim lies heavy for leagues around and it’s hard enough...