Following the magical attack on the Revenger, Knight-Questor Artorian Fellstrider finds himself wrecked on the coast of the Gloom Sea. He must find his way to the city of Gravenport, and from there onto the Lion's Den and the Silver King himself. First however he must overcome the Castlefells...
The Castlefells were a dull and dreary landscape. Everything was grey from the grass to the sky, and a morose gloom permeated everything. All around Artorian were high and rocky hills shrouded in fog, though deeper in he knew there lay great crumbling stone fortresses where gargant kings had ruled in the Age of Myth from where this place took its name. The Castlefells lay at the far north of the Silver King’s domain, many leagues away from the harbour city of Gravenport that had been his goal. Artorian sighed deeply, and shouldering his shield the Stormcast Eternal set off into the mists…
He had washed ashore on a small sandbank near where the rocky cliffs of the Castlefells met the seas. Peering through the eye sockets of his mask, Artorian saw only the high hills stretching on into the distance along the coast as far as he could see. It hadn't taken him long to notice that he alone had drifted this far in the currents, and seeing very little of the shipwreck deduced he had been thrown far from the wreck of the Revenger. He offered a short prayer to Sigmar for the souls that had been lost before making his way to the fells proper. Though he had originally planned to follow the coast south, the knight realised it was a fools errand as the cliffs jutted at awkward angles into the sea and appeared un-climbable for someone in heavy armour. Artorian therefore decided it would be best to make his way inland a way to better ground, and make his way across hill and valley southwards by reckoning of the sun.
He had washed ashore on a small sandbank near where the rocky cliffs of the Castlefells met the seas. Peering through the eye sockets of his mask, Artorian saw only the high hills stretching on into the distance along the coast as far as he could see. It hadn't taken him long to notice that he alone had drifted this far in the currents, and seeing very little of the shipwreck deduced he had been thrown far from the wreck of the Revenger. He offered a short prayer to Sigmar for the souls that had been lost before making his way to the fells proper. Though he had originally planned to follow the coast south, the knight realised it was a fools errand as the cliffs jutted at awkward angles into the sea and appeared un-climbable for someone in heavy armour. Artorian therefore decided it would be best to make his way inland a way to better ground, and make his way across hill and valley southwards by reckoning of the sun.
The whispers of many dead warriors had assailed Artorian since he ventured into the fog of the fells. He had climbed his way up onto a ridge to try and get above it but the mists had proven to be so invasive he guessed them to be magical in nature. Though he had travelled for six days now, Artorian did not believe he had deeply penetrated the hills at all, having only once glimpsed some of the legendary giant ruins in the distance. Great columns and arches had risen from the hillsides but the knight-questor had chosen to give them a wide berth for fear of attracting unwanted attention. Though the gargant kings were many aeons dead, that could mean little in the dominions of Nagash.
He had seen the occasional skeleton wandering the moors, animated by the latent necromantic magics of the fells but entirely without direction. They had all been dressed in cloth that was ragged but brightly coloured; and their armour was rusted but fanciful. Questing knights not unlike himself, who had met their end trying to discover the secrets of the Castlefells. At first Artorian had cut them down, but in time he found that they did not fight back so he just walked by them, not looking back at their sorry forms disappearing into the gloom.
The seventh day however was the first to give him pause on his march through the fells. As he set off through the fog that morning, Artorian noticed that the words of dead men no longer floated on the breeze, that distant ruins seemed far closer despite his attempts to walk away from them, and that the wandering skeletons of fallen heroes all seemed to be walking in the opposite direction to himself. Ill omens indeed, he mused to himself as he loosened his sword in his scabbard and began to more diligently scan the mists through his death mask.
The fight that soon ensued was a short affair, over nearly as swiftly as it had begun. Leering monstrously from the mists came a ghoulish apparition, its elongated mouth agape and hungering. Two incredibly long and powerful arms grasped for Artorian, greedily clawing at his armour, pulling him towards the open maw. The Stormcast didn't even go for his sword, instead dropping his shield and unsheathing his enchanted dagger. A single quick thrust to the side of the head saw boney fingers loose their grip upon the knight as the monster howled, dropping him. Artorian was barely even panting, though he felt the adrenaline coursing through his veins. In a single swift motion he retrieved his battered shield, allowed his dagger to fall from his hand, and took the opportunity to draw his sword. In a moment the creature was on him again, swiping with blind fury at its armoured opponent. The first hand Artorian battered away with his shield, the other he slashed at though the mourghoul twisted its wrist at the last second and dropped under his guard. Elongated nails pierces sigmarite armour and once again Artorian was in the monster's grasp. He grunted as razor-like talons sunk into his flesh but managed to hack downwards and bury his weapon just as deep into the creatures's arm. It attempted to retaliate with its other hand but yet again Artorian battered it away with his shield. Hefting his sword out of the monster's arm he swung again and bit into bone. Another scream and the claws receded from his armour, both man and ghoul bleeding heavily.
He took stock of the creature and found in its horrific visage a look in his foe's face he had seen before in many a denizen of this realm's eye: shock. Shock that something could inflict such pain upon it. Azyrite metal was relatively new to Shyish and its power against the unholy was nothing to be scoffed at. Horrors like these who lived far from the battlefields found it surprising something could even hurt them and many soon learned the price of their ignorance. Artorian smiled to himself despite the pain in his side, he knew that his triumph was imminent, as it had been so many times before.
However, he saw something change in the abomination's features, some spark of evil intelligence, and with that Artorian stopped smiling and adopted a defensive stance. Slowly the mournghoul moved backwards, keeping its eyes on the Stormcast and holding its wound closed, which even now was beginning to regenerate. The monster soon faded back into the fog, but Artorian instinctively knew that it would be back once it had decided how best to deal with this new interloper...
The fight that soon ensued was a short affair, over nearly as swiftly as it had begun. Leering monstrously from the mists came a ghoulish apparition, its elongated mouth agape and hungering. Two incredibly long and powerful arms grasped for Artorian, greedily clawing at his armour, pulling him towards the open maw. The Stormcast didn't even go for his sword, instead dropping his shield and unsheathing his enchanted dagger. A single quick thrust to the side of the head saw boney fingers loose their grip upon the knight as the monster howled, dropping him. Artorian was barely even panting, though he felt the adrenaline coursing through his veins. In a single swift motion he retrieved his battered shield, allowed his dagger to fall from his hand, and took the opportunity to draw his sword. In a moment the creature was on him again, swiping with blind fury at its armoured opponent. The first hand Artorian battered away with his shield, the other he slashed at though the mourghoul twisted its wrist at the last second and dropped under his guard. Elongated nails pierces sigmarite armour and once again Artorian was in the monster's grasp. He grunted as razor-like talons sunk into his flesh but managed to hack downwards and bury his weapon just as deep into the creatures's arm. It attempted to retaliate with its other hand but yet again Artorian battered it away with his shield. Hefting his sword out of the monster's arm he swung again and bit into bone. Another scream and the claws receded from his armour, both man and ghoul bleeding heavily.
He took stock of the creature and found in its horrific visage a look in his foe's face he had seen before in many a denizen of this realm's eye: shock. Shock that something could inflict such pain upon it. Azyrite metal was relatively new to Shyish and its power against the unholy was nothing to be scoffed at. Horrors like these who lived far from the battlefields found it surprising something could even hurt them and many soon learned the price of their ignorance. Artorian smiled to himself despite the pain in his side, he knew that his triumph was imminent, as it had been so many times before.
However, he saw something change in the abomination's features, some spark of evil intelligence, and with that Artorian stopped smiling and adopted a defensive stance. Slowly the mournghoul moved backwards, keeping its eyes on the Stormcast and holding its wound closed, which even now was beginning to regenerate. The monster soon faded back into the fog, but Artorian instinctively knew that it would be back once it had decided how best to deal with this new interloper...
The very first miniature I painted for Age of Sigmar was a Mournghoul and I'm very happy to finally be able to get a full picture of him on the blog! While a mournghoul is supposed to be ethereal, I thought its background as being a soul twisted by hunger fit with the Flesh-Eater Courts and so he became the fearsome ever-ravenous Duc d'Castelfells; lonely ruler of the northern hills. Perhaps even an estranged cousin of the Silver King himself, who had gone insane amidst the ruins and the fog. This miniature really was a blast to paint, having so much detail in the sculpt and should I ever get an excuse to buy another one I would in a heartbeat.
I'm quite enjoying doing these little bits of creative writing, indeed I have the next few chapters ready to go soon. I'm hoping that the more I write the better I will get as creative writing is something I've always toyed with.
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