Sein Craban saved

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The Skaven had long-prepared for a direct assault upon Sein Craban. The strategy was a simple one; a straight thrust to the heart of the Elven colony that would deliver the killer blow and drive them from the lands of Mellthu. It would leave Typhus as undisputed overlord of the south.

The Warpclaw Guild amassed its legions of Mount Breakspear to drive down upon the Elves from the north whilst Typhus brought the main strength of the Skaven army from the west. In the grip of this twin pronged attack, and with the grand fleet of Boiling Peak prowling the shores on daily patrols the Elves would be penned up against the coast and annihilated.

But the plan was not to run smoothly. First, the Warpclaw Guild foundered in the march south as the Elves mustered to block their advance. The wily Elf general refused to meet the Skaven horde in open battle and instead harried the army as it tried to bring the Elves to bear. With their main strength stalled as it tried to attack, the Skaven army was engaged piecemeal until it lost all sense of order and coherency. The Warlocks were forced to withdraw their forces north to regroup, and so Typhus was denied the support of the Guild and its terrifying war machines.

The great tyrant himself was to find his march to Sein Craban fraught with difficulty. Typhus had the misfortune to encounter roving bands of Ogres as he forced his armies ever eastward. The Ogres were under the command of the infamous Obwun Jade-Eye, Captain of the mercenary forces of the Holy Sigmarite Empire. Jade-Eye had been tasked with securing the lands around the newly founded colony of Ulricshafen, but in inimitable mercenary fashion had taken his armies south in search of plunder. It had became all too apparent that Ulricshafen was a tedious posting for one of Jade-Eye’s prowess and notoriety, and his bored Ogres were spoiling for a fight.

Typhus and Jade-Eye ultimately fought one another to a standstill, the former struggling to contain the Ogre raids on his supply lines, whilst the latter tried to avoid being caught up by the main van of the Skaven horde as it tried to negotiate the route through the Endwe valley. The Ogres withdrew north, bloodied and weary, but with Obwun satisfied that his lads had enjoyed another good season of “adventuring”. A hugely frustrated Typhus was eventually able to press on to Sein Craban, though not without the strength of his horde having been sapped and at the cost of a number of valuable war machines that had been wrecked beyond use.

403PC
Lightning flashed around boiling peak, the atmosphere kept in a state of near constant tumult by the spumes of red hot lava randomly ejected from the barely controlled volcano. Deep beneath the surface, Typhus' anger was a capricious force of nature that mirrored the volcano. At a mere whim he belched forth arcs of etheric lightning, immolating groups of slaves and sycophants alike who happened to be in his vicinity. Eventually the stench of burning fur and the screams of his minions as they ran around as living torches proved sufficiently entertaining to dull his mindless rage.

Once again his innumerable legions had been repulsed from the accursed Elven colony of Sein Craban and his dreams of greatness lay in tatters. It had begun promisingly enough. In a ritual that had lasted thirteen days and thirteen nights Typhus had executed the Elven civilians and soldiers captured at the Tears of Isha and Vale of Endwe. Their agonised deaths had created a magical vortex so potent that raw power had crackled across the landscape, earthing around any landmark tall enough to provide a focus.

Typhus himself had begun the assault, annihilating the centre of the Elven army with a blast of raw magical power that saw the noble elves twisted and mutated into vile ratlike form and the brains of his closest minions dribble out of their noses and mouths. As panic rippled throughout the serried ranks of the elves the archmage commanding the host was cut down. Typhus had allowed himself the savour his impending victory as he watched the vile animated puppet complete the deed for which he had created it. A daemon, bound to a scarecrow form made of straw and elven organs, it was the perfect weapon for such a task. But it was with victory certain that things had started to go wrong.

The very power Typhus had summoned turned against him. Wild and without bounds the magical storm proved beyond the ability of his sorcerers to control. One by one they were slain, not by their enemy but in blasts of power as the magic they sought to channel ran beyond their control. Typhus himself was forced to flee the battle, transformed into a frog by the uncontrolled energy. Meanwhile the Elves proved better able to tame the storm and channel it to their uses. What their wizardry lacked in ambition and raw power they made up for in iron-willed control.

Eventually the Skaven hordes were forced to quit the field. They may have won the battle and most of the elven host lay dead or dying in the dirt, but it was the elven mages who controlled the fulcrums that were the focus of the titanic winds of magic. The Skaven host could not hope to stand before such power.

As his rage cooled into a lust for revenge that Typhus would nurture throughout the coming years he vowed that he would never rest until all the Elves on Palurin were destroyed. This was just a temporary setback. He would build an empire able to rival the Elves on land and at sea. They would rue the day they had made him their nemesis!