Ghyran. Year 0

Much has changed. The Old World is no more. The devastating battles that saw Chaos rise and win overtuned the Vortex, destroying what had been your home. Heroes fought, and fell. You remember it all. After all, your grandparents were there.

They were there at Altdorf, and at Ulthuan, and you remember the moment when a God looked down at you after your struggle, and elevated you far beyond mortality. You still remember, all of you. You were there, or you were told.

The Mortal Realms are now your homes. Jettisoned into a new dimension, your forefathers fought hard to establish a new home. Ghyran is a rich and prosperous plane, where nature flourishes and great beasts roam the land. It is a place one can call home. A home one can defend, or conquer.

The world has changed. Gods now walk among you, but the Gods are not here. They are far away. They are not in this small corner of Ghyran, where you have decided to build your home. Or, peraphs, burn another's land.

Ghyran! One of the eight Mortal Planes, a Plane were the beasts can grow powerful and enormous. A Plane where life runs impetous. Riches and resources abound for the ones daring enough to brave the wilds. Profitable lands, rich mines, and nature ripe for the taking.

However, something stirs in the darkness. Far away from the eyes of the Gods, something lurks in the darkness, something hidden. Something old, and ancient. Stories tell the legend of a weapon dug deep in Ghyran, forgotten even by the Gods. A relic of a bygone age. A relic one could use to further their goals...

"Valeranus, come sit down", Lord Celestant Perikles said welcoming his trusted deputy to his office with a broad smile whilst gesturing to the magnificent oak siege inlaid with gold and embroided with Jade coloured leather on the guest's side of his large desk.

"Thank you, my Lord", replied Valeranus Ares with customary politeness, and took his seat.

Lord Perikles remained standing as he spoke, "I have exciting news, Valeranus! The Spear of Dawn has been entrusted with a secret mission. It's a great honour for our Chamber, and, well... if the rumour's are true, and we were to meet with the God-King's blessing.. it could result in obtaining a distinct competitive advantage for the Ghyran Guard in its mission to expel the vestigal remnants of vile Nurgle and indeed every other taint of chaos from our realm"

The Knight Ares leaned forward in anticipation. Lord Perikles however, turned his back to the Knight as he peered out of his window in the Oakenspire at the majesty of the Living City beyond. "Do tell, my Lord", said Ares with the slighest hint of pleading in his tone. Perikles swung around, his smile broader now. "A weapon, Valeranus. A mighty weapon buried somewhere deep in Ghyran so long past that it was thought to be no more than a legend, a tale told to childen. However, our Sylvaneth friends have provided credible intel to the Command Echelon and we have been asked to follow that lead"

"A weapon dug into the realm?", Ares mused. "What kind of weapon, my Lord?"

"The details are scant, Valeranus. Nay, they are almost non-existent! But one thing is for sure - we're not the only one's who will be alerted to this intel. Some of our Sylvaneth friends have loose tongues, and not all of them have unflinching affection for our Stormhost, and therefore, time is of the essence. We shall need to move swiftly and stealthily and it will just be you and I and my personal retinue leaving the Oakenspire on this quest. That will alert noone, it will appear that we are yet another diplomatic mission."

"Do we have a destination?", Ares asked.

"We do have a destination - a small settlement that will serve as our initial base camp and which we shall have to secure as our first objective", Perikles replied,

"When do we leave?", Ares retorted.

"Straightaway, Valeranus! Straightaway!", the Celestant responded definitively.

"As you command, my Lord. I will ready the retinue.", Ares said, rising to his feet, and bowing his head to his Lord Celestant, before marching out of the office

Bargat's boot, clad in dark steel, falls on the ground of Ghyran. Compared to anything the plane might've seen before, it's an ugly and crude fashioning, yet majestic from the right angles. Blackened metal, so long unpolished that it might be black from the dried blood as much as anything. It's connected to thick muscle, dark green and bulging.

Bulging with rage, just like the bellow that proceeded it. "Where are we?"

"Reckon not in the badlands no more, boss." Krox scratches his head, near where a mace had left a considerable dent some time before. He turns his entire meaty torso, unable to turn his head alone. "Dat whipcrack musta done summit."

"I coulda told you dat." Bagrat grumbles, adjusting one of the straps and itching the bare flesh underneath.

His torso is riddled with marks and scars, testament to all who'd tried to finish him off. Nothing had managed so far, and even in a strange new world he didn't expect anything to manage soon. Once he's done scratching he reaches out a ham fist to grab the nearest grot, hauling him close enough that the diminutive creature could smell last week's meal stuck between his teeth.

"Where's da weird boy?"

"I, er, dunno boss!" The goblin squeaks, earning a throaty grunt of disapproval. "But I'll find him?"

"You do 'at." He throws the grot aside, then turns to his antsy milling boyz. "An' while da grot's at it, we'll 'ave a look where we are, right ladz?"

Tents colored Greywater yellow mark a camp deep in Ghyrans jungles, tactically placed on a hill to be defendable.
Men are chopping down trees to clear the way and use to make simple barriers around the camp.

Oste Schnitzer sits at the head of the small table in the command tent.
A gatling rifle rests before him on the table, always at the ready.
It's simple in appearance, Oste cares little for shows of wealth, but it's a well made rifle, able to handle when he uses a bit more gunpowder than necessary.
He taps impatiently on it's grip with his right hand, as his head rests on his left.

He lifts his gaze slightly as three figures enter.
"Schmit, Werson, how's the preparation of the camp going"

"Tents are up, and my boys are securing the perimeter."
A man, Werson, replies.

"Mine are still out, searching to snipe us a proper meal."
Schmit, the second, adds to it.

"Alright.
Aust, have your scouts found anything."
Schnitzer addresses the third.

"Aye, we've found an old mine nearby.
Nothing to shoot at though."
She sounds disappointed at that last part.

"A shame.."
Schniter takes hold of his rifle and slowly rises, ready to leave.
"But do take me to that mine, securing resources is our assigned task."

"How are the men doing?"
Dranth Ig'Senio is sitting by a campfire, staring at the fire inside. It is mesmerizing, burning orange-red, dancing around on the wood.

"They're.... Managing. First time they've been out of the water. Cut them some slack."
Maya Ig'Valere finishes tying off a spell.
"I must say, you have chosen a nice place to start the conquest. The Weave is strong here. I think we'll be able to harness it for our own gain."
"I thought you might appreciate it, niece. Do you still remember the plan?"
"Of course. Get the relic. Conquer everything in our way. Capture the Finless, and harvest their souls when they're ready."
"Good. Anything else worth mentioning?"
Maya thinks for a bit, before nodding.
"Do you think your wife will be fit for ruling in your absence?"
Dranth chuckles, while standing up. His armor shines in the light of the fire, the stars reflecting from it.

"I'm doing this for her. For our people. So yes. I can assume she will do that in return. And she'll do it right."
Maya simply nods.

"We will make it back alive. All of us."
"Of course we will, Maya. I'm sure of that.

Veermok the Hollow slinks through the dark tunnels, his claws scraping against damp stone, followers scurrying behind him—filthy, broken things, like him. Madness whispers into his hollow skull, promising sweet oblivion.

Once, yes-yes, long ago, his ancestors worshipped a god that is no-more-gone!

"Much has changed, yes-yes!" Veermok screeches, "but the hunger-hunger remains! We will devour all—all, yes-yes! Even the sun-sun!"

His eyes narrow as they catch the flicker of distant light leaking into the cave, and he hisses. "Forward, forward, yes-yes! To eat-eat!"

The skaven scuttle onward, a wave of filth creeping toward the surface-world, ready to consume it whole.