The Story Begins

The Story Begins...

Thorri floated through words trailing in the air, through whispers tugging at his clothes, through flickering segments of light rearranging themselves so past that they were nothing and everything all at once…

“Oh, bugger, not again…” he groaned.

He landed on something soft, which squelched as he rose to his feet. He didn’t really want to look down to see what it was, but he was getting a feeling of… pink. The walls of… wherever the hell he was were fleshy, moving as if alive, with crawling patterns of red and blue and gold snaking up them- or, he supposed, down them, depending on your point of view. Several of the patterns had formed themselves into strange words, which read: The End Times...

The shadows were going to come next, Thorri thought. Just like last time. For once, why can’t I dream about pliant maidens and beer?

The first shadow coalesced behind him and whispered a name into his ear. He whirled around, and the second shadow appeared at his shoulder and whispered another name; then a third shadow, a fourth, a fifth…

“Why… Aelfs…” His voice was strangled, muffled as if into a pillow.

Copyright issues… came the next whisper. Thorri felt like crying.

Then he was falling. The floor disappeared, leaving emptiness behind. Everything was dark, black, there was no light, no feeling, no heat…

And the voices came on, stronger now, both sonorous and gibbering at the same paradoxical time.

Dwarves using magic…

Karl-Franz becomes Sigmar for some reason…

Malekith was the rightful king all along…

“No,” he murmured. “That’s destroyed years of backstory, no, it can’t..”

Visions flashed before his eyes. A grinning circle of men surrounded a terrified Bretonnian knight, unhindered manhoods standing proud. A stone edifice of the words “Balance”, “Community” and 

“Integrity” crumbled to dust in the wind. Gold-armoured warriors with hammers and lightning bolts emblazoned on their chests stood on round bases. A capering sales executive danced on a pile of prostitutes and money as a scrawny games designer shook his head sadly and left the room. There was the faint whiff of cheese and armpit sweat.

“Age of Sigmar…” he whispered. “Oh, the horror, the horror…”

He woke up with a hand shaking his shoulder and Lars Bjornissibling’s face staring into his.

“You were having that dream again,” his friend told him roughly, eyes sympathetic over her beard*. 

“The one where the executives destroy the entire world and replace it with… whatever the hell Age of Sigmar is.” She scowled. “Sounds very Human to me.”

“A dream…” Thorri muttered. “It all seemed so real…”

“Nope, just a dream.” Lars stood and sniffed at the state of Thorri’s room. “This needs tidying up,” she said. “So we can start from a clean slate, so to speak.”

She was lucky that the floor was actually constructed from slate, Thorri thought, otherwise that turn of phrase wouldn’t have worked. But it was, so it did.

“Anyway, we’re going on campaign now, so get moving. It’s our sixth campaign,” Lars continued. 

“The sixth edition of our war, if you like. War fought with hammers.” She lifted her hammer up to demonstrate. The phrasing sounded odd and clunky to Thorri, but after the nightmare he’d had, he didn’t feel like pressing the matter. And nor should you.

“Where are we going this time?”

“I’m glad you asked,” Lars said, though Thorri was not sure why. Lars raised her hand high into the 

air. “We’re off to the area around Karak Varn- you know, the ancient lost dwarven hold at the end of the World’s Edge Mountains bordering the Southlands and old Nehekhara-“

“Every Dwarf child knows that story, you didn’t have to explain it to me, especially in that odd stance.” Thorri said. Lars put her hand down.

“As I was saying in my former stance- my ex-position, if you will,” she continued, pouting slightly, “there’s a new island that seems to have risen in the middle of the largest lake down that way. The Lake of Lost Souls, they’re calling it, something to do with ancient chanting ghosts. And treasure. Lots of treasure.”

“Sounds like it could be fun,” Thorri admitted. “We’re the only ones who’ve heard of it, right?”

“Nope. Lots of different armies are rushing over there now, trying to stake some territory claims, I’d imagine. Can’t imagine what a map of the area would look like now, but-“

“Yes,” Thorri said, cutting her off. If you got her talking about maps, she’d never shut up, he knew from personal experience. He picked up his axe from its resting place under a pile of dirty underwear and stood up. “When are we off, then?”

“Now.” Lars tossed Thorri his helmet. “We wanted to leave before that cheese peddler comes along and ruins everything.”

“Cheese peddler?” Thorri asked, before his memory kicked into gear. “Oh, hang on, I remember. 

Long hair, silly beard, mad glint in his eye. What’s his name again, Mark, Martin… Matt, that’s it. Matt…”

“Ward.” Lars said, and sighed.

*Well, it’s like this… Dwarf men and dwarf women are virtually indistinguishable, differing anatomically only in one real area which is often concealed beneath at least ten layers of chainmail. This has obvious implications when it comes to meeting a potential mate; dwarf courting is more often than not a question of alcohol and hope.