Massacre at the Sootscarred Dunes

Score: 22-60

Today, our forces have endured a terrible defeat at the hands of the Great Maw.

As we approached the western shores of the Ravaged Coasts, we spotted a Mawtribe heading south. News has reached us that something has, for lack of a better word, ‘changed’ within the savage ogors. Once they were more a collection of motley clans, carving out their own little kingdoms across the realms. The chances were equal whether you met a horde of savages, or a horde that could be reasoned with, for they each followed their own cultures. But recently, a tyrant named Morga the Mighty has united the various tribes under the cataclysmic deity, only known as The Maw. Now the Ogors rush forth across the Realms for feast and fame.

Our strategy was to encircle the Mawtribe, cut them off, and crush them with a cavalry charge. As we formed ranks, I could see the dread in the Freeguild soldiers. I do not chastise their fear for cowardice. There are few ways worse to die then to be reduced to a struggling prey, pinned down by a famished predator, and knowing that all you hold dear in life will disappear in that stinking maw.

As we positioned ourselves, I could spot the horde that was approaching us. The horde was carrying a massive cooking pot, from which a stench of spoilt meat came forth. Before we could sound a charge, the call of a horn blasted across the battlefield. Upon it’s sound, a small group of Ogor Gluttons rushed forth. They looked haggard, deflated even, as they ran towards us. Arch-Knight Gibraldus suddenly cursed as his eyes widened, and implored me to turn the charge at those Ogors. I asked Ser Gibraldus to elaborate on such a sudden turn. He told me he could see from here what this was: A berserk unit. Apparently, it is a practice for some mad Ogors to fast before a battle. Spiritually, this should bring them closer to The Maw. In practice, it turns even the most regular Ogor into a starved maniac who will stop at nothing to quell their hunger. And stop at nothing they did.

With blinding speed, the Ogor Gluttons rushed at the Cavaliers on our left flank. Their were no shouts or bellows; just predators rushing at their prey. Nothing seemed to break their pace. Even a cannon blast at point blank range did not do as much as drop one of the crazed marauders: They pushed through the smoke and barrelled through our riders as if they were made of straw. Panic broke out in our midst as one ogor ripped the arm off our Warforger while another plunged the wizards head in his own molten crucible, shuddering his body before dropping limp. The sound of Sigmarite and steed screaming in horror as they were devoured will stay with us for a long time.

There were of course attempts to regain the upper end, but our momentum was broken. Our cavaliers on the left flank were able to bruise but not break the remaining horde. In the meantime, our reserves on the right flank found themselves surrounded by hunters and their Sabrefangs who ripped them apart underneath the shade of Aqshian Pyrewood. It was here that I saw we had lost before our battle had even started. The retreat was called. We lost many a good Freeguild soldier at this battle. I pray to Sigmar it will not be a vision of what is to come of our campaign.