Godtear – Champions Assemble part 2

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Next up we look at the back stories for the six of the Early Access Champions:

Blackjaw, The Bloody Messiah

Race: Orc

Class: Maelstrom

Blackjaw

Known only as Exile, Blackjaw is a creature of uncertain destiny, the bloodthirsty nature of his people a terrible portent of what may come to pass.

Lorsain, The Autumnal Wind

Race: Elf

Class: Slayer

Lorsain

Mysterious and fay, the elves of the great forests are not known to leave their ancestral home without good reason. None doubt the arrival of the Autumnal Wind is not without great portent… yet the reason for Lorsain’s presence is entirely unknown.

For some she is as gentle as the summer sun, a blessing upon those she encounters; for others she is the bitter winter chill, a merciless frost creeping into their bones.

In time her quest shall be known – but for the moment she remains an an unpredictable enigma, her deadly prowess feared by all.

 

Raith’Marid, The Rising Tsunami

Race: Dragonkin

Class: Shaper

RaithMarid

Surely no more noble race exists than the mighty Dragonkin, their proud bearing speaking of ages long passed. But for all their potency, this magnificent people are seldom gifted as Chosen, their bodies more akin to the elements than the blood and tissue of other mortals. Yet the mantle of Champion has come to Raith’Marid regardless. The pull of the Godtear like the ebb of a great ocean he searches the land for omen of his unknown destiny. Is he the first of a great rebirth among his people, or shall he be a lost martyr in the trials to come?
Rangosh, Scourge of the Broken Plains

Race: Beastkin

Class: Slayer

Rangosh

A merciless and brutal warlord of fearsome repute, Rangosh’s unexpected rise to leadership amongst the outlaws of the Broken Plains has been as bloody as it was abrupt. A hulking brute towering above his minions, the Scourge rules with a barbed lash and vicious temperament, the threat of violent reprisal ever present.

Eager to carve out a bloody dominion, Rangosh has never been content to remain in the desolate wastelands, his eye long settled upon the affluent lands of man and the riches of the dwarf holds. But now another lust calls to Rangosh, for he has awakened as Chosen. Assailed by dreams of godhood, he directs his path of conquest ever closer to the slumbering Godtears and his waiting destiny, brute force and ferocity overcoming any who would dare stand in his way…

 

Rhodri Ironheart, Thane of the Forsaken Holds

Race: Dwarf

Class: Guardian

Rhodri

Rhodri Ironheart’s stern demeanor hides the great tragedy of his past, his people slaughtered by Orc Reavers. Although the greenblood invaders have since been hunted down, there can be no return for Rhodri’s wards, their lives lost as their blood ruined the fertile earth.

Determined and stoic, Rhodri has sworn great oaths to his ancestors that never again shall his people suffer such tragedy whilst he draws breath.

His skin turned to the same iron that rules his bitter heart, the power of the Godtear has made Rhodri all but invincible to even the most deadly attacks, an unbreakable rock upon which his foes are broken.

 

Shayle, Keeper of the Oath

Race: Human

Class: Shaper

Shayle

Not all humans are bound by ties to the kingdoms of mankind. For those on the fringes of this great protectorate, a stronger allegiance is owed to the elements of the earth than to the petty monarchies. Shayle is one such figure, unforgiving of his people’s fickle nature. Distrustful and believing mortal kind unworthy of the power of the gods, Shayle has sworn a powerful oath to never claim such potency. Instead he shapes the living stone around the Godtear he finds, crafting forms in the image of the ascended gods now past.

Woe betide any who would try overcome him, for not only must they defeat the Keeper of the Oath but also the mighty the guardians he has created.

 

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Godtear – Champions Assemble part 1

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This is one for the Lore Junkies, I’m going to summarise what we know about the Champions backgrounds so far starting with the four from the original Kickstarter pledge.
Galana, The Crystalmancer

Race: Gnome

Class: Shaper

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Few mortals can claim to know the gnomish race with any truth, for this diminutive people are selective and cautious by nature, trusting only their own. In the forgotten corners of the world they make their home, far beyond the expanse of the Cradle.
Only but one of their number wanders abroad. Her decision borne from a strange wanderlust previously unknown to others of her kind.
Galana has become a familiar sight atop the highest peaks since entering the Cradle. Her hands tightly pressed to her staff as she communes with the storm-borne spirits. Through the these Spirits words she has at last divined the purpose of her restless soul. Now tempered by a newfound quest to unite the awaiting Godtear by the hand of the Crystalmancer.

Mournblade, The Soulless

Race: Undead – Skeleton

Class: Guardian

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A defeated Champion during a past age, Mournblade should have been destroyed as the Godtear was wrenched from his fallen body. Yet even as his flesh was consumed his bitter soul was unwilling to admit defeat, and in the darkness his disembodied spirit remained, feeding from the carrion energies of the dead. His armies and body broken, the shade could only howl in frustration watching his triumphant adversaries claim ever more titanic victories, knowing ascension to be slipping well beyond his grasp.

Coldly calculating, Mournblade fled deep beneath the earth, biding his time until the death of the Ascended and the renewed rain of the Godtear. At the dawn of this new age he has emerged once more, reborn as the Ashen One, hungry to begin again his relentless pursuit of power…

Sneeki Peet,The Malined

Race: Goblin

Class: Slayer

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Since the dawn of the Eleventh Age a shard of the Ascended Death has lain at the heart of the Bitter Swamp, lost amongst waters turned murky and foul. The wretched goblins of these miserable depths once worshipped the Godtear as a primitive totem, those exposed to the corruption driven mad and named prophets by their misguided brethren.
Yet this ended with the creature known as Sneeki Peet, his lust to possess the stone overwhelming all other desires in his primitive mind. Stealing his way amongst the assembled prophets, he seized the shard and consumed it whole, their terror at his actions quickly turned to awe witnessing his awakening. Now chieftain amongst the tribes, he wanders the land with his kin in search of yet more Godtear, his unholy appetite only now truly awakened…
Titus, The Dishonoured

Race: Human (probably)

Class: Maelstrom

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Once proud general of the VI Legion, Titus and his warriors are banished in disgrace, left to roam only as exiles and no longer admitted within the borders of the Sanguine Princes. Their only crime was fellowship and respect in the face of recklessness; yet Titus’ decision to honour the lives of his men still earned him death in the gladiatorial arena, surrounded by the baying crowds.

But Titus would not fall that fateful day. Every opponent sent was bloodied and felled. Terrifying and monstrous creatures were unleashed, but still, none overcame him. As the sun fell from the skies Titus remained resolute, the name of his legion cheered by a thousand voices. For his crimes, he still was made an outcast. But his name is that of a hero, spoken in hushed whispers – and one day it is hoped among the people he shall return to claim not only his own redemption but also that of his disbanded legion.

Godtear – Epic Battles in the Eleventh Age

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So, Steamforged Games, publishers of Guild Ball have returned to Kickstarter to fund their new tabletop game, Godtear.

The game can be summarised as “a fast-paced, high-action combat game for two players, in which each player takes their warband of Champions and Followers and battles rival warbands for control of the precious Godtears scattered across the land.”

The game itself is factionless and features a host of fantasy races (Elves, Dwarfs, Minotaurs, Undead, Dragonkin, Orcs) as well as Humans. The game takes inspiration from MOBAs, with each Champion fitting into one of four classes (Guardians, Maelstrom, Shapers and Slayers) that roughly define their role and general playstyle.

Guardians concern themselves less with the opposing warbands destruction than with their own warband’s longevity. Most Guardians are extremely tough in their own right, but Guardians are far more varied than walking barriers. Guardians can focus on taking hits for nearby allies, increasing damage reduction for themselves or others, healing friendly models’ wounds, or even returning armies of Followers to the battle.

Maelstroms place a greater focus on the quantity of their attacks than their individual quality. These Champions can’t deal as much damage as Slayers against hard targets, but they’re more capable of thinning out the ranks of an opponent’s army. Maelstroms also favour a more fluid fighting style, moving from enemy to enemy rather than going toe-to-toe with a single foe. As with any Godtear class, this can take many forms – from fireballs blasting apart clustered enemies to whirlwind style attacks against every adjacent enemy to effects that chain from foe to foe.

Shapers weave the flow of battle to give their warband the upper hand. Shapers typically have at least one ability to move other models (friendly and/or enemy), but they’re also the class that interacts most directly with scenario objectives and the battlefield board. Right down to how they make Skill rolls and deal damage, Shapers are a unique breed, but what they lack in raw offence, they make up for with abilities that can change the course of battle at its pivotal moment.

Slayers are the most familiar type of Champion. They focus on dealing damage to a single target, but their individual methods vary greatly. For example, one Slayer could make brutal shots with a bow from a great distance while another could smash an enemy’s face with their fists while yet another could whip their Followers into ruthless murder machines. Regardless of the methods they employ, however, Slayers are the go-to Champion class for dealing with tough targets.

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The miniatures will be made from the same PVC as Guild Ball and come pre-assembled.

The game originally had a funding goal of £30,000 but at the time of writing is over £240,000 and still has 13 days to go. For a pledge of £79 you are getting a decent amount of stuff, with more likely to follow:

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I’m sure there will be more to come for this game in the future, but for now – get backing!

Ratcatcher’s Guild – Scourge

The next model from the Ratcatcher’s Guild to be previewed is Scourge, the Pestilent Abomination.

Scourge

Scourge

Scourge is a beast of a man who seems to have bulked out on a high protein diet of rats. He’s the first model we’ve seen the rules for that has a direct interaction with the disease condition – both with starting the game suffering the condition (much like Katalyst with burning) and also gaining [+1] DMG to Playbook damage results when he is suffering the disease condition. His playbook is also interesting as it’s quite Blacksmith like.

Combining Snack Break with Grave Digger for 4 VP take outs could be interesting.

 

I’m very excited to see what the Ratcatcher’s are capable of on the pitch – until next time sports fans!

Ratcatcher’s Guild – Pelage

Steamforged are releasing a new concept into Guild Ball – the Minor Guilds.  These are teams that have been affiliated with the Major Guild (all the currently playable Guilds) in an effort to wrest control back from the Solthecian Church (surprise surprise Obulus is behind it).

The first Minor Guild are the Ratcatcher’s who are affiliated with the Mortician’s Guild.

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The latest model to be previewed for the is Pelage.

Pelage

She’s a seductive killer who is wearing a cloak of rats. I’m sure comaprisons will be drawn between her and Cosset

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Check out her rules below:

 

I’d also suggest you listen to the Strictly the Worst guys talk to Mat Hart and Jamie Perkins about here here: http://strictlytheworst.libsyn.com/episode-34-the-gang-hosts-an-interview 

What’s in a name? – Blacksmith’s Guild

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The first 6 of the second Season 3 Guild, the Blacksmith’s Guild, has been released, so we have a look at the origin of their names. The Guild has a unique structure on the pitch as there are no mascots and the team is comprised of three Master’s and three Apprentices with a Master being named Captain each game:

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Blacksmith’s Guild

Anvil

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An anvil is a metalworking tool consisting of a large block of metal (usually forged or cast steel), with a flattened top surface, upon which another object is struck or worked.

Anvils are as massive as they are practical, because the higher their inertia, the more efficiently they cause the energy of striking tools to be transferred to the work piece. On a quality anvil, the smith’s hammer should rebound with almost as much energy as the smith puts into the downward stroke, ultimately making the smith’s job easier and less physically strenuous.

 

Sledge

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Almost certainly named after a sledgehammer rather than the vehicle. A sledgehammer is a tool with a large, flat, often metal head, attached to a lever (or handle). The size of its head allows a sledgehammer to apply more force than other hammers of similar size.  Although they are used in a variety of professions they are used in Blacksmithing to  shape heavy sections of iron.

 

Furnace

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A furnace is a device used for high-temperature heating. The name derives from Greek word fornax, which means oven. In an industrial setting they are used in the extract of iron from ore and in steelmaking.

 

Cinder

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Cinder is a material derived primarily from volcanic materials and are similar to pumice. An ember (a glowing, hot ‘coal’ made of greatly heated wood, coal, or other carbon-based material) is sometimes referred to as a cinder too.

 

Ferrite

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Ferrite is a cubic form of iron and it’s structure is what gives steel and cast iron it’s magnetic properties. Much like ‘Get Over Here, Iron’.

 

Iron

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Iron is a metallic chemical element and along with it’s alloy, Steel, are the principle metals used in blacksmithing.

Until next time, sports fans!

 

Hemlocke – Wanted: Dead or Alive?

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So this year’s Guild Ball Community event is looking at the schism in the Union team caused by Rage slipping his leash and the Solthecian Church coming in to take over the running of the team.

Details can be found here: https://steamforged.com/union-in-chains

Eight of the original Guild’s have been paired up and are fighting to gain a member of the Union as a Guild member. The pairings are:

 

  • The Fisherman’s Guild & Butcher’s Guild will be competing for Gutter.
  • The Brewer’s Guild & Mason’s Guild will be competing for Decimate.
  • The Mortician’s Guild & Hunter’s Guild will be competing for Hemlocke.
  • The Alchemist’s Guild & Engineer’s Guild will be competing for Harry the Hat.

Each of the Union members will get an alternative sculpt depending on which Guild they finally settle in.

Hemlocke is being fought over by the Mortician’s and Hunter’s Guilds (Go Morticians!) and her alternative sculpts are:

 

Her back story is:

A fate unknown

Light flooded into the empty chamber, coloured in faint hues of red and green from the faded staining in the glass dome above. Motes of dust fluttered through the air like tiny fireflies, tumbling ever downwards in lazy spirals. A peaceful stillness had taken hold of this place and refused to relinquish it, entirely at odds with the sinister darkness lurking in the catacombs below.
Grace stood in quiet contemplation of the scene, light reflecting from her pristine robes in a blinding glare. Her lip curled. She cared little for this place. A long-abandoned chapel built atop an ancient temple ruined some centuries past, the neglect of this sacred ground was an offence against Solthecius himself.
The Inquisitor’s dilapidated surroundings offered little to placate to her condemnation. The elements had not been kind to a building standing unattended for so many years, her eye picking out places where walls had crumbled and fallen in, and dark metalwork was spotted with orange. Tall windows, once proud and vibrant, had grown dull in their frames; the panes from several others shattered over the floor in pointed shards of multicoloured glass.
This remote shrine would be impure forevermore, sins of the past having rendered it far beyond the limits of mortal sanctification. The order had allowed the lonely site to be quietly forgotten over the years as the trail of attendant worshippers had slowly reduced to a trickle, content that the pious should never know of its existence. It was probable the dusty flagstones had known neither foot nor knee for decades until the arrival of the Inquisition, the carpets once covering them having rotted away long since.
But, Grace was not here to kneel in supplication.
A warren of tunnels hid underfoot, a sprawling dungeon first created for the primitive temple a thousand years ago, made into a labyrinthian maze by the architects of the chapel erected in the time since. They had not been alone in their attentions. Nature too had touched the confusing hive of forgotten cells and foetid cellars just as it had the land above, shuddering tremors and flooding causing irreversible destruction in the depths. Fraught with collapsed ceilings and impassable corridors, even the most recent map was hopelessly obsolete.
It was the perfect prison for as vile a fraternity as the Union.
Despite the length of leash allowed him by the new Bacchus, Rage had quickly proven too wild a dog to be left to his own devices, his rebellious instinct too fractious to be of use. Grand plans for the treacherous cadre spoiled, Pious VI had not sat idle in retaliation. His Inquisitors’ mission of stewardship soon become one of hunter and prey, Grace and Benediction ordered to entomb each member of the Union underground, far from the eyes of man.
Their first quarry had been Rage himself, the vicious thug now imprisoned in a cell as bleak as his blackened heart. His capture in particular had been a dark enough deed to cost of the lives of three initiates, each bloodied by his wicked cleaver until their bodies moved no more. Pursuit of the other wolves in his ruthless pack had been less barbaric, yet none had come easily.
The Saint would have lied if she did not admit to a sense of satisfaction in persecuting such reprehensible scum. She had readily paid penance each night, quickly reaching forgiveness for her behaviour in service of the August Lord. Her conscience remained as pure as her unbroken innocence.
Footsteps cut through the silence and from the corner of her vision, Benediction’s immense frame appeared. Unlike Grace, he wore his armour and faceplate, his robes dirtied from travelling through the depths below. Behind him he dragged a long chain, metal links clinking together as they writhed, the final malefactor struggling in vain against the hard iron.
The witch had arrived.
The woman had been a dishevelled mess even before she had been dragged from her den, clothes a tattered collection of unwashed rags, her hair matted into thick dreadlocks. She reeked as only an individual with an aversion to bathing could, a musky stench of dried sweat and mould.
Grace’s eyes narrowed, a sadistic smile creeping across her features. Hemlocke deserved cleansing in more ways than one. Amongst all of her miserable brethren the witch offended the order most, by defying the very word of Solthecius with her sacrilegious profanity. She belonged in the dark ages past, a slave to the pagan beliefs of man when he had paid fealty to the elements and the stars above.
Sensing the contemptuous stare, the witch turned her head towards Grace, only to wilt and avert her tortured eyes as she shrank away again. The brief glimpse revealed pupils dilated to monstrous proportions, all trace of colour replaced by heavy black orbs. Doubtless, Hemlocke had been sampling her own stock.
A vicious yank of her collar dragged the witch under the light of the grand dome, painting her in dappled hues. She reacted by clawing at the chain and shrieking at her tormentor.
‘No blind man should see as you, giant. You are unnatural, an abomination!’ The sudden outburst was the first collection of legible words the woman had offered since her capture, the rest only gnashing of teeth and forlorn wailing.
Hemlocke’s spite earned her a backhanded slap across the mouth, the impact whipping her delicate neck backwards. When her head swung back again she glared murderously, bloated eyes unblinking.
A thin trail of red trickled over her chin, and the witch defiantly spat a mouthful of bloody phlegm onto the floor, crimson covering a cross carved into the stone.
She grinned, teeth stained pink. ‘The Old Ones care little for your pretend lord, or the misguided fools who follow him. You are as powerless as the lies your kind peddle, and these worthless icons crumbling under my heel.’
Benediction punished her blasphemy again, a huge hand seizing Hemlocke by the throat and roughly hauling her into the air. His head swung around to Grace as the witch’s hands scrabbled at his grip, blank mask somehow conveying his silent question.
Grace took a moment to savour the undiluted panic over Hemlocke’s features. Her face was turning a painful shade of purple, her legs frantically kicking on tiptoes. The witch was clearly running out of breath, her sullen tongue silenced but for a strangled gasp.
The Saint shook her head.
Benediction gave one last cruel squeeze before hurling the Union scum away, her body tumbling through the air until she landed amongst the rotting remnants of a row of pews. The witch struck the wood with a sickening thud, an agonised scream torn from her lungs on impact. Her voice trailed into a rasp as she slipped to the floor like a child’s discarded ragdoll.

Hemlocke lay still amongst the splintered wood, only movement a tremble as she sobbed
pathetically. The line of red across her chin had become a wide river, pooling on the old stone beneath her.
‘I will not pretend you do not deserve death for your sins, witch. You are barely a trial in our holy mission, a trivial distraction at most. Perhaps death would provide the best form of censure for one such as you, rather than imprisonment.’ Hemlocke didn’t react to the words, her eyes still closed.
Grace glanced at her companion. His mask hid any hint of expression, but Grace knew his judgement would match hers regardless. The heathen woman’s fate was sealed in a moment of unspoken communion.
‘Illuminate her.’ With the slightest nod, the Virgin Sister signalled her guardian into action once more. An armoured boot stepped forward from under his robes, catching the light in spite of a thin layer of grime.
Hemlocke lurched up into the air, a marionette with her strings suddenly pulled taught. Her hands scratched at the air, nails clawing like talons clutching invisible rungs. Back straight as a rod, the witch’s head snapped towards Grace, eyes rolled back to become milky orbs. She bared her teeth in a feral grin.
Benediction broke into a run, hands reaching for her, but the witch slipped away as though possessed by a devil, her nimble agility at odds with how erratically her limbs moved. She reached the nearest window in moments, the tall glass pane already shattered inwards. Without breaking her unnatural gait Hemlocke launched herself through the opening, disappearing but for a bloody scrap of cloth.
Benediction roared in frustration, punching an armoured fist into the wall. He looked back towards Grace, tilting his head downwards in self condemnation.
The Saint’s smile returned. It was time to persecute the hunt once more.

Hemlocke’s eyelids slowly parted, her vision blurry and indistinct. Whatever spirits had aided her escape had scattered, leaving her entirely mortal once more, a broken shell stretched over weak and bruised flesh.
As her senses returned she became slowly aware she lay at the bottom of a shallow ditch, muddy water soaking through her clothes, icy cold against her clammy skin. It seemed some time had elapsed since her flight, the avatar of the Father fallen from the blank skies to usher in the dominion of the  Goddess. The landscape was coloured a pale hue, the faint and ethereal light birthing a deep shadow in the recess where she now  languished.
Her ears detected nary a hint of pursuit, but Hemlocke knew the accursed holy men would still be searching for her. She was the last of the Union to have evaded them, and their kind did not rest easily.
They would hunt for her until her last breath, the chase as relentless as their passion for their falsehood god.
She groaned, knowing she was poor game presently.
Her forehead was warm and fevered; from her short breath and a dull ache in her flank she was likely wounded inside, the taste of coppery blood painted over her lips. Two of the fingers on her left hand were broken, pointing in unnatural directions. With her frenetic scramble apparently ceased some hours before, Hemlocke feared that if she tried to move her body would not obey.
She was a shattered figure, collapsed in a bolthole and awaiting death.
Hemlocke closed her eyes once again. If the gods wanted to take her, she would gladly relinquish her life to them. Even in this state, she was their servant, and she dared not betray the ancient oaths of her order. In a faltering mumble, she began to mouth ancient words from the rite of ending.
An image appeared in her mind, her voice faltering as the words inexplicably caught in her throat.
She felt herself frown outwardly as the vision expanded and a fine lunar mist eclipsed all, covering every surface and leaving her numb. Somewhere in the distance faint silhouettes moved, their forms indistinct and wreathed by billowing clouds. Whenever she would strain her eyes to concentrate on one it would become intangible, only to maddeningly reappear some distance away.
Their voices echoed through the murky gloom, words illuminating each spirit momentarily with sparks of colour against the grey background.
‘What do you want for this one’s release?’ Even distorted the first voice was deep enough to be undeniably male, strong and powerful, the speaker glowing bright amber.
‘A gesture, support in coming trials.’ The second voice was a sinister hiss, the slither of a serpent baring its fangs.
‘Very well.’ Hemlocke felt uncertainty creep into the first speakers tone, and saw a shard of cold ice break through his aura, a jagged line of canker, twisted and bitter. He reluctantly spoke again after a pause. ‘We shall enter into agreement with you.’
The second spirit did not reply, instead sweeping around to face her as the mists surrounding them whipped up into a storm. His eyes bored into hers for a moment through the turmoil, and a cold sweat dripped down her spine. The vortex span faster, accompanied by the shrieking of a thousand crows, swirling forward to envelop her within a cloak of charcoal feathers.
His face coalesced inches before her own, the spirit become a horrific visage of a cloaked devil, a skull with sharpened teeth leering from the folds of blackened sackcloth.
‘You are not supposed to be here, witch. Why have you transgressed into this past?’ His dark words were the chill of the grave, morbid and flat, bereft of any trace of warmth.
Hemlocke found herself unable to answer, terror seizing her breath and suffocating her.

Her knees buckled as her essence ebbed away, drawn on strings leading to his skeletal fingers.
The devil’s hold was broken in a howl of agony, a spear of light skewering the enveloping darkness, warmth flooding through the rent to return life to the world once again. On the other side, she could see the first speaker, his golden aura strong and restored. He shielded another figure, a bestial creature which snarled furiously, and clacked her slavering jaws.
‘Come, Hemlocke! Quickly!’ This voice was female, the animalistic snarl familiar somehow.
‘Salvation!’
Hemlocke’s reply was drowned out by the murder of crows, a jagged cacophony which lashed at the golden figure and reopened the rent in his soul, allowing the ice to pour in.
She felt herself slipping away, the vision pulling itself to the edge of her consciousness. She desperately tried to reach her hands outwards, still unable to wrest meaning.
‘Run! Run, Hemlocke! Whilst you can, come to us!’ The urgent voice broke through once more, faint and quickly fading, swallowed by a tide of rolling mists, retreating away into the aether.
Hemlocke’s head recoiled, a great breath forcing itself into her lungs with a violent shudder. Her eyes open, she saw that day had come once more. Somewhere nearby, she could hear footfall in the undergrowth, dried leaves cracking under booted heel.
It was time to flee her hiding place. The gods had seen fit to send her portents once more, and where they beckoned she would follow without question. She scrambled to her feet, forcing herself to ignore a sharp spike of pain in her chest. Her role in the machinations of the Old Ones was far from over, her future undecided, a path untraveled.
And her side yet to be chosen.

Some exciting times ahead. Both sculpts are great – I really like the snake that the mortician version has.

Time to play some games and head on over to the Forums and get Hemlocke in the Mortician’s!

Until next time sports fans!