Scenario: The Cursed City

How do you polish tarnished silver? Carelessness can lead to abrasion, destroying the vessel meant to be cleansed. The cleaner must work slowly, patiently, but with determined effort. So it was with the redemption of the great city of Praag.

The Crone, that was not her name, but it was the name she was called in this place, was well acquainted with corruption and Chaos. She had been the corruptor, the corrupted, and the purifier in other places and in other lives. Some seasons into her time in Kislev, she heard of the plight of Praag and made her decision: it would be her doom to cleanse the city or die. Leaving her great tower of ice, unsavory ursines following her as they always did, she made her way to a nearby Stanitsas. Her presence was met with stilted hesitation, yet she endured it and proclaimed her intent to the local atman and a visiting boyar. Not three nights later she found herself in sight of Praag. So began the Purge of Praag.

Tales of banes and boons levied in cold dark of night, to the corrupt and pure respectively, began to be told. Slow at first, a crooked merchants death at his own hands as he clawed at birds only he could see, gold coin, stamped with an unknown visage, given to an honest family, these tales reached the halls of power in time. The honest and upright, so long oppressed by the pulsing taint of Praag, grew bolder, speaking openly to one another of known corruptions and evils. For long weeks this went on as summer gave way to fall. Then came the reprisal.

The bold were hanged, the innocent bled, the wicked laughed and feted. For a day. That night was brutal, frigid, unrepentantly cold. All who could stayed inside, the just once more afraid and the unjust celebrating late into the night. Those who survived the night remember the screams on the wind, and the horror the light of dawn brought. Those houses that had wrought wickedness the day prior were painted red with blood and viscera. Spikes, wicked claws, and other jagged impaling implements skewer the scions of the wicked Houses of Praag. The grounds where those Houses stood remained unbearably cold, even as the sun chased away the nights lingering chill.

Emboldened once more, the living righteous of Praag took to the streets and attacked known havens of evil. Outnumbered as they were, the righteous sustained few injuries. Always, it seemed, that when a spear was wielded by the wicked, the wielder would be stricken with sudden malady or would slip on a unseen patch of ice. On such occurrences, the Crone let herself been seen by the righteous. Her visage, while unpleasant, became a welcome site to the crusaders as the day grew long.

When the shadows grew long that day, most of the crusaders felt themselves drawn to the center of the city. There waited the Crone. She spoke plainly, her raspy voice gave them a hard truth. There was an even greater corruption deep in the heart of their city, and while the righteous had done well to strike hard at Chaos, Chaos would retaliate with even greater fervor come nightfall. Alone, individuals huddled in their homes, they would stand no chance. So, with what little time and light remained, they must choose: fight or run. For her part, the Crone explained her part in the events and stated her resolve to stay and fight for the city. To a one the righteous chose to stay and fight. The Crone was pleased.

The fight itself ran through the night. The crusaders fought for their homes, fought for each other, and eventually fought out of pure hatred of Chaos. Vampires, mutants, the few remaining skulking cultists all came and crashed into the ranks of the righteous, yet their ranks held. The Crone aided where she could, be did not tax her strength. Her fight would come.

When it came, it came with fire and blood. A thing of pure Chaos: strong, tainted, and twisted. It stool taller than the giant bears of the steppe. It spoke in a guttural language that none of the righteous knew but understood all the same. He was their death, he was their doom. Yet, much to his surprise, he was not the only doom in attendance that night.

Wind whipped, bitter and cold, chasing away the heat brought forth by the daemon. With the wind came cackling, shrill, full bodied, and unapologetically mirthless. No matter where the stood or what they were engaged in, the righteous saw her from the corner of their eyes: the Crone. It was she who was laughing, a terrible, mocking sound, and as she laughed she changed. The old woman warped and twisted, age beyond age showing on her face, even as her body grew larger and more powerful. As her cackle reached its crescendo, her change completed. Twice her original height, a thing of tight sinew and bone, knotted wood and moss, she was a thing of the old tales, of the old rules and ways of the forest. She filled the hearts of crusaders with hope, even as their minds and stomachs churned at the sight of her.

Long the battle raged, ending just before the dawn. Yet as the rays of the sun blessed the Silver City with a new day, though it was bloodied, so was it also finally clean.



Pulk

Hero
>Priest of Dazh
>Ice Witch
>Hetman (2)
>Priest of Ursun
>Hag Witch
>Bear Mount

Units
>Kossars (600)
>Winged Lances (375)
>Gryphon Lancers (100)
>Sons of Ursun (170)
>Bears (600)
>Giant Bears (65)

Akila Troop (Cavalry)
>Hetman
>WL (285)
>GL (50)

Baran Troop (Infantry)
>Hetman
>K (600)
>WL (20)
>SoU (50)
>B (100)
>GB (10)

Ursul Troop (Bears)
>Priest of Ursun
>WL (20)
>SoU (100)
>B (500)
>GB (50)

Zdislav Troop (HQ)
>Ice Witch
>Priest of Dazh
>Hag
>WL (50)
>GL (50)
>SoU (20)
>GB (5)