Admiral:
Just for the record, here’s the fluff piece from the flayman tutorial:
Warmth. Comfort. Rest. Swathed in darkness, the mind of a man drifted between consciousness and sleep upon the swampy mangrove shores of distant Pigbarter. It was a mind suckling this rare peace. It was a mind as hardened as the gnarled body it inhabited.
Originally from Marienburg, the man had spent so many years of his life upon the decks of Tilean vessels that he barely could speak his native language. It had been a life of hardship and plight, especially so the childhood years. Beaten, hungry and weathered by icy winds and howling storms, he had made the sea his homeland and the ships his shifting homes.
High up in the rigging and masts, he had toiled and endured when the roping flayed the skin from off his hands. They were callused hands with fingers hooked like claws, barely able to straighten after thousands of hours of labour. Yet they were also able hands with tool and weapon alike, and as he grew into adulthood his natural talent for fighting had become apparent.
Seeking his luck, the young man had become a buccaneer, a pirate, a scourge and bandit of the seas. There he had witnessed wonders and horrors which no son of the land would ever witness or believe. Death and disease had been his companions as much as fortune and success.
It had been a hard life, broken only by bursts of drunkeness and pleasure, yet it has been his life. That life was about to end.
[align=center]- - -[/align]
Cold. Pain. Panic. Swathed in rags and dried blood, the body of a man scrambled to rise and run, acutely aware of danger like never before. Even the act of breathing seemed to tear at his lungs. Pressing aside the limp corpse of a man, he got up on his knees and rose up.
“Oi! Boss! Ere’z un more!” The sharp voice spoke of cruelty and knives. It came from behind, somewhat to his left if he was any judge. With ears ringing like bells, it might have come from right in front of him.
The man started to run, one foot bloodied and naked, the other still stuck in his shoe. Panting with agonized lungs, he pumped with his arms and legs to escape. Around him, he caught glimpses of a massacre among the mangrove trees. Inhuman shapes moved about in groups, stabbing and hacking into the bodies of dying men. Moans and screams of agony were in the air, as were the putrid stench of death, swamp and salty sea. He had to get out!
Jumping over the corpses of his first helmsman and some greenskinned bogeyman, he spotted a thicket of old trees and ran for it. In there, he might escape any pursuers…
A whirling throwing knife cut into his back and sent him splashing into a pool of muddy water and blood. The knife must have penetrated one of his lungs. He could not breathe, he could not breathe! The pain paralyzed him.
Someone’s foot planted itself on him, stamping hard. Yet the blade was slid out from his back, leaving him sprawled on the ground, gasping and coughing blood.
“Zee wut da wolf dragged in…” said the same, sharp voice. Then it yelled: "Tell da stuntees! We’ve got da kap’n!"
The man tried to turn around, but was pinned down by the creature. He was too weak to resist, in any case. It was time to give up the struggle. He resigned himself to his fate. Above him, he heard the sound of blades being sharpened.
“Ere dey come,” said the voice. The foot was removed from his back. With an effort, he turned around in the puddle, staring up into an abomination flanked by a handful of ugly Greenskins.
“Horns and hooves,” the short monster spat in an odd dialect. It seemed to be some kind of Dwarf, dressed in exotic armour and wearing the highest hat the man had ever seen. It bore a bizarre shield and some sort of scimitar. “You will speak, and you will suffer.”
“Yes,” he managed to say in a weak voice, coughing more blood.
“I, Warlord Uhr-Uruk Hamzhibinzulbar Blackeye of the Red Host, have hereby trampled your forces into dust and death,” said the foreign Dwarf. "For the sake of my liege, Sorcerer-Prophet Nir-Kezhar, I hereby claim all your belongings and all survivors of your followers as loot and slaves. May the four Daemons of myth - Azhar, Talkrun, Cid’Jaelogschin and Kairos - act as witnesses for this oath, for I hereby swear that high Hashut will be given His sacred due of the booty upon the sacrificial pyre before the sun sets, in view of His mighty idols."
When the creature had finished rambling, it bowed down to the exhausted manling.
“You will tell me your name, and you will suffer,” the Chaos Dwarf growled.
The man didn’t even try to resist. “Mikael Hauptmann,” he managed to say, "captain of the three vessels…"
Uhr-Uruk Hamzhibinzulbar darted forward, grabbing his head with one arm and crushing down on his chin with the butt of his scimitar. Mikael struggled in vain as the Warlord pulled out his tounge and cut it off. The captain tried to scream without success as blood flowed from his mouth. Such pain! It made him dizzy, but not dizzy enough to miss what was said next:
“Mikael Hauptmann,” the evil creature smacked with his own tounge, as though trying the syllables for the first time. He tossed the human’s cut-off tounge to one of the nearby, gangly Greenskins. “Here! You know what to do, Khan. I want this wretched foe strung up yet flat as though the thunderous hooves of Hashut Himself had trampled and crushed his worthless body. It will be finished before the evening sacrifices, or you and your… retinue will burn!”
“Aye-aye!” said one of the Hobgoblins as the Warlord walked away.
They gathered around Mikael, closing in with sadistic smiles, producing knives as though out of nowhere and reaching for him with grins that were all fangs and tusks. The leader, or at least the one with the biggest hat, took a stranglehold around the human’s throat and ordered:
"Say ‘Aaah’!"
The victim complied.
[align=center]:hashut[/align]
