My first foray into the Old World lore and its potential.
The Creed of the Barrows
“The Empire has fallen. They tear it down before any of us was even born. Do not bleed for the broken dreams of southern crowns! Taal, Ulric, Sigmar… theirs are the thrones that do not fall! Only Gods are eternal! And the Gods are watching!” - Markgraf Armin Krüger, at the Battle of the Bone Fane.
The League of Ostermark lies in the Empire’s east, where Sigmar’s land meets Kislev and the World’s Edge Mountains. It is a somber and bleak land of moors, trapped between two arms of the Great Forest and dreaded Sylvania. Snowfalls blanket the land in winter and even in summer the sun has a weakened tentative to it, as if it didn’t belonged there. The province in itself is a confederation of free towns and noble estates united by much needed mutual support.
Living in the frontier, far from the populous, bountiful southern provinces, ostermarkers are used to look out for themselves, knowing their theoretical suzerain, Osterlund, does not give two figs about them. Always ignored by the powers that be, ostermarkers have learned the hard way to make do, but their situation has only gotten worse since the collapse of the imperial system. Countless woes have reduced the province to a shadow of its former self, culminating with the destruction of their capital, Mordheim, by a comet. This not only threw the province into disarray, but was quickly called Sigmar’s punishment for their sins. Impoverished, isolated and now dealing with the aftermath of divine judgment, ostermarkers live under a pale of uncertainty, wondering what the future holds for them in an Empire where they have always been counted last.
Armin Krüger is one of such men. Born of imperial and kislevite stock, like many others he escaped misery by enlisting in the state army when he was barely old enough to play the war drum. For years he followed Ostermark’s armies as they fought beastmen and greenskins, purged the things coming out of cursed Mordheim, and more than once marched to Kislev in support of their northern ally. Krüger would thrive in this world. Year after year, his sharp mind and bloody hand helped him rise through the ranks until the League crowned his career, naming him general and markgraf of Zhankoye, a small town lost on the eastern moors.
Ostermark is short of everything except enemies, and Krüger had to make do as anarchy ravaged the Empire. When the League couldn’t pay his soldiers during a Stirland invasion, he bankrupted himself to pay them, then paid himself back ransacking towns across the border, threatening to hang stirlanders from the windows if they haggled. When he lacked cannons, he hired dwarf artillerists, incurring a debt with Karak Kadrin he knew the dwarfs would never forget. When a campaign season brought him half the recruits he was expecting, he send messengers to Kislev and rallied old war comrades to his side.
So the years came and went. Now well in his fifties, some thought he would count his blessings and retire, but Krüger could not rest. For years, the general pondered the lessons he had learned and found none that would make his old age more peaceful. A lifetime of war taught him Ostermark is forever under siege and that it cannot expect anything from the Empire… assuming such a thing still exists, and Krüger has reasons to doubt it. During his career, he fought other provinces, crushed secessionist movements; he even hired kislevites to beat back his fellow imperials. As years passed, the markgraf remembered more and more what his father and the jaded elders used to say when he was a child, words he didn’t understood then but now fears he understands too well:
Sigmar built an Empire, and we killed it.
This fear weighs heavily on the markgraf’s soul, along with the dreadful certainty that the gods are angry, as Mordheim’s doom proves. What purpose is there for men like him if there truly is no Empire to serve? What has he ever fought for? As he looked for answers, Krüger could only stare at the moorlands and nurture his anger at the imperial pretenders for abandoning them to their fate.
Answers would come from a strange source. Crossing the Talabec in another grueling campaign, his army was ambushed by a beastmen warherd. The ostermarkers withstood charges for hours, their backs against the river with no hope of breaking the circle, until they were saved by an unexpected third party. Out of the forest came armored riders, savage looking men brandishing axes and hammers drenched in blood. Howling oaths in unknown languages, the knights crashed into the chaos lines and turned their incoming victory into a rout.
That day, Armin Krüger met Conrad Axelrod, grandmaster of the mysterious Order of the Barrows. None can say what words passed between the sullen markgraf and the feral knight, but they seem to have reached some kind of understanding to unite their efforts. With winter setting in, Krüger marched his army further east he had ever done, to the very foothills of the World’s Edge Mountains. He would take his winter quarters where not many men ever had: in Dagmar’s Valley, where the Order of the Barrows stands watch among graves older than Sigmar. All winter, knights and soldiers shared food and fire, waiting for spring to continue the campaign.
Krüger became one of the few guests to ever see Dagmar’s Valley. He was given access to the Order’s fortress and library, he prayed at the summit of the burial mounds, he heard sermons he had never heard before and shared conversations with the order’s preceptors and with the grandmaster. The more they talked, the more he read, the more the knights’ philosophy worked its way into Krüger’s mind until a new truth settled in:
Every head he ever took, every battle ever won, every life saved, was in the name of something older than the Empire, or even Ostermark. From the fortress’ battlement, he could see graves and shrines to Ulric and Taal older than the Empire; men and gods who killed long before there was an emperor; gods and heroes the Barrow Knights honored even as the Empire collapsed all around them. The Order killed for men and gods like Sigmar and the heroes sleeping forever in their barrows, not for any pretender vying for a crown too big for his head.
His father was right: the Empire is gone. But now, with resignation came a sense of revelation.
When spring returned, Dagmar’s Valley was emptied. Ostermarkers, kislevites, dwarfs and knights plunged into the deep forests, led by a markgraf and grandmaster intent on sealing their alliance in blood. For a season, Krüger and Axelrod roamed the eastern frontier, laying waste to orc tribes, toppling herdstones, wiping goblins and mutant bands. Between battles, priests of Ulric and Taal preached the creed of the barrows to the soldiers, until a new mortar of fervor and carnage united the disparate army and even the dwarfs nodded sternly. News of their actions soon reached Bechafen along with three hundred skulls of varied origins, an odd gift that was nonetheless well received by the Chancellor of the League. Krüger and Axelrod’s names were hailed through the streets and the markgraf’s army demobilized with honors.
That was three years ago. More campaigns have followed but even as Krüger wins victories for Ostermark, reports reach Bechafen indicating something has changed. Nothing clear, nothing definitive, but as the League’s network of informants slowly collates details, they start painting a worrying picture. First, the kislevites have not returned home, but joined the veterans the markgraf settled in Zhankoye. Second, the markgraf hasn’t set foot in Bechafen in three years but has visited Dagmar’s Valley several times, something almost unheard of, and even more unusual, the knights have returned the favor. Third and potentially most worrying of all, rumors circulate of certain words exchanged between the markgraf and his captains.
As more and more agents leave for the east in search of answers, Bechafen wonders what all of this means. The League wants to know who those mercenaries and veterans are truly loyal to, they want reports on what role Conrad Axelrod is playing and why his knights have abandoned their reclusion. More than anything, the League would dearly like to put a rumor to rest: that general Krüger has declared the Empire to be dead. An intolerable, potentially heretical declaration… if proven true.
As rumors grow in Bechafen, Armin Krüger sits in his manor, staring at the moorlands, and waits for the next spring drive. He no longer feels doubt. He knows his allies, he knows his enemies and he knows why he fights.
The Empire has fallen, but gods are eternal. And the gods are watching.