Morgur, the Shadowgave, King of Skulls, and Devourer of Souls.
To hear this name is to send shivers down the spines of mortals. The mere thought of Morgur is enough to drive people into hiding. This creature, a twisted manifestation of mutation and decay, is one of the Beastmen's most infamous Legendary Beastlords. Morgur embodies Chaos itself, a walking atrocity covered in a patchwork of coarse fur, bones, and skin. Skulls are woven into its body, each whispering incoherent gibberish or wailing in despair. Morgur's ever-shifting, ever-rebuilding form is a horrifying sight, and its very presence corrupts everything around it. Trees rot, rivers flow backward, and animals mutate into grotesque forms wherever Morgur treads.
This Beastlord leaves chaos in its wake, gathering not only Beastmen but also all manner of twisted monstrosities. Arrows aimed at Morgur transform into bats or frogs, magic becomes a rain of blood or choking smoke, and cannonballs twist into dust before impact. Morgur's mutated claws and rotting staff spell doom for its enemies—Imperial soldiers rot alive, their wounds sprouting writhing tentacles as black ichor oozes from their orifices. The lucky ones perish quickly; the unlucky swell into grotesque Chaos spawn, becoming thralls to Morgur.
Upon seeing Morgur's sigil, Daith, the Wood Elf Waywatcher Lord, was overcome with both terror and rage.
"Beastmen believe Morgur predates even the Elven empires," Daith said with visible dread. "To them, his existence is the ultimate desecration of gods and mortals alike. Morgur's appearance is considered a divine omen by the Beastmen—a blessing from Chaos itself. Whenever Morgur emerges, every Beastman in the vicinity begins a pilgrimage to bask in his corruption."
"A pilgrimage?" Bertrand, the commander of the Old Guard, asked thoughtfully as everyone listened intently.
"Yes. The vast majority of Beastmen perish during this pilgrimage, driven mad by Morgur's unholy aura. Only a few survive with their minds intact, and those who do either become Bray-Shamans or are crowned Beastlords," Daith continued, shaking his head bitterly. "Morgur has brought nothing but suffering to Athel Loren. His countless invasions have cost the Wood Elves rivers of blood. Each time, the incarnations of our gods have had to intervene, and even then, we have barely managed to hold him back."
"I've heard of this," Bertrand said, turning to Belya and Rokossovsky. "The last time Morgur invaded Arden Forest, the Queen's Champion, Araloth the Bold, defeated him, but the Wood Elves suffered thousands of casualties. Even one of their sacred artifacts was destroyed."
The forest was deathly silent, save for the cawing of distant crows. The commanders gathered to deliberate their next move.
As Taal's chosen, Bertrand harbored an innate hatred for the Beastmen, creatures that corrupted nature and defiled the forests. Stroking his long mustache thoughtfully, he turned to Rokossovsky. "So, what's the plan? Do we withdraw and report this to His Majesty, or do we engage with our current forces?"
Belya's sharp eyes darted toward Rokossovsky, silently urging caution. It was clear the Ungol preferred a retreat to avoid any unnecessary risks.
"Given the current circumstances, Morgur is far beyond our ability to handle," Rokossovsky said bluntly. He was aware of Belya's intentions but had his own strategic considerations. "Even the Wood Elves, with their exceptional troops, paid a steep price to defeat him. While our forces are formidable, achieving victory here would be highly unlikely."
"I agree," Belya quickly chimed in. "Marshal Rokossovsky is right. We should retreat immediately and inform the King."
"Retreat is not an option!" Rokossovsky interrupted, his tone sharp. "Belya, understand this: we cannot simply leave the forest. The moment we entered, the Beastmen were already watching us."
"What do you mean?" Bertrand asked, his brow furrowed.
"If we try to retreat now, what do you think will happen?" Rokossovsky's piercing gaze swept the group.
"A pursuit," Bertrand answered after a pause. "The army would likely fall apart during the retreat—unless, of course, we leave the Old Guard to cover our withdrawal."
"Exactly. And that is why we must fight—proactively," Rokossovsky said, unfurling a map onto the frozen ground. "Only a successful engagement can give us the opportunity to withdraw safely and report to His Majesty."
"Understood!" Bertrand's resolve hardened. As Taal's chosen, his eyes burned with divine fury and determination.
"The hunters will become the hunted," Bertrand declared.
Turning to the five Grey Knight recruits, he gave them their orders. "Pétain, you and your squad have a special mission. Surely you've noticed how the Beastmen seem particularly hostile toward you."
"We have," Pétain affirmed.
"Good. This battle will require your assistance," Bertrand said, exchanging a glance with Rokossovsky. Together, they devised a strategy based on one of Ryan's own tactics.
"It's called Luring the Beast."
The Setup
Hours later, the Bretonnian army clashed with the Beastmen in a less densely wooded area of the forest.
The battlefield reeked of Chaos. Trees twisted and rotted, stones warped into grotesque shapes, and the ground was thick with decaying detritus, releasing a noxious stench. This desolate area had become a gathering point for thousands of Beastmen. More were arriving, singing ancient hymns that praised the Dark Gods, further distorting the forest around them. Tree trunks sprouted pulsating growths, and sap oozed out as a putrid, yellow-green sludge.
Leading the Beastmen was the Beastlord Skarl Bloodfeast, accompanied by three Minotaur warbands, two Bestigor warbands, several Gor herds, five Chaos Spawn, and countless Ungors, along with mutated warhounds and Centigors. Beside him stood the Bray-Shaman Dar Soulshatter, who muttered vile curses:
"Humans… kill… destroy… no trace!"
The Bretonnian army adopted an unusual formation.
Bertrand positioned two local Arden Forest peasant infantry regiments, along with a handful of skirmishers, at the center in a thin formation.
The left flank consisted of tightly packed halberdiers, swordsmen, and crossbowmen, including some free company militias. Wood Elf Waywatchers and Bertrand's longbowmen formed a second line behind them.
The right flank was dominated by a mix of knights and knight-errants, many dismounted, alongside Mousillon's elite infantry, gunners, and artillery.
Beastlord Skarl was puzzled by the formation. Why would the humans place their weakest units at the center while concentrating their elites on the right flank? Was this an obvious ploy to lure the Children of Chaos into splitting the human forces?
Unable to comprehend such complexities, Skarl dismissed his doubts. Even when Dar Soulshatter cautioned, "Humans… cunning… trap… beware," the Beastlord ordered an all-out assault.
With a deafening roar, the Beastmen surged forward like a tidal wave.
The battle began.
The human center immediately came under immense pressure. Skirmishers clashed with the Beastmen vanguard—Gor herds and Centigor raiders—while the peasant infantry braced themselves. Despite their fear, these peasants fought fiercely, driven by memories of past atrocities and a thirst for vengeance.
The first wave of Gors and Centigors was repelled by volleys of arrows and bolts. But when the second roar echoed through the forest, Bestigors and Minotaurs entered the fray. The Beastlord wasted no time, committing his most elite troops early.
"Kill… eat… humans… weak… strong rise!!!" bellowed Skarl as over a hundred Bestigors, their horns gleaming like blades, charged into the human center. Shields shattered, spears splintered, and swords bounced off their heavy armor. The peasant infantry buckled under the pressure.
The skirmishers fared even worse. Dragged off their horses, they were dismembered by frenzied Gors. The Beastmen devoured the bodies on the spot, with Minotaurs and Bestigors claiming the choicest cuts while the Ungors scavenged scraps.
As the human center began to falter, Bertrand focused on holding the left flank. Halberdiers formed three ranks, swordsmen raised their shields, and crossbowmen fired relentlessly. Yet, even as they fought valiantly, five Chaos Spawn—grotesque amalgamations of flesh, bone, and tentacles—pushed into the line, attempting to tear open a breach.
Bertrand's leadership kept the troops disciplined, but the fighting was brutal. He personally entered the fray, loosing arrows with deadly precision. Each shot brought down a Chaos Spawn, but the strain was beginning to show.
The right flank was locked in a chaotic melee. Knights clashed with Gors and Ungors, unable to fully leverage their charges in the dense terrain. Despite shouting the Lady's name and fighting bravely, the knights were hard-pressed to hold their ground.
The situation looked grim. Sensing victory, Skarl committed his final reserve: the infamous Minotaur warband Bloodmoon Eclipse.
But just as the Beastmen seemed poised to overwhelm the Bretonnians, five silver-clad figures emerged from the collapsing center.
Clad in shimmering plate armor adorned with purity seals and wielding weapons inscribed with holy scripture, the Grey Knight recruits charged into the fray. Their sudden appearance lit up the battlefield like a beacon.
"We are the Hammer!"
The recruits' battle cry echoed through the forest. Though only five in number, they carved through an entire Bestigor warband. Swords and halberds sliced through flesh and bone, leaving a trail of carnage.
The recruits' radiant psychic energy enraged the Beastmen. Dar Soulshatter screeched incoherently, summoning a swarm of bloated, pus-filled Chaos crows to attack the Grey Knights. But as the recruits raised their weapons and chanted praises to the Emperor, a blinding psychic explosion erupted from their bodies.
The Light of the Emperor washed over the battlefield, burning away the Chaos crows and sending shockwaves through the enemy ranks. For a moment, fear gave way to hope among the human soldiers.
When the light faded, the Beastmen realized too late—they had been drawn into a trap.
The Bretonnian army now surrounded them on three sides. To their left were Bertrand's disciplined infantry and archers; to their right, Mousillon's elite troops and knights. And directly ahead, behind the Grey Knights, stood the Old Guard—three battalions singing The Song of the Onion, advancing with grim determination.
The final blow came from the Royal First Guard Lancers, led by Rokossovsky and Belya. Emerging from the forest like a blade through butter, the cavalry slammed into the Beastmen's rear, cutting their formation in two.
The Beastmen were now trapped in a deadly pocket. From all sides, Bretonnian forces closed in, and the tide of battle turned decisively.
This was the true Luring the Beast.
Now, it was humanity's turn to strike back!
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