TAMURKHAN THE THRONE OF CHAOS PDF

It contains a huge amount of fluff and a bevvy of new rules, units and characters. Background[ edit ] The idea of the fluff is the Chaos Gods were sick and tired of this unreliable "Everchosen" shit and just decided to have a Battle Royale to determine who was da biggest and da best, promising the winning champion the "Throne of Chaos" which was to be eternal dominion of the mortal world in a Daemonic Body. Surprisingly Nurgle won because his champion, Tamurkhan showed up a little late to the party and spent that time recruiting many monsters who could handle whatever was thrown at them. He was eventually defeated outside of Nuln, the final city he needed to take before being granted the Throne of Chaos.

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The Loop Games Do you like this video? Beware, for such knowledge is as treacherous as the path to greatness in the service of Chaos itself. Tamurkhan the Great, Tamurkhan the Fool, pawn of prophecy and bringer of slaughter.

Numerous legends and lies have clustered about Tamurkhan long before he had gathered his great horde, and in his fulfillment of a prophecy, struck out like a poisoned talon at the wider world beyond the Chaos Wastes. Some tales speak of him to be the millennia-old scion of the Great Kurgan , one of four sons, mighty and terrible, who each set out to the four winds to conquer in the service of the four great powers of Chaos.

In the Year of the Crow in the sixth reign of the Black Moon, by Norscan reckoning, the never-ending tempest that crowns the storm that is known to men as the Realm of Chaos waxed gibbous and grasping. All across the northlands the earth shifted and moaned as if it were a sleeper beset by nightmares; battle-graves vomited forth their unquiet dead, and she-beast and mortal woman alike were greatly blessed with the taint of Chaos in their birthings. All men knew that a time of great portents was at hand, and rumours spread like grassland fires of sundered prisons and baleful visitations, of great monsters bestirred from their slumbers in the caves and mires of the wastes, and of sorceresses leaping eager into the minds of those with the wit to seize them.

War was coming, as it had countless times before and would do so countless times again — red war the likes of which every Northman be they Dolgan, Chi-An or Kharzag feels the calling of in their bones and cannot resist. War at the pleasure of the Chaos Gods. Others, tormented by dreams and visions, quested alone, travelling ever northward to where the world itself was ripped apart. Of these dark pilgrims, some found paths to bleak and nightmarish shrines where they came to claim a blessing and pledge their allegiance to one of the Great Powers, while many merely found death.

For some the prospect of fighting familiar foes and settling ancient feuds was enough to call on their savagery and spur them to action alone, while others, superstitious and pious in their dark religion, sought the favour of the gods by divining prophecies and the calling of daemonic summonings for lore and guidance as to where their blow should fall.

Fickle and contradictory are the gods of Chaos, and treacherous their daemon-kin. For each visitation and augury was a different answer given, and for each a different path to glory illuminated. Men and beast fell and were changed, their bodies contorting and mutating anew into shapes more pleasing to their masters, and those around them rejoiced, letting out great howls of triumph, for surely by this omen was their cause blessed.

When the Champions and their armies came to battle here, each one hoped to prove their worth and the superiority of their patron over all others. A Champion who was a victor here would be marked for greatness, and by ancient tradition became master of those they vanquished. The fame of such a warlord would spread throughout the Northern Wastes, and many would flock to their banner in promise of the glories to come.

First from the west came the brazen-armoured warriors of Hakka the Aesling , his axe-men drawn up in brutal column, each accompanied by packs of blood-crazed gore-spawn and flayed hounds snapping at their leashes. From the east came Sargath the Vain , horse-lord of the Yurtsak , at whose bequest the paramours of Slaanesh had given themselves up to his service.

From the south came the witch-cabal of Urak Soulbane , Arch-Sorcerer and daemon-priest, at whose beckoning the earth and rocks themselves spat forth twisted killing shapes, and above whose head vultures whirled on wings of flame. Although comparably few compared to the other greater forces, the witch-cult was deadly, and its fanatic acolytes and sorcerers could match many times their own numbers in combat.

The dead plazas of the fallen city echoed once more to the song of steel and the piteous cries of the dying. Hour after hour, day after day the forces clashed and parted in the heartbeat rhythm of war.

The fighting ran on unabated, and soon where thousands had battled before, tens of thousands now flocked to join the conflict, swelling the armies of the mighty champions with scores of Chaos warlords, hungering monstrosities and Chaos warriors beyond number.

It had begun as a flood of distorted, nightmarish things, dredged up from the depths of cold mires: hungering bile trolls , worm-men, and hideous nameless things dripping rot and slime. At the head of this monstrous horde was a rotted yet living cadaver astride a mighty Toad Dragon , a cadaver that called itself Tamurkhan the Maggot Lord, servant of the God of Pestilence and father of all diseases: Nurgle.

But from the beginning, he amongst the four had been marked for glory by his patron god. As Tamurkhan had set out from his foetid lair, Nurgle himself had sent forth a dark and noxious storm that howled and screamed before the rancid column of beasts and half-men he commanded, carrying the certain promise of death and ruin to those who would stop them.

With every great warrior of renown came also a host of lesser fighters, tribesmen, and sub-human dregs in profusion. Such was the scale of this gathering that the northlands were nearly emptied of its inhabitants.

Most of those who rallied to the ragged banners of Nurgle were already marked by the favors of their patron lord and some were so corrupted by disease and disfigurement they were barely recognizable as being even human.

This phenomenon was not the workings of dark necromancy, but of huge, bloated carrion flies that had begun to breed and multiply within the organs of the dead and dying. The juddering corpses now burst forth in a hateful, biting swarm to darken the skies in sickly clouds and fill the fallen city with their murmurous wing-beats.

With this foul omen at hand, the witch-cult of Urak Soulbane, Acarnist of Tzeentch , fled Zanbaijin, spitting burning curses as they left, their master having divined of doom should they decide to stay and fight.

For the bitter rivals, Sargath and Hakka, the arrival of this horde did not persuade them to give up the fight, even when the swarms of biting flies began to devour the entire city. The slaughter was great and swiftly many of the minor warbands were crushed or driven from the field in disarray. Those not trapped between warring factions or blinded by bloodlust took to flight rather than risk overwhelming destruction.

At the height of the battle the skies were rent open and foul, caustic rain fell in great sheets. The proud and vicious steeds of the Yurtsak marauders were soon mired as obscene tendrils of rancid liquid rose up to drown them in a horrific massacre as the horde of Tamurkhan smashed into their flank with shattering force. The embattled combatants turned and counter-attacked this new enemy.

With his narrow rune-blade slicing through rusted armour and decaying flesh alike, he carved his way to face Tamurkhan directly.

Arrogant and scorning the forces that surrounded him, Sargath, Prince of Chaos, poured insults upon the withered figure that slumped bonelessly atop the vast hulking beast before him.

The Toad Dragon Bubebolos was the size of a tower house, its armored bulk already shredded and scratched with dozens of wounds that had done nothing to stop its rampage. The rotted figure atop the monster spat back its own taunts in reply, and at the slightest gesture of command, Bubebolos reared up and opened its vast and reeking maw wide.

Favor me, ten thousand souls have I sent for your tally, a hundred wells I have poisoned with filth and the champions of those who would put themselves before you I have slain! An infant-sized maggot, streaked with greyish slime, leaped into the throat of Sargath and ripped itself deep into his body. Many hundreds more escaped, calling upon their god for deliverance, fleeing down the crazed and pillared paths of the fallen city and becoming swallowed up by the labyrinth.

Before his assembled army, he cried out his name and lineage, claiming to be the twisted son of the Great Kurgan of old, now returning to claim his savage birthright to slay and conquer in the name of his god. He praised Father Nurgle who had brought him his blessings and declared his intention to claim the Throne of Chaos for his own. By right of conquest, the surviving warband leaders and Chaos champions owed him their fealty.

Amongst them were many who, until this moment, had considered themselves implacable enemies, rivals for mortal power and divine favour, bitter foes who would rather perish than make common cause. Yet even these degenerates swore to fight as one in the name of Tamurkhan the Maggot Lord, agreeing to lay their feuds aside so long as he brought them victories and plunder in the battles to come. They were as a stain upon the land, a spreading plague of despoil and devastation that burned like a fire through the arid grasslands of the Eastern Steppes, driving all before it.

The Dolgan were one of the largest and most powerful of all the nations of the Kurgan peoples, renowned for their fractious nature and insular hatred of other Northmen. Tamurkhan desired greatly to bring these warriors into his cause, and particularly to add to his host the powerful war mammoths they were famed to ride into battle — huge creatures able to trample legions of lesser warrior underfoot and serve as living siege engines should the need arise.

Then, instead of meeting the horde in open battle as they ravaged across the Dolgan heartland, Sayl opted instead to parlay from a position of strength with the full intention of joining his forces to those of Tamurkhan, at least as long as it proved expedient to do pledged no oath of loyalty, only comradeship and common cause.

Tamurkhan was satisfied that his goals are met, and his forces had not been squandered to gain what he desired. Instead of turning south and west, towards the rich prizes of Kislev and the Empire, Tamurkhan led his horde — now numbering in the tens of thousands with the addition of those Dolgans Sayl had pledged to the cause — ever northwards on an erratic path into the harsh climate and horror-filled wastes on the very edge of the hellish storm of the Realm of Chaos itself.

These fears proved unfounded when Tamurkhan directed his column to the northeast. Those who knew anything about the Plaguelord then guessed his real aim; Tamurkhan went to the Gallow Tree, a place of nightmare and legend rivaling any other in the Chaos Waste. Foul and unutterable things dwelt beneath its canopy, the tree being a living gateway to the horrors beyond this plane of reality.

It is said that within lies an unclean hag-daemon, shunned even by her own kind, who would bestow hidden secrets and dark prophecy on those who pleased her. Those however who failed to meet her standards of devotion to Father Nurgle ended their time as grisly adornments hanging from the boughs of the great tree above, food for maggots and crows alike after they had been subjected to a fate more terrible than a sane mind could conceive of. It was Tamurkhan alone that braved the deadly paths to the foot of the Gallows Tree and stepped within.

Left under the nominal command of Kayzk the Befouled, the nascent war host arrayed itself across the plain to await the judgement of the gods, isolating itself into wary camps, distrusting of their neighbours, even while brought together in divinely ordained cause.

Some came from as far away as the lands of the Gharhar in the north and of the Avags in the east, while dozens of renowned Champions of Chaos born of many races, some from far beyond the wastes were led to the camp by strange visions and whispered promises. Soon scouting forces were sent out by the various warlords of the host to guard against attacks by the warlike Dragon Ogres and other vile creatures that lived in the high mountains nearby, although sometimes when their parties failed to return, they rightly suspected each other rather than the appetites of the denizens of the wastes as the cause of their demise.

Despite these conflicts, overall the horde rested and grew stronger as it awaited the return of Tamurkhan. But as its masters absence dragged on into the passing of a moon, the monstrous and bestial members of the horde grew restive and ever hungrier with nought but erstwhile alies on which to dine. It would soon appear that the horde was ready to tear itself apart long before they reach lands to ravage as what wells that were dugged became so foul and exhausted that many die an ignominious death by thirst.

All could plainly see that the Maggot Lord had been marked by the Chaos gods such was his transformation. The body of Sargath, which Tamurkhan had taken as his new vessel, was decayed beyond recognition and soon he needed a new host for the next conflict zone.

When he returned to the horde, he called up a gathering of the warlords and wizards within his command and told his intentions to claim the legendary Throne of Chaos, which meant the dominion of the mortal world through which the victor shall stand upon a mountain of the dead and be ascended into daemonhood.

By doing so, he wishes to surpass the legend of his own father, the Great Kurgan, and to those that joined him on his conquest, fame and renown shall sing of their deeds for thousand of years in the wastes. Thousands upon thousands of lives will perish before their blades in unholy prayer to the Dark Gods, and their names shall be carved into the skin of the world for the powers beyond to see.

He had seen mighty giants bow down before him in homage and the fires and hellish forges of Zharr-Naggrund.

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