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The woods of the Drakwald were old and cursed, a land that had never been fully tamed by the will of the men of the Empire. As farms were built and villages erected the bestial hordes lurked the trees for their next sacrifice to the dark gods. It was the grim reality of the Drakwald, a life of murder and death in a feud lasting centuries. But there was one beast lord that stood above her kind. For anyone living in the Drakwald they prayed never to encounter the one-eyed beastmen and her ravenous kin. Bedtime stories were told to children never to wonder too far from the towns and roads for they may be taken by the forest. The last thing they would know would be the one-eyed face of her.

Khazrak One-eye.

A name that struck fear into the hearts of both humans and beastmen.

Khazrak watched over the beastmen camp, Gors went about usual beastmen recreational activities. Fighting for the right to eat, fighting over who would rut and fighting for the sake of fighting. She snarled at the sight, knowing her bestial kin could do little more than fight each other. She strode from her private tent, other beastmen stepping aside as she focused on the cooking boar at the centre of the clearing. The afternoon sun glimmered on her chainmail covering her tall and muscular frame. Once she reached to boar she presented her blade, taking time to hack chunks of meat from the roasting animal. She spotted a hand out of the corner of her eye. Reaching forth for a taste of the meal she held right too. With swiftness she swung around, cleaving a bleeding canyon into the creature's chest. With an assertive roar, the gor backed off with his hand clasped over his wound. The gor stepped forward, trying to prove his metal to her as a warrior worthy of her attention and a meal. Khazrak raised her blade once more, the gor cowering before the beastlord as he submissively held his head low. Proving himself to be another opportunistic runt.

Most beastmen females were shy and submissive, little more than breeding sows for the reproduction of the beastmen race. It was peculiar when one rose to the point of being a beastlord. Khazrak was one of those very few. But ever since she fought the previous beastlord, breaking his horns and sending him to die in the forest she had run things.

She fought challenges to her lordship but she couldn't do it like the other Gors. She was smaller and weaker than the larger males, she couldn't rely on the brute strength of her kin. If strength was what got her position, cunning is what maintained it. She began to pick out the types that would challenge her authority. Ones that grew too arrogant for their own good and would attempt to take the herd by force. She would accept their challenge but make sure she was at an advantage. Replacing their weapons with dull blades. Getting them drunk before the bout, or having another gor take them on before they challenged her. Even as her brown hair protruding through her armour turned grey, she staved off the onslaught of challengers. Every single one of them would try only to die before her blade. As she went back to her tent, boar leg in hand she sat confidently knowing no one would try to challenge her this day. That no one had managed to best her martial skill and cunning mind.

But there was one exception.

It was hard to forget the human who left her eye a pulsating mess.

She didn't expect to see the tenacity and focus from that mere human from the city atop the mountain. She first met him on that night after several successful raids on human villages. Stealing the livestock, burning their homes and slaughtering the inhabitants. Then the man from the mountain came. In one night her herd was destroyed, her subjects slain or sent fleeing into the woods. The man himself, a tall and broad figure atop a white horse charging into the fray with fire in his heart and fury in his eyes. Beastmen were ridden down beneath his steed while his swift sword cleaved a path through the bodies. He was aiming straight for her. She didn't have time to react before the blow took her eye. The only reason she lived that day was when her favoured chaos hound Redmaw attacked the human's horse. Allowing her to run into the forest with a hand over her weeping eye.

She sought revenge. Plotting for years against the human, watching his movements, his aims, his goals and his actions. She watched as he fiercely charged into the thick of combat. Slaying her kin with a ferocity and vigour, bellowing orders to his underlings while guiding his men to victory against the beastmen hordes. Leading them into combat without doubt. Ordering his soldiers without fear nor hesitation. Even when she managed to ambush him, managing to pin him beneath her he continued to struggle. As she ripped his eye out he attempted to fight back. The eye she treasured, even if it had rotted to nothing long ago.

For nearly three decades she had squared off against him. She had watched as the fur across his lips greyed and his voice turned harsher. Even as he seemed frailer he was no less determined. When she saw him he always had a fire in his eyes that burned with a primal hatred towards her people. She had watched him slay monsters twice his size and strength. He had felled a minotaur, something that could easily crush an armoured human beneath its hoof. He took it out in three swings, and still had the energy to fight on. She looked around the camp once more. If he stormed into the clearing, many of her kin would be too stupid to fear him. Probably taking up arms before witnessing the skilled swings of the human. Sending them scattering to the wilderness, he could probably kill any of them in a duel. The only exception she thought would be her.

But he wouldn't do it alone.

No, he was a smart human. One that had studied and learnt from the tactics of her kind. He wouldn't fight, instead he would taunt her warriors. Making them chase him through the thick and dark trees until their legs grew tired and lungs begged for reprieve. Only then would his soldiers charge forth to hack apart her kind. Finishing them off with a charge from his mounted warriors in wolf pelts.

For a culture that prided strength at arms as well as cunning, the human had both in droves. A burning determination that failed to fade with age and a sharp mind in the realm of war. He would be unmatched as a beastmen. A leader who could rally the herds under one banner and bring the civilisation of the Empire to razed ruins. She would be happy to serve beneath him.

Perhaps as more than just a second in command.

She had grown fond of the human.

Khazrak had never seen him out of combat and when she did it would be before a skirmish. She wondered what he was like beneath the armour. It must be something to carry himself at such fury around the battlefield even when he was on foot. The strength to cut large creatures apart while hurling cries of bloody revenge. A man of power and vigour. As she thought of the human she felt a hand stroke her leg while a deep bray emanated towards her. She snapped her attention to see a gathering of wide-eyed gors. She noticed she must have been giving off pheromones as she looked down to see she was unconsciously rubbing her thighs together. Even she could smell her arousal as she fantasised over her human obsession. The bestigor's hand rubbed her thigh, trying to woo her gently with a low sensual bleat and half-lidded eyes. Probably thinking he was the target of her arousal. The bestigor seductively brayed once more, sliding his hand beneath her hauberk, closing in on her moistened nethers.

How dare he touch her like that.

She swiftly brought down her blade, severing the bestigor's hand and sending the mutant sprawling to the ground in pain. She leapt to her hooves, presenting the bloody and rusted blade to the other gor's, bellowing to them as they backed away with fearful hunches and averted eyes. As one last insult, she hurled the severed hand towards the roasting fire. The sight giving warning to any others brave or stupid enough to lay hands on her. It was only after the males had scrambled before she rested on her haunches once more. It was a commonality, gors thinking they could bring her over by 'accidentally' letting their loincloths slide or groping her sensitive areas. The fire in her loins had died down a bit. She failed to sit still, fighting as she tried to ignore the her begging folds. All she could think about was the human in the armour. As she wriggled she raised a paw to her missing left eye.

It had never fully healed, continuing to bleed and pulsate. A missing eye would usually be viewed as a weakness in her culture. But for Khazrak, it was what kept her going. A constant reminder of him on her at all times.

The fire in her loins wasn't going anywhere soon and the advances of her kinsmen was doing more to put it out. She had spent all these years holding it in, knowing that as soon as she showed weakness and gave into a mate her rulership would be over. She would just be viewed as another breeding sow in the eyes of her warriors. Now with her leg of pork reduced to a bone being twined between her teeth she did what she usually did when she got hot and bothered. She slunk away into the forest, disappearing from the eyes and noses of the encampment to the darkness of the Drakwald.

---

Boris X Todbringer, Graf of Middenheim, Grand Duke of Middenland, Prince of Carroburg, Protector of the Drakwald, Warden of the Middle Mountains and Beloved of Ulric, was having a bad day. Many would say that the Elector Count hadn't had an easy reign. Having his first wife die in childbirth granting a violent, idiot of a son. An older son that while being smart and strong was the product of an illegitimate relationship with a lady of the court. Therefore his succession was thought to be destined by a violent, invalid whom he regretted siring. That was only his personal life.

Following the death of the mad Emperor Luitpold I, it was speculated that Boris Todbringer would be the next Emperor. But after a series of political moves and arguments, these speculations were proven false with the title of Emperor falling to Luitpold's very own son, the prince of Aldorf, Karl Franz.

It took several days ride for Todbringer to return to Middenheim, his head low with an unwavering scowl. The celebrations in the name of the new emperor had him keeping to himself to his palace. Watching from the windows as the festivities filled the streets of the city of the White Wolf. He found himself praying to Ulric, continuing to ask why this had happened. Why was a young pup of Sigmar given the crown over him? An experienced statesman with a long bloody history defending the Empire. A man who had fought long and hard against the Norscans, the greenskins, the undead and the dreaded beastmen.

The White Wolf gave him only silence.

Todbringer knew he couldn't mope around forever, he was still an elector count, a leader of his state and protector of its people. But even with his head towards his work, it did little to take away his doubts. Every time someone referred to him as Graf, Grand Duke or Elector Count he thought of how that could always be Emperor. Sure, even as an Emperor he would have to listen to the advisors and Bürgermeisters as they discussed trade and edicts for the state. But it was never lost on him.

He was still an Elector Count.

After watching Franz rule over the Empire, he grew fond of the young emperor. Ready to go to war at the arrival of a message. But even war couldn't take his mind off the tragic affairs of his home life. After a second marriage that gave no heir and a second dead wife the Graf became more melancholic. In recent years more tragedy struck.

The murder of his younger son and his doctor took another mental toll on Todbringer. Now with a daughter born from an affair with a lady of his court as his heir, many suitors have flocked from far and wide to secure a marriage with the Todbringer dynasty. So far, none have been found worthy.

The Grand Duke of Middenland, after many years of being weighed down by paranoia, depression and mental battering had become a shell of the former warrior and statesmen. No more than a puppet for his advisors, he agreed to what was said and didn't dare think more of it. His bushy beard streaked with pale grey while his face had turned pale with deep wrinkles running through it like cracks in stone. It was complemented with plenty of scars from previous battles, including one running through the hole where his right eye once rested. Now covered in a metal eyepatch engraved with the sigil of Ulrich. His remaining eye was a pale blue, like a stormy sky that had endured years of hardships both physical and mental.

Through it all, Boris Todbringer was no longer the young man of the reputation he built.

But he was still a Todbringer.

Today was another civil matter in the court. In the halls decorated in dedication to the God Ulric, words of civility echoed off the walls displaying savage wolf pelts and hung weapons. Three of the figures surrounding the long wooden table were clad in grey, three more were wearing the blue and white colours of Middenheim's State army. Papers scattered the table in between quills and filled wine mugs. The Grand Duke of Middenland sat in his throne, dressed in furred robes fitter for a man of the woods than a man of the aristocracy.

“As for building reports, there's the restoration of the Southern gate which the builders have said is going smoothly and should be done in four days time." The slow, calm tone of the old man in grey seemed to flow past Todbringer. His left eye didn't have focus, simply staring into nothingness as the discussion continued. Being a fierce worshipper of Ulric, Todbringer was a warrior at heart with a deep love of combat. Even if it had lost him his eye, he felt comfortable with a sword in hand in the beast filled forests of the Drakwald. Being born and raised a warrior, he saw civil matters as mundane. Even then, he just agreed with the advisor's verdict. Gently his eyes wandered around the hall.

The banners etched with battle honours and titles of past victories. The swords, axes, lances and shields, wielded by past heroes of the Empire in the defence of its people. The armour, proudly displaying the dents and cracks of past bouts of combat. The skulls polished to a shine whether it be orcs, goblins, giants, Norsemen and undead. But there was one that captivated his interest above all other threats to his people.

It was a large bestial bovine skull. Too large to belong to any regular cow. It had large unnaturally curved horns. The teeth were sharp, belonging to a feral carnivore and not the grass eating herbivore's maw. For over half his life Todbringer had been fighting the terrible and cunning beastmen of the woods. His Runefang, Legbiter had slain uncountable gors and brays. Leading his men on hunts for the creatures had been his lifework. However, it was for naught.

For every creature he slew, it felt like another would just take it place.

But that wasn't what drove Todbringer.

Slowly raising his trembling hand, the ageing Elector Count felt the metal patch where his eye once stood. It reminded him of who it was that drove him. The closest he had to a friend in all these years. He remembered that day.

When he first met her, he thought nothing more of her than another beastlord. Sure she was a female but that didn't mean much to him. The armies clashed under the night sky, the Drakwald Forest being washed with the blood of man and beast. Amongst the carnage, the beastlord and the Elector Count duelled. While it didn't end in the death of either, Legbiter tasted blood that day. Removing the beast-woman's left eye with a blow meant for her brain. Before Todbringer could deliver the deathblow, another creature threw itself at him. Taking him off his horse, letting her escape into the Drakwald.

It would take many years, but an eye for an eye prevailed. Todbringer was once more on campaign against the enemies of the Empire. Again it was dark, and he should have seen it coming. Without warning, arrows flew from the forest accompanied by the guttural brays and cries of the beastmen hordes. Todbringer went for his Runefang, ready to charge the enemy before a large hand threw him from his mount. Pinned under a towering figure, he thought could be any beastlord. Until the light illuminated the puss-filled pit that once held her left eye. With his limbs pinned, Todbringer could do nothing as she carefully reached down with deliberate cruelty. Even as Todbringer clamped his eyes shut he could only struggle as the beast-woman pried into his skull. Ignoring his squirming and screaming, he roared in agony as she scooped out his right eye. Even through the tears of pain, Todbringer saw the crooked smile that adorned her goat-like head. She played with the eye between her fingers, rolling it around her palm before dragging her tongue along it to the disgust of the Graf. As the battle raged around him, Todbringer waited for it. The blow that would end his life. But it never came.

Instead, he felt the pressure of the beast-woman shift off him, leaving him in the mud with his hand over the bleeding socket. The beastmen left as fast as they arrived. Only corpses and carnage remaining as they disappeared back into the woods. Leaving Todbringer humiliated and hungry for revenge.

Ambushes, counter-attacks, hunts and death. Fierce warriors and leaders standing above their kin, the two had continued to hunt each other with neither claiming victory. Even if many of his friends fell, taken by the chaos-spawn in those many years, it had been the happiest times for Todbringer. Even if it was hate driving him forward.

“Graf Todbringer…Graf Todbringer?" His thoughts were broken with the trembling voice of one of his advisors. Catching his attention the cold eye snapped to the elderly visage of the law lord.

“Um, yes, what was the question?" Todbringer's voice had shallowed with age, no longer the booming growl that echoed through parade grounds. Still fearsome, but it had rusted like the rest of him.

“Did you wish to approve the restoration of the North Road leading to Nordland?" The law lord asked once more, the rest of his advisors had their eyes locked on Todbringer as he hesitated to grumble out an answer.

“Oh, yes…yes do…do…Gentlemen, I must adjourn this meeting for another time?" The Elector Count suddenly stood up from his throne, taking the last gulp of his wine before walking off to the dismay of the advisors.

“Why is that my Graf?" One of the law lords questioned as Todbringer strode towards the exit. He didn't turn as he answered, instead his voice echoing in the walls of the palace.

“I feel that I might be coming down with something. We'll start this again early tomorrow." He gave a wave to the dumbstruck onlookers. Before leaving he flashed a spiteful glance at the minotaur skull. Snarling to himself as he exited the hall.

He made his way quickly through the halls of his palace, even if his age had taken its toll he still moved with a grand determination driven by stubbornness and will. When he reached his room he found the squire still at his post. Upon hearing his heavy footsteps the young man snapped awake, standing at attention as Todbringer moved past him.

“My lord." The squire said eagerly as the Graf entered his bedroom, not taking notice of the squire as he stopped in front of the stand holding a suit of ornate dwarf forged plate armour.

“Armour me up boy." The count began to unbuckle his shoes as the squire stood still with his mouth agape and eyebrows raised.

“Are you going somewhere? Should I alert the knights of the White Wo-." The squire was interrupted with a leather boot hitting him square in the chest. Despite the shock, the young man caught the footwear, looking up to see Todbringer throwing off his pelt robe with a stern frown.

“Shut up lad and help me undress." For Todbringer, even putting on his armour brought on aches and pains of past conflict. Strapping on his gambeson along with the dwarf forged plate mail with the help of the young man. Every time the armour went on it felt heavier to him. It was the same armour he started with and it was surely going to be the armour he'd die in. Despite being in his late fifties Todbringer was still an imposing man, standing broader and taller than those around him. Even his age couldn't take that away. The last piece of armour was his signature helmet. A decorative gold plated castle atop the crown with large white and red feathers. It felt heavy, even if the weight hadn't changed. As he made the last adjustments footsteps alerted him of the approaching squire, holding both his shield and Runefang.

“Your shield and sword my Graf. Should I prepare your horse?" Taking both the blade and his shield his felt the weapons in his grasp. He had been through many shields, this one would do the same. Legbiter, the staff of office granted to him when he first became the Elector Count as a young man. Forged centuries ago by the dwarfs and sharp enough to cut an armoured chaos warrior in twain. The magical weapon felt natural in his grip as he twirled it about. He nodded to the squire, a smile growing on his cracked lips as he looked down on the young man.

“Do, but don't tell anyone."

With the sun pass the horizon, a single barded warhorse approached the guardhouse flanked by Middenheim's towering walls. City watch officers leaned about, their metal cuirasses halberds shining in the torchlight as they exchanged idle chatter. As the rider approached one of the watchmen stood up, bringing the rider to a halt with a swinging lantern.

“Sorry sir, for the protection against beastmen Graf Boris Todbringer has decreed that the gates of Middenheim are to remain closed to anyone attempting to leave until the sun rises." The rider brought his horse to a standstill, the watchman noting the ornate plate mail armour.

“Dare you speak to your Graf like that watchman?" Raising his light the watchman's face went pale at the sight of the gold castle shape atop a helmet. The visor raised to reveal the one-eyed, grim visage of the elector count baring an intimidating snarl.

“I-I'm sorry my Graf I-." Todbringer ignored the pleas, harshly pointing to the gate with his gauntlet covered hands.

“Quit your grovelling lad and get the gate open." The watchman went silent, fearfully nodding as he backed away from the Elector Count.

“Yes my Graf, OPEN THE GATE!" The shout echoed up the walls and with a pause, the gears of the gatehouse began to grind. The clanking of metal pierced the night air as the other watchmen looked on in awe towards the Grand Duke. All of them had heard of his exploits and some have even served with him on the field of battle. Todbringer didn't wait for the gate to fully rise before his horse charged forth. Leaving behind a trail of dust and confused Middenheimers.

Middenheim was a city built as a fortress, stationed on a plateau atop a mountain with steep cliff faces on all sides. The only way in and out was up narrow carved out roads, all of which were lined with battlements armed with cannons and siege engines. Todbringer knew it well as he rode down the stone causeways. He had stopped the Everchosen here, and he'd do it again if need be. But that time had passed, for now as he was riding into the Drakwald.

He didn't know how long he rode down the empty forest paths, seeing little before him but the winding dirt roads flanked by oppressive trees. The moonlight was barely visible through the branches and leaves, leaving little for the Graf to guide his steed.

He had ridden down these roads for most of his life, he could put his patch over his good eye and still find his way.

As the trunks went by in a blur he felt relief flow through him. At home, he was a leader entrusted with the good and wellbeing of his people. A man who must stand up and never falter before the people of Middenland. But out here, he was simply a warrior atop of warhorse. Looking around he wondered what stood beyond the trees. Where the bray herds waited for their next plunder, biding their time to strike another farm, village or caravan for looting and slaughter. The roads out the Drakwald were doted with fortified inns for travellers, cooping up for the night and praying to Ulric or Sigmar to protect them from the barbarians beyond the walls. Yet here he was, alone aside from his mount.

And he still didn't know why.

He slowed his galloping horse to a trotting pace, making sure the equine didn't suffer a sudden cramp or exhaustion. He waited for his single eye to get used to the darkness, eventually being able to outline the various shapes and silhouettes under the moon's glow. Despite the fortified inns and watchtowers, the Drakwald remained the most dangerous forest of the Empire. Beastmen weren't the only problem with goblins, orcs and bandits making their homes beneath the cursed branches. As Todbringer scanned the area he saw something. Looking akin to a campsite on the side of the road surrounding a smouldering fire. He slowed his horse to a stop, hoping that some outsider hadn't made the mistake of camping in the Drakwald.

“Anyone there? Have no fear I'm a man of Middenheim, I'm here to protect you." He announced, mud squelching under his armoured boots as they hit the ground. His eye focused on the main tent. Even so, it darted around as he kept his eyes towards the tree line, his free gauntlet ready to draw Legbiter. He saw how rugged the tent appeared, it wasn't uncommon for woodsmen to have tents for a while but this one was heavily torn and poorly constructed. As he pushed the curtains aside his eyes shot open at an approaching growling. Legbiter hissed as it was drawn, spinning swiftly to face the mutated hound charging through the air. The blade connected with the dog's neck. Decapitating the creature and splashing Todbringer's armour with a fresh coat of sickly blood.

Looking around Todbringer could see more figures approaching. Mutterings and gutturally brays being carried by the cool breeze. They were bipedal in shape, all of them had bestial legs with swinging tails and trotting hooves. Some of them were scrawny, barely anything on skeletons upholding gaunt frames with little horns atop scraggly heads. Some were tall and large, animal forms in a brutal parody of man and beast holding large axes and shields. As the figures emerged in the darkness Todbringer felt a force brewing in his chest as he raised his shield. The fires of Ulric was stocked within him, brought on by adrenalin and excitement. As the beastmen closed in he dropped his visor, hiding the smile growing on his greying face. Bashing his shield and Runefang together, he let out a defiant roar.

“COME AND FACE DEATH SAVAGE BEASTS OF CHAOS!"