So, availing myself of IA, we have created some images of our party of SAVE envoys, in all their 1930's glory. We might make a few changes but for now this is a good reorientation. Any favorites that stand out?

 

 ALL THE WORLD’S A STAGE

Richmond, Virginia — Union Station, Autumn 1936

Coal smoke hangs low over the platforms, drifting in slow gray banners beneath the iron-and-glass canopy of Richmond Union Station. The hiss of steam, the clatter of baggage carts, and the murmur of travelers echo together, a mechanical heartbeat that never quite settles.

It is late afternoon. The light is already turning the color of tarnished brass.

One by one, they arrive.

Archibald Cornelius Leopold Kensington III stands slightly apart from the crowd, immaculate even in travel—coat brushed, gloves folded just so, oversized galoshes shined to a high sheen. He studies the station clock with faint irritation, as though daring it to be imprecise. A leather valise rests at his feet, heavy with instruments no porter has been allowed to touch. Somewhere nearby, a man coughs wetly; Kensington notes the sound with professional interest.

Jonathan (Jonnie) Connecticut leans against a column, hat tipped low, eyes moving constantly. He’s already clocked the exits, the baggage office, the police presence—and the man pretending not to watch the group forming near Track 3. A smile flickers as he considers the coming assignment, his research papers regarding the Apollo Civic Theater crammed into a satchel tucked under his left armpit.

A few paces away, Ernest Morgan stands rigid, shoulders squared, gaze fixed down the length of the platform. The scream of metal on metal as a train brakes hard makes several people flinch. Ernest does not, the shriek of a metal trains is nothing compared to the shriek of machine gun bullets from the trenches in France.  For a moment—just a moment—the smell of coal smoke is something else entirely, and his hand tightens into a fist before he consciously relaxes it.

Caleb Johnson arrives last from the street entrance, carrying himself with the weary steadiness of a man long accustomed to being needed. His eyes linger on the waiting faces, not with suspicion, but with recognition—recognition of grief worn differently by each person. When a young porter stumbles nearby, Caleb’s hand is there instantly, steadying him, a quiet word offered. The boy straightens, calmer than he was a second ago, though he can’t say why.

A woman’s voice cuts through the noise.

“Y’all here for the westbound?”

Cora Lee Mullins stands with her carpetbag at her feet, her hair pinned neatly, eyes far older than her years. The station feels loud to her, in ways sound alone can’t explain—emotions brushing past like static. Her gaze drifts, unbidden, toward the departure board. For half a second, the destination Martinsburg looks… blurred. Like it’s trying not to be read.

Bertrand Jackson arrives with a battered satchel, well maintained fedora and a careful, measured step, his posture betraying years at sea despite his landlocked surroundings. He pauses when he hears the telegraph key clicking from the station office—his head tilts, unconsciously counting the rhythm. Nearby, a piano sits unused in a first-class waiting room. He gives it a long look, as though greeting an old friend he won’t have time to visit.

And then there’s Joseph Thomas Peters, nineteen years old, coat a size too big, Flash Gordon comic strips folded and refolded in his pocket until the creases are white. He’s trying very hard to look worldly. His eyes flick from face to face, curiosity warring with nerves. His hands are tucked into worn pockets against the frigid temps.

The seven wear Indalo on their person, one way or another, announcing silently to one another that they are all part of the same play about to unfold. They gather near Track 3 as the conductor calls out boarding times.

“So,” Jonnie says lightly, exhaling frozen breath, “anyone want to tell me why we’re all being sent to a sleepy West Virginia theater instead of, I don’t know, someplace that deserves the trouble?”

Kensington sniffs. “The Apollo Civic Theater is hardly sleepy. Society papers call it the Miracle On Martins Street, ambiance of little compromise"

“People don’t use words like that unless they’re hiding something,” Ernest mutters.

Bertrand tilts his fedora forward, “It seems to me that we might be better off discussing these things in a more private setting, away from prying ears & eyes”

Joseph’s eyes widened. “You mean like spies? One of my comic heroes is a spy…”

Caleb glances toward the tracks. “Good point, maybe we should get onboard and into more quiet settings.”

Cora Lee’s voice is quiet when she speaks. “It ain’t the people that worry me ya'll. It’s the place. Eerie lights, strange sounds, what are we getting into”

A sudden clang echoes as a baggage cart overturns nearby. When you look, there’s nothing. Just startled travelers and a red-faced porter apologizing.

Joseph swallows. “Flash Gordon never had to deal with haunted theaters,” he says, trying for humor. It lands… shakily.

The conductor calls again. All aboard for Fredericksburg, Alexandria, Harpers Ferry, Martinsburg.

Steam billows, swallowing the platform in white.

As you step onto the train, each of you feels it in your own way. This isn’t just an investigation. 

The train rumbles out of Richmond, its wheels rattling against cold steel. October 1936 brings an early frost, the air sharp and carrying the faint smell of wet earth. Six months ago, the rivers of Harpers Ferry overflowed, leaving the valley scarred—but now the waters have mostly receded, leaving behind a landscape frozen between ruin and recovery.

Through the windows, the travelers see the aftermath: muddy fields littered with driftwood and broken fences, the skeletal remains of small trees bent or snapped by the flood, and faint outlines of houses whose foundations were washed away. Bridges stand twisted or partially collapsed, some now cordoned off, others teetering on the edge of safety.

The flood left more than broken land. Occasionally, the eye catches something out of place—a rocking chair on a front porch that should have been washed away, a curtain swaying in a house abandoned for months, or a lone scarecrow oddly intact, staring at the train as if aware.

Inside the train, the carriage is warm but quiet, almost unnervingly so. The other passengers are tense; some murmur about the “ghosts” that remain in Harpers Ferry, while others simply stare out the windows, unable to look away from the ruined landscape. Steam hisses from the engine, punctuating the rhythmic clack of the wheels.

The shadows in the carriage seem heavier here, clinging to corners and pooling around luggage racks. Reflections in the windows sometimes lag behind the passengers’ movements, or appear slightly warped, showing a fleeting image of someone who isn’t there. Occasionally, a low moan drifts from the empty spaces between cars, echoing like wind over hollowed foundations, or a splash in the distance that can’t be traced to any water.

Small talk between the investigators emerge, guarded secrets kept close to their chest but sharing pleasantries and their knowledge of SAVE, its methods and envoy attrition of late. While the banter turns friendly, no one notices Cara Lee has fallen asleep, a fitful affair at first, then a gentle rocking motion, as she were in a rocking chair, stroking an imaginary animal in her lap. The others stare at her with curiosity at first, then possible concern, before she awakens, as if from a deep sleep. When pressed if she is alright, she says she feels a little drained but that is nothing new, she often falls asleep during the day.

“When I sleep, I dream. And when I dream, its often a series of unrelated things. For instance I was dreaming I was in a room, reading a book and stroking a cat while rocking in my chair. It's nothing I can place a finger on but weird nonetheless”.

The others regard her statements but don't press her, out of respect, and besides, she had nothing more forthcoming.

As the train climbs out of the valley and approaches Martinsburg, the landscape gradually shifts back to normalcy. Streets are snow plowed but passable, houses intact, and trees stand tall. A little over an hour later the steel beast slows to a halt at the Martinsburg Roundhouse station under the pale, low October sun. Snow lies in tidy plowed piles along the streets, the dark cobblestones wet and glistening. The air is crisp, sharp, and tinged with frost, carrying the faint metallic scent of melting snow.

Six months ago, The Great Flood scarred this state. Now the valley is calm, yet the memory lingers, and travelers passing through feel a subtle unease—the sense that the land remembers disaster.

Outside the station, a pair of cabs await. Their engines purr quietly in the cold air, and the tires splash lightly over melting snow as the party climbs in. Inside, the seats are warmed by the residual heat of the engine, the faint scent of oil and leather mingling with coal smoke from the train. As the cabs take a turn off of Liberty Street, they travel to Martins street, at one point in the drive they pass by the 3 storied structure they have come to see, the Apollo. Several workmen can be seen erecting ladders, hanging lights and other preparations for the new construction of the marquee, each of the seven investigators keeping their thoughts to themselves.

The cabs roll to a stop in front of the Shenandoah Hotel, a stately brick building warmed by brass lamps. Snow piled on either side sparkles in the late afternoon sun. The doorman greets the party politely, taking luggage efficiently, his eyes briefly scanning the street as if expecting something unseen.

Inside, the lobby smells of polished wood, coal heat, and pipe smoke. Floorboards creak underfoot, and the gas lamps flicker slightly, casting long shadows in corners and alcoves. Sunlight streams through frosted windows, illuminating swirling motes of dust and giving the room a soft, timeless, slightly eerie quality.

Prior to dinner, the investigators each pursue their own agendas, some shopping, a trip to the local paper, The Martinsburg Journal, spending some time engaging with the editor Ed Burns, learning little. Joseph & Caleb, with Joseph sporting some new, less threadbare, duds by a visit to the Apollo on foot. Banter with the workers reveals little, basically nervous feelings, fear of working late, glimpses of things out of the corner of their eyes that were gone when stared at directly. Using the key provided tot hem to help complete their dupe of being insurance investigators, Joseph retrieved a set of keys from the font lockbox. Bertrand spent some time ogling the massive white piano in the bar of the Shenandoah, nursing his drink far longer than most would. Cora Lee, also sporting a more sleek set of clothes, surveyed the hotel hallways & lobby, striving to remember more details of her dream from the trek, for not. Ernest, for his part, did what a normal soldier might do prior to a mission. He stretched out on the massive bed in his room and grabbed some shuteye!

The party assembles in the stately dining room of the Shenandoah Hotel later that evening around 6:30pm. The late October sun slants low through tall windows, illuminating polished oak tables and chairs, and casting long, flickering shadows across the high, coffered ceiling. Snow lies in tidy, plowed piles outside, reflecting pale afternoon light that mixes with the warm glow of gas lamps inside.

The room smells of roasted meats, fresh bread, and melted butter, with a faint undercurrent of coal smoke. A subtle draft carries the distant scent of cold water and decayed wood from the valleys beyond, a whisper of Harpers Ferry’s six-month-old floods.

The table is set for seven, each place meticulously arranged with fine china, polished silver, and crystal glasses catching the lamplight. At the center, a small mechanical contraption hums quietly: Dr. Archibald Cornelius Leopold Kensington III’s famous self-heated oyster forks, gleaming in brass and steel, each fork glowing faintly red to keep seafood perfectly warm!

The group sits around a polished oak dining table. Gas lamps flicker against tall windows showing the snow-plowed streets of Martinsburg. Dr. Kensington’s self-heated oyster forks hiss quietly as warm aromas drift through the stately room. The group begins discussing the Apollo Civic Theater.

Archibald Cornelius Leopold Kensington III (Archibald)

(adjusting his self-heated fork with a meticulous hand)

“Remarkable, isn’t it? A fork that maintains optimum warmth for oysters. Surely, the Apollo Civic could use one of these… though I suspect the stagehands would call it witchcraft.”

Jonathon “Jonnie” Connecticut

(grinning, studying the flickering shadows in the corners)

“Maybe so, Archibald. But I’m more interested in the… oddities at the theater. Flickering lights, phantom footsteps, doors opening on their own. My extensive research into the theater's historic past has failed to provide any solid, useful facts, I am unnaturally vexed, and I don't like being vexed!”

Ernest Morgan

(Posture stiff, voice gravelly, taking a slow sip of wine)

“I’ve seen my share of strange things on the front, Jonnie. But the theater… it’s different. I didn't like the look of it, as short as it might have been, three stories, too many windows, no clear means of escape that I could see from the outside.

 (his hand taps lightly on the table, almost in rhythm with the distant hum of the forks)

Caleb Johnson

(Calm, radiating quiet strength, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face)

“I trust instinct. And when I stood near those front doors, I didn't feel anything. The workers, yes, you could tell they were a little on edge but I got no impressions the place was haunted, I mean aren't there usual telltale signs of a haunted house?”

(his hand hovers briefly over Archibald’s fork, almost instinctively checking its warmth, as if sensing energy)

Cora Lee Mullins

(intuitive, eyes sweeping the room, voice soft but firm)

“I agree with Caleb, I felt nothing from the place as we passed, no feelings of any sort, nothing that caused me pause or undue concern”.

Bertrand Jackson

(Relaxed, leaning back, a faint smile on his face)

“Ah, there’s a comfort in all this—warm oysters, snow outside, and stories of ghosts. On the sea, I’ve seen storms that would make your hair curl, yet the theater’s little quirks? I’ll wager they’re the work of amateurs. Still, I’ll admit—if those shadows start walking, I’m on deck with you lot.”

Joseph Thomas Peters

(Wide-eyed, flipping a small comic book between courses)

“Guys…and uh, lady. What if it’s like a comic book scenario? Haunted theater, weird energy, maybe even a villain with a purpose?”

(gestures subtly toward the flickering corner of the room, comic book open to a page showing a spectral figure)

Archibald

(chuckling, fiddling with the fork’s dial)

“Well, Joseph, I’d rather leave the talking to oysters. But I do find your… enthusiasm oddly compelling.”

Jonnie

(leaning in, voice low and serious)

“Whatever it is, it seems like a good time to get this ball rolling”

The dining room has emptied, leaving only the faint aroma of roasted meats, coal smoke, and warm oysters lingering in the air. Shadows stretch longer in the corners, flickering in the last light of the gas lamps. Outside, the streets are plowed and pristine, snow glittering under the lamplight, but the evening carries a quiet weight, as if the town itself holds its breath.

The party rises, collects their gear quickly from their rooms, and move toward the hotel entrance. Each carries their tools, notes, or personal implements for the night ahead:

The Apollo looms ahead, dark and imposing against the snow-dusted streets. Its façade is stately but worn, the shadows of past renovations and decades of performances etched into its brick and stone. The main doors are closed, but a faint glow seeps from the stage windows above. The air is heavy here, warmer than outside but thick with a sense of anticipation and unease, as if the theater itself is aware of the party’s approach.

The Apollo Civic Theater squats on the corner of Martin Street, like a cold half-finished promise. Scaffolding hugs the front faced, wooden planks lashed together with rope and rusty mails. Sheets of canvas flap lazily in the chill evening breeze, snapping now and then like distant applause. Piles of construction debris clutter the sidewalk, the skeleton of the marquee yet to be fleshed out. Splintered boards, crates of unused marquee bulbs, a ladder lying on its side as though dropped in a hurry. The marquee itself is dark.

Bare metal letters wait in crates beneath it, some wrapped in old newspaper, others loose and scattered on the cold sidewalk. A few bulbs have already been installed, but without the wiring complete they only reflect the streetlights in dull, glassy stares.

The theater is supposed to be open despite the construction. That’s what the papers said. A point of civic provide, The Miracle of East Martin Street, the show must go on. But not tonight.

The front doors appear to be locked, brass handles cold and unyielding beneath your hands. A paper notice has been taped crookedly to the glass, edges lifting in the damp air:

CLOSED FOR THE EVENING

–Management.

No date, no signature

Through the glass, the lobby is dim, shadowy but not dark. A single light glows weakly beyond the concessions, casting stretched shadows across the tiled floor. The ticket booth is empty, its sliding window half-open as if someone forgot to close it. A roll of ticket stubs still rests on the counter inside.

The building smells wrong–wet plaster, old velvet…and something faintly acrid, like overheated machinery. Then, from somewhere inside the Apollo, you hear it. A low mechanical whine, a pause, then, click… The sound carries through the locked doors and unfinished walls unmistakably. A film projector starting up.

The noise grows steadier, the rhythm comforting and unsettling all at once. Light flickers faintly behind the lobby wall, as though something is being cast on a screen deeper within the depths of the theater.

Outside the wind shifts. One of the loose marquee letters, still wrapped in paper, slides slightly across the pavement in a sudden biting wind, scraping just enough to draw your attention. When you look back up at the glass doors, you no longer see or hear the projector.    

But was it ever really there?

The group stepped forward, using the keys provided, fumbling with cold hands to insert the old key into the newer lock, they entered the darkened theater, seven souls, one purpose. Bertrant’s flashlight beam cut through the darkness, revealing a sprawling lobby, concession stand & box office. Panning left and right he found the master light switch and soon the lobby was flooded with light, when a feeling of freezing terror, something not tangible, swept across several members, a feeling of something not of this world, something nearby, as a lightbulb flickered briefly…

 Fellow Envoys,

Good morning, I trust this letter finds you well. It is with regret that I have not reached out to you all sooner, you have been idle since your induction and that falls to me. Again, my apologies. But now, the business at hand.

For a while, these concerns have been pushed aside as we face a serious manpower shortage, and these are trying times. I am now setting the table for you in regard to your first assignment. Please find enclosed train tickets for you all leaving October 18, 1936, from Richmond to Martinsburg WV, via Harpers Ferry WV, non-stop. The reasons for this are as follows.

A number of recorded incidents have seen print in local papers regarding the Apollo Civic Theater, a local business of some repute. A number of strange sounds, sights and apparitions have been noted as manifesting on the property. Several years ago, there was an unexplained disappearance of the stage manager, which remains an unsolved case with local authorities. The theater is undergoing renovations at this time, following the “Great Flood” earlier this year. A new marquee has been funded, and the renovations are ongoing at the time of this letter.

We have arranged for a guise of insurance inspectors, on site to determine if the floods did any structural damage to the venue and make reports. A set of keys to the front door and stage door will be left at the box office for you, the enclosed key will allow you to retrieve the theater keys at any time as we do not wish to have spectators. Suffice to say, I am recommending any investigations you do take place after hours, when the staff has gone home for the day. The owners are aware that you might be on site after hours.

Enclosed are a number of photos (trek & venue), as well as a cab company placard for use once you have disembarked in town. You should have the theater to yourselves during your investigations. We are asking that you look into this case as a matter of personal interest (a very popular venue) as well as the fact these “hauntings” have been ongoing for some time now and it seems more than a little coincidental that these incidents have increased once the renovations have commenced. Eyes on you, good luck.

All the best!

Desmond Drake

Richmond House

Greetings! I wanted to reach out to all you cats in Chill-land. After what seems like 4 or more decades (and it has been!), yikes, our local group is embarking on a Chill campaign. 

A 42-year-old game, a 59-year-old GM that hasn't GMed in 40 years, what could go wrong!

We did decide to go in a different route; our campaign begins in 1936...

For your appraisal, here is the opening narrative for the adventure 

All The World's A Stage

The Apollo After Hours

October 19th, 1936

Late Evening

“The Apollo Civic Theater squats on the corner of Martin Street, like a cold half-finished promise. Scaffolding hugs the front faced, wooden planks lashed together with rope and rusty mails. Sheets of canvas flap lazily in the chill evening breeze, snapping now and then like distant applause. Piles of construction debris clutter the sidewalk, the skeleton of the marquee yet to be fleshed out. Splintered boards, crates of unused marquee bulbs, a ladder lying on its side as though dropped in a hurry. The marquee itself is dark.

Bare metal letters wait in crates beneath it, some wrapped in old newspaper, others loose and scattered on the cold sidewalk. A few bulbs have already been installed, but without the wiring complete they only reflect the streetlights in dull, glassy stares.

The theater is supposed to be open despite the construction. That’s what the papers said. A point of civic provide, The Miracle of East Martin Street, the show must go on. But not tonight.

The front doors appear to be locked, brass handles cold and unyielding beneath your hands. A paper notice has been taped crookedly to the glass, edges lifting in the damp air:

CLOSED FOR THE EVENING

–Management.

No date, no signature.

Through the glass, the lobby is dim, shadowy but not dark. A single light glows weakly beyond the concessions, casting stretched shadows across the tiled floor. The ticket booth is empty, its sliding window half-open as if someone forgot to close it. A roll of ticket stubs still rests on the counter inside.

The building smells wrong–wet plaster, old velvet…and something faintly acrid, like overheated machinery. Then, from somewhere inside the Apollo, you hear it. A low mechanical whine, a pause, then, click…

The sound carries through the locked doors and unfinished walls unmistakably. A film projector starting up.

The noise grows steadier, the rhythm comforting and unsettling all at once. Light flickers faintly behind the lobby wall, as though something is being cast on a screen deeper within the depths of the theater.

Outside the wind shifts.

One of the loose marquee letters, still wrapped in paper, slides slightly across the pavement in a sudden biting wind, scraping just enough to draw your attention. When you look back up at the glass doors, you no longer see or hear the projector. But was it ever really there?

So, there it is, barring bad weather (we are here in West VA), we start 01/28/2026. See you at the movies!

Imperial Year 2148. The war had ended, but the land did not know it yet.

Ostermark lay silent beneath a sky the color of old iron, its clouds swollen with the weight of another storm. Snow drifted across the battlefields like a shroud pulled over a corpse, softening the jagged ruin of war but hiding nothing. Spears jutted from the drifts like broken ribs. Shields lay half‑buried, their heraldry faded and scratched. The bodies beneath the snow were countless, though the land had grown too numb to mourn them.

For three years, the War of Ostermark Succession had torn the province apart. Brothers fought brothers, cousins fought cousins, and every noble house claimed a right to the throne. Now, at last, the banners had fallen, the armies had scattered, and the claimants lay dead or fled. But peace did not return. Instead came winter — early, merciless, and wrong.

The first storm had swept down from the Worlds Edge Mountains like a vengeful host, burying villages overnight. The second storm froze the Talabec’s upper reaches solid, trapping boats in ice thick enough to walk on. By the third storm, even the hardiest Ostermarker muttered prayers to gods they barely remembered.

And still the snow fell.

On a lonely road hundreds of leagues north of Mordheim, a rider pushed through the drifts. His horse was a gaunt, frost‑bitten creature, its breath steaming in the air like smoke from a dying fire. The rider wore a cloak of black wool, heavy with ice, and a hood that hid his face. A long, wrapped bundle hung from his saddle — too long to be a tool, too narrow to be a shield.

He rode without pause, without hesitation, as though the cold itself feared to touch him.

Behind him, the wind howled across the empty fields, carrying with it the faintest echo of voices. Not living voices. Not anymore.

The rider did not look back.

Ahead, the land sloped downward toward the Talabec valley. Smoke rose from a distant settlement — thin, wavering, as though the fire beneath it struggled to stay alive. The rider urged his horse onward, though the beast stumbled with exhaustion.

He had followed the trail for weeks.

Through ruined villages.

Across frozen rivers.

Past battlefields where the dead whispered in the snow.

Each step brought him closer to the source of the unnatural winter.

Each step brought him closer to the one he hunted.

As he crested a ridge, he paused. The wind shifted, carrying with it a scent he knew too well — the cold, metallic tang of death, old and restless. Beneath the snow, something stirred. Something that should not have been able to move.

The rider’s gloved hand tightened around the reins.

“Too late,” he murmured, his voice low and rough from disuse. “It has already begun.”

Far below, the smoke rising from the settlement flickered — then vanished, snuffed out as though by an unseen hand.

The rider lowered his hood, revealing a face carved by frost and grief. His eyes, dark and hollow, reflected the storm gathering above.

He nudged his horse forward.

The War of Ostermark Succession was over.

But the true war — the one fought in shadow and silence — had only just begun.

The Dead of Winter: A Warhammer Quest Campaign

Ostermark, Imperial Year 1248.

A single howl breaks the silence of the sleeping Ostermark Expanse, Ludwig stirring inside his lean-to. The seasoned veteran draws closer his woolen great-coat, proof against the frigid winds of winter. Accustomed to the mournful wails of wolves, a chill still runs down his spine as he roses abruptly from his fitful slumber. Leagues away from the sheltering walls of Burgenhof, leagues away from strong drink and stronger women, leagues away from safety….

Exhausted and starving, Ludwig had collapsed, barely enough strength left in his body to erect the crude wooden shelter and snuggle inside before fresh snow began to fall. All traces of his passage through the canyon now gone, as if he never existed. In the pink of the full moon above, he waited, clutching at his oaken pistol, one of the few possessions he carried after the War of Ostermark Succession had run its ruinous course.

A deserter, Ludwig had seen enough death at the hands of foppish leaders playing at war, their glory, his death. His rucksack held the soddened remains of his Ostermark colors, yellow and mauve, hidden from view. His frozen feet ached at this point; he could only imagine the now forming blackness of frostbite taking hold. He would need a leech once he reached Burgenhof, of this, he was sure.

And then he sees it, a monstrous black dot emerging from the wood line of the canyon, lopping towards the ex-Imperial soldier with purpose and malice.

Numb fingers shaking from the cold, Ludwig steadies his had as best he can, and slowly cocks back the trigger on his pistol, his one shot, his one chance. His mind numbly acknowledges the approaching monster, even as his body fights to move. Shaking his hand violently, Ludwig forces his body to obey, the fetid breath of the beast reaching the lean-too, increasing its speed to a slavering charge as it bore down on its prey. Standing and aiming, Ludwig pulls the trigger.

The report of the pistol shatters the silence, its discharge roaring in his ears. As he looks beyond the lean-too, he sees the beast sprawled in the snow, blood pumping from a going wound in its now ruined face. He had done it! The years of practice paying off as his shot was true. Soon the beast fell silent, and Ludwig dropped to his knees in the snow, his arms crossed in suppressed gratitude that Sigmar had guided his hand. He cried out the Ostermark Expanse with screams of joy, which suddenly caught in his throat. More than a half dozen more black shapes have emerged from the wood line, moving towards the lean-too.

Ludwig had forgotten, wolves travel in packs…

Return to Megiddo Prime: A Killteam Campaign

The Era Indomitus, 999.M41 Reality tears itself apart from the Hadex Anomaly at the core of the Jericho Reach in the Eastern Fringe, to the furthest star system of the Segmentum Obscurus. From that hole come Warp Storms not seen since the Age of Strife, cutting off the galactic north from Terra. The initial period, known as the Noctis Aeterna -- or the Blackness -- is terrible indeed. For a time, all Warp travel is impossible and the far-spread planets of the Imperium are isolated, with no travel or astropathic communication between them. Worlds in their hundreds fall before the ensuing Chaos onslaught. The pulsing Great Rift or Cicatrix Maledictum spreads like an impenetrable curtain, robbing entire systems of the holy light of Terra. The birth of the Great Rift marks the start of what will be called by Imperial savants the Era Indomitus. 

Upon Megiddo Prime, a planet on the mend following a five-year war of reclamation and forty-nine-year rebuilding process, is cut off from the Imperium of Man once more. The warp storms created by the great rift ripple across the asteroid fields surrounding Shekkle’s System, animating, and spinning the rocks into one another, causing them to swing out of their orbits, colliding with one another in flashes of energy and explosions that can be seen from the surface of Megiddo Prime herself. For weeks following the first of the storms, the cold night skies are lit by blazing comet trails and blossoming explosions. Harbingers of things yet to come. 

Cut off from the Emperor’s Beckon and stable warp gates, the prefects of the planetary government and garrisoned Ultra Marines scramble to find out the cause of this sudden severing of communications. Within a month no space travel is permissible, the sea of rocks sent spinning into motion create a grinding gulf system wide, ships attempting travel outflank and pulverized by city sized fragments or perforated by streams of fast-moving rock that shear aside shielding and armored plates with ease. Within another few weeks, rivers of rock and asteroids pelt the surface of Megiddo Prime, shattering orbital docks and defense stations and pounding the planets frozen surface. Megiddo prime was at war with the stars, a war it could not win. Production of fuel and minerals came to a standstill as refineries and Hab blocks were obliterated, men and materials smashed and vaporized even as planetary laser silos sought to destroy planet killer sized asteroids, power crystals soon going dark after days of constant firing. The forces of the Imperium on Megiddo Prime fought an isolated war of preservation while the rest of the galaxy descended into flame, would there be anything left once the Indomitus Crusade finally reach the beleaguered system?