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*EMPIRE* A Warhammer Fantasy Script-fic
Topic Started: Aug 10 2011, 01:04 PM (393 Views)
James Gatehouse
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*EMPIRE*

“You will always be in awe of us. We’re stronger, faster, better looking and just all-round more awesome than you could ever hope to be. So just give up human, because on Ulthuan, we’re better than you. And we know it.”

- Tyrion, Defender of Ulthuan, Wearer of a Suspiciously Effeminate Heart-Shaped Piece of Jewellery, and Bearer of the Spiffiest Helm in the World


Dear reader, we now return to the Imperial Commanders and their ridiculous German accents. They stand in a clump upon the hill, in their mind’s eyes the very picture of valour and honour. In reality, they look like a couple of heavily feathered buffoons who have just arrived from a recent convention for those who wear the equivalent of half an ostrich on their heads.

Ludwig: Trying to studiously ignore the whopping great feather that hangs down his cheek from his hat. “My lord, do you think it is time to call up the cavalry?”

Karl Franz attempts to brush his own feathers out of his face. His efforts are unsuccessful, causing the rest of the commanders to look pointedly away from their Emperor as he continues to choke upon the avid appendage. Finally his rasping coughs die down.

Karl: “Sounds good, let’s just chuck ‘em in there.”

Meanwhile on the battlefield...

Reiksguard Preceptor: “Men, our almighty Emperor has commanded us into the fray! He is relying on us to turn the tide of this battle! Forward men of the Empire! For Sigmar and to victory!”

Cut back to the commanders...

Karl: “Yeah, they’re doomed.”

With a great thundering of hooves and lowering of lances, the ponies of the Reiksguard carry the gallant, if misled knights forward. Battlecries fill the air as 3 tonnes of man, steel and pony-flesh hit home in the Orc ranks. However the histrionics of the men suddenly turn into cries of fear, as the weapons of the Reiksguard begin to bend and bounce off their foes.

Reiksguard Preceptor: “Not the dreaded Rubber Lance Syndrome! Why must it strike us now at the height of our glory!?”

The fierce war-ponies of the knights cut down a few greenskins with their flashing hooves but it is not enough, and with a distinct clatter of two dice in the background, the knights turn and flee.

The commanders are still watching the progress of the battle upon their hill. Or at least, they are attempting to, but to their detriment the exorbitant Imperial headwear keeps getting in the way.


Kurt: “These bloody feathers, can’t see a Sigmar-damned thing! Who’s idea was it to wear these anyway?”

The commanders look around as if expecting to find the culprit standing with them. Unsurprisingly, he isn’t. A drawn out howl, eerily similar to the cry of a small cat in a microwave rings out over the field as Brother Gunther arrives back from whatever hell he had buggered off to.

Gunther: In his deep, booming, authoritative baritone. “AAAAAAAAAAAGH!!! AAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!”

The Warrior Priest’s mad dash carries him through the ranks of the Imperial soldiers, sending several men flying as Gunther’s wildly flailing hands send his large hammer whistling down on the poor unfortunates.

Gunther: “AAAAAAAAAAGH!!! AAAAAAAAAAGH!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!”

Karl: “Steady woman! Cease your squealing!”

Kurt: “My lord, it is bald. I would say it appears to be a man.”

Gunther continues to run, screaming all the while, until his trembling hands let slip his warhammer. The weapon falls to the ground where in a freak occurrence, the head of the hammer bounces up again, smashing into the hysterical priest’s face, breaking his nose and making a ruin of his features.

Karl: “Thank Sigmar, he has stopped.”

Brother Gunther falls to the ground, dead to the world...

*EMPIRE*
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