The Battle of the Poisoned Vale

The protracted war between Mellvellon and the Typhonian Enclave was going ill for the Elves. The Skaven had overthrown the defences of the Tears of Isha and the fortress fell into ruin as it became a verminous nest, infested with foul rat-spawn. The diabolical Typhus had his fiendish alchemists and pox-masters pour gallons of poisonous chemicals into the River Endwe, its waters carrying the toxic sludge down to the colony of Sein Craban and its surrounding farmlands. During the year 304PC the Endwe Vale became stricken with disease, and famine soon followed as crops withered under the blight and the populous fell sick. By the winter of that year the land was a decayed shadow of its former beauty, the verdant pastoral landscape now rotten and reeking.

The Lady Wenotah, fifth High Lord of Mellvellon, summoned the war council of the Dragon Court. It was clear that unless Mellvellon committed its full might to the war then the colonists of Sein Craban would be doomed to pestilence and her people would surely perish. So it was that in the spring of 305PC the Lady Wenotah returned to the shores of Melthu with the hosts of the Dragon Lords at her command.

Grey Seer Typhus had agents secreted in all manner of key positions and word of the muster of the Elves soon reached him. He tasked the daemon Naspepsorael'Enaspahue'e'Ahael with leading the Skaven hordes garrisoned at the Tears of Isha against the might of the Elves. The Warpclaw guild promised their support and hurriedly mobilised their latest new weapons.

The great hosts met across the Endwe River in the heart of the Poisoned Vale late in the spring of 305PC. The Elves seemed all the more resplendent against the backdrop of the blighted landscape, serried ranks of citizen-soldiers glittering against the morning sun. Amongst their regiments were also the elite of Mellvellon’s military arm; contingents of proud White Lions, dour Sword Masters with blades as tall as a man, and the Lady Wenotah’s silent and stoic Maiden Guard. Leading the Elves, the Dragon Prince Y’Raen had summoned the ancient fire wyrm Arcauthor to war, a scaly colossus whose wings cast a shadow that could cause the heart of even the mightiest warrior to quail. Arrayed against them was the verminous army that had poured forth from the once-proud fortress of the Tears in numbers seemingly unending, dragging behind them bizarre and gargantuan engines of war, bent on the final destruction of the Elves.

The Elves, with grim determination, marched to meet the foe. They weathered the storm of Warpclaw Guild’s fiendish weapons as they advanced, many fine warriors blasted by fire or choked on foul poisons. Soon the valley was clouded by the sickly vile green mist of Skaven poison gas weapons but the Elves marched on implacable. They countered with their own fire-power, and as the world’s finest archers loosed their shot the skies darkened under the swarming arrow shafts. The Skaven squeaked and chittered and died in droves but still they came on, an endless furry tide.

Battle was met as the White Lions in the Elven van crashed into the Skaven lines, hewing the rat-men down before they could even flinch, such was their fury. But the Skaven war engines smashed the proud warriors aside and soon the charge was reduced to a bitterly fought toe-to-claw melee.

It was then that the Warpclaw Guild revealed their formidable power; the Warp Crucible whirred into its frenzied revolutions. The magical energies it generated lashed against the Elven battle line, flaying warriors and sundering weapons and war machines to kindling. As the engine reached the pulsing zenith of its power, spinning wheels a-blur, a warp shockwave blasted the Maiden Guard that atomised every one of them in an instant... leaving the Elven left flank wide open to a Skaven counter-attack.

It was at this moment, when the Skaven appeared to be nearing their triumph, that Prince Y’Rael committed the reserve forces and spurred the ferocious Arcauthor into the battle. The mighty dragon smashed into the Skaven lines and the Elves fought on with renewed vigour at the sight of the Skaven ranks collapsing in terror as they burned in the dancing dragonfire. On eastern banks of the Endwe the Sword Masters of Sein Craban took their vengeance on the Skaven, bringing down the rabid cohorts of the Unscurried Stormvermin and routing the Skaven right flank that had just moments before threatened to close in and envelope the Elven army.

The battle had turned and the surviving Skaven succumbed to their most basic instinct and fled the field. The Elven pursuit was dogged but many of the desperate rat-men managed to safely withdraw to the forts of the Naur Isthmus.

The Elves had won the day, but at great cost. The Poisoned Vale had been delivered from the iron grip of Typhus’ tyranny and the daemon Naspepsorael'Enaspahue'e'Ahael had vanished in the tide of battle. The Warpclaw Guild, when summoned before Typhus himself to account for their failure, were quick to blame the daemon for the defeat. Typhus, always mistrustful of the vermin lord, could well believe that the daemon’s
absence confirmed his guilt. All the same, the Chief Warlock was executed for failing to carry the day.

The front had been pushed back to the Naur Isthmus. The Elven colony had been given breathing space to re-build and clear the valley of the Skaven pestilence. But Typhus swore revenge, and where the hundreds of Elven dead were a costly loss to Mellvellon, the thousands of slain Skaven could easily be replaced. The war was not won yet.