Discover Top Posts Tagged with #dragon ogre

Fighting tooth and nail to find time to build this freaking Shaggoth, just gotta give him a belly, some armour panels, and finish the beard

Also a pic from the back

#art #insp #warhammercommunity #warhammer fantasy #warhammer the old world #chaos #beastmen #dragon ogre #shaggoth #big sexy dragon ??#old man yaoi

So far the best miniature I've done. Dragon Ogres are super fun to paint.

#warhammer old world #warhammer fantasy #warhammer miniature #dragon ogre #beastmen #warhammer age of sigmar

"I don't care if the buyer in Parravon has already paid for your goods, they can wait for the pass to clear in Jahrdrung. Yes, I know the pass should still be navigable for a couple of weeks, but you'd have to be hoping to meet Morr if you'd really consider crossing it in this weather. I mean, I'd reckon you can hear this storm rumbling down the Grey Mountains from Auerswald...

Oh by Sigmar's hammer, you're that desperate to cross? Fine, I'll tell you why the margrave ordered the road closed. There's something more than the storm up there. Folk living up near the pass have been hearing bellowing from the peaks for as long as the storm has raged. They were keeping to their hovels and shepherd huts, and that was before two caravans and a road warden patrol were found torn to pieces. The folk who know this pass best are shut away, afeared in their homes. Do you think you know better? Unless you know a slayer, turn around and wait for spring. I reckon this storm will be a long one."

- Detlef Schafer, road warden of the province of Ubersreik, on what he would recount as the coldest, wettest posting of his career.

These rule are unofficial content, and not affiliated with Cubicle7 or Games Workshop.

#Warhammer #Warhammer Fantasy #Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay #WFRP #RPG #TTRPG #Chaos #Dragon Ogre

VomirthFoulstorm - Dragon OgorShaggoth Champion of Nurgle

“WAAAARGH!”

The warcry of a thousand green-skinned beasts roared over the horizon like a clap of thunder, carrying with such glorious vigour across the wind and into the cupped palm of the bearded Shaggoth listening for that familiar melody. One of the few that gave his ancient form some sensation of pleasure in a boorish existence. “Do you hear that, my old friend?” He asks the great vulture resting on his pauldron. The thing that was once the grand eagle of the Aelvish Prince Bel-Alran centuries ago has long since shed its regality. Its head hanging loosely as if no bones structured under the twitching bulges of insects chewing on constantly healing wounds that came and went from the thousand diseases breeding under his feathered hide.

Empty sockets weeping maggots and buzzing flies, it is his own eye bulging from the centre of its skull that looked out with him, wheezing sound from beak and stuffed nostrils. Wings flapping a sick glee in agreement finally and insectoid limbs twitching along its stomach.

A wry smile curled on Vomirth’s tusked face. “You have gotten quite distracted as of late, it is due time to release your newest brood.” He noted before scratching on the filth-darkened belly, provoking a shiver and coo from the familiar. “Let us gather the rest of the war-tribes.” The Dragon Ogor shifted to pick up his plague-sword as his great form strode on its lower half, each step a soft quake of power whilst the storm that constantly followed his visage crashed and shattered the surrounding earth in its hurls of eager lightning born from the Rot-Lord’s moods.

From a charge’s distance of his command tent, there was a small city of tents and gatherings; from the conversations and sword-trials of brother-tribes and their blessed champions to the cornerstone of a rotfray herd that stalked after them in no-doubt worshipping trot for the Dragon Ogor’s blighted storm scouring through Ghur. Vomirth allowed it, he welcomed his patron’s mewling warriors and dark-kin in his own personal quest of destruction.

Long has he hunted for his fallen weapon, precious to him and him alone, and Nurgle - the Lord of Pestilence - has given him visions of it in his long rest between centuries. Vomirth is close, he can feel it.

“Do you hear it, my followers?” He questioned with a fatherly hum, lifting a hand out that brought their attention to their master, they have been here for weeks. Not of rest but for his long meditation. Vomirth’s voice was soft to him, but to them - it was a quiet storm rolling in grand rises and low falls that made the loose rocks bounce. “The Orruk are coming as I expected, finally a fair sport for our blades and a breeding garden for the storm’s gifts. Ready your wargear and pray to the Blight-Father, he is eager to use his concoctions brewing in my storm. Who among you will be the first to taste it on your tongues and wetten your blades?”

In his question, the warriors of the Three Great Tribes roared out to it. In his challenge, the blight-oracles of the Six Covens praised. In his call, the brayherd bleated with unrestrained eagerness.

To all, the Shaggoth were their war-chief, and he rose his blessed sword while a tide of green was appearing on the horizon as he and his three under-brothers in the far cornering distance moved to observe the coming blood-spill. Despite their distance, Vomirth saw them and their primordial power hummed between each other. Blade reaching high as the power of the storm rolled through the Shaggoth’s bones and sickly hide to surge through the rusted blade. With an explosion of pure power, the fell-green arcs rose to the rolling black cloud. The shadows of daemons dancing and frolicking behind their dark veils, catching and playing with their summoner’s beacon before hurling it like children at play.

Here and there, slamming into the green ranks of howling marauders over and over - some even slamming back at the camp or harmlessly bounce on Vomirth and his brothers’ scales. The warband marshalling to see the awesome might of the Stormscorned, roaring and bleating in eagerness and desire to be loose with their filth-encrusted blades and grim weapons. The beasts at their chains more literal in this want.

With a great leap crossing over the ranks of his thralls, Vomirth landed foremost with the fly-bitten horses of his gifted knights and the impatient stamps of centigors while the earth cracked from his grand weight. The vulture familiar squawking in taloned gropes over his armour and chains, wanting to stay perched as the lazy thing that the daemon-bird is. The black-horned Shaggoth did not say a word, for it was the Foul Storm that commanded the charge and he led it.

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