Náströnd and Nagash
Marching back from a victorious conquest across the Araby Desert, the Norse chiefs scoffed at Harran Grimmlok's choice of a war-wife. Sure, her dark-eyed stare possessed a certain beauty, but it was unnerving at the same time and what proper Norseman would take a bride whose dowry was paid in three carts of musty tomes, rather than piles of gold and treasure?
It is true, of course, that the Grimmlok clan's fortunes seemed to turn for the better after that expedition. Rivals were struck down by illness, pestilence seemed to strike only the crops of neighbors, and some in the peasantry even swore by candlelight that the chieftain himself had not aged a day in the twenty years hence. Previously unknown outside his own remote corner of Norsca, Grimmlok even earned an invitation to the inaugural season of the Norscan Survivalists League, an up-and-coming Blood Bowl venture.
The villagers, unfortunately, made terrible ball players, and what passed for an ulfwerener in that corner of the frozen wastes was more like an overgrown rat terrier. After several disastrous practices, it was clear something would have to be done. After a consultation with the chieftess, a secret contingent of four from the chief's honor guard was sent on an expedition to nearby crypts, leaving in the dead of night with blanket-covered wagons and dismayed expressions. Demanding an explanation for this slight to their ancestors, they were rewarded instead with daggered spines and cut throats, their fresh corpses joining those long decayed as reagents in some foreign ritual.
When the sun rose the next morning there was a new team ready to take the field, and they were a true horror to behold. The chief's four loyal guardsmen, punished by the gods for dying without steel in their hands, had been wrapped in funeral shrouds, mocking them with the pyres they had not earned. Bound to obey the chieftess despite their undying hatred for her and inflated to massive size and strength by her foul Eastern sorcery, they made up the front line of a team cobbled together from honored bones and dishonored souls as spirits from Náströnd - the Corpse Shore - have returned in eternal search for the deaths in battle they were denied in life.
Left for Valhalla...
Dispatched to Hel...
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