Geekend 2025: The Siege of Hagendorf 

Chapter I: Shadows Before the Storm

The winds from the Sea of Claws carried a stench of smoke and blood. Hagendorf’s signal fires still burned, defiant against the northern dark, yet the light of salvation seemed faint indeed. To the east and south, the forests brooded — the outer reaches of the Laurelorn, where men seldom tread and seldom return. It was there, beneath the gnarled boughs and the green glow of a waxing Morrslieb, that the first true clash of this campaign took place

Zar Druhska, the Iron Charioteer, had driven her warband ahead of the main host. She sought the southern fords of the Demst — to flank the town’s walls and choke off any approach from the forest road. Her chariots churned through the mud, the hooves of her beasts black with brine and blood.

But another army was already there.

From the trees stepped the Asrai, silent as frost. Daemhaidh Thornshade, Captain of the Onthank Glade, had tracked the scent of corruption through the world-roots for many nights. The spirits of the forest had grown restless; they whispered of unnatural storms, of warbands bearing north-fire sigils. Where Druhska sought the ford, Daemhaidh sought its purification.

Neither had expected the other.

Druhska’s warband trampled the glades under iron wheels, scattering the Asrai and desecrating the ancient shrine. Morrslieb’s light grows brighter that night, and the first crows gather upon the town’s walls.

Chapter II: The Smoke of a Thousand Camps

Night fell upon the southern marshes, lit only by Morrslieb’s pale grin and the flickering torches of a thousand campfires. The broken remnants of Daemhaidh Thornshade’s host limped north through the forest paths — pursued by unseen foes, their wounded borne upon makeshift litters of woven roots. From the treeline they saw the sky over Hagendorf aglow, and knew the siege had truly begun.

Zar Druhska’s warband had linked with the northern raiders. The Chaos banners rose like a forest of their own — skulls gleaming, chariots wreathed in frost-fire. The town’s walls were distant yet, but the fords of the Demst were within reach, and the last bridges before the sea trembled under their approach.

To the east, the horns of the Beastmen echoed from the Enchanted Hills. Gharnag, the Stalker in the Night, had felt the surge of Chaos power and come to claim it as his own. His herds, swollen and maddened, moved through the pine woods like a tide of shadow.

And in the west, across the boggy coastal road, Auric von Hinden’s mercenary column finally drew within sight of Hagendorf’s beacon fires. Cannon wheels stuck in the mud, pikes drooped with salt spray, and the men’s eyes were hollow with fear. But the Captain himself rode tall — armour tarnished but unbowed, one hand on the hilt of his family’s blade.

Four hosts, all bound for the same doomed town.

On the road approaching Hagendorf, Auric von Hinden’s mercenaries clash with Druhska’s forward elements. The thunder of cannons answers the howling of warhorns. If Auric cannot hold the crossing, Hagendorf will be surrounded. Druhska’s warhost smashed the relief column, scattering the mercenaries and driving the survivors toward the sea. The road to Hagendorf lay open to the northmen, and the town’s walls shook with the sound of their drums.

Nursing their wounds, Daemhaidh’s Asrai move through the southern slopes only to find the beastmen gathering under Gharnag’s moonlit banners. The spirits of the forest howl for vengeance. The fate of the Laurelorn’s borderlands hangs in the balance. Gharnag’s herds overran the hills, tainting the forest and cutting off the Asrai from their roots. The balance of nature itself began to buckle. Even the trees near Hagendorf’s walls started to bleed sap the colour of rust.

Chapter III: The Pact of the Howling Marsh

The storm had broken over Hagendorf.

By dusk, the sky was a bruise of green and black, Morrslieb’s bloated face leering down upon the northern coast. The gulls had fled inland, and the tide rolled in heavy with the stink of rot and drowned things. Hagendorf’s walls gleamed wetly with rain and blood alike.

In the sodden fields south of the town, Auric von Hinden’s shattered columns limped back toward the gates. The halberdiers had carried their wounded banner between them, its eagle torn and dripping. The Ogres of Noely Folly, scarcely able to stand beneath their wounds, dragged themselves along by the hafts of splintered halberds. Auric, mud-streaked and gasping, insisted to any who would listen that he had slain a Chaos spawn with his own blade. None contradicted him — though all had seen the truth.

The Battered Life of Noely Foley, Mercenary Extraordinaire

There are heroes of Nordland whose names are etched into marble. And then there’s Noely Foley, whose name is usually etched into the bottom of a tavern debt book.

Once, so the stories go, Noely signed on with Auric von Hinden’s army because he’d been told it was “easy money guarding a quiet fishing town.” By the end of the campaign, he’d been set on fire twice, bitten by something with too many teeth, and trampled by a horse he claims “had a personal grudge.”

The Battle of the Bog

Noely’s first taste of war near Hagendorf came when the Empire line met the Warriors of Chaos. Auric promised him “a proper meal and a modest bounty” for each spawn he flattened. Noely, taking this literally, tried to eat one. It exploded.

When the smoke cleared, Auric was shouting about having slain the beast “with his own hand.” Noely, half-deaf and covered in questionable goo, muttered something about “sharing credit, you fancy-lad twig.” Nobody heard him. He spent the rest of the evening trying to wash warp pus out of his moustache.

Druhska, the black-armoured champion of the Dark Gods, rode at the head of her warband. Her armour was thick with salt and rust; her eyes burned from beneath the horned helm. Around her, his warriors murmured prayers of victory — but also unease. The air here was alive with motion, with things unseen moving through the reeds.

And from the mists came Gharnag and his herd — a tide of fur, hooves, and ritual scars. They reeked of blood and leaf mould. At their heart, the Beastlord strode tall, crowned in bone and dripping ichor, his voice a guttural roar that made the marsh water quiver.

There was no parley, not truly. The two warlords saw in each other the same vision — the promise of greater destruction.

“The city,” rumbled Gharnag, gesturing with his cleaver toward the glimmering fires of Hagendorf.

“A prize,” said Druhska.

“A sacrifice,” growled the Beastlord.

“Then we shall see whose gods feast first,” replied the champion, and she laughed like a cold wind through gnarled and broken boughs.

An uneasy accord was struck in the darkness — a pact of convenience between ruin and ruin. Together, they would drive the last defenders into the sea. Yet already, their followers were circling each other, snarling, jostling, testing the edges of this alliance.

The next dawn would decide whether the pact held… or whether Hagendorf would witness monsters turning upon one another even before its walls fell.

The Beastlord seized dominance, declaring that no man-thing or northman shall claim his prey. His blood-fuelled rituals swelled in power, the forest itself turning against the invaders and defenders alike.

Chapter IV: Ashes of the Grove

The night after the storm broke over Hagendorf, a cold wind came down from the Laurelorn.

It carried with it the smell of smoke — and of despair.

Along the forest’s northern verge, Captain Auric von Hinden had halted what remained of his column. His troops had seen enough madness: the braying herds, the flayed banners of Chaos, the night fires that danced across the marshes. Now, by the flicker of a single camp lantern, he watched the wounded being carried in. His battle standard lay torn across his knees.

The Ogres of Noely Folly, swathed in bloodied bandages and nursing broken clubs, sat silent for once. Auric’s lieutenants whispered that the enemy would come at dawn — that the dark gods had found them again. But the Captain was already speaking too loudly, insisting that he would “strike the next blow,” that he would “ride out and bring back the heads of heretics.”

From the treeline came the Wood Elves — what was left of them. Their armour was blackened with soot; their banners hung in tatters. At their head strode Thalanil Leafborne, Daemhaidh second, bearing his lord’s blade in mourning, for Daemhaidh’s life was only sustained by the spirits of the forest. It was unknown whether he would continue to life on this plain.

“Men of Hagendorf,” Thalanil called in broken Reikspiel. “We come not as foes. The forest bleeds, and the beasts have defiled what was sacred. You will not last the night without aid.”

Auric’s officers reached for their weapons; his men muttered curses. The memory of ambushes past ran deep. Yet Thalanil did not raise his bow — he simply pointed toward the distant glimmer of fire in the marshlands, where bestial horns sounded under a bruised sky.

Noely Foley, tired from the days of battle, mishandled his handgun. It’s explosion of powder and smoke was all it took. A chaotic battle on the edge of the woods ensued.

Revelling in the chaos, Auric regains his confidence (undeservedly). He boasts that his tactical genius saved the day and demands the Elves join him in an alliance against the foul enemy ensnaring the lads. This was the very thing the Asrai had wished for… needless bloodshed caused by human stupidity.

Chapter V: The Desecration at Taal’s Hollow

Dawn broke blood-red over the salt marshes. The wind that came in from the northern sea carried not gull cries but the lowing of horns — the heralds of ruin.

Far inland, beyond the shattered farmlands and the smoking ruins of Hagendorf’s outer hamlets, stood what the locals once called Taal’s Hollow — a broad, grassy depression ringed by ancient stones. At its heart rose the moss-choked ruin of an old Empire temple, long abandoned to the wilds. For centuries, hunters had left offerings there to Taal and Rhya, though none had come in a generation.

Now, the stones bled.

The Beastlord Gharnag the Crowhorned had claimed the hollow as his own. His herds had piled corpses high before the altar and lit pyres of sacred oak. The air was thick with burning fur and foul incense. The ground itself seemed to twist beneath the weight of the ritual — a living corruption spreading out from the temple like a dark tide.

Amidst this chaos, a new figure had come, Zeeta, prophet of the Twisted Flame, her armour burnished black, her eyes reflecting the colours of madness. In the night she had seen a vision — Tchar’s great serpentine shadow coiling above the world, whispering:

“Unite the beasts of flesh with the beasts of thought. Burn the false gods from the hollow, and I shall unmake the earth beneath you.”

Zeeta had taken the vision as command. Druhska bent the knee only briefly, his warriors snarling but obeying. The uneasy pact of ruin was reborn — this time, under divine compulsion. The Beastmen would desecrate, and the servants of Chaos would sanctify, until not even the name of Taal remained.

Meanwhile, within Hagendorf’s battered walls, the defenders watched the rising smoke. Captain Auric von Hinden raged that the abominations had gathered again, and that no relief would come from the south. Yet it was not the voice of a man that answered him — but that of Daemhaidh, the forest’s nursing imbuing him with a haunting manner.

“That place was sacred,” Daemhaidh hissed, his words like arrows. “The stone there is old as the forest. If it falls, your city falls after it.”

“Then we march,” Auric growled. “For Taal, for Sigmar — and for Nordland.”

For the first time, the men of Hagendorf and the Asrai moved as one. The Wood Elves scouted ahead, their songs carrying through the trees like ghosts. The Empire columns followed — battered, limping, but resolute. They would make their stand at Taal’s Hollow, against gods and monsters both.

Chapter VI: Ashes of the Hollow

When the smoke cleared from Taal’s Hollow, the land itself seemed to bleed. The ancient standing stones were toppled and blackened, their runes cracked and molten. The once-green glade had become a pit of ash, where streams of corrupted water steamed and hissed. The stench of death — man, elf, and beast — hung heavy as fog.

At the centre of the ruin stood Zar Druhska, her chariot half-broken, the blue fire of her maul guttering low but unquenched. Around her, the survivors of the Twisted Flame howled their triumph to the uncaring sky. Beyond them, Gharnag the Crowhorned stood upon the altar, his claws slick with the blood of his foes, roaring praises to the Dark Gods as the last light of day died crimson on the horizon.

The pact of ruin had held — at least for a time.

Auric von Hinden lay among the wreckage of his banner, its embroidered sunburst torn and burning. No one saw who struck the final blow, though many claimed to hear his last defiant shout carried on the wind: “Nordland still stands!”. Those who saw the body were in no doubt that the armour was that of Auric, though there was some dispute if the battered face within the helm resembled him.

The body of Daemhaidh Thornshade was never found. Some swore they saw him fall beneath the Dragon Ogre’s blades; others whispered of a shadow slipping back into the forest, grievously wounded but alive — bound by vengeance.

Epilogue

As night deepened, Zeeta approached the desecrated altar. “The promise is fulfilled,” she murmured to Druhska. “Tchar is pleased.” Yet her eyes flickered uncertainly toward Gharnag. The Beastlord no longer roared. He stared into the void above the altar, nostrils flaring, as though something vast and unseen watched him back.

The ground shuddered. A column of cold fire erupted skyward — blue, then violet, then black — before collapsing in upon itself. When it faded, the temple was gone. In its place, a crater smouldered, pulsing faintly like a dying heart.

By dawn, the alliance had shattered. The Beastmen melted back into the woods, dragging their dead and trophies, their howls echoing through the mist. Druhska’s warband turned north, toward the coast, following some private omen. Of Zeeta, only a spiral of footprints remained, burned into the earth, leading nowhere.

Within Hagendorf, they lit candles that night, believing the storm had passed. But sailors claimed that far out upon the Sea of Claws, the lighthouse flame burned not gold, but blue — and that it sang, faintly, like wet glass upon stone.

And so ended the Siege of Hagendorf, though none who fought there would ever name it victory.

For the gods had been watching.

And they were not yet done.

Noely Foley will return…