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Just wanted to share y Background for my character in a local gaming campaingn.

Vard burst through the door, terror filling his dark faded eyes, sweat dripping from his temple. He scrounged around the hut, throwing whatever he thought was valuable into a battered chest in the corner of the room. He heard a noise from behind, and he swung his short clumsy blade to meet the foe. Straight away his blade fell.

“Dear god woman, where have you been? They’re coming, there are hundreds of them, they are but a few minutes from here, they should be passing the river crossing as we speak!” he shouted, gripping her tightly in his arms.

“What?! NOW? Vard, we have to hide him, I won’t let them take my beautiful child” she said hysterically. He pulled her into the building, slamming the door closed and drawing the rags that hung from the windows. He threw aside the small rug centred in the room, and pulled up the trap door, revealing a dark pit with a rotting ladder leading down.

“Quick, we don’t have long. Take him to the river, and leave him somewhere safe. We cannot have him here anymore; if they find him they will kill him and us! I’ll keep them at bay, you take the underground passage, now GO!” They embraced, and he ushered her on, she knew not to stay, he was a tough man, and never before had he not kept his promise. “I’ll be safe”, was the last words she heard before the door slammed from above her, covering her in darkness.

There was a loud thrashing of the door, and Vard swung it open, looking to meet the men with his cold harsh stare. “Ah, so this be the farther of the daemon child?” the bald grim faced man said, removing his blood red hood from his head, revealing a large branded burn, in the shape of the two tailed comet. One thing ran through Vard’s mind: Warrior priest. “Now, I do not want to make this ugly, as you can see behind me, I am not the only one who wants this being to be put to rest”. “You have come too late mighty priest, for we have already dealt with the child. After the apothecary told us of his taint, we disposed of him, not wanting to cause such treachery to Sigmar himself”. The warrior priest tilted his head and smiled, as Vard’s eyes drifted to the large host behind the priest, a large gang of ragged and dirty men, some covered in blood holding large flails, others preaching to the skies. The priest stepped forward, adjusting his giant mace in his gauntleted hand.

She hung behind; trying to hear what was going on above, whilst trying to keep the child quiet. She started to whisper a small prayer, praying to Sigmar that Vard would keep his promise and stay safe. As if in reaction, the child let out an unearthly shriek, and in reaction she dropped the child, as her hands began to burn.

Vard threw his head to the floor, terror striking his face. The warrior priest let out a small laugh, as the crowd behind him gripped their ears in pain.

The last thing she heard of him was a small cry, followed by a thud of a falling body on the floor above. She started to cry silently, muffling the child and running with it through the black tunnel. All she heard from behind was the sound of feet and chaos, as flagellants sacrificed themselves to Sigmar so that he may carry his Priest to destroy the tainted one, much to the Priest’s annoyance. He turned to his squire, saying “Get the torches, burn this filthy hut to the ground, and get my steed, we’re going hunting!”…

Bjorn stepped out of his tent and looked up the harsh wastes that stood in front of him. A strong blizzard picked up as he surveyed the land, snow curving its way through his distorted short figure, sending his cloak twisting furiously, revealing his deep red flesh beneath. Upon the horizon, he saw hordes gathering, a calling drawing them together, he felt it too; the very wind that swept around him carried it, the calling of chaos. But he would not join his fellow warriors, and would not follow his master’s call, for he had another plan. He had a score to settle, within the Empire. Yet he would not follow the great war band to do so, for he would need to get to the centre of the Empire to quench his thirst of revenge, ever since he found his true gift. Upon growing up with the Norse tribe Skaelings, he was the ways of being able to accept his true gift from the gods, and how to use it. Yet, he wished he never had met the Lord of Change in his dream, those many a century ago, for it was then he found his chilling past. He had no name for his parents murderer, but he knew the face, and he knew that he was nothing but a cold blooded human, transfixed in his petty religion. Hadn’t his farther had stalled the religious horde, Bjorn would have never been hidden by his mother, yet it was upon her return to the home that she was brutally tortured for her sins to Sigmar. Sigmar, Bjorn grunted and spat on the ground in disgust, how pathetic humans had become. Their random beliefs and fake gods, and all for what? Hope? They would certainly need that, he thought managing a smile, as he watched the hundreds of northmen and warriors begin to move to the war cry of the leaders.

Bjorn turned, returning to his hound fur tent to recover what little belongings he had. Placing his helm upon his twisted head, (Taken from a Champion of Chaos, that dared challenge a sorcerer of Tzeentch, and now became his own, the very face of it glowing with bright blue raw energy) he lifted his staff, the great symbol of chaos blazing at its top as he lifted the weapon. Sheathing his tribe leader’s sword, despite its size in comparison to the small sorcerer (gifted to him upon leaving the tribe) he ditched his small camp and set off in direction to Praag, where he could then enter the Empire Border. He knew this quest could very well be his last, for he would surely meet many foes, and he would be defiantly tested, yet his taste for revenge was too bitter to ignore any longer.

His feet crunched through the snow, as he trekked across the wasteland that he called home. Around him the presence of Chaos became deeper, war hounds echoed in the night and north men begged to join the sorcerer’s cause. Knowing he would need all the help he could get, he employed the warriors and northmen, as mercenaries to his cause. War hounds hung close, knowing that the “humans” they stalked would provide much flesh to feast on, as they slaughtered the innocents of the Empire they came across.

Bjorn sat in his camp, troubling over what was to come. He was a sorcerer of Chaos, he was strong, and he was in the old world to be the Lord of Changes right hand. His body drifted into and out of reality, his form changing with hundreds of faces. Blue flame flickered from his red gory skin, as he delved himself in his books, constantly searching for more knowledge of his arcane mastery. The shuffled, Bjorn drew his sword, conscious of the intruder outside.
“Master. An Empire host has been spotted to the south, marching through the dark woods, led by a mere warrior priest of Sigmar (he spat on the ground), what would you have us do?” the Warrior said, his gaze invisible beyond his dark and empty helm. Bjorn gazed into the fire at his feet, drawing the wind of time into his mind, the Warrior stood patiently, watching his master with curiosity. After 5 minutes, Bjorn’s mind returned from the warp, and he simply spat:

“Ready the Warrior’s. Blood is to be spilt today”.