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Here I will post the Campaign that I am playing with my friend, its only intended to be a short 4 battleplan campaign.

I will be playing the Seraphon, While my friend will be playing the exiles doing the narrative writeup

Without Further Adu:

‘All was once is something I say often. All was once, according to my fading memory, chaos.
‘I remember the smell of iron. The crackling of soot. The volcanic thrust of earthen shores. Pods crack, the young ones belched from the pits. An orgy of my children. Their warriors of scale and bone; tooth and claw; against the miasma of the great enemy of change. Pestilence. Blood. Debauchery.
‘It was ruined. The dictate abolished. The plan was lost.
‘But not forgotten.’

Quetlhuen, the Dreamer

***

Prologue

The blood moon bathed Dyril; her gown messy and strewn with malignant strands. As delicate and beautiful as they were, it irked her that such an omen cursed her before the mission. The gods are petty, she thought. We are the superior ones.
She strode atop her beloved Cold One, Daeris, hand-reared from a snarling whelp. Though born into bondage, Cold Ones remain savage until broken by whip and mutilated by daring (she preferred dim-witted) Beastmasters.
Daeris snapped her jaws, the poisonous saliva frothed as Dyril caressed her pet.
‘Shh, not yet,’ she whispered amid the clattering of blackened steel.
Daeris snapped again, the froth caked Dyril’s thighs. The skin of those inexperienced at handling Cold One’s would blister—but not hers. Her nerves were scoured by Daeris’ sacs long ago.
The Knights atop their Cold One steeds shivered under the immensity of the blood moon’s curse. Dyril sang hymns of servitude, but the moon’s magic was so overwhelming that even the Dreadlord, Turon, was troubled by his Horned One.
‘Something’s amiss,’ Dyril stressed as Daeris snapped at the tail of the Dreadlord’s Horned One.
Turon sneered, his face stretched like a thin mask; he cracked Daeris with the butt of his great sword and spat by her feet.
‘The moon calls for blood, Sorceress,’ Turon’s voice scraped against his throat. ‘Whether it’s mine or yours, my knights or the warriors—that’s for the god’s to decide. We are mere playthings within an ocean of ache.’
His belief in the old gods was peculiar, especially as they were all but fragments of an arcane, tragic time. He claimed to have dreams of a figure drowned in blood; eyes aflame with the fires of war; and another figure atop an onyx dragon; sword forged of starlight, amour beaten by oil. These visions steeled him towards the martial life of an Exile noble. His dream of usurping the Dread King was obvious, so obvious that Dyril was sent to keep Turon in check.
‘The riders should be here by now—are you sure they were—’
‘The Dark Riders slip in and out of the shadows. They’ll remain unseen.’
Stern, the Dreadlord eyed her with a venomous disdain. How dare you question me, his face spoke to her. Unfettered Aelf!
She smiled, the insults flickered like candle light. His insults meant nothing to her.

***

In dream, the Great Quetlhuen rose. Atop a stone pedestal, his pet lizard lapped the boils bulging by his third chin.
‘BLOOD,’ his voice trembled within the minds of his Temple Guard. Their pupils, enlarged; they snarled at each other; the madness of the sleeping Slann gnawed away at their sanity.
‘STEEL,’ another sombre recollection, the Temple Guard reeled as the Slann bludgeoned them with memories of battle long before their time.
Scales were torn from their flesh, teeth pulled by ethereal tendrils spawned by unholy portals. There was no escape, the Temple Guard were consumed from within their sacred temple.
‘CHAOS. REIGNS,’ the Slann brooded, his voice clotted with a gob of green slag. Shadows concealed the temple; the entrance, barred by the gore of the Seraphon guard.

Game 1
Ambush at the Cursed Temple (Seraphon Battleplan)

Tenqutah heard the faint musings of his master. It was a low lull; the voice coaxed him into the void of the long-long ago time. Tenqutah was small when his master bestowed unto him visions of the long-long ago—a world of dream; a world of grass, of jungle and gold. It was unlike this bayou, and it was up to his master to plant this vision in the fetid swamplands, and hope for it to bloom.

Tenqutah’s crest erected; he sniffed. He was a Brave and Brave’s are very good at finding things. Smelling things. Sensing things even without the aid of their master.

Bugs crawled away—in fear, maybe? Tenqutah ate a roach, the carapace cracked under nimble teeth. He guided his party through a poisonous lake—step by step, they had to be careful or else their webbed toes would sink into the marsh flats, forever.

A clang of metal. Old metals. Worn metals. Tenqutah could hear it in the clash. The rust. Flecks of blood. His heart palpitated as he crept closer to the sound of battle. He remembered battle—or felt as if he should have.
The party hushed as they spied a band of pallid warriors clothed in purple cloth and blackened links of chain. Blades, shields—it was a host led by a being with no helm and long, pointed ears.

Tenqutah was unable to recall such beings. Their march was a sleight movement; they danced along with the air currents as their boots delved into the bayou’s muck.

His party shivered as the warriors approached.
‘Do we attack?’ A Skink's pebble-like teeth grated.
‘We should attack! Tenqutah, now!’ Another Skink gnawed.
The attack would be pointless, they would all be killed and forgotten.
Not speaking, Tenqutah motioned a retreat. We cannot prevent the warriors from marching on the ruins, but the Saurus can. They can stop anything.

***

Their steeds forged of shadows, the Dark Riders arrived unseen and unheard; nary a whinny, or excited jolt, the Dreadstalkers excelled in stealth and speed. Turon's personal legion, they were infamous for countless sackings and scouting missions thought impossible. Though their number had waned over the centuries of slaughter and mayhem, the Dreadstalkers remained a malevolent and wretched force to be reckoned with.
Turon half-smiled, held his head low, and without uttering even a word, the Dreadstalkers rode into the oncoming shadows.
A slight snicker, I thought they were lost. Forgotten. How droll.

'They aren't many, Sorceress,' Turon licked his lips as he approached Dyril. Her Cold One snivelled as his aura touched hers, afraid of another beating, it let out a wail.
'They?'
'The men of fang and scales, those thought lost to time,' a wicked smile crept up on his alabaster face. 'I was right. It must be here, it must be—' Turon trailed off silently to himself until his Cold One snapped.
'We are near, I can taste its magic. Ready yourself, Sorceress. They are said to be beasts of brawn.'
She didn't cross the Dreadlord and offered him a cheerful grin. If anyone could pull this off, it would be the tenacious Turon—and even if he didn't, more of a chance to progress up the Aelfen food chain.
The magic was thick upon the winds; a melody of decay and life entwined the sulphurous realm with rot and insidious forms of insect and rodent. The Exiles were tough, but not invincible. Many were killed as they slept by a rotten malady, or simply through dehydration. If we are to survive we need to hurry, Dyril thought as she peered into the blood moon once more.
A bashing of metal shields, the Cold One Knights raised their lances as Turon struck an invisible foe with his Hydra Blade.
They were here.
'Onward!' Turon screamed as he led the Cold One Knights deeper into the shadows.
Without much thought, Dyril uttered a protective incantation and swathed the Bleaksword regiments with a rippled, purple shield. Spears tinged with venom bounced into the marshes, only to be plucked and thrown again, and again. The Bleakswords held firm, shields high as they protected their lord's rear. Leave the baseborn warriors, the nobles shall charge upon their Cold Ones.
Dyril tried her best to repel the flocks of scaly foes, but she was unable to protect everyone as Daeris charged into the diminutive foe. Dyril smacked Daeris with the butt of her staff, stupid beast!
The Bleakswords held and defended their post as they slowly trudged along, protected by a faint, lingering magical presence. Though she preferred to slaughter the foes alongside the Bleakswords, Dyril knew she had to ride by the side of Turon. The Sorceress had to be by the side of the Dreadlord—politics. She tried to enhance the Bleakswords as a parting gift, but was denied by the blood moon's sheen.
'Curse the gods. All of them!' She screeched as she smacked Daeris' hide, and rode deeper into the shadows.

The temple was immense, and coated in ichor and moss. A sombre bleating belched from the stones as if the temple were alive, and possessed by a malign deity. The Cold One Knights shivered as a sticky breeze froze their Cold Ones in place.
'It's there, I can feel it!' Turon yelled, excitedly. 'Can you, Sorceress, or are your senses dulled in this hell?'
With her eyes closed, Dyril listened and convulsed as a nightmarish voice filled her with an uncanny horror. Shapes dissolved and rearranged into non-linear projections; the earth tore itself a part only to reforge into unusual monoliths, etched with eldritch markings.
Blood pooled by the corners of her eyes; Dyril awoken only as the Cold One Knights charged into the bone-white shields of a larger, greater foe.
Standing no more than eight feet tall, the scaled foes held the line as the steel-tipped lances of the Cold One Knights pierced only several of their allies. They snarled, fangs grit in unison; though they were few in number, the beasts pushed the Cold One Knights.
Turon roared, his throat raw as the Hydra Blade fed upon the scaled men. But no matter the cost, they held, even as the temple's bleating cursed both armies with figments and spectres; looming over them, scythe in hand; the savage pulsations dredged forgotten abominations from the marshlands which then preyed upon the fallen, the sickly and those almost dead.
A proud Aelf, Turon reeled his Cold One and screamed a cry—a prayer to the gods that had forsaken them in this battle.
Bolts rained and silently pricked the scaled men's flank. The Dreadstalkers appeared, disappeared, and then reappeared; one with shadow, they fired, allowing the Cold One Knights to push ever closer to the temple.
A portion of the scaled men fractured and chased the Dark Riders into the shadows, only to sink into the marsh, dead, pricked with countless bolts.
A brief respite, Dyril tried to bless the Cold One Knights only for her spell to dissipate under the ululating of a robed reptile. Though dark, she could make out the rainbow feathers and the brazen staff in its bone-like fingers, flecked with fragments of stardust and gold.
In response, the robed reptile blessed his allies with a cursed ferocity; their eyes alight with brimstone, their muscles enhanced by the holy chanting.
'Onward!' Turon screamed, again. 'Break the line and crush their bones! I demand their champion's skull!'
The shield wall held, Turon's cry lost amid a savage roar. In what felt like an eternity, Dyril lifted her head as the ground shook. Bleakswords emerged from the shadows, only to be impaled by sharpened sticks; scaled knights, a primal reflection of their own knights. But that paled in comparison to their commander—a savage brute that rode atop draconic behemoth, fangs leaking with a bloodied saliva, its paws drenched in blood—Aelfen blood.
'
***

Kui-Gon regarded the pale mongrels with a ferocious disdain. How dare these intruders corrupt the great Quetlhuen's temple! A sacred space for his people, the Scar-Veteran mocked each death with a snapping snigger, allowing for his Carnosaur to rip the flesh from the pallid foes; a treat for his loyalty.
Displeased that the mongrels were easy the prey upon, Kui-Gon set his ruby eyes upon those whom rode upon depraved Cold Ones.
'All of them. Kill them. All,' Kui-Gon commanded, coldly, and charged towards the knights.
Though shielded by another formation of meat, the Scar-Veteran pushed horses and men aside, and split them asunder to reach his true prey.

***

It's over, she thought to herself as she reigned Daeris. Like the Dreadstalkers, she encased herself in an inky blot, hidden from her Dreadlord (though Turon was enthralled by the fracas to even notice the beast behind him) and foes alike. She neared the temple, and though resistant, she closed her eyes again and tasted the winds once more.
'You try to peer into my thoughts, witch?' An awesome voice embroiled her mind with chaos.
No, I daren't—
'Worm. Despicable wretch. You are doomed. All of you. Doomed.'
Dyril supped the energies of the great temple. Imperfect, but the taste was immense, she supped on raw starlight—the immensity filled her with purpose.
'There is a way—' she broke off and disappeared into the darkness.

***

As the blood moon turned Kui-Gon broke the knights, dismembered their Standard Bearer and personally feasted on the deprave Cold Ones. Blood fresh in the air, and in trance, Kui-Gon heard the great Quetlhuen's voice—seek out the witch.
The pallid champion fled as Kui-Gon lost himself to his master.
Seek out the witch. I want her, now.

Tendrils slapped some of the retreating horsemen and knights, but alas, the bulk of Turon's army was lost. He was close, so close he could taste the magic of the Old Ones. He was not in their favour tonight.

***

Can we get army lists please? It is awesome narration just needs some pics and list so we can see what is on the field.

 Solosam47 wrote:
Can we get army lists please? It is awesome narration just needs some pics and list so we can see what is on the field.

I can quote the lists from memory, but unfortunately no photos were taken as most of our miniatures are as yet unpainted.

I can take some photos of the 3rd battle as the second battle has already taken place and I'm just waiting on my friend to finish the narration before I post it.

We have been using a slightly modified version of the UK Independent Pool Choices found here

http://warhammer.org.uk/phpBB/viewtopic.php?f=99&t=130170&start=0&sid=4e34a90990ab5b71e6eb0c0f113e4e40

Game 1 - Ambush at the Cursed Temple (Seraphon Battleplan)

Table
6 x 4 with 4 forests, 2 swamps, some scatter rocks and a open air temple housing a slann in meditation

Seraphon Army
2 x 24 Saurus Warriors
2 x 10 Skinks w/Javelins
Skink Starpriest
Firelance Starhost
- Scar Vet on Carnosaur
- 3 x 5 Saurus Knights

Exiles Army
2 x 25 Bleakswords
1 x 10 Cold One Knights
2 x 10 Dark Riders
1 x Sorceress on Cold One
1 x Dreadlord on Cold One
1 x Master w/Banner on Horse

Seraphon major victory due to the carnosaur eating through all the bleak swords using saurus knights as a shield. The saurus warriors shieldwall holding against the cold one knight charge which allowed the carnosaur to eat all the heroes before they could reach the relic.

Thanks!! Its great write up and now i can better visualize whats happening!! Im excited for the next ones!

Battle 2: Out of the Mist (Quest for Ghal Maraz Battleplan)

Table: 4x4. Lots of Forests and Swamps (Probably too much)

Seraphon Forces
1 x Starpriest
2 x 10 Saurus Warriors
2 x 10 Skinks

Exile Forces
1x Dreadlord
2 x 10 Bleakswords
2 x 5 Dark Riders

1 x Sorceress (Messenger)

Overview:
Turon (The Dreadlord from Battle 1) has lost his mount to the carnosaur and was trapped underneath but survived he has rallied the remnants of his warriors that fled before the might of the carnosaur. Meanwhile Dyril (The Sorceress) is hiding in the swamp from the paroling Seraphon.

The skinks move up to try to block any escape paths of the sorceress. Most of the map is enveloped in mists and most of the exiles casualties are due to the deadly terrain trait. I exposed my priest by putting it too far forward so it got swarmed by all the Bleakswords. The Seraphon didn't cause too many causalities cause my rolling was very poor and I made heaps of tactical mistakes.

The Blood Moon Campaign:
2. Defend the Witch

The mist, thick, enveloped Dyril. Hidden from the roaming Seraphon, Dyril slunk between fetid logs and carapaces shedded long ago.
With Daeris but a distant wisp of a memory, the Sorceress hobbled on foot; her staff more of a burden as it often sunk into the marsh. She cursed her Cold One with every step; and though there was a hint of sorrow, her mind was elsewhere, drawn by the eldritch powers she procured from Turon’s prized relic.
The voice called to her, its tone a harsh crackling against her eardrums; it whispered in ancient tongues indecipherable secrets.
Her fingers twinged with purple sparks; there was a clamour of rock and stone.

***

His Cold One Knights devoured, Turon escaped with barely a scratch; Dreadlords have a habit of surviving like vile roaches. As the men of scale gnawed their way through his warriors, the Dreadlord leapt off his steed and carved the lizards in twain with his delicately woven Exile Blade. To see an ageless Aelf on the battlefield is a thing of majesty; blood splatters are nothing but ink on a canvas, the blade a serrated brush dipped in a never ending bloody palette.
A roar escaped his throat; the Dreadlord beat his shield and raised his blade, high. Though few, the fleeing warriors reformed behind their champion; an air of frenzy drove the beleaguered Aelfs into a united wall of thorns.
‘Come to me,’ Turon sneered, and wiped a streak of blood from his cheek. Another beat on his shield, come to me, he whispered. Come to us, he chanted.
The mist thickened, its skeins wrapped tightly around the band of warriors. With a silky kiss, some of the Dreadlord’s men were lost; promised somewhere else in the rotten marshlands.
Again, the smaller ones rose from the marsh’s bubbles, but not a single spear hit their target; Turon’s defiance against the gods that had forsaken him spurred him onwards, his boots stained with the innards of the fallen lizard scum.
‘They come in packs,’ a whisper on the wind, followed by a series of three bolts lodged in three tiny lizard skulls. The Dreadstalkers were alive, their legend lives on, Turon scoffed. Many of their number were concealed by mist, their shadows a grisly sight for those weak spirited.
‘We need to move on. The relic—’
‘Another party,’ another interrupted. ‘A smaller one lead by a lizard with feathers. Ugly. Small. Visible. They search for survivors. We need them dead.’
‘You know this how?’ Turon spat.
A slight hint of laughter was upon the winds.
‘It’s what we would do,’ their horses whinnied as the mist encroached. ‘Beware the white. There is a sickness in this realm.’

***

DOOMED. ALL OF YOU. DOOMED.
The words tried to impart a grim fate for her, and the Aelfs, but the Sorceress wouldn’t have any of it. I am in control, I am in...control. The lizard men shifted, their claws scratched upon logs and mud. I am in control, I am in control, I am in...control.
Dyril tried to shift the mist, but alas, the foul magic ignored her will. I am in...control. I am in control!
She felt a slight pulsation—Turon’s energy. This was new to her; there was no magic she knew of that could exaggerate such a feeling. Such a force. She could taste his sweat, and feel his blood throb.
‘Turon?’ She muttered into the mists. ‘Can you hear me?’

***

‘What?’ The Dreadlord grunted as the Sorceress’ words filled his mind. ‘Where are you, Sorceress?’
His warriors eyed him with suspicion; their Dreadlord looking as if he spoke to the reptilian corpses.
‘Lord,’ a warrior stepped forward, a lump in his throat full well knowing that he might be cut in twain momentarily. ‘Is something disturbing you?’
A crack in the mouth, how dare anyone question me?
I’m close, but the scaled men are preventing my escape.
‘Why should I care?’ Turon snorted, ‘you left us for dead!’
I have information about your precious relic. But first, the Priest approaches.
‘What are you speaking about?’
A bolt of light pierced the flesh of a nearby warrior, splintered and infected another with caustic burns. With panic roused, several more Aelfs were lost in the mists; devoured by a carnivorous skein of white.
Turon raised his shield and beat it once more with a savage beating.
‘Hold! Hold!’ The Dreadlord bellowed; the warriors imitated their lord, held still for only a moment and marched forward through the mists.
The mist was nothing to fear, Turon thought, smugly. Amid the pallid screams of his men, he emerged, alive with a handful of stout warriors by his side.
Ahead, the feathered lizard wove enchantments over a regiment before him. His eyes were like the rocks in the sky, a celestial alignment coursed its way throughout his body with each spell and the swaying of his meteoric staff.
Frenzied, the Dreadlord charged, and without the eloquence of his former stance, her hacked at the scaled men, malice and passion entwined with each stroke. But there was no fear in the beady eyes of the reptilian force, even as their numbers waned. Push. Shove. Hack. Stroke. The warriors, few, held off well, their shields, near splintered as Turon urged them forward.
Kill the Priest.
‘The Priest, kill it!’ Turon screamed, followed by a bloodcurdling cry.
The mists lifted, the blood moon bathed him once more. Turon felt the sting of an appraising god, and with its intervention, the Dreadlord was nigh on invincible. Reptile blood flowed like rivers of warm, oozing tears, the final blow a crack on the Priest’s gut, followed by a swift, but ever drawn out, decapitation of its limbs.
Turon stamped upon hardened scale, his boots mottled with gore. He huffed.
‘Tell me, Sorceress, is it over?’

***

Dyril ignored Turon, for now. The main host defeated, she slunk away in the shadows. There were sloppy footsteps, and barely inaudible chittering, but for now, the Exiles were victorious.
And soon, the Dread King will claim his prize

***