It has been 150 hours standard since I lost vox contact with the Seer Wyglaf, but I smell the shamblers and the dark ones better than before.

When I broke through the warehouse to meet the dark ones - and my fate - they fell back before me, letting off a half-hearted volley of splinter fire that only served to damage my helmet and scatter their erstwhile prisoners. The citizens won't be carried off to whatever hell awaited them on the skiffs, but I could not rally them before they fled to different shelters. I can only hope I do not meet them again in the streets, victims of the Plague Lord's foul sorcery, for I will be forced to visit upon them the same destruction I have wrought upon two score of their kind in the past week.


I have formed a new pack; this city has an abundance of feral dogs and though they are not the brethren I came with, they are the brethren I will die with.


The hair on my neck stands just before I hear it: the tell-tale thrum of plasma cannons, no doubt Seer Wyglaf's cohorts. Renewed enemy contact two clicks to the northwest if my ears don't deceive me - they never have. I move to join him, powering up my own plasma pistols, and hope I don't arrive too late to find my place at the All-Father's table.

(My new lone wolf, the last Grey Hunter of a pack that got stuck-in with a few too many plague zombies, before breaking off to contest the DE objective on the last turn last week. Hopefully he'll reap a good tally in his next game, and earn himself a place in Bran's Wolfguard!)