Warhammer Online Achievements

'Aye, the lads have been workin' hard. They deserve a drop of something to ease their pain. There's naught t' be had, unless Balabin's been holdin' out on us.'

he Hammerstriker pulled on his beard before dropping his voice to a whisper.

'Rumor is, Balabin's gone an' gotten his hands on a barrel of Bugman's Best! Though I can't find it in me heart t' blame him for holdin' it back, a single sip would go a long way toward easin' the spirits of the lads who're workin' their beards to the bone out here.'

"Oh my brother," I cried. "Turn away from this madness!"

But words were pale, colorless things,
Powerless to silence a song of steel.

Rumors of the cause of his sickness circulated wildly, fueled by the occasional sight of his feverish face looking out of a second or third story window.

Maddeningly enough, Thomas proved too stubborn to die, lingering in agony for several years before finally entering Morr's embrace.

Markus Gebauer's face was white and drawn. "I can't do this, Caleb."

"You must, Gebauer, or you will have consigned Thomas to a far worse fate than a few moments of pain." The apothecary spoke without turning, his entire attention devoted to lowering the squirming, purifying mass into the coffin at his feet.

Around the chamber four coffins lay open, a bag of questionable contents placed upon the skeletal remains within. As the last offering slid into place, the shirtless form of Thomas Blackthorn screamed anew.

"We've got to hurry. I don't know how much more of this he can take." Rudolph Hurst kept a tight grip on the wrists of his friend. Thomas had been caught trying to gouge his eyes out the night previous.

"Everything's ready. Markus, help Rudolph hold him down."

There was an eerie light shining in the apothecary's eyes, one which Markus Gebauer did not at all like. Caleb Neubenauf had promised he could cure his friend, and for that cure Markus would do just about anything. The aging trader baron sighed deeply and nodded before kneeling beside his tormented friend.

"I'll take his legs."

A howling wind picks up, circling the herdstone and bringing with it a familiar iron scent. Within moments the wind is gone, but you are left with the certain knowledge that your offering was accepted by the ruinous powers.

Rumors have spread throughout the city that place responsibility for a large number of mutations upon the scholarly brotherhood of Nuln. In the absence of evidence, Hieronymus and his mentor were spared the indignity of a trial, but they were still forced to flee the walled city ahead of an armed mob.

They have seen the beasts' stupidity transform into unmatched bloodlust: viciousness so extreme that a Cold One will hunt down and kill even the cleverest of opponents. When the creatures hunt together, they take on an animal cunning matched by only the great cats of Ulthuan as they herd and flank their fleeing prey.

Yet even during those uncanny bouts of cooperation, the frenzied wrath of the reptiles remains apparent, and it is only the secreted slime of their kind that keeps them from tearing one another apart as they hunt.

Many veterans have said that a Cold One's stupidity can always be depended upon, while the ones that still live rely solely on their single-minded ferocity.

Beneath the base of the jawline, a thin stream of markings can barely be seen. Though the meaning is unclear, the markings seem strangely familiar. They can be found throughout the Marshes of Madness, inscribed on various pieces of Mourkain art.

To a civilization fixated upon death, the Crystal Skull would have been precious beyond price.

Rumors whisper that the descendents of those who once served him continue to venerate the Lord of Masks in ancient and bloody rites in the hopes of bringing about his return.