Looking for the finest of garbs? They can be found in Warhammer: brianowens.tv 2’s in-game store: Lohner’s Emporium of Wonders on PC.
Marshal Ludenwald”s Favourite Hat
It is well known in some quarters that the Emperor Karl-Franz is incredibly fond of hats. At least, so Kruber insists. A topic Kruber is rather more vague on is how this particularly fine specimen escaped the Emperor’s personal vaults and came to Taal’s Horn Keep. But get him drunk enough – a non-inconsequential investment – and he’ll regale listeners with a story. Apparently, Marshal Erich Ludenwald, upon finding his life saved by a much younger – and soberer – Kruber, promised the young lad his prized hat as a reward. Alas that very afternoon, Ludenwald found himself on the wrong end of an Orc’s choppa. Unaware (or uncaring) of pledges made, the Emperor claimed the splendid hat as a memento of his old friend… an injustice some unknowable and unseen hand has clearly righted.
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Mercenaries like to stand out from the crowd, and the previous owner of this particular ensemble more than most. Though the garb is tattered and torn, the heraldry of many armies and mercenary bands can be glimpsed amid its rags … or so it appears. The truth is, this is no motley assemblage crafted by chance, but the remnant of a uniform deliberately commission by someone lacking either the good sense he was born with, or a pair of functioning eyes. Nonetheless, the uniform does make the wearer linger in the mind’s eye, if only out of pity. Once the Hellequin is glimpsed, it is not easily forgotten. It may, indeed, be the very thing Kruber is looking for (being the shy, self-effacing gent that he is…)
Mask of the Shadow-Slayer
Walk softly through the Ashen Hills. Such is the warning given to those who tread the barren wastes of Naggaroth. Even in that most dangerous of lands, the Ashen Hills hold a reputation for perils uncounted, for the vicious web of predators and prey has honed its denizens to the most vicious of killers.
Nowhere is this truer among the outcast Shades of that province, who were blinded long ago in one of Malekith’s splendid fits of pique. Distrusted and unloved, even by their own kin, the druchii of the Ashen Hills delight in the stalking of prey. Unable to see, they track their victims by the sound of footfalls, and are seldom seen in return. At least, not before a wicked blade takes their victim’s throat or slips between their ribs… and by then, it’s rather too late.
The commission, fulfilment and expectation of assassination are merely a facet of daily life in the realm of Naggaroth. One must be forever alert for the possibility a rival – or even a chance acquaintance – judging your survival less valuable than the quantity of coin its curtailment will cost. Assassins themselves are therefore common to the point of expendability, and commissions jealously contested by whatever advantage can be sought.Garb is one such advantage. Naggarothi assassins favour raiment that moves easily, presents the wearer with a degree of enviable style – on those few occasions where she wishes to be seen – and above all, blends with the shadows. This particular ensemble – until recently – belonged to a traveller come seeking Lohner. Kerillian intercepted him before contact could be made, and has since taken pains to keep Lohner ignorant of his almost-brush with death…
A bounty hunter is nothing without his legend. Such legends take many forms. Some seek notoriety through brutality. Others, through regard for a palpable sense of justice, unswerving faith, or perhaps a reputation for generosity.
Fredrich Friedhelm, however, being not over blessed with courage, morality, zeal or beneficence, chose an altogether simpler approach: an eye-catching wardrobe. This extravagant hat (thought to have at one time earned the current Emperor’s unfading envy) is said to be the least of Friedhelm’s sartorial delights. If nothing else, one can look upon it finery without one’s eyes starting to itch – which was alas the case with his pierrot costume of finest, body-hugging rainbow silks.
Of all the items in Lohner’s shop, there’s something about this one that just … catches the eye. Maybe it’s the cut of the fabric, the sheen of the silk. The lace ruff, perhaps? Or the gilded edging that sparkles like the sun? It is a masterwork of haberdashery, as impressive in its way as the toughest ironbreaker’s plate, or the delicate fletching on an elven arrow. It doesn”t belong in this world, and its implicit promise is that if you wear it, nor will you … and everyone will know it.
But the greatest mystery of all – one that takes cruel injustice to new heights – is the fact that this wonderous garb fits no one so perfectly as Victor Saltspyre, who considers fine garb second only to bathing in the pursuit of hedonistic mores…
While no dwarf will actually admit to an outsider of feeling self-conscious about their height, they often – and quite by coincidence – spend vast sums on hats designed to, ahem, increase their standing. As a result, Dwarfen battle-millinery is a fiercely competitive business, leading to some quite extraordinary designs. This particular piece, commissioned by Torri Gretson from the renowned Barak Varr smith Kreng Krengisson, was something of a legend in its day, and the tale was only enhanced further when Gretson’s heirs fell to squabbling over their father’s vanished helm. In the resulting unpleasantness, one fell off Steercrag Mountain, another took the Slayer Oath and the third left Barak Varr forever, never to be seen again. But the helm, at least, survives, kept safe by Gretson’s daughter Emalda, to whom it had secretly been bequeathed.
Unsurprisingly, a good many ironbreakers revere Valaya above the other Ancestor Gods. After all, it falls to them to protect a hold’s hidden under-roads from the dwarfs’ most tenacious foes, selling their lives dearly against overwhelming numbers. This is a calling that comes from within, for there is little glory in the darkness, and few will ever know the mighty deeds performed within its grasp.Indeed, ironbreakers perhaps best represent Valaya’s calling of ‘peace through war’ than any other cadre of dwarfs. Where their kin might fight for glory, for wealth or in the prosecution of old grudges, ironbreakers hold hearth and home precious above all. Such dedication is a virtue close to Valaya’s generous heart, and it is said that ale never tastes sweeter than in the darkness, surrounded by one’s doughty comrades.
All wizards have a fondness for candles. Spellcraft can be a challenging matter at the best of times, and a thousand cautionary tales warn against the rashness of sifting somatic components in the dark. Especially when one is an adept of Aqshy, and the difference between flammable and fireproof can prove a matter of life or attention-grabbing death. This particular collar was fashioned with safety in mind. The candles themselves are made from rendered dragon fat, and thus incredibly resistant to flame. When lit, they have a smell some describe as ‘burning history’ which, given the often great age of the dragons slain to make such candles a reality, can be said to be more literal statement that it first appears. Certainly, dragons have no trouble recognising the aroma, meaning that while the bearer need fear no darkness, they might very well be advised to wariness of what lingers therein.
Judge of Myrmidia
In her aspect of the Goddess of Civilisation, Myrmidia tasks her faithful to uphold the precepts of law, for civilisation is nothing without such foundations. Her judges are unflinching in the pursuance of this duty. In criminal matters, they pay no heed to rank or wealth – there is only perpetrator, and victim. For though it is oft-forgotten, Myrmidia also holds herself to be a patron of the honourable, not merely the valiant.Accordingly, Myrmidia’s judges are crossed only by the very arrogant or the very foolish. Both end the same way. The Goddess has little truck with dissembling and deception, and thus guilt or innocence are her judges’ only concerns. Fortunately, ashes seldom quibble about the severity of sentence.