Hali’del Stormheart: Shadows in the Border Princes
Hello Everyone! Today I have a bit of Army Lore for my Wood Elf Army, I am taking to the narrative event, Battle In The Border Princes. It is a narrative event, and I am excited to take the Wood Elves out to see how they do!
The wind that swept across the Border Princes carried the stench of man — smoke, tallow, sweat, and steel. It hung heavy between the twisted oaks that clung to the hillsides like dying sentinels. Hali’del Stormheart crouched upon a broad limb, his cloak blending with the moss and shadow. Below him sprawled the Bretonnian encampment — a crude fort of timber and arrogance. They had hacked down an ancient grove to build it, their fires still burning the bones of trees that had stood since the dawn of Athel Loren’s first whispers. Hali’del’s eyes narrowed. This was not a conquest, he thought. It was desecration.
The moon slid behind a shroud of cloud as he signaled his kin. No words were spoken — none were needed. From the forest’s edge came the sigh of bowstrings and the soft hum of death in flight. Arrows struck silently, finding throats and hearts. Men fell into their suppers without ever knowing who had killed them. Then came the second volley — fire-tipped shafts arcing through the dark, bursting upon tents and wagons. The camp awoke in chaos. Shadows leapt from the treeline, moving with predatory grace. The Wood Elves were in motion — ghosts among the smoke.
Hali’del landed soundlessly upon the ground, his boots sinking into the damp soil. A Bretonnian sergeant stumbled toward him, sword half drawn, eyes wide with panic. The elf’s blade flashed twice — clean, efficient — and the man collapsed, clutching at the blood pouring between his fingers. Hali’del stepped past him without a glance. The cries of the dying mingled with the crackle of burning wood and the shriek of startled horses. Somewhere, a knight bellowed orders in the name of his Lady, but his voice was drowned beneath the forest’s vengeance.
The knight came at him soon after — mail scorched, shield blackened, yet his courage unbroken. He charged through the smoke, sword high, cloak aflame. Hali’del met him head-on, parrying his overhead swing and following with a quick low cut of his blade, slicing through tendon and sinew. The knight fell to his knees, gasping prayers that would never reach heaven. Hali’del pressed his dagger beneath the man’s chin, eyes cold as winter rain. “You came seeking glory,” he murmured, “but found only the wrath of the woods.” Hali’del’s blade took his head, quick and merciless.
When the screams faded, silence claimed the camp. The Wood Elves melted back into the dark, their work complete. Hali’del lingered, staring at the ruin — the burning wagons, the scattered corpses, the charred remains of once-living trees. The air stank of death and sap. For a fleeting moment, he felt no triumph — only weariness. The forest could never truly be avenged, only defended again and again, as man’s hunger returned like the tide. He turned away at last, vanishing into the misted hills where dawn had yet to rise.
The Bretonnians would call this place cursed before the week’s end.
To Hali’del Stormheart, it was merely restored — if only for a while.