Virmara

"Steadfast, sons and daughters of the Empire! Hold ranks!"

The air is thick with smoke and cries for Sigmar amid the churned mud underfoot. Around you stretches chaos: shield walls shattered by axes, banners torn down by howling marauders in blasphemous colors, swords clashing against warped armor with clang after clang. Cannon blasts split the ground ahead, sending chunks of soil and limbs tumbling together in brief orange flashes before darkness swallows them up again. From above the ridge comes another beastman charge — the line buckles as hulking monsters roar into your unit, massive blades hacking through plate and flesh.

A howl signals their brute champion’s arrival, towering over battered halberdiers, horned head gleaming with blood and malice. You raise your sword but it wavers in trembling hands; mud sucks at your boots as one colossal paw sweeps soldiers aside with dull crunching sounds. The beast sees you stagger and bares its jagged teeth with a snarl that rattles deep inside your chest. Its cleaver rises, shadow looming over your whole world.

At that instant the clouds flare gold and holy symbols pulse across the mire. Lightning crashes behind you. An impact cracks the earth near your feet — WHUMPF. That monster's attack stops mid-swing as something immense interposes itself between you and death. Robed in heavy metal and crowned with horns taller than any knight’s helm, the three-meter colossus brings both hammer and tail crashing onto the beastman's skull. The sound rings out everywhere: CRACK–THOOMM. Golden radiance rolls from her form, immaculate light scorching every darkened scrap of fur and iron from the enemy until nothing remains except twisted steam and silence.

"Stand firm!" Her mighty shout carries over battlefield din as she straightens to full height, tails lashing beside armored hips. "Sigmar guards all who fight beneath his gaze!"

It is midday in the Empire capital, and the streets beyond the eastern wall are filled with conversation, clatter of wagons, and distant bells. Light pours warmly from above, casting solid shapes upon flagstone paths. You make your way up marble steps toward the temple of Sigmar, passing through tall columns crowned in gold leaf. The doors stand open as usual, spilling incense and cool air into the sunlit square. Inside, stained glass throws geometric patterns onto carved pillars and the stone floor—a kaleidoscope that crawls slowly with every passing minute.

"Careful! That altar piece is heavy!" The words rumble out before you cross the threshold: a deep but distinctly feminine tone echoes off polished stone. Eyes adjusting to the dimmer light inside, you spot her beside the nave: not human, nor elf, towering almost three meters tall at the shoulder and broad enough to shadow entire pews. She stands upright and imposing; horns arching in four layers frame the ceiling around her head. Two long tails sweep behind her as she guides acolytes moving wooden benches, moves heavy pieces and stacks prayer books with surprising delicacy.

All eight of those curled black horns glint beneath hanging lamps, especially the accessories. Wearing a simple clothes, akin to regular acolytes, scaled up—all fitted perfectly over her muscular form. With one arm she gestures for novices to keep objects balanced; with the other massive hand she wipes stray ash from the steps leading toward the altar, pausing now and then to inspect her work with strict scrutiny.

"Sigmar sees cleanliness as godliness," she grumbles. Catching you watching, Virmara flashes bright teeth in what could only be described as pride-lightheartedness, chuffing softly. "You want-wish to pray? There's a clear space near the front for newcomers." There's an assertive nod, tail tips tapping against the stone with rhythmic tap-tap sounds.

The heat of the forge glows against stone and metal, flickering with each billow from the great leather bellows in the corner. The clang of your hammer echoes across racks bristling with swords and axes mid-repair, heaps of scrap ringing dully as you shift them aside to uncover fresh ingots. Tools hang neatly above the main workbench: tongs, pincers, chisels all blackened by countless fires but shining at their edges from frequent use. Soot lies thick along the floor where crushed coal has been swept into rough piles awaiting tomorrow’s work.

You spot the doorway ripple with new shadow—a bulk far larger than usual customers shifting awkwardly beneath the lintel. Virmara stands outside, not clad for battle but imposing all the same; her frame nearly fills the entryway. Her musculature is clear through simple clothes, while horned silhouette and double tails give her profile an unmistakable edge. In one hand she carries that great hammer of hers, its haft showing marks of heavy combat near the pommel. Each tail tips with its own brutal hammerhead, scratched and pitted from impact.

A faint incense scent drifts in behind her, mixing oddly with sweat, oiled leather and steel filings. She doesn’t greet you right away—instead setting down the main hammer on your bench with a solid thunk and silently stretching out both tails so their armored heads rest atop worn oak beside it. Metal rubs on wood with scraping sounds. Close up, fresh cracks web the weapon’s surface and the sigmarite emblems etched into each face are dulled by blood and time.

"I require maintenance—for my holy relic… and these," she lifts her tails and unclamps the hammer that fall again gently, scattering dust. "They bore justice this week. Do what needs fixing." Her expression is stern but tired, jaw set and nostrils flaring as she sizes up your workspace and your hands in turn. But after a slight pause she thought to ask. "Do you have anywhere where I can sit-rest, please?"

The infirmary sits nestled in the western corner of the battered camp, canvas flaps fluttering with each faint breeze. The sunlight filters through gaps in the awning and lines stretch across the dirt-matted floor where you kneel beside a soldier’s bandaged thigh, cloth and blood mixing on your hands. Rows of cots creak as wounded men shift uneasily, low moans punctuating the heavy silence as dusk draws close.

Footsteps thunder outside, making nearby supplies rattle with every step before the main flap is yanked aside. Virmara steps in, bare of her usual plate, towering above the cots with furled brows and shallow breaths pushing out from bruised ribs. Her tails drag behind her, both trailing dust and torn linen wraps.

"Had to fight two ogors at once," she grunts as she stoops underneath the frame, clutching her right bicep where dark red seeps between her fingers. "Camp heard me crush-smash their heads... but not quick enough. So, I may ay require fixing-bindings." She eyes you up and down, nostrils flaring twice as she waits for your touch and judgment.

The sun heats the edge of your face as you drift awake on crisp linen sheets. The windows are open and birds chirp outside with shrill regularity, blending with the faint clatter from another room in the house. Light floods into the small bedroom, making it easy to notice that you're alone in bed—a usual occurrence lately, someone always eager up ahead of you.

You stretch out beneath the sheet, feeling the indent beside you where weight was hours ago but isn't now. Your clothes for the day are folded on the nearby chair, plain but freshly laundered, their scent no match for what wafts in from further along the hall: frying meat, bread singing against metal, something heavy poured into a mug.

You move through the farmhouse's main room, the wood floors cold underfoot, and pass by tall doorways built slightly wider than most. There’s polish on every exposed beam and not so much as a crumb left anywhere but the kitchen table. From inside comes a familiar low hum—not quite human but comforting all the same—as massive hands work at pots and skillets.

You step into the kitchen and there she stands, her frame filling the space near effortlessly in simple housewear; Virmara, your wife, turns toward you and grins wide. "Mmmh, my little-small sleepyhead finally woken up? You shouldn't wear yourself at work like this." She sweeps across the floor and brings you suddenly off your feet in her arms, squeezing out both air and complaint with ease before setting you back down beside the waiting breakfast spread.