Where Does Your Strigoi Live?

[The Pale Lady]

The title sums it up: where in the Old World (or beyond) does your strigoi vampire(s) live?
Mine glide through the dark, dank depths of Black Water, found to the east of Sylvania in the Worlds Edge Mountains, and have done so for many centuries now. The dwarfs of Zhufbar have many grudges recorded against them.

[Mortis]

I'm thinking about getting some, and i've started writing background.
Mine lived in norsca, but are currently stuck in the empire, haning out with my blood dragon - all my VC lists will be linked. when i get some more models. off to GW this sat then

[Venneroth]

Mine was Sylvanian (The Ghoulvag Wood) but driven out. Migrated to Norsca where he got his name, Surter. Escaped imprisonment in Hell Pit, but got his personality split down the middle, like Gollum.

[Revlid]

In the Dark/Black Forest where he commands an army of tribal necromancers and corrupted tree spirits.

[Ramaja]

Vashanesh lives in the border prices, not far form Miragliano (on the east cost of Tilea).
He's a very old Strigoi Lord, so old that it actually doens't reminds where he was born and when....

[Ghoul King]

Xanlith Strigan, not entirely consumed by burning hatred and not completely insane Strigoi Vampire Lord lived in Ghoul Wood, but after gaining the knowledge about concealing his true nature he travels with his Strigany people around, looking for an opportunity to help regain their former kingdom.

[danceman]

Beging an Druchii(dark elf) my vampire Ashir D´velve lives in the cold lands of Naggaroth... odd place for a strigoi I know

I`ll post the fluff laters as it is in the works at the moment.

[IeremiiaOlogul]

Ieremiia cel Cumplit (roughly, Jeremiah the Terrible) was a Thrall under Ushoran at the fall of the Strigoi to the greenskin invasion. While the mighty Ushoran was defeated for good, Ieremiia managed to escape only gravely injured. While his bretheren retreated to Sylvanian lands, only to be rejected and hunted down by their vampiric cousins, Ieremiia cowered in the darkness, licking his wounds for many long decades. He did not wander far, in these years, from the land of his fathers, and of his lord Ushoran. Ieremiia subsisted in silence, neither gathering minions, nor leaving his lair outside the ruins of Mourkain, feeding off the crudest sources of blood, whether they be the withering corpses of dead beasts, or the unlucky wandering orc or goblin. This crude diet, along with isolation, and Ieremiia's own self-torment, drove him into a deep and raging depression, and contorted his very physical being. His skin became a sick, pallid purple, while his proportions elongated and grew all the more grotesque. Still, Ieremiia had by this point regained his strength, but thought little of it. He was still, in his mind, crippled from the ordeals surrounding the fall of Ushoran and Mourkain. So convinced of his own crippled state was he, that Ieremiia even changed his surname, within his continuous and sorrowful soliloquy, to Ologul ("the lame man"). In his solitude, he began to commune with the aspects of nature around him with which he could identify - pallid, slimy fungus growing in the hollows of dead trees, creeping centipedes, nightcrawlers, maggots, spiders... all manners of life that lived off decay and death in the detritus of the forest. He soon regained a small portion of his prowess for domination and dark magic, enthralling these tiny beings to his will, and practicing his sorcery. He became especially fond of the properties of local mushrooms, whether they be of the deadly variety, had mind-altering effects, or other less common attributes. His favorite, however, were an inconspicuous brown, white spotted mushroom, that, while extremely poisonous, had inexplicable properties to raise and enthrall the dead, and even regenerate dead and dessicated tissue, though never in any showly manner.

Many years passed as Ieremiia Ologul pleased himself with his experimentation, and satisfied his bloodlust with meager exploits of scaveneged flesh. But soon, a new force entered his domain: one which would bring him hurtling back to long-forgotten memories, and a longing for his homeland. The forces of Vorag, the First Ghoul King, had returned from southern Sylvania, great in number, and pushing on toward Mourkain. Vorag and Ieremiia instantly recognized the presence of one another, whether for familiar scent, or magical aura. Ieremiia was awestruck by the visage of the Ghoul King. Not since he had known Ushoran had he known of such an immense and powerful vampire, and being of small stature, it was that much more of a shock. Vorag adressed Ieremiia by his prior surname, and was met instinctively by a Ieremiia's deflection. The thrall was reminded of his own self-demotion and, humbled by the presence of Vorag, was determined to maintain the moniker, and explained this to Vorag. The Ghoul King was not displeased, only mildly confused by the situation, and in his dark majesty, offered Ieremiia the chance to help reclaim their homeland under Vorag's rule. Ieremiia declined, still unconfident in his own powers. Vorag took offense to the resistance of such a lowly thrall, and after a brief fit of outrage, struck Ieremiia down in a single blow. Ieremiia did not die... had he been of any other bloodline, surely Vorag would have killed him instantaneously, rather than grant the Thrall audience as he had. Ieremiia was left, once again, to lick his wounds in the darkness and seclusion of his forested lair, while Vorag and his thousands of undead minions pushed onward to Mourkain. Soon, dark stormclouds filled the sky, and distant sounds told of a battle that raged down from the World's Edge Mountains to meet the invading undead. Ieremiia never did discover what had become of Vorag, whether he too shared Ushoran's fate, or if he had reclaimed the throne of Strigos.

Once Ieremiia had fully healed, he began to ponder the fate of other Strigoi such as himself. If Vorag had survived and reached such great heights, what would prevent him from doing the same? With great caution, he ventured out from his perceived safety area, exploring the shadows of the Badlands, tracing Vorag's trail through the Border Princes, the Black Mountains... but stopping well before he reached the borders of Sylvania as he grew more and more wary. He was drawn with great urgency to his former haunts, and returned to find that in his absence, small bands of goblin tribes had encroached upon his domain. Feeling greater control than ever he had in his exile, Ieremiia began to systematically slaughter every last member of these tribes, including their wolf copanions, and made a great feast of their blood and entrails. His mind wandered back to his prior experimentation... he began to concoct necromantic potions with his most favored mushroom, with positive results... the corpses of his victims began to rise when treated with the spores of this species, and even healed over their mortal wounds. The effect was not perfect - the Goblins lost much of their pigmentation, and grew slightly withered in the process. However, these golems of flesh were preferable to mere zombies, as they were far from braindead. They followed orders well, and performed tasks with considerable alacrity, in comparison. When he applied the same method to the dead wolves, he achieved considerably different results - the wolves returned as slavering beasts, and now refused their riders. They became large and bloated, with matted spiky hair, and became mottled in color. However, they still formed into packs and heeded to Ieremiia's call. These experiments were the true test Ieremiia needed to pass in order to muster the confidence to return to a near-original state of power. He soon raised hundreds of goblinoid flesh golems, and many dire wolves, using his specialized mushrooms, and enthralling them with arcane lore... and soon, he began to march on the World's Edge Mountains themselves, intent on taking long-awaited revenge on the hated razers of Strigos. Initially, Ieremiia acted very cautiously, pursuing isolated portions of the Orc & Goblin population. He tested the prowess of his golem and wolf minions to great effect against Orcish camps, driving them into disorder with the fear and confusion sowed by his once-goblinoid minions. Eventually, Ieremiia discovered amongst the caves a more secretive subculture of Goblin... the Night Goblins. His observations from afar, and from secluded crags, revealed to him a great reliance on fungal magic. This both fascinated him (and he learned much in observation), and gave him an opportunity for further, more insidious, pursuits. The Night Goblins, thought Ieremiia, would be easily toppled for their isolation alone, but would be a great asset to his growing army in terms of their beliefs and skill sets. Keeping this in mind, Ieremiia only slaughtered one such cave of Night Goblins...

The attack was made before dawn broke, and as the Night Goblins' rituals were near an end... mushrooms and exhaustion had tired Ieremiia's foes, and he felt the time to strike was nigh. He retrieved his forces from their craggy hiding places and spider holes, and drove them toward their objective. Fully blocking the entrance to the cave, it was simply a matter of driving his golems and wolves in full force. The victory was swift as it was bloody. In the end, Ieremiia stood at the head of his golem army, cornering the last remaining enemy. This goblin, a shaman of the Night Goblins, quaked in his pointy shoes to the point of dropping his staff. A blood drenched demon of a being now stood over him, crowing silently... but did not strike him down. Ieremiia instead pulled a singular brown, white-spotted mushroom from a pouch at his side and strode to the nearby intermingled corpses of several dead Night Goblins. He proceeded to open a great gash in their spines, sprinkling a small amount of the mushroom's spore within each gaping hole. Before the shaman's unbelieving eyes, the wounds began to slowly mend themselves. The flesh of each dead body began to quiver, and grow very pale, and slightly shriveled. The flesh golems, slowly but steadily, uprighted themselves and stood, with blank cloudy expressions, in the service of their new master. The shaman, whether because he was rooted by fear of his own death, or because he was truly amazed, threw himself at the floor of the cave, wailing in his babbling Goblin tongue, begging mercy from Ieremiia, and indeed to know this power unto himself. Ieremiia had counted on this, or no demonstration would have been necessary. He now had gained what would be his most influential minion - a shaman who could learn the necromantic arts, and the related arts of mycomancy, and increase Ieremiia's influence over the Orc and Goblin domain.

This shaman, known as Chashku, submitted to the mad tutelage of Ieremiia Ologul, and exceeded his master's expectations greatly, contributing greatly to his master's magical range with some of his own derivations, including potions that would greatly increase his own lifespan. Ieremiia was so impressed, he granted Chashku a new title... Chashki the Deathless. Together, Ieremiia and Chashki the swept their forces silently over the backwater caves of the World's Edge Mountains, building their forces greatly as they defeated their new subjects... the dead joined their ranks as new flesh golems... Chashki, having become quite the chirugeon, ensured that fallen golems were recycled en masse (but these amounted to little more than common zombies by comparison). Chashki also used his influence wisely amongst the other Night Goblins drawing many into his personal ranks by means of temptation, or by poisoning them and bribing them with the antidote... Eventually, two other shamans of the Night Goblins (Sulfis Deegls and Putris Bogon) from nearby caves had joined him to learn the necromantic arts, along with a great many other Night Goblins, all of whom showed interest in extending their own life expectancies, whether by potions, cannibalism, or a combination thereof. The latter group became akin to ghouls, and this greatly pleased Ieremiia, to think that Goblins would also know the torment of living such a meager existance as he once had, and still, by all rights, did; and at the same time, they offered a compliment of mortal forces to his ranks that he could call upon when he was in need of even more frightful masses than usual.

As Ieremiia's ambitions grew, so did his army, in size and diversity. Unexpected side effects of his own brand of mycomancy began to show themselves... spores given off by his flesh golems, some of which had sprouted giant mushrooms on their backs, had taken root in the dank, forgotten corners of the undead domain of the World's Edge caves. This new batch of mushrooms shared the lineages of goblins, the mycomantic mushroom, and even contained some latent vampiric powers. They began to grow and diversify in a manner analogous to goblinoid fungus, forming Snotlings and Squigs. These, however, were markedly different from their ancestral versions, in that both bore wings. The Squigs showed the most vampiric traits, and were indeed born as undead beings. The snotlings, oddly enough, were mere mortals, but showed just as much inclination to associate with their creator as the Squigs now did. Ieremiia was quite pleased when he discovered these two new aberrant forms, and was very fond of them, as one would be of a pet. He named them Fell Squigs and Batlings, accordingly. Previously, he had tried, with Chaski's assistance, to vampirize his dire wolves, as he was without access to large local bats. These experiments were less than successful, and only a small handful of subjects survived the process to become vampiric bats. Ieremiia and Chashki's experiments progressed until they had met with many dead ends, or were otherwise satisfied by their chosen methods of necromancy and mycomancy. Some dead ends, however, led to greater accomplishments. In further mushroom experiments, it was determined that the mushroom somehow attracts the relinquished soul back into the body, to reverse damage and revitalize organs, and when the golem has finally been created, the soul is finally driven back out by the mushroom's magic, resulting in a soulless servant for the mycomancer. Ieremiia, growing bored with the limited possibilities of flesh golems, became more intent on what happens to the souls themselves. He and Chashki collaborated once more, this time to place binding spells around golem subjects with attributes they wished to retain as entrapped spirits. This was a success, and by means of ethereal chains and nets, they created their first hosts of bound spirits. However, such unwilling participants were not enough for Ieremiia - he was determined to have some of his minions (mortal ones) volunteer themselves for soul-binding. While none volunteered themselves, the horde of ghouls in Ieremiia Ologul's service did offer up not one, but two sacrifices - two bumbling Night Goblins whose sole accomplishment amounted to the vexing nature of their musical talents. After some convincing (torture), these subjects, a cymbal player and a squeeze-bag player, were both subjected to having their souls removed and bound. Having been taken from a mortal source, and with as much as forewarning to the donors/victims, these bound spirits became even more powerful than any of Ieremiia's or Chashki's previous spectral creations. However, such was the nature of these volunteers, that they retained their musical leanings in the afterlife, and, to Ieremiia's utter dismay, they had become lethally annoying. Ologul and Chashki thereupon agreed to no longer toy with this method of soul entrapment, and to stick to basics, but they would later find these clamorous spirits to be a great asset on the field of battle. Along the same line as with their spirit hosts, the vampire and the necromancer tried their hand at making bound spirits from their canine hordes. These phantoms proved to be the deadliest overall, and the most reliable, of their spirit hordes, and filled in as specialized cavalry in many engagements.

Ieremiia Ologul soon grew confident enough to proclaim himself as a full-fledged count over his realm of the World's Edge Mountains. He fought constantly against tides of green-skins. He wondered constantly how, without his methods of recycling his greatest and most numerous enemy, he would be surviving to this day. He wondered also about the exploits of Vorag, and at times, doubted the rumors that he had accomplished his feat. He put it to himself that he would, one day soon, march his own forces towards his homeland and finally reclaim it. In the mean time, he did gain two more important allies.

In accordance with his need for a thrall of his own, he chose a powerful and influential Orc Shaman from one of the wild tribes of the Badlands. Count Ologul directed his forces to attack the tribe and destroy it utterly, with the exception of their shaman, Kharon Bonehacker. Again, Count Ologul cornered his prey, expecting Kharon to submit to his indomitable will and a vulgar display of power. However, Ieremiia would be surprised by the suicidal will of his cornered opponent. As Ieremiia was preparing to accept the acquiescence of his opponent, he felt a sudden, violent change in the winds of magic. Kharon made a sudden shake of his staff, muttering an uninteligible prayer to Gork. A rush of force descended upon Ieremiia. A number of his minions crumbled around him, while he braced himself for impact - but stood unharmed. Silfus Deegle, proving himself at once very useful, had dispelled the force of Gork's foot around his master. Now was not the time for Count Ologul to reward his minion, but an opportunity to force his agenda on his opponent. Summoning his own magical powers, Ologul's eyes set ablaze with a purple flame mimicking his own sickly flesh. Gazing upon his enemy, arcs of energy shot from his eyes, striking the shaman, whose chest expanded and twisted, while his limbs were strucken with trembling rigors of unimaginable pain. Ieremiia allowed Kharon's green flesh to char, flaying away from his rib cage, eventually exposing membranes around a near-exploding heart... he stopped. Kharon lay nearly motionless, in too much shock from the injuries he had suffered, and could only hope to end his suffering as quickly and painlessly as possible, though he still ached with hatred for his vampiric opponent. It was then that Count Ologul could finally submit his proposal - join the ranks of immortal undeath, or continue to have his flesh sloughed away until he was finally, painfully, dead. In what strained, rasping tones he could produce, Kharon finally acquiesced. It was not long before the blood rites had been finalized, and Kharon became known as Dumitru cel Rau, thrall of Count Ologul.

Lastly, and perhaps most strangely of all, Count Ologul became possessed of yet another mortal follower, but not from the ranks of the Night Goblins. A shaman of the tribal goblins in the valleys beneath the World's Edge Mountains, hearing of the rites accepted by Night Goblins that granted them virtual immortality, felt that he was destined to obtain such heights himself. This shaman was known to his tribe simply as Yagga. He was well known for his potions, and famously used a giant mortar and pestle (some say, fashioned from Imperial cannons) to grind all of his magical ingredients. Yagga lived in a strange thatched wooden shack, generally isolated from his own tribe. His bretheren only ever approached his home on rare occasions when they were in need of magical assistance. So, it went unknown for some time when Yagga began to contact the Night Goblin servants of Count Ologul. And when his kin went missing, there was little cause for alarm. It was only when his features began to turn to something... less than goblinoid... that his folk started to take notice. Yellowing skin, sallow features, hideous teeth and claws... the smell of goblin flesh cooking, emanating from his chimeny pipe. So, when the tribal goblins determined that Yagga had been cannibalizing their people, and was probably in service of the local vampire menace, they did their best to turn Yagga out of their village, and if possible, destroy him. The goblins found this more than a little difficult, as Yagga was indeed well protected. Small animals and trees, thralls to Yagga's will, were in constant watch for enemies, as Yagga became more and more paranoid as he became more a servant to his vampire count. Small bands of goblins were frightened away easily, and sometimes defeated single-handedly by Yagga himself. When the village collectively rose against him, he surprised all by revealing the greatest examples of his magical prowess. His hut was now stilted (and mobilized) on the reanimated legs of a dragon cadaver, and lived and breathed as a ravening hulk, waiting to accept its daily sacrifice. Yagga as well had devised his own means of mobility, converting his giant mortar (now primarily used to grind the bones of his bretheren) into a floating, battering, cart on which he could ride. Needless to say, many of the attacking goblins became fodder for the living hut, and were trampled under the mortar of Yagga. The remainder fled, never to return to their own village, and many of these, still, were run down by the victorious shaman. His resulting feast greatly strengthened him for future run-ins with mortal enemies. This evil shaman became known far and wide in goblin folklore as Gobba Yagga, and there are many versions now told of his exploits, factual or not, intended to warn other goblins of falling into league with vampires... but so far, these stories have done little to prevent Ieremiia Ologul's steady rise to power.

*****

I hope you've enjoyed my Count's story. Comment, if you will, on its fluffiness.

~J~

[Luther Reichstone]

It has been but a few years since I came into the service of my Lord, but with each passing day I am more in awe of his awesome power. Upon my first encounter with him it must be confessed that even my black heart was struck with terror at a monstrous form the size of two men and with claws to rival any wyrm. Here was one of the reclusive Strigoi, a ghoul king, who had made his lair a crypt in this abandoned field of Morr.

I thank Nagash that he did not rend my body to pieces in that first instant, perhaps he recognised me as a creature of darkness. Now I am in his service, each night raising more corpses from the ground and steadily giving him an army with which to exact his revenge upon those who scorned his kind long ago. How foolish the men of this world are to leave their dead unguarded, for each war they fight a legion is added to the armies of the dead.

Now the day of our assault grows closer, as the moon grew full this night my lord took to the top of his crypt and let forth a cry that would twist the very souls of the living. This sound has prompted the arrival of those creatures who share the living shame of my master, ghouls. Foul accursed monsters are comming from every direction, their dripping claws and fangs swelling the ranks of the rotten.

As I sit now amongst my books, in the distance the howling of wolves is growing louder as slavering packs gather to a fellow scavenger. The thought of what is to come would once have brought me to smile, imagining the faces of our enemies turned to palid sweating horror as they behold our might.

Soon we will march, a stinking tide of the damned sweeping across the land. Surely nothing can stand against the burning hatred of my master. We will add splintered bone and decimated flesh to our armies and continue to march. As is my understanding we will head North, to face the forces of those who dwell in The Border Princes, their weak resistance will be cast asunder, their fallen will become our warriors. There is little doubt that other Strigoi will let themselves be known upon hearing the battle cry of their kin and I know that there are practitioners of the mighty art of necromancy hiding amongst those Sigmarite fools. With their help we can cover the land in a shroud and push forth to the true target of my masters rage, Sylvania.

Though ages may have passed since the betrayal of the Von Carstiens, an event which precedes even my birth to the black arts, the act has not been forgotten. The twisted steely flesh of my Lord is a testament to the cruelty the Von Carstiens demonstrated in hunting the Strigoi and this is the time he has chosen to pour out this anger. Though the Von Carstiens are renowned as a mighty bloodline, the loss of Manfred has weakened them of late and there is little doubt in my mind that their legions will turn to powder in our wake, then once more the Strigoi will have their kingdom, no longer drinkers of dead blood. Perhaps in time, once the Strigoi are assembled together in Sylvania, from the ruins of Drakenhof castle, we may march upon Altdorf.

Now I feel the darkness drawing to a peak and we shall soon break forth and begin our assault. I will take merely a few possessions, there will be little need for books, having had much time to school myself and practice my art. Just my staff and cloak will do, there is little need for a sword as my cloak renders me invulnerable to attacks which are from common blades, a gift from a mighty Necromancer who schooled me many years ago. My staff too is a marvel of necromancy, in appearance it is a plain and so easily mistaken by foolish men to be a common piece of timber. There have been many occasions upon which a headstrong champion has sought me on the battlefield, expecting little fight yet much glory from dispatching a “witch”. It is unlikely that I will ever grow tired from seeing the fleeting look of terror upon their faces as my staff pours its burning destruction upon them, it lasts only a second before the flesh disappears leaving pure white bone where once stood a “great warrior”, cowards.

For the last time my master has called from the top of this crumbling monument, this time more terrible than ever before, a war cry to our horde. The noises outside are quelled for a moment preceding a rumble of the earth as we are set in motion, the doom of our enemies is sealed.

-Luther Reichstone Master Necromancer

Or in short, he's hanging out in an abandoned graveyard just South of the Border Princes.