The Shields of Ghur

Blood. Blood everywhere. The twisted beast was slipping and crawling in its own vital fluid, screaming dark curses to the face of Sigmar's chosen.

One more assault and the creature would slumber to the ground, its limbs smashed to a bloody pulp.
Thør Goldenshield raised his hammer and ordered the Liberators to move forward. His men locked their shields, bracing for the killing strike.

As he watched the Shields of Ghur move in one harmonious motion, he read the terror in the eyes of his broken enemy. Once more, he was reminded why The Shields were the first and foremost of its Conclave : they combined the ferocity of born killers with the best tactical acumen of Sigmar's soldiers.

Through the many ordeals of Azyr's Reforging, they had tamed the inner savagery fueling every soul from Ghur to build a phalanx mentality. A strict martial drilling forced them to look out for each other, and gave them superior skills to prevail on the battlefield once the Age of Sigmar had come.

The monster was now laying flat on the ground, barely breathing in his pool of blood. Thør's brothers-in-arms were gathered around the inert mass in a half-circle, looking at him expectantly.

Thør Goldenshield

The Liberator-Prime took his time, savoring the moment and mentally adding one monstrous trophy to the retinue's tally. He placed his armored foot on the top of the creature's skull, pressing hard until the painful moaning turned into a last desperate scream. One powerful strike of his hammer silenced it, spraying blood and brains all over the place.

Even in Sigmar's rightful war, a little savagery couldn't hurt.