When rumour spread that an artefact of Sigmar's own age lay hidden beneath the Great Forest, half the world converged upon the deep woods, and The Nemesis Crown Campaign erupted into a sprawling war of all against all. The crown was said to hold terrible power, and none who heard of it could resist its lure, be their intent to wield it, destroy it, or simply deny it to their foes.
The empire-of-man mustered to claim the relic for its rightful heirs, and the dwarfen-mountain-holds marched to recover what their ancestors may have forged. But the forest was no empty prize. The orc-and-goblin-tribes boiled out of the trees in their thousands, drawn to the promise of a good fight, while beastmen herds and the restless dead contested every glade and stream.
The campaign dissolved into a nightmare of ambush and counter-ambush beneath the black canopy, no clear front, no safe ground, every clearing a potential grave. Armies that came seeking glory found only mud, blood and the endless treachery of the wild. In the end the cursed crown was never truly claimed, lost again amid the carnage as the exhausted hosts withdrew to lick their wounds. The Great Forest swallowed the relic and the dead alike, keeping its secret as it had for a thousand years, indifferent to the ambitions it had drowned.
The chronicle continues
