The pirate cannons and Greenskin scrap lobbers continuously bombarded the city walls. Every so often, an artillery shell would be lobbed into the city, smashing a civilian house and killing or wounding several people.
The morale of the people of Veling was inevitably plummeting.
Successive defeats, no reinforcements, continuous artillery bombardment...
The tragic omen of a breached city seemed to have already appeared before the eyes of the despairing populace. Meanwhile, the statue of the Goddess Myrmidia remained—just as it had been since the beginning of this calamity—silent. A silence like a statue of clay and wood.
Like a dead object.
It was as if all the past miracles and blessings were just a ridiculous, illusory bubble!
Were it not the only miracle they could rely on in their despair, the city defenders wouldn't have had to deploy precious manpower to protect the statue. Faced with unanswered faith and a tragic future, extremists on the verge of breakdown had already tried to vent their pent-up anger on the Goddess's effigy.
"Estalians worship You, holding Myrmidia as our most supreme faith—so why, amidst the disasters befalling the Estalian people, does Myrmidia remain silent!"
Say something, Goddess!
This was the shared thought in many people's hearts.
The Goddess Myrmidia's performance in this war had left far too many people angry and disappointed.
The Great War had been won a hundred and fifty years ago. Civilization had developed freely under limited constraints for a hundred and fifty years as well. Devout faith in the gods was no longer as profound as it had been before the End Times. Even the notoriously fanatical and xenophobic bald Arch Lectors of the Imperial Cult now had to admit to the chaotic, diverse state of faith within the Empire's borders.
A few radical, enlightened intellectuals even published articles in Marienburg stating, "Sigmar's victories were mostly achieved with his hammer; our god should be 'Ghal Maraz,'" mocking the conservative, insular State Cult. The infuriated Grand Theogonist could do nothing about it.
More extreme individuals even publicly questioned the authenticity of the narrative that "the world suffered endlessly from Chaos before the Great War." They argued that the so-called Chaos Daemons simply did not exist, and even if they did, they were likely just a special breed of creature akin to Beastmen or the Undead. As for the truth of the so-called Chaos Dark Gods, it was highly probable that it was nothing more than a lie fabricated jointly by the Gods—or perhaps just a group of powerful mortals—to deceive the world into fanatically worshipping them!
Greenskin Shamans unleashed savage magic. The big-faced banners of Gork and Mork fluttered high amidst the chaotic Greenskin war camps, mocking the humans behind the castle walls and their silent Goddess.
Visible WAAAAAGH! energy linked the Greenskins on the battlefield, making them stronger and stronger as their morale surged!
Meanwhile, humanity was caught in a sustainable decline. The closest mobile legion of the Northern Council, which had hastily assembled troops, was still sitting in Demontrei building defensive lines. Within the Southern Army, completely routed in the Battle of Guadaz River, there was not a single person with enough prestige and capability—nor a central authority—to rally the troops again. The routed soldiers either fled to the hills where the Tombs of the Ancient Kings lay to the southwest, or fled toward the north.
These routed soldiers were currently the main defensive force of Veling.
That rash southern expedition took almost all the mobilizable forces in the central and southern regions of Estalia. The result was a fatal weakening of the defensive strength in these areas.
The defeated soldiers were relentlessly hunted down on the wilderness and the Guidos Highway by Greenskin Wolf Riders and Boar Boy Big Uns. Villages along the way were destroyed and looted bare. People either fled to more remote areas to avoid the Greenskins or fled north.
Currently, over a hundred thousand people were gathered in Veling, mostly refugees from the surrounding areas. Just the issues of food and water supply were enough to cause them endless torment.
After all, this place had never been a strategic choke point, nor was its economic utility comparable to Demontrei in the north or the Port of Magus in the west. North-south exchange was mostly conducted through the more developed maritime routes; Veling didn't even qualify as an overland transit hub. Its main specialty, due to its proximity to the Piña Forest, was a large-scale logging industry, alongside the production of animal hides and medicinal herbs.
The sound of artillery fire grew increasingly fierce. Every wave of descending shells would take away a dozen or dozens of fighting men. The breaches in the city walls grew larger and larger. The people of Veling had already torn down the support beams of the city hall to brace the main gates and used the precious stone and timber from the mansions of wealthy merchants and nobles to repair the gaps.
The elderly and the rather inexperienced youths stepped onto the front lines. As they waited for the enemy to launch their assault, many courageous women and children also took up arms, stepping onto the battlefield to await the final decisive clash with the barbarians.
When the artillery fire became so intense that it seemed as if a shower of meteorites was raining from the sky, every Veling citizen understood: the moment that would decide the fate of this city had arrived.
The artillery abruptly ceased. Heaven-shaking WAAAAAAGHs rolled in from beyond the city walls like a toppling mountain and overturning sea. In stark contrast, a silent, tragic atmosphere spread throughout the city of Veling.
The Goddess had abandoned Her people, but the Estalians would not abandon themselves!
The Southern Realms have stood tall until today through beast tides, Vermintides, and all manner of disasters!
Dominate the vast oceans!
Tercios form up!
We may fail, we may die, but it will surely be a glorious, hard-fought death that will make all Estalians envy us for having such a brilliant moment!
"Sigmar!"
A resounding, earth-shaking prayer rang out. A group of short-haired nuns—clad entirely in heavy armor wrapped in chains, with holy scriptures hanging from their waists—finished their prayers and rose from the ground.
They raised the warhammers and greatswords in their hands, declaring their resolve to the heavens and the earth.
The will to fight was reignited!
The Estalians gripped their weapons tightly. Following this prayer—one completely different from the faith held by most of them—they let out a firm, unwavering battle cry.
"Estalia!"
"For the Goddess!"
"Long live our homeland!"
Having been plowed over by artillery fire, their already unremarkable appearance looked even more battered and ruined. Yet, the resolute and tragic will contained within it was somehow sensed even by the ruthless and brutal Greenskin Warboss, the siege commander, Bald Beast.
Looks like an incredibly WAAAAAGH!, incredibly green scrap is waiting fer the Boyz!
The iron-masked Warboss waved his hand. The Night Goblin advisor raised a spear and swung it forward.
The Greenskins pushed their siege towers and battering rams, beginning their advance on Veling.
Inside the city, the heavily armored nuns who had finished their prayers took the vanguard. They split into two groups: one guarding behind the city gates, and the other ascending the walls, ready to clash with the Greenskins.
This wandering militant order, which had started its missionary crusade in the Empire, happened to be passing through Bretonnia when the Greenskin war broke out. Under the guarded escort and polite send-off of the knights, they entered Estalia. The Carcassonne Round Table Council, which valued virtues, tranquility, and secluded hermit-like living, did not much welcome this group of women whom they viewed as excessively unorthodox.
They considered themselves the Sisters of Sigmar, as well as His prospective brides and daughters. Even though the State Cult in Altdorf vehemently refuted their claims of finding wives and acknowledging daughters for the God-Emperor, it mattered little to the Sisters. Holding substantial military might and receiving an endless stream of spiritual and material support from the women of the Empire, such rejections were merely a scratch.
A minority, whose actions and ideologies were far more radical—to the point of being ostracized and despised even within the Empire—or who simply held faith so fanatically that they wished Bretonnia would convert today and Cathay would change its faith tomorrow, formed touring crusader orders, traveling everywhere to spread the God-Emperor's gospel.
As long as they were sent out of the Empire, they were no longer the Empire's problem.
These crusading Sisters would slaughter monsters, purge bandits and outlaw gangs, and judge injustices in the name of Sigmar, which actually earned them the support of commoners wherever they went.
Every single one of them was a fierce woman clad in heavy armor, wrapped entirely in blessed chains, with sacred scriptures hanging at their waists, wielding warhammers and greatswords, slaughtering enemies on the battlefield while loudly chanting the name of Sigmar.
In the process of judging brutal nobles and insatiably greedy factory barons, this group of crusading Sisters had beaten up Imperial Greatswords (though the latter didn't really want to fight them). Braving the volley fire of mercenaries and private armies hired by factory owners, they crushed the factory guard, dragged out the factory barons who abused and exploited their workers, and hanged them from streetlamps in the name of Sigmar.
Eventually, they became so hated and despised by the authorities that an excuse was found to quickly ship them abroad.
Almost all the active crusading Sisterhoods currently operating across the world shared this experience: rising up, causing trouble, causing more trouble, and then being driven out to any territory as long as it wasn't their own country.
When the war broke out, they had just crossed the border. Due to preaching along the way and their penchant for meddling, they failed to catch up with the initial, hastily organized southern expedition, and thus avoided experiencing that horrifying defeat. Currently fully equipped, at full strength, and with high morale, they were just passing through Veling for a brief rest, never expecting it to rapidly become the frontline of the war.
But it didn't matter.
It was the same everywhere: forever hating and slaughtering Greenskins. Slaughtering these savage bastards wherever they were encountered was a beautiful virtue every follower of Sigmar must possess!
"For Sigmar!"
"God-Emperor preserve us! Victory is ours!"
A white-haired Sister tucked her warhammer under her arm, flipping through scripture to offer a blessing to every warrior passing before her.
Despite the difference in faith, the people of Veling were still deeply inspired by this group of Sisters of Sigmar. This was their home; the only thing left for them here was to bathe in blood!
Fight to the death!