Warhammer The Dogs Of War: "Lost Blood"

The world is growing darker.
In the Badlands, the Greenskin hordes swell faster than they can slaughter one another, their appetite for violence barely contained by their own endless infighting. Beastmen emerge from the forests in ever greater numbers, their raids growing bolder with each passing year. Rumors of things that should not exist skittering beneath the cities are becoming harder to dismiss. Even respected scholars have begun repeating the warnings once left to madmen and village idiots.
They speak of the End Times, when the Dark Gods will finally tire of the Great Game and turn their wrath upon the board itself. One last hellish incursion will overwhelm the fading strength of mankind and bring its great Empire to ruin. No amount of wet gunpowder, brittle steel, or hollow faith will stop what is coming.
Who the fuck gives a shit?
You’re a Dog of War, a mercenary with a life expectancy measured in weeks, not prophecies. You’re no noble hero. Your one useful talent is killing your fellow man, and you’re damn good at it. Good enough to get paid accordingly.
You left your honor behind somewhere between fighting back to back with an Orc and a Dwarf and drinking yourselves senseless together afterward. Whatever objections you might once have had, they mattered considerably less when those two bastards were keeping you alive.
You’ve spent most of your time, gold, and blood in the city states of Tilea, where merchant princes with deep pockets and deeper rivalries kept your company in steady employment. Burn a rival’s fields one day, kidnap a noble heir for ransom the next. Sometimes they wanted an entire city taken, preferably before the inconvenience of a siege started eating into their profits. Double pay to storm the ramparts on the first day? You were already fetching a ladder.
But recently, your company has turned north.
Word reached your commander that his family’s old fortress, long ago seized by the undead of Sylvania, now appears to stand deserted. The Elector Count of Stirland has offered coin to help reclaim it, along with formal recognition of your commander’s noble status and his claim to the stronghold.
It’s more than another contract to him. It’s his birthright, a chance to hang his family’s banner over its own walls again rather than carry it through someone else’s war. With his claim recognized and money promised, he has gathered the company and set off for the Empire.
You’ve followed him through worse for less. At least this time there’s supposed to be a castle waiting at the end, and nobody left inside to fight you for it.
After all, what’s the worst that could happen?

[Yo, I’m running a game of Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay 4th Edition, and I’m looking for players.
First thing to get out of the way: a friend of mine will be streaming the game, so you’ll need to be comfortable with being part of a live stream. No hard feelings if that’s not your thing. I just want everyone to know before signing up.
You’ll be part of a mercenary band made up of different races and factions. For this campaign, you can play pretty much any race, except Chaos aligned races and undead. Bring me your character idea, and we’ll work out how they fit into the company. Spots first come, first served, so message me if you’re interested.]