Project Prometheus (Warhammer Fantasy OC Civ Quest)

Prologue 3
A Flight At Last


The foxes' arguments are brief, quick things. Images of fire against fire, darkness against darkness, raging sea against raging sea. A not inconsiderable number believe they would be best served in cunning, in something clever, in turning magic against him who most hates magic, that is risk in its own right; for how many wizards have thought themselves greater than the axebearer, mightier than the world hewer, only to learn too late that power is its own wisdom? Ehfeyos herself does not speak after presenting her idea, allowing it to stand on its own one way or another.

Derererhan, Fox-Father, Hunter, rages himself. Scars coat each and every form he shifts into as they bicker, and his yipping and growling is loud and bellicose. He wants nothing more and nothing less than to bite his spear into the hearts of the things of Chaos, wants nothing more and nothing less than revenge, wants to feel hot blood on his hands and taste it in his mouth, for his is the rage of a beast. But does he have more rage than rage itself, is his fire a hotter, brighter fire than the fire of Khorne? Can one use violence to surpass violence?

And then there is Laqurnas. Only a handful stand with him, only a handful, as he presents the idea of stealing from the enemy, for there is no panache or challenge in lying to them, in tricking them, in deceiving them. Even a child could do it, really. But the idea is there, and where there is the idea, there is possibility.

But when Menleth speaks, all silence as they lay out a plan, to strike at the heart of the enemy, to take their power and strength from them; for just a moment. But just a moment will be enough in this day, may as well be a lifetime in fact. For in just a moment, they will assure that the fox can run from the hound, if only just one more day; and even the hound can only kill what it latches its jaws around. But for that, they will need power. They will need the aid of the foxes, of their kin and not their kin, of all the spirits.

The skies burn. Pillars of fire fall. Heat enters the Den. There is no more time. Methelen will have it.



You rage. Your heart is ragged in your chest. Your limbs throb, tingling from adrenaline that has not stopped pumping since you drank from the Grail. The blood pounds in your ears, and the red still falls over your eyes. Burning brass seems to come up like gorge with every breath you take—and it hurts, it burns, but it will not kill you.

It will not kill you.

And that is the terrible truth of it all.

You had marched against the Southerners proclaiming that Chaos was freedom; that the anger of Khorne was purifying, that the rage of Kharnath was exalting, that the fury of Akhar was liberty itself. You had marched, how many lifetimes ago, convinced that the bloodsoaked path was freedom itself, that you would make the world whole and better in your anger. The honorable and righteous would thrive, their vengeance justice itself.

You had followed the path.

And now look at you.

Eight brass horns that constantly drip with an acid that makes the stuff of spirit around you melt split your skull, make your head throb and ache and burn. Chains wrap around your wrists and ankles and your knees and your elbow, of brass, and they dangle and tear great channels that bleed in the spirit-stuff that surrounds you in the land of the gods as you taint yet more pristine places for the great slave driver. And they always burn, always burn, a pain, sometimes distant but constant, other times sharp dominating, but always there.

You look at yourself.

And you hate yourself. You rage at yourself.

You hate Khorne. You rage at Khorne.

You hate. You rage.

And that is the worst thing of it all. To know that even as you understand what your rage has done to you, that even as you comprehend what anger has lowered you to, you cannot escape it, cannot escape serving him. That it is all you are, that you burned yourself out for him, trying to follow the bloodfather, let him rip out your heart and replace it with a spark of his rage that refuses to stop burning.

You rage now, because you can do nothing else. Because anything else, everything else, was taken from you.

For you are Ulgutar, and you have nothing else left to you.

Spirits fade as your sword bites into them and you scream and scream and scream, an endless roar of suffering and hate. They are endless, but your rage is infinite, and the world fades, fades as you finally fulfill what you were made to do. The spirits of Dragons, the spirits of bears, the spirits of wolves, it matters not, all are parted, broken by your blade, and as they fall in twain the pieces twist, reform, made to by the power of your lord.

The world becomes gray as you please Him; but that is alright, for gray is better than the hot, endless red.

Disgusting, hateful magic splashes worthlessly against the stuff of flesh and spirit you have become, and you follow it to its source like a hound following its prey, deep into the Den, following your senses, finely honed for magic—only for the red and blue alike both to be—

And then you are not Ulgutar, not anymore.

Instead you are simply a man, inside a home. A refreshing fire burns in the center, and the smell of good booze fills the air, and the scent of meat on spits sizzling and fresh too, a true honest-to-goodness feast. Potatoes, diced and fried in good oil; honey cakes, sweet and crisp; and music, soft voices singing on the air. Golden filigree covers the timbers that arise in this good, excellent hall, making beautiful art of…of your mother.

"You have suffered, haven't you?" A figure you do not recognize sits at the fire, tending it, poking at the coals. They produce a plate for you, and immediately you start to dig in and for the first time in eons you enjoy the taste of food not polluted by brass and acid. For long minutes you simply eat, eat until you are satiated and when your stomach is full you drink great sips of the wine, enjoying the booze, not quite sure what it is but it refreshes your throat. There is silence except the music and your eating, until all at once you finally finish. That done, you finally get to take a look at the figure.

One of the foxes, not the least human, but not the most human either. They look at you with calm, placid eyes.

---

The mortal looks at you, his eyes ringed with bags.

"Why have you done this, spirit? Merely to torment me?"

"Let revenge fall to the ignoble of heart. That is my cunning." You shrug, and give the poor, damned fool another plate of food.

What else to do, for a man's last meal?

"What else would you desire? I know what you are like, spirits."

"You know half-remembered stories shared by the firelight, mortal. You know the stories your chiefs and thanes tell you to justify themselves as they go to burn the woods and slaughter the innocent." You snap your fingers and the thing that is Ulgutar in truth appears between you and the mortal, or what remains of him anyway, called as he has been to this place.

A false world, carved in moments with all the power of a fox. A den, a place the enemy cannot see for now.

The moment he sees his abominable form the mortal leaps back. "Gods no! Please, no!"

"I am mighty, mortal." You sip your wine, feeling the mortal drink pour down an increasingly mortal throat. It is an oddity, to actually feel your limbs grow even slightly more sluggish as they become more mortal and so touched by mortal poison. "But I am not mighty enough to keep him at bay…forever."

"Then why? Why would you do this? To punish me? To make me remember? Please…please do not make me remember." His face falls as his rage gives out, finally.

"No. I cannot keep him away from you, but there are those who can. For the moment I have split apart your mortality from the Daemon. You can die." You look at the sword in your hand. "You can die. And where you would go, even he could not take you; and there is power in such a sacrifice. In making what was sacred, profane. In making eight into seven, and seven into six, and six into five; and on and on. And as you become mortal, so may we; and in mortality, we might live. We might flee. And the Hound might be denied his prizes twicefold."

"Then why are we having this conversation? Why not simply—"

"Kill you and have done with it?" You interrupt him. "What care can the sheep hope for, if not the quick and good blade of the shepherd? A final day to live…a final day to remember. Let that be your end. Not bloodshed."

He drinks.

He eats.

And when he has lived, you slay the daemon.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Eight names, taken. Eight fonts of mortality, for the people. Shining things of power, stolen from an abuser, a raging thing, a hateful thing. You utter words of nourishment and change and shape and more, letting power flow from you.

But there is more power here than only just to flee, more power here than a lifetime could prepare you for. You feel it changing you, shaping you, feel yourself growing taller and stronger and more, more than you ever were as a mere spirit, more than you could possibly even have imagined, a purity and purpose as your eyes seem to glow and the stuff of legends flows from you to the spirits around you, as your form cannot take it all, as you do as promised and give them what they need to survive—

As Dererhan gains armor—

As Ehfeyos takes up the staff—

As Laqurnas gains his cloak—

As a crown of flowers sprouts about your head—
As the world shifts and you part from the Aethyr, all of you as turn that strength to your ends—

Until at last you feel humidity, and hear buzzing insects and feel the sun on your skin, and know you have gone to the material world.

You fall to a knee, exhausted.

A hand touches your shoulder, and looking up you see:

[] A mostly mortal seeming fox, clad in green robes, flowers sprouting up from the dirt where she walks.
[] A spirit all covered in blue and silver armor, mist pouring from his form, the things of lakes and rivers and streams carved into it.
[] A simple farmer, wielding sickle and wearing robe.
--
Two hour moratorium.