Warhammer Fantasy: A Dynasty of Dynamic Alcoholism

The fighting at Salkalten had been hard, there was no mistaking that. But it was to the credit of the horsemen of Ostland that, while many had had their mounts cut out from beneath them, or been badly injured enough to lay amongst the bodies of the fallen, the resounding dual charge which had seen the Druchii retreat had allowed a surprising amount to be recovered and seen to by the healers. Some had been saved by the Jade Wizards, while others clutched at the arms and gave tearful thanks of the Shallyan priestesses blessed enough to call upon the divine powers of the Dove directly, while many more found that their careers and lives were not so short as they had originally thought thanks to the presence of the elves. The same, unfortunately, could not be said for all of their horses, but measures had been put in place years ago to help ensure that they could return to combat soon enough. Given the sheer destruction, some might have been surprised to see that people willing to be recruited to make up the losses in most of the sectors, excluding the engineers and mercenaries, but as ever, Magnus' father had been possessed of remarkable foresight and good sense.

That, combined with the increasingly larger herds in the Northern March that Serhild was working on creating with other equine breeding concerns, aided of course by his wife Sabine, meant that there was actually plenty of horses trained and ready. Actual familiarity between rider and mount, however, would be a bit more difficult. On that front, Magnus was more than glad that so many knights had survived the fighting, winning glory aplenty for their respective orders, though he knew that said survival was as much their own skills in battle and the simple fact that being heavy cavalry meant they were better protected compared to the light cavalrymen of Ostland proper. Either way, they had continued to follow him here, south across the river and into a province who's villagers and farmers regarded them with suspicion and dark mutterings, and even now looked to him as they assembled in the miserable afternoon's wan light.

Some things you simply couldn't rush, unfortunately.

(Train To Home: 46+Well-Led(15)+Established Routes(5)+Significant Guard Detachment(10)-Successful Ambushes(10)-Darkling Scrying(10)-Unbridled Vigor(5)=51/100)

"The artillery train that was headed for Stirland has been stuck in place in the hills after, presumably, being on the run for some time now based on their messages sent to Duke Fuerbach," Magnus grunted at the rest of his troops, a freezing rain that by all rights ought to have become snow pouring down on all of them. "The rain and snow made it difficult enough for them to move one way, but now that they are attempting to return, they've been surrounded. So far, they've held off the warherd surrounding them with firepower, but with this wind and rain," he shook his head and grimaced. "Their cannons and handguns have been silent. I doubt even the best torches would last long in this, let alone a match or wick."

Truly, the Gods were inscrutable, that Taal had decided that all of the snows and ice should become even more intractable slush before this battle in his very own damned province. Did he hate the works of science and black powder so much that he would rather them be destroyed than be used in defense of Talabecland? You know for a fact that there are blessings that the God of Nature's priests can bestow, including ones to ease and improve passage over the land, for such is His domain. But you also know for a fact that Taal has ever disdained such technically unnatural creations such as black powder, cannons, and handguns. Which means that, for all that artillery are upon the walls of the Taalbaston crater, and are utilized in the defense of Talabheim itself, the train you aim to rescue is entirely bereft of Taalite priests to aid them in their passage.

"Aye, my Prince," Karl Kaiser, Grandmaster of the Bull Warriors, nodded to him, the red scarring around his face now almost fully healed. "Seems the Gods have seen fit that we should solve this matter a bit more up close and personal."

As stubborn as Guvuar Himself, the Grandmaster had refused to let something as meager as a dozen poisoned daggers kill him, and instead had clung to life long enough to be treated, then had refused to stay back in Ostland to rest rather than march out once more to the south.

"Here here," the White Wolf Captain Mia grinned toothily, cracking her neck from side to side. "Let's get the bastards here and now!"

"We are agreed then," Magnus pursed his lips, "We proceed immediately. Captain Mia, Grandmaster, Commander Argyle, you shall take the left flank, while I shall lead our cavalry alongside the High Guardian and the High Seeker."

A round of salutes answered him, and Magnus turned and headed for Octaine.

Would that more of the knights had followed him, but the Grandmaster of the North Star had chosen to head west to Nordland, for there were troubles aplenty there now. The same was true of the miniscule order of the Cold Dawn. He could not fully fault them for it, to wish to defend the north that had been their self-appointed charge whether by ancient charter or by their Gods only made good sense. And for all that Nordland had won such a crushing victory over the raiding fleets of two Black Arks, the actual truth was that much of Nordland's coast had burned for that victory, the beaches surrendered to the predations of the Druchii before Stephan von Kessel could set his people's feet and give a resounding haymaker right back.

"Well then," he murmured as the gryphon trilled quietly in the rain to him as he started hefting himself into the saddle. "Let's get to it."

Despite the weather, and the rain soaking his hefty body, Octaine still proves strong and energetic enough to launch himself into the skies. Not necessarily the smartest thing to do in a rainstorm like this, but as of yet the clouds have been quite sparing when it comes to thunder and lightning. Besides which, the capacity of aerial reconnaissance on the battlefield was often incredibly valuable. Such as now, when Magnus could actually spy the burgeoning dark masses of the beastmen below, braying and snorting and hooting as they readied themselves to charge a terribly embattled group of Talabeclander troops. He couldn't help but cluck his tongue at the sight of more than a few cannons slammed into the mud and slush, wheels broken or barrels cracked, a number of them even being used as makeshift barricades. Heavy stakes had been driven into the earth to form a rough perimeter along with their supply wagons, and there were horned bodies aplenty on the ground showing that the Talabeclanders were not lambs to the slaughter but fierce fighters even in such unpleasant conditions.

Below, he heard the clear long notes of two separate horns, and watched as the beastmen reacted to the sounds coming from behind them. Here, then, was where he had to strain his eyes the hardest, watching, waiting, straining to see exactly how the warherd was to react. How they shifted, where they did so, and most importantly, from which areas the rippling spread of changed direction and command actually originated from. In an instant, he found it, two separate locations, one further illuminated by a burst of sickly colored light which outlined dozens of beastmen with unwholesome power that caused their abominable frames to swell with strength. In another, in spurts and jerks, caused by heavy blunt blows and bellowing, bestigors emerged to snarl and turn about to face a new foe with large brutal spears.

A shaman and a Beastlord, then.

"Sigmar watch over us," Magnus intoned before he squeezed his thighs in the saddle, leaned, and pointed with his hammer at his chosen target.

Octaine's instincts would normally drive him to let out an ear-piercing screech, for gryphons did ever prefer their prey screaming before they died. But through training, that instinct was restrained, and instead the gryphon and rider struck as a silent thunderbolt through the pouring rain.

You.

Are.

Angry.

No.

Somewhere beyond mere anger.

Someone, somewhere, no doubt has quite a funny little joke about women and wives and anger. You personally can't think of one right now. To be fair, most wives are not currently standing in the ruins of a noble's tower estate on top of an ancient Black Ark, protected by powerful warding spells crafted by a thousand and more year-old monstrous bitch that abandoned your Gods-be-damned husband to be captured and tortured. Though, you have to imagine, there are probably a few Druchii around that could possibly relate. If they ever deigned to try to do so with a mere human such as yourself. All around you, the Winds of Magic curl and whisper, almost eagerly swirling and flowing, a state of being that is entirely at odds to less than twenty-four hours ago.

The very nature of the Claw of Dominion is clearly built to direct the Winds of Magic towards the Tor of Dominance, and towards the Dhar Anchorstone complexes built across the Ark, drawing them in for both the use of the Coven of the Ark and to continually reinforce and energize the gigantic sections of crystallized Dhar which keep the Ark moving. More than that, you suspect that the Winds are somehow keyed for those normally 'allowed' to use magic, as even in the deeper depths of the Ark, you'd hard to work and work hard to manipulate the Winds at all. It was almost like trying to pull a hand through a pool of molasses at times. But now, after whatever the hell it was that seemed to have exploded, beyond the bombs your husband set, that cloying sense of suffocation has lessened considerably. How? Why? Who?

All questions you would very much like answered.

But first things first, you need to get out of this enclave as quickly as possible.

"Are we all ready to go?" You call out, looking upon your makeshift army, such as it is.

And it is your army, your frozen fist, your…godforsaken gaggle of deprived and emaciated Bretonnians and a bunch of traumatized and brittle elves.

God's help you.

"By the Lady, we are," Roland answers you first with a firm nod and pursed lips.

"Let's gut some of them, and quick," Jaqueline adds waspishly, her eyes narrowed nearly to slits with her two Whitewing fellows forming up behind her with equally vengeful expressions.

Unlike Jaqueline and Roland, who have managed to retain their old armor and gear, every other one of the freed Bretonnians is dressed in a mixture of rags and haphazardly scoured Druchii equipment. That save for the other two Whitewings, they all used to be mere Bretonnian peasants, is also incredibly evident given how foreign the weapons and scraps of armor are on their bodies. Oh, they're spirited as all hells, that's more than evident, thanks to Roland, but all the fervent devotion in the world doesn't make you a skilled fighter, or more likely to live in battle. Well, most of the time at least. You'll just have to hope that the actual knight and the three pseudo-knights are able to keep them from acting as flagellants or something. Given their loss of 'Breonna', whoever the hell that is, you might as well add to your hopes that Roland will run herd on the Whitewings and keep them from doing anything stupid.

"We are as prepared as we can be, Lady Natasha," Sadrina says with a serenity that a small part of you is almost offended at, bowing her head to you respectfully.

The rest of the elves with her murmur similar assent, stuck between mooning at the Handmaiden and gawking at the fact that they aren't currently in chains or the like, all with a small bit of fluttering flickers of pride coming back to life at the fact that said Handmaiden was deferring to you at all. Unlike the Bretonnians, the scavenged Druchii arms and armor fit all of them quite nicely. Almost too nicely, you'd think, a thought that actually seemed shared by some of the Asur. So far, awe and respect for the Handmaiden and a nice hearty rage at captivity and captors kept them from trying to outright take it all off again. Even better than that, according to Sadrina, for you weren't the one that she'd been giving all the language lessons to, they're mostly all very new to being slaves. Before that, they were all noble warriors or servants of the nobility of the elven kingdom of Tiranoc. Well, save for Kerillian, who has shown her skills many times over at this point. Who has also, who knows where, located a dark purple veil to cover her face with as well as a set of gear apparently taken off of a shade or two who's bodies she'd come across during the fighting.

"Though I would ask, if you might tell me if you've given more thought to my suggestion?" She adds quietly, stepping close to you.

You have to restrain yourself from the fierce cold burst of anger that wells up in you from causing you to do anything. Instead, you just take that mote of anger, of pain and fury and outrage, and add it to the rest of you. Something that she, nonetheless, notices, her head ducking lower in offered temporary deference. She knows that you're angry that she is here and Frederick is not. That all of that, all of it, all of the pain and suffering, resulting in her being freed and him imprisoned. This time in truth. A debt is owed, and she knows it, and it is that amongst a bare few other reasons that you haven't screamed your throat raw at her. Though her continued pushing on other topics is wearing on that decision ever so slightly.

"If other slaves wish to join us, they can. If you want to try and recruit, you can," you say as softly as the Oblast on a day without wind. "But you will fight first and foremost, yes? Also," you look her up and down pointedly. "It doesn't bother you, wearing all of that?"

The Handmaiden blinks, and glances down at herself, a small grimace appearing on her face for the briefest of moments. It's not a perfectly made set, the equipment she now wears for herself, that much is obvious. But what she does has was cobbled together from multiple slain Druchii warriors, scavenged in the rough fighting it took from them to get out of the streets and away from Alyssa, reaching this enclave in the first place where she actually had the time to put it all on. Some of it was crafted for more common Druchii soldiers, but a godly portion of it is clearly higher quality. Nobility, assuredly. For better or worse, it fits her well, for it is all elven craftsmanship and thus superlative in the way that you're familiar with. You'd think that she would be uncomfortable wearing it, noticeably at least, like the rest of the Asur troops who keep absentmindedly tugging on straps or readjusting what they've gotten. But not Sadrina. She wears the armor and weapons of the Druchii as if she was born to do so.

"I applaud the pragmatism of it, just…," you trail off, shrugging.

"…as you may have heard from the others, I was naked for a goodly time," Sadrina says quietly, looking past you into some painful middle distance. "But I was clothed at the beginning of the auction."

"Johanna said something about it," you nod, seeing out of the corner of your eye as the grumbling vampire's ears twitch and her head comes up slightly before lowering again.

"Every part of what I wore then," she raises up a hand clad in a golden filigreed black metal gauntlet, the tips of the fingers sharpened into claws, and examines it carefully. "Every layer of it, was shown to me by Alyssa firsthand. She…," she works her jaw for a moment before continuing and locks eyes with you, something cold and angry in that gaze which you find incredibly familiar. "She had different outfits, on different ritually slaughtered Asur, taxidermized into mannequins. Every piece came from them. Every piece," she clenches her gauntleted hand into a fist so tight the metal grinds into itself. "Had the souls of their bearers woven into them, mutilated and stretched out like a confectionary cream. So that just on the edge," she pantomimes cupping her ear for emphasis, eyes large and dark and unblinking. "Just on the very, very edge of my hearing, I could hear them screaming – their souls. Not loud enough to drive me to distraction or madness, just toeing the line of imperceptible. Easy to ignore. Easy," she repeats steadily.

Easy to ignore, if only she would ignore the agonized screams of her own fellow people. Easy to ignore if you decide that the pain of innocent souls is something that you can stand to purposefully block out if necessary to focus on the task at hand. Something that you know quite well how to do, as the people of Ostland and the Empire have spent a long time doing, making the hard sacrifices time and again to survive. Yet in some fashion, such fates never go unmourned, even if the Shallyans are those who must weep for all of those lost more than anyone else, who must protest in their favor, even if to open the gates to those begging at them would be to doom the entire village to the greenskins or slaves of Chaos. Even Salyakans would grind their teeth at such pain, and you can as well, even if you would order it as necessary. But Sadrina is a Handmaiden of the Everqueen, a follower of Isha. Their very symbol of faith and nation is the bleeding heart, their tales of weeping for the pain of their people. And, on occasion, of great and terrible scourings whenever the God Asuryan's attention lapses and Isha chooses to let loose despite the Edict. Strange Gods, strange peoples.

"Better naked than to wear such things, then," you murmur, and Sadrina inclines her head.

"I destroyed them, as best I could, and it is my hope that Isha will take them in hand to Her grove," she says with quiet but steadfast hope in her voice. "To save what she can. And as for us…?" She asks leadingly, and you sigh and shake your head.

"Both of our plans would save people, mine kills those who would kill the innocent, the slaves, and if they wish to follow us, they can," you point out, before your eyes cut back towards the Tor of Dominance. "And if I kill enough, the bitch will have to leave her tower anyhow."

Sadrina looks at you with incredibly sad eyes before nodding and stepping back, returning to the side of her fellow elves. Her pity for you is pointless, save for its utility in getting her to do what you need right now.

"WARK!" Oskana decided to add her voice to the noise.

It had not been…easy…waking the gryphon from the enchantment of the sorceress, but between you and the Handmaiden, you'd managed. The same for the pegasus, though honestly you had some concerns about what on earth you were going to do to feed and water the latter.

"Yes, dear, yes," you murmured quietly, reaching out a hand to the angry gryphon as she tilted her head one way and the other so that each of her big eyes could look fully upon you. "We'll get you some meat, today. Yes, yes we will. Screaming elven flesh."

Oskana chirped loudly at your words before nuzzling at your shoulder, her gaze focused on the so-called Tor of Dominance.

"And we will get him back," you promise into her neck, the gryphon performing a mixture of bird trilling and almost cat-like reverberation. "But first, we're getting your furry butt into those tunnels."

The most unamused of squawks answers you as you turn towards the passage into the depths of the Ark that had been painstakingly cleared over the past few hours, for of course a Tor belonging to a Druchii noble family would have connections into the slave tunnels.

"Now let's move," you hiss, the very air around you chilling like that of the Oblasts themselves as you draw your sword and begin to march down, the Ledstahli of your armor darkening as you draw upon your magic further.

All the while, you let yourself feel everything happening to your love, your husband, your very soul. Whatever it is that they're doing to him up there, they no doubt think it enough to break him. They think they know him. They think they know Frederick von Hohenzollern. The breadth and intensity of the pain he suffers now eclipses that which you felt when the Dark Gods themselves sought to slay you from within your own womb with daemonhosts made of your own unborn children. But he does not suffer alone. His mind, his emotions, are strange and stretched and distant from you, but the two of you reach out across that endless expanse regardless, and clasp to one another. A thin thread, a fraying rope, but one you hold onto no matter what. For him. For yourself. They think to break him, but they cannot, not so long as you hold him up, that you can help him wrap the tattered remains of his consciousness to the frozen pillar that is you. Let each thrumming crashing wave be frozen upon the shore, frozen and broken into shards that you can collect and hold to yourself, let it wash over you and be lost amidst the glacier of your soul as you fortify yourself with ice. Support and strength both, for the both of you, from the both of you. His pain, your rage, and the love you share is a beacon, a balm, and a blade that you will wield to its fullest extent.

And if some of the others slip and slide a little on the frost on the ground, well, they'll just need to grit their teeth and bear it.

Just like you are.

"Wark," an unamused squawk calls out after most everyone else has gone in.

The very last of your group remains above the entrance, tilting her head back and forth.

"Oh don't give me that," you roll your eyes Oskana as she eyes the entrance warily. "You'll fit. These tunnels are meant to let them drag heavier loads around when needed, wagons and the like. It'll be a squeeze, but you can't just stay here."

"Waaaark."

You lock eyes with Oskana before with a terribly affronted squawk and chirp, she lifts her head and as daintily as anything as big as her could ever be, folds her wings hard against her body and starts to wriggle in.

"C'mon, girl, just…channel your ass!" You hiss at her as she struggles to fit through. "I've seen cats squeeze under doors before, for the love of Salyak!"

For a moment, Oskana pauses in her wiggling and lets out a quiet sharp huffing exhale through her beak, a sound you weren't entirely certain until this very moment that she could actually produce.

Then she starts shoving her way in, and you let out a sigh of relief.

Then she reaches forward and nips at your armor, hard, biting deep into the Ledstahli of your breastplate while locking eyes with you the entire time.

"All right, all right!" You growl, arms going up for a moment as you step back and start pushing your way past all the Bretonnians and elves, "You've made your point!"

"Wark."

Even being somewhat quiet, the acoustics of these tunnels magnifies the satisfied squawk of the beast behind you as she continues squeezing through.

(Aerial Strike: 74+Magnus Martial(17)+Silent Strike(10)+Dark Battlefield(10)+Distracted Shaman(5)-Dread Defenses(10)=106/100)

There is the briefest amount of resistance as Octaine slams down upon his prey, talons and beak first. But by the time that Stonebreaker completed its pre-prepared terminus of a swing Magnus began while descending at high speed, whatever mystical shielding that the Dark Gods might have granted the shaman have collapsed. Which, to be fair, was reasonable to expect given that on sheer velocity and power from Octaine alone, with nothing more than the utterly natural laws of gravity and weight combining with Verena's principles of velocity, has effectively ripped the shaman in half and pulped the lower section. The robes it wears, made of human leather, the children's bones that make up its disgusting necklace, these things are barely visible in the suddenly blood-covered slush of the melting snows and rain, especially with the darkness of the rainstorm obscuring the sun entirely. Nevertheless, some measure of life still remains in the shaman's head, at least before Stonebreaker crushes that as well, while with the backswing Magnus killed another gor almost absentmindedly. All around him, beastmen lie dead or dazed from his assault, while Octaine finally does in fact give in to his instincts and lets out a piercing screech that makes even more beastmen stumble back clutching at their ears, even as some immediately let out braying calls and try to attack.

But of course, the sound is filled with hooves shaking the earth by then too.

(Cavalry Crush: 69+Multiple Knightly Orders(20)+Dual Prongs(10)+Slain Shaman(10)+Rallying Talabeclanders(5)+Numerical Superiority(5)-Beastlord Commanding(10)-Bestial Bravery(10)=99/100)

Heavy cavalry, barded warhorses, and deadly lances plunge hard and fast and deep into the beastmen. One flank was already fractured badly by the Hohenzollern's violent arrival and continued presence amidst them, while the Beastlord clearly does his best to try and cajole his forces to rally on the other. An effort which succeeds largely in simply getting the beastmen to turn around right around when the knights overrun them entirely. Some of the brutal looking spears and pikes that they had tried to utilize scrape and skid off of the heavy armor of the many, many knights, and their wielders are slaughtered as easily as the others. Gors and ungors alike are trampled, impaled, sliced apart, crushed with warhammers, and other sundry weapons. But it does not end there, even as Magnus and Octaine laid about them in all directions, because the Talabeclanders rally at the sounds of the horns and the thundering of hooves of natural creatures, and with bellowed screams start letting loose with arrows, crossbows, even some thrown rocks and a mountain of foul language.

Despite all of this, the beastmen are not yet dead, braying and fighting on.

Which is when the light cavalry arrive.

(Squeeze And Pop: 52+20+10+10+Rallying Talabeclanders(10)+Significant Numerical Superiority(10)-Wounded Beastlord Commanding(5)-Crumbling Bravery(5)+Converging Commanders(10)-Green As Grass(15)=97/100)

Freshly trained. Barely given time to bond with their horses. Lightly equipped, their horses granted a few vital protections but nothing compared to the barding of a knight's warhorse. Even so, even with all of this being true, in this frankly awful weather disadvantaging both sides equally, they strike swiftly and with overwhelming numbers. The slender lances they bear, the hammers and long cavalry sabers they unsheathe, all pierce and cut and slash quite well amongst the thoroughly disorganized beastmen. Somewhere, Magnus heard the unearthly bellowing of an especially loud beastman, the Beastlord presumably, right around the same time as he heard a howling woman's answering call. Captain Mia, then, found a target worth her personal presence, though he was sure that the commanders were all seeking out the Beastlord as well. Stonebreaker smashed and pulverized, while Octaine ripped and tore, and soon enough that guttural roaring was silenced, a chorus of all-too-human throats ululating in wolfish howls.

"Don't let a single one escape!" Magnus called out, a call taken up soon enough by other leading knights and commanders, and soon hooves start to pound against the slush and dirt beneath again. "C'mon boy," he muttered to Octaine, pointing with his hammer towards the fully soaked Talabeclanders who have begun carefully poking their way out of their own defenses.

The young gryphon wheeled quickly and started to make its way over, claws and talons scything apart the bodies of the beastmen as it walked over them.

"Hail and well met, good sir!" One of them called out out, his large hat rather soggy and flattened out by the rain, a once bright and colorful red feather in it looking particularly bedraggled. His armor was not in particularly good condition either, his breastplate badly scratched and unarmored pants and arms covered in red bandages. "Thank the Gods you came when you did! We were beginning to wonder if the Duke had received our messages!"

"He did, yes," Magnus responded as he leapt down from Octaine, marching forward to meet the speaker man to man, noting how the man's eyes widened at the sight of Ostland's symbols upon his tabard and armor.

"I…Ostlanders?" The man said, blinking heavily.

"Aye. Magnus von Hohenzollern, at your service. The good Duke requested aid for his people, we answered," Magnus said calmly, "Am I speaking to Captain Dagwood? That was the name of this detachment's commanding officer, was it not?"

The man grimaced, then grimaced some more while doffing his hat to reveal a bald pate.

"Apologies, my lord, but…no, Captain Dagwood died not but a day ago. Damned beastman got him with a javelin, and the wound festered badly. I'm…well, I suppose I'm in command now. Lieutenant Frederick," he saluted.

Magnus frowned and shook his head.

"Then we were too late. Damn. I'm sorry," he said sincerely, making the man open and close his mouth repeatedly in silence.

"I…thank you, my lord, but to be frank, I was beginning to think we were all going to die. Better a later rescue than none at all!" He said fervently. "As for the state of the artillery train…it's not the best, but we've still got plenty of cannons and guns left. Just can't do a thing with them in this bloody weather."

"Well, we'll do what we can," Magnus promised him. "The horses might not like it, but enough of them together might be able to pull some of this from the muck. A bit of repairs to the wagons and the like might not be impossible now either, with the beastmen seen off."

Lieutenant Frederick's eyebrows rose, something else flashing across his face that had Magnus pause.

"Something wrong there, Lieutenant?"

The artilleryman cleared his throat, tugging at his collar.

"Well, begging your pardon sir, but that was just one of the warherds. They bogged us down because they kept pulling out and switching in," he scowled angrily. "Don't rightly know where the others went, but there's more out there, in those trees," the Talabeclander said while squinting out at the darkness through the rain.

"We'll see about that," Magnus grunted, signaling his troops once more. "You just get your men ready to move."

The slave tunnels are tight, poorly lit, and currently absolutely flooded with slaves of all kinds. It makes sense, if you think about it. Power plays, treachery, one upping each other, such things are part and parcel of the bloody society that the Druchii have made for themselves. Not so violently insane as skaven, perhaps, but when the knives come out, it surely makes for a bloody time. A time in which slaves are liable to be used as target practice, or if particularly skilled at something or other, a target to either kill to reduce a rival's arsenal or to take for yourself to be used for your household or forces. That, Sadrina explains as you force your way past a few gibbering men and women who wouldn't pick up a weapon even after it was handed to them, was why you were seeing plenty of labor slaves but few smiths or crafters or the like.

"Right, we've made it far enough in," you declare, looking over your forces that have, in fact, swelled ever so slightly thanks to the efforts of the others in speaking to some of the slaves rushing to and fro. "Are we ready to get out and kill some Druchii, then?"

"As ready as we can be," Johanna, the vampire, shrugs, her 'guandao' as she called it slung across her shoulders like a pole for carrying water.

Her tone is casual, but her gaze is dead, a corpse-like thing which clearly unnerves some of the freed slaves.

"I must say, I was not quite expecting your choice of target," Sadrina admits as your war party starts to move out, the other slaves now well and removing themselves.

Only Oskana and the pegasus remain behind, getting them in and out of the tunnels quickly is a nonstarter at the moment.

(Cardinal Carnage: 1d4=1)

"Why?" You ask over your shoulder as you reach a long and wide set of stairs, drawing the Winds to you and forming it into a cold ethereal sphere in one hand while with the other you grip your blade, forcing yourself to stop twitching from the latest aftershocks of pain now reaching through the bond. "Thought I would simply throw myself at the Tor, or perhaps the Temple? No," you chuckle darkly as the sounds of screams and fighting start to become more audible the closer you get to the entrance. "I am a daughter of Kislev, trained in the deepest, coldest depths of the Oblast. But I do not intend to so easily make my husband a widower, nor become a widow myself."

With a mighty heave, Roland forces the doors open, despite their apparently being barred, and you find yourself confronted with at least a dozen incredibly beautiful women all in various states of undress. Some of them are bloodied, some of them are not. All of them are in various states of undress, a few weapons actually in hand. Going by the heavy gouges and scratches in the doors, they'd literally been trying to hack their way to freedom into the tunnels. Behind them, fires burn, and daemonettes run rampant, accompanied by their Druchii allies. Contesting them are other Druchii, specifically those braying to their own Goddess of Pleasure. You'll ignore the latter as best you can in favor of the former, but in truth you doubt you'll have to worry about that too much longer. They are outnumbered and badly wounded already. The slaves don't even pause to thank you, they simply dash into the tunnels you've opened up to them.

"Why the fuck wouldn't the Cult come after the Druchii's own brothel district!?" You shout at the Handmaiden as you charge forwards. "IN THE WIDOW'S NAME, IN THE NAME OF ALL GOOD PEOPLES, DIE!"

"FOR THE LADY!" The Bretonnians roar.

"FOR ISHA, AND ASURYAN!" The Asur shout.

"RHYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" Johanna roars as she unfurls her wings and with a single beat of them launches herself forwards faster than even you.

(Warpath Natasha: 47-Slaaneshi Sympathizers(10)+Heart of Atharti(20)+Band of Heroes(35)-Prideful Prizefighters(10)+Vengeance of Mousillon(10)+Fury of the Asur(20)+Abject Surprise(5)-Crowding Cultists(5)=112/100)

There's no other way to say it.

Vengeance feels good.

You bring the frozen power of Kislev onto this misbegotten island of misery, and send spears of ice through the chests of many a daemonette, while the cold winds themselves chill and slow your enemies all around you without touching your allies. Your blade pierces through a weaving defense from a Druchii cultist and slices down through her chest and stomach. Even as you move on, she still writhes, still struggles, only for those struggles to slow as the ice continues to grow and freeze her blood and organs to solids that shatter the moment she finishes tipping backwards. Johanna cleaves heads and breaks bodies with every blow, utterly abandoning humanity in favor of all her unholy strength. Sadrina and the other Asur move as a concentrated formation that simply crashes into and through the unorganized Druchii. Crossbow bolt after crossbow bolt flies out of the shadows as Kerillian makes use of her new favorite weapons, the repeaters of the Druchii themselves, to seal the fate of elf after daemon after elf, a constant muttering kept up from her that you know is a matter of numbers. Roland swings that gargantuan greatsword of his about in one hand, while with his shield he prevents a good number of blows that would have otherwise ended the lives of one of the rescued Bretonnians.

By the time you are done, the enemy are dead, dissolving back into the Realms of Chaos, or fleeing, the battle practically over before it's done any more than that, leaving you facing a scant handful of Athartian Druchii who stare at you all.

"Stay, and die," you say to them simply. "Fight us, and die. Or," you point with your blade behind them. "You can run. Perhaps even live another hour longer, maybe more."

One of them, an elf with perhaps the longest ears you've ever seen on one of their kind and dressed in some kind of chainmail toga that only covers half of her chest, chatters something too fast for your meager knowledge of their language to translate. Sadrina answers back, chattering just as fast, and for a moment you wonder if you'll get to kill some more elves today. But whatever she says ends up, somehow, making the Athartian draw upwards, and despite her state of total salaciousness save for the blood of her weapons, she just about manages to approach looking disdainfully proud and regal. She does not bow to Sadrina, but does give the slightest of nods, before scampering off with her tiny handful of Druchii. When you glance at the Handmaiden's face, it is to find a truly sad expression on her face before she turns to look at you and it smooths away.

"Going to clue anyone else in on that?" You ask, raising an eyebrow at her before your eyes bug out and you stumble slightly to the side, a grinding groan escaping through grit teeth.

(Waves of Pain: 64+Frederick Trait[The Undaunted](25)+Natasha Trait[Unyielding](15)+Frederick Trait[Sigmar's Mein](10)+Natasha Trait[Tri-Scarred](15)+Frederick Trait[Robust Soul(20)+Natasha Trait[ By The Widow's Cruel But Motherly Embrace](15)+Deepest Soulbond(10)-Inhuman Expertise(15)-The Heights of Ecstatic Pain(35)-Endless Excruciation(15)=109/100)

"Natasha! Na-," the Handmaiden's concerned words pause as you hold a hand up to her face.

"Mm'fine," you growl out, wiping your mouth and cracking your neck from side to side before straightening, an angry smile on your face. "Alyssa tried something new there, I think. Too bad for her."

The Handmaiden still looks mightily concerned, but she doesn't keep pressing the point.

"So what did they say?" You gesture in the direction the Athartian Druchii ran.

Sadrina exhales sharply through her nose and shakes her head.

"They bemoaned that I would never know true pleasure stifled in Isha's oppressive grasp, and that they would allow us to roam freely for now until they can sate their Goddess' appetite for vengeance on her greatest foe," she shrugs. "Brave, on the first face of it, sullen in the second, and nihilistic on the third," she clucked her tongue before facing you fully. "She think she's going to die, but she wants to do so killing the followers and fragments of the Prince of Excess, not to us."

"Fair enough," you nod curtly. "Let's go kill some of the same, then."

This entire district is more than just brothels, but of course it has plenty of those. Some of which spikes your rage to greater heights and makes you wish to leave them as eternally frozen glaciers with all their ill-minded customers dead inside. But there are other establishments as well, for Atharti is a Goddess of Pleasure, and anyone with an iota of brains in their skull knows there is more to that than just sex. Drinking houses, where exotic and even potentially dangerous concoctions are brewed. Restaurants, serving ingredients and dishes strange and outright obscene. All of it, feeding towards a singular Goddess, a single Cytharai, rather than Slaanesh. At least, it's supposed to be. As you stalk through these smoke-strewn streets, it's not hard to tell that a good bit of the fighting started from inside some of these buildings, and based on the tales that the others told you of that damned auction, some of the Cult of Atharti were subverted by the Cult of Pleasure at some point in the past. A place like this is of course going to be a place of great contention between the two now that they're fighting in the open.

So really, all you have to do is follow the giggling or yelling. Or both.

"So is there a single main temple that the Cult of Atharti might be making a stand at?" You ask as you move.

"More than likely, though you'd hardly recognize it, it's-,

"The mansion sized brothel with all the statues of naked elves fondling themselves?" Kerillian interrupts, pointing down a side street you'd been passing by.

There, with a surrounding concourse and walled off with a metal and stone wall with the outright most explicit statuary you've ever seen in your life acting as gargoyles, is precisely that. An estate of a size that would have been the envy of even some of the wealthiest boyars, with a large statue of who you presume must be Atharti herself sprouting from the center of what looks like a central building with inner courtyards. The Cytharai holds a severed head in one hand downwards, using it to pantomime pleasuring herself, while a flog with spikes and a sheen you know means it to be metal rather than stone held high in the other hand. Whoever made it went through the effort of painting the flog with red to suggest blood splatters. A strange hazy aura hangs over the entire temple complex, like a particular kind of heat haze, and it is absolutely surrounded by daemonettes and Slaaneshi-worshipping Druchii. There are a tremendous amount of scantily clad Druchii fighting them off with surprising skill and undeniable ferocity. Some use repeating crossbows, others blades, while others are using whips. And for a wonder, they're holding the Cult of Pleasure off.

"That'd be it, yes," Sadrina sighs.

Frederick would probably say something about the oddity of certain elven Gods. At which point Sadrina would more than likely immediately reject that she's had or would ever have anything to do with a Cytharai as a good Asur. Meanwhile, Kerillian might well venture that there are certain aspects to Atharti that should not be so swiftly denied. On a purely pragmatic level, if it is in fact possible for Atharti to be drawing away strength and power and worship that might otherwise go to Slaanesh, that is a definite reason for the Goddess to not be struck down. Yet the things done in the name of that pursuit, that rivalry, definitely disgust you far too much to ever gain your approval, let alone tolerance.

"Should we intervene?" Roland asks, frowning as he looks upon the battle.

"Only in the sense that we'll can kill any reinforcements sent their way," you point towards a growing blob of purple and pink that singes the Winds of Magic as they flow this way and that. "Come on!"

This time, they do in fact see you coming.

But that's all right, because as they sight you and reorient, you are already calling upon the Winds again.

(Warpath Natasha: 58+35-10+10+20-5+Prep Time(5)-Seekers of Slaanesh(15)=98/100)

This time around, there are awful looking creatures that look like a mixture of horse, lizard, and too many other horrific things. With long protruding tongues and huge claws, they scamper and leap and charge, ridden by laughing daemonettes who've had their arms transmogrified into long lances that weep something acidic that causes the stones beneath to hiss and sizzle from a few nodules along the sides. This riding vanguard looks especially eager to get to grips with your warband, but you thrust out your hand, clutch it closed, and feel as the armor your daughter lovingly crafted for you resonates with the spell. The legs of their cavalry freeze over, not enough to shatter all those legs outright, but to weaken and trip and fall, with some of them actually freezing up enough to break apart. Daemonettes are sent flying, screaming, laughing, and rolling to get up with unnatural swiftness and grace. Which is right around the time that Kerillian starts filling them full of holes again, as well as a few of the Bretonnians that have picked up some crossbows themselves at this point from the dead strewn everywhere. The Asur have some as well, even as they look almost physically pained to be using the weapons, no doubt wishing desperately for some nice and proper bows to use instead. Then Johanna, Roland, Jaqueline, her Whitewing sisters, Sadrina, and you are amongst the daemonettes and the few Druchii amongst them, their momentum halted utterly as you hack, slash, and stab them all until they're dead.

"We can't do this forever," Sadrina incorrectly declares as you all take stock after the fighting, some of the Bretonnians and Asur starting to show signs of strain after all the fighting.

No doubt because of the lack of proper food, water, sleeping arrangements, and other harsh treatment on the part of the Druchii for far too long.

"I know," you growl, "But we can still do some more. Come on," you glare at those who look the most exhausted. "They've beaten you. Starved you. Tortured some of you, no doubt! Are you really so ready to surrender your vengeance? To let them keeping accruing the debt they owe to you?"

Hearteningly, they perk up, and dwindling embers of outrage and vengeance in their eyes start to flare into bright bonfires once more.

Some of them do twitch, however, when Johanna starts sniffing, quietly at first and then loudly.

"Johanna?" You ask, squinting at her.

"Hold on," she grunts gutturally, inhaling so strong and long that a mortal woman's lungs might well have popped.

(The Laughter of the Crone: 43-Bled Bone White(30)-Temple Ruination(20)+Sheer Absolute Chaos(20)+Ark Destabilization(10)+Bottom of the Totem Pole(10)-Marked For Elimination(10)+Hazy Commands(15)+Rival Desires(10)+Center of Atharti's Power(10)+Bloody Handed Rage(10)=68/100)

"I know that blood," she growls, far more teeth in her mouth than you remembered briefly showing. "Come on!"

"Johanna, what-," you call out to her, even as you begin running behind – Gods above she's fast.

Right. Vampire.

"Just come on! Can't you sense it?!" She shouts back at your party as she starts darting through the streets, wings flapping to allow her to take greater leaps forward.

Despite yourself, you try and focus to do just that, to throw your senses forward. Soon enough, you do feel it, that distinct and utterly revolting sensation that accompanies the curdling and crushing of magic into Dhar. It feels like acidic grease splattered across your skin, a sticky and simultaneously oily thing that clogs the very existence of the world with its presence. It is being cast hard, fast, and filling the air, and within a few more seconds you can hear the explosions, the screams, and the laughter of daemons and other cultists. When you finally round the corner of one more pleasure house, this one advertising only the finest of men to be tortured literally to death as their offering of entertainment, you come upon the dying moments of a desperate battle. For the first time in a long while, you see the Brides of Khaine, for all that these might well be the actual last of them left on the entire Ark. Most of their most deadly and experienced members died at Salkalten or in the aftermath, then they were further reduced during the whatever the hell it was that made the greenskins on the Ark rampage. Then they were cut down further at the auction proper.

Frankly, after what they told you happened to most of the remainder at the ravaged Temple of Khaine, you'd hardly thought to see any more of them at this point.

But then again, perhaps there is a damn good reason that Khaine is the elven God of War, for you have come across a group of Witch Elves that have cut a bloody swathe through the Cult of Pleasure here in this district, and have dealt disproportionately grievous casualties upon their enemies despite just how few of them are left. Now that the veil is truly off, the Cult of Pleasure has taken to openly showing symbols of their religious loyalty, meaning that you can tell just how many of those laying dead on the ground are of their number and those who are not. The remaining Druchii that follow their Bloody-Handed God are a bare handful in number, and though it is hard to tell when it comes to elves, something in you swears there is a distinct lack of the agelessness that mature elves normally seem to possess. Well, that and the fact that you can see naked fear and desperation on the faces of those remaining, the sort of thing that more vicious and aged zealots would likely never possess. By the Gods, even younger zealots could manage that much, meaning these are young, newly inducted, or both because up until this moment you would have doubted that Witch Elves were even capable of that kind of expression.

At the greatest concentration of bodies between the two Cults lays whoever might well have been the last great champion of Khaine left on the Ark. So badly mutilated by the Cult of Pleasure that they are more a pile of ground meat than anything else, save for a single pale arm still clutching in death a weapon that glows with a dark red aura.

A weapon you recognize, in fact.

"The First Draich," Kerillian and Sadrina whisper at the same time, the former in awe, the latter in fear.

The weapon of Tullaris Dreadbringer himself, once the greatest living champion of Khaine, at least until your husband caught up to him.

Evidently left behind in the chaos within the Tor of Dominance, whether because Hultressa did not retrieve it when gathering Eldyra, or could not keep it, or otherwise. Perhaps it was remanded to the custody of the Cult of Khaine afterwards, back when Alyssa was still making pretenses of cooperation with them. Something to think about later, but you are rather more focused on something else entirely. Or, rather, someone. For standing there in the courtyard over the steadily melting body of one more Witch Elf is a gleeful looking sorceress, her sole arm clutching a glowing staff. She is covered by a small vanguard of larger looking daemonettes, who have claws for one arm, a sword in a second, and an open hand wielding clubs in a third sticking out of their stomachs. Her greater force of daemonettes and Slaaneshi Druchii are advancing slowly, but has for the moment halted entirely to face right towards you. Your arrival was not stealthy in the slightest, but you are gratified to see the triumphant look on the sorceress' face pale as she sees your group.

No.

Wait.

As she sees Johanna.

"THERE you are!" The vampire hisses with glee, her wings flaring as she crouches low. "We have unfinished business! Starting with your other arm!!"

"Kill that abomination immediately!" The sorceress shrieks in hate and fear, pointing at Johanna even as the vampire becomes subsumed in flames to the point of becoming a near incandescent sphere that then rockets up into the air and then forwards at incredible speeds.

This is one of the sorceresses that carted your husband off to be cut open like a trussed-up pig?

"Oh…oh you die today…," you whisper under your breath as you let the Winds scream down towards you as you charge, the dark glowing glacial heart of your armor pulsing in tandem with a heartbeat that is at once yours and not solely your own.

Kerillian shouts some battle cry or another in Fan-Eltharin as she darts forward at high speed, firing her stolen repeater crossbows as she goes until they run empty, while the rest of your troops start to fire their own ranged weaponry. Meanwhile, the Asur troops start to screen around the side, blocking off the confused and scared looking Witch Elves, who don't seem to know whether to bolt or not. Roland and the Whitewings, led by Jaqueline, raise their swords and shields before charging in with their Bretonnian fellows behind them. In return, the daemons charge in as well, meeting your assault with glee and delight that enrages you all the further. The Visage of the Widow, engraved upon your armor, grows all the more furious and terrible, and you see its effects cut into the pleasurable haze that many of the Druchii are in, reintroducing terror into their pathetic addled minds.

(Warpath Natasha: 54+Results of a Last Stand(10)-Slaaneshi Taskforce(20)-Crippled Sorceress(15)+Fiery Formation Disruption(5)+35+10+20=99/100)

When Johanna impacts as the burning meteor she'd temporarily made of herself, there is a panicked scream from the sorceress as whatever spell she'd been intending to cast was abruptly cut off while she tried to defend herself. A bestial roar and screech, distinctly bat-like and completely inhuman, echoes out across the battlefield amidst swirling flame and the swinging of Johanna's guandao. In the meantime, you punch a daemonette in their single tit, making them yelp in pleasure before the frost continues to spread up and across their body that you can shoulder check to smash to pieces. Your blade is not Brain Wounder, but it serves well enough, the freezing power it carries on its edge practically enough to burn through pure cold alone. Gods you hate these daemons, and you use that hate to empower your magic further. They are unnatural, not meant to exist, and yet even their impossible grace and dexterity is forced to slow with the chilling fog you envelop many of them in. Slowing them enough for Roland's enormous wide sweeps to cut swathes of them down, for the scavenged weaponry of your warband to cut and pierce and slice and stab and smash. Daemons they are, the stuff of the Realm of Chaos given matter and shape, but as it turns out, enough screaming Bretonnian peasants or steely eyed elves attacking them can bring them down.

"Bùyào pǎo!" You hear Johanna bellow something in Cathayan.

Aqshy swirls and then funnels down out of the Winds filling the air amidst the fighting, a brief flaring of heat so great that even through all the Druchii and daemonettes you would see it with your Widow-blessed eye even without the benefit of Witch Sight.

"LAUF NICHT!" Johanna roars in the old tongue.

A loud concussive bang emanates from within the fighting where Johanna disappeared into, making Druchii and daemonettes stumble forwards.

"DON'T! YOU! FUCKING! RUN!" Johanna finally snarls in Reikspiel. "NOT! AGAIN!"

"Kill them all already!" You pipe up, your voice a billowing cold gust across the battlefield, cold and unearthly, before you inhale that same cold right back in and spread your arms wide.

This is more than the creeping fog and the individuals you've struck down, the cold mists and seeping freeze that billows out of you more as a matter of course given your state of mind and the armor you wear. To exert yourself like this may not be the wisest of decisions, but neither is simply letting a sorceress get away from you. This is one that could try and stabilize the Ark further, this one is a servant of Alyssa, who's magical power and leadership could aid the Cult of Pleasure in battle, and yet you find that you do not care about those sorts of strategic or tactical considerations. Because this one took your husband away, and if you don't get to her right now she's not going to be yours to kill, and that dearly upsets you.

(Ice Maiden's Kiss: 60+Natasha Piety(13)+Cold Certainty(10)+Vengeance Calling(5)-Ark Aethyric Network Weakened(15)+Dispeller Distracted(10)+Sundered Slaaneshi Strikeforce(10)=93/100)

Colder than cold escapes your mouth as you scream the Widow's Own Fury out into the world.

You are far from your warm bed, your warm home, your wonderful family.

You are cold, and in a place terribly forlorn.

You are hungry, your stomach empty of anything save for a boiling anger.

And if you do not rescue your husband, you will truly emulate the Ancient Widow far more than you already do, with your iron nailed hand and your crimson eye.

So you release all the cold of Her heart, and as ever, few if anything can withstand it. The very blood in the veins of the Druchii between you and your target freezes into solids in their veins, then shatter to release blood shrapnel throughout their innards. Organs, so wet, do the same. Brains become cold stones. Intestines become interconnected icicles. The daemonettes, not human, not elven, not meant to exist, suffer a cold that comes from a place and time where reality itself was different. An age long past, yet one that did not quite ever end either. Their shriek in pain, or perhaps not at the pain, for that is one of their great loves. No, it is the numbness which shocks them and send those few that can even move to slouch and rear and throw themselves backwards and to the sides, leaving behind frozen limbs behind. It is the total cessation of sensation that you do not simply offer, but force upon them, and they revile you for it. You see hate flicker to life behind the eyes of the daemons, subsuming the endless enjoyment that ordinarily filled them whether they were giving or receiving pain. You have shown them something they cannot abide.

But now, now they are too few to stop the rest of your warband, and so even as they realize their hate and turn to charge a Priestess of the Widow, they find themselves confronted by the rest of your troops.

(Warpath Natasha: 34+10-Ruined Slaaneshi Taskforce(5)-Severely Crippled Sorceress(5)+35+10+20=99/100)

Nothing and no one stops you now, save for the frozen statues of the now thoroughly dead that you easily push aside to shatter along the ground. The Asur do not stop their own assaults, and break even more frozen Druchii to pieces. It's all the same, now, in the true cold you so briefly summoned forth, a state of being that even now is fading away, for the world itself is not meant to ever be so cold again. Meat or metal, all of it breaks to pieces now. The few remaining daemonettes fight, for there is little else they can do but that, knowing that they will simply return to the Realm of Chaos upon being 'slain'. Better to try and hurt, to try and kill, than simply banish themselves outright. You barely pay attention to Jaqueline cursing in Bretonnian as she shatters statue after statue, the Whitewings still burning white hot after the most recent death in their number. Or to how Sadrina has turned some of the Asur to face the still standing Khainites that remain in their battered meager stand, their assured deaths suddenly deferred.

No.

You are focused on someone else entirely, your Ledstahli crackling and crunching like walking across a glacier as the cold spreads from each footstep. You can see yourself reflected in the sheen of the new ice you've so graciously bequeathed onto this wretched Ark. Your crimson eye has gained a center of pure blue so dark it is nearly black, while trails of wisping blue-white power trails out of your other eye. Your hair, seems to flutter in a wind that is no longer present, the visage of the Widow upon your armor now a cruelly satisfied smirk to face the world. Motes of pure frost, miniscule snowflakes, trickle downwards from the whole of your body to leave a cold trail in the air. But then you look away from yourself, and towards the sorceress who was one of the pair to take your husband away. Johanna has, much to your joy, shattered the bitch's legs, snatching her staff away at the same time. The sorceress is gasping, trying to form some magic, either to defend or kill herself, you can't quite tell as the Dhar sputters in and out of controlled existence as her focus wavers so badly from the pain.

"No…not like this," she gasps out, "Not like this!"

"It's so fun to torture those beneath us, isn't it?" You ask quietly, and both of you look over to a growling full-toothed smile on Johanna's face briefly appearing before she steps backwards with a gracious bow to you. "There really is something to just…grinding someone's face in their own inferiority, hmm?"

The sorceress' eyes cut to you as you stalk closer, the Winds starting to circulate, her will and control over them trying to contest your own.

She is older, likely by centuries.

Incredibly powerful, assuredly.

But Johanna has ruined three of her limbs, and gutted her besides going by the stomach tissue and acid dripping from her right hand along with plenty of blood.

"Damned…," she wheezes and glares at you with hate that carries the weight of all those centuries of her ignoble life. "I could have crushed you in an instant, you insect, were it not for your beast!"

"Too bad," you murmur.

(Dying Effort: 42+13+10+NonNovitiate Masteries(10)+Triple De-Limbed(30)-20-Veteran Sorceress(10)-Slaaneshi Empowerment(5)=70/100)

Perhaps befitting all of that experience, all that power, she wrenches on the Winds of Magic hard, almost enough to draw them in for one last spell. It surprises you, beneath your own hatred and contempt, that you have to strain to hold onto them. But, then again, she is an elf. So superior, in so many frustrating ways. But it is getting cold, for her, as her lifesblood drains out. So very cold when that sort of thing happens. And the cold is your domain, not hers. Still, you do not miss the fact that, for the first time so far, Johanna's eyes flare with a muted bit of her own power, and a new presence makes itself felt amongst the Aethyric currents of the Winds. It is a heavier thing, you'd almost say lumbering were it not for the surprising adroitness of that pulling and pushing. It's been decades, and it's not like vampires are precisely unknown for their magical capabilities. The opposite, in fact, for many of them. So it is that she adds her own reach and strength to the effort, and despite the best wishes of the sorceress, or perhaps her final ones, she cannot command the Winds.

"No…no!" She screams weakly, trying again and again, each effort feebler than the last. "Wait…wait!" She raises a hand as if that will be enough to shield her, turning away to look towards the Asur. "Handmaiden! Stop this! I…I can provide information! I know where Alyssa is, her…her defenses!"

Sadrina turns her head away from the Witch Elves she's been staring down, and looks upon the sorceress. She walks at an unhurried pace, despite the fighting still audible throughout the district and Ark, until she comes right up to your shoulder unbothered by the sheer cold that is beginning to redden her skin.

"Isha loves you," she says quietly, but for some reason instead of a comfort, it makes the already pale face of the sorceress pale further. "She always has. She weeps for the Druchii, for all they do, and all they have done. No matter how they scorn her. But that is her prerogative as a Goddess."

Then she gives a soft smile that actually does reach her eyes.

"Alas, for I am but mortal, and I see no desire for redemption in you. No wish to change. To leave behind the binding chains that Malekith and Morathi have wrapped you in. And more than that…," she crouches down, and cups the sorceress' face and shakes her head before standing up and looking to you. "You will lie to save yourself."

At which point she turns and walks away.

"No…Handmaiden! You…you serve Isha! You can't just…," the sorceress tries to hyperventilate, but she can't quite get the breath in her lungs anymore. "Slaanesh…no…save me…save me!" She pleads to her chosen God like a child hurt for the first time begs for their mother.

"Isha is not here for you," you say, and her dark eyes dart to you again as you reach out with your foot and press the cold Ledstahli into her stomach, making her scream and fall onto her back. "No God is…save mine. Do you know one of the greatest commands of the Ancient Widow, you awful little creature?"

You feel the cold intensifying right around your boot, new layers of ice with barbed spikes wrapping around it, just as you feel the air in your lungs growing chilly as well as you prepare to speak the words of your Goddess.

"Should you find love, my daughters, then always remember thus: Destroy all those who would seek to make you a Widow."

Then you, Natasha von Hohenzollern, draw your leg up high as the sorceress screams in denial before slamming your Ledstahli boot straight down onto her face again and again and again and again.

Skin, then muscle, then bone, breaks and chips like a block of painted ice.

Teeth shatter into smaller and smaller shards.

Eyeballs burst as liquid flash-freezes and bursts their fragile confines.

A scream of pain, a scream of pleading, is cut off as the passageway that is throat and mouth are crushed closed with repeated impact.

Only when you are hitting pure stone road, a fingernail thin layer of frozen shards sprayed out around your boot, do you stop.

"…nice," Johanna whistles approvingly.

"It's a good start," you growl, turning to see a faint look of disapproval on Roland's face and gleeful satisfaction on that of the Whitewings.

"Kerillian, what do you think you are doing?" Sadrina suddenly calls out, stringent and wary at the same time.

When you turn, it is to find that the Asrai has removed the severed hand clutching the First Draich, and looks ready to replace it with her own. The Brides of Khaine are not dead, but neither are they fled. Dhar itself does not cling to the blade, but rather Shyish in quite unhealthy amounts. But you do not need to see as the Winds swirl around it, Shyish, Chamon, and more, with all the passionate fires of Aqshy and more. No, you can see as the bloody red aura that the damn thing has carried since you first saw it almost looks to pulse. Like a heartbeat. That thing nearly killed your husband, when it was wielded by Tullaris Dreadbringer. It stood up to Brain Wounder, a Runefang, on weight of its blessings and empowerment by Khaine alone, if you understand the legends right.

"I'm thinking that I need a better weapon," Kerillian says plainly, her face unreadable thanks to the veil she wears. "Than mere knives and swords that would far more easily break."

"That…that weapon is tainted," Sadrina murmurs, revulsion in her voice. "You must know that."

"You mistake yourself, Asur," Kerillian snaps at her, "The Asrai are bound to the Weave, and happen to know that there is a time for both Cadai and Cytharai."

"It is a mistake to try and take up a blade such as that, your very soul-," Sadrina tries again, but before she can finish, Kerillian has wrapped her fingers around the First Draich and pulled it free, holding it out in the air.

(The Murderous Wrath of Khaine: 100+Kerillian Piety(15)+Temple Desecrated(15)+Essentially Brideless(10)+A Different Flavor of Worship(10)+Hunger For Revenge(10)-Not Of The Chosen(20)-Not Singularly Devoted(20)= 120/100)

The Asrai lets out a quiet grunt that transitions into a low hiss as she rolls her neck about before hefting the First Draich such that the flat lays on her shoulder, half-turning to face Sadrina. Absolutely no one misses how the bloody red aura drenching the blade starts to creep its way up to and settles along Kerillian's arms. It spreads, but slowly, not like a torrent of gushing blood but rather the sort that slowly trickles out from a well-placed stab to the gut. You've little doubt as to why that particular sort of imagery is searing itself into your mind as that murderous red glow begins to travel all and about Kerillian before sinking inwards, dissipating from sight save for that which still remains around the blade proper.

"Well look at that, the blade is mine. Besides, do you really think that Khaine wouldn't want this thing used to kill those that took over His temple, killed his priestesses?"

"T-that b-blade is not meant f-for you!" One of the Witch Elves, and by the Gods she is young, stammers in a squeaky high-pitched voice. "O-only the anointed of Khaine!"

If one of your daughters was wearing what the Witch Elves did at the age the girl sounds like, you think half of Wulfenburg Castle might have ended up encased in ice.

"Oh yeah? Is that right then?" Kerillian scoffs, her normally acerbic tone having gained a brand-new razor edge in the past few seconds. "Come and take it from me then!"

The Witch Elves…hesitate.

"We need not be enemies!" Sadrina seizes upon that hesitation like a starving wolf upon a dead deer. "Can you not see what the machinations of Morathi and Hellebron have wrought?!"

"Y-you're a traitor to the rightful ruler of all elvenkind," the bravest of the cowards speaks out, making Kerillian scoff again. "All Asur are."

"How dare you!" One of the freed Asur slaves spits, raising his blade, followed by others.

"No, no!" Sadrina says, moving to stand between the two groups of elves. "Stop this madness!"

Do you really have time for this?

"Is she really about to try and save their souls?" Johanna mutters to you, having come closer, once more slinging her guandao over her shoulders as Asur, Asrai, and Druchii all start arguging. "Really? Didn't see much sympathy to the one who's head you just scattered three feet in every direction."

"They're younger. Much younger. No doubt they've done some killing, but look at them. Listen to them," you answer back with a sigh of chilly air. "Those aren't hardened Druchii, not Witch Elves like the rest we've seen. They might have the vestments-,"

"-or lack thereof," Johanna mutters with a snort.

"-but the minds? The souls of it?" You shrug. "I can't be sure. They're against Alyssa, so I don't feel a need to kill them right now. But neither do I feel compelled to save their souls."

"Mmm. Maybe," Johanna nods, rolling her head back and forth slightly. "On the other hand, supporting the Cytharai hurts Alyssa's cause too. They have no head priestess, no seniors, nothing. Hell, do they even know any of the higher secrets of Khaine? Or even His…I don't know, medium ones?"

You pause, blink, and then tilt your head at the vampire.

"Are you suggesting we try to coopt the elven Cult of the God of Murder?"

Johanna bares her teeth, letting them click together before she sucks some air through them.

"Only a little. Handmaiden's probably going to try and convince them to give it all up. Then again, like Kerillian said, Asrai don't fall into the same binaries that Asur and Druchii go into about their Gods."

And she's currently claimed the First Draich, which doesn't appear to be actually rejecting her.

"Hmm…Sadrina!" You call as you walk over, Johanna following her. "Do we have time for this?"

She looks at you, quite distressed, and rubs a hand across her face.

"Lady Goldenquill, please," one of the Asur adds. "They are Druchii. We could not possibly add them to our cause!"

"That does not need to be true," she replies steadfastly.

"Sadrina," you motion her over, "No one kill anyone just yet," you say louder, and then glare at the Khainites before summoning every bit of imperious motherhood that your years and children have garnered you. "That goes for you too."

(Mother Glare: 74-A Mere Ylvathoi(20)-Druchii Arrogance(20)-Paranoia(5)+Natasha Diplomacy(13)+Sadrina Diplomacy(15)+Matriarchal(10)+Slaughtered Slaaneshis(10)+Vastly Outnumbered(5)+Proto Acolytes(10)+Wielder of the First Draich(10)=102/100)

Their submission is writ into the hanging of their heads, the slumping of their shoulders, the fire going out in their eyes.

Good enough, you think, though the strange looks of the Asur are a bit confusing.

"What, exactly, is your plan here?" You murmur to her, making her purse her lips. "To have them give up Khaine entirely? Just march along with us, as if the rest of your kin aren't going to cut them down for being Druchii already?"

"I know that, I know," she presses a hand to her forehead and sighs. "I…it has been trying, listening to the screaming of elven souls in the distance. But they are so young, I doubt they've ever bathed fully in a Cauldron of Blood save for their initiation into the Cult."

"They're not going to stop being Druchii, and your Asur won't accept them," you point out, and thankfully she is quick enough on the draw to see where you're going with this.

"You would have them continue?" She asks, a mixture of revulsion and fascination. "As they are?"

"Not precisely, you know that. The Asrai do things different."

"Indeed we do," Kerillian says smugly as she swaggers closer, making your skin itch beneath your armor from the blade on her shoulder, while Sadrina outright steps away with her nose wrinkling in disgust. "It might work, it might not. To follow the Bloody-Handed God in a way divergent from those championed by the Druchii, as we Asrai do? It might be too much for their little minds. Might break them," she notes in her accented Reikspiel. "Could try, but the moment we start rescuing more slaves, breaking cages, slashing chains, might get harder to keep them on our side."

"She speaks truthfully," Sadrina says, chewing at her lip. "To also keep their peace between those we have already rescued would be…difficult."

Kerillian nods at this before pausing and her pure black eyes narrowing slightly, tilting her head as if listening to something you can't hear.

"Could try something different," she admits. "Could try rallying 'em, the rest I mean," she glances at the Witch Elves. "The other Druchii, those that haven't sworn themselves to the Prince of Excess. Be harder with the rest of you…might be easier if it's just me," she mumbles.

"Hold, now, Asrai," Sadrina says firmly. "You would break from us, venture out alone into the madness, all to gather up the Druchii instead?"

"Make a harder resistance, make a bigger problem for Alyssa," Kerillian notes distantly. "Kill a lot of Druchii, either way, hmm?"

"Cut the Brides loose now, let them find their way, better that than losing yourself amongst them," Sadrina says quickly, looking to you at the same time that Kerillian does.

"Well, Larhathalumalav, what say you? For better or worse, you're the leader at the moment," she shrugs as if the decision does not come with the sheer weight that it does.

"Regardless of my decision, we've still got a few more fights left in us today, agreed? If we can't get Alyssa to come out of her tower, we'll have to keep working at it," you glance between the two of them.

"If Frederick...," Sadrina trails off. "Can you withstand what is being done to him that long?"

You glare at her and then snort.

"Me and my husband will survive this. Count on that, Sadrina."

"Agreed, then. Still though, Larhathalumalav. Your decision?" Kerillian presses you, and you'd swear there is a faint bloody red rim to the pure black of her eyes now.

Natasha's Choice (Choose One):
Moratorium For 3 Hours

[] A Bloody Hand: There remains resistance to the Cult of Pleasure on the Ark, but one of their greatest opponents was practically dead before the fight even properly began. The Cult of Khaine was nearly destroyed at Salkalten, and was again brought even closer to the brink in the aftermath, leading to now, with bare handfuls of incredibly young acolytes all that remains. But many Druchii outside of the Brides of Khaine worship Him, for he is the utmost God championed by the Witch-King himself. A rallying force, wielded by the deadly Kerillian, could be just the thing to start truly tipping matters against the currently mostly dominating Cult of Pleasure. But it would require Kerillian to leave and be amongst the Druchii, alone, for there is no chance that a bunch of freed slaves would be able to make common cause with them, let alone with the Handmaiden Sadrina in tow.
[] One Red Nail: Kerillian has claimed the First Draich for herself. You've killed a good bit of Druchii and banished many daemons today. Now you can go right back to doing that, and let the Witch Elves go and fend for themselves, find some other Cytharai worshippers and try to fend off the Cult of Pleasure on their own. Let them do as they wish, for now, but if they turn against you, well, you've just gotten a weapon very good at killing people to add to your forces. Young they may be, but a chance to survive they'll still have, with or without you. It would mean less potential friction, yes, but it would sacrifice the gain of a few more elves to kill other elves for you. You rather despise Druchii as a whole, honestly, so it is not too terrible a thing to dismiss these and go back to more important matters.
[] Turning A Bloody Leaf: The Asrai do not disdain Khaine as the Asur do. Rather than elevating the Cadai or Cytharai, they worship both, in a sort of strange wheel of all things as best as you remember. Which means that, while they do not have the Cult of Khaine with its Cauldrons of Blood and endless sacrifices, they do still in fact have their ways of worshipping him. Ways that are quite different. Kerillian now wields the First Draich, one of the holiest murder weapons in the whole of the Cult of Khaine, and it appears to not be rejecting her. It would disgruntle the Asur, assuredly, and no doubt the Bretonnians as well, but if Kerillian can somehow 'convert' these few incredibly fresh-faced acolytes to your cause, you can't deny that it would allow you access to a few more no doubt skilled fighters despite their youth. If they foreswear the Cult they know, in the favor of the worship held beneath eternal trees and dark shadows of a forest born before humanity may well have ever existed. If. If they don't, they'll have to leave. If they do, the Asur and Whitewings will likely not be incredibly pleased...but so long as Sadrina's heart bleeds compassion and Roland can impress on matters of honor and chivalry and the worth of one's word, it is a problem that can be solved.