- Location
- Castlevania
Who is natasha
From a Dead World (Skaven Quest)
- Thread starter Xantalos
- Start date
- Fantasy
- Location
- United States
He meant Natasha, autocorrect screwed it up.
- Location
- Castlevania
I realy dont know who are you all talking about
- Location
- United States
Damn it, it happened to me too. I meant Nagash.
- Location
- Castlevania
Oh ok then.....wait you mean nagash is back OH FUCK
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
Yup, I did a whole excessively-indulgent interlude about it!
Yes, of course, that's what they were talking about!
Nobody tell him about the real Natasha. Shhhhh.
ConfusedPotato
Unverified Verifier
- Location
- Australia
Where others may see a terrible idea. All I am seeing is an underwater submarine base.
- Location
- Somewhere Beyond the Sea
And where you might see an underwater submarine base. I see an opportunity to stick a metric crapload of doomspheres on and around it
ConfusedPotato
Unverified Verifier
- Location
- Australia
Why not both? Asset denial and scorched earth is a valid strategy after all.
- Location
- Somewhere Beyond the Sea
Hoo boy.. anyone else feeling bored? Perhaps we can think of crackpot ideas and building plans to pass the time?
- Pronouns
- He/Him
No thanks. Just shoving in stupid stuff, talking for the sake of talking, doesn't sit right to me.
- Location
- Somewhere Beyond the Sea
Eh alright, i understand my dude
- Location
- Somewhere Beyond the Sea
54 thousand words... Ohh myy
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
Well, in totality that's how long turn 2 is. This update will only be a bit over a thousand, I think.
End Times 2 Results - Bone and Fur - The Tables Turn
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
The skeletal dragons were untouchable. Waves of fire and lightning were thrown at them by the skaven artillery, but the guiding intelligence controlling them steered them clear of the worst of it. They split up from their centralized formation, each dragon taking its own graceful, spiraling path over the skaven army.
And always, always they were vomiting rivers of green-white flame, melting ratflesh and boiling bone marrow.
Then, something changed. The skies cracked over the Ash Ridge mountains and a spreading network of wriggling green lightning burrowed through the black carpet of the sky. The dragons were forced lower as bolts forked downwards towards them.
As the dragons flew lower, their motions dulled. The fire ceased to gout from their empty maws, while they became slow and uncertain in their flight, wobbling through the sky where previously they had soared.
Grey Seer Ikbolt Firefur saw this, and a maniacal grin split his face. Something had happened to the necromancers controlling the dragons! If he could strike now, the glory of bringing one of the monsters down would be his!
He leaned down from his elevated platform where he stood next to a Bell of Ruin and yelled down to his thirteen apprentices, who were relegated to standing on the ground around the base of the bell in case the edifice was threatened. "Now-now, fool-idiots! Join your might-power with mine, and Horned God spit on your soul if you shirk!" As he watched them pull their horned talismans from hidden places and clasp their hands in prayer, he huffed out a single breath, enough to settle his nerves. Then he reached up with both hands and grasped the rope affixed to the Bell, and pulled with all his might.
The Bell rang out with a gong deeper than it could have ordinarily produced as Ikbolt's apprentices fed their magic into it, the runes on its side glowing with fel light. It continued to swing on its own, picking up speed as the warpstone clapper intensified its radiance, clanging against the sides and bringing whispering echoes to the ear. Ikbolt, meanwhile, was not idle, grasping a specially-made elongated staff and stabbing it into the ground below. Grasping it with both hands, he focused his mind in the way that he had been shown, drawing the essence of Ruinous flame out of the earth. The staff glowed a bright red as a current of oily black flame traveled up it and was conducted into the Grey Seer, who proved his epithet as his grey fur took on a reddish-orange glow.
He held it in with gritted teeth, ignoring the burning in his gut and feeling of boiling in his head. Instead he looked to the skies, picking out a suitable target as the Bell of Ruin tolled closer to the sacred thirteenth. 8, 9, 10. His eyes twitched back and forth, squinting as he struggled to calculate which of the many dragons in the sky was the closer. 11, 12. Finally he settled his mind on one, a leviathan of bone bearing black scars across its skull where it had weathered a barrage of fire already. Ikbolt felt a shiver go down it spine as it started bearing towards him. Shadows played across its blackened skull, lit by both the lightning overhead and its own luminous eyes. Eyes that were focused solely on him.
13.
Ikbolt screamed as the power of the Bell flowed into him and ignited the store of Ruin magic he had taken within himself. His eyes flared bright with fire behind the sockets, and he thrust his hand out before the inner conflagration could consume him. His fur ignited, cloaking him in a mantle of choking smog. A hissing bolt of red-green flame rocketed out of that darkness, impacting directly on the dragon and exploding in an echoing boom, throwing up a great cloud of smoke as it did.
"VINDICATION," Ikbolt screamed in glee as he saw the skeletal beast come tumbling out of the cloud, careening down toward the ground. Then his grin faded as he noticed the trajectory of the dragon still carrying it directly towards him. He scuttled towards the edge of his platform, barking out orders. "Apprentice-slaves! Move the..."
His apprentices had already vanished from sight, a small part of Ikbolt's mind noticed as he frantically looked around for them. And his staff of office was also gone.
The Grey Seer looked up at the falling castle of bone that was the dragon skeleton, now too close to avoid. He tried to think of a dramatic set of last words, but nothing occurred to him before the dragon crashed into the platform, pulping his body under a small hill of shrapnel and rubble.
---
In the midst of the Conclave's battle lines, the necromancers commanding the flow of souls and bones were unassailable. Cairn Wraiths guarded their bodies with spectral malice and cruel scythes, and the efforts of the skaven necromancers were trivial to disperse. Clan Rictus was weak as of yet in the study of the Corpse Geometries, while the masters of the Conclave had been practicing their art for centuries - it was no contest. The skeletal legions of the necromancers ground themselves to dust against the gargantuan mass of the skaven, each individual soldier falling again and again, only to get back up, trails of death magic piecing them back together.
Yet, while the acolytes of Rictus could not offer meaningful resistance against the Conclave, they were present on the battlefield in such numbers that they could serve as a reasonably effective distraction.
And in a fight, distraction was death.
Entire clades of Eshin acolytes ghosted out of the shadows, leaping past spectral bodyguards with knives gleaming and plunging down towards pallid flesh. The Cairn Wraiths enslaved to the necromancers reached out with ghostly claws, phasing into the innards of Gutter Runners and freezing their hearts. See-through scythes swung with malicious efficiency, and though their flesh was left untouched, the skaven who were cut by those blades had their souls cleaved in twain.
For all their might, however, the Cairn Wraiths were only so many, and Eshin's knives were coated in their shadowy magic. The grim spirits were cut, great ragged holes being torn in their essence until they were sent to the afterlife they had run so far from. While their underlings spent their lives as distractions, the true Assassins brought themselves to bear against the necromancers, decapitating many of the pallid wizards while they contended magically with Rictus.
Some of the Conclave were more cautious, and had bound such collections of spectral horrors to their person that assailing them from melee range was all but impossible. For these targets, different tactics were employed - as the battle lines of the skaven and undead continued to clash, earsplitting cracks would ring out on occasion, accompanied by blazing green lines of light travelling to places on the battlefield. The warpstone bullets fired from Skyre jezzails tore through even the toughest undead constructs, and as the undead battle-line began to crumble with more and more necromancers being taken out of action, several of those who remained were shorn through by the skaven snipers.
"The tide turns," crowed Paskrit from her observation post. "Ready-prepare the reserves, now comes our push-charge!" She motioned to her adjutant as the rest of her underlings scurried to carry out her orders, and the skaven raised a stubby pistol to the sky. Flinching, he pulled the trigger and the gun spat out a sizzling orange flare which soared into the sky, a mote of light amidst the chaos of the ongoing skaven artillery fire.
Paskrit's elites, hardened stormvermin holding glowing Skyre guns and mounted upon slavering centauroid monstrosities with golden skin, leapt into the fray at their Warlord-General's command. Packs of trained rat ogres loped alongside them, carrying spinning multi-barreled guns and small cannons loaded with explosive shrapnel.
Screeching war cries from thousands of throats, they charged forth, a wedge of a mere few thousand against the immensity of the undead horde still bearing down on the skaven lines. But as they pushed through the lines of clanrats and slave chaff, their fearsome appearance and unwavering momentum caused those skaven before them to run away from them, and thus toward the enemy.
As the charge became larger, it emboldened the skaven running with it, causing them to emit the musk of war. This attracted yet more skaven, and so on and so forth, sending a ripple of positive morale through the horde at a critical moment. Many of the skeletal dragons were in retreat, the lines of the undead were wavering due to the incapacitation of many necromancers, and the skaven still retained a significant numerical advantage. The ratmen pushed, and the cohesion of the undead force could not hold.
The forces of the Conclave began to pull back and a great rush of adrenaline came over the skaven forces at the sight. They charged at the retreating skeletal legions, each individual skaven terrified beyond reason, but carried forward by the terrible momentum the army possessed as a whole. They crashed into formation after formation of bony soldiers, rushed through mobs of wailing spirits with shrill cries upon their lips, and did not stop going until the majority of the enemy necromancers had vanished into the red-ash fog of the horizon.
The incursion of the Conclave of the Undying King has been pushed back! They have fallen back to the ancient dawi-zharr fortress deep within the Plain of Bones, and will likely need time to raise another force comparable to this.
While no necromancers were able to be captured, the acolytes of Rictus were able to glean many insights from merely struggling against the masters of their art, and the overall strength of the clan's magic has increased.
Tretch Craventail survived his harrowing experience in the Field of Fire, and has subsequently been promoted to the position of Official Rictus Liaison! In theory this means he is responsible for inter-clan diplomacy and ensuring that Rictus is given fair representation on any multiple-clan venture. In practice, he essentially functions as a high-ranking lackey for Bonelord Doomclaw, and is assigned all manner of tasks that necromancers are not suited for.
Skretch Half-Dead was present in the Port of Ruin this turn, and helped its staff defend it from a force of skeletons that raided it by walking along the seabed until they reached its location! During the struggle, he catalyzed the ability to steal the control of hostile undead and add them to his ship's crew.
And always, always they were vomiting rivers of green-white flame, melting ratflesh and boiling bone marrow.
Then, something changed. The skies cracked over the Ash Ridge mountains and a spreading network of wriggling green lightning burrowed through the black carpet of the sky. The dragons were forced lower as bolts forked downwards towards them.
As the dragons flew lower, their motions dulled. The fire ceased to gout from their empty maws, while they became slow and uncertain in their flight, wobbling through the sky where previously they had soared.
Grey Seer Ikbolt Firefur saw this, and a maniacal grin split his face. Something had happened to the necromancers controlling the dragons! If he could strike now, the glory of bringing one of the monsters down would be his!
He leaned down from his elevated platform where he stood next to a Bell of Ruin and yelled down to his thirteen apprentices, who were relegated to standing on the ground around the base of the bell in case the edifice was threatened. "Now-now, fool-idiots! Join your might-power with mine, and Horned God spit on your soul if you shirk!" As he watched them pull their horned talismans from hidden places and clasp their hands in prayer, he huffed out a single breath, enough to settle his nerves. Then he reached up with both hands and grasped the rope affixed to the Bell, and pulled with all his might.
The Bell rang out with a gong deeper than it could have ordinarily produced as Ikbolt's apprentices fed their magic into it, the runes on its side glowing with fel light. It continued to swing on its own, picking up speed as the warpstone clapper intensified its radiance, clanging against the sides and bringing whispering echoes to the ear. Ikbolt, meanwhile, was not idle, grasping a specially-made elongated staff and stabbing it into the ground below. Grasping it with both hands, he focused his mind in the way that he had been shown, drawing the essence of Ruinous flame out of the earth. The staff glowed a bright red as a current of oily black flame traveled up it and was conducted into the Grey Seer, who proved his epithet as his grey fur took on a reddish-orange glow.
He held it in with gritted teeth, ignoring the burning in his gut and feeling of boiling in his head. Instead he looked to the skies, picking out a suitable target as the Bell of Ruin tolled closer to the sacred thirteenth. 8, 9, 10. His eyes twitched back and forth, squinting as he struggled to calculate which of the many dragons in the sky was the closer. 11, 12. Finally he settled his mind on one, a leviathan of bone bearing black scars across its skull where it had weathered a barrage of fire already. Ikbolt felt a shiver go down it spine as it started bearing towards him. Shadows played across its blackened skull, lit by both the lightning overhead and its own luminous eyes. Eyes that were focused solely on him.
13.
Ikbolt screamed as the power of the Bell flowed into him and ignited the store of Ruin magic he had taken within himself. His eyes flared bright with fire behind the sockets, and he thrust his hand out before the inner conflagration could consume him. His fur ignited, cloaking him in a mantle of choking smog. A hissing bolt of red-green flame rocketed out of that darkness, impacting directly on the dragon and exploding in an echoing boom, throwing up a great cloud of smoke as it did.
"VINDICATION," Ikbolt screamed in glee as he saw the skeletal beast come tumbling out of the cloud, careening down toward the ground. Then his grin faded as he noticed the trajectory of the dragon still carrying it directly towards him. He scuttled towards the edge of his platform, barking out orders. "Apprentice-slaves! Move the..."
His apprentices had already vanished from sight, a small part of Ikbolt's mind noticed as he frantically looked around for them. And his staff of office was also gone.
The Grey Seer looked up at the falling castle of bone that was the dragon skeleton, now too close to avoid. He tried to think of a dramatic set of last words, but nothing occurred to him before the dragon crashed into the platform, pulping his body under a small hill of shrapnel and rubble.
---
In the midst of the Conclave's battle lines, the necromancers commanding the flow of souls and bones were unassailable. Cairn Wraiths guarded their bodies with spectral malice and cruel scythes, and the efforts of the skaven necromancers were trivial to disperse. Clan Rictus was weak as of yet in the study of the Corpse Geometries, while the masters of the Conclave had been practicing their art for centuries - it was no contest. The skeletal legions of the necromancers ground themselves to dust against the gargantuan mass of the skaven, each individual soldier falling again and again, only to get back up, trails of death magic piecing them back together.
Yet, while the acolytes of Rictus could not offer meaningful resistance against the Conclave, they were present on the battlefield in such numbers that they could serve as a reasonably effective distraction.
And in a fight, distraction was death.
Entire clades of Eshin acolytes ghosted out of the shadows, leaping past spectral bodyguards with knives gleaming and plunging down towards pallid flesh. The Cairn Wraiths enslaved to the necromancers reached out with ghostly claws, phasing into the innards of Gutter Runners and freezing their hearts. See-through scythes swung with malicious efficiency, and though their flesh was left untouched, the skaven who were cut by those blades had their souls cleaved in twain.
For all their might, however, the Cairn Wraiths were only so many, and Eshin's knives were coated in their shadowy magic. The grim spirits were cut, great ragged holes being torn in their essence until they were sent to the afterlife they had run so far from. While their underlings spent their lives as distractions, the true Assassins brought themselves to bear against the necromancers, decapitating many of the pallid wizards while they contended magically with Rictus.
Some of the Conclave were more cautious, and had bound such collections of spectral horrors to their person that assailing them from melee range was all but impossible. For these targets, different tactics were employed - as the battle lines of the skaven and undead continued to clash, earsplitting cracks would ring out on occasion, accompanied by blazing green lines of light travelling to places on the battlefield. The warpstone bullets fired from Skyre jezzails tore through even the toughest undead constructs, and as the undead battle-line began to crumble with more and more necromancers being taken out of action, several of those who remained were shorn through by the skaven snipers.
"The tide turns," crowed Paskrit from her observation post. "Ready-prepare the reserves, now comes our push-charge!" She motioned to her adjutant as the rest of her underlings scurried to carry out her orders, and the skaven raised a stubby pistol to the sky. Flinching, he pulled the trigger and the gun spat out a sizzling orange flare which soared into the sky, a mote of light amidst the chaos of the ongoing skaven artillery fire.
Paskrit's elites, hardened stormvermin holding glowing Skyre guns and mounted upon slavering centauroid monstrosities with golden skin, leapt into the fray at their Warlord-General's command. Packs of trained rat ogres loped alongside them, carrying spinning multi-barreled guns and small cannons loaded with explosive shrapnel.
Screeching war cries from thousands of throats, they charged forth, a wedge of a mere few thousand against the immensity of the undead horde still bearing down on the skaven lines. But as they pushed through the lines of clanrats and slave chaff, their fearsome appearance and unwavering momentum caused those skaven before them to run away from them, and thus toward the enemy.
As the charge became larger, it emboldened the skaven running with it, causing them to emit the musk of war. This attracted yet more skaven, and so on and so forth, sending a ripple of positive morale through the horde at a critical moment. Many of the skeletal dragons were in retreat, the lines of the undead were wavering due to the incapacitation of many necromancers, and the skaven still retained a significant numerical advantage. The ratmen pushed, and the cohesion of the undead force could not hold.
The forces of the Conclave began to pull back and a great rush of adrenaline came over the skaven forces at the sight. They charged at the retreating skeletal legions, each individual skaven terrified beyond reason, but carried forward by the terrible momentum the army possessed as a whole. They crashed into formation after formation of bony soldiers, rushed through mobs of wailing spirits with shrill cries upon their lips, and did not stop going until the majority of the enemy necromancers had vanished into the red-ash fog of the horizon.
VICTORY
The incursion of the Conclave of the Undying King has been pushed back! They have fallen back to the ancient dawi-zharr fortress deep within the Plain of Bones, and will likely need time to raise another force comparable to this.
While no necromancers were able to be captured, the acolytes of Rictus were able to glean many insights from merely struggling against the masters of their art, and the overall strength of the clan's magic has increased.
Tretch Craventail survived his harrowing experience in the Field of Fire, and has subsequently been promoted to the position of Official Rictus Liaison! In theory this means he is responsible for inter-clan diplomacy and ensuring that Rictus is given fair representation on any multiple-clan venture. In practice, he essentially functions as a high-ranking lackey for Bonelord Doomclaw, and is assigned all manner of tasks that necromancers are not suited for.
Skretch Half-Dead was present in the Port of Ruin this turn, and helped its staff defend it from a force of skeletons that raided it by walking along the seabed until they reached its location! During the struggle, he catalyzed the ability to steal the control of hostile undead and add them to his ship's crew.
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
SURPRISE this turn is finally - FINALLY - complete! And it only took...
2 and a half years or so. Partially/mostly due to the multiple ways I invented and revised systems to actually track things during the writing of the turn, my infamously slow writing speed, and various other factors. But it's finally done! Ahahahahahahaha!
Profuse thanks as always to the person who consents to edit my stuff, as this quest would be measurably worse without their help.
first update in the turn said:
2 and a half years or so. Partially/mostly due to the multiple ways I invented and revised systems to actually track things during the writing of the turn, my infamously slow writing speed, and various other factors. But it's finally done! Ahahahahahahaha!
Profuse thanks as always to the person who consents to edit my stuff, as this quest would be measurably worse without their help.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Well-done ship-rat.
- Location
- Anchorage, Alaska
you guys need to do the doom-sphere project...
like yesterday
take over the dead world. by being the last ones alive from the hell-scape! then go take over the galaxy!!!
like yesterday
take over the dead world. by being the last ones alive from the hell-scape! then go take over the galaxy!!!
Kairos123
Insomniac Extraordinaire
You can say my name, it's cool.
At this point it's probably too late. I'd give better than even odds of the Lizardmen and Chaos hordes surviving. Neither of which we can currently contest directly.
- Location
- USA
That just means we get to add all the stuff we saw for skaven like doomrockets yes-yes? Need Ikit Claw best-greatest warplock engineer and doomrockets.
Kaboomatic
Where the Wild Things Are
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Nice
Shame about not getting any necromancers
Hopefully we can find some tomes
If sketch can capture undead, he might be able to create an entire fleet of undead ships
Shame about not getting any necromancers
Hopefully we can find some tomes
If sketch can capture undead, he might be able to create an entire fleet of undead ships