The First Given Gift
This is an imaginary story...
aren't they all?
???? IC
The snow crunches, a constant staccato beat, under the greaves of Barak Azamar. Each thud grinds the soft silken crystal together, compressing it, but the heat of the magic coursing through it is too much for any snow or ice to stick to the hard adamant. Whatever tries sloughs off as a constant stream of water, dirty with mud and grass and Ancestors only know what else in this place, thick as it is with the evil magic of Chaos and the taint of their wicked ways. Daemon blood stains the ground hither, thither, and yon, which is either very good or very bad or very complicated. Plenty of things that want to kill daemons are in the good graces of your people, but plenty more are not and plenty more are quite plainly evil. So you are forced to consider the shattered trees, the burning grass, the shattered rocks and even more worryingly those cut right through.
On the one hand, leaving the enemy to kill each other may or may not be wise but it certainly isn't dishonorable especially if you can truthfully claim that you are just waiting to pick off the weakened victor, assuming there is, in fact, a victor to pick off: it's hardly unknown for Chaos to burn itself out fighting itself. Be embarrassing at best though if it's an elf of whatever sort or an ogre or one of the fay hunting them down, who wants to let them be right that they're doing more to protect the world than you? And it'd be pretty damn shameful, dishonorable even, if it's a Warrior Priest or a Grail Knight or a Diestro or something. Can't let the youngins do more for the world, can you?
Bah.
It will be good to get some exercise in any case. Not that the Daemons are any great challenge these days, not the way they were when you were a real Beardling, so weedy and cowardly they are...
Mind made up you heft your hammer over your shoulder and race onwards, following the literal trail of destruction that whoever has been fighting has left behind as well as your sniffer which can catch blood and oddly familiar stonebread on the horizon. Whatever turns out to be ripping into the Neverborn, you'll have to give them this: they fight pretty damn well and if the splattered red liquid that's not daemon's blood is anything to go by, they can take a punch better than a beardling. The quick jaunt swiftly brings you to a clearing in the trees, where a barechested figure covered in a thick cloak of what looks like sea silk brandishes a mace covered in several spikes towards a hissing Keeper of Secrets, shield of rawhide and wood in the other hand. Several other, lesser, daemons mill about the place, the locusts, waiting for their chance to strike.
Judging by the fact you can see but not comprehend, for lack of a better word, the mortal's face (and it is a mortal, not a neverborn), you would be willing to bet something on them is enchanted. Now if you took active steps to, you could smother the magic and keep it nonfunctional, and make reality work the way it should. But that would also be very rude and seems like a very good way to end up in a fight you don't particularly need or want. So instead you heft Zharrgal to bring it down and bleed the earth dry on the Daemon.
Only for the mace to fly out aimed right towards the Keeper's abdomen, his gut and ribs. Distantly you hear the sound of music as you can feel magic flowing into the metal ball and each spike. And what's more, for all it's a heavy weapon, it is fast. Not faster than you could possibly imagine. Not faster than belief. Not fast beyond the comprehension of mortals. Not faster than anything that size should be. But fast. Fast enough, in fact, that it slams like a somber note into the Daemon's gut, sending it flying and already de-materializing as Hysh flows into the oversized, spindly body. The rest follow suit in the moments following, except as far as you can tell they have no reason to.
Eh. You've seen it done better, but you've seen it done worse, too.
The unknown mortal falls to one knee, panting in exhaustion (feh) but more in the way of an athlete than in the way of the wounded. He does, however, peel off his cloak and hood, exposing himself for the first time. His hair is the soft black of a raven's feather, or at least that's what you can see poking out of his helmet, for indeed a helmet he bears. A long white brigandine with golden studs that reaches to his thighs protects his torso, while maille and plates cover his arms and all the way to his knees. All together not inadequate for anyone not a Dawi. You would expect better out of your students, and you're not a fan of brigandines, but it's fine enough armor, not slopped together in any case, or at least slopped together in a way even the cursory examination of a Runelord can't find it. Handsome.
And oh yes, he has horns. Two straight, mighty things project from his head, each long and sharp as a dagger. Each is covered in a cap of gold, polished and painted until it shines a brilliant pure white that melds in with the precious metal. And he stands on a deer's legs, muscular, thick and strong.
He is a damn beastmen.
Charging he turns about and his eyes, the pure red of Khorne, widen in surprise as he sees you. He raises his shield even as you race at him, power burning in Zharrgal, a might to shake the world growing and growing. The Runes begin to burn, Conduction, Smednir, Thungni--fail? The power does not reach them. The power does not reach them. A mere hunk of Adamant slams into the shield and while the grunt you hear is satisfying, the fact remains that there should have been no grunt. He, it, should simply have died, burned to ashes. Instead there is a brief dance between the two of you as he blocks and you strike, your mind whirring.
You are not so naive as to believe the Runes are literally unbeatable. Daemons have proven that, greenskins have proven that, elves have proven that--Valaya's Ale, the Umgi have proven that! But there is a difference between the Runes being beaten and the Runes failing. Greenskins managing to shove together an enchantment of durability that allows their blades to withstand the Rune of Breaking, the Elves shoving so much magic into the Runes that they pop, base Umgi cunning (and they are cunning, you must allow them that whatever else you think of them) meaning they attack while you are performing maintenance and unable to use them is one thing.
But for them to fail? To, having been rightly maintained and well cared for, in an environment of sufficient magic, refuse to turn on and apply the needed and necessary effects? Absurdity. Impossibility. You know not what this creature has done to your works, but you will see him die, painfully, for it.
"Elder, please, listen!"
"Elder? Elder?" Aye, perhaps that's what's causing such trouble for the Runes. Thungni's gaze follows all that bears His Mark, after all. A Dawi, of all the damned things, a right proper Dawi turned into a depraved Gor? Perhaps he's maintained enough sense to realize what will become of him and wants you to take word back to his Clan? It would be the least you could do for such an unlucky creature. And aye, perhaps that's why Smednir's Rune refuses to work? "What could you have to say that might make me turn my blade away from you, abomination?"
"Parley!" He manages to knock your hammer aside and then leap back an impressive distance before pulling out a small ring of charms. The three scythes spiraling tell you nothing. Nor the stylized sword. The small wolf though, and the eagle, those you understand. Not half as much, however, as you understand the small, golden basket of stonebread, so impossibly detailed that you can almost smell it. A craftsmanship beyond mortal hands. The work of Valaya. It faintly shimmers with power, not enough to be a true artifact, but the sort of thing that a servant of evil would have to handle carefully. Through intermediaries.
And then the Gor takes off his damn glove of mail and wraps the Glimril in his hand. There is no burning, no screams, no sizzle of meat as Her holy essence touches the depraved creature. He is...unharmed. Unstruck. Unwounded. Hale, whole and hearty. "I am, not, Gor," he says in passable, if stilted, Khazalid, the kind learned if only educated by books and writing. "I know what I seem. I know how I look. I know the evil of my form. But I am no servant of the Slavemasters." He looks up at the cracking lightning that has been slowly growing over the weeks, far, far to the north. "I am not a slave to darkness. I never shall be. I am free, I am free and I am clean, I am free and I am cleaned and I am bathed in the waters of sanctification."
Your grip relaxes even as your mind races.
"And I have come to commission you."
Your mind screeches to a halt. "What?"
"Far, far to the south, in the land of Daemons and beasts, a god walks among mortals." He speaks softly and slowly, as though he still cannot believe it himself even as he lives it. "A lowly creature of darkness begged for aid, and aid was given, and souls were freed. You know of the Frundrar, of Dwarfs who in spite of being born with the claim of the Ancestors on their souls still were claimed by Hashut through his treacherous bargain. Why then should it be a surprise to you, Snorri Citybreaker, that among the gods one of cunning should claim from Chaos their servants, making a fair deal in the process? We were freed then, and were made whole and hale."
One thought process at a time, Snorri, one thought process at a time. The other shoe will drop, but if he were Chaos Valaya's token would have burned him beyond all recognition, and likely the others as well. The Runes would have burned. He would be dead, or you would be. "And what would you be commissioning me for, then?"
"A child is born, a child is born to the god. Iakgorthor, Obstacle to the Cruel, would welcome His Daughter to the world with proper regalia."
"And if He is a god, could He not do it Himself?"
"A mortal must arm a mortal, Runelord." He closes his eyes, as though imagining it. "For all She is of divine blood too She is born of us and by Her nature that makes Her ill-suited to claim the full essence now, in Her naissance. Like a toddler imbibing Bugman's. Why you, Snorri Klausson? Because you have armed, and armored, Divinity before. The King of the Skies. The Companions. The Enchantress."
"That's all well and good, Garazgori, but I am a Runelord. Only one may command me."
"He is well aware." The not-a-beastman pulls out a hunk of...of Oathgold. "He will be disappointed, but will not rage as you might fear, should you turn it aside as is your right for His nature is Justice, Runelord. There would, however, be several hundred more pounds of that for you if you did."
Ancestor's Love and Thungni's Glare, you are...you are considering it. "And what, precisely, did the Obstacle to the Cruel desire?"
The not a Beastmen smiles, and it is utterly gormless, innocent even. "Tell me, are you opposed to brigandines..."
Something of a one off, I've been actually considering some things including the Not-Chaos Beastmen and etc, for a project of sorts.
