The Silver Tongued One
Zaeed was an old god. In fact, out of the Concordant, he was the oldest god there was, old enough to know that this was not the first time he'd died. But, she'd always come back, in the end, after all, there were always mercenaries and they always needed a sponsor. They, he, she, it...they were a good sponsor, even if at times they were just imaginary, but mercenaries were a superstitious bunch. It was enough to get by on.
But this time...might just be their last time. The ritual, a bigger event than anything ever done to them before. If anything could truly kill them, obliterate the very idea of Zaeed from existence then this would do it and they...didn't like that idea.
Bound to Yharim they might have been, but they liked living. Or at least not dying. But, with their mercenaries dead or scattered, any chance of rescue seemed slim, or at least it had. Then the distinctive disciplined smell of the Krork had hit his nostrils just as they'd thrown him into the arena.
And then there he had fought, at his fullest potential, or at least as close as Khorne could manage. As far as he could tell this was essential to the ritual, that he die his blood flowing from wounds inflicted in honourable combat against worthy foes, before her skull was removed to be offered to the skull throne in a place of high regard beneath Khorne's vast bulk. A nice bit of propaganda, one the daemons that flung themselves into the arena certainly bought into, but the sacrifice themselves was a little less cooperative.
Still, he couldn't just lay down and die, instead of planning would need to be seen too, as he studied the exalted overseeing the ritual, preparing for his moment as the sound of the Krork started to grow closer, cutting through the waves of daemonic interlopers, putting thousands of years of experience to use and combining it with tactical drawing upon his domain.
After all, they were a mercenary. Dodging out of the way at the right time was just part of the service. Although it did help that he was almost able to hide completely within the scrum, as mortal, daemon and everything in-between, ripped each other, as blood flowed in rivers through channels cut into the ground, funnelling it towards a vast bubbling brass basin.
Then as the explosions intensified, boiling into a crescendo, she decided to act, as he noticed the chains laid upon them by Yharim completely fall away. A grin twisted their face as power Khorne did not know they possessed filled them, and they launched into an overwhelming attack.
It was burning through their reserves at a terrifying rate, but that was the price that needed to be paid then so be it, and as he thrust his sword through the neck of the final Bloodthirster he turned to the stands skull in hand and roared.
Roared that he was not satisfied, roared that she demanded a proper foe and screamed to be let loose against the forces of the Krork, the ultimate bringers of war and death that stood just over the horizon.
And oh did their words bite. For they burrowed into their skulls, and made their nests their, worming within and taunting them, no matter how they tried to force them from their minds.
And so the infighting began as a wave of Khornate berserkers fell upon the daemonic legions, the unbound mortals fighting with the ensorceled and compelled daemons for possession of him, the physicals to bare him to the front lines, the daemons to keep him here until the ritual was complete, and there they stood, in the background egging on both sides.
Over the shoulder of Kharn the Betrayer they were set, as the greatest berserker charged towards the front lines, Gorechild in hand, as he looked back towards the pursuing Bloodthirters, silver tongue wagging.
================================================================================================================
The dapper mercinary's final gig.
@Durin
