Warhammer Fantasy: A Dynasty of Dynamic Alcoholism

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AllenWalker said:
Have you considered putting this quest on hiatus? So that you can focus on what really matters?
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Will your idea is good,i think that for torroar the ability to sit down and work at something he likes , even for 20 minutes a day,may prove a welcome distractio and relaxing.This is my personal opinion,based on my own experience.I dont write but to do something you like,even for a short time,may prove a good relaxing strategy and distraction from the real life problems.
 
Cgce said:
Will your idea is good,i think that for torroar the ability to sit down and work at something he likes , even for 20 minutes a day,may prove a welcome distractio and relaxing.This is my personal opinion,based on my own experience.I dont write but to do something you like,even for a short time,may prove a good relaxing strategy and distraction from the real life problems.
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Perhaps, but torrar hasn't brought out an update in 3 or 4 months something he apologizes again and again for. This, i belief, is a considerable source of stress for him. (Just my observation, it's probable that i am wrong). Writing is something that helps with stress, constantly putting oneself under the pressure of "my god, i haven't brought out a proper update in half a year, everyones waiting, i'm disappointing my readers!" Doesn't help.

Torroar can still write while this is under official hiatus, i just want him to not deal with the pressure of "having" to bring out a chapter. Especially when he has having issues at home.
 
@AllenWalker
Maybe you are right but neither myself or any other,i hope,put any kind of pressure on torroar.Honestly,i thought this arc was the end of the quest,the grand finale,if you want.
I understand that torroar my feel some sort of obligation to put a new chapter but i am willing to wait as long as it takes.Honestly,based on all the quests i followed,i expected this one to be abandoned several years ago,so i am happy and thankful for any new chapter
 
[CANON] Excerpts from a Lecture by Professor Adolf von Heydrich of the Department of Natural History at the University of Altdorf regarding the creatures of far off Lustria. - iggyfan
  • Sidestory




    • Excerpts from a Lecture by Professor Adolf von Heydrich of the Department of Natural History at the University of Altdorf regarding the creatures of far off Lustria.


    ​
    … Many of you will already be familiar with the better-known beasts of Lustria such as cold ones, stegadons, and carnosaur. As such this lecture will instead be covering the lesser-known creatures that inhabit that mysterious continent. …

    … I feel that it is fitting that we start with one of the humblest creatures of the jungle, the quetzal. Standing sixteen inches long, with males possessing tail feathers up to thirty-nine and a half inches long and weighing up to seven and a half ounces quetzals are omnivorous primarily feeding upon fruit but they will occasionally prey upon insects, snails, frogs, and small lizards. Quetzals exhibit significant sexual dimorphism. Males have iridescent green plumage, a red lower breast, black innerwings and a white undertail. In contrast the females have a duller and shorter tail, grey lower breasts, bellies, and bills along with bronze, green heads. The brilliant green tail feathers of male quetzals are prized by men and elves alike for their iridescence and form a modestly important export of the New World colonies. However, it is the natives of Lustria – the Lizardmen and Amazons – who seem to value them the most. Numerous accounts by adventurers report them decorating the attire of skink priests and chiefs and while reliable accounts of the Amazons are significantly rarer, that of a certain Francisco de Orellana claims that headdresses of quetzal feathers are worn by many an Amazonian matriarch. …

    … Contrary to popular belief the jungles of Lustria are not home only to vicious predators, poisonous creatures, and supremely well-armed and highly territorial herbivores. There are creatures in the jungle that are relatively harmless. Perhaps the foremost example of such creatures is the pygmy stegadon. Able to be found from the Culchan Plains in the south to the northern edges of the Isthmus of Lustria, they are among the most widespread inhabitants of the New World. Standing roughly two feet tall and weighing approximately two hundred thirty pounds pygmy stegadons resemble miniature versions of their namesake, albeit lacking horns. They are omnivorous creatures, feeding upon roots, nuts, fruit, and leaves, as well as upon worms, grubs, and carrion. Pygmy stegadons are most proliferant breeders, reaching maturity in six months and laying clutches of approximately three dozen eggs. This rapid breeding is necessary for the survival of the species as they are preyed upon by nearly every carnivorous great lizard of Lustria, as well as most other predators of the continent. The accounts of numerous adventurers claim that the flesh of pygmy stegadons is wholesome and is said to taste like gamey chicken. …

    … One of the loudest creatures of the jungle and certainly the loudest for its size is the screecher monkey. Primarily found near the temple cities of the Lizardmen, screecher monkeys are herbivorous creatures, whose diet primarily consists of leaves but also contains significant amounts of fruit. Measuring three feet eight inches long and weighing up to twenty-two pounds, screecher monkeys were named for the sound they emit, for when startled or threatened they emit a sound so loud as to briefly stun those nearby. The monkeys are seemingly immune to the effects of such noise and are quick to make their escape. And while the only direct effect of this shriek is a few seconds of disorientation many explorers claim that the Lizardmen have learned to use the noise to track intruders, so a war party of skinks is often not far off. The superstitious belief that the Lizardmen encourage troops of screecher monkeys to live in their territory to serve as an early warning system is of course absurd. …

    … While many of you may be familiar with stories about coatl, those gigantic, winged serpents that roam the skies of Lustria, they are not the only examples of their kind. Numerous species of similar creatures exist, all much lesser in stature than their more famous kin. These lesser coatls range in size from under two feet long to just over nineteen feet in length and weigh between five ounces and twenty-two pounds. As one could guess the wings of lesser coatl allow them to fly (or at least glide) through the air, which the serpents use to both reach their prey and escape predators. Lesser coatl are found in the jungles of Lustria, with no populations reported in the mountain range on the western edge of the continent or in the Culchan Plains. All varieties are carnivorous, most are venomous, and many are highly aggressive. Despite this certain nobles from the Empire and the Southern Realms prize the venomless species as amusements and pets. …

    … Let it not be assumed that the waters of the Lustria are safe, indeed many explorers claim that the rivers, swamps, and lakes of that continent are just as dangerous as the jungles. The water is home to numerous dangers, amongst the most feared of them are piranhas. Primarily grey in color, though with red bellies, piranhas are capable of growing up to twenty inches long and eight pounds in weight, though most do not exceed fourteen inches. One is likely wondering how so small a fish could be so widely feared, even with a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth. The answer is that piranhas are group predators, working together in shoals that can strip a man down to the bones in a matter of seconds. …

    … Death comes in many forms in Lustria. Whist every would-be adventurer has heard horror stories about the great beasts of the junge, carnosaurs, stegadons, ripperdactyls and cold ones. Few who travel to Lustria have put much credence to the stories of legion ants, though it is said that many have lived to regret that. At first glance legion ants do not seem too dangerous. The largest specimens of the warrior caste measure a hair under half an inch, with the smallest workers measuring a quarter that. Those who approach too closely quickly realize that legion ants are capable of taking down a man through sheer weight of numbers, for they travel in colonies over a million strong. These ants periodically launch "raids" into the jungle and any living creatures in their path faces the choice of fleeing or being devoured for legion ants are relentless predators, with one account by a certain Lope de Aguirre claiming to have seen a colony of legion ants devour a trapped stegadon over the course of a few days. …

    … While the best-known inhabitants of Lustria are the great reptiles there exist creatures that wouldn't be out of place in the Old World. One example of such is the goliathan lizard eater spider. Measuring two feet long and weighing up to fifteen pounds, goliathan lizard eaters are a typical example of the giant spiders that can be found in the jungles of Lustria. Named for their favored prey, goliathon lizard eaters are both highly aggressive and highly venomous, as well as possessed of fangs that are two inches long. This combination of traits has made them a serious problem for the explorers and settlers of Lustria, with nearly every company and settlement having a story about how one of their numbers was killed by a goliathan lizard eater. Supposedly the Lizardmen have a more benign relationship with them, using them to control the population of vermin in their cities as well as raising them for food. While the veracity of those accounts cannot be confirmed it is known that they are indeed edible, having a taste similar to shrimp. …

    … Whilst Lustria is home to innumerable poisonous creatures there are some that stand out, such as the golden death frog. They are possibly the most poisonous creature in all of Lustria, with men having been known to die simply from touching the creatures with unprotected skin. As one might have guessed from their name golden death frogs a completely yellow in color, and measure under two and a half inches long and weighing just over an ounce They are said to be rather passive creatures, spending much of their time feeding upon small insects, which form the entirety (or at least a great bulk) of their diet. The accounts of several explorers claim that skinks use them to poison their blow darts and javelins, a claim backed up by the accounts of captive golden death frog in lizardmen compounds. Some have gone as far as to claim that the Lizardmen breed them for just this purpose. …

    … An example of one of the rare mammals of Lustria, the jaguar is generally considered lesser beasts than the great reptiles of the jungle. Ranging in size from creatures standing two and a half feet tall to varieties nearly as large as a horse, most jaguars possess a yellow coat with black spots, though melanistic specimens are known to exist. Like all felines jaguars are carnivorous, preying upon beasts of Lustria such as pygmy stegadons, culchan, and even young stegadon. Jaguars are said to possess one of the strongest bites amongst all big cats, capable of puncturing turtle shells and skulls with ease. They have earned something of a reputation as "giant killers" amongst some explorers, with it being claimed that the larger variety of jaguars are capable of bringing down animals as large as an adolescent stegadon. Although the larger varieties can supposedly be tamed enough to serve as mounts if certain accounts of the Amazons are to be believed, the attempts by various adventurers to replicate this have resulted in naught but gruesome failures. …

    … The vast plains of southern Lustria are the home of the culchan, a large flightless bird from which the region gets its name. Culchan possess some similarities with the razorbeaks that once lived in Solland in ages past and in Wiessenland and the Southlands in the present day, being large predatory flightless birds, and some scholars believed them to be kin to those beasts. Their diet consists of pygmy stegadons, lesser lizards and large insects such as giant spiders They are fast creatures, able to outrun most horses, with only elven steeds able to keep pace with them. Many travelers' accounts claim that their meat is wholesome and tastes somewhat like a cross between beef and lamb. Their multicolored feathers are an important trade good for the elves living in the Citadel of Dusk and its environs. Culchan can be tamed to serve as mounts if certain travelers' accounts can be believed. These accounts claim that Culchan are stronger and more agile than horses, but also notably more skittish. …

    … Amaxcondas are amongst the largest snakes commonly found in Lustria, measuring up to fifty feet long and weighing over a quarter ton. With an olive-green body covered in black blotches amaxcondas are adapt at concealing themselves in the jungle's underbrush. This is quite helpful as amaxcondas are ambush predators, able to lie still for days on end before striking. When they do so it is with the swiftness that serpents are infamous for. However, their bite is not venomous. Instead, they wrap themselves around their prey in great coils slowly crushing the life out of them. Depending on the creature this can take anywhere from minutes to hours. Their diet consists of reptiles as large as an adolescent kroxmen or juvenal carnosaur, though most typically they will feed upon smaller beasts such as pygmy stegadons. And unfortunately for the civilized races of the world the accounts of numerous explorers claim that amaxcondas are more than willing to prey upon men, dwarfs, and elves. …

    … Another of the dangers that lurks in the waters of Lustria is the kroxman. Named after the Kroxigor sub-species of Lizardmen they bear some resemblance to, kroxman are aquatic predators, resembling the crocodiles of Lustria the Southlands and Khuresh, or the alligators that live in certain swamps of the Westerlands, and Bretonnia, as well as southern Naggarond and Albion if rumors can be believed, albeit much larger than any of those. Growing up to fifty feet long and weighing up to thirty-four hundred pounds, kroxman are semi-aquatic predatory reptiles that spend the majority of their time in the water. They lie just under the surface of the water, waiting for any creature to approach the water's edge. Once a creature (or person) has done so they lunge at their target, clamping down upon them with their powerful jaws and dragging them into the water. Once there they perform a spinning maneuver some explorers refer to as a death roll, which frequently breaks their prey's neck or tears off its limb depending on where the kroxman has latched on to. This combined with their large size and ferocious disposition have made kroxman widely feared by the explorers of Lustria. ...

    … Gorgai are strange creatures, even by the standards of Lustria. Six legged reptiles with long tail covered in spines at the tip, gorgai are primarily brown-grey colored, with a dull red head and neck. They grow quite large, though not quite as large as a cold one, the largest specimens measuring thirteen and a half feet long, over three and a half feet tall and weigh nearly eight hundred and forty pounds. They are carnivorous, feeding on pygmy stegadons and other creatures of similar size, which they take down with great ferocity. Those able to escape their onslaught should not count themselves too fortunate for gorgai possess highly venomous bites and excellent tracking abilities. They are solitary creatures and meetings between two gorgai end either with them mating or one devouring the other. Their venom is said to be prized by assassins but even more valued is their blood. Gorgai blood will give meat a savory scent but causes violent madness in warm blooded life. It is said that a mouse will attack a carnosaur after having a taste of gorgai blood, and that the Lizardmen have used this property to great effect against their foes. …

    … Numerous other fantastical creatures are rumored to exist in the depths of the Lustrian jungle; apes the size of a bonegrinder giant, tribes of werejaguars, and great lizards the size of a Lizardmen temple pyramid but the existence of any of these is impossible to confirm with any degree of accuracy.
    If anyone wants to make use of anything contained in this omake for their own WHFB quest/fic, feel free to do so.
     
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  • Sidestory
    • Spikes, Horns, and Stone 5
  • Threadmarks
    • Spikes, Horns, and Stone 5
    ​
    Anger, concern, affection, it swirls in a cocktail within your soul, bouncing and mixing with the same sensations from Natasha. The carnage. The death. The insult of it all, of the Druchii coming here with the intent to pillage and burn your home. The vicious rage at what has been done to Salkalten, to Ostland, your knowledge of the barest amounts of what the Druchii intended. The enemy is in disarray. Your forces are not. If you cannot destroy or claim this Ark, and you know you cannot, you can at least strike the enemy one last time. A quick strike in, and out, by air. By this point in your life, you've read about thousands of battles throughout the history of the Empire, large and small. Including various battles and skirmishes with Bretonnia. In this moment, you think you realize quite well just how devastating Pegasus knight strikes upon critical Imperial positions have been, and how it might feel to be on the side of the flying beasts for once.

    "You," you stab a finger out at one of the Whitewings. "Find my daughter, tell her to hold position on the ramps, do not pursue further onto the Ark. The moment it starts to move out, I want our forces back safe on the shore!"

    The mercenary, thankfully, follows your orders swiftly after a barest exchange of looks with the leader of the Whitewings.

    "The rest of you, follow me! We cannot stop this Ark, but we can bleed them one last time!"

    Natasha loosens her hold on you so that she can fully arch backwards and let loose with a piercing war cry which harkens back to the savage days of the Gospodar's conquest and establishment of Kislev. The snarling roar which pours from your throat is that not of some stalwart nobleman, but of a berserking Udose warrior. A spine-chilling whistling shriek comes from Kerillian, while Sadrina unleashes a single note which almost makes the air burn with emotion within it. The hunting cry of the Asrai mixes and melds with the ancient and visceral grudge of the Asur towards the Druchii. Only slightly slower on the uptake are the Whitewings and Roland. While the Questing Knight prays for the Lady of the Lake's favor, it is the other Bretonnians which manage to temporarily shock you. Their leader gives a fierce nod to you before reaching up and practically tearing off their helmet which you've never once seen them remove in your presence before.

    Her helmet, it turns out.

    "Vengeance for Bretonnia's shores, for all her peoples!" The rough and deep voice of Jacques, leader of the Whitewings and rider of the largest of all the Pegasi, is revealed to possess a somewhat more feminine bent once the helmet is removed.

    (Facts to Faces: 60+Learning(14)+Close Friendship With Roland(10)=84/100)

    Her hair is shorn rough and short. Though her face intensely covered in scars, pockmarked by many years of harsh living, you are struck by the startling realization that her face is somehow familiar. On a familial level, perhaps, to Roland. Or rather not Roland, part of your mind suggests, but Roland's kind. The bearing, the stature, some of the shape of the brow and the height of the cheekbones, things not particularly present on various Bretonnian merchants and expats you've seen throughout all your years in the Empire. Present, on the other hand, on those who truly call themselves knights, or lords, or at least hold relations to such folk. She is, almost certainly, of noble Bretonnian blood.

    "COME, BASTARD DAUGHTERS OF PARRAVON!" She screams, a war cry taken up by all of the Whitewings save the one who left to speak with your daughter. "DEATH AND GLORY!"

    As one, several sets of wings begin to beat and propel you all forward. Far below, masses of bodies continue to clash against one another. Cannons boom and bolt throwers twang, steel crashing against steel. Soldiers of Ostland, soldiers of Ostermark, soldiers of fortune all stomp over a heavy carpet of Druchii bodies and those of their fellows who have fallen, resolutely standing upon the ramps and fight. From this high up, you can see the absolute ruin which has become your fleet, most of the ships clearly huddled in defensive posture, some others clearly readying themselves to flee outright. To continue where they are, now, would more than certainly be suicide. Farther to the west, there are plumes of smoke and distant artillery fire as the combined troops of Nordland, the Eonir, and Ostermark plunge ever deeper and more fully across the Fortress of Eternal Torture.

    Then you are heading out and across the skies themselves, past the outer walls of the Black Ark known as the Claw of Dominion.

    It is only then, only now, perhaps, that you can truly appreciate the sheer behemothic size, the absolute brobdingnagian magnitude of this edifice crafted by way of literally near world-ending sorcery. For the Claw of Dominion which shattered its way through the shoreline, which has carved and split the earth and now prepares to simply reverse itself back out to sea, quite simply out masses the Fortress which now has raised flags of Nordland flying above it. You could not see it before, locked into high-speed combat or on the ground behind your walls beforehand. You could not see over its high walls, not truly, for all that you could see dozens of high sprouting needle-like towers and bridges crisscrossing them, the least of those which stab into the sky past the obscuring height of its grand walls being taller than the tallest buildings in all of Ostland twice or thrice times over in some cases. In the case of the highest and most central tower, is a thick spear of black stone and wrought darkened iron ringed with silver sheathing at various points. Five times as wide as the foundation of the clock tower still under construction in Salkalten, it is as if a humongous castle were simply stacked upon itself again and again until it could touch the clouds themselves.

    The Claw of Dominion is, itself, a city which is practically the size of Salkalten alone.

    From here, high in the sky, past the walls and not busy spinning about at high speeds, only now can you fully comprehend this. There are vast city districts present, with a vast spiderweb of roads spanning the whole of the Black Ark's body. Even with it being of elven construction and aesthetic, certain things are unmistakable after decades of ruling over considerably large cities of Ostland. There is an entire manufacturing district, with smokestacks and chimneys marking out tanneries, smithies, and more. What looks like a multitude of market squares in varying sizes are placed across the Ark's surface, some of which are even now being used as mustering points. Warehouses and living quarters are present all about the place, with varying levels of wealth and power obviously based around closeness to the various towers themselves. The further one is away from one of those epicenters of political, martial, and surely in some cases sorcerous power, the lesser that position clearly is. Though, even the meanest of elven homes are of remarkable construction. Walls and lesser guard towers are interspersed in extensively comprehensive positions and postures that are simultaneously built clearly for defense against invaders as well as suppression and oppression of those within at a moment's notice. In cases, you surmise, such as slave rebellions or active treachery between the Druchii themselves while on the high seas. There are even three vast arenas on the scale of the grand coliseums once built in the time of Myrmidia in separate locations, each of them large enough to seat what has to be tens of thousands of spectators and field varied combatants and battlefields within. One looks to be filled with water with islets and boats, another has rocky hills and paths, while the third is a flat grassy plain. There are also various strange black basalt pyramids, shining strangely in the few rays of sunlight that pierce through the clouds.

    Sounds of shock and awe ring out from most of your companions, your wife included, while there is only a grim silence from the Handmaiden of the Everqueen.

    And despite everything else that has happened thus far, the Black Ark is still swarming with Druchii.

    Bells are ringing out, what looks like the closest thing to Druchii civilians are rushing into heavily defended areas which looks like barracks and keeps and armories, emerging out as yet more Bleakswords and Dreadspears and the like, as near as you can tell. Differently colored lights are flicking on and off across the whole of the Ark, between its many towers and lower buildings, and though you've hauled yourself out of range for the most part that does not stop at least a few particularly desperate Druchii from firing bolt throwers up towards you and the rest of your group. Ahead of you, even now, the Coven is attempting to escape, or rather, retake control of the largest of all the towers. Or the control locus at its height, you presume. A cloud of Dark Pegasi surround the top, one which just about matches the small cloud flying straight at them, a furious Supreme Sorceress at its center.

    "Come on!" You shout, urging Oskana and everyone else forward.

    "WAAAARK!"

    (A Dangerous Flight: 65+Fatigued Noble Riders(10)+Assembly of Heroes(20)-Mighty Coven(10)-Supreme Sorceress(15)-Significant Lead(10)=60/100)
    (Tor of Dominance: 70+High Matriarch of Manann and Templars(25)+Slayers Seeking Death(20)-On All Sides(20)-Druchii Discipline(10)+/-[1d2=2]=+Unleashed Djinn(25)=110/100)
    (Fortress Keeping: 43+Control Fane Secured(15)+Surging Slave Rebellion(10)+Minority Split(10)-Druchii Discipline(10)-Last Monsters(10)-Zealots of Anath Raema(10)=58/100)
    (The Broken Fleet: 33-Savaged Fleet(20)-Druchii Defenses(10)+Prior Unleashed Djinn(25)=28/100)
    (Holding Position: 58+Breached Ark Defenses(15)+Shock and Dismay(10)+Surging Bloodlust(10)-Druchii Discipline(10)-Druchii Outrage(10)-Remanning Defenses(5)=68/100)
    (Passing Dread: 23+Shroud of Khaine(30)+Surrounded By Druchii(20)+Home Ground Advantage(20)=93/100)

    The chase is difficult, not because the Coven is even having to actively fight you at this point thanks to their lead, but because of the sheer distance that you are attempting to cross. You see more and more of the Claw of Dominion stretching out below you as so many pairs of wings beat. As you continue on, you can see spindly towers along the humongous walls ringing the Ark, squat only by comparison to the rest of the towers within the innards of those walls. Furthermore, each of those towers are shaped at the top like a dozen grasping fingers tipped by claws, all of which are absolutely drenched in disgusting white waste, the 'palms' covered in scraps and refuse. At your best guess, these are the various roosts from which the harpies once were kept apart from the rest of the Ark, though now all of them are utterly empty of the abominable creatures. Down below you, there is the sound of cannon fire booming as well as the explosions caused by barrel throwers managing to land their shots here and there, though by this point you have to twist at the waist and work to see the ramps where your forces are even now holding their positions. The last of the Whitewings is working her Pegasus hard to try and reach the rest of you, dancing from side to side even as a handful of bolt throwers try to reach them from so far down below. Much, much further away, to the point that you honestly can't hear any of it, you can still see fighting taking place on the smaller Ark, the flags of Nordland now flying high in multiple locations.

    (Danger Flight: 51+10+20-10-15-10=46/100)
    (A Contentious Coven Conversation: 54+The Supreme Sorceress(15)+Dominant Coven(10)+Fleeing From Battle(15)-Rival Sorceress Leader(15)-Rival Coven(10)-Fresh Sorceresses(15)=54/100)
    (Tor of Dominance: 80+25+20-20-10+/-[1d2=1]=-25=70/100)
    (Fortress Keeping: 63+15+10+10-10-10-10+Thrice Linked Up(15)=83/100)
    (Holding Position: 60+15+10+10+Artillery Brought Up(10)-10-10-Remanning Defenses(-6)=79/100)
    (Passing Dread: 10+30+20+20=80/100)

    You don't need elven eyes to see as the first Coven with the Supreme Sorceress reaches the apex of the highest tor in all the Black Ark. It's made quite obvious with bolts of multicolored lightning, black flames, and more. To your dismay, however, they are not so much immediately engaging in an all out slugging match the moment they come into contact with one another but more simply exercising their volatile emotions into the open air to get the attention of one another. Or, perhaps, to slaughter some of your allies who have despite all odds managed to make it up that far. Over to the west, another flag goes up in another portion of the Fortress of Eternal Torture, this one apparently for the Eonir, though you can hear plenty of cannons firing from those of Ostland who have made their way onto that Ark as well. Down below, furious masses of Druchii are continuing to marshal themselves, gathering up and organizing into blocks and wedges, though there have been scattered bands of Druchii simply throwing themselves forwards into the lines that Arthur and Anna have set up. You also see, at this point, vast strands of bodies being forced away from the front lines. These are not dressed in the sharp lines and dark hues of the Druchii, and in fact there is far too vast a multitude of shapes and hues about them for them to be anything else but slaves, for they most certainly are not Druchii. They are surrounded on the sides by their masters, however, who whip, strike, berate, and who knows what else that you cannot pick out from this high up to cajole them to move this way and that. You do, however, spy those streams terminating in odd places, not quite buildings, but between them in certain locations. Confusion and concern, speculation and wonder, these blaze back and forth through the bond between you and Natasha, until the realization crystalizes between the two of you.

    Holes.

    They're literally shoving an army's worth of slaves down into the pits and innards of the Ark's body, thin trails hundreds of bodies long leading out from various locations that are unmistakable as temples.

    "By the Gods," Natasha murmurs into your back, the ice of your armors creaking and squeaking against one another.

    Her shock is yours, and your shock hers, as you both behold the back fourth of the Claw of Dominion. It felt like the cityscape of the Black Ark would go on forever, until it suddenly ends. The comparison to Salkalten extends further than you had thought it would, in the most unwholesome of ways. The dark black waters of the Sea of Claws churn and bubble around the edges of the Ark, but there is also an entire captured miniature sea inside the Ark as well. You see an entire docks district which stretches the entire length of the Ark's inner diameter. A wide spanning dockyard which is built not just for repair and maintenance of ships, but for building them as well. There are two dozen ships, even now, in various stages of construction or repair. There are other ships as well, these tied tightly to their berths, and despite being so high up and getting higher still as Pegasi and gryphon fly, you can already tell they are not raider ships. Both variants you can see maintain some measure of the dagger shape, but are also fatter around the middle. Transports? Fishing vessels? You cannot say for certain which might be which, but it makes sense that they'd retain a group of ships to help feed the absolutely massive population which surely makes their way on this damned mobile island.

    Sadrina gives out a low, grinding curse which gives the half-real sensation of your skin being scalded by a hot wind from just behind you. Kerillian's words are lost to the winds, but the tone of them is not, a harshly acidic thing. A coil of cold that has nothing to do with your armor, Natasha, or the soul bond shoots through you, something which that very same bond lets you know that Natasha is feeling the exact same thing. All of which is because of a single thing, a hefty black dot with wings which is rapidly ascending up from the broken remains of your fleet. There are barely any ships left in the water, you can see from here, and apparently the rider of the last remaining black dragon has decided that the job is well enough done.

    The first coven has reached the apex, and is confronting the second, and now you race a dragon to reach that very same point.

    Your heart, and Natasha's beat hard and fast in tandem.

    "Here we go!" You both say in unison as you finally crest the apex and face a swarm of circling Dark Pegasi with sorceresses and noble riders atop all of them.

    Below them, and you, lies a rooftop that could fit not simply dozens but hundreds of people without any danger of anyone falling off save from powerful winds or being pushed. The former which has somehow ceased to be the moment you got close enough to the apex despite the height, likely some enchantment or another. A humongous black crystal the size of a hillock dominates the control locus at the very center of the rooftop, with fifteen smaller black crystals only merely the size of barns surrounding it with huge glowing eldritch sigils in paths linking them. Even from this far away, it causes you to feel like your entire body is being scraped raw, a pained expression forcing itself onto your face. Natasha is far worse affected, swooning as her witch sight and general sensitivity to magic makes her feel both nauseated and feverish, a sensation you catch a mirror of from the bond. It is a stabilized portion of corruption and darkness. A half-shell of matte black stone protects the dock-facing part of the tower, with a sundry of what must be all a manner of ritual elements including a trio of bloody altars as well as what honestly looks like furniture meant for relaxation and comfort. Laid into the rooftop itself is also an incredibly wide staircase, enough for three ogres of Urgdug's size to walk shoulder to shoulder without scraping the sides, which descends back into the tower's innards. There are bodies strewn about the rooftop, some of them Druchii, some of them not. There are not just dead dwarf pirate slayers, as well as the white and blues of Manann's most devout templars, but others as well. Some look like they might have been marines of Ostland, but they are by far the minority. Many more Druchii, however, are alive and warily watching the proceedings, weapons drawn.

    There is, of course, the great cloud of swirling Dark Pegasi, distinctly separated into two separate groups that are carefully circling about with eyes locked on their opposites. But down below, near a number of dismounted beasts, are other sorceresses. Most obvious, to you at least, is the Supreme Sorceress herself, Mellis Screamtaker. She and a number of her coven are directly confronting another Druchii woman, this one who has clearly taken pains to appropriate the look of the Supreme Sorceress. Appropriate, you suppose, for someone who is clearly attempting to take command of their fellow sorceresses. It is impossible to tell age for most elves, and this one is no different in that regard. A huge silver spiked headdress, similar to Screamtaker's, hefts her hair up into a large almost halo effect just behind her head, while a thick purple and black cloak is clasped around her throat. Much of her body, like just about every other sorceress you've seen amongst the Druchii thus far, is exposed to the elements, save for golden chain, leather portions capped in gold, and so on. In one hand is a glossy black staff, as if made of obsidian, around which a band of purple coils from top to bottom. The lower end of the staff looks to have been shaped after the wicked talons of some avian beast, while the top is capped by what a sphere of seemingly crystallized flame surrounded itself by barbed bands of dark blue metal. In her other hand is a blade of clearly masterful work, curved towards the end with purposeful jagged edging along one side. They both stand on opposite sides of a huge glowing ritual circle at the base of the central Dhar lodestone. Within that circle is a pedestal upon which a glowing sphere of purest darkness sits, the sheer magical power of it defying conventional reality, for it is not light which extrudes from the sphere but wisps of fully opaque darkness.

    This close, you can finally hear what some of the Druchii are saying, not that they're trying to be quiet.

    "Pathetic vile little creature you are, that you would try to-," you can hear Screamtaker screeching.

    "-running away like a coward, a failure! And failures do not get to lead! Failures! Die!" Screams back another Sorceress, magical energies crackling around her.

    A number of the flying Druchii notice you, going by their shouts and pointing arms, but they are distracted by the arrival of the black dragon. To your surprise, and the surprise of a great many more you suspect, the dragon and rider who have managed to make it thus far without suffering a single injury or issue, does not in fact join the Supreme Sorceress' cloud of supporters. Instead, he joins the sorceress who was directly challenging Screamtaker. Going by the paling to practically bloodless face on the Supreme Sorceress, she wasn't expecting this either, though she swiftly starts purpling instead in pure fury and hatred.

    "You…dare…," Screamtaker, well, screams.

    The other Sorceress' triumphant smirk is so smug you can feel it in the air like a heat haze.

    "It's not the way we were going to do it, but as you so taught us, we are to seize opportunities," the usurper apparent hisses.

    It's that point that reptilian hissing and screaming Druchii makes everyone look back towards the staircase exit, from which an absolutely gore-drenched Tullaris Dreadbringer on a wounded and dying cold one, accompanied somehow by a bevy of his Executioners on similar rides, emerges onto the rooftop. His blade is surrounded by a dark crimson aura which makes it hard to look at, and his helm which has been molded to look like Khaine himself does outright hurt to look at. Something nearly settles upon your mind, some measure of fear or terror certainly, but it washes away for one reason or another as the drums echo in your mind. Both the Supreme Sorceress and her usurper, their supporters included, all look towards Tullaris who has in the mean time cut his way through two more of the Druchii that had just been sitting around on the rooftop.

    "THE FATE OF COWARDS IS DEATH!" He cries out at them both, and then with two wide sweeps of his blade sends crescent moon slices of red outwards into the clouds of flying Druchii from his sword, somewhat leeching the aura from his blade to do so.

    (Coven Conversation: 95+15+10+15-15-10-15+Dread Arrival(10)=105/100)
    (A Failure To Communicate: 79+Treachery(10)+Dread Fury(10)+Total Hatred(25)=124/100)

    The Druchii explode into violence against one another with inhuman amounts of ferocity and strength. Sorceresses begin unleashing great tides of magic against one another, from black Dhar doombolts, to bursts of lightning, crushing winds, a screaming ethereal skull of flame, a flock of translucent bird-shaped magic bolts, amber spears, tentacles of purple which shrivel and drain all that they manage to touch, and more. It is a bewildering, deafening, blinding display which almost lets you miss as the dragon is literally drawn down to earth as the Supreme Sorceress takes hold of what Natasha sees through her own witch sight – and therefore is something you can fuzzily perceive by way of the soul bond - as a simply massive amount of the Winds to force them down. The black dragon's wings struggle to beat, then one outright snaps slightly forcing a scream of pain from the creature as it hits the rooftop hard enough to crack some of the stones. With her other hand, she forces a solid column of darkness which then expands at the end into tendrils of darkness straight towards the usurper who has to fly backwards rapidly and cast a multitude of shields to try and block what is coming for her. Another Druchii and their mount are not so lucky, both of whom simply go limp, fall to the rooftop, and start seeming to dissolve after less than a second of contact.

    It is this which you and the Whitewings find yourselves plunging into.

    (Into the Fight: 60+10+20-10-Abundance of Sorceresses(25)=55/100)
    (Still Ascending: 81+25+20-20-10+/-[1d2=2]=+25=121/100)
    (Fortress Keeping: 66+15+10+Total Slave Rebellion(15)-10-10-10-Entrenched Holdouts(15)=61/100)
    (Holding Positions: 53+15+10+10+10-10-10-Remanning Defenses(7)=71/100)

    "Fuck me!" You yelp as Oskana slams her foreclaws down onto a passing Dark Pegasus, hind paws batting out at another Druchii rider and knocking the elf right off their horse to land with a crack you are already too far away to hear.

    "Die, you misbegotten spawn of darkness and tainted blood," Sadrina hisses as her glowing blue bow snaps into existence with a gesture, arrows launching off out of sight as Oskana twists and turns about.

    Magic, white and black horseflesh and feathers, and utter cacophony fills just about all your senses. You smell burning, smell the strange metallic tang that follows lightning, feel the heat of cursed flames and acrid Chaotic taint as darker magics are unleashed. Are forced to hear thunderclaps, booms, shouts, screams, pounding deep into your ears. Natasha throws out blasts of shards of ice, while Kerillian presumably launches off a few arrows from behind you all closer to the rump of Oskana. You can't tell, given everything else going on, but you can definitely hear as the Asrai starts letting loose with an absolutely unrelenting amount of insults and comments that is so continual you can't quite tell if she's breathing or not. There are a few shouts from the riders of the Whitewings, you are relatively sure that a lance nearly cracks you in the skull as it is dropped by someone, instead it merely bounces against the enhanced hide of Oskana and disappears elsewhere. You think it might have been a Bretonnian lance, but it might not have been, it's all simply happening too fast. Hell, you thrust out Brain Wounder at some point and draw blood from a passing winged horse, and it is only that the beast was obsidian in color that makes you certain it was not one of the Whitewings.

    (Aerial Combat: 12+Weighty Tired Gryphon(10)-Barely Touched Dragon(15)+10-20=-3/100)

    You don't see it coming, but something in Oskana's instincts catch it as she begins shifting without any orders from you or Natasha.

    Unfortunately, she's just not fast or strong enough to avoid it as from out of the chaos comes the black dragon, claws outstretched and acidic gas trickling from its maw. Your loyal mount and friend twists and spins midflight, interrupting arrow shots from both of the elves, her wings beating as she desperately corkscrews. The maneuver is futile, however, as all four sets of claws clamp onto Oskana's body in various places, the head of the beast snapping outwards to latch squarely around the gryphon's neck. Squealing like glass and stone scraping against one another comes from where those claws and fangs try to rend and tear outright, the sound nearly deafening. Everyone is flung about where they are on Oskana, and suddenly the gryphon is lighter as you hear a dismayed yelp from Kerillian as she is quite literally thrown off as Oskana is subject to a wild twisting thrashing mid-air. Sadrina, but contrast, does not nearly make as much sound but you are experienced enough with flying on Oskana to feel the sudden disappearance of the Handmaiden's weight.

    You don't even see her fall, focused as you are on the dragon's maw as it scrapes its teeth hard into Oskana's throat, the dull mottled green of its slit eyes that blink rapidly and refocus on you and Natasha, much closer targets that are surely not nearly so durable as the enchanted gryphon. You move as it does, jaw opening just enough that it can let go of Oskana's throat while dragging its fangs against her feathers, tearing out a great many of them without piercing the skin. Brain Wounder stabs outwards towards it, only for a glowing lance in a dark blue hue smashes the Runefang temporarily aside. Your eyes dart upwards to see the rider of the beast, face drawn tight in determined concentration. There is contempt there, you suspect there might well always be in the face of most Druchii, but there is a wariness as well, which is not unexpected considering what has happened to the other two dragons and their riders thus far. That does not save you, however, as he manages to angle his blade and stab downwards at you, tearing apart the chains, buckles, and leather of the saddle harness as Natasha conjures a shield of ice to keep the tip of his sword from stabbing you in the throat. The dragon's fangs, unfortunately, do much of that same sort of work, as do the claws, tearing at Oskana's belly and sides and back, and therefore all the places where the saddle harness is kept secure. All the while you and your wife are frankly failing to fend off a dragon at close range as well as the rider, Oskana flailing and managing to barely do more than leave thin scratches against the dragon's hide.

    Natasha's anguish hits you through the bond before her words can make it out of her throat.

    "Frederick!"

    The lance manages to knock you, not stab you, but hit you hard enough that the dragon's maw is able to lash close fast enough to leave huge chunks of Ledstali left behind. Neither of which makes you bleed, yet the force of the dragon's bite, plus the work of the rider, and the continued rapid deterioration of the saddle harness is not harmless. Oskana does not even notice, frantic as she is at trying to fight the dragon herself, all four of her own limbs lashing out and clawing as best as she can, tail lashing, beak snapping down and actually managing to draw blood from the dragon. But she is just frankly smaller, without the sheer level of strength and power of the dragon. Your gryphon does not realize, not quite, that you are knocked free.

    That you are falling, Natasha frantically trying to throw a chain of ice to you for you to grab before a passing pair of sorcerous blasts between Druchii sorceresses destroys it and obscures you from each other's sight.

    Then you are out of the scrum entirely, still falling, blinking at the sudden comprehension of the low-hanging stormcloud which has become the sight of two Druchii Covens fighting one another with full intent to murder one another. You don't even know how to describe some of the magic being unleashed there, and you do not have the time to try, either. Instead, gritting your teeth, throwing love back to the desperate concern and anger flowing from Natasha, you turn about and face the oncoming rooftop. Your armor is already starting to rebuild itself, but a dragon's fangs are no small things, something you can attest to quite well at this point. The greater problem is that you're too high up. Falling from this height could kill someone if they landed wrong, and will injure you one way or another unless you are incredibly lucky.

    (A Landing: 46+Frederick Martial(18)+Badly Damaged Armor(5)=69/100)
    (Minor Wound Sustained! Light of Summer Activates! 71! Success!)

    You are not incredibly lucky.

    Despite your best attempts at trying to roll and absorb some of the damage, the holes torn into the armor make what might have been a smooth attempt into something altogether more painful and haphazard. Something snaps, or perhaps cracks, in your right shoulder as you hit the ground amidst the bodies of the dead Druchii, dwarfs, and men. Your rising is a slow and staggered thing, though you've managed to keep ahold of Brain Wounder. Just about every single one of the flasks and alcohol containers in your bandoliers and belt, however, are total losses. The leg plates of your armor are now covered in thick additional layers of frozen solid alcohols from across the entire Old World and beyond. A groan escapes your lips as you get upright fully, feeling with your left hand clad in Bokdrungni feeling for the two bottles you still have for emergency cocktails as well as the blast gun on your lower back. It's there, but whether it will fire you can't know, not after a fall like that. Something cracks again in your shoulder. You're more than intimately aware with your body and possible injuries, and know that the fractures there are now healing as a result of a muted bloom of healing energies from the talisman around your neck.

    You don't really focus on that.

    You can't.

    Tullaris Dreadbringer bellows to the skies, his holy implement of murder clutched so tightly in one hand that you are sure that if the haft were mere wood it would be splintering apart in his grip.

    He glares at you from where he stands, surrounded by a large mass of his damned Executioners. There are other Druchii here now, having come up the stairs, but where they might have supported one of the covens, or been targeted by Khaine's killers, they are not. Instead, masses of Bleakswords are targeting the other former passengers of Oskana, Kerillian and Sadrina separated from one another and desperately trying to hold off the mobs that have begun surrounding them. Tullaris, however, doesn't look at either of them. His eyes are solely on you, eyes literally blazing with unholy fury. His pale face is splattered with blood, but is soon obscured as he places a new Executioner's skeletal helm atop his head once more. The sword in his hands flicks back and forth through the air as he flourishes it in a rotating sequences as he begins stalking towards you. Death Thorn remains in its misbegotten scabbard of flayed skin on his back, the damaged hilt one more mockery announced to the world.

    "Take the Asur and the Asrai, kill them in the name of Khaine! This miserable wretch is mine!" Tullaris snarls, the sound echoing and deepened somehow by his helm. "You should have stayed and cowered in your stinking holes, human! You have come practically sprinting to your death!"

    Worry, concern, rage, love. It burns back and forth through the bond. A draconic roar splits the air, as does a gryphon's defiant shriek. You reach down and catch a modicum of Bugman's Best before it fully turns to ice on your thigh on your finger, putting a few drops into your mouth. Tullaris' expression is hidden by his helm, but you imagine he isn't pleased as you roll your shoulders and raise Brain Wounder up to meet him. Behind him, his mass of Executioners smoothly split into two equal groups to begin aiding those Druchii already attacking Sadrina and Kerillian. You denied Tullaris beforehand, he apparently isn't planning on giving you a second chance this time around. Which, if you are being honest with yourself, you are more than fine with.

    But you are, both of you, all of you on the rooftop, interrupted once more.

    This time, however, it is with the sounds of Druchii screams as they are quite literally thrown outwards and upwards by a truly massive blast of flame in the shape of an outgoing cone of rings. A sound accompanies it, something which is both a bestial roar and something like a storm and bonfire somehow combined into one sound. They are incinerated even as they are flying through the air. Somehow, despite all the magic that the sorceresses have been throwing about, nothing compares to what leaps out of the staircase now. It is a lion, you realize. A lion made of living flame, the size of two steam tanks smashed together. Liquid rivulets of molten lava dribble down its body from what might be wounds, might simply be its equivalent of sweat. The whole of its body is partially translucent, partially outright blinding to try and look at. Its eyes are pure burning spheres, so hot that they are colorless, invisible in their heat but weighty in their existence, nonetheless. It roars once more, letting lose another blast of flame straight up into the ongoing scrum above with the covens and Whitewings and then shakes itself. It would almost look comical, except for the part where everywhere those rivulets dribbling down across its body touch the rooftop they begin melting through the stonework.

    Then it huffs, once, before leaping into the air.

    There is the sound of logs cracking from heat and flame in a fireplace, and then it simply disappears.

    In the wake of its departure, however, is a great amount of clanking and thumping as an incredibly haggard but zealous looking group of Manannite Templars come stomping up out of the steps, accompanied by a group of ferocious looking dwarf Slayer Pirates. They are, all of them, scuffed heavily from battle, some of them bleeding and wounded, but all of them remain quite fierce looking. Axes, swords, hammers, glaives, halberds, all have seen incredibly heavy use. At their head, however, are two familiar individuals. Long Drong still lives, is still smoking a pipe in fact, and has an axe in one hand and a loaded and lit pistol in the other. The High Matriarch of Manann has taken a wound, straight across the face, but it appears to have crusted over. Water is liberally splashing out from her boots onto the ground in far greater amounts than should be possible, while she hefts an outright tower shield one arm while the other has a death grip on that heavy mace of hers which is also dribbling seawater. None of them appear to have specifically noticed you or the others, though some amongst their number take some notice. But there just isn't time for more reactions that not.

    Not when Maghda points directly into the fighting going on at the base of the largest crystal, glowing tridents in her pupils.

    "WE ARE THE STORM!" She roars, the sound as booming crash of waves hitting a cliff.

    "TODAY IS A GOOD DAY TO DIE!" Long Drong cackles.

    And then they all begin rushing in, just as you see the dragon come to a crashing slam down onto the rooftop with two dead Dark Pegasi in each claw.

    Which is when Dreadbringer starts charging you.

    (Dreadbringer: 41+18+Rune of Striking(5)-Tullaris Martial(20)-The First Draich(-5)=39/100)
    (A Handmaiden Alone: 53+Sadrina Martial(19)-Elite Executioners(15)=57/100)
    (Waywatcher Surrounded: 33+Kerillian Martial(15)-Elite Executioners(15)=33/100)
    (Vigorous Debate: 50+Distracted Druchii(10)+Fatal Rivalries(10)-Vicious Magics(10)-Sheer Chaos(10)=50/100)
    (Storming In: 60+25-10-15+Natasha on Oskana(15)+Some Whitewings(10)=85/100)
    (Sky Piracy: 71+20-Divided Coven(5)-Close Range Dragon(20)+Other Whitewings(10)=76/100)
    (Fortress Keeping: 59+15+15+10-10-10-10-15=54/100)
    (Holding Positions: 76+15+10+10+10-10-10-Remanning Defenses(7)=94/100)

    You've never seen a blade quite like the one that Dreadbringer uses, but hell if he doesn't use it like every other elf you've ever seen with a weapon – more speed and grace than it seems should be naturally possible. He hefts it with a two-handed grip much like you can with Brain Wounder, and within a second is a whirling dervish of blade and spike and death. He is not some hulking example of his kind, bulging over with muscle and taller than the rest, but there is an insane zealot's strength and ferocity to him. You cycle through more than a dozen blocks and deflections in the time it takes you to blink once, if you were able to let yourself blink that is. A low, continual grinding growl emanates from his helm as he comes after you, legs pumping and easily stepping through the bodies already present on the ground as if they weren't there at all. Every single time he manages a solid hit on Brain Wounder, the shock and weight of it radiates through your arms and into your chest, practically rattling your bones. Your armor, still regenerating, finds many more pieces of it hacked off of your body with each blow that manages to slip past your guard, which is far more than you would like. Tullaris pushes you back, back, and back again, isolating you, preventing you from doing any maneuvering other than backwards from the rest of the fighting going on.

    You cannot even spare an instant of attention for any of them. Not Sadrina, not Kerillian, not Maghda, not Long Drong, and definitely not your wife. It is solely the bond between the two of you that lets you know she is alive and fighting without any active participation on your end, and you can't even really spare the energy or attention to comprehend such information. Not when your world has been forcibly tunnel visioned into this one combat, this one duel. Perhaps to your own credit, Tullaris isn't sparing a single breath either, not to taunt, not to insult, not to scream for his bloody handed God. No, he is singularly devoted and dedicated to trying to murder you in this very moment and instant. An instant that may well come too soon, given how he finally manages to outmaneuver Brain Wounder, wrenching his own blade about and reversing his grip on it mid-swing with ludicrous force to slam it right back around towards your armpit, one of the few portions on the armor that has to remain a modicum thinner than elsewhere.

    (Bokdrungni Activates! Rolled: 6. Ward Save Successful!)

    Only to come to a screeching halt, literally, as the artifice of Kragg the Grim shows its worth once more. Some might find it disconcerting how the gauntlet is capable of moving on its own, but the correct working of proper runes only ever brings you comfort. Especially in this moment as the gauntlet snaps upwards, fingers leaving the hilt of Brain Wounder in the same motion, letting you reach up and snatch your hand around the blade of Dreadbringer's own weapon itself to bring it to a sudden halt mid-swing just as it prepared to cleave deeply into you. The awful screech of metal on metal, of gromril and dragonbone and everything else versus whatever the hell his sword is made out of. Tainted ithilmar perhaps. Whatever it was once, it has been taken by Khaine, now, you know that much. Even though your hand is fully protected within Bokdrungni, there is a painful aura that emanates from the blade. It is both like some kind of blazing heat as well as freezing cold, almost seeming to grind at your hand and body and ears and soul despite everything. It burns with a hideous crimson that is undeniably distinct from the same reddened energies of the Blood God and His own workings. Both hues, both sensations, you are uncomfortably more knowledgeable about on an intimate level than most in the Old World would appreciate. This close, you can see that same burning crimson in Dreadbringer's eyes through the slits in his helm, those eyes wider now that you have grabbed ahold of his bloody sword. The force alone is making your elbow and shoulder creak and strain at what you know is rapidly approaching a breaking point, every muscle in your left arm burning with the effort.

    "Not…gonna…be…that…easy," you say through gritted teeth.

    "Filth," he hisses back at you, nearly bowling you over with the sheer level of hatred he manages to infuse into his voice.

    (Magical Chaos: 79+10+10-10-10=79/100)
    (Dreadbringer: 82+18+5-20-5+Magical Collateral(10)=90/100)
    (Handmaiden Alone: 63+19-15+10=77/100)
    (Waywatcher Surrounded: 13+15-15+10=23/100)
    (Storming In: 53+25+15+10-10-15+10=88/100)
    (Sky Piracy: 89+20+10-5-20+10=104/100)

    Magic has so many, many uses. To turn the wind to fire, to ice, to become blades of whistling air sharper than any steel. Explosions of all kinds, sourced from all of the Winds of Magic, either on their lonesome or combined into Dhar, causing cascades of light and sound and pain and death. To be struck directly would surely be death, but there are just as many efforts at defense as there are offense. Shields of light, of darkness, of molten metal flashing into existence long enough to divert and dissolve translucent cleaving blades of shadow. As Tullaris charges at you, blade flashing back and forth, there is a distant crackle and pop followed shortly by a thunderous boom which shakes the rooftop. Bodies of already dead Druchii go bouncing upwards, and surprisingly to your benefit, as a slack-jawed Bleaksword's corpse manages to be swept along the ground and slaps at the First Executioner's leg. The strength, speed, and dexterity of Dreadbringer is more than enough to ensure he doesn't fall, or even really trip, but the slightest momentary arresting of his movement is enough for you.

    For Brain Wounder.

    A pained hiss escapes his lips as you clash Runefang against his draich, sliding the masterwork of Alaric the Mad against one of the most enchanted implements of the God of Murder's clergy. Up then down then through his guard, enough to conclude with pair of slashes against his chest and arms, followed by a slam of the pommel against Tullaris' helmet to force him backwards slightly. Druchii blood spills across the ground as Tullaris does not necessarily retreat but does alter his stance and movements so that he is moving to circle you rather than charging directly at you. You know, on some deep level, that he wishes to rant and rave at you, but instead all his murderous intent and hatred is channeling itself into full and total concentration. Unfortunately, you are not so wholly focused, not when you can hear a pained cry from Kerillian's lips as she takes a hard hit that you cannot see, her cursing audible and continuous enough that you can be sure that she at least still lives. And, it seems, has not yet taken a hit to the chest or lungs enough to stop her from her ranting. There is the sound of waves crashing into a strange echoing thunderclap-like sound, as well as the slightly comforting noise of black powder weaponry going off elsewhere beyond your vision. Natasha, somewhere above you, lets loose with her own magic with grim determination which is buoyed by the soul bond between the two of you.

    (Magical Chaos: 9+10+10-10=19/100)
    (Dreadbringer: 90+18+5-20-5-Magic Collateral(10)+Wounded Tullaris(10)=88/100)
    (Handmaiden Alone: 77+19-15-10=71/100)
    (Waywatcher Surrounded: 45+15-15-10=35/100)
    (Storming In: 1+25+15+10-10-15-10=16/100)
    (Sky Piracy: 55+20+10-5-20-10=50/100)
    (Fortress Keeping: 49+15+15-10-10-10-15=34/100)
    (Holding Positions: 64+15+10+10+10-10-10-Remanning Defenses(8)=81/100)

    Another pained scream echoes out from Kerillian, this time being enough to silence her words but not outright end her given you are somewhat sure you can still hear her fighting. You hear her name called out by Sadrina, but cannot turn your head much less your eyes away as Tullaris rushes you once more. Despite bleeding, he loses approximately none of his speed or strength, the bastard, as he comes at you. Every single clash sends ripples of force through your body, as he constantly maneuvers to try and get his Draich to cut and stab at you. More than once, its murderous edges shears off ice from your armor, but does not yet manage to cut your skin or flesh. A moment does come, however, when you are forced on the extreme defensive as all the metal around you on various bodies begins to at first heat up and then become brightly illuminated by a sickly golden glow.

    Followed shortly by every blade, piece of armor, belt buckle, and more goes whipping up and away in a horizontal whirlwind which goes whipping past you. You, by simple fact of positioning and bad luck, are simply collateral damage as the magical effect goes off. A dead Druchii knife goes clanging against your helmet, knocking your head to the side as ice chips go flying. A momentary vulnerability which Tullaris eagerly tries to take advantage of, the forward spike of his blade's edge plunging down at just past your neck. A decapitation attempt, you realize, and so take the chance by crumpling forward and slamming into him, shoulder checking him and then bringing Brain Wounder upwards in a one-handed grip. The blade drags upwards against the armor of his legs and along his side, a shallow but long wound scored even as he slams the spiked pommel of his sword against the back of your head, knocking you away from him. If not for Alexandra's miracle material, her own forging skills, and her magical capabilities at enchantment, it might have been a terrible wound to take. As it is, it doesn't even knock your brain around inside your skull despite the impact, the Ledstali taking the hit without transferring overmuch force into your head. Your knees scrape along the ground as you skitter away from him, armor screeching as you keep from falling onto your face and come up from a half-crouch to stand once more.

    Then you and Tullaris are both bowled over outright by an absolutely hellacious explosion of magical force.

    The Elector Count of Ostland and the First Executioner of Khaine go toppling over like thrown teakettles, and while you both rise up quickly, it affords you enough time to see the source of all that power.

    It is Magdha.

    Or rather, the Supreme Sorceress against Magdha.

    The great majority of the greatest templars of Manann are not merely dead, but outright gone. Smoking and steam billow out from a few broken shards of metal and the very occasionally intact pieces of armor. A gauntlet here, half a helm there, and two separate boots. Magdha doesn't stand, she kneels, not out of deference but because she has been forced there. Blood does not pour from her, because it can't. Half of her body has been burnt to charcoaled ruin, with a few pieces of her right side crumbling off of her like old masonry even as you look at her. Saltwater weakly runs from the mace in her left hand, the weapon loosely held, with Magdha's sole remaining eye stares open and bloodshot up at Screamtaker. The Supreme Sorceress's eyes burn with Dhar, to the point that there are streamers of the stuff wafting from her eye sockets, her outstretched hand the clear source of what looks to be more than thirty feet of a cone of pure destruction. How Magdha survived that you don't know, but you don't think she will survive much longer either.

    They are too far away for you to hear the words they exchange, but you can see Maghda spit at Screamtaker's feet.

    You cannot afford to watch long, however, as a familiar crimson glow fills part of your vision. You turn to your left once more to see Tullaris standing as well, glaring at you, his draich now held in one hand as blood continues to spill from him. His chest is heaving, free hand flexing open and closed. At some point that you must have missed, he outright cut into his own hand to bleed himself even more. The noise of the ongoing battles all around you makes it almost impossible to hear as he murmurs to himself. Almost, but not entirely. Especially as he goes from murmuring to himself to outright shouting, no, raving to the open air with every bit of air in his lungs. As he does so, you feel your own aches and pains throb, including old ones and many of your scars. Especially on the insides of your cheeks, where once, long ago, some oddly loyal worshipper of Khaine amongst your forces carved his sigils on the insides of your mouth.

    "KHAINE! GRANT ME YOUR STRENGTH! YOUR POWER! I SHALL SLAUGHTER ALL OF HIS LANDS IN YOUR NAME!"

    "By Morr's hairy arse you will," you growl, even as you must cover your eyes temporarily as he raises his draich to the air and its burning red glow grows all the brighter until it outright envelops his entire body.

    Then he lowers it, tip facing toward you, eyes now obscured entirely beneath that glow which fills his helm.

    "I will unleash the most hideous of agonies upon your children, upon every pathetic little human that dares draw breath in Ostland," he spits the name of your province with acid enough to melt gromril. "They shall weep and beg for blessed death, as they always should have, and only when Khaine is satisfied will they be granted the glory of being murdered by my hand and my hand alone!"

    "Not if I stop you," you snarl.

    "None may defy Khaine's will!" Tullaris shouts as he thunders towards you.

    Even worse, behind him, you swear you can spy yet more black armored bodies erupting upwards from the staircase onto the rooftop.

    (Magical Chaos: 71+10+10-10-Total Outrage(10)+Longtime Loathing(10)=81/100)
    (Dreadbringer: 7+18+5-20-5-Bloodshield of Khaine(5)-Strength of Khaine(5)+Wounded Tullaris(10)+Magical Collateral(10)=15/100)
    (Handmaiden and Waywatcher: 64+19+Badly Wounded Kerillian(10)-Grouped Executioners(20)-Reinforcements(10)+10=63/100)
    (Storming In: 1+Grievously Wounded Matriarch(10)+15+10-10-15-10+10=11/100)
    (Sky Piracy: 95+20+10-5-20-10+Drengi Oaths(15)+10=115/100)

    He was already fast.

    He was already strong.

    You could have done without the bedamned God of Murder making him even more so!

    You'd curse if you had the breath to spare as he unleashes an absolute hailstorm of blows on you, not so much as knocking your blade aside and breaking your guard as smashing your blade almost out of your hands with every hit and shattering your guard. A proper defense is impossible, in almost every traditional sense, save for retreating in an effort to give you enough space to avoid his blows that you otherwise cannot stop. That dark red glow still burns from the eye sockets of his helm, but now you can also see froth dribbling down from the bottom of his helmet, much of it rendered into watery and thin trickles as they trace down his chin and neck. Back, back, and back again you stumble past the bodies, magic spilling outwards from the ongoing combat between the dueling Covens and their supporters. You feel the frantic worries and defiant anger of Natasha as she and Oskana battle as best they can, mixed with grim horror at what has happened to the Manannites. There is shock, as well, followed by the sounds of black powder explosions from elsewhere, mixed with the guffawing laughter of the Slayer Pirates. Part of your arms are threatening to break every time he smacks Brain Wounder, each blow murderously eager to taste your blood, carving off huge hunks of Ledstali from you before finally your attempts to defend yourself fail as he slams a fist against your chest which craters the breastplate slightly. As you stumble backwards, your breath hitching, he one-handedly whips his draich sideways so fast and strong that your wrists are nearly snapped by the force despite keeping a grip on your Runefang. With his own wrist he flips the blade around again and comes downward towards your neck in another decapitation attempt. You swear you can hear the wind screaming as it is parted by the draich.

    (Bokdrungni Activates! Rolled: 6! Ward Save Successful!)

    Until there is a heavy clang, an echoing boom as Bokdrungni forces itself in the way, its runes flaring brightly. You wonder if, somewhere, Kragg the Grim must suddenly except some measure of self-control as that most unnatural of things – a smile – threatens him when one of his creations does its job so satisfactorily. Especially so, given that this masterwork of dwarf runesmithing has yet again stymied an elgi. For your purposes, you are more than happy to have the gauntlet take the hit directly on the center of the shield, and in that moment the Rune of Warding burns bright. Bright enough that it, ever so briefly, seems to force the energies to gutter slightly around Dreadbringer's form and weapon. You can even see the light be dashed, for a brief second, from around his eyes, letting you see just how bloodshot and wide they are. It's like looking at two red marbles at this point, his pupils gone into black pinpricks at the center. But then the glow return, as does his strength as he tries to press down onto you, ripping the blade back and then raining down on you once more.

    There is another thunderclap, just then, and though you do not stop defending yourself, you still do see the now mostly limp body of Magdha go across the rooftop like a particularly burnt skipping stone across water. She does not manage to do more than get a hand underneath her before Screamtaker is there once more. The Supreme Sorceress is vibrating in the air, every movement and breath blurred before your eyes. You do see, in between slashes from Dreadbringer, as she picks her up by the throat with an animated cable of shaped Dhar from her hand. Magdha manages to grasp her mace and somewhat manages to swing it, striking Screamtaker's side with it, but aside from a grunt of pain and bit of bruising the hate-fueled grasp does not falter. The wounds she has taken are too great. Even more of her is smoking and burnt now, twitching and spasming.

    "You wretched primitives cannot even worship the Gods correctly!" Screamtaker's voice is audible amidst everything going on, one of the shrillest and most piercing of voices you've ever heard. "IT IS MATHLANN, YOU IDIOTIC CHILD!"

    You are all the way across the rooftop, separated by Dreadbringer, mobs of Executioners and new Druchii reinforcements, two embattled Covens, a dragon, and most of the Control Locus.

    You can do nothing as the Supreme Sorceress forms a sphere of roiling Dhar the size of an ale barrel and slams it against Magdha's chest, sending the High Matriarch of Manann off the rooftop in a massive explosion.

    For the briefest of seconds, a glowing sphere appears surrounding the whole of the entire top of the tower, the faintest amount of resistance given before being temporarily punctured. As it does so, the wind, so mysteriously absent, shoots through and ruffles the unnatural stillness of the rooftop air.

    You do not think Magdha was even able to scream before she is gone, before the wind ceases once more.

    "NO!" You shout.

    (Magical Chaos: 88+10+10-10-10+10=98/100)
    (Dreadbringer: 80+18+5-20-5-5-5+10+Major Magical Collateral(20)=98/100)
    (Handmaiden and Waywatcher: 52+19+10-20-10+20=71/200)
    (Supremacy: 2+15-10-10-10+20=7/100)
    (Sky Piracy: 84+20+10-5-20-10+15+20=114/100)
    (Fortress Keeping: 75+15+15-10-10-10-15=60/100)
    (Holding Positions: 87+15+10+10+10-10-10-Remanning Defenses(10)=102/100)

    She was not the closest of friends, and your first meeting involved religious flaying of your body by way of Keelhauling, but in the short time you had known her she was, nevertheless, a good friend. Not just to you, but to Ostland. Stern but understanding, awkward and strange upon the land but utterly devoted to her God and the Cult. Perhaps not strictly the most loyal to the Empire, but to the peoples of the Old World against the predations of the Druchii, Chaos, and others. Called by Manann Himself to take the wheel of the Cult, assailed as it was by fanatics who threatened the place of the Cult in society, and further to curtail the corruption that Marienburg sought to inject into it. She was, undeniably, one of the mightiest servants of the Gods deserving of respect and worship you had ever met, and you do not deny that you enjoyed her company. And now she is dead, after coming personally to aid you and your home.

    And even if she hadn't been a friend, that alone would have been more than enough.

    Rage permeates you, and Natasha as well, for she liked the acerbic woman as well, but it is coupled with raw panic on the part of your wife as suddenly she is one of the few standing against the Supreme Sorceress and her Coven. Her and Oskana, with none of the templars of Manann remaining either. Unfortunately, the gryphon is a noticeable target, as is your wife, given that there are a number of dead Dark Pegasi and Druchii with rime and frost marking her kills. But you can't go to her. Not yet. Dreadbringer and a whole lot of others stand between you. You can hear him saying something, something in Druhir, but you cannot understand it. But then you aren't trying particularly hard to as you turn to him, inhale deeply, and despite his own punishing offense launch an attack of your own. His hatred gives him strength, his connection with Khaine gives him power. But you have strength and power yourself, from a myriad of sources. From dwarfs to Eonir to some of the Gods, at least.

    It helps, of course, when a screeching flock of vaguely bird-shaped bolts of Ghur come smashing in from the side, peppering Dreadbringer. There is a flare from Bokdrungni, but as none of the bolts actually hit you, they are not deflected nor absorbed by the gauntlet. You don't even see who the sorceress who launched the attack was firing at, or the sorceress who launched them in the first place. It doesn't matter, not when Brain Wounder manages to not simply slash once more across Dreadbringer's chest, this time from hip to shoulder, but you even rip the blade back and then thrust it forward to stab deeply into his side. It pierces directly through the glowing crimson surrounding him, despite there being far greater resistance than the armor alone would have granted, and even though he manages to twist out and away, you know for a fact that you severed at least two ribs. A bubbling wet scream rips from his lips, echoing outwards from his helm, blood trickling out from his helm to join and overwhelm the froth and spittle of before, to coat his neck in red.

    But pain also rips out from Natasha through the bond, and instead of continuing to go after Dreadbringer your head whips about just in time for you to see your wife and Oskana come crashing down to the rooftop trailing smoke. Streamers of electricity ripple across them both, hurting your wife far more than the gryphon, while black and golden chains of Dhar and Chamon wrap around Oskana's wings to keep her from flying. Despite Alexandra's armor, you can see as well as feel through the bond that a number of bones in Natasha's body have snapped, her left arm bent upon itself from where she'd tried to defend herself. You don't see her sword. As Screamtaker stalks towards her, there are a series of black powder explosions which interrupts whatever she was planning on saying. A great many eyes lock onto the fearsome visage of a black dragon as it separates itself from the scrum. It is stumbling, however, not striding forth proudly, and you stare at the sight of what has to be two dozen separate grappling hooks wrapped all around its body. Two pirate slayers with peg legs and hooks they've used to remain latched to the beast laugh even as they pull back bloody stumps where their sole remaining hands used to be. The smoke clears enough for you to see that the top half of the dragon's head has been blown off, in fact, with much of the damage centered around the eye sockets. Its tongue lolls and laps about, but the brains are gone and the corpse appears to be moving solely on old impulses before it finally just flops forward, crushing the two laughing dragon killers under its bulk. You do not see the master of the beast, not immediately, until the dragon finishes its toppling fall, revealing him to be limping away with a broken leg from a heavily bleeding but still advancing Long Drong.

    "Natasha!" You call out, reaching for her before the fingers are nearly severed by a wildly swung draich.

    (Wavering Coven: 56+Ambitions(15)+Retreated(10)-Dominating Performance(20)-Dragonless(20)=61/100)

    "Miserable..," Tullaris growls out, the noise a pained wheeze caked in the by-now-familiar hatred and now additionally colored with outright disbelief. "Little…," his next step towards you is shaky, but the draich does not waver in his grip. "Animal! You are…nothing! Just another pustule of the lesser races to be lanced and burned by your betters!"

    A snort escapes your lips.

    "I'm not the one who ran away," you sneer at him from behind your helmet. "What was that you said earlier? 'The fate of cowards is death'? Why haven't you just gut yourself already then?"

    Tullaris goes still, save for the blood pouring out of him.

    "After all, you should have done it years ago," you growl at him, eyes locked onto the sword still on his back, the scalp and hair on his belt. "When you ran at Tor Dranil!"

    The whole of him shakes in fury as he begins sprinting at you.

    "RRRAAAAGGH!"

    (Magical Chaos: 75+10+10-10-10+10+Wavering Coven(5)=90/100)
    (Dreadbringer: 100+18+5-20-5-5-5+Badly Wounded Dreadbringer(15)+Major Magical Collateral (20)=123/100)
    (Handmaiden and Waywatcher: 41+19+10-Last Executioners(10)-10+20=70/100)

    A sphere of crackling lightning interrupts him, for the briefest of moments, as it goes sailing across the rooftop. The tendrils which spear out from it strike many corpses, and some of the living combatants. An ethereal screeching comes from it, as if it were alive and at the same time dying. One of those lightning tendrils stretches out and slaps across Dreadbringer's back as he charges for you, and even as the unmistakable smell of burnt flesh reaches your nose, he keeps coming. But gone, now, is the completely seamless dexterity and grace, replaced with brutal stomping and sheer momentum propelled by hatred. He stumbles over a few of the bodies, more so after the caress of lightning to his back, but comes towards you all the same. It is in that moment that you realize, despite the glowing red of his aura, of his blessings from Khaine, he is not beyond you. Not entirely. Not utterly, as you have sometimes felt when facing certain opponents. It is a realization which crystallizes in you, even as you look beyond him, desperately, towards Natasha as she tries to fend off far too many sorceresses at once.

    He is not beyond you.

    Rage burns in you. For all he has surely slain. For Eldyra. For Eldyra's father. For what he intended to do to Ostland, what he has promised his God he will do should he find victory here.

    More importantly, he is between you and your wife, and you need to get to her!

    "Fine then!" You yell back at him, and meet his charge with your own.

    Draich meets Brain Wounder, but it is the draich which falters this time around. All his hatred, all his accursed blessings, and you are the one who knocks his weapon aside and reverse your grip to slice him from hip to shoulder yet again, this time opposite the first cut. Growling, you punch him with the blade of Bokdrungni, straight into the center of the cross now marked into his breastplate. Gromril-clad fingers grasp, grip, and tear outwards, sending portions of his armor scattering across the ground to reveal a heavily muscled but also heavily wounded chest and stomach. Idly, you can't help but note as he reels backwards with ghostly pale skin revealed, that you've managed to cut through both of his pectorals in near equal positions with the previous and current slashes. Managing, somehow, to have completely cut through and destroyed both nipples. The thought lasts less than a second in your mind before you draw back Bokdrungni again and then slam a blade-first punch straight into his solar plexus, simultaneously stabbing and bludgeoning it with all your strength. Blood, air, and vomit spew out of his mouth in enough quantities to spill outwards all along the lines of his jaw from the bottom of his helm to coat his neck and chest. Rearing back, you then, twist at the hips and force one haymaker after the next in the exact same spot. As he stumbles and hunches in on himself, choking and vomiting, you reach past him this time and angrily haul Death Thorn out of the flayed skin sheath he kept it in. Eyes darting, you see a flash of blue and gold amidst a mob of Druchii, and a great many dead Executioners and lesser Druchii on the ground. There is a shout of Fan-Eltharin before you hear a brief high-pitched whistle accompanied by a blue flash, after which a good dozen Druchii topple to the ground, revealing a bleeding but still fighting Kerillian as she shoves her bow onto her back and stabs another Bleaksword in the head with one of her daggers, with no sign of the second dagger. Blood mats her armor from where she's taken hard hits.

    "This! Isn't! Yours!" You roar at him before turning. "Kerillian!"

    This far away, and with her eyes they way they are, you can't tell if she glance towards you. But the rest of her body is more than a good enough signal, turning about and shifting to angle as best she can. Sadrina appears from the mob of bodies as well, spinning about like a top on one hand that is rotating so quickly her wrist seems like it should snap. In her other hand, her blade stabs and slashes about, while with lashing kicks and undulations of her left leg comes the Indi whip sword she normally keeps coiled around that same calf. It snaps out and seems to almost bite her enemies, enveloped in a ghostly yellow fire that does appear like a snake itself. There is a quiet hissing to its movements as well, a strange mix of the sounds you know from heating metal and actual reptilian hissing melding together as it swings about. The space opens up enough, and so you hurl Death Thorn to one in need of the weapon. Even in the brief contact with the ancestral weapon, you can see the damage it has sustained, the wear and tear forced upon it, the sheer contempt it has been treated with. The magic in it flickers and stutters, but you would swear that it seems to flare a bit more cleanly and brighter as you remove it from its tormentor and throw it towards them.

    As Tullaris starts to fall, you push past him, panic and worry now replacing your anger in dominance as you feel the same coursing through the bond from Natasha.

    (Supremacy: 5+Badly Wounded Natasha on Oskana(10)-10-10-10-15+20=-10/100)

    The world slows.

    The bond is as open as it can possibly be.

    Rage. Pain. Weariness. Worry. A boiling and rising grief.

    Tullaris Dreadbringer disappears utterly from your perception of reality. Sadrina, Handmaiden of the Everqueen no longer exists. Neither does Kerillian of Athel Loren.

    You are moving, you swear you are, but it is like you are pushing through all the oceans of the world, through molasses, trying to step through stone itself.

    The mind accelerates beyond the body.

    But here, now, in this moment, you can only watch.

    Watch, as Mellis Screamtaker summons binding magics, chains of burning black fire, of scalding lightning, rotating lines of glowing runes to force Oskana's wings closed. To furthermore bind Natasha, screaming, flat against the gryphon's back, pressing her there with fire and force and pain. Perhaps the Supreme Sorceress says something. You can't tell. You can't hear anything but the sound of Natasha's pained screams, joining in unison with your own screams. You don't blink, don't have the time to, as a swirling vortex of blurring blue and black winds surrounds them. Natasha tries, in vain, to dispel at least one of the myriad magical effects being enacted upon her, but in the end cannot manage even that much. Not before they are hauled upwards into the air, with Oskana's wings and limbs bound to her like a trussed up deer, and with a disgustingly pleased look on the Supreme Sorceress' face, blown out and over the edge.

    Your world stops, the pounding of your heart eclipsing the drums in your mind.

    (Yar Har: 83+20+10-5-20-10+15+Remaining Whitewings(15)=108/100)

    "Uzkuuuuul!"

    It does not stop for Long Drong, who fires a dwarf pistol at Screamtaker, a glowing red rune on its short stubby barrel. A drakefire pistol, you recognize, a weapon normally only ever held by Irondrakes. Exultant as she was in her victory over your wife, she doesn't appear to have noticed before he fires it at her, and a heavy glob of burning red strikes her directly in the pale stomach. The joyous cackle of the Supreme Sorceress cuts off with a pained wheezing gag as a great burning hole is bored into her stomach, forming a black and red crater there. The remaining Slayer Pirates, far fewer than there were originally, have grown all the more maniacally violent and ferocious as more and more of them fell. The chance for death, for true death, for glorious doom, is more potent than it has ever been so far in their lives. All of them follow Long Drong as he charges directly for the outraged and now wounded Supreme Sorceress. The wounded sound that she creates is so piercing it should by all rights make everyone within audible range bleed from the ears, but despite that she raises up her hands and clenches her fists as the world seems to darken around her as she calls deeply upon her magic.

    (Magical Chaos: 22+10+10-10-10+10+5=37/100)
    (Two Covens: 12+15+10-Mostly Dominating Performance(15)-20-Casualties Taken(10)=37/100)

    It is barely worth noticing that the latest exchange of combat between the covens and their supporters is weaker than before. Too many times, perhaps, has the intensity of it all lead to problems amongst the Druchii more than those attacking both of them. You do notice, vaguely, distantly, as some of the Druchii are pulling back outright and flying up and away from the fighting. Screamtaker tears open a hole in reality from which daemons unmistakably begin pouring, some along the ground and some in the air. There is a blur of white feathers and fur as a Pegasus disappears over the edge of the rooftop. But your mind can't spare the effort to think about it, to focus on any of that. You no longer have the energy. Perhaps they are giving up their ambitions, perhaps there is something else to it. It doesn't matter to you anymore. Especially as you hear the wet chuckling behind you, armor clanking and clattering as well. You turn, slowly, to see as Dreadbringer has managed to stand up once more, laughing.

    Laughing at you.

    "A more…merciful death…than she deserved," he laughs while stumbling about before orienting on you, "I…would have flayed her first…made her eat her own dried and salted skin…make you watch as the lowliest of slaves…," he coughs out more blood, swaying where he stands, "Had their way with her…for every last few hours…of her pitiful life!"

    (A Long Way Down: 91+11-Wounded and Bound(10)+Concentration Broken(10)+Long Distance(5)=107/100)

    Only two things let you keep your fraying grip on sanity in that moment.

    The first is that you can still feel your wife through the soul bond. All the grim determination of Kislev fills her, with more than a few dollops of desperation, as well as her love for you. She calls upon the ice like she has only a few times before, and though she does not sit at the center of a powerful Waystone nexus as she did back in Laurelorn, and though she is not the equal in magics to many of the sorceresses present, she is still in her own way mighty. You know the spell she works now. It is one she cast upon herself a comparatively short time ago. Preservation, but at a terrible, terrible cost. If you cannot reach her after this, cannot protect her, rouse her, it may well be her doom. But it is a doom delayed, for this moment, as you can feel the ice creep and cover over her, crusting into the hardiest of defenses. So hardy, in fact, that it stoppers the caster's mind and body as well as the outside world. Sensations and emotions and memories of rasping leather and quietly creaking rope, of armor clattering to the ground, of a bird being caught with wings broken, a whirlwind of images she tries to convey before the bond itself grows fuzzy and distant. Her own mind forced below the ice she now tries to protect herself with.

    It is a chance.

    A chance.

    The second is the knowledge that you have something you can hit just within reach.

    "You-,"

    "Shut. Up."

    Whatever emotion coats those words, even you cannot say.

    "Just. Shut. Up."

    The Chosen of Khaine takes a step backwards, then pauses, head slowly craning down as he realizes what his body has done without his permission.

    (Dreadbringer: 78+18+5-20-5-5-5+Mortally Wounded Dreadbringer(25)-Major Magical Collateral(20)=71/100)
    (Handmaiden and Waywatcher: 66+18+10+Death Thorn(5)-10-10-20=59/100)
    (Supremacy: 83+20+The Remaining Whitewings(10)-Undistracted Coven(10)+Badly Wounded Supreme Sorceress(15)+Wearied Coven(10)=128/100)
    (Fortress Keeping: 61+15+15-10-10-10-15=46/100)
    (Holding Positions: 76+15+10+10+10-10-10-Remanning Defenses(12)=89/100)

    What happens next does not quite count as fighting.

    It is an extended execution, drawn out solely by all the skill, strength, toughness, and unholy powers granted to the Chosen of Khaine by his God. Blows that by all rights should have shorn through him entirely are deflected or outright blocked by the aura of Khaine which suffuses him in a manner altogether more esoteric than that of Bokdrungni but undeniably effective all the same. There are moments where it is clearly something beyond just Tullaris Dreadbringer defending him, where his draich which he cannot even quite manage to hold properly in two hands let alone one somehow goes on the offensive. His arms are trembling and weak, and yet the draich remains as animated as it was at the very beginning, to the point that it is clearly now causing its wielder pain with the speed and force it exerts. It is not Dreadbringer, but Khaine that is keeping the fight going. The instrument being wielded by its master, nothing less and nothing more. At least that is what you think before a few blasts of burning winds nearly knock you off the rooftop, sending dozens of corpses flopping about and towards the edge. Several of the bodies are set alight, filling the air around you with smoke and the scent of roasting meat from three separate races of the world.

    Around you, the fight continues. There are screams of dismay from the Druchii mobbing Kerillian and Sadrina, who have by now managed to slay the last of the Executioners possibly on the entire Black Ark. Upgrading from a single dagger to the ancestral blade of Eldyra's house has clearly done something good for the Asrai, but you don't think it's enough. Not when you can hear the Druchii goading each other on, confident if shaken, still on the attack. There are many more bodies on the ground, but many more of them are now of the fully removed Manannites. There are a great many dead dwarfs, their bright orange crests marking each and every corpse amidst the blacks, blue, and silver of the corpses carpeting the rooftop. At least half of the Whitewings have fallen, beast and rider both limp upon the ground. Those that remain are almost entirely invisible amidst all the magical fury being unleashed by the two covens. Yet no sooner has that thought passed through your head than you can see even more of one of the covens backing off from that fight, retreating out into the air and focusing almost solely on defense.

    The reason for that is quite obvious indeed at this point, as your new and true target, the one you are attempting to kill Dreadbringer just to get to, is suffering greatly herself.

    "Come on then, ye bilge-sucking bitch of an elgi!" Long Drong guffaws despite his own wounds.

    At some point, he'd gotten off another shot with his drakefire pistol, and by now her previously wholly unmarred body is smoking. The great black and red crater blown into her stomach has widened again, with thin tendrils of smoke making their way out of holes burnt out of her back, exposing bone and charcoaled organs. You are relatively sure it is only her magic keeping her alive at this point. Around her, the rest of her Coven and supporters are dying. The Slayer Pirates are dying, yes, and in great number and viciousness, but they go too their dooms with glee and relief. It is disturbingly similar to the ways the martyred flagellants were acting, but then you suppose that can only make sense when Anna based the latter off the former's example. They leap, axes and hook-hands outstretched, clutching onto Druchii sorceresses and nobles of great power and ability, dying even as they kill their targets in turn. Some go so far as to bring out black powder bombs and more definitively reproduce what the flagellant martyrs did at the gates, taking out great numbers of Druchii in their own deaths, calling out to Grimnir as they die. Screamtaker and her coven already contested the Highweavers of the Eonir earlier, and have spent the vast majority of this combat against another coven, fresh and ready. They have lost far more of their number than their rivals, their usurpers, and it shows more prominently in this moment than it has at any point beforehand.

    "Come on and kill me, if ye dare!"

    (Rival Instinct: 44+Fatally Wounded Supreme Sorceress(20)+Wearied Reduced Coven(10)+Ran Away(10)+Collateral's Caused(10)=94/100)

    There is a whistle, which cuts through the air and then in a great flurry of flapping wings you watch as the significant majority of Dark Pegasi riders suddenly cease their efforts at combat and fly out and away. They do not retreat wholly, of course, but they most definitely abandon the rooftop outright to those still fighting on it. Some of them let loose with a few more bolts of fire or lightning, but these are quite specifically directed at the tattered remains of Screamtaker's coven. The Supreme Sorceress, despite trying to fend off Long Drong's bladed hook and pistols, still has enough awareness to reach new levels of outrage and fury. She doesn't despair at seeing herself surrounded, dying, her coven collapsing and dying as well, her rival clearly ascendant. She only grows angrier, pale white skin of her face purpled over not with bruises but with hot flushes of hatred.

    Of spite.

    A wordless scream, flecked with blood, bursts from her lips.

    Just as the wavering, flickering, fading aura of Khaine's multitude of blessings levied upon Tullaris Dreadbringer escalates in size, scope, and power. A powerful pressure falls upon you, similar to what you felt when you first contested the fell champion, but greater than before. Tullaris is screaming, just as the Supreme Sorceress, but louder. The noise is not even his voice, not quite anymore, an echoing deepening thing that appears to be tearing his own throat apart as well. His whole body is shaking, vibrating, where he stands, the energies suffusing him now obscuring every single one of his wounds. No, not obscuring them, but pouring forth from them. Bleeding from a source greater than all the blood nominally within Tullaris' body. A blazing red symbol scorches the air where it floats as an untethered crown above his forehead. He was dying, you knew that for absolute certain, but here he stands. The realization falls upon you as his draich does, the blow nearly breaking your arms as you block it, like a thunderbolt.

    He is still dying, but he'll not go without doing everything in his power and then some to take you with him.

    You are quite familiar with the concept. Intimately, one could say.

    "KHAAAAAAAAAAAAAINE!" He howls to the heavens – or perhaps the underworld of his people.

    (Dreadbringer: 86+18+5-20-5-5-5+25-Irrevocable Sacrifice(20)=79/100)

    Blood-fueled divine fire pours like lava from cracks in the earth, spilling out and burning into nonexistence after prolonged exposure to the air outside of his body. His very skin is peeling off and away like a roast boar on a spit, cracking apart with every movement to reveal over-engorged musculature. The red is so bright, so vivid, so all-encompassing as it suffuses and spreads that it cascades over and obscures all the white of gristle and bone beneath. Perhaps Tullaris says a word, perhaps he doesn't, but what comes out of his mouth is a belching of fire. His helmet is literally melting down around his head from that heat, but instead of dribbling away it seems to be caught up in the fire. The molten metal splits into tendrils that vaguely form the shape of horns sticking out of the sides of his head which then bend upwards towards the sky. His maw gapes open wide, jaw distending with the crackle of fire and snap of bone and cartilage, revealing teeth now blackened by that same flame burning from within him. The same burning envelopes his draich until you can't even see the metal itself, only a bar of fire with a hilt connected to it.

    Distantly, a very small part of you notes that a great number of the Druchii have paused their actions, especially those in the retreated and mostly intact coven, to observe this.

    The rest of you, and most of you, focuses on Dreadbringer as he and the power he serves crashes down on you in a flurry of blows of tremendous force and speed. But for all of that, all of him, you stand against him. Brain Wounder contests with that burning flame of solidified hatred and war made manifest, and the creation of Alaric the Mad refuses to yield. The runes of Ostland's Runefang burn as bright as you've ever seen them, and the same is true of Bokdrungni. The comforting energies of the Light of Summer around your neck feel more distant than you can consciously remember, as if shying away from the awful presence of Khaine's will, but you fight the Chosen of Khaine nonetheless. The heat is great, and you've no doubt that most anyone else would be set aflame by it, their own skin and flesh blackening and cracking apart like Tullaris' has, but you have an advantage you had not even been prepared to possess before now – a set of armor crafted by Alexandra von Hohenzollern. Crafted of Ledstali, crafted of the Ancient Widow, of Kislev. Crafted of a daughter's desire to protect her parents.

    Masterfully worked essence of primordial winter girds you against the inferno of Khaine's wrath.

    One clash. Then another, and another. No blasts of magic interferes. No winds fit to throw vapor tanks come gusting in. No bolts of lightning strike out at you or your opponent. No grasping limbs of purple energy fit to tear at life force and souls silently appear within your sight. No translucent blades of Ulgu come slicing across the air. One of the covens has retreated entirely, watching the proceedings, while what looks like the last handful of Slayer Pirates remaining joyfully seek out glorious doom. A wounded Asur and a barely standing Asrai are fighting for their lives, but of the sheer maelstrom of magic that had been continuously scouring the rooftop and Control Locus there is no sign. Draich strikes Runefang, again and again. Some blows you block outright, digging in your heels. Others you deflect away, and one or two you dodge entirely. Even in such close quarters, the bloodfire pouring forth from all over Dreadbringer's body manages to make the Ledstali crackle and hiss. Perhaps given enough time, it might begin to melt it to the point of reducing the armor's protective capabilities.

    It is time that you aren't keen to let him have.

    And eventually, you get your chance. The spike hook worked into the edge of his draich is not ornamental, a fact you are quite sure of by this point. He's used the thing as a damn war pick at least thrice in the past few seconds, the various extensions and additions on the draich letting it act in far too many ways for your comfort. Even though its impossible to look through the bar of bloodfire surrounding the blade above the hilt, the brightness practically blinding, you can feel the sword beneath that fiery aura with Brain Wounder. Your grip shifts, hands creaking against the hilt as you let the edges smash into one another in a manner which would ruin any mundane set of swords utterly, then shift and haul the Runefang upwards. A shower of sparks and motes of bloodfire fall across your helmet as Brain Wounder drags upwards before it makes contact. Driving forward, your knees bend as you pull back just enough to let Dreadbringer overbalance forwards then straighten rapidly – Brain Wounder catching the inner edge of the hook without sliding out.

    "HRRAAAAGH!" Dreadbringer bellows fire as he strains against you.

    Which is when you raise up and then slam your foot into his gut, releasing your left hand's grip on your sword to instead reach out and grasp the absurdly spiked and barbed crossguard of his draich. Despite Bokdrungni's power and construction, despite the Ledstali you wear, the murderous aura manages to immediately begin scalding the skin on your left hand. Were it not for your protections, it might well have melted the flesh from your bones in short order. Instead, however, firmly grasp, and then tear the draich out of his grip. It is an awkward motion to do so, and there are sickening pops and cracks as you dislocate a great many joints in Dreadbringer's hands and arms as he determinedly tries to hang on. But then the blade of Bokdrungni cuts in deeply as you twist your left wrist, and with a grisly severing of just a few tendons and inches of muscle, the draich comes free as you arc your right hand – and Brain Wounder edge to edge with the underside of the hook – sending it flying out and away. The scorching, blinding fire which surrounds it do not disappear, but they do immediately dim as it clatters and scrapes along the rooftop out of your immediate sight.

    Despite the further ruination of his body, your foe does not falter for a single instant.

    From the bodies all around you, he scoops low, hungry bloodfire crackling and snapping like a bonfire out of his right wrist and hand, and brings up some dead Bleaksword's own weapon. The lesser sword ignites in that same instant, the bloodfire pouring out of his own wounds to envelope the blade. Snarling, hissing, spitting, he makes to attack you again. But unlike with his original weapon, whatever blessings Khaine had levied upon it over the course of hundreds to thousands of years, this is a far more mundane sword. It bends and flexes as if beginning to melt away within half of a heartbeat. This time, you allow him to connect with before your own left arm comes downwards and pinning it there. The fire immediately sets to work against the Ledstali. With his ruined wrist and hand, he scrabbles and tears at you.

    But he cannot dodge away, now, not pinned like this.

    Not when you reach out and grab him by his throat, drawing him closer to you.

    Not when you choke your grip heavily on Brain Wounder and bring it close so that it cuts into his chin.

    "Go to your precious God in death as you were in life – worthless," you hiss.

    Gouts of bloodflame fall across your helmet, by now managing to thoroughly thin the front of it, spewing from his mouth, his nostrils, his ears, his eyes. But none of that stops you from driving the edge of your Runefang deep, passing through skin and flesh and partially into bone. Without any other interruption possible, you then glide Brain Wounder up and over his head before twisting about and bringing it back towards you.

    Flaying his entire face and scalp as well as cutting his head off from the back of the neck and out the throat.

    Another burst of bloodfire splashes over your front, the body still scrabbling and twitching for a few seconds more, but soon enough it begins to collapse down to the ground.

    A fluttering of your fingers leaves the flayed and shaved skull – blackened from the fires within it and teeth still clattering – to fall to the ground so that you can stomp your foot onto the damned thing and shatter it to pieces.

    A few more heaving breathes escape you as you look back up to see most of the battlefield staring at you as you hold the burnt and bloody scalp and face of Tullaris Dreadbringer in your hands.

    (Handmaiden and Waywatcher: 45+Wounded Sadrina(15)+10-10+Death of Dreadbringer(10)=70/100)
    (Supremacy: 95+20+10-10-10=105/100)

    You begin running over towards Sadrina and Kerillian as quickly as you can, but there is plenty of fighting done before you can reach them. The Asur and Asrai have taken advantage of the distraction and genuine horror which afflicted the Druchii upon your killing of the Chosen of Khaine. Just as you'd hoped, Kerillian has taken up Death Thorn and put it to swift and skilled work. It might not be a weapon she normally wields but she still wields it well. Elsewhere, you can only watch as the last of the Slayer Pirates kill themselves fighting against the absolutely ruined remains of Screamtaker's coven. Including Long Drong himself and the Supreme Sorceress, the bladed hook hand of the Slayer latched around the Screamtaker's staff, jerking it one way and then another, ruining her magics as she attempts to summon them.

    "No! NO! I WILL NOT – YOU WILL NOT – YOU DARE – I AM MELLIS SCREAMTAKER!" She screeches, coughing up blood and smoke as the burning ammo of Long Drong's drakefire pistol continues to do its work in her innards. "YOU CANNOT DO THIS!"

    "Th' hell I can't!" Long Drong laughs before dodging a slap of her staff whilst encased in black fire and spikes of lightning to lodge his hook hand straight into her ruined stomach. "Just like I can do…this!"

    The Supreme Sorceress of the Claw of Dominion stares incredulously, blood pouring from a great many places, at her own beating heart as it is pierced and subsequently torn out of her chest on the tip of Long Drong's hook. She tries to form words, but only expels blood flecked froth, bloodshot eyes bugging out in the sockets. Then with a strength you don't rightly know how she could still possess, perhaps powered solely by spite or hatred or both, she reaches out to a necklace she wears on her neck and wraps her hand around it, the other hand still barely holding her up on her staff. Long Drong's laugh begins to peter out as she grasps it, head tilting to the side in confusion.

    (A Horrid End: 6-Uncontested Coven(10)-Final Spite(10)-Coven Remnants(5)=-19/100)

    For the third time in this fight, you can do nothing as someone else takes a hit that is beyond them.

    The Slayer Pirates had done their job too well, and there are not enough of Screamtaker's coven to stop her. It is the Druchii who shriek and topple over themselves as they try to get away, only to be cut down by slayers who are more than happy to spill elgi blood in almost any situation. A sound akin to breaking glass magnified a thousand times over echoes out across the entire rooftop as Screamtaker disappears. Long Drong gets out the beginnings of a bemused huff before he is gone as well. In their place, growing larger with every second, is hellish black cloud which releases a sound that sets your ears to bleeding, teeth to violently itching, and skin crawling – literally. Great swathes of your own skin are rippling as if the underside of them have grown the legs of millipedes they run up and down your musculature and veins. A hundred tentacles terminating in mouths filled with gleaming ivory nubs of teeth like that of a teething child undulate in all directions. None are spared, neither the remains of Screamtaker's coven, nor the rest of the Slayer Pirates who die while laughing and striking out at the tentacles with their weapons. Even those on the outskirts are not able to get away, as the usurping coven which pulled back now re-engages by way of blasting various magics without any concern of retaliation. Cruel and amused laughter echoes across the rooftop as they ensure the deaths of the last of the coven and the Pirate Slayers. The final revenge of Screamtaker abused and extended beyond its original remit with utterly malicious purpose, until just as swiftly the black tear in reality sucks back inwards with a disgustingly wet pop.

    Leaving a final three Whitewings alive on the rooftop, only one of which even retains their mount, the other two having been thrown free in last acts of loyalty from their stalwart steeds as the tentacles sought to claim them. Meanwhile, you've finally reached Sadrina and Kerillian as they finish cutting down the last of the Druchii that had been trying to mob them. The actual genuine amount of carnage left behind by the two of them is considerable, given that it was just the two of them versus a far greater many their number. Then again, it isn't as if you or almost your entirely family and numerous friends and allies have done the same sort of thing before. But you are also absolutely, utterly outnumbered by the coven which now flies in the air above you on their many Dark Pegasi.

    (Matters of City-State: 10-Control Tor(20)-Previous Groups(10)=-20/100)

    Which is, of course, when dozens more Druchii pour up out of the stairwell, coming to a staggered halt as they behold the death and destruction left upon the rooftop. They are heralded by a quintet of cold one riding knights, their lances held up at the ready. Each of them leads a separate contingent of Druchii, with clearly distinct sigils upon each of the knight's shields. They stare not at you, and only barely at Sadrina and Kerillian, in favor of looking towards first the perfectly smooth if shallow crater left behind by Screamtaker and then up at the coven and their supporters in the air above.

    "Fucking hell," you mutter, feeling a wave of exhaustion come across you.

    "What…what has happened here?!" The foremost of the Druchii knights calls out in Druhir, head whipping back and forth.

    "What has happened, Lord Direblaze?" a somewhat familiar voice calls down, echoing out across the rooftop.

    Still somewhat singed, somewhat smoking, only slightly bloodied, the same sorceress you saw directly challenging Screamtaker partially descends from the skies. Her vicious glee is practically a solid bow wave of force radiating off of her.

    "What has happened…was a desperately needed…correction," she declares.

    The now named Lord Direblaze tightens his grip on his lance, his cold one hissing and snapping its large jaws as he forces it to remain in place.

    "Alyssa Voidreaper," he says cautiously. "What are you…," he glances about again before slowly turning his head to stare up at her. "Where is Screamtaker?"

    She just lifts her chin up slightly.

    "Voidreaper…," Direblaze demands a bit more hotly. "Where is your mother?"

    In silent response, she languidly gestures with her staff towards the crater, her grin now showing teeth. Then she rolls the staff about so that it is hefted slightly upwards.

    "Know this!" Alyssa Voidreaper's voice now booms out with magical assistance. "Here, and now, I declare myself Supreme Sorceress! And! Master of the Claw of Dominion!"

    The newly arrived Druchii slacken slightly as they stare up at her, as well as at the coven and flying Druchii nobility flying behind her.

    "You…," Direblaze sputters. "You…,"

    An elbow nudges you, and when you glance back you see a wearied Sadrina as she looks up at you, half-crouched as she does her best to bind a great many wounds on Kerillian's body.

    "This is my fault," the Handmaiden tells you bitterly, making you blink down at her.

    "What?"

    "Look at this," she gestures out at the ruination all around the Control Locus, a grimace on her face. "We should have just let them go. I thought the chance….,:" she shakes her head before looking back at you with an absolutely wretched expression. "I've killed you. I've killed you all."

    Kerillian slowly gets up to her feet, huffing deeply and swaying where she stands.

    "I'm…fine…," the Asrai lies. "Just needed…to catch my breath. I can…,"

    "We're not dead yet," you tell the Asur, patting her on the shoulder. "And, if it helps, I did kill him."

    "I saw," Sadrina hiccups out a sad little laugh, wiping at her eyes before she fully stands again. "If nothing else, his death is a grand boon to all lives across the entire world, from coast to coast and beyond. Your reward would – should – be vast, if the Asur ever heard of it."

    "They still might," you grunt, as the last three Whitewings manage to drag themselves over to you, the last Pegasus remaining nursing a broken wing.

    (A New Power Rises: 56-Screamtaker Slain(20)-Supporters(15)+Direblaze Pride(15)=36/100)

    The clattering of steel makes the three of you look over to see the new arrivals saluting, some more willingly than others, up towards Voidreaper. Including the Lord Direblaze, though you can't quite tell if he's gritting his teeth within his helm or not.

    "Then again," you swallow, shaking your head slightly as the new Supreme Sorceress then wrinkles her nose as she looks down at the last remaining interlopers.

    "As for these…creatures. They have served their purpose. Perhaps we will see what use they can be for…others," she smirks, leering down at Sadrina and Kerillian before glaring over at the rest of you. "But then…perhaps not."

    And with another gesture from her staff, a gesture mirrored by a great many other of the sorceresses in her coven, a handful of new tears open in reality while magic begins to rain down upon you all. Falling in line with their new leader, the Darkshards which accompanied Direblaze up the staircase also turn their repeating crossbows upon your group. As they do so, the tears widen just enough to let through giggling, dancing, twirling Daemonettes of Slaanesh. Each of them leaves behind them a pink and purple streak of perfumed and quite possibly acidic air behind them as they come.

    (Absolute Barrage: 50+Exhausted and Wounded Heroes(10)-Single Target AO(20)-Daemons(15)-Darkshards(10)=15/100)

    You are blown off of your feet in the first few seconds. Bokdrungni does its best, but it can only do so much against so much all at once. There is a squealing scream from the Pegasus that is quickly cut off, while the three Bretonnians go down in a bleeding heap almost immediately after the barrage begins. You aren't even sure if they're alive considering one is smacked by a column of black flame, another bounced by an invisible but deafening blast of pure sound that tears the already heavily damaged armor to pieces, and the third simply collapses like a puppet with cut strings from no discernable force. Sadrina and Kerillian fare somewhat better, their incredible elven dexterity and grace granting them survival for the first few seconds, but both take a few glancing hits from the bolts. It lasts until a small fireball hits Kerillian in the chest, then detonates and cuts off her scream while flipping her backwards several times to land in a smoking heap. Sadrina manages to get a shot off with her bow, but bolt is deflected with a negligent gesture from Voidreaper even as the blue bolt flew unerringly towards her. It instead falls to the ground and dissipates in a quite poof rather than the characteristic explosion. The response is a trio of amber spears, two of which Sadrina manages to dodge, while the third pierces through her armor and stomach and sends her skidding backwards on her knees next to Kerillian. It takes less than ten seconds before you are left all alone, standing there, a multitude of bolts sticking out of the Ledstali armor you wear. The daemonettes haven't even reached you all yet. But just as abruptly as it began, the barrage ceases, Voidreaper having raised her hand. The daemonettes freeze in place as she exerts inexorable control over them.

    "Most amusing," she chuckles, voice a slight bit huskier than that of Screamtaker. "Tell me, human. Do you prefer your death screaming…or quick?"

    You glance back at those fallen all around you, your thoughts swirling. Your friends. Your family. Your children. Your brother.

    Natasha.

    Vainly, you seek her out through the soul bond, even as you notice the sky beginning to shift around you, or rather as the Ark does with great earthquake-like rumbles.

    Ever, ever so faintly, you feel something through the soul bond. Dim.

    But there.

    "Standing," you spit on the ground.

    An ugly look crosses her face as you reach for a Hohenzollern cocktail bottle, one of the only ones to survive thus far, and pop the cork to drink it all in one go.

    "Then we shall do our best to accommodate," she inhales deeply and raises her staff once more, a curt shake of her head down at Direblaze.

    More than a dozen sorceresses raise their own staffs as well.

    (Spears of Amber: 35-Sole Target(10)+18=48/100)
    (Master Rune of Skella Valayadottir Activates! 3! Failure!)

    Ledstali shatters and breaks as thick spears of Ghur smash into and in one case through you, despite a wild flare from the Rune of Valayadottir. Blood splatters the ground.

    (Minor Wound Sustained! Light of Summer Activates! 70! Success!)

    But the Light of Summer glows, and you feel your body begin the process of mending…

    (Fireballs: 12-10+18=20/100)
    (Master Rune of Skella Valayadottir Activates! 6! Success!)

    In time for you to catch a number of burning spheres to be absorbed directly into Bokdrungni which you then throw back as quickly as you can towards those attacking you, rewarded with a pained scream of surprise from one of the sorceresses. Which is more than enough for the Darkshards to begin firing again.

    (Spirit Leeches: 50-10+18-10=48/100)
    (Master Rune of Skella Valayadottir Activates! 5! Failure!)

    But then you are wheezing out in pain as your very life force is being ripped out of your body by multiple different sorceresses. You can literally feel as portions of what might well be your very soul are being ripped out of you, as well as more bolts of the Druchii hitting home.

    (Minor Wound Sustained! Light of Summer Activates! 17! Failure!)
    (Burning Gazes: 64-10+18-10=62/100)
    (Master Rune of Skella Valayadottir Activates! 6! Success!)

    Blinding bolts of pure light, pure Hysh you think, strike you as well. Or rather, they strike Bokdrungni as the work of Kragg the Grim takes in the shaped magic and directs it, right back to those who sought to use the magic against you. More cries of pain escape the sorceresses in question, before there is an audible snarl followed by a great many daemonic throats lustfully groaning in orgasmic relief as the daemonettes are released to charge towards you. They laugh and giggle like a romantic partner might, some of them at least, while others simply hum as they lope forwards.

    (Doombolts: 33-10+18-10-Daemonettes(15)=16/100)
    (Master Rune of Skella Valayadottir Activates! 1! Failure!
    (Bokdrungni Activates! Rolled: 4! Failure!)

    What follows is pure pain. Doombolts begin to blow apart your armor, hitting your body with incredible force while burning you with pure Dhar. At the same time, bolts from Darkshards begin striking all over you in the exposed portions, too much damage done too quickly for the Ledstali to repair itself. Then there are tearing claws and teeth and hooves from the daemonettes as they literally begin peeling the armor open and off of you. The sounds emerging from the daemonettes as they do so is utterly unwholesome, some of them clearly getting off on the sensation of tearing you apart. And, to your absolute regret, you find yourself screaming as you are trying to fight them off.

    (Minor Wound Sustained! Light of Summer Activates! 40! Failure!)
    (Major Wound Sustained! Light of Summer Activates! 61! Failure!)

    "So soft!"

    "So hard!"

    "Such delicious flesh!"

    "Pickled! Spicy!"

    (Lightning Bolts: 40-10+18-10-Boosted Daemonettes(20)=18/100)
    (Master Rune of Skella Valayadottir Activates! 5! Failure!)
    (Bokdrungni Activates! Rolled: 5! Failure!)

    You can't see past the daemonettes surrounding you, but for a brief instant you can't see anything at all other than the burning pain which envelops you as a scream escapes you. Or it was almost a scream before it is forced into a coughing wheeze, a hole bored through your side, from one end to the other. Leaving charred ruin inside of you. A directed lightning bolt, you think, but you don't really have time to consider it overmuch. Not with the pain you are in, the desperate fighting you've been reduced to. Brain Wounder slashes and stabs, but you're felling far fewer daemonettes than you would ever hope for. Then you feel thin and dexterous fingers prowling around your side and lower back, then you watch as one of the daemonettes raises up the remaining Hohenzollern cocktail bottle and then with a shrug smashes it across your exposed face. Another, having taken the lighter used for the blastgun, guffaws drunkenly as they literally set your face and throat aflame.

    (Minor Wound Sustained! Light of Summer Activates! 85! Success!)
    (Major Wound Sustained! Light of Summer Activates! 22! Failure!)

    "Smells so good!"

    "Oh, oh, like roasting children in their cradles!"

    "Such a sweet scream! A symphony, a song! Sing, sing!"

    "Sing!"

    "Sing!"

    "Sing!"

    It is a chorus from all of the daemonettes, now. Cajoling, begging, demanding, urging, all of them seeking the sound of your screams.

    (Jaws of Gold: 4-10+18-10-20-Aflame(5)=-23/100)
    (Master Rune of Skella Valayadottir Activates! 6! Success!)
    (Bokdrungni Activates! Rolled: 2! Failure!)

    Booming bestial howls fill the air somewhere in the distance before very abruptly something shaped akin to a hound made of ethereal golden mist leaps upon you. Or at least, it begins to, its huge jaws preparing to clamp directly around your neck, before Bokdrungni moves itself to meet the bite. That charge ends with the spell creature disappearing into the gauntlet before a thrum and boom of magic erupts back out of the fingers to something you can't even see anymore through all the daemonettes attacking you. Hacking, tearing, ripping, with feet and talons and claws and teeth. Some are even dedicating themselves solely to tearing apart the Ledstali on you to expose more and more of you.

    (Minor Wound Sustained! Light of Summer Activates! 14! Failure!)
    (Major Wound Sustained! Light of Summer Activates! 27! Failure!)
    (Mortal Wound Sustained! Light of Summer Activates Automatically!)

    A scream rips out of you as a pair of the awful creatures all around you – clogging and cloying your senses with unnatural and overpowering scents and sounds – put hands around your neck.

    "No fun, no fun at all!"

    "Wonderful, wonderful!"

    "Away! Our rules, now, sweetling! Our play!"

    "It stinks of Her, of Them! Eugh!"

    And, to your utter horror, they tear the Light of Summer off your neck, even with it seeming to resist them with remarkable force. There is audible strain from the daemonettes before they seem to orgasm again as they succeed, and in a moment the relieving healing energies are taken from you. You had felt some of your wounds beginning to close, and they continue doing so even as the comforting presence of the necklace leaves you, but not all of them. Not even most of them, not now as you are being torn apart. Literally, physically, being torn apart. Right now, right here, you are in fact glad that the soul bond is so dim and distant, you don't know if you could bear her knowing and feeling what is happening to you now. As the flames and glass lick across your face, blinding you with fire, your eyelids melting, your tongue and lips burning away. As more and more of your flesh is ravaged and shredded by the razor scythe arms and taloned feet and needle point teeth of the daemonettes. Your ears are being burnt as well, the noise of everything practically deafening you.

    (A Great Many Spells: 31-10+18-10-20-5-Drawing Deep(5)=-1/100)
    (Master Rune of Skella Valayadottir Activates! 6! Success!)
    (Master Rune of Skella Valayadottir Activates! 2! Failure!)
    (Master Rune of Skella Valayadottir Activates! 6! Success!)
    (Master Rune of Skella Valayadottir Activates! 6! Success!)
    (Master Rune of Skella Valayadottir Activates! 1! Failure!)
    (Bokdrungni Activates! Rolled: 5! Failure!)

    Fire. Lightning. Flying blades. Strength flees you, your senses are overwhelmed and broken by too many different sources. A multitude of pains simply beyond your ability to even process, let alone understand or track accurately. Blood flies free, skin bruises and rips, muscle is shredded, and bones break. You are fighting. You know that much. You swear you feel Brain Wounder bite and cut as best it can here and there. You think you feel as Bokdrungni punches, stabs, and cuts. But you also feel as something leeches your strength from you, withering your body outright and reducing your struggles from a warrior more to that of a babe. Another scream comes as bars of burning fire slam into you in a great many segments, binding you in place now despite the Ledstali which has protected you so well up until this point. Burning you. Pinning you. All to the predations of the daemonettes and Druchii both. You can't speak, from the flames burning at your face and mouth, now beginning to burn its way into your throat.

    You can't even scream anymore.

    You can't call out to Sigmar, or any of the Gods, or anyone else.

    Struggling, fighting all the while, you feel almost disconnected from your own body.

    (Dying: 67-10+18-10-20-Greatly Enfeebled(20)-Extensive Flame Cage(20)=5/100)

    Magnus will be a good leader. You hope. You already know he is a good son.

    Anna might well shed a tear, but you know she will continue to work on regardless, which is something to be proud of in its own way.

    Alexandra, you so dearly wish you could tell her not to blame herself for this. Her armor did more for you than you could have imagined in such a short amount of time.

    Arthur will surely pray for your soul's passage to be swift and easy, and you already know that he has a wealth beyond all gold with his wife and children.

    Agatha. Alisa. You've no idea where they are right now, but they are surely powerful enough to live long and fruitful lives. Happy, possibly, though what that happiness takes the shape of you aren't entirely sure.

    Logan will have the rest of your family to take solace in. And, if you are very, very lucky, he might one day punch Gunthar in the face or something.

    Every single one of your grandchildren, every single one, flits through your mind one after the other, their whole lives ahead of them.

    If only there was a way to tell Urgdug not to blame himself either. Hells, he might get another title out of helping take a Black Ark.

    If….̶̪͛̾͆̒͛͑͐͆̔͛͝.̸͕͔̫̭͈̜̣̣̩̺̼͗́̉̓̈́̈́.̸͚̳̱̙̫̫͉̹̞͌̏̔̂̀.̴͕̮́̈́̀̐͋̿̇̾.̸̛͔͔̞̮̥͎̖̠͒̓̇̿͜.̵̺̻͕̱̫̗̳͍̏̌̿.̴̧̢̛̖̞̙͇̭̠͚̇̐̍̊͗̽̇̚̚͠.̸̡̛͎͎͊̒̾͌̕̚͠.̵̡̛̥̖̭̣̙̣̺̉͒͆̐͑.̴̝̙͕̹͎͍̎̏̂̎͂̕̕͝.̵̧̙́́̈̇̍̀̃̍.̷̟̳̙͔̰̃͜ͅ.̴̢̢̲͔͔͇̪̯̉͂̃̂̉͊̂͂̚̚͜.̶̰̏̃̊.̵̛̯̰͍̻̗̾̌͊̽̆̔̕.̸̙͓̞͎̫͇̞͖͈͛͊͒͂̄̈́̈́̿͝.̶̨̤̩͈̼͍̗̅̃͜


    ========================================================================​

    In the end, Frederick von Hohenzollern's last thoughts were of his wife, Natasha. Over a dozen daemonettes mercilessly, gleefully, joyfully proceeded to tear him to pieces. His armor, a wondrous gift from his daughter, was purposefully and steadily ripped asunder from him. The binding pieces, those core portions from which it would endlessly regenerate, were torn away and thrown to the side to be studied as idle curiosities by the sorceresses of the Druchii. The Runefang burned the daemons even to just touch, yet they sacrificed portions of themselves with macabre masochism to remove it from the dying man's grip, severing his hand at the wrist outright to ensure that same removal. The gauntlet he bore, that thing of hated dwarf artifice and defiance, was similarly removed along with the arm that it had guarded, though it would not seem to fully go inert until some time later, the glow of the runes banked like low burning coals.

    Alyssa Voidreaper was most gleeful at his death, and would take his corpse – what remained of it – to make a new flayed banner of h̴̛͈̗͈̀̽̐͊͑͠͝ͅį̶̟̭͚̬͍̯̱͉͕̟̒̆̃̈́̕s̷͖̙̏̎̄́̓̕ ̷͕̙̺̋̀̀


    ==========================================================​

    Your name is Magnus von Hohenzollern, and you can only watch in despair and confusion as the Black Ark leaves the shores of Ostland without any sign of your father's return

    =========================================================​

    GM Note: So sorry this took so long guys, I ̴̫͖̗̪͔͕̝̓̈́̽̅͛̈r̸͎̘̩̭̱͉͉͖̈̉̓͗̄̽̅̔́ẽ̴̡̝ͅa̵̰̮̤̱̟̅̚l̴̢͕͇͓̞̻̥̉͋̿̂̀͂l̵̛̬̞̣̖̓͋̽̏̒̓͂̚ẏ̵̡̨̫̬̻͈̦͉̰̫͎̆̽ ̷͖̩̰͑̉͐͐͝͠j̸̣͊́͋͋̿̓̚ȕ̸͕̮͕̘̻̤͈͛́͜ͅs̶̡̢̨̛̛͇̻̦͇͚̭̟͍͑̓̕t̵̢̲͙͖̩̙̹͌̿ͅ

    ==================================================================

    Death ȯ̵̰̟̭͐̅̐͌͂̓̃͘̕f̵̝̯̤̟̲̟̫͎̖̘̈̍̆͐̊̇͝͝ͅ ̴̮̅ḁ̴̡̛̛̲̪͍̹̟͎̱̟̹̐

    =================================================================

    Spikes, Horns, and Ṣ̷̢̧̡̲̭̹͔̻̬͓̱͕̭̤̫̰̩̬̮̙͎͖̪̯̪̟̯̭͇̟̣̤̲̠͈̫̪͖̮͙̥̜̋̀͐͊͂͋͑̓̓̿̓̓̑̚͘͜͝ͅt̶̢̨͖͕̯̹͕̔͛̈́̂̿̅̈́͊͋̇̕͝ơ̸̡̻͚͎̫̗̹̟͙̭͗̐̅͗̄̾̊̓͊̉̄́̅̏͑́̀̕̚̚n̷̡̢̧̦̖̙͓̗̻͚̲͙͕͍̹̯̓̀̓́̆̋̔̈́̓͌̓̕͜ͅë̶̢̨̩̪̣́͋̏̏̓̓̎͐͘͘̕̚͝͠ͅͅ ̷̡̡̢̙̭̝͕̞̪̻̘͚̙̙͚̓̅́̑̇̄͆̅͋͗̄̅̾̂̅̄̀̕̚͜͝͠͝ͅ6̶̡̨̧͚̳̞̙̯̗̹͚̰͈̭̳͖̫͙̫̙̤̭̮̣̼͎̱̫͔͉̻̲̬͔͍͓͈̩̟̃̃̔́̈́̈̈́̾̚͝͠ͅ









    No.​
     
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  • Threadmarks
    • FATE. POINT. BURNED.
  • Threadmarks
    • THE EDICT STANDS
    The Cloud Palaces of Asuryan are sparse, walked by those judged worthy, and yet the one called Creator watches all and more from the Diamond Throne. The Bloody Fields of the Bloody-Handed are flush this day with their dead, but so too are a number of the darker realms held by the Cytharai. Another stands close, far closer than usual, cloak raised high to usher those own souls on. Should they reach the Heavens, it shan't be these Heavens.

    THE EDICT STANDS​

    He Sees All, Does He Not?

    Doesn't He?

    THE EDICT STANDS​

    The Stage, The Stage, The Stage is full.

    The audience, the players.

    The players, the audience.

    But where hath the Shadow Dancer gone?

    THE EDICT STANDS​

    From the Maze, spills the Mist. It spills and spills and spills, spreading as the mortal mist might across the realms.

    But where hath their Mistress gone?

    THE EDICT STANDS​

    The ever-burning gaze is bright, is it not? Judgement falls as a meteor from the Heavens. None dare gainsay, not within the sight of the Diamond Throne, not within those who stand within that hallowed court. The defiance of those who stand apart, the refutation of authority, remains as it ever has. With gnashing teeth and wrathful roar, cruelty and hatred and wrath and ruin strain to do more.

    And yet...

    THE EDICT STANDS​

    No interference will be allowed. Not for the children. They need not find their way utterly without aid, but neither shall they be led by the hand and nose and heart and mind so fully as the covetous and prideful would demand.

    For

    THE EDICT STANDS​

    Yet the mist grows now, growing further, farther. The shadows it casts dance and writhe and shift.

    The gaze of the Keeper of the Balance is all-encompassing.

    The Emperor of the Heavens narrows his gaze at the sounds of duplicitous laughter.

    THE EDICT STANDS​

    But these remain true:

    Direct contact is forbidden, and of course the loyal obey.

    A Mother can still care for her children, even if they are made terrible and cruel.

    Even if they are made terrible and cruel and cold, even if they are so distant and disconnected from their Mother that they disdain her, are taught to hate her, and try to find succor and meaning in other things. Even if some of her own children are responsible for that same state of affairs.

    THE EDICT STANDS​

    But this has nothing to do with those children/It has everything to do with them.

    This matter concerns another. A favor earned, a favor granted.

    All the Heavens and all the Underworlds tremble when the Crone passes by, and all the Gods shudder when she laughs.

    She.

    Laughs.

    Now.

    For how else can she react at the audacity? The bravery? Such magnificent foolishness. To do this now, to seek out, to whisper. A deal made elsewhere, a performance paid for and kindness shown and returned. Rise, rise, rise doth the mists, and so the shadows grow. The Hunter comes, for all his irritation - the thorn that struck the lion's toe - and yet love compels him as it always has. His shoulders wide, his back broad, a shield from sight in collusion with mist and shadow and laughter.

    All so that another may steal away.

    Not in her entirety.

    No.

    Just a few words.

    Seeking to find, hoping beyond hope, to see what flowers may still grow in cold cruelty and wrathful blood.

    Imagine the wonder of the Mother as she seeks out that self-same essence within Her within another.

    It is battered. It is bruised. It is so shrunken and malnourished, bloody and dying.

    But not dead.

    Not yet.

    And so the word comes from the heavens, carrying with it so much more than a word. It is the word and beyond the word.

    A whisper from the Grove, in the scant amount of time the attention can be hidden from:

    Compassion
    ​
     
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  • Threadmarks
    • Too busy at the moment to actually read the update unfortunately, but I'd like to parrot @EVA-Saiyajin's sentiments in my appreciation for your continued work on this. Now I really have a reason to get my work done.
     
    Well, now we know. For aid given freely, for compassion for kindness' sake and friendship followed in spite of all, and the salvation of an avatar of the mother goddess, a second chance in sight of a chosen of her priestess.
     
    I am so excited to read this. I have been reading and rereading the last few chapters since the last update I am so excited to see this.

    Edit: this was so epic I have no word. None at all.
     
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    Hahaha.

    Freddy won Kuronus respect by facing Orion the way he did, so he ran interference, and the shit he's done and the fact he's technically not one of their children was just enough that they could sneak a little intervention across the veil.

    After all, he's not one of their children, it's not a violation of the Edict to give him a little boost in return for services rendered.

    Good god though, this really does feel like Freddy's final adventure. The question is if he can get as many people out as he can on the way.
     
    Spikes, Horns, and Stone...5
  • Threadmarks
    • Spikes, Horns, and Stone 5​

    Į̶̞͙̹̭̼̜̙͍͉̋̊̔͒̂̈̀͐̆͑̒͌̉̚͝f̵̩̯̫̥̝̅̑́͒̅̈́̑̎̂̑̄͐͋.̵̳̬̻̽̋̈́̂̌̾̈̑̋̽̀.̴̡̪͖̰̲̇.̵͈̘̝̩̘̏̏͌̎̊̋̈́
    ̷̨͔͉͕͕̦̬̽̅̾̀̑͒̍͛̿̅̕̕͝͝
    ̷̢̢̧̱͕͍͙̺̩͎̑͊́͂̃̅͘͘


    "Enough!"

    The haughty shout is followed shortly thereafter by a booming sound, and suddenly you are free of assault. There are disappointed screeches, truly acidic screams, and hatred-filled growls as the daemons are flung free of you. The response to that is a powerful blast of magic which you can't even truly perceive other than the noise of daemonic pain reaching your bloodied and burning ears. There is another woosh of air, the air crackling with yet more magic, and the sounds of the daemonettes cease entirely. No clattering talons on the ground, no hooves, no breathy whispers or husky yells or anything of the sort. But it is not something you can take advantage of. Not like this. You are dying, and they took the Light of Summer from you, the damage wrought upon your body enough to keep you from moving at all. The will might be there, but your body is utterly failing you - though only after you ended up inadvertently failed it.

    What comes next is a fluttering of wings, the clopping of hooves on the rooftop's stone, and the soft sound of leather and cloth sliding off of a leather saddle. Clicking heels strike against the stone, metal ones, and then suddenly and blessedly the fire which has by now mostly melted your entire face and throat is banished from you. Not that you can enjoy it, your body still screaming from its multitude of absolute pains. You cannot see, for your eyes are burnt ruin. You cannot smell, for your nose is melted desolation. Your tongue is a burnt and shredded thing, barely existing at all, though you can hear, for the daemonettes had greatly enjoyed their work and seemed to want to make sure you could hear ever second of it. At most, you, the mighty warrior that you have been for decades, can manage is a few twitches here and there. You don't hear the damned repeating crossbows, however.

    In fact, you hear almost nothing at all but the heaving breath of a Pegasus, and the clicking of those metal heels as they come closer.

    Followed by a slow, soul-deep weary sigh. A grip clenches tightly enough on something, a haft of a staff perhaps, tight enough you can hear leather and bones both creak. There is the sound of a loud swallow, followed by a second sigh.

    "Still alive," you hear what must be a sorceress muttering before there is a blessed, blessed wave of energies that washes over you.

    It is a Wind you are quite intimately familiar with at this point.

    Ghyran.

    It is not enough to let you rise. Not even close. But you feel as death is staved off a short while longer, your eyes being repaired enough to see a straight-backed Druchii standing over you. One of the most unhappy grimaces you've scarcely ever imagined possible is on her face. She looks over you, shakes her head, and then briefly scans the rest of the rooftop. At the same time, you see that she actually stands alone herself, though you can't much move your head at the moment either. A bolt of rage spikes through your heart, however, when you see her hold up the Light of Summer in one hand before tucking it into a pouch on one of her Dark Pegasus' saddlebags. It grows worse when she lifts up Brain Wounder, previously torn from your hands, and straps it into place on the side of the bags with a flick of her wrist and animated leather strips. She clucks her tongue once more before setting her shoulders.

    The sky is moving too quickly, you realize, heart sinking. The Ark is fully in motion, then. It is moving at speeds that any of your ships would struggle to manage, and yet there is not a single sound of the waves breaking or shifting, nor of the wind.

    A third sigh escapes the sorceress as she looks down at you, tossing Bokdrungni into another bag, her grimace growing worse.

    "I am going to regret this," she huffs to herself, a helpless chuckle more appropriate for someone standing at the gallows preparing for the drop than a sorceress that clearly just helped usurp control of a Black Ark. "Damnation."

    Then she tilts her head back, sighs again while looking at the sky, and then looks down at you while raising a hand.

    "Well. There might be a chance. Which is more than there was before," she says as she casts another spell that you have no power to resist.

    And so you find sleep claiming you by force, but it is not strong enough to stop you from seeing as she begins walking toward Sadrina before your eyes are forced shut by slumber's will.

    ============================================================
    ​
    Anna von Hohenzollern was caked by three solid inches of gore from head to toe, and still stood on top of the Vapor Tank she'd taken as her mount for the latter portion of the battle. She blinked, slowly, as the Claw of Dominion absolutely sprinted its way back across the water. There were strange new defenses activating now, to further obscure it. Banks of magically created mist were covering up most of the bottom portion, while manipulations of low-hanging clouds, illusions, and more were being utilized to cover those now covered by the first measure. It was a staggering level of magical power, sophistication, and depth. Perfectly as expected for a structure animated and further developed for thousands of years after a truly apocalyptic level of magical usage. She exhaled sharply with her nose, expelling grey matter from a three hundred year old Druchii raider who had raped and raided his way across the entire planet from her nostrils. With her left hand, she wiped away organ shreds from a two thousand year old slaughterer of innocents from her left eye, while her right hand scrubbed off some small measure of a thousand year old beast accursed by one of the elven Gods.

    Below her, the deathspinner attachment of the tank had finally become so full of gore that it had jammed completely, and they were now having an entire team of engineers trying to clear and clean it out without the deathspinner starting up again while their arms were inside of it.

    "Sam," Anna announced, making the weary and frankly still terrified looking halfling to pop out of the confines of the tank.

    "Y-yes, Master Hohenzollern?" He stammered, looking quite green beneath all the red and black.

    "Make a note," she tilted her head down at the deathspinner. "Crop harvesting device, powered. Deathspinner-adjacent possibility for civilian usage."

    "N...now?"

    Anna blinked at him, slowly.

    "Is there a better time than now?"

    "Anna! ANNA!"

    A great many soldiers turned to see Arthur von Hohenzollern galloping up to the vapor tank, horse frothing at the mouth, eyes lolling about with exhaustion and fear. He brought with him Greatswords and Black Guard and more.

    "ANNA!"

    "I am here, and I can hear you," she replied, digging out a clean glove from her belt that she could put on to begin cleaning her ears of the all the detritus. "What is it?"

    "Father!" Arthur shouted, pointing wildly at the retreating Black Ark. "He...he didn't come back! We - there's been no sign! Oskana alone should have - we-," he sputtered.

    "Ah. Yes. That."

    "We need - the fleet, can they-,"

    Anna raised a hand to interrupt, flicking her fingers to remove what must have been part of a Druchii's liver at some point.

    "No fleet left, brother," she jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "Only a few broken ships. And that fleet," she pointed at the still unmoving Black Ark on the shore, "Isn't going to - well, they're going to try," she amended as she saw a handful of the stolen Druchii ships try to turn about and chase the increasingly distant Black Ark. "But they're likely to fail. I ran the numbers in my head - to get here from Nordland, they surely exhausted themselves heavily. Not to mention mass-boarding the Ark with almost all personnel. We don't have the sailors, don't have the energy, don't have the speed."

    Arthur's mouth opened and closed silently at her.

    All around them, the soldiers of Ostland were growing silent as the realization at what had just occurred begin to spread.

    Anna exhaled lightly through her nose and glanced over at the Ark again, then towards the South.

    "Unfortunate. We will have to inform Count von Kessel and the Eonir that they invaded and successfully claimed the wrong Ark. And Uncle Urgdug that he helped capture the Ark that father did not elect to go charging in almost alone on."

    She paused again, and blinked.

    "Ah," she said, "Magnus shall likely be...devastated, or the like."

    "Are you saying," Arthur said softly. "That..."

    "You are a High Priest of Morr," Anna blinked at him. "I thought you were accustomed to the concept of death amongst family. Though," she cocked her head to the side. "Depending on the level of nuisance father made himself, they may keep him alive for torture purposes. Ransom, possibly."

    Arthur ran a hand through his blood-slickened hair, trying futilely to wipe clean his bloody face as well.

    "This is...,"

    "We won," Anna said, looking around at the sea of bodies around them all. "Huzzah."

    To Be Continued...
     
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