Spikes, Horns, and Stone 32
"I'll do it," Magnus announced, silencing the discussion, all of the knights turning to look at him.
An approving full-toothed grin was the first response of Captain Mia while the High Guardian folded his arms over his chest, the High Seeker visibly frowning. Commander Argyle seemed somewhat relieved, surprisingly to some, though Magnus knew that it had more to do with his care for his fellow knights of the North Star than anything as demeaning as cowardice. All the while, the beastmen continued to chant and cheer their precious leader, who once more slammed his crude but deadly weapons together to create a dissonant screech audible through the thunder and rain. It was undoubtably quite unsettling to the exhausted and wounded Talabeclanders, but the knights that Magnus had brought with him were as of yet made of sterner stuff.
"However, knowing of beastmen and their love for ambushes, cunning, and total lack of honor," Magnus continued, "I want as many of you mounted up as possible and ready to ride the moment they attempt treachery."
"At once, my prince!" The High Seeker slammed his fist to his chest, nodding and turning to leave immediately to his troops.
"They may well take that as provocation," Grand Master Kaiser cautioned, though Magnus could see the battle lust and honest revulsion at the existence of the beastmen in his eyes.
"Perhaps," Magnus said while cupping his chin for a moment, "But the wargor has already brought his warherd out into the open. It may well be that the moment I leave our defenses, they'll start to charge themselves regardless."
"Fair enough, my lord," Kaiser saluted, and turned to start marshalling the Bull Warriors once more.
"May the Gods be with you," Commander Argyle saluted before rushing off himself.
Which only left Captain Mia of the White Wolves at their makeshift council, the woman herself coming over to bump shoulder to shoulder with Magnus as he reached for his helmet.
"I'd be wary, prince," she said to him simply, the humor dropping from her face.
"I am, my lady, this I swear," Magnus said wryly as his helmet slid over his head, though unfortunately his hair was already thoroughly soaked by that point.
"Oh I know," she snorted before shaking her head, the thick fur cape of her armor so sodden with the rain that it was practically stuck to her body. "Ulric be with you, Hohenzollern."
Magnus nodded before he began to stalk out from the camp, taking out
Stonebreaker and letting it rest upon one of his shoulders. There was little point in carrying his brace of pistols, not in this weather. Finest of the matchlocks possible that they were, the wind and rain were superior to their capacity to fire in any regard whatsoever. That did not, however, mean that he gave up either his knives or the masterwork that his sister Alexandra had crafted for him. For all that the saber was not his primary weapon, he had always been as diligent as possible in practicing with every one of his weapons. Its edge was more than keen, and it had already been the death of many a beastman, goblin, and bandits besides.
"
ORTHRAK!" Came the bestial chorus once more.
"
MAGNUS!" Replied a new howling cry, one that seemed to surprise some of the beastmen given how their heads swiveled to and fro.
Its source was, perhaps unsurprisingly, Captain Mia, who had raised her cavalry hammer high in the air, and was followed by the rest of her White Wolves.
"
MAGNUS!" The Wolves of Ulric boomed once more, now joined by the Knights of the North Star.
Incensed, the beastmen snarled and stamped their hooves, some of them pointing and shouting as Magnus walked between the stakes and wagons, the runes of
Stonebreaker glowing through the rain and gloom. At the edge of the warherd, Orthrak waited. The symbol of Chaos glimmered unnaturally upon the no doubt human-skin banner stretched between the two poles tied to the wargor's back, shining with a brightness and light that no natural dye would create. It burned at the eyes just to look at, making them water even in the rain, forcing the eye away to stop the effect. If that was meant to intimidate, or frighten, it did not work on Magnus. Instead he simply found that old rage at the impure and the unclean rising up in him, that which the priests of a great many Gods, not just Sigmar, spoke out against. Though, in this case, in this place and time, he was certainly heartened to fight the beastmen as Sigmar Himself might once have – though
Stonebreaker was of course no
Ghal Maraz, it was a hammer of dwarf artifice nonetheless.
"
ORTHRAK!" Was the roar, now as much a contest as praise for their leader.
"
MAGNUS!" Bellowed the Imperials right back, joined further by the Bull Warriors and the Knights Raven.
The Black Guard of Morr had been forced to leave behind the majority of their forces, those being their unmounted foot knights, but those that had come south to Talabecland still made an intimidating sight despite their silence and lesser numbers. Now they emerged into the torchlight, the flickering flames dancing across their shining black armor and the barding of their warhorses. They formed up with the others, and though it had been harried and swift, many of the knights awoken from their desperately needed slumber, they were knights nonetheless and so had leapt into action to mount up with admirable speed. It was entirely possible that the inhuman eyes of the beastmen were capable of seeing just what they had roused better than Magnus could.
"
ORTHRAK!"
"
MAGNUS!"
Magnus raised his hammer high.
"ORTHRAAAAAAK!" He roared, and the call and response ceased, save for the hard breathing and snorting from beastmen and horses alike.
It took a considerable amount of strength, but that was something Magnus had a goodly apportionment of by the grace of the Gods, and so he levered
Stonebreaker down and forward until it was perpendicular and pointing directly at the wargor, who's bloodshot square-pupiled eyes narrowed. Perhaps more could have been said, some kind of loud boast, perhaps a denouncement of the Dark Gods, or any other sort of thing. But Magnus said nothing and did nothing more than retract his grip so that both hands were on the haft of his hammer in a ready stance. He didn't need to do more than that. The wargor was tall and broad, larger than any of the bestigors near him, and frankly larger than many a wargor that Magnus had seen in the past. This close, the young Hohenzollern could see glimmers of fetid darkness clinging ever so faintly to the weapons that the beastman wielded.
"RAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!" Orthrak roared and charged, leaving the rest of his bestigors behind.
"Come on, then," Magnus said before inhaling sharply and as fully as he could before setting his feet and moving to countercharge.
(A Duel In The Rain: 61+Magnus Martial(17)-Orthrak the Wargor(14)+/-[1d2=2]=+Sucking Mud(10)=74/100)
There was very little pleasant about fighting in the muddy ground just off the main road, especially when it was the kind of muddy ground created after what might well have been multiple days of unrelenting downpour. It could seep into the smallest gaps of the armor, becoming a disgusting chilly slime that stuck to the sweaty skin and hair. It could dip and drift, making even those with the surest steps skid around inside of it with every movement, latching around the legs like a drowning man to driftwood. In this case, however, Magnus was pleased enough to have it as the wargor's left hoof come down and simply not rise up as quickly as it had intended. All things considered, it was not a fatal misstep, though it could have been. In the end, all it did was provide a spare half-second of jittered movement, one mostly disguised beneath a pair of huge arms swinging gigantic weapons with disturbing speed. The maul slammed down next to where Magnus' knee might have been, and instead only scraped badly against the armor there while sending up a small plume of freezing wet mud to splash upon them both. The prince of Ostland swung
Stonebreaker up to trust that its construction was doughty enough to stand up to a hacking slash that could have possibly cut straight through his body, and instead there was a loud screech as the blade struck the shaft and was stopped cold. Even as Orthrak tried to drag the blade downwards to cut off Magnus fingers, he readjusted his grip to choke the head of the hammer and in a flash drew one of his knives with his suddenly free hand and drove it to the hilt – and then some – into one of the exposed parts of the wargor's torso, the clattered metal plates strapped to the body not covering everything.
Disgustingly, the matted fur, so clotted with blood and debris and unholy nature aside, was so thick that it was difficult to tell precisely where it ended and skin and flesh began.
But that border was crossed, somewhere, as black blood squirted out and around Magnus' armored fingers while a short roar of pain emerged from the wargor's mouth.
(A Duel In The Rain: 64+17-Minor Wounded Orthrak(12)+/-[1d2=1]=-10=59/100)
Followed shortly by hunching forward so fast that Magnus didn't quite understand it was a headbutt until that thorny forest of horns had slammed into his armor so hard he felt it in his bones, a brief starburst of whiteness flaring in his vision from the concussive force. His legs slid underneath him, nearly sending him backwards into the mud entirely, unable to set himself in time to either deflect or try and block the blow outright. Instead, he let out a quiet shout of pain himself as some of the horns managed to punch deep holes into his plate armor, small fragments of metal falling and disappearing into the churning mud to mix with his own blood as well. His blood's emergence into the air were like candles of heat pressed against his own body, emerging from his chest, thankfully on the wrong side of his heart. As near as Magnus could tell, his lung hadn't gotten punctured, but little more than that he could be sure of.
As it was?
He'd suffered far worse at the hands of his own family during sparring.
At times, during practice, he'd been allowed the soothing touch of
The Light of Summer, but more often than not he'd learned to not rely on it at all.
(A Duel In The Rain: 75+17-12+/-[1d2=2]=+10=90/100)
There was, perhaps, a note of confusion amidst the bloodlust and bestial ferocity in Orthrak's eyes as Magnus grit his teeth and plainly ignored the blood coming from his chest to take his choked grip around
Stonebreaker and drive the head of the hammer right into the lightly armored throat of the wargor. This time, he was able to find his footing, somehow reaching a single spot of solid ground beneath the mud around their ankles, and turned his hip and whole body into the act. Metal shattered again, and the wargor's roaring became a gagged bleat that transformed into a squeal of pain through bloody teeth, the latter was evidently caused by biting its own tongue given the wriggling hunk of muscle that came flopping out behind its lips. Magnus snarled himself, and in a maneuver he'd practiced time and again until it was as fast as his father's drawing of
Brain Wounder, slid the saber his sister had forged free of its sheathe and carved a ruinous red line along the wargor's stomach and chest, reversed his grip on the rain-slick hilt, and stabbed the saber deep like a fishhook.
Orthrak stumbled back in pain, and Magnus could hear a lot more yelling around him, the roars and cajoling of the other beastmen for their leader getting louder and louder, notes of outrage and fury unmistakable amidst what had before been fear and pride. There were also cheers and shouts of approval from the knights, Captain Mia perhaps the loudest of them all. Magnus dearly hoped that everyone with a horse was properly roused and ready at this point. There wouldn't be nearly as much space to build up a lot of speed, but it would have to do. Hopefully. In the meantime, he was too busy to split his focus elsewhere for too long.
"Come now, where is your beastly pride, Orthrak?!" He called out to the wargor who let out another pained roar while trying to pull the saber free, burning eyes turning towards him and narrowing in an all-too-human glare. "Are you not supposed to be some champion of the Dark Gods?!"
"Eath…your…hearth!" Orthrak growled in broken Reikspiel with a half-bitten off tongue.
"Try it!" Magnus swept
Stonebreaker out and to the side, spreading his arms out in challenge.
(A Duel In The Rain: 58+17-Badly Wounded Orthrak(8) +/-[1d2=2]=+10=77/100)
Beastmen were not human.
It was moments like this that fully reminded one of it, beyond their vile misshapen forms, beyond the dark inhuman malice and hatred in their eyes, or the grotesqueness of their deeds. A creature who's fur could become so matted with blood and dirt and offal that it hardened like armor, with some of the greater examples of their kind that Magnus had witnessed in the past practically seemed as protected as plate armor might have on a man with their hides alone. Who wielded weapons in one hand that many men would struggle to lift with two, not even considering the oily black aura that had infused the assuredly and most literally damned things. For despite the saber plunged into his stomach, the fact that Orthrak was still struggling to breath through a badly crushed throat, a tongue half-bitten off, and a dagger in the side, the wargor came on with a rattling raspy roar. Magnus raised
Stonebreaker, and attacked, yet even in that found himself having to cut off more than a few swings and jabs to block and parry or outright dodge back from the insane and seemingly tireless ferocity that his enemy brought to bear.
It could not last forever, thank Sigmar, but damned if Orthrak didn't make Magnus
work for it.
His right pauldron was nearly dented inwards to reverse itself from an glancing maul strike that could have split his helm open instead had it not been nearly as wild a swing. A powerful desperate sword swing carved a heavy rent into his breastplate and the layers beneath, and Magnus had to grit his teeth at the burning sensation as his skin was opened up in a deceptively shallow cut. Despite just barely parting the skin, it burned far more than a purely mundane weapon ought to have left him, a sensation that began to spread outwards from where the blow was struck. Some sort of poison, perhaps, or the blasphemous blessings laid upon the blade. Another pounding blow of the maul splashed deep into the mud, the spray of wet earth splashing upon them both to the point, coating them in it. Not enough, however, to mute the burning runes of
Stonebreaker as Magnus thrust out with the hammer to catch around one of the wargor's knees and drag the bastard off balance with the head, only to sweep the hammer back upwards to crack a solid strike against his jaw, sending shattered teeth flying everywhere.
Even then, still, the wargor did not fall, assuredly some kind of horrid blessing of the Dark Gods empowering the damned creature's toughness and constitution.
No, that only came when Orthrak stumbled back from the blow, trying to shake their head to regain their bearings, and thus was not able to stop Magnus from finally being able to swing his hammer in a full and heavy arc, straight downwards onto the wargor's head.
Which subsequently shattered like an overripe melon in all directions.
"SIGMAAAAAAAAR!" Magnus roared in triumph before, during, and after the blow fell.
(Beastmen Treachery: 50+Slain Wargor(15)+Inspired Troops(10)-Treacherous Preparations(10)-Bestial Bravery(10)+Significant Numerical Superiority(10)+Gryphon Slam(5)+Multiple Knightly Orders(20)=90/100)
Immediately following that, the son of Frederick von Hohenzollern spun his hammer in his grip and slammed it into the chest of a gor that had immediately begun to charge him, caving in their chest so powerfully that portions of the spine were blasted backwards out of the body. With another step, he withdrew the saber from the dead wargor's body and slashed out at a pair of ungors that had tried to approach with crude swords and shields, beheading one and striking through the collarbone of the other. At which point he let it remain in the ungor as they fell to their knees, dying, and swung
Stonebreaker about again to begin laying about him at all the gors and ungors that were trying to take vengeance upon him. An act which saw at least five more dead and many more crippled before the thundering of the world ceased to be purely that of the storm above or the hooves of the rampaging beastmen but the crashing wave of steel, horseflesh, and courage that was multiple knightly orders came slamming down into them. Enraged as the beastmen had been, outraged as they had been, the spears they might have set against a cavalry charge were turned the wrong direction. Then a gryphon appeared from the sky, a short stretch into the air enough for Octaine to crash down like a meteor to fight alongside his rider.
A few minutes later, the beastmen dead or fled, Magnus found himself sitting down heavily upon a soaked bedroll once more, leaning himself against a gryphon's flank with Captain Mia's naked hand against his bare chest, his largely ruined breastplate hauled off and her gauntlet tugged free. She was not the only woman present, either, as a stern-faced matron of Shallya who had long accompanied the Bull Warriors on campaign and quest both was present and pressing a calloused liver-spotted hand against Magnus' forehead. Two of the warrior priests of Morr seconded to the Black Knights and the Knights Raven respectively had also presented themselves, though they were stood back and chanting with rosary beads in their hands and heads bowed. All of which was because of the rapidly puckering and discolored skin and flesh across Magnus' front, the pain of which had gotten worse and worse with every heartbeat until it felt like he was being pressed to a smoking pan as a cut of meat. Not the worst burns he'd suffered, but still incredibly unpleasant.
"Away, away with you, bastard," Captain Mia growled under her breath, as a flickering silvery white fire briefly sparked to life around her hand.
(Banishing Curses And Poisons: 42+Captain Mia Piety(14)+Matron Gertrude Piety(14)+Warrior Priests of Morr(15)+Survivor of Fatal Poisons(20)=105/100)
Magnus slowly unclenched his teeth as the pain faded, and his wound began to heal, letting out a relieved sigh. The priests of Morr ceased their chanting and bowed to him before immediately turning and removing themselves, for as members of the Order of the Garden, they had taken it upon themselves to at least try and corral the corrupted dead bodies of the slain beastmen to keep their taint from being nearly so spread out. That, and likely see to the casualties that had been suffered before the priestesses of Shallya could save them. Speaking of the latter, Matron Gertrude inclined her head and patted Magnus' cheek before withdrawing from somewhere on her person a hard but vaguely sweet piece of dried meat and practically shoving it into his mouth.
"You need meat to keep your strength up. And rest," she lectured before bowing to him. "By your leave, my prince?"
"Of course, priestess, my thanks," Magnus said to her gratefully, chewing methodically at the meat and swallowing as she turned to leave.
Then he looked down, and then back up to Captain Mia who had not in fact yet removed her hand.
"Captain Mia?
"Mmm?" She said languidly, looking him in the eyes with a small smile on her face.
"I'm healed. The curse from the blades has been banished," he informed her.
"Indeed, Prince," she said, the smile widening.
"And now, I'd like to get some sleep," he said, before grabbing her wrist gently, watching her smile grow further still and something flicker in her eyes before carefully removing it from his chest. "And dream of my wife, whom I love," he added.
Captain Mia's lips abruptly thinned, her head cocking as she found herself pushed back slightly onto her haunches.
"Indeed? Indeed," she said, half to herself as she stood up, sighing. "Well, I wish you well on that front then, Prince Hohenzollern," she grunted more officiously than he could remember her since they'd first met. "Well fought," she declared over her shoulder as she walked away.
It was only then that Octaine craned his neck around so that his enormous eye was level with Magnus' face.
"Wark," the son of Oskana squawked flatly.
"I don't know," Magnus shrugged.
"Waaark."
"Fine, if I had to speculate," Magnus grunted as he nestled himself against the fur and not the feathers, grabbing his blanket, "Some people like a winner. And fighting. Or something, look," he sighed in exasperation, "There are over a thousand men here, if she needs someone, she'll find someone. Now if you'll
excuse me, I wasn't lying, I want to see Sabine the best way I can right now."
Benefitting from years of experience, the Prince of Ostland entered the realms overseen by Morr within a few seconds of closing his eyes.
It was also those same years of experience that had his eyes fly open and his body roused to wakefulness in a near instant when he heard his name being called once more.
"Oh, thank Taal and Manann," he grunted as he felt the rays of the open sun on his face, the skies blue and barely touched by wisping tendrils of clouds.
"Prince Magnus!" Grand Master Kaiser called, and Magnus rose to answer it, shaking out the aches and pains that remained and doing his best to absorb as much sunlight as possible onto his still admittedly damp body.
To his surprise, the Grand Master of the Bull Warriors was accompanied by more than just the other commanding knights of the various orders. Striding just behind the Ostlander were a pair that could not possibly be mistaken for anything but wizards. One was a completely hairless Imperial woman dressed in ornate blue and silver robes decorated with a series of silver brooches in the different phases of Mannslieb, carrying a staff that was topped by a carefully chiseled white crystal sphere within which clouds appeared to move, as well as a series of thunderbolts down the length of her copper staff. Her eyes glowed a faint blue, though not so brightly or intensely that her brown eyes were completely obscured. The other wizard was dressed in dark grey robes that seemed remarkably drab compared to the Celestial Wizard, a wide brimmed and conical hat that drooped on one side atop their head which cast considerable shadow upon the rest of their person. A thick grey scarf had been wrapped around the neck and face, obscuring everything below the nose, while repeatedly patched leather gloves covered their hands. For that matter, what Magnus could only presume to be a graduate of the Grey College didn't even seem to have a staff, but instead had a sword on one hip, a bandolier of knives across their chest, a hand-axe on the other hip, and a crossbow in their arms instead. For all of that might have implied otherwise, Magnus did not miss that they literally did not cast a shadow despite the bright sun shining down on them all.
"Grand Master Kaiser," Magnus greeted before glancing towards the wizards. "It seems we have some new arrivals?"
"Sharp as a rapier, this one," the Celestial Wizard cracked, a wry smile on her face, the expression odd given the lack of eyebrows or makeup of any sort to denote certain facial expressions. "And yes, Prince Hohenzollern," she said much more politely, performing a sweeping bow. "I am Magister Gisela of the Celestial College, with me is my friend and companion Magister Wim, of the Grey College."
The Grey Wizard nodded, but said nothing.
"I see," Magnus said, raising an eyebrow. "Nevertheless, I find myself compelled to ask as to your presence here, for all that I would be grateful to it should our enemies present themselves once more."
Magister Gisela clucked her tongue, leaning heavily on her staff.
"Well, as it happens, my lord, the two of us were contractually employed by the Elector Count Fuerbach up until approximately…a week and a half ago," she said, eyes flicking up and to the side as she recounted the time. "Give or take a few hours, I believe."
Magnus blinked rapidly.
"Is that so?"
"Indeed. A good few years, as it happens, we have served at his pleasure," Gisela said, her lips briefly pressed together. "Though of course, in the past year or so things have become less…sanguine."
Magister Wim tilted their head to look at Gisela, eyes lost beneath the hat's shadow.
"Yes, yes, I'm getting to it," Gisela flapped her hand at Wim. "It so happens that he deigned to restrain us to Talabheim rather than venture out in aid of the forces under his son, the Duke Krugar," she said with no small amount of annoyance. "Son and father…disagreed, especially when it was overheard that the forces of Ostland had been invited to enter the province in strength. Though, alas, it was unavoidable once so many of your troops started landing at Taalagad and then began to march out to the southeast – as you designated prior in discussions with the Duke I am given to understand."
Magnus squeezed his eyes shut for a moment in thought.
"I should feel heartened that the rest of the Army of Ostland is now present and available, and yet…," he trailed off, sighing.
Uncle Urgdug and the rest of the ogres could move with terrifying speed for their size, he had little doubt that they would reach the second detachment in the southeast long before Magnus could reach Taalagad and then head there himself.
"And yet, yes," Magister Gisela nodded. "There was an…argument. Friction…sparked. And alas," she raised her free hand, rotating it carelessly through the air. "My input was not welcomed as it has been in the past."
Wim rolled their shoulders beneath their robes.
"We were not
fired," Gisela ground out, glaring daggers at her companion. "Our patron simply no longer desired our services, and we were encouraged kindly to seek employment elsewhere."
Wim lifted their chin, their hat waggling slightly.
"Elsewhere by that measure meaning employers not of Talabecland," Gisela allowed, then flashed a bright smile at Magnus. "How fortuitous that the Duke informed us of potential noble clientele that were not of Talabecland in nearness to us!"
Finally, Wim switched their hands so that the crossbow was only held in one hand, and pushed a hand somewhere inside their robes before withdrawing a pair of scrolls and holding them out to Magnus.
"I…see," Magnus murmured as he unrolled the scrolls and found two separate contracts within, one for each wizard. "Only provisional?"
"A learning opportunity for the both of us, to see if we can provide proper services to aid you to be worth signing on," Gisela said with another dazzling smile, "Our first month of employment to be offered free of charge for most actions beyond consigning ourselves to death in especially risky action, thanks to the departure bonuses allayed to us by the good Duke."
Wim waggled their free hand in the air before taking up their crossbow with both once more.
"Yes, yes, your Vow of Poverty," Gisela rolled her eyes before straightening and smoothing out her robes. "Prince Hohenzollern, it could not be said that I am particularly as skilled with the reading of the stars and fates as some of my compatriots in the Celestial College, yet in turn my talents lie upon the battlefield in far excess of other directions. Including, on occasion, manipulation of the weather."
"The storm," Grand Master Kaiser proclaimed in awe, "That was you?"
Many of the knights turned to her now with a bit more admiration than the studious neutrality of before.
"Summoning something like that? No," Gisela demurred, "But did I…
push it?" She gestured in an easterly direction. "Somewhat, yes. It helps that it was already headed that way in the first place, I just nudged it from a walk to a trot, for lack of a better word."
"Hells, I'll take it," the High Guardian grumped, his arms folded across his chest. "It is one thing to withstand the storms sent by the Gods for weeks on end while guarding the tombs, another to run about in them."
Gisela inclined her head to him before looking back at Magnus, who had once again squeezed his eyes shut, inhaled sharply, and exhaled slowly as he opened his eyes.
"I can't see anything we would lose by your joining us," he declared while rolling the scrolls back up. "Though I do intend for us to remain as mobile as possible as we escort these cannons and guns back to the Duke."
Gisela clasped one hand to her chest as she bowed deeply, an act that was mirrored by Wim.
"Of course. Worry not, my lord, for we arrived on mine own transportation," she said before half-turning and pointing, the knights shifting aside for Magnus to see an honest to Taal brilliant white Pegasus currently standing proud and aside from everyone else.
"…well then," Magnus blinked and then glanced down, remembering himself. "First I shall be needing a shirt, and some new armor, but then we'll be marching out."
At the very least, so far, it was a very good start to the day.
==============================================================
(Outer Realms of Pain: 12+Frederick Trait[The Undaunted](25)+Natasha Trait[Unyielding](15)+Frederick Trait[Sigmar's Mein](10)+Natasha Trait[Tri-Scarred](15)+Frederick Trait[Robust Soul(20)+Natasha Trait[ By The Widow's Cruel But Motherly Embrace](15)+Deepest Soulbond(10)+Trained Tolerance(15)-Inhuman Expertise(15)-The Heights of Ecstatic Pain(35)-Endless Excruciation(15)-Daemonic Depravities(15)-Uncorked And Unleashed(15)=42/100)
When you wake up, you do so coughing up blood as your body is wracked with such pain that you feel like it is about to tear apart on the inside and out. Your back is arched to the point that it is more your armor keeping your spine from breaking itself than anything else. The tips of your fingers are bruised from how hard you've clenched your fists together, every part of you from toe to the tips of your hair is screaming out in phantom pain that comes from a source far and away from you. A scream threatens to escape you, but the coughing manages to keep it from fully manifesting as you tear your helmet from your head. Blood slowly fills the inside of your mouth, a horrid but oddly pedestrian pain providing something for you to focus on, and as you continue to cough out a few ivory slivers from your mouth, you realize that you've cracked some of your teeth from clenching your jaw so tightly in psychosomatic connection to what is now being done to your husband.
There is a sound, an echoing laugh that rises and falls in femininity and masculinity before resolving into something that is multi-layered to the point of becoming something choral despite coming from seemingly one source, that you catch the ghostly edge of slithering through the soulbond. Like shadows cast upon a wall from a torch, you do not suffer what is being done directly outright, but what you are suffering is horrendous, nonetheless. Images and sensations flicker through you, confused and muddled things invoked by your husband, stretched and lengthened, like screaming into a cavern and getting an echo back after longer than it should have been. His emotions are raw and strange to you, communicated in this fashion, as if the painting that is his existence was being smeared. Suffering as you are, eyes watering and forming icy crusts around your eyes, you pick yourself up off the floor you've evidently been writhing around on, and try to get to your feet, only to stagger to the side, your shoulder colliding with the wall hard enough that if you weren't wearing your armor it might have cracked something else. But instead you simply hit it, and try to steady your feet from bouncing off outright.
"Nightmare? No," Johanna speaks up from just behind you before inhaling deeply. "Fresh blood…yeah," she sounds entirely too hungry as she says that before there is a small shuffling sound from her bending at the waist and pressing her fingers to the ground. "Teeth. Hmm."
"Do you need something?" You hiss out quietly.
"I can hear your heartbeats, Natasha," the vampire murmurs softly. "The pulsing, hear the rushing of the currents of your blood as it runs up and down your body. And I could hear," you feel her tap a knuckle against your back over where your heart is even now still beating wildly. "When this started to speed up, all jerky and stuttered. Plus," she pushes her hand into your field of vision as you clutch at yourself, revealing a glove stained with your own blood and the slivers of one of your molars. "Heard that crackle pop in your mouth, too."
Only then does Johanna slowly slide into view from behind you, leaning up against the wall casually, eyes dark and hooded, the posture all too human for what she is.
For the
hunger you can sense practically wafting off of her as much as she keeps the Winds tightly bound around her.
"Before you get all weird about it, remember I don't sleep much anymore. I was keeping watch," she gestured vaguely out into the slave passage intersection. "Seeing what was what with the rest. Didn't have much else to do since you told Kerillian to sit and stay put."
Something she'd done with only some mild protest, after which point she'd proceeded to act the part of a damned gargoyle perched on some stacked crates full of rope over the small huddle of stolen Druchii.
"Okay," you manage to rasp out through a bloody mouth, spitting a few more slivers of broken bloody tooth onto the ground. "Anything interesting to report?"
Johanna's eyes are gone from your face, now zeroed in rather openly at the frozen red droplets that clink onto the ground.
"We got a goodly batch of freedom fighters to us now. Better than I feared, worse than I'd hoped. The rest got scared and scattered, not wanting to be near us when 'the masters' came calling," she said quickly, eyes still locked onto your frozen blood before blinking and glancing back up at you. "Others, maybe we could still reach, but for now they're hiding out, waiting to see if we last another day."
On the one hand, perhaps that is understandable. They've been abused, tortured, stripped of practically ever freedom possible on a mobile island, isolating them all the more from the rest of the world.
On the other hand? Perhaps it is the pain that you can still feel your love suffering, the pain
you are suffering now, but you can't help but feel a good bit of acidic contempt for the cowards.
"Well, we'll see," you say, tongue working around inside your mouth for a moment to discover that you've definitely ruined two molars on the left side. "One second," you grouse before sticking two fingers in your mouth and then with a scant of the Widow's Grace you form hard, frozen blocks to both freeze the blood flow and temporarily replace the teeth.
It's not like you'll get frostbite from it, after all.
"Okay," you grunt, working your jaw to make sure the new ice teeth don't cause further pain when they tap against each other or anything else. "I'm up early, but the others still need their rest for what's to come."
"Going after the food, always a good idea in a siege situation, at least if you're the attacker," Johanna grins wickedly before it fades into a more serious look. "Risky, though. Others will surely be thinking about the same."
"Everything, even just sitting here, is risky," you grunt back, finally managing to push off from the wall and hold yourself relatively steady.
Gods be good, every single wave of pain that crashes against your mind is of such magnitude and length that it's near impossible to tell where each one ends and the next begins. Like dragging a blade across a mile of flesh without ever pausing or crossing over past territory. You can feel it, then, the moment that thought strikes you, a weird and disjointed thing, an impulse communicated as if by single syllables at a time. The sheer strain and diehard relentless focus to manage even that much, given the pain, both sets your heart aflutter out of love and rage in unison. Especially because of what Frederick tries to offer you, a bedridden man trying to slide onto the floor to offer you the mattress instead. This is something akin to familiarity in him, resonated and sent forth to be reversed and rebounded back into himself, to something of what Alyssa is doing to him now. But there is more as well, the source of that laughter, the source of that soul-deep pain carved by something else. Not simply inhuman. Something beyond any mortal race, whether human or elf or otherwise. Something daemonic.
"Ab…so…lutely…
not…," you hiss, as much to yourself as to him, gathering up all that you are and have ever been and throwing it right back through the bond as a meteoric impact. "Don't…you…
dare…close it…," you grind out, ignoring the studiously neutral expression on Johanna's face.
"They've escalated on him?" She asks you, burning green of her eyes seeming to grow luminescent for a brief moment.
"Idiot wants to try and close the bond, spare me," you gasp out, gathering ice around your hand before placing your palm against your breastplate, forcibly infusing your body with the chill, slowing your heart so that it cannot beat itself to pieces inside your chest. "Felt my pain, from his pain," you pause, breathing hard. "Felt it snap back around, like an echo, a thunder and avalanche…,"
"If it's affecting you that badly," Johanna begins before you hiss and straighten, a layer of frost forming across your face and skin as you chill yourself further.
"I'll handle it," you growl, and grab for your helmet and jam it on your head once more.
Johanna tilts her head from side to side like a bird, watching you go as still as a statue.
"All right. You want me to come back when the morning properly arrives?" She asks, sketching a half-bow as she steps backwards from you.
"Works. For. Me," you inform her as you clench your fists tight and begin to literally numb yourself from the pain that is trying to overwhelm you.
However many hours later it is, when Johanna returns, it is largely only because you can see the Winds and faint tendrils of Dhar, Aqshy, and Ulgu that swirl around her, because you've inadvertently entombed yourself in a few solid inches of ice in every direction. So intense was your focus inward up until that point that it takes seeing those Winds independent of you swirling within your Witch Sight to blink and realize it. Another moment or two and you've divested yourself of the embarrassing amount of ice to smash to pieces on the ground around you, making a number of freshly freed and armed slaves jump as you emerge from…evidently enough a statue of yourself with your vague features that had grown around you. Though the face on the ice sculpture cocoon is certainly not your own. The teeth are as needles, for one thing, and the jaw stretched inhumanly wide. You also can't help but notice that both hands, even as they melt, display nails more like your left hand rather than your right. Claws, rather than nails.
Something to think about later, maybe.
"Are we ready?" You say gruffly, ignoring the lingering discomfort and slowness from much less sleep than you'd hoped for.
Johanna is joined by Roland, Sadrina, Kerillian, and Jaqueline, their own assembled groups behind them.
"We are," Sadrina says, frowning at the sight of the melting head of the statue shell before shaking her head. "We have spoken amongst the freed, and those who would speak with us before fleeing elsewhere."
"The pyramid named…," Roland's face twists in disgust. "The southernmost pyramid," he decides to say instead of the
Glorious Fields of Pain, "That is our best possible target. With the Temple of Atharti still resisting the dominion of the Cult of Pleasure, less of Alyssa's forces can stretch towards the pyramid to retain control of it."
"Something's going on at the arenas, not sure if it's fighting or joining, or both," Jaqueline grunts, still glaring daggers at your stolen Witch Elves. "Slaves weren't sure, no one wanted to get close, obviously."
"We also heard from a few who'd skittered up out of the aquafarms and lower levels," Johanna adds. "There's flooding after the damage from…apparently, one of the Dhar Anchorstone complexes going tits up."
Sadrina clucks her tongue.
"Such a thing is
not easily done. For good reason, such places are amongst the most well-defended on the entire Ark. They are responsible for allowing an Ark to repel the laws of nature, not merely floating atop, but managing movement at all," she says, gesturing with her hands vigorously. "Acceleration,
deceleration, turning, all of it."
"Suffice to say," you say dryly, "It might not go well for us should the rest go down, then?"
"Unless you can craft a glacier to carry us all
quite rapidly, then no," she says with a serious nod.
A small platform of ice, sure. For everyone you've gathered at this point?
"Point taken. Though if we can come close to taking one, it might drive the bitch out of her tower to come say hello," you point out.
"Perhaps," Sadrina nods. "Perhaps we would drown beneath a tide of redirected daemons instead."
Sure, destroy your dreams, why doesn't she?
"Wouldn't be the worst way to go," Jaqueline mutters, her remaining Whitewings nodding in agreement.
"Perhaps," Roland rumbles, "Yet I would not subject those newly freed to such a fate if we can avoid it."
That has you glance at those who've joined up, new and old, and frown within your helmet at the mixtures of determination and fear on their faces.
No.
Still too fragile, for now.
"Doesn't matter, not where we're going today," you point out. "We're headed to the pyramid this time around. Now come on!"
For now, they still follow you as you start pushing south through the tunnels, relying on the word of other slaves that have spent years or even decades scurrying about in them. Some slaves you see scream at the sight of you, and run the other way. Others shout, cheer, but do not dare join you for the fear that still rules them. Others still remain entirely silent as they carry out meaningless tasks, carrying goods from one location to another, and back again. Those you find you pity the most, for they are so broken that even with freedom literally right in front of them, they see no point. There is not even a flicker of light in their eyes, so shattered for so long that the very concept is not merely foreign, it is incomprehensible. At one point, you even have to deal with a trio of older men with straggly beards and weeping scabs around their necks from their collars who see you all bearing weapons and start screaming for the masters to come punish you. When they sight some of the Witch Elves following Kerillian, and the blade that the Asrai herself carries, they throw themselves at their feet and point accusing fingers and beg for their benevolence in murdering the rest of you.
You cannot let them leave to inform other Druchii as to your presence and direction, not when Roland and Sadrina both fail to make them see reason.
Perhaps it is a mercy that Kerillian removes them as problems with a single swift blow, though you thought some of your forces might not see it that way. Less than they might otherwise have, though, given the insults and threatening for daring to go against the masters. To your surprise, however, there is painful but understanding sympathy on some faces, and anger and righteousness on most others. Something that makes sense the more you think about it as you rush through the tunnels anew. How many times had men like that pointed out some deficiency or failure on the part of their fellow slaves? How many times had their accusing fingers resulted in screams? Too many, more likely than not. Too many by far. That is no doubt why you see so many of the freedmen, though none of the Asur, spit on the bodies of the slain and give nods to Kerillian despite those she commands. Eventually, though, you finally do reach the proper staircase, this one also located at a tunnel nexus. Which only makes sense if the slaves are expected to take the harvests and spread deliver them elsewhere when not allowed to use the streets with wagons and carts. No, those, you think, are likely only allowed to be helmed by Druchii themselves, even if slaves help load and unload them.
That it is the slaves fate to pound the stone with their feet and nothing more makes perfect sense as a thought by a race as depraved and cruel as the Druchii.
"Ready?" You ask, glancing over your warband, sword in one hand, cold power glowing in the other, then start ascending the stairs. "Then follow me!"
(Vengeful Emergence: 39+Band of Heroes(35)+Anger of the Asur(20)+Bravery of Bretonnia(15)+Whetted Witch Elves(10)+Fervent Freedmen(10)+Distant Pleasures(10)-Fractious Fellowship(10)-Phantom Pain(5)-Outermost Patrols(15)-Dominated District(20)=89/100)
When you burst through the doors this time out into what appears to have been some kind of warehouse, you do not find desperate slaves trying to beat their way through the barred entrance like before. It's been a bloody day and no doubt bloody night since then, and anyone who couldn't get into the tunnels beforehand is liable to have gone elsewhere, willingly or otherwise. What you do find instead – aside from a group of unmoving and unfilled wagons – are a group of Druchii patrolling the streets, dreadspears and bleakswords by the look of them. For the briefest moment, you consider whether or not to kill them in case they might belong to some resisting noble lord to Alyssa's rule, but the choice is swiftly taken from you by your newest recruits. Beaten and abused for so long, the chance for payback is too great to ignore, and they shout and scream as they fire their crossbows and charge, meaning that everyone else has to join in as well. Not that you're particularly cross about it, you're more than happy to work out some of your continuing pain out on them. It's undeniable that it's slowing you, distracting you, forcing you to rely far more on your daughter's masterwork armor than before to shield you from a number of blows. Flecks of Ledstahli litters the ground as your armor works to regenerate itself during and after the fight.
"That'd be the pyramid then," you say sardonically, tilting your head towards the imposing structure in the distance with buildings and towers sprouting up from the grounds.
"My lady!" One of the Whitewings calls out, drawing many eyes, the Bretonnian woman pointing at a particularly ravaged Druchii who's been well torn apart.
Or, rather more pointedly, at the symbol of Slaanesh that is still recognizable on his tattered skin.
"Right," you exhale sharply. "We figured this would happen."
"Would have been nice if more of them would put up a fight," Kerillian says idly, leaning the flat of the
First Draich against her shoulder, the blood soaking the blade drenching her cloak.
She never does seem to clean the thing as much as you would think it needs to be.
"It'll get worse the closer we get to the
Glorious Fields of Pain," Sadrina shakes her head. "You shall have your fill of fight by then, I assure you, Kerillian."
"We'll shall see, Handmaiden," Kerillian scoffs, but says no more.
It's not a bad bounty if you could spare the time to strip the bodies of their weapons and armor, but you can't. Not if you want to make sure to avoid the truly tainted parts, an issue that might well get worse the longer things go on and the stronger grip that the Dark Prince gets on this Ark. Not if you want to use the wagons for their intended purpose. Besides which, that's not your goal for the day. Your true target awaits you. This isn't the time to get sidetracked by lesser concerns. Luckily, you've got a bit of help in remaining focused thanks to the constant agonizing shadows of pain slamming through you. Cold doesn't affect you anymore, not really, but you are not ignorant as to how it can be wielded by those without your blessings. In the opposite direction of the Roppsmen-created sauna, many are those who speak to the benefits of plunging into the cold to shock them awake if it does not numb them so swiftly that they die from it. Besides which, while there are those who's minds are irreparably scarred, flagellation and mortification of the flesh to cast out doubt and distraction have been a part of the faiths of the Old World since before the Gospodars, before the Roppsmen, before the Ungols, before the man-god Sigmar.
"You are not well," Johanna says to you, a few wisps of Ulgu from her ensuring that only you hear her words, and no one else.
"How kind of you to notice," you huff back, clenching and unclenching your fists.
"Hard not to," she says, stretching her back and forth with her guandao slung over her shoulders. "Stiffer, slower, taking you longer to draw and cast your spells, orders coming curt and short."
"I'm handling it," you grind out, ignoring how the ice blocks in your teeth click from the action.
"Not saying you aren't," she shakes her head. "But 'handling' pain and not being affected by it are different things."
"Enough!"
The vampire raises her hands in surrender and distances herself from you, blessedly. Letting you focus on drawing on the pain, letting it burn you, scald you, envelop and entwine itself with you utterly before you proceed to order your body to follow your orders once more despite it.
"Let's get moving!" You bark, raising your sword once more.
(Pyramid Priorities: 43+35+20+15+10+10+10-5-5-Outer Patrols(20)-20=93/100)
You crash through the streets of the
Claw of Dominion like an oncoming snowstorm on the steppes, pulling the wagons behind you the whole way. There are twitches and flickers in the curtains of some of the buildings, but scouting on the part of Johanna and Kerillian prove them to be nothing more than terrified Druchii civilians. A strange thing to consider, but there it is. A baker with a wife and son, who only own a single household slave, barricading themselves in the backrooms of their place of business. Another family here and there. Arrogant, skilled, dexterous, but not every Druchii is or can be a soldier or raider. There must be those who handle more purely menial tasks that cannot be fully trusted to be purely overseen by slaves. Those who know are apparently content to try and wait out the ongoing conflict, liable to swear their new allegiances once the fighting is truly decided but not before it is actually fully done.
These, you ignore.
You are far more focused on the cackling, giggling daemonettes that are availing themselves upon the dead and dying of a group of Druchii that found the courage in their dark hearts to try and resist the Cult of Pleasure.
The patrol of dreadspears, cold and disciplined, with darkshards behind them, that you assault from an intersection as they are march on patrol.
And, finally, the proud, laughing, audacious bleakswords that have evidently grown bored for lack of sport and rather than actually patrolling the surroundings of the pyramid properly have taken to dueling each other.
These you kill. These you tear apart. These you cast down and stomp beneath your boots and tear apart with blade, fist, claw, and spell. The Asur under the Handmaiden are focused yet energized, almost joyous at the act of killing not just Druchii but worshippers and creatures of Slaanesh as well. The mobs of Bretonnians following after Roland are still nearly uncontrollable in their violent fervor, not helped in that lack of discipline appears to be showing more and more in the Whitewings. There are other citizens of the Old World amongst them, and even from beyond, but they are just as subject to their rage and anger after their own abuses at the hands of their former masters. Kerillian spills blood in the name of Khaine again and again, followed by her coterie who look upon their new master with admiration and fear, while Johanna makes of herself a spearpoint and bulwark in equal measure depending on what the battle calls for.
But you are not done. Not yet.
(Pyramid Pushing: 47+35+20+15+10+10+10-5-5-Patrols of Importance(25)-20=92/100)
The closer you get to the pyramid, the wider the streets become, and the larger the buildings. Not as places of business, but of storage, of temporary stoppage points and distribution. There are broken open houses that look utterly ransacked sandwiched between completely intact ones. All to accommodate their disgusting little edifice, where the slaves work to death and never leave alive, bones and corpses becoming mulch and fertilizer for their food. Every single fruit, every tuber, all of it, is fed upon the blood and deaths of the innocent. Disgusting in its depravity, abhorrent in its cruelty, and today? Today it is going to burn. By now, the Druchii have figured out that someone is forcing an incursion into their territory. Perhaps it was the daemonettes dying so violently that was a clue to the enemy, to those connected to the summoned creatures. An idea that gains all the more credence in your mind when you do not find another distracted or bored patrol to assault but are in fact confronted yourself by an organized block of Druchii marching in your direction.
At the head of which is a quartet of visibly mutated Druchii, something that you thought was especially meant to be rare amongst their kind. They are not daemons, not yet, but they certainly look like they are on their way to becoming such. Their mouths are not yet fully distended, but you can see the flashing needle teeth in their maws. Their swords are starting to melt into their hands, and in the case of their leader, outright has. What had perhaps never even been purely mundane metals have begun to warp and twist under the influence of their Dark God, taking on an organic and veiny cast. The hilt of one of the blades appears to have become a group of wrestling tongues that have tightly wrapped themselves around the hand of the blade's wielder. It is that one, a group of glinting piercings placed into the symbol of Slaanesh over their stomach that points your group out as they rush into view.
"There! The blasphemers that ended the troupe! Kill them in the name of the Prince of Perfection!"
"Cut them down!" You roar, and a hailstorm of recently acquired repeating crossbows thrums into them.
Many bolts are cut out of the air or dodged by the four, some of the other Druchii managing the same, but not all of them. Dreadspears bring their shields up, before Johanna lobs her spear overhead in a tremendous javelin throw with the spearhead surrounded by a globe of Aqshy. Slipping just over the upraised shields through a small gap, the Aqshy erupts in a wild explosion before the spear whips back through the air towards Johanna, forcing an opening in the formation. An opening that is quickly taken advantage of by yourself and the rest of your forces. Roland is an unshakable goliath on the field, not so great as an ogre such as Urgdug, but still extremely effective. Kerillian's acquired blade almost seems to hungrily seek out the Druchii that have betrayed Khaine, while Jaqueline and her two Whitewings show all the skill of knights if with less restraint. These higher cultists of Slaanesh are skilled, they assuredly already where when they were just regular Druchii, but the blessings and gifts of Slaanesh make them that much more difficult to deal with. A strange fragrance keeps clogging your nose, something that seems to almost intoxicate some of the Whitewings given how sloppy and slow they become. One of the formerly enslaved Imperials passes out entirely onto the ground after a large enough inhale. Yet it does nothing to the stoic and dedicated Roland. It is not so soporific that it can stifle your rage and your pain. Perhaps it affects the skin as well as the air, but regardless, Johanna does not need to breathe if she does not wish to. More than a few blows cut deep scores into your armor, but the Ledstahli regenerates. A vicious assault gets past Roland's bladework, but finds no purchase against his gromril. One cultist lets out a victorious shout as they manage to deeply cut Johanna's throat before the vampire angrily breaks their skull open with a headbutt while her flesh bubbles disgustingly to knit back together.
Then you are upon the rest of the Druchii, and within a handful of minutes more, past them.
"They definitely know we're coming now! Good! Means we'll kill them all the faster!" You shout, and get a ragged furious cheer in response.
The pyramid looms, ever larger, as you get closer to it.
(Pushing Inwards: 55+35+20+15+10+10+10-5-5-Inner Defenses(30)-20=95/100)
Before, you were witness to an area that was clearly being contested against Alyssa. Here, now, you get to see what it looks like when those loyal to her are given free reign. A low pink and purple mist clings to the stones underfoot, and there are entire streets blocked off by glowing magical barriers kept in place by floating sigils and fleshy moaning icons. Not quite altars, but totems perhaps, of power that manifest and maintain such defenses, including the cloying mist which forms certain barriers so strong that from a distance some of your warband finds themselves passing out again, or, worse, invigorated in all the wrong ways that is distracting and incredibly uncomfortable to them. Thankfully, none of them are so affected that they lose their minds entirely, because you get to find evidence of what happens to those who falter too greatly, covered up by the mist.
Said evidence is what you discover when your boot hits something fleshy rather than stony, and upon wrenching cold winds to your grasp and momentarily blowing the mists aside, you find yourself about to walk over a carpet of dead slaves and Druchii that look to have all fallen while in the midst of running away. From what? You don't know. All you do know is that they're all on the ground, all of them in one direction, and that no matter what you do, you cannot wake them. Some appear to have already died from wounds that never received treatment. Others died drowned in pleasure or peace, going by the expressions. Disgusting, disturbing, and a distraction you don't need, so you let the mists reclaim the bodies and take another street and continue heading towards the pyramid.
It is almost a relief when you hear the giggles and laughter as daemonettes spring from the buildings, the alleyways, the mists, screaming out lurid and depraved offers and demands before charging in with claws or blade arms snapping and flashing. Ambushing Druchii follow them, brave bleakswords with their own weapons flashing, eagerly pointing out the Asur of your forces as prime targets to take and ravage as they will. They boast of it, in fact, only enraging the Asur all the more, and transforming the careful focus on Sadrina's face into something furious and severe like nothing else. They practically ignore all of the Bretonnians, the Imperials, the Tileans, the Estalians, and that is their mistake. That, and the fact that after what everyone saw a street over has fully stripped any hesitation and created only angry focus in return.
They cannot stop you.
They cannot stop your warband.
"Return to your accursed master's side in
failure," Kerillian hisses gleefully as she bisects a daemonette in half.
"In Isha's name, I cast your soul to oblivion," Sadrina intones as she disembowels and then beheads a Druchii bleaksword.
"I am The Lady of the Lake's sworn sword, foul daemon, now begone!" Roland shouts as he cleaves through a group of swarming daemonettes that sought to try and overwhelm him.
All this and more is shouted out.
Defiance against the Dark Prince.
Defiance against Alyssa.
The totems barring the way, either forming the solid barriers of solidified lust and agony or the mists spreading through the streets, are destroyed one after another. Either from your own blows and magic, the monstrous strength of Johanna, the stoic power of Roland, or the bloody swings of Kerillian.
Your pace is ravenous, and soon enough, you reach the entrance.
It is large, unsurprisingly, given what is meant to enter and leave it on a regular basis. Able to comfortably allow four wagons lengthwise to stack in front of it, a solid rectangular and cavernous opening. Instead of Isha, the Goddess of many things for the elves including the harvest, there are statues of Hekarti, the Goddess of Dark Magic, the one that the Druchii attribute to their mastery over magic. Magic such as that which is required to force productivity and fertility, through dark bargain and sacrifice. There are also barricades present, which you are quite sure did not exist until recently, made of intensely bright poles and slabs of metal that are grossly melded and supported by pulsating pink flesh. Tongues, tentacles, otherwise formless amalgamations of the stuff, all mixed together to create platforms that Druchii can stand upon and fire down from, and anchored and angled tentacles forming stakes in the gaps between most of the barricades. The only one not barred in such a manner is the main pathway leading straight to the entrance. There are daemonettes milling about, pleasuring and paining each other but quickly assemble upon your arrival with eager drool splashing out of their mouths at the sight of new potential playthings.
"…the statues are still there. Why are they still there?" You ask, turning your head to Sadrina, many others of the warband doing the same.
"…if I had to speculate?" Sadrina says, her own face screwed up in contemplation. "From what I was able to hear before, Alyssa does not necessarily intend to fully drive out all the Cytharai, simply…install the Prince of Excess as the superior upon this Ark. It is Khaine and Atharti which both oppose this the most – the former has ever opposed being the lesser of any God, whether Cytharai or Cadai, not even including historical conflicts and hatreds."
"Atharti, on the other hand, is a direct rival in scope and dominion," you finish, getting a nod from the Handmaiden.
"Well, good for them," you grunt, clapping your hands awkwardly with one still holding your sword. "Too bad it isn't going to matter by the time we're done."
"Well said, ylvathoi," one of the freed Asur declares with a mixture of confused approval and condescension, only to blink in surprise as Sadrina rounds on him with disapproval on her face.
"What the fuck did he just call me?" You growl. "No, doesn't matter, as long as he shuts up and does as he told I don't care," you huff. "They're waiting for us, anyway!"
As if to prove your point, a Druchii appears in the main road, barricades to his sides and daemonettes surrounding him. You suppose that some might call him handsome, but how much of it was just standard elven features stacked against human ones, and how much of it is an unnatural allure granted to him by Slaanesh, who knows. Slivers of metal appear to have been literally branded, fused, into his skin, each of them etched with blasphemous symbols of power, and he wields a pair of swords of undeniably incredible construction. Thin, but razor sharp, with hooks on chains leading form the hilt to dig into his wrists. His head has been shaved completely, letting further tattoos be visible on his scalp, strange eldritch text seeming to actively writhe there. The Winds scream near him, swirling and casting about like a storm's gale, and a palpable aura of power exudes from him that is literally staining the stones of the street beneath him with it.
A priest, then. Or a champion.
Or both.
"Interlopers! Welcome!" He bows deeply, but keeps his head up and focused upon all of you with a mouth full of purple stained teeth. "You have chosen an opportune time to join the dance! I see that the steps of the Dance of Dreaming could not entice you…I agree! It is an amusing thing, but does not deserve to hold primacy of the arts!"
"Crossbows, keep their own ranged troops harried, shields, block off any flanking attacks, let them come down the center," you command, making the Druchii tilt his head as he rises from the bow.
His smile annoys you, for all that you swear you hear some stuttered gasps and sighs from somewhere behind you.
"Yes…yes, why deny ourselves the gratification? Let us dance the Rhan'k'adanra! I am Prince Omarin of House Brulanth, and its lord and master," he introduces himself even as he rolls his shoulder and sets his feet.
Kerillian's stolen Witch Elves gasp in betrayal, presumably because they know why the hell that should matter.
"Good for you," you snort as you start drawing the Winds close.
"You are very impolite!" He notes in affront, nose wrinkling before he shakes his head. "I shall have to teach you better manners beneath me, once I've collared you properly."
Oh choices, choices.
Do you kill him as violently as possible, or do you try and make it a lingering death?
"Larhathalumalav," Kerillian's voice is as cold as winter. "May I have him?"
"If you get to him first, sure," you snarl. "What matters is that he
dies."
"Agreed," she nods.
(Breaking In The Doors: 53+35+20+15+10+10+10-5-5-Final Defenses(35)-20=88/100)
"For the Lady, for the living, for the free!" Roland cries out in righteous fury, joined by a great many others.
You don't quite make out what Sadrina says, it's too fast and your skill over Eltharin is as of yet lesser than your husband's, but whatever it is seems to inspire the Asur with her as well.
"Let blood be spilled!" Kerillian sneers, followed by her Witch Elves.
As for yourself?
You say nothing, only a wordless shriek as you thrust forth your hand and craft enormous blocks of ice to start falling down as a deadly hailstorm upon the enemy to shatter their formation from behind. Only then do you charge, letting the ice blocks fall, intent on getting to grips with the enemy. Those of the Druchii that try to fire their crossbows regardless find the bolts whisked away with a gale of cold winds that buffets them at the same time. Are such expenditures purely wise? No, but you are in so much pain that a little bit more isn't going to bother you that much, much like how a razor blade dragged down the thigh cannot be that much worse than the bones within already being broken. So you ignore the trickle of blood that starts to trace down your face from your left eye, quickly freezing into a swooping and curving line, focused far more on blocking a blow from a daemonette and backhanding another to leave ice flash-freezing and then shattering to pieces taking much of the head with it.
Somewhere in the fighting, you spy a few of the Bretonnians go down, some of the Asur falling back gasping at bleeding wounds, but it is far fewer than it otherwise could have been.
"Ah, there you are!" Omarin declares cheerily as he slashes an Asur's chest open and kicks them back. "Tell me, would you prefer ruby or sapphire for the inner spikes of your collar?"
Growling, you throw yourself against him, only to find yourself immediately on the defensive despite your anger and all your wrath. He is faster than you, that becomes rapidly apparent, and afterimages shimmer behind him regularly, afterimages that are far more solid than they should be given the damage your armor is taking. Stronger than you, too, which is especially annoying, but not fatal or unexpected. You've prepared for fighting stronger opponents before, and this bastard is nothing compared to Magnus or Frederick, let alone Urgdug of all people. But the waves of pain afflicting you, transmitted to you, are slowing you, are jittering instinctive reactions that should be smooth and uninterrupted. Most of all, this infuriating Champion of Slaanesh won't stop grinning, babbling, talking, endlessly talking.
Also, something you're quite sure of as a bit of blood splashes across his face, you are quite sure that at some point he had his eyelids removed.
For
some reason.
However, his newfound obsessive focus on you does not stop his preternatural skills and instincts from working, and so he performs a frankly ridiculous pirouette to block an incoming blow from Kerillian from the side, and then bends so that a stab from Roland does not hit him. Yet with both of them there, and yourself, his grin begins to flicker slightly as you push him back and back and back again. With more barricades destroyed behind him from your spell, the weaving of the Winds finally exhausting itself, the other Druchii start to join the fray to keep your forces back. Other daemonettes are arriving, and joining in, but your progress is absolutely undeniable, to the point that you are in fact finding yourself fighting atop the ruins of the barricades and rapidly dissolving blocks of ice. All the while, it is now
Kerillian keeping up a low and constant stream of insults in Fan-Eltharin, the content of which is so swiftly and sharply delivered that you can see a growing fury in his eyes and swear you hear a rough bark of laughter from at least one Asur throat in the scrum.
(Final Threshold: 67+35+20+15+10+10+10-5-5-35-20-Desperation(5)=97/100)
"Hold him in place!" You shout and step backwards, letting Kerillian and Roland corral him.
For the briefest of moments, you are free of distraction, a shell of defenders all around you made up of elves and humans both.
It is enough.
Clapping your hands together, screaming in anger and pain, you
drag the Winds to your command from all around you. It does not matter that the Aethyric Net of this entire damned Ark strains and resists you, that the Winds are filtered and keyed for inhuman minds, to deny any other than of elven superiority to grasp them easily. It does not matter that your husband is being tortured beyond mortal ken, and that you refuse to let him to foolishly try to close off the soulbond out of love and concern for you. What matters is that you are here, at the pyramid, one of the greatest main food production sites for the entire Ark, and you will not be stopped. Not by daemons, not by cultists, not by a Champion of Slaanesh! So you wrench the Winds forth, and when you scream, it is an exhalation of freezing cold winds so strong and powerful that ice forms upon the armor of everyone in front of you, making Kerillian and Roland pull away, just so that it can strike the Omarin head-on, and then drop to the ground and start freezing the ankles of daemon and Druchii alike in place. Your allies are chilled, perhaps shivering a bit, but they can move as they wish where the enemy cannot. The ice creeps upwards upon suddenly panicking Druchii and furious daemons, but they cannot free themselves in time to stop what ceases to be battle and becomes a very rapid series of executions. The whiteout reaches your gaze, reaches your senses, and for a brief moment you are incapable of perceiving anything but your own pain, the bond, and your husband.
Until you blink, and realize you're on your hands and knees, vomiting chips of bloody ice into your helmet.
"Natasha?" Johanna asks, forced ease in her voice.
"M'fine," you rasp out before pushing yourself to a standing position, letting the frozen blood rattle down your neck into your breastplate.
The fight is over, and the Champion of Slaanesh that held the pyramid for Alyssa is dead, frozen in place as it happens.
"Didn't want to risk him asking for help and actually getting it," Kerillian informs you with a nod. "Went bottom up, though," she gestures, explaining why one half of the Prince is flopped to the right, the other to the left, and a steaming pile of organs and cut bone between his now fully separated halves.
"Appreciated," you inform her, shaking your head to clear it a little bit more before raising your fist. "Congratulations, all of you! One step closer to freedom, one more measure of revenge, won by you all! The pyramid and the warehouses outside…are ours!" You declare with a victorious shout, and end up having to wait as cheers answer you, a few of the freed slaves getting in a few extra stabs on the dead Druchii.
Already, the unnatural stability of the Chaos-spawned flesh and tissue is fading away, the favor and presence of Slaanesh in this place fading with the destruction of its worshippers and totems.
"Now…we take what we came for, as much as we can, and we
burn the rest!" You declare, and get even more cheers in response.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Jaqueline knows a good deal about ransacking, the Whitewings having needed to do just that while working as mercenaries to maintain their equipment and mounts. Roland, as befitting his adventures and travels, has participated in a few sieges in his time, and knows something of the matter as well. Johanna especially, however, has most recently participated in such things, or so she claims, something about a war in Cathay and Nippon. The Asur enter as well, to utilize their greater knowledge of what crops and produce might be within to aid the cause. Which, in the end, leaves Kerillian and her killers to watch the entrance, as well as a group of other freedmen and women. As for yourself, you sit at the foot of Hekarti's statues, looking upwards at the masterful masonry and metalwork that went into producing it. She looks as befitting a Goddess of the elves, a cruel smirk and dominating posture as she holds a representation of raw magic in one hand and a dagger in the other. So you don't actually sit straight on one of her bare toes, just next to them, and ignore the quiet whispers you can't understand that seem to keep appearing on the far edges of your hearing.
"…I do not think I can aid you in stoppering your pain," Kerillian murmurs to you as she comes and takes a seat herself, running a whetstone she's gotten from somewhere along the
First Draich.
"Killing Druchii, and bastards like that Prince, helps," you grunt, finally taking your helmet off to start scraping off the red frost off of your mouth, chin, and neck. "But no. Nothing really stops it."
You stare at the frozen blood in your hands, your frozen blood, and snort before letting it fall to the ground to be ground down under your boot.
"Nothing except killing Alyssa, and freeing my husband, is going to do that," you snort and glare to the north, to the Tor of Dominance.
The view is somewhat blocked off by the gigantic statue of Khaine sprouting out of the temple, but these days that statue is looking less and less like Khaine and more and more like another God altogether, but that still can't stop your ire from being directed to the Tor proper.
"So she's got to come out, come out and die," you declare while continuing to scrape yourself clean of your blood, "And until she
does, I'm going to keep setting fires. Killing her best and brightest. Sink this whole Ark if I have to if that's what it takes to get her to come out."
"…might well end up killing all the other slaves too, you know?" She says neutrally, continuing to run the whetstone along her blade. "Sinking it, I mean. If that's even something we could do."
"Maybe," you admit. "But death has got to be better for them than…this," you gesture out at the whole of the Ark. "Freedom in its own way, too."
"Aye, you might be right about that," she whispers, something dark and ugly in her voice. "I find myself misliking chains and cells and the like more than I ever thought possible."
"You might be right about that," you echo her with a huff, shaking your head slightly. "…if I live through this, sane, I mean, I think I'm going to need to have a talk with my sister."
Penal labor is one thing, a sometimes-suitable fate for prisoners and criminals. But a good portion of what she's done, what she's been doing, needs to stop.
(Ransacking: 59+Brutally Bountiful(10)+Abusive Agriculture(20)+Historical Efficiencies(10)+Peasant Expertise(10)-Alyssan Distributions(15)-Inexpert Ex-Slaves(10)=84/100)
As far as you can tell, the harvesting goes well, for all that everyone is hurrying as much as possible in case of incoming reprisal forces.
Gold is pointless right now, meaningless to the extent that you think poor little Sabine would have a heart attack, and so a fortune is left behind in the form of candelabras, cups, plates, and jewelry. Only the food matters. Preserved is best for your purposes, but you'll take fresh just as well. Some of the food has already been sent out, presumably to other forces under Alyssa, but this place is a combination of farm and granary for the entire Ark along with the other pyramids. Which means that there is still quite a bit left. In a darkly amusing way, the enslaved Bretonnians are all peasants, most of them former farmers, and so they know quite a bit about rapidly gathering up crops when there is danger of a greenskin raiding party just over the horizon. The Asur put their best efforts forth as well under Sadrina, which seems to be enough to help counterbalance those ex-slaves who know absolutely nothing about farming. The cattle within, which surprised you with their very existence, are put down, and a good deal of kindling is gathered up in multiple locations throughout the pyramid. There are runic arrays that are meant to prevent exactly what you're planning on doing, and it is those that you find yourself invited in to help to destroy and damage. What you're planning won't outright melt the stone, Johanna is the only one with the literal fire for that sort of thing, and you don't have the time for her to methodically do just that.
But you can burn the insides, and leave this place a hollowed out smoking carcass while burning out all of the storage warehouses surrounding it.
"Can you do it?" You find yourself asking the vampire as everyone else gets ready to haul the wagons now groaning with foodstuffs and barrels of water away.
"…yeah," she nods slowly. "I never really…," she murmurs while holding up a hand. "Never really thought about fire, other than as a tool, back before. Something to stay warm with. Never really thought about the deeper parts of it."
Embers of flame start to flicker into existence around her, while her mane of crimson hair starts to glow.
"But uh…yeah. Me and fire…I've found I've got a bit of an affinity for it, now," she chuckles, and this time, you see what looks like smoke escaping her mouth. "For lack of a better word."
She slams her guandao against the ground, and that too begins to be enveloped in fire.
"It'll burn. I'll catch up. You need to get moving as quickly as possible back to the tunnels," she says before she becomes utterly enveloped in flame and walks inside the entrance of the pyramid.
"You heard her!" You command loudly. "Move out!"
All the shadows of the pyramid retreat from the fire that comes for them, and you find yourself looking back to watch as the tip of the guandao drags itself along the walls, leaving behind glowing red lines and sparks.
"We killed one of the Cult's champions, and the head of a noble house," Sadrina says with a slow impressed whistle as the warband marches out. "The Cult will not be able to ignore this. Whether or not it will be enough to force Alyssa's attention? Difficult to say."
"Head of a noble house?" You ask quizzically.
"Kerillian," Sadrina shifts uncomfortably, "Informed me that her…followers…knew of him. Evidently enough, the previous ruling Prince of Brulanth, his father, is no longer in control. It is the only reason that Prince Omarin would have identified himself as such."
"Hnrh. Important, then. Not like one of the biggest ones, but important," you decide.
"Indeed. The path is difficult, but we walk it regardless."
It's around then that you smell the smoke, and hear the murmurs of the warband, yourself and many others turning about to watch as great plumes of it rise into the sky. It was not as violent and loud as a series of explosions, but perhaps that is even better. The fires will burn longer that way, without such immediate attention-grabbing sounds. Not to mention how large the pyramid is. It's a satisfying thing to see, that growing black column stretching towards the sky, but you don't let yourself grow complacent. Or rather, you simply can't, not with the pain wracking you, the exhaustion garnered from lack of sleep. You can function, you can fight, but it is not an easy thing to rush back. At least this time around, you aren't trying to fight anyone in your way. Sadrina suspects that the majority of the area's immediate defenders pulled back after your incursion was thoroughly underway and were subsequently overrun at the foot of the pyramid by the time you reached it.
Given the lack of reprisal attacks, you're inclined to believe her on this.
"All right, bring it all down, quickly," you order as you reach the entrance to the slave tunnels, and hear a distant and rather displeased squawk from a certain gryphon and a whinny from a far more polite Pegasus the moment the doors are opened.
Close to the end of the loading, listening to the cheers, the weeping, the thanks of the other slaves down there who are liable to be more inclined to join you now, you hear someone deliberately walking loudly upon the stone. When you turn, along with a few of the others, it is to find a slightly singed but satisfied Johanna. Her costumed attire that she was granted by your husband's previous captor is well past burnt up at this point it seems, and she's replaced it with some salvaged and hastily put on Druchii armor and clothing. She nods to you, a lazy smirk on her face as she wipes her mouth of a bit of blood, and joins you in helping the last of the crates and barrels down from the wagons. The wagons themselves will have to be put aside after this, or put somewhere else. Any Druchii trying to track you down can't be given too easy of a set of tracks to follow, after all.
"So, things went well, then?" You ask her.
"I'd say so," she snorts, folding her arms over her chest while leaving her guandao standing stock still vertically. "Had to work a bit harder to get out than I hoped, though."
"Oh?" Kerillian asks, walking over.
"Reinforcements were definitely on their way. Coming hard and fast, and angry," she snorts. "Looked like a priestess, was pissed. They should have sent a sorceress, might have actually had a chance to do something about the fire."
"…why didn't they?" You ask, eyes narrowing. "She has more, I know she does."
"Ah, interesting thing about that," Johanna raises a finger, briefly flickering to your senses as she lets Ulgu wrap around her for a moment. "The things you hear when people are trying to put out a lot of big fires," she chuckles before straightening. "They were going to. They lost the one they were going to send."
"How," a number of women ask at the same time.
"Well," Johanna spread her hands wide, a bemused look on her face. "It seems that someone managed to take her out. Along with her guards. Took out some of their force, too. Some kind of fight, tore down a few of the buildings around her, too. Was quick, too, in and out with just the one target."
The vampire inhales deeply before sticking out her tongue and dragging a finger along it, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together afterwards.
"I'll tell you one thing," she says, looking at her fingers. "Tasted a lot of Dhar in the air. Must have coated the area, the survivors I mean, after the fight. They think they know, but aren't
sure who did it."
She looks up at you, then at Kerillian, then at Sadrina.
"So she showed back up," you manage through gritted teeth.
"Maybe," Johanna shrugs. "Could be another sorceress in the Coven decided to only pretend to wave the flag until they could scrabble into the shadows to hide, strike out from there."
"If it is her," Sadrina says, brow furrowed, "I cannot fault her for killing one of the Coven."
"Oh I can fault her fucking plenty for whatever I want," your snarl, fists clenching so tight that the Ledstahli squeaks and pops. "My – she – Frederick is…," you gasp out, drowning in your fury before you plunge your mind and soul into the cold once more. "…she's not here," you finally growl. "If it is her. It doesn't matter right now. What matters is getting out of sight, and figuring out what we're going to do next."
You purposefully ignore a great many exchanged glances as you stride down into the depths once more.
=================================================================
Two hours later, you've discovered that, as ever, victory excuses many things.
Previous cowardice, fear, denial, it fades away after you return with a bounty of food and water. The slaves throughout the tunnels have their own little storage areas, with the leanest and least of such things for their own usage. Those with more spirit have smuggled small amounts now and again to build up their own stashes. But such things will not last forever. They cannot, no matter what some of their most broken minds believe. Besides which, it is not just what you have gained, it is what you have denied the enemy. It is that, once again, you were victorious. You killed more of the masters, and that inspires the enslaved, no matter how fearsome your demeanor or armor. Especially with the quiet and steady clarion call of Roland, the empathetic fury of the Whitewings, the impressive charisma and diplomatic capabilities of Sadrina, the cajoling and carousing Johanna. All of it, good. Very good. You've outpaced what you could salvage from the dead, now, to equip those who wish to join you. You will not have your newest recruits dressed in nothing but chains and collars and manacles atop their rags. You will not have them wielding crude cudgels and chair legs.
"We need to hit an armory, otherwise, they're just lambs to the slaughter," you say over a dinner of salted meat and raw vegetables to what are effectively your commanders. "They have to have some of those, right?"
"So they say," Kerillian says, glancing at her Druchii as they huddle over a small little cobbled together altar to Khaine, albeit one created by the Asrai and not the Druchii themselves.
Evidently enough it is recognizable enough to have the other slave avoid it, but not so similar that it doesn't confuse them at the sight of it. You've even seen some of the Asur tilt their heads at it.
"There are certain armories, yes, but some of them would be in the Tor of Dominance, which we cannot break into easily or swiftly," Sadrina begins, brow furrowed in thought again. "But there should also be some near the docks, to rapidly equip corsairs as they set out on raids. Not as protective as a knight's regalia, but then, many of our newer recruits have not the training or constitutions for such."
"There are the arenas as well," Roland says, fist curled under his chin. "They must have quite a quantity of assorted weaponry."
"Might be a bit risky to try that, though," Johanna says, hands folded in her lap for lack of a bowl or plate or anything else to hold food she does not require. "If we hit an arena, then a lot of that would probably have to go to the gladiators, that I'm assuming we'd free."
"The arenas have been locked down, besides," Jaqueline grouses. "I heard from some of the slaves from others in the northern tunnels. Cruelbarb is dead, apparently a number of sorceresses slew him outright, took control of his arena. Direblaze already fell in line before all of this happened. The last one, the…," she flaps her hand, "Whatever House rules that one finished sorting out their choice of leadership amongst themselves. Apparently its Princess whatever now, who killed Princess whatever, and her father Lord or Prince whatever," she gnaws on a piece of dried meat angrily. "Swore loyalty to Alyssa."
"Harder targets tomorrow than they would have been today," you mutter.
"Harder does not mean impossible," Kerillian points out, "More blood'll spill one way or another."
"Anything else from the grapevine?" You ask, glancing around at everyone.
"That flooding I heard about is getting worse. The Deep Dwellers are trying to seal things off, keep things contained, but some people heard a lot of screeching and hissing going on before they ran."
"Loathe as I am to say it, we could leave those who cannot be properly equipped behind, and gather up arms for them from those we slay," Sadrina notes. "I do not enjoy the thought of equipping them with such tainted arms in such number, though perhaps we could attempt some forms of cleansing."
"That's more time," you grunt. "More time trying to do that. Could try and poke at the siege at the Temple of Atharti, but that's the same problem. Tainted arms. Not good in the long run."
"Could hit a noble's tor," Kerillian pipes up, cupping her chin with one hand. "If that one we just killed today was in command, might be easier to break in there. Or could ask them for other nobles, find their homes, take what they'd use to help bulk up their household guard and what not."
"Choices, choices," Johanna chuckles without humor.
"Most of them are commoners, but two of them are sisters," the Asrai continues smoothly. "Noble sisters. Or at least, used to be. Loyal to Khaine, their family was. House Kathruil. Didn't have a Tor, but a manor, and an armory in it."
"They were doubtless one of the Houses struck by the Alyssans," Sadrina says, to which Kerillian shrugs.
"Just mentioning that it is an option," she mutters.
"I'll announce my decision tomorrow," you decide, standing up and putting your empty bowl aside. "The rest of you, do your best to get some sleep."
"You going to be alright doing that yourself?" Johanna asks after you, making you pause as that horrid stretched and snapping burn of drawn out agony echoes through the bond once more.
(Divine Realms of Pain: 76+25+15+10+15+20+15+10+15-15-35-15-15-15=106/100)
A slow exhale escapes you as you straighten, and finally after an entire day, manage to take all the pain and entomb it in the glacial depths of your soul where it becomes nothing more than a frozen part of the greater structure.
"...of course," you say over your shoulder as you walk - steadily - to your corner to steal some rest. "Who in the hells do you think I am?"
Your sleep is dreamless that night.
And
without interruption before you rise at the proper time.
Natasha's Choices:
Voting Moratorium 3 Hours
Having gained a significant influx of recruits of inspired slaves to join up after bringing in a significant quantity of foodstuffs and striking a blow against the masters, you now have significantly more troops than you can even meagerly equip. They are willing to fight, but would be unarmored, practically unarmed, and as the days pass, the bodies are beginning to disappear from the streets more and more to elsewhere.
[]Arming The Helpless [Taking this option
will alter circumstances, presences, at targets, for better or worse as you reach them later in the day]
-[] Strike the Corsair Armories: Located in the docklands, with relatively light armor but effective swords and hand crossbows, possibly also causing damage to the docklands themselves, the Cult of Mathlann, and Alyssan forces.
-[] Strike the Dead Prince's Tor: Irritating bastard that he was, the death of the ruler of a noble house means a house in disarray. Druchii nobility are expected to equip their troops as best as possible out of rivalry and superiority power games. Higher quality, heavier grade, but likely heavily defended by Alyssans.
-[] Strike A Noble's Manor: A family liable to resist Alyssa, liable to have either died or fled to other points of resistance. Might mean a manor held by Alyssans, or one that is empty allowing you to get in an out quickly. Technically a possibly, yes.
-[] Strike A Major Armory: Kerillian's little killers know about some of the major armories meant to equip the invading forces of the Ark when they land at a target, one of the larger foundries meant to equip a variety of troops. Which definitely means a harder target than any of the others, as it was assuredly a priority target for Alyssa before to keep and to hold. Depending on how things go there, it might be all you can manage tomorrow, but you'd be able to equip everyone properly, and then some for future recruits.
-[] Strike None: The time you spend heading to one of these places, fighting over them, returning, and equipping all the new recruits is pointless. Let them remain or serve as chaff, picking up what they can on the way to true targets. Cold, but can you afford to do otherwise?
New Significant Warband Additions will have no armor or arms save what can be scavenged on the battlefield, high casualties assured.
AND
[] Targets for Destruction [Circumstances, one way or another, will change over time, depending on the results/choice in the above category]
- [] Strike the Siege: The Temple of Atharti is one of the greatest known resistance points against the Cult of Pleasure, seeing as Atharti is literally a rival Cytharai to much of what Slaanesh is. The longer it lasts, the more focus it will require from the Cult of Pleasure. It follows that killing the Druchii and banishing the daemonettes assaulting it will, in turn, harm the Cult of Pleasure all the more. They will not hold out forever, you don't think, but you can extend the length of time they resist.
- [] Attack An Arena: The Arenas are full of slaves literally trained and built and fed properly to be satisfactory combatants. You have a much larger warband now, but why not swell it all the further? Traverse the slave tunnels, emerge, and shatter more cages, break more chains, and become an even greater threat to the machinations of Alyssa. Hells, maybe you'll even get her to come out of the tower that way all the quicker. They might belong to Alyssa now, but that just means it's that much more important to break her toys.
- [] Fire and Food: There are other food production sites, silos, storage. It's time that some of them cease to exist. Ransack them to feed your own warband, and deny their contents and production to the enemy. The daemons might not need food or water, but the Druchii damned well do, and without the latter, they cannot sustain the presence of the former. You've destroyed one pyramid, you can destroy others. They'll be more defended, assuredly after the last one, but you can still hopefully manage it.
[] Take The Tor: The Tor of Dominance is right there! Kill her, kill her NOW! FREEZE HER BREAK HER KILL HER KILL HER HOW DARE SHE
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