huh. Eonir Demigryph Cavalry. Viable? perhaps. Plausible? certanly. Likely? Somewhat.
Feels like a good start of something....
Feels like a good start of something....
Warhammer Fantasy: A Dynasty of Dynamic Alcoholism
- Thread starter torroar
- Start date
- Mature
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- Tags
- warhammer warhammer fantasy fantasy intrigue happens male protagonist ck2 quest belief stronk count of cannons drunken wisdom foes in the shadows graf of guns (guns) if you have a question check the front page first it begins... mountain vietnam ogres paranoia rising unseen enemies everywhere use the search function before asking waifu wars wake the bull
Def more potential for more actual politicking then Freddy does. we don't actually see much of Freddy's politicking since he has squashed any potential unruly local lords.
We only really get to see Freddy have to do politics during the big imperial meetings, and even then he's a rather blunt instrument.
Karola is such a different person from the rest of the family it is honestly kinda refreshing? lol
I worry about Karola but she is very very young. I hope she will understand the utter pragmatic need for violence by the time she's of age, otherwise it'd be wise to select another heir.
It could also be the kind of problem mitigated through marriage to a suitable candidate.
- Pronouns
- He/Him/His
Or her sister, who is already training with a replica runefang, could be her champion.
It's not like Karola is stupid or would necessarily incompetent.
She is playing strategy games against her dad and doing well enough to beat him (if with a handicap).
That said, I would never make her serve as a General with the army lest she turn out like George McClellan and lose her nerve over causalties.
Though even then, Karola would still be leagues better than McClellan given she (so far) isn't a delusional paranoiac who abandons her tasks and forgets to tell people her plans.
Ori becoming Karola's shogun is not an adequate solution, imo.
Mallus is not a place for pacifists. The dynamic of sweet Karola being elector count while her iron forged sister wields the runefang doesnt strike me as sustainable, tenable, safe, respectable. Maybe I'm wrong, but the runefangs are associated with leadership in the empire for a reason. It takes one who can wield it to lead, this is the common wisdom for centuries.
If Orianna is going to wield Brain Wounder, then Karola may as well be removed from the line of succession.
There are parts of the idea that sound cool, but I really can't help but feel like something terrible will happen to one or the other of them.
- Location
- Africa
plus its not fair Orianna to have all the parts of being elector count Karola thinks are icky dumbed on her while Karola gets to keep all the power and authority as elector count having off loaded the heaviest responsibility to someone else
if Karola wants the job then she takes the whole job not just the parts she doesn't mind
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I think people are severly underestimating the sheer competence of Hohenzollern dynasty and our advisorys. Even if Karola takes on Shallaya oath of pacifism, she's not gonna be a liability incapable of being compensated. Sure she may beffudle people as the one Hohenzollern avioding violence. But its not like she would be aginst mustering armies and improving weapons. Then Ori would ascent the rank of champion and become the Defender of Ostland much like Tyrion.
She may be a kid, but she's aware of what's coming, and she is working on solutions. They all are.
Do keep in mind the team of specialists is offten superior to team of generalists.
She may be a kid, but she's aware of what's coming, and she is working on solutions. They all are.
Do keep in mind the team of specialists is offten superior to team of generalists.
Should this be "UNattended"?
- Location
- Africa
that depends on how much she would be opposed to the more violent , messy and bloody parts of ruling, not just personal Combate and military command but also the other stuff involved with politics and governance like blackmail , manipulation and assassination, letting the witch hunters subject suspected cultists to 'enhanced interrogation' till they die, enforcing rule of law and the violence and sometimes death penalties that will entail
like its one thing to delegate combat and military command to someone more whose better at them then her but all that other stuff , if she can't take responsibility for and delegates away or worse shies away from it out right then she may as well be a figure head for the real elector count who's doing all that work
- Location
- A Pit Of My Own Making
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Bleedswords? Hell yeah they did
- Location
- Somewhere
Our nobles aren't quite that martial. Part of Frefddy's early rule was whacking his nobility over the head with martial combat to determine the outcome of a judgement. This was not taken positively by our nobility, who would much rather have had Freddy do more diplomacy efforts to them. Or like how Serhild's family backed the Hohenzollerns on the law reform, or how the law reform itself was carried through under protest, and the implied threat of the army. Freddy could have handled it more diplomatically to not ruffle the nobility had he more diplomacy ability.
Karola can have respect among Ostland nobility through diplomacy.
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I agree with others in that problem isn't Karola being less martially inclined but rather it's her being against almost everything remotely violent. She can take a more administrative and I would honestly be fine with such a PC but pacifism even in such a role is still problematic. Back in that one daughters interlude Ori did say there is a historical precedence for electors to choose champions to wield runefangs. People and nobles will most likely still grumble about it but they will grumble regardless unless you are Magnus "Supreme Support" the Pious. With fine diplomacy and stewardship Karola can handle most problems while Ori or some other appointed general/head of knightly order can lead the armies.
But first that Pacifist trait gotto go or somehow change. Who knows, this upcoming Beasttide can be good for some character development. Besides, younger Hohenzollerns can use some more trauma. While back in Frederick's day grumble grumble grumble
But first that Pacifist trait gotto go or somehow change. Who knows, this upcoming Beasttide can be good for some character development. Besides, younger Hohenzollerns can use some more trauma. While back in Frederick's day grumble grumble grumble
This. It's this specifically which means she must not be the one to inherit, unless she grows the fuck out of it. This isn't "punchy" vs "talky" strategy. It's almost as much of a problem of having an heir torture animals for fun. Having her among the herd is fine, but she is as equpped as Wolfila to inherit.
This isn't to say Orianna as she is now wouldn't present an almost opposite problem. But between the two, it is safer for everyone if we have "is inclined to fight and take up the mantle of responsibility" lead, than "is averse to cause harm even when necessary and right".
One way or another it needs to change. Either through a complementary marriage option + specific tutelage, or replacement.
NCRTrooper
Wishing For A Nuclear Winter
- Location
- New York
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Hate to be nitpicky, but her name isn't Orianna, it's Ortrud, nickname Ori,
thank you haha
Spikes, Horns, and Stone 34
Spikes, Horns, and Stone 34
Morning, love.
For the briefest of seconds, you feel like you are finally home. Hearing those roughly spoken words rasped into your ear as if his lips were right there, beard scratching against your cheek. It does not last longer than a heartbeat of imagined warmth and comfort before the ache in your back and rashes of your body and so much more remind you of where you really are. Sleeping in armor, no matter how well-crafted the Ledstali is, is not conducive to particularly comfortable rest. Which is mostly why you've been relying on sheer exhaustion pushing you into the more lively of Morr's two realms up until this point. Which, to be fair, has worked quite well. Nevertheless, it also ignites in you that cold angry fire when the realization comes, delighted affection mixing with it into quite the potent cocktail that takes you from not even opening your eyes to fully awake and sitting up amidst the rest of your forces as they too begin to wake.
Morning, love, you send back just as quickly. How did you know?
How is he? What is going on? Questions you can answer quite swiftly now that you think about it. He's currently still in the chamber from before, but for once, Alyssa is not there nor are her daemonic attendants. There are the still-slumbering forms of the others in the chamber with him, a myriad of beings of whom a few you find quite abominable but others in any other situation you'd be interested in conversing with. The Vitki of Norsca who barked about the Dark Gods needs to die, most certainly. An ogre who has not eaten sufficiently for who knows how long is a different danger, but a danger all the same. At the least, your husband has a single ally in the chamber with him, though her actual worth in that regard is suspect at the moment. Eldyra of Tiranoc has been there the whole time, dragged in early, and yet for better or worse Frederick's stubborn and vocal resistance has kept the Asur from being touched practically at all – aside from having her eyelids removed and forced to watch as Frederick is tortured in front of her.
Which, in turn, just means that Frederick suffers all the more, because you know for a fact thanks to the strengthening of the bond that part of it really is just that. The more they are focused on him, the less they are focused on Eldyra to do even worse to her. For goodness sake, his latest wounds aren't even scabbed over, who knows how much of his blood has been spilled at this point. If there was one positive thing you'd have to say about Hultressa it is that she is clearly a more practiced healer than her sister. Alyssa is not specifically incompetent at healing spells, but there is a clear brute force approach to it that does not equal the intricate completeness of Hultressa's spellwork in that regard. Which you don't find particularly surprising given Alyssa has no doubt bent the bulk of her work and practice towards causing pain rathe than relieving it.
As it turns out, the shift from sleep to not is noticeable. Less to more comprehensible.
You blink at that, frowning, shifting in your armor as you start to gnaw at some raw vegetables from some of your stolen supplies, nodding to some of the passing freedmen who give respectful bows or salutes back to you. Yes, most of them follow Roland, Johanna, or Sadrina in battle as captain equivalents, but none save the arrogant Druchii mistake that you are the one in command. So far, at least, you've managed to free many and kill more of the enemy, which is good for ensuring trust and loyalty amongst the troops. Now that you think about it, you did not experience his dreams yourself, perhaps because you slept sooner. Something that was actually a bit more difficult this past night due to the fact that you were completely aware in a way like never before of all the horrific things they were doing to him. That thought draws you up short for a moment.
Did you not sleep at all?
A low laugh echoes in your ears, though it is undeniably weary.
Didn't really get the chance, no. Put some kind of acid to burn slowly the entire night, to start with.
For a moment you have to remember to refresh the miniature blocks of ice in your mouth you made to replace the teeth you cracked apart by grinding them too hard. No need to tear up your gums even more. Even so you end up having to spit out chips of ice instead for a second before more angrily tearing up some strips of salted meat and swallowing it down after barely chewing it.
At this point I don't even care about how or who does it. She needs to die.
Not going to get any argument from me. What's your plan for today?
Your answer comes in sharp, crisp imagery of those particularly fortified estates you both witnessed as you flew over the Ark when it was still docked at Salkalten. Even back then, you knew what they were. Or rather, you could sense it. Anyone with Witch Sight would be able to see what Dhar Anchorstones were, the sheer amount of concentrated magical energies utilized to allow the Ark to force itself atop the waves and mount the ocean to go wherever it wanted impossible to miss. They were practically a twisted mirror to a major Waystone, except rather than the Winds clean and interweaving before flowing away, they drew and crushed the magics into the Druchii's desired function. You knew a lot more than you did then, thanks to your husband and his conversations with Hultressa, as well as what you've been able to glean from Sadrina's experience in an assault force against one. Obviously well defended, but equally vitally important. Hells, that was how some Asur in the past have defeated a Black Ark, according to the Handmaiden, targeting the Anchorstones exclusively.
Well, unfortunately, we don't have a blade the size of a building on hand blessed by the elven God of the Forge. Still, should work. Even without breaking the Anchorstone properly, she'll have to redirect her troops, plus a sorceress.
That's the idea.
There is the impression of a soft, feathery kiss to your cheek before the doors to the chamber Frederick is stored in opens and Alyssa arrives, eyes burning with fury with a handful of daemonettes behind her.
Then good luck, and kill as many Druchii as you can.
Gritting your teeth you force yourself to focus on your own here and now and stand upright, looking towards one group in particular of your marshalling warband. The Asur look somewhat more unified today, whatever internal struggle that are ongoing with that group are somewhat ameliorated with the presence of more rescued Asur that look upon Sadrina as their savior – and therefore the one to listen to above any of their other peers. Still, given how they're all dressed in Druchii armor now with a mishmash of noble crests and the like belonging to dead Druchii, it's easy to mistake one for the other. You know that Eldyra recruited from her home kingdom and peers, so at least some of them are elven nobility. You'd think that a Handmaiden of the Everqueen would be able to make them all fall in line utterly, but these are assuredly particularly stressful times for them beyond what they might normally be used to.
"Today, we strike a blow even more devastating than the last," you begin with your arms folded behind your back.
Men and women of the Old World and beyond, elves, and dwarfs, look back at you with the blazing fire that only those who have suffered in chains before having them be broken can have. Some amongst them have suffered longer than the others, but the expertise and cruelty of the Druchii honed over thousands of years have ensured that the rage against them is great all the same. The few dwarfs you have saved largely disdained any of the elven arms they could have possessed, and have instead taken up working tools meant for labor but when swung with sufficient force can serve all the same. Everyone else, elf or human, man or woman, look like a monstrous array of knights, corsairs, dreadspears, and bleakswords, if only at first glance. Many of your human freedmen were too broad, or short, for them to be mistaken as elves, and you just didn't have nearly enough freed Asur that could try and pretend to be Druchii given the mishmash of emblems and crests.
Oh well.
"Alyssa's grip over the Ark is slipping, weakening. We're going to pry another one of her fingers free…or even better, cut it off entirely," you continue, to many vicious grins and angry nods.
Not many of them knew Alyssa initially. After all, they were all captured in the time of Mellis Screamtaker's rule. As it turned out, however, all they needed to know was that she was the new Supreme Sorceress and perhaps just as or even worse than that worshipped Slaanesh. The daemons were a very helpful clue to that point. Dwarfs, Asur, and all right-thinking folk of the world knew that the Dark Gods were to be opposed in every possible measure and extent. This was as much about punishing the enslavers as it was to defy those they in turn served. Cytharai or Dark Gods, it was just shy of being all the same to you, and that difference was largely thanks to the fact that at the moment Atharti and Khaine seemed solidly opposed to Slaanesh.
"We already know the target, near to the arena was tore apart earlier. We can expect resistance to be strong, but for patrols to be few, as they focus elsewhere on the Ark. For now," you allow with a grunt.
The Temple of Atharti hasn't fallen – yet – but it might well soon. Especially because, as you know thanks to the bond, the most open symbol of resistance is receiving extra attention from Alyssa and her subordinates today.
"But that doesn't matter. The more of them there are, the more of them we kill!"
Bloodthirsty cheers answer you.
=====================================================================
"Tell me something, Magister Gisela," Magnus asked as the column readied itself to march once more. "How worried should I be about the Count Fuerbach?"
The Celestial Wizard worked her jaw for a moment before running a hand over her hairless scalp and sighing. He'd caught her just as she was heading for her Pegasus, the noble flying beast faster than Octaine on his best day, though the Prince was still internally debating whether or not it was because that was just the nature of a Pegasus or if the Celestial Wizard was doing anything to manipulate the air itself to improve it. The Grey Wizard, and practical mute, Wim, had glanced up at his arrival and nodded, but otherwise had made no more noise than that. They practically made no noise, ever, now that Magnus thought about it. Despite their multitude of equipment. But then that seemed entirely within expectations for a master of Ulgu.
"I could pretend to say I have no idea what you mean, or that we ought not to speak untoward about prior clients we were contracted to," she finally said before giving a mild scowl towards Wim. "But someone would be in my ear all day about it. So instead I will say this," she proclaimed, raising one slender finger upright. "The man's been alive too long."
Magnus tilted his head, the air starting to fill more and more with the sound of rousing horses, clattering of armor of knights, and squires running back and forth. They'd gained a few more Ostlanders able to reach them quickly with wagons and horses of their own for resupply, the artillery train of Talabeclanders finally on their way home in safer territory, but there was no reason to be complacent in a province so heavily forested like this. A different place it might have been, Magnus had heard more than a few veterans remark that the forests of the central Imperial province felt much more like the Forest of Shadows of old before Zacharias had been defeated. Which was not good for a province meant to be so favored by Taal. At least they had gained some rapidly moving reinforcements on their way to aid another group of Talabeclanders to the south.
"By which, of course," Gisela continued with a shrug and sardonic twist to her lips, "I mean that he's become a solid ball of grudges and anger and spite. No good sense to die in battle like he should have years ago, or just spared his son's the frustration and not woken up one morning. Little more compels him to act, let alone think. Convinced he has enemies in all places, favor dancing in and out like a breeze in the wind during summer."
She spoke breezily, but there was an undeniable undercurrent of genuine anger in her voice as she said it.
"Won't even let Krugar use the Runefang, can you believe that?" She scoffed. "Old wrinkled pit of a peach that he is, can barely walk or see, but will he let his son and heir use the damned thing? No, not a chance."
To their side, helping fit bags onto the Pegasus' sides, Wim glanced at Gisela who snapped her fingers and pointed at the Grey Wizard as if they'd made a good point.
"Exactly!"
Magnus blinked a few times, waiting for an explanation for a few seconds more before realizing it would not be coming.
"Yet it is the Duke Krugar who has called for aid," he said instead, making Gisela nod. "The Count remains in Talabheim at the moment, yet his command over his province and forces…,"
Wim straightened sharply and whirled on Magnus, shaking their head once.
"Yes, yes," Gisela flapped a hand at Wim before reorienting on the Prince. "We are not actually allowed, legally, to disclose the state of another province's military, it's built into the articles and other agreements made with the founding of the Colleges. We, that is," she gestured between herself, Wim, and then made a vague circle in the air, "The Wizards, are not ever to be utilized as assets between civil conflict between the Empire's subjects."
It didn't need to be said how fully enforceable that would likely end up being in the long run.
Or not as the case could end up being.
"Not precisely what I mean," Magnus shook his head. "I more meant whether or not we would have to face issues with the Count trying to eject our troops from the province or the like, or…worse outcomes."
Gisela sucked some air through her teeth at that, and Magnus especially did not care for the fact that instead of an immediate rejection of the idea she looked contemplative.
"Well…," she trailed off as Wim glanced at him and waggled a hand side to side. "Well, yes, Wim. But…no," she shook her head again. "He holds substantial power within his palace. But I wouldn't be too concerned, the good Duke has worked hard at ensuring that the Count's position is respected and known, but that full command of the troops belongs to the one who marches out with them at the moment."
The kind of casual acknowledgement of what some might well consider a bit of a coup was shocking, but one that Magnus was nonetheless thankful for.
"I see. Thank you for informing me. I was not looking forward to the possibility of blood being spilled unnecessarily," he said.
"Of course," Gisela smiled. "It speaks well to your character, Prince Hohenzollern. Krugar was right when he sent us to you."
Magnus did not wish death upon many of his fellow men of the Empire, but there was certainly a distinct sense that he would greatly prefer Krugar as the Count of Talabecland than his father.
Alas.
=====================================================================
"Hold."
Your order is mostly instantly followed, with only some stuttered movement amongst those newer to combat and amongst the elves, whether Druchii or Asur. After that, you raise your hands and channel the ice in your veins outwards into the air, a cold freezing fog emerging with every heavy exhalation. Some of the freed Imperials of your warband flinch at the open display, but at this point the majority of them do little more than that. Suspicion and superstition might remain strong, but at this point, desperation and the present circumstances are enough that without a priest or witch hunter to whip them up they're more than willing to accept your powers. Frost begins to coat swords and cutlasses as you desire, ensuring that those they cut suffer all the more. You've seen similar things done by Bright Wizards, save with flame rather than ice, but in your experience, both can burn in their own way.
"There. Johanna?"
"It's ready," the vampire grunts as she hefts some of what you took with you from the arena as you fled yesterday.
Unlike most other places on the Ark, the Anchorstone Complexes are places solely meant for the passage of the Druchii in every respect. Not a single slave could ever be allowed in this place, save perhaps as a sacrifice used by a sorceress to do some sort of dread act of magic or another. They are also not meant to be travelled or even be near regular civilian Druchii, due to their sheer importance for the Black Ark's continued existence. Even the temples are neighbored by domiciles and businesses, just like they are back in the Empire, so that the citizenry can flock to them quickly as they desire or at required times. None such are found here, only storehouses and the like with supplies, no people. No Druchii, no slaves. Isolation forms the outward layer of defense here. The complex that raises before you, however, is more like a military outpost than anything else, a fortress estate just like that of the nobility and wealthier Druchii, albeit not to the point of being a full Tor. It has its own walls, gates, a wide cleared space for creating a killing ground, and is staffed with visible defenders stalking the walls and guarding the gates themselves.
Not to mention the thick waves of magic that are in the air before you, visible not simply to your Witch Sight, but to everyone else as well so potent and active are they as they swirl downwards into the center of the complex.
Sprouting from the top, as well, visible even from here even if it is just a sliver of the whole, is a crystal of most malicious darkness bound in place just like the one atop the Tor of Dominance.
"Okay," Johanna grunts, her form visibly bulked and taller than before as she allows some of the monstrous mass of her vampiric body to express itself as she brings the Reaper Bolt Thrower upright over her shoulder.
While the crew of the weapon at the arena had more multi-shot bolts meant for greater suppression of infantry, it appears to be standard practice to carry larger single bolts in at least some capacity no matter what. It is one of the latter that the vampire has loaded into the reaper this time around, a globe of dark magic stored within a sort of contained crystal within a hollow in the metal spiked head proper. Potent in the extreme, you know that much, given how wary the Asur were of it. According to Sadrina, some missiles fired from just such a bolt thrower are sometimes capable of piercing a dragon's hide depending on what the payload proper was. Given that the Claw of Dominion was an Ark long controlled and influenced by Ghrond, Hekarti, and sorcery in general, it is perhaps expected that such valued arms are granted particularly powerful bolts.
Ammo that belongs to you now.
"Unleash!" You shout, and as one, the warband's ranged troops reveal themselves out into the open.
The enemy has already been well on the alert, the Druchii responding immediately by taking cover the second they see how many crossbows you've stolen raising up against them. Whether using the walls themselves or shields, the Druchii move to defend themselves as best they can while your warband begins firing. Some of the Druchii, braver or bolder than the others, rush towards their own bolt throwers and begin wheeling them about. These are the ones that you know some of the more eagle-eyed Asur amongst your forces were waiting for, while Johanna outright leaps into the open, her stolen artillery piece already whirring and cranking. Unlike anyone else, however, she is not focused on attacking the Druchii specifically, weapon crew or otherwise, not even the other bolt throwers.
No.
She is focused on the main gate to the complex right in front of you, a working of dark stone and reinforcing metal.
"Here we go!" Johanna shouts with only a bit of manic glee, fangs gleaming brightly in the morning light.
Or, no, it would be from the gathering tip of Aqshy she's summoning into being on her readied missile in addition to the Druchii-crafted payload.
…that's a lot of Aqshy.
(Open Sesame: 87+Band of Heroes(35)+Anger of the Asur(20)+Bravery of Bretonnia(15)+Whetted Witch Elves(10)+Fervent Ferocious Freedmen(25)+Invigorated Soul(5)+Frost Blades(5)+Reaper Surprise(5)+Atharti Siege Drawdown(10)-Fractious Fellowship(5)-Disciplined Druchii(10)-Anchorstone Defense Force(25)-Defensive Enchantments(10)=167/100)
A lot of Aqshy.
Too much.
Johanna is no masterful magister of magic, she has undeniable strength in it, and some talent, but nowhere near the experience or practice of yourself or others.
Perhaps that is why you can see tendrils of Dhar flickering into it as the sphere of red and now black starts to grow larger than the head of the bolt it's attached to.
"Johanna?!" You call out to her without turning your head, most of your attention on reaching out with the Winds to start blowing the crossbow bolts of the enemy off course while also avoiding doing the same to your own troops.
"KNOCK KNOCK!" The vampire howls and then fires, the level of force of the pulleys and mechanisms plus her spell sending Johanna skidding backwards.
The screaming bolt flies straight towards the gate leading into the Anchorstone Complex, a gate that would have been well suited to guarding any castle in Ostland with its strength. Even as the bolt fires, you can see enormous glyphs of purple and black swirl into existence in the air, defensive enchantments fully activating from the threat. Others are sown into the gate itself, Ghyran and Chamon and more mixed to harden every single separate plank and screw and plate of metal that make it up all the more. None of which appears to matter as Johanna's enhanced missile strikes it dead center, exploding in a globe of Aqshy and Dhar that starts to rapidly expand upon impact. The dread form of crushed Winds interacts catastrophically with the Aqshy already there, mixing up and then overtaking it until that which began as something of crimson and orange turns darker and darker still. The Druchii near the gate are dead instantly, from flash heat cooking them in their armor or from the concussive force and scattering like broken fragile dolls across the ground. Part of the outer walls of the complex shake badly, some of the Druchii atop them falling to the ground.
Meanwhile, the shots of your own warband have found many of their marks. Kerillian, as deadly at range as she is up close, manages to personally shoot down every single member of the crew of Druchii trying to use one of the enemy's bolt throwers against you with a repeating crossbow in one hand, the other still holding the First Draich. Sadrina and the Asur, much as they are disgusted to use the implements of their cruel cousins, are pragmatic enough to use them with skill and precision. The other bolt throwers that the enemy might have used to scythe your warband down do not get a chance to fire, and even as the other Druchii try and inch closer to use them as others fall, those too are struck. The greatest possible weapon against your forces is thus denied from service. Meanwhile, Johanna's struggled back to her feet, laughing a little madly as she sees the absurd destruction she has wrought. The gatehouse is gone, a smoldering sizzling ruin, some of the stone not outright destroyed so well heated that it has melted slightly.
"Don't do that spell again, you barely cast it away from yourself in time before it collapsed!" You shout at her, to which the vampire scoffs.
"It worked, didn't it!?"
"Johanna!"
"Fine," she draws out before reaching into a barrel she'd crudely tied to herself with rope and drawing out another bolt as if it were merely a quiver and her weapon a bow. "You're welcome, by the way."
"Thank you," you hiss before rolling your eyes and drawing your blade to look back at the rest of your troops, most of them eager if some scared by the explosion. "NOW IS THE TIME! CHAAAAAARGE!"
Already you can see movement within the shadows of the complex's innards, the defenders of this vital installation not defeated simply because you broke the door down. Blades and shields glint in the light of the sun as they push to the fore, and your eyes narrow as you see an unnatural wind cast forth to blow the billowing smoke and dust of the destruction out and away. There, standing atop an upraised staircase meant to lead up the walls and now visible to you, a Druchii with a staff that glows with dark power and a furious expression on her face. A silvery frame outlines her face, with an inset dark purple gem inset over her forehead. Just like every other sorceress you've ever seen up until now, she's practically naked. For her, that is true save for a thin chest covering and a girdle that bares nearly all her lower half save for a purple cloth that reaches to knee length on the front and back. A thin nimbus of Dhar and Shyish surrounds her.
However, as your warband begins to charge forward, the Druchii assembling to create a shieldwall with discipline and skill, you can see something you wouldn't normally expect.
A hint of…uncertainty?
"An apprentice!" Sadrina says breathlessly as you charge for the opening in the wall, "Not yet a true sorceress!"
"Weaker?!" You ask her quickly, boots slamming against the ground as the roaring of both sides starts to get louder and louder the closer you get.
"Perhaps, but less skilled, less knowledgeable, certainly!" She answers, firing a repeating crossbow as she moves.
"Kerillian!" You shout next. "The one with the staff!"
"I know!" You hear her accented Reikspiel somewhere amongst the crowd but can't quite precisely point out where.
Said 'one with the staff' is already waving her staff about as she draws not upon Dhar as a whole as you might have expected but upon a single wind – perhaps she's only good enough with the one so far. Either way, you aren't about to let a large-scale casting of Shyish to afflict your warband, and raise your own arms upwards, sword gleaming with the Grace of the Ancient Widow. Johanna, who is still mostly distracted with loading her reaper bolt thrower, will be of no help here. Hopefully, given it's just a neophyte compared to a full sorceress, you won't need the aid she could provide. You can see the fear, the terror, the mental destruction that the spell is preparing for, something to stop the heart in the chest if sufficiently powerful. If she manages to cast the spell successfully, the havoc it could wreak on your troops could be devastating.
"No you don't," you growl.
(Dispelling Attempt: 74+Natasha Piety(13)+Cold Certainty(10)+Vengeance Calling(5)+Invigorated Soul(5)-Ark Aethyric Network Well Weakened(10)-Apprentice Sorceress(10)-Enchanted Supplementation(5)=82/100)
(Ready Or Not: 43+35+20+15+10+25+Boltshock(10)+5+5+5+10-5-10-25-10=133/100)
It is a struggle to dismiss and dispel the magical workings of an elf. Apprentice or not, this one has some strength to her. She's already a considerable threat, but one that you can, at least for now, defeat. This close you can see the outrage on her face as her spell fails to materialize, the Winds slipping from her grasp, which transforms into a flicker of uncertainty and fear as your forces reach hers. Once more, Roland and the Whitewings lead the charge, accompanied by the heaviest equipped freedmen on your side, those wearing the stolen armor of knights and noble guards alike. A rolling, storming boulder of black steel and wicked silvered edges for most, attended to by the gromril bulk of Roland at the tip of the spear. The shieldwall looks strong, held by well-disciplined Druchii, but strong and disciplined do not always win out. If that were always true, no dwarfs would have ever fallen to greenskins in their history, and yet the Goblin Wars and the Time of Woes happened. Nor would Kislev have ever suffered anyone from coming through the High Pass that should not have.
This time, though, it is the furious and the savage and the hateful who have nothing to lose which win out.
Blades flash, bodies crunch, screams ring out both victorious and not. The tang of the hot spilled blood fills your nostrils, a cloying mixture with the sweat and filth of the freedmen and the starker cleanliness of the Druchii. Plates of metal screech and scrape and break, while finely wrought chainmail clinks and clatters as it is scattered across the ground, all mixed with the sound of breaking bones and tearing skin and flesh. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the sorceress already beginning to draw up a different spell, this one meant to outright rip the life from the bodies of the targets if you judge the casting correctly, but before she can do enough to require your attentions to dispel, a bloody shadow appears from behind her. How Kerillian managed to get there without anyone noticing, you do not know, but her presence is announced as she slices the First Draich right down the apprentice sorceress' head and down to split her through the legs. Before the Druchii even knows she's properly dead, Kerillian is tackling through the body, forcing the halves apart and covering herself in blood and plopping out organ matter as she dives into the rest of the fighting.
For a brief moment you find yourself surrounded solely by allies rather than Druchii, able to take a bare moment to pause and blink and think.
The workings of this place are extensive in the extreme, that is obvious at a glance even if you had the weakest possible Witch Sight at all. Hells, even for someone who did not have it at all, one would be able to see it from the gleaming runes upon arcane architecture throughout the arches of the ceiling and certain columns. Solid bars of black crystal extend outwards like plumbing overhead as well, extending through the walls and outwards. Tainted Dark Magic fills the air, thick like molasses almost, but you dare not draw upon it. Johanna appears to be less concerned about that than you, but you aren't a vampire. The Cold Certainty helps protect and gird you, lets you draw upon the Grace of the Widow with greater strength and ease, especially in the face of this. No doubt a great boon to sorceresses, and vampires perhaps, but not so much for yourself. Like having a constant draft of oily black smoke blown in your face. Either way, the sheer power this place channels is immense, reminding you of the leylines of Kislev, or the Waystone Nexus of Laurelorn, or the like. Save that the Druchii built this awful place, all to draw the Winds in to use them as they wish. All that power, mastered and maintained, all to keep a Black Ark afloat. Though it shames you to admit it, you are unsure if even your sister and the wielders of the Widow's Grace of Kislev or the Magic Colleges of the Empire could ever make something like this.
It would be awe-inspiring if you weren't so disgusted and disturbed by its very existence.
"We are not done!" You shout, shaking your head to clear your thoughts and then push forward to the front, freezing a dreadspear's arms so he cannot maneuver his shield to stop you from stabbing him in the eye. "Keep pushing forward!"
But just as strongly as you push to invade this place, the Druchii are pushing back to keep you out of it.
(Invasion: 27+35+20+15+10+25+5+10-5-10-25-10-5=92/100)
The sound of shattering glass or crystal fills the air as more Druchii arrive, these ones now surrounded by glowing auras of Dhar to empower them. Just behind them you see some kind of broken black glossy material on the ground, ground to powder under their feet. These Druchii are strong enough to outright fling away some of the freedmen as they try to advance on them, shield bashes forcing stumbles or falls, spears and swords flashing about and stabbing enough to force others to surrender. These Druchii are not like those at the Arena who started to flee, whether because of the loss of the portal or their leader. This place is less openly prestigious than the arena but far more important on a functional level for the Ark. The kinds of troops that would be stationed at places like this are going to be of a different sort entirely. You do not see the sort of insane zealous fervor that filled some of the Slaaneshi cultists and the like, but a freezing cold determination that is admittedly familiar to you. Though usually because it has filled your own veins before, and that of your people whether of Kislev or the Empire. It is odd to be on the other end of it, but not even a fraction of enough to stop you from doing what needs to be done. Something that seems true for everyone else as well.
The fine marble floors, the well-crafted columns and ceilings, a place that could have been a temple – might well be in a certain functionality given the fact that you see so many statues of Hekarti present about the place – none of it matters. There are no benches for people to sit, only doorways that appear to lead into barracks and storerooms with supplies for the troops that staff this place. Shelves with books and scrolls lie here and there, but these are disregarded as anything but cover or a weapon by those who now fight through the complex's hallways. Either something to tear down to block your troops or even possibly kill someone with the weight, or to be picked up and used as a shield when crossbow bolts start flying. You can see it, despite all of it. The same sort of otherworldly beautiful aesthetic evident through the homes of the Eonir, of what the Asur crafted with their own compound, only darker and just slightly twisted to make every angle and curve of the architecture uneasy for you to experience.
Strangely, tearing this place apart, tapestries aflame, shelves and chairs and benches shattered and splintered, blood and filth splattered everywhere?
It helps.
Something to examine another time, perhaps. Or perhaps not.
(Inward Push: 55+35+20+15+10+25+5+10-5-10-25-10-Power of Darkness(10)=115/100)
More and more Druchii arrive, organized and swift, with all their deadly skill on full display. These are not the same as any normal dreadspears or bleakswords or darkshards, it's more than evident in how they fight. Normal elves fight with inhuman grace and dexterity already, these all the more so. Their equipment is of even finer make than the norm, the plates thicker and yet more flexibly placed, the inner layers reinforced. Spears gleam and stab so quickly that freedmen are forced to scatter backwards, arms raising to defend themselves while those with stolen shields have to move to the fore to protect your forces from being too badly wounded. Worse, the very complex itself seems to be aiding them, that same growing dark power that you saw before now outright seeming to leech out of the walls of the complex towards them to grant even greater strength and speed. Your progress back in the arena before was at a blistering pace that you simply cannot manage here, the stiffening defense of the enemy is just of a quality and quantity that makes that impossible.
"Come on! Keep…pushing!" You shout, slamming against the shieldwall yourself and sending a chilling blast of ice along the ground to capture and freeze their feet in place.
A few pieces of stone clatter atop your armor from above, the strangeness of it enough to make you at least glance upwards.
There, you see Johanna, the nails on her feet having become extended black claws for her to plant against the ceiling with her leathery wings also being used to hoist and brace herself there upside down. Her teeth are bared and grit hard against each other, muscles bulging beneath her skin even in her neck. A trail of deep claw marks punched into the wall up the ceiling marks her path up to that point, how much her wings aided her not precisely known given that you know that Johanna most definitely does not have the hollow bones of a bird, but then neither do gryphons or Pegasi. Either way, she's managed to bring the reaper bolt thrower up there with her, as well as the chained barrel containing the other bolt ammo for the artillery piece. This time around, however, she appears to have switched out the more limited single target bolt ammo for the clustered shot, the design of which you know would likely be of great interest to your daughter Anna for study purposes. In this case, however, you can forgive the usage of the ammo immediately.
Some of the Druchii notice as well, pointing and shouting, but by that point it is too late.
Because Johanna has already fired and just like that, you learn just why the reaper bolt thrower is such a feared ship deck clearing device, as professed by the Asur.
"Don't just stand there," you shout over the deafening silence of so much metal and meat spewed in near liquified fragments all over the place, "Keep moving!"
But of course the Druchii aren't done.
You barely get a few hallway lengths more before the next wave arrives, this one joined with daemonettes and other Druchii who are even more solidly infused with Dark Magic than the last ones.
(Inward Push: 36+35+20+15+10+25+5+10-5-10-25-10-Daemonic Auxilaries(5)-Power of Darkness(15)=86/100)
"Foul creatures, begone!" Roland booms as he cleaves a daemonette with his blade before elbowing another as it tries to leap atop him.
Another snaps their claw upon your blade, cackling as it tries to force your sword away from you, strength impossible given the lithe and thin frame. It laughs as it raises its other claw, snapping it towards your throat and latching it around the Ledstali protecting your throat. The laughing stops as you inhale deeply and then exhale out a spike of ice through the grille of your helmet straight into its own mouth and out the back of its head. Being a daemon, it doesn't have the courtesy to die immediately, but the strength of the claws slacken enough for you to wrench your sword around and behead the awful creature. The Whitewings are busy triple teaming another Druchii that's been separated from the rest of them, while Kerillian has become visible again as the First Draich reaps a bloody toll against her enemies. There is a loud clattering nearby though, and when you turn to look, it is to find Johanna haphazardly fiddling with the bolt thrower, no longer positioned on the ceiling.
"You want to help out over here?!" You shout to her, pausing to turn and stab another daemonette as it vaults over the Druchii shield wall.
"Hey! These things are crewed by three to six Druchii at a time!" She shouts back, aggrieved, "I am doing my best here!"
"Sadrina!" You shout, the Handmaiden appearing next to you before you finish her name.
"Lady Natasha?" She asks, breathless, turning to fire her crossbow for a moment.
"I need three of your Asur who can figure out that damned bolt thrower to do so, help it reload. We need Johanna up here in the front!"
"I understand," Sadrina nods, eyes bright and fierce as she turns about and starts barking in rapid-fire Eltharin.
When you turn to shout for Johanna to reposition, you find that she apparently already heard you, hacking the chain to separate herself from the ammo barrel and is literally flying low in the hallway to smash into the shieldwall like a slowly launched cannonball. Immediately there are Druchii sent flying up and away, pure physical force smashing apart the formation and allowing others to pour through. The daemons are proving their own effectiveness, however, you can see a duo of ex-slave dwarfs dead on the ground, as well as a handful of Bretonnians dressed in lighter equipment. The corsair-armored freedmen are less well armored, but are fighting well despite that, though you are coming to wish more and more that you had a proper healer on hand. Sadrina can do some healing through her connection to the Everqueen and Isha, but nothing truly extravagant unfortunately. The best you can do with your own magic is numb the pain, the cool and cold helping to also refresh those in danger of overheating in the heavier gear.
"Bloody daemons!" You growl, clapping your hands together around the hilt of your sword to channel more strongly.
Though it had begun to fade, as a new wickedly sharp and deadly ice forms upon the edges of many a blade of your forces. Mundane steel can function against a daemon, it can. But magic does certainly help things.
"There's more coming!" Someone shouts.
You almost trip as you turn to meet them, a twitch almost unavoidable as you hear and feel exactly why Frederick starts to scream again in the Tor of Dominance. His pain is yours, but unlike him you can exercise that shared pain and your own screaming fury on targets right in front of you.
(Inward Push: 51+35+20+15+10+25+5+10+Frost Blades(5)-5-10-25-10-Daemonic Auxilaries(10)-Power of Darkness(15)=101/100)
Not just new daemonettes, but exalted ones. Taller, broader, stronger, faster, without the almost delirious cackling and laughter of the lesser kinds. These are more focused, more practiced, more dangerous. These ones cannot be allowed to reach the more lightly equipped freedmen with the stolen armor and arms from the corsair armory. Something that all of the veterans present recognize, and even without your order you can see the most heavily equipped troops moving to the fore to present a united front. Whether Asur bearing the heavy armor of noble guards, Bretonnians in stolen knight armor, or freedmen in the same, the exalted daemonettes cannot be allowed to go any further. Johanna looks a bloody shredded ruin, at that point, her robes badly ripped, but her guandao still blazes with Aqshy and power as she stabs, slashes, and batters all before her, ignoring wounds that would kill a living creature several times over. Roland and the Whitewings are their own independent bulwark to break the enemy against. Kerillian is nowhere near as well armored as the latter or as outright tough as the former, but the murderous prowess she has coupled with the First Draich seems to be more than enough for the moment.
"Not! One! Step! Back!" You shout, a cry taken up on all sides.
"Forward, forward I say! In the name of the Lady of the Lake, forward!"
"May Isha forgive you, for I shall not!"
"DIE IN THE NAME OF KHAINE!"
"RHYAAAAAAAA!"
You haven't quite found the time or care to ask why Johanna seems to swear so much more to Rhya over Taal nowadays, given what you remember of your interactions prior to her transformation, let alone the province of her birth. But you have to admit, with fangs extended, bleeding from over a dozen wounds spilling brackish red-black blood, hair swept back and smoldering with Aqshy, feet and hands open to the air with claws extended? It certainly makes for a striking scene and sentiment for her to express. You've got no idea what the Goddess or her Cult might think of a vampire bellowing a war cry in Her name. But given that she hasn't done anything to curse or strike her down, you have to hope that She isn't too offended. You really don't need to deal with the consequences of yet another angry God right now. You're more than full up in the current situation.
Instead, you focus on fighting off this latest wave as you burst through another pair of doors, and have to momentarily squeeze your eyes shut as your Witch Sight is nearly overwhelmed by the sheer un-radiant power of the massive Anchorstone in front of you. Straining to focus, you open your eyes again witness the whole of the inner compound of the complex, a place larger than the entire courtyard of Castle Wulfenburg. Here, even larger bars of solid black crystal and intricate stonework with glowing runes sprout outwards as graceful looping patterns and ritual inlays spread throughout the entire massive chamber. Channels and funnels for magic are here in bewildering number and alignment leading in and out of the room. The complexity of the ritual work here is beyond you, that is something you realize the exact instant you see it. You can know generally how it works, but the actual Aethyric mechanisms behind it is beyond your capacity to understand at a glance. Or even more than that, you suspect. It would take you an untold amount of uninterrupted study, possibly beyond your entire mortal lifespan. Good thing you aren't trying to do any of that, at least.
No, your target is something else.
An octuplet of staircases sprout up from the floor with absolute mathematic precision at equidistant points surrounding the building sized crystal of solidified Dhar, but only one of them is occupied at the apex. Unlike the one from before, this one is undeniably a full sorceress. More than that, you can literally see the tendrils of energy connecting her to the crystal, empowering her even more beyond her own regular abilities. A small army awaits you as well, full of flinty-eyed veteran Druchii troops and more exalted daemonettes, assuredly drawn from all across the complex once your goal became clear. There is a contingent of Druchii truly devoted to Slaanesh present alongside the rest, cultists emblazoned with runes and emblems of their chosen God, branded or scarred into their skin and aglow with hideous energies of Chaos to strengthen them. Also present are some of those most monstrous of things, chaos spawn, the original unfortunates that they used to be completely unknowable now from how severe their mutations have been. Personally, you suspect they were either Druchii who resisted the new order or slaves that were used up as much as anything else.
"You have erred in coming to this place, you mewling child of ice," the sorceress proclaims, her voice echoing about the vast inner chamber as she turns to look down upon you all from atop the staircase. "You have come only to find death, doom, and enslavement."
"Two of those sound good to me, actually," you sneer, flicking your blade clean of blood. "It'll just be yours, though."
"I will enjoy watching Voidreaper breaking you," she chuckles at you, "I wonder how long the tender touch of Slaanesh will take for you. A second? Two? Perhaps even an entire minute?"
A deep laugh escapes her at that thought, one echoed with eagerness and cruelty by her troops.
"I don't care who kills her, just that she dies," you inform your troops curtly before cracking your neck from side to side.
"TAKE THEM!" The sorceress bellows.
(The Core of the Complex: 63+35+20+15+10+25+5+10-5-10-25-10-Daemonic Auxilaries(15)-Power of Darkness(20)-Empowered Sorceress(25)=73/100)
Crossbow bolts fly on both sides.
Some charge down the steps, others charge up.
Slavering monstrous creatures meet stern champions meet vicious daemons meet murderous killers.
Magic flies, whether it comes as the Grace of the Widow, the scorching fires of Aqshy, or the devastating darkness of Dhar. Bodies are set aflame or frozen in place or blown backwards. There are freedmen who will never get up again, yet die in the name of that same freedom granted to them. There are Druchii who die after centuries of life cut short in a single instant moment. Enchanted weapons cut and carve and slice, runes blaze bright whether that of the dwarfs upon gromril, of the Druchii upon black iron, or elder Cathayan dragons upon celestial dragon steel. With bone rattling force the defenders of this place and those who attack it crash into each other. Some deaths are instant, others more lingering, screams of pain and shock and outrage nearly deafening the ears. Durandal stabs deep into the tumorous mass of a chaos spawn, whilst Kerillian cuts the flailing tentacles of another off one by one before she can reach the many mouths at the center. A bolt of black death fires from the sorceress and simply disintegrates a number of freedmen even as you clench your fist and bring down a miniature ice storm localized entirely on the devoted Slaaneshi cultists to slow and even kill some of them.
"You shall be burned, you shall be flayed, you shall be subject to acid and poison to wrench the muscle from your bones, and then you shall truly begin to suffer!"
"Shit," you spit as the sorceress raises her staff over her head, the energies of the Anchorstone intensifying as she draws upon it.
(Horror Wrought Real: 54+13+10+5+5-10-20-25=32/100)
It is like trying to hold back an entire hurricane, or perhaps block out the sea. The sheer level of power that the sorceress can draw upon is substantial, magnified further by the Anchorstone. The worst thing about it is, you know that she isn't pulling as much as she otherwise would. You can see it amongst the Winds filling the room, drawn inwards to the great crystal, the pull and drain of it all. Invisible to the naked eye, but visible to Witch Sight, there are cracks up and down the length of it. Fissures where the functionality has suffered, where strain and stress have started to cause damage in spurts here and there. Parts of the edifice of the room are similarly damaged, if you have the Witch Sight to see it, as the Winds leak from the crystal rather than are wholly absorbed into it. The kinds of damage sustained, no doubt, with the complete loss of a peer complex without warning, much like how a soldier used to having two arms would develop more strains and pains if they permanently had to switch to but one without preparation. Even as the sorceress draws upon it, you can see infinitesimal shakes and shivers amongst the Winds within the room. She literally cannot draw further upon it more than she already is, lest she damage the crystal further.
But then, it doesn't feel like she needs to draw more than that.
"Fffuuargh!" Your attempted curse turns into a general scream of pain, something in your eyes bursting and filling your vision with crimson while blood dribbles down out of your nose as frozen droplets that plink against your helmet.
The spell finishes, and from it a hideous door to another realm starts to split open, a tear hacked into reality itself.
You know this spell, you've seen it before, and your heart drops right down to around your stomach as the first tentacles start to reach out with an otherworldly hungry screeching heralding it.
(Jet Sphere Spell Negation Attempt! 1d6=4! Success!)
At least until a sphere, slung so fast it practically seems to have been fired from a handgun flies up towards the casting, and erupts in a cloud of compressed glittering black. To see the effects of it is almost enough to make you vomit as you watch the Winds be so violently and utterly suppressed. It is not the firm and stubborn silencing you've seen at the hands of the Runesmiths, or even their angrier efforts to refute magic. This is more of a killing, if you had to try to describe it. A total removal, and yet, as you scrutinize it further, you can see how it functions. The glittering jet cloud of powder and dust is natural, not the horrid, crushed darkness of Dhar. An absorption, a grounding, one that somehow has taken in the power and magic of the spell into itself, and in doing so, is utterly destroyed. Every single fragment, some as small as a single piece of grain, is literally disintegrating in mid-air from the magic now forcibly suffusing it. To capture the magic and be destroyed in the act of doing so whilst removing the threat simultaneously.
A bloody hand claps onto your shoulder, and you turn to see a creature with inhumanly vibrant green eyes, burning bright, coated in head to toe in blood and gore such that Johanna could be naked and you wouldn't be able to tell. Her jaw is slightly distended before snapping upwards into a more natural human physiological placement, smoke still smoldering off of her red hair which has different hues of flame shooting through it. Where her guandao has gone, you do not see until she holds up a hand and it comes flying out of the fighting to slap into her tight grip.
"You know I only have so many of those things?!" She hisses into your ear, one eye twitching. "Three. I have three, and they don't even always work! And unless you have a way for me to get all the way back to Cathay, then I'm not going to be able to get more anytime soon!"
"Better to have them and use them than not have them and need them," you reply through grit teeth, wrinkling your nose to try and get the blood clear from it.
"Obviously," she drawls, before you can hear an unsettling ripple of bones crackling inside of her body. "I'm just saying. I can only do that so many times, and if we use them all up here, won't have them for later. Something to keep in mind. Speaking of…going to do something maybe stupid here, but we'll see."
"What? Johanna what-," your questions are answered with her actions as her wings erupt out of her back in a slight spray of blood and torn skin as the vampire vaults upwards into the air.
Contrary to expectations, she doesn't come down immediately like a comet upon the rest of the fighting, and instead dives towards another target entirely.
"Fool! The Druchii are not the pathetic cattle your weakling kind feasts upon!" The sorceress lets out a haughty laugh as she draws more magic to the fore as Johanna flies towards her.
(Dispelling Attempt: 28+13+10+5+5-10-20-25+Middling Magics(5)=11/100)
(The Core of the Complex: 76+35+20+15+10+25+5+10-5-10-25-10-15-20-25+Grinding Momentum(5)=91/100)
This time you are driven to your knees from the failed effort to stop the spell's formation, even with Johanna actually attempting to manipulate the winds to do the same. She just isn't trained enough with magic as much as her own physical prowess, or at least not in purely magical combat. For a brief moment, you feel the spell's intent yourself despite not being the target, your heart seizing in your chest and blood feeling like glass inside your own veins. Coughing out a bit more blood, more of it spilling from your nose, and a tiny bit spurting from your ears, you gasp out ragged pained breaths that are nothing compared to the piercing scream of Johanna's pain reaching out across the entire core of the complex. She is not alone in her discomfort, though she is the epicenter of it. The sorceress speaks a single word, and a wave of horrendous wrenching pain sends Johanna crashing to the staircase steps a quarter of the way up, every part of her body from wings to fingers clenching up to the point of near breaking as pain wracks her body. It is a spell you know well, almost intimately in a certain way, given how many times it has been used on Frederick by Alyssa. But it radiates outwards as well, and even some of the Druchii have to fight off grimaces of discomfort with their backs to the spell and its sheer power.
However.
To your shock and that of the sorceress besides, you watch with amazement as despite that pain wracking her body, the vampire stubbornly reaches up to the sides of the staircase and through a face streaming tears of blood starts to laboriously drag herself upwards to stand. Her very spine is practically bent to the breaking point, but she stands, one of her wings so twisted by the spell's effects that it looks almost ripped off of her body, a drumstick spun off the carcass. But the vampire rises all the same, and never before now has she looked more than the undead abomination that her existence is, rising up as an unburied fresh corpse of the battlefield. A wordless bellow makes its way out of Johanna's throat, something between and beyond pain and rage together. One that is echoed, in its own strange ways, by the rest of the fighters on the field. One of the Whitewings is down, you think, but perhaps not dead, their compatriots fighting like daemons to keep them from passing the Stone Gate. Roland has slain another of the chaos spawn, and drives against the enemy despite them swarming him. Kerillian has outright slaughtered the vast majority of the Slaaneshi devotees, the blessings of the Dark God coming up short against one so empowered by the God of Murder and more horrible things besides. Though it is not being done without losses, you are pushing forward, and the enemy is forced to take step after step backwards. You even spy Sadrina, wielding and discarding over a dozen weapons as she kills one Druchii and takes their arms to slay the next, sheathing swords and axes and even spears into the bodies of her enemies before moving on.
Stand, my love! You can do it! Frederick urges in your ear, despite the scream that is escaping his own lips as in a bit of dark irony Alyssa casts the very same spell affecting Johanna upon him again and again.
"I can…and I will…," you say while coughing out a bit more blood before you indeed stand, grit your teeth, and start marching forward before you hear a shout from behind you delivered in strained Eltharin.
"In the name of the Cadai!"
(Core of the Complex: 42+35+20+15+10+25+5+10-5-10-25-10-15-20-25+Grinding Momentum(10)+Reaper Fire(15)=77/100)
(Dispelling Attempt: 53+13+10+5+5-10-20-25+5=36/100)
The reaper fires successfully, but not so greatly as you might have hoped. Both attackers and defenders have become completely entangled at this point, meaning that the impromptu weapon crew could not dare fire too closely. Instead they focused their shot upon the ranged troops of the enemy, taking out the darkshards who have been firing their own crossbows. Even the ones with shields of their own that they could fire from behind the safety of are not enough against a weapon like a bolt thrower. Which helps, but the Druchii are not giving up so easily. If anything, they only grow more determined to fight as you push them. The fighting only grows bloodier and more vicious, and now you see Jaqueline outright quitting the field momentarily to drag her Whitewings away from the front line, one arm each. Roland stands alone, battered back and forth in his gromril armor, yet so far he still refuses to fall. More of the freedmen are not so lucky, even with their Druchii armor, though those more heavily equipped are not so unfortunate. You draw another chilling blast of ice shards to tear apart some of the Druchii, but the fight is nowhere close to over as you feel the magic swell once more in the furious sorceress' hands as Johanna continues to claw her way up the staircase.
"Begone parasite!"
You aren't even really able to begin trying to dispel the working before it is unleashed, a powerful doombolt smashing directly into Johanna sending her tumbling and burning back down the staircase to land in a crumpled burning heap.
This time, the vampire does not rise, and merely smolders.
"Hey!" You shout, turning and waving the Asur manning the bolt thrower. "The sorceress! Hit the sorceress!"
Thankfully, they appear to hear you and even better listen to your orders, wheeling about as they frantically work to reload the weapon.
(Core of the Complex: 69+35+20+15+10+25+5+10-5-10-25-10-15-20-25+Grinding Momentum(15)=94/100)
(Dispelling Attempt: 72+13+10+5+5-10-20-25+5+Reaper Distraction(20)=75/100)
The sorceress can see it, perhaps even better than you can, thanks to her elevated position upon the staircase. The chaos spawn might still writhe and screech, but they are dead or dying. The devoted of Slaanesh have been brought low by one working in the name of the Bloody Handed God. The core of the Druchii troops are being pushed back step by step as a surge of momentum and bloodlust drives your forces onward, stomping atop the dead to reach the living. Johanna twitches, and finally begins to stand up once more, this time just enough to drag one of the dying Darkshards sent flying by the previous bolt thrower shot and biting out their throat to drink their blood and restore herself more swiftly. Your blade and magic start to bring death once more to the Druchii as you reach the front line once more, cutting and slashing and freezing the foe to death. So you are not particularly surprised when you see her more frantically raise up her staff and tear several new holes in reality, these of a different sort than what was cast before. A true portal into the Realm of Chaos itself, miniature versions of the sort you saw in the arena.
Already, you can see new daemonettes starting to materialize.
At least, that is before the bolt thrower fires. With an absolutely undignified yelp, the sorceress is forced to abandon the casting to the dismayed shrieks of the daemonettes not yet fully summoned. A powerful sorcerous shield is thrown up instead, the sorceress ducking down as part of the staircase explodes in a shower of enchanted stone and crystal from the bolts impact, tumbling slightly downwards some of the stairs. It might not have killed her, but the interruption of her spell and summoning was still invaluable in the fight. Enough so that this time around, the mere act of trying to stop her didn't feel like it was going to make your head explode. Enough so that, distracted as she was, she could not stop Johanna, now looking like someone who has been tested by Tor Himself a fair few too many times without dying, staggers up onto her own two feet again, blackened bone exposed to the open air whilst her flesh bubbles and swells disgustingly to start creeping over her wounds. This close, you can now see the fury in the sorceress' eyes as she rises up, glancing back at the destroyed apex of the staircase and then glaring back out at your forces.
There is a chance here, you realize in a bolt of inspiration.
"There is only one slave here," you shout out, eyes burning with the cold power of the Widow Herself. "And it is you. To darkness. To monsters. To evil! But do not worry!" You raise up a fist, motes of ice falling from it. "On my honor as a daughter of Kislev, I have broken the chains of many upon this Ark, and I shall break yours as well!" Then you lift your chin and look down on her despite her literal position being higher than yours. "Unlike them, however, you will not survive the process."
(Goading: 58+Natasha Diplomacy(12)+Strain of Duty(10)+Noticeably Losing(15)+Mainlining True Dhar(10)+Druchii Arrogance(10)-Rational Thought(10)-Intelligent Sorceress(10)-Complex Management(10)=85/100)
"To hell with Voidreaper's decree, I'll kill you myself!" The sorceress shouts back, inhaling deeply, all able to see as the tendrils of dark power from the Anchorstone grow thicker, more numerous, her hair bristling and rising up in the air with greater power.
(Network Overloading: 46+Prior Catastrophic Complex Loss(25)+Hasty Patch Jobs(10)+Aethyric Net Weakening(10)+Fear And Loathing(15)+Maxed Out Draw(10)-Masterful Craftsmanship(25)-Safeties(5)-=86/100)
A terrible rumbling shakes the entire complex as she draws more and more power, a madden laughter starting to bubble up out of her as it happens. The Druchii look murderously heartened, more vigorous, assured of their victory. Except then there is a grinding groan followed by a sound like an especially loud gunshot. Then several more. It comes from no weapon in your possession, but instead from the Anchorstone itself. Cracks, big ones, visible now to the naked eye, appear in it, with a few shards falling free from it to crash into pieces on the floor. The second that happens, the sorceress' laughter cuts out and turns into a pained scream as the power flow ceases to be nearly as well regulated. Instead the tendrils connecting them start to writhe and shift without control, some dissipating entirely. The shaking stops just as quickly as it began, the sorceress' ongoing scream as she tries to reassert control like the sweetest music in your ears.
"Ah, ah, ah!" You cannot help but laugh, waggling a finger as you have so many times as a mother to your children and grandchildren. "Naughty, naughty. What a gluttonous little girl you are. Your spite was bigger than your might."
The sorceress' head whips around at you, pure murder in her eyes now, but the power of darkness so suffusing her is lessened in the extreme, the same for the troops that have been benefiting from it as well. The crystal itself still remains mostly whole, but in her anger she has damaged it. How badly you don't know, let alone how much more would be required to truly shatter it and survive the consequences. But that doesn't matter besides the fact that for one reason or another she did what you wanted. Uncertainty flickers in the eyes of the Druchii facing your warband, but not hers. Oh no, she does not have the capacity for that. There is only hatred and anger and revulsion in her eyes. Good. Just like you have for her and almost all of her kind. With a clenched fist, she summons bands of Aethyric energy around her body as additional armor before leaping over the staircase and summoning a shimmering sword of Shyish and Dhar into her free hand. Screaming wordlessly, she is forced to rely solely on her own power here, or mostly at least.
(Dispelling Attempt: 52+13+10+5+5+5+Severshock(10)-10-Unempowered Sorceress(15)-Power of Darkness(5)=70/100)
(Core of the Complex: 64+35+20+15+10+25+5+10-5-10-25-10-5-15+Grinding Momentum(20)+Reaper Fire(10)=144/100)
It doesn't matter what spell she's trying to cast; the weaving is unstable and clearly she has not yet finished adjusting from lacking the aid of the Anchorstone's empowerment. Before she can begin to manifest it, before anything more than a cloud of Dhar is summoned into being, you are tearing the weaving apart. It is much easier now, at least, which you are thankful for. That crude bludgeoning effort from Johanna aids you in this course as well, preventing the spell from coming to fruition. Though really, while it is just middling in effectiveness for now, you suspect that if Johanna does manage to live long enough, she will become more dangerous. Then again that is true of all vampires, you suppose. The shock on her face is something you will treasure forever. All the ageless superiority is drowned beneath that surprise, that confusion, that utter rejection as her spell simply fails to form. An expression that finally begins to show shades of fear as the reaper bolt thrower fires once more, this time at a better angle, and removes several whole ranks of her troops from the land of the living. As your forces charge, as you charge, right for her.
As you have seen before on the battlefield, as your sister saw while standing atop the walls of Kislev's capital when witnessing Magnus the Pious slay the Everchosen Asavar Kul, as Frederick has ensured time and again on campaign – it happens.
With that final wrench on the lever, the tide does not simply turn, but pours in the other direction.
After the rough fighting simply to get to this point, the comrades lost, the cruelty of their imprisonment, there is no mercy offered to the enemy even if they were to request it. Which, of course, not a single Druchii does. Even as the Druchii are overrun, there is the distinct sense that they cannot accept that they are dying, that those they have abused for so long could ever have the strength to defeat them. Those sworn to Slaanesh die and are trampled underfoot. The hideous chaos spawn are still, their tortured existences finally done though their souls are forfeit to the Dark Gods. But these elite disciplined troops, dedicated to the defense of one of the Anchorstones that keeps the Black Ark from sinking to the depths of Manann's realm, they fight to the end even as they are separated out and outnumbered ten to one. There is something in there, perhaps, that you could respect, though at the moment you plainly don't care to. You can think about that sort of thing once you have your husband back in your arms, and not just spectrally projected through your bonded souls.
When the end comes for the sorceress, it is not a gentle one, which suits you just fine.
She is, frustratingly, able to make up for being less skilled with a blade than you with elven dexterity and speed. But her magic cannot protect her forever. Not from you, and as it turns out not from Kerillian either. The latter of whom seems to have completely abandoned any concept of honorable duels or the like and instead announces her presence in the sorceress' death by hacking one of her legs off in a sweeping pass. Before the sorceress can even begin to process that, you have gutted her not with your sword, but with your hand, coated in razor sharp ice, to push past her wards and glyphs and to her now exposed stomach, pushing your hand in straight through the belly button to grab her by the spine and hold her in place as she screams.
Not for long, of course, because you are holding her so that a wearied and still terribly gruesome Johanna can crawl and stumble forwards to latch onto her from behind in a bloodily intimate embrace.
Whoever the sorceress was, whoever she might have been?
Her life ends with a gurgling whimper as Johanna drains her entirely of blood, two corpses falling backwards onto the ground.
"So," you say to the one of said two that still moves, "Perhaps that wasn't the best idea?"
Johanna only has one eye at the moment, though there is a blob of bubbling organic matter in the other socket which signifies the other will regenerate soon, but you understand the roll of the sole one she currently possesses just fine.
"It distracted her, didn't it?" She rasps out at you, air whistling oddly through the holes in her throat.
"That was your plan, just distracting her?"
"Obviously not," she snorts, throwing the dead sorceress to the side and sticking out a hand for you to help drag her to a sitting position. "The plan was to kill her right off. Had to improvise afterwards."
That's what she calls it? In a horrid way, you suppose you can see perfectly well how this woman might have become your husband's wife in a different world.
"Ursun's teeth you're heavy," you grunt as you strain to do so, "How in the name of the Gods do you fly?"
Johanna laughs, head hanging between her knees for a moment before she looks back up at you, this time with both eyes.
"Spite," she says with teeth still blackened from the flames that ravaged her.
You both share a laugh before you look up and survey the complex grounds and your warband besides.
"VICTORY!" You shout, a cry that is echoed louder and louder by wearied but cheering freedmen.
After that, however, comes the more somber and grim work of cataloguing the dead, separating them out, and trying to grant them some measure of rest compared to the corpses of the Druchii that you leave to rot. That, and seeing to the wounds of your forces. The healing craft of the Asur is beyond anything you can do, not to mention the swells of Isha's power that the Handmaiden can somewhat draw upon. Better than nothing, but besides that there is much needed bandaging, wound stuffing, setting of broken bones, and more to be done. All the while, the pulsating Anchorstone sits in the center of the room, the unclean energies it channels still flowing, albeit less steadily than before. Less contained, as well.
Damn fine job there, Natasha. Frederick speaks in your mind wearily.
Would have been better if you were here. You say back immediately, mulish thoughts circling in your mind. If I were stronger, like my sister, I would have torn that damned Tor down already and gotten you back.
I mean, if I had to pick, I'd prefer you over her. I wouldn't argue though.
Your lips thin to the point of bloodlessness inside of your helmet, exhaling sharply through your nose.
Is this the time for jokes?!
A rusty, blood-flecked laugh is the first answer in your ears.
Sorry. No, I just…wanted to hear your voice instead of my own screams, but I didn't want to distract you while you were fighting.
Sighing, you press a hand to your helmet in the approximate place of your forehead before taking up the soulbond and absolutely flooding it with all your love and affection.
And you think that I'd want to risk dying without hearing you one last time? Idiot. You think to him fondly.
Well…wait, hold on. A messenger's arrived. That's…by the Gods…
Immediately you still, closing your eyes and focusing. The outside world disappears for a moment as your subordinates continue the work needed as you cast your senses to your husband's side. This time, when you open your eyes next, you aren't actually opening them at all. You simply benefit from Frederick doing so, and when your heart beats, it does so in tandem with his, the steady coolness of your own steadying the frantic pumping of his. The room stinks in his nose with too much of his own spilled innards and poisons and the like, mixed with noxious perfumes and scents carried by the daemonettes. More importantly, you can see Alyssa breathing hard and heavily as a sorceress reports to her, the latter actually actively drawing a bit of magic forth as a shield around her. Her fists clench tightly enough you are sure she is drawing blood, but Frederick's eyes can't see for certain.
"No," Alyssa says suddenly, exhaling sharply, eyes burning with dark power.
"My lady, I swear it is the truth."
"No," Alyssa repeats. "She is too weak to do this, do you understand? Too much a coward. I. Know. Her. She couldn't have managed this, not in this time frame."
The sorceress, in an act of spectacular bravery, swallows and then straightens.
"I beg your pardon, mistress, but I came straight from the siege force…,"
Alyssa's hand is suddenly around the other Druchii's throat.
"You mean…the remains of the siege force? My force? My broken siege force?" Her voice rises in pitch as she speaks, until by the end of it she is nearly shrieking beyond the human ear's ability to register.
Then she throws the sorceress to the ground.
"This has gone on long enough," she says through tightly clenched teeth. "I will handle this myself! Hultressa will be on her hands and knees begging me for forgiveness and she shall never have it!"
There is not even a parting shot towards Frederick as she sweeps out of the room in a fury, her daemonette attendants following.
"…you Druchii really know how to pick them, don't you," Frederick speaks up quietly, voice scratchy and sepulchral.
The other sorceress, still on her knees coughing with a hand massaging her neck, turns to look at him.
"Is it everything you wanted? You came to my province. How did that turn out? Turned on Screamtaker. How's that going?" He asks her, laughing slightly as he does it. "You made your choice though, didn't you?"
"Silence, human," the sorceress spits as she gets to her feet, leaning heavily on her staff, wobbling slightly even then. "The power Alyssa commands is beyond your comprehension."
"What, did you sell her your soul? Is that how she's got you all locked down so tight?"
The sorceress swallows before she straightens and juts out her chin.
"Under Alyssa, my power has grown twice-fold from what Screamtaker would ever have allowed."
"Sure. 'Your' power," he snorts, tilting his head to look back up at the ceiling of shadow-obscured stone.
For a moment there is quiet before metal heels clack on the floor.
"What is that supposed to mean?" The sorceress asks, more quietly, more dangerously.
"Contracts, pacts, deals, signed and delivered to her Dark God of choice. Something you really couldn't accomplish with Hekarti? Really?" He asks in a low drawl.
Out of his sight, his vision purposefully on the ceiling, a staff thumps upon the ground.
"I have not forsworn the Goddess!" The sorceress seethes at him. "The balance of power may change, the Cults of Pleasure aligned underneath the command and control of the Hag-Queen, and through her the Witch King, and yet Hekarti remains."
"Sure she does," he nods, the effort dragging the internal hooks and spikes of his collar to split his neck open in a dozen different way, beads of blood mixing with sweat beneath his head. "Sure she does. Doesn't matter that they're already trying to kick Atharti out."
"What a surprise, that a human cannot comprehend the politics and advantages of two rival Cults," the sorceress scoffs.
"You'd be surprised," Frederick answers, and though the sorceress does not know it, you can't help but laugh in your head at their ignorance of humanity. "Besides, look what Hultressa accomplished."
"The lesser favored of the two sisters she might have been, that still put her above any other in the Coven in the eyes of Screamtaker," the sorceress clucks her tongue. "You waste my time. I don't see why she bothers keeping you alive."
"Knowledge, I suppose," Frederick answers easily, hacking up and spitting a gob of blood and phlegm to the side. "About a lot of things…things I guess you aren't meant to know if you're asking."
The gives the sorceress some pause, because it takes her a few seconds longer to speak again.
"What things?"
"I guess that'd be up to the oh so mighty Supreme Sorceress in charge. But…," he makes a mock gasp. "Surely someone in that position wouldn't keep knowledge from you a second time would they?"
A growl, the flicker of magical flame bursting to life, and a heavy knocking on the door that transitions into said doors bursting open.
"My lady, my…w-where is…," a noticeably younger voice echoes out before trailing off.
When Frederick lifts his head to look, you both see a sorceress, yet with your eyes and your husband's, Frederick can see just how weakly the Winds swirl around her compared to Alyssa or the others.
"Apprentice Velandraia, what is it?" The sorceress who had been about to burn your love with dark flame sneers.
"I…my…the…the flow from the Anchorstone that Lady Sethera was stationed at…there were signals that they were under attack, and now-,"
Velandria doesn't get to say anything more before the sorceress bowls the apprentice over in a dead sprint. Bereft of any better idea, the apprentice gets right back up to follow her.
What, precisely, happened that angered her so?
Frederick lets himself grin a toothless smile, every single one pried free today by daemonettes before they put different acids and poisons into each exposed gum.
Hultressa decided to relieve the siege at the Temple of Atharti.
You can feel your eyebrows on your own head raise even as Frederick shuts his eyes to rest them.
By herself?
No. By…
There is some discomfort here, in him, undercurrents of a painful anger that will never quite properly 'heal' in the traditional sense.
She made herself an army. Of the dead.
You recoil despite yourself.
She's a necromancer?!
Not…necessarily. His defense is weak, but you allow him to continue with some mild internal struggle. They were describing it as…she'd done something to pervert the…it's some sort of flesh activation, but not strictly necromantic, I think. Something of Ghyran, I think, if anything. The specific words were unknown to me as they spoke them for the most part, but I caught that one.
You can't raise the dead with Ghyran.
Of course, the moment you think it, you know that is false. You have seen superbly adept Ghyran wielders in the form of Wolfgang, and she managed to take men who were actually fully dead and gone upon the battlefield and wrest them from Morr's realm by restoring them to life. Sure, it had to be done to the very, very recently dead, but it was in fact possible. But to describe them as an army of the dead meant that it couldn't be like that, could it? Surely not. There are a number of mysteries to magic that are beyond your grasp, and will remain so as long as you live. The Grace of the Widow is yours, but while you shape ice and water into it, with some cross-connection with Ghyran, there are certain aspects of the Wind that are not for you to wield. You've heard of it being tried in the past, but even the greatest Ice Witches of old could not do so.
For better or worse, Hultressa has bent centuries of her life tearing people of all races apart and putting them back together in different ways, experimenting without any restriction. If someone could do it, or rather, would do it, I suspect she would be one willing if she felt it necessary. If it's something that those of the Jade College could do, I doubt they'd ever advertise it. It smacks of necromancy to me, and so disgusts me, yet we've both suffered the touch of both sorts of lores, and there is a difference. Perhaps you would be able to tell better than I if you were there to see it, but I most certainly am not. Besides which, they know you hit the Anchorstone. You need to get out of there, and quickly!
That snaps you out of it, sending you to refocusing your senses to solely that of your own body, inhaling sharply as you blink your eyes on your lonesome once more.
Right, of course. All my love, forever.
His answer is as immediate and steadfast as yours.
Forever.
"You return," Sadrina murmurs, having stationed herself next to you. "Are you both well?"
"Surviving," you grunt, cracking the kinks in your neck out. "Apparently, Hultressa has elected to assault the siege trying to take the Temple of Atharti – with an army of the dead…or something like that," you shrug at her mystified and then disgusted expression. "Something about not being quite necromancy, Ghyran, or something akin to that."
She tries to hide it, but you see the flicker.
"You know what I'm talking about," you accuse, eyes wide. "It's real?"
Sadrina shifts uncomfortably, some of the Asur nearby starting to shift closer at her writhing with eyes narrowing on you.
"There…it has been done," she finally says, clearing her throat. "I have never once seen the Everqueen perform it, but once, in the past, a Loremaster who delved deeply into Ghyran proclaimed such possibilities. Of…restoring life to the body, even should the soul have passed on. For a time. He was later discovered to be corrupted, and was slain."
Cupping your chin, you nod.
"Sounds about right. Anyway, for the moment, Alyssa's left the Tor of Dominance to investigate that entire business, but right after she left, messengers arrived about," you make a circling motion in the air, "This. So unless we have some way to destroy or disable this place safely, we need to move. Now."
Alas, those with the Witch Sight to see know that there is no such possibility in any of your arsenals.
Could you destroy or damage the crystal even further, possibly destroying the whole complex?
Yes.
You simply wouldn't survive the tainted explosion of energies as the crystal destabilized and erupted as a result. So instead you run, leaving a copious amount of dead Druchii behind you, stealing some of the equipment from the apprentice and sorceress at the same time. Not to use it for yourself, but to deny it to the enemy should they try to recover it. You do not need the nightmare of a sorceress simply gathering as much powerful enchanted equipment to themselves as possible, especially speaking as a woman who is actively benefiting from a suit of armor which enhances your grasp over magic. Just need to throw it away somewhere, make it harder for them to use. Or, hell, maybe Johanna will be willing to make use of it, for all that none of it would properly fit her. She has some skill with Shyish, for all that she clearly favors Aqshy, and as of yet is not so skilled as to fully filter out Dhar when using extreme effort.
So you rush through the streets and alleys, rushing only temporarily towards the slave tunnels to gather up your supplies, and then emerge elsewhere once again. Even doing so, you heard from other slaves of furious Druchii starting to encroach deeper and deeper into the tunnels after everything that has happened. No doubt after word spreads further of the complex's assault and the damage you managed to goad the sorceress into inflicting, that fury will only grow. It is a mixture of fear and admiration that finally seems to get through to some of the slaves. There are some who might remain as informers to their masters, and in fact Johanna literally sniffs one gibbering man who was going to run to do just that and kills him for it. But others? Others cannot deny that for better or worse things will never be returning to the status quo where they could keep their heads down to just try and survive as long as possible.
Though it does gnaw at you that once again you find yourself relying upon the Witch Elves you stole, you can't deny how useful they've proven time and again. It's almost enough to make you forget what and who they are and what and who they wanted to be.
Almost.
"We were attempting to head towards an allied house that stood against Alyssa, many dedicated to Khaine had come from their bloodline, but the district was swamped by the enemy soon after," one of them is muttering now to a brooding Kerillian as the warband rushes through the streets under a darkening sky. "There are others who would stand up and be silenced for it, others who would rush to fill the gap, and those who would remain aloof in the hopes of surviving the transition intact without fully announcing loyalty."
"And which of those are we heading towards now?" You grunt.
"One that we can hopefully occupy for the night, Larhathalumalav," the…Khainite says with a respectful bow.
(Tor Targeting: 60+Scars of Salkalten(25)+Atrocious Auction Aftermath(15)+Embers of Khaine(5)+Forced Redistributions(15)+Food Frictions(10)-Morathian Foundations(35)-Immediate Loyalists(15)-Daemonic Flow(10)=70/100)
"House Tailanth stood against Alyssa in the name of Khaine and Atharti, last we heard, they were torn out root and stem," she says, "Though some of them might have evacuated to the Temple of Atharti, in the meantime, the Tor should be mostly empty. If there were some guards left behind, there will not be many."
In your opinion, the Tor that stretches up into the sky before you is a mixed blessing. For one, it looks to be stable and largely undamaged in terms of structural integrity. On the other hand, it is farther down the length of the Ark compared to the Tor of Dominance and is in fact closer to those gigantic mobile cliff-faces that they call ramps and utilize as walls when beaching the Ark. There will be much of the Ark between you and your husband, and that itches at you. But it will, you hope, be safer than the tunnels for the moment. For at least one night. Your approach is swift but quiet, and the scouting efforts of Kerillian report crests that the Witch Elves reply are of a house that swore to Alyssa quite swiftly, but was a much weaker house now trying to occupy boots not meant for them. Nor a Tor meant for them. Some household troops are in their possession, but nothing compared to a more powerful or more wealthy family.
"The important thing is for not a single one to escape or get a message out," you order curtly. "No survivors."
When you reach the Tor, there are some Druchii around the entrance, though the many buildings about the area are conspicuously unlit and silent. Those who were nominally in the influence of House Tailanth no doubt, now gone. Either fled or taken, it doesn't matter to you. What matters is that, while this might not be the absolute best Tor you could get, one empty and waiting already, it is better than not having one at all, or spending a night in the tunnels to be caught. Or, potentially worse, spending a night in the utter refuse pit that the harpies used to roost on. Your warband is tired, but vibrant all the same, it is impossible not to be after spilling all the blood you have so far, not to mention the chance of some truly restful sleep is a powerful lure.
(Tor Tailanth: 21+35+20+15+10+25+5+Atharti Siege Shattered(15)-5-10-Warband Exhaustion(10)-Noble Guard of House Kairath(10)=111/100)
They don't see you coming.
In the evening, the night approaching faster and faster, they do not see Johanna approach. Nor do they sense Kerillian and her killers. Disciplined guards they might have been, the pride of the House Kairath, but it does not matter. They die before they know they are under attack, and the doors swing open to allow the rest of your warband to pour inside. There are no priests or priestesses of Slaanesh here to empower or invigorate them. No sorceress to summon forth new allies or bring down devastation or even to send off a message. Johanna, with her own wings, flies to where the Witch Elves declare the general location of chambers to send messages by bird would be, and enters through there. From the top, and from the bottom, the Tor is assaulted with quiet merciless violence. Some of the Druchii, for a wonder, aren't even armed and armored, having actually thought themselves safe for a single night to relax in robes and pajamas finely made enough to beggar many a peasant family for a year. Some of them are older, you think, and some you know are younger. You can hear some of their screams. You know for a fact that Roland and many of the Bretonnians following him would not countenance such deeds as are done in the shadows and fallen candlelight, torches darkened and lights dimmed until the shadows paint everyone in black.
Was it the Asur, merciless as if they were all the blood of Nagarythe, of whom Sadrina spun a chilling tale?
Was it the monster in the night, fangs gleaming and tongue lolling that is a nightmare to so many in the Empire and the Old World?
Was it the killers born and killers made, sworn to a God who had never shirked and even approved of such dark deeds?
Who can say?
But your orders were followed.
No survivors.
=============================================================
"To be fair, young wolf, this is not the most traditional of sieges," the older Templar of Ulric declared.
The White Wolf in question had once upon a time had brilliant scarlet hair, but there were deep streaks of grey and white amongst them now. For all of that, Sir Markus Steinhart was still one of the deadliest men in the Empire, as befitting a Company Commander of the White Wolves. He had fought in the name of Ulric against all a manner of foes, and to his name had survived five separate sieges at different points in his career. Twice against greenskins, once against an undead horde led by a necromancer, and once from a warherd of beastmen, and once more against a monstrous horde of rat-like beastmen. The latter was of course said with much exasperated eyerolling by the veterans and confusion by many of the youths. But not all.
"I confess, I have never been in a siege before, traditional or otherwise," Logan shrugged.
He was heartened that, at least amongst the White Wolves, his deeds were proving the better of the annoying rumors that followed him. Fighting as he had had earned him an invitation to drink with some of the White Wolves as they partook in one of the most common parts of warfare that few songs sung of and few poems written – the waiting. In this case, the waiting was partially relieved by drinking, playing games of dice and cards, and simply telling stories. In Logan's case, repeatedly relaying the story of holding the entire Gate of Karaz-a-Karak with naught but himself and a single warrior of Sigmar for a time.
"For one," another White Wolf spoke up, "The dwarfs have stocks for years, and years, so starvation is not nearly a concern. Same for water, stored and with wells to draw from too."
"Don't have to deal with an open sky," one pointed his finger upwards, "Constant bombardments by boulders, catapults, rotting bodies, the like, sort of no point when there's a whole bloody mountain in the way. Plus, despite it all, sheer rock, runes, construction, means that if they're going the sapper's way, it'll be ages before they make problems, if they manage at all."
"Afore the Great Gate went down, most of us," Markus said gruffly as he drank his mug empty, "Thought we'd be waiting for the enemy to exhaust themselves, sally out in the nights, wreak havoc, return inside before they could catch us all. Might even see some sneaks get out there to try and burn their supplies and the like. Like you!" He said, clapping Logan on the back. "Not the bravest thing to do, the first part, but the second? Now that took courage."
Logan frowned but nodded.
"I see."
"The thing about most sieges is, there's usually bits of quiet, waiting, even if it's just because the enemy's working up to doing something else. Peace and violence," Markus rotated a finger in the air. "Cycles until someone comes up with something clever, or one side just breaks."
"Usually," a knight snorted. "Beastmen just keep coming no matter what, near tireless, mad, even greenskins can get bored. If they've got the numbers, the horned bastards will just keep coming. If the gates hold, the greenskins'll eventually turn on each other."
Unless the gates were broken through, like the previous impregnable defense was, and the impassible defense before that.
Of course, Logan didn't need to say that.
It was written on the face of every veteran sitting around the fire, the fire that Logan himself found himself staring into in contemplation.
=======================================================================
(Cracks and Fractures: 77+Food Supply Friction(15)+Besmirching Glory(20)+Complex Conquered(25)+Siege Shattered(20)+Auction Ruination(30)+Hultressan Attrition(10)+Complex Obliterated(30)+Embers of Khaine(5)+Dissatisfied Cytharai Cultists(10)-Foundational Corruption(35)-Immediate Loyalists(15)-Screamtaker Dissatisfaction(15)-Bribes And Threats(10)-Daemonic Support(15)=152/100)
"Natasha."
To your shame, it actually takes you a full second to spring upwards from the bed you'd been sleeping in. After several days of hard stone floor or piles of vegetables and preserved meat inside crates, the sheer softness even through your armor had been of immeasurable value. All throughout the Tor, the bodies disposed of quickly and put to the side, you knew the same was true for the whole of your warband. The Asur finally slept in quarters that befitted their standards, even if it was all made by Druchii craftsmen, slaves, or was outright stolen from elsewhere in the world. The few Druchii you had nestled themselves as per what they had been used to their entire lives. The freedmen, on the other hand, experienced luxury beyond perhaps what any of them had had access to even prior to their enslavement save for a handful of them. Given all that, the curtains drawn closed and windows and doors all locked, you'd felt almost slightly able to relax.
Something that disappears entirely as you see Johanna looming over you in the darkness of the bedroom, her face half lost in shadow.
"What is it?" You grump at her, clearing your throat and reaching for a pitcher of elven wine to wet your throat.
"You need to see something," she says, keeping her tone and cadence carefully neutral.
She wouldn't have woken you for nothing.
"Have we been found out?" You spring from the bed, blade in hand, already starting to draw some of the Winds to you.
"No, no," she says, stepping close and gently pushing your arm down. "Just…come and see."
You don't have far to go. The bedroom you'd selected was actually within the internal structure of the Tor, without any windows whatsoever. Perfect for a Druchii noble who wished to avoid being too easily assassinated. You leave it swiftly, however, following after a silent Johanna as she pads down the hallway towards a sitting area that once upon a time might have been used for relaxation or idle conversation, though all of the furniture is broken and shattered on the ground with numerous splatters of blood everywhere. You have to admit that it reminds you of how the rooms of a raided settlement could look after a brutal sacking or the like. That's not what matters, however, because Johanna has stepped up to the window which looks out upon the rest of the Ark, and then without waiting for you to ask another question pulls it aside.
"Oh."
You see what she meant rather immediately.
When you had gone to bed you had glanced out the windows of the Tor, and in doing so had seen a dark and hideous urban landscape which stretched far and wide. An entire mobile city-state carried across the waves by dread sorcery. There were glows here and there, speckled throughout, magic lighting up the Tor of Dominion, torches and fires alight at all three arenas though the Path of Glory was far dimmer. From here you could even the Anchorstone Complexes, including the one that is simply gone and replaced with a sunken crater. The Temple of Atharti had a very faint, shimmering glow, even from this far away. You couldn't tell about the Temple of Mathlann, it was just too far away to be sure. According to the Witch Elves, the whole surface of the city should have been lit up in a way that would remind you of the Smokelands of Wulfenburg. Lights in the windows, torches outside businesses. Especially the whole of the pleasure district, though that had already begun to be reduced to a burnt blackened ruin surrounding the Temple of Atharti. When you had glanced out upon it, it had been a largely dark landscape.
Now you see flames.
Many, many flames.
Not candles in the windowsills.
Not lamps lit up to illuminate the roads.
But outright fires.
Now that you're fully awake, and Johanna not even breathing next to you, you can hear it as well.
There is a low, dull roar that can reach your ears from here.
Screaming.
Rage.
Defiance.
"It started about…maybe two hours ago," Johanna murmurs, clucking her tongue. "A few fires, here and there. A few explosions, that way," she points in a direction towards the western end of the Ark. "Think I saw a lot of fires go into one of the pyramids, then some came out. Shouting, some orders, and so on."
"…they're rioting," you say aloud softly, just in case saying the words too loudly would make them false.
"I'd say it's more than that. They're taking up arms. Conscripts or volunteers, they're elves, and they remember their training," Johanna sniffs, whistling as you both watch a distant building start to spew fire from the windows and doorways. "What's your take, Kerillian?"
You don't even jump as the Asrai reveals herself, well familiar with her stealthy nature at this point.
Once again, she has transformed herself. Whatever may have happened to her original wargear, the arms and armor that she carried with her from Athel Loren, are likely gone beyond any reasonable ability to get back. Looking at her now, it would actually be quite easy to mistake her for a Druchii. Or, perhaps, it would be better to say that it is getting harder and harder to tell that she isn't. Somewhere along the way, she has taken up the armor and gear most appropriate to the sorts of Druchii warriors identified to you by Sadrina as a 'Shade'. The outcast savages who live out in the wilderness outside the cold comfort offered by Naggaroth's cities and urban areas. A black and silver cloak, the mask covering the lower half of her face the same shade, her hood shadowing the rest of her face. Two hand crossbows are on her hips, with a heavier two-handed repeating crossbow on her back. The First Draich of course, is similarly sheathed on her back.
"What the Asur oft try to ignore, or so it often seems," she begins in a rasp, "Is that the Gods – all of them – live within and through us. The Druchii are little better in that regard. Both think that they are bettered by trying to carve out Cadai or Cytharai from their hearts."
She raises a hand now covered by a high ranking corsair's claw-tipped gauntlet and points through the window.
"The truth is that Khaine is many things, much of it necessary. He is violence, war, cruelty, blood, destruction, and yes…murder. The kindler of war," she says the last with an audible smirk as another fire starts. "War is necessary to carve out peace, this is a truth that even lumberfoots know well, is it not?" She glances towards you and Johanna. "To protect your home, in defense, or acting proactively, against many a threat?"
Neither of the Imperials in the room, living or undead, have anything to refute that simple truth.
"Perhaps she thought with enough strength, she could cut out Khaine's presence upon the Ark powerfully enough. Perhaps she could have, in time, with the right maneuvering, especially with how white the Cult was bled at Salkalten," she adds, "Perhaps throw them against another foe, let them die shedding blood and killing in His name. But this?" She laughs as the finger retreats into a now curled fist that lowers to Kerillian's side. "She might have had the strength, but did not apply it well enough, and now it is too late. She has failed too many times, moved too quickly, stretched all she had thin…,"
"Until something snapped," Johanna finishes.
"Several somethings," Kerillian corrects with a low chuckle. "Khaine has always been strongest amongst the Druchii, and not so easily guttered out. Alyssa might have shattered the Cult, but she could no more kill Khaine by shattering Him into pieces than she could extinguish the flame of war and burning blood within most every Druchii heart," she snorts and shakes her head. "No matter what other Cytharai they might proclaim highest to their soul."
"And from embers…fire," you nod before glancing at the two of them and tap at your ears. "Forgive my human failings. What do you hear out there? It's all just a distant low roar to me."
"Angry people doing angry things," Johanna answers with a measured sigh.
"War and violence and murder," Kerillian answers with hungry relish before inhaling slowly. "And more than that. I decided to investigate myself."
"Kerillian!" You hiss. "That could have been dangerous!"
"Normally, yes," she nods while holding up her hands in surrender, "We have all watched too many elves die for me to assume my own safety, especially when daemons and elves are my foe in turn. But this…," she flaps a hand towards the window. "With such chaos and anarchy swallowing up the Ark, there would never be a better time where most eyes would be utterly distracted otherwise."
Slowly, methodically, you take off your helmet and freeze it to your hip so that you can directly rub at your temples.
"…I'm too tired to argue, you already went out, report," you grind out.
"Of course, Larhathalumalav," Kerillian sketches a deep bow before straightening. "I think you should be pleased. Order has broken down. Different noble houses are pulling back their troops to protect their own estates. A group of unaffiliated Druchii broke into one of the pyramids to ransack it for themselves, as there were many already concerned about food thanks to the destruction of the aquafarms and other pyramid's burning," she says rapidly, back straight and posture almost something you'd call 'at attention'. "Someone…," she drawls with an audible grin, "Happened to set a few more granaries aflame as well. In the meantime, the forces at the Anchorstone Complexes are remaining in place, and cannot be used for other purposes. The Temple of Atharti has become a major rallying point, and managed to repel Alyssa when she personally came to assault it."
You can feel your heart starting to beat harder, but now in excitement rather than anger.
"There's rioting clear across the Ark, the Cult of Mathlann has proclaimed full neutrality after repeatedly witnessing Alyssa's control slipping – rumor goes that they might be readying themselves to simply up and sail away rather than deal with her. Or," she tilts her head, "Wait for her to die, then take command of the Ark wholly for themselves as the dominant Cult. Deep Dwellers have begun to hoard their own food supplies, aren't transferring any out to anyone, standing their ground to keep what is theirs, theirs. Rampaging attacks against the Slaaneshi cultists in the streets by people finding Khaine in their hearts once more."
"By the Gods," you murmur.
"Some of them, certainly," Johanna says as she folds her arms over her chest.
Sniffing, you think you can finally start to smell the smoke starting to rise in the air.
"We're also getting closer to Norsca, so she has to have sorceresses maintaining control of the Anchorstones so that the Ark can slow itself properly to land, or at least reach shallower waters to reduce strain," Kerillian draws her hands out and waves them through the air for a moment. "If they don't, apparently, the Ark could strike the coastline too hard if not steered or slowed otherwise."
"They didn't seem to need to slow overmuch when they damn near destroyed our coastline," you growl.
"Ah, true, but apparently there's some magic related…," Kerillian shakes her head and shrugs. "I do not know the specifics, but I overheard enough. Something allows the Ark to sail so quickly, and strike so strongly, without causing every Druchii on the Ark to go flying at the same time. Something to do with momentum and…higher magics that the rioters certainly did not know," she sighs. "Regardless, if the Anchorstones are too damaged, not manned, then said safety measure would not be in place. So you tell me, Larhathalumalav," she looks you in the eyes, dark crimson dots for pupils glowing faintly in the dim light of the room. "Do you want to experience what happens on a Black Ark without that if it sailed as quickly as it did at Salkalten?"
"I might live," Johanna raises a hand, "But I can fly. I saw the damage that got dealt, that'd pulp people like being strapped to a wall and hit with a battering ram."
"It would," you agree with a quick nod, frowning, nonetheless. "The good news, I would think, is that the sorceresses at the Anchorstones would wish the same. What else?" You flick your eyes back to Kerillian.
The Asrai leans against the windowsill now, tapping at the glass.
"Too much chaos to be certain, but it seems like the desecrated Temple of Khaine," she growls lowly at that, an echo not her own layered atop her words, "Is starting to be isolated, the daemons that range out from it subject to attack. I would not go so far as to say that the Tor of Dominance itself is under siege…but it certainly seems like no one is entering or leaving at the moment."
Johanna flicks her eyes over to you.
"And how's…Frederick?"
You blink, and realize that this entire time, all you've gotten from Frederick has been somewhat bloody and pained dreams.
"He's…asleep," you mutter before pausing, blinking hard. "He's asleep. They never…they never came back to keep…,"
He's had a blessed night of peace, wounds notwithstanding, because Alyssa literally cannot spare the time or effort anymore even with her anger and obsessions.
"So Alyssa is really distracted," Johanna hums thoughtfully, finger tapping against her lower lip. "Enough that she's forced to focus on defending herself more than anything else. Any idea how hurt she got at the Temple of Atharti?"
"Alas, no," Kerillian grumbles. "The High Priestess came out of a thousand-elf orgy as some sort of ritual to call upon Atharti's power and managed to repel her, as the story goes."
Your mouth opens and then closes before you shudder in revulsion.
"Speaking of that, or at least in part, the story of an army of the dead appears true. Hultressa sent in a bunch of revived Druchii at the siege force. Didn't act like undead as I might know them, but then…," she shrugs and looks at you. "I am no master of magic. Apparently they were all re-killed in the process, but the damage was more than enough well done."
The three of you share a silence after that point, one punctuated by distant screams and burning flames as order completely and utterly breaks down across the Claw of Dominion.
"So what's the plan now, oh glorious leader?" Johanna breaks it, looking at you.
"I…," you trail off. "We're still not strong enough to assault the Tor of Dominance directly, I don't think. That's her highest bastion."
"What about the Slaaneshi portal in the Temple of Khaine?" Kerillian pipes up.
"We can go after it once we have my husband back in hand," you grunt, and you can see her work her jaw behind her mask before nodding slowly.
"We need him back before we either try and steal some boats or go after the portal, either or," you shake your head. "She's had him long enough. She's lost enough, I don't want to wait any longer than necessary before retrieving him."
"So, what, we try and recruit any of the slaves down there who might have finally gotten the message?"
"That, or we go for one of the other two arenas," you muse, rubbing at your chin. "Things being like this? They're going to both be isolated now. Cut off. Easier to go after without worrying about reinforcements or anything like that."
"Maybe," Johanna says before frowning, sniffing again. "Hngh."
Seeing her on edge has you on edge as well.
"What is it?"
The vampire looks towards Kerillian.
"Are you sure you weren't followed back?"
The Asrai's eyes widen and then narrow.
"Very much so, yes I am sure," she growls.
"Uh huh," Johanna nods before sniffing again, more deeply. "I need a second."
Without answering another question or saying another word, she pushes the window open and drops out into the night. Leaving you with a now uncertain looking Kerillian, who starts quietly muttering to herself inaudibly as she starts to pace back and forth. You suspicious look is returned with a vigorous shaking of her head, a finger disappearing behind her mask so she can gnaw at a nail. You so easily believed she went unheard and unseen, why wouldn't you? She is a Waystalker, or whatever it was, she has spent centuries honing her stealth capabilities. Something she has disturbingly grown better at since taking up the First Draich, seeming to sometimes outright disappear from sight even when you are staring right at her. But these are elves too, are they not, damn it all. Maddened as they are, furious, anarchic, but how difficult would it truly be to detect her if one wished to?
When Johanna reappears in the window frame, you blade is out, while two hand crossbows are out from Kerillian.
"We need to go downstairs," she says flatly.
"Wha-,"
"We need. To go. Downstairs," she grinds out.
Sharing a glance with Kerillian, you sigh and then gesture for her to lead on. There are a number of confused third shift freedmen who got to sleep earlier than the rest of their fellows, as even with the Tor taken you weren't about to just not have guards on rotation. Johanna does not sleep, but that does not mean she should try and be the sole guard for your entire force. Not that she or any of them were able to catch Kerillian leaving and returning, now that you think about it. Still, all such thoughts disappear from your head as you reach the gates that were broken through some hours before, or more specifically when Johanna unceremoniously shoves it open.
On the other side is a vortex of Dhar, shot through with Ghyran, Hysh, and Shyish. A monstrous manifestation of energies through your Witch Sight that makes your mouth feel dry and heart pound in animalistic response to danger. A tremendous power that you recognize quite well. One that is greater than the sorceresses you've fought and killed up to now, one that you would reckon might be a far better match for Alyssa than yourself. There is a fluttering exhaustion to the vortex, the nimbus of Dark Magic suffusing her, while the armor they bear is badly battered with some plates stripped and lost entirely. But the staff still holds power, as does the brutal large cleaving saber which floats in the air next to them.
But next to it…next to her…is a child.
A tiny elven child holding her hand, with eyes that are as pitch black as Kerillian's.
With tiny red circles in the center…just like Kerillian.
"Hello Hultressa," you grind out through grit teeth, your best attempt at a smile becoming a rictus grimace.
"Lady Natasha von Hohenzollern," the sorceress who abandoned your husband to ruinous torture and pain nods at you.
Ice creeps over the ground around you, the air chilling as a cool mist emerges with every hard exhale through your nose.
"How," you say flatly.
"For better or worse," Hultressa says, inhaling and exhaling slowly, "Khaine desires his due," she glances towards the First Draich in Kerillian's hands, who shrinks back and sheathes it immediately as her eye flick to…the child.
"You must be Gwendolyn," you say softly, and the child blinks wide eyes up at you. "Frederick has told me a lot about you."
The child's eyes immediately start to well up with tears.
"I…I didn't mean…I'm sorry!" She starts to wail, and Hultressa squeezes her eyes shut for a moment before opening them again to look at you.
"You may rightly blame me for much of the pain your husband has suffered. But could I ask for succor for a night, for myself and my child?"
You want very, very, very badly to refuse them.
But there is a crying child out there who needs a warm bed and a blanket.
"…get in here," you grumble and sweep back into the Tor.
========================================================
"So."
"So."
You face Hultressa across a dining table once used by the family ruling the Tor. On your side are Kerillian, Johanna, and a now awakened Sadrina who's eyes are wide and so far completely unblinking as she shifts her gaze from the sorceress to her child. Said child is now huddled next to a low burning fireplace, sipping quietly from a mug of crystal-clear water and a few cuts of salted meat. You would prefer the child not be present for this, to rest, but you can also completely recognize why Hultressa is absolutely opposed to letting her child out of her sight. At the least, however, she has placed her staff and sword aside, without protesting that you are not doing the same. Or that she is now thoroughly outnumbered. You did grant her some food and water as well, out of threadbare courtesy if nothing else.
"Been a while since you abandoned my husband."
"It has been some time since I rescued my daughter from her attempted abduction, yes."
You tap a few fingers on the table while Hultressa takes a sip of water, dark purple eyes almost seeming to shimmer in the firelight.
"Heard you've been stirring up trouble for Alyssa."
"I have heard the same, though the rumor was initially that it was the Handmaiden leading the effort," she glances at Sadrina as she says it before looking back at you. "Though that has most certainly changed."
It's hard to know for certain if that's better or worse.
"Good to know. Any specifics you'd like to share?"
The sorceress pauses, sips some water, and then runs her finger over the rim of the cup.
"I killed one of my coven sisters, stole many fresh corpses to raise into temporary life," she pauses, looking you in the eye. "Not necromancy as you would understand it. Merely a different application of Ghyran."
"So we've heard," Johanna grunt, arms folded once more over her chest.
"And also shattered a number of wards and weakened the Aethyric Net. Not so greatly as destroying an entire complex, but the effort was…considerable on my part, if less open than yours."
"I see…," you mumble.
All the women in the room are quiet now, listening to the sounds of anarchy in the distance.
"So you found us. Now what?" You eventually ask.
Hultressa sniffs and then looks down into the glass of water before downing it entirely.
"Matters…are in motion. I had no way to know you would be so active, nor so…successful," she says with grudging respect and a few notes of genuine bewilderment.
"You acted with the presumption that you needed to work alone," Sadrina says sadly, and though you can see the anger flash over Hultressa's face she does not give voice to it.
"Precisely, Handmaiden," she says instead with a respectful nod.
"…what did you do," you growl.
The damned sorceress doesn't answer immediately, instead thinking for a moment.
"Your husband may have recalled some of the items and things I had contained and imprisoned in my workshop?" She begins, and you are already rubbing at your temples.
"He mentioned it, yes."
"Mmm," she smirks. "One was a bound Exalted Herald of Slaanesh, who commanded a different Legion than the one currently being invited onto this Ark. Another was a captured daemon of Khorne."
Sadrina inhales sharply.
"When they came for my daughter, the Asur Eldyra of Tiranoc gave her life to help her escape," she says, looking past you all towards the fireplace her daughter is curled up by. "I triggered every contingency and trap I had to punish them, to slow them. I also…sent a message," she glances back to you. "I confess, I was rather angry at the time, and also wounded."
"Not dead, actually," you speak up, making her pause and blink. "Not in pristine condition, no, but she's in the Tor, a slab or two over from my husband, still breathing."
"How could you...ah, that...bond," she says with audible distaste before it ameliorates with relief. "Then that...is all the more reason, then."
Fists slam against the table.
"You have made a pact with Chaos," Sadrina hisses, standing up from her stool, shaking her head. "I truly had thought you might be redeemed before the Everqueen, you had raised my heart high in your hands and now have crushed it beneath your heel, Druchii!" She spits the word, absolutely woebegone. "How could you!"
Hultressa closes her eyes and breathes slowly.
"My redemption is not required, merely the salvation of my daughter," she says, each word slow and shaky. "And surely you would not deny her that, deny the High Priestess of Isha from acting with grace and mercy."
Sadrina's mouth opens and closes without a word.
"And," she continues with a bit more control, "I did no such thing. No pact did I sign, no deal did I make. I simply worked to reveal a place of great magic to those who would hate it, a place where much destruction could be wrought and blood spilled. With," she rolls her hand in the air. "A messenger once bound, then released, to carry said message where it needed to go."
"Rhya's fucking tits, you sent an invitation to the damned Skull Throne," Johanna whispers in a strained wheeze.
"Not an invitation," Hultressa stresses. "Simply information that happened to be passed along in the course of our escape."
You raise one finger.
"One of the Anchorstones was destroyed, the Aethyric Net weakened. Then you weakened it again by targeting the wards protecting the Ark. Then we damaged another Anchorstone slightly."
"The great wards of the Black Arks are such that even the White Tower cannot easily locate them out upon the waters," Sadrina says tonelessly as she slumps back into her chair. "Without it…"
The worse the wards, the easier it is to actually find the damned Ark.
"Hell of a way to get revenge on your sister," you snort, hand across your face.
Hultressa looks at you all and then gives the slightest of nods.
"I…may have…reacted…unwisely," she admits, sucking some air through her teeth. "At the time I was in a particular mental and emotional state. I would still be unable to escape upon one of the ships so long as the Cult of Mathlann hoarded them and were allied with Alyssa, could not take a flying beast to freedom, could not teleport with those particular wards still intact."
Then she places her hands atop the table and slowly clenches her fists, teeth grinding for a moment before she sighs and slumps in her chair.
"And…," she trails off before an exasperated and tired snort escapes her. "I couldn't just leave him."
Like pulling teeth, that.
"Him? My husband? Frederick von Hohenzollern?" You hiss out.
She grinds her teeth for a moment before nodding once.
"Yes. Yes," she says it the second time as a hiss. "The debt I owe him is too great, the…there's…," her grasp over speech appears to disappear for a brief instant. "He was kind to her," she finally says, sagging in her chair, eyes once more on her daughter.
Gods help you; you do not want to see the warmth and love in her eye.
But you do.
The rage tries to burn colder, brighter, and yet you just can't seem to fuel it the way you have been.
"You could escape now, I suspect," Sadrina says, shaking her head slowly in wonderment. "You could, with the wards weakened, the Ark falling in upon itself, and the rest. But you…you won't."
Hultressa rubs at her face with her gauntlet.
"For now," she insists. "Her position is weaker than ever, I doubt she has had a single easy night of rest since this all began, the debts and costs she is incurring both physical and Aethyric considerable."
"You want to help us take her on. What, go straight to the Tor of Dominance tomorrow?" Johanna asks, and that makes Kerillian sit up in greater interest.
"Maybe. Though based on my estimations of your forces, you might want a few more to join you. You could," she glances at Kerillian, "Try and rally some of the citizenry with the most bloodlust in their hearts, enflame Khaine's hold on them. Especially now, as rage overtakes so many. The arenas are holding, for now, but they are no longer places of enrichment, only a millstone about the neck."
A thought strike you then.
"Question," you raise a hand. "How long do we have?"
"In regards to what?" She quirks an eyebrow.
"Norsca, and whether or not anyone is going to respond to your little non-pact message," you drawl. "None of us have driven a Black Ark before, or been part of that kind of operation."
A small 'o' forms with her lips before she nods.
"Ah. Yes. At higher speeds we would have been there already, but we lost that capacity with one of the Anchorstone's being destroyed," she shrugs a single shoulder. "I would estimate two to three days away at our current pace, but given the strain on the Network, I would normally suspect it more likely to slow the Ark and take a halt in the shallower waters than the deep sea within the next day outright, if only to give time to try and actually perform proper repairs and maintenance. Then," she waggles a hand. "Ships go to shore. Or would, under normal circumstances."
Right, no one knows what in the hell the Cult of Mathlann is going to do now. Given how the God is described, the similarities with Manann are impossible to miss. Little comfort when fatal mercurialness features so strongly for both.
"And the second half of the matter?" You ask pointedly.
Hultressa's lips twist as she thinks.
"It is difficult to say. I have not been able to spare the energy or power to cast out my own scrying beyond the Ark, lest I myself be discovered within it," she admits, but your eyes narrow at the leading tone in her voice.
"Hultressa," you sigh.
"It is hard to say!" She exclaims. "I would normally think that the Coven would have detected such a thing by now if it were to happen, but as current events have borne out, such surety cannot be assumed any longer."
"What, no dreams of blood?" Johanna snarks. "No deep voice of a brass-throated daemon proclaiming their favor for your deed?"
"No," Hultressa sniffs.
She almost sounds offended that she didn't.
"Yes, well, some of us haven't had any kinds of dealings with Chaos at all in our lifespans," you groan, "So forgive me for not having centuries to poke about at such blasphemies that ought to cost the mortal soul too dearly to consider."
"It is beside the point. If they come, they come. If they do not, they do not. We must act regardless," Kerillian finally pipes up. "Either to recruit Druchii, recruit slaves, or both, we must decide now."
Well.
It's not like she's wrong.
"After that, the Tor or the portal at the temple," you begin, but Hultressa is already shaking her head.
"With what you have, and even with what we could gain, I do not foresee us possessing the strength to do both, the cost in lives for success would be too great."
"My husband it is, then. Besides, maybe after that we can go after the portal if necessary, unless the whole Ark isn't sinking around our damned ears by that point and we can try to escape afterwards."
No one appears to want to argue against you on that point now.
"We recruit who we can tomorrow, then make for the Tor the day after," you proclaim next. "Don't want to interrupt the Ark slowing down enough for us to survive getting off of it, after all."
You've set the Claw of Dominion aflame, and the Druchii to tearing each other apart.
Time to wind up for the finishing blow.
Black Ark Claw of Dominion Has Fallen Into Civil War!
- Open Anti-Slaaneshi Rioting Has Begun Across Ark!
- Food Crisis Has Escalated Due To Panic, Hoarding Shortages!
- Anchorstone Complexe Garrison Requirements Have Stretched Alyssan Distribution Past Breaking Point
- Cult of Mathlann Has Broken Alyssan Allegiance In Favor Of Neutrality
- Temple of Atharti Siege Broken, Has Become Anti-Alyssan Rallying Point!
- Alyssa Wounded By High Priestess of Atharti, Forced Back To Tor of Dominion!
- Multiple Noble Houses Now Forming Independent Factions!
- Deep Dwellers Have Formed Independent Faction!
- Arena's Grand Re-Openings Have Been Cancelled!
- Hultressa Horrorheart and Gwendolyn (Khaine-Blessed) Have Joined Warband!
The Penultimate Recruiting Drive:
Moratorium 3 Hours
In The Name Of Khaine
[] Send Kerillian Out: It is undeniable that elven expertise and experience could outweigh what a freedman could accomplish much of the time. Perhaps it is time to see what can be gathered to your side in that course. Through murder and destruction and warmaking, all things are permitted so long as Khaine's divine will remains supreme, or so you've heard said repeatedly. If that includes fighting alongside freedmen to attack one who blasphemed against the Bloody Handed God, perhaps that means some might join up.
OR
[] Keep Kerillian Close: The potential fractious damage that bringing in any more Druchii than you've got to the warband which is primarily made up of the freed could be considerable. Too much to countenance if you wish to command effectively and without major issue. In another time, another place, simply following Khaine might be enough to unify elves aplenty, but this is not then. Besides, you'll want Kerillian to help you kill other Druchii in your way tomorrow.
AND
Breaker of Chains [Choose As Many As You Like, But Exhaustion+Attrition+Attention Will Grow As Issues With Each Successive Choice] [Re: Attention - Some Druchii, even if against Alyssa, might still be against freeing slaves]
[]Arenas
-[] The Ring of Gore: Owned by House Spitethorn, and known for its numerous gladiators and combats involving great numbers. How many gladiators remain after all this time, whether taken away for sacrifice to Chaos or otherwise by other Cults of the Cytharai, lost in infighting? You don't know. But some must, and some must be willing to take up the fight for freedom and vengeance. However many you get, you'll also be killing the Druchii controlling the place. Thankfully, given current events, it's not like they'll be getting help from anyone.
-[] The Crimson Thorn: House Direblaze was first to swear to Alyssa, so this would be yet another blow to the power her crumbled faction possesses and could potentially call upon. There may be gladiators here to free as well. Also monstrous beasts that you might be able to unleash to cause rampages and damage, if Hultressa can somewhat command the damn things with Ghur and the like, as well as the strange and mysterious Lizardmen. Whether or not they would be a help or hinderance is unknown at this time.
[] The People
-[] Courage to Cowards: The slaves of the Claw of Dominion are terrified, but many of them are so inured to their state of being that to imagine doing otherwise is immensely difficult for them. With the Druchii so terribly distracted with each other, this is the last chance you'll get, that any of your warband will get, to convince them to do otherwise. Make the effort, even if it draws the attention of some Druchii who's outrage at freed slaves might make them an issue to be dealt with. Give them one last chance to die free.
-[] The Noble Asur: There are more Asur scattered around the Black Ark. For psychologically damaging reasons, the Druchii were happy to inform the Asur of how many of their fellows were enslaved, and where, and what was regularly being done to them. Some were captured in the ill-fated expedition led by Eldyra, others are older than that. The Asur with Sadrina have spoken up. If this really is the last chance, then some effort should be put in, they claim, to try and raid those remaining noble estates that would have them. With the Druchii falling upon themselves across the whole Ark, there will never be a better chance and the Druchii in a weaker position.
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- Pronouns
- He/Him
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic
Thors_Alumni
Proud member of Thors Class VII from Liberl
- Location
- Liberl Zemuria.
The noble Asur is a must. flat out a must, I don't want to leave any behind if we can't help it.
Oh man is it possible to claim this Ark as our own
Technically this was written across the course of yesterday and today, straight up to midnight and some change. I wasn't able to write crap the day I closed the vote for IRL reasons I'm sure can be guessed at. Unfortunately, for better or worse, I'm capable of substantial manic output and at other times suffer from depressive writer's block and lack of muse or energy. So apologies on any weird errors that might have crept in here and there given the length and all that. Imagine if I could write this much into broken up chapters for a fanfiction or something, that'd be a neat buffer or something, for consistent production and engagement. Just...gotta actually write em first. Only so much energy though, and time. Still, it is what it is. Night everyone and thank you for the kind messages on Patreon from my Patrons and for being Patrons as well in general.
RNGjesus played a little bit nice today, a lot of mid rolls, a number of high 70's and 80's and only a few 20/30's.
I know Hultressa cut us dry, but I hope things can be fixed. Gwen is still best baby elf.
Also what is Eldrya's situation? Is she seriously dead?
I know Hultressa cut us dry, but I hope things can be fixed. Gwen is still best baby elf.
Also what is Eldrya's situation? Is she seriously dead?