Warhammer Fantasy: A Dynasty of Dynamic Alcoholism

[torroar]

Of Beasts, Men, and Gods - Hohenzollern Interlude
Concurrent With Spikes, Horns, and Stone 22​

Magnus walked wearily on his way back into Castle Wulfenburg, pausing only for one of the Jade Wizards to reach out with the waters within a nearby basin to wash him clean. It was not particularly pleasant, especially with how sodden it would leave the layers of linen and leather beneath the battered plate, but there was no chance that he would bring the tainted blood of his enemies one foot into his lifelong home. Behind him, other attendants moved to aid the squawking and mutinously sullen gryphon he had flown in on. It was unsure how much Octaine really understood about what had happened with his mother, on a wider level. The Amber Wizards had been able to communicate with him through their mastery of Ghur, but he was young yet compared to Oskana. It showed in the fighting, his reaction to Magnus' orders as they flew out to fight.

"Brother," Arthur greeted him at the doors still dressed himself in obsidian colored plate armor, normal priestly vestments still put aside even now.

His once upon a time triplet, now fraternal twin, had once upon a time been afflicted by stepping too deeply into Morr's Realm during his holy pursuits. But Magnus could tell that the greying which afflicted his brother now was beyond what Morr had done to him. It was not the grey of the grave, or at least, not quite the expected hue. He was strained, Arthur, and tired. That wasn't particularly surprising. No Hohenzollern alive at the moment save perhaps the children and grandchildren were sleeping much these past few weeks. Even then, it was so damned difficult for any of them to hide their concerns. Their worries. It filtered down, no matter how big the smiles they kept on their faces. Unlike Magnus, Arthur was not currently carrying his oversized enchanted blade, but he was ready to ride out at any time. On the opposite side of the stables that a belligerent Octaine was being led towards, the steeds reserved for the usage of the Hohenzollerns themselves were eating heartily from their oats, barding and saddles ready to be set upon them at a moment's notice.

"Arthur," Magnus nodded back. "Anything happen while I was gone?"

Both began to move through the hallways, a mixture of Black Guard of Morr and Greatswords following them from behind. There was no point in taking off his armor, not when there was a likelihood that either of them would be riding or flying out again soon enough. That did not mean that Magnus turned down the frothing mug of ale that was offered up to each of them as they passed by a waiting servant.

"Nothing that wasn't happening before you left," Arthur informed him after they both finished drinking and put the mugs back. "We're still getting reports from all over. Messages by bird or courier."

"Has the militia been fully called up?" Magnus asked as they ascended the stairs heading towards the office of their father.

Magnus refused to call it 'his' office. So long as the Yhanna Sunweaver claimed that his father was alive, he had to believe her. He had to. Even as he thought such things, the old familiar recriminations started to bubble to the surface. He was used to the servants and Greatswords that filled Castle Wulfenburg offering him some measure of deference. He was the heir of his father, a Hohenzollern besides, so it was largely expected. But he had to fight back the urge to grab some of them by the shoulders and force them to raise themselves upright, for the degrees of their bows were far too low. They should not bow to him. Not like that. He was a Prince of Ostland, he was not the Grand Prince, and he would not be for many years yet. But too many of them could not accept the mutterings of the Eonir as they spoke of trees and intermingling essences and concepts that they could not even begin to conceptualize without the touch of magic and nature that the Eonir possessed. Too many of them thought they were granting him kindness and respect for these dark times, for a son that had lost his father. But all Magnus could see in the grief on their faces, the depth of their bows, the deference in their words, was an acceptance that he could not accept within himself. Not about his father, and not about his mother.

"Called up? Yes. Fully assembled? No," Arthur clucked his tongue. "We're dividing them out to the various noble families, the larger ones. Hard point assemblies, castles, and so on. Then they get divided back out again, to protect the most vulnerable settlements."

"Good, good," Magnus nodded, rubbing at his chin as they went before finally reaching the office.

The doors opened up to show all of his father's advisors that should be there, save for Anna who was still in Salkalten and even then Helga served ably enough without her, all of whom made to stand before Magnus waved them back down again. His mother…no, he didn't allow the thought to continue. Sabine was there instead, and she gave him a firm and reassuring nod as he glanced at her. Stephan von Raukov was getting on in years at this point, but the old former mercenary was solid as stone, just like the rest of his family. Though his beard and mustache were beginning to grey at astonishing rates. Next to him was Morgan von Bernhardt. The woman was practically spitting furious, constantly bouncing between grief and fury over what had happened to Salkalten, her precious magnum opus, as well as what had happened to the man and woman who had allowed her so much going missing upon the Ark. Helga was present, though not her daughter, and seemed much more focused on scribbling on some parchment than doing much else. All of the engineers were in a total frenzy, far more than usual, which was only to be expected. But there was one person missing, and one that did not have the same explanation as Anna wanting to poke around on the ships of Barak Varr. Something about an aerial device she'd never seen before and that King Grundadrakk was not willing to refuse her access to after their failure in fulfilling their oath to fight the Druchii alongside his father.

"Where is he," Magnus growled, glancing between the Priest of Sigmar Jorgan Albrecht and Lady Rosa of the Cult of Morr, and upon seeing their expressions turned his gaze go Hagrid Baggins and the Witch Hunter Marlisa.

"Still at the Flame, Prince," Hagrid said, the hefty halfling completely serious and lacking in his usually jovial aspect, eyes flinty and narrowed.

Emil Beltz had been an advisor to his father for many years. But now that they were in a crisis, and his father was not present, the old hoary Ulrican had completely refused to return to Wulfenburg. Magnus knew that his father had refused his efforts to try and spread the Iceborne Flame, but it was not as if the priest had actually been formally exiled or anything of the sort. But he had left all the same. Now, he was refusing a request from Magnus to return. He was not even returning their messages, even though Magnus was assured that he was alive and active at the Flame. The Ulrican pilgrims and other refugees that had fled to a place of great consecration were being whipped up into a fury, at the very least, frantically throwing up their defenses and arming and training themselves. But it was still disconcerting that he remained where he was.

"Then we'll do this without him," Magnus grunted, making to move again before pausing right before the Witch Hunter. "You," he said, making her raise an eyebrow beneath that large wide-brimmed hat she wore. "Something that I've noticed while working so far," he looked her up and down. "Are you, or are you not, the Witch Hunter Captain of Ostland?"

She stiffened where she stood, lips thinning and firming, her jaw working in her silence.

"I am aware that your mother previously held the position," he said before closing his eyes, sighing, and then opening them again with a much quieter voice. "But we are no longer in a position where we can simply rely on things going well in our organizational purposes. Who is the Captain?"

"…thus far the Cult has not-," she began slowly.

"They've sent out the orders, you have simply not fulfilled them," he interrupted her gently, and watched as her eyes flicked to a sympathetic looking Jorgan who had a hand clutched around his hammer necklace, then towards the completely flat expression of Hagrid. "Witch Hunter Captain Marlisa Liesedotte, we will be relying upon the Order of the Silver Hammer in these trying times. Will you fulfill your duty properly?"

Marlisa's eyes flared, but eventually the Witch Hunter swallowed down whatever bile was trying to come out.

"The Order serves the soul of the people of the Empire, Prince Hohenzollern," she answered through gritted teeth.

"So they do," Magnus nodded before finally moving past her and around the side of his father's desk before sitting down in his father's chair, glancing from the papers and then back up at all of them. "Now then. The Army of the Range has survived the assaults that came for them after we put that ancient horror to rest. My sister is rebuilding the Salkalten Guard and Salkalten at this very moment with the aid of the dwarfs of Barak Varr. The Army of the Forest has been separated out to help ward off the enemy surges wherever they can be found. The Army of Ostland…?" He glanced over to Von Raukov.

"Took casualties in the fighting at the coast, sir, but we've no shortage of volunteers at the moment. Equipping them won't be the hardest thing, but the training…," the veteran grimaced. "There's only so much you can do compared to actual experience."

"Helga?" Magnus asked, turning his head.

The increasingly elderly engineer worked her hands in her lap, a deep frown on her face lengthening the lines that were already there.

"Lost a lot of good folks up there," she finally said, looking into her lap. "Not all of 'em, thank the Gods, but a lot of 'em."

Magnus' grimace softened as he bowed his head for a moment as well.

"…I know. Such is war, unfortunately. They will never be forgotten."

"We can set up the ranks, but we'll be running thin on the ground," she informed him. "Not as many to run the foundries, so repairs and replacements on our war machines is going to slow down the more of them we put out into the field."

Magnus frowned, rubbing at his chin.

"Damn. There's no way to train more quickly, either. It will have to do," he said, nodding to Helga who just nodded back.

Magnus then slowly inhaled and exhaled, eyes closing briefly as he did it.

"Few wish to admit it, but the Empire is at war," he said, the ensuring silence a choking and deafening thing.

An array of grim and worried faces looked back at him.

"Many thought the beastmen defeated. Scoured from the land, beaten back into their holes and huddled around their stones," he began, rising from his father's chair as he did it and leaning forward with both hands on the desk. "And now they have returned, putting such hopes and dreams into the grave."

The map of the Empire that Arthur had placed on the desk for him in anticipation of this conversation now found Magnus' finger pressed heavily atop it.

"With half of all our nation's armies send south to Karaz-a-Karak, we are more vulnerable than ever before. Kislev has fallen into civil war, and cannot be relied upon to help. The dwarfs holds are besieged from without and within by their own enemies. Even now," he tapped his finger down on the map. "We are receiving reports and missives of warherds bursting forth from the deep forests. Middenheim is under siege and with their forces lost previously cannot manage a breakout," he ground the tip of his armored finger in that point of the map. "There are beastmen rushing north from the Drakwald into Nordland, though the Eonir and Count Kessel are fighting them off. Others are tearing their way out of the Middle Mountains, but the Army of the Range is containing them. For now," he stressed the word.

Then he moved his finger east.

"The Iron Woman of Ostermark battles the beastmen as well, they emerge from the forests and from the mountains both, and she is committed to battling them, and cannot send aid to anyone else at this time."

On his finger slid south.

"More emerge from the forests and mountains near Stirland. Averland and Wissenland fight their own warherds as best they can, even with the forces of our nation so winnowed by duty and oaths elsewhere."

"What of Reikland, Prince Hohenzollern?" Von Raukov spoke up, looking much more troubled now.

"The Wizards, as near as we can tell, are being contested by a great multitude of beastmen shamans," Magnus shook his head. "And, if the rumors are true, even some daemons. We cannot expect them to be able to aid others anytime soon. Sabine?" He glanced at his wife.

"Reports coming out of Westerland are not as bad as Middenland or Nordland," she offered immediately. "They have some beastmen rampaging out of the swamps and forests, some fimir, but nothing so bad as their neighbors. And, since they sold their armies away to Averland...well, there are surely still plenty of mercenaries able to defend the city proper, but outside?" She chewed at her lip. "Much less secure."

Hagrid raised a hand even as he was fishing an apple out of a pocket and taking a large bite out of it.

"Wasn't there something else you were telling me about before the meeting?" He asked after swallowing.

Sabine sucked some air through her teeth, a look of bemused amazement on her face.

"The Sword of Justice appears to have gone on a rather large arrest spree. She's declared martial law as well, and while her Owls are comparatively few, she's apparently taken control of most of the city for one reason or another. Something with the docks, and something about Elftown as well. That's all I know from the Cult of Handrich," she shrugged helplessly. "I'm sorry."

"If nothing else, with Evangeline there at least someone with a strong sword arm is there," Magnus snorted. "And Master Baggins. Any news of the Mootland?"

Hagrid's expression soured slightly before he viciously polished off the entire apple in a mere two more bites.

"News from home isn't as good as I'd hoped. They've got plenty of ungors and a few outlying centigors nibbling at the edges. Last I heard, the Elder's called up the militia, such as they are...but if anything heavier hits them, they'll be in trouble," he admitted slowly. "For now, though, it seems the beastmen are focused on harder targets. Presumably so they can reward themselves later with some easy kills," he grumbled.

"If there's anything we of Ostland have learned of your kind, Master Baggins, is that you are not to be underestimated," Magnus said firmly. "And whatever our problems with Starbrook, I've little doubt he'll do whatever is necessary to protect the Moot."

Hagrid snorted.

"At the very least, he ought to, aye."

"Prince Hohenzollern," Marlisa finally spoke up again, her voice a gravelly rasp now. "What of the elves? That great flame bird of theirs caused quite a fright to many citizens in the city when it came flying up."

"Are they to fight with us as well?" Jorgen asked, eyes narrowed and hand once more going to his hammer necklace. "Their tales...I can scarcely believe them."

"They speak much, but show little," Marlisa added suspiciously.

"Arthur?" Magnus glanced at his brother.

"The grounds around the compound are ruined, that part is true," Arthur spoke up, frowning. "The very area was terribly scarred by the Winds, or so the Wizards tell me, they know more than I. Suffice to say that they suffered greatly in whatever it was that nearly slew them. Still, Loremaster Aurelion assures me that once they have sufficiently recovered, and have rebuilt their defenses somewhat, she plans on dedicating at least some of her garrison to aiding the Army of the Forest against our foes."

"One or two elves, pfah," Jorgen rolled his eyes.

"Sisters of Avelorn and Shadow Warriors, some of the very best of their kind, actually," Arthur chided gently. "They alone could prove immensely useful it utilized correctly."

"Nevertheless," Magnus called the room's attention back to himself. "Our enemies abound."

"They're everywhere," Jorgan murmured, the Priest of Sigmar muttering a soft prayer under his breath. "As payment for our sins and arrogance, they come."

"They come because they see that we are vulnerable," Magnus cut in, eyes narrowed. "Beastmen and beasts they are, but even the least of beasts knows prey when it is not at its strongest," he growled, shaking his head and looking back to the map. "And that is the problem. They have surged outwards, and in those provinces that sent their armies south, aid is required. Hochland still fights, but their forces are…," he sighed. "General Briggs is doing his best, but the factions of that province appear to still abhor cooperation between them."

"Fools," Liesdotte scowled. "Squabbling for power at a time like this?"

"There is never a better time to try and gather power over another than when they are terribly vulnerable," Sabine spoke up, hands over the small swelling of her belly. "They know it. It is the time of Magus the Pious," she looked at Magnus in the eye, a sad smile on her face. "The time of Count Hohenzollern. Of so many others. They do not see the threat, the danger, because this is the time of the Empire's greatness."

"And that is the problem," Magnus said, willing Sabine to feel the love for her he felt through his eyes before looking back to the map. "The Cult of Taal abhors the beastmen like nothing else, for it is they who despoil their sacred places, are a blight upon the natural world they steward. Talabecland sent out detachments of its forces all across the Empire to try and aid their fellow man."

"What?" Von Raukov sputtered. "But why?"

"I can only presume," Magnus murmured, "That they believed that Taal was protecting the province, for there were no major warherds that they could not run roughshod over on their way elsewhere. That the Lord of the Beasts was warding them off."

"Oh, fuck," the old mercenary groaned.

"Beastmen and beasts they are, but they are not stupid," Magnus nodded, watching as almost everyone else in the room took on an ever grimmer cast to their faces.

Only Arthur and Lady Rosa seemed more self-contained, but that was to be expected when it came to the priests of the God of Death.

"Talabecland calls for aid. After their forces had left their borders, the beastmen struck. From…seemingly almost everywhere in the province at once. There are worries that the enemy is heading for Talabheim itself, and that the emergency militia and pressganged troops that they can bring to the fore will not be enough."

"What of their other troops?" Sabine asked, looking down at the map. "Can they not try and return?"

"They are trying," Magnus pushed off from the desk and straightened, arms folding behind the small of his back. "But it is no small feat to cut their way back through the warherds rampaging across the province. Especially as separated out as they are."

"They're calling for aid," Arthur said, one eyebrow raised. "Really? From us?"

"From everyone," Magnus corrected. "We just happen to be…possibly the only province that has an army to spare at the moment."

Arthur closed his eyes, and squeezed the bridge of his nose.

"By the Black Rose…,"

"We might be seeing a lot more of those planted by the end of this," Magnus sighed. "There are still beastmen aplenty in Ostland, we cannot leave them be, so we cannot bring the Army of the Forest. We…," Magnus trailed off, and blinked rapidly at the shadow that fell across one of the windows of his father's office.

Then Anna was there, slamming into the glass and window frame with just shy enough speed of breaking it, nearly slipping backwards and falling to her potential death before she froze her hand to the window. In her other hand was a thick rope. Utterly without expression, she turned her face to a nearby shocked Arthur and then looked pointedly at the window latch. She did noting more than wait for Arthur to open the window, even as the rope she was holding onto seemed to wiggle and writhe in her grip. All of them also became aware of a strange thumping, almost chopping sound which they could distantly hear through the roof and walls. Then the window was opened, and they could hear it more clearly, as Anna walked into the room, not even dusting herself off while letting go of the rope.

"Set down outside the city!" She yelled out the window in that flat tone before looking back at Magnus.

"Anna…?" Magnus said slowly. "Would you care to explain?"

"War Dirigible," she said tonelessly. "Dwarf scouting aerial vehicle only installed on their dreadnoughts. Got loaned one to get here faster. Fueling issues this far inland will be…significant, so liable to need to send it right back to Salkalten."

Everyone in the room blinked slowly.

"Bombed a few beastmen on the way here," she added. "What's going on?"

"Talabecland needs help, beastmen are cropping up in every province, we're readying to deploy the Army of Ostland," Arthur informed her.

Anna paused, mouth closing shut as she thought with the slightest furrowing of her brow.

"Understood," she declared, then turned to look at Magnus. "When do we leave?"

 

[torroar]

Spikes, Horns, and Stone 23​

Eldyra watches you in a mixture of confusion for every step forward you take and that same barely restrained violence with which she regards the Druchii. Her grip on Death Thorn is completely unmoving and firm, and she even follows after you for a few unconscious steps as she tries to keep shoulder to shoulder with an ally out of pure instinct. But even that falters, ever so slightly, as you take a deep breath and directly wade into the ongoing screaming match held between Hultressa and Gwendolyn. You do not doubt that both mother and daughter comprehended your approach, but it definitely isn't at the top of their lists of concerns. The flowing of Druhir that is going between them is too fast, too complex, for your basic understanding of the language to properly comprehend fully. But you don't need to comprehend it literally, for the language itself no matter how tainted by darkness is still a dialect of Eltharin whereupon the very words themselves spoken in the air can twist and change in the ears and mind from intent and purpose. Emotion can be conveyed in any language, of course, but Eltharin takes it a step further than you can normally manage with Reikspiel in any dialect. So you are very much aware of the pain, the fury, the grief, the worry, the defiance, and buried beneath all of it is the stark and unbridled love for each other. But the longer they talk, the longer they scream, Dhar beginning to seep unbridled from the sorceress and a different hue of darkness brought about by unholy energies is bubbling up from within Gwendolyn's own eyes.

It must stop.

Nevertheless, when you put one hand each upon their shoulders, you do have to immediately restrain the animalistic response that some old part of your mind orders as they whirl upon you with murderous outrage.

Luckily, you've learned more than a few lessons from going after different warherds, bandit groups, greenskin mobs, and more in the forests. Never go after two separate forces at the same time if you can avoid it. If you can't, do your best to keep the two divided from another somehow.

"Your mother is right," is the first thing you say, and immediately Hultressa inhales sharply and whirls back to her daughter triumphantly, the lone combatant now buoyed by an ally's presence.

By comparison, Gwendolyn's expression is utterly heartbroken as she stares at you.

"B-but-," she tries to rally, but you are there before she can finish or worse for Hultressa to start in just as aggressively as before.

"I know you want to help," you say more gently, and then very carefully shake Hultressa's shoulder, the faintest pressure having her put her daughter back down so that her feet are on the carpet once more. "I know that," you reiterate, going down to one knee to meet her eye to eye. "And you are so, so stunningly brave and incredible for that."

By now, the unholy power of Khaine has faded from her, quite possibly even repulsed by the fat tears which begin to shimmer into being in her eyes. All the determination, the anger, the fuel, is draining out of her quickly now that you've entered the conversation and worse, against her. You've seen the kind of shaking that is just beginning to come over her before. Every word that she tries to get out can't, is choked instead, as her mouth and her lungs and her emotions all become entangled against her wishes. So instead of saying another word, you instead first reach forward and embrace her instead, hugging her close. It is an awkward thing, especially given by the confused squawk from Hultressa as she hadn't actually let go of Gwendolyn with her own arms, but she'll just have to tolerate an embrace which by necessity involves her. No sooner has Gwendolyn's face gently pressed to your shoulder that the first sob finally manages to tear its way out of her lungs, whole body almost convulsing with it. What comes next is plainly inarticulate babbling. Inarticulate, but not unintelligible. At least, not to you. She wants to help. She wants to be free of Khaine. She wants to be better, she knows what better can be, she's seen it from afar, but the God of Murder has had a hand on her throat since before she was even born. The chance, the true chance for escape, for freedom, is closer than it ever has been before, and whether because of Khaine directly or the fact that the God's influence upon her life has forced her to mature far past her years, lets her see that chance even more keenly and fully than a child should. And yet, with that same damned mixture of youth and maturity, childishness and an arch-killer's impulses, she leapt for it. She had to.

But you don't need to tell her any of that, and you've the sad thought that on some level she will either come to realize all of this about herself in time, or perhaps already has.

Instead, you just hold her close as she sobs.

"But I – but I – but – but," is about as far as she gets before it degenerates again into nothing but pure emotion.

"I know," you inform her quietly, "I know. You are so very, very brave."

Gwendolyn wails into your chest before Hultressa lets loose a sharp exhale through her nose and then suddenly the embrace becomes far more natural, and Gwendolyn is squished slightly between the two of you. She shudders and shakes as all the bravery and willfulness that she hoped to throw against the power and influence of none other than Khaine himself is released. The tiny death grip she'd kept on her own determination is loosened, and with that release comes so very much more. If it had been reinforced, if you'd added your support to all of it, she might well have crystallized something there instead. But, just as possible, she might have found all that determination thrown forward and then found herself failing. It is not the first time you've spoken of defiance against the Gods, not even the Elven ones, but that does not mean you are completely ignorant of just how much of a task such a thing could truly be. You are quite painfully aware of what even a small iota of the pain that could be brought from on high in doing so. In this case, you have very much weighed the odds. It is possible it would work. It is possible. Many things are. And you and Natasha have already come to an agreement on just what escaping the Ark might entail – of who might well die in the aftermath. Slaves who by all right should have been allowed to breath in air as freedmen for the rest of their lives. Children, even younger than Gwendolyn, who could not possibly yet be aware of the full horror of their existence and what is expected of them and what will be done to them. Something you are even more aware of now, thanks to Hultressa.

"Your mother knows how brave you are," you insist, and then glance over at Hultressa, her face less than an inch away from your own and her arms partially entwined with yours at the moment.

"I do," she say promptly, catching on to your meaning immediately, and squeezing Gwendolyn just a tiny bit as she says it. "I do. Daughter, you are so brave, so strong," she whispers fiercely into her hair.

"But in this case, this one case…you don't need to do this," you add, and both of you have to hold onto the child as she shakes a bit harder. "You don't. I know you want to help. But in this case, this one case, we just aren't going to risk you like that."

Despite the hug, Gwendolyn manages to suck down a single choking breath and speak again.

"But what if-,"

"We'll figure it out," you say immediately.

"It doesn't matter," Hultressa says at the same time.

"But-," she tries again, and this time you squeeze her a bit more, and this time Hultressa joins in.

Gwendolyn lets out the tiniest squeak as you both do it.

"You are not going to be risking yourself. Not in this way. Not this time," you murmur.

"I…," Hultressa begins, only to pause as you stare at her pointedly.

You know for a damn fact that she was about to say something akin to I will not allow it or the like. But that is not what her daughter needs from her right now. And now that she is calming down herself, you know that she realizes it as well.

"I will not risk you, Gwendolyn," she says quietly instead. "I will not. I cannot. We have other avenues, other assets. Your willingness to sacrifice is admirable, but there comes a time to know when a sacrifice is truly needed. Do you understand?"

The answer is not quick in coming, but eventually it does come.

"…okay," Gwendolyn whispers.

"Okay?" You ask her again.

"Okay," she mumbles again.

"Okay," Hultressa sighs, and then and only then does the three-way hug break up, letting you extricate yourself and withdraw slightly so that a now calmed sorceress can quietly stroke her daughter's hair back down.

Only then do you finally withdraw, breathing a small sigh of relief yourself as you end up leaning against one of the end tables near one of the couches, and then notice Eldyra's unblinking stare. For a wonder, Death Thorn has been lowered with its tip down towards the ground, her grip firm but looser on the hilt than it was before. She is staring at Gwendolyn and Hultressa at the moment, but no sooner had you looked her way does she turn those still unblinking eyes towards yourself. A storm of confused emotions are in her grey eyes, the half-hostile and half-exhausted body language. She's not even breathing particularly hard anymore, but neither has she managed to come even close to the measured martial breathing exercises that she's been desperately trying and failing to execute since first waking up. She is an Asur, and they are Druchii, and you know perfectly well at this point that they can feel peaks and valleys of emotion on average that humans could struggle to match outside of truly exceptional circumstances. But in this moment, you would judge that even Eldyra herself does not quite know what she is feeling.

What she has seen, what she has experienced, what she is now seeing and experiencing, all coupled with a history which stretches over twice the length of the Empire's?

You can only imagine how bewildering it is for her, in this moment.

Something that must grow only more so as a now exhausted Gwendolyn quietly accepts being sent away by her mother presumably to return to her room. Hultressa does not even throw a second glance back to you or Eldyra, she simply scoops up her daughter gently in her arms and walks away. Leaving you and Eldyra alone. But even then, none of you actually speak. Instead, you sigh, run a hand through your hair and then through your beard, and promptly sit back down at the table. The movement appears to startle the Asur, but the sheer mundanity of you picking up a fork and spoon again triggers something in her that lets her put the sword down fully. She still keeps it close, unsheathed even so that she can spare herself the loss of less than a second if it's needed, but with small jerky movements Eldyra sits down as well and slowly begins to eat. Neither of you say another word as you clean your plates, nor when you go and grab a bottle of wine for yourself. Something tells you that she might not be too eager to drink Druchii wine, but she drinks it nonetheless with only a short two second pause after the first sip.

You both make your way through the bottle by the time that Hultressa finally returns, her features entirely composed and controlled, and then sits down and finishes eating herself.

A snap of her fingers causes one of the terrors to step closer, and though Eldyra freezes entirely for a brief period, all it does is take up a fourth plate for itself delicately balanced between the daggers that replaced its fingers and then disappears into the corridors once more.

"Once upon a time," Hultressa begins without warning, "I thought to try and introduce her to a pet. A small animal. Something to…show the Everqueen that she was not beyond salvation."

She says all of this without looking at either of you, instead choosing to just about bore a hole through the wall she's looking at. Eldyra also very carefully isn't looking at her, and instead is glaring a hole into a different wall.

"Nothing that wouldn't be easily missed, nothing that could in any right be considered 'sinister' or the like," Hultressa snorts, manicured hand forming cupping her chin as she rests the elbow in her other hand. "No snakes. Nothing reptilian. No corvids. Instead, I got her a bird. A colorful thing, sourced from one Lustrian raid or another – a parrot. Beautiful. Colorful. Intelligent. Even capable of speaking a few words."

A small exhale escapes her nose.

"She loved it. She named him Denla."

The Eltharin word for freedom, fulfillment, and emptiness, and yet you can easily hear which of the three meanings it was named for.

"…and it went wrong," you state, to which Hultressa nods. "One of those…episodes?"

Only then does the cold purple and black of her eyes slide off the wall and towards you.

"I returned from…oh it doesn't matter," she murmurs, blinking once. "She'd eaten it. Alive. With her bare hands and teeth. She was sobbing, screaming at herself, covered in its own feathers and blood."

You wince in sympathy, Eldyra next to you twitching slightly.

"That was the first time I had to stop her from killing herself," Hultressa continues distantly, the glimmering dark purple of her eyes growing emptier and emptier with each word until they are as yawning pits. "We tried again. Something simpler. A mere poultry bird, fat and harmless. She didn't dare name it – and then it happened again to it regardless, another time when Screamtaker called for the whole of the Coven to attend her as we raided some Fimir stronghold or another in Albion," she sighs. "After that we started bringing in creatures she knew she was going to kill, could accept killing."

A slow inhale from Eldyra doesn't make Hultressa's eyes twitch away from yours.

"Not all of them were animals," Eldyra says, eyes now falling to stare down at the empty plate in front of her. "Were they?"

"No, Eldyra of Tiranoc, they were not," Hultressa answers as she keeps looking at you. "Slaves that had been held all their lives, slaves that had been the worst brutalized, slaves that had been sent to the brothels as children, gladiators that had lived too long…those who knew that there would be no other freedom than that found in the grave."

"You…," Eldyra's voice peters out as her hands tremble around the fork and knife still in her hands. "You…you gave…,"

"Some Fimir as well," Hultressa goes on as if she didn't hear it, "Some monstrous beasts. And of course, a few Druchii now and again. The ones who failed their masters in some way or another."

This, again, appears to draw Eldyra up short as the smallest of smiles appears on Hultressa's face.

"Why, she's likely killed more Druchii than most any other Asur her age by comparison," the sorceress adds before she finally straightens in her chair and then places her hands palms flat against the table, gaze sharpening as she glances between you and Eldyra. "She must not go to the Temple of Khaine, do you understand? She has grown stronger in heart and mind, able to resist it more, to even…begin to control it sometimes but…," she shakes her head vigorously. "Not yet. Not now. If the Crone is kind," she pauses to scoff at about the same time that Eldyra does, causing the latter's mouth to click shut immediately afterwards, "Then it will never come to pass at all."

"I get it," you say. "And I'm sure she will too. But that does, of course, leave us with what we're supposed to do beforehand without the access she would have given us."

Thankful to let the topic rest, at least for a while, Hultressa nods, brows furrowing in thought.

"I will focus my efforts upon the pyramid. More bombs, other manipulations," she nods to herself. "I can also begin making approaches elsewhere, start making pretenses at rebuilding my retinue which your allies in Nordland slaughtered."

Eldyra just blinks at that, glancing at you.

"If you didn't want them dead, you shouldn't have sent them. Stephan takes keeping his province protected seriously," you point out, and Hultressa just gives a single shouldered shrug.

"True, but if I did not send them, my increasing lack of contributions would have been suspicious as well," she then gives a truly exasperated sigh. "Such a waste of blood and souls to bind them to my service. But that doesn't mean that others might not be willing to join me – if I were asking them legitimately. The cover would be important enough, however," she tacks on.

"What do you mean?" You ask, raising an eyebrow.

Hultressa flips her hair with one hand before answering.

"The more evidence there is behind me rebuilding a retinue, the easier it will be for me to bring forth others with me," she points out, looking at you pointedly. "Guards. Slave. Aid, of a sort."

"You would put a collar around his neck?" Eldyra interjects harshly, reaching out to protectively place a hand over your chest.

"If it would let him inside the Temple, to help in rescuing a Handmaiden of the Everqueen? Yes, yes I would," Hultressa nods firmly. "I have, will, and would do worse. I can malform his physiology somewhat, make him play pretend as a terror," she looks you up and down. "I could try and mask his mind and soul behind an outer broken shell, a slave in truth."

Outrage does not suffice to describe the look that Eldyra throws at the sorceress.

"The more time I dedicate towards it, I might be able to bring in others, perhaps your vampiric friend. Your wife…no," she shakes her head. "Her magic would mark her out too easily, especially after any lingering remnants left behind at the aquafarms she destroyed. She will have to remain behind the wards."

Something in you eases that you hadn't actually felt tighten.

"What of Roland?" You ask instead. "Jaqueline?"

"The Bretonnians? Hmm. Yes. One or the other," she waggles a hand back and forth in the air, sucking some air through her teeth, an act that has Eldyra recoil slightly from her. "Oh for goodness sake, Asur, do you expect me to act the haughty and refined mage at all times? I am in my own home," she says with a rude noise following it before glancing back at you. "I will not have an infinite amount of time to build up the supposed profile of what I seek. You, I can bring, I might well need you more than any other to convince the Handmaiden to come with me. The vampire…perhaps. After that, the Bretonnians, one or the other."

"But the more you do, the less bombs in the pyramid, the less prepared it is for destruction," you seize upon the conclusion before she speaks it, and are granted a nod in return.

"Precisely. You know them more than I, however, so-,"

"What about me," Eldyra interrupts, eyes narrowed. "I…I will not let a Handmaiden go without my blade in a place such as this!"

It does not appear to please her that you and Hultressa end up glancing at each other.

"What?"

"Eldyra," you begin slowly. "You…just woke up. You're not quite…,"

"I maintained your physical state perfectly," Hultressa says it more plainly, not even a boast for her, it seems. "Your mind is another matter altogether."

"How dare you," Eldyra hisses, one eye twitching as the rest of her starts to jitter again. "I…am a warrior and Princess of Ulthuan and Tiranoc and…and…," she trails off, breathing harder and harder, each one stuttered and uneven.

"And you are in no state for the matter with which we are concerned," Hultressa says calmly, folding her hands into her lap. "We will be surrounded by your tormentors, attending a slave auction, and you would have to restrain yourself utterly from striking out until the right moment. Your blade is damaged besides," she nods towards Death Thorn, making Eldyra clutch tighter at it protectively. "You will be better served recuperating here, and be much safer here, with my daughter."

"Frederick, tell her," Eldyra says stubbornly, turning to glance at you. "I am…I can…!"

Eldyra's twitching is growing worse even as she speaks, teeth almost clacking against each other with it.

"This is not the court of the Seafarer," you say softly, and her eyes widen even as her pupils seem to shrink a bit. "And we are not denying your desire to serve in the name of the hero Eldyr. I am your friend, asking you to rest and recuperate after much pain and sorrow."

Slowly, you ever so carefully reach out and lay your hand atop hers, and the shaking begins to slow.

"And I'm sure, of course, that you have an emergency evacuation protocol of some sort for your daughter?" You say while making sure to keep watching Eldyra.

"Of course. If I needed to die for her to live, I would plunge the dagger in my heart myself," Hultressa answers immediately. "And I would not presume my defenses utterly inviolable, not forever."

"Good," you nod. "If we could bring you…,"

If you weren't quite sure that she would snap and start trying to kill every Druchii in sight. If you weren't worried that being surrounded by so many others might cause her to lock up, to ruin any attempts at disguise or illusion. So many more ifs. You can only think, can only hope, that she won't be so driven as to try and kill Gwendolyn unless the girl strikes first, if Khaine somehow overtakes her again so soon after the last event. But being surrounded by Druchii like that, by sorceresses, by the few remaining Brides of Khaine, by the representatives of the other Cytharai on the Ark, and even more? It's a prospect that you wish you could hope that she would be able to handle outright. And perhaps, she might even be able to. Maybe. But as she is in this moment, today, she can't say that for certain and she definitely knows it as she lets loose another shaky breath and ends up staring into her lap again.

"There's still a few days," Eldyra exhales slowly. "Right? I'll improve. I will improve," she says with admirable determination.

"Perhaps," Hultressa muses, tilting her head from side to side. "I could possibly convince them I have enslaved your soul, and am puppeteering your body as a joke of sorts."

And Eldyra's gone into near rigor mortis all over again.

"Still, the more time I can dedicate to either prospect, the better it is for both," she adds, glancing back at you. "You know your companions better than I, Frederick. If the vampire will aid us, it would be a greater improvement than most mere humans, but the knight is known to me and would be of use when matters become…chaotic."

"But if you can prep the pyramid better, the explosion would be all the more useful as a distraction, and to ruin Alyssa's efforts at authority," you point out, to which the sorceress nods to acknowledge the point.

"Indeed."

Choose For Day 1 of 2 1/2 remaining before Auction:
By refusing Gwendolyn's Choice, you have lost all chances at gaining early entry to the Temple of Khaine and must move outwardly instead. Hultressa can dedicate her time to either increasing the damage dealt to the Pyramid or to making efforts to pretend at rebuilding her retinue so that she can actually bring in other assets - such as Frederick himself, Johanna Fuerbach, Roland, and perhaps even Jaqueline or other Bretonnian slaves. But she cannot do both with equal time and effort, and one must take primacy. Moratorium For 3 Hours.

[] Pyramid - The more bombs, the more confusion amongst the overseers, the more manipulation, the greater the effect when the trigger is finally pulled. The greater the effect, the worse of Alyssa's position on the Ark will be, and the worse the food crisis would become. Hultressa will already be spending time with this, and has done so already, but the more she does, the better the end result - or worse, if you are Alyssa Voidreaper.
[] Retinue - The more effort and time Hultressa puts into this act, the more assets she can actually bring with her to the Auction as her presumed efforts 'work out' in terms of recruitment. Some effort will already be made, enough to bring Frederick, but any other assets will require some time put towards this. Doing so will allow Hultressa to much more strongly justify bringing in others, arming them even as her guards, and so on. Therefore, once you are at the Temple of Khaine, you will have that many more weapons and bodies at hand to aid you.

 

[torroar]

Spikes, Horns, and Stone 24​

"Even if nothing else, we'll need all the help we can get when we walk into the Temple."

"I agree," Hultressa nods curtly before her eyes flick back towards Eldyra, who's constant little twitches seem to momentarily escalate before she claws back some small amount of self-control back into herself. "As for you, Princess of Tiranoc…I would offer a draught which could ensure dreamless sleep that you might recover yourself, but I doubt that such would be accepted."

Even before Hultressa finishes her offer, Eldyra is violently shaking her head, one eye twitching as she does not so much look as glare at the sorceress. From where you sit, you can see the tension steadily threading its way through her entire body. The flex of the muscles across her body, kept so perfectly preserved by the master fleshcrafter that Hultressa is, are more than obvious as she hunches slightly in place. Some might mistake it for her clutching at herself out of grief or fury or even just pain, but you can see the way that the bare soles of her feet have squarely planted themselves onto the carpeting. You can see the bulging of her leg muscles and the tightening of her core, all of which is something you would associate far more with someone about to try and launch their entire body across a table to do something more than likely violent.

So you quietly reach out to her, and while you do not do anything nearly so sudden or aggressive as clutch the wrist that is connected to the hand currently squeezing incredibly tightly on the hilt of Death Thorn, she does jump slightly as you simply place your index and middle fingers there.

Her eyes, momentarily rolling about in her head, finds you, and the twitches and tensing slowly begin to ease.

"…I will be fine," Eldyra says through ground teeth.

"I disagree, but," Hultressa snorts as she stands up and stretches so much that you can hear something in her back pop, followed by a small sigh of relief. "I shan't press you on the matter at the moment. It has been a tiring day for us all, and I need sleep if I am to perform at my best tomorrow. You," she flaps a hand at Eldyra dismissively, "Can sleep wherever you wish so long as you do not attempt to pass beyond into either mine or my daughter's quarters. There's…," she pauses, frowns, and then rolls her eyes. "Would you have some kind of moralistic reason to refuse a proper blanket?"

Eldyra's eyes flick to you and then to her.

"Was it woven by slaves?"

"What?" Hultressa's brow furrows and then she frowns again, eyes widening as a bit of aristocratic pride returns to her frame and stance. "Asur, you think me so poor a Druchii that I require slave-made materials and objects?" She asks imperiously, eyebrow and hip cocking in the same moment.

The sorceress spreads her arms out wide and scoffs.

"Every single object throughout my demesne that was not looted within this Tor is made by the most superior of beings – elves," she says in the most pointed of tones before taking a few strides over to one of the dressers, "Did a slave, perhaps, wield the axe used to cut the tree down? Perhaps," she nods, "But it was a true elven artisan that took that wood, treated it, and shaped it with all their centuries of expertise. These cushions," she points a stabbing finger at the various pillows on the chairs and couches, "Were hand-stuffed by Druchii maidens who partake of their own expensive oils and perfumes to smooth and soften their supple hands, who's weaving costs more gold per hour than you would scarcely believe! The silk worm farms may be staffed by overseen slaves, but the weaving?" Hultressa shudders at the very thought even as Eldyra stares at her in a mixture of incredulity and vague outrage. "This wine!" She continues, tearing open one of the cabinets containing the racks and holding it outright, "It was Druchii that enchanted the lands, guided the growth with magic, and while slaves may have picked the grapes it was elves that gathered the venom of the spiders and milked the scorpions, and this bottle was personally pressed with the elven machinery created and maintained by elven craftsmen."

She tosses her hair, and scoffs once more.

"Woven by slaves," she whispers it again while rolling her eyes. "I may aim to make myself a pauper in all accounts to the rest of the Druchii by the end of this, but in the meantime, Princess of Tiranoc, do not dismiss the artisanry of elves, for no matter what else we are between one another we are elves," she finishes with her chin held high.

Eldyra's jaw drops open ever so slightly as she is confronted by the sheer importance that Hultressa holds upon her luxuries.

"You…," is about as far as the squire gets before she can summon no more words.

"You know," you speak up, making both elves glance at you, "Just, for future optimism purposes, you probably shouldn't speak so dismissively of slavery in the future, especially if you get to Ulthuan."

Hultressa clucks her tongue and then nods a bit deeply to you.

"Fair enough, Frederick. Forgive me," she places a hand against her chest while looking between you and Eldyra. "It has been a trying day, and I am not acting with the decorum that should be expected of a woman of my station. There will be a blanket. Use it, or do not," she shrugs with one shoulder and then immediately strides away.

Leaving you and Eldyra alone. Alone in a place of absolute elven luxury, as so passionately declared by Hultressa herself. Countless cabinets of wine, of glasses, of fine porcelain dishware and golden or silver candelabras strewn about the place. The softest carpet you've ever felt on your feet beneath you, and some of the absolute finest woodworking in furniture that you can determinedly say is the most masterfully crafted that you've ever experienced. Save, perhaps, for the literally sung into place innards of a vast living tree within the depths of Laurelorn, but then that only lends itself to Hultressa's point about elven craftsmanship. Though you would say that some of the better accoutrements provided in the depths of Zhufbar – after the trial was complete at least – could match it. If you play your cards right, you can hopefully completely avoid Hultressa ever coming into contact with the Carpenter's Guild, and vice versa.

"I am having difficulty believing that this is not yet some other vision thrust upon my broken mind by the sorceresses of this place," Eldyra whispers aloud to you, her eyes squeezing shut as she bows her head.

The hand that grips Death Thorn so tightly loosens just long enough so that she can grab your nearby hand, at which point she squeezes so tightly that you can practically feel the bones grind and crunch.

"They'd give you a vision of me killing Dreadbringer and flaying his skull while cutting it off?" You snort, but Eldyra does not respond nearly so contemptuously as you.

"They showed me so many things," she shudders in place, eyes still shut, the strength of her squeezing hand growing stronger. "Sir Tyrion arriving through the doors. The Everqueen herself leading a host of all her Handmaidens, bow in hand. Even the Seafarer himself, bringing the vast fleets of all the Sea Lords to bear for my rescue."

Your smile dies, and you let her fall against you, shoulder to chest, as she begins to quietly weep again.

"Then they got…creative," she continues, voice choking slightly. "I do not know how, but they…they brought my father into being, and even though I know he is dead, it was so…so real…," she huddles into you a bit more. "They made him…they made me think…they made me feel-,"

"And they never will again," you interrupt her, reaching out and embracing her more fully. "He's dead. Their Cult of Khaine was gutted. We blew them to pieces, you understand?" You inform her, resting your chin atop her head now.

To see the proud squire reduced to this, it just makes you want to kill Tullaris all over again.

"Blew them to pieces. All those so-called Brides got to die, and not a lot of them to anything like blade or hook or otherwise, but to that disgusting rank black powder that for all their unholy skill and speed they could not escape," you grind out, seeing it from above in your memories as you rode Oskana through the skies. "The Cult on this Ark are the ones who've been bled this time, bled dry, except a few stubborn drops left. And regardless, a little under half of the Coven of the Claw died too, thanks to the fighting and the coup."

She doesn't respond verbally, she can only nod as she sobs quietly.

But you won't demand more than that from her.

You may never know the totality of all the details of her tortures.

You do not need to.

You just need to see if it's at all possible to try and kill the last of the Cult of Khaine on the Claw of Dominion and try to kill off the rest of the Coven as well.

Eldyra does twitch and push away from you when the doors swing open again, this time revealing a terror awkwardly carrying a thick blanket over one forearm. It doesn't actually seem to have fingers, this terror, as instead both of its arms have become maces that terminate where the hands should be, covered in hooks and spikes and ominously glowing dark runes of surely accursed magics. Does Hultressa get a particular kick out of seeing these abominable creations of hers doing utterly mundane tasks like this? You would think that a craftswoman such as herself, and as foul as the craft itself appears to be, would have some kind of outrage if she ever saw her creations being used as such. Like if someone tried to use Ghal Maraz as a mere paperweight or the like. At least, that is your thought for a brief moment before you remember that as far as you know each and every terror was once upon a Druchii themselves. And given the hellacious mixture of pride she's taken in over a thousand years of life as one of them countered with her absolute loathing and hatred for the Druchii, it is entirely possible that it is not so much that it is a terror doing it but a Druchii. One of the supposed destined great cruel masters of the world entire, reduced to near mindless monsters that she occasionally uses to fetch blankets and carry dinner plates.

"Well," you say into the silence as the terror deposits the blanket over one of the couches and then turns to leave once more. "Are you going to take it? The blanket."

Eldyra manages to a small huffing laugh, wiping at her face before looking back at you.

"I suppose you've already partaken of such comforts, then?"

"Honestly? No," you say nonplussed to her befuddled blink. "The wine, yes, I'll cop to that," you sigh. "Same with the food, the kitchenware, but we're in a damned Tor of Dominance on one of the oldest Black Arks in existence as near as I've been told," you shrug. "If I somehow made sure to only use or eat things that involved no abuse in their line of creation, I'm quite certain I would need to invent a way to float without touching the stones or walls. And I'm no wizard."

She makes a hiccupping cough as she tries to chuckle.

"I'm quite certain you are correct. Every stone of most Black Arks are bloody and torn from the breast of Ulthuan by the Sundering, and tainted by the civil war before it regardless," she says, voice a mixture of hoarse and begrudging. "But what did you mean, before?" She looks over at the blanket and with a tired sigh rises and begins shuffling over to it.

"I haven't really gotten a blanket while I've been here," you inform her as Eldyra reaches out as if the blanket is going to somehow turn into a sheet of acid or something, though your words do make her wheel about to stare at you.

"But…," she shakes her head, "I don't…,"

"I've largely just slept without one. Naked, sometimes. In my armor, mostly," you shrug again.

The Asur's reaction is about as best as you might have expected as she seems to vaguely recoil from the very thought.

"Where? Here?" She asks, glancing around the living quarters, "I…,"

"You've been resting here for the most part," you inform her, "I spend more of my time sleeping in the…workshop, the outer facing one, the room with the exit into the rest of the Tor."

"A sorceresses workshop," she says dubiously. "That seems incredibly irresponsible."

"I'd say it's the poisons and draughts and spells she's been testing me on that would be more that," you snort, making her eyes go as wide as they can go.

"You what?!"

"In case I'm captured," you raise your arms up in surrender as she abandons the blanket entirely to walk over to you, hands starting to poke and prod. "I'm fine. I get healed up afterwards regardless."

"You just let her…!" Eldyra rasps at you, shaking her head in horror. "That's…that's insane!"

"A bit, perhaps," you admit, "But then, we're working with said Sorceress to get off the Ark. And if nothing else, she will do anything she needs to so that Gwendolyn can be saved."

"I…," she pauses and then just shakes her head, focusing instead on grabbing you by the jaw and moving your arms around so she can try and discover some sort of hidden seam or rune or the like.

After a while though it becomes obvious to you that she is going far beyond what is necessary. She keeps going over the same spots over and over, and you know what busy work looks like when you see it. Or, in this case, are directly experiencing it.

"At some point you do have to rest," you say gently, and she freezes in her ministrations. "Blanket or no, you do need some rest. Odd to say, I'm sure, after you've been in the state you've been, but that wasn't proper rest and you know it."

She doesn't respond.

Not immediately.

"…I'll still be here when you wake up," you say even more quietly.

"You can't promise that," she whispers back, head shaking even as she sways slightly.

It's coming, it's happening even as she denies it. You stopped the constant frenetic movements that were letting her ignore how utterly wrung out she is by all that she has suffered. So now all that exhaustion is rearing up like a Bonegrinder giant swinging a club made of one of the truly massive Drakwald oaks. She sways in place more than she is actually shaking her head, and you have to put your hands on her shoulders to steady her as she almost stumbles a bit.

"I can."

"No, no," she insists, tiredly, mumbling almost as you guide her carefully back towards the blanket. "No. Every time, every time I woke up, they did something new. They did something worse. I can't…I can't risk it. She has spells, we'll…we'll go to the sorceress," she's half saying into her own chest. "She can keep me awake. She can!"

"She could, probably. Shouldn't, though," you shake your head. "You have to rest, Eldyra."

She tries to resist, to refuse, but she can't stop herself from sitting down on a different expansive couch, one entirely separate from the one she's spent all this time in gentle repose on. The moment she hits the, apparently, incredibly expensive cushions she begins to go limp like a noodle. It is a bare moment's work to take the blanket and partially swaddle her in it. Not so much that she could ever possibly mistake it for something constraining or imprisoning, you wouldn't dare do that, but enough that unconsciously she clutches it to herself. She's still refusing to sleep, however, putting incredible work in keeping her eyes open, though it seems like they've got a few tons attached to each given how each one opens and closes independently to each other. Sighing, you grab one of the chairs and lift it to position it over within her sight.

"Go to sleep," you tell her again. "I'll be here when you wake up. And if I need to get up and go somewhere, I'll wake you up first."

Eldyra doesn't say anything, but instead just tries to affix her gaze on you as long as she possibly can, trying to carve your presence into her mind such that even all her newfound tortured instincts cannot deny it.

You sit in the chair and remain there as long as it takes for her to finally go to sleep.

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

When you do wake up, it is to see a Hultressa dressed for socio-political combat once more, giving you a single silent nod as she walks past you with head held high as she heads for the outside world with a new staff in hand. She's gone so far as to apply some makeup as well, or perhaps a magical glamor, or both, adding a dark plum coloration to her lips and a complementing shade of purple as an eyeshadow. A considerable amount of her skin is bared to the world, as is per usual, the rest of her covered in lengths of purple and black silk and thigh high spiked high heels outlined in silver. Normally she should be making a bit of sound, especially with the doors opening and closing, but presumably she's using some magical method to silence her movements from the ears of a still slumbering Eldyra. There are no terrors about either, only Hultressa passing in and out of view. In fact, the only reason that you probably woke up to see her going was from the strange slightly spicey and fruity scent that she seems to favor as a perfume on occasion.

Still, you made a promise, an oath, and you aim to keep it.

So it is that you do not rise from the chair for another hour, simply making sure to watch the fitful sleep of your Asur friend, tormented by daemons of the mind that you can't really help her fight any more than you have at this point. Not so strongly that she begins to lash out in her sleep, nor does she weep while slumbering, but her expression is most definitely not one of peace. And it is not you who finally wakes Eldyra, but rather the scents and smells of cooking eggs and meats and roasting of vegetables which eventually filter into the chambers. Something so simple and pleasant that manages to spike through Eldyra's nightmares and makes her start to wake up. As you expected, the very first thing that she does is shoot her eyes open so that she can look around, and then lock directly onto you. A relieved shudder comes across her body as you wave at her with a smile and then rise.

It is of course around that time that Gwendolyn arrives, this time balancing but three plates strung out across one arm, the other pressing the doors open and closing them behind her with a foot.

The young Druchii girl is very quiet as she delivers breakfast between all of you aside from a quiet murmured greetings sent your way. To Eldyra, she can only deliver the occasional furtive look before looking back down to her food, or at you, and then it repeats all over again. Eldyra is in similar straights, it seems, though you know that she has been party to Black Arks being brought low before in recent times going by elven reckoning. Though that was more her fighting alongside others while the Everqueen was present, you do not think that she spent her time specifically cutting her way through any and all of the children that would surely have been on-board the Arks that were brought down. Each and every Black Ark is a mobile city-state after all. But unlike those previous times, this child brings her food, is nominally an ally, even, and it seems that Eldyra, who is not even yet a century old, doesn't know exactly how or what even to begin saying to her. Gwendolyn is, supposedly, one day going to be going to Ulthuan herself if Hultressa has anything to say about it, but she is also a young girl who has to your knowledge never actually experienced much time with other children. Or any, really. Any that she might have, you don't like to think about what must have happened to them between then and now.

"Are we going to keep making bombs today?" Is the first thing that Gwendolyn decides to say out loud.

"Probably should, your mother's spending a lot of time but not all her time away from the pyramid," you decide after munching on a bit of well roasted cabbage and meat.

"…bombs?" Eldyra asks, and Gwendolyn jumps slightly in her chair and turns her face away, almost embarrassed if you are any judge.

"Bombs," you nod, looking over at the slightly furrowed brow of the Asur. "We've been making explosives, or rather, first making black powder, then making explosives, for Hultressa to position around in one of their main food production pyramids."

"But no magic," Gwendolyn chirps, emboldened by your words, "Because otherwise the wards would pick any unauthorized magics being brought in."

"You…you taught a child…how to make black powder explosives," Eldyra says slowly.

Her head swings back and forth with an unreadable expression on her face.

"She's smart, she's dexterous, and because her fingers are still a bit more slender and smaller than mine, she can make even finer adjustments than me," you point out, shrugging. "At least, without any of the tools I'd normally be using."

"Do you want to help?" Gwendolyn asks much more tentatively, glancing at Eldyra and then looking away again as Eldyra begins to look back. "Just…some of its material limits, but…," she trails off into an inaudible mumble.

"It's something to do," you say, making Eldyra glance over at you instead. "Plus, if you're lucky, one of the ones you make might kill a Druchii or two. Otherwise…there's plenty of wine to drink," you jerk a thumb at one of the cabinets in question.

Eldyra's jaw works a bit, her eyes darting back to the child and then to you, her hands trembling before she starts squeezing her knife and fork hard to make it less discernable.

"I have never made such a thing before."

"Oh, it's not so hard once you get the hang of it!" Gwendolyn says with a bit of nervous excitement.

"It's the mixing and grinding that takes more work, honestly," you grunt as you finish your plate.

Once more, the squire glances between the two of you again, her eye starting to twitch.

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

(Retinue Lies: 74+Gruesome Reputation(20)+Growing Presence(5)+Prior Habits(10)+Pre-Party Planning(5)+One In A Crowd(10)-High Alert(20)-Druchii Paranoia(10)-The Event of the Season(5)=89/100)

When the doors open again with a bombastic slam as Hultressa saunters through, Eldyra throws herself to the ground or more correctly into cover, dragging you with her as she does it. Hultressa's mouth then remains open in the midst what was likely to be the beginning of some tirade or proud announcement as you let out an utterly undignified squawk as you hit the carpet. Eldyra's teeth are bared and grinding against each other as she hunches over you protectively, a pure animal's snarl escaping her as she brings up Death Thorn in a guard position, the damaged but still powerfully enchanted blade seeming to spark and vibrate dissonantly in her grip. Gwendolyn stares down at her from where she sits, hands still holding the two clay halves of what is soon to be a small tube shaped explosive. The unasked for unholy instincts almost took her, you can see as her hips and legs have managed to bundle under her like springs without Gwendolyn even noticing, but she is far more used to her mother's habits of entering through doors like she wishes to break them off the hinges than Eldyra.

"Eldyra," you cough, and start pushing yourself up with one hand while the other claps her on the shoulder. "It's fine, it's just Hultressa. Eldyra!"

The Asur twitches, hisses, and growls before whirling on you with twitching limbs and independently blinking eyes, the storm grey of her irises seeming to have grown darker briefly before they then begin to lighten as she comprehends your words. Then comes the rage, directed inward, the embarrassment, the self-loathing at the breakdown of control. She practically leaps away from you, though you do not miss how she refuses to let go of Death Thorn just yet. The weapon of her father, of her family, remains even in its badly damaged state one of her most precious possessions, and one she clearly takes more than a little comfort in. But, thankfully, she doesn't start swinging it around again. More unfortunately, you cannot help but admit that she might well be in no condition to join you at all. The trauma, the near bestial nature she takes on when startled, there is just no way that she can possibly be expected to keep herself under control while surrounded on all sides by Druchii. Especially in a Temple of Khaine where you are quite sure that supernatural bloodlust will be in the air.

"Well, if you're done with that," Hultressa snarks, one eyebrow raised before raising her chin proudly. "I have done sufficient work to bring in the vampire. Not her, specifically, but a figure swathed in blood and murderous intent, skilled, and so on," she rolls her hand. "She will have to pretend to be an assassin sworn to Drakira, but I doubt that will take much issue from the Cult, they are a disconnected and decentralized group at the best of times."

Something in your chest aches a bit when you see Eldyra twitch at the mentioning of the elven Goddess of Vengeance.

You have not forgotten how that word slipped into her broken rambling as she clawed her way out of her coma.

"And the pyramid work?"

"Minor, as expected," she sighs, "I could not deliver more than a handful of the explosives to proper locations, could hardly whisper in enough ears to make it worth an outing in the first place," she clucks her tongue. "Meanwhile, as I went about pretending to seek, others were doing so as well," she says much more ominously.

"Everyone's looking for an advantage in the leadup," you grunt, which Hultressa nods at.

"Indeed. Any and all Druchii of importance, or who wish to be of importance, are scrambling about to make alliances, gather assets, and to prepare double crosses or triple crosses and so on. My…re-entry into wider society on the Ark has seen me featuring quite a few offers," she sniffs imperiously. "Few worth my time, ordinarily. However," she frowns, shaking her head slightly. "The Cult of Khaine approached me, as I expected," she says, but something in her tone makes you wary.

"…what happened?" Gwendolyn asks in a bare whisper.

"They are asking everyone," she declares. "Everyone. They're seeking favor and attention and gifts and allies from…everyone. They're desperate," she chuckles cruelly a bit. "They're so weakened that Alyssa is running roughshod over them, dominating them utterly. She's taking their temple for her own auction, and in doing so is raising up Hekarti and Atharti over them, I suspect."

"Is that allowed?" You can't help but ask. "I thought the Cult of Khaine was supposed to be the overall dominant Cult for all Druchii society."

"Outside of specific locations," Hultressa waggles a hand back and forth in the air. "Ghrond is, obviously, more dedicated to the Goddess of Dark Magic, then there's the Savage Huntress' city, and so on, but…yes," she shrugs a single shoulder, still frowning. "The Claw has always been bound and connected to Ghrond, but the Cult of Khaine has always been the most powerfully represented on it as well. That…may be changing."

The sorceress looks genuinely disturbed.

"Does this change our plans at all?"

"Hmm? No, no," she shakes her head again, looking at the bombs on the table and you, as well as scrutinizing the bits of black powder evident on Eldyra's fingers. "The Auction was always going to be an intersection of a dozen or more plots and plans, and the potential for violence would have been high even without our…activities," she snorts. "It simply means that I might need to account for one of the other Cytharai's followers attempting to rise up more powerfully than expected. All the better, then, to lie and say that I am drawing one of Drakira's sworn to my side – the expectation will be that she will desire bloody vengeance against them. But they will not recognize her, and stoke paranoia all the higher."

"Good to know, then," you muse.

You do not know everything there is to know about the Cult of Khaine's doings, you gave up that opportunity, but it is still some information.

"So…what does this mean?" Eldyra asks, blinking rapidly.

"It means that we must plan for tomorrow anew," Hultressa declares, hands going to her hips and staff remaining upright and unmoving where she planted it.

Choose For Day 2 of 2 1/2 remaining before Auction:
By refusing Gwendolyn's Choice, you have lost all chances at gaining early entry to the Temple of Khaine and must move outwardly instead. Hultressa can dedicate her time to either increasing the damage dealt to the Pyramid or to making efforts to pretend at rebuilding her retinue so that she can actually bring in other assets - such as Frederick himself, Johanna Fuerbach, Roland, and perhaps even Jaqueline or other Bretonnian slaves. But she cannot do both with equal time and effort, and one must take primacy. And now your sorceress ally has gained new concerns about what going on with some of the disparate Cytharai Cults on the Ark. She has traditionally disdained entertaining the presence of any of them, Khaine or otherwise, but that may change if the information that could be gained might be more valuable. Is it, however? Moratorium For 3 Hours.

Auction Retinue Secured

• Hultressa and Terror Guards
• Frederick von Hohenzollern
• Johanna Fuerbach

[] Pyramid - The more bombs, the more confusion amongst the overseers, the more manipulation, the greater the effect when the trigger is finally pulled. The greater the effect, the worse of Alyssa's position on the Ark will be, and the worse the food crisis would become. Hultressa will already be spending time with this, and has done so already, but the more she does, the better the end result - or worse, if you are Alyssa Voidreaper. The kind of destruction that could occur if properly focused upon could be quite effective if triggered at the right time, even if it is just to force Alyssa to send away some of her strength at the Auction to investigate.
[] Retinue - The more effort and time Hultressa puts into this act, the more assets she can actually bring with her to the Auction as her presumed efforts 'work out' in terms of recruitment. Some effort will already be made, enough to bring Frederick, but any other assets will require some time put towards this. Doing so will allow Hultressa to much more strongly justify bringing in others, arming them even as her guards, and so on. Therefore, once you are at the Temple of Khaine, you will have that many more weapons and bodies at hand to aid you.
[] Cult Investigations - The Cult of Khaine is acting with greater desperation than even Hultressa expected, and now she is uncertain as to which of the Cults may actually be trying to gain proper ascendance in the coming Auction. It is rare for Khaine to be displaced by another of the Cytharai, but not impossible to happen. After Dreadbringer's death, it may well be that other Cults think that now is their time to rise, and as such, it may do well to account for them more thoroughly for the upcoming Auction.

 

[torroar]

Spikes, Horns, and Stone 25​

As you've come to learn, thanks to the efforts of Gwendolyn, the inhuman focus and dexterity of the elves is rather good at the production of black powder and bombs afterwards. It is further aided by their senses, and while Eldyra's nose wrinkles and then remains like that much of the time as you instruct her in the how and the what, the fact of the matter is that she seems quite adept at knowing what mixtures smell correct and which ones do not. At least, after you explain things. As expected, the daughter of a proud warrior bloodline of Ulthuan and further one proved more than worthy of her squiring by one who, as near as you can tell, is quite possibly the best swordsman among all the Asur requires very little repetition in instruction. She comprehends and understands just about everything you put before her, and has never gone beyond asking for you to repeat yourself more than the once. At other times she quickly accepts aid whenever you offer it, and in a contrast to what some might think regarding elven arrogance, whenever she doesn't immediately know the answer she asks for help. Which, considering you're working with bombs, is extremely important to keep everyone from blowing up. Important enough for you to be waring your Ledstali armor, just in case something starts to go boom.

Especially because she's still incredibly twitchy.

Something that you've watched, as the morning has gone on, slowly irritate her more and more as her body refuses to remain under complete control.

It is not that it happens constantly, or rather, it does, but its mostly small spasms below the waist as her feet tip or tap, twisting every now and again as if preparing to run. At other times, it is one of her eyes, flickering and pulsing at random moments that only sometimes appear to be connected to her emotional state. Some of the worst pulses causes her to lurch in one direction or another. Each and every time it happens, she freezes up after it passes, growls quietly to herself, and mutters quiet curses in Eltharin that your basic grasp of the language cannot properly understand. When you can even make out what she's saying, that is. But what you grasp immediately is that as long as Eldyra's hands are moving around, whether grinding or mixing or sliding components into each other or sealing bombs up, her hands and arms are dead still. So long as she's doing something with them at all, she has control. But she can't do that with every other part of her, at the moment, and so with each obvious sign of that lacking control, she grows more and more frustrated.

Gwendolyn notices as well. While she brought it up in the first place, the child is now quietly sitting at the table where normally she would be constantly babbling to you about any number of things. In the past many weeks, she's asked a great many things of you. Not as much about you than has already been discussed, but where you come from. Ostland. The Empire. The Old World entirely, actually. In these kinds of discussions she has revealed that her mother has shown her a great many things with her magic. Ulgu may be called the Grey Wind, but mastery of it allows for illusions of vibrant color and sound and even the impression of texture if the mind is manipulated enough. And, admittedly, globetrotting and marauding over the entire world for centuries has allowed Hultressa to show Gwendolyn more environments and places and things than you could possibly have ever experienced, but illusions are still illusions. Gwendolyn hasn't been out of the chambers of this place possibly more than once or twice, and even then only for incredibly short periods. Maybe even never, though she manages to avoid ever saying that directly. But she wants to know about the world outside, and has been so painfully earnest about wanting to know what it is like to really feel the rocky trails of the Middle Mountains beneath your boots. Or the snap of twigs and pressing crush of grass and shrubs in the forests. Things she knows, and has, in a very technical sense, experienced. But not in the way she truly desires. All such things, all the earnest questions and answers, are gone from the table this day.

Instead, the poor child spends all of her time flicking glances towards the Asur at the table and then going back to her work. You know she yearns to speak to her more openly, but every time her lips even begin to part Eldyra's head all but whips towards the new movement, at which point Gwendolyn's head goes right back down and her mouth snaps shut silently.

"Damn it!" Eldyra finally snaps, making Gwendolyn jerk where she sits and your eyes rise up from the bomb you've been working on.

The squire all but throws herself away from the table, grumbling to herself and mashing her face about with one hand.

"Eldyra," you say cautiously as you rise up and follow after her as she stomps away.

"I can't – I can't – I need…!" She strains to find the words and then barely holds back the scream that tries to rip out of her by shoving a fist halfway into her mouth and biting down on it, hard enough to draw blood.

"Should I do something?" Gwendolyn whispers to you, eyes wide.

"No, no, stay there," you murmur back to her before carefully stepping after Eldyra.

"I…all this…," the squire is hissing at herself, glaring down at her hands that are beginning to tremble and shake once more. "Why…why?!"

"Eldyra," you call out again, and this time she wheels about towards you, eyes that disturbing and distressing darkening grey.

Eyes that are not even focusing directly on you.

"I…I need to do my drills," she says, voice strange and distant. "I need to do my drills. I'm supposed to do my drills every day."

Slowly, carefully, she moves over to Death Thorn and walks to a slightly more open space amongst the rest of the furniture. Though your concern is rising up with just about every second, you do not do anything as stupid as try to run up and shake her given the state she's in at the moment. But contrary to any expectation of her collapsing entirely into the murderous fugue state of before when she first was accidentally woken up from her coma, she actually manages to somewhat steadily move up into a guarding stance. Practically leaping into her own private little world, she begins to start moving through different movements and sword forms, some you vaguely recognize, and others you do not. It is not perfect, however, something that she definitely takes notice of as her breath jitters and shudders on occasion, followed by minor imperfections with each movement. It doesn't help that Death Thorn is damaged by whatever it was that Tullaris got up to with it. Chipped and jagged here and there. Not enough to fully compromise its structural integrity, but while you might not be a wizard yourself you can tell that something of the enchantments woven into its structure have been similarly damaged somehow. And, especially unfortunately, you don't know anything about working ithilmar and probably never will. Let alone trying to fix the enchantments. All of which means that this ancestral blade, this thing that is as connected to her sword arm as Brain Wounder is to yours, feels off. Not too much, no, that would almost be easier. But just barely enough to be noticeable, which means it is all the more keenly painful.

Each swing, each thrust, each movement, is just wrong enough for you to notice.

Which means, of course, if you can notice it, then Eldyra very much does so.

"No…no…," she mutters to herself as she tries to reset again and again, only to get angrier as she continues to fail. "NO!"

"Okay," you sigh and begin to move, extremely carefully. "Eldyra, I think-,"

You had a good idea of what was coming.

That does not mean that you enjoy it happening.

"NNRRAAGH!" Eldyra screams and then whirls on you, the storm grey in her eyes going so dark that it is practically an all-consuming black.

(Bokdrungni Activates! Rolled: 4. Ward Save Unsuccessful!)
(The Broken Squire: 48-Eldyra Martial(20)+Dreadbringer's Lingering Touch(5)+Frederick Martial(19)=52/100)
(Major Wound Sustained! Light of Summer Activates! 80! Successful!)

The runed gauntlet on your left arm springs upwards, the warding effect triggering from her assault, but in this case it doesn't prove enough to stop Eldyra's swing. Rather, Death Thorn lets out a metallic squealing shriek as it slams thunderously against Bokdrungni and then grinds down the side so that the ithilmar blade can flicker underneath and past. You can't stop it even if you wanted to, all the lurches and twitches disappearing the instant she actually has a true target, and so instead your daughter Alexandra's work finds itself screeching and cracking as it is pierced. The blow is not a simple cut, either, but instead a deep gouge right into your side. Though it misses any organs, at least as far as you can tell, it saws itself against one of your ribs before it begins to slide and slice its way out of you. In that frozen moment, you can see a mixture of dreadful relief on her face as she does something successfully mixed with absolute horror and revulsion at what it is she has actually done. Blood splatters across the ground and out of you as the blade strikes semi-true.

(Disarmament: 71-20+5+19+Gwendolyn Martial(12)+Reasserting Self-Control(10)=97/100)

Gwendolyn's bare foot slams into Eldyra's face, shattering her nose.

The Druchii child's teeth are bared in a feral sneer, a faint red dot glowing where her irises would be in the inky black totality of her eyes, and there are streamers of unholy darkness billowing from random points on her body. How she managed to get that kind of velocity from a sitting position in a chair, you can only presume. Either way, the strike is effective, to the point that it comes dangerously close to forcing Eldyra's head backwards at an angle that could be considered fatal. Worried as you are, you have to take advantage of the strike while you can, and reach forward and rip Death Thorn forwards out of an impressively tight grip from the squire and throw it behind you to clatter on the floor. Eldyra doesn't resist much past that, and even as Gwendolyn springs upwards straight up in the air a few feet with shadowy daggers flitting out of nowhere into her hands, the Asur just sags in place as you grapple her. As a result, you end up sliding towards the floor with her in your arms and smacking your knees against the carpet as she goes mostly limp. There is a brief moment where Gwendolyn's bare feet land on your shoulders before she hops off, and then with a feral hiss ends up flanking your right side, those dark streamers still drifting up from her body and those glittering black daggers in her hands.

"I'm…I'm so…," Eldyra is gasping as she tries to sob, "I'm…I'm sorry," she huffs out between the beginnings of more sobs.

"It's okay," you grunt, feeling the blood start to get caught in your armor as it slowly begins to re-freeze into place.

A brief healing bloom of Ghyran erupts from the Light of Summer in the meantime, lessening the pain all the more as tissues reknits itself.

"It's not!" She cries out, shielding her face with her hands. "It's not! They…I am…I am Cynatirosenthmenlu," she whimpers.

It takes a little bit for you to understand it, but when you do you realize the meaning of the word is practically a blade she has aimed at her own heart, and it strikes you like a hammer blow to the head.

"What you are, is wounded," you interrupt. "That's all. Wounded. Some wounds take a long time to heal."

Gwendolyn is still breathing hard, but this time you can actually track where she's looking as the red dot in the center of her eyes flicks your way, then back to the Asur. It takes a few more seconds before her breathing starts to even out, and the red glowing ember starts to wink out until disappearing entirely. The oily black energies seeping out of her start to gutter out until disappearing entirely. Last to go are the daggers, looking like translucent obsidian, until those too begin to dissipate. Rather than fading up and away like the other energies coming out of her, rather more disturbingly the daggers start to melt down like pitch which then appears to be literally absorbed back into her hands. Still, the kind of sheer murderous anger on her face is something that a child should not be capable of showing. Not the pretend murderousness of a child being denied a sweet or tricked, but outright fully aware and mature murderousness. The kind of thing that accompanies someone snapping and killing someone in the middle of the street.

"It may take a long time, but it is time you will have," you promise her, holding her as she weeps at the deep wounds that the Cult of Khaine has left in her.

Wounds that will, Gods willing, eventually scar over.

But that time is not yet.

That time is not today.

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

(Religious Fissures: 69+Gruesome Reputation(20)+Growing Presence(10)+Prior Habits(10)+Pre-Party Planning(5)+One In A Crowd(10)-High Alert(20)-Druchii Paranoia(10)-The Event of the Season(5)+Sharks Scenting Blood(5)=94/100)

When Hultressa finally returns, she once more finds herself pausing in the middle of what would have been a bombastic announcement to stare at Eldyra. This time, however, it is because Eldyra is currently horizontal and shuddering underneath a blanket, an uneasy sleep coming over her only after hours of trying. It is not as bad as when she was awake, at least. She isn't crying anymore, that stopped after the first hour after she'd finally managed to go to sleep, and even then didn't start up again after you stopped holding her hand. Well, after the first few times at least. Gwendolyn greets her mother with far more curtness than usual as well before going back to furiously making more bombs, her little hands almost blurring as they move about, all without making a single mistake that you can see. She was not happy with Eldyra, that was easy to tell, especially after she'd bled you. Hultressa definitely doesn't miss the actual frown on her child's face, and so then raises an eyebrow rather expectantly at you.

"There was an incident," you shrug, and then her gaze drifts lower so that she can see the crimson streak of your own frozen blood within the repaired and resealed breastplate of the Ledstali.

"So. It. Would. Seem," she drawls before she unfurls a single index finger and curls it towards her, head tilting to the side with her eyes wide and unblinking.

"Right," you grunt before getting up and walking over.

Another gesture from her has the rest of the world take on distant nature that you've come to associate with blocked off sound, while Hultressa takes a single long imperious step forward until she is just shy of making full bodily contact with you which in turn forces you to crane your head upwards to look her in the eye.

"What. Happened," she says, teeth clicking with each bitten off word.

"Small breakdown, that's all. I'm the only one that got hurt," you inform her promptly, watching as the dark purple of the Druchii's eyes begins to be obscured by a bleed through of Dhar creeping in from the outer edges.

You can see the knuckles on her right hand tightening against the haft of her staff, her head rotating like a bolt thrower being shifted by a weapon team to face towards the slumbering Eldyra.

"She is not a threat to your daughter," you add quickly, making Hultressa's head snap back towards you. "I'm serious. She went for me, because I'm the one that got too close. Then Gwendolyn kicked her in the face so hard she broke her nose."

Hultressa's inhale is so sharp and deep that it almost seems like the air around you is sucked away, leaving you slightly breathless.

"I ought to make her incapable of being a threat," she hisses, and though you are no wizard you can feel the crackling heat of black flames as they spark into being in the air around her, accompanied by hideous whispering that you can't quite make out somewhere in the back of your mind.

"Hultressa."

"I have never granted an Asur the true taste of my art," she continues while drifting out of Reikspiel and into Druhir instead, not looking at you anymore. "I know her flesh, her skin, her bones, I remade them, and what I make I can shatter," she growls to herself.

"Okay," you mutter and then rather forcibly step into her space, the creeping cold of your Ledstali easily communicated across the string-thin distance between you now.

Only then does she turn back to you.

"She broke a bit, but she recovered, and she gave up her weapon. She is not a threat," you say steadily. "Your daughter broke her face a bit, and if she acts up again I'm quite sure that Gwendolyn might end up throwing one of those bombs at her. So instead of doing anything we might regret, such as harming the squire of the great champion of Ulthuan known as Tyrion the Defender and close companion of the Everqueen…," you trail off.

(A Mother's Wrath: 50+Frederick Diplomacy(5)+Appealing to Hopes(20)-Obsessive Protector(30)+Gwendolyn Unharmed(10)+Desperate Times(10)=65/100)

The black fires of Dhar grow hotter and hotter around you, the unintelligible whispering growing more and more insistent and furious to the point that the very acidity of those words makes your ears burn like acid is being poured inside. Her grip on her staff grows all the tighter, knuckles popping slightly from the pressure. Each breath is hard and fast, guttural even. But whatever illusion she wove is enough that out of the corner of your eyes you can see that Gwendolyn doesn't appear to have noticed. Her eyes flickered over your way a few times, but she isn't showing the sort of reaction you might assume from the power that Hultressa is starting to bring to the fore. The very air around you is starting to stink like the world after the scorching flames of daemons have been thrown past, until all of a sudden it disappears. All of it does. The fire, the whispers, the smells, all of it disappears in a single thump of Hultressa's staff upon the ground. She trembles with the containment of all that magic, and then exhales a single slow hot breath.

"Fine," she grinds out.

"Okay," you nod, and step back slightly.

She is silent save for her hard breathing for another minute before she takes in a single slow inhale, eyes closing tight. When they open again, the darkness is mostly gone, revealing glowing dark purple irises once more.

"Okay," she whispers, a deadly glare still shot towards Eldyra in the meantime before she looks back to you and nods.

"Okay," you nod back before clearing your throat. "So! How was your day, today?"

The sorceress blinks rapidly at you.

"…yes, my day," she murmurs. "Yes."

"The Cults?"

"Right," she reaches up and pinches the bridge of her nose. "My investigations bore a considerable amount of fruit. The Cult of Khaine is clinging to my sister's coattails, they're debasing themselves," she drawls with a dismissive roll of her eyes. "She is the greatest power on the Ark, and they believe their only chance at retaining their previous levels of prominence is to bow to her, for now."

"Well, we could have expected that," you point out, and she nods tiredly.

"Correct. The followers of Eldrazor are few after the loss of his champions in the fighting, and have largely broken up under the major military leaders of the Ark," she shrugs, hand stretching out so that she can start ticking off fingers. "Few Druchii ever worship Estreuth for anything but calling upon his power upon our enemies. But that they are moving more openly makes others wary – it is never a pleasant thing to be near those who follow the Lord of Hunger."

You frown in thought.

"Could that be related to our destruction of the farms?"

"Likely," she shrugs a single shoulder, "They are drawn to such things, on occasion. Usually to cry out that more funds, more attention, more power must be paid to the Lord of Hunger so that such events do not occur. The same is true of the followers of Ellinill, Ereth Khial, Hukon, and more. All minor, comparatively. More likely to end up subsumed by the greater religious powers that end up taking prominence."

"Right," you cluck your tongue, arms folding over your chest with a faint crackling and crunching of ice. "So who are the major players? The ones trying to be, at least."

"A considerable amount of the forces from our subordinate Ark fled here, and so Anath Raema is more strongly represented than ever before on the Claw," she says, snorting in derision. "But not so strongly as to beat out Hekarti. It is her followers that have grown strong under Screamtaker, and now under my sister. However," she raises up one finger, and here the sorceress' expression turns somewhat perturbed. "I only barely caught it, the faint echoes of whispers spoken thrice-removed. But there are rumors that the Cult of Atharti is moving."

"The Goddess of Pleasure and Seduction," you say slowly, brow furrowing. "Really? Frankly, seems a little dangerous to have, all things considered…," you say with a general wave to the side. "Given a certain Dark God."

Hultressa huffs, rolling her eyes.

"That is rather the point, Frederick. To bequeath unto Her all the pleasures and joys that said entity would wish to draw power from. Know this, Frederick, there are few things that those eldritch foes despise more than their greatest domains to be 'stolen' from and delivered unto the grasp of others," she lectures you, waggling one finger like a schoolteacher. "They may take some, for they are mighty, but to deliver even some of that which they draw strength from elsewhere weakens them."

"…so you're saying you use Atharti to, what, cuckold the Dark Prince of some of their power?"

Hultressa's lips curl into a smirk.

"Something like that," she chuckles huskily before straightening and taking on a serious cast once more. "The fact of the matter is that they rule the pleasure district, and are thus some of the wealthiest on the Ark. With power and connections and blackmail aplenty to draw upon. In general, however, they only move…," she shifts uncomfortably, "In the kinds of strength they are moving in at the moment, when said foe presents itself."

You feel yourself go still as she gives you a commiserating look.

"What – are you saying…,"

"A single year – half a year – a handful of months ago," she says, exhaling sharply and shaking her head. "I would have said that it would be impossible for a Cult of Pleasure to begin forming on this Ark. Screamtaker would never have allowed it, she despised them, as a regular patron of the Cult of Atharti herself. Any time even the smallest trinket or symbol appeared on the Ark, she would utilize," she huffs in exasperation, "The entire strength of the Coven to torture and ruin all involved."

She blinks a few times to banish whatever memories well up in her mind and looks back at you.

"But, as I suspect you may know, the Dark Gods can speak in whisper and dream past a great many wards even at the best of times."

Unbidden, the wretched pain and grief on your wife's face as she tells you of what nearly slew her from within flashes to the fore of your mind. The pain of it is enough that, through the soul bond, you can feel your wife twitch in her own recovering slumber.

"So we have that to potentially look forward to," you groan, rubbing at your forehead.

"The important thing is that we know," she insists. "I only barely caught it myself," she shakes her head again in disbelief. "If the Cult of Atharti finds any sign of them, they will go on the warpath. They do not appreciate their rival in pleasure."

"If we could point them out towards someone…," you realize, and Hultressa favors you with another wicked smirk.

"Very good," she purrs. "It is one more weapon in the arsenal for what is to come."

"So, Hekarti and Atharti are moving in strength, Khaine is clinging to Alyssa's skirts, and Anath Raema is sniffing around for who has the most advantage and who might be the most vulnerable prey. All while the others circle and see who to fall in behind," you conclude, and Hultressa inclines her head.

"Correct."

A thought comes to the fore, then.

"But what about the Cult of Mathlann?" You say frowning. "Aren't…shouldn't they also matter?"

"They do, but enough so that most of them are staying in the dockyards," she says with brushing motions. "They're too valuable, too important, for any other faction to dare do anything but offer them support as they rebuild the ships and beseech Mathlann for aid and protection for the Ark's well-being. For a Black Ark, any Black Ark, the Cult of Mathlann is the ultimate neutral force in the politicking, more often than not," she says with a cluck of her tongue. "We all need them, no matter what. At most, some representative of the Cult will be there, but the majority will not. Probably."

"Probably," you hum.

Hultressa and you share a contemplative silence before she speaks again.

"It has been a tiring day, and the Auction shall be at dusk tomorrow," she informs you. "I can still attempt to try and bring forth one more accompanying asset with us, or return to the pyramid, but either will be more difficult."

"Would it be better to not, and just try to conserve your strength?" You posit, making her eyes narrow in thought.

"…perhaps," she admits. "Nevertheless, some form of preparation must be had."

Choose For Final Preparations before Auction:
By refusing Gwendolyn's Choice, you have lost all chances at gaining early entry to the Temple of Khaine and must move outwardly instead. Hultressa can dedicate her time to either increasing the damage dealt to the Pyramid or to making efforts to pretend at rebuilding her retinue so that she can actually bring in other assets - such as Frederick himself, Johanna Fuerbach, Roland, and perhaps even Jaqueline or other Bretonnian slaves. But she cannot do both with equal time and effort, and one must take primacy. You are now aware of a coming potential conflagration of the Cults of the Cytharai at the Auction, as well as the potential presence of a Cult of Pleasure, Slaanesh worshippers. Moratorium For 3 Hours.

Auction Retinue Secured

• Hultressa and Terror Guards
• Frederick von Hohenzollern
• Johanna Fuerbach

[] Pyramid - The more bombs, the more confusion amongst the overseers, the more manipulation, the greater the effect when the trigger is finally pulled. The greater the effect, the worse of Alyssa's position on the Ark will be, and the worse the food crisis would become. Hultressa will already be spending time with this, and has done so already, but the more she does, the better the end result - or worse, if you are Alyssa Voidreaper. The kind of destruction that could occur if properly focused upon could be quite effective if triggered at the right time, even if it is just to force Alyssa to send away some of her strength at the Auction to investigate.
[] Retinue - The more effort and time Hultressa puts into this act, the more assets she can actually bring with her to the Auction as her presumed efforts 'work out' in terms of recruitment. Some effort will already be made, enough to bring Frederick, but any other assets will require some time put towards this. Doing so will allow Hultressa to much more strongly justify bringing in others, arming them even as her guards, and so on. Therefore, once you are at the Temple of Khaine, you will have that many more weapons and bodies at hand to aid you.
[] Conserving Strength - Spending time running about may well end up being less valuable than Hultressa focusing purely on conserving her strength and building her focus and power for what is to come. Also, apparently, something about scrolls, possibly something about potions. Either way, it would mean no effort put behind anything else but ensuring that Hultressa is able to bring her full focus and power to bear when it comes to the Auction proper.

 

[torroar]

Spikes, Horns, and Stone 26​

The final day dawns, and there will be no more bombs to make. No more materials to be gathered. None of it. Hultressa departs early, so swiftly and silently that you do not even see her leaving, or sense it. Instead, you wake up to a twitching Eldyra, muttering in her sleep again with fingers flexing in various motions in her sleep. Death Thorn is never far from her, even now, even after yesterday, but the Asur is quite aware of her current condition. Almost depressingly so, given the word she referred to herself as. You have received tutoring from a Handmaiden of the Everqueen, yes, and more on the Druchii side of things thanks to Hultressa and Gwendolyn, not to mention your interactions with the Asrai-turned-Eonir and their own various members. But the word, communicated through the especially evocative language of Eltharin, was a wretched one indeed. Perhaps, if spoken from another, by another, it would be a sound that would taste in the ears of sympathy and empathy for another. In fact, when you spoke it yourself, just murmuring it under your breath, that was what seemed to come out of you. Eldyra has taken it as a searing brand of shame for herself instead.

But, much as it tears at your heart, there simply is nothing you can do for her right now.

Hultressa might possess some kind of spell or another, some enchantment, some sort of magical creation that could help still the mind and grant it more tranquility. But there is nearly zero chance at all that Eldyra would ever accept such aid, especially in her current state, from a Druchii sorceress. She is constantly at a hairs breadth away from violence whenever the sorceress comes near, and only a few scant lengths more regarding Gwendolyn. Something both disappointing and understandable. After the last episode, in the interest of keeping Hultressa from having to do something everyone in the room would regret, the issue simply has to be tabled. If anything, you know that it is entirely likely that Hultressa is going to try and make extra sure that her daughter need not be anywhere near the Asur while you are both out of the Tor. Plus, at the most pragmatic level, it isn't necessarily worth the energy expenditure that Hultressa will surely need for the coming day, and most definitely the auction tonight.

So it is that you find yourself sitting, quietly, with Gwendolyn and Eldyra in the chambers of the Claw of Dominion's resident terror-maker. Breakfast was a surprisingly sumptuous affair, not so much spicy, but certainly savory. She breaks out some of the largest single eggs you've ever seen, apparently sourced from the lands of Khuresh, but not, she is insistent on telling you, from the actual Naga themselves. Nonetheless they remain snake eggs, but have whites and yolks bigger than five regular chicken eggs. There is pork, there are three different vegetables, there is a bowl of cut up fruit, most of which you know and some you do not. It is quite the effort, but all the same there is a nervousness throughout all of it. A kind of tense energy which you can see in the way that some of the cuts are not as mechanical and precise as they should be, the tiny differences in seasoning which spike just a bit too more than is comfortable. The ease with which Gwendolyn approaches cooking suffers under her own inner turmoil that she otherwise manages to keep hidden with a quiet and seemingly calm exterior.

Because she knows that after tonight, one way or another, everything she has ever known is going to change.

You just have to try and make sure that it is a damned good change.

Lunch, by comparison, is a lighter affair. A particularly interesting kind of soup, with an incredibly flavorful broth, with pasta. Except it isn't pasta, as you've known it, the dish which originated out of Tilea. Or Estalia. Those two countries have a great many things that they claim for themselves and deny for the other. Where Myrmidia was born. Who Myrmidia conquered. Who has the better duelists, the better steel, the better culture, the better food, the better architecture, who has the more beautiful women, and so on and so forth. So it is with pasta, with it being either a Magritta invention or a Tobaro one. Either way, these noodles are a good bit different, with some kind of cabbage and thinly sliced chicken in it, as well as some other garnishes. Though she does offer you two lacquered sticks of all things to eat it with.

"And what is this?" You ask dubiously as you try to figure out the sticks, watching Gwendolyn as she holds them.

"Ramen," she says, smile flickering into existence and then dying as she glances at Eldyra, then looking down into her soup. "It's a dish from Nippon. I could have made soba, that can be hot or cold, but ramen is generally warm. I like it, though."

"And these…," you waggle the sticks at her, making sure to hold it now in the same manner that she is.

"Hmm…if I had to translate to modern Reikspiel, hashi? Hashi, yes," she nods after thinking. "But it's the traditional eating utensil."

"Sticks," you say, nonplussed.

"She is correct," Eldyra grunts from where she is apparently expertly slurping up her own noodles, then pauses at your stare and blushes slightly. "There is a Nipponese restaurant and a Cathayan restaurant on the same street in Lothern, in the quarter opened up by the Phoenix King."

"I…see," you hum, then manage to actually get the trick of them and start eating the ramen yourself. "This is pretty good!"

"Thank you," Gwendolyn gives you a brief smile before going back to eating. "I might not get a chance to cook like this ever again," she mumbles, and you pause as she takes a much slower bite than before.

"You will," you say softly, and she glances up at you, blinking rapidly. "There are some Cathayans and Nipponese in Marienburg, at the very least. Some ingredients here and there. Might take more time to get the ingredients together, but it's not impossible."

There is a bit of hope in her eyes, but it is tempered, too tempered, by the weariness and maturity forced upon her.

"…maybe," she sighs, and goes back to eating.

The meal is quiet for a few moments longer before another decides to speak up again.

"Is that also where you learned your arts," Eldyra asks as she finishes her food, wiping her mouth with a cloth. "From some slave or another?"

Gwendolyn flushes, a bit of indignation mixing with embarrassment as she clears her throat and puts her hands into her lap.

"Only in a manner of speaking, Princess Eldyra," the child says primly. "M-much of what I do – am – is b-because of…," she trails off, and then coughs. "But no. If you must know, the instructor for much of my mobility and martial arts training comes from Deathmaster Snikkitch."

Here your eyebrows rise high, yours and Eldyra's, though her brows immediately then furrow into something ugly and suspicious.

"A skaven?" She asks, the word almost a hiss from Eldyra's lips. "You have trained with a skaven?"

"Not like how you're thinking!" Gwendolyn protests, though at this point she's looking more at your face than Eldyra's. "He's – he's not…they tried to assassinate Supreme Sorceress Screamtaker two hundred years ago!" She says quickly, waving her hands around. "Skaven leadership can live indefinitely so long as they have access to the most potent skalm mixtures, but their average maximum lifespan is only twenty years otherwise! But there were other matters, so interrogation was put to my mother instead," she says, blinking rapidly. "So she…," Gwendolyn pauses and clears her throat again. "She ripped out his soul, is all."

Eldyra looks horrified and partially incensed, though given it's a skaven, perhaps not as much as she might have been if it was an elf.

"Oh. Well, if that's all then," you drawl, rubbing at your temples.

This is to live, to survive, and to get back home. Sigmar and Morr forgive you the sins of the Druchii that you must deal with else you'd die needlessly.

"You are tutored by the imprisoned soul of a skaven Deathmaster," Eldyra whispers, staring at her with a few slow shakes of her head. "A skaven!"

Gwendolyn gives the most childish huff you've ever heard out of her and crosses her arms.

"It's not like he's the…," she slows down as she sees your eyebrows beginning to climb once more, "…only one," she finishes lamely.

"It's not like your mother could bring in outside Druchii instructors, I suppose," you groan, rubbing a bit harder at your temples for a moment before taking a single calming breath. "Why not," you cluck your tongue and then turn in your chair. "I do hope your mother at least makes sure that you don't spend too long…learning…from them, correct?"

"Uh…well," she swishes her shoulders a bit as she thinks. "It's not like they're fully…conscious? She just sort of, you know," she raises her hands up and makes a motion that could be considered strangling. "Anyway," she shrugs, "They think they're teaching a student. And they are! Technically, and yes," she nods vigorously at you. "She always wants to make sure there's nothing strange that I'm learning from them."

Nothing strange she says.

"If there is an Asur soul kept in your-," Eldyra begins threateningly, but Gwendolyn shakes her head so fast her hair is flipping around as she does it.

"No! No, she wouldn't! Not, not like that," the child stutters and changes tact before she could outright say that her mother would never hurt the Asur when everyone here knows that has definitely happened. "No. No Asur. Or Asrai! Mostly just assassins," she confesses. "Some that tried to kill Screamtaker, or herself."

"There would be no shortage of those amongst the Druchii," Eldyra says, derision and disgust dripping from her voice. "And your mother has you learn much from them, I see."

"We focused mostly on stealth and remaining hidden," Gwendolyn says a bit more stiffly now. "Some combat techniques as I have grown older, yes, but the learning focused on ensuring my own survival and avoiding any attackers first."

That, at least, seems quite sensible to you. Especially given everything you now know about Druchii society.

"Perhaps," Eldyra allows before sighing and pushing herself up and away from the table. "I thank you for the meal, child," she says before she strides away to go sit in a corner away from everyone and everything she can.

"You're welcome," Gwendolyn says a bit more sharply than she might have before, and quickly begins gathering up the plates and utensils before handing it off to a terror that takes it away.

Then, very pointedly, she walks over to you, at which point you instinctively kneel down to one knee to get to eye level with her.

"She is…," she whispers very quietly to you, hands clenched into tiny fists at her sides. "She…,"

"She's traumatized. A victim of torture," you murmur softly, reaching a hand out to pat atop her head, rubbing slightly.

"I know! I know…I just…," her bottom lip trembles, a bit of watery sheen appearing in her pitch black eyes.

You reach out and gently tug her into an embrace that she tightly returns.

"Give it time," you inform her. "Give her time. If we succeed, you might both end up on Ulthuan at the same time, hmm? And as you are both young elves, you will have decades, centuries even, to make a better relationship, a better foundation, than what you have now."

"But…," she starts before falling silent and then just presses her face into your chest.

But it was supposed to be better than this, you know she wants to say. She was supposed to just leap into the arms of the waiting Asur, the thing she has been preparing for all her life, hoping for all her life. Told would happen by her mother, all her life. But she is not meeting the beneficent and kindly Everqueen. Not the gregarious and cheerful Sadrina. But it is Eldyra, squire of Tyrion, victim of Tullaris, who is the very first Asur that she has ever met. And despite Khaine, despite everything, she is a child. A child of difficult and different circumstances than any you've ever met in your life, but a child nonetheless. One who is, you think, quite possibly one of the most profoundly alone children in consideration of any other interactions than with her mother and apparently a few twisted enslaved souls.

"I know," you tell her. "I know."

She nods against your chest before stepping away, and you can see that she has successfully fought back her tears. A small smile is shared with you before she steps away, almost scampering out of sight to elsewhere in the chambers. When you rise to your feet, it impossible to miss the stare from Eldyra from her spot in the corner, huddled up on one of the chairs with her arms around her knees and chin atop them. In this posture, her blonde hair has fallen forward to shroud much of her face and eyes thanks to her bangs. Death Thorn is once more sheathed, but rests upright and leaned against the chair, and you know very well at this point how quickly she could draw the damaged ithilmar blade should the impulse strike her. For a moment, you wait for her to say something, to protest, to insult, or otherwise, but in the end she doesn't. She just watches you, staring, before slowly turning her gaze away to a middle point on the walls.

You accept the dismissal for what it is, and for the first time in a while return to the torture laboratory and entryway foyer, fully equipping yourself with all of your gear.

A few drills to run through.

A few stretches.

But after that, with all the experience of a soldier of the Empire from annual campaigns in the spring and summer throughout the forests and into the Middle Mountains, from Karak Ungor and more, you perform an ancient and time-honored activity for your kind.

You go to sleep, and rest for the battle to come.

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

(Final Pyramid Preparations: 45+Gruesome Reputation(20)+Growing Presence(15)+Prior Habits(10)+Pre-Party Planning(5)+One In A Crowd(10)-High Alert(20)-Druchii Paranoia(10)-The Event of the Season(5)+Sharks Scenting Blood(5)+Prior Pyramid Work(15)-Tiring Mother(5)=85/100)

"Wake up."

Hultressa's face greets you as you crack open your eyes, a single unimpressed eyebrow raised on her face. What you see is entirely at odds from every other outfit you've seen her wear up to now. Or, put another way, this is the least amount of skin she's ever shown off before that you can recall thus far. Double fluted and sprouted shoulder pads extend outwards as gold-tipped spikes over black metal. Wicked looking spikes extend out from the forearms of gauntlets which are incredibly finely articulated to extend out claws from each fingertip, sheathed in black and gold metals that glow with magical power. Her legs are mostly covered by gold embossed dark ithilmar sheets – a mixture of dress and tasset in function – which are slit up to the hips but otherwise stretch out and conceal and protect her with dark glowing runes. The slit at the sides further reveals that she has gone far enough to wearing greaves and cuisse of glossy dark metals. An upraised helm, one that stretches high above her head more like a crown, is atop and guarding her head, framing her face perfectly while also sprouting out a quartet of metal horns to the sides which for a brief moment in your still sleepy mind reminds you of a daemon's. Which, of course, does quite well at making you wake up fully all the faster.

"Hello," you say to her as you swing yourself upright and onto the edge of the slab you were resting on. "That's…quite an outfit," you say, looking her up and down.

A staff practically burning with Dark Magic is floating in the air next to her, this one looking like a mixture of metal and bone, all of it purely dark. A small brazier of purple-black flame burns silently at the head of it, centered around a blazing sphere set in the center of it. The huge cleaver-like sword that she wields also floats in the air, and appears to have been polished to a mirror sheen and no doubt especially well sharpened. At her waist is a curious looking duo of daggers, each of whom has a long split right down the center making them appear like tines of a fork or something, with spikey looking guards for the hilts, while glowing red gemstones are set at the pommels. There are a number of genuine golden gilded skulls on her belt as well, each of which has faintly glowing runes engraved on the foreheads. She looks you up as well in turn, dressed in Ledstali plate, further enchanted by Alexandra, and the Runefang you bear and the gauntlet you wear.

"I didn't have much time to prepare," she informs you curtly, "So this is the best that we can do."

"What?" You say glancing at the two scrolls.

"You need not possess magic of your own, Frederick," she says, waggling the scrolls a bit. "Merely know the correct words and gestures to conjure the spells bound within. This," she holds up the left, "Is a spell of transformation. The target will take on the form of a mouse, whilst retaining their mind and faculties throughout the change. If we cannot retrieve the Handmaiden through other means, this will allow us to gather her up and try and make an escape," she says.

She goes on to raise up the scroll on the right, but pauses in thought, or perhaps because of the expression on your face.

"You could transform someone into an animal and make an escape with them," you sigh.

"It is possible, yes," she sniffs, "There are lingering signs of such things to those with the eyes to see, however," she notes, tone sharp and pointed. "In the event of attempting to gather her up, regardless of her physical condition, and running, however, it may well prove easier, yes. Or, at the very least, to remove a guard from the path. You had to know I had this capability, yes?" She draws the word out, blinking at you.

"Yeah, I knew," you grunt, folding your arms over your chest and motioning at her with your hands to continue. "Go on."

"Very well," she nods before wiggling the scroll on the right. "This scroll is one of bewilderment, a projection of Ulgu, to befuddle and confuse the mind of others before you. Enough, perhaps, to make it past them or to allow yourself or, more importantly, the Handmaiden to escape."

"Nothing like invisibility or what have you?" You can't help but ask, at which point Hultressa clucks her tongue and narrows her eyes at you.

"I did not have the time, Frederick, I have been running myself ragged for weeks now, first against the pyramid, and now elsewhere," she sneers, rolling her eyes and tossing her hair all in the same motion. "I have hardly slept! So no," she tosses the two scrolls over to you, "I did not have the time to instill the power of a greater spell let alone a ritual casting to bind. Now, have you ever used a scroll before?"

"Not a spell one, no," you admit, inclining your head to acknowledge her point before feeling the weight of them in your hands. "And speaking of, how did your last time in the pyramid go?"

"Better than I feared, worse than I had hoped," she sighs, shaking her head for a moment, hand to her forehead before she lowers her arm. "The Overseer was beyond me, I just didn't have enough time," she growls. "Paranoid bastard – but then, that is what has kept him alive all this time. No matter, what we have done will have to be enough. Now then, the scrolls."

They are vellum, you think, and fine quality at that. There is a strange sensation in your fingers simply from holding them. A curious sort of energy and heat from the Ghur scroll, not quite like fire, but more like the impression of pressing your hand to the flank of a stallion, the ghostly texture of what might be fur of some sort. On the other hand, you have to focus a small bit on the scroll in the other hand, feeling a strange ache in your fingertips that disappears even as you focus on the sensation. Said focusing also distantly leaves you with the idea of a headache without actually suffering one. The moment you stop focusing on it, simply content to leave your hands wrapped around the scrolls, the sensations fade all the further from both until they are purely on the periphery of your mind.

"Good utility, scrolls. Merely recite the incantation correctly as the scroll is unfurled to the world, and the spell within is released as intended," she says, "Now, repeat after me."

It is not that you are wholly unfamiliar with the language of magic. Not at all. One of your friends is a Bright Wizard, two of your daughters were of the Amethyst College, you've spoken with a Matriarch and other agents of the Grey College, and you've spent rather massive amounts of time listening to panicking and terrified Jade Wizards crouched over your wounded body on the stones of the Castle Wulfenburg courtyard. You might have mouthed the syllables before, but it still feels quite odd to speak the words. It feels almost like drinking from a mug of ale that is only half-full. You get the idea that something is missing, most definitely. Something that, evidently, will only come when the scrolls are opened. Part of you is not particularly happy about the idea of using magic yourself, for you have none of the training, none of the skill, none of the experience that so many others have. The horror stories aplenty from Natasha about early training in Ice Magic, what you know of the other Colleges thanks to Odelia, and so on? Makes you quite wary of 'using' magic in any measure without the sorts of protections and perceptions that those gifted with it have.

"No, not like that! Enunciate! Show me your tongue!" She says in exasperation.

"What?" You cock an eyebrow even as she advances, one hand cupping your chin while the other braces itself against your cheek. "Nghah?"

"Say the word again," she mutters into your mouth, and upon you doing so, hums in thought. "No, the tongue must curl a bit more," she then reaches in and lightly pinches your tongue between thumb and index finger, and literally tugs a bit here and there. "Like that, you understand? Try again," she says while standing back, hands going to her hips.

This time, when you speak the word, she nods in approval.

"Good. That shall activate the transformation spell upon the target, now the other word."

As it turns out, you have a bit more trouble calling out the right intonations and sounds for Ulgu.

Who would have thought?

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

When the time comes, Eldyra is warily sticking by the doors leading further into the chambers, refusing to look anywhere near the slab coffins and what they contain within. Gwendolyn, having known this environs her entire thus-far short life, runs past them without a care, leaping up to hug her mother, an embrace that Hultressa tightly shares. Incredibly tightly, actually, given that Gwendolyn gives out a tiny little squeak as her mother holds her. The two of them whisper to one another in Eltharin, but that is one conversation that you are okay not trying to understand with your grasp of the language. A private moment that you just happen to exist in, standing off to the side. In truth, it's a mite uncomfortable, but that is largely because of the shell that has been placed around you. Fine Druchii plates of armor have been carefully shaped and seamlessly connected around you with a careful application of Chamon and Aqshy by Hultressa, all of which makes you appear as a somewhat more squat and wide looking terror. You still possess Brain Wounder, and everything else, but for the moment all but the Runefang is disguised by it all.

A trophy, Hultressa has informed you, for even though it is of dwarf make any Druchii of particular intelligence is capable of recognize the sheer deadliness of this particular sword.

The shell itself is not a good enough disguise, it couldn't be, not to make you a 'true' terror properly. But that isn't what Hultressa intends. Everyone is going to know, perfectly well, who and what you are. Those with the capabilities to sense them will be able to perceive the magic wafting off of your equipment, only this time around it will be invested with Dhar and other touches that Hultressa has been preparing for a little while every day since the auction was first announced. She is going to pretend to everyone that she has torn you apart and remade you from the ground up, as she would any terror, only without any of the kind of refinement offered to those terrors made of Druchii stock. Ordinarily, such a thing would still demand a bit more scrutiny from other Druchii, but just about everyone is going to be that much more focused on the auction itself, and their other rivals, to be able to spare the kinds of absolute focus that would have prevented Hultressa from simply walking you out of the Tor of Dominance before.

"Be safe, daughter, savior of my soul and heart," you hear Hultressa whisper in Eltharin a bit louder before planting a gentle kiss on Gwendolyn's forehead as she lowers her child to the ground.

Gwendolyn's lip wobbles again before she stills it in an act of willpower and nods.

"Break and kill them all, mother," Gwendolyn replies back in Eltharin just as softly, "And come back alive. Please?" She pleads with all the earnestness of a youth and the desperation of a dying woman.

Hultressa can only give her a sad smile at that.

"I promise you freedom and salvation, my child," she says instead of anything else, and Gwendolyn bows her head as she hears those words.

Unable to refute or refuse them, but desiring to so much that it is almost breaking her heart to not demand otherwise. So instead, Gwendolyn comes to you and places a hand against the ithilmar armor on your leg.

"You will keep her safe?" She asks you plaintively as you kneel down awkwardly in the new armor on top of your armor.

"I'll do my best," you murmur, and pat her on the head one last time. "I can promise you that."

Gwendolyn sniffles a little bit before nodding, and then without another word turns and runs for the doors, bursting through them before you can actually hear the first sob. Eldyra then stands alone, and with a shaking, shuddering breath, makes her own approach. Each movement is uneven, the stride uncertain and unbalanced, teetering this way and that. Coming this close to Hultressa in the closest thing you can imagine as war regalia has clearly set something in her off, enough that she is having to grip Death Thorn in its sheathe incredible hard to the point you can see the muscles twitching in her forearm as she holds it. Nevertheless, she manages to get closer, and manages even to look in the middle distance between you and Hultressa. A slow, stuttering breath precedes a slower inhale and exhale.

"If you do this," she starts, blinks hard, and then begins again after clearing her throat. "If you do this, then you will surely have the thanks of the Everqueen," she says. "And my own. I only…I only regret that I am in no condition to aid you all myself," she declares before swiveling on her heel and looking you in the eyes, then flinching at the sight of the Druchii armor all about you. "Good luck, Frederick. May Asuryan guide you."

"I'll settle for just about any of the Cadai, frankly," you shrug back, which makes her lips twitch into a ghost of a smile before she forces herself to look at an unamused Hultressa.

"You. Sorceress. May your endeavors find success," she grits out.

"I shall do my best," Hultressa says drily as Eldyra then turns on her heel again and begins to shakily march herself out and away.

Then it is just the two of you.

Well, and the ten terrors that have been standing motionless a short distance away.

"You are a husk, you understand?" Hultressa tells you as she looks you up and down one last time. "I have captured your soul, it is within my possession. I am puppeteering the corpse as a trophy, yes? The signature of your soul is but afterimages, echoes, remaining within the husk."

"I know, I know," you sigh.

"You must not react to provocation without undue cause or orders from me. Frederick," she insists as you look at her, "There will be things done there that may enrage you. You must not let it."

"I understand," you say, reaching up, the posture a bit awkward, to pat her on the shoulder. "We've been going over this for hours now."

Hultressa looks about ready to hiss that it has to go right, but she's already done that enough times and she knows it. Instead, the sorceress just works to get her breathing back under control.

"We break her power here well enough, no one will be able to stop us from stealing a ship," you recite, "We even manage to kill her and get away, the same in the resulting total anarchy, right?"

If you fail to do so, then…well.

Best not to even think about it.

You have to succeed here.

"…speaking of anarchy, I wasn't expecting the outfit," you say, switching topic to try and keep the thousand year old woman from spiraling into frantic frustrations. "I thought – I saw, actually – that most all sorceresses wear barely anything at all."

"It is a statement to the world entire, and the Gods above and below," she says with a dismissive sigh. "Our wards, our glamours, should be enough, and that we can be as such in any environment further exemplifies our mastery of magic in ensuring our own comfort no matter what. So say the lessons of the Witch Queen herself."

"So what does coming out dressed like you are imply?" You ask as you look her over one last time, spying the case of scrolls attached to the small of her back by some magical measure or another.

"That I aim to succeed, without care of my stature or state by the end of it. It is not a matter of confidence, but of will," she says grimly before turning about and facing the doors and taking one more deep breath. "Prepare yourself."

"I've been ready for this for a long time," you mutter, even as she clasps one hand around the haft of her staff and the other on the hilt of her blade, resting the flat of it against her shoulder.

Then she exhales once and walks forward, and this time you follow after her as the doors silently slide open and then closed. For a brief paranoid second, the warding barrier which has kept you from seeing out and from anyone outside seeing in while the doors are open, a small part of you wonders and waits for treachery. Instead, on the other side, you see an enormous hallway with other doors interspersed throughout it at vast lengths from one another. Entrances to other small complexes of rooms and chambers just like Hultressa has, no doubt. Everything around you is pure Druchii in its blacks and purples, the very walls and ceilings spiked and jagged, smooth curving architecture of dark stone with metal reinforcement throughout. It is elegant. It is fearsome. It is deadly. Torches lit by purple flames burning from no visible mundane source are across all the walls, while larger blazing braziers rest at different points to further illuminate the surroundings. Unmoving Druchii guards with halberds and swords and axes guard different passages and doorways, and none of them turn their gazes to look at Hultressa. Her entrance is guarded instead by two enormous terrors, creatures who you must imagine to have once been ogres at some point in life. A thought that is not particularly pleasant to imagine. Meanwhile, the stone beneath you is glossy and smooth, without any hint of cobblestone breakages, or even tiles, though there are thick and long carpets stretching to the left and right. All of which, you realize after another second, is ever so slightly tilted. The reason for which becomes obvious as you silently follow Hultressa as she stalks her way to the right, exuding an aura of cold menace about her at all times.

You then see the first slave, and realize that Eldyra absolutely could not have been allowed out and about in her current state.

It is an elf, that is undeniable. The nature of elves makes it difficult to tell the age, as well, which only makes it worse that you can't tell if they are closer to Eldyra or Hultressa's age. Or which of those two fates would be worse either. This man, compared to the pristine state that the sorceress kept Eldyra in, is absolutely and thoroughly ruined. The luxurious locks endemic to elves of all kinds are gone, sheared away, painfully, his scalp scraped and scarred so badly that no hair will ever grow there again. His ears have been docked, like certain kinds of dogs, and something terrible has been done to his spine so that he can never, ever stand upright and tall again in his life. But it is more than that as well. For the briefest moment, you think you see a warrior standing in front of you. Wounded, perhaps, but a warrior all the same. But then that moment passes, and you realize that it is all an illusion. A mockery. Shimmering silks crafted in such a precise way to grant shading and depth to make it look like he is wearing ithilmar armor and chain beneath, but the chains are too tight, and the gorget is a thick collar attached to a child's bib, there to catch the dribbling bloody drool that comes from his split open mouth, hooks and spikes placed across the jaw and face so that he can never close his mouth and constantly maintains an expression of dumbfounded childish stupidity. There is even a sheathe at his side, or at least the facsimile of one, attached to a belt which loops around to a metallic diaper with small spikes inside that are constantly pressing against his nether regions enough to draw tiny drops of blood. The transference is obscene, from what almost looks like armor and becomes instead a mixture of a courtesan's entrancing outfit and something fit for a newborn. Or, perhaps, the inhabitant of an asylum. The broom he sweeps is also gleaming metal, or at least an outer fragmented shell of it, and even as you walk up and past you can see that the metal there once used to be the pieces of a sword. A fine leather hilt has been installed in the midsection of the broom.

But you cannot turn your head to stare. You should be incapable of that, given what Hultressa is pretending to the world that you are. So you can only stare ahead, and keep moving. The elf does not cringe away, he does not fall to his knees. But as Hultressa approaches, he shambles to the side, bloody drool falling down onto his bib. It is for that briefest of seconds that you can meet his eyes without actually turning your head. What you see is absolutely nothing at all. There are technically blue irises. There are technically clear whites there surrounding the sclera. They are, at the most fundamental level, eyes, it is true. But there is absolutely, positively, nothing behind them. Nothing at all. Not pain, not grief, not fear, not even something hopeless and broken. There is just nothing there whatsoever. It is not even like seeing candlelight burning in the window of a home that is uninhabited, but rather like just seeing a house with no lights at all. The enslaved elf simply shuffles aside at the presence of Hultressa, not raising or lowering his gaze, simply staring off into the middle distance while momentarily pausing his sweeping.

"Behold, toy," Hultressa declares in sickly sweet Druhir, contempt and glee drenching each syllable, "The fate if Lothiul had taken you for herself," she gestures blandly at the elf, who does not react at all. "My work upon you was far more merciful," she titters huskily, though you notice she is not looking so much at you as down towards one of the skulls on her belt.

Presumably where she is telling others your soul is kept at the moment.

You continue on your way from there in silence, passing by other slaves and other guards, the former running the gamut as wholly mutilated as the past elf and almost disturbingly untouched. One of the Asur is a woman of indeterminable age who is humming happily to herself as she scrubs at a spot on the black stone that is a bit clouded with blood, down on her hands and knees. She wears a fine enough looking dress that looks somewhat similar to the sorts of casual outfits that Sadrina once wore as she was wandering Wulfenburg. She glances up at Hultressa's passage and them slams her head down onto the stone floor with a heavy crack, simpering in mindless mush-mouth babbling to the sorceress as she walks by. Even as Hultressa gives no reaction, the Asur raises her head back up, and you can see now that she has had her eyes replaced with gleaming rose-colored quartz stones that twinkle. This close to her, you can even hear the mumbled thanks being given to the…to the Everqueen, and to Isha, for gracing her with their presence. As you pass by, you can hear her starting to hum to herself again as you keep subtly and slowly descending the winding tower. Though, eventually, you do stop as you come to a different kind of doorway, one not like the manor-entrances put aside for separate quarters of the various members of the Coven of the Ark.

These two doors are attended to by two more Druchii guards, who bow their heads deeply at Hultressa's approach, and then silently open them in unison.

On the other side is an enclosed chamber which, at first glance, is surprisingly unadorned. A circular thing, enough to fit perhaps two dozen Druchii comfortably, awaits you. There are ten grooves all stretching up into the ceiling, while glowing sigils of magic are engraved into the walls and even the floor. But none of that really catches your eye so much as the hideous feeling you get when you first enter, and as the doors slide shut without any other Druchii following after, you allow yourself a slight shudder within your armor. Not enough to be outwardly visible, you hope, but one that your autonomous reactions simply demand of you. Hultressa doesn't appear affected, nor her terrors, as she walks up to one of the walls and places her hand against it. Instantly, a rotating circle of different symbols flicker past faster than you can read them before the rotation ends and the circle starts to fade away from sight. Without a mechanical clank, without a grinding of gears, what you realize is an elevator silently begins to move.

"If you look up, you can even see the crystallized Dhar lodestone used to power it," Hultressa murmurs softly, still not looking at you. "That is what you are feeling, Frederick."

"Not pleasant."

"Truly?" She cocks her head and smirks, the expression weirdly crueler than you think it should be. "I find it rather…invigorating."

A disturbingly short time later, the elevator comes to a stop, and this time, when the terrors shove the doors open, you are struck by a wall of sound. Druhir, spoken from hundreds of different mouths, strikes you in the ears even as you shamble out after Hultressa amidst the other terrors. Immediately, a good bit of the conversation ceases, as Druchii nobility, servants, soldiers, and slaves alike turn to witness one of the Ark's more reclusive and powerful sorceresses. You can feel the weight of their gazes as they fall on you, especially, and then just as quickly more murmuring starts up, hands covering mouths and others falling back farther away to be able to speak with each other more subtly. You are surrounded by Druchii on all sides. Knights in armor, and in the distance there is the hissing of cold ones and thumping of hooves on stone, as well as other kinds of screeches and sounds. It is a vibrant riot of dark colors, if such a thing could be believed, with different hues of reds, purples, blacks, silvers, and golds. Every single Druchii, no matter their station, is armed in some measure. You've found yourself in some kind of hall with multiple such elevator entrances to them, you realize, six in total, with the doors opening and closing regularly as more elves depart and join in the surging crowd. All of whom part before a sorceress and her retinue, however, letting you step onto the carpet, onto the stone, and then you have to work especially hard not to react as the open sky is above you for the first time in more than a month and a half. It is night, as expected, and yet there are torches, braziers, bonfires, lights aplenty which grants the skyline of the Claw of Dominion a foreboding aspect. The shadows created by the lights and the stars shining down on a cloudless night makes each of the stretching tors and lesser buildings more akin to claws and nails sprouting towards the sky. It is a completely different experience than flying above it all, that is for certain. Like this, you can truly understand the sheer damning threat of the Druchii to the world that they can raise entire city-states like this and use them to sail and dominate the seas. Not all Black Arks are like this, you know, the Claw is one of the most ancient and powerful and most prestigious, and for goodness sake the other Ark was smaller by a good measure, but you could fit Wulfenburg on this damned thing, if you piled a few of the buildings on top of each other like the skyscraping tors of the elves.

Or had things like the statue of Khaine which towers high enough to be seen even from here, sprouting above all the other buildings with a head in one hand and a blade in the other, lit from below by pure blood red lighting to contrast the other hues of purple and yellow from magical and mundane sources everywhere else around. But it is the temple to which you now go, as does practically every other important Druchii who does business or outright lives in the Tor of Dominance it seems. One of whom approaches even now, going by the actual carriage being hauled by horses with gleaming red eyes and shining black hair which begins to push its way through, lining itself up just out of range of a swipe from some of the outlying terrors under Hultressa's control. There is a sigil, a crest, on the shields there on the sides of the carriage, while the Druchii driver does not even glance away from what is front of them. The two guards, on the other hand, with enormous repeating crossbows in their hands, are much more open in scanning for threats. The window then lowers from one of the doors, and an imperious looking Druchii man with snow white hair glances across you all – lingering for just a second longer on you – before turning to Hultressa, who turns her head barely a single degree towards him.

"Lady Hultressa," he greets politely, not raising his voice and yet remaining perfectly understandable despite the hubbub of all the crowds. "Might I offer you a less…pedestrian method of reaching the temple, this night?"

"Thank you for the offer, Lord Cruelbarb, but I wish to stretch the legs of my newest work," she says with a sliver-thin nod in his direction before gesturing at you. "Your offer shall be remembered."

"Very good, my Lady," he nods again, and without another word, the carriage moves on.

You would think that such crowds of people would smell. Sweat. Grime. Maybe even a bit of blood. Perhaps that would be true for mere commoners, even amongst the Druchii, but amongst the nobility? Not at all. Hultressa herself is something of sandalwood, cinnamon, and something esoterically smoky, and even the grotesque terrors just smell vaguely metallic like metal out of a hot forge before being quenched. Nothing truly detestable. As you walk along the streets, an aura of protection exuded by the outer terrors that no other Druchii dares impede, you are struck many times over by other scents. Some of them are particularly florid and complex, while others are simpler yet powerful, or even a bit judiciously understated. It's a level of aesthetic beautification that would embarrass the most expert ladies of the courts of the Empire, no matter the makeup and perfumes they wished to wear. It is unlike the Eonir and Asrai who can be covered with the dirt of their homes, yet retain an ethereal beauty nonetheless like the nature that they commune so strongly with. It is also unlike the Asur, who retain an aura of cleanliness and purity at all times, no matter the situation, exuding nobility and passionate pride. But here, not in the middle of a battle or the immediate aftermath, the Druchii are like chiseled marble and freshly driven snow, stark and beautiful, at all times exuding some measure of danger. Any softness in them is purely in the body of some of the women, who proudly strut and stalk on high heels, yet even they are well cloaked in dresses and armor depending on who they are. There are a handful of other sorceresses you see as well, though none are dressed like Hultressa. On the other hand, they are also atop winged Dark Pegasi, or in other cases, riding on palanquins carried by slaves.

But either way, no one impedes your progress overmuch, though there are more than a few nobles calling out to Hultressa here and there as you go. For the most part, she shuts them down as easily as she did Lord Cruelbarb. There are other Druchii, as well, the shape of their armor, the stances they bear, all just a fraction different than everyone else, and many of them mostly purely military in aspect, that lends credence to your silent positing that they are from the other Ark. Evacuees turned loyalists to Alyssa Voidreaper after being cut off from their Ark. An Ark nominally conquered out of Druchii hands, even. Not something particularly prestigious for them to bear, and it shows in how clumped up those groups are, protective and wary at all times. All of them wish to simply greet her, though others go father and offer aid in reaching the temple, or in a few cases make simple polite requests as towards purchasing a terror for later use. It is, rather unsurprisingly, the Druchii foreigners to the Claw who seem most eager to shore up their forces and power in any way possible. You see many hosts of guards as well, all of them surrounding their charges. Some of them are on steady horses, others on cold ones, while others simply walk, clearing the spaces around either their also striding masters or those in carriages. There are bleakswords, dreadspears, knights aplenty, as well as a few cadres of Druchii dressed in blood-soaked furs, with huge spears in hand and bows on their back. But none of the barely clad so-called Sisters of Slaughter. Eventually, though, can start to feel it in the air. A kind of heat. A familiar sort. The thudding of your heart in your chest starts to get louder, harder, faster. Not by too much, but noticeably. Something that seems to be shared by all the other Druchii around you, and their slaves. A bit more flushing in the cheeks. A bit more rapidity in the movement.

The smell of dried blood mixing with fresh hits your nose next.

The chattering of Druhir growing more excited, to each other, and then growing quieter once more as they get closer still.

All the while, the statue of Khaine looms above you all, eyes on the distant southern horizon.

A certain kind of weight feels like it is starting to, ever so lightly, press down onto your shoulders all the same.

Then Hultressa holds up a fist, and the terrors all stop in unison around you with you following suit. The flow of Druchii around you all continues regardless, though many of them slow and there are heads from further afield craning to take a look. She raises the fist higher, then opens it, and snaps her fingers once. It is a sharp cracking sound, the sound for some reason that of a large bone snapping rather than metal or leather rasping against one another. This causes others to look, and just in time to see a swirling mass of writhing shadows to come soaring out of the night sky to land within the perimeter established by the terrors. The smoke and shadows rapidly retreat, and on the other side you see someone dressed in form fitting Druchii armor which completely obscures their head, and hair, in a hood. Whoever they are, they are enormous, bulky and wide, standing taller than you even, something that becomes all the more evident as they smoothly stand from where they had begun on one knee. The figure stands, and then inclines their head towards Hultressa, who nods back, and then turns and scans before the eyes dip lower to find you. You cannot see the face of the figure, beyond the mask they wear which obscures all below the eyes, as the shadows cast by the hood seem to be enhanced somehow to further obscure the remaining features. On their back is a weapon you've never seen before in your life, but it does look somewhat like some kind of halberd or another, though any other features seem obscured and deliberately covered by dark leather wrappings put all around it. Even the head is somewhat indistinct, caused by an enchantment of Ulgu perhaps. But you are not an idiot.

She cannot say it, cannot suggest it, cannot even imply it.

But this, surely, is none other than Johanna Fuerbach in disguise.

"Thanalunluidai," Hultressa greets respectfully, inclining her head, and instantly, everyone around you skirts backwards a step.

Which, given what you can muddle out, makes sense.

A nod is given in turn, and then Johanna moves just behind Hultressa silently…and then you are just on your way again. The greater temple complex has high walls, and high towers, and a very big gate, which at the moment is completely open to allow the Druchii to enter. It is there that you finally see, for the first time, the so-called Brides of Khaine. They are, all ten of them, completely covered in blood. Five are on the left side of the door, five on the right, and each stands over a bubbling cauldron of blood. A small pile of bodies is nearby, completely exsanguinated, and the Witch Elves cackle and beseech and call out to Khaine, offering his glory and favor to any and all who accept his bloody benediction. But you can hear it, ever so faintly. The strain. The hoarseness. It is barely there, so much so that it might as well not be, except that you can. And if you can, the other Druchii can as well. The Cult of Khaine is striving to show its power, its dominance, the favor of its God, and it shows. Not so much that some of the incoming Druchii do not happily offer up some of their slaves brought for just such a purpose to be horrifically torn apart, flayed alive, and drained of blood in front of everyone, but the point remains. On the other side is a large complex indeed, practically multiple small manors connected to one another, all centering around a massive plaza which can fit a great many Druchii while the gargantuan statue of Khaine stands above you all.

"Praise him! Praise the Bloody-Handed God, the God of Murder, your God!" You can hear some of the Witch Elves preach.

Slowly you approach, closer and closer, all at the sedate pace that Hultressa has set. This close, the sensations are growing worse, however. You can feel a discordant excitement bubbling up inside of you with no discernable source. Your heart rate increasing, the blood in your veins feeling just a tiny bit hotter. Thankfully you are wearing Ledstali around you within the outer shell of armor that Hultressa has placed upon you. But other Druchii are less restrained, their laughter starting to grow louder, their voices growing more excitable and eager after they pass the threshold. Though you do see some grow quiet just as they hit it, only to seem relieved on the other sides of the doors. Then there are those most obviously dedicated to other Cytharai, who stalk through with curt nods to the devotees of Khaine, and are watched and sneered at in turn, especially those Druchii who are quite clearly cultists of the Savage Huntress. Here, the press of bodies is so great that even the terrors can only present so much of a perimeter defense formation, having to tighten in ever so slightly. Enough so that the new arrival ends up a tiny bit closer to you.

(Noticing The Human: 74+20+15+10+5+10-20-10-5+5-5+Mysterious Stranger(10)-Cult Seeks Young Child(10)=99/100)

"Hultressa!" One of the Witch Elves calls out, stopping you all just as you prepare to cross the threshold, eyes glittering and pale skin flush with the blood splattering it. "So you have come!"

"Of course," Hultressa puffs out her chest, staff and sword freezing in the air as she puts her hands on her hips. "There is much material I could gain here."

"Of course, of course!" The Bride says, her eager expression starting to darken. "But…where is the Khaine-Blessed, sorceress? Where is your daughter?"

All nine of the other Witch Elves turn their heads as one, unblinking.

"Not. Here," Hultressa bites out, a bit of Dhar flaring out of her eye sockets as she says it. "It is something to be discussed with the Death Hag."

The speaking Witch Elf hisses slightly, and then rolls her head around on her neck, eyes narrowing.

"You have said so before, sorceress," she doesn't quite spit.

"It will happen when it happens," Hultressa says back, unyielding, and after a moment the Witch Elf hisses again and angrily grabs up one of the passing Druchii who bears only a single sword and no retinue and tears his throat open with her teeth.

Showing a surprising amount of strength, she goes so far as to pick him up bodily above her shoulders and holds him there so that his blood can splash down on her like a waterfall.

"…quite," Hultressa scoffs, and then motions forward.

KILL​

You stutter in your stepping through as a flash of pure red wrath and ruin completely subsumes your senses, aided along by a gentle press of a hand on the small of your back so swift that you can't even be sure it was there. Hultressa and the terrors and even the new arrival appear entirely unaffected. Other Druchii also passing through seem to shake themselves like wet dogs, but happily, and show gleaming white smiles and eager looks. Others shiver slightly, but in a pleasured way. If there are any amongst the Druchii stepping onto grounds consecrated in honor of the God of Murder that are uncomfortable with it, there are none that you can see with your limited opportunities to turn your head while pretending to appear as a husk who are like you. The closest equivalent are those clearly sworn to other Gods of the elves, who grit their teeth or otherwise just keep their heads high and chins taller while clearly working to show zero affect at all whether positive or negative. Khaine is supreme amongst the Druchii, you understand that quite well, but that does not mean that the other Cytharai do not have their pride. They are, after all, elven Gods. Aside from the Druchii, however, are the slaves. Most of them are human, a scattershot of origins from around the world it seems, with no small amount of Imperials, but you see men and women and even some children from all over the Old World – and beyond. There are Indish , Cathayans, and Nipponese slaves, though you might not yet be the most perfect judge of the differences between the latter two. All of whom wail, weep, flinch, or sag as they pass through, only to be whipped or struck to get upright and moving once more. Some are attendants, others appear to simply be there as entertainment, going by how you can see one Druchii woman laughing as she explains to a bemused peer how she killed the Indish man's wife.

On the other side of it all, are all of the most powerful Druchii – that are still alive – between two different Black Arks. Nobles, and their houses. Military leaders, that fought their way up from blood soaked streets and orphanages or common homes. The wealthiest, those who might not have the greatest power by blade or blood, but by deals and the blades and blood that can be bought. But for the most part, those three groups can look quite similar, given how intertwined bloodshed, money, and power all is amongst the Druchii. Standing apart from them all, however, are the distinct branches of those dedicated to the Cytharai aside from Khaine. In a few cases, they are but handfuls, but the sheer elaborate nature and the dread power which emanates from their vestments are unmistakable. You grew up in the Empire, for the sake of the Gods, you know damn well what a priest looks like regardless of species.

Then the sound cuts out as Hultressa snaps her fingers again and turns towards Johanna.

"Don't look at him, vampire," she says, "Or at least not that much."

"We're all right to speak?" A familiar voice murmurs out from behind the mask, though the tone is deeper and huskier than you remember.

The Talabeclander accent remains, however, if a bit less prominent.

"For a short time. Others are obscuring their conversations with their servants this very moment," Hultressa nods. "All jockeying for connection, for power."

"Oh, and uh, nice to see you again," Johanna says without actually looking at you.

"Likewise, in a manner of speaking. Wish it was under better circumstances."

"Me too," she chuckles deeply.

"So," Hultressa clears her throat. "We have a short time before the auction. The Handmaiden will come last, and will be the best guarded until that point. Before that will be the chattel slaves taken from the northern islanders, then the pegasus riders from Frederick's previous forces, then the Asrai."

"I was almost expecting them to be held in cages out here for everyone to gawk at," you mutter, but Hultressa shakes her head.

"No, too easy for the product to be spoiled by someone attempting to sample before the right time."

"So what's the plan, then?" Johanna asks, tilting her head.

"Alyssa can avoid running the first of the auctioning while one of her subordinates takes up the duty, at least until the better prizes, but I doubt it," Hultressa clucks her tongue. "She must take center stage, to show her strength, her presence."

"So not with the prisoners," Johanna hums. "But there will be guards anyhow, right?"

"Correct," Hultressa nods. "I do not know which building – and that must be discerned and quickly."

Which make sense. You can't do a prison break without knowing where the cells are, after all. Or try and save someone as they're being led to the auction block without knowing the entrance that they'll be coming from at the very least.

"Who might know? Aside from the Cult?"

"One of the rest of the Coven," Hultressa grimaces. "Some of whom will be present there, for certain."

"Could we try and stir up trouble with the Cult of Atharti?" You posit, and Hultressa waggles her head from side to side.

"Maybe. Probably not, not immediately. No, first we need information," she shakes her head. "To know which building, at the very least."

"The bombs in the pyramid, how about that?" You ask quickly.

"That will come soon enough, but not immediately. It must happen during the auction proper, to force her to either abandon the event entirely or to try and keep going regardless," Hultressa insists. "Either weakens her in different ways.

"So. Information first. Coven or Cult?" Johanna asks, voice growing softer as she does it.

"There are risks with both. Brides of Khaine and my Coven sisters might discern something wrong with both of you," she gestures at you and Johanna in a single movement.

"You could send us away as you do it, or have us stand aside…no, terrors are your guards, that would look even more suspicious," you groan.

"I can move more independently, but the whole profile you built was of a quiet killer, so I can't exactly ask questions to loudly," Johanna also adds.

"I am aware," Hultressa sighs, cupping at her chin. "But few would be able to contest your dedication to silence if you did go out and about...though they might discover your nature regardless."

"Dhar and power is Dhar and power," Johanna notes, which gains a considering look from Hultressa.

Choose One Path Forward:
3 Hour Moratorium

[] Seek out the Cult of Khaine: They will surely know where the prisoners are being kept. As this is a Druchii affair, they will definitely be fielding such probing questions from various other Druchii jockeying for an advantage. But Hultressa has an ace, if one that she will despise using, in the potential faux-offering of her daughter. If things go wrong, it might lead to even worse consequences for Gwendolyn, but it will also surely work and make the Cult focus entirely on Hultressa rather then potentially discerning that you are not a soulless husk and that Johanna is a vampire and not a...whatever it was that serves the Elven Goddess of Vengeance.
[] Seek out a Sorceress of the Coven: Hultressa is still a member of the Coven. She is just a usually distant one. Some of the Coven sisters might perceive weakness in her after her further disconnect when she had her daughter, or might desire conversation with a peer. Or, more likely, a potential threat. They will be more discerning and perceptive thanks to their magical abilities, but might know more of Alyssa's intentions and schedule for the evening. Yet Hultressa does not have the same in with them as she does with the others, especially given that they serve her sister, who killed their adoptive mother in Screamtaker. Blood has no superiority here, only allegiance and power, at least amongst the Coven on the Claw.
[] Send Johanna Alone: You don't know her exact capabilities anymore after spending decades in the Far East. But they are powerful indeed, at the very least. Given the profile that Hultressa built for her, moving about surreptitiously seems part of the job description. It might be a bit more awkward if she is detected in the wrong place, at the very least, but it would also allow Hultressa to not appear too eager or be caught off guard by someone approaching out of the blue. You don't need to, necessarily, even get into the place where the prisoners are being held at the moment. You just need to know where it is. That is, after all, the first step.

 

[torroar]

GM Note: Longer wait than I would have liked thanks to, well, unfortunate IRL events. Apologies. Found a relatively good stopping point, rather than just rolling on and on and on for longer given the gap.

Spikes, Horns, and Stone 27​

"Are we in that much more danger from the Coven? You have to have known them for centuries, now," you point out quickly, but Hultressa's lip curls in derision at the very thought of it.

"Screamtaker actively ensured that rivalries and pride flared so that no alliance could properly form to depose her," she sneers. "Age mattered little, only power and knowledge. And, to be fair to her," she allowed with a single-shouldered shrug, "It worked for over three thousand years. Orphans were recruited, or made," she growls the last word, "Or otherwise acquired. A myriad mixture of ever changing alliances and groups joining and collapsing."

"No mothers and daughters joining in together?" Johnna tilts her head, and then despite the mask and obscuring magics her confusion is still palpable as Hultressa lets loose a cruel laugh and you exhale slowly with your eyes momentarily wide.

"It's complicated," you say to her quickly.

"It has happened, yes, a few daughters ascending with their mothers, but rarely," Hultressa shakes her head. "Screamtaker would never allow for a blood-born sect to grow strong within her Coven, lest they grow too strong together and overtake her. Other Covens amongst the Druchii are entirely and wholly blood-related, a network of mothers, daughters, and sisters. Screamtaker refused to take the chance."

Not that it stops them from occasionally sabotaging them or outright killing one another when it suits them, you would imagine.

"Not that it helped her in the end," you mutter, and another harsh bark of a laugh comes from the sorceress, something that you can only described as truly malevolent and genuinely hateful flickering in her eyes as she thinks on it.

"No, no it did not. However long Alyssa spent on preparing it, she only informed me of her plans a few decades ago," she flaps her hand in the air for a moment, tossing her hair as she does it. "Matters only advanced to the point that she decided to go through with it at Salkalten, prior to that it was going to be sometime after beginning to claim the stones of Albion."

"What?" Johanna's head tilts the other way.

"Later," you and Hultressa say in unison, getting an annoyed grunt from the Talabeclander.

"So the Cult of Khaine, then?" You sigh, still making sure not to actually move your body at all as you say it beneath the layered armor and shell atop it. "I do have to ask, is it not going to look out of place about us trying to gain a closer look at the prisoners or anything like that? Alyssa has to be wary of sabotage, especially at this point."

"Hmph, of course," the sorceress snorts, raising one eyebrow imperiously while her lips form into a smirk. "All sorts of interested parties are going to be trying to do just that. It's part and parcel of anything like this, bribes and secrets and so on. It's all part of the game, especially depending on who succeeds and who fails."

"Makes sense to me," Johanna says, "C'mon, Frederick, it's been a few decades, but you know how it works back in our courts, don't you?"

"Not in Ostland it doesn't," you grump. "I killed a lot of the nobles that did that kind of stupidity."

"What?" Johanna whispers, straining slightly to make sure no one looking at you would see even the slightest turn of the head.

"Made the rest duel when they brought up stupid shit," you add, "Quieted them down. Mostly. For a while, at least. Natasha made me stop. At the time, I was annoyed, but I understand it wasn't sustainable in the long-term."

Hultressa's face contorts for a moment as she inhales slightly, mouth opening and then closing so she can release a muted sigh as her expression is forcibly smoothed out.

"So, the Cult of Khaine?" You say into the silence.

"Indeed," Hultressa says after visibly working her jaw. "Let's move. Remember, you must be silent," Hultressa instructs you both, looking between the much taller Johanna and then yourself.

Which is around the point that you can turn your gaze, now that you're moving once more and are slightly behind, upon the vampire. She is taller, you realize. Substantially so. It was part of the reason you were having trouble first even properly recognizing her, even with the disguise that Hultressa presumably granted her. Now that you really can look at Johanna full on without either of you having to shift about too much to maintain the idea of you being am mostly mindless husk and her a mostly silent servant of an elven Goddess, you can really start to catalogue all that is different. Whereas Hultressa has, even without her heels, always stood taller than you, she is only slightly taller than Johanna. Some of it might be the wrappings and armor that swaddles Johanna's form to disguise any hint of her lack of pointed ears or elven eyes, but you can definitely see that the Fuerbach is much wider than she used to be at the shoulder. Generally, her entire trunk appears to have become thicker though not in fat, as well as her legs. Not to the point of becoming something abominable, not even close, but the change is undeniable and thorough. She certainly appears hulking compared to Hultressa, at least.

All of which is quite confusing indeed, considering the fact that one of the main things you remember learning about vampires in the past is that their state of being is generally meant to be eternal.

"Now then," the sorceress says after another moment of glancing between the two of you remaining quiet. "Follow me," she snaps her fingers, and the field of silence about all of you collapses.

Immediately you are inundated once more with the sounds of a massive crowd. For the briefest of seconds you could probably close your eyes and think of one of the busy markets of Wulfenburg, Marienburg, Altdorf, or Nuln. But then you hear the Druhir that each and everyone of the Druchii is speaking, and the sensation of familiarity largely disappears. Of all the dialects of Eltharin, only Druhir is the one that occasionally incorporates the Black Speech of Chaos into it, and so it is one language you are determined to never become fully fluent in, only to understand as necessary. Practically all of the laughter and jokes you hear are harsher, cutting things, the words biting and subjects danced on conversational razor edges. Some Druchii are insulting each other, while others are greeting old friends and allies. Sometimes both are happening at the same time. At others, you can hear the knives that are waiting to be drawn out as two different noble families run into each other amongst the crowds, each refusing to back down and allow the other right of way. There are grudges being spoken of here and there, vendettas, promises, threats, requests, and more, all of it so dizzying in scope that your meager grasp over the language begins to utterly fail you. It would be one thing if it was spoken in Reikspiel, or any of the other languages of humanity, or even just Khazalid. But the simple truth of the matter is that Druhir by its very nature is a more disturbing dialect to hear than most any other than the pure dark tongue of Chaos isolated by itself. It's dirtying of the mind and soul. Not so much as Chaos itself, but that it dances upon that edge so utterly is disturbing in its own way.

Thankfully, a bracing circle of terrors around you all allows Hultressa to largely move about as she wishes through the crowds. Already you can see that the various Cults are beginning to gather adherents and supplicants towards them, while there are whole hosts of Druchii that bear the same noble house crest that are effectively forming their own block formations. Wealthier Druchii that do not possess that same level of pure blood-based superiority make do with a more mishmash group of warriors and guards more often than not, with different symbols or none at all who are nonetheless obvious from the fact that they are all standing together. Strewn throughout the entire courtyard are dancing and strutting Brides of Khaine, each of them spattered in fresh blood and little else save for the daggers that flash in their hands as they move about. Slaves trundle about with spikes driven into them that connect to platters kept upright with more metal and bone reinforcements, steadily bleeding but never so much as to die outright as they carry a multitude of refreshment for the Druchii to partake in. All of which appears to have a bit of blood in it, whether in the drinks or in the food. To a mere layman, it would look like nothing more and nothing less than the sorts of thing you would see at a Chaos cult's gathering, but of course, all of this goes to Khaine and the Cytharai instead.

Definitely nothing Chaos-related going on here.

Without making it look like you're rushing through the crowds, but not so sedate and slow that you could get bogged down by anyone else, Hultressa leads you on a circuit through the crowds towards one of the buildings which ring the main plaza. Some of them have Druchii going in and out of them, which immediately removes them from the possibility of being where the prisoners are being held. Even if it is possible to get in and see them by some, the volume of bodies moving back and forth is far too high for something meant to presumably be reserved for the particularly wealthy or powerful. Or, failing those two categories, having something that the Cult is truly desirous for to be willing to waive the first two. Thankfully, you have Hultressa, who has all three, though you know that she is going to have to grit her teeth and think of Isha with the offer that she is no doubt going to have to give. In fact, you can see it, ever so briefly, in how the muscles of her back are tensing and flexing as her hair swishes back and forth with each heavy hip-rolling step until she takes another quiet breath and stills such reactions. Whether purely through will or some application of her mastery of fleshcrafting, or both, you can't know for certain. Either way, it is enough that the sorceress feels confident enough to raise her chin and boldly stride straight towards one of the blood-covered Brides of Khaine, this one currently circling around an isolated male Druchii who is attempting to make it look like he isn't nervous. Nearby, a group of friends or enemies chuckle and laugh at him, cajoling him or egging the woman on, or both.

"Witch Elf!" Hultressa calls out.

The response is immediate, the Witch Elf in question's head whips about so fast you're surprised she didn't hurt her neck, and just like that she abandons her current pray. Behind her, the Druchii she was about to extract who knew what fluids from breathed a sigh of relief before scowling at the small bunch that had been laughing. Stalking over to them, he starts speaking in a low angry hiss, though they hardly seem affected. Meanwhile, the Witch Elf's eyes are dark and flashing with murderous bloodlust, head tilting back and forth like a birds even as she flashes a blood-stained ivory gleaming grin. Each of the daggers in her hands are wicked, jagged looking things, meant as much to spill as much blood as possible as actually kill quickly, and as she comes closer while almost skipping you can see that she is in fact completely naked. There's just enough layers of drying blood on her, here and there, to almost protect her modesty. Not that you can be sure if she actually has any modesty to be protected. More concerningly, while she has dark green irises, there is a literal darkness clouding into the whites of her eyes which reminds you all too much of Gwendolyn. Only this appears to be a darkness that she is more than willing to invite into herself. She is gleeful as she comes, so much so she cannot even cackle, but you find yourself more disturbed than enticed by the openly seductive manner in which she moves.

"Terror-Maker!" The Witch Elf cries aloud as she comes close enough, managing a deep and overly flexible bow that bends her past ninety degrees at one point. "You have come!" She says with a joyous smile that is just a few degrees wider than a fully sane individual would have.

"Indeed," Hultressa nods curtly. "Where is the Death Hag? I know you have elected one anew, have you not?"

The Witch Elf blinks rapidly and unevenly before shaking her head slightly, a bit of her mania fading as her will begins to reassert itself.

"Ah, but my Lady," she giggles in a sound that is too much like your daughters before they even reached a decade in age, "Forgive me, but Death Hag Mesarth is currently with the Supreme Sorceress, and they are not to be disturbed at the moment!"

"I do not intend to do so," Hultressa clucks her tongue, "I merely wished to negotiate properly, alas," she sneers. "But I can make do. Your name?"

"Ah," the Witch Elf clasps a bloody hand to her bloody chest, bowing her head once more. "I am Fandni, my Lady. But even so," she tucks her hands behind her back, teetering back and forth on her heels, "It would be unwise for me to-,"

"I wish to discuss the induction of my daughter, o' Bride of Khaine," Hultressa intones gravely, and the Fadni stops her rocking immediately, eyes going as wide as dinnerplates. "Into the proper worship of the God of Murder."

The Witch Elf's mouth forms a perfect astonished circle, so frozen that for a moment she appears to have forgotten how to breath. All of which then disappears as she outright begins to pant, heavily, tongue almost lolling out of her mouth as she seems to practically vibrate from excitement.

"That's...! I…," Fadni pants harder, head whipping about looking for something before she swallows heavily. "I…my Lady, that is most wonderous to hear, and-,"

"I wish to peruse the stock, first," Hultressa interrupts her, drawing the Witch Elf up short once more.

"W-what?" Fadni blinks repeatedly, opening and closing her mouth before swallowing down some air. "My Lady, please, this is a most auspicious night, I do not see the Blessed One here, but if – we should – there are choice sacrifices to be made this night!"

"And perhaps I will," Hultressa gives the slightest of nods. "I shall bring her later. But first, I wish to peruse the stock."

"T-the Handmaiden is not-,"

"I have no interest in the Handmaiden," Hultressa scoffs, making the Witch Elf and other Druchii in the immediate area who were clearly listening in draw back slightly. "I have tested my arts upon the Asur before. It is the Asrai I am interested in, Witch Elf. In over a thousand years, I have never even touched one of the Asrai."

Then she makes use of her greater than elven average height to lean forward and loom over the Witch Elf, reducing the murderous cultist seemingly to a dirtied child.

"But should I find myself displeased enough with the Cult of Khaine, perhaps it is Hekarti that might be the Cytharai to embrace my daughter's soul? The Coven does need replenishing, after all," she murmurs into Fadni's ear.

(Lying Boldly: 39+Gruesome Reputation(20)+Growing Presence(15)+Prior Habits(10)-High Alert(20)-Druchii Paranoia(10)-The Event of the Season(5)+Sharks Scenting Blood(5)+Price of a Daughter(25)-Voidreaper's Orders(15)+Desperate Killers(10)=74/100)

"I…, Fadni swallows again, eyes darting to Hultressa, to the terrors and you, to Johanna, and to the other Druchii all around them.

She can't afford weakness. None of her Cult can, not right now. But neither can they simply dismiss a so-called Blessed of Khaine. She knows it, they all know it. But even if it seems a bit weak to be bowled over by Hultressa, the prize in turn is a champion. Practically tailor-made, personally affected by their precious God of Murder from before birth. If they have her, and raise her up anointed in a Cauldron of Blood, then it would be worth much. You know it, the Witch Elf knows it, and everyone else does as well. But is that enough? You can't say for certain, because you can't turn your head unduly so long as you maintain the appearance and movements of a husk as Hultressa has designed. Even if you wish that you could take Brain Wounder and cut a great swathe through many of the attendees of this monstrous occasion.

"For a short time, perhaps," Fadni says quickly. "But the Auction-,"

"I am aware, I have participated in these before," Hultressa says dryly as she straightens. "Let us proceed then, yes?"

"Yes, yes of course! I can – I will – the Death Hag will understand," Fadni says eagerly, even as she begins to stride through the crowd, knives flashing in her fingers as she flourishes them with inhuman speed and dexterity.

Anyone who gets a little too close gets cut, something that happens a good three times in rapid succession before the Druchii simply start parting before her with far more speed than they did even faced with the terrors. Said abominations of which are following right behind, Hultressa, you, and Johanna in the center of them. You can watch the whispers and mutterings move like lightning through the crowds, even as you walk past them all. Few things are faster than rumor and gossip, after all, even more so than bullets and cannonballs it seems sometimes. It is like watching the forks of the Empire's rivers, watching as heads turn in waves and then turn elsewhere. From where you walk, you can see the adherents of Anath Raema react first, followed shortly after by those elves who you believe worship Atharti. If only because they look like cultists of Slaanesh, or just about. Piercings, chains, and more abound across their mostly naked bodies, though unlike even the usual clothing that Hultressa wears as a sorceress everything about the Athartists is meant specifically to titillate. The sorceress bears much of her body to the world as a matter of pride, of trust in her warding and shielding spells. The Athartists lounge in lingerie, yet still finger blades and staffs, smoking from hookahs and long pipes while exhaling differently colored smokes. They actually used their slave to haul in huge thick carpets and actual beds and couches to lay upon, a few of them outright grabbing some of the other Druchii from the crowds around them and violently stripping them before bearing them down to the ground. It does not appear to matter what the Druchii given such 'honors' think about the matter, either.

But as the whispers reach them, you do note a good few dozen of them arching up slightly and twisting from wherever they lay, stand, sit, or kneel to watch your party as you pass by.

No one actually reaches out to stop you, though, but it is impossible for you to miss the sensation of so many more gazes upon you. As well as a heavier yet paradoxically distant gaze which definitely feels like it is coming from above. Quite possibly from the statue of Khaine that is taller than any statue of the Gods of the Empire that you've ever seen. It's taller than a lot of buildings in general, in fact. All the while, a strange red tinge seems to fill the air, just enough that it is noticeable but not to the point of even slightly obscuring your vision. Just a bit of haze in the air, almost outright ignorable. Almost, but not quite. This is undeniably consecrated ground that you are walking upon, consecrated to a God that is incredibly malevolent but also utterly opposed to the Dark Gods, as near as you can tell. Too bad you find just about everything about Khaine as you know him objectionable. Thankfully you don't have to be here much longer. Hopefully. So instead you focus on the building you are approaching, this one guarded by another pair of Witch Elves and located on the far end of the temple from the entrance and therefore ironically closest to the Tor of Dominance which you can see stretching high into the sky. Though it is difficult to tell ages amongst elves properly, there is a certain air of maturity that these ones guarding the large doors possess compared to Fadni, making them seem almost like matrons to her maiden. It helps that they are far more alert and wary compared to the blood-drunk junior, short swords in their hands and at the ready, even if they are far less splattered in blood.

"Fadni, what-," one of them immediately barks out, eyes narrowed onto your party.

"The mother of the Blessed One wishes to see the stock available," Fadni interrupts her. "She…she speaks of bringing forth the Blessed One to be properly inducted, just…,"

"I wish to peruse the stock first," Hultressa announces, pushing her terrors aside and striding forward confidently, pausing as the other two Witch Elves stare and mutter between each other, unable to hide their excitement. "I have no interest in the chattel," she snorts. "And the Asur will make a fine prize for whoever desires her."

"You do not?" One asks, though has to stop herself from shrinking back from the withering glare of the sorceress.

"A Handmaiden? Of course. But given the other entrants, I do not see the point in bothering. Let the others fight for her," Hultressa tosses her hair. "Will that be a problem? Or will her very presence make such a thing too great an issue?"

The three members of the Cult of Khaine do not speak to each other, merely share a few very meaningful and pointed looks.

"…no, my Lady, it should be no trouble at all," one of the door guards finally declares, "The Handmaiden is being kept secure by the Supreme Sorceress herself in a separate location. The others, beyond the chattel, are not without their protections. And how could we refuse the mother of a Blessed One?" She smiles, and there is nothing but murderous relief and joy in that Druchii's face. "You have been touched by Khaine himself!"

You have only known Hultressa for a relatively short amount of time.

But you are somewhat sure that she wishes to tear this Witch Elf apart with her bare hands for those words.

Instead, however, she remains silent and expectant.

"You may enter…but only for a short time," the other Witch Elf says quickly, "We can only allow you time before the chattel are all sold off."

"More than enough time," Hultressa says. "My terrors?"

"My Lady…," one trails off, and the sorceress sighs.

"Oh, very well. I shall take the newest, and my guard," she snaps her fingers, and immediately every other terror stiffens and then walks away to form a small block. "Does this suffice?"

"It is appreciated," the Witch Elf inclines her head. "Be welcome, Bringer of Sorrows," she says with the deepest respect.

All of the Witch Elves do so as the doors open of their own accord, actually, which means that none of them can see as Hultressa's grip on her staff tightens for a brief moment as you enter. On the other side, you are forced to withstand an olfactory blow of considerable proportions. Blood. Offal. The distinct smells of pain and sick and despair swirling together to form a potent bouquet that flows from the doors. As it does so, all three of the Witch Elves straighten and inhale deeply, as if refreshed. No, not as if, they literally are. The jitters and nervousness of Fadni disappears entirely, while the standoffish older Witch Elves appear to relax. It's disgusting to you, but to them it is one of the sweetest of smells. Also disturbingly, while Hultressa simply takes it in and keeps going, you do note that Johanna seems to inhale deeply as well as you go, Fadni quickly scurrying forward to escort you further into the abattoir that is one of their temple's satellite buildings.

"We have ensured they are in good condition, my Lady," Fadni says eagerly as you walk along.

All around you are the victims of the Cult of Khaine in various states of disassembly and death. On hooks, on spikes, in cages with internal spikes, or sawing blades, or raised up on boards and peeled open, half of the victims all around you are still alive. Including one weeping man who's lower half appears to have been twisted about into a purpled and mashed mass, from which two trickles of piss and shit continue to flow out of cuts and slits made. You know thanks to Arthur that the Cult of Khaine in the Old World speak much of extending out their kills as much and as painfully as possible, and it appears to be something they share with the Druchii. It is not as if there are just humans here, either. You see and hear some dwarfs, their legendary stoicism ground down enough to make them scream and plead, a pair of ogres who are chained up just far enough away from one another that they cannot reach the other. Meanwhile, there are deep scars all over their bodies from where they are being slowly sliced away at, and as you watch, a Witch Elf laughs as she tosses the cut of ogre flesh from one ogre to the next.

"I should hope so," Hultressa declares, nonplussed. "I do not want to deal with spoiled product. Not after last time."

"I…that was not-," Fadni clears her throat but pauses as Hultressa holds up a hand.

The sorceress narrows her eyes.

"It was a hundred years ago, yes. And I killed Lotha for it, as I'm sure your annals recall."

"They do, my Lady," the young Witch Elf nods eagerly, "A hundred days to die! It was magnificent!" But then her wonder flickers into concern once more. "But I assure you, the same will not occur again!"

"Then lead on, child," Hultressa chides her, and then you are moving once more.

The horrors that you see within that place will never leave you.

But eventually, you do manage to leave them, and come upon a new chamber, this one which smells much cleaner. Within is a place of dark stone, but that is nothing new on a Black Ark, with multiple torches that do not burn with magical fire but rather with something that smells ominously of burning fat. Enough of them, however, to fully illuminate the chamber. There are, you find, a great many more cages than there are occupants for them all, another sign of the sheer state of the Claw of Dominion at the moment. At least, you hope so. But in the four cages nearest to the entrance of this prison wing are an elf and three women. All of them have been completely stripped naked, without anything that they could possibly use as a weapon, a shield, or anything that they could even use to try and end themselves in an act of defiance. Though there doesn't seem to be as much of that in their eyes as there might once have been. Where you might have expected burning fires, all you see are smoldering exhausted embers in the eyes of two of the Whitewings, while the third Bretonnian woman is curled into a ball on her cell, staring at the wall rather than anything else.

You also see another party of Druchii entirely, also being escorted by another Witch Elf, this one with a long single sword she bounces the flat of on her shoulder, smirking down at an exhausted looking Kerillian. Though she, and the group of Druchii nobility with her, all turn about to see Hultressa enter with you and Johanna behind her. The other party numbers four, one of whom is a white-haired Druchii male wearing a full suit of masterwork armor, spikes and gleaming silver edges aplenty, including a mask which appears to obscure the lower half of his face which is part of his gorget. It is also painted like a clenched mouth of triangular fangs. Two of the other Druchii appear to be his guards, dressed like the knights you saw before riding atop the reptilian Cold Ones, while the fourth has a still bloody skin from some victim or another forming a mantle over her shoulders. A thickly hafted spear with a design that is quite familiar to you, if currently in a much smaller form than the one wielded by the Avatar back in Athel Loren, is held in her other hand.

"Sorceress," the Druchii noble inclines his head, but shallowly.

"Lord…," Hultressa quirks an eyebrow upwards.

"Razorflense," he answers her.

"Late of the Fortress of Eternal Torture, hmm?" She tilts her head, slowly looking him and his party up and down.

"Indeed," he says, and you can hear the cold smile despite the mask. "I had scarcely thought to meet the Terror-Maker of the Claw of Dominion. I had been told you were quite the recluse?"

"I am always interested in new material," Hultressa answers sweetly, before simply moving past him to gaze down at Kerillian, who appears to have had some kind of metal cage-like contraption forced into her mouth.

It both keeps her from speaking and from biting her own tongue, while also forcing her mouth open uncomfortably at all times.

"Such as an Asrai," she continues, as if she hadn't just halfway dismissed the nobility nearby.

"…I see," Lord Razorflense says with a sharp exhale in his words, fists clenching momentarily as he forms up behind her in a posture and distance that is just shy of threatening, only to stiffen himself as Johanna silently moves behind him.

Then the noble's two guards start to shift, but unlike the rest of them, the Anath Raema cultist is staring straight at you.

"Who was this?" The huntress asks sibilantly, taking another step towards you.

"A human. I rarely use them as materials for my creations, but this one was special," Hultressa says offhandedly even as she continues to examine Kerillian, who is glaring back up at her. "Why?"

"He is…," the Druchii's eyes widen slightly as she inhales, then whips around to glare at Hultressa. "This is the Hohenzollern!"

Fadni and the other Witch Elf slowly start to rotate their heads towards you, blood drunk and sadistic as they might be, now incapable of missing the hilt of the blade on your back. Meanwhile, Kerillian's eyes swivel away towards you in horror, while the two more aware Whitewings start to react as well.

"The killer of Tullaris Dreadbringer himself, yes, yes," Hultressa shrugs a shoulder without turning around. "Defiant. Too defiant, but of surprisingly acceptable materials. I found a greater use for his body than his brutish soul and miniscule mind ever would."

"Did he suffer?" Fadni asks, entranced as she begins to circle you. "Did he scream?"

"His soul ought to be delivered unto Khaine," the other Witch Elf hisses, snarling almost. "His very existence is blasphemy!"

"It is the Savage Huntress which claims his soul," the huntress cries out, stamping the butt of her spear on the ground hard, making the two Witch Elves whirl about on her, glaring. "It was he who struck the final killing blow to her Avatar! His soul, his flesh…," she glances at Hultressa. "We have much wealth and trophies aplenty to feed your appetite for materials, Terror-Maker!"

At that, Hultressa straightens, and slowly turns about with a vague look of interest on her face.

"Oh? I came here to investigate the Asrai's worth for materials. And now you offer me more?"

"We do-,"

"The Asrai is one thing, the Hohenzollern's soul is another!" Fadni protests. "We-,"

"I spent much to come here, and you informed me that you desired the Asrai for-," Razorflense adds, eyes narrowed.

"I-,"

Cultists and one noble start to argue amongst themselves as you, Hultressa, and Johanna watch. You should have expected this, but then, maybe Hultressa did. Was there a glamor that you didn't realize she'd placed on you before now? No other Druchii had immediately locked onto you like the huntress has. Then again, it's entirely possible that she has something that more mundane Druchii do not, after you frustrated whatever it was their Cult was trying to do in Athel Loren. You can't read the expression on Hultressa's face, especially not on Johanna's face, but can see the horror and outrage on Kerillian's and that of the two Whitewings. None of the prisoners are in any condition or capability to speak, not that it goes noticed as the Druchii argue amongst themselves. All of which becomes moot as Hultressa stamps her own staff on the ground to release a louder than it should be clap of metal to stone, causing all of the arguing to cease.

"This is my newest project, and you speak of me simply surrendering it?" Hultressa hisses archly, dark power flaring from her. "Do you not think," she growls, hand coming down to rest atop one of the skulls on her belt, causing the glowing runes scrimshawed onto it to glow slightly, "That I keep it as it is on purpose? That I do not torment the soul of that creature with every act?"

"But my Lady-," Fadni begins.

"What would you desire in payment for the soul, then?" The huntress interrupts, making both Witch Elves snarl silently as they start gripping their weapons more tightly.

"A price could be reached," Hultressa allows with a sharp exhalation from her nose. "But I am here to look at new stock, not discuss old," she lifts her chin. "Though of course, I am a fey and mercurial creature. Mayhap my mood will improve once the Auction is complete, should matters be pleasing during."

The message is not particularly easy to misunderstand. If she's happy, she might negotiate for your soul, if she isn't, she won't. Which very much includes whether or not she gets Kerillian. Something which you can see the huntress and two Witch Elves realize as their eyes flicker to the Asrai and the Whitewings and then back to her. Lord Razorflense, on the other hand, looks a bit put out that he has been so swiftly dismissed, though if he really is from the other Ark then has none of the wealth and power or even all of the troops he normally would. A lesser party compared to the negotiating power of two Cults, though at this point you can't tell for certain if the worshippers of Anath Ramea outdo the actual Cult of Khaine upon the Claw after everything else.

"Perhaps," the huntress declares, inclining her head slowly though her head turns so that she can lock her gaze onto you with a deep and unabating hunger. "Perhaps."

"Priestess?" Lord Razorflense asks, one eyebrow raised.

A slight rumble shakes the entire building, though none of the Druchii seem unduly concerned.

"It has begun," the huntress sighs, rolling her eyes. "The chattel will be sold off quickly. We must return, that we may gather pelts to lay down at the altar."

"Very well," Razorflense sighs as well, and with that, the other party begins to move.

But just as she passes by, the huntress pauses, eyes narrowing, and then without warning she grasps for your chin, wrenching your head around so she can glare into your eyes with her own bloodshot blue ones. Then those eyes widen with shock as you snap out your own hand around her wrist, and squeeze hard. Blades are out of sheathes almost immediately afterwards, with more shouting in Druhir just about to pick up before Hultressa hefts up her staff and then lets it fall forwards while she holds just the bottommost section of the haft. The head of her staff, glowing with power and Dhar, lands right between your face and that of the huntress. It very much burns your eyes and nose to be this close to it, foul as the Dhar is, but you cannot yet move yourself so freely.

"'Ware, priestess of the Savage Huntress," Hultressa says with an icy cold voice. "Do not be so swift as to grasp for that which is mine, especially one who has protocols and capabilities to defend itself as necessary."

(The Hunters Instincts: 50+20+15+10-20-10+5+5+10-The Huntress' Grudge(20)+Hultressa's Preparations(25)=90/100)

The hand releases your chin, and so you release the wrist which allows the huntress to back away, and only then does Hultressa walk forward while steadily choking her grip up the staff until it is back in normal position. With your sight no longer obscured by a fire an inch away from your eyes, you can see the Johanna is resting a hand on each of the two Druchii guard's shoulders, while the Witch Elves have raised their weapons. Lord Razorflense has his hand on the hilt of his sword, but hasn't actually pulled his weapon free just yet, gaze dancing between the Witch Elves and Hultressa. The mask helps mask most of his wariness, but not all of it. Without losing her gaze upon you, the huntress bows again but more deeply this time.

"My apologies, sorceress," the huntress murmurs softly. "The…awareness and intensity within its eyes deceived me for a moment."

Hultressa looks more like she's seething, and she might well bit, even if for different reasons than the other Druchii might realize.

"Your Ark hasn't had a Terror-Maker worth the name for five centuries," she sneers. "And I find my mood has lessened considerably with such an insult. Go, devotee of the Savage Huntress, go find your pelts. But go," she says harshly.

It visibly pricks the pride of both the huntress and noble lord, but in this instance neither are willing to make a fight of it. Not right now at least. So instead they turn, murmur more apologies, and then leave, their escort Witch Elf looking murderously angry as she follows them out. Which leaves a still angry looking Fadni seething after them, walking to the edge of the room and then glaring at them out of the doorway until they are a good distance away. Only then does she take a more calming breath, and make to turn back around to try and speak again, only to find that Hultressa has pre-empted her.

"I do not wish for any more disturbances in my examinations," Hultressa informs her, eyes narrowed. "Am I understood? I need but a few moments regardless. Besides which, with the Auction begun, time runs short for me to do it anyhow."

Fadni swallowed, opens her mouth to speak, and then glances not at you but at the skull that Hultressa has repeatedly kept her hand on this entire time.

"I…I understand, my Lady. Please, accept my most sincere apologies," she ducks her head, rising up with a vicious sneer. "We should never have allowed those skulking wretches onto the Ark in the first place. I shall ensure that you have a few moments of privacy," she ducks her head again as she says it before she moves back through the door and lets it close behind her.

Only then does Hultressa raise a hand and cause glyphs of greyish energies to appear and then dissipate as if never there in the first place over the doors and walls.

"We are free to speak," she says with a slow exhale.

"What the fuck was that about an Avatar?" Johanna immediately says, turning to look at you.

"Later," you and Hultressa say in unison.

Kerillian jerks upright slightly where she sits in the cage, causing the chains to rattle, eyes wide and unblinking.

"No not fucking later," Johanna protests, "If the whatever those were," she flaps her hand at the door, "Have some kind of divine bloodhound whispering in their ears about you, it would be useful to know beforehand!"

"Fine, you want me to summarize?" You groan, and now the Whitewings are starting to shuffle about in their cages to get a better look at you, even the one previously curled up into a ball. "I ran into a bad situation, met the Everqueen, met an evil dryad-,"

"There are good ones?" Johanna the Talabeclander scoffs under her breath.

"-and ended up in Athel Loren. Did some fighting. Met their Avatar of Kurnous in Orion, and then an Avatar of Anath Raema. There was more fighting, I killed them, the end, now can we deal with this?" You continue rapidly and end with a pointed gesture towards the prisoners.

"Mmnngh," Kerillian manages through the contraption filling her mouth, and you think you see angry tears in her eyes.

"Lies, lies, all lies," the Whitewing still mostly curled up mutters. "Yet more lies. T-the Lady will protect our souls, you w-will not break us," she says into her knees.

"Calm yourselves, we are here to help," Hultressa declares. "Though whether it is freedom we gain, or merely a denial of their collars around your neck, that remains to be seen."

"Could we break them out now?" Johanna asks immediately, making the others turn their heads to her.

"We'd have to get them out of the temple entirely," you huff. "Hard to do that quietly. Especially because Sadrina isn't here."

It would be difficult to rescue the Handmaiden if you blow your way out of the temple and then have to try and get back in. Assuming that the Auction would continue on anyway after such an obvious deception.

"Mmmnngh!" Kerillian tries to say again, shaking her head in clear disbelief, and it is not helped by you coming closer to the cage and kneeling down.

There is only regret, revulsion, and hatred in those eyes as she refuses to let herself hope.

"Listen, Kerillian. It's me, the lumberfoot," you say softly, making her twitch. "Or thunderfoot, as I recall you might have called me at one point."

She shakes her head wildly, more tears in her eyes.

"It is, you'll see," you say as genuinely as you can, though it does come out muffled thanks to the helmet and everything else.

"No, we cannot free them immediately," Hultressa shakes her head. "As frustrating as it may seem, it would be better to outright purchase them."

"But wouldn't that make it hard for you to buy Sadrina instead?" You can't help but ask, even if your first impulse is to simply try and save the ones in front of you.

"It would. But then, purchasing isn't really what is being discussed for her, is it?" Hultressa hums. "Merely enough chaos. If we know who does end up buying her, we can make a move for them, afterwards."

"What about the bombs?" You ask her, making Hultressa close her eyes in thought.

"If I have judged matters correctly – and the bidding does not become too lengthy – we should see detonation as the Handmaiden is brough out. Too early, and we risk them not even bringing her out of safe keeping," she finally says.

"I made a lot of bombs," you say to Kerillian, making her make another muffled unintelligible grunt.

"But if we hesitate, they might not make it that long," Johanna speaks up, shaking her head. "I've had a hell of a time running around on this moving island. Some of the worst I've ever seen. Can we risk just letting them hang out in here?"

"They won't damage them right before the sale," Hultressa clucks her tongue. "Not physically, at least. Yes…I can bid for them, and strongly. We need the sales to go swifter, as the sooner she brings out the Handmaiden, the sooner we can work to rescue her."

Johanna just keep shaking her head, her expression impossible to see through the mask and magic.

"Can't we do something for them?" She stresses, looking at you.

"...is there anything, Hultressa?" You ask the sorceress. "Some kind of...spell, or...,"

Hultressa sucks air through her teeth, tilting her head from side to side.

"Any overly magical workings would be discovered by Alyssa the moment they get to the block," she dismisses.

"More mundane works, then? Did you bring any extra bombs? A scroll, maybe?"

Her expression screws up for a moment before she glances at them.

"They're naked, not even allowed shifts," she mutters before reaching for one of the scrolls on her belt, a smaller one, then scrutinizing the Whitewings. "This would fit in deep in your mouth and throat, but...no, breathing would be too blocked. A bomb, however?"

She withdraws one of the smaller creations you've managed to make, then lets it float in the air before withdrawing a tiny rectangular object. Then she shocks you by tapping it, making a small flicking clicking sound, before a small bit of fire appears as if from nowhere out of one end of it, then does something else which makes the flame cease.

"Possible. Still, anything amiss, anything at all, and we might not even get that far. Even with a smaller bomb and a lighter, the most they could manage is a small distraction, or killing themselves by lighting the bomb whilst inside their mouths with this lighter. I can ensure the wick remains dry enough for that. A way out, if we cannot manage to purchase them ourselves."

Sigmar's balls, she's serious.

"But would it be worth it to do that much? Perhaps, perhaps not," she continues before glancing at you. "All it takes is the right pressure," she demonstrates with the rectangle which causes the light to peek out again. "Easily manageable with teeth or tongue, if you are determined enough."

Choose The Path:
2 Hour Voting Moratorium
[] Punitive: You could pull these four out of these cages right now. The Cult of Khaine is not particularly strong here. It would be difficult, but you have little doubt that you could fight your way out of here. But that might not even be necessary. Hultressa is an incredibly powerful spellcaster. Could she not provide illusions of a sort to make it seem like the prisoners are still there? Perhaps. But you aren't here for just them, you're here for Sadrina. Instead, you might provide some small bombs. It wouldn't do much. It would be as much to make them trust you than anything else, and in the most horrific of needs, to provide a way out if you can't actually rescue them. On the darkest, most ruthless level, them managing to do that much to themselves in the auction would be bad for Alyssa as well.
[] Patience: Too much amiss, and you might miss out on your chance to rescue Sadrina entirely. Horrifically, the Handmaiden might well be worth more to most interested parties than either Kerillian or the remaining Whitewings. On the other, more positively looking hand, if you make sure that nothing is too much wrong with them such as trying to hide bombs in their mouths or anything like that, Hultressa might well be able to more smoothly purchase them and bring them to immediate safety. She is more than wealthy enough, and has announced her desires already, so it can't be taken remiss if she wishes to purchase them. If you judge matters incorrectly, either way, it would be bad for these prisoners regardless. You just have to hope you're making the right decision in letting them be as they are, even if it is only for a short while longer.

 

[torroar]

GM Note: It's...yeah. IRL stuff. You guys know some of it. Here is the update as I could do it. Apologies for delays and any other issues.

Spikes, Horns, and Stone 28
​

This will leave a mark upon your soul, but it is a scar that you will simply have to accept.

"We can't risk it," you sigh, going to rub at your face before the clank of the shell of terror armor around your Ledstali stops you.

Your words do not create some kind of explosion of outrage, some desperate plea or cry, but there is a pointed and marked slump in the bodies of three of the prisoners before you. The one Whitewing who has remained largely curled up this entire time does not seem to change much either. Kerillian's eyes are a mixture of confused and pleading. She got a rather loud crash course into the mysteries and power of black powder weaponry at Salkalten, but given she is an Asrai she is entirely likely to have faced dwarfs wielding the same down from the mountains at some point given the length of elven lives. But what she knows is that you are offering her a weapon, or were, and are now refusing to give it to her. Whatever has happened since you last saw her, the Druchii have deigned to force her mouth open while removing her ability to speak without actually physically cutting out her tongue – presumably so that whoever buys her can have the privilege of doing it themselves if they so desire. The Whitewings are Bretonnian, but they are Bretonnian women, and mercenaries who use subterfuge about their identities besides. More knowledgeable. More able, given that there's nothing in their mouths that shouldn't be there. But whatever the Cult of Khaine has done, whatever the Druchii have done during their imprisonment that has thus far not left them with anything resembling what happened to Eldyra, it has not been harmless. There is not a defiant fire in the eyes of those you see, but rather low burning embers that are flickering out even now. It is harder to tell with Kerillian, admittedly, but she is not standing up and shaking the cage or trying to force herself through the bars like you might have expected of her.

Then again, it's entirely likely that there are some kind of magical reasons for why that is, not simply psychological ones.

"But we will save them," you stress, turning and looking pointedly at Hultressa. "The moment you buy them, what happens?

Hultressa scrunches her face up a small bit before her expression smooths out again.

"Groups are to be remanded into custody of the purchaser's retinue or guards, and escorted to their estates posthaste. Or," she allows with a single-shoulder shrug, "To be placed back into the temporary holding of the auctioneers to be collected at a later time."

Johanna shakes her head, folding her arms over her chest.

"That's unlikely," she proclaims. "Can't give 'em back all to the Cult of Khaine, they're limited in numbers as they are after the slaughtering they took. Can't possibly keep holding them all."

Hultressa points at the vampire and nods.

"Precisely," she says quickly. "Besides, we are not bothering with the chaff, but the prize elements," she glanced back at the others. "They'll be delivered to us most directly, I expect. After all, if you cannot keep what has been sold to you, then you did not deserve it in the long run," she sniffs imperiously.

Part of you, a darkly cynical jester, threatens to arise in that moment. For a brief instant you consider asking if the Druchii even have lawyers, property rights and rules, or does theft only exist as a construct in the mind of those stolen from. Immediately however you dismiss it before it can germinate in your mind any further than that. Of course they have these things. The civilization and people that Malekith and his mother have painstakingly forced into existence demands a cold and brutal order to function at all, lest the excesses of its people and the Gods they worship spill over and overwhelm them to bring about total anarchy. Besides which, this isn't a time for such jokes. Not with the four women in the state they are in just before you, not after you have denied them some kind of immediate peace in the trust that they might be able to remove themselves from the grasp of the Druchii should you fail.

"Great, and we can protect them…how?" You point out, "We just have a few of your creatures compared to everyone else."

"Because the focus will soon enough be beyond us and on the highest prize," Hultressa suggests, though there is a flicker of uncertainty on her face before she blinks. "Not to mention, the explosions, should things go well."

"And how sure are you on the timing?" Johanna asks, and you can hear the cocked eyebrow despite the disguise.

The sorceress inhales and opens her mouth ready to speak before pausing in thought.

(Relative Timing: 63+Significant Preparations(15)+Gruesome Reputation(20)+Growing Presence(15)+Prior Habits(10)-High Alert(20)-Druchii Paranoia(10)-The Event of the Season(5)=88/100)

"Relatively sure," she sniffs. "The compulsions and timing of the releases of fire…relatively sure," she says with a more definitive nod.

"Right…right," you sigh, shaking your head. "Damn it. Damn it," you spit. "But we just…we can't…,"

"We can't afford to risk it," Johanna shrugs, and for the first time since you've been reunited with her you are briefly struck by the tone in her voice.

The Johanna Fuerbach you remember was boisterous. Eager to move, eager to fight, eager to do whatever she wished. Proud. A wandering hero, a genuine adventurer who had gone so far beyond the Empire's borders than most anyone who lived there, yourself included, could have dreamed of. All at a shockingly young age. Then, at the very end, terrified of her own mortality after being wounded in a way that those great and wondrous journeys for all their goods and ills had never done. Ravenous, confused, scared, ashamed, and more as she left with the grudging acceptance of a now dead Grand Theogonist and the Emperor himself. Here, now, she is changed in body and now most definitely in mind. Even were she not a vampire, decades of difference lie between you, but for all of that, there is something which twinges at your mind. Your instincts. Something within you that hears those words, and tilts its head. A single flawed note amidst a tune which becomes all the more noticeable for its singular presence against the rest. It is not contempt. It is not dismissal. It is not a regretful and grudging acceptance like your own.

It is just…something off.

"But we'll rescue them the same," she continues more lightly, though you can't tell if that's because she noticed your muted reaction to the strangeness or not.

"We will," you say before pushing forward, kneeling down by the cage, a movement that is slightly awkward thanks to the extra armor. "Kerillian. Listen to me. We're getting you out of this, all right? Not that much longer. I promise you this."

She cannot respond beyond a choked and muted sound, but there is the slightest twitch of her head which seems like the beginnings of a shaking head.

Of disbelief.

"I know you can't fully trust it, but you'll see," you promise her, your heart raging at your mind's decision as you stand up and go over to the Whitewings, who stare up at you with fear and anger and resentment burning in them. "Your leader, Jaqueline, is alive," you say to them quietly, and watch as all three, even their near comatose member, twitch. "She was never even captured."

"Liar," one of them rasps at you, red rimmed eyes brimming with a few new tears, her lips splitting into an animalistic snarl. "Liar!"

You receive a confirmation to your worries about the cages when she rushes forwards then there is a sizzling crackle of heat and electricity before she screams the second she touches the bars. The mercenary and noble bastard yelps as she falls backwards, clutching at her head as a red and purple glow appears around the bars of the cage. Floating Druhir runes briefly appear before starting to fade, but the glow remains. There is no smell or sign of burning from the woman as she writhes on the floor of her cage, but she continues to clutch at her head a lot longer than you would have normally thought. Save that the glow on the bars continues, and she starts to hack out hard wet breaths as she curls into a fetal position while gritting her teeth hard enough that you are amazed a tooth or ten hasn't cracked apart. Then Hultressa is there, a cold look on her face before she reaches out and touches the bars herself, and immediately the glow fades and the Whitewing relaxes slightly.

"It assaults the inner ear of the occupant, and the mind itself," the sorceress informs you. "Cages like this, for special prisoners, are keyed to specific occupants at a time."

She exhales sharply through her nose.

"Illusions are illusions are illusions. But on occasion, the illusions are real," Hultressa says with a glance towards you and upraised eyebrow.

"All the pain, none of the damage?" You growl, and she nods in response. "Damn them. We are getting you out, understood?" You say to the other two. "We are."

"You will have to forgive me, sir," the sole remaining cognizant Whitewing murmurs to you in Bretonnian-accented Reikspiel, her arms curled up around her legs and chin coming to rest on her knees. "But I cannot believe it. You will have to find your pleasures elsewhere," she says with a small broken smile, lips wobbling.

They won't believe it.

They can't.

You've given them no reason to.

"We will," you promise to her again.

"We need to go so that we can do just that," Hultressa says, "We have seen them, determined their condition, and more importantly, the Cult of Anath Raema is integrating faster into the power structure than I would have thought. The Cult cannot be seen having others allowed in once the bulk sales are done. We must go."

"All right, all right," you sigh, and turn to follow.

None of the Whitewings speak to you again as you leave, lost in their own minds and horrors, and Kerillian cannot speak at all even if she wanted to.

The silence is painful enough, even without the screams of the many other prisoners of the Cult of Khaine you must hear as you pass back through the temple with a too eager young Druchii woman naked but for the blood. Blood which you cannot help but note as you swallow your disgust and hatred and walk in rote formation behind Hultressa has been reapplied and freshened up. No doubt, if you could turn your head without giving the game away, you would be able to tell just which poor bastard around you was the reason for it. On the other hand, given everything else, you do not actually want to. You've seen more than enough to despise the Druchii, and pity them all the same for what Malekith has made of them. They all used to be Asur, once upon a time, as Sadrina once sadly informed you. You do not speak, you do not strike down the young Witch Elf, you simply follow along with a similarly quiet Johanna behind Hultressa until you are once ore out of the satellite torture and holding facility and back out into the vast crowds of Druchii once more.

You are immediately struck by the sounds and sights of a now ongoing Druchii auction. The tension and barely restrained energies are restrained no longer. Noble families, rich families, the Cults, they are still islands of distinct separation from the greater massing crowds of servants and allies and devotees and any other Druchii who if not powerful enough to possibly win a purchase then simply wishes to be part of the event. The seething morass of pride and cruelty is active and shifting, cheering and jeering, roaring and shouting out to try and drown each other out. Then there are those who are silent. Those who must be. Your heart clenches in your chest to see so many slaves. They are outnumbered by the Druchii, of course, for masters of the monstrous art they have been for thousands of years they would not be so foolish as to let themselves be outnumbered in such an environment. The forcibly soulless ones they throw into battle are one thing, as are those working in the farms. This is something else altogether. Every single slave you see is, wretchedly, still in possession of that particular spark in their eyes for all that it gutters and winks in and out. You see dozens of human men and women, more than a hundred in fact, and only a small handful appear to be from the Empire or from the Old World at all. They run the geographic gamut from Norscans to Arabyans, to yet darker skinned individuals who are likely from the Southlands. There are those who's skin is of a different shade and tone, those of Ind, and even more exotic complexions from Cathay and Nippon and possibly Khureshi beyond – for that is the last of the races of civilized humans that you have not yet seen before and now witness. These outnumber those of the Old World, a truly awful way to display just how far the reach of the Druchii is across the globe, as well as their desires. Worse, perhaps, is that despite their circumstances and the bruises and scars on some of them, they are all undeniably of incredible handsomeness and beauty. The sorts to have people write sonnets and poems about, that would have endless attempts at courting from all over on their looks alone. Pinnacles of attractiveness, reduced to accessories for the Druchii.

Then there are the non-humans. You do not see a single halfling or ogre amongst them, but there are others. Dwarfs, trapped in crude hammered metal masks that ape the appearance of beards and hair, with spikes laid inside which constantly pricks them and bleeds them. You can only imagine what was done to shatter them so completely to let them fall onto hands and knees so that they can act as footstools for some of their masters. Otherwise, they are completely shaved, dressed in little but loincloths, collars, and chains. A single dwarf woman is kneeling on both knees, head bowed, a set of metal and hooks and rings attached to the top of her head so that she can act as a drink tray of all things. But whether male or female, all the dwarfs have had their scalps and jaws shaved, stripping that most vital and intrinsic feature in their culture from them utterly. You also see a creature that you have never seen before in your life, for all that it appears to be somewhat like the horrific Bloodwrack Medusae. It is a woman, you think. But there is far less human – or elven you suppose – in its features. It is far more serpent than not, with a vibrant green and yellow pattern all along its length, with a cobra's hood stretched from the top of the head across the shoulder and past them along the ribs. There is some femininity about it's features, but the face is somewhat more snubbed like a snake, and fully scaled besides. The whole of the jaw is encased in an elegantly made muzzle which has then been kept in place with thick chains, with other such chains and bindings placed along the body. House Cruelbarb banner flies there, above the thing, the woman? You can't quite see if there's any submission in it's eyes, because they have been plucked from the sockets. The only thing you can think of is one of the so-called Naga of Khuresh.

In the end, though, perhaps inevitably, you find yourself picking out the elven slaves in the crowd. More than there would otherwise be, you know, before Eldyra sought to act with speed and heroism and unjustly rewarded by Morai-heg for it. These are far more bruised and bloodied than any of the other slaves. Whether or not it is because they are not yet broken, or simply because they are Asur and thus shall forever receive such treatment by the bitter Druchii, it is noticeable compared to all of the other slaves. No greater cruelties are given to any other slaves than elven slaves by elven slavers, it seems. None are so bad off as the ones in the Tor of Dominance, but that doesn't mean anything other than they might not have had the time to get to that level just yet. Some of them have had their hands broken so badly and repeatedly that they are not hands any longer, just misshapen bruised lumps of flesh and broken bone poking at the skin from below just shy of tearing out. Others have lost an eye. One wears their own tongue on a necklace around their throat. Another looks like they've been hung, and not a few times, yet has been forcibly kept alive, with a silken rope around their throat even now that their master forcefully tugs on now and again for fun, bringing a whimper and full body tremble every single time it happens. How many of them are noble sons and daughters of Tiranoc, and how many of them the souls that followed them? Even one is too many. The Druchii have far more than that.

Worst of all, there is nothing you can do, nothing that would actually result in anything.

You can only wait, and listen to the braying cries of the ones who have enslaved them.

It is simply impossible for all Druchii in the crowd to actually be heard, but again, that is not the point. The point is to participate, to be one more cog in the greater machine, and they are desperate for it. A return, you know, to normalcy. A promise of power and regularity in a time of vast uncertainty ever since they were blown to smithereens at the gates of a city that they ought to have ransacked and ravaged and ruined without any effort and only enjoyment. The gargantuan statue of Khaine hangs above it all, as if the God of Murder himself is gazing down with malicious glee at his most devoted people. The Witch Elves, the so-called Brides of Khaine, are no longer working the crowds. Instead, they have gathered themselves around the large pyramidal sacrificial altar directly at the statue's feet, the around which all the crowd has pressed in and gathered. They are all splattered and covered in blood now, completely drenched in it, and are placed all about the different tiers of the altar's steps and sections. Some at the corners are turned inwards, kneeling and praying to their God. Others are facing out, triumphant and joyous as so many eyes and attention is turned their way, exulting in it, lounging against the stone like lionesses after a hearty meal, eyes flashing with malicious glee. None are speaking, however, none are shouting out. None of them are the star of the show.

No.

That privilege now belongs to Alyssa Voidreaper and her sorceresses.

"ONE HUNDRED SOULS, SOLD!" A husky shout calls out across the crowd, a magical undertone and echoing throb as it echoes further and farther than it otherwise could have.

Much to your disgust and anger, the Ark's new Supreme Sorceress looks utterly resplendent tonight. Unlike Hultressa, Alyssa has clad herself in the same manner as when she worked to betray and ensure the death of her mother at the top of the Tor of Dominance. Caps of silver and black leather scarcely larger than half the span of your palm covers her chest, the greater expanse of her torso, hips, and legs exposed save for a wrap of black silk and high heeled boots which reach her knees. No, not high heeled. High spiked, with serrated blades sticking out the sides of the things. Much like you had seen from Hultressa in the past a few times, a cloying nimbus of Dark Magic visibly surrounds her, outlines her in coruscating fell light upon the exuded darkness. Unlike Hultressa, she bears no sword, but does bear a large staff, this one large and elaborate, a near shovel-head blade shape for the bottom and an upraised black sphere of pure Dhar clasped in silver fingers. Literal fingers, at least disturbingly anatomically correct, at least ten of them sprouting from the staff to hold the sphere in place. Unless they are actually full literal fingers, transmogrified by magic somehow. Which is entirely possible. Her own black hair is separated into thick braided segments behind her with gleaming gemstones carved into solid clasps, a crownlike headpiece which also frames her face also present that almost gives her a draconian aspect with how it is shaped and textured. She stalks back and forth atop the main altar itself, the sacrificial table there a disgusting edifice of beautiful stonework, carefully carved with channels and runs so that all of the blood that flows from it will spread evenly down the pyramid and presumably line it in flush crimson when it is being put to normal operations.

Alyssa is indeed the Supreme Sorceress, and she is therefore rightfully attended to and surrounded by her loyal Coven.

Multiple sorceresses are also placed upon the pyramid, sharing it with the Witch Elves, with their own summoned threat displays of sheer magical might. As Alyssa speaks, they cast out lights and sounds and booming thunder. You also have little doubt that they are also present to provide magical wards against all a manner of threats from reaching their chosen master. Some of them are not even standing, but are suspended in the air, levitating in place with nothing but their magic rather than relying upon a Dark Pegasus or something else like that. You can immediately see both the symbolic and tactical advantages of them raising up in the air like that, though you have to wonder just how much of a drain it is on their reserves to keep themselves airborne. If simply floating around with magic was an option, then you're quite sure that Hultressa would have literally flown away with Gwendolyn before now. So you have to hope that it is something that is actually quite demanding of them, for all that it is an effective showpiece. It looks like most of the remaining Coven is here now, in fact. Some of them died in the usurpation of Screamtaker, certainly, but not nearly all of them. Plus, those that remained afterwards were apparently pardoned. Or signed contracts binding their souls or something, now that you think of it. Because you definitely recognize a few of the faces of those Druchii women who had once upon a time been screaming fury at one another as you fought Tullaris.

"May they serve House Kalghain well, my lord!" Alyssa continues with a boisterous cackle, pointing towards one noble gathering, though you don't recognize the emblem on their armor.

Then again, Hultressa told you of the most majorly powerful Houses on the Ark, not every minor petty family. Either way, the Druchii lord in charge of their delegation nods with a satisfied look on his face, the rest of his family and attendants luxuriating in the attention that is being foisted upon them by everyone. The spread of which Druchii decided to attend while wearing armor like Hultressa and those who are dressed in absolute finery that would probably be ruinously expensive in the Empire seems somewhat random, though that is likely just your general unfamiliarity with their society and the specifics of the people present. In this case, Lord Kalghain is wearing a mixture of robes and embroidered silk layers, with detailed beadwork and flashing golden lining, his arms folded across his chest. A human woman with a collar around her neck holds a tray upright for him to have a selection of drinks from, while another human slave lays on the ground weeping tears from his eyes and blood from his wounds. A young Druchii, young enough that you can actually tell their youthfulness as something older than Gwendolyn but younger than Eldyra, stands over the man with a blood-crusted barbed whip in hand. With the success of the lord's bid, however, he appears to have completely forgotten the man he'd been torturing for whatever reason, clapping along and nodding with joy at the purchase.

Of course, that's just those who are appreciative of the victory. There are plenty of Druchii scowling at the successful bid, though many of those who are openly displaying such anger or outright hate are those who appear to be of far lesser means than the noble himself. There are a number of other noble parties that do not show fury or joy, simply hold a cold dispassionate stance to the victory. There are a great many things at play here, and only some of them you can reckon with your own limited human senses. Obviously, the slightest raising of an eyebrow, a nonverbal sound of any sort and make, these are the things by which the game of politics and power can be played, but you do not have the greater senses of an elf. Nor a vampire, come to think of it. Sounds that you would not hear, intakes or exhalations of breath, are something that others with pointed ears might catch. Movements too quick for your eyes to catch, and the like. A cold, broken, and darkened mirror to the society of the Asur, Asrai, and Eonir no doubt.

"Only a few lots are left!" Alyssa proclaims, drawing one hand high in the air and making a grandiose sweeping gesture, "We have three hundred youths, none older than a single decade of life, skillfully collared from the pathetic chattel of the northernmost isles! Admittedly," she shrugs slyly, "Perhaps a slight bit tainted by the Dark Gods, but what care have we when their souls might serve the Cytharai instead…?" She glances out meaningfully at the various Cult representatives, "Or as entertainment in the arenas?" She then looks towards the banners and sigils of the Houses Cruelbarb, Direblaze, and Spitethorn.

The bidding begins immediately, and Alyssa luxuriates in it. The screams, the yelling, she soaks it all in as if it is the finest wine, the richest stew, the most potent of aromatics, and more. Everyone is paying attention to her, begging her almost, so that they can do whatever they want with the children of Chaos worshippers. There are offers of gold, of course, of stores of gemstones and the like. Others promise stockpiles of arms, or soldiers. Others offer saves of their own. Promises of favor and more are thrown about, of outright exchanging a few of their sworn spears and swords to her in a few cases. Others, like the Cults, promise the favor of their Gods, which is to be expected. It's somewhat difficult to say what is more compelling about arguments put paid by the different cultists, because really, the favor of one Cytharai or another seems to be entirely up to personal opinion as to which is more important. Though you cannot miss that there is no bidding from the Cult of Khaine at all. After all, all of their people are up on the pyramid, or working the crowds, none of them actually demanding some of the children for their Cauldrons of Blood. Though that doesn't mean much. It's entirely likely that Alyssa already dedicated plenty of the enslaved stock to them already before the Auction even properly began.

You know that their parents worshipped Chaos. You know this. Hultressa has likely not spoken the full truth of many things to you, but in this, you do not have much cause to doubt her. How much does it take to irrevocably taint a soul? How much can be done to bring salvation and redemption? Are they as accursed as beastmen are, to have the Dark Gods gave a full-bodied grip upon their very essence and being since birth, doomed to be drawn into the service of Chaos whether or not they are willing? Or are they children, who might not yet be so fully damned? It's possible that their souls were already sold into service into the Realm of Chaos by their parents, or grandparents, or culture or regardless. But it is also possible that that is not yet true. These, amongst others, are the thoughts that begin to haunt you as the bidding goes on. A bidding that you cannot even begin to react to, and instead have to force yourself to remain stoic and unmoving even as some of the Druchii serving Atharti make crowing detailed mention of a great many things do with them that makes you imagine Sigmar Himself driving Ghal Maraz down on the Goddess' skull and shattering it evermore. You cannot even turn your head to see what expression that Hultressa might be making, though after a thousand and more years of this she undoubtably has hidden whatever true feelings on the matter she has deeper within her than Karak Ungor could reach into the earth.

"Sold!" Alyssa announces, and cheers rise up from part of the crowd while jeers erupt from other portions. "Now, now…there is yet more to come!"

She does not lie, in this case at least.

A Jarl of the islands, their leader and greatest champion, is sold to the arenas, while his three wives are separated out to the Cults of Anath Raema, Atharti, and Hekarti. His son and heir is sold to the Cult of Estreuth, and you can only speculate on what horrors that the Herald of Famine and Drought might desire for their sacrifices. Some of their thralls are divvied out to others, and it seems that in the fighting, a good amount of work was put into capturing as many of the Chaos tribesmen as possible. The Druchii do not even deign to grant them the dignity of naming their tribe, such as the Dolgan or Hung or Tong or so on. They are simple chattel to the hungering desires of the Claw of Dominion. Plenty of them are sold off and away to slave away in the depths of the Ark in the aquafarms, or to have hard labor clearing the rubble from the two that Natasha so thoroughly destroyed. On and on it goes, the last few lots of the lower tiers of the sales that Alyssa has to offer. You see none of these peoples despite it all, and in truth, they will likely only know of their fates as they are taken up from the slave quarters and taken to their new destinations.

It is one of the most revolting and disgusting things you have ever had to withstand in your life.

Not the filth of Nurgle like you faced in Nordland.

Not even the vile energies of the Chaos Dwarfs in the depths of Karak Ungor.

Yet it still manages to make you feel so terribly, terribly unclean and wretched as you stand there and do nothing.

Hultressa has had to listen to this, to participate in this, for a thousand years.

You do not know if you could possibly had contained yourself for a single one.

"Sold!" Alyssa interrupts your boiling pit of hatred and self-loathing growing in you with a slam of her staff and a thunderous echoing boom that echoes out across the whole of the Temple of Khaine and largely silences the crowd. "May they provide much sport in your arena, Lord Direblaze."

"I shall ensure it, Supreme Sorceress!" Lord Direblaze calls back confidently, many in his retinue agreeing with him as he says it. "Give me but a month, and I shall prepare for you a feast for the senses, a delight of carnage, a glorious showing cruel wonder!"

Alyssa cracks a smile, one eyebrow quirking upwards as she tosses her hair – an act that you have to work to not recoil at the familiar sight of – while shifting her weight and cocking her hip.

"I look forward to it," she says sweetly to the very first non-Coven Druchii on the Ark to kneel to her, before rolling her head from side to side and then back to limber up a bit. "Now then!" She half-turns a step, and gestures with her free hand. "Let us now view…true prizes!"

There comes the sound of scraping and clanging metal before a trio of sorceresses strut into view with wide spaces in the crowd cleaving open for them. Levitating in the air with the aid of their magics, come four cages that smoothly slide through air without a single bob or dip in their height or swaying in their movement. Three Whitewings, three Bretonnian women, sit in their cages. Or rather, two of them do, while the third remains huddled in fetal position. The two of them have their eyes out and searching, dancing about the crowds with fear and anger on their faces, though you do note as their gazes lock onto Hultressa for a brief moment before looking all around and then ending up focusing on Alyssa herself who looks upon them proudly. Kerillian, on the other hand, trembles, but has forced herself to stand. She doesn't dare grab onto the bars of the cage, and you can completely understand why now, but she stands all the same, fists balled up at her sides. Anger is clear on her face, even despite the grotesque contraption forcing her mouth open and blocking it all the same, the claws of the device deeply dug into her jaw and cheekbones. The rambunctiousness of the crowd all but disappears as the cages come closer, their naked occupants drawing closer and closer as the crowd parts to let them through. There is nothing, nothing at all, that could be considered human in the faces of the Druchii around you now. Only intense interest and speculation, and on a few cases, wanton desire. Though for what pleasure in particular, you can't say, given how many of them are caressing the hilts of their swords with those looks on their faces. The Cult of Anath Raema are especially rapt, as are many of the representatives who used to be on the Eternal Fortress of Torture, though their attention seems to be solely upon Kerillian while disdaining the Bretonnians entirely.

"Before you lie those who dared," Alyssa draws the hissed final word out as she looms over the audience, drawing them inward with magnetic shared hatred, "To invade our home. Who thought themselves righteous, thought themselves glorious, thought themselves greater than the Druchii!"

Unlike before, the crowd is not nearly so loud. At least, not traditionally. The cold burning hate in them on the other hand seems to choke the very air. The anticipation thick enough that a Runefang would have a bit of difficulty in cutting through it. Despite none of them actually doing it, it certainly feels as if the hundreds of Druchii all around you are stepping forward. Some of them are in fact leaning in, even if it is near infinitesimally. Alyssa recognizes it as well. Gone is the bombastic barker of before, now turned something much more disdainfully superior and calm. She sneers greatly before with a gesture; she draws up all four levitating cages until they are of level with her so that she can snap her fingers and drop them with a loud boom onto the top of the pyramid. The sound is short of deafening, and yet the impact and shock of it appears muted somehow within the cages. Otherwise, you'd imagine that they'd all have been sent bouncing directly into the bars. The Supreme Sorceress then begins to slowly stalk back and forth amongst the cages, hips rolling with each step. She raises a hand, and one of the Whitewings flinches back, and she lets loose a small derisive chuckle.

"These three thought of themselves as warriors. To take to the skies…!" Alyssa raises one hand up again slowly before she clenches it into a fist. "To face off against some of our best, to contest our dragons, our might, our prowess! And yet they fell as vermin. As ugly stones!" She growls with a cutting gesture to the side. "Yet their greatest insult? Not their paltry defiance at the coast, but rather their very existence! To dare to even breathe the air of the world which belongs wholly and utterly to the Druchii! To look upon our stars, our soil, our oceans, and not fall to their knees and slit their own throats!" She punctuates with a slam and echoing thunderous boom from her staff. "Their punishment…?" She gestures to the crowd. "Is to be determined this very night…." She drawls with a smirk on her face.

The crowd erupts.

"Ten thousand-!"

"Five of my best-!"

"Bolts of finest-!"

"Our might House would-!"

"I claim them."

The crowd goes silent.

Alyssa's smirk freezes on her face, even as her head tilts slightly to the side and she swivels smoothly on her heel to look down directly at her own sister. Hultressa's voice was smoothly carried with the slightest aid of her magic, not a booming bellow or battlefield crossing shout, but rather that same low smoky voice in purely conversational tone and volume is what reaches the ears of everyone throughout the center of the Temple of Khaine. Supreme Sorceress beholds Terror-Maker, neither of them even blinking. None of the Druchii dare even whisper as the silence stretches on, the languid lounging of the Witch Elves replaced with them pushing off from the stone and standing with wide eyes. The other members of the Coven that Hultressa is nominally a member of cease their undulations and magical expressions of power and presence, and turn to look at her as well. How did she go unnoticed this long? Surely not. She's wearing an entire panoply or armor. Or is it that they regarded her and moved on, assuming that she had simply come to witness the Auction in a showing of presence and power to shore up such things without actually bidding on anything, to remain notable in the anarchic aftermath of the structures of control and power shifting so greatly on the Claw of Dominion? Either way, you thought the pressure emanating from the crowd of Druchii was strong before, it is something else altogether now as they focused purely on Hultressa now – and by extension, you and the rest of her retinue. Especially as you can see the huntress and cultist of Anath Raema speaking to another woman who is outright brawny not just by elven but human standards as well. Taller as well. She wears at least three separate human skins atop her own flesh, with heads of slain men and elves and one dwarf on her belt, a spear cast in the same image as the Avatar you killed in Athel Loren held in one of her hands. Said other woman's head turns like a shifting cannon on its wheels to stare directly at you. Not Hultressa. You.

"Hultressa…," Alyssa practically caresses the name with her tongue as it emerges from her mouth, head slowly tilting to the other side.

"Alyssa," Hultressa says back flatly.

"They gave grave insult, their crimes innumerable, but I must confess…," Alyssa places a hand in the center of her chest and adopts a look of bewilderment. "I am surprised to see you bid at all!"

"Do any wish to contest the worth of my bid?" Hultressa says to the crowd instead of responding specifically to her sister, which makes a bit of fire jump into Alyssa's eyes that you can see even from here out of the corner of your eye without moving your head. "No?" She adds, after the crowd remains silent, then cranes her head around to look up at Alyssa again. "Besides, one of them is clearly broken already," she notes with a snort.

Back and forth heads and gazes turn between the two of them, this time once more looking up at the cages where indeed one of the Whitewings remains huddled.

"With enough effort, the screams of a twice-broken may be that much more delicious," Alyssa points out.

"I am aware," Hultressa gives the slightest of nods. "And yet. Effort can cost all the more."

The Supreme Sorceress' lips curl once more, but it is not a smirk as before. It is something altogether uglier and more sullenly hateful.

"Perhaps. You deign to claim them? Perhaps. Tell me…," she spreads her arms to the sides, still holding her staff. "Then what is your bid?"

Hultressa lifts her chin and does not hesitate.

"Ten percent of all my wealth, as last accredited and determined by the accounting of the Crone."

Alyssa's mouth parts slightly before her lips thin together even as her eyes widen just that small bit more.

"Well!" She laughs and then tosses her hair again as she stalks away on her stage to glance out at other portions of the crowd. "A member of my Coven asks of you all a question! Are there any who would contest her bid? Any who would wish to give more than ten percent of all the wealth of the Bringer of Sorrow? Any who wishes to offer up more than the Terror-Maker of the Claw of Dominion? Hmm?" She adds with a pointed hum, only to sniff and shrug when none dare to do so. "So be it," she huffs and then glances back down the pyramid. "They shall be yours, dear Hultressa!" She says with magnanimity that you are quite sure she does not actually feel.

Immediately, the cages are lifted up by Alyssa with another gesture and then with a point towards Hultressa they begin floating downwards within the circle of clear space marked out by the terrors. With a loud clang, they land, the Whitewing's eyes still wide and disbelieving as they stare out at the world around them. The third of their number barely moves besides the jostling. You've been hurt before, dragged underneath the keel of a ship in the waters, and more than once during your training have worked out just how long you can stagger around and fight while blood is filling your lungs from puncture wounds or other internal bleeding. You've experimented with plenty more during the training, and know what it feels to be strangled and choked, to suffocate, to be crushed beneath great weight in case an avalanche ever falls upon you without killing you outright. It still feels stifling to have the Druchii stare at you as they all are now.

"Another prize, then!" Alyssa spins on her heel and now approaches Kerillian. "Some of you have heard, no doubt, of the Asrai, our most erstwhile cousins…reaching an accord with Ulthuan," she spits on the ground.

Finally, the crowd feels able to react properly, and does so with great vigor. Hissing and spitting. Growling. Some of them go so far as to shout about betrayals and fools, hurling abuse towards Kerillian in the extreme. If this were the Old World, you imagine that filthy rotting vegetables and stones would be pelting the Asrai this very moment. Not here, though, not when any of said thrown items would end up splattering onto the holy sacrificial altar of Khaine. If a rotten apple got thrown and splatted onto the altar, whoever threw it would probably see themselves flayed alive and kept alive long enough that they could scrub the stain clear with rags made out of their own skin. Or something like that. Either way, Druchii take hating things to an artform and then some. Your grasp of Eltharin is incredibly basic, and in this case, fails you utterly. Not simply because of the sheer volume of the cacophony, but the variety. What little you are able to understand disturbs and disgusts you, and much of it seems anatomically improbable. Though that latter portion may not be so improbably with ones such as Hultressa able to make and twist about flesh like it is dough.

"Indeed, this one fought alongside the humans and Asur at Salkalten! And her mouth…," Alyssa lets loose a short bubbly laugh, entirely too cheerful for the subject at hand. "Well! If you do not end up cutting out her tongue within a day of having her, then I will applaud you! Of course, perhaps you want her to keep it, to better hear her scream your praises once she is yours. Unlike those," she gestures casually at the Whitewings, "This one, at least, was a true fighter! An elf of some low centuries, reasonably skilled!"

Out of everything so far, that appears to be the one that makes Kerillian try and let loose a low muffled gurgle through the obstruction device, which only makes Alyssa laugh more.

"What shall we have for her, then?"

"Ten-thousand gold-,"

"A hundred of my best combat slaves!"

"Gold, trophies, and sworn hunters and huntresses to heed your call! The Arch-Slayers of Anath Raema would join your hunts for two score years!" Bellows the leading priestess of the Cult above the others, and Alyssa seems to find that bid particularly enticing as she begins to walk over to that side of the pyramid.

"Give her to us, Supreme Sorceress, so that we might scour Isha from her soul, the little wastrel!" A delighted breathy voice calls out, a spectacularly curvaceous Druchii woman from where she has been lounging on an outright bed that was carried into the arena, the other servants of Atharti echoing her. "Potions, pleasure, and bodies aplenty will flow into your coffers and holdings!"

Alyssa pauses in her steps, and takes her time turning about on her heel again. The self-satisfaction on her face is quite evident as, minor friction with Hultressa besides, this is what she wanted out of the Auction. For all the great and powerful to try and ply her with wealth and favor and obedience. And they're doing it. Throwing themselves at her, practically. In the meantime, Hultressa appears to pretend disinterest for a moment as she walks over to the cages, and then with a small frown reaches out to the bars. The Whitewings cringe away instinctually, and yet, Hultressa seems unaffected by the cage's enchantments. With a sneer on her face, and a minor pulse of power that a few of the Druchii around you seem to feel given how they start to turn their heads, the ominous power of the cages seems to fade. With a nod, she reaches out and then wrenches the doors open. The Bretonnians, two of them, stare up at her with shock and utter disbelief on their faces. Their third twitches slightly, but does not move, then with a huff Hultressa gestures at Johanna who silently enters the cage and physically drags them out to lay on the ground next to the others.

"I'm not carrying those things all the way back to my chambers," Hultressa loudly scoffs so that other Druchii hear. "You will walk, slaves, or you will be dragged. One is the more pleasant than the other I assure you, seeing as I will heal what skin and tissue tears from you in the process of the latter."

Perhaps unwilling to speak, the two Whitewings carefully lean down and heft their third upright and letting you see her face for the first time since that foolhardy charge you led into the skies above Salkalten. Just like the others, she is physically unharmed, at least now she is. Just like the other Bretonnians, no restraining device has been put on her like has been shoved into Kerillian's own mouth. For all of that, however, you are unsure how much there is left to save in in this woman. In the course of her imprisonment, something has broken in this third Bretonnian, you think. There is a flatness in her eyes, a hollowness that makes your skin crawl and heart break just a little bit more. To put it another way, it is like seeing lit candles and torches in the windows of a home, while knowing that there are no occupants at all. She stands, or rather, is made to stand. She breathes. She even blinks now and again. You can only hope that she has gone somewhere very, very deep inside of herself, like Eldyra managed, and has not managed to depart her still-living body entirely.

"You will follow behind that one," she points at Johanna, who has folded her arms across her chest again. "No matter what, do you understand?" She says pointedly, making the two cognizant Whitewings flinch before nodding in terror.

The master fleshcrafter sniffs and then tosses her hair as she turns about and puts a hand on her hip and glances up at Alyssa again before she tightens her grip on her staff and thumps it down again.

"The Asrai should be mine."

Yet again, the noises of the crowd comes to a halt. This time, however, having breached whatever decorum and protocol that Hultressa has treated with Ark's power struggles and events for however long twice now causes more visible reaction. Audible as well, going by the inaudible whispers you can hear on the edge of your admittedly muffled hearing. You can see some of the floating sorceresses starting to look genuinely concerned as they glance at one another, then at Alyssa, then down at Hultressa again. Two of them on the pyramid even go so far as to sidle closer to one another so they can begin murmuring with a few curt gestures shared between them. Alyssa's smile towards someone or another in the crowd transforms without actually visibly changing. Something about it carries the impression of clenching teeth for just a brief moment before her lips close together and she can transform it into a theatrical smirk as she spins and dips on her heels and a roll of her hips to walk over and look down at Hultressa once more.

"What. A. Surprise!" Alyssa cries out, arm and staff raised as she says it. "Twice! Twice now, have you arisen, Hultressa! To attend is one thing, to bid another! Why, was not the last time when we stole into Khuresh, and you purchased the still living royal spawn of the Blood-Queen?"

"A mere two hundred years ago," Hultressa says with a single-shoulder shrug. "And yet…," she slowly points at Kerillian. "For all the races of men, for all the elves aplenty, for all the dwarfs whether horned and tusked or not, for all the furred and green-fleshed, I have worked my art upon more giants than I have Asrai," she turns the pointing finger and curls it into a fist. "This must be rectified."

Realization bolts across Alyssa's face as her smile becomes something altogether more genuine, disturbingly enough.

"Why…that is right, isn't it?" She says half to herself, a hand cupping at her chin briefly. "Lords, slaves, Shades, warriors, maidens, and more…sold to you as material or offered up with other fees for your arts…but an Asrai? Neither their lesser provincial cousins in the Laurelorn or Athel Loren proper has ever crossed our Ark's decks in sufficient numbers!"

"It was the Asrai that struck out at Morathi herself," Hultressa adds, and the crowd is flushed with many quiet agreements and shared looks of anger. "And now they seek to join hands with the Asur? Their shield of Bretonnians is laid upon the coasts and lands between us and them," she tilts her head at the Whitewings. "There is much to learn. Much to gain. Much to punish."

"I do not disagree, dear Hultressa!" Alyssa cries out, dark fires in her eyes. "Filthy little creatures, aren't you," she crows as she turns on Kerillian. "To challenge the greatest sorceress of all! Pfah! A mere slave, a mere servant? You do not deserve such kindness!"

"The Asrai betrayed Anath Raema, let her be hunted in turn!" The head priestess of the Savage Huntress shouts out.

A rather large contingent of Druchii agree, shouting and shaking fists.

"The Cult speaks true, Hultressa," Alyssa says, gesturing towards them. "What could you offer to be worth more than the satisfaction and retribution they seek?"

Hultressa works her jaw, though whether it is feigned or not you simply can't tell.

"I offer you a feather, Alyssa," she finally declares.

Alyssa inhales sharply, as do many of the elves of the Claw, while those of the Eternal Fortress seem less in the know.

"Hultressa…," Alyssa laughs a little in disbelief, eyes now narrowing. "The power within that fragment…,"

You are relatively sure you know what is being offered, at this point. Not entirely certain, and certainly not of the full scope, but you remember well the daemonic things kept thoroughly bound within Hultressa's quarters. Creations and entities of the Dark Gods, held up to be studied and perhaps destroyed. As well as other such things from other races around the world. What the feather is, where it came from, you can only speculate. But clearly there was a lot more to it than the relatively simple prison it outwardly appeared to be kept in. You slept near the damn things, and that alone should possibly be all the more worrisome save for the fact that Hultressa clearly spent plenty of her time in the area and would not have done so if she was certain of her wards and protections.

"I have wrested what knowledge I desire from it," Hultressa acknowledges with a single nod. "And now I offer it to you in turn."

There is naked avarice not just on Alyssa's face, but on that of the rest of the Coven as well.

"The bid is accepted!" Alyssa hisses eagerly. "The daemon's secrets will not merely be yours any longer, Hultressa, but the entirety of the Coven!"

Cheers go up from the sorceresses present, with more muted applause from the crowd. Some do not seem happy, not at all, specifically the Cult of Anath Raema. Others are regarding Hultressa with much more discerning eyes than before. The kind of power and wealth that she is throwing around must be considerable. You've known that she was wealthy, but how wealthy is wealthy? A thousand years to build it up, and though she clearly appreciates great luxury and finery, there is an air of frugality that Hultressa manages to hold. Likely because she makes her own equipment, gear, potions, and so on. One who makes things for themselves rarely has to pay as much as might be charged by someone looking to purchase. Though you cannot help but wonder just what the feather actually is worth, given that she so brazenly displayed it in the very first chamber one enters when one comes into her domain. Then again, it's just as possible that doing exactly that is a dominance display. Look what I have in my possession, dare you try and steal it? Or something like that. Either way, no matter what the Cult of Anath Raema thinks, the cage containing Kerillian is sent down with far greater care than the Whitewings were allowed, not even thumping or clanging harshly upon the ground. Hultressa looks over the Asrai with clinical interest, even as she reaches out and dismisses the painful enchantments on it like before. Kerillian's all-black eyes widen slightly at this, but even then it takes a moment for her to dare to actually reach out and put her hands around the bars. She flinches as she does it, but squeezes against them all the same.

"You are going to need to behave, if you wish to live beyond the next while, Asrai," Hultressa informs her, but Kerillian's eyes are darting from her to you and then Johanna before scanning all around them. "Great as your stealth capabilities might be, you are surrounded by elves now, girl. Druchii warriors and lords, and the Cult of the Savage Huntress greatly desire to make a trophy out of you. Do not think to try and simply flee…or do," Hultressa sniffs with an utterly dispassionate look on her face. "And die."

Only then does the sorceress open the cage to let Kerillian out. Unlike the Whitewings, the Asrai doesn't immediately leave the cage, eyes locked onto Hultressa before sliding to you, then back to her. A faint bit of moisture gathers around the edges of the plug as she presumably tries to say something or even just shift her jaw slightly, before her eyes narrow and with hunched shoulders she steps out of the cage. She does not go so far as to lift her chin, to try and hold herself high, because there is nothing about her current state which could possibly allow it. It is not that she could not hold onto her pride and try to do so, it is that surrounded as she is by Druchii there are only so many outcomes that could result from it. None of them particularly pleasant for her. Though further discussion or thought on it hardly matters much as Alyssa creates a rolling wave of silence over the entire crowd. It is a disconcerting thing to become utterly unable to hear anything at all so quickly, especially when there remains a single source of sound. Not your own heartbeat. Not a single breath escaping from so many pairs of lips. Not the click and grind of metal and leather on stone or skin. Nothing at all.

Nothing but Alyssa Voidreaper.

"Now then…my fellow Druchii…,"

It is as if she is directly murmuring into your ears. Personally present and so close that you could be forgiven for thinking that she is just shy of pressing her lips into them. Breathy and quiet, salacious and hungry. Many of the Druchii around you stiffen at the sensation of it, others lean in, while most seem to simply focus with even greater anticipation before upon the pyramid and the one at the pinnacle of it. All of the other sorceresses are focused upon her as well, no longer the crowd. The Witch Elves push off from the stone and turn about so that they can gaze up at her. All do so. It is unescapable. Not a wholly magical effort, either, or at least not purely. The undercurrent of malice, of hate, of anger, all that is carried into the mind and soul and body when you are upon grounds consecrated in the name of Khaela Mensha Khaine, seems to grow taut. Not silent, not quite, but less heavy somehow. Instead, as if a demigoddess herself, Alyssa in silence draws her arms out and draws all the attention of everyone else wholly to her.

"Cruel…merciless…mighty…Druchii."

With each word, you see smiles split themselves into being upon so many pale faces.

Emphatic praise of their race does seem to be one of the finest sweets to elves.

"So strong. So deadly. And yet…," Alyssa frowns as she then reaches out with her free hand, other still tightly holding her staff.

The hand seems to claw outwards, to grasp something, and then she twitches it back as if stung.

"We are bloodied, Druchii," she hisses with deceptive lightness.

The preening, the smiling, it all becomes a low sea of hisses and growls spread throughout the entire crowd. Many of the more powerful Druchii do not go so far as that, but instead scowl or clench fists without being so unrestrained as to make more audible and open displays of their anger. The higher lords and the like, those who have for one reason or another in the course of their long lives likely presided over at least one defeat that they managed to live through, manage to keep looks of general disdain and nothing more. Hultressa, for instance, is one of this, simply lifting her chin a single increment with a cold look on her face, while the High Priestess of Atharti merely works her jaw the once as she lounges and manages to not tighten her fist on the goblet of wine she clutches hard enough to break it. If anything, the servant of the Elven Goddess of Pleasure manages to make herself look at ease after a bare second more while downing her wine and proceeding to lounge all the more on her bed.

"And why is that?" She asks them all, looking out upon them, until the silence stretches long enough that you wonder if she actually is waiting for someone to speak up before she finally speaks again. "So long did we kill and ravage and ruin the world, and for years did we scour Albion as we sought to tear its secrets free! Yet!" She raises her fist and clenches it again. "Here, now, we lay in repose…and why?"

The staff rises and then slams down, releasing a peal of thunder.

"Treachery," she hisses through gritted teeth. "Treachery and foolishness! Drunk upon her own power, her arrogance, did Mellis Screamtaker take us up and away from Albion when we were on the cusp of victory, to natter about the coastlines of the Northern Wastes and skirt towards the easternmost reaches of Naggaroth!"

Ugly dark murmuring in Druhir tinged with the Black Speech of Chaos begins to fill your ears.

"Do not dare deny it!" Alyssa shouts pointedly, "Were it not for her, we would not have bothered with the pathetic human wretches until we were empowered beyond even Ghrond itself by Albion's secrets! Instead, because of her," she spits on the ground, "Albion's ancient defenses were raised!"

The murmuring bursts into shouts, into anger, and in one case you see a slave be outright struck dead by one seething Druchii woman. No one reacts to her snapping the man's throat and stomping upon his quickly shattered skull.

"We could not return…and so instead she bandied about revenge, restitution, and could not even manage that!" She gesticulates wildly with her staff for a moment before she lets it slide back into normal grip while the crowd roils.

Hells, you can feel it yourself, the anger and murderous impulses that have been buzzing at the edge of your awareness and starting to pulse in your blood since you stepped into the temple growing worse.

"And why…?" Alyssa's eyes flare with dark fires as she draws the word out yet again. "Because yet again, we, the true inheritors of the legacy of all elvenkind, were thwarted by the betrayers! By the damned Asur!" She howls the word.

A howl that goes up from the rest of the Druchii as well, Hultressa joining in with it as the seething millennia old bitterness of their kind wells forth like poison drawn up into open air from the vein.

"It was they who prepared the battlefield, and it was they who managed to convince the elves of the Laurelorn to join them, and were it not for elven magics and elven prowess, we would have razed that pathetic place to the ground!" Alyssa goes on, stomping one foot as she declares this unalienable truth to the world, one that the whole of the crowd seems to violently agree with. "Were it not for the Asrai and Asur, we would be this very moment crafting a mountain of their children, filled the cauldrons with the blood of their dead, and set loose a symphony of sorrow from their flayed open throats across the whole of the filthy land that those degenerated brainless stinking primitives!"

An ocean of furious sound crashes into your ears despite the muffling of the armor. Is it purely the fury of mortals, or is Khaine adding something to it? It's difficult to say, though you certainly feel your own rage welling up from within at this frankly insulting depiction of the battle.

"Once, long ago, they spurned their rightful King, and those mewling indolent fools threw us from Ulthuan! But oh…one day…," Alyssa draws the crowd in as she goes from screaming to near whispers. "One day, we shall have our revenge in full. Alas, Druchii!" Alyssa presses the back of her hand to her forehead and half-swoons. "Alas, I cannot offer you that. Yet. But what I can offer you…is a taste of it," she promises with a seductive grin before cocking her hip and gesturing towards the heavens.

High, high above, so high that you can barely see it through the shadows of the night sky and scattered starlight, there is a flash of red light at the very top of the crown of the gargantuan statue of Khaine that scrapes at the heavens. That light grows brighter as it descends, soon enough revealed to be one more sorceress atop some kind of metallic disc which has four long heavy chains connected to it which are latched to a cage. The cage itself is far more elaborate than the ones that the others were locked in, with small gargoyles of shrieking elven children at each of the four corners of its top and bottom. Tears of red blood seem to drip continually from the eyes. Within is none other than Sadrina, Handmaiden of the Everqueen. Of her majestic raiment there is no sign. That which was sewn and forged for one of the personal bodyguards and agents of the Everqueen Herself is gone from her. Neither her armor nor her arms. Unlike the Whitewings or Kerillian, however, she is dressed in finery. Not even Druchii style either. A beautiful azure and emerald dress clads her form, but everything about the situation renders it somehow all the more disturbing to see her in it. No shoes cover her feet, however, and no jewelry has been given to her. Instead of a necklace, there is a shimmering obsidian collar around her neck.

"I bring before you, Druchii," Alyssa gestures gleefully to the cage as it is gently placed upon the altar. "A servant of the hated Goddess Isha."

Not a single Druchii speaks. They barely seem to breathe, but you can feel the hate in the air growing all the thicker just the same.

"If an Everqueen had supported Malekith from the start…," Alyssa cuts off her growl with a cutting motion through the air. "But no, of course she did not. For she served a worthless Goddess as Isha! What has she to offer the Druchii that cannot be done by the Cytharai?! Nothing!"

A cavalcade of hatred and spewed insults erupts from all around you. They scream of tearing down Isha's temples. Of ravaging her priestesses. Of setting the traveling court of the Everqueen ablaze and filling the forests of Avelorn with blood. All this and far worse and detailed things forcibly enter your ears. Alyssa doesn't cut it off, at least not at the start. No, instead, she lets them express everything they have, drinking it all in while nodding approvingly. Sadrina, on the other hand, can only stand and take it within the still sealed cage. She doesn't twitch, she is not grabbing at the bars, nor is she hunched and skittish like the now freed Asrai and Bretonnians. Instead, the Handmaiden of the Everqueen stands with her back straight and chin raised, staring straight forward with absolute stoicism while breathing steadily. It goes on for several minutes at the very least before finally petering out as more and more of the Druchii begin to reassert control over themselves.

"Nothing…but our joy when we tear all that is precious to Her asunder."

Alyssa's smile grows wide and toothy indeed, a rictus of hate mixed with paroxysms of bloodlust and joy.

"Would that we could have captured her without the cost in good Druchii and slaves," she sneers at Sadrina, who does not even glance as the sorceress. "Without the loss of the Eternal Fortress of Torture, that bastion of the Savage Huntress, to the elves of the Laurelorn and their pathetic entranced auxiliaries!" She calls out, pointing to a few of the highest remaining representatives of that Ark, who raise their fists and voices in turn. "Would that Mellis Screamtaker had not allowed such weakness to drip into our Ark, our home, for so long!" She practically shakes in her fury before letting loose a short burble of harsh laughter. "Even now, even now, Druchii, there remains weakness in our homes, in our streets!"

With a violent thrust of her staff, she points to the northeast as she stalks back and forth atop the pyramid.

"There are those amongst us," she snarls, "Who seek to take advantage of our weakness! Bled we were by Asur and Asrai treachery, and bleeding still thanks to the works of those fools who struck at our aquafarms!"

Perhaps it is not the most advantageous time.

Perhaps it is.

It is difficult to predict precisely what might have gone on without interruption, seeing as you have no oracular capabilities.

But what does happen, just as Alyssa Voidreaper rears up for some new declaration, that there is the sound of an explosion in the distance. It isn't some sort of earthshattering occurrence; you've heard worse from the testing of cannons back in Wulfenburg. But that you do hear it is still somewhat surprising. All that you'd made thus far were lower grade explosives, though technically if you added it all up it might fill a number of barrels. You just had to trust that Hultressa was placing them as well as she could. The amount of explosives wasn't going to completely obliterate the pyramid from within, not necessarily, but the amount of damage to support structures and internal struts and the like even when acknowledging the likelihood of magic being utilized to smooth over certain engineering difficulties has to be immense in order to be audible even from here. Something that is rapidly proven correct when the entire crowd, the sorceresses, the Witch Elves, and Alyssa herself have to turn and see the smoke starting to billow up into the air, along with a few burning embers rising up from the few holes blown out of the inside.

When everyone looks back, words fail to describe the monstrous anger and ugly fury on her face.

"…even now…," she tries to say, but the intensity of the wrath and anger which had been swirling about in the air has guttered out somewhat. "Even now!? Selfin, Aelwil, Zyalla-Nor, go!" She shouts immediately, and without pause, three of the sorceresses in the air cut out the hovering to land upon the ground.

The crowd parts before them, but it is an uneasy thing as they summon stallions of shadow beneath their feet and begin to race out.

"Who will go to secure the site, and ensure that the fires do not spread," Alyssa calls out, looking angrily upon the crowd. "Know that favor and reward shall be yours…," she trails off and then seems to grow even more incensed when none respond immediately.

It is not that she retains nothing of the power she'd been holding over them all just a few seconds ago, but the enthrallment is undeniably lesser.

"WHO!?" She bellows, and immediately the flags of House Direblaze dip in acknowledgement as their Lord takes his troops and household guard and begins to move out.

It is tacit admission that he cannot, will not bid for the Handmaiden, but also in going first he will no doubt be considered for greater favor. A signal that is not missed from others. There are a number of Druchii who filter out in equal rush, but that they have to leave at all is clearly angering Alyssa all the more. She does not speak, not immediately, and simply lets them go without promising them any specific rewards at all. Instead, she seethes, she stalks back and forth, and seethes some more. Sadrina does not appear to be affected at all, not even looking towards the smoke and embers reaching the dark night air. You would think that the sound of destruction of Druchii property, and hopefully at least a few lost Druchii lives, would enliven her. Perhaps it has, but she keeps such things held within her heart. The sentiment is completely understandable. She doesn't want to give Alyssa, or whoever ends up purchasing her, a damn thing that could give them satisfaction. Which includes having hope on her face before they try and break her. You'd probably end up doing the same if you were in that situation.

(Blood-Coral Chokes The Salt-Silt Coffin: 84-Ark of Ghrond(20)-Ancient Defenses(20)-Waves of Corruption(20)+Manann's Spite(20)+High Matriarchal Piety(19)+Revenge of the Burned Temple(20)+Steady As The Work Goes(15)-The Half-Drowned(5)=93/100)

Then you end up nearly falling directly onto your face as the entirety of the Claw of Dominion does something that no gargantuan moving island broken off from the continental shelf of Ulthuan should ever do.

It pitches.

Like a ship struck by a heavy wave, for a moment the location of the horizon suddenly decides to change from its place on the vertical axis according to your eyes.

The entirety of the Claw abruptly heaves, as an earsplitting loud crack and a sound almost akin to an avalanche sounds in your ears. A few minute degrees of shifting would normally be nothing, especially for a regular vessel at sea, but on something like a Black Ark, a few minute shifting degrees is a horrifying tilt that sends several slaves yelping and screaming as they lose their footing. Not a single elf that you can see, enslaved or slaver, suffers as badly thanks to their inhuman dexterity, but the shock is palpable on a great many faces. Especially on Hultressa and Alyssa's face. Your ally looks gob smacked for a brief moment before wincing in pain and putting a hand up to her temple, an act that seems to be repeated amongst the remaining sorceresses. It fades as quickly as it came, but the panic and confusion for the majority of the crowd certainly remains. Soon enough a hubbub starts to grow before Alyssa slams her staff down to cause a momentarily deafening boom.

"SILENCE!" She bellows, and her desires are met immediately.

Oily black smoke has begun to seep out of her eyes and pores as Dhar suffuses her frame.

"Go," she orders harshly, pointing at another trio of sorceresses without even bothering naming them, but they go all the same.

For a moment she simply stands there, vibrating in her anger, before snarling and sweeping her staff to about in the air leaving burning black flame to momentarily trail behind its head.

Then she begins to laugh.

It is not a pleasant sound. It should be, despite everything she like all Druchii and all elves in general seems to be possessed of that same inhuman charisma. Her voice is musical, lilting, an attractive husky smoke to it which really is similar to that of Hultressa's, only an octave or two higher in tone. You can't really think of a single time that you ever saw an ugly elf, or could describe an elven voice awful to listen to on the principal of it. Rather it is the inhuman rage and cruelty woven into it which is most disturbing, like in the case of those such as Caledor's Bane. Even Hultressa is not immune to this, for in her laughter you can admit on an objective level that it is the sort of thing that lesser men in the Empire might end up throwing themselves to her feet and make utter fools of themselves to hear just one more time. On this occasion, the sound which escapes from Alyssa is awful for altogether too many reasons. It is like listening to shards of glass piercing your ears.

(Maintaining The Mask: 50+Salkalten Shock(25)+Managing New And Old Alliances(15)-Just As Planned(20)-Immediate Support(10)-Coven Loyalties(10)+Aquafarm First Sabotage(10)+Supreme Strain(20)-Everything We Wanted(20)+Aquafarm Second Sabotage(15)-Agreements and Allies(10)+Dhar Anchorstone Damaged(20)+Auction Ruination(20)=105/100)

"That."

She raises her staff and slams it down, and a billowing dark purple mist begins to flow from it and down across the pyramid.

"Is."

The smoke begins to shift in color, and Hultressa subtly raises a hand to block the mist from actually reaching the perimeter barrier of the terrors. When you look at her, the sorceress has a look of deep suspicion and consternation on it, her eyebrows almost joining together with how furrowed her brow has become. Despite the mask and hood and everything else she wears you can hear a deep and elongated sniff from Johanna and cannot miss it as her stance goes from bored to something altogether closer to immediate violence. The terrors are silent as ever, but they too begin to shift, perhaps in accordance with their master's wishes. All around you, the representatives of the Cults no matter the Cytharai straighten and began casting their gazes about. The High Priestess of the Cult of Atharti has a terrible scowl on her face, at least for a moment, and then you watch that scowl along with the rest of her face physically melt away as if makeup splashed with water to reveal a blood-red metal mask there instead with a seductive cruel smirk on its face.

The Handmaiden of the Everqueen's head slowly turns towards her captor, disgust on her face.

"IT!" Alyssa howls to the heavens, back arched with the force of her fury.

She does not even straighten, but instead bends in the opposite direction so that she is bent forward past ninety degrees, at which point a terrible multi-colored purple light spills forth from her eyes sockets like ink which crawls down the length of her.

"Weakness…so much…WEAKNESS!" She seethes, each breath thrumming through her lungs like a storm's gale. "Tullaris Dreadbringer…" she drags the word out, yet there is no respect in it.

No terror.

She spits the name of the great champion and Chosen of Khaine out of her mouth like it's literal shit that made its way in somehow, a bit of spittle spraying out of her mouth.

"Dragging us from our places power, getting himself killed by a damned…,"

The word she speaks is not a contemptuous string of Eltharin words to demean you.

It is the pure Black Speech of Chaos, and the word she speaks feels like acid in your ears and a taint upon your very soul.

"And you!" She points a finger down at one of the Witch Elves, who looks back up at her with shock, "All of you! Bleeding yourself to the bone with your idiocy! Enough…ENOUGH!"

"Sorceress! What is this!" The High Priestess of Anath Raema bellows as she stands, spear in hand and snarl on her face.

"Silence!" Alyssa shrieks. "Your Cult could not wrest control of Athel Loren as it promised, and it was your Ark that collapsed under the weight of Laurelorn's arrows and swiftness!"

"This-,"

"The only way for our Ark to survive, to regain strength, is for us to become strong once more!" Alyssa rants, "Khaine has shown his weakness too many times, and now his Chosen falls? No, it is enough!" She slams her staff down again, and this time, the stone of the altar cracks where she strikes. "I do not doubt the Cult," she hisses, "But it's representatives have no more power here!"

High above, the gargantuan statue of Khaine begins to burn with red light.

"Blasphemy!" One of the Witch Elves screams as she unsheathes her knives and makes to leap for Alyssa.

Only for one of the nearby sorceresses to smash a globe of disintegrating black fire atop her head and body.

"Enough with falsehoods…enough with weakness…," Alyssa continues, shaking her head while a bubble of hideous laughter escapes her. "I promise you, Druchii, that all the pain we have suffered will be returned a thousand-fold, and through that pain…," she pauses and practically bites the next word as it escapes between her gleaming white teeth. "Pleasure."

Then a lot of things happen in incredibly rapid succession.

The High Priestess of Atharti screams a war cry as blades of crystalline dark blue and white light appear in her hands. The High Priestess of Anath Raema roars as she hefts up her spear and makes ready to throw the damn thing at Alyssa for her grave insult. Several of the Druchii in the crowd, many of them nobles, many of them not, unsheathe their weapons. Regardless of their social and financial class, it is impossible to miss that a shockingly large number of the Druchii revealing knives and many other blades besides are laughing or cackling with glee as the mist swirls around them and seemingly clings to them comfortingly. Others cough and retch as the mist does the same to them. Other Witch Elves take out their weapons and scream outrage at the one's they had invited to their temple, but before a single one can do anything, the sorceresses aid them in their movements and then some by lashing them with black tentacles or blazing fiery cages and throwing them towards Alyssa. Her staff raises up, and then the all-too-real fingers there twitch and splay outwards and from beneath the fingernails sprout out undulating whips of pink-purple skinless flesh with thorny spines sticking out of them as barbs. Not a single Witch Elf once upon the pyramid can do more than scream before they are impaled and slammed down onto the altar itself.

The sounds that start to emerge from them as they, all ten of them, are steadily dragged towards each other and crushed body to body into a single space are horrific and disturbing in the extreme.

"AND I ASSURE YOU, WE SHALL REDEEM THE CLAW OF DOMINION IN THE EYES OF THE HAG-QUEEN AND WITCH KING BESIDES!" Alyssa screams joyfully.

(A Release Centuries In Coming: 47-Morathian Foundations(35)-Supreme Seductions(20)+Rival Goddesses(20)+Outrage(15)-Promises Kept(15)+Druchii Prides(20)+The Unswayed(10)+Aquafarms and Deaths(15)-Opportunism and Confusion(10)=47/100)

The High Priestess of Atharti dies before she can do more than rise from her indolent bed as two of her own lesser priestesses, completely naked and covered in the fluids of other Druchii and slaves alike, stab her in the back with their own blades. Another Druchii noblewoman dies as her own son strangles her with a barbed metallic segmented whip. The High Priestess of Anath Raema gurgles and collapses as some of her own Cult plunge their spears into her body. Another Druchii with pink-purple lights blooming in their eyes falls forward onto their own face as a grimacing knight impales them with a halberd. Others of those who seem to be aligned with this newly revealed faction fall upon their brethren and are fallen upon in turn. Drinks and food are thrown to the ground, bottles of metal and glass and serving trays used as weapons as much as those formerly within sheathes or even just bare hands. Decapitations, disembowelings, and more begin to surround you. Most disgusting of all is the sighing, screaming, laughing, crying sphere of tangled limbs and melting ball of bodies that was once Witch Elves at the apex of the altar.

"What…," Hultressa whispers. "What has…,"

She is surprised, frozen by it.

For this briefest of moments, the sorceress of more than a thousand years is absolutely dumbfounded.

Luckily, the terrors have immediately assumed a defensive stance around you all, keeping the fighting out and away for now. Johanna has already grabbed her halberd and swung it into a ready position. The Whitewings have put back-to-back against each other, trying to keep a hold on their third member who is finally starting to react to their surroundings with a few furtive noises. Kerillian's eyes are darting back and forth, panic clear on her face with her muscles taut. They don't have any weapons, nor any armor, and it seems like it's going to be a lot harder to get back to the Tor of Dominance, or anywhere else for that matter, than you had ever been expecting.

At times like this, with so much noise around you, the time for remaining silent to keep up the mask seems to have abated.

"Hultressa," you hoarsely whisper at her, which makes her blink rapidly and half-turn towards you. "Sadrina is still up there!"

You all glance up to the altar, newly rescued slaves included, where Sadrina still remains in the cage. She has abandoned her former stoicism in favor of looking about quickly, trying to figure out something, anything at all rather than being added to the horrific fate of those opposing this uprising. Alyssa is focused upon the rest of the crowd herself, and you realize with even a cursory look – admittedly aided by your decades of experience and instincts – that those opposed and those aligned have not yet actually begun to win out. It is, despite the carnage, a stalemate with perhaps the slightest of odds leaning towards those who have chosen an entirely new way to display their debased natures. None of them have said it, not directly, but you know this stink in the air, the horrid touch of the energies starting to billow out of many of them. It goes beyond the mere usage of words and phrases amidst Eltharin which makes up the cold cutting dialect of Druhir.

This?

This is Chaos outright.

"I don't…this isn't what I thought, what I planned…," Hultressa shakes her head before centering herself and taking a few quick breaths. "We can't get to her, there's no way. We must retreat, try to-,"

"If we leave her now, we'll never get her back. We know that Direblaze supports her already, she has…we have no idea how much more support she might have gathered up between both Arks before now," you stress at her.

"You don't think I know that!?" She whisper-screams back at you, eyes wide. "This is the largest Cult of Pleasure that I have ever…Gwendolyn is…we cannot," she shakes her head again.

"If we leave now, we might never have another chance," you point out just as quickly, "And you think that she'll just let you wander off without submitting to her more fully!?"

"Well what do you suggest then?!"

"We go and get her!" You restrain yourself from outright pointing, you're too close to the altar and it might well be noticed even with the Cult of Pleasure mostly distracted. "Right now!"

"Out in the open?" She scoffs.

"Rally the Ark up against her," you shrug helplessly. "Take the reins, if you need to, or something!"

"That cage, will it hurt anyone who grabs it?" Johanna cuts in, making you and Hultressa turn to her.

"Immensely," Hultressa says immediately. "It is keyed to the controller only, in this case, Alyssa obviously. It would cripple any other who touched it without proper protections with the pain."

"So protect me," Johanna holds out her hands.

"Excuse me?"

"Put some protections on me, I go and grab it."

An absolutely insane thought strikes you, hard and fast enough that you can't stop it from escaping your mouth.

"Or you throw a bid in."

Now all the women around you are staring at you.

"What," Hultressa says flatly.

"It's still her auction, isn't it?" You point out. "She wanted it, craved it, built everything around it, and it's ruined, but…,"

"You would put a chance in on audacity alone?" One of the Whitewings finds the courage to speak.

"Either I go up there and try and yank it, and we run if I survive, you try and get everyone else here to help you and declare open rebellion and try and fight her and whoever else she has on the Ark, or it's that," Johanna points out.

"We need to do what we're going to do, now," you stress, as the heaving morass of slaughter around you grows worse and worse. "You know you need her to get the Everqueen's help," you add.

Hultressa squeezes her eyes shut and grimaces.

"I would never have the support, not against the entire Coven and the rest, not now," she presses a hand to her face. "And there's no guarantee she would even be in her right mind to accept a bid in the first place."

"But the longer you keep her talking, the less time she's blowing up anyone else," you note with a shrug. "If you don't want us to try and challenge her directly anymore."

Stripping her supporters of her presence on the battlefield that the Temple is becoming is not without value.

"That…is true," she admits quietly, before, almost absentmindedly, gestures with her hand towards the Asrai.

A glowing sigil flares into existence in the center of the device, and then with unsettlingly organic twitches the metal talons keeping it in place release. It takes less than a second for its victim to reach up and tear it out to throw it onto the ground, coughing a few times and breathing in heavily.

"Are we seriously debating now, of all times?" Kerillian spits furiously. "Decide and be quick, glaikits!"

Choose One
Moratorium For 5 Hours

[] Snatch And Yank: Layer protections upon Johanna Fuerbach, a powerful vampire, to try and outright steal the cage and Sadrina within and make an escape from the Temple of Khaine to a more secure locations quickly. Violence, shock, and speed will be of greatest value in times like this, when wholly unexpected factors rise to the fore upon the battlefield. Success it not guaranteed, but then, when is it ever? Hultressa is firmly certain that there are still too many sorceresses present for a straight fight to be successful, and would much rather evacuate back to her daughter.
[] Blowhard: In an act of absolute audacity, have the indomitable and aloof Hultressa attempt to purchase Sadrina despite everything. If she can just get the cage, you can make an escape. Failing that, distracting Alyssa for as long as possible means that those resisting her forces will be aided by the Supreme Sorceress not actively fighting them. Hultressa is firmly certain that there are still too many sorceresses present for a straight fight to be successful, and would much rather evacuate back to her daughter, or at least to get the Handmaiden in her possession through other means than that.

 

[torroar]

GM: I understand if this one's a bit, uh, hairy. Apologies. It's been long enough, and I'm exhausted.

Spikes, Horns, and Stone 29​

The Temple of Khaine has descended into complete bloody anarchy. If it were in many other circumstances you are sure that it would have pleased the God of Murder quite a bit. However, given the disgusting malforming of the God's sworn priestesses and servants into a writhing screaming ball of flesh and limbs upon his altar, and the furious flaring of red light throughout the air that is visibly starting to be contested with a too-sweetly scented pink and purple mist, you're relatively certain that there is only one deity getting pleasure out of this. The sound of stone cracking and snapping is growing louder from up above, but despite your original expectations you aren't seeing chunks the size of wagons crashing down anywhere. That you aren't is no reassurance either, especially when it comes to Gods and their doings. Especially Chaos Gods. There are cultists of multiple Cytharai still in the fight, but some of those same cultists now show their true colors, as is the perfidious ways of their true masters. Other Druchii nobility turn on each other, on commoners, on the lower levels and the high. Only some facsimile of the class stratification is visible at this point, and even that is beginning to become subsumed.

Because why make an infiltrating Cult and work on it for decades to centuries if you're only going to focus on one level of the ladder.

"If we can get her without fighting Alyssa for it," you stress. "Get out of here, let her deal with all of this, we could go, go now. You said we can't beat Alyssa right now. Could you beat those three other sorceresses near the docks?"

Hultressa's nose flares as a dark light flashes in her eyes before she pointedly cracks her neck from side to side.

"Those three? In my sleep," she sneers as she strides past you, inhaling deeply and then planting her staff firmly onto the ground.

A bright light, without heat or sound, appears at the top of Hultressa's staff, an unmissable sign that gets a more than a few eyes even as the fighting goes on from the finely attuned senses of the Druchii. Shortly afterwards, the light winks out with a particularly targeted clap of sound like a distant peal of thunder. It is oddly muffled by the helmet and extra layers disguising you, but then everything is. It is further confused in terms of direction before you realize that she somehow directed the actual path of the sound itself so that it very obviously reaches the crown of the altar where Alyssa still hunches while spitting and snarling fury. The Supreme Sorceress has, if you do not mistake it, quite simply cracked. How much she has, however, and how much sense remains to her, is what remains to be seen at the moment. She's certainly still cognizant enough to whip around with a rictus of hate on her face, zeroing in on Hultress and the rest of your group instantly.

"Twenty percent," Hultressa announce, her voice a loud booming thing which causes her newly purchased slaves to wince and clap hands to their ears and would have made you wince if not for all the layers around your head.

Alyssa is far, far away.

It says something that you can see how blown out her pupils have become even from here.

Though it is mostly because they shrink back down to pinpricks as the words register.

Alyssa is, quite obviously, not the only one who hears. The rest of her sorceresses similarly whip around, though they are also quite clearly focused on the growing fighting all around them. The distraction costs a great many other Druchii as well, but in the end, elves are elves. What might have ended up killing a human soldier in a moment of weakness of confusion causes only wounds instead, as inhuman grace and dexterity work to keep them alive. Blades scrape and tear against armor, fists and fingernails pound and dig into skin and flesh. A few Druchii stagger about outside of the terror-created perimeter, clutching at themselves, red splattered around their mouths and elf-meat in their teeth. But a great many heads crane, a great many ears perk, even amidst the fighting that would overwhelm your average human swordsman. None dare actually outright stop what they're doing, those that would, would die. Some slaves have fallen to the ground, whimpering, others are being used as shields, and much to your disgust some of them are actually trying to defend their masters. It is those you pity more than any others, that they have the will and wherewithal to fight, but have been so broken in mind and spirit to do so in defense of the Druchii.

(Temple of Carnage: 55-Morathian Foundations(35)-Supreme Seductions(20)+Rival Goddesses(20)+Outrage(15)-Promises Kept(15)+Druchii Prides(20)+The Unswayed(10)+Aquafarms and Deaths(15)-Opportunism and Confusion(10)=55/100)
(A Mind On Knife's Edge: 81-Supreme Strain(20)-Shell Crack(10)+Knowledge of Wealth(10)+Distracted Focus(10)-Incomplete Triumph(10)+The Sheer Audacity(15)+Wanton Greed(5)+Lack of Violence(5)-Stymied Fighting(10)=76/100)

"Excuse me?" Alyssa whispers, her voice a too-sinuous thing against your ears, a sort of lingering echo and sensation that you find singularly unpleasant.

"You heard me, Alyssa," Hultressa affects a bored tone, sniffing slightly.

A single gesture from her, and the terrors not-so-gently shove out an even larger perimeter than before.

"What are you trying to…you think…," Alyssa's chest heaves a bit with each harsh word before she breaks off into a maddened cackle.

"That," Hultressa stabs a finger at a now thoroughly panicked Sadrina, "Is a Handmaiden of the Everqueen. The Winds have literally been woven into her by the Everqueen herself. I want to tear her apart to see what makes that work."

Alyssa blinks a great many times in too rapid succession before with a mighty inhale she visibly reaches out and grasps the reins of her own mind hard. Her lips peel apart in a grin that could have been carved open with a knife as she does a strange little half-slink and slouch.

"You have done such to Asur before," is her rejoinder, one eye still subtly twitching, her head swishing to the side every now and then to keep an eye on the fight that is still ongoing. "A great many, even."

Sadrina, who cannot possibly know anything about Hultressa at this point that you do, does not look particularly pleased to hear that information amidst the rise of a particularly entrenched Cult of Pleasure.

"And?" Hultressa says archly. "None of them has been a Handmaiden. Not one. Not ever."

The terror-maker raises up one hand, making to examine her articulated gauntlet and metallic claws there as if inspecting the polish that is not there. About fifteen feet away, a devotee of Slaanesh guts a fellow Druchii with one of her blade-heeled shoes. , reaches into their opened abdomen, and tears out their still beating heart and thrusts it towards the sky. The Slaaneshi cultist is then tackled from behind by another Druchii who utilizes the spikes and blades across their helmet to eviscerate their skull with a vigorous swirling of their neck that makes your own ache just to watch.

"I'm sorry, I thought this was an auction," Hultressa continues, putting her hand back down and looking meaningfully to Sadrina. "That, there, is an item up for sale. I want it."

(Temple of Carnage: 67-35-20+20+15-15+20+10+15-10+Distracted Alyssa(10)=77/100)
(A Mind On Knife's Edge: 70-20-10+10+10-10+15+5+5-10+Pride's Demands(10)=75/100)

"And yet as you so intelligently caught, this is a Handmaiden," Alyssa sneers, stamping her staff down.

Black coils of electrical energy appear to bloom into visibility that writhe around like living creatures around the cage. Sadrina looks ready to scream, but doesn't with what must be incredible self-control. She cannot avoid doubling over in the cage, clutching at herself, but she does not dare let herself fall to her hands and knees. Pinpricks of sweat appear on the Asur's body, her entire body shaking with the pain that has just been forced upon her, but you can see even from the bottom of the pyramid that she slowly forces herself to straighten as Alyssa dismisses the Handmaiden once more. Sadrina is breathing hard now, but with clear effort she once more forces her arms down to her sides and raises her chin high, starting to slow and regulate her breathing as you watch.

"One I would prefer is as undamaged as possible!" Hultressa stresses, eyes narrowing, the power of her voice and stature transforming what could have been written off as whining as more of a dangerous warning instead. "The point is to tear apart as pristine a product of the Everqueen's workings as possible, not some damaged broken thing."

Alyssa gives a haughty laugh and rolls her eyes.

"Obviously," she drawls. "And yet, you offer such a paltry price."

"Paltry?!" Hultressa rejoins with outrage.

"You would pay barely more than you did for those wretches," Alyssa gestures with her staff towards the Whitewings and a wide-eyed Kerillian who is busy staring at the carnage unfurling across the temple grounds. "That's an insult!"

"You know damn well how much wealth I offer," Hultressa snarls. "How much that is!"

A bolt of dark amber energies, energies that you still remember coursing over Asrai in their thousands, slams against one of the other Coven sorceresses, who lets out a screaming yelp as it manages to get past her shielding spells. It is not a fatal blow, or at least not an immediate one, but the spectral spear is quite well lodged into and through the meat of her left thigh. Screaming, the sorceress wraps her hands around the unholy energies of Anath Raema and crushes it out of existence with motes of Dhar and pink-purple energies pouring from her. Summoning forth a series of black spheres around her head, the sorceress unleashes a salvo of doombolts down into the fighting to try and kill the servant of the Savage Huntress that managed to strike at her. Alyssa's scowls at the sight of it before she turns, glaring, back to an unamused Hultressa.

"You know, dear terror-maker, do you not think that your contributions might be more immediate?" Alyssa points out with a warning tone.

Hultressa's rejoinder is immediate.

"The usage of my terrors has, is, and will always be a transactional affair," Hultressa sniffs before shaking her head. "Even Screamtaker accepted that."

"For one, Screamtaker is dead, and secondly, tokens of appreciation and miniscule fees were all that was given to you, as Supreme Sorceress to subordinate," Alyssa's dark aura flares larger as she speaks.

(Temple of Carnage: 52-35-20+20+15-15+20+10+15-10+10=62/100)
(A Mind On Knife's Edge: 69-20-10+10+10-10+15+5+5-10+10+A Dangerous Prize(20)=92/100)

Hultressa shrugs and shakes her head, a smirk on her lips.

"What I can say? It's a seller's market. Speaking of," she points towards Sadrina again. "If twenty is so insulting, then thirty? What, do you want an artifact? Or…," Hultressa's mouth hangs open for a brief moment as she apes the appearance of revelation itself. "Ah…perhaps…"

Your sorceress ally holds her free hand, palm upright, before clutching it closed and then releasing it while conjuring an illusion above it. Immediately, Alyssa's gaze locks onto it, as do her sorceresses though their attention is far briefer as they return to the fight. Other Cult of Pleasure members nearby are distracted by the sight of it, if only so briefly, before returning to the fight. Around you the more 'normal' Druchii seem to surge in that momentary lapse, but the overall combat is still far from over. Not that you would be confused as to why. You feel yourself almost shudder, almost, at the sight of what is being projected over Hultressa's palm. The Druchii lets the screaming head of a daemon float in her hand, a mere representation of the trophy that she still has locked up in her chambers. The one that you only felt somewhat secure being nearby to thanks to the sheer depth and power of the defenses surrounding it.

It is not just a head, or at least the real one isn't.

"You would release the Exalted Herald?" Alyssa says with naked want in her voice. "Into my custody?"

"I would expect you to keep it from bothering me again, but yes," Hultressa says, sounding bored before her gaze sharpens. "Even if you plot to shield yourself beneath Morathi's shadow after the decree of the Witch King, I doubt she would deign to do so if you let it raise up the Legion of Rapturous Agony to attack the Ark again."

Alyssa flaps her hand as if the concept of one of the most terrifying things you've ever heard of is barely a concern.

"There would be no reason for it to do so, none at all, especially if it were aligned properly," she says, breathing hard. "To add its Legion to service of the Undeniable would be…,"

"Traitorous whore!" A starvation-thin Druchii emerges from the scrum and throws himself at Hultressa with arms outstretched – each phalange grossly extended out of his skin and flesh by a foot to form gleaming claws of bon – while his stomach has become a gaping mouth ringed by teeth.

Kerillian and the Whitewings, well two of them, swirl about in fear but before they can do more than that the terrors act. Where once there was a leaping Druchii servant of the Cytharai God of Famine, there is now several pieces of meat and gristle that plops onto the ground and rolls from previous momentum. A bloodshot eyeball covered in cranial fluids bounces against the ground and bumps up against your foot before splitting apart into several halves that rapidly deflate and flatten against the stone. You didn't know that cultists of Estreuth could do something like that, but then, the intricacies of what the Cytharai offer their believers is something you've never much wanted to learn too intimately. Either way, the blessings didn't seem able to stand up to the masterworks of Hultressa's chosen practice. The fact that such horrific transformations could have been utterly mistaken as mutations brought about by Chaos, or very well could have been, does little well for the image of the Cytharai in your mind. Verena's Wisdom, it is difficult to imagine just why in the world the Asrai and Eonir might worship Cadai and Cytharai equally.

"Alyssa!" Hultressa says loudly, clenching her fist and dismissing the illusion. "Do we have an accord…or not? I would rather we complete our business now, so you may go about yours, sooner rather than later!"

Alyssa's breaths are sharp and fast, eyes darting from the cage to Hultressa and back again, then finally looking out at the fighting. Or, rather, at something which draws Hultressa's attention as well, and therefore the rest of your little group. The fighting has gone on long enough, it seems, that more Druchii have arrived from the rest of the Ark, and have begun rushing in through the gates with weapons drawn. The Cult of Pleasure that has infested this Ark has clearly been doing so for a long time, and quite thoroughly, but if it could have ruled openly before this point without being challenged it would have done so. So you are not particularly surprised to see a good number of the Druchii arriving falling upon those who appear to be most openly Slaaneshi, the increasingly thick and too-sweet fog of the Prince of Excess' power strongest near some of them. But, at the same time, as if waiting for just the right moment, there are just as many other Druchii who follow right behind their comrades only to plunge blades right into their backs.

"I will want visitation and examination reports regularly," Alyssa finally hisses. "And you will-,"

"I am going home, Alyssa," Hultressa flourishes her hand dramatically in the air and huffs. "You and I both know that you do not require my aid to win out here. My position, as ever," she stresses the word sardonically, "Is one of neutrality amidst the Cults and nobility. Besides, I was there right alongside you at the top of the Tor where Screamtaker failed. As for the visitations and examination reports, sure, fine, but I won't be giving much of such without a proper subject!" She finishes with a pointed look towards Sadrina.

The Supreme Sorceress of the Claw of Dominion gestures out at the carnage with a curt gesture.

"And you think not fighting will ease your passage?! To refuse to show your loyalty in the here and now?"

Hultressa's sneer becomes an acidic grin.

"Are you offering me payment for my services, sister?" She asks sweetly, making Alyssa's nose flare with a reflexive angry inhale.

"Fine!" Alyssa spits, and then with an angry gesture, levitates Sadrina's cage with her magic before none too gently throwing it towards Hultressa who has to stop it from crashing into the stone with her own telekinetic efforts. "Get out of here, then!"

Sadrina does not seem particularly pleased by these developments either, of course, especially because the violence of her travel down from the altar causes her to bang into the bars. Which, in turn, results in the kinds of painful effects that you witnessed previously in the side temple. She lets out a pained wail as she clutches at her head and drops to the bottom of the cage the moment she makes the lightest contact with the bars, and writhes in pain even after Hultressa carefully floats it down to the ground. You can't quite tell if the murderous scowl on Hultressa's face at the ill-treatment of her prize is acting or not. If it were simply Hultressa the Druchii, she could just as much be angry that the slave she purchased is literally no longer in pristine condition thanks to a tantrum of the auctioneer. As a woman desperate to offer up a rescue of the Handmaiden to the Everqueen for the salvation of her daughter's soul, any damage to said Handmaiden at all could also prove a massive detriment to her efforts. Either way, she quickly begins waving her staff in small circles while speaking in the tongue of magic itself standing next to the cage. Up above, the Supreme Sorceress turns her back entirely on everyone else and begins focusing upon the screaming ball of melted together limbs and mouths that used to be most of the remaining Brides of Khaine. She raises her staff, and a truly sickening amount of corrupting power begins to flow from her staff as she begins to chant in a foul tongue loudly enough for you to hear. Immediately, the other sorceresses move to cover her, adding their own chanting and power to whatever the hell is going on up there.

"I should be demanding a discount for not deactivating the cage properly," Hultressa growls under her breath before with a final grunt of effort, the dark red glow surrounding the cage begins to dissipate. "Finally," she sighs heavily before grimacing at the sight at the top of the altar, where even more sounds of strange cracking and groaning, like bones the size of trees being cracked and ground down, is filling the air. "We must leave. Now. Grab the cage, I dare not open it here and now."

Tears of blood forced out of her by the cage's spellwork have driven two small trails down Sadrina's cheeks but the Handmaiden stubbornly drags herself upright with aid of the bars now that they are no longer causing her pain for simply touching them. Her eyes shift around rapidly, scrutinizing everyone, lingering for a moment on the Whitewings and Kerillian before narrowing suspiciously at Johanna and Hultressa. Though even that does not last too long before she stares at the shortest and widest of the terrors present, which is to say, the terror that you are pretending to be. She does not look at your face, guarded by the helmet and more layers within and without, but rather at the rather recognizable blade of Brain Wounder which for all intents and purposes appears to have been magically fused with your hand. Another affectation by Hultressa, of course, to further mock the husk you pretend to have been transformed into, and a dominance display that a masterwork of dwarf craftsmanship is hers to do with as she wishes. Wounded horror and rage fill the Handmaiden's face, and you can see her well-tanned skin take on a darker amber flush across the whole of her naked body.

"Monstrous…abominable…," she hisses at Hultressa, doing her level best to kill her with her eyes alone. "May Drakira Herself-,"

"I'm fine, actually," you interrupt quietly, and Sadrina practically chokes for a moment on her own acidic hate and baleful thoughts. "This is a rescue attempt."

The normally gregarious Asur is speechless.

"Brace yourself, Handmaiden," Johanna grunts before she outright picks up the entire damn cage without even slightly bending her knees, making you boggle inside your armor before she flips her grip and produces some chains to loop around the bars so that she can strap Sadrina literally to her back like a traveling pack.

A traveling pack made up of a taller than usual elven warrior and a dense and heavy stone and steel cage that could kill a man by gently falling on and subsequently crushing them.

"We go. Now!" Hultressa commands urgently, pointing with one finger, and immediately the terrors begin to silently force a path forward, regardless of which faction the Druchii around you might be.

(Time To Go: 2+Terror Guard(20)+Imperious Presence(10)-Uncertain Allegiances(5)-Anarchic Violence(10)+20-15+10-10-New Arrivals(15)-Increasing Desecration(10)+Urgency(5)=2/100)
(Depths of Depravity: 15-Well Prepared Sabotage(15)-35+Absolute Desecration(10)-Bled White Numbers(10)+Rage of Khaine(35)-Sacrifices Aplenty(10)=-10/100)

But before you can get more than a few steps, there is a resonate cracking sound. Not of stone, or at least not entirely, but of reality itself being partially flayed open. Deep, insane laughter from Alyssa fills the air before it is joined by a number of sensual throaty voices that drift in tone, masculinity, femininity, and elsewhere altogether. The tingling, rage-inducing red air throughout the Temple of Khaine is suddenly awash in a new wave of pink-purple fog that smells of too many things for your brain to even begin trying to properly process. It is such an excess of sources as to be almost maddening. There is a gravimetric draw to the source of it all, one that makes even Hultressa and the near mindless terrors to turn their heads. The fighting throughout the temple stills in a way that even the incredible audacity of the sorceress did not, and for many it is not by choice. The humongous ball of writhing living bodies that had once been more than a dozen Witch Elves has split down the middle, like an egg hatching, and yet within there is not blood and viscera, but instead a swirling portal to madness and monstrosity. To the Realm of Chaos itself. Long fingers with deadly long nails have already wrapped around the edges of that slit in reality, and from it, daemonettes of Slaanesh have begun to pull themselves through out into the temple grounds. The very stone around them, splashed with blood from so many sacrifices as to be dyed a dark red, begins to wobble and throb like something living, changing in hue to something altogether unlike that of Khaine. The bottom of the vast statue itself is beginning to be affected, the stone and metal making it up wrapped with ropey tentacles of pink-purple flesh that begins to extend itself like a living carpet.

More than a dozen daemons emerge in a near instant, and then more still, until finally a trio of them are quite literally squashed aside with squeals of pain and delight by a much larger daemonette with a waterfall of pink flame as hair tied off with a bow made of interlinked babies' hands. A vast single horn sprouts from one side of the head, yet it is notched and trammeled as to appear like a twisted flute or pipe from an organ, while a splendorous dress – no, not splendorous, damn the daemon's power – a horrific dress made of supple skin with artful tattoos of devotion inked upon them covers a surprising amount of its daemonic body from sight. A digitigrade foot with sharp talons is briefly revealed beneath the dress as it pushes itself to the forefront dragging with it an absolutely enormous harp. One that seems to writhe, pulse, breathe as she sets it up, and for that matter is fully connected to a rapturously happy looking man who's arms make up the bottom half and from whom the strings sprout up from within his own body. As if his very veins and intestines have been braided together for each string. The daemonette looks upon the temple and sneers proudly as other daemonettes start to pour out of the abruptly larger portal before tossing its hair of flame before dragging one hand across the strings and producing a sound like a dozen children screaming in song that washes out across the temple. Devotees of Slaanesh cry out in ecstasy, their foes in pain.

The sounds are almost exactly the same.

"No," Hultressa grinds her teeth, and raises a hand before a shimmering half-sphere shield appears around your party.

(Discordant Harmony: 47-Infernal Rapturess(20)+Hultressa's Defiance(20)+Prepared Defensive Enchantments(10)=57/100)

For the first time so far you get to see a terror fall, much to Hultressa's alarm. Three of her terrors were not within the shield she hastily cast, and blood liberally pours out from their helmets as they stagger to their knees. One of them does not get up at all, while the other two stagger badly and require rough aid from the other terrors to help them upright one more. The terror that fell on its face is not dead, you don't think, but its writhing and strange muffled grunting is not a good sign either. Hultressa gestures at it, first once and then a second more furtive time before grinding her teeth before shaking her head and marshalling your party to keep moving without it, simply abandoning her abomination as a lost cause. But that single discordant note is not the end, because of course it isn't. The daemonette leader, for that is the only thing you can assume it to be, has a great many strings strung into its harp, and looks to be ready to play more. The only thing that stops it, however, is it reaching out with one hand with seven fingers to reach out and draw the attention of Alyssa who draws close without nearly the kinds of deference that a lesser cultist would show to a servant of their chosen God you might have expected. But then Alyssa is not some Slaanesh-blinded idiot fop with a single chamber of depravity beneath their manor, as the Witch Hunters have confronted before. This is a many centuries old elf with an immensely powerful and well-developed cult, who at least based on some of your conversations with Hultressa has outright contested and overcome powerful daemons before.

"Damnation," Hultressa growls, "A Herald, already?!"

"Powerful, too," Johanna grunts as you keep trying to push your way through the fighting. "Maybe Exalted."

Kerillian whispers a few curses in Fan-Eltharin, while the stumbling Whitewings swear in guttural Bretonnian.

"Come on, Breonna, come on," one of bastard daughters says frantically to their companion, even now still having to mostly drag her and keep her upright. "Please!"

"She's broken," Johanna shakes her head after giving the mute Bretonnian the barest of side-glances. "Too broken. Might as well save her the trouble and send her on."

Two of three Bretonnians whip their heads about at her with angry snarls on their faces.

"How dare you," one Whitewing whisper-cries at the vampire, "How dare-,"

"She's not even moving her feet on her own," Johanna says coldly, and though you cannot see her expression with the mask and hood and magic, you doubt you'd recognize it regardless on the face of the one you once upon a time called friend.

What's worse is that she's right.

The Whitewing, Breonna, hasn't even lifted her head up after getting out of the cage, and is practically a living sack that her two friends have to carry between them, her toes and nails smacking badly against the stones as their grip on her keeps slipping.

"She'll live, she'll survive," the Whitewing replies stubbornly, but Johanna just shakes her head and makes to keep moving while glancing over at you.

"You know as well as I do that sometimes, the mind leaves if the body won't," Johanna says to you.

"Eldyra came back," you reply weakly, Sadrina's neck almost snapping with how fast and hard she turns to look at you.

"Oh, sure, sure. But that took longer than we've got," Johanna snorts. "Based on the stories I got, at least."

(Daemonic Perception, Daemonic Desires: 27-20+10-Tired Hultressa(10)-Cracked Strain(10)+Anarchic Grounds(10)-Increasing Reinforcements(5)-Sisterly Sadism(10)+Appearance of Authority(10)+Promises Almost Always Kept(10)-Powerful Herald of Slaanesh(15)+Careful Protections(10)-Consecration Desecration Growth(10)-Suggested Scrutiny(10)=-13/100)
(Trying To Leave: 82+20+10-5-10+20-15+10-10-15-10+5-Dead Eyed Weight(5)+The Newest Servant [Frederick Martial](19)=96/100)

"To Erith Khial's Cunt with this!" Hultressa snarls and snaps her fingers. "Anyone in our way dies!"

In an instant, the terrors cease just pushing their way, and with low inhuman growls unfurl their weapons. A pointed look from Hultressa has you pushing your way forward as well, and you'd swear that Brain Wounder's runes had been dimmer but moments before the terrors smoothly open up a gap for you. Sadrina's eyes on your back are like two burning suns, but you can't pay too much attention to that, and instead finally, finally, get to turn your weapon on some damned Druchii. The slaughter that begins is incredible in its scope and swiftness as the many-feet long blades, thick spiked maces, and a Runefang start to hack and slash and bludgeon to death Druchii in the scrum keeping your party from advancing. It doesn't matter if they're Slaaneshi or not, though you try to kill at least somewhat more of the former than the latter simply out of hatred for Chaos, but blood splashes across you and new pained screams fill the air as you get to extract some small measure of vengeance for all that the Druchii have done to the world. The sea is not parted so much as hacked through, your passage one of torn off limbs, shrieking dying trampled beneath the feet of others, and elven bone exposed to open air while awash in their own blood.

Where before it seemed you were nearly doomed to be trapped in an inescapable quagmire of religious infighting, you find yourself more than halfway across the temple grounds towards the doors and some possible form of freedom. From here, all you have to do is get past the doors, force your way past anyone coming to investigate, and get back to the Tor. With Hultressa with you, and the remaining terrors, her authority and threat should hopefully be enough to manage that at least. Once you get back Eldyra and Gwendolyn then your wife and the others, just one of the repaired ships in the harbor could be enough to escape with. Even if that fails, with a brewing civil war, the flying beasts, distracted sorceresses, something can be done to actually escape. Not to mention whatever the hell happened with that quake earlier that shook the entire Black Ark. You made plenty of bombs, but it would take you literal years of production with far higher-grade materials to even come close to a fraction of whatever in the hells that was.

"Keep going, keep going!" Hultressa shouts.

Another Druchii dies, then another, as you continue forcing your way out alongside the other terrors. More daemons are pouring out of the rift, and more of Khaine's statue is beginning to become tarnished and transformed. There are less and less Druchii directly in front of you, less fighting each other, a steady wave of Slaaneshi dominance beginning to overtake the fight. A sinking feeling pierces the rising hope in your heart, and starts to drag it right back down as you see all of it, hear all of it, feel it in your soul. By the time that a translucent wall of sickly lilac energies splashes out of the sky like an overturned bucket directly in front of your party, you're hardly even surprised. Even less so as an ominous purple-pink glow falls over your entire party.

"OH SISTER!" Alyssa says with enough brightness in her voice to scald the eyeballs as she strides across the air atop what looks like musical notes made of layered together lips and tongues that briefly fade into and out of existence. "One last question before you leave, hmm?"

As she comes closer, you can see one of her eyes twitching uncontrollably.

"We are bargained and done, Alyssa," Hultressa shoots back, even as she grabs her staff with both hands and holds it just shy of threateningly. "Besides, as I told you, you have things here well in hand."

"Of course, of course," Alyssa nods, a wide smile on her face baring all of her teeth obvious as she walks atop the disgusting organic sigils. "Yet, I just…do have one last question?"

She then points directly at you with her staff, her face a rictus tableau of fury.

"Four hundred years of seeing terrors made of all races across this world…and never have you left one of them with a soul intact after the process was complete, not after your apprenticeship with Fal-Naiana was complete."

The remaining non-Slaaneshi Druchii continue to fight but they are being overwhelmed, forced into shrinking islands of defiance centering around the remaining Cytharai Cults. As far as you've come, however, your group is forced to come to a stumbling, frozen halt with the barrier in front of you. It is not so long, so wide, so tall as to be utterly impassible, but you won't be leaping over it anytime soon let alone trying to run around the farther sides. None of which concerns you nearly as much as seeing the sadistic grin on Alyssa's face as she stares down at you. Hultressa is too well-practiced to simply freeze up in shock or surprise. Instead, she takes a slow breath and sets her shoulders while looking up at her sister, her grip on her staff firm and jaw set. Johanna looks from Hultressa, to her sister, and then sighs and lets her head hang a little, while Sadrina in her cage has adjusted remarkably quickly and now simply largely focused on her former captor.

"And you know all about the intricacies of my work, then, Alyssa?" Hultressa sniffs, cocking her head. "Or, no, wait," she taps a finger against her lips. "You never had the talent for it."

Alyssa's snarl is a clogged, choking thing as she hunches forward slightly with the left eye still twitching.

"I know what I can sense, Hultressa!" She spits. "As does the Muse of Agony!"

At her mention of the daemon, her eyes briefly glow with the power of Chaos.

"Flayed, torn, shredded, fragmented, sold, devoured, and more!" She flings her arm to the side before it once more points accusingly towards you. "But intact? No. No…no. It would not suit your professional pride, sister! Kerrmieryon, for six hundred years?! No. So there is more at work!" Alyssa declares triumphantly, an absolutely insane gleam in her eye now.

To all of this, Hultressa is quiet for a moment.

"…are you denying my purchases and our bargained exchanges-," she begins calmly before Alyssa laughs her into silence once more.

"Why bargain and scrape for some of your resources when I can possess all of them?" She asks with a sudden calm utterly at odds with her twitching and snarling prior. "You give me no loyalty, your cause your own even against Screamtaker. You forego swearing new oaths to me, speaking of your precious work! You leave the soul of a Ylvathoi, one who dared defy the Druchii and placed one filthy step onto our Ark uncollared, intact! No, sister," Alyssa places a hand against her chest and her voice becomes a sickly woebegone thing, "I tire of your secrets, your distance!" Her expression then becomes something altogether more twisted as she smiles. "I will remove both between us. What is yours shall be mine, as it always should have been by all rights."

"Shit," Johanna mumbles quietly, barely audible even with how close you are to her.

"If you wished to rekindle our bonds, you could have picked a better time," Hultressa says even as she lifts her staff from the ground and places both hands on it, a dark black glow beginning to emanate from the head of it. "And 'by right'? Really? By right of what, falsely perceived superiority? By right of being a few years older?"

Alyssa doesn't blink.

"By right of conquest and blood, sister."

Behind you, more daemonettes are breaking through and past the few remaining knots of resistance, giggling and skipping joyously as they come with blood and viscera splattered across their bodies.

"Starting with you. Then I will reclaim rest of my property. Then I think I shall have to see what you have been keeping from the rest of us. Screamtaker let you live with far too lose a hand. I intend to rule differently."

"Is. That. So," Hultressa inhales slowly. "Terrible standard to set for future business practices and auction etiquette, Alyssa, but I suppose I hardly should have expected better of you."

The Hohenzollern Dynasty is at its strongest and most numerous in generations. You yourself are a patriarch to a great many children, who themselves have many children, a handful of which are old enough to start considering marriage and children of their own at this point. Not that you would say they must act to do so, it is just that you are aware of it. Perhaps it is that, the experience as father and grandfather, that informs your mind as to what is to come. Or perhaps it is being a child with many siblings yourself, even if you were thrown from Wulfenburg early on in your life. You certainly observed plenty of interactions maturing in Jegow between those bonded by blood and otherwise. The knowledge of what is most vulnerable about another, and the willingness to use it. Or perhaps it is from some other sense or knowledge or experience entirely.

"Your insults pile ever higher, Hultressa," Alyssa sniffs, cracking her neck from side to side with dull pops, baring her teeth. "But do not worry. You can, and will, pay for them. After all, as all the Coven swore to you upon her birth, we shall never give Gwendolyn to the Cult of Khaine."

The Supreme Sorceress runs her tongue along her teeth without blinking.

"But your sins may be forgiven after she is given to Slaanesh-,"

(A Refutation: 71+Mother's Rage(15)-Slaaneshi Empowerment(15)+Hultressa Horrorheart(20)-Alyssa Voidreaper(20)=71/100)

A solid column of Dhar spikes upwards directly at Alyssa to smash into a suddenly appearing violet and blue shield of magic, before the column begins to splinter apart and form dozens of smaller bending tentacles that sharpen into spikes that plunge towards the Supreme Sorceress at different angles. Different bending half spheres flicker into existence, bubbling atop bubbles like churned soap to form interlocking layers as a defense, but even with all of that Alyssa is quite visibly and quickly forced upwards and to the side. Meanwhile, a good third of the Dhar pouring forth from Hultressa peels off and slams down like an unruly child's fist to shatter the barrier that had been blocking your way, while another third spills outwards and then fizzles into a gaseous wall that causes the delighted giggles of the daemonettes to turn into delighted yelps of pain and ecstasy as their unnatural bodies begin to melt and burn.

"Okay, so we're doing this now," you mumble as the terrors let out inhuman gurgling roars and start rushing forward against the daemonettes that had begun to try and surround you.

"Come on, then!" Johanna bellows with an amount of volume that is actually somewhat shocking before her entire body is wracked with hideous sounds of cracking bone and grinding wet flesh, bulging from some internal well of mass and meat within her now spilling out from within like filling sausage casings and force her size another foot higher and wider at the shoulders.

With a loud clang, the cage is placed back down roughly onto the ground before she grabs the haft of her Cathayan halberd near the very bottom with one hand.

Both sorceresses are too busy screaming wordlessly at each other while throwing about their magic to do much else.

"Well then," you grunt before turning over to the cage and its quite obviously concerned occupant. "Watch it, don't know how strong these bars really are."

As it turns out, Brain Wounder hacks through the no-longer-so-enchanted cage with relative ease. Not to say that there isn't any resistance at all, which is disturbing in its own way given that you've sliced through plate armor and boulders alike with less strain, but it's not like it was entirely unexpected either. This was clearly one of the more special cages that the Druchii have made, but it still doesn't stop the cutting power possessed by a masterwork of Alaric the Mad. The moment she is no longer so utterly confined, Sadrina is out, uncaring of her nakedness as she sweeps you up in a brief hug before leaning down into the bodies of the slain Druchii cut down in your group's effort to escape that cover the ground. An acceptable enough shield is scooped up and straps tightened over one arm with two swift movements while a wicked curved blade finds itself in her hand. The Handmaiden takes a short breath before glancing over to your other rescued compatriots.

"What are you waiting for? Arm yourselves!" She barks, melodious voice sharpened to a razor's edge.

"Dance with us!" A daemonette cries out coquettishly before spinning around on one hoof and accelerating faster and faster like a deathspinner while still coming towards you.

(Fighting Forward: 47+Remaining Terror Guard(15)+Dangerous Assembly(35)-Dancers of the Wailing Waltz(20)-Broken Sister(10)=67/100)
(Vying Sisters: 66+15-15+20-20-Hultressa's Exaustion(5)=61/100)

Johanna hops upwards and then sweeps out with her Cathayan weapon, and leaves behind a burning trail in the air where the blade passes, strange and foreign runes blazing to life along the blade's edge. Brain Wounder beheads one daemonette, who's bouncing head laughs and coos affectionatly at you even as it bounces along the ground, the body continuing to fight before you split it down the middle and finally force its metaphysical integrity beyond maintenance. The terrors carve and cut and smash, but sustain wounds themselves in turn that you really wish they wouldn't. Sadrina, apparently truly kept as pristine as possible in her imprisonment before her presumed torture and mutilation later after the Auction, leaps into action as well while darting in and out from the far better armored to cut and stab where she can. Kerillian has no bow to fire with, but she's found a Druchii sword and knife and is using them with almost excessive speed to cut and stab what she can. The only ones who fail to contribute nearly as much are the Whitewings, both Bretonnian warriors grimacing and keeping back to try and guard their barely moving third, who will not take up arms even now that you are all under direct threat no matter how much her peers plead with her. Meanwhile, a spectral wave of spikes and blades and hooks comes flying through the air to smash into a deep sparking azure barrier hastily conjured by Hultressa, who grits her teeth at the effort required, her arms trembling with the effort while she keeps moving within the center of your group.

Every step forward towards the gates of the temple and the rest of the Ark is one hard fought.

(Fighting Forward: 81+Struggling Terror Guard(10)+35-20-10=96/100)
(Vying Sisters: 38+15-15+20-20-Hultressa's Exhaustion(10)=28/100)

"Back…OFF!" Johanna bellows gutturally, and then leaps directly into the masses of daemonettes coming from behind and momentarily disappears in the mass of bodies before great sweeping flame-trailing strikes start killing groups of them at a time.

The Handmaiden, on the other hand, pushes forward with Kerillian behind her, the two of them throwing all of their elven prowess and dexterity on display. There is, despite everything, a strange grace to the movements of Sadrina's shield bashes and bladework, while Kerillian practically appears to have gone feral like a beast in her frenzied stabbing all while a flat-out incomprehensible tirade in Fan-Eltharin escapes her mouth. Her imprisonment does not appear to have done wonders for her temperament, but at least she's actually fighting, unlike the one Whitewing who's still being haplessly dragged along by the other two, who are barely contributing at all with the terrors still standing and fighting. In the end, you end up being the one forced to guard the rear for those daemonettes able to get past Johanna, and also to protect the damned Bretonnians, who are by this point outright screaming for Breonna to do something. You'd settle for her standing on her own two feet at this point, her grip is water and oil anytime they try to press the hilt of a weapon into her hands.

Even with the Whitewings practically useless, you finally make it to the gates of the falling temple.

The expanse of the Claw of Dominion stretches out before you, though you cannot miss the plumes of smoke elsewhere on the Ark and the sounds of fighting that are going on around you aside from the temple proper.

But then comes a terrific concussive force that nearly bowls you over, and you turn just in time to nearly be bowled over yet again. Hultressa lets out a pained scream while you watch as a lightning bolt strikes her in the side and sends her to the ground, a feeble raising of her staff able to shield her from a second with a barrier that then shatters as a living serpent of black flame wraps around her right leg and begins burning her through the armor, superheating it and beginning to melt it. An especially large and powerful doombolt is conjured by Alyssa to crash directly atop Hultressa, who momentarily disappears beneath the magical missile with another scream as the very ground is cratered around her. It also outright sends the Whitewings bouncing and screaming themselves, the sheer malefic and unholy heat and power of it burning their naked skin and flesh beneath. Breonna simply flops to the ground while the other two try and stand once more, but two of the terrors are definitely gone. You aren't even done blinking the afterimages from your eyes before the daemons are on you once again.

(On The Cusp: 39+Remaining Terror Guard(5)+35-20-10-Alyssa's Attentions(20)=29/100)

"And as for the rest of you! You will worship me as your mistress and savior!" Alyssa screams with glee before she reaches out with a hand and then wrenches it backwards.

A swirling mist of purple and pink appears with her gesture, steadily solidifying into what looks like chains with spikes sprouting from them, a great mass of the stuff that begins to shoot out individual lengths from the greater bundle like gunshots.

"The hell we will!" Johanna shouts from amidst a dogpile of daemonettes.

(Jet Sphere Spell Negation Attempt! 1d6=3! Success!)
(Emergency Restorative Internal Cache Activated!)

An object, small, black, and thrown at near blurring speeds impacts the spell's epicenter and then erupts into a shower of glittering black dust. Then, to your uncomprehending eyes, the magic quite literally appears to fizzle out. Or rather, no, fizzle into the glittering black which is now sweeping away in the wind of the air. Like a lighting bolt being grounded, the magic itself is being grounded away into whatever the hell it was that was thrown, and the spell simply ceases to be in a manner that you normally would only ever imagine possible with the work of a runesmith. Or, perhaps, a wielder of magic that working specifically to dispel another's workings. Regardless, the result is the same. The magic is banished, even if momentarily, while a still breathing Hultressa is revealed in the small crater, badly burned but still clearly living. Then a burst of pure cleansing Hysh appears to erupt from somewhere inside of her, and Hultressa lets out a gasp as her wounds begin to heal as she pushes herself somewhat with one arm, a deep grimace on her face.

She makes to snarl out something before the blood drains from her face as she looks to one of the skulls on her belt.

Or rather, one of the skulls which is now crumbling away.

"No…!" She wheezes out with naked horror in her voice before it turns to fury as she glares at Alyssa. "You can't have-!"

"Can't have? Why not?" Alyssa tosses her hair and snorts. "Did you really think your wards so powerful, so mighty? You might have endeavored to strengthen them before, but hells, little sister. I've broken them before!" She laughs triumphantly and then with an idle move of one hand seems to command the daemonettes to actually draw back a bit, leaving a fierce-looking Johanna with glowing green eyes with tears and rips carved through her disguise.

Even through the armor, you can see Hultressa's eyes narrow to slits.

"…it was you," she says flatly.

"Indeed," Alyssa smirks.

"…why?" Hultressa strains out even as she slowly stands once again, the terrors and Johanna momentarily keeping the daemons back. "I knew it was either you or Screamtaker…,"

"Oh, she helped," Alyssa shrugs one shoulder, that cruel smirk only intensifying. "The rivalries of the Cytharai are myriad, little sister. Did you never think, for one moment," she taps a finger against her forehead, "That to steal from Khaine's table and strengthen Hekarti might be a powerful gift?"

"You did all of that, to me," Hultressa seethes, her exhaustion and wounds seeming to drift away beneath fury, "Stole my will, my choice, my body, all so that you could CUCKOLD KHAINE!?"

Alyssa just laughs like a rainstorm of glass shards at the utter violation and anger in her sister's voice.

"You played your part well, nurturing her, but if you think about it, preparing you as I did, and her father," Alyssa splays her arms wide with a wicked smirk on her face. "Why, I am the originator of her creation. I am as much her mother as you! Even now," she lazily glances up at the Tor of Dominance. "My servants will be retrieving her so that she can be properly raised…at my side," she smiles indulgently as she looks back to Hultressa, who is almost vibrating with her barely leashed emotions. "Thank you for keeping my daughter safe, but your services in that regard are no longer required."

Hultressa is breathing, hard, head whipping back and forth from the Tor and Alyssa.

"Unless you really think you can save her," she smirks. "You can certainly try, but given your state, I doubt you'll get far even if you can get to her."

Everything that you know about Hultressa, all that she's said, all that she has shown whether intended or not, tells you what her choice will be. She has lived for over a thousand years. Has struggled with the levers and pressures of the society that the Witch King, his bitch of a mother, and others have built and kept in place. The things she's done, the monstrosities she's unleashed and enacted across the world, most likely outweigh the good that she's been able to secretly manage. On the one hand, she did all of this in the hopes of gaining the aid of one who would vouch for her to the Everqueen, on the off chance that you were able to escape at all. But all of it, or perhaps none of it, matters as much to her as her daughter's life. She has been wounded and healed, she is tired before and now even more so after. But you know as well as anyone the sheer lengths that a parent might go to for their children, the limits that can be temporarily broken.

"Choose, sister. Your daughter, maybe, or those you sought to…I don't even know, save somehow?" Alyssa turns her nose up as she looks down at the rest of you, scoffing loudly. "As if you could run from me on my Ark."

Then a clarion clear voice, like the tone of a perfectly wrought silver bell, chimes in.

"There are those who resist you, even now," Sadrina says, drawing herself up with stern serenity and unabashed dignity even with her nakedness splashed with the blood of the Druchii. "Across the whole of the Ark. You may think that your Cult of Pleasure can claim victory, but it will not be so swift, nor so complete, as you may desire."

The confident ease disappears from Alyssa's face as she regards the Handmaiden.

"Do not think to dictate the workings and intricacies of the Cytharai to me, prancing wretch of Isha! Once our conflict is done, the Cults shall return to function and form as desired! The joining of the Undenied has carved free an opening anew in the depths, from which a new wellspring of strength shall add to the power of the Druchii!" Alyssa proclaims, one hand curling into a claw that wrenches at the air and drags it closer to her.

The gaze of many dance between Alyssa and Hultressa, the latter's breathing gone ragged, eyes squeezing shut as she gathers up the crumbing remains of the skull on her belt as whatever sympathetic links it held to her own wards continues to dissolve along with – presumably – the wards themselves. How long has Alyssa been planning this, you wonder? Was it because of your actions on this day, and that of others, which caused her to disdain waiting any longer? How swiftly was she able to communicate her own signals to the Tor of Dominance? How many other sorceresses remain in the Tor even now, the Coven spread throughout the Ark and maintaining its capacity to float and move beyond those who attended the Auction? However and whenever she set it in motion, it had to have been fast, done sometime after she'd decided to openly reveal the Cult of Pleasure. But in the end, that doesn't matter nearly as much as what comes next, because one way or another, you were only at the gates of the Temple of Khaine and not further out into the urban landscape of the Ark proper.

(Mother's Choice: 17+Burgeoning Genuine Friendship(10)+The Grand Plan(20)+Handmaiden Present(25)-Shattered Wards(15)-Exhaustion(10)+Lingering Ishan Compassion(15)+Reached The Gates(5)-Knowledge of Alyssa's Capabilities(20)-Threatened Daughter(35)+Protected By Terrors(10)+Armed Eldyra(15)=37/100)

You are a husband to a wonderful wife, father to a number of children, and have presided over family gatherings including a great many grandchildren. You have attended many meetings with family friends of two different provinces who have their own families. It is no idle boast to say that you are, perhaps, exceedingly well experienced and practiced in many such matters, though there is no such thing as perfect parenting for all children are destined to be their own people even if some pain is withstood in the course of it. But you aren't entirely sure you would need any of that to know what choice is going to be made in the next few seconds. You can see it in the bunching, the tensing of the body beneath armor and layers visible in its intensity, the grinding of metal caps and plates against each other as fists clench. Smell it in the air as Dhar does not simply waft but simply pours outwards from Hultressa to the point that it rapidly ceases to be discernable solely to those uniquely cursed and blessed with Witch Sight and outright becomes physically palpable and present in a scouring black event horizon, a corona, a halo, of pure crushed together Winds of Magic with a will and strength unknown to those without a certain sort of love in their hearts.

Hultressa raises her head, and deliberately looks away from Alyssa, which causes the Supreme Sorceress to tilt her head and scowl, and looks towards you.

Not Sadrina, who you suspect realizes what is about to happen.

Not Kerillian, who is still looking about so quickly around her that you think her neck is about to snap clean off.

To you.

She meets your gaze, and you meet hers, and you know. She knows you know.

You are a man of not inconsiderable intelligence. You are capable of multitudes, of complexities, of holding contradictory information and emotions within yourself simultaneously. So it is that you rage, you rage like you almost never have before, at what is to come. So close, now so far, denied with a goal in sight. You would spit fury, scream, curse, and more. But so too do you give the slightest of nods, and the most helpless of smiles beneath your helmet and armor. Because you know, and you understand on the most base and primal level, and on that level, you cannot help but approve. How could you not? After all that you've done, that members of your family have done, and friends as well? And so you rage, you laugh, and you can do nothing more than watch as that almost catastrophic upswell of power grows stronger and stronger until the stone around her begins to crack apart and even somewhat dissolve. Two more of the skulls on her face begins to crumble away into dissolving dust, but the clouds of particulate sparkle and shine before visibly flowing into Hultressa's body, absorbed at rapid pace.

"You will never have her."

It is a whisper that reaches far and wide.

(A Departure: 86+15-15+20-20+Daughter Under Threat(25)+Skull Storage(10)+Skull Storage 2(10)+Dual Directions(10)=141/100)

A black sun rises on the Claw of Dominion, that great edifice and chunk of primordial continental shelf which has sailed the seas of the world since the Great Sundering.

It grows, and grows, and consumes light inwards with a gravity that beggars belief.

Color itself is drained from the world around it, sucked inwards into depths that do not exist on a plane that cannot be fathomed, your feet dragging forward unbidden by that strange power, everyone around you doing the same even as they try to resist.

Then the black sun blooms like a flower with petals that spins like a rotating sawblade, and each petal extends out dozens of feet in less than a blink of an eye. You are grasped by it, and it burns you like lye scrubbing you raw even through two layers of armor, but you cannot resist as you are dragged. As all of your companions are grabbed and spun and wrenched with bone-creaking speeds and strength forwards and through the gates of the Temple of Khaine. More petals extend outwards, and what they touch does not burn, but simply ceases, disintegrated on contact. An entire swathe of daemonettes do not even get time to let out one more ecstatic moan or groan of pleasure at their pain before they are gone. The gates themselves cease to bar your path before you would have struck them and are instead flung far onto the streets in a tumbling roll. A roll accompanied by many other coughs and exclamations of pain and surprise as the rest of your party is unceremoniously deposited onto the streets, surrounded by Druchii in combat with one another. Some of whom were bowled over by your violent transportation and arrival, but many more are even now fighting one another. The speed of it all, the violence of it, meant that you couldn't even see where or what happened to Alyssa, but you can certainly hear an absolutely piercing howl of pain and hate which goes beyond mere inhumanity. Or, in this case perhaps, inelven? For what you can hear is a guttural, raging sound that to your ears sounds nothing more and nothing less than outright daemonic.

"HULTRESSAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!"

"Up and at 'em!" Johanna calls out, already back on her feet, before with a wide sweep of her Cathayan halberd she clears the immediate area around you all before with a gruff and uncaringly rough gesture outright yanks Breonna the Whitewing out of the arms of her fellows. "You two were absolutely fucking useless back there trying to help this one. Get your shit together!" The vampire barks angrily at the Bretonnians.

"That was…what…," Sadrina says slowly, shaking her head even as she parries a frothing made Druchii's strike with her acquired shield and lashes out with a kick to the side of his head that sends him to the ground.

"That was my friend Hultressa," you inform her with a grunt as you shake out your stinging aches and pains. "Stolen from Tiranoc at one point. Wants to go home, been trying, hasn't been able to, tried to make a gamble of it. Daughter's cursed by Khaine, wants the Everqueen's help to uncurse her."

The Handmaiden of the Everqueen's eyes lock onto you, as in fact does the pure dark spheres of Kerillian and the confused looks of the Whitewings. Johanna, at least, is focused on helping you begin to push forward through the crowds you've found yourselves in. A welcome thing considering that there is a loud explosion back towards the Temple of Khaine, and a few plumes of sickly purple-pink smoke that are rising in the air as well as wordless yelling that even from the rather considerable distance that whatever the hell that last burst of magic was you can tell comes from Alyssa. The Supreme Sorceress seems to be rather expectedly furious. But then comes other groans and whimpers, and all of you look down to find, much to your surprise, a number of others that appear to have been caught up in the spell. Given their general states of undress, the clear signs of abuse on all of them, some with clipped ears, a missing eye or fingers, all of them are clearly slaves. All of them, also, are clearly elven. They, just like the rest of you, were not particularly gently moved, with red raw lengths pressed across their bodies where solidified Dhar had wrapped around them like spiked chains and rope, but they are in fact here before you. They are but some of those you saw out in the Auction, likely just those that were close enough. Still, it's something.

"W-what-," one mumbles with a hand pressed against her forehead, a hand with all the fingers reduced by one joint length.

"Mistress?" Another cries out plaintively, his entire torso a ruined wasteland of scar tissue.

"I am…alive?"

There is a crackle of…something…before Sadrina stands amongst them and with incredible gentleness helps one rise to their feet. Despite her nakedness, despite the blood covering her, there is something otherworldly to her countenance as they look upon her. In so many broken gazes, places that have gone utterly dull and empty of light for who knows how long, there appears the tiniest visible spark as some small measure of that something that Sadrina carried within her passes to them. Within seconds, all of the slaves are looking at her with absolute awe, rising to their feet and unconsciously helping others do the same.

"Stand tall, Asur," she says to them sternly, "Stand proud."

"W-who are you?" One, a one-eyed Asur man who visibly looks weathered and withered, asks her with one trembling hand reaching out to her.

No one in her state should be capable of presenting with such majesty, and yet she does it all the same. Despite it all, a heady sense of calm and comfort emanates from her as she reaches out and clasps the man's hand and hold it tightly.

"I am Sadrina, some call me the Goldenquill," she says with a fierce smile. "Handmaiden of the Everqueen. And you have never been forgotten."

Tears begin to pour from the face of every single one of the Asur slaves as they sob while crowding her.

"Touching," Kerillian says snidely and making them jump and turn to her in shock, "But mayhaps we can bask in Isha's love in a place of safety?"

Only then do the other Asur start to notice the rest of you, shying away from you particularly. Not surprising, given what you look like. Though you do note that none of the other terrors appear to have been transported out with you. Hopefully they'll cause at least a modicum more damage back there if they really were left behind.

"Johanna!" You say, looking to the vampire who glances your way past the unmoving Whitewing on her shoulder. "Where in the name of the Gods is my wife?"

"I can try and lead us there, but who knows if we'll make it," she huffs grimly before nevertheless taking the lead.

"Stay close, stay safe!" Sadrina commands the Asur with you.

Given how deprived many of them appear to be, you have the unfortunate realization that they're more likely to be liabilities than assets in the fighting to come.

(Chased Through the Ark of Madness: 27+Significant Depopluation(20)+Cytharai Leanings(10)-Morathian Foundations(35)+Two Armies One Ark(10)+Grudges and Vendettas(10)+Band of Heroes(35)-Supremely Pissed(20)-Pleasurable Preparations(10)-Exalted Herald's Call(15)-Asur Slaves(5)=27/100)

The Claw of Dominion has gone insane.

How swiftly did madness and anarchy seem to spread here!

The Cult of Pleasure has been infesting this Ark for a long time, from top to bottom. It's the only reason that you can think of for how many of the Druchii are already fighting in the name of Slaanesh. The statue of Khaine was so large that it was practically visible from anywhere on it, you suppose that watching as it literally began to melt and twist into something more appropriate towards the Prince of Excess was a good a sign as any for them to bring out their knives. At the same time, you see just as many Druchii who are not visibly aligned with anyone but themselves, their houses, their own causes. Your rudimentary knowledge of Eltharin falters here like it has before, but you know the terms for vengeance, for hatred, for revenge, recompense, and so on, though the sheer scale and complexity of what certain Druchii are ranting at each other as they fight goes past that limited comprehension. Fires spread, smoke rises, and there appears to be no better time for grudges that have been building for likely longer than your lifetime to be finally dealt with. So focused on each other, they can hardly defend themselves easily from your small party trying to get by. But there are a number of them, even if they are not all purely military combatants but instead angry Druchii civilian equivalents.

All of which, frustratingly, makes it difficult for you to actually move quickly through the streets.

"This is definitely the most Druchii I've ever killed personally!" You rant as you ram Brain Wounder right through a brilliant defensive guard maneuver and into the heart of the Druchii facing you, "And almost the slowest I've ever moved across a battlefield!"

"Get out of our way!" Kerillian spits before descending into rapid-fire Fan-Eltharin curses as her blades dance and flicker into every bit of exposed skin and flesh she can find.

"That way, down that street!" Johanna points before lashing out with her halberd's blunt end and crushing the chest of another Druchii inwards with sheer bludgeoning trauma.

(Chased Through The Ark of Madness: 40+20+10-35+10+10+35-20-10-15-5-Emergent Legion(5)=35/100)

"Daemonettes are coming from up behind!" Kerillian shouts from nearby, popping up onto a pile of fallen crates while dual wielding repeating crossbows that she's scavenged from who knows what dead body on the ground. "Lots of 'em!"

"They found us already?!" You can't help but shout in frustration as a Druchii with a glowing brand of Slaanesh just above his navel tries to gut you, only to find that whatever meager blessings of his chosen God could convey to his sword isn't enough to stop Brain Wounder from carving through metal, skin, flesh, and bone.

"Don't seem focused entirely on us," she answers back before firing a few more times with each repeater, "More just spreading out into the Ark!"

"She is sending them forth to aid her followers in securing control over the Ark!" Sadrina shouts as she beheads a Druchii, then kicks the head into the head of another charging Druchii to keep them just off balance enough for her to disembowel them. "So long as that Herald plays their song, the portal remains open, and she has reinforcements aplenty to shore up her strength!"

"How can she possibly think this is going to go well for her!?" Johanna snarls as she slices and stabs with her halberd one-handedly with monstrous strength.

"They were saying something about an Undenied, some sort of…decree? Something!" Is your helpless answer.

"The Witch-King has made alliances with the forces of Chaos before, there is nothing and no one they will not stoop to utilizing if they think it is to their benefit!" Sadrina says as she blocks one blow with her stolen shield and sweeps the leg of her attacker out with one of her powerful legs, "If something has changed in the court of Naggarond regarding the Cults of Pleasure, I have not heard about it!"

Her blade skitters into one throat, and then another, before she turns back to you with a deep frown on her face.

"But I am not the Shadow King, nor am I of his Shadow Warriors," she shakes her head. "If there is information to be shared, then I have not benefitted from it as of yet."

"Let's proceed with the idea that Alyssa isn't suicidal in doing this," you grunt as you keep fighting.

"Oh sure, nothing like fighting while depressed!" Johanna says with a harsh laugh.

(Chased Through The Ark of Madness: 54+20+10-35+10+10+35-20-10-15-5-The Chorus of Ecstatic Agony(10)=44/100)

"Bad news," Kerillian whispers to you as her shoulder thumps against yours, the two of you momentarily fighting side by side as you try to cut a way through a rampaging mob of Druchii chaotically tearing each other apart.

"Say it," you growl as you block a strike with Bokdrungni, the outer shell of terror armor well savaged enough at this point that the gleaming Ledstali within is more than visible.

"Remember the daemons from before?"

"Aye!"

You both duck in unison from a vicious two-handed sweep with a heavy cleaving blade before cutting the offending Druchii's legs off before killing him.

"Well, I think that now they're heading for us specifically."

Spinning on your heel, you look and find a tide of giggling, laughing, screaming, singing daemonettes coming down the street. Some of the Druchii are spared their attentions, some even outright helped to their feet and slapped on the ass to get moving again. Others are only able to put up some small amount of resistance as they are torn apart. By teeth, hoof, claw, finger, whip, or otherwise, the daemonettes kill. At their head, however, is a larger daemonette than the others, not quite to the point of the Exalted Herald and her harp, but a third arm protrudes from the small of their back that ends in an even larger claw than the others, while their hand with actual digits on the end is busy fondling its grotesquely exaggerated genitals as they are literally sprinting forward.

With seven eyes locked squarely on you.

An involuntary shudder runs through you as you watch as its mouth produces seven separated tentacles instead of tongues that lap and rub themselves all over the daemonette's face.

"Come on, come on!" You snarl as you turn back to the Druchii in your damned way.

(Chased Through The Ark of Madness: 33+20+10-35+10+10+35-20-10-15-5-Growing Chorus(15)=18/100)

One more street.

One more corner.

There are bloody Druchii everywhere.

You step over the dead, master and slave alike.

You fight through the living, loyal and corrupted both.

Still, it is not enough.

Not enough to get away from the tide of daemons behind you.

"His soul! Oooo~!"

"So delicious, so handsome, so ugly! It stinks, let me eat it, let me?!"

"Scream! Scream louder and hard and fast!"

"Let me show you, let me feel you, and feel me!"

A cavalcade of some of the filthiest things you've ever imagined, and plenty more you never have, spills forth in a babbling tide from creatures for whom lungs and air capacity are largely just suggestions. The most laviscious prostitutes in the Old World would be as innocent babbling children compared to what the daemonettes are screaming outwards. They both plead and offer up delights and experiences laced with the taint of the Realm of Chaos itself filtering through the air. The more there are behind you, forcing you, Kerillian, and Sadrina to fight in the rear guard as Johanna keeps leading the group onwards, the worse it gets. The air that was previously full of the scent of blood and smoke and fire is beginning to find itself supplanted. Not replaced, not entirely, but rather the smell of reality itself seems to leave all bounds of normalcy. A hundred different incense scents, concoctions of perfumes that are outright revolting and impossibly enticing, the stink of sweat and spice and sugar mixes with rotten meat and salt and spoiled things. An excess in the extreme that has your eyes watering, tongue feeling slightly swollen in your mouth, nose suffering from so much that ought to have rendered it blind to all scents is seemingly not being allowed to do so.

Then they are on you.

"GET OFF OF ME!" You roar, tearing them apart with Brain Wounder, but every single one that falls back is replaced two-fold.

(Predator Pointed: 47+Creeping Exhaustion(5)+Frederick Martial(19)-20-Song of Scintillating Delight(10)=41/100)
(Master Rune of Skella Valayadottir Activates! 6! Success!)

The runes on Bokdrungni flare brightly enough to temporarily blind, and this time the shrieks of the daemonettes show no pleasure or satisfaction at all as they recoil backwards. It is just in time as well, as the masterwork of Kragg the Grim once more shows its worth as it wrenches itself into position as a screaming doombolt of impressive size slams directly into you. Or rather, it would have, quite possibly obliterating you outright or at least tearing apart your armor, were all of that tainted magical energy not swallowed up by the gauntlet itself. The sudden openings in daemonettes around you lets you see your attacker, who flies atop a Dark Pegasus now, but the sneering furious face of Alyssa Voidreaper is unmistakable. Though that fury turns into shock and frustration as you through a purified bolt of magic right back at her, all the hideous strength she'd pumped into it refined and returned through dwarfen artifice.

"Guess it was too much to hope you died back there," you mumble as the Dark Pegasus lets out a scream of pain as she throws up a shield just a second too late to fully deflect it.

"You will suffer a thousand years before you are allowed to die, wretch!" Alyssa screams. "You and all the rest of your pathetic band!"

Then two more sorceresses arrive, following their mistress, their staffs alight with terrible magics upon their own steeds.

"Take them!" Alyssa screams before pointing her staff once more.

Glowing spectral chains and oily black tentacles spew outwards from those staves right down towards you all.

(Jet Sphere Spell Negation Attempt! 1d6=5! Success!)
(Master Rune of Skella Valayadottir Activates! 4! Failure!)
(Master Rune of Skella Valayadottir Activates! 3! Failure!)
(Minor Wound Sustained! Light of Summer Activates! 66! Success!)

There is a muted thump and pop similar to the last time that Johanna threw whatever it is to dissipate a spell, but unfortunately there are three sorceresses rather than one. You also appear to have, whether because of your clearly closer assosciation with Hultressa, the fact that you were part of the group first, are in fact yourself and rather openly so with Brain Wounder out and soul intact, targeted a bit more heavily. The air is driven out of your lungs as a solid wave of seemingly solidified air slams you into the ground onto your back, your armor taking most of the damage quite handily, but scraping you against the ground, nonetheless. But you don't get much time to even contemplate that before you are touched by a spell you'd really wished not to ever experience again, one that in fact the last time you suffered it came from the touch of Hultressa, in a darkly ironic way. Bars of pure white-hot flame insert themselves around your body before connecting into a painful cage that prevents you from moving, forcing a scream from your mouth. The only thing keeping you from almost passing out from the pain is the fact that your armor is Ledstali, and is holding up incredibly well against the pure flames of Aqshy surrounding you. Your eyes, unfortunately, are not so well guarded, and you can feel your vision being literally burnt out of your sockets from the bar almost directly pressed against your forehead. Even through your forced shut eyes, it is quite literally actively blinding you. Some of the pain fades as you feel the Light of Summer activate, but it can only do so much when you are still actively being burned.

"Frederick!" Sadrina calls out in horror.

"I have the brute caged, mistress!"

"The hell you do!" Johanna roars before there is the sound of stone crumpling and crackling.

(Surrounded By the Chorus: 94+20+10-35+10+10+Reduced Band Strength(25)-20-10-15-5-Hymn of Pain and Pleasure(20)=64/100)
(Alight, Midflight: 65+Johanna Martial(20)-Band of Tired Sorceresses(25)+Surprise(5)+Stored Celestial Flames(10)=75/100)

You can't see, not with the blazing bar of light in your face. But you can hear. Quite well, in fact. You can hear as the sorceresses let out shouts of surprise and the beating of a fourth pair of wings, as well as the tearing of flesh and splattering of blood. You can hear and smell, all too well, the daemonettes as they press in, some of them leaving lingering touches on your body that is not covered by the burning bars of Aqshy, and each one enrages you with how your flesh is prickled by gooseflesh. By pleasure, much to your hatred, your body forced to betray you by daemons. By pain, something you would seize on more readily to keep your head about you, only you know that this is as unnatural to your senses as the opposite being placed upon you. Kerillian is still talking, still shouting, still fighting, but desperation grows in her voice all the same. Sadrina is similar, her rallying shouts and sounds of effort growing more harried, more exhausted. At the very least, you can hear the Whitewings fighting, you think, Bretonnian is a very recognizable language. But then you hear the Whitewings screaming for their ally, for Breonna, to get up and do something, anything, and once more you realize that their comrade's broken mind has formed an anchor around their necks. Their love, their bonds, are what has helped them survive in an often harsh and cruel world, but right now it is anything but helpful.

"Disgusting beast!" A sorceress cries out.

A wordless screech akin to that of a bat rings out in response.

"Someone…aaaarrgh…get me out of this!" You scream out, straining to try and do just that, even though every single one of the solid bars of fire burns at you harder and harder through the Ledstali.

Metal slams and scrapes and hisses as it is superheated against the bars as someone tries to do just that.

"Damn it! Druchii forge-priests can't make anything for shite! Glaikit bastard suckling grubs at Ereth Khial's teats!" Kerillian screams out above you, an audible tremble in her voice. "I can't – it's not working!" She punctuates each syllable with another smash and clang, superheated miniscule fragments of the blades in her hands scattering across your Ledstali like hissing rain.

"Kerillian! The daemons- ah!" Sadrina screams out as you hear the distinct sound of skin and flesh being hacked into.

"Breonna! For the love of the Lady, get up and fight!"

(Surrounded By the Chorus: 84+20+10-35+10+10+(Bleeding Band of Heroes)20-20-10-15-5-20=49/100)
(Alight, Midflight: 72+20-Bleeding Sorceresses(20)+10=82/100)

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can't-," Kerillian is muttering over you as she tries again and again to cut at the magical bars now thoroughly melting through the Ledstali.

"I get it, I get it!" You shout back, grinding your teeth through the pain. "Don't let yourself die!"

"Damn you all!" The Asrai screams as she throws herself away from you and towards the daemonettes instead.

Another scream fills the air amidst everything else, but this one is high above. Difficult to hear amidst the dozens of daemonette throats uluating as they like with moans and groans and whispers, but audible enough. Hot blood sizzles and pops like fat on the bars of solid fire locking you in place, falling down from the sky, before what is definitely an arm comes flying down to smack you across the face, still twitching fingers dragging sharp nails across your face before becoming trapped between two of the bars of fire. Your nose immediately becomes suffused with the stink of burning skin and flesh, of scorched and burnt bone, and you are relatively sure you know what just happened in the sky. A conclusion that becomes much more certain as you hear vicious curses in Druhir and a cruel monstrous laugh that sounds vaguely like that of Johanna.

A hand trails alongside one of your thighs where the Ledstali has almost completely burnt away despite attempting to reform, setting your skin aflame in an entirely different way.

"Look. At. You," a throaty voice, fluctuating between that of a man and a woman with each syllable, murmurs in your ear with an unnatural echo. "So…violent. Such a brute. But oh…," more hands appear, clutching around your head and poking fingers through the slit for your vision, "A brilliant little gem of a mind as well!"

"Get the fuck away from me, daemon," you hiss at what you know has ensnared you now.

"Fuck? I'd love to!" It chortles, a new sizzling sound accompanying the most mouthwatering roast pork you've ever smelled as you feel a slight pressure near one of your arms against the flames. "Ooh! Nice and hot, these," it titters as it apparently burns itself on purpose. "But your soul? Now that is interesting. Shot through with gold, but so roughed up, so many hands!" It laughs in a way that makes something flutter in your stomach despite yourself, your conscious mind warring angrily with the physiological responses that the creature of damnation solidified is forcing upon you. "Passed around like a party favor! So many others have touched you, had you…,"

A mouth full of humongous triangular teeth literally bites through the Ledstali helm before a tongue covered in barbs laps gently against your cheek – and even with that gentleness you feel skin scraped raw and bloody.

"It makes me jealous!" It whines like a child. "It makes us all jealous!" It huffs like a young woman. "Why did they have you before us? It should be us first, us second, us forever!" It growls like a jealous lover. "We want it all, WE WANT IT ALL!" A monster demands as you feel hot breath against your bleeding cheek and hear a thick tongue slithering out between teeth.

A series of whistling precedes multiple crossbow bolts presumably striking the daemon in the head, splattering you with its blood though you can't see for shit outside of the flames in front of your eyes.

"ENOUGH OF THIS!"

(Master Rune of Skella Valayadottir Activates! 2! Failure!)
(Major Wound Sustained! Light of Summer Activates! 29! Failure!)
(Jet Sphere Spell Negation Attempt! 1d6=1! Failure!)

The only other time you have felt like this, it was when you were being keelhauled in the waters outside the Cathedral of Manann in Marienburg. This time, however, you are in the air. The wind does not merely whistle, it screams at your sheer velocity. The burning bars of flame are essentially welded to your skin now, and so come with you much to your screaming pain. The world passes by around you, your senses only able to tell you so much without that vital thing called sight. There is the beating of wings, the flapping of feathers and something more leather, and hard breathing. Down below there is still fighting. In fact, you can't miss one pair of wings coming to an abrupt halt while accompanied with a fizzling pop and whoosh of magic being cast out into the world one more.

"Shit!" Johanna curses from shockingly close by before you realize that she was flying.

Then, you realize that all of a sudden she is falling, down and away, another string of curses becoming more and more faint.

"Take him, take him now!" Alyssa snarls from nearby. "He'll know what my sister has been up to, or close enough to it. Put him in the chambers!"

"B-but Mistress, what about the Handmaiden? We-," another sorceress begins to say before there is a keening guttural snarl so thick and wet you suspect that rivulets of spit would be coming out of Alyssa's mouth right about now.

(Sensible Slaaneshi: 88-Supreme Sorceress(20)-Significant Prize(10)+Elven Arrogance(10)+Sisterly Sadism(15)+Legion Arrival(10)+Already Cracked(10)-Gluttony(10)=93/100)

There is a certain way that some people talk, you've come to realize, when the bounds of sanity start to fray a certain amount. When the line between the mind and emotion start to blur, something you've experienced yourself. You've heard it amongst flagellants aplenty, as well as some of the Slayers of the dawi, those who have gone fully zaki in their desperation for death. You've heard it in some Shallyans who refuse to believe that some of their patients have gone into Morr's embrace, of siblings on the battlefield after a battle is over finding the bodies of their siblings. Of mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, of family in all its ways attempting to refute death itself. To put it simply, you know the sound of someone just cresting over the hill of sanity reasonably well.

Alyssa appears to be stretching right across that line, if her words and the tone behind them are anything to go by.

"You think I cannot take her myself!?" Alyssa shrieks loudly. "We have daemons aplenty! I am mighty enough without either of you! Go! Now! Return for the rest of the prisoners that I will take, and then we must set about restoring MY ark to rights!!!!!"

"Just kill me now, if you think you can!" You spit, but the bite of your words is lost with the air being pushed clean out of your lungs as your current captor, whoever they are, goads their mount into furious flight.

(Jet Sphere Spell Negation Attempt! 1d6=1! Failure!)

The wind whistles by as you are dragged across the skies, the sounds of widespread combat coming from all there is below you, without anything approaching from behind or below.

"This is not what we were promised," a sorceress hisses under her breath.

"You shouldn't believe the lies of the Chaos Gods, any of them," you growl at her, but she scoffs in turn.

"You know nothing of the mysteries of Slaanesh, Ylvathoi," she spits at you, the gobbet splattering right against your currently skinless cheek.

"Stuff the filth's mouth shut, do not let it speak unless it is to tell us of Hultressa's treachery!" Another sorceress speaks up, though this one's voice is clearly pained.

The source of the arm, you would suspect.

"How about I tell you how you can die!"

Despite your best provocations, however, they refuse to respond to you again before you feel their Dark Pegasi land on stone with clattering ironshod hooves and huffing whinnies. Chains upon chains are looped around you, heavy ones that snap closed and shut with quiet thrums and remain too-cold to the touch even after they are placed against your skin, Bokdrungni torn off of your arm in the meantime. The moment the chains lock properly, it feels like your strength drains out like water, leaving you like a limp kitten. There is tearing, much of it violent and angry, which rips your Ledstali armor apart until finally they find the strongest portions from which it might regenerate itself continually, and those are cast from you as well. A blindfold replaces the blinding bar of fire as the chains replaced the others pinning you in place, and you are dragged violently across the ground with muttering Druhir all around you, just quiet enough that you cannot catch it. Enough so that the Light of Summer would have gone to work healing it if it were not stripped from your neck and thrown aside as well.

Finally, you reach a room, and with a vicious shove are forced onto a slab, your limbs locked in place with further chains and cuffs with razor sharp blades and spikes formed within them that cut deeply and severely with the slightest pulling against them.

There you are left, growling and angry and truly imprisoned for the first time upon the Claw of Dominion, heart pounding in your chest, in darkness.

Utterly alone.

Or at least that is your thought until you hear a hefty bit of wet sniffing and snuffling from somewhere nearby.

"Hnngh…fresh meat…," an inhumanly deep voice rumbles quietly, the sheer basso behind it instantly recognizable to you, though there is a strange strain to it you can't recall ever hearing before. "Nice and bloody, too."

"An ogre," you growl, heart still pounding angrily in your chest. "Is this her plan, then? Chain me down like a meat on a hook?"

A new voice enters your awareness next from somewhere else.

"Hah! He wishes!" A gruff man scoffs in thickly Norscan accented Reikspiel. "Old Witherskinny over there'll eat rocks if they give it to him!"

"And who are you then?" you ask, having to restrain yourself from rolling your head about to try and find the source more quickly.

"ME? Hah," the Norscan scoffs and sniffs loudly. "I am the master of sight and sound, shepherd of flesh and bone, blessed of sight beyond sight, guide and destroyer-,"

"A Vitki, then," you cut him off with a groaning sigh. "Wonderful. A Chaos worshipper. Unless you aren't?" You ask with a bit of hope.

"Wh-you- no!" The Vitki, the shaman-sorcerer of the Norscans, sputters. "I serve the great Tchar, and soon enough, I shall be free of this place!"

"Hah, small meat's said that one before," the ogre growls, droplets of what you hope is just drool splattering onto the ground in the distance after he speaks. "Name is not Witherskinny, gonna eat you first for dat!"

"And what is your name then?" You ask with a sigh.

"Hah! I," there is the sound of chains clinking, straining, and if you really focus on your hearing, the sound of flesh tearing slightly, "Is Grunk! Mighty Slaughtermaster of der Manglefists!"

"Not that there are any Manglefists left, is there, Witherskinny!?" The Vikti chuckles lowly, getting a loud snarl from Grunk.

"Not anymore your tribe either," Grunk says with dark satisfaction, making the Norscan snarl in turn.

"…wonderful," you sigh to yourself as the two start arguing with each other about how lowly the other is.

Chains clink and clatter all the while in the distance, enough so that you are coming to realize that the chamber you are in must be somewhat circular, at least to accommodate all of this different sources of sound.

"Tell me…boy…," a rasping voice that almost sounds as old as time itself makes itself known, each word thready and almost forced just to get out, "What…primitive…discipline…do you…claim mastery of...?"

"He is touched by Ghyran most of all," the Vitki immediately says, "Drenched in it, time and again."

"Cold, like the higher peaks of the mountains," Grunk disagrees, "In his marrow, crack it open, suck it down, you'll see."

From somewhere in the room you hear something growl-hissing, a snapping of teeth and lips that you quite simply cannot make sense of.

"Speak plain, scaled meat!" Grunk complains.

"Instability stabilized, intact without functional internal access," hisses the whatever the hell it is with.

"Stupid-foolish lizard-thing speaks true," a chittering voice speaks, making your growl and your anger burn brighter once again.

A fucking skaven of all things is here!? And what does it mean lizard thing?

"No magic, none, nothing! This one has nothing to call upon, no, no…it must-keep secrets that it still wants, yes-yes!"

"Much as it disgusts me to do so, I must agree," a woman speaks up from elsewhere, though her Reikspiel is strangely rusty, the accent behind it strange. "This is no wizard, sorcerer, warlock, or otherwise. He has simply been…affected by more magic than most mortals alive. In the Empire at least."

"God's save me from this insanity," you mumble.

"Oh, no, no, no. No Gods here, sweet thing," the woman chuckles. "Save for Atharti. Or, perhaps, with Screamtaker dead, and her daughter replacing her, Slaanesh."

"And who are you all, then?" You ask helplessly, even as you feel the rivulets of blood starting to trickle out of you from the many manacles.

A deep, throaty chuckle answers you first.

"Why, we are the secret to Screamtaker's success. The reason for her vast magical knowledge, her overwhelming dominance that has allowed her until recently to stave of all challengers and stymie even the thought of doing so. I suppose…," chains clink for a moment. "You could call us the Supreme Sorceress' Living Library."

"Aye, southling," the Vitki laughs with all the joy of the gallows. "Each of us has been here for a long, long time. Many years."

"And none of you tried to escape?" You ask even though you have a feeling you know the answer.

"Of course!" The woman says with a light laugh, "But each of us has been…," her voice become a much uglier thing for a moment, "Humbled. By Screamtaker's enchantments."

"Cannot access magic, cannot call upon Old Ones," the hissing voice speaks up. "Elven chains and draining difficult to find workaround."

"In that…there is…not…one," the almost eldritch-ly old one speaks up again.

"I don't believe that," you growl, only to hear an absolute chorus of chortles and demeaning laughter.

"Screamtaker's masterwork, my sweet new meat," the woman says, loathing and laughter in her tone. "You can tear yourself apart aplenty on those chains, but you won't escape. Not even if you fully degloved your whole limb of skin, flesh, and muscle down to the bone."

"Pinned to soul, to-to bone, damned elf-thing, heal-restores after pain, yes-yes!" The skaven chitters angrily. "Abominable, Moulder-kin secrets, assuredly!"

"Blood feeds it, new meat," Grunk grunts, "Pain feeds it. Feeds you, keeps you bleed-able. Long as she likes. But doesn't feed right!" He manages a weak roar, the chains rattling hard, and this time you do hear the sound of some flesh tearing, as well as him snuffling and slobbering all over himself with open desperation.

You have a dawning sense of what the Vitki's insult of 'Witherskinny' really entails.

"Must you, Grunk?" The woman sneers, but her superior tone wobbles just a bit at the same time, a deep hunger in her voice as well.

"So that makes you a vampire, then," you say, almost shaking your head before the collar around your throat starts to do more than prick the skin.

"Aye, sweet blood, Kakhe herself is here, chained," the vampire sneers again, teeth gnashing as she confesses to it. "Chained as Kakhe has been for too many years. Eldest of all the prisoners of Screamtaker, save for the Liche Priest over there, Soya."

"Do not…speak…mine name…abomination…of Nagash…!" The 'Liche Priest' spits with desert dry lips.

"Nagash this, Nagash that, bah!" Kakhe scoffs, "The First Necromancer was not so great as to not fall, and to the sweet blood's own God-King! Regardless!" She says with a new clattering of chains, "Propriety must be maintained as a guest to mine realm-,"

"Your realm-place?! Hah, dead-thing is foolish!"

"Interrogation and experimentation chamber is domain of captor," the 'lizard' adds tonelessly, voice as unemotive as Anna herself.

"How dare you!" Kakhe shrieks.

"Hey, lizard, would that make you a Lizardman, then? From Lustria?" You call out, trying to ignore the argument starting up between the Vitki and Grunk, as well as the skaven and the vampire now.

"The warm-blood perceives correctly despite its deficiencies," the Lizardman says flatly.

Shit.

They really can talk.

Hultressa wasn't lying about them.

"Lizardman, then, you oppose Chaos, then?" You ask, bereft of little else to do at the moment. "And what's your name, anyhow?"

"Correct. Purpose is to guide troops, divine signs, fulfill the Great Plan of the Old Ones," it admits, and for the first time so far it shows emotion in the sheer reverence it seems to have for the 'Old Ones'. "Identifier divined as Kkha'rdluk'li'fe."

"…right," you mutter. "And Screamtaker captured you?"

"Failure," Kkha…just Kkha, you think, notes emotionlessly. "Ambush not divined. Saurus decimated, magically overwhelmed by elves. Not according to plan."

"Same wiv us," Grunk inserts himself flatulently into the conversation. "Spikey skinnies came outta nowhere, right when we wuz about ter claim the Challenge Stone and smush Valdir's little tribe to mush!"

"By Tchar you were not!" The Vitki – Valdir, apparently – snarls, "We were about to slaughter the lot of you, and emblazon the monolith with the symbols of the mightiest of the Gods!"

"Treachery brought low the rat-man, in case you are wondering," Kakhe adds sardonically, "As if it could have been anything else."

"Lying-treacherous Paskritto!" The skaven screams aloud angrily, "Will search-find you one day, yes-yes, will pay back a thousand fold your betrayal, hrnngh!"

"As for myself, they came and found my tower – how Screamtaker never deigned to tell me, the bitch," the vampire huffs, "Though I believe they simply raided the coastline of Nehekhara and stole Soya right out from the Tomb King's retinue."

"All so she could interrogate you all about your magical secrets? You didn't try to keep her out?"

At that, the conversation in the chamber seems to die off quite rapidly.

"Oh, we try," Kakhe says quietly. "We always try."

"The elf witch was…strong…," Valdir mutters.

"Determination to keep the secrets of the Old Ones strong. Manipulatory capabilities through magic and concoctions of elven entity Screamtaker were…considerable," Kkha adds.

…well then.

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

The flag of Talabecland waves freely in the winds of a winter finally allowing itself to be pushed back.

Seen from above, the vast crater that surrounds Talabheim is truly astonishing, even for you, who have spent years flying about the Middle Mountains. Or at least the eastern portions. Octaine has never been out this way before, but the lessons of his mother and others have kept his discipline strong. Even if he never has flown out this far without his mother nearby. The thought of that, of Oskana, makes your fists tighten around the reins and chains as you command him to descend onto the path in the road a reasonable distance away from the meeting party, the fortress High Watch in the far distance watching over the sole passage in and out of the great crater. The glorious, and frankly beautiful sight of the expanse of the crater's innards is something you will never forget, but the memory of it is already soured by what is to come. You would never have dared to simply impose upon Talabheim yourself, not with the relations between your provinces being the way they are, but nevertheless, some meetings must be had. Including this one, between yourself and your effective peer, as heirs to your respective provinces.

Duke Krugar Fuerbach stares at you, hard, seemingly unafraid of Octaine who decides to puff out his feathers just a bit in threat display.

Not, you think, entirely unwarranted given that you are considerably outnumbered here, being alone save for a gryphon. Could you fight your way out if necessary? Hopefully. But the archers and crossbowmen that have accompanied the Duke alongside his detachment of halberdiers and Greatswords might make a good go of it. Sunweaver says that she feels your father and mother are still alive, but Oskana was not part of that strange ritual. Whatever happened to her, to the rest of them, to the enormous runic breastplate fitted for a gryphon, you simply can't know. But you do not draw the hammer chained to your back, nor the sword at your waist, or the blastgun at the small of your back. The flag of Ostland is what you bring with you instead, fluttering in the wind itself as you make your way towards the Talabeclanders on your lonesome. Surrounded as you are on all sides, if you think about it. Talagaad is all about you, the port city which functions effectively as Talabheim's with the tunnel connecting the two. Thankfully, this small square appears to have been pre-emptively cleared, though you can spy quite a few twitching shades in a number of windows.

It does not escape your notice that not a single motion from their party has been towards meeting you halfway.

Even now, given the chaos that is beginning to envelop the Empire, even now after they asked you for aid.

It's enough to make you grit your teeth behind the passive expression you work to keep on your face.

You are not your father, but never let it be said that Magnus von Hohenzollern does not have a dangerous temper of his own!

"Duke Fuerbach," you call out respectively, neither the tone nor words the one you wished to be using right now were it not for the circumstances.

"Prince Hohenzollern," Krugar says with a stiff-necked nod. "I see you received our message."

"Aye, we did," you nod yourself, planting the flag into the road next to you, uncaring how one of the Talabeclander Greatsword's eyelids twitch as the stone is disturbed by the act. "Sent one back, even. As mentioned in it, I came ahead to ensure that our promise is being kept no matter what, that our aid is able to reach you without issue."

"You-," the twitchier Greatsword spits, his white mustache jiggling as he snarls.

"Peace, Florin," Krugar says sternly, one hand cutting out to the side. "Given the relations between our provinces, it would not do to react incorrectly should a significant force…," he pauses, glancing up at you, waiting for your nod of confirmation, and only upon receiving it continues, "Of Ostlanders crossing into the province. Speaking of which," he snaps his fingers, and two of his men on horses shift to attention. "Send out the messages to the outposts and forts. The Ostlanders are not to be waylaid by any true son or daughter of Talabecland."

"Yes, Duke Fuerbach!" They both salute before wheeling their horses about and galloping back down the path.

Only then does Krugar dismount from his horse, and rather pointedly pushes past his guards and motions to keep them back as he approaches you. The red hair of his sister, Johanna, that your father spoke of in the past, is just as present here, though the Duke keeps his hair cut so short that it borders just above shaving it completely. Even that cannot stop you from seeing a small line here and there of grey, though whether that is recent to the man or not is unknown. He also has a full beard and mustache of red, though that too is trimmed neatly. He might not be as tall or wide as you, but the man is clearly a well-experienced warrior. Unlike yourself, Krugar appears to favor the longsword, with no shield to him, perhaps preparing himself for the day that he would take up the Runefang of his station. He wears his plate armor well, comfortably, which fits for the tales and rumors that have spread of his martial prowess. Still, though you never took to it like your sister or father did, you know a little more than most about smithing and metals, and you'd swear that there has been some recent repair to the man's breastplate.

"As you may suspect, the situation is dire indeed, given that we have called for aid from all corners," Krugar begins unceremoniously.

"Regardless of the relations between our provinces, Ostland would never stand by to allow any part of the Empire from being assaulted by abominations of Chaos without recompense, if allowed to aid them," you say back with a small shrug. "There are innocents under threat. If you allow us to aid them, we will."

"…we shall have to hope so," he says with a small frown. "I do not know if you could see it in the air as you were, but already, the Taalbaston has been tainted by the presence of the enemy."

You can't help it when your eyebrows raise up in surprise. The crater is one of the most fortified locations in the Empire, the natural walls created by the crater have been supplemented by the nobility of Talabecland with additional reinforcements, towers, guns, cannons, and more since before the beginning of the Empire. It is not impassible, not unscalable, but still an impressive defense that few others in the Old World could boast to match in sheer breadth at least. At the same time, your mind seizes upon that sheer vast size. It is much easier to see your enemies in all directions from, say, Middenheim, as you are atop a mountain and control all the paths upwards. It is another for this place, with the walls of the crater so high that they block off the surrounding world. Were the world outside of the Taalbaston aflame, it would only be the smoke that made it visible.

"Truly?"

"We've had skirmishes with at least three smaller warherds, just in their hundreds, skirting near the north, east, and south."

"Not through the tunnel, surely," you point out, and he nods grimly.

"Oh, I suspect tunneling is involved, aye, one way or another. Either that, or one of their damned Beast-Paths has managed to form in Taal's most holy grounds. An ill omen, regardless."

"I don't disagree," you agree, pausing as he looks askance at you, eyes narrowed. "A great deal of our province is forested, and not so blessed as yours. Taal is well welcomed and thought of amongst many of my people," you grunt, trying to fight the affront of the suspicion down. "Regardless, as it is, I have brought forth my cavalry, light and heavy, as swiftly and ably as I could. Infantry are assembling and rearming, but by their nature will be slower. Especially with the other warherds causing trouble in the province. The barges are already on their way with our horse first."

"…I see," he frowns again, but this time it at least seems somewhat aimed towards your mutual enemies. "Our own armies are attempting to return, but they are in too many divisions to move in great strength now. If your forces could relieve them, we could return them home, see to these enemies."

"You'd rather us not even enter the crater then?" You raise an eyebrow, glancing past him towards High Watch and its walls, walls that are certainly well staffed, but going by the men you can see on it, not by the best of the best at the moment.

Gods above, he's clearly leaning hard upon hasty recruitments and militia to try and make up the difference.

"I would…not be opposed," he says through grit teeth, looking to the side.

"But someone else would," you guess, looking meaningfully at his longsword, which is most conspicuously not the fabled Runefang of Talabecland.

"…yes," he grunts.

"Say no more of it then," you shake your head, "As I said, I am not here to cause issues, but to aid your people. If you can give me locations, detachment lists, we can begin seeking them out, try and smash the beastmen aside so they can return and reassemble here."

"That would be most appreciated, Prince Hohenzollern. Though I must confess, I don't…," he pauses, pursing his lips. "I was expecting…,"

"My father is not available," you reply stiffly, and his face pales.

"Gods be with him," he mutters, "The tales are true then? He is-,"

"Not dead, not by the auguries of some of the mightiest wielders of magic I know," you interrupt quickly, gruffly, clearing your throat. "The disciples of the God of Dreams do not see his death either. But as it stands…I rule in his place. Until his return," you say as strongly as possible.

Krugar works his jaw and makes to shake his head before stopping.

"Very well. Until his return, then," he nods and then to your surprise salutes you. "As it happens, I already prepared a listing for just such an idea as yours, hoping you would send your mobile elements ahead."

With that said, he unfurls a rather hefty looking scroll of vellum he'd kept in a case on his belt and presents it to you.

"If you can bring word back to your barges – I'll provide my seal and permissions – we can dock them in Talagaad as swiftly as possible and send them right back out," he mention while offering said permission notes at the same time, each stamped with his wax seal.

"Agreed, better than trying to deploy them piecemeal along the riverside at smaller ports. Easier to organize as well," you say absentmindedly while you glance over the scroll of listed out portions of Talabecland's forces. "The Reiksmarshal…I do not see your brother on this list," you say while glancing up at Krugar, who grimaces at your words. "He proceeded south to the Everpeak alongside the Emperor, did he not?"

"He did, bless him. Unfortunately, my cousin, General Albrecht Baden headed towards the Drakwald the moment he heard the beastmen were rising up," he rubs at his temple with one hand, his grimace intensifying. "For years, he's been saying that the beastmen would return and that the Drakwald has been left to them for far too long. As it is, I have received no word of him since before Middenheim was put to siege. He is a reclusive sort, but family nonetheless...and I have no idea if he even lives."

One of your hands lands on his shoulder, making him glance back up at you.

"You have my sympathies, Krugar. To know one of your blood is in danger, uncertain…when I nearly lost my sister in Karak Ungor, it nearly drove me mad."

Krugar purses his lips as he nods, eyes drifting back down to the ground.

"My cousin is canny, and mighty, albeit reclusive. I just hope he's canny and mighty enough," he sighs, patting your hand on his shoulder once before you return your arms to your sides. "Still, these are the forces we at least have had some kind of contact with."

"Artillery with guards to the east, smaller dual groups of halberds and crossbows to the southeast, most of your cavalry went west with your cousin…but some remain, sent out towards the south outright," you read out over the basic lists.

The heir of Talabecland huffs as you read it out.

"I am a fool," he chastises himself with a growl. "To have stripped the province so severely was madness."

"It is not madness to wish to aid your fellow men, your fellow Imperials," you shake your head slowly. "Not at all. We could not have predicted the beastmen rising up like this, not across the length of the Empire. We can only do what we can, we are not the Gods, after all," you sniff. "Now then, as to the deployment of my forces…,"

"I would not presume to instruct you as to what to do with them, all of our troops are valuable for what is to come, and better some be aided than none at all," Krugar nods, looking up at you with stern eyes. "Where do you think you will lead them first?"

"Splitting them up could be dangerous with the wilds given over to the beastmen at the moment," you note.

"Especially given the few reports we've gotten, our detachments are too spread out, and are suffering for it. You could split your troops up, to save more, but if they are too split up to actually win the fight then it would merely be aiding the enemy."

"Precisely," you cluck your tongue, and then reach for a flask at your waist full of Bugman's to drink dry, ignoring the faintly disgusted look on Krugar's face. "It's too risky. I'll have to move as a single mailed fist, and hope we are swift and deadly enough to rescue enough of your forces."

"May Taal grant you all swift passage through the forests, then," Krugar salutes you. "I must try as best I can to see to the innards of the crater with what meager free companies I have been able to gather up."

"God's guide you, Duke Fuerbach," you salute the man back before going back to the list, walking back to Octaine as you do so.

Choice 1:
The main detachments are as follows:
Group A – Artillery, Engineers, Halberdiers, Crossbowmen [Eastern Detachments]
Group B – Halberdiers, Crossbowmen, Pikes, Spearmen, Handgunners [Southeastern Detachments]
Group C – Cavalry, Spearmen, Crossbowmen [Southernmost Detachments]

Vote Is For Priority Weight
[] Write-In (EX: C, B, A or B, A, C, for different combinations)

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

In time, the doors open once more, there is a sizzling crackling pop of magic in the air, and silence fills the room. Or at least, mostly, with none of your fellow prisoners audible whether in voice or in chains. Instead, what you hear are heels clacking angrily across stone, as well as a rather ominous buzz as well. The sound being so thoroughly reduced lets you hear droplets of blood dripping down onto the floor, getting closer in accompaniment to the heels. There is no muttering, no grunting, nothing but angry hot breaths as the new arrival comes closer and closer. Another snap of fingers and something – someone – thumps down onto stone nearby, followed by the clinking and clanking of rapidly moving chains and snapping of closing manacles. For a few short moments, all you can hear is hard breathing, with just the cusp of wheezing on the end of it, the kind that comes after such extreme and continual exertion that exhaustion has quite comfortably set in.

With one vicious movement, the blindfold is torn from your face.

Alyssa Voidreaper, sans one eye and the left half of her face a bloody ruin she hasn't even bothered seeing to magically, glares down at you.

The Supreme Sorceress is soaked in blood from head to toe, and bears a great many scars across her body. Some of them are clearly just freshly healed, still angry and red, others better seen to. Her raiment has been torn and shredded, and there is a clear hitch in her left leg where something's gone wrong somewhere below the knee and above the foot. She heaves her breaths, hard but slow, a forge bellows attended to by a cripple. Her staff burns with the dark power of Slaanesh, but there is a crackle in it, a fracture, some oddity about the workings of its magic that gives off the sense of a mechanism that is damaged yet still functions. But really, apart from the absolutely monstrous rage you can see in her eye, you are far more focused on the other person on the slab right next to you, as well as the first time you can properly see of your surroundings.

All around you, chained to the walls, are your fellow captives. An elderly Norscan Vitki, beard white and filthy. A living corpse of a Liche Priest, stripped of all his holy vestments to reveal a living mummy who's lungs barely shift with each slow breath. A horrifically skinny ogre, one who's gut sags down past his knees with his droopy exterior giving Grunk the appearance of a well-melted wax figurine. A silent skaven with grey fur, naked, who's eyes burn with outrage and fury. A skink priest, the Lizardman's scales having lost most of their luster, hangs limply in its own chains, covered head to toe in scars, a clear frond atop its head having been torn off at some point. Finally, and much to your immediate horror, is a hideous green-grey fleshed vampire who looks more akin to a woods witch from a tale meant to frighten children, not a Lahmian at all like you'd expected by a Necrarch. There are other manacles and chains about the walls, spots that were meant to be occupied, but for now are empty. Perhaps one of those spaces is meant for you, though you doubt it.

None of it, none of it at all, however, draws your attention more than the woman on the slab next to you.

Blonde hair is caked with blood and sticks to her face, her body as stripped as you to show wounds and scars aplenty. But even like this, perhaps especially like this, you would never mistake Eldyra for anyone else. She is conscious, you can tell, but there is a wild and unrestrained fear in her bulging eyes as she looks around the room, looks to you, looks to Alyssa, and then you see something you dearly wish you hadn't. You can see the light in the Asur's eyes literally begin to drain out and die and something past despair and sorrow replace it. This is what she'd already barely escaped once, in her mind and soul, and here she is now again. And this time, you have come to join her in it. If she breaks again, so soon, in such similar circumstances, she will never come back. You know this truth with every fiber of your being.

"I have come to learn…much," Alyssa begins with each word bitten out through grinding teeth. "The grand prize of Dreadbringer restored to form, to act as a defense of all things…and the most insultingly arrogant and foolish human I have ever laid eyes upon."

Alyssa glances over you, head tilting back and forth.

"But she gave you into her confidences…you and my daughter," she hisses. "You know her plans, her thoughts, better than I, it seems. And you will share this with me," she says with a hard sniff that ends with her hocking out a glob of blood onto the ground. "One way. Or another."

Then she turns and runs a hand along Eldyra's face, making the Asur shudder in unrestrained terror.

"This one…yes, my foolish little sister rescued this one, on your order I suspect. There were rumors that you two might be associated. Friendly, even!" She scoffs in utter disgust. "Tell me, Frederick von Hohenzollern, how much shall I hurt her to make you talk?"

Alyssa slowly turns to face you instead.

"Then again, the insults levied by you are many. Worse, even, than hers."

A small croak of a laugh forces its way out of you, making Alyssa's currently sole eye narrow in anger.

"You didn't get her, did you," you laugh quietly. "Either of them…or any of them!"

"Do you want to listen to your wife's screams as she is torn asunder?" She snarls at you, coming close enough that if you were willing to decapitate yourself with the collar, you could probably bite her throat out.

Your smile in response seems to only infuriate her further.

But how could she know that, this very moment, you can feel a cold and growing fury far and away below? Something of seething hatred, of monstrous spite, and overwhelming love, bound through souls on a level in depths and completeness that you suspect Alyssa Voidreaper could not, will not, ever fathom. Because you can see and feel flashes of imagery, of broken wings and a snarling hiss as bones crack and flesh bubbles in restoration. You can feel the impression of quiet, stoic singing, and the confusion over what should be an endless babbling tirade turned to something cold and deadly and quiet. There is sorrow, there is anger, but there is not nothing. No sign of wary fear, or wife's anger, for one who disappeared. There are conclusions enough to draw through the soul bond.

"If you can get her, I dare you to try," you say hoarsely to her, not having had a drop of water since the descent from the Tor the first time around.

"You think provoking me is wise…?" Alyssa draws back from you for just a moment, your audacity shocking her before it turns to rage. "I know mysteries and secrets of holy pain that you cannot fathom! I shall grind your very mind to dust in my palm, and you will not even be able to beg for mercy, so utterly destroyed you shall be!"

You sniff and look the Druchii straight in the eye.

"You think you can do better than your sister?"

For a moment, she is utterly still save for opening and closing her mouth in stunned silence repeatedly before stalking out of your field of view for a few moments and then returning in an angry rush.

"Your pride, filthy little Ylvathoi, shall be all the sweeter to see shatter," she hisses before revealing a strange glass cylinder, one with a sharp looking needle at the end.

The cylinder itself glows an ominous purple and green.

"You think my sister's poisons potent? This," she waggles it for emphasis, "Are the fluids collected from the coupling of a Great Unclean One and a Keeper of Secrets…and through it? Everything, everything you feel from this moment forward will be pain. And it will linger," she chortles heavily, "Oh it will linger. A single second of pain shall stretch out for hours, days, even! The slightest touch of breath shall be a hurricane, a tap of a nail an earthquake!"

"Fancy," you growl, though you can't hide at least some apprehension at the stuff.

"You're worth it, I think. Your pain? Shall be sweeter than anything that broken thing might offer me," she gestures at Eldyra, who is staring directly at you, a terrible awareness in her eyes.

Silently, the Tiranoci Princess is mouthing the word no at you over and over again.

"Suffer, suffer, and suffer again. Suffer forever!" Alyssa cackles before she forces the needle into you, and does something to the cylinder which causes it to force to liquid into you.

Unfortunately, the effect is immediate.

"…nnngh…"

The slightest puff of air emerges from Alyssa's lips, but worse than that, you can see it coming.

It takes what feels like literal hours for her lips to part.

And then the pain hits.

The pain from everywhere hits.

Every thump of your own heart. The aches from before. All of it, magnified.

All of it, slowed.

The transferal of a single signal of pain from one nerve slows to molasses, and then more, burning in the brain the entire while.

"…agh….AGGGH….AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

And Frederick von Hohenzollern starts to scream a scream that feels like it will last for years.

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

You are Natasha von Hohenzollern.

Your husband is in pain.

Horrific pain.

Strange pain.

He clings to you, to your bond, like a lifeline, and for all you know, that is exactly what it is. The sheer level of it blows any other pain you've ever suffered before out of the water. No birth can compare. The death of your father cannot compare. Not even the Ancient Widow itself channeled through you can compare. None of it. So it is all you can do to grit your teeth and continue to stand, to continue to organize the new prisoners that have come to your small little enclave prepared by the damned sorceress beforehand that fucking abandoned your husband at the most important moment. You have back a great deal more elves than you did before, so that's something, and they all seem quite enamored by Sadrina's presence, save for the Asrai who is off in the corner muttering quietly to herself and steadily sharpening her stolen blades. Johanna, the vampire, the supposed friend, the one who failed to save your husband, sulks in her own corner as well, hideous regeneration restoring her to fighting standard now that she is no longer bound in a web of purifying light and sent crashing to earth.

"My lady," Roland, the old dependable Bretonnian says, having left behind the two weeping little lilies who could barely hold a sword now that their third was a dead and trampled pile of meat somewhere on the Ark with their erstwhile leader Jaqueline trying to console them. "…what do you plan to do now?"

You are a daughter of Kislev. Your blood is of ice, but it feels as if it should be boiling out of your veins at this very moment. The pain your husband is suffering is staggering, mind-bending, and just shy of breaking were the two of you not able to share the burden. You have been beaten, but not all is lost. Not while there is air in your lungs and magic that you can wield. The Ark itself is damaged, apparently, one of the major Dhar stones was compromised and exploded. The Slaaneshi daemons keep spreading out from the former Temple of Khaine, and resistance against the rule of Alyssa is already starting to falter. But it is not gone just yet, even with the entire Ark once more starting to move. South, this time, towards the coastlines of Norsca you think, if only to gain more support from fellow worshippers of their precious Dark God.

Your armor carries with it a most terrible glacial chill, darkening and sharpening with your emotions and your magic.

"I think I'm going to kill a lot of Druchii, Sir Roland," you inform him, your voice as frozen as it has ever been. "And then I'm going to rescue my husband. Maybe find that bitch who abandoned him, good cause for it or not, and get her to help."

"I had thought so," he nods gravely. "Some of the slaves we rescued during the anarchy have been here for a while, some of them are generational. They know much of the tunnels meant solely for slave use. The Druchii never use them…,"

"And so we shall," you nod curtly. "This place belonged to Hultressa, she purchased it, they'll come for it sooner rather than later. Get everyone ready to move."

"We could try and aim for a larger slave uprising, though…with the daemons as they are…,"

"No," you say coldly. "There was a chance for that, in the past. No longer. Now, we will bide our time, and strike as we can, where we can. Perhaps aid the other resisting Druchii elements, even. What slaves we can free, perhaps," you admit as you glance over to him, then back towards the wisps of the Winds that fill this place, and almost laugh at the nearly paradoxical clinging of Aqshy trying to swirl around you, befitting your sheer anger. "But we are not challenging an entire daemon legion out in the open, not right now. And we still need to figure out where Hultressa went."

"If she thought she could escape without-,"

"No point," you interrupt the knight by pointing at the Handmaiden. "Without her? She'll never even get close enough to beg the Everqueen for anything. No. I don't think Hultressa is gone, nor dead, just yet. In the meantime?"

You draw your blade, and the eyes of many others around you, and run a finger along the length of the flat, letting the ice crack and grow and spread.

"We have other matters to attend to."

Choice:
[] Focus On Freeing Other Slaves, Combat Capable Ones
[] Focus On Aiding Anti-Alyssan Druchii On the Ark, though how they would react to freed slaves and otherwise is not certain to be anything positive.
[] Focus on purely attacking Alyssan loyalists and daemons
[] Focus Purely on Biding Time, refusing combat and attacks, to try and wait for more opportune moments

Moratorium 4 Hours

Note Note: Can't always beat the odds. I apologize if some of you disagree with the direction this ended up taking, but for the moment we are going to be a doing a bit of perspective shifting, as Frederick is currently severely indiposed. There are options here. The Ark has fallen into near total anarchy as Alyssa attempts to reassert control from a major breakdown, someone did significant damage to one of their food production centers, as well as one of their main propulsion and control centers. All is not lost. Things are bad, are dark, but not utterly lost. I promise you that. If death does end up getting a Hohenzollern, well, it had to happen eventually. Will it be now? Guess we'll see. I appreciate you all very much, even if you don't end up liking this very much at the moment. If any of you still feel like voting for the Voter's Choice thing, I'd still be honored. Whether or not you feel like it...well. Either way, Happy Thanksgiving, and Happy Upcoming Holidays. Hopefully we'll be getting to more rapid updates for the time being. Hopefully.

 

[torroar]

Spikes, Horns, and Stone 30​

The fighting at Salkalten had been hard, there was no mistaking that. But it was to the credit of the horsemen of Ostland that, while many had had their mounts cut out from beneath them, or been badly injured enough to lay amongst the bodies of the fallen, the resounding dual charge which had seen the Druchii retreat had allowed a surprising amount to be recovered and seen to by the healers. Some had been saved by the Jade Wizards, while others clutched at the arms and gave tearful thanks of the Shallyan priestesses blessed enough to call upon the divine powers of the Dove directly, while many more found that their careers and lives were not so short as they had originally thought thanks to the presence of the elves. The same, unfortunately, could not be said for all of their horses, but measures had been put in place years ago to help ensure that they could return to combat soon enough. Given the sheer destruction, some might have been surprised to see that people willing to be recruited to make up the losses in most of the sectors, excluding the engineers and mercenaries, but as ever, Magnus' father had been possessed of remarkable foresight and good sense.

That, combined with the increasingly larger herds in the Northern March that Serhild was working on creating with other equine breeding concerns, aided of course by his wife Sabine, meant that there was actually plenty of horses trained and ready. Actual familiarity between rider and mount, however, would be a bit more difficult. On that front, Magnus was more than glad that so many knights had survived the fighting, winning glory aplenty for their respective orders, though he knew that said survival was as much their own skills in battle and the simple fact that being heavy cavalry meant they were better protected compared to the light cavalrymen of Ostland proper. Either way, they had continued to follow him here, south across the river and into a province who's villagers and farmers regarded them with suspicion and dark mutterings, and even now looked to him as they assembled in the miserable afternoon's wan light.

Some things you simply couldn't rush, unfortunately.

(Train To Home: 46+Well-Led(15)+Established Routes(5)+Significant Guard Detachment(10)-Successful Ambushes(10)-Darkling Scrying(10)-Unbridled Vigor(5)=51/100)

"The artillery train that was headed for Stirland has been stuck in place in the hills after, presumably, being on the run for some time now based on their messages sent to Duke Fuerbach," Magnus grunted at the rest of his troops, a freezing rain that by all rights ought to have become snow pouring down on all of them. "The rain and snow made it difficult enough for them to move one way, but now that they are attempting to return, they've been surrounded. So far, they've held off the warherd surrounding them with firepower, but with this wind and rain," he shook his head and grimaced. "Their cannons and handguns have been silent. I doubt even the best torches would last long in this, let alone a match or wick."

Truly, the Gods were inscrutable, that Taal had decided that all of the snows and ice should become even more intractable slush before this battle in his very own damned province. Did he hate the works of science and black powder so much that he would rather them be destroyed than be used in defense of Talabecland? You know for a fact that there are blessings that the God of Nature's priests can bestow, including ones to ease and improve passage over the land, for such is His domain. But you also know for a fact that Taal has ever disdained such technically unnatural creations such as black powder, cannons, and handguns. Which means that, for all that artillery are upon the walls of the Taalbaston crater, and are utilized in the defense of Talabheim itself, the train you aim to rescue is entirely bereft of Taalite priests to aid them in their passage.

"Aye, my Prince," Karl Kaiser, Grandmaster of the Bull Warriors, nodded to him, the red scarring around his face now almost fully healed. "Seems the Gods have seen fit that we should solve this matter a bit more up close and personal."

As stubborn as Guvuar Himself, the Grandmaster had refused to let something as meager as a dozen poisoned daggers kill him, and instead had clung to life long enough to be treated, then had refused to stay back in Ostland to rest rather than march out once more to the south.

"Here here," the White Wolf Captain Mia grinned toothily, cracking her neck from side to side. "Let's get the bastards here and now!"

"We are agreed then," Magnus pursed his lips, "We proceed immediately. Captain Mia, Grandmaster, Commander Argyle, you shall take the left flank, while I shall lead our cavalry alongside the High Guardian and the High Seeker."

A round of salutes answered him, and Magnus turned and headed for Octaine.

Would that more of the knights had followed him, but the Grandmaster of the North Star had chosen to head west to Nordland, for there were troubles aplenty there now. The same was true of the miniscule order of the Cold Dawn. He could not fully fault them for it, to wish to defend the north that had been their self-appointed charge whether by ancient charter or by their Gods only made good sense. And for all that Nordland had won such a crushing victory over the raiding fleets of two Black Arks, the actual truth was that much of Nordland's coast had burned for that victory, the beaches surrendered to the predations of the Druchii before Stephan von Kessel could set his people's feet and give a resounding haymaker right back.

"Well then," he murmured as the gryphon trilled quietly in the rain to him as he started hefting himself into the saddle. "Let's get to it."

Despite the weather, and the rain soaking his hefty body, Octaine still proves strong and energetic enough to launch himself into the skies. Not necessarily the smartest thing to do in a rainstorm like this, but as of yet the clouds have been quite sparing when it comes to thunder and lightning. Besides which, the capacity of aerial reconnaissance on the battlefield was often incredibly valuable. Such as now, when Magnus could actually spy the burgeoning dark masses of the beastmen below, braying and snorting and hooting as they readied themselves to charge a terribly embattled group of Talabeclander troops. He couldn't help but cluck his tongue at the sight of more than a few cannons slammed into the mud and slush, wheels broken or barrels cracked, a number of them even being used as makeshift barricades. Heavy stakes had been driven into the earth to form a rough perimeter along with their supply wagons, and there were horned bodies aplenty on the ground showing that the Talabeclanders were not lambs to the slaughter but fierce fighters even in such unpleasant conditions.

Below, he heard the clear long notes of two separate horns, and watched as the beastmen reacted to the sounds coming from behind them. Here, then, was where he had to strain his eyes the hardest, watching, waiting, straining to see exactly how the warherd was to react. How they shifted, where they did so, and most importantly, from which areas the rippling spread of changed direction and command actually originated from. In an instant, he found it, two separate locations, one further illuminated by a burst of sickly colored light which outlined dozens of beastmen with unwholesome power that caused their abominable frames to swell with strength. In another, in spurts and jerks, caused by heavy blunt blows and bellowing, bestigors emerged to snarl and turn about to face a new foe with large brutal spears.

A shaman and a Beastlord, then.

"Sigmar watch over us," Magnus intoned before he squeezed his thighs in the saddle, leaned, and pointed with his hammer at his chosen target.

Octaine's instincts would normally drive him to let out an ear-piercing screech, for gryphons did ever prefer their prey screaming before they died. But through training, that instinct was restrained, and instead the gryphon and rider struck as a silent thunderbolt through the pouring rain.

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

You.

Are.

Angry.

No.

Somewhere beyond mere anger.

Someone, somewhere, no doubt has quite a funny little joke about women and wives and anger. You personally can't think of one right now. To be fair, most wives are not currently standing in the ruins of a noble's tower estate on top of an ancient Black Ark, protected by powerful warding spells crafted by a thousand and more year-old monstrous bitch that abandoned your Gods-be-damned husband to be captured and tortured. Though, you have to imagine, there are probably a few Druchii around that could possibly relate. If they ever deigned to try to do so with a mere human such as yourself. All around you, the Winds of Magic curl and whisper, almost eagerly swirling and flowing, a state of being that is entirely at odds to less than twenty-four hours ago.

The very nature of the Claw of Dominion is clearly built to direct the Winds of Magic towards the Tor of Dominance, and towards the Dhar Anchorstone complexes built across the Ark, drawing them in for both the use of the Coven of the Ark and to continually reinforce and energize the gigantic sections of crystallized Dhar which keep the Ark moving. More than that, you suspect that the Winds are somehow keyed for those normally 'allowed' to use magic, as even in the deeper depths of the Ark, you'd hard to work and work hard to manipulate the Winds at all. It was almost like trying to pull a hand through a pool of molasses at times. But now, after whatever the hell it was that seemed to have exploded, beyond the bombs your husband set, that cloying sense of suffocation has lessened considerably. How? Why? Who?

All questions you would very much like answered.

But first things first, you need to get out of this enclave as quickly as possible.

"Are we all ready to go?" You call out, looking upon your makeshift army, such as it is.

And it is your army, your frozen fist, your…godforsaken gaggle of deprived and emaciated Bretonnians and a bunch of traumatized and brittle elves.

God's help you.

"By the Lady, we are," Roland answers you first with a firm nod and pursed lips.

"Let's gut some of them, and quick," Jaqueline adds waspishly, her eyes narrowed nearly to slits with her two Whitewing fellows forming up behind her with equally vengeful expressions.

Unlike Jaqueline and Roland, who have managed to retain their old armor and gear, every other one of the freed Bretonnians is dressed in a mixture of rags and haphazardly scoured Druchii equipment. That save for the other two Whitewings, they all used to be mere Bretonnian peasants, is also incredibly evident given how foreign the weapons and scraps of armor are on their bodies. Oh, they're spirited as all hells, that's more than evident, thanks to Roland, but all the fervent devotion in the world doesn't make you a skilled fighter, or more likely to live in battle. Well, most of the time at least. You'll just have to hope that the actual knight and the three pseudo-knights are able to keep them from acting as flagellants or something. Given their loss of 'Breonna', whoever the hell that is, you might as well add to your hopes that Roland will run herd on the Whitewings and keep them from doing anything stupid.

"We are as prepared as we can be, Lady Natasha," Sadrina says with a serenity that a small part of you is almost offended at, bowing her head to you respectfully.

The rest of the elves with her murmur similar assent, stuck between mooning at the Handmaiden and gawking at the fact that they aren't currently in chains or the like, all with a small bit of fluttering flickers of pride coming back to life at the fact that said Handmaiden was deferring to you at all. Unlike the Bretonnians, the scavenged Druchii arms and armor fit all of them quite nicely. Almost too nicely, you'd think, a thought that actually seemed shared by some of the Asur. So far, awe and respect for the Handmaiden and a nice hearty rage at captivity and captors kept them from trying to outright take it all off again. Even better than that, according to Sadrina, for you weren't the one that she'd been giving all the language lessons to, they're mostly all very new to being slaves. Before that, they were all noble warriors or servants of the nobility of the elven kingdom of Tiranoc. Well, save for Kerillian, who has shown her skills many times over at this point. Who has also, who knows where, located a dark purple veil to cover her face with as well as a set of gear apparently taken off of a shade or two who's bodies she'd come across during the fighting.

"Though I would ask, if you might tell me if you've given more thought to my suggestion?" She adds quietly, stepping close to you.

You have to restrain yourself from the fierce cold burst of anger that wells up in you from causing you to do anything. Instead, you just take that mote of anger, of pain and fury and outrage, and add it to the rest of you. Something that she, nonetheless, notices, her head ducking lower in offered temporary deference. She knows that you're angry that she is here and Frederick is not. That all of that, all of it, all of the pain and suffering, resulting in her being freed and him imprisoned. This time in truth. A debt is owed, and she knows it, and it is that amongst a bare few other reasons that you haven't screamed your throat raw at her. Though her continued pushing on other topics is wearing on that decision ever so slightly.

"If other slaves wish to join us, they can. If you want to try and recruit, you can," you say as softly as the Oblast on a day without wind. "But you will fight first and foremost, yes? Also," you look her up and down pointedly. "It doesn't bother you, wearing all of that?"

The Handmaiden blinks, and glances down at herself, a small grimace appearing on her face for the briefest of moments. It's not a perfectly made set, the equipment she now wears for herself, that much is obvious. But what she does has was cobbled together from multiple slain Druchii warriors, scavenged in the rough fighting it took from them to get out of the streets and away from Alyssa, reaching this enclave in the first place where she actually had the time to put it all on. Some of it was crafted for more common Druchii soldiers, but a godly portion of it is clearly higher quality. Nobility, assuredly. For better or worse, it fits her well, for it is all elven craftsmanship and thus superlative in the way that you're familiar with. You'd think that she would be uncomfortable wearing it, noticeably at least, like the rest of the Asur troops who keep absentmindedly tugging on straps or readjusting what they've gotten. But not Sadrina. She wears the armor and weapons of the Druchii as if she was born to do so.

"I applaud the pragmatism of it, just…," you trail off, shrugging.

"…as you may have heard from the others, I was naked for a goodly time," Sadrina says quietly, looking past you into some painful middle distance. "But I was clothed at the beginning of the auction."

"Johanna said something about it," you nod, seeing out of the corner of your eye as the grumbling vampire's ears twitch and her head comes up slightly before lowering again.

"Every part of what I wore then," she raises up a hand clad in a golden filigreed black metal gauntlet, the tips of the fingers sharpened into claws, and examines it carefully. "Every layer of it, was shown to me by Alyssa firsthand. She…," she works her jaw for a moment before continuing and locks eyes with you, something cold and angry in that gaze which you find incredibly familiar. "She had different outfits, on different ritually slaughtered Asur, taxidermized into mannequins. Every piece came from them. Every piece," she clenches her gauntleted hand into a fist so tight the metal grinds into itself. "Had the souls of their bearers woven into them, mutilated and stretched out like a confectionary cream. So that just on the edge," she pantomimes cupping her ear for emphasis, eyes large and dark and unblinking. "Just on the very, very edge of my hearing, I could hear them screaming – their souls. Not loud enough to drive me to distraction or madness, just toeing the line of imperceptible. Easy to ignore. Easy," she repeats steadily.

Easy to ignore, if only she would ignore the agonized screams of her own fellow people. Easy to ignore if you decide that the pain of innocent souls is something that you can stand to purposefully block out if necessary to focus on the task at hand. Something that you know quite well how to do, as the people of Ostland and the Empire have spent a long time doing, making the hard sacrifices time and again to survive. Yet in some fashion, such fates never go unmourned, even if the Shallyans are those who must weep for all of those lost more than anyone else, who must protest in their favor, even if to open the gates to those begging at them would be to doom the entire village to the greenskins or slaves of Chaos. Even Salyakans would grind their teeth at such pain, and you can as well, even if you would order it as necessary. But Sadrina is a Handmaiden of the Everqueen, a follower of Isha. Their very symbol of faith and nation is the bleeding heart, their tales of weeping for the pain of their people. And, on occasion, of great and terrible scourings whenever the God Asuryan's attention lapses and Isha chooses to let loose despite the Edict. Strange Gods, strange peoples.

"Better naked than to wear such things, then," you murmur, and Sadrina inclines her head.

"I destroyed them, as best I could, and it is my hope that Isha will take them in hand to Her grove," she says with quiet but steadfast hope in her voice. "To save what she can. And as for us…?" She asks leadingly, and you sigh and shake your head.

"Both of our plans would save people, mine kills those who would kill the innocent, the slaves, and if they wish to follow us, they can," you point out, before your eyes cut back towards the Tor of Dominance. "And if I kill enough, the bitch will have to leave her tower anyhow."

Sadrina looks at you with incredibly sad eyes before nodding and stepping back, returning to the side of her fellow elves. Her pity for you is pointless, save for its utility in getting her to do what you need right now.

"WARK!" Oskana decided to add her voice to the noise.

It had not been…easy…waking the gryphon from the enchantment of the sorceress, but between you and the Handmaiden, you'd managed. The same for the pegasus, though honestly you had some concerns about what on earth you were going to do to feed and water the latter.

"Yes, dear, yes," you murmured quietly, reaching out a hand to the angry gryphon as she tilted her head one way and the other so that each of her big eyes could look fully upon you. "We'll get you some meat, today. Yes, yes we will. Screaming elven flesh."

Oskana chirped loudly at your words before nuzzling at your shoulder, her gaze focused on the so-called Tor of Dominance.

"And we will get him back," you promise into her neck, the gryphon performing a mixture of bird trilling and almost cat-like reverberation. "But first, we're getting your furry butt into those tunnels."

The most unamused of squawks answers you as you turn towards the passage into the depths of the Ark that had been painstakingly cleared over the past few hours, for of course a Tor belonging to a Druchii noble family would have connections into the slave tunnels.

"Now let's move," you hiss, the very air around you chilling like that of the Oblasts themselves as you draw your sword and begin to march down, the Ledstali of your armor darkening as you draw upon your magic further.

All the while, you let yourself feel everything happening to your love, your husband, your very soul. Whatever it is that they're doing to him up there, they no doubt think it enough to break him. They think they know him. They think they know Frederick von Hohenzollern. The breadth and intensity of the pain he suffers now eclipses that which you felt when the Dark Gods themselves sought to slay you from within your own womb with daemonhosts made of your own unborn children. But he does not suffer alone. His mind, his emotions, are strange and stretched and distant from you, but the two of you reach out across that endless expanse regardless, and clasp to one another. A thin thread, a fraying rope, but one you hold onto no matter what. For him. For yourself. They think to break him, but they cannot, not so long as you hold him up, that you can help him wrap the tattered remains of his consciousness to the frozen pillar that is you. Let each thrumming crashing wave be frozen upon the shore, frozen and broken into shards that you can collect and hold to yourself, let it wash over you and be lost amidst the glacier of your soul as you fortify yourself with ice. Support and strength both, for the both of you, from the both of you. His pain, your rage, and the love you share is a beacon, a balm, and a blade that you will wield to its fullest extent.

And if some of the others slip and slide a little on the frost on the ground, well, they'll just need to grit their teeth and bear it.

Just like you are.

"Wark," an unamused squawk calls out after most everyone else has gone in.

The very last of your group remains above the entrance, tilting her head back and forth.

"Oh don't give me that," you roll your eyes Oskana as she eyes the entrance warily. "You'll fit. These tunnels are meant to let them drag heavier loads around when needed, wagons and the like. It'll be a squeeze, but you can't just stay here."

"Waaaark."

You lock eyes with Oskana before with a terribly affronted squawk and chirp, she lifts her head and as daintily as anything as big as her could ever be, folds her wings hard against her body and starts to wriggle in.

"C'mon, girl, just…channel your ass!" You hiss at her as she struggles to fit through. "I've seen cats squeeze under doors before, for the love of Salyak!"

For a moment, Oskana pauses in her wiggling and lets out a quiet sharp huffing exhale through her beak, a sound you weren't entirely certain until this very moment that she could actually produce.

Then she starts shoving her way in, and you let out a sigh of relief.

Then she reaches forward and nips at your armor, hard, biting deep into the Ledstali of your breastplate while locking eyes with you the entire time.

"All right, all right!" You growl, arms going up for a moment as you step back and start pushing your way past all the Bretonnians and elves, "You've made your point!"

"Wark."

Even being somewhat quiet, the acoustics of these tunnels magnifies the satisfied squawk of the beast behind you as she continues squeezing through.

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


​

(Aerial Strike: 74+Magnus Martial(17)+Silent Strike(10)+Dark Battlefield(10)+Distracted Shaman(5)-Dread Defenses(10)=106/100)

There is the briefest amount of resistance as Octaine slams down upon his prey, talons and beak first. But by the time that Stonebreaker completed its pre-prepared terminus of a swing Magnus began while descending at high speed, whatever mystical shielding that the Dark Gods might have granted the shaman have collapsed. Which, to be fair, was reasonable to expect given that on sheer velocity and power from Octaine alone, with nothing more than the utterly natural laws of gravity and weight combining with Verena's principles of velocity, has effectively ripped the shaman in half and pulped the lower section. The robes it wears, made of human leather, the children's bones that make up its disgusting necklace, these things are barely visible in the suddenly blood-covered slush of the melting snows and rain, especially with the darkness of the rainstorm obscuring the sun entirely. Nevertheless, some measure of life still remains in the shaman's head, at least before Stonebreaker crushes that as well, while with the backswing Magnus killed another gor almost absentmindedly. All around him, beastmen lie dead or dazed from his assault, while Octaine finally does in fact give in to his instincts and lets out a piercing screech that makes even more beastmen stumble back clutching at their ears, even as some immediately let out braying calls and try to attack.

But of course, the sound is filled with hooves shaking the earth by then too.

(Cavalry Crush: 69+Multiple Knightly Orders(20)+Dual Prongs(10)+Slain Shaman(10)+Rallying Talabeclanders(5)+Numerical Superiority(5)-Beastlord Commanding(10)-Bestial Bravery(10)=99/100)

Heavy cavalry, barded warhorses, and deadly lances plunge hard and fast and deep into the beastmen. One flank was already fractured badly by the Hohenzollern's violent arrival and continued presence amidst them, while the Beastlord clearly does his best to try and cajole his forces to rally on the other. An effort which succeeds largely in simply getting the beastmen to turn around right around when the knights overrun them entirely. Some of the brutal looking spears and pikes that they had tried to utilize scrape and skid off of the heavy armor of the many, many knights, and their wielders are slaughtered as easily as the others. Gors and ungors alike are trampled, impaled, sliced apart, crushed with warhammers, and other sundry weapons. But it does not end there, even as Magnus and Octaine laid about them in all directions, because the Talabeclanders rally at the sounds of the horns and the thundering of hooves of natural creatures, and with bellowed screams start letting loose with arrows, crossbows, even some thrown rocks and a mountain of foul language.

Despite all of this, the beastmen are not yet dead, braying and fighting on.

Which is when the light cavalry arrive.

(Squeeze And Pop: 52+20+10+10+Rallying Talabeclanders(10)+Significant Numerical Superiority(10)-Wounded Beastlord Commanding(5)-Crumbling Bravery(5)+Converging Commanders(10)-Green As Grass(15)=97/100)

Freshly trained. Barely given time to bond with their horses. Lightly equipped, their horses granted a few vital protections but nothing compared to the barding of a knight's warhorse. Even so, even with all of this being true, in this frankly awful weather disadvantaging both sides equally, they strike swiftly and with overwhelming numbers. The slender lances they bear, the hammers and long cavalry sabers they unsheathe, all pierce and cut and slash quite well amongst the thoroughly disorganized beastmen. Somewhere, Magnus heard the unearthly bellowing of an especially loud beastman, the Beastlord presumably, right around the same time as he heard a howling woman's answering call. Captain Mia, then, found a target worth her personal presence, though he was sure that the commanders were all seeking out the Beastlord as well. Stonebreaker smashed and pulverized, while Octaine ripped and tore, and soon enough that guttural roaring was silenced, a chorus of all-too-human throats ululating in wolfish howls.

"Don't let a single one escape!" Magnus called out, a call taken up soon enough by other leading knights and commanders, and soon hooves start to pound against the slush and dirt beneath again. "C'mon boy," he muttered to Octaine, pointing with his hammer towards the fully soaked Talabeclanders who have begun carefully poking their way out of their own defenses.

The young gryphon wheeled quickly and started to make its way over, claws and talons scything apart the bodies of the beastmen as it walked over them.

"Hail and well met, good sir!" One of them called out out, his large hat rather soggy and flattened out by the rain, a once bright and colorful red feather in it looking particularly bedraggled. His armor was not in particularly good condition either, his breastplate badly scratched and unarmored pants and arms covered in red bandages. "Thank the Gods you came when you did! We were beginning to wonder if the Duke had received our messages!"

"He did, yes," Magnus responded as he leapt down from Octaine, marching forward to meet the speaker man to man, noting how the man's eyes widened at the sight of Ostland's symbols upon his tabard and armor.

"I…Ostlanders?" The man said, blinking heavily.

"Aye. Magnus von Hohenzollern, at your service. The good Duke requested aid for his people, we answered," Magnus said calmly, "Am I speaking to Captain Dagwood? That was the name of this detachment's commanding officer, was it not?"

The man grimaced, then grimaced some more while doffing his hat to reveal a bald pate.

"Apologies, my lord, but…no, Captain Dagwood died not but a day ago. Damned beastman got him with a javelin, and the wound festered badly. I'm…well, I suppose I'm in command now. Lieutenant Frederick," he saluted.

Magnus frowned and shook his head.

"Then we were too late. Damn. I'm sorry," he said sincerely, making the man open and close his mouth repeatedly in silence.

"I…thank you, my lord, but to be frank, I was beginning to think we were all going to die. Better a later rescue than none at all!" He said fervently. "As for the state of the artillery train…it's not the best, but we've still got plenty of cannons and guns left. Just can't do a thing with them in this bloody weather."

"Well, we'll do what we can," Magnus promised him. "The horses might not like it, but enough of them together might be able to pull some of this from the muck. A bit of repairs to the wagons and the like might not be impossible now either, with the beastmen seen off."

Lieutenant Frederick's eyebrows rose, something else flashing across his face that had Magnus pause.

"Something wrong there, Lieutenant?"

The artilleryman cleared his throat, tugging at his collar.

"Well, begging your pardon sir, but that was just one of the warherds. They bogged us down because they kept pulling out and switching in," he scowled angrily. "Don't rightly know where the others went, but there's more out there, in those trees," the Talabeclander said while squinting out at the darkness through the rain.

"We'll see about that," Magnus grunted, signaling his troops once more. "You just get your men ready to move."

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

The slave tunnels are tight, poorly lit, and currently absolutely flooded with slaves of all kinds. It makes sense, if you think about it. Power plays, treachery, one upping each other, such things are part and parcel of the bloody society that the Druchii have made for themselves. Not so violently insane as skaven, perhaps, but when the knives come out, it surely makes for a bloody time. A time in which slaves are liable to be used as target practice, or if particularly skilled at something or other, a target to either kill to reduce a rival's arsenal or to take for yourself to be used for your household or forces. That, Sadrina explains as you force your way past a few gibbering men and women who wouldn't pick up a weapon even after it was handed to them, was why you were seeing plenty of labor slaves but few smiths or crafters or the like.

"Right, we've made it far enough in," you declare, looking over your forces that have, in fact, swelled ever so slightly thanks to the efforts of the others in speaking to some of the slaves rushing to and fro. "Are we ready to get out and kill some Druchii, then?"

"As ready as we can be," Johanna, the vampire, shrugs, her 'guandao' as she called it slung across her shoulders like a pole for carrying water.

Her tone is casual, but her gaze is dead, a corpse-like thing which clearly unnerves some of the freed slaves.

"I must say, I was not quite expecting your choice of target," Sadrina admits as your war party starts to move out, the other slaves now well and removing themselves.

Only Oskana and the pegasus remain behind, getting them in and out of the tunnels quickly is a nonstarter at the moment.

(Cardinal Carnage: 1d4=1)

"Why?" You ask over your shoulder as you reach a long and wide set of stairs, drawing the Winds to you and forming it into a cold ethereal sphere in one hand while with the other you grip your blade, forcing yourself to stop twitching from the latest aftershocks of pain now reaching through the bond. "Thought I would simply throw myself at the Tor, or perhaps the Temple? No," you chuckle darkly as the sounds of screams and fighting start to become more audible the closer you get to the entrance. "I am a daughter of Kislev, trained in the deepest, coldest depths of the Oblast. But I do not intend to so easily make my husband a widower, nor become a widow myself."

With a mighty heave, Roland forces the doors open, despite their apparently being barred, and you find yourself confronted with at least a dozen incredibly beautiful women all in various states of undress. Some of them are bloodied, some of them are not. All of them are in various states of undress, a few weapons actually in hand. Going by the heavy gouges and scratches in the doors, they'd literally been trying to hack their way to freedom into the tunnels. Behind them, fires burn, and daemonettes run rampant, accompanied by their Druchii allies. Contesting them are other Druchii, specifically those braying to their own Goddess of Pleasure. You'll ignore the latter as best you can in favor of the former, but in truth you doubt you'll have to worry about that too much longer. They are outnumbered and badly wounded already. The slaves don't even pause to thank you, they simply dash into the tunnels you've opened up to them.

"Why the fuck wouldn't the Cult come after the Druchii's own brothel district!?" You shout at the Handmaiden as you charge forwards. "IN THE WIDOW'S NAME, IN THE NAME OF ALL GOOD PEOPLES, DIE!"

"FOR THE LADY!" The Bretonnians roar.

"FOR ISHA, AND ASURYAN!" The Asur shout.

"RHYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" Johanna roars as she unfurls her wings and with a single beat of them launches herself forwards faster than even you.

(Warpath Natasha: 47-Slaaneshi Sympathizers(10)+Heart of Atharti(20)+Band of Heroes(35)-Prideful Prizefighters(10)+Vengeance of Mousillon(10)+Fury of the Asur(20)+Abject Surprise(5)-Crowding Cultists(5)=112/100)

There's no other way to say it.

Vengeance feels good.

You bring the frozen power of Kislev onto this misbegotten island of misery, and send spears of ice through the chests of many a daemonette, while the cold winds themselves chill and slow your enemies all around you without touching your allies. Your blade pierces through a weaving defense from a Druchii cultist and slices down through her chest and stomach. Even as you move on, she still writhes, still struggles, only for those struggles to slow as the ice continues to grow and freeze her blood and organs to solids that shatter the moment she finishes tipping backwards. Johanna cleaves heads and breaks bodies with every blow, utterly abandoning humanity in favor of all her unholy strength. Sadrina and the other Asur move as a concentrated formation that simply crashes into and through the unorganized Druchii. Crossbow bolt after crossbow bolt flies out of the shadows as Kerillian makes use of her new favorite weapons, the repeaters of the Druchii themselves, to seal the fate of elf after daemon after elf, a constant muttering kept up from her that you know is a matter of numbers. Roland swings that gargantuan greatsword of his about in one hand, while with his shield he prevents a good number of blows that would have otherwise ended the lives of one of the rescued Bretonnians.

By the time you are done, the enemy are dead, dissolving back into the Realms of Chaos, or fleeing, the battle practically over before it's done any more than that, leaving you facing a scant handful of Athartian Druchii who stare at you all.

"Stay, and die," you say to them simply. "Fight us, and die. Or," you point with your blade behind them. "You can run. Perhaps even live another hour longer, maybe more."

One of them, an elf with perhaps the longest ears you've ever seen on one of their kind and dressed in some kind of chainmail toga that only covers half of her chest, chatters something too fast for your meager knowledge of their language to translate. Sadrina answers back, chattering just as fast, and for a moment you wonder if you'll get to kill some more elves today. But whatever she says ends up, somehow, making the Athartian draw upwards, and despite her state of total salaciousness save for the blood of her weapons, she just about manages to approach looking disdainfully proud and regal. She does not bow to Sadrina, but does give the slightest of nods, before scampering off with her tiny handful of Druchii. When you glance at the Handmaiden's face, it is to find a truly sad expression on her face before she turns to look at you and it smooths away.

"Going to clue anyone else in on that?" You ask, raising an eyebrow at her before your eyes bug out and you stumble slightly to the side, a grinding groan escaping through grit teeth.

(Waves of Pain: 64+Frederick Trait[The Undaunted](25)+Natasha Trait[Unyielding](15)+Frederick Trait[Sigmar's Mein](10)+Natasha Trait[Tri-Scarred](15)+Frederick Trait[Robust Soul(20)+Natasha Trait[ By The Widow's Cruel But Motherly Embrace](15)+Deepest Soulbond(10)-Inhuman Expertise(15)-The Heights of Ecstatic Pain(35)-Endless Excruciation(15)=109/100)

"Natasha! Na-," the Handmaiden's concerned words pause as you hold a hand up to her face.

"Mm'fine," you growl out, wiping your mouth and cracking your neck from side to side before straightening, an angry smile on your face. "Alyssa tried something new there, I think. Too bad for her."

The Handmaiden still looks mightily concerned, but she doesn't keep pressing the point.

"So what did they say?" You gesture in the direction the Athartian Druchii ran.

Sadrina exhales sharply through her nose and shakes her head.

"They bemoaned that I would never know true pleasure stifled in Isha's oppressive grasp, and that they would allow us to roam freely for now until they can sate their Goddess' appetite for vengeance on her greatest foe," she shrugs. "Brave, on the first face of it, sullen in the second, and nihilistic on the third," she clucked her tongue before facing you fully. "She think she's going to die, but she wants to do so killing the followers and fragments of the Prince of Excess, not to us."

"Fair enough," you nod curtly. "Let's go kill some of the same, then."

This entire district is more than just brothels, but of course it has plenty of those. Some of which spikes your rage to greater heights and makes you wish to leave them as eternally frozen glaciers with all their ill-minded customers dead inside. But there are other establishments as well, for Atharti is a Goddess of Pleasure, and anyone with an iota of brains in their skull knows there is more to that than just sex. Drinking houses, where exotic and even potentially dangerous concoctions are brewed. Restaurants, serving ingredients and dishes strange and outright obscene. All of it, feeding towards a singular Goddess, a single Cytharai, rather than Slaanesh. At least, it's supposed to be. As you stalk through these smoke-strewn streets, it's not hard to tell that a good bit of the fighting started from inside some of these buildings, and based on the tales that the others told you of that damned auction, some of the Cult of Atharti were subverted by the Cult of Pleasure at some point in the past. A place like this is of course going to be a place of great contention between the two now that they're fighting in the open.

So really, all you have to do is follow the giggling or yelling. Or both.

"So is there a single main temple that the Cult of Atharti might be making a stand at?" You ask as you move.

"More than likely, though you'd hardly recognize it, it's-,

"The mansion sized brothel with all the statues of naked elves fondling themselves?" Kerillian interrupts, pointing down a side street you'd been passing by.

There, with a surrounding concourse and walled off with a metal and stone wall with the outright most explicit statuary you've ever seen in your life acting as gargoyles, is precisely that. An estate of a size that would have been the envy of even some of the wealthiest boyars, with a large statue of who you presume must be Atharti herself sprouting from the center of what looks like a central building with inner courtyards. The Cytharai holds a severed head in one hand downwards, using it to pantomime pleasuring herself, while a flog with spikes and a sheen you know means it to be metal rather than stone held high in the other hand. Whoever made it went through the effort of painting the flog with red to suggest blood splatters. A strange hazy aura hangs over the entire temple complex, like a particular kind of heat haze, and it is absolutely surrounded by daemonettes and Slaaneshi-worshipping Druchii. There are a tremendous amount of scantily clad Druchii fighting them off with surprising skill and undeniable ferocity. Some use repeating crossbows, others blades, while others are using whips. And for a wonder, they're holding the Cult of Pleasure off.

"That'd be it, yes," Sadrina sighs.

Frederick would probably say something about the oddity of certain elven Gods. At which point Sadrina would more than likely immediately reject that she's had or would ever have anything to do with a Cytharai as a good Asur. Meanwhile, Kerillian might well venture that there are certain aspects to Atharti that should not be so swiftly denied. On a purely pragmatic level, if it is in fact possible for Atharti to be drawing away strength and power and worship that might otherwise go to Slaanesh, that is a definite reason for the Goddess to not be struck down. Yet the things done in the name of that pursuit, that rivalry, definitely disgust you far too much to ever gain your approval, let alone tolerance.

"Should we intervene?" Roland asks, frowning as he looks upon the battle.

"Only in the sense that we'll can kill any reinforcements sent their way," you point towards a growing blob of purple and pink that singes the Winds of Magic as they flow this way and that. "Come on!"

This time, they do in fact see you coming.

But that's all right, because as they sight you and reorient, you are already calling upon the Winds again.

(Warpath Natasha: 58+35-10+10+20-5+Prep Time(5)-Seekers of Slaanesh(15)=98/100)

This time around, there are awful looking creatures that look like a mixture of horse, lizard, and too many other horrific things. With long protruding tongues and huge claws, they scamper and leap and charge, ridden by laughing daemonettes who've had their arms transmogrified into long lances that weep something acidic that causes the stones beneath to hiss and sizzle from a few nodules along the sides. This riding vanguard looks especially eager to get to grips with your warband, but you thrust out your hand, clutch it closed, and feel as the armor your daughter lovingly crafted for you resonates with the spell. The legs of their cavalry freeze over, not enough to shatter all those legs outright, but to weaken and trip and fall, with some of them actually freezing up enough to break apart. Daemonettes are sent flying, screaming, laughing, and rolling to get up with unnatural swiftness and grace. Which is right around the time that Kerillian starts filling them full of holes again, as well as a few of the Bretonnians that have picked up some crossbows themselves at this point from the dead strewn everywhere. The Asur have some as well, even as they look almost physically pained to be using the weapons, no doubt wishing desperately for some nice and proper bows to use instead. Then Johanna, Roland, Jaqueline, her Whitewing sisters, Sadrina, and you are amongst the daemonettes and the few Druchii amongst them, their momentum halted utterly as you hack, slash, and stab them all until they're dead.

"We can't do this forever," Sadrina incorrectly declares as you all take stock after the fighting, some of the Bretonnians and Asur starting to show signs of strain after all the fighting.

No doubt because of the lack of proper food, water, sleeping arrangements, and other harsh treatment on the part of the Druchii for far too long.

"I know," you growl, "But we can still do some more. Come on," you glare at those who look the most exhausted. "They've beaten you. Starved you. Tortured some of you, no doubt! Are you really so ready to surrender your vengeance? To let them keeping accruing the debt they owe to you?"

Hearteningly, they perk up, and dwindling embers of outrage and vengeance in their eyes start to flare into bright bonfires once more.

Some of them do twitch, however, when Johanna starts sniffing, quietly at first and then loudly.

"Johanna?" You ask, squinting at her.

"Hold on," she grunts gutturally, inhaling so strong and long that a mortal woman's lungs might well have popped.

(The Laughter of the Crone: 43-Bled Bone White(30)-Temple Ruination(20)+Sheer Absolute Chaos(20)+Ark Destabilization(10)+Bottom of the Totem Pole(10)-Marked For Elimination(10)+Hazy Commands(15)+Rival Desires(10)+Center of Atharti's Power(10)+Bloody Handed Rage(10)=68/100)

"I know that blood," she growls, far more teeth in her mouth than you remembered briefly showing. "Come on!"

"Johanna, what-," you call out to her, even as you begin running behind – Gods above she's fast.

Right. Vampire.

"Just come on! Can't you sense it?!" She shouts back at your party as she starts darting through the streets, wings flapping to allow her to take greater leaps forward.

Despite yourself, you try and focus to do just that, to throw your senses forward. Soon enough, you do feel it, that distinct and utterly revolting sensation that accompanies the curdling and crushing of magic into Dhar. It feels like acidic grease splattered across your skin, a sticky and simultaneously oily thing that clogs the very existence of the world with its presence. It is being cast hard, fast, and filling the air, and within a few more seconds you can hear the explosions, the screams, and the laughter of daemons and other cultists. When you finally round the corner of one more pleasure house, this one advertising only the finest of men to be tortured literally to death as their offering of entertainment, you come upon the dying moments of a desperate battle. For the first time in a long while, you see the Brides of Khaine, for all that these might well be the actual last of them left on the entire Ark. Most of their most deadly and experienced members died at Salkalten or in the aftermath, then they were further reduced during the whatever the hell it was that made the greenskins on the Ark rampage. Then they were cut down further at the auction proper.

Frankly, after what they told you happened to most of the remainder at the ravaged Temple of Khaine, you'd hardly thought to see any more of them at this point.

But then again, perhaps there is a damn good reason that Khaine is the elven God of War, for you have come across a group of Witch Elves that have cut a bloody swathe through the Cult of Pleasure here in this district, and have dealt disproportionately grievous casualties upon their enemies despite just how few of them are left. Now that the veil is truly off, the Cult of Pleasure has taken to openly showing symbols of their religious loyalty, meaning that you can tell just how many of those laying dead on the ground are of their number and those who are not. The remaining Druchii that follow their Bloody-Handed God are a bare handful in number, and though it is hard to tell when it comes to elves, something in you swears there is a distinct lack of the agelessness that mature elves normally seem to possess. Well, that and the fact that you can see naked fear and desperation on the faces of those remaining, the sort of thing that more vicious and aged zealots would likely never possess. By the Gods, even younger zealots could manage that much, meaning these are young, newly inducted, or both because up until this moment you would have doubted that Witch Elves were even capable of that kind of expression.

At the greatest concentration of bodies between the two Cults lays whoever might well have been the last great champion of Khaine left on the Ark. So badly mutilated by the Cult of Pleasure that they are more a pile of ground meat than anything else, save for a single pale arm still clutching in death a weapon that glows with a dark red aura.

A weapon you recognize, in fact.

"The First Draich," Kerillian and Sadrina whisper at the same time, the former in awe, the latter in fear.

The weapon of Tullaris Dreadbringer himself, once the greatest living champion of Khaine, at least until your husband caught up to him.

Evidently left behind in the chaos within the Tor of Dominance, whether because Hultressa did not retrieve it when gathering Eldyra, or could not keep it, or otherwise. Perhaps it was remanded to the custody of the Cult of Khaine afterwards, back when Alyssa was still making pretenses of cooperation with them. Something to think about later, but you are rather more focused on something else entirely. Or, rather, someone. For standing there in the courtyard over the steadily melting body of one more Witch Elf is a gleeful looking sorceress, her sole arm clutching a glowing staff. She is covered by a small vanguard of larger looking daemonettes, who have claws for one arm, a sword in a second, and an open hand wielding clubs in a third sticking out of their stomachs. Her greater force of daemonettes and Slaaneshi Druchii are advancing slowly, but has for the moment halted entirely to face right towards you. Your arrival was not stealthy in the slightest, but you are gratified to see the triumphant look on the sorceress' face pale as she sees your group.

No.

Wait.

As she sees Johanna.

"THERE you are!" The vampire hisses with glee, her wings flaring as she crouches low. "We have unfinished business! Starting with your other arm!!"

"Kill that abomination immediately!" The sorceress shrieks in hate and fear, pointing at Johanna even as the vampire becomes subsumed in flames to the point of becoming a near incandescent sphere that then rockets up into the air and then forwards at incredible speeds.

This is one of the sorceresses that carted your husband off to be cut open like a trussed-up pig?

"Oh…oh you die today…," you whisper under your breath as you let the Winds scream down towards you as you charge, the dark glowing glacial heart of your armor pulsing in tandem with a heartbeat that is at once yours and not solely your own.

Kerillian shouts some battle cry or another in Fan-Eltharin as she darts forward at high speed, firing her stolen repeater crossbows as she goes until they run empty, while the rest of your troops start to fire their own ranged weaponry. Meanwhile, the Asur troops start to screen around the side, blocking off the confused and scared looking Witch Elves, who don't seem to know whether to bolt or not. Roland and the Whitewings, led by Jaqueline, raise their swords and shields before charging in with their Bretonnian fellows behind them. In return, the daemons charge in as well, meeting your assault with glee and delight that enrages you all the further. The Visage of the Widow, engraved upon your armor, grows all the more furious and terrible, and you see its effects cut into the pleasurable haze that many of the Druchii are in, reintroducing terror into their pathetic addled minds.

(Warpath Natasha: 54+Results of a Last Stand(10)-Slaaneshi Taskforce(20)-Crippled Sorceress(15)+Fiery Formation Disruption(5)+35+10+20=99/100)

When Johanna impacts as the burning meteor she'd temporarily made of herself, there is a panicked scream from the sorceress as whatever spell she'd been intending to cast was abruptly cut off while she tried to defend herself. A bestial roar and screech, distinctly bat-like and completely inhuman, echoes out across the battlefield amidst swirling flame and the swinging of Johanna's guandao. In the meantime, you punch a daemonette in their single tit, making them yelp in pleasure before the frost continues to spread up and across their body that you can shoulder check to smash to pieces. Your blade is not Brain Wounder, but it serves well enough, the freezing power it carries on its edge practically enough to burn through pure cold alone. Gods you hate these daemons, and you use that hate to empower your magic further. They are unnatural, not meant to exist, and yet even their impossible grace and dexterity is forced to slow with the chilling fog you envelop many of them in. Slowing them enough for Roland's enormous wide sweeps to cut swathes of them down, for the scavenged weaponry of your warband to cut and pierce and slice and stab and smash. Daemons they are, the stuff of the Realm of Chaos given matter and shape, but as it turns out, enough screaming Bretonnian peasants or steely eyed elves attacking them can bring them down.

"Bùyào pǎo!" You hear Johanna bellow something in Cathayan.

Aqshy swirls and then funnels down out of the Winds filling the air amidst the fighting, a brief flaring of heat so great that even through all the Druchii and daemonettes you would see it with your Widow-blessed eye even without the benefit of Witch Sight.

"LAUF NICHT!" Johanna roars in the old tongue.

A loud concussive bang emanates from within the fighting where Johanna disappeared into, making Druchii and daemonettes stumble forwards.

"DON'T! YOU! FUCKING! RUN!" Johanna finally snarls in Reikspiel. "NOT! AGAIN!"

"Kill them all already!" You pipe up, your voice a billowing cold gust across the battlefield, cold and unearthly, before you inhale that same cold right back in and spread your arms wide.

This is more than the creeping fog and the individuals you've struck down, the cold mists and seeping freeze that billows out of you more as a matter of course given your state of mind and the armor you wear. To exert yourself like this may not be the wisest of decisions, but neither is simply letting a sorceress get away from you. This is one that could try and stabilize the Ark further, this one is a servant of Alyssa, who's magical power and leadership could aid the Cult of Pleasure in battle, and yet you find that you do not care about those sorts of strategic or tactical considerations. Because this one took your husband away, and if you don't get to her right now she's not going to be yours to kill, and that dearly upsets you.

(Ice Maiden's Kiss: 60+Natasha Piety(13)+Cold Certainty(10)+Vengeance Calling(5)-Ark Aethyric Network Weakened(15)+Dispeller Distracted(10)+Sundered Slaaneshi Strikeforce(10)=93/100)

Colder than cold escapes your mouth as you scream the Widow's Own Fury out into the world.

You are far from your warm bed, your warm home, your wonderful family.

You are cold, and in a place terribly forlorn.

You are hungry, your stomach empty of anything save for a boiling anger.

And if you do not rescue your husband, you will truly emulate the Ancient Widow far more than you already do, with your iron nailed hand and your crimson eye.

So you release all the cold of Her heart, and as ever, few if anything can withstand it. The very blood in the veins of the Druchii between you and your target freezes into solids in their veins, then shatter to release blood shrapnel throughout their innards. Organs, so wet, do the same. Brains become cold stones. Intestines become interconnected icicles. The daemonettes, not human, not elven, not meant to exist, suffer a cold that comes from a place and time where reality itself was different. An age long past, yet one that did not quite ever end either. Their shriek in pain, or perhaps not at the pain, for that is one of their great loves. No, it is the numbness which shocks them and send those few that can even move to slouch and rear and throw themselves backwards and to the sides, leaving behind frozen limbs behind. It is the total cessation of sensation that you do not simply offer, but force upon them, and they revile you for it. You see hate flicker to life behind the eyes of the daemons, subsuming the endless enjoyment that ordinarily filled them whether they were giving or receiving pain. You have shown them something they cannot abide.

But now, now they are too few to stop the rest of your warband, and so even as they realize their hate and turn to charge a Priestess of the Widow, they find themselves confronted by the rest of your troops.

(Warpath Natasha: 34+10-Ruined Slaaneshi Taskforce(5)-Severely Crippled Sorceress(5)+35+10+20=99/100)

Nothing and no one stops you now, save for the frozen statues of the now thoroughly dead that you easily push aside to shatter along the ground. The Asur do not stop their own assaults, and break even more frozen Druchii to pieces. It's all the same, now, in the true cold you so briefly summoned forth, a state of being that even now is fading away, for the world itself is not meant to ever be so cold again. Meat or metal, all of it breaks to pieces now. The few remaining daemonettes fight, for there is little else they can do but that, knowing that they will simply return to the Realm of Chaos upon being 'slain'. Better to try and hurt, to try and kill, than simply banish themselves outright. You barely pay attention to Jaqueline cursing in Bretonnian as she shatters statue after statue, the Whitewings still burning white hot after the most recent death in their number. Or to how Sadrina has turned some of the Asur to face the still standing Khainites that remain in their battered meager stand, their assured deaths suddenly deferred.

No.

You are focused on someone else entirely, your Ledstali crackling and crunching like walking across a glacier as the cold spreads from each footstep. You can see yourself reflected in the sheen of the new ice you've so graciously bequeathed onto this wretched Ark. Your crimson eye has gained a center of pure blue so dark it is nearly black, while trails of wisping blue-white power trails out of your other eye. Your hair, seems to flutter in a wind that is no longer present, the visage of the Widow upon your armor now a cruelly satisfied smirk to face the world. Motes of pure frost, miniscule snowflakes, trickle downwards from the whole of your body to leave a cold trail in the air. But then you look away from yourself, and towards the sorceress who was one of the pair to take your husband away. Johanna has, much to your joy, shattered the bitch's legs, snatching her staff away at the same time. The sorceress is gasping, trying to form some magic, either to defend or kill herself, you can't quite tell as the Dhar sputters in and out of controlled existence as her focus wavers so badly from the pain.

"No…not like this," she gasps out, "Not like this!"

"It's so fun to torture those beneath us, isn't it?" You ask quietly, and both of you look over to a growling full-toothed smile on Johanna's face briefly appearing before she steps backwards with a gracious bow to you. "There really is something to just…grinding someone's face in their own inferiority, hmm?"

The sorceress' eyes cut to you as you stalk closer, the Winds starting to circulate, her will and control over them trying to contest your own.

She is older, likely by centuries.

Incredibly powerful, assuredly.

But Johanna has ruined three of her limbs, and gutted her besides going by the stomach tissue and acid dripping from her right hand along with plenty of blood.

"Damned…," she wheezes and glares at you with hate that carries the weight of all those centuries of her ignoble life. "I could have crushed you in an instant, you insect, were it not for your beast!"

"Too bad," you murmur.

(Dying Effort: 42+13+10+NonNovitiate Masteries(10)+Triple De-Limbed(30)-20-Veteran Sorceress(10)-Slaaneshi Empowerment(5)=70/100)

Perhaps befitting all of that experience, all that power, she wrenches on the Winds of Magic hard, almost enough to draw them in for one last spell. It surprises you, beneath your own hatred and contempt, that you have to strain to hold onto them. But, then again, she is an elf. So superior, in so many frustrating ways. But it is getting cold, for her, as her lifesblood drains out. So very cold when that sort of thing happens. And the cold is your domain, not hers. Still, you do not miss the fact that, for the first time so far, Johanna's eyes flare with a muted bit of her own power, and a new presence makes itself felt amongst the Aethyric currents of the Winds. It is a heavier thing, you'd almost say lumbering were it not for the surprising adroitness of that pulling and pushing. It's been decades, and it's not like vampires are precisely unknown for their magical capabilities. The opposite, in fact, for many of them. So it is that she adds her own reach and strength to the effort, and despite the best wishes of the sorceress, or perhaps her final ones, she cannot command the Winds.

"No…no!" She screams weakly, trying again and again, each effort feebler than the last. "Wait…wait!" She raises a hand as if that will be enough to shield her, turning away to look towards the Asur. "Handmaiden! Stop this! I…I can provide information! I know where Alyssa is, her…her defenses!"

Sadrina turns her head away from the Witch Elves she's been staring down, and looks upon the sorceress. She walks at an unhurried pace, despite the fighting still audible throughout the district and Ark, until she comes right up to your shoulder unbothered by the sheer cold that is beginning to redden her skin.

"Isha loves you," she says quietly, but for some reason instead of a comfort, it makes the already pale face of the sorceress pale further. "She always has. She weeps for the Druchii, for all they do, and all they have done. No matter how they scorn her. But that is her prerogative as a Goddess."

Then she gives a soft smile that actually does reach her eyes.

"Alas, for I am but mortal, and I see no desire for redemption in you. No wish to change. To leave behind the binding chains that Malekith and Morathi have wrapped you in. And more than that…," she crouches down, and cups the sorceress' face and shakes her head before standing up and looking to you. "You will lie to save yourself."

At which point she turns and walks away.

"No…Handmaiden! You…you serve Isha! You can't just…," the sorceress tries to hyperventilate, but she can't quite get the breath in her lungs anymore. "Slaanesh…no…save me…save me!" She pleads to her chosen God like a child hurt for the first time begs for their mother.

"Isha is not here for you," you say, and her dark eyes dart to you again as you reach out with your foot and press the cold Ledstali into her stomach, making her scream and fall onto her back. "No God is…save mine. Do you know one of the greatest commands of the Ancient Widow, you awful little creature?"

You feel the cold intensifying right around your boot, new layers of ice with barbed spikes wrapping around it, just as you feel the air in your lungs growing chilly as well as you prepare to speak the words of your Goddess.

"Should you find love, my daughters, then always remember thus: Destroy all those who would seek to make you a Widow."

Then you, Natasha von Hohenzollern, draw your leg up high as the sorceress screams in denial before slamming your Ledstali boot straight down onto her face again and again and again and again.

Skin, then muscle, then bone, breaks and chips like a block of painted ice.

Teeth shatter into smaller and smaller shards.

Eyeballs burst as liquid flash-freezes and bursts their fragile confines.

A scream of pain, a scream of pleading, is cut off as the passageway that is throat and mouth are crushed closed with repeated impact.

Only when you are hitting pure stone road, a fingernail thin layer of frozen shards sprayed out around your boot, do you stop.

"…nice," Johanna whistles approvingly.

"It's a good start," you growl, turning to see a faint look of disapproval on Roland's face and gleeful satisfaction on that of the Whitewings.

"Kerillian, what do you think you are doing?" Sadrina suddenly calls out, stringent and wary at the same time.

When you turn, it is to find that the Asrai has removed the severed hand clutching the First Draich, and looks ready to replace it with her own. The Brides of Khaine are not dead, but neither are they fled. Dhar itself does not cling to the blade, but rather Shyish in quite unhealthy amounts. But you do not need to see as the Winds swirl around it, Shyish, Chamon, and more, with all the passionate fires of Aqshy and more. No, you can see as the bloody red aura that the damn thing has carried since you first saw it almost looks to pulse. Like a heartbeat. That thing nearly killed your husband, when it was wielded by Tullaris Dreadbringer. It stood up to Brain Wounder, a Runefang, on weight of its blessings and empowerment by Khaine alone, if you understand the legends right.

"I'm thinking that I need a better weapon," Kerillian says plainly, her face unreadable thanks to the veil she wears. "Than mere knives and swords that would far more easily break."

"That…that weapon is tainted," Sadrina murmurs, revulsion in her voice. "You must know that."

"You mistake yourself, Asur," Kerillian snaps at her, "The Asrai are bound to the Weave, and happen to know that there is a time for both Cadai and Cytharai."

"It is a mistake to try and take up a blade such as that, your very soul-," Sadrina tries again, but before she can finish, Kerillian has wrapped her fingers around the First Draich and pulled it free, holding it out in the air.

(The Murderous Wrath of Khaine: 100+Kerillian Piety(15)+Temple Desecrated(15)+Essentially Brideless(10)+A Different Flavor of Worship(10)+Hunger For Revenge(10)-Not Of The Chosen(20)-Not Singularly Devoted(20)= 120/100)

The Asrai lets out a quiet grunt that transitions into a low hiss as she rolls her neck about before hefting the First Draich such that the flat lays on her shoulder, half-turning to face Sadrina. Absolutely no one misses how the bloody red aura drenching the blade starts to creep its way up to and settles along Kerillian's arms. It spreads, but slowly, not like a torrent of gushing blood but rather the sort that slowly trickles out from a well-placed stab to the gut. You've little doubt as to why that particular sort of imagery is searing itself into your mind as that murderous red glow begins to travel all and about Kerillian before sinking inwards, dissipating from sight save for that which still remains around the blade proper.

"Well look at that, the blade is mine. Besides, do you really think that Khaine wouldn't want this thing used to kill those that took over His temple, killed his priestesses?"

"T-that b-blade is not meant f-for you!" One of the Witch Elves, and by the Gods she is young, stammers in a squeaky high-pitched voice. "O-only the anointed of Khaine!"

If one of your daughters was wearing what the Witch Elves did at the age the girl sounds like, you think half of Wulfenburg Castle might have ended up encased in ice.

"Oh yeah? Is that right then?" Kerillian scoffs, her normally acerbic tone having gained a brand-new razor edge in the past few seconds. "Come and take it from me then!"

The Witch Elves…hesitate.

"We need not be enemies!" Sadrina seizes upon that hesitation like a starving wolf upon a dead deer. "Can you not see what the machinations of Morathi and Hellebron have wrought?!"

"Y-you're a traitor to the rightful ruler of all elvenkind," the bravest of the cowards speaks out, making Kerillian scoff again. "All Asur are."

"How dare you!" One of the freed Asur slaves spits, raising his blade, followed by others.

"No, no!" Sadrina says, moving to stand between the two groups of elves. "Stop this madness!"

Do you really have time for this?

"Is she really about to try and save their souls?" Johanna mutters to you, having come closer, once more slinging her guandao over her shoulders as Asur, Asrai, and Druchii all start arguging. "Really? Didn't see much sympathy to the one who's head you just scattered three feet in every direction."

"They're younger. Much younger. No doubt they've done some killing, but look at them. Listen to them," you answer back with a sigh of chilly air. "Those aren't hardened Druchii, not Witch Elves like the rest we've seen. They might have the vestments-,"

"-or lack thereof," Johanna mutters with a snort.

"-but the minds? The souls of it?" You shrug. "I can't be sure. They're against Alyssa, so I don't feel a need to kill them right now. But neither do I feel compelled to save their souls."

"Mmm. Maybe," Johanna nods, rolling her head back and forth slightly. "On the other hand, supporting the Cytharai hurts Alyssa's cause too. They have no head priestess, no seniors, nothing. Hell, do they even know any of the higher secrets of Khaine? Or even His…I don't know, medium ones?"

You pause, blink, and then tilt your head at the vampire.

"Are you suggesting we try to coopt the elven Cult of the God of Murder?"

Johanna bares her teeth, letting them click together before she sucks some air through them.

"Only a little. Handmaiden's probably going to try and convince them to give it all up. Then again, like Kerillian said, Asrai don't fall into the same binaries that Asur and Druchii go into about their Gods."

And she's currently claimed the First Draich, which doesn't appear to be actually rejecting her.

"Hmm…Sadrina!" You call as you walk over, Johanna following her. "Do we have time for this?"

She looks at you, quite distressed, and rubs a hand across her face.

"Lady Goldenquill, please," one of the Asur adds. "They are Druchii. We could not possibly add them to our cause!"

"That does not need to be true," she replies steadfastly.

"Sadrina," you motion her over, "No one kill anyone just yet," you say louder, and then glare at the Khainites before summoning every bit of imperious motherhood that your years and children have garnered you. "That goes for you too."

(Mother Glare: 74-A Mere Ylvathoi(20)-Druchii Arrogance(20)-Paranoia(5)+Natasha Diplomacy(13)+Sadrina Diplomacy(15)+Matriarchal(10)+Slaughtered Slaaneshis(10)+Vastly Outnumbered(5)+Proto Acolytes(10)+Wielder of the First Draich(10)=102/100)

Their submission is writ into the hanging of their heads, the slumping of their shoulders, the fire going out in their eyes.

Good enough, you think, though the strange looks of the Asur are a bit confusing.

"What, exactly, is your plan here?" You murmur to her, making her purse her lips. "To have them give up Khaine entirely? Just march along with us, as if the rest of your kin aren't going to cut them down for being Druchii already?"

"I know that, I know," she presses a hand to her forehead and sighs. "I…it has been trying, listening to the screaming of elven souls in the distance. But they are so young, I doubt they've ever bathed fully in a Cauldron of Blood save for their initiation into the Cult."

"They're not going to stop being Druchii, and your Asur won't accept them," you point out, and thankfully she is quick enough on the draw to see where you're going with this.

"You would have them continue?" She asks, a mixture of revulsion and fascination. "As they are?"

"Not precisely, you know that. The Asrai do things different."

"Indeed we do," Kerillian says smugly as she swaggers closer, making your skin itch beneath your armor from the blade on her shoulder, while Sadrina outright steps away with her nose wrinkling in disgust. "It might work, it might not. To follow the Bloody-Handed God in a way divergent from those championed by the Druchii, as we Asrai do? It might be too much for their little minds. Might break them," she notes in her accented Reikspiel. "Could try, but the moment we start rescuing more slaves, breaking cages, slashing chains, might get harder to keep them on our side."

"She speaks truthfully," Sadrina says, chewing at her lip. "To also keep their peace between those we have already rescued would be…difficult."

Kerillian nods at this before pausing and her pure black eyes narrowing slightly, tilting her head as if listening to something you can't hear.

"Could try something different," she admits. "Could try rallying 'em, the rest I mean," she glances at the Witch Elves. "The other Druchii, those that haven't sworn themselves to the Prince of Excess. Be harder with the rest of you…might be easier if it's just me," she mumbles.

"Hold, now, Asrai," Sadrina says firmly. "You would break from us, venture out alone into the madness, all to gather up the Druchii instead?"

"Make a harder resistance, make a bigger problem for Alyssa," Kerillian notes distantly. "Kill a lot of Druchii, either way, hmm?"

"Cut the Brides loose now, let them find their way, better that than losing yourself amongst them," Sadrina says quickly, looking to you at the same time that Kerillian does.

"Well, Larhathalumalav, what say you? For better or worse, you're the leader at the moment," she shrugs as if the decision does not come with the sheer weight that it does.

"Regardless of my decision, we've still got a few more fights left in us today, agreed? If we can't get Alyssa to come out of her tower, we'll have to keep working at it," you glance between the two of them.

"If Frederick...," Sadrina trails off. "Can you withstand what is being done to him that long?"

You glare at her and then snort.

"Me and my husband will survive this. Count on that, Sadrina."

"Agreed, then. Still though, Larhathalumalav. Your decision?" Kerillian presses you, and you'd swear there is a faint bloody red rim to the pure black of her eyes now.

Natasha's Choice (Choose One):
Moratorium For 3 Hours

[] A Bloody Hand: There remains resistance to the Cult of Pleasure on the Ark, but one of their greatest opponents was practically dead before the fight even properly began. The Cult of Khaine was nearly destroyed at Salkalten, and was again brought even closer to the brink in the aftermath, leading to now, with bare handfuls of incredibly young acolytes all that remains. But many Druchii outside of the Brides of Khaine worship Him, for he is the utmost God championed by the Witch-King himself. A rallying force, wielded by the deadly Kerillian, could be just the thing to start truly tipping matters against the currently mostly dominating Cult of Pleasure. But it would require Kerillian to leave and be amongst the Druchii, alone, for there is no chance that a bunch of freed slaves would be able to make common cause with them, let alone with the Handmaiden Sadrina in tow.
[] One Red Nail: Kerillian has claimed the First Draich for herself. You've killed a good bit of Druchii and banished many daemons today. Now you can go right back to doing that, and let the Witch Elves go and fend for themselves, find some other Cytharai worshippers and try to fend off the Cult of Pleasure on their own. Let them do as they wish, for now, but if they turn against you, well, you've just gotten a weapon very good at killing people to add to your forces. Young they may be, but a chance to survive they'll still have, with or without you. It would mean less potential friction, yes, but it would sacrifice the gain of a few more elves to kill other elves for you. You rather despise Druchii as a whole, honestly, so it is not too terrible a thing to dismiss these and go back to more important matters.
[] Turning A Bloody Leaf: The Asrai do not disdain Khaine as the Asur do. Rather than elevating the Cadai or Cytharai, they worship both, in a sort of strange wheel of all things as best as you remember. Which means that, while they do not have the Cult of Khaine with its Cauldrons of Blood and endless sacrifices, they do still in fact have their ways of worshipping him. Ways that are quite different. Kerillian now wields the First Draich, one of the holiest murder weapons in the whole of the Cult of Khaine, and it appears to not be rejecting her. It would disgruntle the Asur, assuredly, and no doubt the Bretonnians as well, but if Kerillian can somehow 'convert' these few incredibly fresh-faced acolytes to your cause, you can't deny that it would allow you access to a few more no doubt skilled fighters despite their youth. If they foreswear the Cult they know, in the favor of the worship held beneath eternal trees and dark shadows of a forest born before humanity may well have ever existed. If. If they don't, they'll have to leave. If they do, the Asur and Whitewings will likely not be incredibly pleased...but so long as Sadrina's heart bleeds compassion and Roland can impress on matters of honor and chivalry and the worth of one's word, it is a problem that can be solved.

 

[torroar]

Spikes, Horns, and Stone 31​

When Alexandra forged this suit of Ledstali armor, one of her duo of masterwork creations that were Ice Magic made manifest and wondrous, she had done so with incredible care. Another could likely wear your armor, though it would require either being blessed by the Ancient Widow like yourself or some other defense against touching a solid cold which could and would freeze the blood in the veins, but none so comfortably as you. Yet she could not have known, precisely, how your strange connection with the Widow gained in the magical forest of Laurelorn would interact with it. How the left gauntlet subtly and quietly transformed to mold itself around your transformed arm. Or, more specifically, your hand. The literal iron nails, requiring an outright grindstone to shave down at times, have grown into outright claws that are emphasized all the further in your Ledstali. Claws that extend a fair bit longer than the fingers of your right hand, claws which at this moment raise up in the air and summon forth the darkness of true winter. An act which draws the eyes and attentions of all as that sphere's outer layers dissolve away to reveal a statue of one of these meager young Witch Elves. These neophytes.

These tools of your anger and vengeance.

"Kerillian of Athel Loren, friend and ally," you say, each word as crisp and sharp as icicles, "Allow me to make one thing perfectly clear. These…creatures…," the disdain drips from you, literally so in fragments of frost spontaneously appearing and falling down around you. "Would be your responsibility. Do you understand what that means?"

"You cannot be serious!" Shouts an Asur, though they find further protestations lodging in their throat as Sadrina raises a hand, her eyes narrow but face otherwise studiously neutral.

Kerillian tilts her head up, chin raising defiantly.

"I do, Larhathalumalav," she replies, cracking her neck from side to side as the murderous blade on her shoulder maintains that sullen red glow.

"W-what? We – how dare you," one of the bolder younglings makes to say, before Kerillian is there, moving so swiftly that you actually almost missed it, the edge of the First Draich resting against her neck.

No, not merely resting.

(The Bloody Shadow Cast By Ancient Groves: 62+Kerillian Diplomacy(3)+Kerillian Piety(15)+Temple Desecrated(15)+No Higher Authority(15)+Freshly Inducted(10)-Possible Heresy(15)-Druchii Arrogance(10)-Asur Present(10)+Absolute Claim Over The First Draich(30)+Shellshock(5)-Asrai Derision(5)=115/100)

With inhuman precision, the executioner's blade has been pressed against the skin just enough that its edge has parted the skin to allow a single trickle of blood to trail down like a single bead of sweat. All the while, the other edge of the blade is seemingly also pressed against Kerillian's neck, her head and hood tilted just so. It bleeds the Witch Elf, but does not bleed its master. All of the Druchii's eyes lock onto this sight, pupils shrinking to pinpricks. Contrary to your immediate expectations, Kerillian does not speak immediately and at length. Instead, she raises up one finger, the eyes of the Witch Elves snapping to that raised digit, which then glides low and slow to catch that single bead of blood from the speaker's neck to gather it. Slowly, and with care, she gathers the bead upon the tip of her finger and then very pointedly places it the covering over the lower half of her face and into her mouth. All done with a purposeful economy of movement that completes without somehow ever cutting herself with the blade against her own neck.

"Listen, and listen well, leaflings of Khaine, and you might well survive the next few minutes," Kerillian speaks into that now enforced silence. "Your way, the way of your kind? Has failed, as it always would, and must. Look upon me now, and see who and what Khaine has accepted. His great and terrible champion which held it before me?" She motions with her free hand back towards whoever the Witch Elf who'd held the blade last lays with a contemptuous wave. "Is dead, her corpse trampled into the stone. The one before that, greater and even more terrible still? Is dead, beheaded and the skin of his skull flayed by his killer," she says with great relish, so much so that the crimson surrounding her claimed blade flares for a moment.

Anger, on the part of Khaine, for the dismissal of his previous glorious murderer? Or approval, at denigrating one that failed the God of War and Murder for failing utterly enough to be slain by your husband?

Hard to tell, honestly.

"Your precious temple? Ruined, swallowed up by the Serpent. Your cauldrons? No doubt equally so. Poor, pathetic little girls, are any of you even older than a century?" She asks, each question a dagger thrust into their hearts, making the nearly fearsome looking Druchii shrink more and more, her words and voice granted a crueler edge than you've ever heard from Kerillian before. "No, I doubt it," she shakes her head, "So listen well, for I shall say this once, and you shall receive no more warning than this before this blade comes for you – you may still yet serve Khaine, but never again in the way of before. Sunder your bonds, your affections, your old selves, now. You may yet be reborn in blood with new roots. Or?"

Kerillian straightens and stands back, but the First Draich doesn't move whatsoever.

"Die now, and save us all the trouble," she offers with a shrug that, again, doesn't even shift the blade. "Make your choice."

The image shatters abruptly, just like that. Your rage is strong, undeniably, but does not and cannot cloud your vision so easily. The languid yet infinitely threatening posture of the Witch Elves, of true Witch Elves, is something that these ones are simply attempting to copy. They quite simply do not possess the murderous prowess and experience of true Brides of Khaine, because they haven't had the time to gain it. Odd to say, when it comes to elves, but if what everyone else has been saying is true, that rather is the point. Girls, not women, offered up to the Cult of Khaine by those desperate to curry favor, dispose of an extraneous child, or simply scooped up out of an orphanage or two, to try and replenish a force that was so completely drained by the battle at Salkalten and all its aftermath. So from one instant to the next, as Kerillian's cruelty bites deep enough to sink into marrow of their minds and souls, it sloughs off of them. You can see how they hold the blades in their hands with some modest experience, but not with the ease of control and command that a true veteran would possess. The clothes they wear, or lack thereof, are not truly ill-fitting given that it is all elven craftsmanship, but no longer do they seem to sit on their bodies like they're meant to. A painting set off by a few degrees. A flaw introduced at some point during the forging process making a blade bend and chip. A meal under-seasoned, a hunk of meat improperly seared.

"…we submit to Khaine's will," the Witch Elf mumbles, and as one the group does not simply bow but kneels to Kerillian outright.

"What are they doing?" One of the Bretonnian slaves speaks up in horrified wonder.

"Being made to change their ways, one way or another," Roland says grimly, glancing at you, something unreadable passing in his eyes at your shrug.

"Good," Kerillian says coldly, "Should you dance blades against the skin of the rest of us, I shall kill you. Or worse," she tilts her head towards Sadrina, who is now outright frowning. "She will. And I'll help. We will all help," she says while stepping back, arms splayed to encompass your entire war party. "But otherwise? We'll be killing those who've sworn themselves to the Prince of Excess, and anyone else who tries to fight us. Either way? You'll be shedding blood for Khaine," she nods.

The Witch Elves, still kneeling, nod again before rising somewhat smoothly, all while uncertain looks pass between everyone else.

"Well, now that that's done with, let's go already!" You call out, turning on your heel and beginning to march.

It takes a moment or two, but soon enough you hear boots and shoes on stone behind and alongside you. Especially alongside you as Sadrina smoothly appears at your side.

"You are playing upon a dangerous knife's edge with this act, Lady Von Hohenzollern," she says to you, voice tight and tense. "The Asur we have rescued might well attack the Druchii themselves, at this rate, no matter my words."

"I've a feeling that Kerillian doesn't particularly care for them 'being Druchii' any longer," you mutter back, and Sadrina frowns deeply.

"They cannot shed their very identities so easily," she hisses back.

"Then think of it like this," you glance at her out of the corner of your crimson Widow-blessed eye. "We're using them as tools, patsies, murderous little killers with collars around their throats this time around. See if that satisfies them, hell," you snort. "Make them think like they're from that Nagarythe place you were telling my husband about."

Sadrina squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, pressing her thumb and forefinger against the bridge of her nose, and exhales out of it slowly.

"They're from Tiranoc," she says as if that explains everything.

Which, you suppose, it does.

"I suppose you'll have to do your best," you inform her and she sighs and nods unhappily before drifting back to the now murderously unhappy looking Asur ex-slaves.

No sooner is she gone than you hear the heavy clanking footsteps of a giant of a man dressed in gromril.

"This does not seem wise," Roland says plainly. "They are sworn to a Cult of Murder. Youthful for elves they might be, but they are as a blade without a hilt, I fear."

There is judgement in his eyes, heavy and solemn, but it goes no further than that.

"In this case, sir knight, I believe the hilt's name is Kerillian," you inform him, making Roland's lips thin. "And every other one of us. They're Druchii, they look at us like chattel vermin," you growl. "Stupid, weak, slow, and so on. But now their whole world is literally burning around them, and they've watched their God's best die again, and again, and again. They'll serve enough, for a time. The rest of yours, they hate them, no doubt, but there is something to be said about watching their former masters buckle," you bite the last word out.

"Perhaps, though such thinking is most unchivalrous," he shakes his head.

"Does your code compel you to kill those who have surrendered to you?" You ask, knowing that cold power blooms behind your eyes, a thin sheen of frost creeping along the edges of your helm. "To never grant a moment of succor?"

Roland's eyes narrow.

"It does not, and you know this well enough. Very well, my lady, but rest assured, we shall be watching them with keen gazes and keener blades."

"I expected nothing less, d'Mousillon," you nod to him, gaining one in return as he returns to the side of his leadership.

Jaqueline's anger is hot enough you can feel it from here, her and the other two Whitewings glaring daggers at the Witch Elves who form up behind Kerillian without more than a few furtive glances at the rest of your warband.

It will do, for now.

"Now let's get some more killing done!" You roar, pointing your blade down the street.

The district is still aflame, the smoke still chokes the air, and the sound of fighting abounds.

But you don't need to go looking for enemies when you already know where they are.

"Come out, come out," you half-sing under your breath as you glare at the Tor of Dominance in the distance. "Come out, and die," the trill turns into an angry hiss.

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

Magnus could not tell where his sweat ended and the rain began.

They had been at this for hours, and the storm that had covered the lands around them had not let up for a single moment.

"How is this helping!" He ended up roaring into the winds that still whipped around him and Octaine as they flew above the evacuating artillery train. "Tell me, Taal!? How!?"

A number of the wagons had been destroyed utterly, and simply dragging cannons through the muck and banging against the stones of the road would hardly keep them intact. So instead several trees had been hacked down to become makeshift sleds, which were now what was being dragged instead. The train was moving as quickly as possible, but the Talabeclanders had been exhausted by the beastmen continually rotating out who was attacking and from where. The exhortations of the priests and their fellow man could only do so much for them, it seemed, and so many had surrendered themselves to slumber upon what wagons remained. The greater work was now being done by the knights that Magnus had with him, the light cavalry finding a number of their horses put to work to help pull them along. There was perfectly good utility to light cavalry, their speed, their ability to dance in and out of the enemy, to skirmish, to force the focus of a foe elsewhere by virtue of number alone. But they were, as a rule, not as well protected nor armed as the knights themselves, especially as the wind and rain was preventing the usage of their handguns outright.

"We are trying to help the people of this province!" He snarled against the winds one more time before grabbing onto the saddle more solidly. "Oh forget it. Sigmar be with me," he prayed as Octaine once more dove down towards a rapidly moving mass of matted fur and crudely beaten metal that appeared out of the darkness into the light of the struggling torches of his forces.

Just like they had been since they'd begun moving out in the first place.

(Yet Another Harrying Beastmen Attempt: 49+Multiple Knightly Orders(20)+Gryphon Slam(5)+Significant Numerical Superiority(10)+Unsurprised(10)-Bestial Bravery(10)=84/100)

The war party was made up of gors and ungors, with a heavier allotment of the latter, but only a fool would dismiss ungors as harmless. Even so, when Octaine struck, and Magnus with him, they landed amongst the gors, shattering and tearing and rending with all the weapons and ferocity at their disposal. It was not an easy thing to simply stopper up a charge of beastmen, but as it turned out a significant amount of monstrous and inhuman ferocity could be blunted by a gryphon slamming down right in the middle of them. Though it certainly helped that the knights had been well prepared for this, their born and bred warhorses unshaken by the braying roars of the enemy, the riders themselves already wheeling about to face those who sought to bring them down. Soon enough, heavy cavalry smashed into the momentarily disorganized beastmen, lances and hammers and longer sabers carving and stabbing deep. All while Octaine struck out with all four of his limbs and liberally with his beak, just as capable of biting through steel plate and boulder as his mother's, while Magnus wielded his hammer when he could.

Within a minute, the small band was broken to pieces, javelins and wicked looking axe, spears, and swords laying upon the ground.

If they had more time, more priests, any kind of large scale crucible, and a Wizard or two, Magnus would have ordered them piled up and consecrated before having the metal melted down and put to better use.

As it was, thanks to the rain and wind that Taal seemed stubbornly dedicated to throwing around, they couldn't even start a pyre for the bodies and instead had to leave them to rot and the weapons to be scavenged up again by who knew what.

"Prince Hohenzollern!" Grand Master Karl called out, riding over to him upon a horse breathing so hotly that steam rose up in the cold rain.

"Grand Master," Magnus greeted him from the saddle. "Have you taken casualties?"

"Some, but none dead, not yet!" Was the chuffing reply, "We're stubborn bulls, we are. Nevertheless, we have ridden hard and long, and no matter what Captain Mia says, some of the knights are beginning to tire quite noticeably! Is your intention for us to try and ride the whole length back in a single night?"

The man seemed entirely prepared to attempt just that, but unfortunately the Prince of Ostland knew that such was going to be literally impossible simply because of the distance involved, horses or no.

"We could not possibly manage that even were we all well rested," Magnus shook his head, splattering water everywhere. "No, we shall have to make camp for the night eventually, soon more likely than not, but I want a few more miles between now and then! If some of the Gods are good, some of our reinforcements might be heading along the road towards us this very moment!"

The much older Ostlander nodded.

"Very good, sir! I'll marshal the men!"

Magnus saluted to him before smacking the thick neck of Octaine.

"Back to the skies, my friend!"

"WAAARK!" Octaine screeched, the tone absolutely accusatory to Magnus' ears even as he laboriously began to beat his wings.

"I'm not enjoying being soaked to the bone either, you know!" He chided as they finally achieved liftoff. "We just need to get a bit further, just a bit more!"

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

(Cold Burning Vengeance: 38+Heart of Atharti(20)+Band of Heroes(35)+Fury of the Asur(20)+Bedraggled Brides(5)-Cult of Pleasure Assembly(20)-Gathering Point(10)-Fractious Fellowship(5)-Enslaved Constitutions(5)=78/100)

You don't bother giving any warning.

Why would you?

Instead, you watch with deep satisfaction as all the scavenged repeating crossbows fire into the rear of the Slaaneshi forces encircling the Temple of Atharti. The curiously protective haze emanated across the consecrated grounds of the Cytharai of Pleasure and Seduction remains, as do the majority of the Goddess' followers that you saw last time you passed by. But the Slaaneshi Druchii and their daemonic allies have grown in number significantly. A number that you now reduce quite thoroughly with the aid of Asur and Druchii marksmanship. It was most amusing to you watching Kerillian berate the perhaps former Witch Elves into using the damn things, gathered up from the dead Druchii all over the place, but all the more so appreciated that they listened. Blood, you suppose, is blood, when it comes to Khaine in the strange worship that the Asrai offer to the God of Murder. It is not the way of the Witch Elves, they had protested time and again, but it had been for naught. So now they fired the damn things, you and Johanna standing between Asur and Druchii as a barrier of cold and blood. Daemonettes giggle and moan as they are struck down even as other Druchii screech and shout. A glowing gold and red guandao is flung at violent speeds and even more violent force amongst the enemy as well, a fiery explosion emanating outwards upon impact before Johanna gestures with her hand and the Cathayan masterwork is suddenly flying right back through the air to her hand. A moderate but undeniably vicious gust of ice shards flense flesh and bone equally from your desires.

Many heads swivel, both those upon the walls of the temple and those assaulting it.

You draw your hand up, the Winds blustering hard and strong, and the very air around you becomes a cold fog that obscures most of your body before solidifying even further to the point that solid strips of ice flow around you.

"Deal with them, now!" You hear a shout.

There, right there, previously hidden by the movements of their own forces, is the commander of the Cult of Pleasure forces assaulting the Temple of Atharti. This one, to your surprise and discontent, is not a sorceress. Much less valuable to kill, then. Nevertheless, the Druchii nobleman stands proud, strong, and particularly well-armed with weapons that glimmer with magical enchantments, along with an honor guard of other Druchii bodyguards dressed in a manner that almost reminds you of the Kreml Guard of your homeland. Not a Dreadlord, you don't think, this Ark wouldn't have one, they have their Supreme Sorceress instead. A Druchii Master, then, like a Captain of the Empire, perhaps. Not that it particularly matters at this point, as he is not coming after you himself, your attack strong and unexpected but not nearly so devastating as to require his direct intervention. Or, at least, you know that is likely what he thinks. You'll let him think it, and focus instead on the wheeling about daemons and Druchii who start to advance towards your position even as your own forces frantically reload their crossbows.

"Ready?" You ask, listening to the clattering of wood and metal, remaining far more focused on a trio of enormous and improbably fast abominations of flesh and bone atop which particularly powerful looking daemonettes ride with whips cracking in the air.

"Daemon engines, Hellflayers of Slaanesh," Sadrina called out, voice tight with concentration as she finished reloading. "If they reach us, they will tear us apart!"

"Then we ought not let them, let loose!" You answer, and clench your fist.

Winter comes.

(Caltrop Ice Sheet: 53+Natasha Piety(13)+Cold Certainty(10)+Vengeance Calling(5)+Distant Distracted Dispellers(15)-Hellflayer Durability(10)-Weakened Ark Aethyric Network(15)=71/100)

A solid sheet of ice flash-freezes into existence over the stone and gore, with further small outcroppings of ice appearing as well in the form of disruptive caltrops. The first few are simply run over and ground to powder by the Hellflayers, but not all of them, and soon enough the daemon engines are beginning to skid and slip back and forth to the point of one nearly spinning out of control entirely. The Druchii and daemonettes that try to swiftly follow behind find themselves similarly disadvantaged, and you cannot stop the dark laughter that erupts from you as you see a few of the oh so swift and dexterous elves and all their inhuman grace reduced to falling onto their asses as they try to rush across the ice. Laughter that, despite everything, starts to be echoed by the Asur and your stolen Druchii as well, a chorus of cruelty at seeing such a deadly foe reduced to almost childish antics on the ice. Not a one of them does you the favor of slipping and breaking their neck outright, unfortunately, but the spell has done its job, even with the Ark's strange power over the Winds and a distant pulling towards elsewhere on the battlefield, slowing the speed of those sent to assault you gravely.

Just in time for everyone to have finished reloading, for Johanna's guandao to return to her hand so that the vampire and one more take up a thrower's stance, and for you to conjure up a cloud of icy shards.

(Slipping Sliding Slaaneshi: 47+20+35+20+5-20-10-5-5+Moderately Effective Caltrop Ice Sheet(10)=97/100)

Harsh, barked laughter is joined with the thudding clunks of repeating crossbows emptying themselves once more into the enemy. Johanna hauls back and then throws her javelin like a bolt thrower's projectile directly into the center of one of the daemonic chariots, her wings spreading wide as she then leaps forward to outright smash bodily into a second. Eyes narrowed, ignoring the exhaustion of your body and the steady drumbeat of torturous pain in the back of your mind, you cast forth arm-length spikes of ice to slam into and through the wheels of the third and final Hellflayer, tearing its wheels asunder enough to almost halt it entirely. It's not dead, not quite, the daemonic creation, but it bleeds and squeals and shudders in place as it plaintively spins the ruins of its wheels as it lays there on its side. Meanwhile, on any other natural grounds the daemonettes might well have danced and frolicked forward to ruin and maim, you can see the consternation on some of their faces as they cannot reach their intended victims as their hooves skid and slow on the ice sheet. Slowed enough that crossbow bolts find them, them and the Druchii with them.

You cannot see the expression on the Druchii Master, but his gestures and bellowing are quite angry, even if you can't quite make the words out from here amidst the shouting and shifting of a great many more troops.

"Come on…come on…," you mutter, as more and more of the temple's attackers form up and wheel on you.

"They have a priestess with them, now," Sadrina calls out, pointing, to assorted curses, growls, and hisses from the elves with you.

Khaine or Slaanesh or Atharti besides, it seems that Druchii enjoy baring themselves completely and utterly to the world. Druchii such as the Priestess of Slaanesh that struts on sinfully long legs with hips that roll so much they might as well be a ship on the seas themselves. Unlike even the Brides of Khaine, she is absolutely naked save for several glowing sigils of Chaos carved into her body that glow in bright pink-purple, forcibly drawing the eye at the same time that it would make them burn from the sheer sensation of that looking. An unwholesome heat attempts to spread itself into you simply by looking at her, but that same unwholesome heat finds itself completely inadequate before the sheer frigid cold of your soul, let alone from your armor. An entirely too fleshy staff is held in one hand, the head of said staff wriggling with a few outward appendages that drool strange multi-colored fluids onto the ground. With her, too, there are a great many more daemonettes, these ones different from the others you've seen so far. Instead of great claws on their arms, they have razor sharp blades, the very daemonettes themselves quite literally visibly more dangerous to your Witch Sight.

"We pull back! But slowly," you growl, and as one the warband stars to do just that, even as they start reloading once more. "Remember the plan!"

They are beginning to run low on ammo, you realize, and at this point are unlikely to manage more than another volley or two beyond this point before needing to scavenge more. If such is even possible anymore. There are plenty of Druchii strewn about the streets right now, but how long that will remain the case is uncertain. Especially because as you crisscrossed the district, passing through the burnt down ruins of multiple brothels and other assorted pleasure houses, you passed by areas you had already been through before only to find that some of the bodies were now gone. Of course, there are a variety of reasons for bodies to be scooped up in times like this. Disease prevention. Closer scavenging for any scraps you didn't gather yourself. Or, perhaps, even simply use them as food. After all you've seen, you know for a fact that cannibalism is not beyond the bounds of Druchii depravity.

Not least of which is because you passed through a Druchii pleasure house which had a damned menu, serving different meats of only the most 'premium' sources. Amongst the scattered cutlery, overturned tables and bloody cloths, there had been a number of shattered porcelain dishes with cuts of meat long grown cold with blood and fat drying and coagulating. If you weren't so damned angry, you think the horror of a fallen plate with a half dozen human hearts half again as large as your fists could have overwhelmed you. It certainly did with the Bretonnians, many of whom vomited despite mostly empty stomachs when the full scope of the establishment's intended purpose dawned on them. You didn't take a damned thing from that place other than its barrels of clean water to hydrate your forces, shattering the barrels of other scoured fluids as you left and setting the building aflame for good measure.

Cytharai of Pleasure indeed.

The only difference you can see is that at the moment it is Slaanesh's devotees that have the bulk of your hatred, but every minute spent in this place grows your revulsion for Atharti that much higher.

"Oh my, leaving so soon? That won't do!" The Priestess calls out huskily across the battlefield, "Come now, we have such delights to show you!"

"Shit," you mutter as she begins waving her staff about, summoning forth magic that is already beginning to take shape just in front of your troops, a disturbing amount of allure in those forming shapes that you have to almost wrench your head to keep from looking at.

At least you can see the leeching of the damned Ark's Aethyric network affecting her casting as much as it's been frustrating yours.

(Dispelling Delusions: 66+13+NonNovitiate Masteries(10)+Warding of Isha(5)+Cast Aside All But Blood(5)+Angry Atharti(5)-Priestess of Slaanesh(15)=89/100)

Witch Sight reveals many things.

In this case, it reveals the horrid beauty of a servant of a Chaos God in full bloom, exulting in the glories of their God, the Winds twisting about and formulating into the beginnings of illusions. But it also shows your own cold grasp reaching out and crashing like a gargantuan hailstone through the web of sight and sound before it can fully develop. As the heavy pressure of Johanna's will contests the working as well, Aqshy brightening in the vampire's eyes until rings of soot begin to form around them. As Sadrina raises up a hand, her countenance becoming something cold and steadfast, a subtle pulse of something that feels of spring in full bloom throwing itself in as well. An angrier, much angrier thing of murder and bloodshed rips into the spell as it reaches out to try and ensnare those who belong to it. But more than that, more than any of it, you notice as something reaches out a few slender fingers from the Temple of Atharti, and with a few sharpened nails digs deep into the casting. All of it, put together, takes the spell and its gossamer tendrils and shreds it outright before it can do more than make a few Asur get a tad slack jawed.

"Banish such thoughts from your minds, Asur, do not give her the satisfaction!" Sadrina cries out, and with that those few almost ensnared snap out of it entirely, firming their grips on their weapons all the more in outrage.

"Come on, then!" You cry out, and though she is Druchii and you but human, you are quite certain that the rude gesture you throw up comes across in the spirit intended.

Given you can see the bitch's scowl from here, yes, quite certain indeed.

"Argh, get rid of them already!" The Master of the Temple attacker's roars out in annoyance.

That ought to do it, just about you think.

"For the glory of the Prince of Chaos!" She cries out and the newest detachment begins to lope forwards, leaving the perimeter of the Temple of Atharti behind.

"That's right, come on," you growl beneath your breath as your warband pulls backwards, letting the buildings block off and flank you. "Come on…,"

(Last Salvo: 24+20+35+20+5-20-10-5-5=64/100)
(Drawing In: 70-Experienced Leadership(10)-Druchii Paranoia(10)+Previously Winning(5)+Slaaneshi Intoxication(10)+On Orders(10)+Denial Play(5)+Asur Targets(5)+Made You Bleed(5)=90/100)

The final salvo is not as effective as you might have hoped. The bolts fly, and fly, the repeating crossbows thumping out several bolts at high speed. Unfortunately, the priestess whips her staff back and forth as she runs, and a half-sphere of magical protection bursts into being which catches a great many of the bolts. Some of those, the earliest, still hit their marks amongst the enemy, but not nearly enough of them are as fatal as you would wish. Nevertheless, that any of them hit at all enrages them all. The gleeful grins turn to vicious threatening full-toothed snarls on the faces of the daemonettes, while the Druchii's hatred and anger flare bright enough that you can literally see wisps of Aqshy whirl as dissipating flutters in your Witch Sight. They charge, they roar, they cry out, and they throw themselves forwards at you at a rapid pace. The sheet of caltrops and ice that you had previously created was already beginning to fade without continual reinforcement, and dissolves now entirely as the sorceress throws her magic and power against it.

About as planned, then.

Because as you finally pull out into the connecting street, they charge forward between the walls of buildings that formed the greater perimeter around the Temple of Atharti, and emerge into a four-way intersection. Three of which ways hold enemies for them, something they realize as soon as the Bretonnians charge in and pincer them from the sides, one side led by Roland, and the other by the Whitewings. Your own portion of the warband reverses and breaks into a counter charge, throwing emptied repeating crossbows aside in exchange for Druchii blades and axes and shields picked up from the dead. Johanna's wings explode out of her body as she launches herself upwards and through the air, entirely over the charging band, the priestess looking ready to try and defend herself only to find Johanna reaching the other side to land between them and the rest of the forces they'd just left behind.

"KILL THEM ALL!" Jaqueline roars.

"FOR THE LADY!" Roland booms.

"In the name of Asuryan!" Sadrina cries out, clear as a bell.

"BLEED FOR US!" Kerillian cackles.

(Three-Way Ambush: 58+20+35+20+5-20-10-5-5+Ambushing Crush(10)+Vengeance of Mousillon(10)-Exalted Leadership(10)=108/100)

Johanna's roar is audible across the slamming of bodies and blades and flesh crashing together.

You can't see exactly what she does, plunged into the fight as you are, your sword deflecting one daemonette's blade arm before you punch the daemon right in the chest with a gauntlet covered in ice spikes. But you can certainly see the results as a cascading and terribly bright wall of Aqshy flame bursts into existence on the far side, completely blocking them off from the temple grounds and the rest of their reinforcements. Kerillian is a red, black, and silver blur as she utilizes her procured weapon to its fullest. The three Whitewings are hacking and slashing, the Asur doing the same, impacting and tearing at the enemy that has abused so many for so long. The twisted abominations that do not even belong in this world in the first place. All of them, all of them become conduits for all your anger and hate and stress and bereavement, and suffer mightily for it. All of them.

Then there is a muted boom and fiery eruption that announces Johanna's arrival in the rear of the enemy formation.

The carnage is spectacular, frenzied, devastating upon the enemy who try to fight their way free only to realize that there is no way out.

The irony does not escape you, but neither does it distract you as you keep fighting, letting your daughter's masterful creation accept blows that you could not spare the time or provide the speed to deflect or defend against yourself. Daemons, Druchii, it matters not. You reach out with your iron clawed hand and rake freezing gouges into the bodies of your enemies, frost spreading and crackling apart more and more skin and flesh. Your blade skewers, slashes, and disembowels. Asur and Druchii both yell and shriek and snarl as they clash in close combat, so vicious in the act of fighting that thanks to almost all the gear present being of Druchii make that at some points you literally cannot tell who was born on Ulthuan and who on Naggaroth.

"WAIT!" The priestess of Slaanesh cries out, piteously, as of all people it appears to be Roland who has reached her despite everyone else's attempts to get at her first. "Look upon me, mortal, do you not realize what you do? What you deny yourself by striking at me?"

She reaches up a hand and runs it down her body, Roland's blade raised high but unmoving.

"I can see it within you. Decades….," she trails off in horror and fascination in equal measure. "You have denied yourself so much, cut away so much! How can you stand such an existence?"

"STRIKE HER DOWN!" Jaqueline shouts as she savagely hacks a Druchii to death with her pilfered sword before being tackled by a daemonette that bowls her over.

"I can help you with that," the priestess whispers, her smile going from heartfelt, to seductive, to something else altogether as he remains frozen while she approaches him, the giggling daemonettes of her honor guard stepping back to allow her forward. "I can give you all you desire…,"

Roland, to your shock, reaches out slowly as well.

"Roland!?" You shout out, rage starting to color your vision all the more.

(Forceful Entrancement: 65+Roland Piety(19)+Blessings of the Lady[Might of Purity](15)-Empowered Slaaneshi Sorceress(15)+Oathkeeper(10)+Resistant Arms and Armor(10)+Ambush Shock(10)-Aura of Slaanesh(10)=104/100)

Then his enormous bear paw of a hand clenches around the priestess' wrist, right as her hand just began to place itself against chest.

"Apologies, madam, but I am spoken for by one now long lost, and I likely shan't find another. And I find your existence and faith deplorable," he informs her gently.

"Wha-," is as far as she gets before Roland rears back and then slams the pommel of his gigantic gromril greatsword directly into her unarmored head, the loud crack of bone breaking muffled only by the outraged shrieks of the daemonettes around him.

Then he ducks low, gathering up Durandal, and swirls it about him in a deadly figure eight as the daemonettes attack him on all sides.

(Throttling: 44+20+35+20+5-20-10-5-5+Intense Crushing(15)+10-Depleting Daemonettes(5)-Desperation(10)=94/100)

Much to your amazement, the priestess isn't outright dead after a blow like that. You'd almost wish to be, were you in her shoes. Or naked feet, perhaps. The left temple of her head, practically the entire left half, is a bloody crater at this point, with cracked fissures of white bone colored not just by white meat but brain fluids trickling upwards like magma. She screams from where she lays on the ground, letting go of her staff as she clutches at her half-shattered cranium and writhes on the ground like the worm she is, the disturbing light of her glowing Slaaneshi tattoos and warding about them starting to wink in and out at random intervals. Without her focus and attention, her faltering lifeforce, the entire Cult of Pleasure formation breaks down beyond repair. Druchii and daemonettes alike are attacked from all sides, the Bretonnians ganging up three or even four to one with their spears that let them remain at a distance from foes that could prove much more dangerous up close. The Asur fight side by side, watching over each other, keeping each other safe. Kerillian carves a path of such brutal bloodletting that the neophyte Khaine worshippers that follow behind her are spending most of their time killing the already dying or stabbing knives and blades into the backs of the distracted. On the far side, bodies are literally tossed upwards and away, burnt and whole or charred and in pieces, as the burning head of Johanna's guandao dances about like a fiery windstorm.

As for yourself?

None of them can bar your way. Not as you chill the movements of your enemies, slowing them from elven dexterity and inhuman speed to something you can appreciable attack. Not as you stride alongside allies and tools both. By the time you reach Roland, his armor is covered in daemonic gore that is already starting to dissipate, the last of the Exalted Daemonettes impaled through the chest and even then still trying to claw forwards along it to get at him. It hisses, a barbed tongue two and a half feet long whipping out of its mouth and flailing uselessly against his gromril armor, the ancient workings of the dwarfs of Karak Ungor rebuffing it absolutely. The daemonette's drool and spittle is acidic, etching the stone around it where it splatters, but cannot mar Roland. But you only see this out of the corner of your eye as you approach the priestess. Ruined as she is, she still lives. But not for long. Screaming, unable to do anything more than that, you plant your blade in her stomach, right through that brightly glowing emblem of Slaanesh engraved into her skin and flesh above her womb, all to pin her in place.

Her screams rise even higher as she arches her back like a bow, practically to the breaking point.

"I thought your kind loved pain just as much," you murmur. "Oh well."

Then you grab her by the right side of the head with your left hand, and drag her partially up the length of your sword while grabbing her flailing right limb and freezing it solid to the ground.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!" She howls to the uncaring before your thumb crosses her mouth and seals it shut with ice.

You can't look away from her. Part of the enchantment of her tattoos, you recognize that now. What kind of insanity would be required to enchant your enemies to focus so greatly upon you? What sort of grossly distended pride and vanity would make such necessary?

Alas for the priestess, that you don't wish to bother looking away.

"You said you had something to show me?" You say aloud, making sure that you aren't covering her now bloodshot but functional remaining eye, forcing the eyelids open with a thin sheen of ice. "I have something to show you too."

The Visage of the Widow, that terrifying effigy that Alexandria faithfully carved into the Ledstali of your breastplate, has become a truly monstrous thing now, and you make her look straight at it.

(Fear In Death: 37+Broken Balance(10)+Destroyed Honor Guard(10)+Fatal Wound(20)+Visage of the Widow(20)-Empowering Tattoos(10)-Druchii Veteran(15)=72/100)

"Nnn…no…no…noo…!" She moans in your grip, frostbite steadily starting to spread over her head where you hold it.

She doesn't break outright, even as her eye whirls about in the socket with fear and terror and desperation.

But on some level, you like that.

You like that she is not granted the sweet oblivion of a truly shattered mind brought about by terror.

"Here's a fun new experience for your damned God to learn," you growl at her before reaching out with your other hand to grab both sides of her head. "THE FURY OF MYSELF AND MY GODDESS!"

And you slam her face-first into your breastplate, straight into the Visage of the Widow.

Again and again and again.

By the time you are holding chips of ice made up of frozen blood, brain, hair, and skin, the rest of the Druchii force is dead and your warband is forming up once more. The Bretonnians are exhausted, it is plain to see. So much time without sunlight, adequate food, or even modest sleeping arrangements compared to the horrors of the aquafarms has not done them favors. Their fervor can only do so much. The Asur are better off, but you can see the trembling in their limbs, hear the rawness of their throats as they breathe hard. The rage of the Whitewings has taken them far, but they are starting to shake from exhaustion simply while standing. The former brides seem all right, but perhaps that is no surprise that devotees to the God of Murder would only ever be invigorated after a slaughter such as what you've crafted. You are ready to do more, eager to do more!

But you are perhaps one of the only ones in such a state of mind.

Johanna nods to you in acknowledgement as she lets a dead Druchii fall to the ground, throat torn out and blood splattering her mouth with her wall of fire still burning behind her.

Roland is stoic, and has knelt down momentarily to pray to the Lady of the Lake going by what you can hear.

Sadrina is busy counseling the Asur, while Kerillian quietly lectures her followers.

All while you are still so…damned…angry!

"Damn it," you sigh, a cold mist spreading out from your breath. "All right. We'll scavenge for food, water, and retreat back into the tunnels."

Many a head whips up to look at you.

It is not hard to see the relief in too many pairs of eyes, though some of them can't help but take note of the ice which has steadily crept outwards from your boots several feet in all directions along the ground.

"What about them?" Johanna asks, her guandao now resting on her shoulder, jerking a thumb past her wall of fire. "Thought we were going to try and break their siege."

"We just took two nice bites out of them, including a priestess," you point out, making her shrug. "Maybe we'll come back after getting some rest. Maybe we'll go somewhere else. Don't want to become too predictable now."

"Fair enough," Johanna shrugs and begins to march forward across the bodies herself.

"If they want to come after us before then? I welcome them to try," you growl as you turn and begin to walk away. "Let's see what we can scrounge up before night falls!"

Then comes pain.

(Waves of Pain: 72+Frederick Trait[The Undaunted](25)+Natasha Trait[Unyielding](15)+Frederick Trait[Sigmar's Mein](10)+Natasha Trait[Tri-Scarred](15)+Frederick Trait[Robust Soul(20)+Natasha Trait[ By The Widow's Cruel But Motherly Embrace](15)+Deepest Soulbond(10)-Inhuman Expertise(15)-The Heights of Ecstatic Pain(35)-Endless Excruciation(15)=117/100)

"…Natasha?" Roland ventures quietly.

"…I'm…," you rasp out, slamming your fist against your chest over your heart to make sure it's still beating, or maybe to restart it entirely.

It beats. You know it does.

But you know that for a moment, your husband's did not.

"Fine," you wheeze, cold spittle dribbling out from between your clenched teeth before shaking your head and sucking in a hard breath. "Fine. Just fine."

Love.

Love.

Love.

Love.

It burns like the hearth in the center of Dazh's palace in the sun itself, as unassailable as the heart of the greatest glacier, as eternal as the Widow herself, and flows back and forth through the bond so strong and fast that for a brief and glorious moment it is like you are there. Right there, a hand to his face, his hand to yours, your lips touching even though Frederick is covered in his own blood. It doesn't matter that he has been peeled open like a fruit, white and red exposed to the world and set with daemonic acid and magical flame. It doesn't matter that you should be dead on your feet, that your body keeps trying to shake itself apart from the pain and the fear and the anger or simply come to a halt. You will not let it. You freeze the weakness before it can begin, let yourself be as cold and unending as the Oblast winds. You let all of the pain, worse than anything, worse than anything the either of you has ever felt, flow into you, and freeze it as well. Freeze it, crush it, grind it underfoot, and let it blow away in the breath of the Widow herself. You press your lips to your love's, and murmur to his soul unheard by even the Gods themselves what you've done.

And you feel it, like magma bursting forth from the depths of the world, a volcano's eruption.

You feel Frederick von Hohenzollern laugh.

It is no doubt a wet, miniscule thing in the physical realm.

But through the bond, it is an uproarious guffaw that ought to shake this entire Black Ark down to its foundations.

You also, through the bond, hear it.

A keening sound of disbelief and outrage and anger that is beyond scream, yell, or shriek.

"That's right, my love," you whisper to yourself before straightening. "That's right. Just a little longer, I swear."

"Frederick," Roland says, as much an answer to an unspoken question as anything else. "He still resists, then."

"Of course," you scoff, "Who the hell do you think my husband is?"

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

(Camp Set-Up: 25+20+Talabeclander Familiarity(20)+Shallyan Priestesses(10)-Exhaustion(10)-Damned Weather(10)=55/100)

"Prince Hohenzollern!"

Magnus' eyes snapped open and he sprang upwards, a blearily blinking Octaine squawking in annoyance as he emerged from beneath the guarding wing he'd slumbered under. All around him, the meager camp that they'd barely managed to slap together amidst the storm was full of far more upright bodies than it should have been, given the shifts and rotations they'd put together. The tarp and poles set up over the gryphon had just begun to offer something akin to dryness, or at least a reprieve from constantly being rained on. The irrepressible Captain Mia of the White Wolves bared her teeth in a wide grin at him, ivory flashing in the darkness of the night, even as she saluted him. She was dressed fully in her armor still, the long cavalry hammer that was her preferred weapon resting head-first upon the ground, the hilt leaning against her hip.

"Captain Mia," Magnus grunted. "What is it? Beastmen?"

"Aye, my Prince," she said, smile not flickering in the slightest, though she did have to take a moment to sweep her black locks out of her face. "A bit more unusual than the past few times, I think."

"How's that," he asked, even as he started limbering up as best he could in his armor.

"They sent an ungor, one that could manage to speak human," she sneered at the thought. "Said that something about angering the true Gods with our defiance, that his chosen would feast upon our entrails," she slowly circled her hand in the air while rolling her eyes. "That 'Orthrak' would destroy us in the name of his Beastlord."

Magnus squinted.

"He said that? Why? Why…even tell us?"

It made no tactical or strategic sense to just give that away.

"I don't know. Perhaps to force us to keep more on guard, get less sleep, attack when we're tired and weary?" She offered up, brow furrowed.

"Perhaps," Magnus nodded.

Both started slightly at the sound of horns, and the stamping of hooves.

"ORTHRAK!" Many bestial throats roared.

"Or not," Magnus grunted, cracking his neck from side to side as Octaine fully roused himself. "Let's go."

As they moved through the camp, Magnus couldn't help but grimace. They'd pushed as far as he'd felt comfortable, maybe even a bit more than that, and there just weren't too many adequate camp sights for them to find for themselves. They hadn't had any supply wagons coming out with them for this, only what extra supplies could be placed upon some of the light cavalry. As such the camp that they'd ended up building lacked any significant natural defenses from the landscape, and they hadn't had any particularly favorable positioning otherwise. They'd camped on the road itself, for lack of a better option, but far better than simply squatting in the depths of the woods and basically throw themselves into the maw of the beastmen. Some sharpened stakes and the remaining wagons were the best that they had. Firing a cannon was a risky endeavor, and unlikely to fire in the first place with the wind and rain. And the Talabeclanders did not have nearly as many crossbows as Magnus would prefer in the moment to have.

"ORTHRAK!"

There, at the edge of the forest, the beastmen had emerged. Gors and ungors aplenty, but this time, led by one larger and better armed. A crown of curling uneven horns sprouted upwards from the wargor's head, and both of his shoulders were covered in heavy slabs of metal beaten into the shape of pauldrons. Leather belts with smaller rusty metal hunks were strung across a huge, furred body, half again the size of a normal man. In one hand was a vicious looking maul who's head could have been half of an anvil at one point, while in the other was a huge sword that looked like three greatswords stacked against each other in size. Two poles sprouted upwards from the back, and between them was strung a banner made of skin that bore the baleful symbol of Chaos. For all of that, though, Magnus had seen even more dangerous wargors before, during patrols in Ostland to cut down on beastmen numbers. Seen a handful of Beastlords as well, each of which would have dwarfed this wargor in particular. But wargors were war leaders, captains of individual warherds where Beastlords commanded many put together.

"ORTHRAK!"

"What shall we do, my prince?" Grand Master Kaiser asked of him, the other knightly leadership assembling with him as the beastmen did the same around their monstrous superior.

"We could brace for them, use the wagons, the stakes, try and hold them off and cut them down," the High Guardian of Morr muttered. "Let them break themselves upon us. We would have to descend from our horse to do it proper, though."

"And cede the initiative to them? Absurd," the High Seeker the Raven scoffed. "Let us mount up, drive into them, and scatter the beasts outright, shatter them and let us rest in peace!"

"And if we are caught out of turn?" The High Guardian rounds on his counterpart under the gaze of Morr. "If they surround us and cut us down?"

"And if we let them overrun us, surround us, and cede the speed and power of our horse?" The High Seeker fires back.

"I say I kill him," Mia juts her chin towards Orthrak, who bellows and roars to his warherd, who roar and bellow back, slamming weapons together and growing rowdier. "Break them that way, let them run and fight amongst themselves for who commands next. Challenge and kill, easy as that."

A number of the other knights glance at the White Wolf, who has crossed her arms and is nodding approvingly to herself.

"Wouldn't they just cut you down before you can get there? Kill you for the temerity?" You hear one of the Black Guard of Morr that accompanied their leader ask.

The White Wolves start laughing.

"They could try, living dead boy," Mia chortled before glancing over at Magnus. "The Prince knows. Pride. Prominence. Prestige. Sure, there's a chance they might, but they do so love to try and slaughter the champions of our people, try and inflict upon us the exact same kind of despair."

She's not wrong.

Magnus had seen his father challenge wargors in just such a way, dueling them to death and scattering their warherd as the rest of their forces charged in. He'd done it yourself, even. Beastmen, greenskins, and though it made him a bit ill to think it, humans as well. There was something to the sacred nature of a duel that the Prince of Ostland had seen upheld by creatures without any honor or sense besides. Though on that grounds, it might well be simply because such inhuman creatures simply wished to ensure that their leader truly is actually capable, and if not, be aware so that others might challenge for the position. He also happened to know that, for all her ferocity, Captain Mia was a mortal woman with purely mundane arms and armor, called down blessings of Ulric notwithstanding. She had a sister, he'd learned in passing conversation, who was a member of the Order of the Howling Wolf, and it had not escaped his notice that the Captain was perhaps more capable of actively and literally calling upon Ulric's power than other White Wolves. But she did not have a weapon such as his, and though he'd attempt to say it as kindly as possible, she was not necessarily as skilled in combat as himself. Exceptional, certainly, but Magnus had in fact seen better amongst his family and others, but only amongst a few of the latter.

"My Prince?" Kaiser asks, and all looked to Magnus as the beastmen roared in the light of guttering torches.

Magnus Choice:
[] Mausoleum Walls: The camp's defenses are meager, not even close to what Magnus would prefer. But it's better than nothing at all. It does cede some of the crushing power of a charge of heavy cavalry, but knights on foot are no easy target either. Ahorse or not, they are some of the most elite and most heavily armored troops possible.
[] A Feast For Ravens: The beastmen are posturing. Threatening. Bellowing. They know they've got the troops where they want them, run ragged and denied rest. But this wargor has never met knights of Ostland before, clearly. It is time to show him the difference.
[] Locking Horns: A challenge is being made. A challenge that can be returned. It is time to show the beastmen that humanity is not so weak as they believe. They may well offer treachery, but monstrous pride might well keep them from it as well. Either way, a true champion must be called forth, either to slay the enemy's leader in an offer difficult to refuse, or survive cowardice long enough for the knights to charge in at full bore.
-[] Magnus as Champion
-[] Captain Mia of the White Wolves as Champion
-[] Grand Master Kaiser as Champion

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

"They're back!"

"Look, look!"

"They came back…?"

"They're…they're bringing masters with them…!"

The slaves whisper and mutter as your warband returns from the surface and enters the tunnels. There are many more of them than you saw before, or at least many more of them remaining in this central tunnel nexus, but then perhaps you weren't looking too closely before. Then again, it could also be that too many of them were busy running back and forth in some kind of futile search for safety. As it is now, you've got a bevy of humans from the Old World and beyond, a small smattering of dwarfs, and to your surprise more elves. All of whom immediately recoil upon seeing the still gore-strewn Druchii, but there is clear confusion and surprise amidst the fear as they see the bowed heads as they follow behind Kerillian. But more importantly, they see the many, many heads that you've collected upon your way, each of them stuck upon pikes of ice carried over the shoulders of Bretonnian peasants and Asur warriors.

Terror. Disgust. Despair. Denial.

Abject confusion.

All of them Druchii heads.

"My name!" You call out, and with a gesture, all those heads are thrown down the steps before you.

Ice shatters and heads bounce.

"Is Natasha von Hohenzollern!"

Step, by step, by step, you descend until you are on the same level as them, flanked by your allies.

"I've seen you run and huddle. I'm sure you're used to leadership changes over the Ark being rather bloody at times, given who runs it?"

There are quite a few uncertain, jerky nods.

"This isn't like that. Screamtaker?" Flinches from the crowds, "Is dead. Her daughter Voidreaper is in charge, and her first decision was to blow a hole into the Temple of Khaine, and start dragging daemons of Chaos through."

Horror and fear spread together, along with denial on a few stubborn faces, and it is those you will have to definitely keep an eye on. There are a number of things that you disagree with your sister Kattarin on, her intensification of the slave trade in Kislev by an order of magnitudes being one of them, but that does not mean you are unfamiliar with the trade entirely. You have seen slaves before in Kislev City, labor for certain wealthy nobles and merchants, others utilized for a variety of other purposes. And though it rankled then, the knowledge serves now – there are those amongst the slaves around you this very moment that are too broken to save. Who have sworn themselves in their own ways to their masters. Have married themselves to their chains, down into their very souls.

"The Ark is aflame. The old masters are fighting back, but they're already on the back foot. There. Will. Never. Be. A. Better. Time."

You gesture at your companions.

"You don't have to believe me. Speak to them, learn from them, even venture upstairs if you want a look at what we've done, and what we plan to keep doing. It doesn't matter how old you are, how long you've been in chains," you raise and clench your fist. "It's time to break them. Permanently."

It is uncertain how receptive they'll all be, but the vaster majority of them at least stick around once the last of the Bretonnians coming down the stairs do so carrying a few wheelbarrows of supplies ransacked from the district up above. Though you end up being the one to have to drag the Druchii corpses over to Oskana to eat, the sight of the gryphon devouring the ones who have abused them so harshly for so long seems oddly appreciated by a goodly number of the slaves. More important than that, to you at least, is that while you've shown yourself a cold and imperious figure, they are still quite willing to approach the others. Especially once it becomes known to the other elven slaves who and what Sadrina is, while the pinnacle of knighthood that is Roland gathers many of the Old World slaves to his side. Those from beyond the Old World end up speaking to Johanna, one of the only ones who actually speaks their languages at all, all while Kerillian keeps her little coterie separated and off to the side. In the meantime, you find yourself an empty box, flip it around, and finally sit down for the first time since this morning. Or last morning, it's difficult to say. Almost immediately a wave of exhaustion sweeps through you, your elbows propped upon your knees and hands cupping your face as you lower the faceplate of your helm to breathe air openly for the first time in hours.

It's hard to say how long it's been, how long you've been fighting, and killing.

It frustrates you nonetheless that your mind and body are demanding you sleep, that you rest.

You do not want to!

You want to transform this entire place into a floating glacier and then dash it to pieces against the shores of Salkalten once more!

You want to tear Alyssa Voidreaper to shreds with your own hands, until she is nothing but strips of red and fragments of white!

You want to freeze and shatter every single fucking Druchii, every single daemon, all of them, all of them!

You want…!

"Larhathalumalav," Kerillian murmurs quietly, and you do not even jerk in surprise at your total lack of knowledge of her approach, nor raise your head.

Neither of you mention the frozen tears that have formed a small pile at your feet.

"Kerillian, what is it?" You ask, voice so flat it could almost be your daughter Anna's as you look down at them.

"An idea, little more," she says, shifting her weight slightly out of the corner of your eye. "I was…I am a Waywatcher of Athel Loren, have been for centuries. I am used to working alone, for long periods of time, hunting and killing and pursuing deep into the night."

The coldest and angriest part of you begins to burn in your chest almost immediately at her words.

"If you leave," you say immediately, "Who guarantees the behavior of your killers?"

"Who? Why, the rest of you, of course," she says with a bemused snort. "The gryphon as well, I think she has gained quite a taste for Druchii flesh at this point. They'll not be a problem. If they are, kill them," she says with easy scorn.

"Your plan?"

"Kill," she replies calmly. "Maybe a bit of burning. A bit of looting, finding more supplies for those who join us."

"You think we're going to have that many more recruits?" You finally do glance up at her, to lock your mismatched eyes with her once pure-black ones, a faint crimson light just barely visible in the center of them.

In reply, she quirks an eyebrow and looks back out onto the crowds.

(A Handmaiden, A Handmaiden!: 56+Absolute Chaos(10)-Abuses of the Druchii(10)+Handmaiden of the Everqueen(25)+Sadrina Diplomacy(15)-Tortures And Deaths(10)=86/100)

There was not a surplus of elven slaves to try and join you, you knew that. No doubt the abuses of the Druchii mean that there might be plenty more locked up in the noble estates of the more powerful and wealthy Druchii families. Others have no doubt surely died, either in the fighting already, or because their masters grew bored enough of them to do it. Or use them up in some horrid ritual or another. Nevertheless, there are still some Asur here, though by their bearings all of them have been here longer than the Tiranoci arrivals who came with Eldyra's ill-fated aiding fleet. All of whom, it seems, prepared themselves to finally fight for their freedom now that there is more than a candle's chance in the Widow's palm. Some of them even look like they actually were fighters, once upon a time. In particular a grouping of surprisingly muscular looking Asur who are still for the moment deferring to Sadrina. They look upon her like she is some great savior, which, by all rights, she is.

(A Shining Knight: 68+10-10+Roland Diplomacy(14)+Jagged Jaqueline Diplomacy(5)+Questing Knight(15)-10-Tight Collars(10)+A Bevy of Heads(10)=92/100)

Many of the slaves that came from the Old World have flocked to Roland and the Whitewings, and unsurprisingly a number of them are Bretonnian. That nation really needs to do something about the weakness of their navy, they've clearly been prime pickings for the Druchii for some time. Either way, the presence of the Questing Knight and the other pseudo-knights is clearly quite welcome, and you see fire and brimstone rising up in the eyes of many of those who speak to them. To your surprise, almost all of the slaves talking to them look like fighters, men and women both, who despite their tortures and abuses have managed to keep almost all their fingers and not lost too much of their strength. Numbers and some experience, going by some of the boasting and swinging of procured weapons you can see.

(Far Away Flocking: 20+Johanna Diplomacy(12)+The Sounds of Home(10)-10-10+10=32/100)

Unfortunately, you do not see too many of the people from beyond the Old World remaining behind. Some of them clearly think they are better off on their own, and scatter into the slave tunnels to head elsewhere. Johanna recruits at best a miniscule crop of Indan and Cathayan men, evidently giving up the Nipponese who looked ready to scrap with the Cathayans instead of work together. It is a small force she has gathered up, a fraction compared to the others speaking to Roland and the Whitewings, or even the elves, but it is again better than nothing. At the least, Johanna's capacity to speak their tongues at all is valuable in that regard. Your warband grows steadily, and with it, what you can actually do with it. You might well get other recruits who wander in during the night, but that still means you need to think on the night and the morrow both.

"…fair enough on that front, still," you cluck your tongue. "You'd be out there, alone."

"The vampire has expressed an interest in coming with," she notes, "Something about putting some of her training to use. A monster she may be, I am interested in knowing if she dances in the shadows with Loec as she so clearly rages with all the fires of Addaioth."

"And if you both are caught out of place, captured, killed?" You quirk an eyebrow at her, to which Kerillian nods.

"Aye, a risk. But one I offer to you, Larhathalumalav," she notes with the barest hint of a strange sort of hunger in her voice.

"Hmm," you mutter while rubbing at your temples.

"Assuming we live and return, or we stay the night, where are we heading next, anyway?" She asks, tilting her head.

"Still thinking about it," you admit, fists clenching and unclenching.

Natasha Choices:
Moratorium For All Voting 3 Hours

Kerillian's Offer
[] Keep The Blood Flowing – Going out and remaining unseen, and killing many, is literally what Kerillian has spent centuries doing, and if you return to the mainland, is liable to do for centuries more. Johanna speaks of some kind of odd training in Nippon and Cathay, of a Shadow Under Heaven, and while she admits her sire is the far greater in usage of Ulgu and the like, she is not incapable. She managed to stalk around the Ark on her lonesome already, after all. It would put both at risk, however, for all that they might well be able to keep frustrating the efforts of the Cult of Pleasure. Khaine despises Slaanesh, all the more so right now, it seems, and in that twisted regard you are almost in agreement on that front.

OR

[] Staunch The Blood, For Now – The offer is a terribly tempting one, but one you are allowed to refuse. In this case, you will. Besides, you want Kerillian actively present the entire time so that your stolen Witch Elves don't start to get any strange ideas about ever going back to the way things were. Besides which, you aren't sure if letting her indulge in every bloody whim she's had since picking up the sword is the best possible thing.

Tomorrow's Target [Choose One]
[] Strike the Siege: The Temple of Atharti is one of the greatest known resistance points against the Cult of Pleasure, seeing as Atharti is literally a rival Cytharai to much of what Slaanesh is. The longer it lasts, the more focus it will require from the Cult of Pleasure. It follows that killing the Druchii and banishing the daemonettes assaulting it will, in turn, harm the Cult of Pleasure all the more.
[] Attack An Arena: The Arenas are full of slaves literally trained and built and fed properly to be satisfactory combatants. You have a much larger warband now, but why not swell it all the further? Traverse the slave tunnels, emerge, and shatter more cages, break more chains, and become an even greater threat to the machinations of Alyssa. Hells, maybe you'll even get her to come out of the tower that way all the quicker.
[] Fire and Food: There are other food production sites, silos, storage. It's time that some of them cease to exist. Ransack them to feed your own warband, and deny their contents and production to the enemy. The daemons might not need food or water, but the Druchii damned well do, and without the latter, they cannot sustain the presence of the former.