Mathilde the Everchosen
It's finally here. Years of preparation. Years of work. Every sacrifice, every cost, every deal, leading to this moment.
You watch as Thorek and Johann approach the Waystone, the rest of project team behind you. Elves, humans and dwarves, working together for a brighter future.
Johann raises the pair of tongs in his hand, pressing the the white hot rune against the waystone. You remember how you delved into the dark, monster infested depths of Karaz Ghumzul to claim the knowledge needed to forge that rune. You remember the countless treaties and negotiations to acquire the materials, the support, necessary for this singular moment.
Thorek raises his hammer, slowly, methodically, to strike the rune.
[Runesmithing: 1]
Thorek is petrified instantly as a wave of dhar blasts forth from the waystone. Your vision is clogged by the roiling, disgusting cloud, and all around you are screams of horror and pain, and the rune of Valaya's Vengeance burns brightly, and your vision turns to flames as the dhar is consumed by Kraggs runes—but against the never ending tide of darkness, even that masterwork fails, the runes shattering, and the dhar envelops you.
[Windherding: Learning 30+20 (dhar insight)+10 (windsage)+67=127]
Thinking quickly, you grab a strand of rebel
ulgu fleeing the waystone and craft a shield of shadow around you, repelling the dhar, shielding your body and mind from the corrupting influence. You can only hope you were fast enough.
You look for your friends and companions. Where Johann was standing is nothing more than a puddle of molten gold. You glance at Max and Egrimm, but quickly avert your eyes, your stomach churning.
But even that, you regret, as you see the dhar billowing out, guided by a malevolent will towards the fair city of Tor Lithanel, descending upon the unwary innocents who live there.
Reality buckles and twists under the weight of the dhar, and with an agonising scream, it tears open, and the first demons step forth.
In the coming years, this day will be known to the few survivors as "Mathilde's Doom".
---
"The college has to be somewhere," Algard repeats with a mocking smirk. "A logical assumption." He steps through the wall and you follow him, into the endless grey void. Severn chairs in a circle, each seated by a lord or lady magister of the Grey Order.
You look for your chair, but it isn't there. You spin in a circle, surrounded by the judging glares of your peers, so fast their expressions blur into a single image of hate and rage.
"I'm sorry, Mathilde," Algard says. "But you pushed too far into secrets you were not meant to know." Your arms are bound behind your back, kindling piled at your feet. There's a crowd surrounding you, jeering, hateful faces you recognise, each holding a lit torch. Your master, Regimand. Your friend, Anton. Your King, Belegar.
Your parents.
Your screams are swallowed by the flames.
[Trait gained: Treacherous Nightmares]
---
You've been on the run now for months. There's no safety, no haven. When you broke the waystone—stupid, foolish girl—you broke the articles. You know the punishment. They'll be hunting you now. They could be anywhere. The shadows you once trusted could conceal a magister. The faces on the street could be an assassin in disguise. No one can be trusted, nowhere is safe.
You first try for your secret palace in Wurtbad, but the city is crawling with Witch Hunters, all looking for you, all strengthened by their faith in their worthless god. Your teeth grind as you remember how Sigmar, mighty, powerful, arrogant Sigmar, failed you—failed Abel!—in your time of need.
Moving carefully, you approach your hideout, but are forced to dive into the shadows—twisted, traitorous things they are—as movement catches your vision.
Someone is entering your palace!
You look closely at the man, dressed like a cross between a vagabond and a priest, and a name floats across your mind.
Heideck, priest of Ranald.
Why would he be here? Unless he was sent, waiting for you.
An ambush?
You recall, on that dark day that Abel died, there was a second god present. Another god who failed you. One who also did nothing.
"So even you have turned on me, my oldest friend?" you say with resignation. Slowly, you remove the traitors coin from around your neck and drop it into the muck.
And then you leave Wurtbad, never to return.
---
Karak Eight Peaks hasn't changed much since you were last here, except maybe a few more patrols, a few more guards out looking for those who would infiltrate the hold.
You sneak past them anyway, and quickly reach your penthouse.
Wolf is waiting for you, of course. He's the only one who knows, the only one who understands.
The only one you can trust.
You slip inside, the numerous defences causing you no hindrance. Behind your back, the dwarves called you paranoid for the excessive security measures you insisted upon, but as you creep past each defence, you wonder if you weren't paranoid enough.
You begin to gather you vital belongings—a few books and tools, some robes, when suddenly—
"Mathlide?" A voice startles you, and you twirl on the spot, shadow knife in your hands. "Oh Mathilde, we've been so worried! When we heard—"
Panoramia stands in the doorway, face streaked with tears. She looks like she wants to run to you, but you still have your shadow dagger pointed at her.
"We heard it failed, that the waystone exploded. We feared that you were—were," she chokes up, unable to finish.
"It was ugly," you say. "I think I'm the only one who got out." You relax slightly, and dismiss the shadow dagger. This is Pan, you're safe—
She charges at you—is that a knife? Branulhune is in your hands, its tip puncturing her chest. Blood bubbles from her mouth, her eyes full of shock.
"What! No, why!?" You're in shock, this can't be happening? Why did she come at you with a—wait, where's the knife? No, it was her sickle, on her belt, blade blunted from years of work. It was never in her hand. You stare in horror. Why did you think there was a knife you stupid girl?
You banish your sword, but that just makes the blood poor faster from the wound. You push your hands on it, trying to stem the flow.
The seed! Of course, you can fix this. You raise your hand, trying to remember the nonsense words that activate it.
[Seed of Regrowth: Learning 30-10 (grief)-30 (chaos corruption)+16= 6]
The seed goes to work—but to your growing horror, it doesn't heal. Instead, thick, rotten roots burst from your hand and begin to burrow into Pan's lifeless body, draining away what little vitality she had left. Soon, all that's left of her is her bloodstained robes; not even a body to bury. The seed has consumed her completely.
Wolf pushes his cold nose into your neck, and together you howl with grief.
A few hours later you leave Karak Eight Peaks on the back of your shadowhorse, Wolf loping along beside you. In the end, you couldn't bring much with you—a few books and artefacts, the most important of which include the Liber Mortis and the Mirrorcatch box.
But where can you go now? Both the Empire and the Karaz Ankor would be closed to a murderous black magister.
Dum, the wind whispers to you. You laugh. It's so obvious. You're life has been nothing but a series of failures, one after another. Why not return to yet another black mark on your record?
You turn your shadowsteed north.
This time, you resolve, you won't fail.
---
"Blood or tea, stranger?" asks the Dolgan shaman. It is the same man you met before, the servant of the Untamed who traded you food for silver. That feels like a lifetime ago.
You look at the man, and wonder how much he can be trusted. You consider answering blood, but there is a weariness in your bones, and you still have a long journey to go.
"Today, tea." You and the shaman repeat the ritual you once performed together many years ago, drinking the fermented horse milk he offers you.
"You journey to Dum once more, Shaman of the Mountain Ring clans?" he asks.
You shake your head. "I am a shaman of nowhere, but yes, I seek to test myself against Dum, as my chieftain once did many years ago." Borek wasn't really your chieftain, but he was in command of the expedition, which was close enough to the same thing.
The Shaman looks thoughtfully at you. "There is much movement along the road to Dum. Many champions seek to test themselves. The gods have called them there, I think."
You absorb the information without a flicker of emotion. "Then I will test myself against them as well."
The Shaman grins. "A worthy answer. Come join us, for we make the pilgrimage also. Mighty Slaaksho thinks he is worthy of Dum's blessing."
You consider his words. You think you can protect yourself, should they betray you—and by the tone of his voice, the shaman does not seem to agree with his chieftains beliefs about his worthiness. A potential chink in the tribe you can use for your advantage?
"I accept," you say.
---
Dum is as you left it; the mountain and the beastman both. Perhaps the desert is a little larger than before, the trees taller and darker. Cor-Dum bellows a war cry, and the warriors of the Dolgan—your warriors, after you left Slaaksho's lifeless body in a ditch—bellow back.
"Do we charge?" asks the Shaman of the Untamed. The warriors look to you, their eyes seeking weakness. You bested their champion in a duel, but this would be the real test, where they learn to respect you—or fear you.
You look at the desert—or rather, the bones of those who failed Dum's test.
You will not join them.
"I have a better idea," you reply. You reach up to the winds above, but instead of familiar
ulgu, you pull on the purple wind of
Shyish, sending it into the sands below. The
Ulgu in your body rebels against the foreign wind, generating dhar, but you simply grab that cursed power and channel it into your spell, leaving yourself unharmed and unchanged.
The thrill of two different magics coursing through you, and the power of dhar itself, makes you giddy. You could conquer the world with this power, you could surpass the great Nagash, surpass even
the gods themselves.
You can't remember why you resisted this power for so long.
The first of your undead warriors rise, and you laugh, long and hard, finally free.
Soon, Dum will break; the mountain and beastman both. And then the secrets of the Runemasters will be yours.
---
You've been stalking the apparition for weeks, travelling further north into lands where the border between reality and unreality is as ephemeral as a shadow. You had to break
Aqshy several times just to summon it, grabbing the red wind with a gauntlet of dhar, but now the red rider is in your sight.
It flees, some primitive intelligence warning it of your strength, but it is no match for your shadowsteed.
Catching it is almost effortless as you throw a web of
Ulgu over it, ensnaring it, corrupting it, trapping it.
Soon it will rest in your soul, another apparition for your collection.
Above you, four sets of eyes look on with amusement at the mortal who would dare to enslave demons.
---
Your sword flickers in and out of existence, its runes—once forged by the greatest of Runelords—glowing with eldritch energies after the enhancements you made to it. Between the secrets of the Runemasters and your supply of
Aqua Vitae, there is little you don't know about enchantment, and none have stood against your blade—until now.
Archeon, the man who would be Everchosen, charges at you once more, fury in his eyes. His blows fail to penetrate your Dum-hide cloak, even as your own shadow flails uselessly against his own armour.
Parry, riposte, chop. The Slayer of Kings and Branulhune, the two greatest swords of the age, clash against each other, equally matched. Neither one can give way to the other, the combatants equal in skill and blessing both.
But you don't fight alone.
Wolf, loyal, faithful Wolf, leaps at the pretender, casting him to the ground. He's grown in the years since you came north, now the size of a bear and three times as dangerous.
Archeon pushes your familiar way, and rises to his knees—but no further. Branulhune takes his head in a single swing. It's over. A mass of roots shoot from your palm, devouring the corpse, leaving nothing behind and your wounds are healed.
High above you, four gods come together, and for the first time in two centuries reach an accord.
A new champion is crowned. A new Everchosen is born.
And the world will burn.
---
Altdorf. How long has it been since you were here last? You barely remember. You turn your eyes away from the twisted streets and look over your army. Never has such a host been brought together—the living, the dead and demonkind, all united under one banner. Norscans and Kurgans and Hung, Chaos Dwarfs and Beastmen and Skaven, skeletons and ghosts and wrights, greater demons and apparitions and demon princes.
All bound to your will, all devoted to their dark mistress of shadows and sorcery.
Your eyes turn across the field, to your opposition, to the mighty host of order. Imperial regiments, Bretonian knights, dwaven throngs—are those the banners of the Eonir? So some did survive.
You smile. Their numbers are few, and their ranks in disarray. Last night, your Misty Maidens reaped a harvest of blood among the officers and commanders, and now they are barely prepared for battle. Yesterday there were hundreds of shining souls, wizards of the eight collages you once called home.
Today, they number only a few dozen.
But they are not broken, not yet.
At the head of the army, is the Champion of Order himself—Emperor Mandred, the Twice Blessed. He holds Ghal Maraz, that cursed artefact of a weak and snivelling god, above his head, as he gives a rousing speech. You can not hear the words, but they are irrelevant.
After all, he and his army will be dead by the time the sun sets.
---
You exult in the battle, riding atop ever loyal Wolf, your sword sweeping through the ranks of your foe, even as his twin heads rend and tear.
You turn to cheer your warriors on, but they are not there. Where are they? Did the charge fail?
Dark memories of a dark night in a dark Sylvanian alley come unbidden. You strangle the emotions in rage.
Again and again, you have been failed by worthless incompetents. You will survive, and then you will hunt the traitors who disobeyed you.
"Godmother, it is good to see you again." You spin to face the boy—no, no longer a boy, but a man, a man with hard eyes. Behind him, unseen to most, stands a second man, one whose eyes are full of regret—regret, but no forgiveness.
"Mandred, it's been so long!" you coo. "How is you mother? Is she well?" You teleport off Wolf's back, your sword swinging through the air, but he blocks it with his hammer.
"Well enough. I think she misses you." As does his counterblow, your body turning to mist at the moment of impact. "The old you, not this monster you've become."
"Monster? Monster?" You are incandescent with rage. "If I am a monster, it is only because I was hunted—hunted for a mistake I didn't make! You were all out to get me from the start! I was sabotaged, betrayed! This is all on your heads! It was all your fault!"
Mandred simply looks at you with a sad expression, but doesn't reply. Instead he marches forward, hammer swinging at you time and time again.
You block, parry and dodge, counterattacking with steel and sorcery. He cleaves through your dusk riders, and breaks your shadow with a blow of his hammer, but you cut and wound a dozen times over, bleeding him inch by inch. He may have the support of two gods, but you have four. Your victory is assured.
Finally, he makes a mistake—blood drips in his eyes, and he stumbles in the mud. Your blade flashes forwards—
And cuts empty air. A feint. Where is he?
To your left. A glint of gold from the hammer high in the air. A glint of silver from the coin hanging from his neck.
Your last thoughts are of a green dress, stained with blood, and the laughing of cruel and wicked gods.
===
So, there you have it—the rather convoluted and tragic chain of events that could lead to an Everchosen Mathilde.
It's not my best work, it's very rough, but I've been writing this for about four hours now, so here, enjoy.