Moss clung to the gaps in the brickwork like fat cattapillars, forming abstract pictographs from a millenia ago. Anglermaw could smell the grassy paste as much as his rodent eyes could make out their shapes, more keen than any man, lizard-man even. Perhaps the sight was more subtle, unnoticed even to the others in this darkness, their minds drawn to far more morose business within the tomb. The Sea-Rat had learned years ago to take in all of his surroundings, that was an untaught lesson in Skaven society. The rotting scaffold in a steep warpstone mine; the shiv in the paw of a disgruntled rival, the glowing blip of an assassin's cocked jezzail. Too much time in the undercities made such paranoid thoughts as common as muscle memory. Bones of dead saurian champions sharpened into stakes in the distance, the lapping flames from the greased torches made Angerlmaw's matted fur tingle warily, their skink wielder's cerulean scales turning gold in the resonance.
He took a sniff of his surroundings. The tomb smelled of dust and age, not to mention the oily boar grease that kept the torches lit within the sanctum. Darkness permeated all about the group of lizardine mourners, as though the tomb were some living entity, the placid body of Supa-Kheti laid there upon the stone edifice as a sacrifice for the shadowy maw, cushioned under a mattress of firewood. The old skink was hidden within his panoply, belying the pain he'd suffered within his final moments. Here, the shaman slept unassumingly. Anglermaw recalled the last moments of the Ark's sinking, the disturbing threats of whatever became of Grey Seer Urechen clear as glittering warpstone while the shaman clutched at his heart before he died.
When they had returned, there were no cheers, no festivities in the names of these unlikely saviours. No sense of elation beamed among the group. While Falderan may have been content with whatever swill passed among the lizards for wine, Celedron's enigmatic attitude hadn't received a chink after the loremaster had lost his arm. Mokte had become utterly implacable the moment Supa-Kheti's heart had stopped, and he had not spoke to the gang in the days they had returned. There had not been even a mention of thanks or reward from that fat frog Nahwa, save that they were no longer under the constant surveillance by the lizardine lords. What had transpired was something not even their useless old tablets could have forseen. The party of a rat, two elves, and a saurus of questionable spawning, risking their lives to save the city of Tzlipectl from an existential threat...
...He had almost forgotten another... No... he desperately wanted to forget young Hans Brunswick, Anglermaw had never felt such horror for another being until he'd seen the poor boy twist into that emaciated thing. But he could not; in the days that passed, Hans lingered as a wraith within Anglermaw's nightmares, and he no longer saw the young, insecure face that he remembered of the boy, but as the gaunt dessicated monster he had become.
He wondered if the other attendees could wipe the sight from their minds too. Celedron and Falderan appeared stoic, both of them as though likenesses of the statues of long dead saurian heroes illuminated by the torches. A cadre of six saurus guardians encircled Supa-Kheti's body, the butts of their primitive spears planted firm on the cracked stone defacing the hieroglyphs below their clawed feet. The seventh saurus stood out from his kin, by the crimson hue of his scales, and by the nature his behaviour. Mokte was bereft of his golden armour, the contrast of the torch flames darkened his colour like blood while he mournfully leaned by Supa-Kheti's sleeping frame. Anglermaw did not recognise the words Mokte whispered, but he could tell they were rife with grief. Supa-Kheti had been Mokte's guardian, a father figure even, from what Anglermaw could remember from the villa. He watched the saurus plant the shaman's crude staff into his frozen hands. The gnarled stick, which must have been nearly as old as the shaman himself just rolled onto Supa-kheti's meek chest, waiting to be clutched.
Poor bastard. The words chittered soundlessly off the tip of Anglermaw's teeth as he observed Mokte reluctantly saunter back toward the group. No words passed between them, anything now would seem wholly inappropriate. Not that Mokte's attention had been drawn anywhere close to the Sea-Rat anyway, for his gaze, and those of their entourage, were drawn to the footsteps of an arriving figure. One venerable enough to bring both saurus and skink to kneel at a near instant, and a quiver from Mokte's usually cool face had made the Sea-Rat near squirt his musk.
The old blood's huge frame was concealed in a dye of ash and soot as the darkness spat him out by the head of Supa-Kheti's cremation pile, like it too was afraid of the beast. It's massive crest was concealed by a bleached skull of onyx stone that fully masked it's snarling countanance with a human-like mosaic. Bleached bone replaced the gold that once enameled the obsinite armour. Like the others of it's kind, it was silent, the eyes from beneath it's calm mask gazed toward the foreigners. Anglermaw shivered; this was no simple beast, more a haunter of these catacombs come to take away shaman's corpse. A chill wind fluttered through the tomb while a silibant whisper droned from behind the mask. The other beasts repeated the mantra. All save Mokte, the expression on his face had warped from grief to something Anglermaw would not have expected.
Fear.
"What-who is he?" Anglermaw stuttered, he could not draw his eyes away from the ghoul, no matter how shook.
"Do not speak." Mokte returned. It was not a command, the saurus' tone was more akin to a whimper.
"No, answer me, for Sigmar-Rat's sake." Anglermaw argued. "You've not even spoke to us of 'ere, didn't say a word of this monster-thing." His whispers were full of venom as his chittering snout loomed by Mokte's taut face.
"...Chichime..." Mokte hazed.
"What?! Speak up for god's sake." Anglermaw demanded. "You weren't so afraid of him when he sized you up before. Why now?"
"Chichime, but not as the roaring gloryhound I had presented you." Mokte stammered like a panicked child. "This is his true face. Those scales of black and white? They are said to symbolize the dead of the city. When the masses saw him in the courtyard from before they had revered him like a god, but not as they would see him now. In his war armour, he is named 'Arch-Wight' by the scar-veterans, for the city's ghosts are said to follow him to war. Tzlipectl has a dark past, Znammy. I will tell you one day, but not in the presence of him."
"T'only dark place I've seen is this boneyard... ...We're here for a funa-cremation, so what's the fear all about?" Anglermaw probed, curious yet perturbed as he hid his own trepidation.
But Mokte would not aquiesce; the prayers had ceased. Chichime's stare did not.
He took a sniff of his surroundings. The tomb smelled of dust and age, not to mention the oily boar grease that kept the torches lit within the sanctum. Darkness permeated all about the group of lizardine mourners, as though the tomb were some living entity, the placid body of Supa-Kheti laid there upon the stone edifice as a sacrifice for the shadowy maw, cushioned under a mattress of firewood. The old skink was hidden within his panoply, belying the pain he'd suffered within his final moments. Here, the shaman slept unassumingly. Anglermaw recalled the last moments of the Ark's sinking, the disturbing threats of whatever became of Grey Seer Urechen clear as glittering warpstone while the shaman clutched at his heart before he died.
When they had returned, there were no cheers, no festivities in the names of these unlikely saviours. No sense of elation beamed among the group. While Falderan may have been content with whatever swill passed among the lizards for wine, Celedron's enigmatic attitude hadn't received a chink after the loremaster had lost his arm. Mokte had become utterly implacable the moment Supa-Kheti's heart had stopped, and he had not spoke to the gang in the days they had returned. There had not been even a mention of thanks or reward from that fat frog Nahwa, save that they were no longer under the constant surveillance by the lizardine lords. What had transpired was something not even their useless old tablets could have forseen. The party of a rat, two elves, and a saurus of questionable spawning, risking their lives to save the city of Tzlipectl from an existential threat...
...He had almost forgotten another... No... he desperately wanted to forget young Hans Brunswick, Anglermaw had never felt such horror for another being until he'd seen the poor boy twist into that emaciated thing. But he could not; in the days that passed, Hans lingered as a wraith within Anglermaw's nightmares, and he no longer saw the young, insecure face that he remembered of the boy, but as the gaunt dessicated monster he had become.
He wondered if the other attendees could wipe the sight from their minds too. Celedron and Falderan appeared stoic, both of them as though likenesses of the statues of long dead saurian heroes illuminated by the torches. A cadre of six saurus guardians encircled Supa-Kheti's body, the butts of their primitive spears planted firm on the cracked stone defacing the hieroglyphs below their clawed feet. The seventh saurus stood out from his kin, by the crimson hue of his scales, and by the nature his behaviour. Mokte was bereft of his golden armour, the contrast of the torch flames darkened his colour like blood while he mournfully leaned by Supa-Kheti's sleeping frame. Anglermaw did not recognise the words Mokte whispered, but he could tell they were rife with grief. Supa-Kheti had been Mokte's guardian, a father figure even, from what Anglermaw could remember from the villa. He watched the saurus plant the shaman's crude staff into his frozen hands. The gnarled stick, which must have been nearly as old as the shaman himself just rolled onto Supa-kheti's meek chest, waiting to be clutched.
Poor bastard. The words chittered soundlessly off the tip of Anglermaw's teeth as he observed Mokte reluctantly saunter back toward the group. No words passed between them, anything now would seem wholly inappropriate. Not that Mokte's attention had been drawn anywhere close to the Sea-Rat anyway, for his gaze, and those of their entourage, were drawn to the footsteps of an arriving figure. One venerable enough to bring both saurus and skink to kneel at a near instant, and a quiver from Mokte's usually cool face had made the Sea-Rat near squirt his musk.
The old blood's huge frame was concealed in a dye of ash and soot as the darkness spat him out by the head of Supa-Kheti's cremation pile, like it too was afraid of the beast. It's massive crest was concealed by a bleached skull of onyx stone that fully masked it's snarling countanance with a human-like mosaic. Bleached bone replaced the gold that once enameled the obsinite armour. Like the others of it's kind, it was silent, the eyes from beneath it's calm mask gazed toward the foreigners. Anglermaw shivered; this was no simple beast, more a haunter of these catacombs come to take away shaman's corpse. A chill wind fluttered through the tomb while a silibant whisper droned from behind the mask. The other beasts repeated the mantra. All save Mokte, the expression on his face had warped from grief to something Anglermaw would not have expected.
Fear.
"What-who is he?" Anglermaw stuttered, he could not draw his eyes away from the ghoul, no matter how shook.
"Do not speak." Mokte returned. It was not a command, the saurus' tone was more akin to a whimper.
"No, answer me, for Sigmar-Rat's sake." Anglermaw argued. "You've not even spoke to us of 'ere, didn't say a word of this monster-thing." His whispers were full of venom as his chittering snout loomed by Mokte's taut face.
"...Chichime..." Mokte hazed.
"What?! Speak up for god's sake." Anglermaw demanded. "You weren't so afraid of him when he sized you up before. Why now?"
"Chichime, but not as the roaring gloryhound I had presented you." Mokte stammered like a panicked child. "This is his true face. Those scales of black and white? They are said to symbolize the dead of the city. When the masses saw him in the courtyard from before they had revered him like a god, but not as they would see him now. In his war armour, he is named 'Arch-Wight' by the scar-veterans, for the city's ghosts are said to follow him to war. Tzlipectl has a dark past, Znammy. I will tell you one day, but not in the presence of him."
"T'only dark place I've seen is this boneyard... ...We're here for a funa-cremation, so what's the fear all about?" Anglermaw probed, curious yet perturbed as he hid his own trepidation.
But Mokte would not aquiesce; the prayers had ceased. Chichime's stare did not.
Time always felt off after battle. The following night of grief and merriment for a victory felt to last forever even if it merely went on for a few short hours. Much like the tense moments in a battles conclusion. When beast, savage and ghoul retreat from the battlefield back to their dark dwellings to hide and lick their wounds. Those seconds as you await further attack feel like a lifetime. And what to say after the battle for the Ark? Nothing that could be compared with a Beastmen ambush or Greenskin raid. Horrors witnessed within that place brought to mind the Daemons and mutants of the Dark Gods. Things not of this world and more vile and twisted than even the vilest Goblin or Troll. The aftermath was something that felt like a new nightmare in itself.
As the group somehow survived the battle against what could only be described as a Daemon and it's 'mortal' associate of some form, adrenaline faded and the pain of the great battle sunk in. Celedron felt the pain of a missing arm and upon reaching shore Skinks presented him with healing balms and remedies to alleviate the pain his body was swimming with. magic drained and left in a state of limbo he was as if caught by a fever. Rambling and unable to form many full sentences his body seemed ready to give in and die. Yet the same will which sliced through Skaven, which fired arcane powers to wash away regiments, and fierce determination that any Imperial General would find commendable kept him going. And in the time that passed he made a recovery. Falderan stayed by his side for the majority of the time. A connection to blood he thought he'd never bond with forged in fire. The curious disdain that started between them at first now faded to a sense of comradeship and admiration.
Fal's recovery was more in his own mind over physical. His body was bruised and bled from all over but compared to a lost limb for Celedron he was virtually unharmed. The full damage rested in his mind. Avoiding sleep where he could until exhaustion took him he kept awake at nights staring over his friends and the city he found himself in. Everytime his eyes closed he could hear the voice of the bastard Ziegfried or the abomination spawn, or the bones snapping and flesh stretching from that unfortunate boy brought along for their mess. Hans. It wasn't the first young man of the Empire he had seen brutalized by otherworldly forces. Not even the youngest. But it was one of the more personal. It was lucky for him he could find a similar comfort as he did back in the Old World. The Lizardmen of Lustria could brew a wine that was far from perfect. But to drown his senses would work.
A short time after they had been nursed back to health. About three days by Fals count. The group were attending the funeral of the Skink Priest Supa-Kheti. Since their return Fal had not seen anything of their Skink allies from the Ark but it did him no favours to ponder how post war beurocracy worked for these alien reptiles. Despite the odd perk of curisioty he stayed mostly in his own head. But now dresed in surprisingly new imperial clothing, something that Fal found suspicious but he knew of the numerous colonists and traders that 'went missing' in these lads. The group watched the ritualistic proceedings in silence. Celedron stood beside Falderan and shared his drow expression. He wished to return to his people, to inform them of his side of events. But he couldn't pass up this curious display. A philosophical and professional curiosity about the Lizardmen society taking hold. The underbreath exchange between Mokte and Anglermaw snapped him from his focus. He still couldn't believe he was working with a Skaven, a half-Druchii and some rejected Lizard. He honestly begun to wonder if he'd be accused of heretical deeds as the Empire would call it, upon his return. The garbs he wore made the comparrison almost comical. Wearing some Imperial traders shirt and coat got him to long for the days of Elven silk on his skin once more. But it was a small thing that made him and Fal seem more alike than he'd want to admit. If nothing else in terms of garb and a recent shared trauma. The two watched as the dark scaled Saurus continued his rite.
As the group somehow survived the battle against what could only be described as a Daemon and it's 'mortal' associate of some form, adrenaline faded and the pain of the great battle sunk in. Celedron felt the pain of a missing arm and upon reaching shore Skinks presented him with healing balms and remedies to alleviate the pain his body was swimming with. magic drained and left in a state of limbo he was as if caught by a fever. Rambling and unable to form many full sentences his body seemed ready to give in and die. Yet the same will which sliced through Skaven, which fired arcane powers to wash away regiments, and fierce determination that any Imperial General would find commendable kept him going. And in the time that passed he made a recovery. Falderan stayed by his side for the majority of the time. A connection to blood he thought he'd never bond with forged in fire. The curious disdain that started between them at first now faded to a sense of comradeship and admiration.
Fal's recovery was more in his own mind over physical. His body was bruised and bled from all over but compared to a lost limb for Celedron he was virtually unharmed. The full damage rested in his mind. Avoiding sleep where he could until exhaustion took him he kept awake at nights staring over his friends and the city he found himself in. Everytime his eyes closed he could hear the voice of the bastard Ziegfried or the abomination spawn, or the bones snapping and flesh stretching from that unfortunate boy brought along for their mess. Hans. It wasn't the first young man of the Empire he had seen brutalized by otherworldly forces. Not even the youngest. But it was one of the more personal. It was lucky for him he could find a similar comfort as he did back in the Old World. The Lizardmen of Lustria could brew a wine that was far from perfect. But to drown his senses would work.
A short time after they had been nursed back to health. About three days by Fals count. The group were attending the funeral of the Skink Priest Supa-Kheti. Since their return Fal had not seen anything of their Skink allies from the Ark but it did him no favours to ponder how post war beurocracy worked for these alien reptiles. Despite the odd perk of curisioty he stayed mostly in his own head. But now dresed in surprisingly new imperial clothing, something that Fal found suspicious but he knew of the numerous colonists and traders that 'went missing' in these lads. The group watched the ritualistic proceedings in silence. Celedron stood beside Falderan and shared his drow expression. He wished to return to his people, to inform them of his side of events. But he couldn't pass up this curious display. A philosophical and professional curiosity about the Lizardmen society taking hold. The underbreath exchange between Mokte and Anglermaw snapped him from his focus. He still couldn't believe he was working with a Skaven, a half-Druchii and some rejected Lizard. He honestly begun to wonder if he'd be accused of heretical deeds as the Empire would call it, upon his return. The garbs he wore made the comparrison almost comical. Wearing some Imperial traders shirt and coat got him to long for the days of Elven silk on his skin once more. But it was a small thing that made him and Fal seem more alike than he'd want to admit. If nothing else in terms of garb and a recent shared trauma. The two watched as the dark scaled Saurus continued his rite.
The ghostly saurus gesticulated his large arms toward the lizardine statues above, his troupe of black daubed kin following suit.
Then Chichime recited, in a crude silibant drawl that only the native saurians could comprehend.
"Oh, venerated servant. From ruin you came, and ruin you found in this place. Though you lay here in this tomb, be not afraid to share the womb with the neverspawned. When you, and so many others fled to the silent city, you had already met death, for the foundations of Tzlipectl are built upon the ashes of the unborn spawn. Before, you were a vagrant, an unshackled slave to the Old Ones, but in death you are accepted. So rest, spirit, stay vigil no longer. You are home."
At the last syllable, the saurus guardians encircling Supa-kheti's corpse uluated a synchronized groan, their voices like a troupe of haunting spirits wailing within the shadowed necropolis. Anglermaw shuddered, the hairs on his matted ears pricked with anticipation. He watched the looming form of the ash dyed saurus creep forward toward the group of foreigners. Although his heart quickened, he was not afraid. There was no threat of violence from the Old Blood in his stride. The creature beckoned Mokte with an open claw, and he hissed a sentence that once again only the red outcast could understand. Reluctance for something welled within Mokte's lizardine eyes. He stood vacant for a moment in the glittering tomb, as statuary as the stone hewn reptiles which observed the funeral from above, like gargolyes mounted upon the arches of a gothic church.
Mokte took the torch from Chichime's ashen claw. No words escaped his grieving mind as he cast the flame upon the bed of firewood. In moments the shaman's corpse was enveloped in a whirlwind of flame, his body consumed until it became ash. Chichime clasped Mokte upon his shoulder, and grunted into the younger saurus' ear. Anglermaw could not understand a word within the Saurian lexicon, but he saw Mokte become visibly reassured. Their gutteral voices were near-incomprehensible over the popping of firewood. The two lizardmen nodded at eachother solemnly, and Mokte returned to the group once the Old Blood had relieved him. Anglermaw scrutinised Mokte with a curious gaze. He wanted to ask what the Old Blood had told him, but the situation made him keep his tongue. The scent of the skink's burning remains was appetizing to Anglermaw's senses. His stomach churned in anticipation for a meal, and if he were still with the clans, he would not of thought twice to have Supa-kheti's corpse made into a roast. But once again Anglermaw did not voice this desire. It seemed his long foray among the no-furred had twisted his skaven understanding of manners.
"Is it over?" The Sea-Rat chittered. "We done? Don't think-expect we're wanted anymore anyway, yeah." Anglermaw cracked the wrist of his regenerated hand as he waited for answer. The newly-grown limb was hairless and pale, and he'd relied on his hook for so long he'd had a hard time getting used to it.
"The Arch-wight has asked for us to remain here for now." Mokte replied, shaking his lizardine maw. "The funeral rites are almost finished. My lord would prefer to speak with us before we leave."
Anglermaw was stunned by Mokte's show of deference toward the Old Blood. The trepidation made him feel uneasy. He looked curiously to the forms of the elves, their faces wraithlike within the shadows of the tomb. "Alright then." Anglermaw conceded. "So long as I'm not the next one on a flaming spit."
Moments passed like hours before the flames conceded to the haunted womb of these catacombs, almost unaturally. All trace of the shaman's corpse was gone, his ashes scattered into the void. The Old Blood finally stared face to face with each member, the eerie facemask Chichime wore made his mood indiscernible. He spoke, but this time, curiously, in a language they could all understand.
"Honour to you, saviours of Tzlipectl. We meet again as friends, and not rivals with aligned interests. I have not brought you into the catacombs as an act of intimidation. These halls were once the birthplace of my kin, and I was spawned with the icon of Quetzl marked on my scales." He beckoned the group to walk with him, the glimmering lights of rowed torches and fluorescent fungi clung to the illustrated plaques marked their road ahead. A stone collonade of various rooms and chambers were separated left and right from the hall, their interiors hidden by the veil of pitch darkness. "Although, that was many, many years ago. The lagoons of Tzlipectl dried when the great enemy first came, and those children yet to spawn were the sacrifice for our city's right to exist. No prayers to Quetzl have brought them back, nor have our pleas caught the ear of the Pantheon. There is no place for their worship here anymore."
Then Chichime recited, in a crude silibant drawl that only the native saurians could comprehend.
"Oh, venerated servant. From ruin you came, and ruin you found in this place. Though you lay here in this tomb, be not afraid to share the womb with the neverspawned. When you, and so many others fled to the silent city, you had already met death, for the foundations of Tzlipectl are built upon the ashes of the unborn spawn. Before, you were a vagrant, an unshackled slave to the Old Ones, but in death you are accepted. So rest, spirit, stay vigil no longer. You are home."
At the last syllable, the saurus guardians encircling Supa-kheti's corpse uluated a synchronized groan, their voices like a troupe of haunting spirits wailing within the shadowed necropolis. Anglermaw shuddered, the hairs on his matted ears pricked with anticipation. He watched the looming form of the ash dyed saurus creep forward toward the group of foreigners. Although his heart quickened, he was not afraid. There was no threat of violence from the Old Blood in his stride. The creature beckoned Mokte with an open claw, and he hissed a sentence that once again only the red outcast could understand. Reluctance for something welled within Mokte's lizardine eyes. He stood vacant for a moment in the glittering tomb, as statuary as the stone hewn reptiles which observed the funeral from above, like gargolyes mounted upon the arches of a gothic church.
Mokte took the torch from Chichime's ashen claw. No words escaped his grieving mind as he cast the flame upon the bed of firewood. In moments the shaman's corpse was enveloped in a whirlwind of flame, his body consumed until it became ash. Chichime clasped Mokte upon his shoulder, and grunted into the younger saurus' ear. Anglermaw could not understand a word within the Saurian lexicon, but he saw Mokte become visibly reassured. Their gutteral voices were near-incomprehensible over the popping of firewood. The two lizardmen nodded at eachother solemnly, and Mokte returned to the group once the Old Blood had relieved him. Anglermaw scrutinised Mokte with a curious gaze. He wanted to ask what the Old Blood had told him, but the situation made him keep his tongue. The scent of the skink's burning remains was appetizing to Anglermaw's senses. His stomach churned in anticipation for a meal, and if he were still with the clans, he would not of thought twice to have Supa-kheti's corpse made into a roast. But once again Anglermaw did not voice this desire. It seemed his long foray among the no-furred had twisted his skaven understanding of manners.
"Is it over?" The Sea-Rat chittered. "We done? Don't think-expect we're wanted anymore anyway, yeah." Anglermaw cracked the wrist of his regenerated hand as he waited for answer. The newly-grown limb was hairless and pale, and he'd relied on his hook for so long he'd had a hard time getting used to it.
"The Arch-wight has asked for us to remain here for now." Mokte replied, shaking his lizardine maw. "The funeral rites are almost finished. My lord would prefer to speak with us before we leave."
Anglermaw was stunned by Mokte's show of deference toward the Old Blood. The trepidation made him feel uneasy. He looked curiously to the forms of the elves, their faces wraithlike within the shadows of the tomb. "Alright then." Anglermaw conceded. "So long as I'm not the next one on a flaming spit."
Moments passed like hours before the flames conceded to the haunted womb of these catacombs, almost unaturally. All trace of the shaman's corpse was gone, his ashes scattered into the void. The Old Blood finally stared face to face with each member, the eerie facemask Chichime wore made his mood indiscernible. He spoke, but this time, curiously, in a language they could all understand.
"Honour to you, saviours of Tzlipectl. We meet again as friends, and not rivals with aligned interests. I have not brought you into the catacombs as an act of intimidation. These halls were once the birthplace of my kin, and I was spawned with the icon of Quetzl marked on my scales." He beckoned the group to walk with him, the glimmering lights of rowed torches and fluorescent fungi clung to the illustrated plaques marked their road ahead. A stone collonade of various rooms and chambers were separated left and right from the hall, their interiors hidden by the veil of pitch darkness. "Although, that was many, many years ago. The lagoons of Tzlipectl dried when the great enemy first came, and those children yet to spawn were the sacrifice for our city's right to exist. No prayers to Quetzl have brought them back, nor have our pleas caught the ear of the Pantheon. There is no place for their worship here anymore."
The way the flames flickered and danced over the funeral pyre reminded each Elf of a similar display from their home. Fal was at first taken back to the funeral pyres used to destroy the bodies of Beastmen, Orcs and similar monstrocities of the world. In such times the air smelt of a vile rot. A smell that mixed smoke with the apprent essence of those burnt. Put to flame and returned to ash where they could no longer prey on the innocent. Another scent that came to mind was somehow more sombre. When the enemies of good and order would ritualistically burn, sacrifice and dare he say cook the people of the Empire. Smelling so many types of burnt flesh left Fal with an ability to notice faint differences in the scent. Almost like the emotion behind the burning was part of the scent. And this one felt more melencholy. Not malicious but more in memory for the elderly Skink. This was more akin to a comrades burning and honor than that of destroying a taint. Keeping his face low, covered behind a popped collard coat he now wore. He didn't want to disturb the proceedings. But to himself, in his mind he gave a prayer to Sigmar. Hoping that maybe in this land he could still be heard.
Celedron watched the flames with his bandaged arm. The dancing and smell of burning meat and incense reminded him of his own Fathers funeral proceedings. Young by Elven standards his Father died defending Yvresse from a violent Greenskin incursion. The foul fungal beasts slaughtered thousands before their defeat. His father was one. Taking a crude blade into his leg before his throat was cut by the Goblin filth. The only condolence, if it could even be called such, was that his Father was given a warriors farewell like many more in the following days. Prayers given for Asuryan to welcome him to his divine lands and live on safe from the pains he suffered in his final moments. This service for the Skink didn't hit him as hard. But the same tinge of regret was there in his gut. A sorrow and bitterness he was well adjusted to hiding. Something he could see on the faintest expressions of Fal. But he did not address it. Simply he watched the flames flicker and fade before the procession ended.
The resulting aftermath was what felt like a tour of the tomb by the grim looking Chimchime. The stonework was facinating. Different from Elf, Man or Dwarf and of it's own unique beauty. Across the walls were text in the Lizards hieroglyphs that the Elves suspected told stories of those buried within. It was something very similar to both their own cultures. It would stand to reason pride in ones life was shared even by these alien creatures and their jungle nation. The description of the cities history was one of loss. Of great cataclysms and world ending distasters. Such things were known to Celedron but from his own people's perspective. Of a great war against legions of Daemons when the Elves where one people and the world flourished. A great horror that seemed like the very End Times had come. But it did not. Through the Elves efforts, at least they thought so. But a fate the world may one day still face.
Fal had only heard loose ideas of this time. From the odd wizard he met would tell of great things in the Empires archives. Of tomes from the Elves and Dwarfs that spoke of such things. He always thought it too grand. Possibly embelished like some of Sigmar's mighty legend. Though with everthing he had see in recent months. He was more inclined to believe in such things. The Elves nodded as they took in the oraltation from the Saurus. Both silently hoping they could soon make their trips home and back to a form of comfort in this mad world.
Celedron watched the flames with his bandaged arm. The dancing and smell of burning meat and incense reminded him of his own Fathers funeral proceedings. Young by Elven standards his Father died defending Yvresse from a violent Greenskin incursion. The foul fungal beasts slaughtered thousands before their defeat. His father was one. Taking a crude blade into his leg before his throat was cut by the Goblin filth. The only condolence, if it could even be called such, was that his Father was given a warriors farewell like many more in the following days. Prayers given for Asuryan to welcome him to his divine lands and live on safe from the pains he suffered in his final moments. This service for the Skink didn't hit him as hard. But the same tinge of regret was there in his gut. A sorrow and bitterness he was well adjusted to hiding. Something he could see on the faintest expressions of Fal. But he did not address it. Simply he watched the flames flicker and fade before the procession ended.
The resulting aftermath was what felt like a tour of the tomb by the grim looking Chimchime. The stonework was facinating. Different from Elf, Man or Dwarf and of it's own unique beauty. Across the walls were text in the Lizards hieroglyphs that the Elves suspected told stories of those buried within. It was something very similar to both their own cultures. It would stand to reason pride in ones life was shared even by these alien creatures and their jungle nation. The description of the cities history was one of loss. Of great cataclysms and world ending distasters. Such things were known to Celedron but from his own people's perspective. Of a great war against legions of Daemons when the Elves where one people and the world flourished. A great horror that seemed like the very End Times had come. But it did not. Through the Elves efforts, at least they thought so. But a fate the world may one day still face.
Fal had only heard loose ideas of this time. From the odd wizard he met would tell of great things in the Empires archives. Of tomes from the Elves and Dwarfs that spoke of such things. He always thought it too grand. Possibly embelished like some of Sigmar's mighty legend. Though with everthing he had see in recent months. He was more inclined to believe in such things. The Elves nodded as they took in the oraltation from the Saurus. Both silently hoping they could soon make their trips home and back to a form of comfort in this mad world.
Chichime strode beneath the flickering torchlight like some macabre automata; the characteristic savagery of his kind seemed utterly alien to the grim defender. He left his vigil retinue in the darkness, for one reason or another, they had not followed, content to remain stationary in the great tomb cloaked within a miasma of darkness. Anglermaw did not look back at them, content to follow the guiding flames, nor did he give thought to the ghouls. His rodent eyes, far more acute in the absence of light had caught sight of a multitude of peering, vertical eye slits staring toward him. Incorporeal headless eyes. Whispers in a dead language that came from no speaker. Threats? Questions? Anglermaw didn't know, he just followed on, unquestioning even as the groundwork of the catacombs became less paved.
Chichime stopped at the end of a cavernous stairwell. Standing before the group was a gaping atrium of dirt and bones, illuminated by the soulstuff of unspawned lizardmen. Souls flittered to and from the group like buzzing fireflies as they swirled beneath the ossuary. some were the size of specks, insignicant in their part to play in the world denied to them, while others were engorged, large enough to fit into Mokte's own palm. These were the souls marked for greatness before their time, great thinkers, valiant warriors. Blessed by the Old Ones themselves, and in death the touch of the gods had meant nothing but an eternity of limbo. They danced around great pillars of bonework, remains of the long dead loomed in great towers, the skulls adorned like eternal sentries. Many were of the brave Saurus breed, others sleek and razor toothed like the Skink. But most strange of all were the oddly familiar shapes of man-skull that leered toward the gang, balefire glazed within the sockets of their rictus stare.
"These are the souls of the Neverspawned." Said Chichime, watching the group as they surveyed the dazzling patterns above. "Thousands of these children swim through the channels of the tomb, ignorant of what life they may had lead if the catastrophe had spared them. They are the last aspect of this city untouched by the taint of chaos, and in times of danger I have hefted the Sun Cleaver to vanquish any devil that sought to consume them." The little strobes fell onto their protector like children to a guardian, nuzzling him for warmth and safety as they coos echoed within the cavern of bones. Curiously, they had fallen also upon Celedron and Falderan for comfort, the two elves shone as luminous half-deities among the charnel house, whereas they had scorned the touch of Anglermaw and Mokte. The Sea-Rat pouted, but Mokte was indifferent, and did not care less for validation from the long dead.
"And it is in this lair that those who sought to protect the Neverspawned are housed as heroes, be they cold blooded or not. Even few among my own kind above ever see what lay here, but you have risked your lives for my city's safety and it's residents, and for that I am in your debt." The Arch-Wight continued. "To you, great Elves, I give you my city's eternal friendship. I open my gates to the allies of order should refuge ever be sought. To you, Znammy, I dub you 'the redeemed.' Others may find it awkward to champion the name of the Xa'kho, but I will not. I will guarantee your safety out of Tzlipectl, so long as your destination is within reason. As my final gift to you, travellers from beyond, I will also grant you the right to take any artefact from the catacombs as a token of friendship. I would not have it on my conscience that I send you out unrewarded. The caverns before me hold the sarcophagi of Tzlipectl's dead champions. Choose carefully from this treasury, and be sure not to disturb the spirits."
The Sea-Rat crooked his head to the side, intrigued by the Arch-Wight's gifts. "Ain't ever been offered anything from a lizard before save a skin-flayin', yeah." Anglermaw chittered. "Do the dead-things mind us pluckin' at their toys?"
Chichime shook his head. "Any gift I bestow is one in good faith; the dead would prefer to see their keepsakes serve the common good."
Just as Anglermaw was about to chitter in delight, Mokte strode forward in an act of challenge, his blood red crest elevated. Scores of spirits parted before his approach to the Arch-Wight. "And what would you make of me?" Mokte said bitterly, his claws clenched into scaled balls of muscle. "Would you have me return to the reject I was before, my Lord?" The earlier defference Mokte had shown toward the Arch-Wight had vanished.
Chichime loomed like a wraith over Mokte, but there was no wrath in his demanour., and his tone was that of reassurance. He made no attempt to dominate the younger Saurus. "You are no such thing, my son. I'd had greater things in mind for you. You are a champion now, the nature of your spawning cannot change that. No matter what those from beyond our walls may perceive."
Mokte chuckled. "Son? Champion?! Truly? Is that how you percieve me when you snarl at me in the presence of refugees above? This, Supa-Keti's death, it has changed nothing. I will still be marked by foreigners as a blight-spawn. What give you the right to pretend? My father died from shock in the middle of the sea. No one will remember him. Where were you?"
"My behaviour above is nothing but a facade, my son." Chichime said. He tried to place his claw upon Mokte's shoulder, but the red saurus shrugged it off. "I had faith in you, Mokte. But my purpose is to defend the city, and so I could not compromise. This animosity you feel, I assure you it is misplaced. I give you more than just acceptance, my son. I would protest your innocence to the Slann themselves."
"I have risked my life for the sake of acceptance all these years, Arch-Wight." Mokte spat, uttering Chichime's title with a snarl. "And for what? For my brothers to reject me out of instinct? They despise me, my mark is tainted. I do not want it anymore, I choose exile. If you would grant me anything, it is that I may also be given passage out of the jungles."
"Grief clouds your mind, my son." Chichime broke in. "It is grief you shouldn't need to bear. Supa-kheti is still here."
"My master is dead." The words wretched out of Mokte's maw as though they'd been forcefully pulled from his mind. "There's nothing left here for me anymore. Let me leave."
Chichime was solemn, his emotion unknown from within the rictus mask. He stepped back as the mewling souls dispersed from his body, somehow aware of his heartbreak. "I will grant your request." Whispered the Arch-Wight. "Take what you want from the tomb and then return to me. I have already arranged transport from the city at dusk."
Mokte nodded without a word. He stepped within the confines of the treasury alone, leaving the rest of the gang behind.
Chichime stopped at the end of a cavernous stairwell. Standing before the group was a gaping atrium of dirt and bones, illuminated by the soulstuff of unspawned lizardmen. Souls flittered to and from the group like buzzing fireflies as they swirled beneath the ossuary. some were the size of specks, insignicant in their part to play in the world denied to them, while others were engorged, large enough to fit into Mokte's own palm. These were the souls marked for greatness before their time, great thinkers, valiant warriors. Blessed by the Old Ones themselves, and in death the touch of the gods had meant nothing but an eternity of limbo. They danced around great pillars of bonework, remains of the long dead loomed in great towers, the skulls adorned like eternal sentries. Many were of the brave Saurus breed, others sleek and razor toothed like the Skink. But most strange of all were the oddly familiar shapes of man-skull that leered toward the gang, balefire glazed within the sockets of their rictus stare.
"These are the souls of the Neverspawned." Said Chichime, watching the group as they surveyed the dazzling patterns above. "Thousands of these children swim through the channels of the tomb, ignorant of what life they may had lead if the catastrophe had spared them. They are the last aspect of this city untouched by the taint of chaos, and in times of danger I have hefted the Sun Cleaver to vanquish any devil that sought to consume them." The little strobes fell onto their protector like children to a guardian, nuzzling him for warmth and safety as they coos echoed within the cavern of bones. Curiously, they had fallen also upon Celedron and Falderan for comfort, the two elves shone as luminous half-deities among the charnel house, whereas they had scorned the touch of Anglermaw and Mokte. The Sea-Rat pouted, but Mokte was indifferent, and did not care less for validation from the long dead.
"And it is in this lair that those who sought to protect the Neverspawned are housed as heroes, be they cold blooded or not. Even few among my own kind above ever see what lay here, but you have risked your lives for my city's safety and it's residents, and for that I am in your debt." The Arch-Wight continued. "To you, great Elves, I give you my city's eternal friendship. I open my gates to the allies of order should refuge ever be sought. To you, Znammy, I dub you 'the redeemed.' Others may find it awkward to champion the name of the Xa'kho, but I will not. I will guarantee your safety out of Tzlipectl, so long as your destination is within reason. As my final gift to you, travellers from beyond, I will also grant you the right to take any artefact from the catacombs as a token of friendship. I would not have it on my conscience that I send you out unrewarded. The caverns before me hold the sarcophagi of Tzlipectl's dead champions. Choose carefully from this treasury, and be sure not to disturb the spirits."
The Sea-Rat crooked his head to the side, intrigued by the Arch-Wight's gifts. "Ain't ever been offered anything from a lizard before save a skin-flayin', yeah." Anglermaw chittered. "Do the dead-things mind us pluckin' at their toys?"
Chichime shook his head. "Any gift I bestow is one in good faith; the dead would prefer to see their keepsakes serve the common good."
Just as Anglermaw was about to chitter in delight, Mokte strode forward in an act of challenge, his blood red crest elevated. Scores of spirits parted before his approach to the Arch-Wight. "And what would you make of me?" Mokte said bitterly, his claws clenched into scaled balls of muscle. "Would you have me return to the reject I was before, my Lord?" The earlier defference Mokte had shown toward the Arch-Wight had vanished.
Chichime loomed like a wraith over Mokte, but there was no wrath in his demanour., and his tone was that of reassurance. He made no attempt to dominate the younger Saurus. "You are no such thing, my son. I'd had greater things in mind for you. You are a champion now, the nature of your spawning cannot change that. No matter what those from beyond our walls may perceive."
Mokte chuckled. "Son? Champion?! Truly? Is that how you percieve me when you snarl at me in the presence of refugees above? This, Supa-Keti's death, it has changed nothing. I will still be marked by foreigners as a blight-spawn. What give you the right to pretend? My father died from shock in the middle of the sea. No one will remember him. Where were you?"
"My behaviour above is nothing but a facade, my son." Chichime said. He tried to place his claw upon Mokte's shoulder, but the red saurus shrugged it off. "I had faith in you, Mokte. But my purpose is to defend the city, and so I could not compromise. This animosity you feel, I assure you it is misplaced. I give you more than just acceptance, my son. I would protest your innocence to the Slann themselves."
"I have risked my life for the sake of acceptance all these years, Arch-Wight." Mokte spat, uttering Chichime's title with a snarl. "And for what? For my brothers to reject me out of instinct? They despise me, my mark is tainted. I do not want it anymore, I choose exile. If you would grant me anything, it is that I may also be given passage out of the jungles."
"Grief clouds your mind, my son." Chichime broke in. "It is grief you shouldn't need to bear. Supa-kheti is still here."
"My master is dead." The words wretched out of Mokte's maw as though they'd been forcefully pulled from his mind. "There's nothing left here for me anymore. Let me leave."
Chichime was solemn, his emotion unknown from within the rictus mask. He stepped back as the mewling souls dispersed from his body, somehow aware of his heartbreak. "I will grant your request." Whispered the Arch-Wight. "Take what you want from the tomb and then return to me. I have already arranged transport from the city at dusk."
Mokte nodded without a word. He stepped within the confines of the treasury alone, leaving the rest of the gang behind.
The Elves eyes were more trained than a Human. The simple yet proactive race would be lost without a torch here. But the Elves keen eyes kept them going. They couldn't see to the level of Anglermaw or even the Dwarfs of the mountains. But they could make out forms and shapes. Enough to not trip or be caught off guard. The area was a macarbe sight. Skulls and bones or long gone Saurus and Skinks covered the walls not unlike the Empires temples of Morr. There was a similar feeling to this place. A sense of finality. A feeling that short of the end of days these halls and graves would not be defiled. A twisted comfort fell over Fal as he took in the area. Approaching the large chamber.
Celedron felt the nature of the area. The wards in the walls and arcane magic older, yet familiar to the Elf. Something of the more ancient form of weaving the winds as though it were barely a concious choice. Something otherworldly and regined about the way the place was guarded. As if the will of the cosmos kept it stable.
The oddly bright atrium was something to gawk at. Celedron broke his practiced composure at the sight of spirits flying around in a faintly visible wisps in the air. Dancing like the playful and mischevious sprites of Athel Loren, or so he read. There was a taste of undeath in the air. But not unlike Necromancy. The feeling of energy that lingered like a mist was somewhat smoother. It felt more akin to Qhayash but with a noticable strain of Shyish. Celedron spared a glance to Fal as he too responded. He Imperial Elf didn't seem to notice as much. But he did have a physical response. The hairs on his body stood up. Like the response of an animal sensing a disturbance in the air. But he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
Chichime explained the room and the duo finally understood the importance. It wasn't a tomb as much as a sanctuary. A place to rest and be content, to be safe from the vile perversions of the enemies of Order. Celedron gave off a small smirk. This changed everything. This was proof, as far as he knew from the lizards speech that the Lizardmen of Lustria did have souls. That there was more than flesh automata manning these cities of gold and secrets. This could bring a new profound theory to the academic world on Ulthuan. If anyone would believe him.
But all this was for little compared to the revelation of their prize. Nodding sagely as they recieved comendations and promises of friendship from the lead Saurus the promise of something from the area was enough to take pause. The Lizardmen where known to wield powerful artifacts. Some with arcane power the likes of which could rival even the Loremaster Teclis of Ulthuan. Celedron couldn't help but follow to their choices. Precious weapons and talismans covered the walls. Finely etched runes left a protective barrier on the doors. Celedron noticed them throughout the halls. Each one gave each doorway a buffer for the foul and daemonic. Likely destabalising any lesser Daemons that dared tp emter these halls before they could consume the souls within. The arcane presense in the air was nearly too much. The whole room felt like a steamy bathhouse. Filled with promise and a heat that nearly put him on his knees. He focused. Narrowing his mind he walked towards an engraved talisman. It measured around twenty centimeters. It was firm, made of some metal like bronze, at least the outside. The icon gave off a mix of energies Celedron failed to identify. It seemed to be masked in a haze of confusion. and deception. Hiding something or simply a method of magic he ad yet to understand. He admired it in the dim light. Taking in every aspect.
Fal found himself gazing upon a series of items. Small daggers to great war clubs, likely belonging to warriors or priests of the cities. Everything had the scent of magic. It lingered in the air like smoke long after a fire. A lingering sensation he couldn't shake. He went to touch a wide headed mace but pulled his hand back. It felt wrong to take a weapon like this. Much less one he would fail to use properly. He looked around. Over to a rounded medallion resting upon a surface. It resembled the mosiacs he had seen across the city. A rounded head seeming a mix of humanoid and reptilian with a solar crest around it. Small runes circled it and something about it told him it would be fine. He clenched his hands around the cold material. This felt right. But he couldn't answer why.
Celedron felt the nature of the area. The wards in the walls and arcane magic older, yet familiar to the Elf. Something of the more ancient form of weaving the winds as though it were barely a concious choice. Something otherworldly and regined about the way the place was guarded. As if the will of the cosmos kept it stable.
The oddly bright atrium was something to gawk at. Celedron broke his practiced composure at the sight of spirits flying around in a faintly visible wisps in the air. Dancing like the playful and mischevious sprites of Athel Loren, or so he read. There was a taste of undeath in the air. But not unlike Necromancy. The feeling of energy that lingered like a mist was somewhat smoother. It felt more akin to Qhayash but with a noticable strain of Shyish. Celedron spared a glance to Fal as he too responded. He Imperial Elf didn't seem to notice as much. But he did have a physical response. The hairs on his body stood up. Like the response of an animal sensing a disturbance in the air. But he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
Chichime explained the room and the duo finally understood the importance. It wasn't a tomb as much as a sanctuary. A place to rest and be content, to be safe from the vile perversions of the enemies of Order. Celedron gave off a small smirk. This changed everything. This was proof, as far as he knew from the lizards speech that the Lizardmen of Lustria did have souls. That there was more than flesh automata manning these cities of gold and secrets. This could bring a new profound theory to the academic world on Ulthuan. If anyone would believe him.
But all this was for little compared to the revelation of their prize. Nodding sagely as they recieved comendations and promises of friendship from the lead Saurus the promise of something from the area was enough to take pause. The Lizardmen where known to wield powerful artifacts. Some with arcane power the likes of which could rival even the Loremaster Teclis of Ulthuan. Celedron couldn't help but follow to their choices. Precious weapons and talismans covered the walls. Finely etched runes left a protective barrier on the doors. Celedron noticed them throughout the halls. Each one gave each doorway a buffer for the foul and daemonic. Likely destabalising any lesser Daemons that dared tp emter these halls before they could consume the souls within. The arcane presense in the air was nearly too much. The whole room felt like a steamy bathhouse. Filled with promise and a heat that nearly put him on his knees. He focused. Narrowing his mind he walked towards an engraved talisman. It measured around twenty centimeters. It was firm, made of some metal like bronze, at least the outside. The icon gave off a mix of energies Celedron failed to identify. It seemed to be masked in a haze of confusion. and deception. Hiding something or simply a method of magic he ad yet to understand. He admired it in the dim light. Taking in every aspect.
Fal found himself gazing upon a series of items. Small daggers to great war clubs, likely belonging to warriors or priests of the cities. Everything had the scent of magic. It lingered in the air like smoke long after a fire. A lingering sensation he couldn't shake. He went to touch a wide headed mace but pulled his hand back. It felt wrong to take a weapon like this. Much less one he would fail to use properly. He looked around. Over to a rounded medallion resting upon a surface. It resembled the mosiacs he had seen across the city. A rounded head seeming a mix of humanoid and reptilian with a solar crest around it. Small runes circled it and something about it told him it would be fine. He clenched his hands around the cold material. This felt right. But he couldn't answer why.
Anglermaw scuttled into the great hall, the charnal pillars gazing down at him like he were an intruder. No Skaven had ever walked these halls; none would likely ever again. The Sea-Rat knew that his presence here was one out of convenience, no matter how much the ashen old blood lauded his actions. He witnessed the forms of Falderan and Celedron perusing the chamber, the panoply of long dead champions hung upon walls, settled upon altars of crumbling rock like funerary gifts. Some were adorned to their corpses within their open charnel holes, safeguards and strong omens for the dead as they passed into the next world. It were these artifacts that Anglermaw had chose to avoid, some superstitious, rodent fear that even nearing the earthen sarcophagi would compel the lizardine skeletons to spring alive in defense of their grave. Not that Anglermaw was fussed, clubs, cudgels and heavy armour, no matter how decorated in gold and prehistoric runes was simply not his forte.
He carried himself along, humming through the intestinal cavern while the souls of the neverspawned acted as mobile flares. The stream of absract ghosts gave clear illumination to what would have been pitch darkness. He followed the stream like a river to its end, until by chance he came to what he guessed was the 'skink quarter' of this crypt. There was of course no such desigation to prove he'd found such a place, if Anglermaw could decipher the worn hieroglyphs above. The gifts within this chamber were far more befitting of his size. Daggers, spears and staffs all teeming with luminous energy, their handles clearly meant for the smaller cousins of the saurus. Light armour far more practical than the great blocks of obstinite he'd spotted before shimmered beneath the stream. Unlike the skeletal remains he'd seen entombed previously, this chamber housed no such cadavres. Instead the deceased were confined into canopic pots of communal ash, stored in ancient dig-outs which once upon a time acted as life giving ponds, long since evaporated. Was this a symbol of lower status, wondered Anglermaw as he eyed the wafting vests.
He did not dwell on the thought, he felt unwelcome enough around regular lizardmen, let alone their death worshipping kind.
He plucked a scaled vest from above one of the funerary pots, scrutinising the material with his sharp claws. He was surprised at the durability. It hardly looked as sophisticated as arabyan lamellar, but the leaf-like segments were stone hard even after millenia, each obstinite leaf painstakingly enamelled with a golden trim. He admired the armour's flashiness - practical, yet prestigious. It made a shingling sound as he wore the vest over his ruined overcoat. With his brimmed crown scattered in the sea, the Sea-Rat needed something that made him look important.
He made his way back to the atrium, only to find that the group had already beat him. Anglermaw curiously eyed the finds of the Elves. Their rewards seemed more subtle, but the talismans wreathed with energy in the presence of the stream of neverspawned. Mokte's reward was a far more blatant tool, his left claw gripping a decorated club of wood, smoothed stones of obstinite blades knotted into three segments upon each side. The carved wood wreathed with energy that was not altogether familiar even to the lizardmen themselves. It drew Chichime's gaze, interest in the weapon hid his disappointment.
"That blade is made from the corpse of Asurenil, the Savage Tree." Chichime commented. "Not all of Tzlipectl's menaces are borne of chaos. My retinue and I were held to siege when his host of spirits sought to raze our city to the ground. We cast them back to their ancient groves when we burnt them to cinders, and scattered the branch-whores back to their roots." The Old Blood's reminiscent tone soon turned to melancholy by the memory. "But in that day, our city was derelict, and there were no skinks that could translate the jungle's tongue. Perhaps then things would have ended different. We only sought to defend ourselves."
Mokte seemed to digest the information in silence. Then Chichime gestured back through the pitch darkness, and the stream of the neverspawned dimmed into the nothingness. They passed the crumbling altar that once held Supa-kheti's remains; the ash dyed guardians they had left seemed uncomprimising. They had not budged from the moment the group had delved into the tomb. Now they followed Chichime and the strangers back up the stairwell, albeit not toward the entrance from which they had entered the tomb. The troupe of saurus lead the gang through a darkened capilary, concealed by a colony of vines. Soon they emerged to a grand view of the green hell below, by which their escort had awaited on a cliffside just outside of the city.
A red crested skink who called himself Weetziluweet greeted the group, his bloody cockscomb unfurled in more of a show of pride than dominance. He was muscular, more raptor-like than most of his ilk. A controlled ferocity belied his dimunitive stature in the presence of his saurian cousins. Behind him was a menagerie of slavering cold ones, rendered subservient by the rune of Ghur branded on their crests so that they did not attempt to savage their warm-blooded riders.
Weetziluweet was among the few outsiders privvy to Chichime's alter ego. He bowed to the entourage with respect.
"Everything isss packed, ssstrangers." The red crest began. "It will take many days, but Nahwa as my witness, I will lead you to the Tarantula coast. From there you will find your own way from Lussstria. Sotek willing, the journey shall be calm."
He carried himself along, humming through the intestinal cavern while the souls of the neverspawned acted as mobile flares. The stream of absract ghosts gave clear illumination to what would have been pitch darkness. He followed the stream like a river to its end, until by chance he came to what he guessed was the 'skink quarter' of this crypt. There was of course no such desigation to prove he'd found such a place, if Anglermaw could decipher the worn hieroglyphs above. The gifts within this chamber were far more befitting of his size. Daggers, spears and staffs all teeming with luminous energy, their handles clearly meant for the smaller cousins of the saurus. Light armour far more practical than the great blocks of obstinite he'd spotted before shimmered beneath the stream. Unlike the skeletal remains he'd seen entombed previously, this chamber housed no such cadavres. Instead the deceased were confined into canopic pots of communal ash, stored in ancient dig-outs which once upon a time acted as life giving ponds, long since evaporated. Was this a symbol of lower status, wondered Anglermaw as he eyed the wafting vests.
He did not dwell on the thought, he felt unwelcome enough around regular lizardmen, let alone their death worshipping kind.
He plucked a scaled vest from above one of the funerary pots, scrutinising the material with his sharp claws. He was surprised at the durability. It hardly looked as sophisticated as arabyan lamellar, but the leaf-like segments were stone hard even after millenia, each obstinite leaf painstakingly enamelled with a golden trim. He admired the armour's flashiness - practical, yet prestigious. It made a shingling sound as he wore the vest over his ruined overcoat. With his brimmed crown scattered in the sea, the Sea-Rat needed something that made him look important.
He made his way back to the atrium, only to find that the group had already beat him. Anglermaw curiously eyed the finds of the Elves. Their rewards seemed more subtle, but the talismans wreathed with energy in the presence of the stream of neverspawned. Mokte's reward was a far more blatant tool, his left claw gripping a decorated club of wood, smoothed stones of obstinite blades knotted into three segments upon each side. The carved wood wreathed with energy that was not altogether familiar even to the lizardmen themselves. It drew Chichime's gaze, interest in the weapon hid his disappointment.
"That blade is made from the corpse of Asurenil, the Savage Tree." Chichime commented. "Not all of Tzlipectl's menaces are borne of chaos. My retinue and I were held to siege when his host of spirits sought to raze our city to the ground. We cast them back to their ancient groves when we burnt them to cinders, and scattered the branch-whores back to their roots." The Old Blood's reminiscent tone soon turned to melancholy by the memory. "But in that day, our city was derelict, and there were no skinks that could translate the jungle's tongue. Perhaps then things would have ended different. We only sought to defend ourselves."
Mokte seemed to digest the information in silence. Then Chichime gestured back through the pitch darkness, and the stream of the neverspawned dimmed into the nothingness. They passed the crumbling altar that once held Supa-kheti's remains; the ash dyed guardians they had left seemed uncomprimising. They had not budged from the moment the group had delved into the tomb. Now they followed Chichime and the strangers back up the stairwell, albeit not toward the entrance from which they had entered the tomb. The troupe of saurus lead the gang through a darkened capilary, concealed by a colony of vines. Soon they emerged to a grand view of the green hell below, by which their escort had awaited on a cliffside just outside of the city.
A red crested skink who called himself Weetziluweet greeted the group, his bloody cockscomb unfurled in more of a show of pride than dominance. He was muscular, more raptor-like than most of his ilk. A controlled ferocity belied his dimunitive stature in the presence of his saurian cousins. Behind him was a menagerie of slavering cold ones, rendered subservient by the rune of Ghur branded on their crests so that they did not attempt to savage their warm-blooded riders.
Weetziluweet was among the few outsiders privvy to Chichime's alter ego. He bowed to the entourage with respect.
"Everything isss packed, ssstrangers." The red crest began. "It will take many days, but Nahwa as my witness, I will lead you to the Tarantula coast. From there you will find your own way from Lussstria. Sotek willing, the journey shall be calm."
The selections of his companions was to be expected but equally curious to Fal. To Anglermaw a scaled vest. Or similar garment made out of some reptilian beasts hide. Lashed over his shoulders it almost looked good on him. If not heretically out of place. Mokte was more reasonable in look. The weapon he took was of ancient make. Something about the wood felt lively and curious. Like once it held a benin conciousness. Only to now be reduced to the handle of some great weapon. The shimmering head made it clear. Anything short of proper Dwarven gromril or mighty chaos plate would be shattered in by the fierce weapon.
They were then brought out. Paraded through the darkness with only the faintest light of moss to guide them. Moving through corridors of ancient runes and even older bodies the walls felt to be watching. Eyes carved in stone seemed to turn to look to them. Simply an illusion. A trickery of sight that would be used to entertain children at a fair. Or maybe there was more to it. It wasn't worth worrying about. Fal fondled and looked to the medallion around his neck. Difficult to see he felt the engravings. On a glance it felt basic. Little more than a benine piece of jewlery. But there was an ever present nagging in his mind. Telling him there was more to this. He pondered over this until the group was greeted with the flaring sunlight of outdoors.
Greeted by a Skink with a vibrant quest as well as a pack of viscious Cold Ones both Celedron and Fal were hesitant. The large reptiles were something neither felt comfortable about. Celedron could remember seeing simlar beasts, though darker and with different sized teeth, ridden by the Druchii of Naggaroth. The beasts were fierce and their hungry eyes stared at them with interest. The fact they weren't jumped on exting the cavern meant these creatures were not their foes. Least for now. Celedron took note of a carging in their crest. A sigil of Ghur. Faint curves the same as how the Asur write it back home. It was fascinating to see how magic followed the same base rules no matter where you where from. He then turned to the Skink.
"And what will we do to leave Lustria once we reach the coast?" His tone contained faint traces of arrogance. It was almost genetic for the Elf. No offence met but the faintest feelings still laced the words. Fal approached and looked into the eyes of one of the Cold Ones. He backed off as it let out a faint, rumbling growl. Even if they were for them they were still animals. And ones he'd prefer not to anger. A disgruntled horse was bad enough. But this felt like angering a great Bear Rider from northern Kislev.
They were then brought out. Paraded through the darkness with only the faintest light of moss to guide them. Moving through corridors of ancient runes and even older bodies the walls felt to be watching. Eyes carved in stone seemed to turn to look to them. Simply an illusion. A trickery of sight that would be used to entertain children at a fair. Or maybe there was more to it. It wasn't worth worrying about. Fal fondled and looked to the medallion around his neck. Difficult to see he felt the engravings. On a glance it felt basic. Little more than a benine piece of jewlery. But there was an ever present nagging in his mind. Telling him there was more to this. He pondered over this until the group was greeted with the flaring sunlight of outdoors.
Greeted by a Skink with a vibrant quest as well as a pack of viscious Cold Ones both Celedron and Fal were hesitant. The large reptiles were something neither felt comfortable about. Celedron could remember seeing simlar beasts, though darker and with different sized teeth, ridden by the Druchii of Naggaroth. The beasts were fierce and their hungry eyes stared at them with interest. The fact they weren't jumped on exting the cavern meant these creatures were not their foes. Least for now. Celedron took note of a carging in their crest. A sigil of Ghur. Faint curves the same as how the Asur write it back home. It was fascinating to see how magic followed the same base rules no matter where you where from. He then turned to the Skink.
"And what will we do to leave Lustria once we reach the coast?" His tone contained faint traces of arrogance. It was almost genetic for the Elf. No offence met but the faintest feelings still laced the words. Fal approached and looked into the eyes of one of the Cold Ones. He backed off as it let out a faint, rumbling growl. Even if they were for them they were still animals. And ones he'd prefer not to anger. A disgruntled horse was bad enough. But this felt like angering a great Bear Rider from northern Kislev.
Weetziluweet raised himself from the bow, crossing his scaled arms as the Loremaster asked. The cerulean skin was decorated with a wreath of old scars and pockmarks like hastily made tattoos, and fang-laden bracelets dangled from his limbs, all trinkets of bygone conquests against a multitude of beasts.
"The Tarantula coast is from whence you'd came, no? Or so the council had told me." Weetziluweet hissed. "I will keep you sssafe from the jungle, but I cannot guarantee your leave from Lustria, that isss for you to arrange." He brook no room for arguement, Weetziluweet's tone was decisive.
"I'm sure the rest o' them Elf-things are camped by the coast." Anglermaw interjected, his words more a hazy thought made aloud. "Dunno if they expected us to come back. Least not me anyway, I'll show 'em, yeah." The Sea-rat chuckled. The sight of Weetziluweet's frilling crest hushed his laughter however. He wondered just how much hatred for him must be concealed under that all that squamous muscle.
The red-crest stifled a hiss, his eyes bearing down on the skaven like prey. He had been briefed on the wretch by the skink council who governed the city in Nahwa's absence, themselves no friends of Anglermaw. To kill him would bring honour to Weetziluweet's name among the legions of Sotek. But Anglermaw was an unsung hero of Tzlipectl and to strike him would instantly incur the Arch-Wight's wrath. In that knowledge, he raised his head toward the looming Elves, desperate to avoid any eye contact with the hated rat. "Do you remember where to find this encampment? I will take you to your kin, as is my oath to the Dead City and it's protector." Weetziluweet said. "Climb upon the cold ones and we may yet be quick. Do not fear their growls, the priests have seen to dulling their instincts. In the wild, they would attack you on sight."
Chichime strode forward abruptly to the red crest, he spoke in the native tongue of the jungle. "The Lot'Kha are not your only guests, oathbound." He said, his ashen claw gesturing toward a lone Mokte.
Something within Weetzliuweet's mind hesitated. Not fear by any sense, but an abstract feeling of immediate disgust that he could not describe with words. He was repulsed by Mokte's crestfallen figure, and saw not a champion of Tzlipectl, but a mutant in the shape of a saurus. "The council spoke nothing of this." He protested, hardly realizing that he was bearing his dagger-like fangs at the Old Blood's direction.
Chichime's tone was absolute, and the ancient beneath the death mask stared the skink down. "Nahwa sleeps; I decide what the council decrees in his stead. Let him go with the Lot'Kha. He is as much a hero as they are. Should they reach this encampment the Xa'khota speaks of, I will relieve you of your oath, and you may return to your raving legion."
Weetziluweet's crest relaxed, his aggressive stance quelled by the sight of death incarnate. Some part of him wanted to refuse the blightspawn's company, but he already knew how Chichime would have likely answered, and so he remained silent. He nodded reluctantly, and the Old Blood's gaze retreated. Weeziluweet then beckoned Mokte with an open claw to share a Cold One mount that Anglermaw had already climbed upon. The Sea-Rat studied Mokte as the red Saurus saddled behind him, an exhale of humiliation escaped the beast's throat.
They were ready to leave the city once and for all, the canyon before them lead back into the green hell; to the outside world.
"The Tarantula coast is from whence you'd came, no? Or so the council had told me." Weetziluweet hissed. "I will keep you sssafe from the jungle, but I cannot guarantee your leave from Lustria, that isss for you to arrange." He brook no room for arguement, Weetziluweet's tone was decisive.
"I'm sure the rest o' them Elf-things are camped by the coast." Anglermaw interjected, his words more a hazy thought made aloud. "Dunno if they expected us to come back. Least not me anyway, I'll show 'em, yeah." The Sea-rat chuckled. The sight of Weetziluweet's frilling crest hushed his laughter however. He wondered just how much hatred for him must be concealed under that all that squamous muscle.
The red-crest stifled a hiss, his eyes bearing down on the skaven like prey. He had been briefed on the wretch by the skink council who governed the city in Nahwa's absence, themselves no friends of Anglermaw. To kill him would bring honour to Weetziluweet's name among the legions of Sotek. But Anglermaw was an unsung hero of Tzlipectl and to strike him would instantly incur the Arch-Wight's wrath. In that knowledge, he raised his head toward the looming Elves, desperate to avoid any eye contact with the hated rat. "Do you remember where to find this encampment? I will take you to your kin, as is my oath to the Dead City and it's protector." Weetziluweet said. "Climb upon the cold ones and we may yet be quick. Do not fear their growls, the priests have seen to dulling their instincts. In the wild, they would attack you on sight."
Chichime strode forward abruptly to the red crest, he spoke in the native tongue of the jungle. "The Lot'Kha are not your only guests, oathbound." He said, his ashen claw gesturing toward a lone Mokte.
Something within Weetzliuweet's mind hesitated. Not fear by any sense, but an abstract feeling of immediate disgust that he could not describe with words. He was repulsed by Mokte's crestfallen figure, and saw not a champion of Tzlipectl, but a mutant in the shape of a saurus. "The council spoke nothing of this." He protested, hardly realizing that he was bearing his dagger-like fangs at the Old Blood's direction.
Chichime's tone was absolute, and the ancient beneath the death mask stared the skink down. "Nahwa sleeps; I decide what the council decrees in his stead. Let him go with the Lot'Kha. He is as much a hero as they are. Should they reach this encampment the Xa'khota speaks of, I will relieve you of your oath, and you may return to your raving legion."
Weetziluweet's crest relaxed, his aggressive stance quelled by the sight of death incarnate. Some part of him wanted to refuse the blightspawn's company, but he already knew how Chichime would have likely answered, and so he remained silent. He nodded reluctantly, and the Old Blood's gaze retreated. Weeziluweet then beckoned Mokte with an open claw to share a Cold One mount that Anglermaw had already climbed upon. The Sea-Rat studied Mokte as the red Saurus saddled behind him, an exhale of humiliation escaped the beast's throat.
They were ready to leave the city once and for all, the canyon before them lead back into the green hell; to the outside world.
This region of the jungle was not familiar to him. Celedron wasn't the greatest with such traversing. Especially in unfamiliar lands. He was most surprised by learning of their specific route. If it was to be believed they woudl once more arrive with the expedition. Given the time that had past they would presumedly be out at sea. Mostly watching in with a small garrison if they hadn't been fought off the beaches. If the Lizardmen launched an attack they would be positioned off shore. Aethalia wouldn't let them leave. In all this time and chaos he nearly forgot about her. Though at this stage protocol would dictate the mission would be deemed lost. A small force kept for several days to ensure no survivors. But that would depend on outside sources. The seas around Lustria where known for having beasts. Staying alone in a small vessal would proove troublesome if one of the deeps beasts came up. A Dragon Ship would be safe. But a smaller vessel could have trouble. These thoughts ravaged Celedron's thoughts as he mounted the Cold One. With the thought of being back to his people, back to comfort and those he trusted. He completely disregarded the reptilian beast he rode.
Fal listed himself onto the back of another of the mounts. It turned its head up and sniffed. Cold, reptilian eyes twitched in his direction. Fal gave it a pat on the back of the neck. It grumbled and shook. Across it's back were thick scales and hide. Far different from a horse and more alien than anything he had ridden, 'safely' or as safe as he could be, before now. He tried to feign interest in the social dilemma between the reptiles. It didn't take a mage to see the distaste in Weetziluweet's eyes. Mokte was clearly not popular. He mounted the same Cold One as Anglermaw. The beast they rode and stood beside nipped at the rodent. Animal instincts kept at bay to do little more then teasing bites. Though Anglermaw seemed smart enough to keep his limbs away from their mouths. Magic wasn't perfect and all it took was a moment for the rune to flicker for the rodent to be shredded scraps.
As they took off outside the city Fal got the gist for riding. Not unlike horses he could click the sides of his mount. It sped up. From the previous riders he saw on their mission he gathered how they moved. Moving beside Celedron the two mounts exchanged a grumbling greeting. Fal's sniffing Celedron's as it snapped back. He leaned over.
"You think they'll still be there? Your fellow Elves?" Celedron snapped from his focus.
"I do not know for certain. The hostility of this region would limit the time we spent here. We had supplies for remaining about a week plus the travel back. Lets say they held down. By my count it's been close to a week. About five, maybe six days. I would think we may catch them on the end of their stay. At least I hope. It could take weeks to reach the nearest Imperial settlement. That's assuming we don't die of thirst along the way." He shrugged. Fal rolled his eyes and looked about the jungle.
"Aren't you the optimist." He looked back to the shallow Elf. "Do you have any idea what you plan when you return?" Celedron shook his head.
"Outside of detailing down my findings with a scribe, and beginning my studies on this artifact. Nothing comes to mind." He couldn't help but smile. "Could be worth taking a few months to rest. Maybe a little clerical work could be effective." He gazed over to Fal who too seemed fading off to thought. "You? Where do you plan on going?"
"I've been thinking of that. The Empire will be too risky with well." He nudges his head towards Anglermaw and Mokte. "Them. I'm weighing my options. I have had a thought though. I figured I haven't been to Kislev for some time. May be the ideal place to hide out for a bit." He brushed back a streak of hair. "Or I just throw it all aside and join a convoy over East. The Dragon Empire can be quite hospitible to traders."
Fal listed himself onto the back of another of the mounts. It turned its head up and sniffed. Cold, reptilian eyes twitched in his direction. Fal gave it a pat on the back of the neck. It grumbled and shook. Across it's back were thick scales and hide. Far different from a horse and more alien than anything he had ridden, 'safely' or as safe as he could be, before now. He tried to feign interest in the social dilemma between the reptiles. It didn't take a mage to see the distaste in Weetziluweet's eyes. Mokte was clearly not popular. He mounted the same Cold One as Anglermaw. The beast they rode and stood beside nipped at the rodent. Animal instincts kept at bay to do little more then teasing bites. Though Anglermaw seemed smart enough to keep his limbs away from their mouths. Magic wasn't perfect and all it took was a moment for the rune to flicker for the rodent to be shredded scraps.
As they took off outside the city Fal got the gist for riding. Not unlike horses he could click the sides of his mount. It sped up. From the previous riders he saw on their mission he gathered how they moved. Moving beside Celedron the two mounts exchanged a grumbling greeting. Fal's sniffing Celedron's as it snapped back. He leaned over.
"You think they'll still be there? Your fellow Elves?" Celedron snapped from his focus.
"I do not know for certain. The hostility of this region would limit the time we spent here. We had supplies for remaining about a week plus the travel back. Lets say they held down. By my count it's been close to a week. About five, maybe six days. I would think we may catch them on the end of their stay. At least I hope. It could take weeks to reach the nearest Imperial settlement. That's assuming we don't die of thirst along the way." He shrugged. Fal rolled his eyes and looked about the jungle.
"Aren't you the optimist." He looked back to the shallow Elf. "Do you have any idea what you plan when you return?" Celedron shook his head.
"Outside of detailing down my findings with a scribe, and beginning my studies on this artifact. Nothing comes to mind." He couldn't help but smile. "Could be worth taking a few months to rest. Maybe a little clerical work could be effective." He gazed over to Fal who too seemed fading off to thought. "You? Where do you plan on going?"
"I've been thinking of that. The Empire will be too risky with well." He nudges his head towards Anglermaw and Mokte. "Them. I'm weighing my options. I have had a thought though. I figured I haven't been to Kislev for some time. May be the ideal place to hide out for a bit." He brushed back a streak of hair. "Or I just throw it all aside and join a convoy over East. The Dragon Empire can be quite hospitible to traders."
Anglermaw crooked his whiskered beak backward, yanked into the chest of the red saurus once the Cold Ones had raced on without warning, snarling and slavering on the way. It made the skin beneath his fur crawl, that at any given moment the dominating magic that made these creatures so subservient could wear off, and the Sea-Rat would find himself becoming a prompt little snack. It dwelled on him, more so than being thrown about within the saddle, the everpresent foliage of green hid the gaping valleys that dotted the landscape of Tzlipectl's countryside. One slip on the narrow pathway would be enough to tumble them all to their deaths.
Still, the creatures pressed on; the dangerous lustrian fauna fluttering across Anglermaw's vision, like afterimages only his rodent eyes could see. Their guide knew his way around these lands all too well. Suspicion never left Anglermaw's pacing mind. Mokte seemed unperturbed at first glance, but even beneath the saurus' bestial snarl, Anglermaw could still see the pain of grief written on Mokte's conscious.
"What's your plan?" Anglermaw asked, as he was thrust back and forth by the steed. "You know you an' I-me are in the same boat-group once we cross that sea. Them man-things ain't gonna open their arms out to ya, yeah. You'll just be another monster to 'em, like me-me, don't matter how hard ya tell 'em."
Mokte grumbled in reply. "...Doesn't concern me. I just want to get away from this place. I am a stranger in my own home, hardly matters that I am ostracized by a different folk. A weaker folk at that."
"Ostra-?" Anglermaw pondered the word; he resonated with it. Up until the past few weeks he was the de facto sealord of his clan, and wielder of it's most powerful weapon. Now an undercity spanning price was on his head, and his greatest prize lay digesting in the stomach of a great sea-beast, and the only emotion he could now muster over this indignation was utter apathy. He would be lying not to say he didn't resonate with Mokte's mood.
"Talk-tell me, yeah." Anglermaw said, peering over toward Mokte again. "Where'd you learn man-speak?"
Mokte did not respond to this, but he lowered his crest.
"Suit yerself-self." Anglermaw finished with a final scoff, casting his vision over to the winding trail in front.
They camped through the nights, five in total before they could reach the coast. Weetziluweet found them sanctuary every time they rested. He knew the labyrinthene canopies like the back of his scarred claws. He knew where to hunt prey twice the size of his frame, where to sleep without the threat of imminent death, where water that was not laden with parasites could be found. He even showed them macabre idols along the way of dead skaven that his brethren had mutilated, their bodies crucified like the saints of the Old World, but displayed a hint of petulance when he had realised that Anglermaw was entirely indifferent to the scene (No Skurvy rat was going to lose sleep over some dead Pestilens lepers).
But the one thing that Weetziluweet avoided altogether, was any contact with fellow lizardmen. The group had found themselves coasting between marching cohorts unseen, the sounds of their steeds hidden by the warchants of Sotek's bloodthirsty host, evoking minor suspicion as they navigated the foliage. It would seem that he took Chichime's promise of discharge very seriously. Or worse, the threat of a grizzly death if he had given the outsiders over to his fellow red-crests.
Then by the sixth morning, the leafy gates of the jungle hell broke open. Laid bare to the riders was a long winding beach, spanning endlessly into the horizon. The sight of sanctuary awaited the outsiders. The sun's gaze burst into the Sea-Rat's vision, and his nocturnal eyes struggled to maintain a decent view of the coastline. But his pounding heart was ecstatic with relief. The flash of light in his eyes was a fleeting, welcome pain. They were finally free from Lustria. No more Lizardmen, no more jungle, no more syphilitic Pestilens pusbags to worry about. He let the coastal wind hug his body, casting his arms toward the blue sky. "Finally! Outta here at last!" Anglermaw laughed over the passing gust.
Weetziluweet pointed a sharpened finger out toward the beach, the shape of an ornate vessel sat dazzlingly on the still waves and it's eagle motif was immediately recognisable to Anglermaw. The encampment on the beachhead was concealed by the rays of the morning sun, but the elongated shapes in the distance assured the group that they were indeed friendly company. Then he raced his steed over to Celedron and Falderan. "I believe we have come to the end of your journey." He began, his speech laden with lizardine grunts and hisses. "The city will remark your bravery for generations to come. I am envious I was not with you to slay the rotten xa'khota, but Sotek willing, I may be granted that honour in time. When we reach the camp, I must relieve you of your steeds. I assume that you will not be needing them on the trip back to the Untamed Land."
Still, the creatures pressed on; the dangerous lustrian fauna fluttering across Anglermaw's vision, like afterimages only his rodent eyes could see. Their guide knew his way around these lands all too well. Suspicion never left Anglermaw's pacing mind. Mokte seemed unperturbed at first glance, but even beneath the saurus' bestial snarl, Anglermaw could still see the pain of grief written on Mokte's conscious.
"What's your plan?" Anglermaw asked, as he was thrust back and forth by the steed. "You know you an' I-me are in the same boat-group once we cross that sea. Them man-things ain't gonna open their arms out to ya, yeah. You'll just be another monster to 'em, like me-me, don't matter how hard ya tell 'em."
Mokte grumbled in reply. "...Doesn't concern me. I just want to get away from this place. I am a stranger in my own home, hardly matters that I am ostracized by a different folk. A weaker folk at that."
"Ostra-?" Anglermaw pondered the word; he resonated with it. Up until the past few weeks he was the de facto sealord of his clan, and wielder of it's most powerful weapon. Now an undercity spanning price was on his head, and his greatest prize lay digesting in the stomach of a great sea-beast, and the only emotion he could now muster over this indignation was utter apathy. He would be lying not to say he didn't resonate with Mokte's mood.
"Talk-tell me, yeah." Anglermaw said, peering over toward Mokte again. "Where'd you learn man-speak?"
Mokte did not respond to this, but he lowered his crest.
"Suit yerself-self." Anglermaw finished with a final scoff, casting his vision over to the winding trail in front.
They camped through the nights, five in total before they could reach the coast. Weetziluweet found them sanctuary every time they rested. He knew the labyrinthene canopies like the back of his scarred claws. He knew where to hunt prey twice the size of his frame, where to sleep without the threat of imminent death, where water that was not laden with parasites could be found. He even showed them macabre idols along the way of dead skaven that his brethren had mutilated, their bodies crucified like the saints of the Old World, but displayed a hint of petulance when he had realised that Anglermaw was entirely indifferent to the scene (No Skurvy rat was going to lose sleep over some dead Pestilens lepers).
But the one thing that Weetziluweet avoided altogether, was any contact with fellow lizardmen. The group had found themselves coasting between marching cohorts unseen, the sounds of their steeds hidden by the warchants of Sotek's bloodthirsty host, evoking minor suspicion as they navigated the foliage. It would seem that he took Chichime's promise of discharge very seriously. Or worse, the threat of a grizzly death if he had given the outsiders over to his fellow red-crests.
Then by the sixth morning, the leafy gates of the jungle hell broke open. Laid bare to the riders was a long winding beach, spanning endlessly into the horizon. The sight of sanctuary awaited the outsiders. The sun's gaze burst into the Sea-Rat's vision, and his nocturnal eyes struggled to maintain a decent view of the coastline. But his pounding heart was ecstatic with relief. The flash of light in his eyes was a fleeting, welcome pain. They were finally free from Lustria. No more Lizardmen, no more jungle, no more syphilitic Pestilens pusbags to worry about. He let the coastal wind hug his body, casting his arms toward the blue sky. "Finally! Outta here at last!" Anglermaw laughed over the passing gust.
Weetziluweet pointed a sharpened finger out toward the beach, the shape of an ornate vessel sat dazzlingly on the still waves and it's eagle motif was immediately recognisable to Anglermaw. The encampment on the beachhead was concealed by the rays of the morning sun, but the elongated shapes in the distance assured the group that they were indeed friendly company. Then he raced his steed over to Celedron and Falderan. "I believe we have come to the end of your journey." He began, his speech laden with lizardine grunts and hisses. "The city will remark your bravery for generations to come. I am envious I was not with you to slay the rotten xa'khota, but Sotek willing, I may be granted that honour in time. When we reach the camp, I must relieve you of your steeds. I assume that you will not be needing them on the trip back to the Untamed Land."
The sweltering days and tense nights were only broken by the hesitant eating of jungle prey. One such beast brought back by Weetziluweet resembled a large bird. Though its head held a greater beak closer to an Imperial Griffon and it's talons seemed to match. Celedron believed they were called 'Culchan' and were native to Lustria as far as he knew. As the animal was butchered Mokte and Anglermaw were accepting of the raw flesh. In all this time Fal forgot about the Skavens vile eating habits. Remembering it didn't even need to be dead for them to eat much less cooked. Though seeing the Elves lack of apetite they were given rudamentry means of cooking some strips of meat. Fal watched the meat sizzle over the flames slowly and Anglermaw stuck over his own half eaten piece. Roasting it in the head. Blood still dripping from it. Celedron managed to hold back his revultion until the meat was adequately cooked. Least enough not to kill the more fragile stomachs of the Elves. To their surprsie it had a modest flavor. Something akin to Mootland Turkeys that Fal enjoyed. A bti dry but he could not complain. The trip was brought to comfort by conversation between the group and Celedron. Tales of Fals combats, of Celedrons curious studies and Anglermaws violent rise to power. One thing was certain. Everyone was cut throat in some way.
Over the coming days the groups grew more irritated. Mosquitos and other insects were around in the thousands and they were swarmed. Dozens of small bites covered Fals body. He'd be feeling these marks for weeks. Upon reaching the treeline and letting their sight adjust the Elves gazed down to the camp on the shores. Celedron looked rather surprised himself. He counted on his fingers the amount of nights they were gone but always came up short. It would seem protocol wasn't followed. Celedron couldn't help but smile. Though he did wonder how supplies lasted? The only conclusion was hunting. He'd likely have one hell of an explination to give when home. He began to wonder if his missing arm would be enough to warrent him empathy from his fellow Asur or not. Especially as he returned with the. Less desirable company he left with.
Weetziluweet approached and began to set up to remove their mounts. It made sense not to take the further. Last thing they needed were the Elves to shoot the approaching lizards or a fight to break out. Dismounting as they reached the end Fal turned to their Saurus escort.
"Your part in this should not be undersold. Remember what you will. I will likely never hear the tales again. May Sotek and Sigmar hold you in praise." Fal gave a nod of approval. Something even the alien Lizardmen should notice as a sign of respect.
"May Asuryan see your actions as just." Celedron gave his own nod. The blessings and well wishes of 'lesser gods' to the Lizardmen would mean little. But the purpose was to match the praise of these foreigners from Sotek. Something of an olive branche between their cultures. As the Cold Ones were collected Fal turned to Mokte and Anglermaw.
"It would be best for you both to remain close but not be holding your weapons. We don't need to give them the wrong idea."
Over the coming days the groups grew more irritated. Mosquitos and other insects were around in the thousands and they were swarmed. Dozens of small bites covered Fals body. He'd be feeling these marks for weeks. Upon reaching the treeline and letting their sight adjust the Elves gazed down to the camp on the shores. Celedron looked rather surprised himself. He counted on his fingers the amount of nights they were gone but always came up short. It would seem protocol wasn't followed. Celedron couldn't help but smile. Though he did wonder how supplies lasted? The only conclusion was hunting. He'd likely have one hell of an explination to give when home. He began to wonder if his missing arm would be enough to warrent him empathy from his fellow Asur or not. Especially as he returned with the. Less desirable company he left with.
Weetziluweet approached and began to set up to remove their mounts. It made sense not to take the further. Last thing they needed were the Elves to shoot the approaching lizards or a fight to break out. Dismounting as they reached the end Fal turned to their Saurus escort.
"Your part in this should not be undersold. Remember what you will. I will likely never hear the tales again. May Sotek and Sigmar hold you in praise." Fal gave a nod of approval. Something even the alien Lizardmen should notice as a sign of respect.
"May Asuryan see your actions as just." Celedron gave his own nod. The blessings and well wishes of 'lesser gods' to the Lizardmen would mean little. But the purpose was to match the praise of these foreigners from Sotek. Something of an olive branche between their cultures. As the Cold Ones were collected Fal turned to Mokte and Anglermaw.
"It would be best for you both to remain close but not be holding your weapons. We don't need to give them the wrong idea."
Weetziluweet gave the two elves a parting nod, collecting the reins of the slavering beasts as the group dismounted from their steeds. The Ghur rune flickered excitedly on their scaled crests, and the warrior skink's own crimson comb stiffened with sudden apprehension; the wild psyche of the cold ones threatened to come undone -- a taste for warm-blooded flesh. He had no need to hurry them along however. The Sea-Rat and the stranger in red had promptly dismounted, Anglermaw having already noticed their steed bearing it's teeth, a stalactite forest of death. Weetziluweet wrangled with the raptors like a herd of wild culchan, pulling each rein with a strength which belied his slim, albeit toned frame. Then he turned his steed toward the endless jungle, back into the green hell.
The warrior's crest fluttered back to the gang, and he turned his head to their direction. "May Sotek be with you, and give you courage for your future battles." Weetziluweet called out in respect. But before he left for the jungle, his lizard eyes squinted directly toward Anglermaw, and he raised his obstinite cudgel toward the redeemed skaven. For that brief moment, the warrior's slitted orbits were rife with unconcealed hatred. "Hear me now, xa'kho, I have led you this far out of an oath. Do not come back, or I will skin you alive, and you will watch me play with your hide as you die."
His threat made, Weetziluweet raced alongside the cold ones back into the vast shrubbery, their instinct now too great to contain.
The Sea-Rat hissed back in retaliation, puffing his chest outward. "Anytime-time you rotten newt! I'll make that comb into a trophy, you know where I am-am, I'll be waiting!" He shouted into the jungle, satisfied when no reproach was returned.
Mokte scoffed at the Sea-Rat's bluff, his eyes turned toward the vessel. "Don't make idle threats like that." The Saurus grunted. "You'll get us all into a blood feud."
"Dunno what you're talkin' about, yeah." Anglermaw spat back as the group treaded toward their boat home, his regrown claw clenched absent-mindedly, like it was some unwelcome parasite. "Gimme a good gun, an' I'd shoot a bullet hole right where his front-tail should be."
Mokte only grunted at such arrogance. He'd learned from time that while Anglermaw's blustering was comical, it was laced with geniune bloodthirst. A volatile thing, and awkward companion. One he'd learned to feel compassion for. Mokte chuckled at the notion, it had been weeks since he'd displayed a shred of emotion that wasn't utter gloom.
When Falderan spoke to the pair, Mokte nodded anxiously, Asurenil sheathed tight by his waist upon a makeshift belt the red crest had provided to him in a rare act of courtesy. He had enough self control not to unsheath the living club-sword.
Anglermaw had left Tzlipectl without a weapon, but had managed to scavange a blunted machete during the foray into the jungle, clutched from the corpse of an adventurer buried under a mass grave of moss and vines. The weapon was strapped behind the skaven's back. Anglermaw shrugged as they walked on. "Still don't trust me? How many times I have to tell-say 'I'm not with the clans anymore'?" He asked.
The sun's rays parted for the gang, the sails of their vessel hid it's unforgiving glare with a mystical fabric that only the loremaster would know of. Silken pavilions dotted the compound, uncharacteristically worn over the weeks away from the makeshift port, the canopy breached by many holes and tears. The palisade surrounding the camp was slightly beaten, splintered wood and crude arms dotted the beach, accompanied by the stench of death. The bodies outside the compound were a warped mishmash of man and beast. Not the revered children of the old ones, nor were they their pestilent rivals. These corpses belonged to a race of bovine savages bearing a variety of mutations. The ubiquitous eight pointed star painted, marked, or branded into the skin of each that Anglermaw and Mokte turned over. The camp had obviously borne the brunt of attack in their absence.
"Ho there!" An elfin voice greeted the group from behind the walls, wide eyes fixated directly toward Celedron as it's lank haired owner strode toward the gates. "Loremaster! Gods' grace that you came to us from the beachhead, we'd have otherwise mistook you and your troupe for these ill-born wretches. Though the ratman hardly does you any favour. And I see you have brought a prize." Serchil gawked at Mokte's hulking frame as he wandered close toward the wall of sharpened, and was overcome with astonishment at the sight. He rubbed his almond eyes with an almost theatric overreaction. "To make friends of the Lizardmen is no easy feat! And this- this thing! A token of gratitude no doubt. Do tell if you intend to keep it- no better, to sell! A noble prince would pay a ransom for such a pet, oh how I envy you!"
The sailor's off-handed comments offended Mokte greatly. He raised his crest high and glared toward Serchil. "I am not for sale, and I am no thing either." He growled, and his presence was great enough that a pair of sea guard readied their spears in practiced caution.
But this did little to stifle Serchil's bewilderment. "By Lileath, you can talk, I am going mad." The Elf wiped a cold sweat from his brow, a deep breath escaped his chest. Then he chuckled. "Gentlemen, beast in tow of course. I cannot tell you how glad I am that you have returned. Had you not, we'd be bogged down wiping the backsides of these unwashed Marienburger cowards for another month. Celedron, the captain will be ecstatic to see you. Even the ratman, and..." Serchil paused as he came face to face with Falderan, the imperial elf's snow white countenance was off-putting, unwelcome even. The Cothiquan's energetic charm slipped for a split second, and he was consumed by some unrelenting sense of danger from this druchii mongrel.
"...Courtesy has eluded me, it seems I have forgotten your name." Serchil uttered, his once smooth face wrinkled in primitive trepidation, his tabard, bearing the sigil of Cothique - the great serpent fish - fluttered in the still winds.
The warrior's crest fluttered back to the gang, and he turned his head to their direction. "May Sotek be with you, and give you courage for your future battles." Weetziluweet called out in respect. But before he left for the jungle, his lizard eyes squinted directly toward Anglermaw, and he raised his obstinite cudgel toward the redeemed skaven. For that brief moment, the warrior's slitted orbits were rife with unconcealed hatred. "Hear me now, xa'kho, I have led you this far out of an oath. Do not come back, or I will skin you alive, and you will watch me play with your hide as you die."
His threat made, Weetziluweet raced alongside the cold ones back into the vast shrubbery, their instinct now too great to contain.
The Sea-Rat hissed back in retaliation, puffing his chest outward. "Anytime-time you rotten newt! I'll make that comb into a trophy, you know where I am-am, I'll be waiting!" He shouted into the jungle, satisfied when no reproach was returned.
Mokte scoffed at the Sea-Rat's bluff, his eyes turned toward the vessel. "Don't make idle threats like that." The Saurus grunted. "You'll get us all into a blood feud."
"Dunno what you're talkin' about, yeah." Anglermaw spat back as the group treaded toward their boat home, his regrown claw clenched absent-mindedly, like it was some unwelcome parasite. "Gimme a good gun, an' I'd shoot a bullet hole right where his front-tail should be."
Mokte only grunted at such arrogance. He'd learned from time that while Anglermaw's blustering was comical, it was laced with geniune bloodthirst. A volatile thing, and awkward companion. One he'd learned to feel compassion for. Mokte chuckled at the notion, it had been weeks since he'd displayed a shred of emotion that wasn't utter gloom.
When Falderan spoke to the pair, Mokte nodded anxiously, Asurenil sheathed tight by his waist upon a makeshift belt the red crest had provided to him in a rare act of courtesy. He had enough self control not to unsheath the living club-sword.
Anglermaw had left Tzlipectl without a weapon, but had managed to scavange a blunted machete during the foray into the jungle, clutched from the corpse of an adventurer buried under a mass grave of moss and vines. The weapon was strapped behind the skaven's back. Anglermaw shrugged as they walked on. "Still don't trust me? How many times I have to tell-say 'I'm not with the clans anymore'?" He asked.
The sun's rays parted for the gang, the sails of their vessel hid it's unforgiving glare with a mystical fabric that only the loremaster would know of. Silken pavilions dotted the compound, uncharacteristically worn over the weeks away from the makeshift port, the canopy breached by many holes and tears. The palisade surrounding the camp was slightly beaten, splintered wood and crude arms dotted the beach, accompanied by the stench of death. The bodies outside the compound were a warped mishmash of man and beast. Not the revered children of the old ones, nor were they their pestilent rivals. These corpses belonged to a race of bovine savages bearing a variety of mutations. The ubiquitous eight pointed star painted, marked, or branded into the skin of each that Anglermaw and Mokte turned over. The camp had obviously borne the brunt of attack in their absence.
"Ho there!" An elfin voice greeted the group from behind the walls, wide eyes fixated directly toward Celedron as it's lank haired owner strode toward the gates. "Loremaster! Gods' grace that you came to us from the beachhead, we'd have otherwise mistook you and your troupe for these ill-born wretches. Though the ratman hardly does you any favour. And I see you have brought a prize." Serchil gawked at Mokte's hulking frame as he wandered close toward the wall of sharpened, and was overcome with astonishment at the sight. He rubbed his almond eyes with an almost theatric overreaction. "To make friends of the Lizardmen is no easy feat! And this- this thing! A token of gratitude no doubt. Do tell if you intend to keep it- no better, to sell! A noble prince would pay a ransom for such a pet, oh how I envy you!"
The sailor's off-handed comments offended Mokte greatly. He raised his crest high and glared toward Serchil. "I am not for sale, and I am no thing either." He growled, and his presence was great enough that a pair of sea guard readied their spears in practiced caution.
But this did little to stifle Serchil's bewilderment. "By Lileath, you can talk, I am going mad." The Elf wiped a cold sweat from his brow, a deep breath escaped his chest. Then he chuckled. "Gentlemen, beast in tow of course. I cannot tell you how glad I am that you have returned. Had you not, we'd be bogged down wiping the backsides of these unwashed Marienburger cowards for another month. Celedron, the captain will be ecstatic to see you. Even the ratman, and..." Serchil paused as he came face to face with Falderan, the imperial elf's snow white countenance was off-putting, unwelcome even. The Cothiquan's energetic charm slipped for a split second, and he was consumed by some unrelenting sense of danger from this druchii mongrel.
"...Courtesy has eluded me, it seems I have forgotten your name." Serchil uttered, his once smooth face wrinkled in primitive trepidation, his tabard, bearing the sigil of Cothique - the great serpent fish - fluttered in the still winds.
The look of campground was one of surprise to Falderan. The corpses of what seemed like Beastmen were not expected. He had fought them in many forms but he had little idea they were even in Lustria. Least as semi bouvine. Though who knows if they travelled from elsewhere. He knew the frozen lands of Naggaroth to the North were filled with them. Migrating maybe? He shook this from his thoughts as a familiar and arrogant voice caught his ears. Gazing ahead saw the slim and armoured figure of Serchil. His voice was ripe with the overly dramatic tones and phrase those in the Empire would call malodramatic and a poor actor. Fal hid a snicker at the thought. Another point he agreed with the short lived men of Sigmar on. Fal raised a hand back to calm Mokte. The Saurus narrowly contained his rage at the insiuation of being a 'pet'. But it was the remark to him that got him agreeing with the Saurus. Before he could remark Celedron stepped forward.
"His name is Falderan. And you will do best to remember that Serchil." Celedron had a scowl on his face. The type that Fal was used to being on the recieving end of. But now. Now it was directed to one of the arrogant natives of the sacred island. Serchil seemed stumped. Fal could see the attempted remark stained by venom but he held his tongue.
"Of course Loremaster. Falderan." He said and his hesitant eye twitch was expected. Fal couldn't help but let off a smirk. Something undoubtebly noticed. "Captain Aelthalia will be pleased to hear of your return. And no time too soon either. We were planning on shipping out in the coming days. Already we were down to hunting for supplies and. Well lets just say the beasts of this land don't fit everyones palette."
"Oh really?I thought a noble champion as yourself would be capable of roughing it for a bit. But I suppose guarding the port walls for so many years will numb your resiliances." Celedrons remark drew even a pause from the guards who stood aside. Allowing the group into the encampment. Eyes gazed at them from all over. With the recent attacks the majority were military personale. But there were a few crafters and cooks on the shoreline. They gazed upon the group with surprise and concern. Their emotions changed when seeing Celedron. Despite his injury that brought horror to their eyes they let off tears of joy seeing a mighty Loremaster still alive. Fal drew suspsicion while Mokte and Anglermaw drew disgust. Not as bad as he feared Fal thought as they were taken in. Brought to the back and a noble looking tent. Here we go. Thought Fal.
The inside was glamorous. Refine silks and comfortable cushions were set up around a large table covered in maps of the coastline. Another a list of timetables and rations. One form speaking of patrols and shifts. An ornate basin sat in the corner. Full of water purified by elegant elven runes. Several bottles of wine were brought over by a serf as Serchil flicked his wrist.
"It would be appreciated if the." He paused. "More bestial of our guests not sit. The chairs are a bit too well built for such bulk." Tensions were high as the serf poured glasses of wine. Handing one each to Serchil, Celedron and Falderan. He pointed a flass to Anglermaw and looked to Serchil who nodded. Pouring one for the rodent he then went and grabbed a larger cleaning bowl. Used to assit in bathing and poured some into that. Handing it to Mokte. An extremely cautious and hesitant look on his face. The poor man was not prepared for such guests today. He left the wine and walked off at Serchils elegant motion. "Indras should be here very shortly. Till then maybe a drink will relieve this palpable tension in the air." He takes a sip. The Elves then took a seat.
"His name is Falderan. And you will do best to remember that Serchil." Celedron had a scowl on his face. The type that Fal was used to being on the recieving end of. But now. Now it was directed to one of the arrogant natives of the sacred island. Serchil seemed stumped. Fal could see the attempted remark stained by venom but he held his tongue.
"Of course Loremaster. Falderan." He said and his hesitant eye twitch was expected. Fal couldn't help but let off a smirk. Something undoubtebly noticed. "Captain Aelthalia will be pleased to hear of your return. And no time too soon either. We were planning on shipping out in the coming days. Already we were down to hunting for supplies and. Well lets just say the beasts of this land don't fit everyones palette."
"Oh really?I thought a noble champion as yourself would be capable of roughing it for a bit. But I suppose guarding the port walls for so many years will numb your resiliances." Celedrons remark drew even a pause from the guards who stood aside. Allowing the group into the encampment. Eyes gazed at them from all over. With the recent attacks the majority were military personale. But there were a few crafters and cooks on the shoreline. They gazed upon the group with surprise and concern. Their emotions changed when seeing Celedron. Despite his injury that brought horror to their eyes they let off tears of joy seeing a mighty Loremaster still alive. Fal drew suspsicion while Mokte and Anglermaw drew disgust. Not as bad as he feared Fal thought as they were taken in. Brought to the back and a noble looking tent. Here we go. Thought Fal.
The inside was glamorous. Refine silks and comfortable cushions were set up around a large table covered in maps of the coastline. Another a list of timetables and rations. One form speaking of patrols and shifts. An ornate basin sat in the corner. Full of water purified by elegant elven runes. Several bottles of wine were brought over by a serf as Serchil flicked his wrist.
"It would be appreciated if the." He paused. "More bestial of our guests not sit. The chairs are a bit too well built for such bulk." Tensions were high as the serf poured glasses of wine. Handing one each to Serchil, Celedron and Falderan. He pointed a flass to Anglermaw and looked to Serchil who nodded. Pouring one for the rodent he then went and grabbed a larger cleaning bowl. Used to assit in bathing and poured some into that. Handing it to Mokte. An extremely cautious and hesitant look on his face. The poor man was not prepared for such guests today. He left the wine and walked off at Serchils elegant motion. "Indras should be here very shortly. Till then maybe a drink will relieve this palpable tension in the air." He takes a sip. The Elves then took a seat.
When they had entered the camp, Anglermaw had slouched beside a ornate wooden chair beside what appeared to be a makeshift armoury, littered with oak shelves containing bows and arrows with all sorts of vibrant quivers to highlight their purpose. He was content for the first time in a long while; even after the sinking of the Ark, he had not felt safe among the Lizardmen, and they had refused to give him a hero's courtesy though he had painstakingly deserved it. They had held Anglermaw responsible for the Ark's appearance, he was it's former captain after all. Vengeful as they were, they would ignore that he had also expedited it's destruction.
The Cothiquans were a different sort. These elves were of a similar disposition and likely hated his company, but unlike the Lizardmen, did not consider the skaven to be generational enemies. The Sea Rat would not have to worry about being gutted in his sleep among these lot. Not if Celedron had any semblence of honour.
He was about to lift his foot-paws from the sand when he had seen Serchil refuse Mokte a seat at the dinner table. Anglermaw knew the sour fool's reason was nothing short of a poor excuse, but he shrugged indifferently, knowing he would receive a similar answer. Mokte scoffed without a word, and wandered over to rest on one of the lone velvet cushions away from the rest of the crew, a decanted bottle of wine in his hand. The elegantly sculptured glass looked like a thin vial in his monstrous claw, he gulped the stuff down in one sitting, grape juice cascading down his mouth. Pressganged sailors scuttled around the pavilion, keeping their distance from the outsiders, but anxious to remove any mess. The humans were scarred, sunburnt, and miserable. having likely obtained the honour of becoming menials in exchange for their lives. These were Vanderbarzen's men that returned back to the ship after Lankey Pete had devoured most of their number, and courage.
Anglermaw was indifferent. These same men cruelly imprisoned him in a pest-ridden brig for weeks at sea. It gave him a crude satistfaction to see them suffer.
"Wine?" One of the Marienburgers approached Anglermaw without courtesy, causing him to twitch from his reverie. The sod looked utterly downtrodden. He was topless and tanned from the Lustrian sun, heavily scarred from where the late mourghul had swatted at him. Elven healing had knitted his torso into a badly sketched atlas of flesh.
Anglermaw took the bottle the man was offering without preamble. He nodded his rodent beak in thanks.
"You want some food? It's the last of the rations before we set off." The sailor asked again, his expression crumpled, like there was another, more intimate question on his mind.
Anglermaw took the platter from the young man. It was an impressive catch from the ocean, lathered in Elven preservetives and the length of the ratman's arm. Anglermaw near ate the thing whole with a gnashing chomp before placing the platter upon the sand. He then silently shooed the wirey man away, not unkindly. He opened the cork on the bottle and indulged himself like a drunken vagrant.
The sailor stood for a few seconds longer, then he walked off to pursue another chore, his eyes glancing back to the Sea-Rat.
Indras arrived shortly after, dressed in the traditional Ulthuani robes of pale silk, with a sea-green trim to highlight the colour of his home province. Underneath, his chracian lion leather trousers and boots were a little more pratical. Indras was shorter than Serchil, and was more slight of body, uninterested in the discipline and training that the Sea Guard were known for. He gave his regards to the sailors across the table, and had approached one of the indentured humans for a bottle of Ellyrian vintage to be shared. For the time being he had tried to avert his eyes from the sight of Mokte, astonished by the half-civil beast and his massive bulk. Indras wasn't armed, but had the privilige of such a thing being unnecessary. He was a scholar of engineering, not a warrior. Fighting was for the sea guard... and the indentured.
"Master Falderan, master Celedron! How overjoyed am I to see you!" Indras greeted them both as they dined, and unlike the barbed speech of Serchil, Indras' nonchalant tone was far more genuine. "Another week and the Sea Guard were going to have this ship forcibly recalled for service. I can't believe you're actually back. I was half certain the jungle had claimed you all but Aelthalia was adamant that we stay for you both."
Indras took a seat by the two, enchanted. He wanted to ask an onslaught of questions, but thought better of it as the vintage arrived. He offered Celedron and Falderan a glass, much to the dismay of Serchil. "I did not expect you to return with the skaven if I am honest, nor did I assume that you would make a friend of the lizardmen. The Gods bless you, I am certain, for few even among the Asur have such clout." Indras' words were filled with mirth for the two, though he made no further mention of Anglermaw nor Mokte. Their presence alone was taboo enough.
A marienburger placed a serving of Lothern sea bass before him, nearly spilling the dish in a clumsy display. Indras made no reprimand, but sighed sympathetically. "The sailors haven't just dragging the boots here either, not with the savages taking the ship for nothing more than a capsized merchant vessel. We'd have a grave dug out if the humans weren't so startled. None of them will take sentry duty during the night, that vagabond courage washed away after one or two were gouged with throwing spears." Indras chuckled, pausing to sip on his vintage. "Now that you've returned it doesn't matter. The Captain plans to make a stop at Mistnar for weapon restocking, then we'll drop yourself and your beasts off once we sail east. The princedom has been given permission to make port within Kislev to aid with supply. After we've dined, we shall decamp. Might be a slight improper, but the Captain also expressed a desire to see you personally Loremaster. Her mind has been ill at ease since you had left." Indras finished, his eyes were centered on Celedron, and only now had he confirmed the Loremaster had been severely injured during the adventure.
Although Anglermaw's ears pricked at the conversation, he feigned ignorance, content to play pretend a drunk as he sauntered for one of the cushions which the red saurus had claimed. He was anxious to find out how they would be both dealt with once they had sailed back to the Old World. For Anglermaw, that was a whole different powder keg - he still had unfinished business with the clan.
The Cothiquans were a different sort. These elves were of a similar disposition and likely hated his company, but unlike the Lizardmen, did not consider the skaven to be generational enemies. The Sea Rat would not have to worry about being gutted in his sleep among these lot. Not if Celedron had any semblence of honour.
He was about to lift his foot-paws from the sand when he had seen Serchil refuse Mokte a seat at the dinner table. Anglermaw knew the sour fool's reason was nothing short of a poor excuse, but he shrugged indifferently, knowing he would receive a similar answer. Mokte scoffed without a word, and wandered over to rest on one of the lone velvet cushions away from the rest of the crew, a decanted bottle of wine in his hand. The elegantly sculptured glass looked like a thin vial in his monstrous claw, he gulped the stuff down in one sitting, grape juice cascading down his mouth. Pressganged sailors scuttled around the pavilion, keeping their distance from the outsiders, but anxious to remove any mess. The humans were scarred, sunburnt, and miserable. having likely obtained the honour of becoming menials in exchange for their lives. These were Vanderbarzen's men that returned back to the ship after Lankey Pete had devoured most of their number, and courage.
Anglermaw was indifferent. These same men cruelly imprisoned him in a pest-ridden brig for weeks at sea. It gave him a crude satistfaction to see them suffer.
"Wine?" One of the Marienburgers approached Anglermaw without courtesy, causing him to twitch from his reverie. The sod looked utterly downtrodden. He was topless and tanned from the Lustrian sun, heavily scarred from where the late mourghul had swatted at him. Elven healing had knitted his torso into a badly sketched atlas of flesh.
Anglermaw took the bottle the man was offering without preamble. He nodded his rodent beak in thanks.
"You want some food? It's the last of the rations before we set off." The sailor asked again, his expression crumpled, like there was another, more intimate question on his mind.
Anglermaw took the platter from the young man. It was an impressive catch from the ocean, lathered in Elven preservetives and the length of the ratman's arm. Anglermaw near ate the thing whole with a gnashing chomp before placing the platter upon the sand. He then silently shooed the wirey man away, not unkindly. He opened the cork on the bottle and indulged himself like a drunken vagrant.
The sailor stood for a few seconds longer, then he walked off to pursue another chore, his eyes glancing back to the Sea-Rat.
Indras arrived shortly after, dressed in the traditional Ulthuani robes of pale silk, with a sea-green trim to highlight the colour of his home province. Underneath, his chracian lion leather trousers and boots were a little more pratical. Indras was shorter than Serchil, and was more slight of body, uninterested in the discipline and training that the Sea Guard were known for. He gave his regards to the sailors across the table, and had approached one of the indentured humans for a bottle of Ellyrian vintage to be shared. For the time being he had tried to avert his eyes from the sight of Mokte, astonished by the half-civil beast and his massive bulk. Indras wasn't armed, but had the privilige of such a thing being unnecessary. He was a scholar of engineering, not a warrior. Fighting was for the sea guard... and the indentured.
"Master Falderan, master Celedron! How overjoyed am I to see you!" Indras greeted them both as they dined, and unlike the barbed speech of Serchil, Indras' nonchalant tone was far more genuine. "Another week and the Sea Guard were going to have this ship forcibly recalled for service. I can't believe you're actually back. I was half certain the jungle had claimed you all but Aelthalia was adamant that we stay for you both."
Indras took a seat by the two, enchanted. He wanted to ask an onslaught of questions, but thought better of it as the vintage arrived. He offered Celedron and Falderan a glass, much to the dismay of Serchil. "I did not expect you to return with the skaven if I am honest, nor did I assume that you would make a friend of the lizardmen. The Gods bless you, I am certain, for few even among the Asur have such clout." Indras' words were filled with mirth for the two, though he made no further mention of Anglermaw nor Mokte. Their presence alone was taboo enough.
A marienburger placed a serving of Lothern sea bass before him, nearly spilling the dish in a clumsy display. Indras made no reprimand, but sighed sympathetically. "The sailors haven't just dragging the boots here either, not with the savages taking the ship for nothing more than a capsized merchant vessel. We'd have a grave dug out if the humans weren't so startled. None of them will take sentry duty during the night, that vagabond courage washed away after one or two were gouged with throwing spears." Indras chuckled, pausing to sip on his vintage. "Now that you've returned it doesn't matter. The Captain plans to make a stop at Mistnar for weapon restocking, then we'll drop yourself and your beasts off once we sail east. The princedom has been given permission to make port within Kislev to aid with supply. After we've dined, we shall decamp. Might be a slight improper, but the Captain also expressed a desire to see you personally Loremaster. Her mind has been ill at ease since you had left." Indras finished, his eyes were centered on Celedron, and only now had he confirmed the Loremaster had been severely injured during the adventure.
Although Anglermaw's ears pricked at the conversation, he feigned ignorance, content to play pretend a drunk as he sauntered for one of the cushions which the red saurus had claimed. He was anxious to find out how they would be both dealt with once they had sailed back to the Old World. For Anglermaw, that was a whole different powder keg - he still had unfinished business with the clan.
The exchange of pleasantries with Indras was welcomed. There was less toxicity in his words than Serchil. The fact Falderan's own name was said before Celedron's spoke leagues for the shared respect. Serchil bit his tongue. The offering of Ellyrion vintage to them was like a dagger to Serchil. Fal sipped at it. Letting it swirl around and admired the softness. It was the mention of Kislev that got him pause. A sudden stilting in his posture that Serchil may have noted.
Celedron was at peak attention when the Captain was mentioned. As he leaned forward Indras's attention to his wound was not hidden. The Elfs eyes widened. Celedron spoke up.
"It was taint by the darker powers. Mutating of the flesh within the Ark. Purely of the physical and in an act of desperation I removed the limb. Saved myself at the cost of flesh. He looked down. Dire and sour at the thought. The memories of the daemons trying to capture his senses and his open mind. He shook it away and finished his wine. "I shall not keep the Captain waiting. She has been kept back long enough and deserves answers." As Celedron heads out Fal perks up.
"Kislev you said? I assume the Port of Erengrad? will be our destination?" He asks while placing down the wine. Looking at the faintest puddle left in the glass.
Celedron was at peak attention when the Captain was mentioned. As he leaned forward Indras's attention to his wound was not hidden. The Elfs eyes widened. Celedron spoke up.
"It was taint by the darker powers. Mutating of the flesh within the Ark. Purely of the physical and in an act of desperation I removed the limb. Saved myself at the cost of flesh. He looked down. Dire and sour at the thought. The memories of the daemons trying to capture his senses and his open mind. He shook it away and finished his wine. "I shall not keep the Captain waiting. She has been kept back long enough and deserves answers." As Celedron heads out Fal perks up.
"Kislev you said? I assume the Port of Erengrad? will be our destination?" He asks while placing down the wine. Looking at the faintest puddle left in the glass.
Indras took another bite of the sea bass before his lap; the last scraps, scales and bones littered the plate, ready to be taken by one of the indentured. He washed the last helpings down with a sip of cool wine, and as he did the finished plate was swept from his table by the scarred fellow. Indras whistled, impressed at the indents across the lad's chest where the famed mourngul had tore him open. Had it not been for the blessings of Elven healing, the sailor would've bled to death in the swamp.
He took another sip of the wine as he observed Celedron take his leave, the knowledge of the loremaster's amputation made him visibly cringe.
"Ah, yes, Kislev." Indras muttered, dragged back to reality. "Dour place as it may be. Never an easy port, not so much for all the reavers as much as the snow. We'll find ourselves at Erengrad of course. There we'll drop off whatever subsidies the Prince has granted for the city, and yourselves. You're free to do as you like after that." He began to tap on the woodwork merticulously, lost in his thoughts for but a moment. "On the other hand, I'm not too certain how warm the Kislevites will welcome your bestial friends. The lizardman, you may excuse him for an exotic animal, as tempremental he might seem. To have a skaven wander freely around town however..." Indras grunted to clear his throat, one more sip of the wine to moist it clean. "...It'll will cause a bit of an incident."
"I say that you put the ratman in a cage, keep him paraded in a gibbet until you deem it safe to let him loose in the wasteland. An act of harsh pantomime, but no less than he deserves." Serchil interjected with a resolution, it was his first cordial act toward the imperial elf, albeit a blunt one. "The red monster seems articulate enough, but the narrowminded humans will see him as a devil. Their dogma is no less brutal than the savages further north, they are from the same inbred ilk after all."
Indras chuckled at the distilled hatred from the warrior's words. He glanced at the two creatures sitting almost lonesomely as they stared opposite eachother, too sullen to ignite a conversation. Or judging from the empty bottle in the ratman's hand, just too intoxicated. "Ever the sword, my friend. But ultimately not your decision to make. And if I may condemn myself to Cytharai's many hells, the ratman did atone for his misdeeds by helping to sink the juggernaught. Not a feat that is easily ignored."
Serchil was incredulous. "Atonement? What is atonement when it is engineered by spite? Perhaps it was a selfless act, but not wholly intentional. See what happens when you return him to the mainland. Will he stand by your side, or will he scuttle back to the clans? That is the true test of his trust, one the skaven are naturally incapable of." Then Serchil turned his attention toward Falderan, the distaste in his face was somewhat lighter after their initial encounter, though still heavy with suspicion. "Whatever the case. I strongly implore a consideration. We shall leave soon. Too many of my guard have lost their lives to the jungle, and these manling squatters have been languissant since news of their captain's death broke out."
He took another sip of the wine as he observed Celedron take his leave, the knowledge of the loremaster's amputation made him visibly cringe.
"Ah, yes, Kislev." Indras muttered, dragged back to reality. "Dour place as it may be. Never an easy port, not so much for all the reavers as much as the snow. We'll find ourselves at Erengrad of course. There we'll drop off whatever subsidies the Prince has granted for the city, and yourselves. You're free to do as you like after that." He began to tap on the woodwork merticulously, lost in his thoughts for but a moment. "On the other hand, I'm not too certain how warm the Kislevites will welcome your bestial friends. The lizardman, you may excuse him for an exotic animal, as tempremental he might seem. To have a skaven wander freely around town however..." Indras grunted to clear his throat, one more sip of the wine to moist it clean. "...It'll will cause a bit of an incident."
"I say that you put the ratman in a cage, keep him paraded in a gibbet until you deem it safe to let him loose in the wasteland. An act of harsh pantomime, but no less than he deserves." Serchil interjected with a resolution, it was his first cordial act toward the imperial elf, albeit a blunt one. "The red monster seems articulate enough, but the narrowminded humans will see him as a devil. Their dogma is no less brutal than the savages further north, they are from the same inbred ilk after all."
Indras chuckled at the distilled hatred from the warrior's words. He glanced at the two creatures sitting almost lonesomely as they stared opposite eachother, too sullen to ignite a conversation. Or judging from the empty bottle in the ratman's hand, just too intoxicated. "Ever the sword, my friend. But ultimately not your decision to make. And if I may condemn myself to Cytharai's many hells, the ratman did atone for his misdeeds by helping to sink the juggernaught. Not a feat that is easily ignored."
Serchil was incredulous. "Atonement? What is atonement when it is engineered by spite? Perhaps it was a selfless act, but not wholly intentional. See what happens when you return him to the mainland. Will he stand by your side, or will he scuttle back to the clans? That is the true test of his trust, one the skaven are naturally incapable of." Then Serchil turned his attention toward Falderan, the distaste in his face was somewhat lighter after their initial encounter, though still heavy with suspicion. "Whatever the case. I strongly implore a consideration. We shall leave soon. Too many of my guard have lost their lives to the jungle, and these manling squatters have been languissant since news of their captain's death broke out."
"Aye." Fal spoke in the discussion of Kislev. "It will be difficult to travel with the two. If I'm lucky they'll see Mokte as a beast I've captured or worse some type of Beastmen." He wiped up a small drizzle of sauce from the plate. Incredible how the Elves always kept some form of luxury even out like this. "Your concern is relevant but I would not speak so harshly of the Kislevites. Troll Country is some of the harshest land to live in and they have manned it for centuries. Holding back the forces of Chaos with none of the frilly pillows you have needed to hold out here." Fal smirks and Serchil.
"But we can't expect such soft living luxuries to pass over to them. But I have fought with them. I have a collegue there. One who I could get transport with if you could lend me a messanger bird. It's been over a decade since I have seen him but an oath of blood can't be torn away so easily. Assuming he still breaths." Fals expression softened. A saddened tone at the idea his collegue may no longer draw breath.
Oleg Volkov, the name of Fal's friend in Kislev. A man he fought with nearly thirty summers prior during a violent Northman invasion. Sent to assist them by the alliance of the Empire and Kislev. It was brutal. Trolls with skin that seemed to be hard as ice. Men with such savage bloodlust they could shake off frostbite. And the hounds of Norsca. Viscious beasts that were comparable to the direwolves of Sylvania. Last Fal knew Oleg was a small time noble with some connections. After saving his life from a Norscan Troll the two became lifelong friends. He was one of the few men who Fal tried to keep around. At least he had hoped so despite the march of time.
"But we can't expect such soft living luxuries to pass over to them. But I have fought with them. I have a collegue there. One who I could get transport with if you could lend me a messanger bird. It's been over a decade since I have seen him but an oath of blood can't be torn away so easily. Assuming he still breaths." Fals expression softened. A saddened tone at the idea his collegue may no longer draw breath.
Oleg Volkov, the name of Fal's friend in Kislev. A man he fought with nearly thirty summers prior during a violent Northman invasion. Sent to assist them by the alliance of the Empire and Kislev. It was brutal. Trolls with skin that seemed to be hard as ice. Men with such savage bloodlust they could shake off frostbite. And the hounds of Norsca. Viscious beasts that were comparable to the direwolves of Sylvania. Last Fal knew Oleg was a small time noble with some connections. After saving his life from a Norscan Troll the two became lifelong friends. He was one of the few men who Fal tried to keep around. At least he had hoped so despite the march of time.
Serchil paused at the slight, his face glared toward the imperial comedian, with an expression sharper than the knife edge of his fey ears. Then it softened. "Our place as the defenders of civilisation grants us the freedom to accomodate some luxuries on our voyages, outsider. We endure much suffering to justify such small comforts from our homeland." Serchil hissed, then he rose from his seat in a rush, startling his peers. The scales of his beatific vest shimmered in the sunlight as he stood, like some living banner to the sea serpent of his home. "Get your companions ready for boarding, we leave now. It won't be long before the savages stage another attack."
Without any further pre-amble, Serchil mustered the remaining sea guard with a sharp call to action, his orders hidden behind the veil of the Eltharin tongue. The orders were soon decoded and delegated to the indentured sailors. The sea guard entered first, beginning their practiced march back onto the ship, all while the marienburgers were left with the labour. They grumbled and spat in their own native babble, an offshoot of Reikspiel native to their home. But it was mostly impotent frustration and the men soon found themselves clambouring on board, fabrics, baubles and hand crafted furniture gripped in hand.
"I hope you and your friends have said their goodbyes to the jungle." Indras muttered, wiping his mouth with a silk cloth, before discarding it upon the sand indifferently as the indentured arrived to carry the last of the furniture. Mokte and Anglermaw had already been evicted from their cushions. Both lumbered toward the boarding platform, their movements slow and fixated. One was tall, heavy, unsure of the resistance this fair vessel would have to his scaled bulk. The other was feinging drunkness, and uninterested in the company of these prim do-gooders, almond eyes surveying his every scitter.
Indras and Falderan were the last to leave. "Once we reach port, we can get a messenger dispatched to this associate of yours, it's the least we can do. You are heroes after all, and we wouldn't want a few heroes lost in the maze of human commerce." The Cothiquan smiled, but something about his tone seemed strangely sarcastic.
--
Four weeks passed before the ship reached Mistnar. A near month of dueling the high seas and the ever present threat of druchii reavers. The ship, though perhaps unassuming, fared better than the Empire's finest carracks upon Mathlaan's domain. And most luckily of all, the looming danger of a boarding party never reared it's face. Most pirates were not interested in a vessel of harderned sea guard, and any suspicious sails on the horizon quickily changed their winds when they spotted the emblem of the sea serpent, and the terrible gleam of many an ithilmar arrow. On many a wet morning, Anglermaw and Mokte found themselves aft, aimlessly surveying the great field of blue. The sun no longer accompanied them for their travels, now replaced by the pattering of rain, ever-present for past few weeks. From time to time they would spot the monsters beneath, great sea snakes that slithered like gilled worms, their growls rumbling for miles as their bodies coiled and uncoiled. It had taken them both too much time to realise that these creatures were not stalking the vessel, they were guarding it to it's destination.
Anglermaw raised his beaked toward the clouds, letting the rain shower his matted fur. For a moment he was returned to his life as Claw-Admiral, the industrial clanks and bangs within the Ark everpresent, the turning of dwarf-made gears, the buzzing of warp-capacitor currents. Sometimes the sound of suffering accompanied them all, but this never minded Anglermaw. Everything, skaven or otherwise who had been broken under him had deserved it. He was a king, a de-facto ruler of a clan, and one of the most powerful rats in Skavendom, and it had all been snatched away from him on one rainy night.
He had sworn before that he would have it all back. Now, as pariah above and the under the world, this assertion was muddled with uncertainty.
A horn was blasted, and it drove the sea rat from his reverie. Mokte had already turned his head toward the sound, though the saurus was slow on the uptake. Eltharin babble echoed relentlessly, words distorted by the pattering of rain as a jagged, barnacle ridden coast came into view. The tower that emerged from the fog lacked the majesty that Indras would sometimes describe of the Ulthuani mainland. The alabaster frame was beaten by the weather, the stonework greyed and tattooed with mold. It was nearly eclipsed by the far more practical walls upon the rocky cliffside. Soon the ship was turning into the defensible islet. A bridgehead had already been prepared for de-boarding, where a retinue of shimmering, slick sea guard awaited the ship. It didn't take long for either of them to understand they had finally reached the Cothiquan stronghold of Mistnar.
"Time to seek out Falderan, no?" Mokte wondered, staring back at the tower with awe one would expect at discovering an unknown culture.
Anglermaw nodded, but did not speak, the nostalgia of his admiralship still heavy on his mind.
Without any further pre-amble, Serchil mustered the remaining sea guard with a sharp call to action, his orders hidden behind the veil of the Eltharin tongue. The orders were soon decoded and delegated to the indentured sailors. The sea guard entered first, beginning their practiced march back onto the ship, all while the marienburgers were left with the labour. They grumbled and spat in their own native babble, an offshoot of Reikspiel native to their home. But it was mostly impotent frustration and the men soon found themselves clambouring on board, fabrics, baubles and hand crafted furniture gripped in hand.
"I hope you and your friends have said their goodbyes to the jungle." Indras muttered, wiping his mouth with a silk cloth, before discarding it upon the sand indifferently as the indentured arrived to carry the last of the furniture. Mokte and Anglermaw had already been evicted from their cushions. Both lumbered toward the boarding platform, their movements slow and fixated. One was tall, heavy, unsure of the resistance this fair vessel would have to his scaled bulk. The other was feinging drunkness, and uninterested in the company of these prim do-gooders, almond eyes surveying his every scitter.
Indras and Falderan were the last to leave. "Once we reach port, we can get a messenger dispatched to this associate of yours, it's the least we can do. You are heroes after all, and we wouldn't want a few heroes lost in the maze of human commerce." The Cothiquan smiled, but something about his tone seemed strangely sarcastic.
--
Four weeks passed before the ship reached Mistnar. A near month of dueling the high seas and the ever present threat of druchii reavers. The ship, though perhaps unassuming, fared better than the Empire's finest carracks upon Mathlaan's domain. And most luckily of all, the looming danger of a boarding party never reared it's face. Most pirates were not interested in a vessel of harderned sea guard, and any suspicious sails on the horizon quickily changed their winds when they spotted the emblem of the sea serpent, and the terrible gleam of many an ithilmar arrow. On many a wet morning, Anglermaw and Mokte found themselves aft, aimlessly surveying the great field of blue. The sun no longer accompanied them for their travels, now replaced by the pattering of rain, ever-present for past few weeks. From time to time they would spot the monsters beneath, great sea snakes that slithered like gilled worms, their growls rumbling for miles as their bodies coiled and uncoiled. It had taken them both too much time to realise that these creatures were not stalking the vessel, they were guarding it to it's destination.
Anglermaw raised his beaked toward the clouds, letting the rain shower his matted fur. For a moment he was returned to his life as Claw-Admiral, the industrial clanks and bangs within the Ark everpresent, the turning of dwarf-made gears, the buzzing of warp-capacitor currents. Sometimes the sound of suffering accompanied them all, but this never minded Anglermaw. Everything, skaven or otherwise who had been broken under him had deserved it. He was a king, a de-facto ruler of a clan, and one of the most powerful rats in Skavendom, and it had all been snatched away from him on one rainy night.
He had sworn before that he would have it all back. Now, as pariah above and the under the world, this assertion was muddled with uncertainty.
A horn was blasted, and it drove the sea rat from his reverie. Mokte had already turned his head toward the sound, though the saurus was slow on the uptake. Eltharin babble echoed relentlessly, words distorted by the pattering of rain as a jagged, barnacle ridden coast came into view. The tower that emerged from the fog lacked the majesty that Indras would sometimes describe of the Ulthuani mainland. The alabaster frame was beaten by the weather, the stonework greyed and tattooed with mold. It was nearly eclipsed by the far more practical walls upon the rocky cliffside. Soon the ship was turning into the defensible islet. A bridgehead had already been prepared for de-boarding, where a retinue of shimmering, slick sea guard awaited the ship. It didn't take long for either of them to understand they had finally reached the Cothiquan stronghold of Mistnar.
"Time to seek out Falderan, no?" Mokte wondered, staring back at the tower with awe one would expect at discovering an unknown culture.
Anglermaw nodded, but did not speak, the nostalgia of his admiralship still heavy on his mind.
Despite the formalities Fal was always watched with weary gazes. Part of him wanted to praise Khaine or another of the Cytharai to tease them. A mocking gesture that would show his disdain. But he knew better. Even the Asur worshipped the Cytharai just not to the violent lengths of the Druchii. He had been around enough members of faith to know the damage that could be done from mocking it. Especially when in the domain of one, in his case Manann or Mathlann as the Elves referred to seemingly the same entity. It was facinating the overlap. The way one pantheon and another had such similar entities they could be the same. Just seen through the eyes of Man and Elf.
Fal kept his mouth shut. Occassionally discussing his works and adventures with some curious sea guard. They took interest in him. He resembled an enemy but had the priase of the Loremaster Celedron. One such tale he told involved a defence of piracy. Protecting merchants ships from some over zealous plague ships from the Sea of Claws. He defended a small Elven vessel containing silks and commerse. As well as a larger Estalian Galleon. He recalled working with some sea guard to take out the eyes of a violent sea plague ridden drake. One of the sea guard spoke up. It turned out he was on that vessel. He recalled the drake nearly ended him with a burt of putrid bile but Fals quick thinking saved him. In honor of this newly remembered act he got a drink for the halfbreed Elf. Fal couldn't help but admire it. The comradery was akin to his imperial brethren. But even so the drink had a more sour taste. None of the bitter firmness he cared for from imperial ale. Still a drink was a drink and who was he to turn down an act of thanks from the 'proud Asur'?
Celedron spent the first few days under medical treatement. Spells were weaved to limit his pain and infection as medical gels were made from the herbs and grains on board. Luckily infection was kept down and the injust was mostly healed. Though it would take some time to be used to a missing limb.
"It builds character Loremaster, something proud to spin as a tale to your fellows." A familiar voice caught his attention. The Captain of the ship in all her pride. Celedron gives a salute but she waves him to be at ease. "I was told about your business. Forgive me for the isolation and delay. It was crucial any infection from the jungle be treated before we met."
"I understand."
"I did see you when sleeping though, to see the complete injury." She frowned as she looked the wound over.
"It's a miracle you survived. Isha must find you well this day. Resisting corruption and taking your own flesh to keep it away." She smiled. "Prince Tyrion may even commend you." Celedron couldn't help but laugh.
"Your wit is sharper than any blade." He replied with a smile. "The whole expedition was a success I hear. You kept order and the crew safe."
"Of course. Everything went through as best it could have. Despite the contents of the jungle. The hides of some of those beasts will fetch a hefty price back home." Celedron smiled and the two shared a moment. "Now get some rest. And when you're ready a celebrtory banquette will be held. You must try this jam made from a berry found in Lustria. perfectly sweet ad just another treasure hidden in those jungles."
"I'm craving it already." He said as the two gave their farewells for now.
As days went on and the ship arrived in Mistnar an unease came across the crew. Mokte, Falderan and Anglermaw would have to remain under guard during their visit. The crew may have gotten used to them, mostly, but the rest of the Cothiquans would be less accepting of their odd guests. Fal met back with Mokte and Anglermaw. The trio had not seen eachother for the last two days of the trip. But over the months they spoke and even took the time to play chess. A game Anglermaw brought typical skaven tactics to. But when all else failed a game of cards brought joy to the dank underbelly of the ship. Paired with the Marianburgers and their unpleasant time. Meeting up with them he gave greetings.
"Had the last few days treated you well?"
Fal kept his mouth shut. Occassionally discussing his works and adventures with some curious sea guard. They took interest in him. He resembled an enemy but had the priase of the Loremaster Celedron. One such tale he told involved a defence of piracy. Protecting merchants ships from some over zealous plague ships from the Sea of Claws. He defended a small Elven vessel containing silks and commerse. As well as a larger Estalian Galleon. He recalled working with some sea guard to take out the eyes of a violent sea plague ridden drake. One of the sea guard spoke up. It turned out he was on that vessel. He recalled the drake nearly ended him with a burt of putrid bile but Fals quick thinking saved him. In honor of this newly remembered act he got a drink for the halfbreed Elf. Fal couldn't help but admire it. The comradery was akin to his imperial brethren. But even so the drink had a more sour taste. None of the bitter firmness he cared for from imperial ale. Still a drink was a drink and who was he to turn down an act of thanks from the 'proud Asur'?
Celedron spent the first few days under medical treatement. Spells were weaved to limit his pain and infection as medical gels were made from the herbs and grains on board. Luckily infection was kept down and the injust was mostly healed. Though it would take some time to be used to a missing limb.
"It builds character Loremaster, something proud to spin as a tale to your fellows." A familiar voice caught his attention. The Captain of the ship in all her pride. Celedron gives a salute but she waves him to be at ease. "I was told about your business. Forgive me for the isolation and delay. It was crucial any infection from the jungle be treated before we met."
"I understand."
"I did see you when sleeping though, to see the complete injury." She frowned as she looked the wound over.
"It's a miracle you survived. Isha must find you well this day. Resisting corruption and taking your own flesh to keep it away." She smiled. "Prince Tyrion may even commend you." Celedron couldn't help but laugh.
"Your wit is sharper than any blade." He replied with a smile. "The whole expedition was a success I hear. You kept order and the crew safe."
"Of course. Everything went through as best it could have. Despite the contents of the jungle. The hides of some of those beasts will fetch a hefty price back home." Celedron smiled and the two shared a moment. "Now get some rest. And when you're ready a celebrtory banquette will be held. You must try this jam made from a berry found in Lustria. perfectly sweet ad just another treasure hidden in those jungles."
"I'm craving it already." He said as the two gave their farewells for now.
As days went on and the ship arrived in Mistnar an unease came across the crew. Mokte, Falderan and Anglermaw would have to remain under guard during their visit. The crew may have gotten used to them, mostly, but the rest of the Cothiquans would be less accepting of their odd guests. Fal met back with Mokte and Anglermaw. The trio had not seen eachother for the last two days of the trip. But over the months they spoke and even took the time to play chess. A game Anglermaw brought typical skaven tactics to. But when all else failed a game of cards brought joy to the dank underbelly of the ship. Paired with the Marianburgers and their unpleasant time. Meeting up with them he gave greetings.
"Had the last few days treated you well?"
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