Salt and sea foam invaded Anglermaw's nostrils like the musk of rival quarry, a colonnade of barnacle pillars presented before him as though he were a guest of honour, but the entourage of spearmen only granted him the most base and contemptuous reluctance not to kill him, or the crimson monster that meandered beside him, whose great footsteps were practiced and steady despite his curiosity. Mokte was aware that his own girth dwarfed the lithe creatures, all bearing the tabard of the great sea serpent of Cothique.
Mokte greeted Falderan with a curt nod, too little of a welcome, the saurus had thought, but the circumstances demanded he remain careful. Anglermaw, who had become acutely aware that he was surrounded by potenial enemies, paid either of them no heed. His hairless claw scraped at the handle of his machete, the weapon had become a lucky charm of the course of his foray through the jungle.
A princely figure and his retinue of warriors stood to greet the ship. Unlike the rest of the sailors in their drab silverine mail, this figure was singled out by the vibrance of his armour. He wore a raiment of emerald plate, enameled with the weed-coloured scales of Ulthuan's deep sea predators, and his thick vambraces shared this pattern, though pressed upon his right gauntlet was the alabaster rune of Elthrai. Iridiscent blades jutted from his shoulderblades, naturally formed pauldrons casting a colourful glare while the sun cast a gloomy stain above the clouds. His helmet was formed in the likeness of an elongated hermit shell with a great ruby gem encrusted at the base, formed in the likeness of glittering, bloodshot eye. The spiralling helm was sharp enough to gouge the eye of a stone troll, and upon his loin-robe was cast the garish image of the Cothiquan sea serpent devouring a vessel in triumph, the webbed sails of the vanquished ship a deep purple. The scene was lost on Mokte, who spent his days isolated from the world at large, but to Anglermaw, and to the uncertain Marienburgers that followed, the image was viewed with trepidation.
The prince was unarmed, but Anglermaw did not find this reassuring, the fop had brought his entourage of claymore bearers to do his dirtywork, enchanted blades glistening like dew in the overcast haze. Aelthalia's host were obliged to stand clear from the swordmasters, even they would not risk the Prince's wrath. Serchil was derisive, his hand clutched at the shining pommel of his blade that bit his sheath, but Indras seemed indecisive. Anglermaw could sense he was afraid, even if he would not divulge it. The Captain stood above the broadside of her ship, studying the moment from a view. She had no plans to intervene in this affair.
"I extend the greetings of my lord Dalloran to you, outsiders. It is not often that the Asur are obliged to acquiesce such..." He paused, as though looking for the correct word in the common, inferior tongue. "...exotics." He said. "I am Enuvel, princely admiral of the realm's secondary fleet, and it is my duty to receive you in preparation for your final service to the Asur."
Mokte greeted Falderan with a curt nod, too little of a welcome, the saurus had thought, but the circumstances demanded he remain careful. Anglermaw, who had become acutely aware that he was surrounded by potenial enemies, paid either of them no heed. His hairless claw scraped at the handle of his machete, the weapon had become a lucky charm of the course of his foray through the jungle.
A princely figure and his retinue of warriors stood to greet the ship. Unlike the rest of the sailors in their drab silverine mail, this figure was singled out by the vibrance of his armour. He wore a raiment of emerald plate, enameled with the weed-coloured scales of Ulthuan's deep sea predators, and his thick vambraces shared this pattern, though pressed upon his right gauntlet was the alabaster rune of Elthrai. Iridiscent blades jutted from his shoulderblades, naturally formed pauldrons casting a colourful glare while the sun cast a gloomy stain above the clouds. His helmet was formed in the likeness of an elongated hermit shell with a great ruby gem encrusted at the base, formed in the likeness of glittering, bloodshot eye. The spiralling helm was sharp enough to gouge the eye of a stone troll, and upon his loin-robe was cast the garish image of the Cothiquan sea serpent devouring a vessel in triumph, the webbed sails of the vanquished ship a deep purple. The scene was lost on Mokte, who spent his days isolated from the world at large, but to Anglermaw, and to the uncertain Marienburgers that followed, the image was viewed with trepidation.
The prince was unarmed, but Anglermaw did not find this reassuring, the fop had brought his entourage of claymore bearers to do his dirtywork, enchanted blades glistening like dew in the overcast haze. Aelthalia's host were obliged to stand clear from the swordmasters, even they would not risk the Prince's wrath. Serchil was derisive, his hand clutched at the shining pommel of his blade that bit his sheath, but Indras seemed indecisive. Anglermaw could sense he was afraid, even if he would not divulge it. The Captain stood above the broadside of her ship, studying the moment from a view. She had no plans to intervene in this affair.
"I extend the greetings of my lord Dalloran to you, outsiders. It is not often that the Asur are obliged to acquiesce such..." He paused, as though looking for the correct word in the common, inferior tongue. "...exotics." He said. "I am Enuvel, princely admiral of the realm's secondary fleet, and it is my duty to receive you in preparation for your final service to the Asur."
"I would have it said we do not wish to stay here for long, Noble Prince." Fal states with a bow. His manners were oddly precise now. The gazes he recieved from the guards were nothing new. The Seaguard looked him over like they were unsure if they should draw their blades or simply watch. "We will merely be changing to a simpler vessel to reach the great port of Erengrad in Kislev." This was met by stoic nods from others listening in. Fal noted their details were shared long before their arrival. He then offered up a letter. "And this will require delivery to the post house in Erengrad. The reciever will provide me and my compatriates with all we need for our time there. If you would be willing to spare such a resource we could be more soundly out of your hair." There was a still silence.
The letter Fal wrote detailed his adventures so far.
'To Oleg Volkov,
It has been too many summers my friend. It is Falderan from the Empire. I would hope the powerful ale and drink of Kislev hasn't worn down your memory?
I write to you this day in desperation. I have come into some less than acceptable company and require a secluded location to hide out with my new companions. A recent adventure took me to Lustria where I had witnessed horrors that made our battles in Troll Country pause. While there I have found myself in the company of one of the fabled Lizardmen of Lustria. As well as a less than trustworthy Skaven admiral. Both have been exiled from their people. And both have earnt my trust.
I know it is too much to share in this letter but it would help me immensly if you would help us hide out. Anywhere in the wilderness where these two could be less noticed would help considerably. I shall fill you in more when we meet in person.
Ot tvoyego druga, Falderan'.
Ending it with his best Kislevite he sealed the letter up had it ready to send once a bird could be obtained.
The letter Fal wrote detailed his adventures so far.
'To Oleg Volkov,
It has been too many summers my friend. It is Falderan from the Empire. I would hope the powerful ale and drink of Kislev hasn't worn down your memory?
I write to you this day in desperation. I have come into some less than acceptable company and require a secluded location to hide out with my new companions. A recent adventure took me to Lustria where I had witnessed horrors that made our battles in Troll Country pause. While there I have found myself in the company of one of the fabled Lizardmen of Lustria. As well as a less than trustworthy Skaven admiral. Both have been exiled from their people. And both have earnt my trust.
I know it is too much to share in this letter but it would help me immensly if you would help us hide out. Anywhere in the wilderness where these two could be less noticed would help considerably. I shall fill you in more when we meet in person.
Ot tvoyego druga, Falderan'.
Ending it with his best Kislevite he sealed the letter up had it ready to send once a bird could be obtained.
The Prince reached his palm outward, claiming the note from Falderan between his fingers. His guantlets were clad in seashell effigies that glinted cerulean in the mist, likely wreathed in typical Quaysh enchantments. His entourage lowered their weapons, becalmed by Enuvel's initiative. Within seconds, he'd unfolded the note, inked in Ulthuan vellum. With a raised brow and a suble hum of curiousity, the prince folded paper into a fraction smaller than it's original shape. "I see no problem in accomodating this request." Enuvel accepted. "A messenger bird will be despatched on your behalf. By the time you make port, your associate will be waiting for your arrival forthwith." Then he clasped his halfmoon chin with a gauntleted hand, surveying his guests. "I do have my concerns, nevertheless." He meandered forward to the motley crew, the swordmasters would have fallen suit if he had not paused them with a disapproving crook of his right hand. His discerning gaze studied Falderan, jet black eyes betraying no expression.
"You are a strange one, my friend." Muttered Enuvel, forcing Mokte and Anglermaw to part for him as he strode. The asur sailors watched from their ship. "Little much do I see of Druchii freemen, less still do they willingly garment themselves in such unbecoming raiments. Are you a fugitive, a defector mayhaps? Answer me truthfully."
Serchil would be the one to answer first Falderan's behalf, his wielded bow glinting gaudily in the mist. His answer would be in Eltharin. "This one is an Imperial, my Lord. A lesser man carved in the shape of our enemy, and a lost vagrant knows nothing of our struggle."
The Prince's eyes darted at Serchil, but the sailor did not relent, his face contorted in a twisted expression of pride and equal disgust. "I do not require a substandard advisor on this matter. Stay your tongue, lest I remove it." Enuvel scoffed. When he turned to Falderan, his expression softened, the dark presumption that clouded his thoughts had wavered. "I thought you may have been a criminal for a moment, one must fall so low indeed to break bread with the denizens of the under-empire..."
'Eat breeder scat!' Was what Anglermaw wanted to spit at this pampered princeling. But with so many of the knife-ears in his vicinity, he could only watch and stare with derision.
"...But Serchil tells me that you are something truly forsaken. I am for that reason obliged to assist you out of heartache." He then handed Falderan an envelope. It was sealed in maroon wax, bore the insignia of the Asur Phoenix. "Contained within this is a manifest of the arms delivery concerning the ship that you and your companions will be despatching come nightfall. A copy of that manifest will accompany the letter to your friend, but will not be the sole topic of this envelope. It also contains a coded pardon concerning said companions. Not to the rulers of Kislev, but to an organization that proclaim themselves the Keepers of the Flame. They will be aware of your arrival within Erengrad, but your initial meeting will not be immediate upon landfall. My request to you, Falderan Geltroff, is to expect contact with this organization in the coming future. There is a schism within your destination. If you are dead set on your journey, you still have a part to play, as do your friends."
"You are a strange one, my friend." Muttered Enuvel, forcing Mokte and Anglermaw to part for him as he strode. The asur sailors watched from their ship. "Little much do I see of Druchii freemen, less still do they willingly garment themselves in such unbecoming raiments. Are you a fugitive, a defector mayhaps? Answer me truthfully."
Serchil would be the one to answer first Falderan's behalf, his wielded bow glinting gaudily in the mist. His answer would be in Eltharin. "This one is an Imperial, my Lord. A lesser man carved in the shape of our enemy, and a lost vagrant knows nothing of our struggle."
The Prince's eyes darted at Serchil, but the sailor did not relent, his face contorted in a twisted expression of pride and equal disgust. "I do not require a substandard advisor on this matter. Stay your tongue, lest I remove it." Enuvel scoffed. When he turned to Falderan, his expression softened, the dark presumption that clouded his thoughts had wavered. "I thought you may have been a criminal for a moment, one must fall so low indeed to break bread with the denizens of the under-empire..."
'Eat breeder scat!' Was what Anglermaw wanted to spit at this pampered princeling. But with so many of the knife-ears in his vicinity, he could only watch and stare with derision.
"...But Serchil tells me that you are something truly forsaken. I am for that reason obliged to assist you out of heartache." He then handed Falderan an envelope. It was sealed in maroon wax, bore the insignia of the Asur Phoenix. "Contained within this is a manifest of the arms delivery concerning the ship that you and your companions will be despatching come nightfall. A copy of that manifest will accompany the letter to your friend, but will not be the sole topic of this envelope. It also contains a coded pardon concerning said companions. Not to the rulers of Kislev, but to an organization that proclaim themselves the Keepers of the Flame. They will be aware of your arrival within Erengrad, but your initial meeting will not be immediate upon landfall. My request to you, Falderan Geltroff, is to expect contact with this organization in the coming future. There is a schism within your destination. If you are dead set on your journey, you still have a part to play, as do your friends."
Fal bowed and took a step forward with letter in hand.
"I understand your curiosity. And what Serchil speaks is true. I am a man of the Empire. One raised under Sigmars codes and principles to the men of the Emperors nation. I do carry to features of a mutual enemy. But if nothing else we have one thing in common. A distrust and hate for the bastards you call the Druchii. Despite my complexion and features I have more in common with the men of the world than the Elven race. And that makes watching them pass to Morrs Garden all the sadder." A stone faced expression comes over Falderan. A common tactic to hide the deep pain of his life and watching friend and loved ones alike age and die why he remains in his prime. "I have no connection to these lands of Ulthuan nor the frozen shores of dreaded Naggaroth. I am at most an outcast of all. Trying to fit to the Empire but always outlasting. An abomination to those of my blood and if the Druchii were to offer a hand I'd severe it then their heads before torching their deal. So consider me like my accompliances. Outcasts and rejects." His words were met with solid stares and surprise from the surrounding guard. Though there was no hatred directed to the Asur. Just avid determination and trust in his own words.
With everything said and done the group would be escorted away and to quarters. Guards kept around them and they were given a variant of the Asurs hospotality. Many were hesitant to allow Mokte and Anglermaw into the living quarters but they were permitted to stay in with Falderan. It was cramped. The Saurus was no small guest and Anglermaw clawed at the chair he rested on. It's soft silken pillow forever tarnished. Though by the looks they got odds are it all would be burnt in arcane fire upon their leaving. Encouraged to keep in their quarters plates of meats, cheeses, fine elven wine and jugs of some of the purest water any had seen were brought in. If nothin else the Elves would make delicious meals. Spices from Ind and a means of glazing meat that he found similar to a Cathayan meal from the far east. Truely delicious he couldn't help but enjoy it. The wine was soft to the taste. A strong fruity taste that threw Fal off but paired well with the assorted cheeses. The water was oddly tasteful. It was clearly water but something about it had flavour. He couldn't lay his finger on it but it went down like a dream.
Fal pondered the letter in his hands. The 'Keepers of the Flame'. What a strange name for a group in Kislev. Were they men of Ulrics temple who set up some form of deal with those of Erengrad? Ulric had a decent hold in Kislev. Especially those to the Imperial border. But why would they have any form of control there? It had been some time since he was there but if they were any part of the Orthodoxy things would get problematic with both Anglermaw and Mokte in his group. He also wondered if he would be mistaken for a Dark Elf as had happened in the past. Erengrad was no stranger to their corsairs. Though they rarely hit the docks due to how defended they were. Long range cannons referred to as 'Little Groms' arranged forts along the sea. Any small vessel would do well not to venture too close.
"I understand your curiosity. And what Serchil speaks is true. I am a man of the Empire. One raised under Sigmars codes and principles to the men of the Emperors nation. I do carry to features of a mutual enemy. But if nothing else we have one thing in common. A distrust and hate for the bastards you call the Druchii. Despite my complexion and features I have more in common with the men of the world than the Elven race. And that makes watching them pass to Morrs Garden all the sadder." A stone faced expression comes over Falderan. A common tactic to hide the deep pain of his life and watching friend and loved ones alike age and die why he remains in his prime. "I have no connection to these lands of Ulthuan nor the frozen shores of dreaded Naggaroth. I am at most an outcast of all. Trying to fit to the Empire but always outlasting. An abomination to those of my blood and if the Druchii were to offer a hand I'd severe it then their heads before torching their deal. So consider me like my accompliances. Outcasts and rejects." His words were met with solid stares and surprise from the surrounding guard. Though there was no hatred directed to the Asur. Just avid determination and trust in his own words.
With everything said and done the group would be escorted away and to quarters. Guards kept around them and they were given a variant of the Asurs hospotality. Many were hesitant to allow Mokte and Anglermaw into the living quarters but they were permitted to stay in with Falderan. It was cramped. The Saurus was no small guest and Anglermaw clawed at the chair he rested on. It's soft silken pillow forever tarnished. Though by the looks they got odds are it all would be burnt in arcane fire upon their leaving. Encouraged to keep in their quarters plates of meats, cheeses, fine elven wine and jugs of some of the purest water any had seen were brought in. If nothin else the Elves would make delicious meals. Spices from Ind and a means of glazing meat that he found similar to a Cathayan meal from the far east. Truely delicious he couldn't help but enjoy it. The wine was soft to the taste. A strong fruity taste that threw Fal off but paired well with the assorted cheeses. The water was oddly tasteful. It was clearly water but something about it had flavour. He couldn't lay his finger on it but it went down like a dream.
Fal pondered the letter in his hands. The 'Keepers of the Flame'. What a strange name for a group in Kislev. Were they men of Ulrics temple who set up some form of deal with those of Erengrad? Ulric had a decent hold in Kislev. Especially those to the Imperial border. But why would they have any form of control there? It had been some time since he was there but if they were any part of the Orthodoxy things would get problematic with both Anglermaw and Mokte in his group. He also wondered if he would be mistaken for a Dark Elf as had happened in the past. Erengrad was no stranger to their corsairs. Though they rarely hit the docks due to how defended they were. Long range cannons referred to as 'Little Groms' arranged forts along the sea. Any small vessel would do well not to venture too close.
The Prince whistled at Falderan's speech, his curiousity overflowing like a brimming tankard of black rotgut. "'Man of the Empire' eh?" Enuvel said, his inflection was wrought with surprise. "It is bold for a kinsman to have such solidarity with the ever-fleeting nations of men, know you might just outlive them in the coming years. I have seen the waxing and waning of kingdoms over the generations, and I shall see many more. I had born witness at the Sundering of my people millenia ago, when your nation still wore garments no better than doeskin blankets. You may consider yourself human in spirit, but where will you stand a thousand years hence?"
"With us." Mokte growled, whom until now had been silent. His crimson arms tensed as they crossed, claws that could rip the face of an ogre clean off gleamed in the cerulean mist.
"Yeah, with us." Anglermaw seconded. "Death-murder's been followin' us since we set claw-foot in that jungle, but we survived. We'll survive Kislev too, no matter how-how long it takes. Come visit-stay some time, if leaving your safe little island doesn't put you off."
Enuvel rested his gauntlets by his side while he eyed the trio, these strangers who would've been sworn enemies, if not for cruel circumstance. "You are a strange, desperate brotherhood, navigating the tightrope between good and evil like maddened acrobats." Enuvel replied. "And yet, outcasts and rejects oft do not come bearing artifacts that the Lizardmen willingly part with. I look forward to hearing of you three."
Clearly finished with this meeting, he beckoned Serchil forward with a word concealed in the native Asur tongue, outranking the sailor's Captain to do so. He whispered an order into Serchil's knife-ear, and the moonface twisted in disgust for a moment, pointed ears twitching with frustation. With a quick send-off, the Prince made his way from the docks, his retinue following alongside.
Before long, Serchil would approach the three with practiced dignity. He informed the three that they would be allowed to appreciate the hospitality of Cothique before setting sail come the first dawn. "We will accomodate you once again for your service. Whether you be a man-friend, beast, matters not." He mentioned. "Celedron will not be joining you, The Prince has need of his services, as well as to study the nature of his wounds." Mokte felt a pang of sadness in his chest. He would miss Celedron and his staunch character, but he was also much aware that the wizard had been in a great deal of pain since the Ark's destruction. He wondered if the demons within that chamber still haunted Celedron, perhaps that was the reason he had to stay behind.
Anglermaw - while feigning indifference - felt a similar sense of grief. He was no friend to the Sea-Rat, but they had fought and almost died together against a manner of otherworldly monsters. He shrugged at the idea of such valour while being promptly escorted by sea guard to his quarters for the night. They moved at a discreet pace, the mist enshrouding rat and beast from the eyes of more curious elves.
-
A day later, and a bellyfull of shellfish cuisine in their stomachs, the gang were risen from their chambers by cothiquan palace guard. Each member was escorted back down to the docks, the salty mists had dissipated over the night. A clear sky awaited their journey back to the Old World. The Marienburgers waited patiently on board, muttering amongst themselves excitedly, telling of the stories and fabricated adventures they would beseech the people with. Anglermaw found them a funny bunch of sailors. With all the loss they'd endured, from the ship to their lousy gnat of a captain, he saw that they were now just content to be alive. Serchil was already at the helm for the journey, the morning sky a copper shade to welcome the sun. He cared little for small talk, though none of the gang on had much interest in befriending the sour creature either. Indras and Aelthalia stood in tow to welcome the three strangers, though an expression of lament had crossed the young captain's once smooth feature. She seemed at a slight unease. Perhaps the loss of Celedron had sullied her spirit - for reasons other than his great knowledge of magic.
"The port of Erengrad is still some time away." Aelthalia began. "We will have to pass the Sea of Claws over our course, which is frought with reavers from the Northlands and Druchii pirates. With Asur skill, I doubt they will contest us however." When she had finished, the Captain beckoned a servant carrying two cloaks. One was almost the size of a sail, fit for a great figure. The other was less impressive, and was woven to be fit for a more dimunitive thing. They were as brown as horse manure, and seemed like they had been embroided with hay harvested from the very same lavatory. The large cloak was passed to Mokte, the smaller variant handed to Anglermaw. He sniffed the fabric, curious if the cloak smelled as bad as it looked while he kneaded the knots with his snout. "What is this supposed to be?" Asked the Sea-Rat, incredulous. "Looks like something you wipe with after a privvy trip."
Indras shrugged at the comment, but the Captain seemed indifferent. A barked order in Eltharin told the group that setting sail was imminent. "That is a hagscowl, master Znammy." She explained. "It is wreathed in Ulgu-ish magic. Assuming you remain true to your newfound virtue, Lord Enuvel was not certain either of you would be safe in the cities of mankind, for many grievances they have against the underkin. Many of them greater still are justified. The skaven are an evil race."
Anglermaw laughed. "Just give me a medal or something next time for Sigmar-Rat's sake. I already know-know what I am."
Aelthalia then shed her gaze upon the Saurus. "For yourself, you have committed no ill, but much of mankind is unenlightened. Many will consider you a creature born of the Dark Pantheon, for few are brave enough to understand the difference. I am sorry."
Mokte caressed the enchanted cloak, felt his claws glide through the weaves of straw-like fabric. Despite it's appearance, the hagscowl was deceptively smooth. Unlike Anglermaw, he did not need an answer concerning why he needed the cloak, though he felt bitter at the association with mutation. It was a brazen, but awful truth. "What does it do?" He asked.
Indras spoke this time. "When fully concealed in the cowl, the magic will subsume your beastly figures to fit a far more mannish form. With the hagscowl, you may walk among the people as though you were one of them. You should have no fear being persecuted by the local folk. Be aware, that if you unconceal yourself from the cowl, or the enchantments are dispelled by an artifact or a wizard, the magic concealing you will disperse. Best you wear them as soon as you disembark."
The beasts looked at eachother, rat and lizard both content with the explanation. When Anglermaw looked back to the port, it had aleady begun to fade into the distance. It wouldn't be long before they reached Erengrad.
"With us." Mokte growled, whom until now had been silent. His crimson arms tensed as they crossed, claws that could rip the face of an ogre clean off gleamed in the cerulean mist.
"Yeah, with us." Anglermaw seconded. "Death-murder's been followin' us since we set claw-foot in that jungle, but we survived. We'll survive Kislev too, no matter how-how long it takes. Come visit-stay some time, if leaving your safe little island doesn't put you off."
Enuvel rested his gauntlets by his side while he eyed the trio, these strangers who would've been sworn enemies, if not for cruel circumstance. "You are a strange, desperate brotherhood, navigating the tightrope between good and evil like maddened acrobats." Enuvel replied. "And yet, outcasts and rejects oft do not come bearing artifacts that the Lizardmen willingly part with. I look forward to hearing of you three."
Clearly finished with this meeting, he beckoned Serchil forward with a word concealed in the native Asur tongue, outranking the sailor's Captain to do so. He whispered an order into Serchil's knife-ear, and the moonface twisted in disgust for a moment, pointed ears twitching with frustation. With a quick send-off, the Prince made his way from the docks, his retinue following alongside.
Before long, Serchil would approach the three with practiced dignity. He informed the three that they would be allowed to appreciate the hospitality of Cothique before setting sail come the first dawn. "We will accomodate you once again for your service. Whether you be a man-friend, beast, matters not." He mentioned. "Celedron will not be joining you, The Prince has need of his services, as well as to study the nature of his wounds." Mokte felt a pang of sadness in his chest. He would miss Celedron and his staunch character, but he was also much aware that the wizard had been in a great deal of pain since the Ark's destruction. He wondered if the demons within that chamber still haunted Celedron, perhaps that was the reason he had to stay behind.
Anglermaw - while feigning indifference - felt a similar sense of grief. He was no friend to the Sea-Rat, but they had fought and almost died together against a manner of otherworldly monsters. He shrugged at the idea of such valour while being promptly escorted by sea guard to his quarters for the night. They moved at a discreet pace, the mist enshrouding rat and beast from the eyes of more curious elves.
-
A day later, and a bellyfull of shellfish cuisine in their stomachs, the gang were risen from their chambers by cothiquan palace guard. Each member was escorted back down to the docks, the salty mists had dissipated over the night. A clear sky awaited their journey back to the Old World. The Marienburgers waited patiently on board, muttering amongst themselves excitedly, telling of the stories and fabricated adventures they would beseech the people with. Anglermaw found them a funny bunch of sailors. With all the loss they'd endured, from the ship to their lousy gnat of a captain, he saw that they were now just content to be alive. Serchil was already at the helm for the journey, the morning sky a copper shade to welcome the sun. He cared little for small talk, though none of the gang on had much interest in befriending the sour creature either. Indras and Aelthalia stood in tow to welcome the three strangers, though an expression of lament had crossed the young captain's once smooth feature. She seemed at a slight unease. Perhaps the loss of Celedron had sullied her spirit - for reasons other than his great knowledge of magic.
"The port of Erengrad is still some time away." Aelthalia began. "We will have to pass the Sea of Claws over our course, which is frought with reavers from the Northlands and Druchii pirates. With Asur skill, I doubt they will contest us however." When she had finished, the Captain beckoned a servant carrying two cloaks. One was almost the size of a sail, fit for a great figure. The other was less impressive, and was woven to be fit for a more dimunitive thing. They were as brown as horse manure, and seemed like they had been embroided with hay harvested from the very same lavatory. The large cloak was passed to Mokte, the smaller variant handed to Anglermaw. He sniffed the fabric, curious if the cloak smelled as bad as it looked while he kneaded the knots with his snout. "What is this supposed to be?" Asked the Sea-Rat, incredulous. "Looks like something you wipe with after a privvy trip."
Indras shrugged at the comment, but the Captain seemed indifferent. A barked order in Eltharin told the group that setting sail was imminent. "That is a hagscowl, master Znammy." She explained. "It is wreathed in Ulgu-ish magic. Assuming you remain true to your newfound virtue, Lord Enuvel was not certain either of you would be safe in the cities of mankind, for many grievances they have against the underkin. Many of them greater still are justified. The skaven are an evil race."
Anglermaw laughed. "Just give me a medal or something next time for Sigmar-Rat's sake. I already know-know what I am."
Aelthalia then shed her gaze upon the Saurus. "For yourself, you have committed no ill, but much of mankind is unenlightened. Many will consider you a creature born of the Dark Pantheon, for few are brave enough to understand the difference. I am sorry."
Mokte caressed the enchanted cloak, felt his claws glide through the weaves of straw-like fabric. Despite it's appearance, the hagscowl was deceptively smooth. Unlike Anglermaw, he did not need an answer concerning why he needed the cloak, though he felt bitter at the association with mutation. It was a brazen, but awful truth. "What does it do?" He asked.
Indras spoke this time. "When fully concealed in the cowl, the magic will subsume your beastly figures to fit a far more mannish form. With the hagscowl, you may walk among the people as though you were one of them. You should have no fear being persecuted by the local folk. Be aware, that if you unconceal yourself from the cowl, or the enchantments are dispelled by an artifact or a wizard, the magic concealing you will disperse. Best you wear them as soon as you disembark."
The beasts looked at eachother, rat and lizard both content with the explanation. When Anglermaw looked back to the port, it had aleady begun to fade into the distance. It wouldn't be long before they reached Erengrad.
"Don't I know of the short lived lives of men compared to our own. I have seen kin and parent pass before me. I have seen men grow old and fade while I retain youth. It hurts to see how short lived they are. Yet it grants hope. Because they are short lived and Morr welcomes them with open arms. They always continue and despite Elvish kind living multiple of their generations they are in fact thriving." Falderan gave a big grin. A borderline playful smirk as he would give in the many ports and bandit towns.
"Do not mistake short lived for poor. After all the sweetest dishes are the one that are quickest to leave." There was a series of chatter amongst them before discussion came up of their plans.
It saddened Falderan to not hear more from Celedron. The mage had singlehandedly made him view the asur as more than arrogant, gaudy silver spoon eaters. He admitted it wasn't the fondest of sayings but some in Osteland had quite the way with words. Having said farewell to his friend he hoped if they met again it would be in good fortunes and not horrors as was setting their first meeting. Taken in for Cothiquen hospitality they would be given a night of reveree and delight. Fed elegantly prepared seafood the likes of which the Emperor himself might never have eaten. Cracking the shells of steamed crabs to pluck out the juicy flesh within. The paired wines went well. A mix of sweet with a tang of salty flavour, turned out it was brewed in Cothique using their water and to pair with their speciality. The night would pass without a peep or anger. For once a moment of relaxation. A few odd glances from servant elves but nothing that welcomed unusual discomfort. Spending one final night in elven sheets gave Falderan a smooth night. The fabric breathed and kept his body comfortable in the evening chill.
The following day was full of vocal chouts and excitement. Soon they would return home. Perhaps not to their land of birth but the Old World and Kislev. A land of frozen chill and hardy people. The Marianburgers echanged tales they would spin. Variations of the same tale but with them as the central hero. All of them taken away from the truth. But if there were even a single fully truthful harbor tale then Fal would eat his own hand.
"Spice it up a little. Say you helped fight off a Kraken on the way. Maybe you cut off one of the beasties tentacles and we feasted upon it on land." Fal was met with a hardy laugh but one man nodded, taking note of the outlandish idea. The cloaks given to Anglermaw and Mokte got Fal's attention. Explaining them as illusionary magic. A simply spell often used by thieves and assassins. It altered ones form when being looked on. As long as someone doesn't have the magic sight. The cloaks render you average and avoided excessive attention. But someone staring at you could notice oddities. Magic of this kind wasn't easy especially for an enchanted item. To make it more effective and concealing would require magic focus and channeling. Something none of them could do and was always a danger with the forces of Chaos.
"Aye, it would be best for you both to remain out of immediate vision. Kislev is known to have a similar kill on sight policy to your type. And if you thought the Sigmarites did it rough." Fal whistled. "You haven't seen the maddness in the eyes of a Orthodox Priest." As the discussion shifted to the Sea of Claws and the dangers of the sea Fal perked up. "We're in late fall. At least in the Empire. The raiders of Norsca rarely come this time. Due to the risks of the sea during winter. Assuming we don't fend too close to the deepest sea we should be fine. The raiders will not be an issue. Though the beasts below are a bigger threat. This ship should be fast enough but trailing those waters is a risk." Fal was met with skepticism but nods from numerous members of both the crew and Marianburgers. Those who frequented those waters knew the best times to go. And winter was the worst to sail. Fall was fine but not for much longer. It was always a risk but one they would take with confidence.
As their final farewells were given the ship set off. It would take around ten days to reach Erengrad by Elven ship. If nothing else the Elves of Ulthuan certainly knew about ship building. As they set off Fal gave a salute to the Elves as they watched them leave. He went to work assisting on the ship. FInding comfort in the menial labour. The Marianburgers joined in too. Proving their worth even if most of it was cleaning duties. Days would past on the ship. And after six they felt themselves in the chilly sea approaching Kislev. The trip by pigeon would be barely two days. But close to iwnter the ice was treacherous. This would cause delays but the positive of ice is it limited the amount of sea beasts hunting there. Small victories he thought. As the ship sailed on.
"Do not mistake short lived for poor. After all the sweetest dishes are the one that are quickest to leave." There was a series of chatter amongst them before discussion came up of their plans.
It saddened Falderan to not hear more from Celedron. The mage had singlehandedly made him view the asur as more than arrogant, gaudy silver spoon eaters. He admitted it wasn't the fondest of sayings but some in Osteland had quite the way with words. Having said farewell to his friend he hoped if they met again it would be in good fortunes and not horrors as was setting their first meeting. Taken in for Cothiquen hospitality they would be given a night of reveree and delight. Fed elegantly prepared seafood the likes of which the Emperor himself might never have eaten. Cracking the shells of steamed crabs to pluck out the juicy flesh within. The paired wines went well. A mix of sweet with a tang of salty flavour, turned out it was brewed in Cothique using their water and to pair with their speciality. The night would pass without a peep or anger. For once a moment of relaxation. A few odd glances from servant elves but nothing that welcomed unusual discomfort. Spending one final night in elven sheets gave Falderan a smooth night. The fabric breathed and kept his body comfortable in the evening chill.
The following day was full of vocal chouts and excitement. Soon they would return home. Perhaps not to their land of birth but the Old World and Kislev. A land of frozen chill and hardy people. The Marianburgers echanged tales they would spin. Variations of the same tale but with them as the central hero. All of them taken away from the truth. But if there were even a single fully truthful harbor tale then Fal would eat his own hand.
"Spice it up a little. Say you helped fight off a Kraken on the way. Maybe you cut off one of the beasties tentacles and we feasted upon it on land." Fal was met with a hardy laugh but one man nodded, taking note of the outlandish idea. The cloaks given to Anglermaw and Mokte got Fal's attention. Explaining them as illusionary magic. A simply spell often used by thieves and assassins. It altered ones form when being looked on. As long as someone doesn't have the magic sight. The cloaks render you average and avoided excessive attention. But someone staring at you could notice oddities. Magic of this kind wasn't easy especially for an enchanted item. To make it more effective and concealing would require magic focus and channeling. Something none of them could do and was always a danger with the forces of Chaos.
"Aye, it would be best for you both to remain out of immediate vision. Kislev is known to have a similar kill on sight policy to your type. And if you thought the Sigmarites did it rough." Fal whistled. "You haven't seen the maddness in the eyes of a Orthodox Priest." As the discussion shifted to the Sea of Claws and the dangers of the sea Fal perked up. "We're in late fall. At least in the Empire. The raiders of Norsca rarely come this time. Due to the risks of the sea during winter. Assuming we don't fend too close to the deepest sea we should be fine. The raiders will not be an issue. Though the beasts below are a bigger threat. This ship should be fast enough but trailing those waters is a risk." Fal was met with skepticism but nods from numerous members of both the crew and Marianburgers. Those who frequented those waters knew the best times to go. And winter was the worst to sail. Fall was fine but not for much longer. It was always a risk but one they would take with confidence.
As their final farewells were given the ship set off. It would take around ten days to reach Erengrad by Elven ship. If nothing else the Elves of Ulthuan certainly knew about ship building. As they set off Fal gave a salute to the Elves as they watched them leave. He went to work assisting on the ship. FInding comfort in the menial labour. The Marianburgers joined in too. Proving their worth even if most of it was cleaning duties. Days would past on the ship. And after six they felt themselves in the chilly sea approaching Kislev. The trip by pigeon would be barely two days. But close to iwnter the ice was treacherous. This would cause delays but the positive of ice is it limited the amount of sea beasts hunting there. Small victories he thought. As the ship sailed on.
Anglermaw woke up in a mire of his own spittle, saliva dripping down the wounds of his silken hammock. His sharp claws had sheared ribbons from the bedding upon the numberless days and nights. The dangling furniture resembled a row of long, pale bunting. Sliding off of the bedding with a bump on the ebonwood floor had been the least of Anglermaw's inconveniences upon the voyage back to the Old World. The air grew chill - deathly chill - as the ship neared Erengrad, crossing the perilous sea of claws to make the journey. As Aelthalia had predicted, the few unscrupulous vessels encountered on the horizon gave little chase. Not even the fanatical northmen would be willing to gamble their lives on the shaft of an Asur arrowhead. But cowardly pirates mattered little. The voyage was more uncomfortable than dangerous. Sleep was a valuable luxury in the bitter cold, and the monotonous days of fishing with the red lizard, who now emerged to the surface wrapped in a thick cowl of bear fur, threatened to drive the sea-rat insane with boredom.
He still recalled the night after the ship had set sail for the homeland. A jovial sense of homecoming had shone among the Marienburgers, and for the first time since the death of their impertinent captain, they were in high spirits. Before, where there was anxiety and trepidation, now there was relief. The sailors had heard tales of the Asur and their hard forms of indenture. Both the Cothiquans had assured the men that once the ship had made port, they would be discharged from Aelthalia's custody. What followed that night was a flurry of jigs and shanties within the bowels of the ship, a roaring party plaintively overseen by the no-nonsense Serchil; the poor elf soon found himself heartbroken when he learned that Indras and his beloved captain had actually taken a liking to the revelling. Falderan and Mokte also involved themselves a moment worth of escapism while the sailors spoke of what they would do after they docked. Some spoke of heading home back to Marienburg to establish a trade, others spoke of finding a job as a swordarm on the frontier, which the Ice Court always had room for. But most of them simply yearned for the taste of kvas and if Ranald was good, the bosom of a kislevite maiden (And the maidens of Kislev were exceptionally beautiful).
But Anglermaw was nowhere to be seen, hidden by the ship bow, his form moulded by the hagcloak into a figure far more human in shape. The revelling was drowned out by the lapping of foam beneath. In his mind eye, the vessel became a hulk of cogs and warp fuelled turnbines, ebonwood subsuming into a brutal frame of gromril hauled into the ocean. The sky was an aura of jade, reflecting ghastly on the sea like the ship had passed into the realm of the Horned Rat's domain. The roaming sea-guard were replaced with widemouthed golems of sinewy burnt flesh and corroded metal, their eyes missing from their sockets save for the sudden fizzles of warp-power which animated the thralls. Anglermaw looked up, neither in shock or astonishment within his waking dream. He saw the face of a horned rodent gazing down from the crystalline moon. It's face was twisted into a vile snarl of condemnation. "I am your God-thing." The avatar of the Horned Rat projected into the Anglermaw's mind. The voice echoed in his ears with a gutteral rasp. But the sea-rat failed to register the avatar's impotent throes. "Heretic! You will burn! I will devour-eat your soul. Traitor to Skavendom, fornicator of man-things. You will die, die! Die-die!"
He was brought back to the present by an abrupt thud above. Through the ceiling of his private quarters, begrudgingly affording to him in recognition for his bravery, Anglermaw caught the smothered din of many excited voices above, all of them a different squaling flavour of Reikspeil. Footsteps pattered above, orders in the tongue of both man and elf were barked in sequence. A horn blew and bells rang in the distance. The sea-rat kneaded the floorboard with his snout, exhaling with relief. They had finally docked in Erengrad, the chill that was once bitter on his fur, he now found accomodating.
Pattering up the floorboard, Anglermaw soon emerged half wreathed in the mysterious hagscloak. The waist below was concealed in a leathery hue of mage-bound clothing, like a detailed silhouette. The rodent tail evaporated underneath the cloak, and Anglermaw's feet were moulded into shadow-wreathed boots. When he walked aboard the mast, he'd found that the Marienburgers had already vanished, blatantly overcome by their newfound freedom. In their place, standing in constrast to the lithe forms of the Asur was a brutish figure enshrouded in a mane of furs. Sinewy leather corded across the man's form like a second skin, the face beneath the hooded cowl was shadowed and indistinct, forever locked in an almost dumbfounded expression. With the glowering remains of Asurenil hung at the figures back like an exotic keepsake, Anglermaw knew instantly that this figure was Mokte, his saurian form concealed beneath the hagscowl.
Indras pouted when he spotted the half-concealed form of Anglermaw stride to the dock, his rodent beak barely hidden beneath the cowl. When the magic had activated, he looked like a starved halfling, striding to the elves with a skitter that the hagscowl tried it's best to conceal. Anglermaw looked at Indras, and saw the creases of repressed laughter wrinkle the Elf's once pristine face. He was not amused.
"Well-well then!" Anglermaw stuttered, the crooked teeth of his avatar gnashed as he chittered. "Ain't a quick goodbye enough for ya, yeah?"
He still recalled the night after the ship had set sail for the homeland. A jovial sense of homecoming had shone among the Marienburgers, and for the first time since the death of their impertinent captain, they were in high spirits. Before, where there was anxiety and trepidation, now there was relief. The sailors had heard tales of the Asur and their hard forms of indenture. Both the Cothiquans had assured the men that once the ship had made port, they would be discharged from Aelthalia's custody. What followed that night was a flurry of jigs and shanties within the bowels of the ship, a roaring party plaintively overseen by the no-nonsense Serchil; the poor elf soon found himself heartbroken when he learned that Indras and his beloved captain had actually taken a liking to the revelling. Falderan and Mokte also involved themselves a moment worth of escapism while the sailors spoke of what they would do after they docked. Some spoke of heading home back to Marienburg to establish a trade, others spoke of finding a job as a swordarm on the frontier, which the Ice Court always had room for. But most of them simply yearned for the taste of kvas and if Ranald was good, the bosom of a kislevite maiden (And the maidens of Kislev were exceptionally beautiful).
But Anglermaw was nowhere to be seen, hidden by the ship bow, his form moulded by the hagcloak into a figure far more human in shape. The revelling was drowned out by the lapping of foam beneath. In his mind eye, the vessel became a hulk of cogs and warp fuelled turnbines, ebonwood subsuming into a brutal frame of gromril hauled into the ocean. The sky was an aura of jade, reflecting ghastly on the sea like the ship had passed into the realm of the Horned Rat's domain. The roaming sea-guard were replaced with widemouthed golems of sinewy burnt flesh and corroded metal, their eyes missing from their sockets save for the sudden fizzles of warp-power which animated the thralls. Anglermaw looked up, neither in shock or astonishment within his waking dream. He saw the face of a horned rodent gazing down from the crystalline moon. It's face was twisted into a vile snarl of condemnation. "I am your God-thing." The avatar of the Horned Rat projected into the Anglermaw's mind. The voice echoed in his ears with a gutteral rasp. But the sea-rat failed to register the avatar's impotent throes. "Heretic! You will burn! I will devour-eat your soul. Traitor to Skavendom, fornicator of man-things. You will die, die! Die-die!"
He was brought back to the present by an abrupt thud above. Through the ceiling of his private quarters, begrudgingly affording to him in recognition for his bravery, Anglermaw caught the smothered din of many excited voices above, all of them a different squaling flavour of Reikspeil. Footsteps pattered above, orders in the tongue of both man and elf were barked in sequence. A horn blew and bells rang in the distance. The sea-rat kneaded the floorboard with his snout, exhaling with relief. They had finally docked in Erengrad, the chill that was once bitter on his fur, he now found accomodating.
Pattering up the floorboard, Anglermaw soon emerged half wreathed in the mysterious hagscloak. The waist below was concealed in a leathery hue of mage-bound clothing, like a detailed silhouette. The rodent tail evaporated underneath the cloak, and Anglermaw's feet were moulded into shadow-wreathed boots. When he walked aboard the mast, he'd found that the Marienburgers had already vanished, blatantly overcome by their newfound freedom. In their place, standing in constrast to the lithe forms of the Asur was a brutish figure enshrouded in a mane of furs. Sinewy leather corded across the man's form like a second skin, the face beneath the hooded cowl was shadowed and indistinct, forever locked in an almost dumbfounded expression. With the glowering remains of Asurenil hung at the figures back like an exotic keepsake, Anglermaw knew instantly that this figure was Mokte, his saurian form concealed beneath the hagscowl.
Indras pouted when he spotted the half-concealed form of Anglermaw stride to the dock, his rodent beak barely hidden beneath the cowl. When the magic had activated, he looked like a starved halfling, striding to the elves with a skitter that the hagscowl tried it's best to conceal. Anglermaw looked at Indras, and saw the creases of repressed laughter wrinkle the Elf's once pristine face. He was not amused.
"Well-well then!" Anglermaw stuttered, the crooked teeth of his avatar gnashed as he chittered. "Ain't a quick goodbye enough for ya, yeah?"
Anglermaw's absense wasn't unnoticed. Fal took note of every time he wasn't in sight. But knowing of the rats demenour and personality he gave him his space. A good bit of ditance to stay out of the hussel of the festivities. Whether he felt out of place or just unwelcomed was unknown. Weirdly enough Fal had felt similar. But he cast aside sombre thoughts to a moment of levity. A drink and from some sailors a pipe of finest hewn elven herbs. Helped take the edge of the bitter cold off. The endless sea of ice and wave. Beneath the surface beasts of kraken or worse lurked. Though attacks weren't certain, and Elven vessels had good means of repelling creatures it only eased him so much.
As the following day came around the chaos and mess of Erengrad came into sight. Tasting the air Fal could feel the delightful feeling in the crew. The scent of spices, smoke and the faintest whiff of deep sea fish. A smell brought up from the ports and rarely smelt off the very boats carrying them. As the ship came into port slowly eyes gazed upon the elven vessel. It was always a curious thing to turn up. Merchants and bandits galore took note. But none would act in a malicious way within eye sight. As the ship docked and the crew began to disband Fal waited with Mokte and Indras for Anglermaw to arrive. The rat was sleeping a lot on the trip. Maybe he wasn't used to such cold seas.
"I figured you were not one for delayed farewells Sir Anglermaw." Indras seemed to almost puke in his mouth at saying such formalities to the verminous creature. "It is with the full respect of the Asur and Cothique that I shall see you all off. Your arranged transport should be at one of the inns or merchant offices. I am unsure where you wish to pick up from but I trust you can find that way yourself Falderan." He turns his gaze to the mixed Elf. Fal nods.
"Indeed. I have an idea where it will be. I thank you for your hospitality. It's impressive how you handle a drink. You'd almost give a young Dwarf a run for their money." Indras rolled his eyes.
"Once you step off this ship you're back on your own. You no longer have business with Cothique for your well being and our own. I trust that is understood?"
"Understood. With any luck we'll never hear of the other again." Fal gave a respectful nod. Warrented by the captain who helped their voyage. "Pleasant sailing back to Ulthuan. I'm sure the Kislevites won't offend your sensibilities too much." With that Fal and his beastly duo made their way off the ship. Down the ramp and once more setting foot in the Old World. But for Mokte the first time setting foot on such foreign lands.
As the following day came around the chaos and mess of Erengrad came into sight. Tasting the air Fal could feel the delightful feeling in the crew. The scent of spices, smoke and the faintest whiff of deep sea fish. A smell brought up from the ports and rarely smelt off the very boats carrying them. As the ship came into port slowly eyes gazed upon the elven vessel. It was always a curious thing to turn up. Merchants and bandits galore took note. But none would act in a malicious way within eye sight. As the ship docked and the crew began to disband Fal waited with Mokte and Indras for Anglermaw to arrive. The rat was sleeping a lot on the trip. Maybe he wasn't used to such cold seas.
"I figured you were not one for delayed farewells Sir Anglermaw." Indras seemed to almost puke in his mouth at saying such formalities to the verminous creature. "It is with the full respect of the Asur and Cothique that I shall see you all off. Your arranged transport should be at one of the inns or merchant offices. I am unsure where you wish to pick up from but I trust you can find that way yourself Falderan." He turns his gaze to the mixed Elf. Fal nods.
"Indeed. I have an idea where it will be. I thank you for your hospitality. It's impressive how you handle a drink. You'd almost give a young Dwarf a run for their money." Indras rolled his eyes.
"Once you step off this ship you're back on your own. You no longer have business with Cothique for your well being and our own. I trust that is understood?"
"Understood. With any luck we'll never hear of the other again." Fal gave a respectful nod. Warrented by the captain who helped their voyage. "Pleasant sailing back to Ulthuan. I'm sure the Kislevites won't offend your sensibilities too much." With that Fal and his beastly duo made their way off the ship. Down the ramp and once more setting foot in the Old World. But for Mokte the first time setting foot on such foreign lands.
Aelthalia approached the group, her cheeks reddened by the touch of the cold north while she smiled. She was wreathed in a thick fur robe that concealed the captain insignia upon her uniform. "I wish the three of you a safe road ahead, wherever fate may lead you. The eye of Asuryan watches your steps. May the flames of his pyre judge you with merit."
Anglermaw and Mokte nodded. Both creatures knew a sacred little of the Elven pantheon they'd heard about from the weeks at sea, but the words were not lost on them. Indras had been fresh from his chatter with Falderan when he turned to the two of them, concealed in their mannish disguises. He'd since regained himself after repressing a snicker at the Sea Rat's ugliness. The asur's face was contorted into a mask of forced professionalism, straightening his back like he was an equal among the statuary sea guard. "Remember Prince Enuvel's letter. That is your last service to the Phoenix throne. The manifest is important to the survival of a nation."
Anglermaw didn't leave anything up to further preamble. He had been the first off of the ship, almost skidding across the frosty pierboard before regaining himself. The hagscloak had de-clawed his rodent talons. He voiced his chagrin with a tilean curse.
Mokte gave a firm bow before he too lurched off of the vessel. After Falderan had joined the two, they were on their own. The taste of free was oddly chilling.
Disembarking the ship had been tense. Anglermaw seemed lost. The sea-rat had never moved with such casual gait among the surface dwelling man-things before. It seemed off-putting to him that not one of the heavy muscled port thralls had the courtesy to point out his rat-like form with a roar of disgust. The hagscloak had warped his appearance well enough, and the labourers who hauled and clamoured by the frost-crusted docks did little but spare a glance and the stunted stranger before going about their business.
Mokte had fared no different, but his hagscloak could do little to veil his immense size. He was endowed with the barrel bulk that could rival the greatest northern strongman, and each glimpse from the little folk was shed a second of deference. They muttered words to him that he could not understand, with a sinewy pronouncement that he could not replicate. The air hung with the chattering of strange northman speech. Barked orders, idle conversation and mocking jibes between passing sailors all seemed to be spoken in reverse.
To the Lustrian, the frozen kingdom of Kislev would be an alien land indeed.
Anglermaw and Mokte nodded. Both creatures knew a sacred little of the Elven pantheon they'd heard about from the weeks at sea, but the words were not lost on them. Indras had been fresh from his chatter with Falderan when he turned to the two of them, concealed in their mannish disguises. He'd since regained himself after repressing a snicker at the Sea Rat's ugliness. The asur's face was contorted into a mask of forced professionalism, straightening his back like he was an equal among the statuary sea guard. "Remember Prince Enuvel's letter. That is your last service to the Phoenix throne. The manifest is important to the survival of a nation."
Anglermaw didn't leave anything up to further preamble. He had been the first off of the ship, almost skidding across the frosty pierboard before regaining himself. The hagscloak had de-clawed his rodent talons. He voiced his chagrin with a tilean curse.
Mokte gave a firm bow before he too lurched off of the vessel. After Falderan had joined the two, they were on their own. The taste of free was oddly chilling.
Disembarking the ship had been tense. Anglermaw seemed lost. The sea-rat had never moved with such casual gait among the surface dwelling man-things before. It seemed off-putting to him that not one of the heavy muscled port thralls had the courtesy to point out his rat-like form with a roar of disgust. The hagscloak had warped his appearance well enough, and the labourers who hauled and clamoured by the frost-crusted docks did little but spare a glance and the stunted stranger before going about their business.
Mokte had fared no different, but his hagscloak could do little to veil his immense size. He was endowed with the barrel bulk that could rival the greatest northern strongman, and each glimpse from the little folk was shed a second of deference. They muttered words to him that he could not understand, with a sinewy pronouncement that he could not replicate. The air hung with the chattering of strange northman speech. Barked orders, idle conversation and mocking jibes between passing sailors all seemed to be spoken in reverse.
To the Lustrian, the frozen kingdom of Kislev would be an alien land indeed.
The seaside chill of Erengrads port was somethign Fal hadn't felt in years. In these seasons and hours it wasn't too unpleasant. No worse than a chill winters day in the Empire if the breeze was on your side. He spared a glance to Mokte. The one he felt most concerned for. His immense size made him almost resemble an Ogre. A not uncommon sight in the port. In fact passing by a dockside tavern he saw a pair dressed in a mess of garbs. One wore a large tarp around his shoulders and the other a broken carriage wheel for a hat. Fal imagined they were trying to emulate the more elaborate robes of ship captains. The Ogres did have a charm to them. Least when they weren't coming for your life as some of the most monsterous beasts someone could face.
Moving along they entered the streets. The architecture of Kislev was so different to the empire. The way archways were carved, the less stone and Dwarven looking designs seen in the Empire. Though on this side of the port was a bit shambled. Numerous embassy buildings that shared a little more in common for their culture. Ornaments and sigils of their people. Several from variouis Imperial Provinces, one for Bretonnia and even one Fal recognized as Cathayan. A white banner with an elongated, black Dragon head and lettering along the bottom from the east. Fal had spent some time and was able to recognise one for 'Iron Dragon' that was all over the trade city of Shang-Yang. Though as he kept his eyes out for the sights he noticed eyes around him. The occasional glare or look from passers by. He kept looking back to make sure his allies were with him. They kept close but their difference on stature would certainly attract attention even at a glance.
Keeping a look at the signs Fal seemed aware of where they were. As he looked down a street he saw a sign for a tavern known as 'The Bears Ale'. With an icon of a bear and man standing upright and sharing a drink. As they went past a voice caught his ear.
"Be wary of the Heretic, the Daemon and the Traitor my people. We know not who enters from the ships and the Sea of Claws. We cannot say for certain who is pure and who is tainted. For the strength of the Orthodoxy will protect you, but only if purity reigns and faith is kept in Kislev!"
The voice came from a preacher standing atop a box with a black and gold tarp over it. A decent sized crowd of around twenty people gathered around. The man seemed middle aged. His hair greying and wrinkles of age showing. He wore sleek black robes and a large hat adorned with sigils of the various Kislivite gods. Beside him stood two armoured guards with chestplates and swords. Fal kept moving. Used to preachers in these areas and he didn't wish to give him the chance to turn a fanatical eye to his companions.
Moving along they entered the streets. The architecture of Kislev was so different to the empire. The way archways were carved, the less stone and Dwarven looking designs seen in the Empire. Though on this side of the port was a bit shambled. Numerous embassy buildings that shared a little more in common for their culture. Ornaments and sigils of their people. Several from variouis Imperial Provinces, one for Bretonnia and even one Fal recognized as Cathayan. A white banner with an elongated, black Dragon head and lettering along the bottom from the east. Fal had spent some time and was able to recognise one for 'Iron Dragon' that was all over the trade city of Shang-Yang. Though as he kept his eyes out for the sights he noticed eyes around him. The occasional glare or look from passers by. He kept looking back to make sure his allies were with him. They kept close but their difference on stature would certainly attract attention even at a glance.
Keeping a look at the signs Fal seemed aware of where they were. As he looked down a street he saw a sign for a tavern known as 'The Bears Ale'. With an icon of a bear and man standing upright and sharing a drink. As they went past a voice caught his ear.
"Be wary of the Heretic, the Daemon and the Traitor my people. We know not who enters from the ships and the Sea of Claws. We cannot say for certain who is pure and who is tainted. For the strength of the Orthodoxy will protect you, but only if purity reigns and faith is kept in Kislev!"
The voice came from a preacher standing atop a box with a black and gold tarp over it. A decent sized crowd of around twenty people gathered around. The man seemed middle aged. His hair greying and wrinkles of age showing. He wore sleek black robes and a large hat adorned with sigils of the various Kislivite gods. Beside him stood two armoured guards with chestplates and swords. Fal kept moving. Used to preachers in these areas and he didn't wish to give him the chance to turn a fanatical eye to his companions.
The Priest's silibant words vibrated upon Anglermaw's non-existant fur as if the fanatic had been directing his ravings directly toward the sea-rat, enshrouded within his human disguise. He knew that human veil was a magical effect, and therefore could only be dispelled by a trained wizard. His invisible whiskers tickled with anxiety nevertheless, that the hagscloak would fail him out of malice and he would have to consider an escape plan into the frozen underground. Thankfully, the ever increasing crowd of onlookers took little heed in a hooded imp, something that Anglermaw was glad for. He struggled to replicate the motion of a walking man, his practiced skitters like an awkward waddle while he trudged through the snow. By now, he had been following the Elf's lead out of these quarters, unsure if even he knew the way to this 'old friend' he'd mentioned. He had no choice but to trust Falderan, but the rogue no longer needed to share that same sentiment.
While Anglermaw stewed in his instictive distrust, he noticed the lumbering steps behind him had ceased in their rhythm. He turned the dagger of a nose that pitifully disguised his rodent beak. To his chagrin, Mokte had drawn his attention to the priest. The great form of bear fur and boiled leather basking in the scare mongering, static in the presence of the crowd in front. A crowd that was thankfully too distracted themselves in their fear.
Anglermaw lurched forward annoyedly. "The hell ya doing, yeah?" The sea-rat spat, ignoring the passers-by that took note of the two. "I thought we're supposed to stick together and get out before we all end up on pikes."
Mokte did not stir from his gaze. His human figure was a pale, statuary chill. The hidden saurus blew a cloud of air disinterestedly, dissipating above the mortals he towered over. He even seemed to dwarf the priest upon his makeshift podium. "I think that he is talking about us, Znammy." Mokte began, matter-of-factly. A leather bound fist clenched like a makeshift club by his side, like unwanted memories imprisoned within the fingers. "What does this old man know of demons and taint? He speaks like the tresspassers in my own land. Men who come and reap the jungle, theives who think they have to right to label one a savage."
Anglermaw was unmoved. "If you keep muttering on like that, he's gonna start talkin' about us-us, along with the rest 'o the city." Anglermaw chided, now he was standing in front of the ogrish man, attempting to gain his attention. "Look at me for a second yeah, don't call me that name. It'll attract the wrong attention. Call me..." Anglermaw stuttered for a moment. He had thought little of his disguise during the voyage to Kislev. "...Alfred. Yeah, that's better than nothing, yeah. You better think of a nick-name too."
Mokte traded a stare with 'Alfred,' and smiled, vanity creasing his lips. "I don't need a false name. My title is my own and I shall don it proudly."
Anglermaw snarled. "You are gonna get us both killed. Now, are you gonna stick here in the snow to freeze or alone or have you forgotten that we're followin' someone?"
Mokte nodded, capitulating on that front at least. It would not be good to abandon their guide and friend. He sauntered forward without warning, lizardine eyesight tracking Falderan beneath the canopy of carptened stalls and overgreased torches. Both had quickly caught up with him, either waddling or half-barging through the locals brazenly. Voices called out to the two, some were concilatory; most were curses. None of them were understood by the two. The langauge of the northerners was a tonal labyrinth. Anglermaw was a polyglot who could speak the sea's many langauges as well as his native Queekish, but had spent little time in the frozen wastes far above the Mymidian sea.
Mokte on the other hand, simply did not care for the supersticious natives and their custom. He did care however for his friend's courtesy, enough to give the elf a curt bow for his lack of pace. "Sir Falderan, with the greatest of respect, this is a cold and miserable place." Began the wreathed saurus. "Would you care to tell us where you might be headed?"
While Anglermaw stewed in his instictive distrust, he noticed the lumbering steps behind him had ceased in their rhythm. He turned the dagger of a nose that pitifully disguised his rodent beak. To his chagrin, Mokte had drawn his attention to the priest. The great form of bear fur and boiled leather basking in the scare mongering, static in the presence of the crowd in front. A crowd that was thankfully too distracted themselves in their fear.
Anglermaw lurched forward annoyedly. "The hell ya doing, yeah?" The sea-rat spat, ignoring the passers-by that took note of the two. "I thought we're supposed to stick together and get out before we all end up on pikes."
Mokte did not stir from his gaze. His human figure was a pale, statuary chill. The hidden saurus blew a cloud of air disinterestedly, dissipating above the mortals he towered over. He even seemed to dwarf the priest upon his makeshift podium. "I think that he is talking about us, Znammy." Mokte began, matter-of-factly. A leather bound fist clenched like a makeshift club by his side, like unwanted memories imprisoned within the fingers. "What does this old man know of demons and taint? He speaks like the tresspassers in my own land. Men who come and reap the jungle, theives who think they have to right to label one a savage."
Anglermaw was unmoved. "If you keep muttering on like that, he's gonna start talkin' about us-us, along with the rest 'o the city." Anglermaw chided, now he was standing in front of the ogrish man, attempting to gain his attention. "Look at me for a second yeah, don't call me that name. It'll attract the wrong attention. Call me..." Anglermaw stuttered for a moment. He had thought little of his disguise during the voyage to Kislev. "...Alfred. Yeah, that's better than nothing, yeah. You better think of a nick-name too."
Mokte traded a stare with 'Alfred,' and smiled, vanity creasing his lips. "I don't need a false name. My title is my own and I shall don it proudly."
Anglermaw snarled. "You are gonna get us both killed. Now, are you gonna stick here in the snow to freeze or alone or have you forgotten that we're followin' someone?"
Mokte nodded, capitulating on that front at least. It would not be good to abandon their guide and friend. He sauntered forward without warning, lizardine eyesight tracking Falderan beneath the canopy of carptened stalls and overgreased torches. Both had quickly caught up with him, either waddling or half-barging through the locals brazenly. Voices called out to the two, some were concilatory; most were curses. None of them were understood by the two. The langauge of the northerners was a tonal labyrinth. Anglermaw was a polyglot who could speak the sea's many langauges as well as his native Queekish, but had spent little time in the frozen wastes far above the Mymidian sea.
Mokte on the other hand, simply did not care for the supersticious natives and their custom. He did care however for his friend's courtesy, enough to give the elf a curt bow for his lack of pace. "Sir Falderan, with the greatest of respect, this is a cold and miserable place." Began the wreathed saurus. "Would you care to tell us where you might be headed?"
Having noticed his companions slowing and stopping Fal turned to see the pair talking a short distance from the crowd. Anglermaw now in front of his reptilian ally and the two engaging in discussion. A pair of men located some distance behind them. Armoured Kossars with metal plate, short swords and pistols on their waists eyed the two. Putting two and two together Fal figured they were town guards. Keeping an eye on the sermon from behind. Making sure no one got too unruly. As Mokte and Anglermaw resumed following he let out a sigh. The guards attention turned from them and scanned the crowd. Last thing they needed was suspicion in a major city of the Kislevites.
Passing through stalls and the markets there were all manner of things on sale. Including talismans, clothing, and many more. Reaching the corner by 'The Bears Ale' Fal was confronted by Mokte. His question of knowing where to go and questioning his ability to guide.
"Perhaps if you both kept up and didn't find yourself bickering in town like a fighting pair of backroom lovers we would get here." He slapped his hand on the wooden beam.
"The Bears Ale was were we always came. My guess would be the meeting point. Follow along and try not to make much noise." Fal then enters. His words were of mild sass and also telling Mokte to trust him.
Inside the tavern was a cheery sight. A large fire with a stone hearth and carving in the shape of a bear above it. Several hunting trophy's decorated the walls of large wolves and one beast that looked like a demonic fish with elongated jaws. Possibly something from the seas nearby. The air smelt of rich Kislevite vodka and a sizzling of perhaps heavily salted pork simmered in the background. The group walked in and Fal noticed a mans head shift in the back. He stood up and walked over. He was tall with dark, greying hair and wore a thick jacket of brown leather and wolf pelt on the back. His eyes were deep and dark and he had a full greying bears.
"Well as I live and breath, never thought I'd see a lankey excuse of a warrior walk in here." Fal just smiled.
"And I never thought I'd see a poor excuse of a farmhands side piece still lurking these walls." A moment of tension sat between them before the man opened his arms and embraced Fal.
"Good to see you, ya damned traveller. It's been too long and I thought you forgot about me or found yourself on the recieving end of a bastards sword."
"And I worried you finally let the beer, pork and ego put you by Ursens side Oleg." They stepped back and Oleg looked at the two following.
"These are the friend, ey?" He eyed the short one with a cold glare.
"Yes. Perhaps we can chat over drinks."
"Of course, and any friend of Falderan is a friend of mine. Until you step on toes that is. Come along I've already opened a tab. I assume you both drink?" The group made their way to the back booth.
Passing through stalls and the markets there were all manner of things on sale. Including talismans, clothing, and many more. Reaching the corner by 'The Bears Ale' Fal was confronted by Mokte. His question of knowing where to go and questioning his ability to guide.
"Perhaps if you both kept up and didn't find yourself bickering in town like a fighting pair of backroom lovers we would get here." He slapped his hand on the wooden beam.
"The Bears Ale was were we always came. My guess would be the meeting point. Follow along and try not to make much noise." Fal then enters. His words were of mild sass and also telling Mokte to trust him.
Inside the tavern was a cheery sight. A large fire with a stone hearth and carving in the shape of a bear above it. Several hunting trophy's decorated the walls of large wolves and one beast that looked like a demonic fish with elongated jaws. Possibly something from the seas nearby. The air smelt of rich Kislevite vodka and a sizzling of perhaps heavily salted pork simmered in the background. The group walked in and Fal noticed a mans head shift in the back. He stood up and walked over. He was tall with dark, greying hair and wore a thick jacket of brown leather and wolf pelt on the back. His eyes were deep and dark and he had a full greying bears.
"Well as I live and breath, never thought I'd see a lankey excuse of a warrior walk in here." Fal just smiled.
"And I never thought I'd see a poor excuse of a farmhands side piece still lurking these walls." A moment of tension sat between them before the man opened his arms and embraced Fal.
"Good to see you, ya damned traveller. It's been too long and I thought you forgot about me or found yourself on the recieving end of a bastards sword."
"And I worried you finally let the beer, pork and ego put you by Ursens side Oleg." They stepped back and Oleg looked at the two following.
"These are the friend, ey?" He eyed the short one with a cold glare.
"Yes. Perhaps we can chat over drinks."
"Of course, and any friend of Falderan is a friend of mine. Until you step on toes that is. Come along I've already opened a tab. I assume you both drink?" The group made their way to the back booth.
Anglermaw reciprocated the old man's stare with a crooked smile, the toothy row of savage fangs exposed a small glimpse to the creature beneath the cloak. He wasn't intimidated by old coffin dodgers far past their prime, and had enough brushes with death to be scared by those who were still fighters. The flames of the tavern flickered behind him and his tall companion, songs of rural folk and lolling tongues chattering in a myriad of tones. He looked at Mokte, who stared back down with an inqusitive glare before both returned their sight to the reunited two. It seemed strange that the two regarded eachother so closely, like distant brothers. Like himself and Mokte, they would have likely never been so close if not for the sake of circumstance. Elves simply held little sentiment for their inferiors, though Falderan was like any other soul from the Empire, save for his endowed lifespan. He could ask the strange elf about his past another time.
"I think that, er.." Anglermaw grunted and stammered, trying to conceal the queekish natterings as much as his body would allow. He jittered and shivered like a ragdoll while he assumed control of his figure. "I-uh, I think t-that a drink would do me just fine. D-dare I-I s-sa-say that I will take the stronger stuff this place has." He finished. His boots pattered on the floorboard, eager to get into the booth where he could allow him self a little rest. "N-name is Alfred. Ain't g-got no family title." He did not bother to lend a handshake. That could wait until after a pint. Drinks were good; drinks would calm his rodent chittering.
The larger figure placed a fist upon his breast, the thump of cold flesh beat hard upon the leather vest. "Mokte -- warrior native of the Amaxon jungles. And I too would care for a good drink after a long sail far from home." The concealed saurus did not bother to hide his accent from Oleg. The shawl of the hagscloak had picked for Mokte the form of a man of ruddy complexion, whose skin was rough and scarred, and eyes sunken deep beneath the hood. "Give me the most potent liquour of your people, and dare I say that I shall make this place run dry." Mokte proudly boasted, the exotic twang of his voice carrying over the tavern air.
"I think that, er.." Anglermaw grunted and stammered, trying to conceal the queekish natterings as much as his body would allow. He jittered and shivered like a ragdoll while he assumed control of his figure. "I-uh, I think t-that a drink would do me just fine. D-dare I-I s-sa-say that I will take the stronger stuff this place has." He finished. His boots pattered on the floorboard, eager to get into the booth where he could allow him self a little rest. "N-name is Alfred. Ain't g-got no family title." He did not bother to lend a handshake. That could wait until after a pint. Drinks were good; drinks would calm his rodent chittering.
The larger figure placed a fist upon his breast, the thump of cold flesh beat hard upon the leather vest. "Mokte -- warrior native of the Amaxon jungles. And I too would care for a good drink after a long sail far from home." The concealed saurus did not bother to hide his accent from Oleg. The shawl of the hagscloak had picked for Mokte the form of a man of ruddy complexion, whose skin was rough and scarred, and eyes sunken deep beneath the hood. "Give me the most potent liquour of your people, and dare I say that I shall make this place run dry." Mokte proudly boasted, the exotic twang of his voice carrying over the tavern air.
Taking a seat in the booth a round of drinks were ordered.
"Your friends talk a bit. The big one is quite loud." Oleg indicated to Mokte. Fal nodded.
"He is quite upfront. Time in Lustria makes one a bit more detatched from the customs here." Oleg gave a smirk.
"Never been there or seen the 'lizardfolk' as some call them. I did see some massive horned beast some years back. Brought back by an expedition and its hide was gifted to the Supreme Patriarch. Seems to have gone down well. No small amount of coin passed to those who brought it." There was a cold silence between them. "Still, Fal vouges for you and I have no experience to say otherwise outside stories heard along the vine. Though this other one makes me curious." His gaze turned to 'Alfred'. "An odd bit of speech there. Halflings always have such divisive tongues." Their drinks then arrived. He thanked the server and paid up. "So it may help to keep your voice down. Don't want people to get the wrong idea about you." He took a long swig of his drink. It burnt on the way down. Heating his throat and gut like a hot soup but strangely no warmer than the room. He spoke this as a warning. To not drag unwanted attention. Fal took a sip.
"Silence is indeed golden at times in Kislev." Oleg looked over as Fal spoke. A wide grin.
"And for you you cocky little Sigmarite Elf. You shared a bit about them but what do they know with you and me?" Fal rolled his eyes. Shrugging.
"Not too much."
"Well that seems unfair." He looked over to the two. "Fal and me went back some time. I was a young man then. Working my time in the military. We we're being reinforced by the Empire to defend against a considerable Chaos Horde emerging from Norsca. They seemed to be heading along a route to take them near Erengrad. We noticed there were ships to the seas. Norscan vessels ready to launch a blockade and duel pronged attack to take out this great city. So we moved along to meet them in the field. Lucky for us some of those Astromancers of the Empire predicted the perfect spot. So there we waited between two mountains. About two kilometres of space between them and thousands of men pouring in." Fal listened to the tale. Remembering it vividly.
The sky was tainted orange in the approaching dusk. A force of two thousand Imperial soldiers, ten maintained cannons and crew, sixty knights and a dozen demigryphs from the Empires most presitgious order. Mixed among them were two thousand kossars from the forces of Kislev. A dozen bear riders, ten is chariots pulled by the same viscious bears. And finally nearly two hundred fast skirmish horse archers. The force was grand and massive. Fal sat amongst his regiment. Watching the distance as the first signs of the dark powers approached. His keep eyes helped him make out the forms.
In front were mutated men of Norsca. Skin peeled back and claws growing where arms once were. They were sickening. Wretched creatures that seemed to slobber spittel like a mangy mutt. Behind them came a lumbering form. Peering over the horizon were several mighty mammoths. Great beasts with fierce tusks and larger than anything many of the men had seen before. Simple armour was dangled over their sides and heads. They let out cries of battle and hunger seeing the unified forces. Numerous other beasts could be seen amongst them. Heads of trolls, mutated blobs of disturbing mutants and more. Sigils of the eight pointed star were risen amongst the horde as banners. One stood high on each mammoth. The men of Kislev and the Empire held their ground. Halberds aimed ahead and braced. Hochland long rifles took aim from their vantage point. Cavalry sat in the concealment of the forest to strike. The men of Kislev were armed with a mix of axe, sword and pistol. Scattered amongst the Imperial lines the goal was to be the hammer to the Empires anvil. Musicians played tunes as orders were given. Fal held a halberd firm in his grip. He waited for the call. Watching the groups out front.
An echoeing cry of a horn ran out. Then Fals eyes were drawn to the sky. A sight of hellish terror came to him. Blowing the horn as the Chaos horde charged was a dragon. A viscious twin headed chaos dragon with scales of black and grey. A fierce red glow in it's eyes and on its back a black armoured Chaos Lord ordered the charge. The horde of mutants and beasts charged. The mammoths let out a fierce cry and ran forward. Behind them were armoured mauraders. Fal figured this first wave were shock troopers. Trying to break their lines. A fierce rumbling came out and just as they got within ten seconds of the front line the cannons fired. Rifles went off and the gunpowder was let off. It tore into the front rows of mutants. Rifles shot off arms and limbs. A cannon ball tore through three of them and landed in the gut of a troll that stumbled and fell with many broken bones. The hordes charging trampled it. Who knew if it lived. Halberds lunged and swung. Cutting down the freaks of Chaos. From above the dragon flew by. A fierce cry emerged and suddenly a blast of flickering blue and green flame blew down the line. It melted into the unified forces and turned over a hundred men to smoldering ash. The line began top crumble near Fal and one of the mutants broke in. Slashing at the halberd it flew from his hands. Thinking fast he drew his pistol and unloaded two shots into the head. One blew out it's jaw and the second took a chunk of the head. It fell down.
By the dragons attack a Kislevite man rose from the shock. The air smelt of burnt flesh and fecal matter. He looked ahead to see where the very dirt and stone was melted by dragon fire.
"Oleg! Get up man!" A voice called out. An armoured kossar came to his aid only to be swung at by a maurader. Narrowly missing it clipped his face and cut open his cheek. Swinging back their axes collided. Oleg swung his blade and hacked through the mauraders arm. Falling to the ground in a spray of blood he was then killed by the other kossar. Though the fighting continued. Gunfire from behind shot into several approaching men. A series of long snouted hounds rushed in. Snarling and biting at the air. One tackled the wounded man. The beast was larger than him. It ripped out his throat and Oleg drew his blade and slashed at it's eye. It howled and swiped back. Hitting into Olegs leather armour he felt a hit to his chest. Though a sudden arrow took out the hound. Riding past were a series of horse archers. Ungol archers who were skilled as anything. They took out the lightly armour beasts. Several arrows into the hide of a horrendous spawn sent it into a rampage. Though the beast was met by a series of Kislevite pistols that turned it's head to a chunky mess. It fell over dead. In the distance the dragon roared and cannon balls hit into it's side. It flipped and slailed. Several meters away one of the mammoths was crushing men. Slaughtering the soldiers before the Imperial demigryph knights came in. Halbers raised they slashed under the Mammoth and between cries of pain and the screaming of the men above its guts spilt and painted the ground. The heavy body fell over crushing one of it's riders.
As Oleg regrouped with some of his surviving men a blood curtling cry ran out. A massive blue troll weilding a mace of ice and wood bashed it's way in. Sending a man flying and Oleg went for his pistol. A shot hit it's cheek but the beast roared it off and quickly healed. Two other men opened fire before being crushed. One crawled with two broken legs and was lifted. The troll roared in his face as acidic spittle hit the man. Sending him screaming. The troll bit into him and removed his head. Throwing the body away it turned to see Oleg pulling back. Behind them Norscan forces were slashing into the back ranks and now he was alone with the troll.
"Ursen protect me." He says as he grasps a small bear icon on his waist. He roared and went to charge the troll. When suddenly a pair of shots hit it's hand. A finger was blown off and hole through the palm. The weapon fell as Oleg paused. He turned to see an Imperial dressed Elf charging in. He paused. This was such a strange sight.
"By Sigmar and Ursen you will die!" He shouted and drew his blade. He snuck behind the troll and hacked it's legs. The flesh quickly began to heal. This wasn't good. Oleg saw the Elf barely dodging the troll and could see it's fingers growing back. He looked around and saw an ironic piece of salvation. A burning chunk of wood from one of the bear wagons that was destroyed by the dragon flickered in the snow. The Dragons flames seemed to linger where they hit. Oleg undid small oil vial. Somethingkept for use in lanturns and emergency fire fuel. Pouring the oil on his blade he dipped it in the blue fire. As it was covered in the flames he charged. A swing of the trolls man nearly knocked Fal cold.
"Elf!" Oleg shouted and fired his last shot. It hit the trolls eye and it roared in pain. Fal looked up at his saviour. The troll angrily turned to him. Charging Oleg with a roar as it's eye began to heal. Fal then saw the sword covered in flame. Understanding the plan he lunged. Hitting the troll in the lower back cried out and swung back. Fal barely dodged and it swung back and broke the blade. Oleg saw his chance and struck. Driving the blade up and into the trolls throat. A fierce cry had him swing and due to some force. His rage, the empowerment of Ursen maybe, or the magical properties of the flames he carved off the trolls head. It stumbled back. No blood came from the cauterised wound and it fell over dead. Fal came over to Oleg. A grin on their faces in the aftermath. A sudden cry ran out and turning they saw the the massive form of the Chaos Dragon fall to the ground. As the body hit the sounds of battle changed. The Chaos forces turned and began to flee.
In the aftermath of the great battle the sruviving men, just over thirteen hundred in total embraced and drank. Sorrowful prayers were given for the dead but in Kislevite fashion drinks were had and cheers of victory given. Celebrating the battles victory and thanking those that didn't make it. Fal and Oleg got to talking. Both feeling the pains of battle catching up as wounds burned and pulled muscles ached. They laughed and had drinks.
"Brilliant move with that flaming blade."
"And foolishly brave play to charge the troll like that." Oleg smirked back. "You don't see Elves in Imperial clothes. Who are you anyway?" Fal smirked.
"Fal. And who I am is a bit of a story."
"Well I've got all night." Oleg says as they clink mugs. Over the night they shared tales and stories. Both enjoyed the others habits and whims. By the end Oleg held out a knife. He pulled it over his hand and Fal did the same. They gripped hands. "An oath in blood for allies till the end. Till our final days and even by Ursens side."
"For as long as we remain. Blood brother." Fal continues and Oleg winces. Feeling the stinging in his hand.
Back in the tavern Oleg looks to the scar on his hand.
"And that sums it up. Isn't it how you remember?"
"I think the Troll lost two fingers when I shot actually." Oleg laughs.
"Details details." The two simply smiled having recounted the battle of their first meeting. Then looking over to the other two for their response to such a story.
"Your friends talk a bit. The big one is quite loud." Oleg indicated to Mokte. Fal nodded.
"He is quite upfront. Time in Lustria makes one a bit more detatched from the customs here." Oleg gave a smirk.
"Never been there or seen the 'lizardfolk' as some call them. I did see some massive horned beast some years back. Brought back by an expedition and its hide was gifted to the Supreme Patriarch. Seems to have gone down well. No small amount of coin passed to those who brought it." There was a cold silence between them. "Still, Fal vouges for you and I have no experience to say otherwise outside stories heard along the vine. Though this other one makes me curious." His gaze turned to 'Alfred'. "An odd bit of speech there. Halflings always have such divisive tongues." Their drinks then arrived. He thanked the server and paid up. "So it may help to keep your voice down. Don't want people to get the wrong idea about you." He took a long swig of his drink. It burnt on the way down. Heating his throat and gut like a hot soup but strangely no warmer than the room. He spoke this as a warning. To not drag unwanted attention. Fal took a sip.
"Silence is indeed golden at times in Kislev." Oleg looked over as Fal spoke. A wide grin.
"And for you you cocky little Sigmarite Elf. You shared a bit about them but what do they know with you and me?" Fal rolled his eyes. Shrugging.
"Not too much."
"Well that seems unfair." He looked over to the two. "Fal and me went back some time. I was a young man then. Working my time in the military. We we're being reinforced by the Empire to defend against a considerable Chaos Horde emerging from Norsca. They seemed to be heading along a route to take them near Erengrad. We noticed there were ships to the seas. Norscan vessels ready to launch a blockade and duel pronged attack to take out this great city. So we moved along to meet them in the field. Lucky for us some of those Astromancers of the Empire predicted the perfect spot. So there we waited between two mountains. About two kilometres of space between them and thousands of men pouring in." Fal listened to the tale. Remembering it vividly.
The sky was tainted orange in the approaching dusk. A force of two thousand Imperial soldiers, ten maintained cannons and crew, sixty knights and a dozen demigryphs from the Empires most presitgious order. Mixed among them were two thousand kossars from the forces of Kislev. A dozen bear riders, ten is chariots pulled by the same viscious bears. And finally nearly two hundred fast skirmish horse archers. The force was grand and massive. Fal sat amongst his regiment. Watching the distance as the first signs of the dark powers approached. His keep eyes helped him make out the forms.
In front were mutated men of Norsca. Skin peeled back and claws growing where arms once were. They were sickening. Wretched creatures that seemed to slobber spittel like a mangy mutt. Behind them came a lumbering form. Peering over the horizon were several mighty mammoths. Great beasts with fierce tusks and larger than anything many of the men had seen before. Simple armour was dangled over their sides and heads. They let out cries of battle and hunger seeing the unified forces. Numerous other beasts could be seen amongst them. Heads of trolls, mutated blobs of disturbing mutants and more. Sigils of the eight pointed star were risen amongst the horde as banners. One stood high on each mammoth. The men of Kislev and the Empire held their ground. Halberds aimed ahead and braced. Hochland long rifles took aim from their vantage point. Cavalry sat in the concealment of the forest to strike. The men of Kislev were armed with a mix of axe, sword and pistol. Scattered amongst the Imperial lines the goal was to be the hammer to the Empires anvil. Musicians played tunes as orders were given. Fal held a halberd firm in his grip. He waited for the call. Watching the groups out front.
An echoeing cry of a horn ran out. Then Fals eyes were drawn to the sky. A sight of hellish terror came to him. Blowing the horn as the Chaos horde charged was a dragon. A viscious twin headed chaos dragon with scales of black and grey. A fierce red glow in it's eyes and on its back a black armoured Chaos Lord ordered the charge. The horde of mutants and beasts charged. The mammoths let out a fierce cry and ran forward. Behind them were armoured mauraders. Fal figured this first wave were shock troopers. Trying to break their lines. A fierce rumbling came out and just as they got within ten seconds of the front line the cannons fired. Rifles went off and the gunpowder was let off. It tore into the front rows of mutants. Rifles shot off arms and limbs. A cannon ball tore through three of them and landed in the gut of a troll that stumbled and fell with many broken bones. The hordes charging trampled it. Who knew if it lived. Halberds lunged and swung. Cutting down the freaks of Chaos. From above the dragon flew by. A fierce cry emerged and suddenly a blast of flickering blue and green flame blew down the line. It melted into the unified forces and turned over a hundred men to smoldering ash. The line began top crumble near Fal and one of the mutants broke in. Slashing at the halberd it flew from his hands. Thinking fast he drew his pistol and unloaded two shots into the head. One blew out it's jaw and the second took a chunk of the head. It fell down.
By the dragons attack a Kislevite man rose from the shock. The air smelt of burnt flesh and fecal matter. He looked ahead to see where the very dirt and stone was melted by dragon fire.
"Oleg! Get up man!" A voice called out. An armoured kossar came to his aid only to be swung at by a maurader. Narrowly missing it clipped his face and cut open his cheek. Swinging back their axes collided. Oleg swung his blade and hacked through the mauraders arm. Falling to the ground in a spray of blood he was then killed by the other kossar. Though the fighting continued. Gunfire from behind shot into several approaching men. A series of long snouted hounds rushed in. Snarling and biting at the air. One tackled the wounded man. The beast was larger than him. It ripped out his throat and Oleg drew his blade and slashed at it's eye. It howled and swiped back. Hitting into Olegs leather armour he felt a hit to his chest. Though a sudden arrow took out the hound. Riding past were a series of horse archers. Ungol archers who were skilled as anything. They took out the lightly armour beasts. Several arrows into the hide of a horrendous spawn sent it into a rampage. Though the beast was met by a series of Kislevite pistols that turned it's head to a chunky mess. It fell over dead. In the distance the dragon roared and cannon balls hit into it's side. It flipped and slailed. Several meters away one of the mammoths was crushing men. Slaughtering the soldiers before the Imperial demigryph knights came in. Halbers raised they slashed under the Mammoth and between cries of pain and the screaming of the men above its guts spilt and painted the ground. The heavy body fell over crushing one of it's riders.
As Oleg regrouped with some of his surviving men a blood curtling cry ran out. A massive blue troll weilding a mace of ice and wood bashed it's way in. Sending a man flying and Oleg went for his pistol. A shot hit it's cheek but the beast roared it off and quickly healed. Two other men opened fire before being crushed. One crawled with two broken legs and was lifted. The troll roared in his face as acidic spittle hit the man. Sending him screaming. The troll bit into him and removed his head. Throwing the body away it turned to see Oleg pulling back. Behind them Norscan forces were slashing into the back ranks and now he was alone with the troll.
"Ursen protect me." He says as he grasps a small bear icon on his waist. He roared and went to charge the troll. When suddenly a pair of shots hit it's hand. A finger was blown off and hole through the palm. The weapon fell as Oleg paused. He turned to see an Imperial dressed Elf charging in. He paused. This was such a strange sight.
"By Sigmar and Ursen you will die!" He shouted and drew his blade. He snuck behind the troll and hacked it's legs. The flesh quickly began to heal. This wasn't good. Oleg saw the Elf barely dodging the troll and could see it's fingers growing back. He looked around and saw an ironic piece of salvation. A burning chunk of wood from one of the bear wagons that was destroyed by the dragon flickered in the snow. The Dragons flames seemed to linger where they hit. Oleg undid small oil vial. Somethingkept for use in lanturns and emergency fire fuel. Pouring the oil on his blade he dipped it in the blue fire. As it was covered in the flames he charged. A swing of the trolls man nearly knocked Fal cold.
"Elf!" Oleg shouted and fired his last shot. It hit the trolls eye and it roared in pain. Fal looked up at his saviour. The troll angrily turned to him. Charging Oleg with a roar as it's eye began to heal. Fal then saw the sword covered in flame. Understanding the plan he lunged. Hitting the troll in the lower back cried out and swung back. Fal barely dodged and it swung back and broke the blade. Oleg saw his chance and struck. Driving the blade up and into the trolls throat. A fierce cry had him swing and due to some force. His rage, the empowerment of Ursen maybe, or the magical properties of the flames he carved off the trolls head. It stumbled back. No blood came from the cauterised wound and it fell over dead. Fal came over to Oleg. A grin on their faces in the aftermath. A sudden cry ran out and turning they saw the the massive form of the Chaos Dragon fall to the ground. As the body hit the sounds of battle changed. The Chaos forces turned and began to flee.
In the aftermath of the great battle the sruviving men, just over thirteen hundred in total embraced and drank. Sorrowful prayers were given for the dead but in Kislevite fashion drinks were had and cheers of victory given. Celebrating the battles victory and thanking those that didn't make it. Fal and Oleg got to talking. Both feeling the pains of battle catching up as wounds burned and pulled muscles ached. They laughed and had drinks.
"Brilliant move with that flaming blade."
"And foolishly brave play to charge the troll like that." Oleg smirked back. "You don't see Elves in Imperial clothes. Who are you anyway?" Fal smirked.
"Fal. And who I am is a bit of a story."
"Well I've got all night." Oleg says as they clink mugs. Over the night they shared tales and stories. Both enjoyed the others habits and whims. By the end Oleg held out a knife. He pulled it over his hand and Fal did the same. They gripped hands. "An oath in blood for allies till the end. Till our final days and even by Ursens side."
"For as long as we remain. Blood brother." Fal continues and Oleg winces. Feeling the stinging in his hand.
Back in the tavern Oleg looks to the scar on his hand.
"And that sums it up. Isn't it how you remember?"
"I think the Troll lost two fingers when I shot actually." Oleg laughs.
"Details details." The two simply smiled having recounted the battle of their first meeting. Then looking over to the other two for their response to such a story.
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