The old man kept whittling down the Skaven's numbers, his sword gaining a fresh coat of blood along the way. The Lustrian beverage from earlier was certainly not aiding his efforts as he was panting like a sick dog much earlier in the attack than what would be his norm.
Feeling like he needed a little bit more of an edge in this fight, he discreetly decided to make use of his order's training. Once he had dealt with the group attacking himself, he tucked into a back-alley and started casting a spell. With any luck, it would aid them immensely.
The Skaven closest to him would suddenly stop as they realise something was not quite right on the battlefield. All around them, they saw nothing but a pitch black space. Around them, they could hear only faint echoes of the battlefield, but other than that? Silence. The air around them was chilling, making their fur stand on end as they tried to figure out what sorcery was behind their plight.
SLASH
Without warning, one of their kin dropped dead, his red blood spilling onto what appeared to be nothing but emptiness in place of the ground. Their beady eyes scanned the dark, trying to find their elusive killer but they only saw the void, staring back at them with the same cold intensity as the old man were he visible.
The old man smirked, finally being able to use his talents after weeks undercover - he would enjoy this.
Feeling like he needed a little bit more of an edge in this fight, he discreetly decided to make use of his order's training. Once he had dealt with the group attacking himself, he tucked into a back-alley and started casting a spell. With any luck, it would aid them immensely.
The Skaven closest to him would suddenly stop as they realise something was not quite right on the battlefield. All around them, they saw nothing but a pitch black space. Around them, they could hear only faint echoes of the battlefield, but other than that? Silence. The air around them was chilling, making their fur stand on end as they tried to figure out what sorcery was behind their plight.
SLASH
Without warning, one of their kin dropped dead, his red blood spilling onto what appeared to be nothing but emptiness in place of the ground. Their beady eyes scanned the dark, trying to find their elusive killer but they only saw the void, staring back at them with the same cold intensity as the old man were he visible.
The old man smirked, finally being able to use his talents after weeks undercover - he would enjoy this.
(This is a lore post, and is not meant to interrupt the turn cycle. Falderan's turn is still in effect)
Clad within the deplorable sigils of Skavendom, the looming Rotflag observed the ever-swelling horde of his minions as they ran to the surface, eager to bring the City of Pirates unto ruin. The uncountable scratching of paws and feet that grated upon the stone path were thundrous in sound. Screeches of hatred for the no-furs, delirious chantings to the Horned One, and even howls of agony - made by those who were too indecisive to emerge to the surface, slaughtered and devoured for their cowardice - these sounds echoed throughout the tunnels. Rotflag's hideous maw grinned under the shadow of his green helm. The Skurvy-rats had already routed these unworthy brigands once before; with he, the abomination at the front, they would have no chance.
"How did master-lord invoke the Horned One like that?" Chittered Squeekocrateez, who had accompanied Rotflag to the fateful bridge, the very grounds where the Sartosans themselves were routed. Bodies no longer littered the killing grounds as they had done before, for the Skaven were ever-voracious cretins and even the very bones of their enemies were necessary to gnaw upon, at least to keep the Black Hunger at bay.
"'Twas a divination, Moulder-rat." Chuckled the colossal Warlord. "From the very crevices of my mind, I brought forth his will unto the mortal plane, his foul blessings repaid in the souls of mortal men." Explained Rotflag, his words no longer bore the usual gnashing and chittering that Skaven speech was infamous for. It was as though he had ascended to become more than Skaven, as the rudimentary transplant upon this immortal body had bore some suspicious complications. Though none of the Skaven dared to inquire, lest they be squished to a pulp by the mighty form of their lord.
"But Rotflag cannot command-slave winds of magic!" Replied the astounded Moulder Surgeon. "Only Grey Seer Uretchin is strong-powerful enough, and he is-"
"Hush, Squeekocrateez..." Hissed Rotflag, kneeling down to the Surgeon's level who suddenly quivered in terror for his life. "Beware of the consequence sputtering Uretchin's name like that may bring. One revolt has already reared itself from such idle talk; perhaps your life will be lost in the next." The Surgeon nodded, shaking as he prostrated to his master. And as he did, another figure approached the two of them, veiled in total darkness, barring the eyes of the living shadow: Guyel.
"I slew the bridge troll for Skurvy and Eshin!" Cackled the Assassin, before bowing at Rotflag's spiked boots, though not with the same apprehension as his Moulder peer had shown. "I shall slay many more no-fur champions in their names."
Rotflag snickered. "You speak as though any upon the surface are worthy of my attention."
"Master should not be so quick-fast to judge." Argued Guyel as he rose. "There were great warriors and monsters that would have slay-killed the Stormvermin host had I not joined the battle, and a dangerous Elf-thing as quick-fast as the Death Runners themselves. I do not think our skirmish with the no-furs would've ended in victory, had I not interfered."
Rotflag brooded on the Assassin's words of warning; the loud scratching upon the stonework were now synchronized as the elite Stormvermin marched forward to the jade haze above, halberds gripped tightly in both paws. Conscripted slaves ran reluctantly alongside them, merely as cannon fodder to be slain as the armoured Ratfolk steeled themselves.
"Very well, Eshin-rat; I will indulge you for now." Conceded Rotflag. "In that knowledge, I demand that you pave the way for my introduction to these... champions. Ascend to the surface, ease our casualties with what tools of Eshin you hold, but do not engage this Elf that you speak of, for his head is reserved for my belt alone."
"As is the Master's will." Grinned the psychotic Assassin, gifting Rotflag with a short bow before making his way to the surface, though not alongside the droves of meatshield Skavenslaves. "It will rain Man-blood this day!" Howled Guyel, his terrible laughter echoing throughout the tunnels, almost dulling the solemn march itself.
"And what of Anglermaw?" Asked the Surgeon abruptly. "He too is our enemy; he'll likely approach us one way or another."
"And what of it?" Returned a spiteful Rotflag. "If he comes, he comes. As certain as that may be, it holds no consequence for either of us, for he hold no station among the Skaven anymore. Like the Elf, Anglermaw's head will also adorn my waist. But time is fleeting, and the gongs have rung underneath the soil already. I shall join Guyel on the surface very shortly. As for you, return to the Undercity. Moulder's services may still be of use to me in due time."
Squeekocrateez bowed as he heard his order uttering not a word inbetween, though silent prayers of mercy to the Horned One could be heard from the Surgeon's chittering teeth as he scampered back to the encampment. With his advisor now indisposed, Rotflag turned his head toward the jade fog that cloaked the surface, and begun his silent, inevitable march, uttering sacreligious chants that were not native to the cultures of any servant of a Horned Rat, but to a much darker, evil pantheon.
"I am the black merchant of the Dark Gods, for I offer the swelling lives of the masses in return of the immortality of my own."
---MEANWHILE, WITHIN THE SEWERS OF SARTOSA---
Clad within the deplorable sigils of Skavendom, the looming Rotflag observed the ever-swelling horde of his minions as they ran to the surface, eager to bring the City of Pirates unto ruin. The uncountable scratching of paws and feet that grated upon the stone path were thundrous in sound. Screeches of hatred for the no-furs, delirious chantings to the Horned One, and even howls of agony - made by those who were too indecisive to emerge to the surface, slaughtered and devoured for their cowardice - these sounds echoed throughout the tunnels. Rotflag's hideous maw grinned under the shadow of his green helm. The Skurvy-rats had already routed these unworthy brigands once before; with he, the abomination at the front, they would have no chance.
"How did master-lord invoke the Horned One like that?" Chittered Squeekocrateez, who had accompanied Rotflag to the fateful bridge, the very grounds where the Sartosans themselves were routed. Bodies no longer littered the killing grounds as they had done before, for the Skaven were ever-voracious cretins and even the very bones of their enemies were necessary to gnaw upon, at least to keep the Black Hunger at bay.
"'Twas a divination, Moulder-rat." Chuckled the colossal Warlord. "From the very crevices of my mind, I brought forth his will unto the mortal plane, his foul blessings repaid in the souls of mortal men." Explained Rotflag, his words no longer bore the usual gnashing and chittering that Skaven speech was infamous for. It was as though he had ascended to become more than Skaven, as the rudimentary transplant upon this immortal body had bore some suspicious complications. Though none of the Skaven dared to inquire, lest they be squished to a pulp by the mighty form of their lord.
"But Rotflag cannot command-slave winds of magic!" Replied the astounded Moulder Surgeon. "Only Grey Seer Uretchin is strong-powerful enough, and he is-"
"Hush, Squeekocrateez..." Hissed Rotflag, kneeling down to the Surgeon's level who suddenly quivered in terror for his life. "Beware of the consequence sputtering Uretchin's name like that may bring. One revolt has already reared itself from such idle talk; perhaps your life will be lost in the next." The Surgeon nodded, shaking as he prostrated to his master. And as he did, another figure approached the two of them, veiled in total darkness, barring the eyes of the living shadow: Guyel.
"I slew the bridge troll for Skurvy and Eshin!" Cackled the Assassin, before bowing at Rotflag's spiked boots, though not with the same apprehension as his Moulder peer had shown. "I shall slay many more no-fur champions in their names."
Rotflag snickered. "You speak as though any upon the surface are worthy of my attention."
"Master should not be so quick-fast to judge." Argued Guyel as he rose. "There were great warriors and monsters that would have slay-killed the Stormvermin host had I not joined the battle, and a dangerous Elf-thing as quick-fast as the Death Runners themselves. I do not think our skirmish with the no-furs would've ended in victory, had I not interfered."
Rotflag brooded on the Assassin's words of warning; the loud scratching upon the stonework were now synchronized as the elite Stormvermin marched forward to the jade haze above, halberds gripped tightly in both paws. Conscripted slaves ran reluctantly alongside them, merely as cannon fodder to be slain as the armoured Ratfolk steeled themselves.
"Very well, Eshin-rat; I will indulge you for now." Conceded Rotflag. "In that knowledge, I demand that you pave the way for my introduction to these... champions. Ascend to the surface, ease our casualties with what tools of Eshin you hold, but do not engage this Elf that you speak of, for his head is reserved for my belt alone."
"As is the Master's will." Grinned the psychotic Assassin, gifting Rotflag with a short bow before making his way to the surface, though not alongside the droves of meatshield Skavenslaves. "It will rain Man-blood this day!" Howled Guyel, his terrible laughter echoing throughout the tunnels, almost dulling the solemn march itself.
"And what of Anglermaw?" Asked the Surgeon abruptly. "He too is our enemy; he'll likely approach us one way or another."
"And what of it?" Returned a spiteful Rotflag. "If he comes, he comes. As certain as that may be, it holds no consequence for either of us, for he hold no station among the Skaven anymore. Like the Elf, Anglermaw's head will also adorn my waist. But time is fleeting, and the gongs have rung underneath the soil already. I shall join Guyel on the surface very shortly. As for you, return to the Undercity. Moulder's services may still be of use to me in due time."
Squeekocrateez bowed as he heard his order uttering not a word inbetween, though silent prayers of mercy to the Horned One could be heard from the Surgeon's chittering teeth as he scampered back to the encampment. With his advisor now indisposed, Rotflag turned his head toward the jade fog that cloaked the surface, and begun his silent, inevitable march, uttering sacreligious chants that were not native to the cultures of any servant of a Horned Rat, but to a much darker, evil pantheon.
"I am the black merchant of the Dark Gods, for I offer the swelling lives of the masses in return of the immortality of my own."
(Continued)
Guyel scampered toward one of the more segregated tunnels; one that would take him by the city outskirts, far from the frontlines. His black veil rendered him a ghost among the isolated tunnels - and had it not - he could've been certain that others of the Skurvy brood would take notice and follow onward. It mean't no difference in truth, for Guyel held no conscience for what bloody fate the Skurvy folk met, only the obscene amount of tokens he would earn for his tireless service.
Above the manhole, did the Assassin leap beyond, like some terrible mammalian flea. His presence startled a couple of ragged scragglers that kept watch on that entrance to the sewer. Just in case any of the more free-thinking Ratfolk decided to take a gamble. Unfortunately for these fellows, they were not prepared for one of Guyel's fearless caliber, and thus were individually slaughtered before a weapon could be raised. The fresh scent of blood was indeed a perfume-like aroma to the Skaven; Rotflag himself had noticed some of the Skurvy host changing their course. A mere moment after the Sartosan blood was spilt onto the stonework - after Guyel himself climbed the city walls to survey the battlefield - Skaven heads protruded from the cover of darkness, eager for a bite of the fresh feast presented to them.
"T-this area is clear-clear." One of the vermin chittered as he dug his teeth into Human flesh.
"Others pour forth, yes-yes!" Another agreed, this one in particular a Stormvermin. "We found flank-flank! Surround pirates for Rotflag! Devour from behind!"
The Skaven raced on, leaving the gnawed carcasses to rot as fresh unassuming quarry made itself available; Skaven picked off the mercenaries that fought within the enclosed alleyways, unable to hold out against the tide of fur. The civilians that took refuge within their homes were not safe either, as Clanrats invaded through the open windows, gnawing through whatever barriers lay in their wake. Screams of agony were abound, but the abject choir of women and children now joined the acapella of misery.
"Sigmar's holy grace!" Hans commented, looking on in horror as his host once again found itself beset by the vermintide, just like the battle below. "Is no one safe from these Demons?!"
"Drown their screams out with those of the Rats, boy!" Alejandro said, making short work of yet another group of the cowardly beasts.
Guyel himself observed the Estalians from afar, and came to the conclusion that they played an integral part in preventing Skaven dominion from being total; much like the Elf-thing, these fellows could not be curbed by mere numbers. They would have to be assassinated.
"How the bloody Hell are we suddenly beset like this?! We're supposed to be winning!" A stressed Miguel wondered aloud, stained in the claret of his foes. "We need everyone at the alleyways or we'll be picked off!"
Although he had not finished, Miguel had suddenly found himself accosted by one his own men, as a boomerang-like blade flew across, colourfully evicting a good number of Sartosan heads from their bodies. Before any of the warriors could even process what had occured, a rudimentary cannister rolled toward them, exuding a sickly vapour from it's shell. None could speak, let alone grant orders. They could only choke in their helplessness -- and amidst the cacophany of coughing and sputtering, a sharp cackle pierced the noxious fog; it's owner dispatching the victims that writhed within.
Hans himself was caught within the haze, trembling onto his knees. His mind now perforated by the insane sense of panic this surprise attack had wrought upon him, he was not able to comprehend that this was indeed the end. There was no Miguel to save him now, for he too was caught within the fog. Everything faded to black, death was certain.
Guyel scampered toward one of the more segregated tunnels; one that would take him by the city outskirts, far from the frontlines. His black veil rendered him a ghost among the isolated tunnels - and had it not - he could've been certain that others of the Skurvy brood would take notice and follow onward. It mean't no difference in truth, for Guyel held no conscience for what bloody fate the Skurvy folk met, only the obscene amount of tokens he would earn for his tireless service.
Above the manhole, did the Assassin leap beyond, like some terrible mammalian flea. His presence startled a couple of ragged scragglers that kept watch on that entrance to the sewer. Just in case any of the more free-thinking Ratfolk decided to take a gamble. Unfortunately for these fellows, they were not prepared for one of Guyel's fearless caliber, and thus were individually slaughtered before a weapon could be raised. The fresh scent of blood was indeed a perfume-like aroma to the Skaven; Rotflag himself had noticed some of the Skurvy host changing their course. A mere moment after the Sartosan blood was spilt onto the stonework - after Guyel himself climbed the city walls to survey the battlefield - Skaven heads protruded from the cover of darkness, eager for a bite of the fresh feast presented to them.
"T-this area is clear-clear." One of the vermin chittered as he dug his teeth into Human flesh.
"Others pour forth, yes-yes!" Another agreed, this one in particular a Stormvermin. "We found flank-flank! Surround pirates for Rotflag! Devour from behind!"
The Skaven raced on, leaving the gnawed carcasses to rot as fresh unassuming quarry made itself available; Skaven picked off the mercenaries that fought within the enclosed alleyways, unable to hold out against the tide of fur. The civilians that took refuge within their homes were not safe either, as Clanrats invaded through the open windows, gnawing through whatever barriers lay in their wake. Screams of agony were abound, but the abject choir of women and children now joined the acapella of misery.
"Sigmar's holy grace!" Hans commented, looking on in horror as his host once again found itself beset by the vermintide, just like the battle below. "Is no one safe from these Demons?!"
"Drown their screams out with those of the Rats, boy!" Alejandro said, making short work of yet another group of the cowardly beasts.
Guyel himself observed the Estalians from afar, and came to the conclusion that they played an integral part in preventing Skaven dominion from being total; much like the Elf-thing, these fellows could not be curbed by mere numbers. They would have to be assassinated.
"How the bloody Hell are we suddenly beset like this?! We're supposed to be winning!" A stressed Miguel wondered aloud, stained in the claret of his foes. "We need everyone at the alleyways or we'll be picked off!"
Although he had not finished, Miguel had suddenly found himself accosted by one his own men, as a boomerang-like blade flew across, colourfully evicting a good number of Sartosan heads from their bodies. Before any of the warriors could even process what had occured, a rudimentary cannister rolled toward them, exuding a sickly vapour from it's shell. None could speak, let alone grant orders. They could only choke in their helplessness -- and amidst the cacophany of coughing and sputtering, a sharp cackle pierced the noxious fog; it's owner dispatching the victims that writhed within.
Hans himself was caught within the haze, trembling onto his knees. His mind now perforated by the insane sense of panic this surprise attack had wrought upon him, he was not able to comprehend that this was indeed the end. There was no Miguel to save him now, for he too was caught within the fog. Everything faded to black, death was certain.
The old man saw the haze after dealing with a handful of Skaven. He had no idea of the capabilities of the Skaven's chemical warfare though, based on their prior brutality, he knew it couldn't be any less than lethal.
He saw the Reiklander boy become enveloped in the noxious fumes and moved over to assist quickly. He may not know the boy personally but he was kin and if anyone would be looking after him now that his guard was dead, it would be kin. He cast a spell, not particularly wary of someone finding out in the chaos and aimed it at the boy.
Around Hans, flocks of grey wings appeared, swarming about him and obscuring him from both Skaven and Sartosan eyes. After a few seconds, the wings moved out of the fumes, taking Hans with them and eventually disappeared after taking the Reiklander to a safe location.
"Mind yourself, boy!" the old man shouted from where he cast the spell, "The rats would have your innards for dinner if you don't focus!"
He saw the Reiklander boy become enveloped in the noxious fumes and moved over to assist quickly. He may not know the boy personally but he was kin and if anyone would be looking after him now that his guard was dead, it would be kin. He cast a spell, not particularly wary of someone finding out in the chaos and aimed it at the boy.
Around Hans, flocks of grey wings appeared, swarming about him and obscuring him from both Skaven and Sartosan eyes. After a few seconds, the wings moved out of the fumes, taking Hans with them and eventually disappeared after taking the Reiklander to a safe location.
"Mind yourself, boy!" the old man shouted from where he cast the spell, "The rats would have your innards for dinner if you don't focus!"
The streets ran red with thick rivers of blood. Both Skaven and Man alike. The amount of corpses littering the streets was worse then when plagues hit the countryside. Corpses laid about with various wounds. Some basic stab wounds or slit throats while others were brutalized and cut apart to be almost unrecognizable. It had been several minutes since he had burst into fighting this second wave and by Fal's count he had racked up over three dozen kills. The Skaven continued to prove no match and with his sword and clothing covered in blood saw the weakened numbers flee to find somewhere else to strike. Managing to catch out a fleeing clanrat Fal leaped to him and drove his blade into the vermin's back. Pulling it out the blood on the blade seemed to fade somewhat as he shook it clean. The blades hissing cries were more prominent for Fal as he listened for sounds of combat. The street he was on quieted down but he heard screams of horror as oddly coloured smoke emerged nearby.
Noticing a pathway through an alley that would allow him easy access to this attack site he made his way through against his better judgement. As he ran through he narrowly dodged a set of shuriken that that went for his ankles. From above on the roofs he saw three pairs of beady eyes. Leaping down in unison were three night runners. Skaven trained by Clan Essen for such acts of assassination. They leapt to him and Fal just managed to parry their strikes. Their carried knives and had a duel bladed gauntlet on their right hands. They snarled and leaped forward again slashing. Fal was able to parry their blows but was left vulnerable when one snuck behind him. Holding off the other two around his front he caught sight of the third from the corner of his eye. But before the rodent could drive it's blades into his face a miracle happened. The crack of gunpowder went off as the rat behind Fal flew and hit the wall. Half its head missing and dead. At the other end of the alley was a pirate with a rifle. He began reloading as Fal saw him jumped by two slaves. Sadly Fal couldn't help him as he turned to the other night runners. Fal smirks at them and with his right leg kicks one in the shin. This caused him to drop to his knee and Fal took the moment of weakness. Twisting the blade around he turned the wrist of the other and left them screaming. His blade came down slashing his throat and stabbed the one on its knee in the side of the head. Extracting his blade he rushed to the end of the alley.
Finding the body of the gunman who saved him was a shame. Fal had quickly dispatched of the slaves with ease but found the man was bleeding out from multiple stab wounds. He coughed up thick blood. Fal shook his head.
"I'm sorry." He says quickly cutting the soldiers throat with a clean cut. He didn't linger on it but put the man out of his misery and went on. The odd coloured smoke was up the road and as he ran there he saw the old man from before chanting something. Out of the odd coloured smog came something resembling a flock of birds and then Hans was dropped to the floor. Fal got closer and when within speaking distance made himself known. "That's a neat trick." He says glaring at Reinhold. He looked down to Hans who was now on the ground and back to the old man.
Noticing a pathway through an alley that would allow him easy access to this attack site he made his way through against his better judgement. As he ran through he narrowly dodged a set of shuriken that that went for his ankles. From above on the roofs he saw three pairs of beady eyes. Leaping down in unison were three night runners. Skaven trained by Clan Essen for such acts of assassination. They leapt to him and Fal just managed to parry their strikes. Their carried knives and had a duel bladed gauntlet on their right hands. They snarled and leaped forward again slashing. Fal was able to parry their blows but was left vulnerable when one snuck behind him. Holding off the other two around his front he caught sight of the third from the corner of his eye. But before the rodent could drive it's blades into his face a miracle happened. The crack of gunpowder went off as the rat behind Fal flew and hit the wall. Half its head missing and dead. At the other end of the alley was a pirate with a rifle. He began reloading as Fal saw him jumped by two slaves. Sadly Fal couldn't help him as he turned to the other night runners. Fal smirks at them and with his right leg kicks one in the shin. This caused him to drop to his knee and Fal took the moment of weakness. Twisting the blade around he turned the wrist of the other and left them screaming. His blade came down slashing his throat and stabbed the one on its knee in the side of the head. Extracting his blade he rushed to the end of the alley.
Finding the body of the gunman who saved him was a shame. Fal had quickly dispatched of the slaves with ease but found the man was bleeding out from multiple stab wounds. He coughed up thick blood. Fal shook his head.
"I'm sorry." He says quickly cutting the soldiers throat with a clean cut. He didn't linger on it but put the man out of his misery and went on. The odd coloured smoke was up the road and as he ran there he saw the old man from before chanting something. Out of the odd coloured smog came something resembling a flock of birds and then Hans was dropped to the floor. Fal got closer and when within speaking distance made himself known. "That's a neat trick." He says glaring at Reinhold. He looked down to Hans who was now on the ground and back to the old man.
The Estalians were not ready for Guyel; they had become softened by overconfidence as they reaped a bloody harvest through the cravenous, unwilling clanrats. Bjorn himself had suffered a similar end: intoxicated by the blood he had spilt in the name of whatever obscure grudge he carried, only to be rendered helpless by a member of the Skaven brood that carried a slither of competence to their name. Even then, the Assassin did not face the Dogs of War head on, separating the man-things with whatever tools he carried: The blade-tipped boomerang, a custom commission by the Eshin-rat himself had done the deed quite well in skewing the group's number -- it would be the gas attack that would nail down the coffin shut on these insufferable Man-things.
Surprised, blinded and roaming aimlessly for a release that would not come, the Estalians were defeated; there was simply no contest.
Miguel's body floundered helplessly within the haze, wafting instinctively at the poisonous clouds that had enveloped he and his very men. The primal drive of survival that had overcome the Captain cursed him with indifference to the suffering of his own Estalian kin: He could hear the pleas for help among the sputtering and gagging folk, their gurgled cries of agony as they were hacked to death by an eerie silhouette that was replete with a vile, sadistic laughter. And as Miguel ran to find some escape from the labyrinthine clouds, he found himself clutched by the trembling hands of his own folk as they sank to the ground. Yet, no shock had pierced his rumbling heart, no empathy for his men, only a desire to escape from this deadly fog and it's maker.
But the sickly air merely permeated further; the clouds increased in width, blowing toward the decrepit alleyways and down the plaza, still as repungant as when it was released from it's cannister, as the haze churned the stomachs of not only fierce Sartosan brigands, but also the expendable slaves that fought as meatshields for the Ratfolk. Hans himself had been saved by some miracle, still heaving upon the stone road and deaf to Reinhold's scolding words. But Miguel was not so lucky, shambling upon his knees as he could bear the toxic gauntlet no more...
Until a familiar hand pulled him from the jaws of death, and back into the fray. Freed from the sickly fog, he joined others that had been pulled out in the cacophany of coughs and wheezes, gazing from below at his saviour -- Alejandro, who had by chance alone fought away from the kill zone was spared from the surprise attack.
"By Myrmidia herself, captain! What were the chances?!" Laughed the mercenary, ignorant to his dying brethren as he kicked an oncoming clanrat to the ground. "Lying beside your harem at a time like this?! These bastards aren't gonna end themselves, Capt'n."
"Sk-skav-ven...-in cloud-!" Miguel sputtered, barely coherent as he gagged. The inhuman laugher echoed once more from within, and for the first time many years, the Captain cringed in panic as rodent feet pattered upon the bloody stone road. "Quick! He's coming-!"
The warning was dutily noted, as a black slur emerged from the fog to pounce at Alejandro, who had parried in time, solely in thanks to Miguel's warning. The Estalian cringed as he stepped back, bearing his sword at the shadowy beast -- this one was not like the other vermin. This Skaven was... oddly brave, concentrated, and bloodthirsty.
"You, Man-thing..." Wheezed the Assassin as he stared down his prey. "You are ruining my feast. I will make you watch-listen as you witness your friends eaten live-live by my Rats!"
Alejandro returned the Assassin's threat with a spit to the ground. "Well, those Rats of yours, they're going to be disappointed when they see me stomping on your lifeless body." Alejandro said, before changing his stance to better suit his foe. "You're going to look like rotten fruit when I'm finished with you."
The Eshin-rat replied with a swing of his dagger, initating the duel as both warriors parried and swung, exchanging blows amidst the cries of agony emanating from the dying mercenaries.
Surprised, blinded and roaming aimlessly for a release that would not come, the Estalians were defeated; there was simply no contest.
Miguel's body floundered helplessly within the haze, wafting instinctively at the poisonous clouds that had enveloped he and his very men. The primal drive of survival that had overcome the Captain cursed him with indifference to the suffering of his own Estalian kin: He could hear the pleas for help among the sputtering and gagging folk, their gurgled cries of agony as they were hacked to death by an eerie silhouette that was replete with a vile, sadistic laughter. And as Miguel ran to find some escape from the labyrinthine clouds, he found himself clutched by the trembling hands of his own folk as they sank to the ground. Yet, no shock had pierced his rumbling heart, no empathy for his men, only a desire to escape from this deadly fog and it's maker.
But the sickly air merely permeated further; the clouds increased in width, blowing toward the decrepit alleyways and down the plaza, still as repungant as when it was released from it's cannister, as the haze churned the stomachs of not only fierce Sartosan brigands, but also the expendable slaves that fought as meatshields for the Ratfolk. Hans himself had been saved by some miracle, still heaving upon the stone road and deaf to Reinhold's scolding words. But Miguel was not so lucky, shambling upon his knees as he could bear the toxic gauntlet no more...
Until a familiar hand pulled him from the jaws of death, and back into the fray. Freed from the sickly fog, he joined others that had been pulled out in the cacophany of coughs and wheezes, gazing from below at his saviour -- Alejandro, who had by chance alone fought away from the kill zone was spared from the surprise attack.
"By Myrmidia herself, captain! What were the chances?!" Laughed the mercenary, ignorant to his dying brethren as he kicked an oncoming clanrat to the ground. "Lying beside your harem at a time like this?! These bastards aren't gonna end themselves, Capt'n."
"Sk-skav-ven...-in cloud-!" Miguel sputtered, barely coherent as he gagged. The inhuman laugher echoed once more from within, and for the first time many years, the Captain cringed in panic as rodent feet pattered upon the bloody stone road. "Quick! He's coming-!"
The warning was dutily noted, as a black slur emerged from the fog to pounce at Alejandro, who had parried in time, solely in thanks to Miguel's warning. The Estalian cringed as he stepped back, bearing his sword at the shadowy beast -- this one was not like the other vermin. This Skaven was... oddly brave, concentrated, and bloodthirsty.
"You, Man-thing..." Wheezed the Assassin as he stared down his prey. "You are ruining my feast. I will make you watch-listen as you witness your friends eaten live-live by my Rats!"
Alejandro returned the Assassin's threat with a spit to the ground. "Well, those Rats of yours, they're going to be disappointed when they see me stomping on your lifeless body." Alejandro said, before changing his stance to better suit his foe. "You're going to look like rotten fruit when I'm finished with you."
The Eshin-rat replied with a swing of his dagger, initating the duel as both warriors parried and swung, exchanging blows amidst the cries of agony emanating from the dying mercenaries.
Freya had escaped to the scarce sanctity of the rooftops. The limited armor she’d managed to don at the bell’s pealing was haphazardly thrown over her bedclothes; one grieve and her scale jacket - improperly tied and flapping loosely under the empty scabbard tied around her waist. Her two handed long sword had proven itself near useless in the tight confines of a skirmish in a hallway; better suited to wedge across a room’s door as she fled through the window. ‘Might as well be naked,’ she thought, glancing down upon the chaotic melee in the streets all around. Still… The string of her bow twanged, sending both arrow and its impaled fur matted target tumbling off the roof to join the carnage below. There was no time for exultation; the vermin river on her heels seemed endless and she was running out of options to avoid drowning in them. Her pale skin and scale were a beacon and it was only her longer stride that had thus far kept her ahead of the lethal wave. Darting across the roof, she scanned her eyes across the expanse of a wider main road, setting them on the next building.
‘Too far!’ The realization came late as she launched herself over the divide. ”Khaine,” she spat, barely catching her toes on the edge in a wild attempt to adjust her trajectory to something more favorable than the adjacent thick timbered and plastered edifice. A bay window protruding from the second floor would have to do. Cat-like she contorted herself, arching over onto her back, then curling into a linen and scale cannonball; her bow let loose to plunge lance like to the ground. …How many eternities had passed since she had been at war with the forest canopy? She was woefully out of practice. Her chaotic thoughts clawed at the winds, strangling enough to bruise into a whispered cantrip. Putrid Dhar ran vile on her tongue, she slammed into the wall above the narrow wood slatted roof. She’d sworn off such dark magicks after William’s unexpected death, but times were desperate. Or perhaps the ruinous draw was merely too great.
Plaster shattered as she impacted just above the bay roof, but the wooden lattice and hardened daub behind it rejected her intrusion; sending her rolling across the narrow eave. The foul absorption invocation had kept her conscious, but, perhaps as punishment for her relapse, she unfurled dazed and fully on her back. A frantic backhanded grab at the roof edge did little to slow her sled-like descent and cobblestone pavers failed to soften the long drop. The wind thoroughly knocked out of her, and her spine protesting loudly, she lay motionless. The din of battle waned abruptly, her barely conscious thoughts snagging on softer comforts of straw stuffed beds. Perhaps it was for the best to lie still and rest a moment… Or forever… Perhaps it was finally time for her to join Khaine’s grand army after all. Something dark naggled deep within her mind; a giant eye sprouting wicked teeth lashes, pink fleshy tendrils writhing up from the ground, seeking to drag her consciousness into the chaos realm. She reacted fiercely to the ominous vision, whispering fevered repentances as she clawed her way back into the far less violent reality of the mortal realm.
Her eyes rolled to their proper center, opening upon the bloody horrors unfolding like a macabre theater around her. A rapier style blade clattered to the pavers nearby, it’s bloodied hand still attached. Taking it as a sure sign from Khaine, she struggled to her knees and crawled over to claim it. Not exactly her weapon of choice, the supple blade was far too flexible for her slash and thrust style. Still, it worked to clumsily pierce the ankle of the hand owner’s murderer; sending the loudly chittering vermin tumbling and buying her enough time to dart toward her lost bow. A worthy actor in the lethal play, the smooth worn wood came into her hand and spun to bare upon a pursuant rat, an arrow drawn from her quiver and sighted with fluid instinct as she pulled taught the string to unloose the bolt. Apparently this particular act was cast as a tragic comedy; the heavy barbed metal tip swung like pendulum from its broken shaft. In a seemingly eternal split second elf and rat eyes alike widened in surprise at the unexpected turn of events.
A grim smile found ironically amused purchase upon her lips as the vermin’s forward momentum was added to by a leaping attack. A solid thunk rang out as she deflected the sweeping strike of his blade with her sturdy bow’s arm, a guttural sound escaping her as she met its charge and sunk the broken arrow shaft into the side of its neck. The stench of raw sewage nearly overwhelmed her and she gagged as she was essentially bowled over by the abruptly flailing vermin. It wasn’t a mortal wound, but the filthy creature became briefly preoccupied with clawing at the protruding gored fletch. A wide arcing swing of her bow laid her imbalanced foe out and she pounced on it; tearing the wickedly curved dagger from its paw. Finally armed, and in her favored element, she cleaved a gaping lightning wound from ear hole to sternum. Disengaging from the reeking pelt she fled before the horde of rats; zagging into the, hopefully, relative safety of a narrower side road.
Barked orders percolated her ears as she took a slightly more measured stock of her increasingly dire situation. Chattel soldiers... She zigged onto another side alley, snaking her way between buildings in that direction. They made for decent enough living shields - though given the circumstances, even temporary alliance with humans seemed more favorable to her survival than facing endless waves of ratmen alone. She had five good arrows and the much too short skaven blade. Khaine willing the imbecilic humans would at least suffice to provide cover for her escape from the seemingly overrun town. An eerily abrupt silence to the stream of commands gave her pause. Warily she glanced around a corner, her view of the alley’s outlet mostly blocked in a foul cloud, but ethereally obscured bent forms moved within. Perhaps not that one… She pushed onward to another turn. Glancing quickly down a more traveled road splitting the buildings, she caught sight of the groups remains that had managed to sputter and claw their way out of the rat infested smoke. Not appealing in the slightest. Her eyes darted the opposite direction, and further; toward the outskirts of the overrun town.
Her pale almost sickly hued skin, linen pantaloons’, and scale jacket mired in foul muck and rat blood, the bedraggled Freya rapidly approached the trio blocking her escape with her absconded dagger drawn. ”Stand aside rabble! I’d just as soon kill the lot of you than become trophy to the likes of that horde.” Slowing warily, unsure of their allegiances nor skills, Freya’s eyes completed a swift assessment of the group. Her ears knifed backward to the nearing sound of combat behind, but she dared not take her eyes off the possible foe in front of her. The prone younger human would seemingly be out of this fight. The older human smelled of ruinous veins - it was a shame Ya’Ganith wasn’t at her side to feast upon the frail wrought, even so she largely discounted his relevance. Her blade remained at the ready to eliminate the greater threat first should such be required. She offered the elf a faint nod of kinship recognition; “Do you dare to defy the Will of Khaine, Brother?,” she asked in harsh Druhir darkened Eltharin, ”Worthy sacrifices are always appreciated, but perhaps your blood would be better spilt under another moon.”
‘Too far!’ The realization came late as she launched herself over the divide. ”Khaine,” she spat, barely catching her toes on the edge in a wild attempt to adjust her trajectory to something more favorable than the adjacent thick timbered and plastered edifice. A bay window protruding from the second floor would have to do. Cat-like she contorted herself, arching over onto her back, then curling into a linen and scale cannonball; her bow let loose to plunge lance like to the ground. …How many eternities had passed since she had been at war with the forest canopy? She was woefully out of practice. Her chaotic thoughts clawed at the winds, strangling enough to bruise into a whispered cantrip. Putrid Dhar ran vile on her tongue, she slammed into the wall above the narrow wood slatted roof. She’d sworn off such dark magicks after William’s unexpected death, but times were desperate. Or perhaps the ruinous draw was merely too great.
Plaster shattered as she impacted just above the bay roof, but the wooden lattice and hardened daub behind it rejected her intrusion; sending her rolling across the narrow eave. The foul absorption invocation had kept her conscious, but, perhaps as punishment for her relapse, she unfurled dazed and fully on her back. A frantic backhanded grab at the roof edge did little to slow her sled-like descent and cobblestone pavers failed to soften the long drop. The wind thoroughly knocked out of her, and her spine protesting loudly, she lay motionless. The din of battle waned abruptly, her barely conscious thoughts snagging on softer comforts of straw stuffed beds. Perhaps it was for the best to lie still and rest a moment… Or forever… Perhaps it was finally time for her to join Khaine’s grand army after all. Something dark naggled deep within her mind; a giant eye sprouting wicked teeth lashes, pink fleshy tendrils writhing up from the ground, seeking to drag her consciousness into the chaos realm. She reacted fiercely to the ominous vision, whispering fevered repentances as she clawed her way back into the far less violent reality of the mortal realm.
Her eyes rolled to their proper center, opening upon the bloody horrors unfolding like a macabre theater around her. A rapier style blade clattered to the pavers nearby, it’s bloodied hand still attached. Taking it as a sure sign from Khaine, she struggled to her knees and crawled over to claim it. Not exactly her weapon of choice, the supple blade was far too flexible for her slash and thrust style. Still, it worked to clumsily pierce the ankle of the hand owner’s murderer; sending the loudly chittering vermin tumbling and buying her enough time to dart toward her lost bow. A worthy actor in the lethal play, the smooth worn wood came into her hand and spun to bare upon a pursuant rat, an arrow drawn from her quiver and sighted with fluid instinct as she pulled taught the string to unloose the bolt. Apparently this particular act was cast as a tragic comedy; the heavy barbed metal tip swung like pendulum from its broken shaft. In a seemingly eternal split second elf and rat eyes alike widened in surprise at the unexpected turn of events.
A grim smile found ironically amused purchase upon her lips as the vermin’s forward momentum was added to by a leaping attack. A solid thunk rang out as she deflected the sweeping strike of his blade with her sturdy bow’s arm, a guttural sound escaping her as she met its charge and sunk the broken arrow shaft into the side of its neck. The stench of raw sewage nearly overwhelmed her and she gagged as she was essentially bowled over by the abruptly flailing vermin. It wasn’t a mortal wound, but the filthy creature became briefly preoccupied with clawing at the protruding gored fletch. A wide arcing swing of her bow laid her imbalanced foe out and she pounced on it; tearing the wickedly curved dagger from its paw. Finally armed, and in her favored element, she cleaved a gaping lightning wound from ear hole to sternum. Disengaging from the reeking pelt she fled before the horde of rats; zagging into the, hopefully, relative safety of a narrower side road.
Barked orders percolated her ears as she took a slightly more measured stock of her increasingly dire situation. Chattel soldiers... She zigged onto another side alley, snaking her way between buildings in that direction. They made for decent enough living shields - though given the circumstances, even temporary alliance with humans seemed more favorable to her survival than facing endless waves of ratmen alone. She had five good arrows and the much too short skaven blade. Khaine willing the imbecilic humans would at least suffice to provide cover for her escape from the seemingly overrun town. An eerily abrupt silence to the stream of commands gave her pause. Warily she glanced around a corner, her view of the alley’s outlet mostly blocked in a foul cloud, but ethereally obscured bent forms moved within. Perhaps not that one… She pushed onward to another turn. Glancing quickly down a more traveled road splitting the buildings, she caught sight of the groups remains that had managed to sputter and claw their way out of the rat infested smoke. Not appealing in the slightest. Her eyes darted the opposite direction, and further; toward the outskirts of the overrun town.
Her pale almost sickly hued skin, linen pantaloons’, and scale jacket mired in foul muck and rat blood, the bedraggled Freya rapidly approached the trio blocking her escape with her absconded dagger drawn. ”Stand aside rabble! I’d just as soon kill the lot of you than become trophy to the likes of that horde.” Slowing warily, unsure of their allegiances nor skills, Freya’s eyes completed a swift assessment of the group. Her ears knifed backward to the nearing sound of combat behind, but she dared not take her eyes off the possible foe in front of her. The prone younger human would seemingly be out of this fight. The older human smelled of ruinous veins - it was a shame Ya’Ganith wasn’t at her side to feast upon the frail wrought, even so she largely discounted his relevance. Her blade remained at the ready to eliminate the greater threat first should such be required. She offered the elf a faint nod of kinship recognition; “Do you dare to defy the Will of Khaine, Brother?,” she asked in harsh Druhir darkened Eltharin, ”Worthy sacrifices are always appreciated, but perhaps your blood would be better spilt under another moon.”
The old man, wiping sweat from his brow, turned to see the new elf. She looked fairly capable of making good on her threat, though he was confident that she wouldn't make enemies of absolutely everyone in Sartosa. He also caught a glimpse of what looked like disappointment in her eyes when they scanned over himself; of course, he didn't mind, it just meant his facade worked as it should.
"While I would like to stand here and deal with you, elf, there is a horde of murderous ratmen that require my blade's utmost attention." He didn't want to deal with the late-comer; if it came to a duel, he would be exhausted enough for the dreaded Skaven to pick off like their own fleas. No, that was certainly not the outcome he wished for.
He charged back into the fray, sword held aloft and ready to strike down any of the ruinous rabble that got in its way. Crimson waves of blood erupted from the rats that defied Reinhold and many more were to come. He hadn't the chance to save the Estalian, Miguel, along with the boy and was angered by that fact. He was a pirate, but had this night gone differently, possibly not for much longer.
"While I would like to stand here and deal with you, elf, there is a horde of murderous ratmen that require my blade's utmost attention." He didn't want to deal with the late-comer; if it came to a duel, he would be exhausted enough for the dreaded Skaven to pick off like their own fleas. No, that was certainly not the outcome he wished for.
He charged back into the fray, sword held aloft and ready to strike down any of the ruinous rabble that got in its way. Crimson waves of blood erupted from the rats that defied Reinhold and many more were to come. He hadn't the chance to save the Estalian, Miguel, along with the boy and was angered by that fact. He was a pirate, but had this night gone differently, possibly not for much longer.
Fal glared to Reinhold for a moment as he waited for a response. The area went oddly silent for a brief couple seconds before their little stand off was interrupted. Accusations that the three were rabble and threats of death from a voice not Skaven of Human. The voice was more woven and snake like as the tone had a level of nobility to it. Fal looked over curiously and was shocked by what he saw. An Elf. One of pale skin and and strange coloured hair. The complexion was something that Fal recognized and his grip on his blade tightened.
Her words to him confirmed what he thought. He couldn't understand more then very basic Druhir. He could barely ask for directions much less understand what she spoke to him. However the nod before she spoke seemed less out of aggression and more acknowledgement. He cocked an eyebrow at this and raised his blade.
"Not a tongue which will earn you many friends around here." He says looking her over. Something was off. She gave them warning. Something that your regular Druchii wouldn't do in such a situation. Reinhold pulled up his blade and with a quick remark ran back into the conflict nearby.
Fal looked over the new Elf and down to Hans who laid unconscious.
"So who're you and why speak such a tongue? I'd prefer to understand whatever you're saying to me if you wouldn't mind." He says giving a sarcastic curtsy in a mock motion to regular Elven noble behavior. "If you want to leave then leave. I've got bigger problems then you."
Her words to him confirmed what he thought. He couldn't understand more then very basic Druhir. He could barely ask for directions much less understand what she spoke to him. However the nod before she spoke seemed less out of aggression and more acknowledgement. He cocked an eyebrow at this and raised his blade.
"Not a tongue which will earn you many friends around here." He says looking her over. Something was off. She gave them warning. Something that your regular Druchii wouldn't do in such a situation. Reinhold pulled up his blade and with a quick remark ran back into the conflict nearby.
Fal looked over the new Elf and down to Hans who laid unconscious.
"So who're you and why speak such a tongue? I'd prefer to understand whatever you're saying to me if you wouldn't mind." He says giving a sarcastic curtsy in a mock motion to regular Elven noble behavior. "If you want to leave then leave. I've got bigger problems then you."
Cruely awakened by the corrosive vapour still lingering within his lungs, Hans hauled his upper body from the claret-stained pavement, blind to the danger he was in and desensitized to the bloody reaping of Sartosan souls by the abominable Ratfolk. Primal thoughts of desparation zapped across the boy's mind as he squeezed tightly at his meek chest, in the instinctive hope that perhaps it would dull this agony. But his hands were soon pressed against the plaza roads, choking violently to expell whatever toxic wraith lingered within his body. Splatterings of vomit and saliva soon joined the canvas of bodily fluids as Hans forcibly wretched the pain out of his body. A brief moment of silence ensued afterward, and a cold sweat dripped over the Reiklander's babyfaced chin; panting heavily and oblivious to the arrival of this newcomer. Her contemptuous words were slurred under Hans' hazing subconscious.
Such laxity for the situation was a luxury that the unlucky Miguel did not have, who having suffered a similar fate found himself at the mercy of the Ratfolk; the remnants of the killer clouds pelting his body from the inside and his path to rendezvous rudely blocked that same substance. Under regular circumstances, this was of no consequence; the Skaven that the Estalian and his band had faced up to this point were as threatening as furred, moving targets. Not even the ravenous Stormvermin compared when the sharp end of Miguel's trusty estoc found itself lodged between the ruby rodent eyes. So great and so grand a duelist was he and his folk, that this lingering ailment stood as little more than a small setback. Such an army of cowards could be routed still as easily if the Captain's estoc was fashioned merely from splintered wood...
...But neither Miguel - nor his last remaining fellow - Alejandro, had come across any Skaven with the skill and tenacity as comparable to that of Guyel. The murderer of Bjorn exchanged a flurry of parries with the Estalian, whose sharp judgement and quick acts of retaliation proved him to be greater quarry than the lumbering Dawi. Alejandro's weapon of choice was the curved sabre -- a solid memory of his own amorous escapades within the mysterious sands of Araby. The dashing rogue himself mused on how many foes he had slain for the right to make exotic love as he gained the offensive over the cowled Rat, slowly creeping forward as he swung blow after blow, even when each whirl of the sabre was met with the clang of a parry or a whiff of the wind as the Eshin-rat barely dodged to side, the better duelist was obvious.
Miguel himself could take no chances, however. Wheezing from the lime cloud still behind him, he stood himself up, pushing his arms up from the bodies of fallen to ease this herculean task. Even still, agony coursed through his body; every joint seemed to ache as though it was ready to tear from the very bone. Desperate, Miguel searched the dead and dying for a weapon -- one that could numb this Skaven bastard from behind. But his movements were slow and unsteady, wrought by dizziness from his affliction.
Too slow indeed, for as the cocky Alejandro prepared for a quick, decisive slash to the Eshin's skull, Guyel had toyed with his prey for long enough. Before the poor sod could react, Guyel lunged upon Alejandro's breastplate; the claws upon his feet latched tightly through the Southern linen and into the tanned flesh. Surprised by the sudden jolt of pain, Alejandro was rendered helpless as a pair of corrugated daggers came down onto both sides of his temple. Alejandro's death was instant; he sank to the ground the moment both blades tore into his skull. Such a gracious mercy upon this battlefield, where most fighting men were unceremoniously devoured alive. Though Miguel himself could not bear the sight, gawking wide eyed and open mouthed with total despair, as he came to understand - that within the span of merely a few moments - his entire crew had been slain.
Guyel lifted himself from the vanquished, tearing his bloody daggers from Alejandro's punctured temples. The ensuing squelch made Miguel wretch and sob over the death of his band. Guyel crooked his head back to the humiliated Captain, surrounded by his own broken peers, and returned the miserable wailings with his own gutteral laughter.
"What is the matter, Man-thing?" Wondered an approaching Guyel, bringing Miguel to his knees. "Not so keen to the sight of blood and murder-death when it is one's own litter being slaughtered, are we-we?" Guyel brought the Captain's tearful face closer to his veiled maw, and stared deep into the fear-ridden eyes. "But don't worry, Man-thing. You and your friends, yes-yes..." He whispered, still jittering from the cravings of the Black Hunger.
"...You will all make a good feast for the Clanrats!" Raving and bellowing with fiendish laughter, Guyel threw the helpless and horrified Miguel onto the pile of dying Sartosans, too injured to flee in terror or those brave enough to accept their terrible fate, Miguel was a mix of both.
"Skurvy-Rats!" Screamed Guyel, his shout piercing the bellowing of orders and the cries of battle. "Time to eat-dine!" Still ecstatic with laughter, the Assassin escaped into the lime fog - somehow immune to the deadly toxins - leaving Miguel to utter his last prayers. Snarls and rodent hisses quickly deafened the clanging of nearby blades and a number of peering, jeweled eyes manifested from the cloud, lunging into clear view as scores of Ratfolk fresh from the nearby manholes sank their teeth into the wounded.
'Oh Myrmidia, save my soul' Were Miguel's last thoughts, just before a row of Skaven incisors tore into his jugular.
Such laxity for the situation was a luxury that the unlucky Miguel did not have, who having suffered a similar fate found himself at the mercy of the Ratfolk; the remnants of the killer clouds pelting his body from the inside and his path to rendezvous rudely blocked that same substance. Under regular circumstances, this was of no consequence; the Skaven that the Estalian and his band had faced up to this point were as threatening as furred, moving targets. Not even the ravenous Stormvermin compared when the sharp end of Miguel's trusty estoc found itself lodged between the ruby rodent eyes. So great and so grand a duelist was he and his folk, that this lingering ailment stood as little more than a small setback. Such an army of cowards could be routed still as easily if the Captain's estoc was fashioned merely from splintered wood...
...But neither Miguel - nor his last remaining fellow - Alejandro, had come across any Skaven with the skill and tenacity as comparable to that of Guyel. The murderer of Bjorn exchanged a flurry of parries with the Estalian, whose sharp judgement and quick acts of retaliation proved him to be greater quarry than the lumbering Dawi. Alejandro's weapon of choice was the curved sabre -- a solid memory of his own amorous escapades within the mysterious sands of Araby. The dashing rogue himself mused on how many foes he had slain for the right to make exotic love as he gained the offensive over the cowled Rat, slowly creeping forward as he swung blow after blow, even when each whirl of the sabre was met with the clang of a parry or a whiff of the wind as the Eshin-rat barely dodged to side, the better duelist was obvious.
Miguel himself could take no chances, however. Wheezing from the lime cloud still behind him, he stood himself up, pushing his arms up from the bodies of fallen to ease this herculean task. Even still, agony coursed through his body; every joint seemed to ache as though it was ready to tear from the very bone. Desperate, Miguel searched the dead and dying for a weapon -- one that could numb this Skaven bastard from behind. But his movements were slow and unsteady, wrought by dizziness from his affliction.
Too slow indeed, for as the cocky Alejandro prepared for a quick, decisive slash to the Eshin's skull, Guyel had toyed with his prey for long enough. Before the poor sod could react, Guyel lunged upon Alejandro's breastplate; the claws upon his feet latched tightly through the Southern linen and into the tanned flesh. Surprised by the sudden jolt of pain, Alejandro was rendered helpless as a pair of corrugated daggers came down onto both sides of his temple. Alejandro's death was instant; he sank to the ground the moment both blades tore into his skull. Such a gracious mercy upon this battlefield, where most fighting men were unceremoniously devoured alive. Though Miguel himself could not bear the sight, gawking wide eyed and open mouthed with total despair, as he came to understand - that within the span of merely a few moments - his entire crew had been slain.
Guyel lifted himself from the vanquished, tearing his bloody daggers from Alejandro's punctured temples. The ensuing squelch made Miguel wretch and sob over the death of his band. Guyel crooked his head back to the humiliated Captain, surrounded by his own broken peers, and returned the miserable wailings with his own gutteral laughter.
"What is the matter, Man-thing?" Wondered an approaching Guyel, bringing Miguel to his knees. "Not so keen to the sight of blood and murder-death when it is one's own litter being slaughtered, are we-we?" Guyel brought the Captain's tearful face closer to his veiled maw, and stared deep into the fear-ridden eyes. "But don't worry, Man-thing. You and your friends, yes-yes..." He whispered, still jittering from the cravings of the Black Hunger.
"...You will all make a good feast for the Clanrats!" Raving and bellowing with fiendish laughter, Guyel threw the helpless and horrified Miguel onto the pile of dying Sartosans, too injured to flee in terror or those brave enough to accept their terrible fate, Miguel was a mix of both.
"Skurvy-Rats!" Screamed Guyel, his shout piercing the bellowing of orders and the cries of battle. "Time to eat-dine!" Still ecstatic with laughter, the Assassin escaped into the lime fog - somehow immune to the deadly toxins - leaving Miguel to utter his last prayers. Snarls and rodent hisses quickly deafened the clanging of nearby blades and a number of peering, jeweled eyes manifested from the cloud, lunging into clear view as scores of Ratfolk fresh from the nearby manholes sank their teeth into the wounded.
'Oh Myrmidia, save my soul' Were Miguel's last thoughts, just before a row of Skaven incisors tore into his jugular.
“Wh-,” Freya’s was interrupted by the human. The older chattel’s snarky comment bought him her nearest ear’s direct attention, but she let his charge back into the fray pass her unchallenged. Perhaps a miscalculation given that she was without her usual equipmental defenses. The blood drawn by him was unworthy of too much of her concern; having been directed to the horde rather than her back. Yet it rankled her that such a frail pathetic human had stormed into the fur plague. ”Imbecile.” It was not as easy as she’d have liked to write off his foolish bravery. This left the majority of her pride-pricked focus upon her kinsmate… an elf that apparently couldn’t speak their language… Seemingly a kin traitor, perhaps even Asrai, who bartered their fate upon pathetic allegiances with humans.
“What foo’-,” she was interrupted a second time by the elf’s request of her name, and a rather mocking deference to her social status. She smirked heavily at the latter, letting out what looked to be a half-breath of a laugh though the sound of it was lost. “What foo’ are thine t’ seek friends ‘n such a p’ace,” she finally managed to drawl in an odd rolling and hurried common. Fairly assured that the elf was not of mind to challenge her, she turned her blade down behind her forearm and clapped her fist and its pommel to her chest in a hurried and sloppy elven military salute. “General Freya of Nagarythe wil’t speak the tongue of her heritage without thine permission,” she offered in dismissive, weirdly formal introduction.
Feeling secure enough to risk a brief glance to the battle before returning her steely gaze to the elf. “What problem woul’t that be, Brother?,” she said with a sarcastic sneer, “Thine blade can reach past thine nose can it not?” Her questions apparently rhetorical, she waved her hand off her chest dismissively and tucked the curved dagger into her belt behind her back with practiced ease; “Still, if’n thine needs savin’…,” she drew out the last word a hair long, “…I woul’ be willing to barter tha aim o’ mine few remainin’ arra’s fer returnin’ d’re,” she continued in rushed common, thumbing back at the embattled town indicatively. “Fin’ me a decent blade or t’o an’ I’ll bleed-”
The third interruption came from the young man, who disgorged his warp bloodied innards. She laughed in "sympathy." Her amusement with the humans discomfort was extremely short-lived. The final interruption was most displeasing. It was her instincts just as much as her keen hearing that picked up on the abrupt change of the tides; the breaker wall of the chattel soldiers behind her was breeched. She wasn’t surprised, merely she had hoped for a scant bit more time to ply her bargain. She glared at the elf in lethal blood-lust rage. Why hadn’t he attacked her? If he had then she’d not be forced to play this foolish game… “Raise thine blade foo’ a'y,” she yelled at the elf in the sights of her sudden rancorous ire, “Khaine will ensure you rue eternity if you allow me to die mine Brother.”
She spun around to face the Skaven, her bow rolling off her shoulder like liquid and twisting as though it had a mind of its own into her hand. A barbed arrow tip drawn from her quiver traced a bloody path across the side of her neck in passing to the string rapidly drawn. The pulled triangle phased to black-plasma between her fingers, drawing the light and warmth from around her into Dhar aethyr. “Thine life is forfeit to the Will of Khaine,” Freya spoke in frenzied ritualistic tones as she released her fingers. The rapidly corroding barbed tip leapt forth as though shot from a cannon, the seemingly ineffective arrow pitching a hazy tar and blood splatter over the feeding pile and rotting the earth beneath their feet. Some number did begin screeching before falling into guttural sounds; their eyes bleeding as they attempted to tear their own tongues from their mouths.
She hissed unfathomable black speech - the dark arcane tongue rolled into the rat pile, unraveling the fresh rotten patches ground underneath them like a poorly-stitched seams. The center of the pile of rats dropped in height - horrid creatures peeked up from the sudden voids beneath it, lashing out with tendrils and dragging in yet more rats before the torn open earth could restitch itself. “Khaine’s wraith is without mercy,” she spoke again, another arrow tip, adding yet another eventual scar to the vast network of thin lines scattered across her flesh in passing.
“What foo’-,” she was interrupted a second time by the elf’s request of her name, and a rather mocking deference to her social status. She smirked heavily at the latter, letting out what looked to be a half-breath of a laugh though the sound of it was lost. “What foo’ are thine t’ seek friends ‘n such a p’ace,” she finally managed to drawl in an odd rolling and hurried common. Fairly assured that the elf was not of mind to challenge her, she turned her blade down behind her forearm and clapped her fist and its pommel to her chest in a hurried and sloppy elven military salute. “General Freya of Nagarythe wil’t speak the tongue of her heritage without thine permission,” she offered in dismissive, weirdly formal introduction.
Feeling secure enough to risk a brief glance to the battle before returning her steely gaze to the elf. “What problem woul’t that be, Brother?,” she said with a sarcastic sneer, “Thine blade can reach past thine nose can it not?” Her questions apparently rhetorical, she waved her hand off her chest dismissively and tucked the curved dagger into her belt behind her back with practiced ease; “Still, if’n thine needs savin’…,” she drew out the last word a hair long, “…I woul’ be willing to barter tha aim o’ mine few remainin’ arra’s fer returnin’ d’re,” she continued in rushed common, thumbing back at the embattled town indicatively. “Fin’ me a decent blade or t’o an’ I’ll bleed-”
The third interruption came from the young man, who disgorged his warp bloodied innards. She laughed in "sympathy." Her amusement with the humans discomfort was extremely short-lived. The final interruption was most displeasing. It was her instincts just as much as her keen hearing that picked up on the abrupt change of the tides; the breaker wall of the chattel soldiers behind her was breeched. She wasn’t surprised, merely she had hoped for a scant bit more time to ply her bargain. She glared at the elf in lethal blood-lust rage. Why hadn’t he attacked her? If he had then she’d not be forced to play this foolish game… “Raise thine blade foo’ a'y,” she yelled at the elf in the sights of her sudden rancorous ire, “Khaine will ensure you rue eternity if you allow me to die mine Brother.”
She spun around to face the Skaven, her bow rolling off her shoulder like liquid and twisting as though it had a mind of its own into her hand. A barbed arrow tip drawn from her quiver traced a bloody path across the side of her neck in passing to the string rapidly drawn. The pulled triangle phased to black-plasma between her fingers, drawing the light and warmth from around her into Dhar aethyr. “Thine life is forfeit to the Will of Khaine,” Freya spoke in frenzied ritualistic tones as she released her fingers. The rapidly corroding barbed tip leapt forth as though shot from a cannon, the seemingly ineffective arrow pitching a hazy tar and blood splatter over the feeding pile and rotting the earth beneath their feet. Some number did begin screeching before falling into guttural sounds; their eyes bleeding as they attempted to tear their own tongues from their mouths.
She hissed unfathomable black speech - the dark arcane tongue rolled into the rat pile, unraveling the fresh rotten patches ground underneath them like a poorly-stitched seams. The center of the pile of rats dropped in height - horrid creatures peeked up from the sudden voids beneath it, lashing out with tendrils and dragging in yet more rats before the torn open earth could restitch itself. “Khaine’s wraith is without mercy,” she spoke again, another arrow tip, adding yet another eventual scar to the vast network of thin lines scattered across her flesh in passing.
The old man's onslaught of the Skaven horde continued as his blade cleaved the vermin, creating mounds of severed flesh in his wake. His breaths were quick and frequent, his advanced age not really aiding his endurance.
A particularly nasty opponent faced him during a moment in which his breaths became more of a problem; he gained a nick across his sword arm from the creature's twisted blade, a mistake that he would make very sure not repeat. His sword crashed upon the vermin's with a resounding noise of steel-on-steel, forcing all of his power into the blow in an attempt to knock the vile creature prone. Once the rat lost its balance, the old man's sword raised into the air once more and took a slash at the Skaven's eyes, causing it to cry out in pain, it's wrinkled hands clutching at its ruined eyes.
He dispatched of the pitiful thing soon after, finding its mewling to be tiring after a while. He looked to the new addition to their group of survivors - the elf girl. The old man didn't take much of a fancy to her what with her spewing on about whoever this "Khaine" was; probably some misguided elven deific figure - he must have been if his standards were so low as to accept Skaven of all things as offerings. He would have to determine her purpose here later, once the vermin were dispatched properly.
A particularly nasty opponent faced him during a moment in which his breaths became more of a problem; he gained a nick across his sword arm from the creature's twisted blade, a mistake that he would make very sure not repeat. His sword crashed upon the vermin's with a resounding noise of steel-on-steel, forcing all of his power into the blow in an attempt to knock the vile creature prone. Once the rat lost its balance, the old man's sword raised into the air once more and took a slash at the Skaven's eyes, causing it to cry out in pain, it's wrinkled hands clutching at its ruined eyes.
He dispatched of the pitiful thing soon after, finding its mewling to be tiring after a while. He looked to the new addition to their group of survivors - the elf girl. The old man didn't take much of a fancy to her what with her spewing on about whoever this "Khaine" was; probably some misguided elven deific figure - he must have been if his standards were so low as to accept Skaven of all things as offerings. He would have to determine her purpose here later, once the vermin were dispatched properly.
The broken common tongue of this Druchii was worse than listening to drunken Bretonnians reciting poems in Riekspiel. It came across his ears in a poetic tone that the Elves embodied but far more cut and deformed. She didn't seem to be a native speaker of it and given her attire this was ever the more present. She seemed to be offering him some form of deal. It sounded like one to share in combat and fight for her. As she stopped mid way and leapt into combat with a bloody fury and shouting prayers to the Elven god of war.
Falderan learnt of the Elven pantheon when he spent some time in Ulthwan. It more poetically wound together than the Empires. It seemed more harmonious from what he was informed. But rarely would those devoted speak of the downsides of their belief system. From what he had heard this Khaine was a brutal deity who promised great power for slaughter in his name. A power so great that they claim the deities very sword exists on the great island nation of Ulthwan. To Falderan this system was of no interest. Being an outcast from the society he wanted nothing to do with the pantheon of his supposed kin. So this woman's offerings in his name warranted little more than a roll of the eyes.
But things were more complicated then that. As Skaven began rushing out and screeching with weapons razed Fal let his blade fly. A swish let out a barely noticeable shriek as magical energies swirled around it. Someone of magical prowess from the supposed lesser races would have been able to detect a faint whiff of magic if they focused but for someone of Elven blood it would be like an odd scent in the wind. A strange tingle in the back of their neck. Springing forward Fal sliced into the chest of a slave that went for the other Elf. A parry of another incoming blade was followed by a thrust, driving the blade into the creatures sternum. A slash tore it opened and dropped the barely twitching form. From the mist Fal noticed a silhouette. Something that seemed similar to the form that he saw in the tunnels. The one which struck down the Dwarf accomplice of Hans. Looking over to the weak young man coming to his feet after painfully regurgitating the poison from the smoke he looked back to the form but lost it.
"Blast." He spat as a rock the size of his fist flew pat him. Looking up on the roof he saw several Skaven with slings. They flung the stones at him and narrowly dodging he ran and tried to find a way up to the roof.
Falderan learnt of the Elven pantheon when he spent some time in Ulthwan. It more poetically wound together than the Empires. It seemed more harmonious from what he was informed. But rarely would those devoted speak of the downsides of their belief system. From what he had heard this Khaine was a brutal deity who promised great power for slaughter in his name. A power so great that they claim the deities very sword exists on the great island nation of Ulthwan. To Falderan this system was of no interest. Being an outcast from the society he wanted nothing to do with the pantheon of his supposed kin. So this woman's offerings in his name warranted little more than a roll of the eyes.
But things were more complicated then that. As Skaven began rushing out and screeching with weapons razed Fal let his blade fly. A swish let out a barely noticeable shriek as magical energies swirled around it. Someone of magical prowess from the supposed lesser races would have been able to detect a faint whiff of magic if they focused but for someone of Elven blood it would be like an odd scent in the wind. A strange tingle in the back of their neck. Springing forward Fal sliced into the chest of a slave that went for the other Elf. A parry of another incoming blade was followed by a thrust, driving the blade into the creatures sternum. A slash tore it opened and dropped the barely twitching form. From the mist Fal noticed a silhouette. Something that seemed similar to the form that he saw in the tunnels. The one which struck down the Dwarf accomplice of Hans. Looking over to the weak young man coming to his feet after painfully regurgitating the poison from the smoke he looked back to the form but lost it.
"Blast." He spat as a rock the size of his fist flew pat him. Looking up on the roof he saw several Skaven with slings. They flung the stones at him and narrowly dodging he ran and tried to find a way up to the roof.
'Who is next-next for my blade?' Wondered an ecstactic Guyel, intoxicated by the rush of his latest kill. The Assassin's sharp laughter drowned out the agonal wails of his living feast as he sprung into the narrow alleyways, dispatching any of the unworthy Man-things as he leapt for their throats, as abstract, sanguine patterns stained the stone walls. These Sartosan brigands were hardly worth the chase: unwashed, untrained miltiamen. The fiercest of this partitioned host, such as the bloodthirsty Norscan warriors and the Sea-hardy swashbucklers fought far closer to the front line by the open sewer entrance -- an area guaranteed to shatter the Eshin's cover. Scampering out of the alleyway - his veiled form hidden under the jade cape of fog - he'd abandon the oncoming Skurvy-rats in their attempt to flank the frontline of the Sartosan pit. Guyel held these former thralls of the late Anglermaw in the same regard as he would hold cattle, their deaths would trouble him little.
The Assassin debated on who would be the next victim of his insidious feast. He coveted the Elf's gaunt head, salivating at the prospect of sinking his maw of incisors into that sombre neck, and sating his parched thirst under a fountain of noble blood. But Rotflag had forbidden this; he desired the Elf for him alone, and Guyel dared not anger this strange, un-Skaven usurper. He climbed up the roof of one of the ransacked houses, surveying the plaza for a worthy straggler. Of all the assessed quarry that fought exhaustedly, only three were deemed worthy of Guyel's banquet; two of whom were denied to him already. Two Elf-things: the first being the fellow Guyel had told Rotflag to beware of, and a newcomer. A despicable She-Elf, radiating an eerie, alien mystique about her, as she made short, bloody work of the Skurvy horde. Far more exotic in contrast to her male counterpart, who resembled more a filthy lout in his tattered, fecal-ridden clothing.
Then there was the third: a decrepit old shell of man, but the appearance of this one belied his skill as a swordsman. Guyel watched with gleaming eyes as the Elder cleaved into the rodent flesh, putting his younger peers to laughable shame. The Eshin-Rat had found his next prey.
--
Hans cringed as an unnatural shiver coursed up his spine, jolting awkwardly as he brought himself to his feet. It was a euphoric sensation, one that was hopefully not brought on by the toxic cloud, which had by now dissipated into the fog, giving the Reiklander a clear view of the half-eaten remains of Miguel's host. He grimaced in shame as he scavenged a weapon from the dead, searching their ravaged bodies for a blade sharp enough slice into vermin flesh. Miguel had deserved better than this; his virtuous nature did not warrant such an horrific end to his life.
The search for a decent blade was short lived; Hans could not pull himself from this freezing sensation that lathered across his soul like the very tendrils that dragged the Skaven into whatever realm of Chaos they were native to. Was that Reinhold's doing too? He knew that there was more to his saviour than being an old man who could still dance with a blade. But such questions were abruptly voided from the Student's mind, as he was somehow compelled to stare wide-eyed toward the Demonic effigy in the night sky...
...Which was getting closer, and Hans was soon not the only member of the battlefield staring toward the horned face. The Skaven horde was suddenly stiffened and silent under the jade haze, unresponsive as the Sartosan hammer still brought them under heel, and unreactive as they were slain without a challenge. Only Guyel seemed to be immune, still gazing down toward the kill zone and baffled as to why these slave-things had become so statuary. Within seconds, the fog disappeared as unnaturally as it had come before the battle. The vile effigy above evaporated into a cloud of wreathing, sickly wind, descending onto the battlefield and toward the open tunnel, screeching like a banshee as the mystical energies flew through the air and into the tunnel. Lesser men ran for the hills, while others oogled curiously at the phenomenom. The Skaven regained their senses somewhat, but were not compelled to flee in terror as one would expect of the vermin.
Instead, those Skaven who faced the Sartosan frontline were compelled to huddle in safety by the open tunnel. Cackling with glee as a befuddled host of Sartosans stared towards the darkened tunnel. There was no more of the Ratfolk that poured forth, but even the hardiest of those brigands readied themselves for whatever abomination made the thuds that echoed within.
"The Master is here!" Shouted a Stormvermin Captain, the hissing voice laden with laughter. "Lord Rotflag is greatest of all Skurvy Skaven! Greater than Anglermaw!" A legion of Rodent voices roared in agreement as the Sartosans stared at the beast that emerged from within that hole to Hell. Half-Human, half-Skaven, clad in the tan, corrugated hide of plate that was befitting of such a vermin Titan. His hands were closed as tight fists while he hummed a baritone tune, and a grave aura seemed to radiate across his figure, infecting the stunned Menfolk in complete silence. This creation of Skaven ingenuity was clearly no mere monster, but rather a ruinous sentinel, which brung even the mighty Norscans to be gripped with a sense of dissonance. A legion of sputtering, unintelligible whispers - akin to little more than ghastly gibberish - escaped the abomination's muzzled maw. He then raised his ruby eyes toward the Chaos moon, the next sentence rumbled with terrible clarity to all upon the battlefield.
"Winds of the Dark Gods, I invoke thee."
The words echoed ominously to all present, and before the soldiers could react, a torrent of wreathing flames shattered the Sartosan frontline. An infernal tornado paraded across the battlefield, condemning all that were caught within it's swirling eye to a fiery death, which was many. The Skaven became impetuous once more, giving chase to those who tried to flee in the chaos. A few would be put down under the halberds of the Stormvermin, but the majority of the fleeing folk were simply devoured alive.
Hans himself could not bear the sight; such a malevolent aura had threatened to tear his spine out of his back. Even then, he could not ignore the influence of the minature sun below. Considering how this uneventful day had escalated, the Student mused on how the Gods of Chaos would soon present themselves in due time.
The Assassin debated on who would be the next victim of his insidious feast. He coveted the Elf's gaunt head, salivating at the prospect of sinking his maw of incisors into that sombre neck, and sating his parched thirst under a fountain of noble blood. But Rotflag had forbidden this; he desired the Elf for him alone, and Guyel dared not anger this strange, un-Skaven usurper. He climbed up the roof of one of the ransacked houses, surveying the plaza for a worthy straggler. Of all the assessed quarry that fought exhaustedly, only three were deemed worthy of Guyel's banquet; two of whom were denied to him already. Two Elf-things: the first being the fellow Guyel had told Rotflag to beware of, and a newcomer. A despicable She-Elf, radiating an eerie, alien mystique about her, as she made short, bloody work of the Skurvy horde. Far more exotic in contrast to her male counterpart, who resembled more a filthy lout in his tattered, fecal-ridden clothing.
Then there was the third: a decrepit old shell of man, but the appearance of this one belied his skill as a swordsman. Guyel watched with gleaming eyes as the Elder cleaved into the rodent flesh, putting his younger peers to laughable shame. The Eshin-Rat had found his next prey.
--
Hans cringed as an unnatural shiver coursed up his spine, jolting awkwardly as he brought himself to his feet. It was a euphoric sensation, one that was hopefully not brought on by the toxic cloud, which had by now dissipated into the fog, giving the Reiklander a clear view of the half-eaten remains of Miguel's host. He grimaced in shame as he scavenged a weapon from the dead, searching their ravaged bodies for a blade sharp enough slice into vermin flesh. Miguel had deserved better than this; his virtuous nature did not warrant such an horrific end to his life.
The search for a decent blade was short lived; Hans could not pull himself from this freezing sensation that lathered across his soul like the very tendrils that dragged the Skaven into whatever realm of Chaos they were native to. Was that Reinhold's doing too? He knew that there was more to his saviour than being an old man who could still dance with a blade. But such questions were abruptly voided from the Student's mind, as he was somehow compelled to stare wide-eyed toward the Demonic effigy in the night sky...
...Which was getting closer, and Hans was soon not the only member of the battlefield staring toward the horned face. The Skaven horde was suddenly stiffened and silent under the jade haze, unresponsive as the Sartosan hammer still brought them under heel, and unreactive as they were slain without a challenge. Only Guyel seemed to be immune, still gazing down toward the kill zone and baffled as to why these slave-things had become so statuary. Within seconds, the fog disappeared as unnaturally as it had come before the battle. The vile effigy above evaporated into a cloud of wreathing, sickly wind, descending onto the battlefield and toward the open tunnel, screeching like a banshee as the mystical energies flew through the air and into the tunnel. Lesser men ran for the hills, while others oogled curiously at the phenomenom. The Skaven regained their senses somewhat, but were not compelled to flee in terror as one would expect of the vermin.
Instead, those Skaven who faced the Sartosan frontline were compelled to huddle in safety by the open tunnel. Cackling with glee as a befuddled host of Sartosans stared towards the darkened tunnel. There was no more of the Ratfolk that poured forth, but even the hardiest of those brigands readied themselves for whatever abomination made the thuds that echoed within.
"The Master is here!" Shouted a Stormvermin Captain, the hissing voice laden with laughter. "Lord Rotflag is greatest of all Skurvy Skaven! Greater than Anglermaw!" A legion of Rodent voices roared in agreement as the Sartosans stared at the beast that emerged from within that hole to Hell. Half-Human, half-Skaven, clad in the tan, corrugated hide of plate that was befitting of such a vermin Titan. His hands were closed as tight fists while he hummed a baritone tune, and a grave aura seemed to radiate across his figure, infecting the stunned Menfolk in complete silence. This creation of Skaven ingenuity was clearly no mere monster, but rather a ruinous sentinel, which brung even the mighty Norscans to be gripped with a sense of dissonance. A legion of sputtering, unintelligible whispers - akin to little more than ghastly gibberish - escaped the abomination's muzzled maw. He then raised his ruby eyes toward the Chaos moon, the next sentence rumbled with terrible clarity to all upon the battlefield.
"Winds of the Dark Gods, I invoke thee."
The words echoed ominously to all present, and before the soldiers could react, a torrent of wreathing flames shattered the Sartosan frontline. An infernal tornado paraded across the battlefield, condemning all that were caught within it's swirling eye to a fiery death, which was many. The Skaven became impetuous once more, giving chase to those who tried to flee in the chaos. A few would be put down under the halberds of the Stormvermin, but the majority of the fleeing folk were simply devoured alive.
Hans himself could not bear the sight; such a malevolent aura had threatened to tear his spine out of his back. Even then, he could not ignore the influence of the minature sun below. Considering how this uneventful day had escalated, the Student mused on how the Gods of Chaos would soon present themselves in due time.
Freya’s eyebrow lifted as she held tight to Khaine’s fury for an eternity of a second, the precious arrow tip letting a venomous Dhar stained droplet escape to splatter multicolored hues on the paver. The rabble vermin and kine had abruptly stilled. It was never a good sign when a battlefield stalled. Her suspicious eyes followed the rabble’s into the sky and she smirked tightly under the demonic dread weight, following the path of the apparition’s withdrawal into the tunnel.
The skaven were cowed by the apparition as one might expect of the sniveling lot. Easy targets. Too easy perhaps. Chittering cackles informed her that the vermin would rally soon. A slight adjustment of her aim was made, and she released her fingers and sent the vile arrow aloft. Quickly finding its target, one of the rats defrosted with a howl of pain; blood spouting from every orifice. Its violent flailing and clawing caught those nearest, the kiss of her toxic nature causing them to spout blood and flail around as well. Her amusement with the beautifully gruesome mobile fountains she’d created was distracted as the curiously oversized ratman disgorged from the tunnel before the slack jawed useless soldiers.
Or perhaps they’d be better called slaughtered kine. As one might expect, their foolish gawking was swiftly ended by a seething swirl of Aqshy sweeping across their line. On the other hand, the screams of the pathetic kine trapped in its fiery wake ‘was’ rather entertaining. She smiled wickedly as she caught sight of a few charred husks rolling useless on the ground - as if one could put out such flames so easily. The wheel of battle roared back into motion with vengeance for the disturbance of momentary peace. The vermin horde, buoyed by the new rodent’s arrival, launched back into the fight. Suitably picking off the weak-minded kine as they got over their petrification enough to cowardly flee.
She declined to notch another arrow, there was plenty enough distractions to cover her unleashing from the foolish superstitions of the dying men. “Khaine’s blade cuts both ways,” she intoned, the intelligible babble of ruinous tongue tight on its heels. Dhar winds coalescing to opaque in the hordes midst and sprouting a bladed tornado to ravish their charge. This fountain of blood too, was satisfying. Still, the little voice in her head admonished her incessantly. It was right as well, she was not at all keen to face any demonic powers without Ya'Gainth at her side. Perhaps she had been a bit hasty in abandoning the mischievous betrayer...
The skaven were cowed by the apparition as one might expect of the sniveling lot. Easy targets. Too easy perhaps. Chittering cackles informed her that the vermin would rally soon. A slight adjustment of her aim was made, and she released her fingers and sent the vile arrow aloft. Quickly finding its target, one of the rats defrosted with a howl of pain; blood spouting from every orifice. Its violent flailing and clawing caught those nearest, the kiss of her toxic nature causing them to spout blood and flail around as well. Her amusement with the beautifully gruesome mobile fountains she’d created was distracted as the curiously oversized ratman disgorged from the tunnel before the slack jawed useless soldiers.
Or perhaps they’d be better called slaughtered kine. As one might expect, their foolish gawking was swiftly ended by a seething swirl of Aqshy sweeping across their line. On the other hand, the screams of the pathetic kine trapped in its fiery wake ‘was’ rather entertaining. She smiled wickedly as she caught sight of a few charred husks rolling useless on the ground - as if one could put out such flames so easily. The wheel of battle roared back into motion with vengeance for the disturbance of momentary peace. The vermin horde, buoyed by the new rodent’s arrival, launched back into the fight. Suitably picking off the weak-minded kine as they got over their petrification enough to cowardly flee.
She declined to notch another arrow, there was plenty enough distractions to cover her unleashing from the foolish superstitions of the dying men. “Khaine’s blade cuts both ways,” she intoned, the intelligible babble of ruinous tongue tight on its heels. Dhar winds coalescing to opaque in the hordes midst and sprouting a bladed tornado to ravish their charge. This fountain of blood too, was satisfying. Still, the little voice in her head admonished her incessantly. It was right as well, she was not at all keen to face any demonic powers without Ya'Gainth at her side. Perhaps she had been a bit hasty in abandoning the mischievous betrayer...
Reinhold stopped at the sight of his newest opponent. The rat looked more composed and skilled than his brethren (which isn't really saying much) so the old man took on a more structured stance than the one he had been using; he didn't want to take any chances with a rat that dared to fight solo.
"Someone's awfully eager to meet their god..." the old man taunted. This rat seemed capable of appreciating a good witticism unlike the sprawling horde of fur behind them; that was the problem with inhuman opponents, a man used to espionage and spying like himself can't gain proper insight into their minds other than the usual bloodthirstiness and ravenous hunger.
"Someone's awfully eager to meet their god..." the old man taunted. This rat seemed capable of appreciating a good witticism unlike the sprawling horde of fur behind them; that was the problem with inhuman opponents, a man used to espionage and spying like himself can't gain proper insight into their minds other than the usual bloodthirstiness and ravenous hunger.
Dodging the crude projectiles Falderan ran around the building as the Skaven followed and tossed their ammunition in such a primitive manner. As he picked up the lid of a barrel as a makeshift shield as the oddly rounded rocks hit it with a thud. Parrying away the next volley he threw the lid and as it spun it collected a Skaven in the throat knocking the back. He went to strike at his foes again but noticed them stopping and looking up. Following their gaze Fal saw the massive form of the Horned Rat fade into mist and fly into the tunnels. A chill ran down his spine. Something was very uneasy about it. Something magical was in the air as the ghostly essence wailed past him and entered the tunnels. The small stone in his pocket glowed as the mist past.
The Skaven on the roof quickly looked away and scampered off into the tunnels. Fal was confused. They froze for a minute but then ran? What was happening? He wondered as he heard a mighty voice similar to a Skaven but deeper and far more like a mighty strong man. Fal moved around the corner as a wall of fire erupted down the street. His eyes widened. What on earth was that? He thought gazing at the dissipating flames. The screams of men followed and the clanger of weapons as he saw Skaven leap onto the wounded and startled men. He tightened the grip on his blade. Did the Skaven somehow have pyromancy? A Bright Wizard? That was impossible. But how could they do such an attack?
Looking into the mass of screaming men Fal saw the source. A mighty armour covered form in dark plate. Such armour and build was not Skaven. He froze when he saw an insignia on the shoulder. An emblem of the Dark Gods. Fal tightened his grip on his blade and using the lidless barrel leapt up to the roof. Pulling up he made his way towards the form to get a better view as he climbed higher and higher still he was perched above the area and saw the hulking form below.
"How in Sigma's name." He says under his breath as he sees the head of a Skaven emerging and controlling the body of a servant of Chaos. He crouched down to hide and kept his blade ready. He would need an ideal moment to strike.
The Skaven on the roof quickly looked away and scampered off into the tunnels. Fal was confused. They froze for a minute but then ran? What was happening? He wondered as he heard a mighty voice similar to a Skaven but deeper and far more like a mighty strong man. Fal moved around the corner as a wall of fire erupted down the street. His eyes widened. What on earth was that? He thought gazing at the dissipating flames. The screams of men followed and the clanger of weapons as he saw Skaven leap onto the wounded and startled men. He tightened the grip on his blade. Did the Skaven somehow have pyromancy? A Bright Wizard? That was impossible. But how could they do such an attack?
Looking into the mass of screaming men Fal saw the source. A mighty armour covered form in dark plate. Such armour and build was not Skaven. He froze when he saw an insignia on the shoulder. An emblem of the Dark Gods. Fal tightened his grip on his blade and using the lidless barrel leapt up to the roof. Pulling up he made his way towards the form to get a better view as he climbed higher and higher still he was perched above the area and saw the hulking form below.
"How in Sigma's name." He says under his breath as he sees the head of a Skaven emerging and controlling the body of a servant of Chaos. He crouched down to hide and kept his blade ready. He would need an ideal moment to strike.
Pandemonium swept the ranks of both the Sartosans and the lesser Clanrats under the now orange-tinted sky, bathed in the churning smog as the swirling inferno tore through the various hovels and abandoned establishments that stood upon the frontline, crumbling into ashen shambles and dragging down the lax militia foolish enough to gaze at the Abomination; they were too late to react. Those who were not burned alive instead plummetted to their deaths, greeted with the hard welcome of a crushing thud upon the stone ground, or punctured by a sharp mass of splintered stakes. It was this fate that befell the bearded Captain and his company of riflemen, of whom would regret his claim to the biggest hole in Morr's afterlife, as he and the bodies of his dimwitted folk were buried under ash after being driven insane by the ruinous laughter that churned from the fire.
As before, those that still stood upon the stonework retreated for the sake of higher ground. Those who were brave enough at least. The bowels of many folk - regardless of their former exploits - had been turned to water after what they had witnessed. At least a third of the mangy host still stood to combat this Vermintide; the others were either slain or routed, racing back into the confines of the inner city, fair game for the ravenous Clanrats, and for the various Sartosan degenerates who remained apathetic to the siege at hand.
Rotflag hauled his terrible form through the manic winds, trampling the bodies of both Man and Rat as he continued to blather the alien tongue escaping his rodent maw. His words of nonsense were dulled by gutteral orders by the Stormvermin, demanding their unworthy thralls move forward. Under the unstoppable power of the Dark Gods, victory was perhaps certain, thought Rotflag. But there were still walking sacrifices of the Manfolk that presented themselves; the souls of these stragglers would not go to the Horned Rat, however, but to a more deserving pantheon.
Rotflag joined his host as they marched upon the last defence, leaving much of his more unworthy thralls to burn within the cackling Hell he had created. Protruding above his retinue of fur like a corrugated golem - and consumed with an unnatural bloodthirst - Rotflag spotted a lithe, feminine figure. Her presence was enigmatic and domineering, especially as she fought beside the unworthy militia of men who cowered for their lives. This must have been the Elf that Guyel had described!
But before the un-Skaven could rush toward his coveted prey, he felt a sharp caress upon his skin; his body was being specterally lacerated by unearthly blades. The hungry masses of vermin that raced forward were caught in the dark flurry, sliced into bloody ribbons by this Dhar magic. But as cravenous as the Skaven were, the intoxication of certain victory dulled their sense of fear, even as their fellows were gorily dispatched beside them, even while the ghastly swinging of these black swords did not withhold. Iron and steel clashed for one last time.
The cascading ichor of blood coursing through the layers of Rotflag's armour ceased after the immortal flesh healed miraculously, and he was daubed in the hue of his own blood. This aroused little more than a masochistic desire within the Abomination's deranged mind, and he raced forward to find this exotic adversary, hidden within the tide of dauntless mercenaries.
"Creature from the west!" He barked, ignorant to the chaos as he was caught in the decisive clash. "I come bearing the open hand of Slaanesh! Heed the call of the Dark Prince, and you shall be treated most... graciously." A chilling bellow of laughter hazed from the Warlord as he indiscriminately crushed the inferiors of both armies into piles of ruptured meat, searching for his elusive treasure.
--
"You have a good eye for one so old, Man-thing." Chuckled Guyel, his body unwillingly swaying to the dance of the Black Hunger while he leapt onto the cold ground. "Perhaps I should take-eat them after I tear into your thin flesh with my teeth." The Assassin unsheathed his daggers; an acidic tear dripped from the tip of one blade, melting the ground below.
"These are going to enter your body, Man-thing!" Mused Guyel once more as he crept forward to pounce. "Then, I shall eat your friend alive!"
As before, those that still stood upon the stonework retreated for the sake of higher ground. Those who were brave enough at least. The bowels of many folk - regardless of their former exploits - had been turned to water after what they had witnessed. At least a third of the mangy host still stood to combat this Vermintide; the others were either slain or routed, racing back into the confines of the inner city, fair game for the ravenous Clanrats, and for the various Sartosan degenerates who remained apathetic to the siege at hand.
Rotflag hauled his terrible form through the manic winds, trampling the bodies of both Man and Rat as he continued to blather the alien tongue escaping his rodent maw. His words of nonsense were dulled by gutteral orders by the Stormvermin, demanding their unworthy thralls move forward. Under the unstoppable power of the Dark Gods, victory was perhaps certain, thought Rotflag. But there were still walking sacrifices of the Manfolk that presented themselves; the souls of these stragglers would not go to the Horned Rat, however, but to a more deserving pantheon.
Rotflag joined his host as they marched upon the last defence, leaving much of his more unworthy thralls to burn within the cackling Hell he had created. Protruding above his retinue of fur like a corrugated golem - and consumed with an unnatural bloodthirst - Rotflag spotted a lithe, feminine figure. Her presence was enigmatic and domineering, especially as she fought beside the unworthy militia of men who cowered for their lives. This must have been the Elf that Guyel had described!
But before the un-Skaven could rush toward his coveted prey, he felt a sharp caress upon his skin; his body was being specterally lacerated by unearthly blades. The hungry masses of vermin that raced forward were caught in the dark flurry, sliced into bloody ribbons by this Dhar magic. But as cravenous as the Skaven were, the intoxication of certain victory dulled their sense of fear, even as their fellows were gorily dispatched beside them, even while the ghastly swinging of these black swords did not withhold. Iron and steel clashed for one last time.
The cascading ichor of blood coursing through the layers of Rotflag's armour ceased after the immortal flesh healed miraculously, and he was daubed in the hue of his own blood. This aroused little more than a masochistic desire within the Abomination's deranged mind, and he raced forward to find this exotic adversary, hidden within the tide of dauntless mercenaries.
"Creature from the west!" He barked, ignorant to the chaos as he was caught in the decisive clash. "I come bearing the open hand of Slaanesh! Heed the call of the Dark Prince, and you shall be treated most... graciously." A chilling bellow of laughter hazed from the Warlord as he indiscriminately crushed the inferiors of both armies into piles of ruptured meat, searching for his elusive treasure.
--
"You have a good eye for one so old, Man-thing." Chuckled Guyel, his body unwillingly swaying to the dance of the Black Hunger while he leapt onto the cold ground. "Perhaps I should take-eat them after I tear into your thin flesh with my teeth." The Assassin unsheathed his daggers; an acidic tear dripped from the tip of one blade, melting the ground below.
"These are going to enter your body, Man-thing!" Mused Guyel once more as he crept forward to pounce. "Then, I shall eat your friend alive!"
Freya’s ears ticked forward, pale blue eyes drawn to the ruinous calling upending the thrall of her entertaining production. Her lip curled at the foul abomination’s interference, then further to bare her teeth at his claim. She was not fool enough to blindly accept all proclaimed followers as worthy of honors Slaanesh might have laid upon their flesh. If the vermin mutation had thought to curry her alliance his efforts were utterly wasted. Quite the opposite.
Her mouth drew open in a soundless laugh, flashing the underside of her branded tongue at him as she squared herself to meet the elating challenge with a fevered delight. An arrow, drawn from her quiver, twirled swiftly in the air and was driven into the side of her thigh; its sharp pointed fang tapping a potent vein of venomous draught. “Khaine will not suffer to share mine flesh with excrement disgorged from the earth,” she howled, her voice lilting with masochistic laughter. Her ears knifed sharply back as she extracted the barb; setting loose a slow stain of sickly fluid to wick outward along the fibers of her pantaloons in a kaleidoscope of brackish crimson laced corruption.
“Come then mein liebster,” she sneered the term of endearment with disgust, pointedly spitting on the ground. She notched the arrow and immediately drew back the string in a creaking tension wrought snap of protest from her bow. “Throw thineself upon the alter of mine apotheosis!,” she yelled, her voice rapidly coursing into a banshee like screech as she opened the prison gate of her fingertips to release the bolt.
Despite her pretentiousness, a flicker of doubt palled her desire to boldly slather Slaanesh with the triumph of her victory over the charging usurper. Opting to engage wit as well, she darted for cover on the heels of her shot; breaking hard to the leeward edge of the chaos rather than offering her back to the tan twined caster. Her eyes hurriedly scanned the buildings for footholds, overhangs, windows, and doors she might put to use before darting back onto her target. And the glint of metal... Her palms itched for something more worthwhile than the short-sighted dagger on her back, even as she started mauling the disrupted pitch winds for a defense against whatever the self-healing behemoth might decide to hurl at her.
Her mouth drew open in a soundless laugh, flashing the underside of her branded tongue at him as she squared herself to meet the elating challenge with a fevered delight. An arrow, drawn from her quiver, twirled swiftly in the air and was driven into the side of her thigh; its sharp pointed fang tapping a potent vein of venomous draught. “Khaine will not suffer to share mine flesh with excrement disgorged from the earth,” she howled, her voice lilting with masochistic laughter. Her ears knifed sharply back as she extracted the barb; setting loose a slow stain of sickly fluid to wick outward along the fibers of her pantaloons in a kaleidoscope of brackish crimson laced corruption.
“Come then mein liebster,” she sneered the term of endearment with disgust, pointedly spitting on the ground. She notched the arrow and immediately drew back the string in a creaking tension wrought snap of protest from her bow. “Throw thineself upon the alter of mine apotheosis!,” she yelled, her voice rapidly coursing into a banshee like screech as she opened the prison gate of her fingertips to release the bolt.
Despite her pretentiousness, a flicker of doubt palled her desire to boldly slather Slaanesh with the triumph of her victory over the charging usurper. Opting to engage wit as well, she darted for cover on the heels of her shot; breaking hard to the leeward edge of the chaos rather than offering her back to the tan twined caster. Her eyes hurriedly scanned the buildings for footholds, overhangs, windows, and doors she might put to use before darting back onto her target. And the glint of metal... Her palms itched for something more worthwhile than the short-sighted dagger on her back, even as she started mauling the disrupted pitch winds for a defense against whatever the self-healing behemoth might decide to hurl at her.
The abominations course of destruction and foul words were unlike anything Fal had encountered before. As far as the forces of Chaos were concerned he mainly fought marauders and Beastmen. The heavily armoured Chaos Warriors were usually far further north in the lands of Kislev or sometimes Nordland. Though the latter were rare. Personally Fal never fought this type of Chaotic influence and mixed with the rage was a glimmer of fear. He saw it take hits and appear wounded but apparently heal up. This wasn't something an enemy tended to do. Much less a Skaven who would never be like this. He readied his blade to strike.
The rat headed monstrosity spoke with Freya and ushered words of the Dark Prince, Slaanesh. One of the ruinous powers. The idea that the Elf may have some connection with another vile power sickened Fal to the core. But with another retort like a viper from her the two engaged. Clashing with magic Freya unleashed a mighty blow. One that seemed to not have much effect as she moved. The ranks of Stormvermin and Clanrats behind him rushed into the every falling city to tear at those still in it. Fal knew that across the city more and more citizens would grab weapons to fight. If he was right Sartosa should have a second wind with a few thousand more fighting hands any minute now. But the city was vast and who knows how spread people are should they still live. But that was not the problem now. Fal knew that killing their warlord could break them. If he removed the head of this foul rat he would send the Skaven scurrying home in fear. He waited for the large form to launch an attack on Freya and when he did Fal would strike. Leaping down with his blade to slash for the head from above.
The rat headed monstrosity spoke with Freya and ushered words of the Dark Prince, Slaanesh. One of the ruinous powers. The idea that the Elf may have some connection with another vile power sickened Fal to the core. But with another retort like a viper from her the two engaged. Clashing with magic Freya unleashed a mighty blow. One that seemed to not have much effect as she moved. The ranks of Stormvermin and Clanrats behind him rushed into the every falling city to tear at those still in it. Fal knew that across the city more and more citizens would grab weapons to fight. If he was right Sartosa should have a second wind with a few thousand more fighting hands any minute now. But the city was vast and who knows how spread people are should they still live. But that was not the problem now. Fal knew that killing their warlord could break them. If he removed the head of this foul rat he would send the Skaven scurrying home in fear. He waited for the large form to launch an attack on Freya and when he did Fal would strike. Leaping down with his blade to slash for the head from above.
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